David Thayer

Field notes: Death by Jerry Vale: Certainly a close call. I didn’t know it was Vegas night at the Baltimore Grill or I wouldn’t have stopped by. You don’t expect ruffled shirts and sky blue tuxedos in Chelsea but that is no excuse. After the melee in the parking lot I reported back to Mrs. Ogilvie who was dressed as a supernumerary for an opera I don’t know the name of. The PI game is humbling sometimes.

The idea that Mrs. Julius is seeing Dr. Mudd remains the central thesis of our investigation, according to our source who prefers to remain anonymous. Mrs. Ogilvie suspects a rival firm has been hired to run a shadow investigation;  in fairness I should point out she thinks my ineptitude is driving our client away. I vow to do better. I keep my feelings in check although I do wonder about a boss wearing a four foot peacock feather tiara.

Back on station I see that Dr. Mudd’s waiting room is full. Nothing to do now but wait, catch up on the ball scores, see if any money center banks have collapsed since this morning. Plenty of Wall Street types in the waiting room speaking on cell phones and checking their Blackberries. No sign of Mrs. Julius or the mysterious red fog.

I may have dozed since the scent of perfume from the backseat is a new element in the Studebaker’s staid environment. “Don’t turn around,” a soft voice whispers in my ear.

I don’t know about you but when someone tells me not to do something my first inclination is to go ahead and do it anyway.

I turn around.

“Mrs. Julius?”

The back seat is empty.

Knuckles rap on my window. Il Vagabondo is back.

Unauthorized Field Entry No. 23: I decide to swing through Chelsea on the way back from my meeting with “Julius” up in Midtown. I’m still a little shaken by the news that Mrs. Julius is invisible. I pull into a parking lot off Nineteenth Street where the Baltimore Grill has a stakeout special, the music’s loud, no questions are asked. Well, a few questions are asked. They serve a mean Boiled Potato and Cabbage that they wrap in old newspapers. You can catch all the scores from a week ago while you eat.

After I park the Studebaker and tip the tuxedo I enter the Baltimore through the side door since the front door faces Ninth Avenue and the back door is booby trapped. Swelling Jerry Vale wannabes tune up in the hallway; every night is Karaoke Night except Bingo Night the second Thursday of every month.

I grab a barstool and nod to Balzac behind the bar. He’s sweating profusely as wipes down the bar. “Stakeout Special,” I say.

“All I got is the New York Observer,” Balzac says. “You can substitute red cabbage or rutabaga.”

“I can’t wrap my food with the Observer,” I say.

“There’s a newspaper crisis. Take it or leave it.”

One of the Jerry Vales is sidling close as Balzac yells my order at the Latvian. “You singing tonight?”

“Gotta work.”

“We all gotta work, right? Nobody in the Baltimore with a trust fund.”

“I have a trust fund,” I say.

I throw a wad of fourteen singles on the bar. Jerry Vale jabs me in the ribs with the nose of his revolver. “We’re gonna take a walk. Stand up nice and easy.”

Great, Jerry Vale wants to kill me. My last earthly experience will be like a wedding on Staten Island. “Do I know you?”

“She wants word.”

“She?”

“You know who. Mrs. Julius.”

Balzac hands me my order, takes seven bucks from the trust fund. Jerry Vale pokes me with the gun. I can’t believe my meal is wrapped in a pink newspaper. “You guys use the back door,” Balzac says.

Then he winks.

Meeting the boss: My employer is as secretive as Doctor Mudd. He asks me to call him Julius and prefers meeting in out of the way places. While not a young man he is certainly spry and somewhat combative, claiming he fought in Bolivia with Che. Julius’ beef with Dr. Mudd revolves around Mrs. Julius who appears to be fifty or sixty years younger then her hubby. She’s seeing Dr. Mudd on the sly. Her problem? Red fog. It follows her wherever she goes.

Julius conducts my briefing in the lobby of the Martin, an upscale boutique hotel on Lexington. He needs details on my encounter with Il Vagabondo; he’s angry that my clumsy surveillance may have tipped off the doctor, but redirects his fury once I explain about the gnats. Julius was on the verge of overthrowing an unnamed Latin American government when he was stung by a bee. His wrist began swelling and the palace guards rushed his position; he spent ten years in jail. He sees gnats and bees in his dreams.

I explain that Mrs. Julius is yet to be observed near Dr. Mudd’s practice on Horatio Street and that’s when Julius drops the big one: Mrs. Julius becomes invisible sometimes. No one can see her. This is a different twist for me.

“You will see the red fog. That’s how you know she’s close by.”

Julius pays in cash. I only mention that because a low bank of red fog is enveloping the lobby rising over the potted palms. Julius seems oblivious.  He pays me with a flourish ordering me to return to the Village for another day in the Studebaker.

I walk out the door as the fog reaches chandelier level. You understand my ambivalence about the case. I’m wondering if these people are all crazy, and, if so, should I be taking their money?

Oh no. I left my spiral notebook in the lobby. I could go back or buy a new one at the drugstore. More later, signed, Arthur Murray, PI.

I’m camped out again near Dr. Mudd’s Greenwich Village townhouse. You may recall the snow shovel incident from my last report; I don’t whether to revise that entry or leave it in. Lots of people carry snow shovels in July. I swatted a gnat with a snow shovel a few summers ago. You don’t often see a gnat traveling alone, they usually group up to create a little momentum. Hey, that’s what hedge fund managers do.

I guess I ‘d better report what I see without editing or filtering out the weird stuff. My reports are laden with detail; for instance, the sun glinting on the hood of my Studebaker is creating a mirage, a vivid likeness of my high school gym teacher blowing his whistle. Now that we’re trailing 60-17 he wants me in the game. We lose 60-19.  That’s called making a difference.

Dr. Mudd is conferring with a man I call Il Vagabondo. They’re on his stoop gesticulating perhaps in argument. I am rolling down the window in order to gain auditory perception; you probably don’t remember but older cars use hand cranks to raise and lower windows. Add a layer of mud and grime to the glass and you’ve got yourself a workout accompanied by a squealing noise that alerts the men on the stoop to my presence….

Il Vagabondo is striding toward me. He’s brandishing a book QUANTUM ANALYSIS IN RISK MANAGEMENT. I’ll admit I didn’t make him as a quant guy. Time to boogy. Great, there’s a cloud of gnats in the car now. My snow shovel is in the trunk.

It’s a good thing that Danger is my middle name.

Stakeout notes: entry 44: the subject has grown a beard over the past few weeks perhaps thinking the facial hair will suffice as a disguise. He is displaying signs of stress standing on his balcony with a can of Bud in one hand and a Nixon’s the One sign in the other. He wants everyone to vote for Nixon. He wants everyone to drink Bud.

From my Studebaker I can observe most of Horatio Street from the playground to Ninth Avenue. As reported in Entry 27 the lady from Weehawken continues to visit Doctor Mudd on his ground floor practice two doors away. Her immediate problem is her son Nikko who fled New Jersey following the theft of one thousand four hundred Toyotas in Port Elizabeth. Nikko is considered dangerous especially if you’re a Toyota. Dr. Mudd cannot explain the Toyota fixation. “It’s odd, though,” he admits.

With my subject in plain sight I allow myself a mad dash over to Jane Street on foot. The yelling about Nixon is stirring some of the disenfranchised from the alleys off Abbingdon Square. They want to vote and they want to vote now; I tell one of them that Nixon is dead and he thinks I’m being metaphysical. “God is dead,” he says. I give the V for Victory sign, followed by that half karate chop Nixon salute.

Back in the Studebaker I wish I hadn’t ordered a baked potato because this sucker is hot and my subject is doing one armed pushups on his balcony, a sure sign of trouble. No sour cream. I was clear about the sour cream. Dr. Mudd is emerging from his basement with a snow shovel. It’s July. He’s looking furtive. I wonder if my plastic fork will break inside the baked potato. A kind of low fog is rushing upwards from potato central and I wonder again if this was the best possible choice for a stakeout meal.

Dr. Mudd is shoveling imaginary snow. I like this guy and wonder what he told the lady from Weehawken. I would listen to what he says and then do the opposite. But that’s just me. I’m Arthur Murray, Private Investigator. Report ends.

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.