27
“. . . I could well afford to smile while silently concealed in my mystery.”
—Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man
1
It was a hot, damp August night, and the Perseids were spectacular. The asphalt plant next door had closed a month ago, and a steady breeze carried the summer haze away to the ocean, allowing our stars to shine brightly in a pitch-black sky. The moon was visiting Australia and didn’t interfere. I sat on a deck chair on the fire escape sipping a martini, watching the meteors streak away from the torso of Perseus. A few spectacular beauties stole the show. The Swift-Tuttle comet had swept through our solar system some years ago and left a trail of dust for the earth to plow through every August. He’ll be back in a hundred and thirty years to replenish the supply.
The Perseids are the finest shower of the year, although it seems a bit callous to eagerly watch for the meteors, chunks of rock and iron that had been traveling for millions of years, to meet their fate. Each creates a glowing trail that shines majestically for an instant before it disintegrates into nothingness. Maybe we’d all like to go down in a blaze of glory, or maybe I’m just feeling low because Kathy turned me down again. Police Chief Kathy MacGregor has something else, or someone else, on her mind these days. Told me to get a job. She’s right. I need something to do. I should reopen my office. The sign could read:
JOHNNY ‘BLUE’ HERON
PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR EXTRAORDINAIRE
Or, I could run an ad in The Daily Flyer:
Got a problem.
Want to spy on someone
Call Blue at . . .
I’d fallen asleep, the sun had risen, and my cell phone interrupted my dreams with its version of Ride of the Valkyries. I climbed back in through the window, found it on top of the microwave in the kitchen, and flipped it open, “Good morning.”
“Good afternoon.” A female voice greeted me. “Is this Mr. Heron?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I checked my watch.
“I was told you are a good investigator. I may need one. Are you interested?”
“So far, yes.” I had some old friends in town who tended to give me good referrals.
“Can we meet? Where’s your office?”
‘Well. We’re in the middle of renovations at the moment, new paint, might even put in a new desk. I could come by your place.”
“No,” she answered. “I’d rather not be seen talking with you. My husband might come home. Can you suggest somewhere discreet?”
I thought for a second. “There’s a bar right off City Hall Park, not far from Police Headquarters. It has a small sign out front, LEROY’S BAR AND STRIP CLUB. He likes to keep a low profile. You know the place?”
“No. Is it private?”
“On the northwest corner of the Park. You can’t miss it. There’s lot behind the bar where you can leave your car. If we meet there in the morning, I doubt you will see any of your friends.”
“Eleven o’clock tomorrow, then.” She was about to hang up.
“Could I have a name?”
She hesitated, then offered her name, “Louella. But you must keep this case totally confidential. Don’t tell a soul.”
“I’m good at confidential—it’s my business.” In this case confidential would be easy—all I know about it is one name, Louella.”
“See you then, Mr. Heron. And,” she added, “good luck with the renovation.”
2
Monday Morning, and I’m driving down West Main Street in my old BMW, my rusty Beamer, headed for the center of town to meet a woman named Louella. If experience serves me well, she will hire me to check up on her husband. She will have a reason, maybe real, maybe a fantasy, to suspect that he is cheating on her. A phone call that went dead when she answered; her husband working late; a letter he reads and says it’s nothing and won’t show it to her; a pair of panties in his pocket that aren’t hers. Mostly these are the results of his stupidity, or a sign that he really wants her to find out but he hasn’t admitted that to himself.
Louella asked me to choose a place to meet, where she wouldn’t be recognized. I find myself standing on the edge of City Hall Park in front of LeRoy’s Bar and Strip Club. I suspected that she was wealthy, so I picked a spot where there’s no chance she will meet anyone who knows her. No one from her side of the tracks is going to be found at LeRoy’s, especially at eleven o’clock in the morning. I push through the door, as I’ve done a thousand times before, and step into LeRoy’s artificial world. The bar slowly comes into view as my eyes adjust to the dark. Small tables are scattered randomly around the room, each with three or four wooden chairs. The bar at the far side is backed by a huge mirror papered over with signed photos and ads for drink specials that don’t exist anymore. Whoever heard of a Freddie Fudpucker? LeRoy is behind the bar, the old hippie, white hair pulled into a ponytail, a quiet face and dark eyes that don’t miss a thing. I’ve known LeRoy for years. There are a few regulars glued to bar stools and a guilty couple hunched over one of the tables. A lone figure sat at a table in the back, a glass of wine untouched before her. I feel her eyes on me as I approach.
LeRoy looks toward me. A quick shake of my head tells him not to recognize me. I don’t want the usual greeting: “Hey Blue, what’s up? One martini on the way.” My new employer might draw the wrong conclusion.
LeRoy turned back to the guys at the bar, but I knew he’d be keeping track of my every move. I’ll have to give him a good story tomorrow: “LeRoy, you know that rich chick I met the other day? Those diamond studs
