By Khaled Diab

I am in my dark office. It is nearing the end of my day. Another long, fruitless day spent waiting for that elusive creature – a case. It has been several months since my last one and that was a simple case of abandonment by a son of a bitch – literally. I was commissioned by this lady to find the dog who walked out on her.

In no time, I was on that dog’s scent. He proved no match for this ace detective; and I was already feeling down on account of the lack of action. I found him in a wet alleyway. He’d apparently developed a passion for one of those uptown bitches and that’s who I found him with. He was nearing heat, but I soon had him collared and I led him home to his loving owner who had worked herself up into a state of irrational hysteria.

She was a sorry specimen of a woman, becoming so devastated just because she had temporarily misplaced her dog. The only thing that irritated me more than the look of dumbfounded gratitude cast on her face was her previous state of frantic worry, which in my book could only mean she lacked confidence in the prime investigator in town – and that, in my code, is a case of blasphemy.

I decide to call it quits for the day and head home. No rich client is going to be patronising my premises this evening. I remove my well-polished feet from the wild growth on my desk. I go to the coathanger to fetch my hat and coat. I check in the mirror to make sure that my hat is tilted at just the right angle. A trench coat and hat – you must think I’m stuck in a time-warp set somewhere around the thirties. What can I say? I’m just an old-fashioned sort of guy (but that doesn’t run into my technique, just so you’re not put off putting any cases my way).

To be honest, I’ve had a fetish for this stereotypical detective gear ever since I was a kid and we’d be acting out our favourite TV characters. However, on major cases, where I need to afford myself a certain inconspicuousness, I discard my professional seal in exchange for something rather more conventional. Although, it may surprise you to learn that this very gear often affords me the very inconspicuousness I need, because I am passed off as something of an eccentric (sometimes the terms used are stronger) by many of the criminally minded who conclude I am into making weird fashion statements. I believe the true dividing line between eccentricity and insanity is your bank balance.

Later that evening

I spend a couple of unbearable hours cooped up at home. My spread (which, to tell the truth, doesn’t spread far) is an endearing specimen of the professional investigator’s apartment: small (easy to control and monitor) and central (within walking distance of most of Chicago’s criminal life).

My pad is warm and cosy – especially for the ladies. It is ideal for small, exclusive parties (the dame and I), so much so that I think the guy who coined the phrase, “Two’s company, three’s a crowd.” was a former tenant.

Its size does have certain glaring benefits......

1. It saves on heating bills. When there are two people in the apartment our combined body heat is sufficient to allow me to switch off the furnace. And, oh the joy, if the two people happen to be on heat, then my place is transformed from a damp Chicago studio into a humid, fertile equatorial jungle – where the temperature soars and the animals roar.

2. Another undeniable strength of my humble abode is it offers the beholder a unique glimpse, and the opportunity to gain some insight, into the workings of a detective genius’s mind and his unrivalled personality. The how of which is evasively simple.

Remember the well-worn adage of health fanatics everywhere, “You are what you eat”. Well, according to an informed article in a well-known scientific journal (a detective has to keep his mental faculties in shape. Besides, you never know when a piece of information will come in handy) that adage has grown into an entire branch of psychology and, today, is the centre of much scholarly controversy.

Many hardcore die-hards discount it as merely a physiological factor: its significance is on a par with how a person’s general health affects his mind-set, but they whole-heartedly claim that it can in no way shed light on the complex interplay of tangibles and intangibles that go to make up the human mindset.

Detractors aside, you must admit the simplicity of this neat little theory does hold a certain appeal. Imagine, if you subscribe to this school, something as unincriminating as a plate of leftovers can tell you a person’s deepest, darkest secrets (beats coffee anytime).

In my case, there is an endless supply of clues to my personality, which is a good thing considering how unfathomable it is. If you’re well read in the subject, just walk into my kitchen and reap the bounty of your studious efforts.

You will find a ready-made psychoanalysis in the form of stacks of dirty plates, remains of telly-dinners, takeaways, and some creative home cooking of my own. Take your time, read the finer details of my character, savour the spicy intricacies, and taste the exotic sauces of my life (even if they have gone off after two weeks lying by the sink).

One thing, before you leave you can repay the priceless favour I have done you of choosing you as my biographer by burying the evidence, so that no casual observer will plagiarise your hard work. Is this being too subtle? Here it is in plainer language – DO THE DISHES!!

3. The final benefit is it is easy to clean and tidy. Once a month I bring in my over-worked, whingey, hard-drinking, chain-smoking maid and mother of six to conduct major excavation and renovation work. She comes in early in the morning and provides me with the perfect start to the day. Mainly because I can’t wait to be out of the house and out of her sight, if only to be spared the tongue and the accompanying dry and mirthless countenance. She also (unwittingly) gives me the motivation to spend my day as productively as possible, if only to avoid winding up with her clone.

With all that I have said about her, I feel compelled to say a few a words in her defence. She, in her own unconventional way, cares for me and looks out for me, and the day she comes in is the most inspired day of my month. I’m seriously considering, after I’ve got over this rough patch, offering her employment on a weekly basis.

Not that I really have the heart to blame her for the condition she is in (except when I’m feeling especially cruel). What, with a husband who literally drove her to drink, treated her like a punch-bag, fantasy machine, and baby-incubator combination; and then deserted her when her fantasy option became obsolete and worn out. He, being a big fan of plug’n’play, had unplugged himself from the family he had a significant role in creating (but, unlike conventional plug’n’play, there is no undo or back key) and ran off with the district slut from down the street to play out his latest set of ever-more twisted fantasies.

To add injury to insult, he took what little savings the family had stashed away for a rainy day. Finding herself in the lurch like that made our victim turn to cleaning for subsistence and the bottle for condolence. In little time the pressure and stress of work and taking care of six kids showed its toll and led the local authorities to declare her an unfit mother, take her darlings (or pests, depending on her mood) into protective custody in the loving care of three sets of first grade foster parents. You can imagine what the effect of losing her baby darlings (she never referred to them as pests again) so soon after losing her husband had on her.

After that incident, I learnt to keep what liquor I had around the apartment securely under lock and key, because, as fate would deem it, the day after the court declared her an unfit mother, she was due to come in to clean.

Late that evening, I walked into the apartment and all seemed in order. The apartment had been given its regular face-lift and the ugly duckling was magically transformed into a beautiful swan (errgh!). Anyways, the place was clean and tidy – except for a pile of dirty rags slap in the centre of the room ................!!?

On closer inspection, the pile turned out to be Mrs Harris (my cleaning lady), though I wouldn’t have known her for the world had I not been the ace investigator that I was – that good was her disguise.

What was she doing there? A question anyone in my profession (or even position) would naturally be asking. My first instinct was that her landlady (who had the patience of Job) had finally had enough and decided to evict her. That brought on a strong surge of sympathy and evinced in me emotions I didn’t know I harboured; especially for a guy who prides himself on his detachment. At that moment, I felt a love for the old thing that is best not repeated. Blinded by this freak love, I imagined that, in her own grumpy way, she was the most considerate and warm-hearted woman that ever walked the earth – I wanted her to be the mother I had lost as a child. You see how degenerate the human condition can become when exposed to new stimuli. I imagined her empathy was so great that, out of fear of being an imposition on me after her harsh eviction, she had decided to crash out on my floor so as not to get in the way.

Curiosity got the better of me and I moved in closer to replace academic pondering with concrete facts. I was standing over the heap that constituted Mrs Harris and was in the process of giving her a firm but gentle prod, when she opened her eyes (which played around their sockets like something reminiscent of a pin-ball machine) and her mouth spoke in an alien tongue,

“L.O. Riysh.” (or Reich?)

I could make neither head nor tale of what she said and I began to wonder if she was maybe only a first generation American and what her original roots were. Then the truth hit me in one dizzying blow in the form of a familiar and potent vapour and the revelation had me spinning. Mrs Harris was sloshed. No, that’s too weak a term. She had drunk enough to christen an entire naval fleet on its maiden voyage. I was worried that she might have done herself permanent damage, such as partial paralysis, brain damage, or alcohol poisoning. To let you in on a little secret – as you are going to be my companion – I was also wondering if the lake growing out from under her would stain and if the smell was going to be there long (I, usually, managed to restrict my puking to the toilet bowl, so I had no experience in such matters).

Out of tenderness and pity, I laid her to rest on the only bed I owned, where she slept like a baby. Personally, I had a rough night trying to cajole the couch into accommodating both sleep and myself, but it insisted one of us had to go. So sleep could not find its way onto the couch until the early hours, when it snuggled up to me and caught both the couch and I unawares.

In the morning I was aroused by the sound of a wild beast giving out an ugly, pained cry. I climbed half way up through the shaft of consciousness, then I thought better of it and decided it was my overly adventurous imagination playing tricks on me.

The next intrusion from the outside world was a constant dripping sound which triggered off a haunting memory of my run-in with China Town’s organised crime network.

I was on a big case, working in collaboration with the FBI, laying the bait that would finally ensnare the elusive Mr Chang: the Long John Silver of China Town. He had been flooding the market with pirate copies of Spice Girls CDs produced in Shang Hai. The bottom had fallen out of their American market (but they still retained their own set of healthy curves elsewhere) and the Girls were on the verge of Bankruptcy (Posh, Scary, Sporty, Baby) – Baby Spice had recently forfeited on her hair payments, and the salon was foreclosing on her perm.

I soon discovered that the CDs were being smuggled into the country in curry containers – to add a touch of spice, you can say. I was in one of his warehouses following up this lead, when I found myself lying on the wet floor of a dark, dank cellar semi-conscious; hearing, but trying not to listen to the incessant dripping of two badly maintained taps. I had just come out of a bizarre and demeaning session with Greasy Al, Mr Chang’s personal masseur. I was dragged out of his parlour not only stripped of my masculinity but of my humanity. The only thing I feel capable of crediting him with was his dedication to his work and (for want of a better word) his creativity.

At that moment, however, I didn’t feel charitable enough to give him any credit. I could hear the angry voices in my head singing out for revenge, but I was too bedraggled to answer them. Robbed of all other stimuli, bar the dripping, my mind was still vividly caught up with the encounter of a few minutes earlier. At first he made exceptional and sub-human use of only one tool (his forearm). I could still feel it prodding and rubbing and jabbing, pushing and penetrating and bloating, all over my naked body.

I was now absolutely certain that the other instruments he introduced into our session were of foreign origin, but I have no concrete theory as to where people are so perversely sick (I toyed with the idea of Sodom for a while, but later abandoned it because I couldn’t, for the life of me, locate it on a map). What had just happened to me made the notorious Marquis de Sade’s escapades seem exceedingly tame and humane.

One curious instrument that had me strangely transfixed for a while was a weird rubber ball with fine steel spikes protruding at every angle, with one thick prominent spike at the top. I was assessing (as is a great detective’s habit), with some difficulty in my current battered state, what could possibly be the ultimate purpose of such a bizarre piece of engineering. Sadly my ignorance was soon swept away in one swift and brutal swipe (I still bear the marks of that incident - fortunately they don’t usually get in the way and I can brag them off as war wounds).

The torturous dripping turned out to be something a lot less exotic than my painful encounter with China Town’s other face. It happened to be something as mediocre as the coffee percolator.

Good God, the evening grows old and I’m sitting here reminiscing about old times as if I were an old timer who has nothing better to do. I should get moving if I’m to do anything worthwhile tonight. I head off to my local watering hole, not knowing what the night holds in store for me. I arrive at the bar: all is tranquil and nothing looks amiss.

Loony Len is sitting at the bar of the Water Wheel. At face value, he looks like a suburban boy who is no more intimidating than a computer hack. At first sight you’d reach the verdict that he would have trouble outwitting his keyboard. However, his appearance is deceptive: he is a creature of cunning and all those who know him live in mortal fear of his shadow. He has half the Chicago force eating out of his hand and the other half gunning after his butt (to whom he is a constant source of frustration and embarrassment).

One man who has Len’s number is sitting beside him at the bar. Only barely acknowledging Len’s presence, I turn away and order my drink from the barman. The whole place seems to fall into frozen animation as Loony Len turns to face me.

“Ay, Price”, he says in a voice that sends a cold chill round the room, and my straight scotch becomes a scotch-on-the-rocks. I overcome the shivering that has overtaken my system (not to mention the icicle gripping my spine) and, cool as a cucumber, I turn to him.

“Alright, Len. Didn’t see you there.” Shocked murmurs travel round the bar. Apprehensive eyes observe me with funeral looks.

“There’s a good mortician – there’s my mind jumping too far ahead of me, again.” In his eyes I could already see the last nail being driven into my coffin, “I meant there’s a good optician I could recommend. Slow business, financial ruin and starvation must be affecting your eyesight.”

“My eyesight’s sharp as a hawk’s. I forgot to look down and assumed the barstool you’re sitting on was empty, is all.” The bar falls into stunned silence. I could see the speculation in the eyes of the on-lookers as to how I would meet my end. I could hear some of the women thinking, “What a good-looking young man, shame about his mouth!’

Len looked up at me with stony features. Then his face was overtaken with an expression of pure, uncensored, insane brutality – I could read death engraved in his frown. His was the look of a man who lacked any claim to a sporting nature and who did not take lightly to a friendly jab. He gave plenty of unfriendly jabs, though, as I was to soon learn. The rest is a vague blur in my memory. Thank the merciful stars for selective amnesia.

1996-1998

ã2006 K. Diab. Unless otherwise stated, all the content on this website is the copyright of Khaled Diab.