“I won’t make it, right?”
“No. You’re not going to make it.”
"Bésame,” she said. I kissed her.
She stayed with me for several long moments, then slipped away.
I felt no rage. I felt no anger. I felt only loss.
Cocktail Accompaniment for Gumshoe — Three Fingers of Whiskey
Gumshoe wasn’t inspired by a cocktail. It was inspired by two things. The first was me going through a period of reading a few James M. Cain novels. He wrote The Postman Always Rings Twice and Double Indemnity among others. The second was being witness to the crack-up of a long-time marriage of two decent people.
James M. Cain made me want to write noir. Hell, Cain makes anyone who reads him not only want to write noir, but want to live noir. He’s a brilliant writer, insightful of the human condition and unafraid to tell how he sees it. Watching the marriage bust up made me depressed. They were good people—flawed but good. The divorce process made them cruel.
So with Cain’s novels and the clients’ divorce weighing on my psyche, I sat down at my desk, pulled over a coffee stained mug, poured in three fingers of Ancient Age bourbon and wrote Gumshoe.
Don’t add ice.
Don’t add water.
Drink until it’s drank.
Pour another.
Enjoy Gumshoe.
– Howard McEwen
Gumshoe
Mr. and Mrs. Swanson had gone to bed much as they had every night for the last fifty years. While she finished up in the bathroom, he removed the seven decorative pillows from the bed and put them on the bench his wife had selected to be placed at the bed’s foot. He turned down the duvet, which he called the thick blanket, then the thin blanket and the sheet then, after kicking off his slippers, got into bed.
She came out from the bathroom smelling of Noxzema and Oil of Olay and joined him under the covers. He bent across and kissed her on the cheek then turned to his nightstand and picked up the TV remote and headphones. She found her place in the book club novel she had checked out from the library and began to read.
He clicked on the sports channel and fitted his headphones over his bald skull. She had finally agreed ten years earlier to a TV in the bedroom after he fell asleep once too often watching it in his livingroom easy chair. But the sound disturbed her reading and sleep so she asked him to wear the headphones. He agreed. He didn’t so much out of courtesy to her, but because after turning sixty, he was having trouble hearing. The headphones helped. She had started to nag him about getting hearing aids. He’d been resisting.
She returned his kiss by patting him on his long left leg which was stretched out to the end of the bed, then turned to her book. She was proud of the fact that halfway through her seventies she still didn’t need reading glasses.
She flipped the page and heard him suck in a sudden breath. She patted his leg again. “Excuse you,” she said.
A half hour later, she came to the end of a chapter, placed her bookmark, put her book on the nightstand and turned to her husband to lift a headphone from his ear and say goodnight.
He was slumped over in a way she’d never seen him sleep before. It was him, but not him. She looked at his eyelids and saw no movement. His chest didn’t rise or fall. She put her ear to his heart and heard nothing. She knew he was gone and that their life together was over. She took his right hand and placed it on her left breast. She wanted to feel the heat of his body one last time before it faded away.
It was the third time she’d told me the story of her husband’s death and the second time I listened to it as if hearing it for the first time.
Mrs. Swanson now sat in my conference room filling out forms. We needed to transfer her husband’s retirement accounts into her name, take his name off of their joint accounts, then update her beneficiaries to her three forty-something children. She had brought in three copies of his death certificate, complaining about the twenty-four dollars Hamilton County charged for each one. The children were all doing well and all had their own children. I listed each of their names followed by ‘share equal, per stirpes.’
My boss, Prescott Carmichael, had adios’d it out of the office yesterday. He didn’t say why, but he told me to clear his calendar for a fortnight. That meant my calendar was cleared for the same two weeks. Pretty much. Things like Mrs. Swanson’s paperwork needed to be done and while Mr. Carmichael liked to at least be present for these meetings, it needed done and he wasn’t around, so the task fell to me alone.
Our secretary, Mrs. Johnson, came in. I’d noticed she had on a scarf that she hadn’t worn earlier in the morning. It was arranged to cover her cleavage. Maybe it was out of respect for Mrs. Swanson’s grief. Mrs. Johnson always showed some cleavage, but never too much. She was never unprofessional. Just the opposite. However, she was self-aware enough to know she gave off a sexual charge and, in deference to Mrs. Swanson, may have taken the extra time and care to rein it in. Or she was chilly. I was guessing that thoughts of losing Mr. Johnson, who I’d say she had been married to for at least twenty-five years, were going through her mind. The scarf didn’t work completely. Even at her age, the woman was a traffic stopper.
Me? Yeah, I was thinking of my best girl Kendra. Would the two of us be lying together in bed several decades off when one of us ran down the curtain? I didn’t really want to be thinking of Kendra, but she kept flitting up into my frontal lobes.
I checked Mrs. Swanson’s paperwork one last time then bundled it together for Mrs. Johnson to run through the machine, mail the originals to the product companies and file the copies. It was eleven forty-five in the a.m., but no one else was on the schedule. I needed a walk. And a hamburger.
I hiked it down Seventh Street over to Plum and then up Central to Liberty where I walked into Ollie’s Trolley and ordered a Big Ollie burger with special sauce and fries. I propped myself up against a wall and gazed again at all the sun faded snapshots taped onto every spare space. After a bit of a wait and handing over a fin and change, I plopped down at one of their plastic outdoor tables and made my moves on the best prepared piece of cow flesh in Cincinnati.
Enjoying my second chomp, my phone rang. Caller I.D. said it was the office. Mrs. Johnson calling. I took the call.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Jack Weston is here.”
“He didn’t have an appointment.”
“No, he didn’t.” She said it in a sing song voice she used to signal Mr. Weston was hovering close by.
“He’ll have to wait. I walked up to Ollie’s for lunch. I’ll finish up and stroll back.”
“I’ll let him know and ask him to have a seat.”
I flipped my phone closed and wrapped my mouth around another bite of Ollie’s burger when the phone chirped again. It was Mrs. Johnson.
“Yep.”
“He left in a huff. He overheard you say Ollie’s and I think he’s on his way there.”
“Okay, thanks.” I hung up my phone again and wondered what could be the problem. Men didn’t leave Mrs. Johnson’s presence in a huff. Men took any opportunity to spend time with Mrs. Johnson. Men tended to linger and attempted to charm Mrs. Johnson. Men failed. Always.
I finished my burger and when he didn’t appear I decided to wait him out, so I went inside and ordered a slice of lemon cake. I brought it outside again.
Mr. Weston was getting out of a penis size supplementing SUV. It was one of those oversized numbers designed for the Baja or Sahara or the sands of Iraq circa 2003 that wouldn’t see any of the action is was designed for on the suburban Cincinnati streets it patrolled. He was suited up and had a bit of panic in his walk. I sat down at the plastic table and motioned for him to join me. He did and I shook his hand over my cake.
“Is there someplace we can talk? Privately?”
“There’s no one around now. Plus I haven’t finished my cake. If you want to make an appointment, you can call Mrs. Johnson.”
He flashed me a scrunched-faced annoyed look. He had
twenty years on me. About fifty-five. He was a big man. He probably played college ball but had since built up a gut. Nothing too prominent. Just too many beers. His tailored suit earned its price by hiding it well. He made his money wholesaling office supplies and equipment. What that meant I wasn’t too sure.
“No, I need to talk now.”
“Alright, talk,” I said. I wasn’t being rude. I was following Mr. Carmichael’s example. He was all about ‘client service,’ but we weren’t at the client’s beck and call. If you allow someone to treat you like a servant instead of an advisor—and all upper-income folks will try to treat everyone as a servant—they will treat you like a servant instead of an advisor. And lose all respect for you. Nothing makes a wealthy person clamber for your attention like showing disinterest in them. In that way, they are a lot like women and cats.
“It’s about my wife,” he said. He stopped then looked around with this worried look covering his face.
“So what about your wife?”
“I wish Mr. Carmichael was in town,” he said.
“Me too but he’s not. You got me. If he was here he’d say be direct. So spit it out.”
He steeled himself.
“I think she’s fooling around on me.” He spurt it out then stopped again. He was waiting for me to say something. To offer condolences or placate him in some way. I didn’t. Most people have a need to fill quiet air. I don’t have that need, so I didn’t fill the air. I wanted him to fill the air. After a few moments of silence and another scrunched-faced annoyed look he blustered on.
“I don’t know for sure. I just feel something’s up. She’s been taking exercise classes. She’s never done that. She’s going to the salon all the time now. Not just to get her hair done, but the full works. You should see these bills. And, well, she’s getting waxed. You know, everywhere. That’s new. Surprised the heck out of me one night. There’s new clothes, too. Trendy, fashionable clothes. And she’s always in a good mood, but she’s gone for hours at a time. She floats around the house humming sometimes. I thought I was being paranoid, but then I ran into a friend of hers. Her teacher at a pottery class. My wife’s been taking her class for ten years. She asked how Kathleen was doing since she hadn’t seen her in months. But just the night before my wife told me her pottery class was going fine.”
He let the air hang empty again. I took a turn filling it in this time.
“You talk to her about it? Ask her?”
“No. I feel like a jerk. There’s nothing definite. What am I to say? You seem happy and are taking care of yourself so you must be whoring it up? After hearing about the pottery class is when I came to see Mr. Carmichael. But that could be nothing too.”
“You want we should start preparing your accounts for a divorce?”
“No. I don’t want a divorce. Not now at least. I first want to know if she’s screwing somebody else.”
“That’s not the type of work we do,” I said. I regretted saying it. I never had done this kind of work. We do investments, but I had my doubts if Mr. Carmichael would agree that it wasn’t the kind of work we do. He might classify it as ‘client service.’ It just wasn’t the type of work I wanted to do.
“I think it is the type of work you do, Mr. Gibb. Mr. Carmichael has a reputation. I’ll talk to him when he gets back.”
“Sit down,” I said. “You’re right. You get a divorce it affects your money, which is what we help with. I’ll look into it. I’m not some sleaze ball detective. I won’t crawl around in bushes. I won’t peek into windows. I won’t take any naughty pictures. I hope that’s not what you’re into.”
“Screw you.”
“You want my help?”
“Yes.”
“Then be polite.”
He nodded.
“I handed him my card. Email me her picture. I’ve not seen her in a while and married women don’t register with me. Let me know next time she’s going out.”
“Tonight. Her pottery class, well, what is supposed to be her pottery class. It’s at seven. She usually leaves about six thirty.”
“Okay. Email me that picture. I got your address.”
“You’ll get back to me?”
“Give me a week. Text me where she’s heading this week, if she heads anywhere. I’m not comfortable with this and I’m not one-hundred percent sure Mr. Carmichael would be comfortable with it. If I get a hold of him and he says stand down, I stand down. Otherwise, I’ll see what I can find out.”
He didn’t shake my hand but hoisted himself up, walked to that SUV of his and climbed in. He did a U-turn on Liberty causing three cars to tap their brakes.
I hit speed dial number one and left a message filling in Mr. Carmichael with half a hope he’d call back saying no dice on this one. I then dialed up Mrs. Johnson. I told her I’d be out doing some ‘client service.’ She didn’t ask what. I was glad she didn’t. She’s good like that. Competent, sexy and silent. My clunker wouldn’t do, so I asked her to get a mid-size sedan, black, nondescript, a Ford, if possible, and have it delivered to my place.
She’d have it done. I didn’t worry about that. I hiked it down Liberty to Main and hung a right to my condo. I showered, changed into a more relaxed look—Cincinnati summer time. Dockers and a button up shirt, a pair of leather boat shoes.
I went to grab some leftover Chinese out of the fridge. I saw the soy milk and then some week old sushi from Teak up on Mt. Adams that Kendra had bought. It made me think of her. I’d been trying to not think of Kendra. Like Mr. Carmichael, she was gone for a fortnight. Off to see her sister in Boston. I wasn’t convinced she was telling the truth about Boston or the sister.
Things had gotten serious quickly for us and now the worry finger in my brain was picking at an anxiety. About two months ago, Kendra stayed over and never left. I was fine with that. She seemed fine with that. She’d been renting an apartment out in Westwood with a friend from high school, but her office was in a tower on Fourth. By staying with me her daily commute was gone. Necessary items for daily living slowly migrated to my place—first toiletries, then clothes and more clothes. Jewelry and a few books and then a few knick-knacks appeared on my shelves. I was good with that.
We did the usual new couple thing. We stayed in, watched movies and went to bed before we were tired. We turned off the lights and threw it around to a regular routine we’d quickly developed then drifted off to sleep.
There was still the fingering worry. She said we were good. But after a few weeks, I noticed what I hadn’t noticed. No mood swings. No crankiness. No sexual hiatus. No white wrappers in the bathroom trash can. The more I noticed what wasn’t there to be noticed the more it seemed Kendra’s own worry finger was poking at something.
I tried to put it out of my mind, but Mr. Carmichael’s absence left me little to do at the office and that didn’t help. I wanted something to occupy my noodle.
There was a knock at the door.
“Hold on,” I yelled and grabbed the Chinese and a plastic fork out of the cupboard to stow it in the car for later.
The car rental guy was at the door. I followed him down to the Ford and signed off on his paperwork.
I put the Chinese in the car then beeped it locked and headed upstairs and took a nap on my couch. My alarm went off at five thirty in the p.m. I cleaned myself off and smoothed myself up. I heard my phone bing and checked it. There was an email from Mr. Weston. I pulled up the pic of Mrs. Weston. You can’t tell by pics all the time, but I’d say she wasn’t a head turner. It was a candid pic taken at a party of some kind. I was looking at a fifty-five year old hausfrau. Short cropped hair. A bit too much weight. No sexual vibe. An affair? I’d put the odds of yes at ten percent. I ambled down to my rental.
I got out of downtown and headed east on U.S. 50 to Mariemont. It wasn’t my kind of suburb but which kind is? The car had a navigator so it wasn’t hard finding Weston’s house. I parked down the street. It was six in the p.m. I opened up the box of Chinese and dug in. I’d bett
er eat. Who knew where Kathleen Weston would take me tonight?
The clock told me I’d been twiddling my thumbs for twenty-five minutes when I saw a woman leave the house. I looked at the pic on my phone. It was our suspected adulteress. However, the exercise and trips to the spa Mr. Weston mentioned had paid off. I’d say she was down fifteen pounds from when the photo was taken. The hairstyle was longer, more modern but appropriate for her. As was the dress she wore. The frock wasn’t for a night on the town, but it wasn’t for spinning a potter’s wheel either. She walked with a bounce that tweaked my sexual curiosity. I upped the odds of her getting a bit on the side to twenty-five percent.
She pulled her Mercedes SL out of the driveway and speed off a bit too fast. I could tell she wasn’t looking where she was going. I’m sure that’s standard for this neighborhood. It’s all about them out in these type of suburbs. Everyone else is just an obstacle in the way of their id. I cranked my engine and played catch up.
I didn’t worry too much about being noticed. I couldn’t imagine she’d be suspicious or that she was even paying attention. We zig-zagged it north for a few miles, crossed under I-71 then popped up in Kenwood. There was a bit of round and round where I thought she might be lost, but she finally nosed her coupe into the parking lot of a mid-level chain hotel.
It was one of those places with enough rooms to handle out-of-town family during the holidays and enough conference rooms to handle small conventions and various ‘off-sites’ for local firms whose H.R. department convinced themselves it was incentivizing to get the office drones out of the cubicle hive every so often.
I’ll be damned, I thought. Within a half hour the odds of her out getting a bit of something-something went from ten to fifty percent. Still could be nothing. I parked my rental a few rows back from her and watched her get out. She stood and before shutting the door scanned the parking lot carefully like a meerkat scoping the landscape for a jackal or a chatty-Cathy neighbor or a suspicious husband even. Okay. Seventy-five percent, I thought.
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