“The Set-Up”-With
The Detective Fiction Writer Dashiell Hammett In Mind
By Zack
James
Alexander
Slater had always been ever since he was a kid, maybe ten or eleven if not
before, a big fan of hard-boiled detective novels and films based on those
novels by guys like Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, Rich O’Connor, Sid
Stein, and Lanny Drew. Had spent many a Riverdale hometown Saturday afternoon
in the late 1950s in the faded run-down, gum-strewn on the floor, cobwebs in
the balcony seats, toilet in the men’s room a relic of plumbing around the time
of the original Cranes who made their fortunes providing such hard-wear to the
growing population in need of indoor plumbing and whose castle overlooked
Crane’s Beach up north of Riverdale about seventy-five miles away,
old-fashioned popcorn cooker which always, always provided burnt kernels at the
bottom of the box Majestic Theater on Mooney Street just off of the downtown
shopping area watching re-runs of the
classics like The Maltese Falcon, The Big
Sleep, The Lady In The Lake, The whole Thin
Man series, The Last Kiss, Girl Hunt,
and The Lost Ones. That downtown area
also beginning to fade as the stores, Doc’s Drugstore, the 5&10, Morley’s
Clothing store, Sam’s Furniture store and the like that used to cater to the
town’s needs moved out to the strip malls or all-purpose malls out on Route One
a few miles from downtown.
Of course as
a kid all Alexander cared about, along with his regular crew of Saturday
matinee double-feature companions, Skip James, Jack Callahan, Johnny Rizzo,
Five-Fingers Murphy, Frank Riley and sometimes before his family moved out of
town so his father could take a job in the emerging computer industry at
Honeywell about forty miles away along Route 128, was that they had enough
money to cover the admission (trying as boys universally would then, probably still
do, to get the under twelve reduced admission price long after they had entered
their teens), were being “grounded” for some silly home or school infraction ,
and, maybe, just maybe, that for once the popcorn although always with burnt
offerings was not stale. So Alexander had through the marvels of cinematic
technology and the printed page been able to form a very distinct idea about
what a private detective should be like, what he looked like and how he handled
himself in the rough spots.
That ideal
was probably epitomized by Sam Slade in The
Maltese Falcon on the screen (the 1940s one that made Humphrey Bogart,
Bogie, famous not the two earlier ones which he had never seen until a few
years ago via Netflix he had ordered the pair online and was seriously
disappointed in those efforts, as was his wife Mary who while not nearly as
much a fan of the private detective did love the Bogie version of the Falcon) and in some short stories done
by Hammett by scrambling through a few libraries and second-hand bookstores
looking for compilations. In a word a guy and it was always guys then still were
a lot now although he had read a few interesting female detective stories,
working class guys, tough, tough enough to by sheer will and pluck to outsmart
his well-organized criminal opponents, hard-boiled no question, no sap for
anybody even women which every guys knows is easy enough to become when the
skirts going swishing by, with a code, a beautiful code of honor that he
follows as best he can, maybe not to the letter but as best he can in the
spirit, hard-drinking which somehow focused the senses whenever the bottle in
the lower desk draw came out, and a rough and ready sense of justice, of
tilting after windmills for the good of the cause.
And there
that image stayed for a fairly long time until Alexander went out into the
world of work after high school. He had taken shop classes in school, printing
shop and so immediately after high school he had taken a full-time job with
Mister Calder, the best commercial printer in town, whom he worked for after
school and on weekends in high school. In due course after a few years in the
dreaded Army in Vietnam which took a certain toll on him when he came back to
the “real” world, a few years “finding himself” through dope, rock and roll,
and following the hitchhike road that many guys of his generation took for a
while when Mister Calder retired he took over the shop located in the first
floor of the Tappan Building on Lancaster Street right off of downtown (in the
opposite direction from the now long gone old Majestic if you were familiar
with Riverdale back in the 1970s or earlier).
At one time,
back in the 1940s, early 1950s, the eight story Tappan Building was what they
would call today the anchor of the downtown business section. Was the pride of
Riverdale what with prosperous small law firms, a few doctors’ offices when
doctors had their own private practices more, a couple of dentists, a few
reputable insurance companies, nothing big, no Fortune 500 firms but substantial, solid professional. As those
firms and professionals drifted out to the strip malls or were eaten up by
larger firms elsewhere the once glorious Tappan Building began a long decline
into “seen better days.” The owners kind of gave up on the place, not keeping
it up with leaking faucets in the restrooms, un-waxed public area floors,
unreliable elevators, and the sanctified smell of decay that follows such
downward spiraling enterprises. Alexander had taken over for Mister Calder well
into the decline of the building but since the leasing arrangements with the
owners provided for cheap terms and the fact that his printing business was not
one in need of a “good front” he never felt the need to move, probably a wise
move once the high-tech moguls made self-printing for most occasions a
worthwhile effort.
Alexander
thus observed the decline of the Tappan Building first-hand as the type of
businesses switched from prosperous professionals to shady characters. A couple
of “repo” men, a few failed dentists whom you would not want within fifty feet
of your mouth, maybe farther away, a couple of chiropractors, some no-name
insurance firms, a notary public, a least a few guys who were running some
kinds of scams out of their offices, and a detective agency. Fred Sims’
Detective Agency although all the years that he knew Fred he was the sole
detective.
Fred had
been in the building since the mid-1960s but between Alexander’s military
service and his wanderlust he did not meet Fred until he took over for Mister
Calder. Once they met, met in Dolly’s Diner across the street from the Tappan,
a place that is still there although Dolly’s granddaughter runs the place now
and has changed it from a smoked-filled ham and eggs, coffee and crullers place
to more healthful food and clean atmosphere for those who own the condos that
had been created as a result of converting many of the old buildings, schools
and churches in the area, they hit it off from the beginning although Fred was
a good decade older than Alexander.
Fred, let’s
be clear, was not, hear this, was not, and probably never would be Alexander
image of a private detective build up from childhood (although in fairness to
Fred he was the very first P.I. he had run into in person). Short, bald, with
unkempt side hairs sticking out of the baseball cap that he wore indoors and
out, and almost never took off, an old Robert Hall’s, if you remember that name
in men’s clothing from another age, shaggy sport’s jacket, one of three he
owned and alternated, threadbare socks, turned at the heel shoes, black, and
many days, many no client days, a fair amount of stubble on his face. His
office on the fifth floor reflected that persona, no real “front.” A hand-printed cardboard sign advertising his
name and business on the front door, a small waiting room (which made Alexander
laugh for all the years that he knew Fred he never saw anybody in that room),
dust in the corners, a well beyond its prime coatrack of uncertain steadiness,
a couple of mismatched chairs, a small end table with magazines describing the
first Apollo landing in 1969, an office area with a snarled desk, unmatched
chair, and a few, too few file cabinets if Fred was prosperous which he was
not. Later when they were easier to figure out he did purchase a computer but
otherwise over the years the place had, and would continue to have, that
beleaguered downward spiral look.
Alexander
one time early on remarked, no, made the mistake and remarked, that Fred was no
Bogie while they were sitting at the counter of Dolly’s having their coffee
and. Apparently this kind of remark was Fred’s pet peeve because he commenced
to rail against the popular notion of what a private detective looks like, what
his office looks like, and the real cases that he handles. They are not the
murder cases of cinematic and book renown, the public cops, detectives handle
that, well or poorly, but in some then twenty years in the business he had
never seen any private detective brought in to solve a murder and only once had
heard that a very rich guy who had the dough to do so and was frustrated with
the public coppers and their inability to solve the kidnapping/murder of his
young daughter actually had a private detective savvy enough to solve the
crime, after two years on the trail.
No the real work was bullshit stuff. Some
barber from Gloversville whose wife ran off with a salesman and he wanted her
back her, fast, maybe three days, and not too many expenses. Some “repo” work
the average repo guys wouldn’t handle or wouldn’t be allowed by the insurance
companies to handle. Back in the day a few Peeping Tom snooping around motels
cases looking for adultery when the grounds for a civil divorce were harder to
find. A lost dog or other pet once in a while if somebody was attached to the
animal, although they usually found their ways home on their own or were never
seen again. Looking for long lost relatives, usually fruitless since those
relatives wanted to be lost from view. Maybe checking out a scam or two,
flimflam stuff. Definitely not looking for lost falcons filled with riches and
history with dead bodies and greedy people hovering around. Definitely not
taking on some high-powered criminal gang when an old general with wild
daughters one of whose husband is missing. Definitely not being employed by
some man-mountain to find his long lost and wants to stay lost Velma.
Definitely not trying to find some eccentric rich inventor guy whose thin
shadow had disappeared in the mist and somebody liked that idea.
So that day Alexander got his comeuppance, got
a first-hand real- world view of what private investigation was all about.
Thereafter Fred, when the met for their coffee and at Dolly’s or sometimes when
Alexander after work would go up to Fred’s office for a shot of whiskey from
that bottle he kept in the bottom drawer of that snarled desk (and one of the
few commonalities between real and film detectives) Fred would tell him stories
about his previous cases, or cases that he had heard about from other P.I.s
around the area when they ran into each other at some meeting or on a spree.
Except the one time when Alexander became a moving part in a case that Fred
would wind up getting involved in before the coppers stepped in.
One day a
guy, an ordinary looking guy, about thirty, fairly well-dressed, a sports coat
and tie, trimmed hair and short beard, not from around Riverdale but with a New
England accent, probably Maine, came in Alexander’s print shop looking for a
customized job, a small job but in those days as people were self-printing more
extensively the small jobs were drying up (fortunately the big commercial
orders were still coming in at their normal pace). He wanted fifty copies of
what he called a missing person’s poster, you know with photo of the person and
description of last known place, who to contact and so on, done on the press
and not the copy machine. No problem. Alexander handled the order while this
young guy waited.
A few weeks
later the person who had come in with missing person photograph turned up dead,
very dead along the bank of the Waban River. Not only very dead but very
murdered from the bullet holes through his mangled soggy shirt. Chief Powers of
the Riverdale Police came into Alexander’s print shop to find out what he knew
about the situation since in the dead man’s back pocket there was a
water-logged copy of the missing person poster that had his print shop mark on
the right corner. Alexander told the Chief what he knew, said he wanted to help
any way he could but the young guy was just a young guy and his description and
demeanor would have fit a million young guys. As had the guy he was looking
for. That pretty much ended Alexander’s involvement in the case, probably the
case would go into those cold files that most murder cases go into if somebody
doesn’t jump up and confess with all hands open.
Or so he
thought. A few weeks later a young woman, Lara Barstow was the name she gave
him, came into Alexander’s printing shop with a shopworn copy of the poster he
had created for the murdered young man, and asked to see the proprietor. Since
he was that person he introduced himself and asked how he could help her although
he was a little suspicious that an average young good-looking woman like Lara
would have any connection with the crime, or crimes associated with the young
man for whom he had done the work or the young man on the poster. Lara soon
cleared things up, “I have been to the police and they told me what happened to
my brother Emmet, how he was found murdered out on the riverbank. They said
that as far as they were concerned the case was still open but that they had no
further leads to work on so that unless they got something that is probably
where the case would stand.” [The police did not mention “cold case” file but Lara
said she knew what they meant]. Lara then started to cry a bit and Alexander
not knowing what to do offered his handkerchief and asked if he should call his
wife to assist her in her time of troubles. Lara stiffened at that and told
Alexander that she did not need that kind of help but that she was determined
to find out who had killed her brother and asked if he had any ideas. Then
Alexander, secretly thrilled at the prospect, told her that on the fifth floor
of the building that they were standing in his friend, Fred, a private
detective, had his office and that maybe he could look into the matter. Lara
said that she did not have any serious resources (her word), meaning money but
that if Fred as able to do something to find the murderer and clear up a legal
situation then she would be coming into some funds. Alexander thinking to
himself that this was starting to be something out of the movies let that
statement ride only saying, “Let’s see what Fred says,” and led her to the
elevator and the fifth- floor office. (On the way up she did not comment on the
urine smell in the foyer, the seedy dilapidated aspect of the elevator and its
slowness, or the condition of the outside building windows, broken panes
letting the weathers in as they left the elevator that made him a little more wary
since her whole demeanor was of some old-fashioned gentile upbringing but he
figured she was desperate, concentrated on her task, or indifferent to such
matter.
Fred,
despite the seedy condition of his office, already commented on by Alexander
and nothing had changed since the last time he had been up in the office for a
few drinks so no further comment is necessary, was smooth affable charm itself
when greeting and listening to Lara’s story. And listen he, they did for the
story really did have a Hollywood feel to it.
“Emmet
Barstow is, ah, was, my older brother, who had gotten into a lot of trouble
when he was in prep school at Exeter Academy several years ago. I don’t know if
I should tell you the nature of the trouble since it was a rather delicate
matter.” Fred stopped her right there and said he needed to know everything,
everything in this weak fact case, or he would not be able to help her. She
continued, “Well, ah, see there was this other boy, this Prescott Devine, a
pervert, you know, a homosexual, who tricked Emmet into having sex with him,
having sex and taking photographs as it turned out.” [Fred and Alexander gave
each other knowing eyes about what was to follow.] You know what happened next,
Prescott forced my brother to continue with his wicked designs while in school
and later asked for money to avoid a public scandal in our household. So Emmett
paid, or rather my father paid before he died and after that Mr. Sidney, the
lawyer who has handled our estate until we come of age, paid. Then Prescott
fade from view for a couple of years until several months ago after my father
died he showed up at our door looking for more money. Emmett gave him what he
could but somehow he got wind of my father dying and remembered that Emmett was
to inherit a large sum of money upon his death, something he had told Prescott
when he was in the throes of love at the beginning [said bitterly]. The terms
of the will were that Emmett would inherit almost everything when he turned
twenty-five as long as he was alive, and if he were not then I would inherit.
But only inherit if there was no cloud over his death. That part had been added
only a few months before my father’s death, so he must have had a premonition
of something happening.” She paused, then continued, “Emmett had been trying to
find Prescott for a while after he had come to our house in order to tell him
that he was no longer afraid of any scandal, that he would take his chances
with society, our society which might be able to overlook what could be a
youthful indiscretion, and maybe just a bout of loneliness. Somebody whom they
went to school with told Emmett that Prescott was in this area living in
Gloversville and that was why he had the posters made. He was going to
distribute them around and the thousand dollars for information figured to draw
somebody out who might know his whereabouts. That’s all I know until the police
called to have me come and identify the body. The police have kind of let it go
to hell and I need your help.
Fred wise to
the ways of the world although not used to dealing with upper middle-class
young women, as clients anyway except once he had a girlfriend from the leafy
suburbs but the parents practically imprisoned her when they found out he did
not have three names in his moniker, you know Ward Stewart Lawrence, stuff like
that the Brahmins go for, told Lara he needed a one hundred dollar cash
retainer before he could represent her in her time of sorrows. She opened her
pocketbook, pulled out five Jacksons and they were in business.
Fred said
later that he sensed something was wrong from that moment, the moment she gave
him the cash like she expected him to ask for cash rather than haggle over a
check or something but Alexander said that was just Fred’s wishful thinking
after the fact when the whole thing blew up in his face and the cops had to
pull him out of the line of fire. To leave the reader in no suspense at this
point Fred went out and did several days of investigation trying to locate the
guy who told her brother that Prescott was in the area. He did locate him
finally but the lad, a young man whom Fred using the old- time expression was
“light on his feet,” and fearful to say anything at all. Fred pressed the issue
though and the kid (Fred did not use that word) folded. It seems the kid, Fred
said he would not use his name in order to get the information he wanted, also
fell under the spell of Prescott, had his pants down more than once over the
“crush” he called it, and had done Prescott’s bidding telling Emmett that
Prescott was in Gloversville. A couple of days late Fred traced Prescott to a
bed and breakfast place outside Gloversville. He figured that he would just go
in and talk to Prescott but before he could enter the door to Prescott’s room
there was a volley of gunfire aimed his way through the door. He got on the
ground first and worked his way back to the kitchen where he called the cops,
called the sheriff’s office because he was not sure Gloversville had its own
police department. The sheriff came with a few deputies, and a few
sharpshooters from the State Police SWAT team. After a couple of futile
attempts at coaxing Prescott out they went in full blazes (Alexander said if
anybody wanted to know the details of the firefight check with the Norfolk
County Sheriff’s Office they would have all the details). After a few minutes
the firing from Prescott’s room stopped. The cops went into the room and
recovered the body, recovered two bodies really, for the other body belonged to
one Lara Barstow.
The way
things figured out later piecing together everything found in Prescott’s room
and later at Lara’ house what happened is when Prescott came to confront Emmett
for dough he somehow caught Lara’s eyes, gave her a tumble or two, maybe more
(whether he was bisexual or not who knows maybe the dough gave him some weird
sexual energy if he was completely gay). Whether he was just working the scam
of a lifetime for a lowlife like him or he had some affection for Lara who
knows. What is known from some legal papers found at Lara’s house is they
formed a scheme to kill Emmett and have her inherit the family money (when she
turned twenty-five as well a lawyer handling the trust before that time).
Prescott must have known from that scared kid that Emmett was on his trail. They
probably met somewhere and Prescott put a couple of nasty slugs in him and
shipped him off down the Waban River and easy street. What fouled the whole
thing up was the part about having to know the cause of Emmett’s death before
the trust could even be touched in the future. The whole Lara tall tale story
in Fred’s office was to see if they could find a fall guy, maybe some hobo or
something. Not every criminal, smart or stupid always figures things out right
but that what it looked like. Maybe Lara thought just hiring Fred would satisfy
the terms of the trust. Who knows. But when Fred was able to find Prescott he,
they panicked. And that was that. So Alexander forever after will be able to
say he way part of solving a private detective-type crime. He was just glad,
glad as hell that he had not accompanied Fred when he had asked him to go to
Prescott’s room. He thought save that part for the movies.
