by Parnell Hall
That stopped me. That was the right note. Despite myself, my mind couldn’t help leaping onto the obvious path, to the math I’d already done in my head. Two hundred a day. A thousand a week. Fifty-two thousand a year.
Yeah, that was the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, all right.
6.
BUT I STILL HAD to earn it.
The next morning I got up, showered, shaved, put on my suit and tie, dropped Tommie off at the East Side Day School, and drove out to Hollis, Queens to keep a nine o’clock appointment with Cynthia Woll, who had been a passenger in her boyfriend’s car when that young gentleman had attempted to drive it through a light pole. The boyfriend had already been arrested for DWI, and Cynthia was about to compound his troubles by suing him for her broken leg, which, it occurred to me, might put a strain on their relationship. But that wasn’t my problem. I signed her up quick like a bunny, and hotfooted it down to East New York where Mary Wilson had fallen on a subway platform and broken her hip. I signed her up like wildfire and discovered to my regret that the subway platform in question was right there on Pennsylvania Avenue, which meant I had to take the “Location of Accident” pictures as part of the sign-up. That was unlucky. If she’d fallen in Manhattan, or even somewhere else in Brooklyn, I could have just listed the subway address on the fact sheet, marked it “Pictures Required,” and the pix would have been farmed out later as a separate photo assignment. But no, there it was within the arbitrary one-mile radius of the sign-up, which Richard had decreed was the cutoff point.
I drove down there, bought a subway token for a train I would not ride, went down in the station and found a crack in the platform just where Mary Wilson had said there would be one. That was a blessing—in a lot of subway station accidents you can’t find a damn thing. I shot a whole roll of film and attracted a crowd of school kids who must have been playing hooky, but who weren’t old enough to make me particularly nervous. I got some good shots, the kids were gratifyingly awed at the presence of a private detective, and it was only eleven-thirty when I got out of there. My assignments were all finished, and I was gonna have no trouble getting back to Manhattan by one, and I was feeling pretty good until my beeper went off as I got into my car.
I called Rosenberg and Stone and, sure enough, Wendy/Janet had another sign-up for me.
Now. Right away. With a client with no phone.
I was pissed. “I told you. I have to be in Manhattan by one. Why don’t you give it to someone else?”
“Because it’s on Mother Gaston and you’re right there.”
I blinked. Son of a bitch. Score one for Wendy/Janet. Whichever of them it was deserved credit for actually looking at the work schedule before parceling out the work. Mother Gaston was only blocks away.
I couldn’t fly in the face of that logic. Not the logic of Wendy/Janet. After all, god knows when I’d ever see it again. I hopped in the car and drove over there.
And nearly had a nervous breakdown. The client, one Jackson Sinclair, was one of those crotchety old farts who won’t be hurried. It was his accident and he was going to tell it his way. “You just listen, young man, I’m telling you.”
He certainly was. And he certainly did. And by the time I finally snapped a picture of his broken arm, sustained, praise the lord, in a slip and fall in a Kentucky Fried Chicken in the Bronx—”Location of Accident” pictures to be taken at a later time—it was twelve-fifteen and I was going slightly bonkers.
I took the Interboro, sped up to the Grand Central, got on the L.I.E., hit only one minor traffic jam (small miracle), went through the Midtown Tunnel, and sped up Third Avenue to 51st Street.
Which presented me with a huge problem. You can’t park in midtown. Parking anywhere in New York City is bad, but midtown is impossible. Uptown where I live it’s, “NO PARKING, 8:00-11:00, MON, WED, FRI.” Further down it’s, “NO PARKING, 7:00-7:00, EXCEPT SUN.” Midtown it’s, “NO PARKING UNDER PENALTY OF DEATH.”
I’d planned to allow myself enough time to leave my car uptown before starting my stakeout. No time for that now. In desperation, I resorted to one of those forbidden luxuries afforded only by the idle rich—an East Side midtown parking garage.
As I pulled in, I wrestled with a moral dilemma. It was my fault I’d taken on the extra assignment from Rosenberg and Stone, it was my fault I was late getting to my assignment here, and it was my fault I didn’t have enough time to ditch my car elsewhere—in light of that, could I put the parking fee on my expense account? The conclusion I came to was, damn right I could. I might need my car, and I should have it handy. Not that big a moral dilemma.
But the point is, I was rather frazzled. But I do know this. It was seven minutes to one by the dashboard clock when I pulled into the garage. Even with getting my ticket, and giving the keys to the attendant, and getting out of there and walking half a block, I know I got to Monica Dorlander’s office building by one o’clock.
But I couldn’t swear to it, ’cause I don’t have a watch. Well, actually I do, I have a two-dollar digital I got by taking my son Tommie to Yankee Stadium on Watch Day. But it broke. Not the watch itself—you could smash that with a hammer and it’d still keep going—but the plastic band broke, they always do, and when that happens you can’t wear the damn thing. So I couldn’t swear I got to the office building by one o’clock.
And that’s what was driving me crazy.
Because Monica Dorlander didn’t come out.
I stood there with the photograph in my hand, just to be sure, and waited and waited and waited, and she didn’t come out.
It wasn’t my fault. Marvin Nickleson had said one o’clock, and I was there at one o’clock, I’m sure of it. Maybe she went out earlier. Or maybe she had a busy day today and ordered in. Or maybe she was sick and didn’t come to work at all, how the hell should I know? All I knew was, here I was on my first day of my first job of my first case, and the fucking woman didn’t show up, and damn it, it wasn’t fair.
By two o’clock I was driving myself crazy. By now I was watching both directions, to spot her going out in case she was having a late lunch, and to spot her coming back in case she’d had an early one.
By three o’clock I was beginning to feel like a total incompetent, which wasn’t fair. I mean, was any of it my fault? No. Could I help it if she didn’t show up? Maybe not, but it didn’t make me feel any better. Here I was, the worst private detective that ever lived. A bungling amateur, who couldn’t spot the subject with an address and a photograph. I mean, I’m so poor at faces anyway she probably walked right by me with her hair in a slightly different style and I didn’t even notice. Why did I take this job? I must have been out of my mind, oh god I think I have to take a piss.
Not to mention the weather. It was January. It was cold in New York. I was working the day watch at a—
Stop it. You’re not Jack Webb. You’re an unsuccessful writer working at a job for which you are ill-suited. An unsuccessful actor, playing a private detective. A foolish, bungling, incompetent—
Did I say incompetent or incontinent? Why the hell are there no public bathrooms in New York City?
She showed up at three-thirty. By that time I was so hassled if her hair had been slightly different I think I would have missed her. But it wasn’t. It was exactly like her picture. And bad as I am at faces, hers was one I wouldn’t forget.
The picture was only a head shot. Up till now I’d had to imagine the body that went with it. And here I’d been uncommonly accurate. Slim, sleek, stylish—I could get all that even through her winter coat. But there was one aspect I hadn’t thought of: tall. Long and lean. Monica Dorlander was a good 5'10", 5'11". In high heels that made her taller than I.
I blinked. I blinked again. It hadn’t occurred to me she would be tall. I couldn’t help imagining her next to Marvin Nickleson. What a pair. The long-legged greyhound and the scrappy Scottish terrier. I had a flash of the two of them in bed. Christ, it must be like climbing a mountain, Marvin. I chided mysel
f for such unworthy thoughts. This is your client’s wife here. A little respect, please.
Monica Dorlander was on her way in, not out. At three-thirty in the afternoon. In my book, that’s a hell of a lunch. I remembered Marvin Nickleson saying she was a company executive. It occurred to me that with that type of lunch break, she must be a rather high ranking one. Either that or was fucking the boss. Damn. Another ignoble thought.
Monica Dorlander walked through the lobby and to a bank of elevators on the side that I could see plainly as she got in. The minute the doors closed after her, I turned, sprinted across the street to a restaurant, made out like a customer, and availed myself of the bathroom. I fooled no one, and incurred nasty looks from a waitress and the maitre d’ on my way out. Tough luck for them. The deed was done. I felt the wicked thrill of reckless abandon. Daring daylight raid: desperado pees in restaurant, escapes without eating.
The thrill lasted until I got back across the street. It was replaced by my usual paranoia. I’d blown it. I’d lost her. She’d probably left work during the five minutes it’d taken me to dash across the street and relieve myself. I’d failed and failed utterly. And how could I justify charging Marvin Nickleson two hundred dollars for a day’s work when I hadn’t done the work? I’d lost Monica Dorlander, I’d blown the case, I was washed up as a private detective.
Two thoughts occurred to me at about that time. One was that I was not really cut out for this kind of work. That wasn’t really a new thought. The other was that I was being a total paranoid jerk, that nobody takes a three hour lunch break, comes back to the office, and dashes right out again. No, big executive or not, three hour lunch or not, Monica Dorlander must serve some kind of function at her company, which she would now be carrying out. She’d had her fun and now she was fulfilling her duties. She’d be out around five o’clock.
I’d just had time to think this when she came out the front door.
I blinked. Blinked again. Yeah, that was her. No need to check the photograph. There’s no mistaking Monica Dorlander.
I followed her up Third Avenue. One nice thing. She was easy to follow, being that tall. I followed her up five blocks, across Third Avenue and into another office building.
Decision time, which for indecisive me is always a moment of panic. Do I get in the elevator with her and find out where she goes, or say the hell with it and wait for her in the lobby?
The hell with it sounded good. It usually does. In decision making, I find the hell with it an extremely persuasive argument.
Having made that snap decision and allowed Monica Dorlander to venture up alone, I had time to reflect on my judgment. Not bad. Marvin Nickleson wasn’t interested in her business contacts. If this was strictly business, she’d come out alone. If she was meeting someone, she’d come out with him. So I couldn’t lose. Hey, so far I was doing great.
I pulled out my notebook and wrote down the address of the office building so I could include it in my report. It occurred to me my report would seem more official if I put down a few times in it. Since I didn’t have a watch, I asked a passing stranger, and instead of telling me to go fuck myself, he told me it was ten to four. Some days you get lucky.
I realized I should have started keeping notes earlier. On the back of the previous page I wrote, “3:30—subject arrives office building.” I then wrote, “3:40—subject exits office building.” That gave me a nice little schedule: 3:30 in, 3:40 out, 3:50 into other office.
Too nice a schedule. I immediately had doubts. Ten minute intervals? Obviously approximations. Maybe I should fudge them somehow. “In—3:31, out—3:39, enters other office—3:52.” Idiot. What the hell does it matter? What difference does it make? Shit, I better buy a watch.
I stuck the notebook back in my pocket and resumed my surveillance. I figured I knew the drill. She’d be out in a few minutes and I’d tail her back to her office building.
She wasn’t and I didn’t. In fact, she was in there so long I began to wonder if the building had another way out. Not that I could see. Not unless there was some back entrance you got to by going through the basement. And if Monica Dorlander had used that, it meant she’d spotted me. And she hadn’t spotted me. Had she? No, of course not. So where the hell was she?
She was out at 5:05 by the upside down Timex of a guy leaning against the side of the building eating a hot dog. She walked out in the street and tried to hail a cab. Third Avenue is one-way uptown. I immediately walked downtown and tried to hail a cab, so if one came along I’d get it first. You can’t be a gentleman in this business.
It being rush hour, cabs were hard to get, but after a few minutes one came by and I flagged it. The cab pulled into the curb and I got in. The cabbie, a sour middle-aged man whose license identified him as Adam Kaplan, grunted, “Where to?”
“Right here,” I told him.
He frowned and squinted at me. “Huh?”
“Start your meter,” I said. “I’m waiting for someone.”
He scowled, shook his head. Under his breath he said, “Shit.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Waiting time,” he grumbled. “You make no money on waiting time.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But you make a big tip for being so courteous about it.”
He looked back at me again. “What?”
I decided to make his day. After all, no matter how I played it, when we pulled out, he was bound to notice no one else had gotten in the cab.
“All right,” I said. “If you can do your best not to stare— you see that tall woman over there on the corner?”
He turned, stared, and turned back. “That one?” he said, pointing his finger.
“That’s the one,” I told him. “Try not to point at her again. That’s who we’re waiting for. But she doesn’t know it. And if she still doesn’t know it when we get where we’re going, you’ve earned your big tip.”
He thought that over. “You followin’ her?”
“You got it.”
“What are you, detective?”
I pulled out my I.D. and flipped it open for him. “That’s right.”
He looked at it. “Son of a bitch,” he said. He clapped his hands, rubbed them together. “Son of a bitch.”
It was one of the few fringe benefits of the job. I had, indeed, made his day.
When Monica Dorlander hailed a cab a few minutes later, Mr. Kaplan pulled out after her with enthusiasm. It was a big disappointment to him when she got out at 83rd Street.
I wasn’t too happy about it either. All right, she’d gone home, confirming the fact that she was indeed Monica Dorlander and not some tall fashion model who just happened to look very like Monica Dorlander. But even a person as paranoid as I had to admit that that hadn’t even been remotely possible. The woman I was following was the woman in the picture. So her going home didn’t help me a bit.
And as I stood there on the sidewalk, looking across 83rd Street at her apartment building, through the front doors of which I could see the security man Marvin Nickleson had described hanging out in the lobby, the reality of the situation began to dawn on me. It was five-thirty. I was on duty till nine. In all probability Monica Dorlander wouldn’t come out again. And I was destined to stand here freezing on the sidewalk looking at the front of her building for three and a half hours.
Not quite. She was out at ten to eight. I was across the street doing my impression of a popsicle. We hailed our respective cabs again and took off. This time I drew a driver who didn’t give a damn where he was going or why. His attitude seemed to be that life was a drag, and this was his lot in it. His lot in this case turned out to be to drive us about twenty blocks downtown and stop in front of a restaurant, which didn’t seem to thrill him. But I perked up immensely.
This was it. Pay dirt. Monica Dorlander was meeting someone for dinner.
I paid off the surly cabbie, walked up to the restaurant, and made out as if I were studying the menu in the window. Monica Dorlander had already gone i
n, and over the top of the menu I could see her handing her coat to the hatcheck girl and saying something to the maitre d’. The dining room was off to the left and then straight back, and I could see about half of it through the window. I hoped the table she was heading for would be in view so I wouldn’t have to go inside.
There was a well-dressed young man sitting alone nursing a drink at a table near the wall, and I figured he was my man.
I figured wrong. Simultaneously, a waitress arrived and slid a plate of food in front of him, and the maitre d’ seated Monica Dorlander at an empty table on the other side of the room.
O.K. Next theory. She’s meeting someone, and he’s not here yet.
When Monica Dorlander accepted a menu and proceeded to order, that theory began to look slightly shaky too. By the time the waiter arrived with her salad I began to have severe doubts.
I also began to get very hungry. I recalled Gene Hackman in the movie The French Connection, standing in the cold outside the posh restaurant watching the bad guys eat a sumptuous meal. Of course, that was a movie. Between takes, Gene Hackman could go into his trailer, get warm, and eat any damn thing he liked. But even forgetting that, within the context of the movie he was a cop, he knew what he was doing, and the guys he was tailing were crooks. On the other hand, I was a fool, I didn’t know what I was doing, and the woman I was following was just a poor cosmetics executive who wasn’t meeting anybody or doing anything else helpful, but was merely dining alone.
All alone.
And as course followed course, and I morosely stood on the sidewalk eating a hot dog a la Gene Hackman, the realization slowly dawned on me that the fact that Monica Dorlander had dined at a table in view of the window hadn’t been such good fortune after all. Because if she hadn’t, I’d have had to go inside and get a table to keep her in sight, and right now I’d be eating the same leisurely meal she was, compliments of Marvin Nickleson.
By the time Monica Dorlander had finished her coffee, paid the check, and taken a cab back to her apartment building, I was somewhat less than happy.
