The Reluctant PI

The night was darker than the hearts of the muggers and thieves plaguing the East District. Standing on the corner of Mayfield and River for the last thirty minutes is not my idea of a good time. I had plans for a quiet night staying out of trouble nursing a Jack Daniels or two, but I’m a sucker for a sob story. Why else would I be stuck here? There had to be a woman involved, obviously, and she’s late. Her call two hours ago sounded urgent.

“Good, you’re here.”

A voice comes from behind. It’s Shirley. Eyes of blue, burgundy lipstick and hair of honey flowing down her back like melted butter on a hot pancake. My senses must be shot in this February freeze. I never heard her get the drop on me. Dangerous for someone in my line of work.

“You said six. It’s gone six thirty.” I complain. “It better be important.”

“Shut up. It is important.” Shirley is unsympathetic.

I’d known Shirley for ten years and we’ve had some good times. She works as a PA to an overpaid lawyer at the smart end of town. Indoor work, central heating and plush carpets; a good setup and a regular pay cheque.

“Why the meet now? Here? Has the sky caved in on that swindler you work for?”

“You wish. Read this. It arrived this morning.”

She thrust a letter into my frozen hand. Two pages, typed, with an official-looking letterhead for an address close by. In the gloom of the street corner I could just make out the top line and what I see doesn’t look good. The rest is written in smart-person babble. The kind of word games you read a dozen times and get a dozen answers. This was not a good time for a shakedown but hell, when is it ever?

All I could say to the worried look standing beside me is, “Seems serious.” Then add, “What d’you want me to do about it?” Mostly, in the hope she would not answer.

“You gotta help Little Sam.”

Little Sam, a Grade A trouble magnet, was called Little Sam for the obvious reason; he never ate his grits and vegetables as a youngster. If he were a life-sized doll they’d have to sell him at a twenty-five per cent discount. Being smaller than most guys makes Sam unpredictable. I know all about him. Hassle and turmoil are his companions and like it or not Shirley was involved. The letter she received was dynamite and Little Sam the root cause. Being one of the good guys I had to do the business and sort out their mess.

A tug on my arm told me it’s time to go and Shirley’s not the type to take ‘no’ for an answer. I never could say no to this lady. We head down Mayfield. The streetlights offer only an anaemic glow; the side alleys offer only shadows. I hold her tight. We need to check out the information in the letter and in these mean streets it’s best to avoid attracting attention.

At the next corner we turn down Hope Street and head towards a building at the far end. Not much hope here for the losers walking along these sidewalks. Our destination is one of those brutal, boxy mausoleums designed by nutjobs in the 60s and 70s; all grey concrete and straight lines. Probably got a trophy or something from other nutjobs. It looked different from the last time I was here, the result of an expensive makeover by one of the mayor’s friends at taxpayers' expense. The place stood alone, sitting pretty in its own grounds. Brightly lit like an out-of-place beacon amongst a city of unfulfilled dreams.

I hesitate at the entrance. Do I want to do this? Rushing into this place like an angry bull could be bad news and attract unwanted attention. Shirley looks at the note again.

“We’ve got to confront O’Donovan. Find out more about what Sam’s done and get him off the hook.”

Shirley has a soft spot for bad boy Sam; that’s obvious. I like, love, Shirley but it’s clear I’m only the B-list competitor for her affections. She’s right though, we need to get to the bottom of what’s going on. Shirley leads the way. My stomach feels like I’ve eaten two triple cheeseburgers and all the trimmings from Hal’s diner on 49th Street. My best play is to follow her in and hope it all remains nice and cosy. Why then am I having a nagging doubt that at the end of this I’m going to be the one who’s blamed for what’s happens next?

“Shirley, perhaps you should go on and check out the place.”

I feel like a heel leaving it to a woman but I know my limitations. I’m out of my league in a fancy place like this.

“No way! You’re part of this and not welching out now.”

Time to man up. I know I can handle myself in a fight but I’m not foolhardy. Shirley pushes me forward like I’m laundry tossed into a tumble dryer. Then, a prod in my side as we enter a large hall. I recognise the room. I’d been here before, in a time before my booze and junk food life as a PI. The outside may have changed but the bad memories could not be removed by a lick of paint.

In the distance is the matriarch Gloria O’Donovan, haggard, menacing, sixty and that was being optimistic. I didn’t let the woolly cardigan and bargain basement spectacles fool me. Chiselled from granite with a face formed from sucking lemons and an attitude to match. A man-eating tigress. Hell Sam, what have you done to cross this tyrant? She hadn’t changed in decades. This woman took no prisoners. Someone to be feared for your own good. Boy, this is going to be harder than being tied down for a beating from the Luigi Brothers.

“Come on.”

Shirley drags me closer to a table where O’Donovan was finishing berating two hapless punters. A drone from the management ushers them away when she spots Shirley and me heading her way.

Cold eyes stare in my direction, then the female godfather commands, “Spade? A long time. Sit down,” before mustering a black widow smile at Shirley. “You should take a seat too.”

The battered wooden chairs are uncomfortable. I guess that’s the intended effect.

“Now I’ve got you both here, we need a serious parents-to-Principal talk about your son’s school report.”