David Thayer

Wellington Leg: From the case files of Arthur Murray, Private Investigator: Rudolfo made bail so we celebrated with a night on the town; okay, it late afternoon on the town so we could capture the senior discount at the local clam house. For a man who’d been struck by a Cuisinart he had a good appetite. Trudy embarrassed him by demanding a bucket of ice for her bum elbow. The waiter said his name was Chip and that he used to be a senior commander in the strategic rocket forces. He brought the ice bucket but forgot the ice. Trudy threw a dinner roll out of a cut fastball grip. We had to place our order before 4:45 or we’d lose the discount.

To humor them I wore an ear piece and adopted the air of a bodyguard when dealing with Chip. With thirty seconds on the clock Trudy ordered a Crab Louis; Rudolfo went retro with a Ling Cod Burger in a ketchup and mustard reduction. I ordered bangers and mash and warned Chip not to shout in Trudy’s ear. Makes her crazy.

Got them home at six. We were followed down Fourth Avenue by a guy on a Blue Suzuki. Once they settled in the apartment I ducked downstairs for a look. There he was in the alley, the bike puffing little two stroke bursts into the breeze.

“You Arthur Murray?” the guy asked.

Now what. “Who’s asking?”

The guy reached into his jacket. “It’s okay,” he said seeing my expression. “It’s a message from Babs.”

A formal invitation. Black tie. Tonight.

“You gonna RSVP?” the guy asked.

“I already ate,” I said.

“Suit yourself. She’ll be at the Five Seasons at Ten.”

“You mean the four seasons.”

“Yeah, at eight.”

“Tell her I’ll be there. Both times.”

From the case files of Arthur Murray, Private Investigator: My first hedge fund manager client wandered in yesterday. I was in the middle of reading SENSE AND SENSIBILITY which I had folded between the covers of TRUE DETECTIVE. Connie forgot to use the intercom when the hedge guy arrived so he sat in the outer office for a while wondering about her collection of Richard Nixon memorabilia. According to Connie she was born on the campaign trail the love child of Hunter Thompson. Could be true. She reacts to limousines in a funny way.

Anyway the stall tactic worked because I had time to get my feet off the desk, water the plant, and pack my Jane Austen novel in the drawer with the Jameson’s and spare revolver. Guns and whiskey should always be stored safely; you kids remember that.

My new client introduces himself as Leo Tolstoy, hedge fund manager. He’s wearing a fake beard and we banter a little about the weather, the Napoleonic Wars, whether it’s Czar or Tsar, general chit chat. I’ve got one eye on the telephone, the other on Tolstoy. I’m a little nervous when meeting new clients especially ones who think they’re Nineteenth Century authors. Who’s next, Charlotte Bronte?

I hear Connie in the front office. She has a message for me. “A Ms. Bronte called,” she yells.

Maybe she is the lovechild of Doctor Gonzo. Maybe my new client is Leo Tolstoy. After all, my landlord thinks he’s Che Guevarra. Who am I to judge?

<p> Wellington Leg: From the files of Arthur Murray, Private Investigator: Whoa, here’s some news: writing is unmanly. Connie broke the news this morning after learning of my secret diary entries. “This is the Jane Austen Era,” Connie said. “No boyz allowed.”

Connie has her finger on the pulse of cultural upheaval. Her section of the office is a modern day wonder: she trades on the NASDAQ in real time. When she told me she was a millionaire several times over I thought she was kidding; Connie is not kidding. She owns the building.

According to Connie writing is not for men. Most readers are women, the majority of authors, agents, editors, publishers are women. “It’s a mega-trend,” she says. “Become an Australian,” she advises. “It’s different down under.”

I’m in shock. I have no immediate plans to become Australian and I’m not sure how to go about it. Maybe there’s a book out there on the subject. It’s tempting to become a fake Australian. I’ve watched a few Greg Norman interviews: I’ve watched Australian Rules Football, seen a few Emus here and there. With a bush hat and few pints of Swan Lager under my belt maybe I could pull it off.

On the other hand I’ve read PRIDE AND PREJUDICE and sort of enjoyed it. I think I read MADAME BOVARY and sort of liked it. No, come to think of it that was like watching paint dry on the Lifetime channel. Maybe it’s the pacing. Weeks go by. Not much happens.

Give up writing? Move to Perth? Are these good choices? Oh man, wait a minute. If this is the Jane Austen era I need a client named Jane Austen. I yell for a telephone book.

“They’re obsolete,” Connie says.

Obsolete. Just like pay phones and Lucky Strikes. I think I did enjoy MADAME BOVARY. I watched IN HER SHOES didn’t I? Yeah, I’m sure I did.

Wellington Leg: From the case files of Arthur Murray, Private Eye: it had to happen sooner or later. I blew a stakeout. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, what a contretemps. Yeah right. Major screwup. Four guys robbed a bank at three am while yours truly sat across the street reading a book. Excuses? Remember the lunch pail recall? My twinkies were inundated by some fava beans and a nice Chianti. Whatever happened to compartmentalization?

I was reading John Hart’s latest novel DOWN RIVER. I missed his debut KING OF LIES but I like this guy’s style. That book got a blurb from Pat Conroy and I can see why. What is about those southern boys?

Anyway the bank heist went off without a hitch which is great except it was my job to prevent the caper. Sure the Twinkie thing was a setback and I explained all that to Phineas T. Bluster, Branch Manager. I showed him my Chianti stained delicacies; yeah, that was desperate.

But I did enjoy the book. And the robbers made off with Collateralized Debt obligations; where have those guys been? Haven’t they read Allen Greenspan? Phineas is overjoyed. He couldn’t get those CDOs off his books since Merrill Lynch cut him off during a conference call.

Looks like a feather in my cap. But, hey, I’m not sure the collapse of the credit market is something I should be celebrating.

I’ve cornered the market in red Twinkies. Maybe I’ll call Merrill Lynch.

<p> Wellington Leg: I found out that Lesotho is landlocked. I ran downstairs to check on Rudolfo and Trudy when I bumped into a guy who poses as the finance minister for various emerging nations. That’s what he calls them, emerging. I thought they had emerged a long time ago during the Paleolithic Age or something. Turns out I was wrong.

Rudolfo tried to shoot the finance minister behind some beef about parking. In order to save her neighbor Trudy bounced a Cuisinart off Rudolfo’s noggin as he was reloading; I think this how a lot of revolutions end up going sideways, last minute and timely intervention. This dump is not the Winter Palace but you see my point.

To buy the guy off I provide my Al Gore souvenir cup and a Metro pass. He’s a young man, this finance minister. Computer whiz. He’s got the residual from the Cuisinart all over his shirt and look as though he’s torn between being angry and admiring the salmon Al extends toward him. He’s already forgotten about being shot at. I’m not sure what that says about him.

Without my Al Gore cup commuting is weird. Heading down Fourth Avenue I see a billboard that reads, “Lesotho is Landlocked.” Sounds like a crisis. Sounds like there’s gotta be something we can do. Maybe a documentary. What do I know? I’m Arthur Murray, Private Investigator, not John Travolta.

Wellington Leg: From the files of Arthur Murray, Private Eye:

I keep an eye on Rudolfo for two reasons: he’s my landlord with all the genetic mutation that implies, and he’s old, a former Commandante of rebel forces in a South American country too big to mention. His wife Trudy is also getting on in years and, when they fight, which is most of the time, she likes to throw things at her husband. Not that she has a great arm, but Rudolfo is no longer the spry mountain goat of his youth. Objects thrown at in his direction have the luxury of time; he takes a long while to duck.

So I check in most mornings. I live up, they live down in a duplex on Beacon Hill, one of Seattle’s run down close in slums. I live alone except for the amazing spider collection emerging from the basement in kind of a long march toward control of the building. Sure they suffer casualties, but they’re going to win. Everyone acknowledges that.

This morning I woke to a loud crash from below. My girlfriend moved out five years ago and I tip toe around the apartment so as not to wake her. It works, I never wake her up.

After a shower of indeterminate length—when you live alone who keeps track—I dressed for the day. My office is off Pioneer Square above a publishing company that specializes in maps and calendars. I cannot imagine two items rendered more obsolete by the Internet than maps and calendars. Even I know how to use Google Earth. For that matter so does Trudy.

I have an Al Gore souvenir coffee mug. It has a picture of Al holding a salmon. Not holding a salmon, more like he’s presenting the Sockeye as a prize. I take it to mean “I have what you’re looking for.” It’s true if you’re looking for salmon.

I grab my keys and head for the office. I hear doors slamming downstairs and what sounds like a gun shot. I take the stairs two at a time hoping Rudolfo and Trudy are okay.