Fitzpatrick’s face became more serious, and I noticed for the first time how old he looked. Deep lines etched his forehead and surrounded his eyes and mouth. His skin had a transparent quality, though his complexion was quite ruddy for a man of his age and apparent lifestyle. His eyes were the only feature of his face that didn’t seem odd. He wore no glasses or corneal inserts, and his eyes seemed uncommonly clear and focused. Sure, maybe he had radial keratotomy or TDA surgery, but they didn’t explain an indefinable something about his eyes, somehow foreign, yet compelling. I looked away.
“As I told you last evening, I’m searching for a man named Thomas Malloy. Before I retired, I was a research scientist and worked quite closely with Dr Malloy for a time. Our paths diverted some 20 years ago, and we didn’t stay in touch. Recently, however, I saw a picture of my old friend in a local newspaper, the Bay City Mirror. My friend was in the background of the photograph. It was taken at a nearby university, Berkeley. When I went to look him up, I was told that no one named Malloy work there. I spoke to several people, even showing them the picture from the newspaper, but no one recognised — or admitted to recognising — Dr Malloy.
“I was close to abandoning hope when a young woman approached me, saying she might be able to help. She introduced herself as Sandra and said that she had worked with the man I knew as Malloy. He had been known to her as Tyson Matthews. Sandra did not seem comfortable talking to me at that time, so we agreed to meet later.”
Fitzpatrick paused dramatically and leaned toward me. “She did not keep our appointment.”
My eyes widened appropriately. “Did you talk to her again?”
“I had every intention of doing so. When I returned to the university, I was told that Sandra had quit her job and withdrawn from her classes. Other attempts to locate her prove fruitless.”
The story was starting to interest me. With a delicate cough, Fitzpatrick motioned toward my water cooler. “May I?”
“Certainly.”
He filled a paper cup halfway, returned to his seat, and took a sip. “As you can imagine, my discouragement gave way to a sense of empowerment. I feared not only for the well-being of the goal, but also of my friend. Macabre as it may seem, I began searching the obituaries in addition to my other inquiries. After several months, I came to believe that I would not see Dr Malloy again. Then I found another reference to my friend.”
Fitzpatrick paused and took another sip from a paper cup. I’d forgotten the Cubana — it had gone out. I set it in the ashtray.
“I have always had an interest in the paranormal and regularly read several periodicals in the genre. In one of these, the Cosmic Connection, I read that an upcoming feature would be an interview with a Dr Thomas Malloy. I contacted the publishers, but they would give me no information. In fact, the interview failed to appear in the magazine. I was never able to determine what had transpired, but $500 bought me an address where Malloy could supposedly be reached.”
“Here at the Ritz?”
“That’s correct.”
“Apparently another dead end.”
“I suppose we have yet to determine that. It is, however, as far as my story goes.”
Of course, I was in. The money alone would have done it, but the old man’s story had me hooked like a hungry bass. I had an image to maintain, though. I took a moment to relight the Cubana. “I think I can make time to look into this for you. I’ll need a copy of the picture from the newspaper and a number where if you can be reached. And if you think of anything else that could help, give me a call. The numbers on my card.”
Fitzpatrick seemed relieved. He produced a business card from his breast pocket and placed it carefully on the desk. “As per your instructions, I brought with me a copy of the photograph.” Pulling a neatly folded piece of paper from yet another pocket, he set it carefully beside the business card. He then opened his chequebook and slowly wrote out a cheque. To avoid staring, I picked up the photocopy of Malloy’s picture and unfolded it. In the background of the photograph I could clearly make out the face of an older man, at least in his mid-Seventies. I looked up to see Fitzpatrick finish signing his name. He removed the cheque methodically, blew on it lightly, and handed it to me. I tried not to look, but a bunch of zeros caught my eye and wouldn’t let go.
“The Cubanas were more than enough for a retainer, Mr Fitzpatrick.”
The old man replaced the cheque book in his coat pocket. “Consider the cigars a gift from one patron of a dying art to another.”
He rose slowly and smoothed the pleats of his tailored trousers. I stood and leaned across the desk to shake his hand.
“I hope this venture will be to our mutual benefit, Mr Murphy.”
I smiled down at the old man. “Call me Tex.”
After Fitzpatrick left, I waited for an appropriate period time, then grabbed the cheque and my hat and took the fire escape down to the street. It was only 7pm. The banks wouldn’t open for a couple hours, but there was an ATM close by that would cash my cheque.
Chelsee’s newsstand sits directly across from the Ritz. I decided to say hello. She left me hanging the night before. I needed to know if I’d hurt her feelings, how much, and what kind of Band Aid would make it all better.
“Hey… sorry about last night.”
“Really. Why? Chelsee was oozing antagonism. I remembered it was her birthday.
“Well I… you know, I feel like I swallowed my foot. It left a bad taste in my mouth. Metaphorically speaking, of course. My feet actually smell good.”
Chelsee didn’t smile like she was supposed to. “Don’t worry about it, Tex.” her words were nice enough, but her tone was testy. She crossed her arms and looked down. “I know how I look. Is not like I have guys lined up to ask me out… not like they used to.” She looked back at me, her chin up. “I wouldn’t want you to mollycoddle me anyway.”
It was bizarre hearing Chelsee talk like this. It was so honest, so sad… so pathetic. I didn’t know how to react. “Listen, why don’t you let me take you to dinner tonight?”
“A date?” She said the word like she’d rather be doused in kerosene and given a lit cigarette.
“No, no, no — just two friends eating some food from the same table. Maybe some polite conversation.”
Chelsee mulled it over, then shrugged. “I guess that’d be OK. I mean… yeah, that’d be alright.”
Her shoulders seemed to relax slightly. “Look, Tex. I haven’t been feeling myself lately. I didn’t think this birthday stuff would be any big deal, but I guess it is.” She narrowed her gaze, completely unaware of her shiny eyes and moist lips. “I… appreciate you looking out for me.”
My face felt like it was turning a bit pink. “OK, is not a date then. I’ll pick you up. How’s five? Earlier? Later?”
Chelsee’s eyes flashed for the first time. “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we just have dinner at my place? It’ll be quiet, we can talk… plus it will be a lot cheaper than going out.” she paused. “Besides I have something I want to talk to you about.”
I really felt like telling her that, for once, I had enough money to take her out. On the other hand, she never invited me to her place before, and the thought of it was substantially arousing. And what did she need to tell me? The possibilities were testing my antiperspirant.
“You talked me into it, Miss Bando. I’ll be there at 5 o’clock sharp… I may even iron my shirt.”
“I feel so spoiled.”
“By the way, which should I bring — red or white?”