He looked at me. “I know you don’t intend a citizen’s arrest. Would you care to partake?”
I grinned at him. “Partake? Hell yes. This shit looks terrific. Let me get my pipe.”
“Sit,” he commanded and produced a joint. He lit it and, while he smoked, took out a molded silver flask and placed it on the table. I reached for the silver, opened it, and drank. Julius’ face remained impassive but his head moved in a small nod. He passed the joint, took the flask, and swallowed. I smoked the dope and it was every bit as good as it looked.
We spent two hours talking. I should say I talked, Julie punctuated. Since that night, every month he would let himself into my apartment after knocking, and wait with his canvas bag. He never mentioned working so I assumed he made his money dealing. By now I realized he had fingers in more than one pot, though I never asked and he never volunteered.
But he did know what I meant about opening the door in my drawers because his eyes, usually the stillest part of his body, began to widen as he pictured the scene. He started to laugh and little by little so did I. Maybe I was making too much out of nothing.
Another night of drugs and drink brought another morning of grogginess and dehydration. Last night’s laughter with Julius was today’s joke, but alone in the morning’s dreariness I couldn’t crack a smile. I had two detective jobs that hit me worse than the hammer whacking at my brain. I stumbled to the kitchen where water and coffee began to put the world back on its feet. The dope stash sang from my bedside drawer but I tried to exercise instead. About half a workout later the singing grew too loud and I silenced it with a small pipeful of grass. I pictured myself stretched out in front of the television with my Fritos and beer, but I shook off the desire. Between Dr. James and Simon a couple of outstanding markers had been called, and I had no choice but to pay.
I walked into the bedroom and pulled the locked box out from under the bed, sat on the floor, fiddled with the combination, and stared at the .38 in its stiff leather holster. It had been a while since I last played with it and I was mildly surprised by how much pleasure the gun still gave me. I took the holster out and strapped it around my shoulder. Here I was, the naked detective. All I needed was a pair of thick and thins with a stocking cap, and I’d be set.
I took off the holster, got dressed, and returned to the kitchen for more coffee and nicotine. I brought the box and holster with me and let my hands fondle the gun while I tried to figure out where to start. There was a difference between owing and paying.
After the accident I had asked Simon to help me get a P.I. license and he reluctantly obliged. I had ideas about actually working at it, though they evaporated after Lou bought the building and I lost my taste for generalized revenge. Who should pay for a life yanked out from under you? Especially since the last ones who did the yanking were the ones you loved and they were already dead.
Still, sitting at the table caressing the cold black metal, recalled the pleasure of learning to use it—when the smell of gunpowder and cordite, and the explosions in my ears, were able for the moment to push the hate and hurt from my head.
Sitting at my kitchen table cleaning the gun, my hands moving automatically, brushing, wiping, reloading, while my mind was drawing a blank, didn’t bolster my confidence. Licensed or not, I felt illegitimate. Not legal. Somehow I didn’t think the police would fawn over my ticket. Which was a drag; if I could check the official report, I could probably get out from under Dr. James.
I found the turn of phrase disturbing and snapped the gun’s chamber shut. I jammed the gun back into the holster and strapped it around my shoulder. Despite the unsettling circumstances of both cases, and my own reluctance to get involved, there was, I had to admit, a germ of excitement about trying something new. I was a detective today.
Now, if I could just think of something to do.
The wet-looking, oversized granite steps reflected the impersonal institutions libraries had become over the course of my life. When I was a kid, old-fashioned bookstores and libraries had been a refuge from the fierce storms at home. For years I was disappointed whenever I walked into either one and missed the smell of musty wood with paper and leather. Now I was adjusted. I no longer expected malls or mottled concrete to smell.
The newspapers were useless. Small story, big town. Even the local weekly ignored it. It seemed odd there was no mention, but Dr. James’ neighborhood was a well-known stomping ground for junkie b&e’s. I guessed that familiarity breeds acceptance. I did discover, however, that the hot local issue was a tug of war between an expansionist university and a tenacious organization of residents. I’d always felt as if I were walking through a battleground when I went to my appointments; now I had something other than my own interior life to attribute it to.
I was luckier when it came to Eban Holmes. Although my research confirmed Dr. James’ statement that contemporary journals were unwilling to publish him, he had been a prolific contributor to the defunct Radical Therapist. His essays were an enjoyable read. His was a no holds barred attack on the psychiatric Holy Trinity—fee structure, clinical distance, and therapeutic objectivity. He had little patience for what he termed the “helping industry,” arguing that social services reinforced modern society’s political and cultural status quo. I could imagine any number of shrinks I knew from my social work days squirming under Holmes’ attack. It was a pleasant daydream but not one that offered much of a clue to Holmes’ vulnerability: straight psychiatrists, psychologists, or social workers didn’t have the balls to blackmail.
It wasn’t difficult, however, to imagine clinical situations involving Holmes that might leave him vulnerable. He believed in getting actively involved in clients’ lives and trashing professional boundaries. He assailed traditional distinctions between friend and client, teacher and student, even doctor and patient. Although he never came right out and said it, he also hinted around the edges of therapist and lover.
Still, it had been a long time since the Radical Therapist had stopped publishing and plenty of political blood had flowed under the bridge. Some of it mine. I wondered whether time had done to Holmes what it had done to so many radicals of that era. It would be disappointing to discover he drove a BMW.
The morning passed more quickly than usual. Research had often made me feel like I was in school; today it seemed almost fun. My headache was gone and, despite the lateness of the morning, I wasn’t dope-starved. I thought about switching cases and trying to locate Fran, but I wasn’t ready for cloak-and-dagger. As much as I hated the idea, I decided to go to Charley’s Place and see if anyone I knew still ate there.
Charley’s Place was really Charley and Phil’s. Charley did the cooking, Phil the cleaning. Charley was an ex-social worker, Phil an ex-cop. Since it was located between Police Headquarters and the Department of Social Services, the luncheonette was a perfect place to establish informal contacts. At least it used to be; I didn’t know whether the restaurant had survived gentrification, or whether there was still informal business to conduct. It had been a long time since I wanted contacts with anyone.
I was lucky. Although the block was gussied up and bore little resemblance to my memories, Charley’s was still standing. The swells probably liked the Forties feel of the place. Despite the changes I felt the stirring of a time I’d rather not remember, but I forced myself to walk inside. I realized I enjoyed the rub of the holster under my arm. In the past I’d always felt a little naked meeting with fully armed cops.
Although the counter was filled, I was taken aback by how few people were scattered around the different tables. Lunch was a time this place used to jump. I ignored the empty tables, stood behind the counter seats, and waited for the man working the grill to turn around. When the broad back bending over the stove straightened and turned it was Phil, fatter, balder, and older than the picture in my mind. He stared, recognizing though not remembering.
“Matt Jacob, Phil.”
“Well I’ll be damned.” A look of surpr
ise creased his face. “I thought you left town.” He suddenly looked somber. “There was some sort of accident, wasn’t there? I remember. Your family …”
Sometimes a big town is never big enough. “Yeah. That’s all history now. Don’t sweat it.”
Phil shifted uncomfortably, trying to find something to say. A look of relief crossed his face as he glanced over my shoulder. “Wait a second, I got to get this order together.”
He turned back to the grill, and his hands began to fly. I looked around at the storefront-cum-diner and, for the thousandth time, wished it wasn’t a storefront but the real thing. While all the accouterments seemed out of a film noir, the actual storefront itself didn’t quite make it into the right atmosphere. Probably just as well for Charley. You didn’t see much money serving food in a railroad car, though the uniforms might have felt more at home.
“Where’s Charley, Phil?”
Without turning or missing a cooking beat, he said, “Dead.”
“I’m sorry, man.”
“What for? He got outta his cancer and I got a business. Nothing to be sorry for.”
A skinny customer with a protruding Adam’s apple finished his sandwich, stood, and reached for his wallet. “You guys don’t make it easy to enjoy lunch. Accidents, death. Friendly place you got here.”
Phil grabbed the money from the man’s hand. “A fried egg and coffee don’t buy you friendly.”
I sat in the vacated seat. After looking at the prices on the board I knew nothing was going to buy me friendly so what the hell. “That guy’s sandwich looked pretty good. Could you add some bacon?”
“I can add anything you want, it’ll just cost you.”
“That’s fine.”
Again he turned toward the grill, pulling the disparate pieces of someone’s lunch onto a plate and slamming the plate down on the waitress’ section of the counter.
“Anybody work here anymore?” he growled. A tall redhead got up from the table where she had been smoking and talking with someone who looked like a traffic cop.
“Whatcha bitching about, Phil?” the traffic cop said. “You didn’t hire her to pour coffee when she first got here.”
The few uniforms in the place liked the joke. The redhead even winked. Phil just cursed. Cop humor. The more things changed the more they stayed the same.
When he set my coffee down he apologized. “I don’t remember what you take.”
“Black. Why should you? Do the welfare people still come here? I don’t recognize anybody.”
“It’s been a long time.”
“You’d think someone would keep their job.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“See. The pols figure the only people around here now who need social workers are regular working people and no one gives a shit about them. They give the broken people social workers and they give the rich money. Everybody else gets a lotta shit. Were you looking for someone in particular?”
“Not really.”
“Don’t tell me you’re looking for work?” A bell rang behind him and he turned back to attend to the food; somehow he managed to get a slew of lunches cooked and organized without seeming to move very fast.
He went on with his back to me, “I’m tired of hearing about good men not being able to find a job. Used to be just the broads and blacks. Now it don’t matter, the whole thing stinks.”
I agreed with the last part. “No, I’m not looking for work, just a little information.”
He looked back over his shoulder. “What for?”
“Believe it or not, I’m a private cop.”
He shrugged. “Why not. Everybody’s got to do something. I didn’t know you were a vet.”
Vets and ex-cops had a monopoly on licenses. “Jesus,” he added, “I didn’t think you could make a living on divorce work anymore. I thought nobody cared who plugged who. Men take their own wives and give ‘em away for a night. Then they get the other guy’s. Hell, I’m surprised you can still make a buck keyholing. Lousy job, but in a way it’s good to hear about it. It means there are still people who give a shit.”
“I guess.”
“You don’t seem the sniffing type.”
“Yeah. I’m pretty new at this and it’s not that easy to begin. I thought that some sw’s might know someone inside who could help, so I came here looking.”
“It really don’t sound like you been at this very long.”
“Long enough to know I need some help.” The memories of the old Charley’s kept intruding, so when Phil focused his attention on his cooking, I drank my coffee and forced myself back into today. I looked around and saw the redhead back at the table with the cop. He kept his left hand under the table and every once in a while would lean portside as though he was reaching for something. I imagined he was. There were occasional murmurings of conversations from the other tables, but nothing distinct. El Rancho’s yesterday and Charley’s today. My new job was leading me back to the haunts of my old life. Whatever excitement had existed this morning was gone.
Phil delivered my lunch, refilled my coffee, and stood around. I bit into the sandwich and nodded appreciatively. “This is good. Better than I remember.”
“Why do you think Charley never let me cook?” Phil growled. “He never could have gone back to cooking once anyone tasted my stuff. No way he was gonna let me. He didn’t want to bus.”
I smiled. “Well at least you’re cooking now.”
“Yeah, right. I’m cooking with gas. The way the world is going I should be glad I’m not being gassed. What information did you say you were looking for?”
“There was a break-in about a week ago at 290 Commonwealth. The police tagged it as a junkie do, but I got a client who wants to be sure. I said I’d check the report. Do any caseworkers still come in?”
“You got Welfare on the brain? You’re not gonna find anything talking to them.”
I shrugged.
“Well, Matt, it sounds harmless enough. You sure you’re telling the truth?”
“Of course. Why?”
“ ’Cause I might be able to get a copy of the report, but I don’t want to stick my ass in the air.”
I shrugged. “I don’t want you to either. I’m telling you what I know.”
Phil suddenly leaned to his left and muttered something unintelligible behind me. The redhead jumped up and stood waiting at the station.
“What did you call me for if you wasn’t ready?”
Phil didn’t bother to reply. He loaded a tray and placed it in front of her. “Less mouth, more work, okay?”
She stuck out her tongue though she looked too old for the gesture.
He turned and walked back to where I was finishing the last of my sandwich. He reached back and pulled my order form off the wall. “Three seventy, including the Governor’s.”
I stood and pulled a ten from my wallet. He looked at it and took out some bills from his apron pocket.
“No, Phil, keep it.”
“You’re overpaying.”
“Nah, I haven’t been here for a long time.” “Why don’t you come back in a couple of days and I’ll see what I can do?”
“Hey, that’s not what the tip was about.” “Bullshit it wasn’t.” He waved the hand with the money and started toward the cash register. “You might be a better sniff than I thought.”
I returned home emotionally exhausted. Too much history stuffed in between the bread of my fried egg sandwich. There was no flashing light and I didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried. I picked relieved. There was no need for the stash to call since I was rolling before I had my coat off: I wanted to get high and go to sleep. My headache had returned. I just wanted to disappear, but the telephone rang and without thinking I grabbed it.
“Well?” Simon’s voice was impatient.
“Well what?”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“I don’t understand. Where did she go today?”<
br />
“Simon, I don’t know.” I started to feel numb. “I don’t spy on Fridays.”
“Goddamnit, we went through that yesterday. I’m not talking about spying.”
“That’s right, you’re talking about me spying.”
“Look, I don’t care what you call it. Are you going to do the job or what? I thought we had an understanding.”
I was too tired to argue. “We have an understanding; I will follow Fran as per your request. Okay?”
Simon’s voice was grudging. “The words are fine, it’s your attitude that concerns me. The words were okay yesterday too!”
“Lighten up. I said I’d do it.”
“You said that yesterday, but you still haven’t done shit. I understand it makes you uncomfortable, but right now my life is miserable and I need your help. Not your mouth.”
I was almost too exhausted to feel guilty. Almost. “Look, Simon, I told you I was working on something. I’ll start covering Fran tomorrow. I promise.”
“What are you doing for the rest of the day? It’s only three.”
He wasn’t going to let up. I started rummaging around my pocket for the lighter. “Look, Simon, I have to take care of something in the building. I’ll get on the case tomorrow.”
I glanced across the room to Mrs. Sullivan’s light: where are you when I need you? “I have to go. Mrs. S.’s light is flashing and you know how she gets if I don’t respond right away.”
“Me too, Matt man, me too. I don’t like it when people don’t respond.”
“Jesus, man, I’ll pretend you didn’t say that. I have too much to think about without threats from my best friend.”
“Look, I don’t mean to threaten. I’m sorry. But please don’t be gone too far or too long. Try to stay straight, okay? Also, while we’re doing this, will you please leave your phone on?”
“Sure, and I will check things out tomorrow. If you know where I might be able to locate her without camping in front of your house it would help.”
“I know she has a ten-thirty at the faigeleh hairdressers’ on Newbury Street. I think the address is 119.”
The Complete Matt Jacob Series Page 4
