Sometime in 2001
I jump back from the tracks as the train rushes through the station. Now I re-stared into the empty abyss where the speeding bullet made of a dozen steel cars once whizzed past. Perfect metaphor for my life.
Here I am, a man of 28, sitting, feet on desk, eyes shut, daydreaming. I like to call it contemplating my future. I’m a detective of sorts. Over the past two years, I’ve had one case, successfully solved, I might add. Despite that early success, they haven’t exactly been beating down the door of my pet detective agency. Was this really a good idea to begin with? With a year left on my lease, and two years on my trust, circumstances are looking dire, as far as establishing my career goes. I really thought I’d hit the jackpot with this pet detective thing…
The phone rings. A sound so foreign in this space I barely recognize it. I open my eyes. The instrument is silent.
It rings again.
I groggily swing my legs off the desk and lean forward, reaching for the phone perched on its corner. I cross the fingers on my left hand, let it ring once more, then pluck the receiver off the cradle with my right. Leaning back in my chair again, I let out a long breath and silent prayer. Here’s hoping.
“Is this Mr. Carfrae?” asks a woman, her voice breathy, like she’s just finished a run.
“That depends who this is, but I’ll say yes.” This does not sound like a typical telemarketer. I can always “no habla” later.
“My name is Leslie Davenport. You don’t know me, but I got your name from … a client of yours, Josie Thomas; or … she referred me. You helped her locate her missing Shih Tzu, Luigi.”
I really loved that Jim Carrey movie and was convinced the world needed a real pet detective. So convinced was I that I rented a small office on the quiet side of town, printed cheesy business cards with paw prints around my name, and for months placed advertisements in the local newspaper touting my prowess.
Sadly, Josie Thomas and her lost Shih Tzu was my only case in sixteen months.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Miss Davenport,” I say before she has the chance to tell me her sob story about her missing cat or rabbit. “I’m out of that line of work.”
“I’m aware you are not dealing with animals anymore, Mr. Carfrae, but Josie believes you are still detecting. Is that true?”
On that point, Miss Davenport is correct. The only thing that remains from my pet detective days is my office with Elvis J. Carfrae stencilled on the door and an off-centre Detective underneath with a blank space where the word Pet used to be. To this day, it still hurts. I am salvaging what remains of my convictions and dignity. If not pets, then maybe people. At twenty-six, I thought I’d found my calling. At twenty-eight I had to pivot. I do not want to have to do another pivot when I hit thirty; that’s when my money will run out. I’m not sure what I’ll do if I haven’t established myself by then. My life will have been a wasted disaster. Not only do I need this, but I also feel the calling deep down in my bones. Detecting is in me. I just know it.
“Yes, Miss Davenport, I’m still in the detection business,” I confirm, lying a little. As a pet detective, I solved one case successfully. As a “real” detective … less so. I spend more time fiddling with the knobs on the knockoff Philco radio perched on my filing cabinet, hoping for more furniture in the place, than I do on the cases I don’t have.
Bottom line: things aren’t going great.
“Well, Mr. Carfrae, I may have something for you to detect.” She pauses and then adds, “And it has nothing to do with pets.”
I forget the Philco and the lack of furnishings. Now I’m all ears and a little mouth.
“Well, Miss Davenport, happy to discuss your problem whenever it is convenient for you.”
“I can be at your office in an hour and a half, if that works for you?”
“That would be just fine.” And should give me enough time to chase out the dust-bunnies before she arrives.
I give her the address and directions and hang up.
#
I swing into action. First, it’s over to the Philco radio for some background music. I spin the dial, hoping it’ll land on … “It’s Too Late to Turn Back Now” by the Cornelius Brothers — way too close to the truth. I don’t need to be reminded of my failing career, even if the song’s about falling in love. To me, it’s about keeping a job I love. I have to prove I belong here in this office with that title on the door. First and foremost to myself. My self-esteem has taken way too many hits over this … venture. My therapist would agree. I need this gig to work out, and I need to give a good first impression.
I snap the radio off and get to work.
I pull a small bag of cleaning supplies from my bottom right-hand desk drawer. With so few things, this should take little time. I have a letter hopper with an in-tray and an out-tray, a filing cabinet, a desk, a couple of client chairs, and a radio, all second-hand, non-matching, most with a heavy coating of dust. My guest chairs get a quick once-over with the rag, and so does my desk.
From my left drawer I pull out papers, pads, pens, newspaper clippings, and other paraphernalia to set the scene of the competent detective.
I take my seat with about ten minutes to spare.
“Well, ma’am, what seems to be your problem?” I lean forward, my mind playing the scenario in my head. I clasp my hands in front of me on the desk. “We need to discuss my fee,” I say to the worried chair.
Holy cow, a fee. My mind spins. Suddenly I have visions of new furniture, a couch or a four- drawer filing cabinet: in, out, current, and closed. Oh, I like that.
I’ll need coloured file folders for actual case notes, paper clips, a stapler, maybe an automatic pencil sharpener. I could get a tower computer for the office, complete with the latest in cathode-ray tube monitors. I’d get one with the newest version of Windows, XP or whatever they are calling it these days. I read that laptops will be all the rage one day, but they’re very expensive now.
A sharp bang interrupts my thoughts.
I’ve been down this road before: cart before the horse, my therapist likes to remind me, along with admonishing me for visions of my own grandeur. The Josie Thomas case had me believing there’d be associates buzzing around the office, a beautiful secretary taking dictation, and an Art Deco office, complete with window shades and exotic plants.
Sighing, I drag myself back to reality. Maybe I’ll start small: a plant for the corner to keep the radio company.
The bang sounds again.
What is it? It sounds very close.
Sadly, I barely recognize the knock on my own office door. I put my new horticultural renovation plans on hold, rise from my chair, cross the office to the door, and open it.
“Sorry about the delay,” I say. “My secretary has the day off.”
No sense giving up on my dreams all at once.
#
The voice from the phone has a body with hands on hips and a tapping foot. I suspect not answering the door fast enough has made a bad first impression; something tells me this woman is used to getting what she wants, quickly. She’s in her thirties, dressed more for dinner than this meeting. Six feet tall — long legs with a neck to match — blonde hair and the bluest eyes I have ever seen. Money drips from everywhere and everything.
I have Bogie’s voice in my head. What’s a beautiful, high-class, wealthy dame like this doing in my place? I’m sure she could afford better, and more experienced.
“Miss Davenport, I presume,” I say, feigning a British accent, attempting charming and cheeky. “Do come in.”
She steps over the threshold without acknowledging my efforts. Not even a smile. Her shiny, black high heels make a slow double click as she enters. She stands, legs together, and looks around the place.
“May I take a seat, Mr. Carfrae, or are we going to stand here in the doorway?”
“Oh, excuse me. Where are my manners?” I point to one of the two client chairs. She picks the one on the left.
“What can I do for you, Miss Davenport?” I settle behind my desk.
“Please, call me Leslie, Mr. Carfrae.”
“Call me Elvis, Miss Davenport.”
She smiles slightly. Now, I attempt suave and sophisticated. I tilt slightly back in my chair. Joe Cool.
“What can I do for you, Leslie?”
Again, it does not land. Tough customer. Instead, she looks down at her shoes, scans my sparse office, looks directly at me, and says, “I have a problem with my husband.” She leans slightly forward as she says it, as if taking me into her confidence.
Not in the room five minutes and I’ve made my first deduction: Miss Davenport is actually Mrs. Davenport.
I nod and raise an eyebrow. “What kind of problem?”
“Well … maybe I’m just being silly.” She leans back in her chair, back straight, purse still resting in her lap. “But … I believe somebody is trying to … harm him.”
I had assumed an adulterous affair.
“Who’s trying to harm him, Mrs. Davenport?” I say, using her correct title.
She coughs sharply.
I take the hint. “Ah … Leslie… Sorry.” She coughs again.
I then realize it’s not the title she’s having misgivings about. It’s the stupid question. If she knew, she wouldn’t need me. I change tactics.
“How long have you been married?”
“Twenty years next month,” she answers, adding, “I love my husband Mr. Car…” She pauses a little too long, and the corners of her mouth rise slightly. “Elvis.”
I understand her reticence. Not the first time my name has been a hurdle.
“We have plans to go away for our anniversary, but I’m afraid he won’t … make it.”
“How old were you when you got married?”
“Thirty-eight,” she says.
Taken aback, I swallow hard, causing me to choke on my saliva. My turn to cough. I can’t stop.
“Are you okay, Mr. Carfrae?”
I hold up my hand like a batter asking time from the umpire.
“Is it something I said?” A look of concern crosses her face.
The coughing fit continues, my air of cool sophistication lost.
She nods.
“It’s the age thing, isn’t it?” she says. “I don’t look fifty-eight… People assume, wrongly, this is bought and paid for.” She waves her hand up and down in front of her. “But I can say proudly and without a word of a lie: no reconstructive surgery, no implants, no enhancements, no fixes of any kind. My mother was a striking woman well into her eighties.”
“I meant … no disrespect…” I say, trying to regain my composure, fighting through a few more mini-hacks.
“I’ll take it as a compliment.” She leans forward again, her voice low, as if telling me a secret. “This…” another wave of her hand in front of herself, “has taken me places I should never have been: back rooms, office spaces, meetings. Everybody loves a pretty face and any other form of eye-candy. Men like to boast and play up their importance when an attractive woman is in the room. They brag too much and think too little… I have learned to shut up and listen, and I catch on quick.” She sits back in her chair. “A man can build a reputation in one day, from one event, but a woman has to prove herself every day. It’s a fact of life. Being a woman means you have to live with it, but you don’t have to like it.”
She falls silent.
I sit, listening, coughing fit over. I feel my potential client slipping away. She’s sizing me up. Do I look sufficiently chastised? Apologetic?
She sighs audibly. “Now where were we?”
“You’re worried about your husband.” Grateful to still be in the game, I ask a more thoughtful question. “Why?”
“My husband dabbles in many things, Mr. Carfrae. I believe one of these ‘things’ may be getting him into some … hot water.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Stanley is not a foolish man, Mr. Carfrae. Well … he sometimes has his … indiscretions, but I’m not here as a jealous wife looking for dirt or a divorce. I know where my bread is buttered, and I like the lifestyle I have become accustomed to. As I mentioned, I get into places and overhear things; some have me concerned.” She sighs.
“Can you be more specific?”
“I don’t want to get you in trouble…”
“Trouble I can handle,” I say, attempting bravado. “Vagaries are a little more tricky…”
“He’s been working with some unsavoury characters these past few weeks, and I get the feeling they will … kill him if he doesn’t do exactly as they want. I’d want you to look into this, see if my feelings have merit.”
“I’m not a bodyguard, Mrs. … Leslie, I’m a detective.”
“Bodyguard? No. You’ve misunderstood me. Protection he has. A bodyguard at all times and two when he leaves the office. I need you to investigate my intuition.”
“And how does one go about that?” I say. Never having investigated someone’s thoughts, I was curious.
“I can get you on his staff, if that helps. Get you in the room with him and his cohorts. You can talk to them, gain their confidence, find out their motives … whatever it is you detectives do. I’ll alert Ethan to your presence. If you hear or suspect anything, you tell him. He’ll take care of the rest.”
“And Ethan is…?”
“He’s the bodyguard.”
I’m intrigued. I remain quiet. Seems she has thought this through. Except for one thing.
“Leslie, as a detective I look into things that have already happened, not things that are about to …”
I look at Leslie Davenport and see the sad expression on her face.
“I have no one else to turn to, Elvis. Please.” Her face tenses but then breaks into a smile. “I have to ask. Did your parents name you after … you know?” She shimmies in her seat.
I shake my head. “Costello,” I say. “My real name is Sandy, short for Sanderson, my mother’s maiden name. She was a huge Elvis Costello & The Attractions fan and thought it was funny. At first, it was just her little joke around the house, but it stuck.”
I wait for Leslie to react, my hands folded into a pyramid in front of me. It wasn’t the complete truth, but it gets the job done. The truth is much more embarrassing. It involves a whiny ten-year-old, an ugly Christmas sweater, and a mother who’d had it up to here. She called me “Elvis,” claiming I was whining in a very Elvis-like way. That version doesn’t exactly evoke confidence in a potential client.
A certain smile crosses Leslie’s face, and I can see how she gets into those rooms.
She’s won me over.
“I like you, Elvis Sandy Sanderson. In fact, I want to hire you. Can you start right away?”
“Just to be clear,” I say, “I won’t be throwing myself in front of bullets or cars or beating someone up.”
She nods. “As I said, he has a body-man for that. Your job is paying attention to what is going on. Listen. Be proactive to threats, not just reactive. Use your brains, not your brawn. Dig deeper, understand nuances. It’s a department he is sorely lacking with his current staff… My hope is somebody on the outside can allay my fears or confirm them. That person, I have decided, is you.”
What a boost of confidence that sentence carries. I have but one answer.
“When do I start, and…?”
I want to discuss my fee, expenses, potential bonuses … but before we can get to that, Leslie stands and holds out an envelope she’s extracted from her purse.
“Here is a deposit to get you started. You’ll report directly to me,” she says, dropping the envelope on my desk. “There is some paperwork I have to do at the office to get you onboarded and access to the building. I would say a couple of days and you’ll be inside. Meanwhile, you can do whatever you do for a job like this. Make up a backstory, get a disguise. You know better than I.” I stand. She’s already walking toward the exit. I come round my desk. We shake hands at the door.
“It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Elvis Carfrae, a.k.a. Sandy Sanderson,” she says. “I feel better already.”
I watch her turn and walk down the hall, catching the soft sound of humming: Costello’s “Watching the Detectives.”
Back inside my office, with the door firmly closed, I flip on my radio. James Brown’s voice fills my office, and he’s feeling good. I pick up the envelope lying on my desk and open it. Fifteen hundred, cash. My eyes bulge. I look over at the radio.
“I feel the same way, James.”
