I drank my drinks, ordered more and paid with the hundred-dollar bill. And I counted my change when I recovered it, because I wasn’t that drunk yet. Although I was obviously sufficiently drunk as to have forgotten that the barman was supposed to be paying for all my drinks that evening, because I’d showed him the letter. And then I had a bit of an idea. I would phone home. Speak to my mum and dad and to Andy.
That was a good idea.
That was not a good idea.
I phoned and I did get through. And I spoke to my mum, who was up even though it was three a.m. English time, hoovering the carpets. But with the Hoover turned off, so as not to wake my daddy, who was no longer working as a roadie for The Stones but now as a roadie for T. Rex.
My mum got all tearful when she heard my voice. And then she told me that I was a very bad boy for not calling for so long and how had it been in prison?
‘Prison?’ I asked her.
‘Your brother Andy said that you had been taken off to prison for being naughty with children.’
‘What?’ I said. Considerably appalled.
‘Well, I was so worried that you were dead or something. And I kept on and on at Andy to find out the truth. And finally he said that you were okay, in perfect health and being well looked after in the psychiatric ward of Sing Sing.’
‘Oh splendid,’ I said. ‘Good old Andy.’
‘But I don’t see much of him now,’ said my mum. ‘He mostly lives on his island.’
‘His island?’
‘In the Caribbean. Near Haiti. Andy Isle it’s called, I think. He flies there on his private jet.’
And I groaned very loudly.
‘You should have stayed in the band,’ said my mum, ‘rather than getting yourself involved in illegal playground activities.’
‘Thank you, Mother,’ I said to her. ‘And goodbye.’ And I replaced the receiver and never spoke to my mother ever again.
And I returned to the bar.
‘Are you going to buy me a drink now?’ asked the barman.
‘Yes,’ I said and I sighed when I said it. ‘Why not? Go on. What will you have?’
The barman helped himself to the drink of his choice, took my money, cashed it up in the register and obligingly short-changed me.
I just sort of smiled at this and said, ‘Life.’
‘It’s a funny old world, ain’t it?’ said the barman.
‘Oh yes,’ I agreed. ‘I have no idea at all exactly what the purpose of my life has been up until now. Or even if it had a purpose. I am inclined to think that life is totally without purpose.’
‘And you would be correct in this thinking,’ the barman agreed.
‘You think?’
‘Of course. Life is a finite entity. Men live, men die, and whatever they leave behind – literature, music, art – will eventually die also. Nothing lasts for ever. All creations have a finite existence, therefore all creations are ultimately without purpose. Because once they have ceased to be, and the memory of them has also ceased to be, it is as if they have never existed. It is all without purpose. Well done for noticing it.’
‘Thanks a lot!’ I said.
‘My pleasure. So how do you intend to go about your mission of saving Mankind? You apparently being the Chosen One and everything.’
‘I have no idea at all,’ I said, downing further bourbon. ‘In fact, I have no idea what to do. It feels as if my whole life really has been orchestrated and I have absolutely no free will at all. I am just a pawn in some terrible game. Or, more precisely, a puppet, with someone pulling my strings.’
‘Nasty,’ said the barman. ‘That must be horrid. Perhaps you need something to take your mind off all this. A distraction. A hobby or something.’
I shrugged. ‘I suppose.’
‘You’re out of work at the moment, right?’
‘Absolutely. I was a musician. And also a private detective. But I’m out of work now and totally lost.’
‘A private detective, did you say?’
‘I did say that, yes.’
‘Well, that’s a coincidence. Perhaps this is what you need.’
The barman pulled that copy of American Heroes Today magazine towards him and leafed through its pages to the small ads. ‘This might be what you are looking for,’ he said.
He had circled the ad in question.
With a thick-nibbed pen.
The American Heritage Society is proud to announce that due to Government funding, the 27th Street Private Detective District is to be saved from redevelopment. A number of office placements have been made available to suitable candidates. One remains.
Lot 27. The office of Lazlo Woodbine, Private Eye, missing, presumed dead. Comprising hatstand, carpet, ceiling fan, filing cabinet, desk, two chairs, venetian blind.
To be sold as a single lot. Including also the remaining wardrobe of Lazlo Woodbine, comprising trench coat, fedora, Oxfords, trusty Smith & Wesson, etc.
Eighty-five dollars.
‘How much change do you have from your one-hundred-dollar bill?’ asked the barman.
And I took out my change and counted it.
‘Eighty-five dollars,’ I said.
45
Exactly eighty-five dollars! How handy was that?
It was indeed a happy coincidence and with its coming I recalled once more that the barman was supposed to be paying for my drinks, and so I let him buy me a few more doubles before I made my way back to 27th Street.
Now, I suppose you might say that I was a wee bit tiddly by the time I got to the famous office where the famous detective had met with his clients before heading off to his other three locations in order to solve his cases. Well, perhaps a tad tiddly, rather than just a wee bit. But I was able to tap on the door without putting my hand through the glass and string sufficient words into sufficient sentences to make myself understood.
The man from American Heritage was very nice. He was just going home when I arrived, but he looked quite pleased to see me. He said that if I hadn’t arrived, then he was preparing to give the whole thing up as a lost cause, auction off the contents of Mr Woodbine’s office and let the building be demolished to make way for a proposed detective-themed shopping mall.
‘I’m sure the developer will be very pleased when I tell them that someone has agreed to take over Mr Woodbine’s business,’ he said, ‘because it will save them all the trouble of building that brand-new mall.’
I agreed that it was a possibility and asked where I had to sign.
There wasn’t much in the way of paperwork involved. And I was certainly never asked any probing or personal questions. It was just ‘sign your name on this here dotted line and hand over your eighty-five dollars’. And that was that. And he shook my hand, gave me an official deed to the office and a licence (another licence! But this time one that would work in my favour). Handed me a set of keys, told me that the water cooler needed refilling and that if I wished to make a complaint to City Hall regarding the solo saxophonist, whose dreamy rhythms drifted even now through the window, then I would have to do so in writing.
Then shook my hand once more and took his leave.
Chuckling.
Yes, that is what I said, chuckling. Why chuckling? Well, I have absolutely no idea at all. But that’s what he did. Perhaps it was just relief at finally getting the perfect tenant to take over from Laz. Who can say? Not me.
He shut the door behind him and I was left alone. And as it was now getting dark, I switched on the light. And then recalled that the man from American Heritage had also mentioned something about the electricity having been switched off. Although I hadn’t really been listening carefully to that bit. So I upped the venetian blind and let what light there was enter the office. It was rather a cool light, really, being composed of a street lamp on the alleyway corner and the flashing neon of a night club called The Engine Room. I sat down in Lazlo’s chair – Lazlo’s chair that was now my chair – and put my feet up on the desk that had also been Lazlo’s but was now my desk.