“We are gathered here today before God and in the company of loved ones to celebrate life,” Rabbi Rabinowitz said. “The life of—” He paused. “The life of—” Another pause. Finally, he pulled a notecard from his pocket. “We are here to celebrate the life of Melvin Weinberg.”
I adjusted my tie as I leaned toward Mary. “More like celebrating his death,” I said.
She rolled her eyes as she listened to the rabbi.
“Melvin, or Mel, as most of you probably knew him, was a husband and a father, a man whose life was cut short at the age of fifty-six. The world will not be the same without him.”
“Yeah, it will be safer now,” I whispered to Mary, who responded with an elbow to my left kidney. “What? Clearly this rabbi never met Mel.”
Candidly, I had never met Mel either, but I was confident I knew more about him than any of the two hundred or so people at the funeral. My guess was most were here not because Mel would be missed but because so many people wanted to confirm he was dead.
When you’re in your seventies like I am, you become familiar with funerals and the certain routine that comes with them, but it was easy to see nothing was routine about this one. Sure, the rabbi forgot the dead man’s name, but now he was extolling Mel’s virtues. Mel had no virtues. He was a murderer, a rapist, and a gambler. You can’t live life as a jerk and die a mensch. Clearly the rabbi was officiating as a favor to someone.
But that wasn’t all that was off. Those in attendance were also peculiar. First, a half-dozen FBI agents patrolled the room. Sarah Cutler—the woman expected to be Chicago’s next mayor—was sitting in the front row for all to see. Scattered throughout were members and employees from the West Coast Club, a fitness center I’ve worked out at for more than twenty years and a place I know Mel was no member of.
Then there was the crowd in the back row. On one side sat associates of Tony Santori, the head of the notorious Italian crime family. Santori expanded his family’s corrupt and dishonorable reign from New Jersey to the Midwest six years ago, and although he wasn’t in attendance, his presence was certainly felt.
On the other side were members of the Deli Boys, a pack of Jews who’d owned Chicago’s streets for decades, at least until Santori arrived. Solomon Feldman was their leader, though he, too, was not present. A line of uniformed Chicago police officers blanketed the room’s back wall, there primarily to keep the peace between the two families.
Keep the peace? At a funeral? Like I said, the whole scene was bizarre. Then again, I guess it was fitting for the unique set of circumstances surrounding Mel Weinberg’s death.
Why they were there was a legitimate question, as was this: As a retired businessman who spent fifty years selling trinkets like light-up Christmas necklaces and pens that sang “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” what the hell was I doing there?
To answer that question, I needed to take a step back.
---
David Blazen is my name, born soon after World War II ended at eight pounds and who cares how many ounces. Growing up, I loved to watch Saturday morning television, where Superman stood for justice and Captain America defended our country from evil. All the shows I gravitated toward appealed to me because they focused on doing the right thing, no matter if the hero was a rifleman or a collie.
I liked when bad people were caught and justice prevailed. When I couldn’t find the right story on our black-and-white TV, I’d find it in my piles of GI Joe comic books. Before I fantasized about girls, I dreamed about being GI Joe.
The best education I got came from my World War II-veteran dad, a navy man who was the smartest person I knew, even though he never made it past fifth grade. From him I learned how to be human. His motto was simple: “It’s nice to be important, but it’s more important to be nice.”
I went to Wright Junior College in Chicago, but saying I went there is a loose term. I only showed up when I wanted, which wasn’t often. I wanted to learn to be a salesman, so when I wasn’t in class, I was practicing my craft. At that time, I sold personalized pens. I decided I learned all the school could teach me three months into my freshman year when I sold Wright Junior College ten thousand pens emblazoned with the school’s name on them.
After my brief stint in college, I started my own business. I sold creative impulse merchandise of all kinds—things people decide they can’t live without, like an extendable back scratcher or holiday-themed ice trays. Those who knew me then would call me creative and fast-paced, and I would agree. I had a zest for being zestful. My creativity was not stymied by what others did or what books said, only by the limits of my imagination. Every day, I challenged my brain to think outside the norm.
I got married to an incredible woman, and we raised four incredible children. I lost her to cancer far too young, before she could see any of our ten adorable grandchildren.
I retired after five decades at the helm of my company and issued my declaration of independence—I call it that because I truly felt independent for the first time in my life. No parents or teachers telling me what to do. No customers to worry about. No colleagues to manage. When I got that gold watch at my farewell party, it wasn’t just a sign of gratitude; it meant I was on my own.
The irony was I didn’t have anything to do; who cared what time it was?
When people asked about my retirement plans, I joked I’d figure something out, but really I didn’t have a clue. One advantage was I wouldn’t be completely alone. My girlfriend, Mary, retired from her forty-year business career the day after I left mine, and we entered this new world enthusiastic to travel, relax, and enjoy our lives with one another, like those hokey life insurance commercials with aging couples hugging on a boat, grateful to have time together.
It took us four days to realize we didn’t like boats and there was only so much hugging to do.
We went from leadership positions where others counted on us for direction to spending virtually every waking minute together. It used to take only one of us to squeeze the tomatoes at the produce counter, but now it’s a two-person event complete with discussion and, in most cases, a concession on my part. I was no dummy, though; bigger decisions would be needed at the avocados. What used to be short trips now became extended outings.
Lunch was another discussion, followed by a compromise. Everything we did was a discussion, then a compromise. The one thing we agreed on was we needed a new plan.
Step one was to have me rejoin the West Coast Club (WCC). I’d always been in good shape, but in the months leading up to retirement, I was too preoccupied with work and fell out of my regular exercise routine. In my pre-retirement life, the gym provided nothing more than a workout and quick shower before I scurried off to run my business. I never had time to enjoy the relaxation of a good steam or a nice hot sauna. Now, though, I had nothing but time.
Seriously. Mary and I decided I would spend my mornings at the WCC and then we’d meet for lunch. I wasn’t quite sure how I’d fill five hours at the gym, but I assumed I’d meet new friends, explore all the place had to offer, or just steam a lot. I was confident I’d figure it out.
I’ve always been a people-watcher, so when I wasn’t working out, I watched everyone else in the club. Some might call this obsessive; others might call it being extremely bored. I’d say yes to both. I learned a whole lot about the people I shared the club with. I quickly realized you can’t buy a good-looking body, and in my first six weeks back, I uncovered three different affairs. Frankly, if I didn’t spend so much of my morning naked, either showering or steaming, I’d keep a diary. After all, the WCC quickly became my life. Even when I wasn’t at the club, it was most of what I thought about.
On day forty-eight of retirement, Mary and I had lunch with friends we hadn’t seen since we stopped working. They told us about a two-month cruise around the world they just took, Mary talked about her Pilates classes and her newfound passion for golf, and I told them about the WCC. For some reason, they weren’t impressed by the affairs I’d sleuthed out. Apparently, I needed to work on my delivery.
The next day, Mary and I met for our routine post-workout lunch and had our traditional conversation about nothing and everything on our minds. I told her about my personal best of four minutes and thirty seconds in the steam room, and to say she was uninterested would be an understatement. She has the incredible gift of simultaneously looking at me in amazement while dozing off with her eyes open—it is a remarkable talent, and one she had practiced a lot during the past few weeks. As I started to tell her about a woman who always pretended to work out, she cut me off.
“Sweetie, you need to do more with your life than hang around the club,” Mary said. “Look at what one of my girlfriends dropped off.” She pulled a book out of her purse. It was called 101 Things to Do in Retirement Years. Mary had always been sweet to me, but not once when I was a successful businessman did she call me sweetie. Was this new term higher or lower on her scale of endearment? I faked interest in the book and put it to the side. I didn’t think I needed anything else to do. I had the WCC.
Day sixty-two of retirement began like any other day. I arrived early at the club, showered, steamed, worked out, and showered again. Afterward, I did a lap around the place, looking to see if I could find anything of interest to fill my time. I meandered into the weight room and toward the row of five punching bags on the opposite side of the room. I always gravitated toward the bag all the way on the left; when you peer around it, you have a great view of the entire room, and the darkness of the corner makes it virtually impossible to be seen.
Or so I thought.
I settled into my prime watching position, and as I started browsing the room, I locked eyes with Betty, the club’s CEO, standing thirty feet away from me. Despite her title, Betty was extremely hands-on with the club’s day-to-day operations. Everybody knew Betty, but having been a member for so long, I felt she and I had a special connection. Watching me stare from behind the punching bag, she forced a smile as she signaled for me to come her way.
What could she want? Maybe to say how great it was to see someone my age so committed to his health and well-being? If only that was her message. Betty didn’t greet me as I approached her. She turned and walked out of the room, so I followed to her office.
“Mr. Blazen, please close the door,” she said as I walked in.
I gave a slight laugh. “Mr. Blazen? Betty, we’ve known each other for decades. I don’t think you’ve ever called me by my last name. What’s this about?”
She paused, waiting for me to close the door and sit in one of the two red leather chairs facing her desk. “Mr. Blazen, I know you’ve been spending a lot of time here the past few months, and, well, we’ve received a number of complaints about your behavior, particularly your obsessive snooping.”
Something in those words made it sound like she was describing a psycho. Obsessive snooping? That didn’t sound like me. Or maybe it did.
“Punching bags are for punching, Mr. Blazen, not hiding behind, and bench presses are for lifting weights, not sitting on so you can watch everyone else work out,” she continued. “This is a place for people to exercise, not to meddle. We’re not in some reality TV show here. I’m going to need to ask you to change some of your daily practices immediately.”
My cheeks were as red as the chair I sat in. How embarrassing!
As bad as Betty’s admonishment was, I couldn’t help but notice an added tension in the room, like she was trying to say something to me without saying it. It was as if she was warning me of something, like if I kept snooping around, as she called it, I might see something I wouldn’t be able to unsee. Was that what this was all about? The whole idea seemed strange, but so did the conversation. Maybe I was just having retirement paranoia.
Either way, if the WCC was going to continue to be part of my daily routine, I’d need to work on fitting in more.
In short, my health club was no longer healthy for me.
Driving home, I felt as little as could be. In two months, I’d gone from an international businessman to a peeping Tom. Mary was already worried about me, and now I had to at least consider that her worrying was legitimate.
I took four days off before returning to the WCC. From the moment I walked in until the time I left, I felt I was being watched. Surely there must have been internal gossip about the weirdo snooping around the club. I steamed, worked out, and showered, then sat down in the ground-floor café near the lobby.
Table 16 was my go-to spot, positioned just to the side of the café counter. Prior to my uncomfortable meeting with Betty, that was one of my favorite places to people-watch. With my back to the counter, not only could I see everyone who came in and out of the building, but I also had a great vantage point to see the freeweights room, the basketball courts, and a squash court. I could also overhear conversations at the café counter. There were few better places to see so much activity. But today was different. I had to show my routine was changing and that I wanted to simply fit in, so instead of my normal seat, I sat on the opposite side of Table 16. What better way to show I had no interest in people’s business than by literally turning my back to the club’s activity?
During my self-imposed four-day break from the club, I thought a lot about what Betty said. I thought about the worsening strain between Mary and me these past few weeks. I worried she was getting bored with me. Hell, I was getting bored with myself. I decided I’d look over the Things to Do in Retirement book, so I tossed it in my gym bag. Now, sitting at the WCC, my back to the hustle and bustle of the club, I pulled it out and started to read, ready to be inspired by something new.
#1: Learn to knit.
I was not going to learn to knit.
#2 Write a book.
Give me a break. I could barely read a book, let alone write one.
#3 Build a model airplane.
#4 Travel.
#5 Plant a garden.
This was going to be even harder than I thought.
#16 Lecture on what you know best.
That’s an interesting idea. Maybe I could talk about business to college kids or professional associations. I’d have to come back to that one.
#20 Join a health club.
Ugh.
I closed the book, satisfied I made it through twenty suggestions yet thoroughly unsatisfied that only one even remotely piqued my interest. I put the book down and was about to get up and stretch when I saw the stairs. Not the stairs I’d gone up and down thousands of times over the years but a separate set of loftstyle ones hidden deep down near the end of a long hallway. I’d never seen those stairs before. I hadn’t even realized the hallway was there; I just thought it was a way to access the café kitchen.
Where could those stairs go? I picked up my book and pretended to read but instead remained locked on the stairs, curious to see if someone I saw going up or down might indicate what could be found at the top.
Over the course of the next hour, I saw a total of four men in suits go up the stairs and none come down. Each was big, not in a muscular way but more like it was surprising to see them make it up the stairs at all. They clearly were not going to work out. So what was going on?
The next day, I returned to my new perch at Table 16, determined to learn more about the mystery stairs. As I waited for anything interesting to happen, I kept glancing down at my book. It was meant to be a decoy, but I wanted to see if anything else would interest me.
#21 Become an artist.
#28 Collect stamps.
#35 Take cooking lessons.
None of those sounded appealing. I was in the middle of reading about remodeling your house when a hard box rammed into my leg. “What the hell?” I shouted as I looked up to see a smaller-sized man with glasses carrying what must have been a three-foot-long black case in his right hand.
“I’m sorry,” the man said, “I didn’t mean to surprise you. My name is Jack, and I couldn’t help but see you’re reading my favorite retirement book. It has been a lifesaver for me.”
“Really?” I asked, surprised, still rubbing my leg in pain.
“That’s right. Thanks to that book, I’m learning the sweet sounds of the trombone,” he said, holding up his case. “Plus, check out this winter hat. I knitted it myself!”
Jack pulled out a brown hat with streaks of orange and pink and two puffed balls on top. He put the hat on his bald head and beamed with pride. I looked at the eighty-something-year-old carrying a trombone and boasting about a hat that looked like an orange and a pomegranate that had been soaked in shit, and I realized if that’s what this book thinks retired life should look like, I would no longer have any use for it.
“Your hat looks nice,” I said, “but if you don’t mind, I’m actually late for an appointment.”
I gave a quick nod, put my book in my gym bag, and began walking down the mystery hallway to the even more mysterious stairs. I didn’t have a plan, but I couldn’t spend any more time with Jack. I wandered down the hall and discovered a door at the base of the staircase with a keypad on it. That only made me more curious. As I got close to the door, a refrigerator-shaped gentleman stepped out and, with one look at me, closed the door quickly.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked.
This did not seem like someone I wanted to give my real identity to, so I ignored his question.
“I’m sorry sir, I’m looking to find a room here, and now I can’t remember the number,” I said.
“It’s not this one,” Mr. Refrigerator said, blocking the door. Something interesting was going on up those stairs. But what? “I didn’t mean to intrude, sir. If you don’t mind,” I said, fidgeting in my pocket, pretending to try to find a scrap of paper, “let me see if I can find that paper.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another man coming toward the door. I moved to the side and pulled out my wallet, looking for a paper I knew wasn’t there. The new man approached and gave Mr. Refrigerator a head nod. He went to the door and typed 49651* into the keypad.
Once he walked through the door, I looked back up at Mr. Refrigerator.
“Oh, I remember. It was room eighteen. Do you know where that is?”
“Do I look like a map?” Mr. Refrigerator asked.
His shape would make for a nice globe, but I kept that to myself.
“Fair point. Thanks anyway.”
I turned and walked back down the hall toward the café, a smile on my face almost as big as Trombone Jack’s.
I had a new project.
49651. 49651. 49651.
I repeated that code hundreds of times the rest of the day.
Something was happening beyond that door, and now I had the digital key to find out what it was. Tomorrow, I planned to get to the gym early and check it out. I remembered that inkling I had while talking with Betty that she was hiding something from me, and I wondered if the two were connected. I’d find out soon enough.
The next morning, I wore my finest dark suit rather than my normal gym garb. I figured if I got to the club early, the door would be more likely to be unguarded, and even if there was someone there, so long as it wasn’t the Fridge, I wouldn’t look out of place. Fortunately, Mary was still sleeping, so I didn’t need to explain the odd attire. I got in the car, the sun still not up, and began the drive to the WCC. 49651. On the way, I thought about all the possibilities beyond that door.
Before I retired, I’d never do something like this. I had my purpose in life, and that was that. Now, though, what was my purpose? There must have been some reason I saw that code. 49651. Maybe whatever was going on beyond that door was connected to my larger purpose in life. Maybe it was some grand mystery that only I could solve. On the other hand, maybe it was nothing at all. There was only one way to find out.
My mind wandered to detective heroes from 1980s television—Magnum PI, Kojak, and Columbo—as I wondered how they’d handle this situation. Unfortunately, my daydreaming got the best of me, and just three minutes from the WCC, flashing lights startled me back to reality.
“Pull over!” I heard over a loudspeaker.
Shocked it could be me the policeman was addressing, I looked and realized there was no other car in sight. I pulled over and sat for at least ten minutes as the officer called in my license plate. Finally, he got out of his car and approached me.
“Good morning, sir,” the officer said. “Did you know you were driving sixty in a thirty-five MPH zone?”
Truthfully, I had no idea. “I’m sorry, Officer; it won’t happen again.”
He slapped me with a $150 ticket and told me to pay more attention while behind the wheel. That ticket was more than a fine. It was a wakeup call. What the hell was I doing? I was dressed for an important business meeting when, really, I had no business being where I was trying to go. This was all a stupid idea.
Mary was awake when I got home, confused by my outfit and why I left my gym bag.
“A cheap friend scored his final deal with a 20-percent discount on his funeral so long as it finished before 8:30 a.m.,” I said.
She looked at the clock. It was now 8:42 a.m. She looked back at me. “He cut it pretty close.”
I couldn’t tell if she believed me, but that wasn’t my biggest concern. I was worried about myself. What was I thinking trying to sneak up the guarded stairs? Had I lost all sense of reality? Was I depressed? Did I need to be medicated? Those were the questions that lingered all day and that I fell asleep to. Sadly, they were still waiting for me in the morning. My fall from grace was steep, and my zest levels had never been lower. To put it simply, I was in a bad place. I lost my interest in the WCC. Really, I lost interest in just about everything. I started going through the motions of life with no purpose.
My slump took a toll on Mary, and our relationship began to fracture. I knew she was worried about me, but her disappointment in me was truly concerning. We both retired with dreams for this happy and relaxing next chapter of our lives. She held up her end of the deal, but what was I doing? She and I started to bicker more, less in the joking way we used to and more with a hint of anger.
I’d always had direction in my life, something I was trying to achieve or go after. Now, though, I was lost with no compass in sight. I got together with a couple of friends over the course of the next two weeks to try to answer that question. Bless Mary, she reached out to them and said I needed their support, and while it was fun catching up, none could shake me from my funk.
On day ninety-two of retirement, I once again cracked open the book endorsed by Trombone Jack. Maybe I’d skipped something good the first time around. That night, I sat in bed and glanced through the list again.
#83: Search for gold or pennies.
#91: Take up beekeeping.
#101: Golf.
I stared at #101. I’d never been interested in golf. It seemed like a waste of time chasing a little ball around with a stick. If I wanted that kind of frustration, I might as well get a metal detector and search for gold. At least with that I had the chance of a reward. What do you get with golf? The ball goes in a hole, and then you repeat the whole stupid routine all over again.
No thanks. I tossed the book to the side and opted for some TV before going to sleep.
“Mary, give me the remote,” I said, still annoyed at the idea of golf.
“Get your own damn remote,” she said, turning her back to me.
I could have pushed, but it was easy to see Mary had no interest in me that evening. I walked around the bed to her side and grabbed the remote. My kids gave me the complete DVD set of The Streets of San Francisco, and I was still making my way through the first season. I flipped the show on and forgot all about my retirement doldrums. The episode had a love triangle that saw a father and son unknowingly have affairs with the same woman. The story was twisted, but as always, the detectives figured out who to blame for the woman’s death.
That night, I dreamed I starred in the show as the good guy trying to catch the city’s riffraff and protect the general public.
I was in the middle of a car chase, me behind the wheel of one of those classic early 1970 Ford sedans, when, suddenly, I jolted awake. It was 3:12 a.m. on February 10, and I knew what I wanted for my retired life. I was going to be a detective!
I wanted to wake Mary up and share the big news, but I used my detective skills to determine that would not end well. I tried going back to sleep, but it was useless. I was wide awake. I got out of bed, energized like I hadn’t been in months. Between my interests in solving problems and my recent sleuthing, being a detective made perfect sense. How did my retirement book overlook this perfect option? I grabbed some breakfast and was back in the bedroom to get dressed for the day ahead, even though it was still pitch black outside. I kept the lights off and tried my best to get ready, but I stubbed my toe on the doorframe as I went for some socks. I did my best to mask the pain as I cursed and grabbed my foot in agony, but I wasn’t quiet enough. Mary rolled over and opened one eye to see me hopping up and down holding my foot.
“David, what the hell are you doing?”
“Oh good, you’re awake.” I stopped hopping and tried to forget the sharp jolts of pain in my smallest toe. “Mary, I figured it out. I figured out what I’m going to do with my life. I’m going to be a detective!”
I’m not sure what I thought her reaction would be. I wasn’t expecting a loud cheer or for her to jump out of bed and give me a big congratulatory hug, but I guess I hoped for some sort of encouraging response. Instead, she smiled and rolled back over.
“Great, sweetie, you do that,” she said before falling back asleep.
That sounded like approval to me. It wasn’t even 5 a.m., and already I had a victory under my belt.
At 5:02 a.m., I sat down at the desk in my home office for the first time in months. Now with direction, I was ready to become a detective. My first assignment? Figure out how to become a detective. I opened my laptop and searched online for How do I become a detective? The first few entries made it clear that to be a detective, you needed years of training, certification, and often to be sponsored or employed by a larger entity. Hmm, saying
I used to run the company that made battery-operated squirt guns that light up and make noise probably wouldn’t count. I kept searching.
I wondered what it would take to join the FBI but quickly had to rule that out due to the age requirements. I guessed Homeland Security and Border Protection also were not looking for seventy-year-old high-school graduates. Being in the Secret Service would be fun, but I wasn’t going to leap in front of the president and take a bullet for him, not because I approve or disapprove of the guy but because I couldn’t leap anymore. Back to the internet search.
There was a job opening for a gate guard at our local senior community center, but I’d rather knit a quilt or maybe one of those stupid hats Jack had. I didn’t want to do security. I wanted to follow in my heroes’ footsteps and focus on the battle of good versus evil.
I kept hitting the next button in hopes of finding something that would jump out at me, and then, on the sixth page of the search results, I found it: Become a Private Investigator in just 3 months for $289. That sounded promising. I sat up straight with my shoulders back and proudly announced myself. “David Blazen, private investigator.” It had a nice ring to it. I wondered how long it took Thomas Magnum to become Magnum PI. “Blazen PI” sounded even more compelling. There was just one problem.
Three months was still too long. I clicked the link anyway and was taken to the Metro City Internet College (MCIC) website. I poked around a little bit but was interrupted by the front door slamming. I got up in time to see Mary drive away, off to another day of golf and Pilates. I’d tell her about my research later.
I went back to digging around on the MCIC website. The college was easy to find online and learn about, but I found it impossible to locate a phone number. Many people in my position might have given up but not this budding private investigator. I just had to get creative. I tried other searches about the college but still could not find contact information. My next stop was a rating website where I discovered the school was not held in high esteem by the majority. One inspiring five-star rating from a guy said the three-month course built the foundation for his lifetime career as a detective, but after that, there were dozens of unfavorable ones. I quickly lost count of the one-star reviews, people who said the program was a sham and didn’t give them what they thought they would get out of it. They must not have been motivated, I thought, thinking back to that five-star review.
All you need is motivation. As I continued to scroll through the one-star reviews, I found one of interest:
I was looking for a career for my husband, Calvin, and found this online certification to become an official private investigator. He lost his job from the bus company, and we didn’t have the tuition money, but my parents were kind enough to lend it to us. What a waste! The class consisted of useless online classes that simply repeated the eight pamphlets provided as course material. You guys are crooks, and we couldn’t be unhappier. Shame on you, Metro City Internet College!
Sincerely, Jennifer Talbert, Rockford, Illinois.
I found Jennifer’s phone number online and gave her a call. I explained I was trying to locate the number for the online school, but I also said I was sorry for her husband’s bad experience. She passed along the number but cautioned me against contacting the school. I heard her warning but chose to ignore it. I was a man on a mission. I hung up with Jennifer and called MCIC.
“Good evening,” the voice on the other end of the call said, “my name is Sanjay.”
“Evening? It’s not even noon.”
“I’m sorry, sir, it’s evening here in India. Thank you for calling the Metro College for Internet City. I mean the Metro Internet College City. No, the—”
“Metro City Internet College?”
“Yes, that’s the one. How may I be of assistance?”
“I’m looking for more information on your private investigator program.”
“Ah, the private investigator program! A good choice. I’ll take your credit card info when you’re ready.”
“No, I’m not ready to pay for it. I want to know more about it,” I said, quickly getting frustrated with Sanjay.
“Oh. Well, a private investigator is someone who looks into—”
“Sanjay, I know what a private investigator is. What I don’t know is how your program works. Will I be an official PI once I complete your program?”
“Please hold.”
I waited five minutes for him to return.
“Thank you for waiting. What was your question?”
“Are you kidding me? Will I be official once I complete the program?”
“Oh yes, sir, you’ll have a certificate and everything.”
“What does ‘everything’ mean?”
“Please hold.”
Five more minutes went by.
“Thank you, sir. ‘Everything’ means all things. Now I’m ready for your credit card information.”
“Goodbye, Sanjay.”
I got off the phone annoyed, but a new idea came to mind.
I called Jennifer Talbert back. “Hi, this is David; we spoke just a few minutes ago about MCIC and your husband’s experience with it. Did you happen to keep any of his reading materials from the class?”
“Hold on,” she said. “Gizzey, stop humping the table.” A few seconds passed before she returned. “I’m sorry, who is this, and what do you want?”
Now I had all sorts of new questions, but I stayed focused like any good PI would. “Hi, Jennifer, this is David. I just spoke to you about your husband’s MCIC class. Do you still have any of the assigned work he was given for the class?”
“All we have are those stupid pamphlets. I don’t even know why we kept them.”
“That’s perfect,” I replied, struggling to mask my enthusiasm.
“Would you take a hundred dollars for them?”
“A hundred dollars? I would have given them to you for free, but sure, I’ll take the money. Poor Gizzey desperately needs to be neutered, so you’d be helping me out.”
I took down her address and said I could be there in ninety minutes.
Just by talking with Jennifer, I understood money was in short supply for her and Calvin, but pulling up outside their two-room house made it all the more apparent. The only personalization was a sign in the dirt that read A dog lover lives here.
I couldn’t tell if it was a nod to someone in the house or someone buried in the ground—I hoped the former.
I knocked on the door and heard Gizzey’s high-pitched bark.
No need for a doorbell with that thing. Jennifer opened the door and invited me in. I hadn’t made it three steps before Gizzey introduced himself to my left leg. I did my best to ignore the eight-pound fluff ball going to town on the side of my leg. I asked Jennifer if she had the pamphlets, and she handed me a brown envelope. In it were all eight pamphlets, as well as a certificate made out to Calvin Talbett.
“Are you sure your husband doesn’t want this?” I asked, pulling out the certificate.
“Please, just take it all. Calvin was a different man before he took that class. He didn’t drink much then. He was frustrated about losing his job, but at least he still had a little motivation. I think his only goal now is to see how early he can get thrown out of the bar. I blame that damn MCIC for that.” She looked at the certificate. “Damn school couldn’t even spell his name right.”
I genuinely felt bad for them, but it was hard to be empathetic as Gizzey humped my leg from behind. I put the certificate back in the envelope and gave her the hundred dollars. She kicked Gizzey aside and thanked me. I gave her another fifty and thanked her. Two more minutes of that dog on me and I would have neutered the mutt myself with one big kick.
I drove home, parked the car in the driveway, and flung open the front door. “Mary, my dear, it’s official. Your very own private eye is here. I’ve even got the certificate to prove it!”
There was no answer. The house was quiet. Too quiet.
Mary’s car was in the driveway, but where was she? My stomach quivered as I thought about the possibilities. Had she been kidnapped?
This must be the feeling private investigators get when they arrive at a crime scene—something’s wrong, and they must be the one to fit the pieces together.
I leaned against the entryway wall, hiding myself from view in case any attackers were still in the house. I rounded the corner and flung open the guest bathroom door. Nothing. I crept to the kitchen and looked everywhere I could think, including in the cabinets and drawers. Why I thought Mary or an attacker would be in either of those places, I wasn’t sure, but as a PI, I had to be thorough.
I climbed the stairs as quietly as I could. I made it to the bedroom, and there I saw it, a folded note lying on the center of our bed. Oh my God, she was kidnapped, and there’s the ransom note!
I looked around the room, confirming I was the only one there. I slowly made my way toward the bed. I grabbed Mary’s tweezers and carefully picked up the note, making sure I didn’t leave any fingerprints. I looked it over and then put it back on the bed, prepared to find out how much the bad guys thought Mary was worth. I took a breath, then used the tweezers to open the note.
Went to the mall with Nancy. Be back at 5.
I exhaled. Thank goodness Mary was okay!
I went back downstairs, grabbed my newly acquired internet college materials, and entered what once was my home office.
Now that I was official-ish, it would be known as headquarters. I sat down at the desk and emptied the folder from Jennifer. There were the eight pamphlets, plus a bonus summary chart, and, of course, the certificate. I separated the items into neat piles. I found a piece of masking tape and proudly attached “my certificate” to the wall. Satisfied with my organization and decoration,
I grabbed a sheet of paper to jot down a list of supplies I’d need as an official PI:
• Business cards
• New suit
• Paper clips
• A pocket-sized notebook
• Pens (not from my imprinted pen pile)
• Zip top bags for evidence
• Mary’s tweezers (maybe I should buy my own)
• A picture frame (for my certificate)
That night, I had another dream. This one was a Western crime saga. A card scandal in the local saloon led to an all-out brawl that left three people dead. The sheriff called the Lone Ranger for help on the case. As always, the hero figured out how the murders happened, caught the outlaws, and ultimately saved the town. With the case closed, he hopped on his white horse and galloped away. He pulled off his black mask as he turned to look back at the town, but it wasn’t the Lone Ranger behind the mask.
It was me.
I brought my horse up onto his back legs and shouted, “Hiyo, Silver” as we turned and rode out of sight.
The next thing I heard was “David!” My eyes flung open to find Mary sitting up next to me, her face with a look of pure disgust.
“Who the hell is Silver?” she asked.
“What?”
“You just screamed out ‘Hi-yo, Silver’ and woke me up. I thought someone was being attacked.”
I started to explain that Silver was the Lone Ranger’s noble companion, but as soon as Mary heard Silver was a horse, she threw the covers over my head and got out of bed. “David Blazen, we need to talk.”
“Okay, dear. Let me have my morning coffee, and I’ll see you in headquarters.”
“David, shut up and be in the kitchen in five minutes,” she shouted as she slammed the bedroom door.
When I got to the kitchen, she was pacing. Once I sat, she stopped and turned toward me, fear in her eyes. “David, who are you?”
Was that a trick question? “What do you mean, Mary?”
“I’m trying to gauge your level of sanity. I’m worried about you, David. I’m worried about us. We were supposed to be having the time of our lives during retirement, remember? The carefree lifestyle. The travel. The time together. That was our dream. But look at you now. You were warned about being too much of a creep at the WCC, you got a ticket for speeding, and now you’re talking about being a detective and dreaming of life as a cowboy.”
I almost stepped in to say calling the Lone Ranger a cowboy was an insult to his bravery and heroism, but I held my tongue.
“And I don’t even want to know why you have a private investigator’s certificate with someone else’s name on it hanging in your office. David, what’s happened to you?”
I started to answer but realized the question was rhetorical.
“I told my friend about your behavior these past three months,” Mary continued, “and she said her neighbor’s husband retired from a long, fulfilling career, and within two months, he convinced himself he was a cocker spaniel. She said he saw a therapist, and talking to someone helped him. David, I want you to go see that therapist too.” She leaned against the counter and stared straight into my eyes as tears began to fall from hers.
“David, I’m worried I’m losing you. Forget this detective thing and do something normal. Come to the club and play some golf with me. Please, David, come back to me.”
I held out my hand, and she weakly put hers in mine. She looked so defeated.
“Mary, my love, I’m right here. I haven’t gone anywhere, and I promise, my sanity is intact. What retirement has taught me so far is that I need mental stimulation. For fifty years, I was a businessman, and my mind was constantly busy. Once I retired, there was nothing pushing me. I had nothing to put my attention toward. Constantly watching others at the WCC gave my mind something to do, and that’s what I think this PI work can do. I’m not looking to make it big. I just want to do something that allows me to show some creativity and exercise my brain. If I get to solve a couple of cases, great, and if I don’t, that’s fine too.
“And I hear you,” I continued. “Give me the therapist’s number, and I’ll give them a call. In the meantime, let’s travel. Let’s keep going to dinner with friends. Let’s do everything we wanted to do in retirement. I just want to keep my mind fresh, and right now, I think I can do that with this PI stuff.”
Mary remained quiet. “Do you really think anyone will hire you?” she finally asked.
“Would you hire a seventy-year-old private eye with no experience and questionable credentials?”
“Probably not.”
“So what do I have to lose?”
More silence. “Okay. But David, I still have one question.” She walked down the hallway and looked at me as she pointed into headquarters. “Who the hell is Calvin Talbett?”
I got up and gave Mary a hug and a kiss on the top of her head. “That, my dear, is a long story.”
