Glossolalia: A Book by Peter Dabbene

By Peter Dabbene

Glossolalia is a compendium of 35 short stories, taking on genres from short comedy to science fiction, and from political satire to "literary" fiction and horror.

A turn of the 21st century detective seeks a sense of purpose and a new start. A modern magician finds peace in a recorded voice from the past. A trucker gets a warning along with his meal at a truck stop diner.

The brightest lights of stage and screen engage in a secret mission to save Hollywood. A young woman is taken for a ride at her new job, courtesy of political correctness. Germans and Russians compete in an escalating animal war during World War II.

A reenactor sees history come to life on the battlefield at Gettysburg. A young Cuban man seeks escape to America on the high seas. A father tinkers with the genetic coding of his boys to give them a chance at succeeding where he has failed.

These stories, and many more, await the reader of Glossolalia.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 2, 2005
• ISBN: 9781469117348

Peter Dabbene

Peter Dabbene has also written Prime Movements, a collection of short stories, and The Invisible Book, a nine hundred page novel about marketing fraud.

Book preview

Copyright © 2005 by Peter Dabbene.

Library of Congress Number:   2004099862

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

27221

Contents

Part One

The Last Detective Story

The Houdini Code

Empty

Redeemed

The Man Who Cried Death!

Legacy

Mother Russia

Flight

Metamorphosized

Part Two

SIRS

Formosus, Fermenting

Orthodontia y Latuca Sativa

Old Navy

A Dating Story

The Adventures of

Mikhail Mouse

Meeting of the Bored

How to Handle a Hemorrhoid

Suburban Complaint # 673:

The Leaf Pickup

The Riddle-Language of

the Goddess IKEA

Part Three

Taxi

History, Repeated, History

The Organ Donor

Gettysburg

Part Four

Part Five

SpamFram’s Regret

Boys of Summer

Paradiso

Inferno

Red Planet

Part Six

Please Allow Me to

Introduce Myself

Another Political Pontifical

No Gloating

Acknowledgements

Dedicated to Mom and Dad:

Thanks for all the comic books.

Part One

GLOSSOLALIA

The Last Detective Story

In the 1920’s, an appropriate overture might have been the opening notes of George Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue. For the 1950’s, John Coltrane’s Lush Life might strike a resonant chord.

This is neither of those times, and the music that fills the air has no name.

The year is two thousand.

It is the second floor of a narrow, nondescript three-story building in New York City. There are two offices located here. One is that of an accountant. From the buildup of dust on the doorknob, there does not appear to have been any recent accounting activity. The other door bears stenciled lettering on its semi-opaque glass indicating that inside is the office of a private detective. The detective’s name is Philip Marlowe.

There is the sound of footsteps ascending the open staircase, turning the corner, arriving at the detective’s office door. There is the turning of a key, the only key housed on a small steel hoop keychain. Then, the opening of the door.

The man holding the keychain is dressed in a mud-stained, tan raincoat. On his head he wears a dark fedora, black, or possibly brown. His shoes are scuffed, providing for comfort more than style, and his dark tie blends with the dried blood stains on his once-white shirt.

* * *

Philip Marlowe dragged his weary limbs into the bathroom, and silently gave thanks that the offices in this building each featured a full bath, with tub. Once comprising residential apartments, extensive renovations had been performed on the building’s interior in the 1970’s, this from the owner’s ill-timed idea that renting to businesses would be more profitable and secure than dealing with the headaches of individual tenants. The unexpectedly high expense of the conversion from residences to office space resulted in a half-finished, bare-bones job that combined many incongruous elements from each. Marlowe had often taken advantage of that fact, in the form of a long bath, and tonight was no exception.

His possessions had been moved to the office, little by little, over the course of years, until it became apparent there was no reason to have a separate apartment. No one knew that he lived there, as he’d hidden away his few personal belongings in a rarely trafficked back room. The bathtub had clinched his decision to take up full-time residence. It was nicer than the one he’d had at his old apartment, and was essential on nights like this.

He opened the medicine cabinet, revealing its interior filled to capacity with bottles of rubbing alcohol. He stripped out of his dirtied and blood-stained clothes, stopped the drain on the tub, and emptied exactly fifteen bottles into it.

The fumes from the alcohol made his eyes water. Fighting the poisonous air, he raised his naked body and slid into the tub.

The cuts and bruises on his body screamed as they were immersed in the alcohol, but they were quickly numbed to any feeling whatsoever. Marlowe sank into the tub, his head and knees the only parts of his body left uncovered. He shifted his body in the tub to submerge his left knee, enveloping a cut he’d received there during a fall to hard asphalt.

He settled in and began to wonder: Why was he here, alone, late on a Friday night, forty-seven years old and sitting in a sterilizing alcohol bath?

The fumes from the alcohol had dissipated and he took a deep breath, as deep as his body would allow, anyway—his system seemed to be in a modified state of shock from the combination of the cuts and bruises and their brutal treatment, the alcohol bath. The extra oxygen eased his mind a little. He decided to review the evening’s events.

He began to speak aloud, even though there was no one else around. There usually wasn’t. Sometimes, for sanity’s sake, he tried to pretend he was speaking into a recorder, though he never actually used one. He was the narrator of his own life, and he was the only one who would hear the story.

Richie Connors, strongarm for the local bookies, scrambled out of the bar, trying to avoid being seen as soon as he caught sight of me. I had questions about the whereabouts of Charles Wainwright, and Connors is a man with connections. I followed him out of the bar and . . .

He leaned the wrong way and his body let him know with a sharp stab in the middle of his back. He waited for the muscle to relax, then sighed in relief. And was ambushed by three of his boys.

The telephone rang, the shrill metal of an actual ringer making contact and reverberating. It was a turn of the century anachronism, a curiosity among the measured intervals and sharp clarity of digital uniformity.

He let it ring a few times. Its lingering tinniness was an odd comfort to him at moments like this. It was one of the few consistencies in his life.

The line still rang, and the caller showed no intention of ceasing. Marlowe stood, pulled the drain on the tub, pressed a towel to his body to absorb the moisture, and walked into the other room.

He picked up the receiver. Hello?

Hey old man, I knew you were there.

Marlowe did not respond, but merely waited for the man on the other end of the line, Nate Meadows, to continue.

I figured you’d be licking your wounds after the beating Richie Connors and his buddies gave you tonight. Hope you feel better. I wanted to let you know that we’ve solved the Wainwright case, so you can sleep late tomorrow. And hey, just to show there’s no hard feelings, Jimmy and I will take you out for a drink tomorrow night. What do you say?

Marlowe hung up the phone quietly.

He found his slippers and retrieved his robe from the closet. A bottle of Johnnie Walker Red stared him down from his desk and, succumbing, he poured a double shot over rocks to cauterize the wounds inside his body. On nights like this one, the only thing to do was get soaked with alcohol, inside and out. Lighting his pipe, he settled into an old leather recliner.

His job had become his recreation, and his recreation was his job. The line had blurred, then faded, to where it no longer mattered what time of day it was or where he was, merely whether he was awake and working, or asleep and not.

But although he was tired, he was not yet sleepy. He sat in the recliner and thought. It was his anniversary. Ten years ago he had become Philip Marlowe.

He still didn’t know what had caused the sudden onset of color blindness at that time. Maybe it was just a severe symptom of having seen too much craziness on the streets, but somehow he doubted the particular stresses of being a New York police detective had anything to do with it at all. All the same, he’d taken the hand he’d been dealt and played it.

There were tests, lots of tests, but in the end none of the Psych people could figure out why he no longer saw in color. Cerebral achromatopsia, they finally dubbed it—an extremely rare form of color blindness, manifesting later in life. Brought on by illness, trauma, or other shocks to the system, it left the victim viewing life in black, white, and shades of gray. He had accepted a disability pension, but knew it wouldn’t be enough to support himself. He needed something else to do.

Faced with limited choices, he started his own detective agency, after first legally changing his name to Philip Marlowe. It would be a new name for a new start. It would be good for business. And, in his black and white world, taking the name of Raymond Chandler’s fictional detective seemed appropriate.

Now, on his anniversary, he sat and thought about the future. His color blindness had never improved. The Marlowe name brought in the occasional legitimate lead, but mostly just crackpots and Chandler fanatics wanting to take a picture or two. Maybe it was time to think about doing something else. He was burned out, in, up, and down. The realities of the detective business were harsh in the new, internet-connected world. Most searches for individuals could be done fast and easy for $19.95 or $29.95 a pop, with computer databases as abundant as cockroaches, full of public records, phone numbers, and property listings. The romance of information was gone—it was all mass media clutter, available to everyone, and less valuable for being so.

He was becoming a relic, and he knew it. But exhaustion soon subdued his troubled thoughts, and he fell asleep in the recliner, unreclined.

* * *

Philip Marlowe woke in the same position in which he’d fallen unconscious. The light that found its way through the shades indicated it was afternoon. He stared blankly into space for a minute before deciding that at some point, he would have to get up.

Out of his haze, Marlowe caught sight of a particular file drawer.

The Wainwright case was now closed. Nate Meadows was many things, but he wasn’t a liar. If he said the case was closed, it was a sure bet it actually was. He may even have collected his final payment already.

Marlowe hadn’t even bothered to ask Meadows what happened to Wainwright. Did they find him alive? Dead? Somewhere in between? He supposed it didn’t really matter to anyone except Charles Wainwright, and maybe Mrs. Wainwright, who was footing the bill for the investigation.

Marlowe pulled open the old, slightly rusted, gunmetal gray file cabinet, and removed the only file contained within.

Helen Harvey. The case itself was over four years old, though he’d only had it for six months. It had arrived with a letter from her parents detailing every facet of their daughter’s life and personality, as far as they knew. It was an extremely professional document, similar to a police file, but bearing great signature of the Harveys’ input. Marlowe knew he was not the first detective Helen Harvey’s parents had contacted. He wondered how many had come before.

The letter was typeset and formatted like a formal disclosure statement, or a military dossier. Name, age, last known description—these came first, as bullet points—then, drifting into paragraph form for hobbies, tendencies, and other. At the end of the dossier were a few lengthy postscripts, probably appended in response to questions from previous investigators.

Marlowe took no offense at being the last detective on the list. It was to be expected—he ran a smaller operation than most, did not employ a receptionist, and did little to no marketing. The big boys, the publicity hounds, had their chance at this case and failed. It was desperation that caused most people to seek out his services, and the fact that Helen Harvey’s parents had not even bothered to call him implied a resignation to failure on their part. Perhaps they only continued the search out of guilt, or an emotional need to do something, anything at all.

The Harveys’ proposal, as specified in their letter, was simple: upon the safe delivery of their daughter, they would pay $100,000 cash, no questions asked. They would not, however, pay any daily wage or cover any expenses. They had probably wised to the reality of supporting private detectives who might or might not be making progress—the Harveys had money, of the old European variety, but four years’ worth of daily expenses was still a lot of cash to lay out for no results.

It was a tough decision. The reward money would cover all of his expenses and then some, but first he needed cash to cover his costs during the search. And there was no guarantee of success. But with no other alternatives for income, maybe it wasn’t such a tough decision after all. Maybe it was the only one.

As he mused, the Helen Harvey case began to intrigue him. He didn’t know if the same hefty payday had been offered to the other searchers, but they must have received offers that were at least substantially similar. The fact that his competitors had tried and failed gave him a curious sense of hope, more than the Wainwright case, or any of the last few he’d handled, had. Maybe this would be an old-fashioned assignment, the kind a detective could sink his teeth into, the kind that came only rarely, even in movies.

He gave equal time to the devil’s advocate, however sobering the experience might be. Maybe the fact that Helen Harvey hadn’t been found meant that she was beyond discovery, dead and buried somewhere, every day her name and identity fading into obscurity, friends and acquaintances grieving a little less, until she became a memory conjured every so often, when some memento sparked a reminiscence.

He opened the refrigerator and pulled out one of the six white Chinese food containers inside. He didn’t bother to check the contents—every one held the same thing. One quart of white rice, slightly more or less, deliverable for the princely sum of one dollar per quart. He added some soy sauce from the reserve of condiments he kept in what was clearly labeled the fruit and vegetable bin, pulled out a tablespoon from the silverware drawer, and sat down at his desk.

Reviewing the Helen Harvey file, he made notes on the back of a phone message pad.

He began out loud, again with the recorder voice, narrating for posterity: The girl disappeared four years ago, on or about June 20, 1996. Remember, there are lots of people who looked for this girl before you came along.

If Helen Harvey was still alive, somewhere out there, then she could be found. To guarantee that he would not repeat the same mistakes his predecessors had made, Marlowe had to consider what investigative techniques had already been used. But there were few indications in the file as to what had been tried, or not tried; most investigators were loath to give away what they thought of as their own trade secrets. Marlowe had been in the business long enough to know.

He put himself in Helen Harvey’s position, as much as he could. If he were a twenty-five year old trust fund kid who’d just gained access to his money, where would he go?

Surely she could do most anything. The report told him she had tapped almost $100,000 from her trust, in cash, before disappearing on a solo visit to New York. He wondered briefly if this large withdrawal so much as raised an eyebrow from the trustees, duly noted as the representatives of Graham and Associates, a large money management firm that catered to the wealthy. Most times, such companies’ emphasis on privacy prevented them from asking questions that were little more than common sense.

It was possible she had been kidnapped, forced to withdraw the money as a ransom, and then killed. But a body had never turned up, and if she was alive, wouldn’t she have found a way to get a message to someone? She would have had to do an awfully smooth job on the trustees to get the money in the first place; slipping a small coded message wouldn’t have been difficult.

The Harveys had included some of Helen’s photographs from Oxford with the file, and Marlowe examined them closely now. She was a beautiful girl, a typical literature student by all accounts, but in every picture she looked out of place somehow, despite being surrounded by equally pretty, equally well-dressed classmates. There were boys—men, really, Marlowe had to correct himself on this—in many of the pictures as well, a few of them demonstrating a relaxed intimacy that marked them as more than just friends. Helen’s appearance changed slightly from one picture to the next, with a different hairstyle or outfit, but there was one thing that remained consistent—her eyes. He knew they were brown from the dossier, but that was a minor point. Despite his color blindness, Marlowe had a knack for reading something deep inside the eyes, more personal than color or shape. Helen Harvey’s eyes were somehow older than the rest of her, a little sad and haunted by—what?

The eyes were the most important part of a face, the only unique, recognizable aspect one could count on. Marlowe knew it from experience, having ID’d people hiding behind the modern mask of plastic surgery before. Yet even the sophisticated computer recognition systems Meadows and his kind embraced were stymied by a simple pair of sunglasses. Marlowe stared, and he felt that Helen Harvey was staring back at him.

What if she had disappeared on purpose? There were no indications of any problems at home in London, but that didn’t mean much. Maybe she was running from someone, or something, overseas? Marlowe let his mind turn over the possibilities.

She had a large amount of cash, and gaining a new identity would be risky. If she had credit cards, she could be anywhere. But using only cash, she would probably be living in an area where cash was still king, and wouldn’t arouse suspicion. He decided the best prospects were small towns and big cities, the former for the value they placed on the close-knit simple life, cash on the barrel, and the latter for its raw anonymity.

The inhabitants of a small town would ask questions, even unrelated to the money. He decided the city was a better choice. She would be using cash as needed, with a safe, most likely—avoid the banks altogether. Fade into the backdrop, a million passing faces a day.

He knew that the other investigators would have started in New York City—it only made sense, since this was where she’d disappeared. There were eight million people in New York City, at last count. It was possible—very possible—that they had simply missed her.

So where to look? Ah, there’s the rub, he thought.

He needed ideas, and when he needed ideas, he walked. The confines of his office-residence were of limited use as inspiration, and he’d long ago exhausted any hidden potential. After gorging himself on soy-soaked rice, he cleaned his raincoat, still dirty from last night’s debacle. He gave it some time to dry, then put it on, locked the office, and went outside.

* * *

It was even later than Philip Marlowe had guessed, and the streets were crowded with Saturday afternoon exercisers sweaty from their exertions, pacing their way home. The first signs of nightlife were evident—traffic building up on Broadway, sightings of black-clad women and dark-suited men. He wondered if that many women could really be wearing black dresses, or if maybe it was just his monochrome perceptions at work.

As the veil of grey descended upon the city and man-made light began its steady ascension to the heavens, Marlowe walked. At the corner newsstands, magazines and newspapers trumpeted headlines debating whether the new century had already begun, or if it would only arrive with the New Year. Marlowe wasn’t sure which interpretation he preferred.

He was unable to focus on the specifics of the Helen Harvey case. Instead, he found himself wrapped in the more practical and immediate problem of survival on a nearly exhausted bank account, and in the existential question he had yet to verbalize: What did he want out of the rest of his life?

There were no solutions in the faces of hungry diners or eager patrons of the arts.

A movie theater’s marquee protruded from the brick and steel facades of buildings. As Marlowe approached the theater, he reviewed the marquee. There was a phenomenon he’d noticed last year, which still seemed to be in effect—the unchecked use of gerunds in movie titles. They had taken over; there were no traditional, noun-dominated titles anymore. These titles were all about action phrases and getting the audience excited. They featured the words Saving and Finding and Waking and Being. They were Falling and Asking and Leaving and Driving. It was an array of unsuspecting verbs twisted from their former uses and plastered on signs because Hollywood had run out of ideas. They were different names for the same product; underneath, nothing had changed. Or had it?

He stood outside the theater for an hour watching people go by, scanning their eyes for any hint of Helen Harvey. Finally, he gave up. He went in and bought a ticket for the next movie. He spent most of the time in the darkened theater thinking. The movie was about Buying something.

Marlowe’s approach to the Harvey case so far was certainly unusual. But as much as the aleatory nature of his investigation appealed to him, he needed something that could be researched more methodically, something that wouldn’t rely completely on chance.

There was a strange but growing confidence in him, that he would be the one to find her. He wondered, blindly, whether she would be alone.

The screen credits were rolling, and Marlowe found his way past the crowds to the exit. He ended up outside the theater again, under the marquee.

Hey buddy, you can’t stand there, a theater employee informed him. You’re blocking the ticketholder lines.

He wanted to formulate a quick, clever response, but days of rarely speaking to anyone but himself had caused his wit to atrophy. He moved out of the way, silently.

Droplets of rain began to fall. He stood staring at the sidewalk, conscious of the border growing more and more pronounced, between the wet sidewalk and the dry area underneath the theater’s awning. The ticketholders had laid claim to most of the sheltered space under the awning, and Marlowe was squeezed to find some space at the cusp. The light wind blew some of the rain into his face.

A shove came from behind. Marlowe whirled, ready and willing, though tired, to protect himself. He recognized his assailant.

Hi Nate, Marlowe said, releasing the words with only a partially relieved sigh, and taking in a breath twice as large as normal to compensate.

Meadows was grinning, looking Marlowe over like he was painted a different color. His arm clutched a titanium blonde, wearing a diamond necklace that outshined the marquee.

You on duty, old man? You’ve got to be kidding. Learn to relax, he smiled.

Marlowe paused for a second, preparing himself for interaction. He had drifted into a mostly private world since the scuffle on the Wainwright case, and the shove from Meadows pushed him out of it, back into the world of hard reality.

Yeah, I’m on duty, what’s it to you? Thanks to that Wainwright case, you’ve already collected your pay for the month. Go find someplace to spend it.

"Hey, there’s no need to get defensive, Marlowe. And for your information, we’re here to see Buying Grace. It’s supposed to be good, an early favorite for this year’s Oscars."

Buying Grace was the film Marlowe had just seen, but he reserved comment. Maybe the ability to see the movie in full color made a difference in one’s opinion. It shouldn’t, he thought, but maybe it did.

Have you thought about the offer we made? Three weeks paid vacation a year is more than you get now, and we’d offer you a straight salary—none of this up and down shit, money one week and nothing the next.

I considered your offer, Nate, but it didn’t take me long to decide. The answer is no.

"You’re being stubborn, Phil. The PI business has changed. What kinds of cases do you get these days? Following husbands and wives whose spouses suspect them of cheating? That’s about all it can be, because we handle everything else.

Listen, Phil, Meadows drew closer and spoke as a confidant. These days, there’s no need for most of the drudge work private detectives used to do. Background checks for employers investigating potential hires, tracking ownerships for legal contests, all of that stuff—we don’t have to be out digging ourselves anymore, stuck in libraries and public records offices for hours on end. It’s all there on the internet, waiting to be found in seconds. The key these days is scale, scale and marketing. Even a missing persons search can be done via computer, and 99% of the time, we’ll find our lost sheep.

What about the other 1% of the time?

Meadows sighed, with a look more of sympathy than defeat. He met Marlowe’s eyes for a moment, then said, I guess that’s why there’s you, Phil.

I guess you’re right, Marlowe replied.

Meadows uncurled his arm from around the blonde’s waist and met Marlowe’s right hand with his own. He delivered a somber Good luck to you, as if he’d just shaken hands with a man who’d signed his own death warrant.

Marlowe responded with an equally somber, You too, Meadows. He tipped his hat in the blonde’s direction and said, Ma’am. She giggled a little and seemed embarrassed by the gesture.

As Meadows and his date went inside, Marlowe turned away from the theater. He felt the growing mass of people, their eyes on him like heat lamps. He looked at them, each in turn, as they huddled close to the promised shelter of the theater’s marquee. Scanning their faces under their raised umbrellas, he saw nothing familiar in them, and they stared as if he was an animal in a zoo.

Show’s over, folks, he said. Thanks for coming. He flipped the collar of his raincoat up to cover his neck and walked out into the night.

* * *

Heading back to his office, Marlowe tried to return his thoughts to the Harvey case, even as he fought the rain’s chill. The encounter with Meadows had disturbed him more than he cared to admit. The narrow career path he’d forged for himself as a detective was being closed rapidly, and he no longer felt so optimistic about the Helen Harvey case. Maybe Meadows was right—times had changed, and maybe somehow they’d passed Philip Marlowe by.

The rain worsened, striking now in torrents like waves on the open sea. He looked around for a place to duck in and wait out the worst of it. The theater was back two blocks, too far to do much good, and in the wrong direction, to boot. A couple of shops were lit on the side street up ahead—he jogged closer until he could see what they were.

One was a pizza place, but Marlowe wasn’t particularly hungry. The other store was Flix, an independent video rental shop which had gained a level of local notoriety by one, having an incredibly wide selection of older films on videocassette, and two, refusing to stock more than one copy of new releases.

As Marlowe entered, an old-fashioned bell rang at the top of the door. He passed between the two tall bars of a magnetic theft detection system that looked to be the only state of the art equipment in the entire store.

There were two other people inside: a preoccupied clerk, and a woman scouting titles at the far end of the store.

Marlowe did his best to appear inconspicuous, though he suspected that the very presence of two non-employees in the store was an event in itself. He drifted at random, passing rows of comedy, action, sci-fi, foreign, those broad and universal labels for all things celluloid, until his attention was seized by the front of a videocassette box. Flix, unlike many of the big rental chains, had opted to encase the original cassette covers in protective plastic sheaths rather than replace them entirely with uniform, custom made boxes identically marked with the store colors.

The box was for The Big Sleep, the 1946 movie based on the Chandler novel of the same name. Seeing the box, and its Bogart-Bacall banner, made Marlowe feel momentarily lighter than himself.

The woman had made a selection and was now walking toward the front desk. Coincidentally, she looked to be about the same age Helen Harvey would be. Marlowe decided he wasn’t ready to give up the case just yet. He grabbed the copy of The Big Sleep and proceeded, as quickly as casual believability would bear, to the same front desk.

Hi, he started, arriving at the front desk mere seconds after the woman. What’ve you got there?

"Hamlet, the woman replied. Shakespeare," she added, apparently not convinced of Marlowe’s familiarity with it.

I’ve heard of it, he finally said.

It’s my favorite of all his plays. She handed the videotape to the clerk. She was small and fragile-looking, but beautiful. Her hair was light—probably brown, Marlowe thought, or a very dark blonde. It swept back over her ears, falling gracefully to her neck in back.

Monochrome vision had some advantages—because of the difficulty in differentiating between shades of hair color, Marlowe usually focused harder on other features of the face. He compared the woman before him to his mind’s recollection of the Helen Harvey pictures. They were close, very close, to each other. Marlowe would have said it was Helen, except for one difference, detectable even in his suboptimal eyesight as an unexpected absence of darkness.

The woman’s eyes were slate blue, almost white. They were the kind of eyes that looked like the blue tint was being slowly drained out of the irises. When Marlowe focused closely on her eyes, it was as if he was looking through her. He couldn’t be certain about their actual color, but they were much too light to be brown.

What’s your name?

Jenifer, she said, staring him in the face with an unusual intensity. One of everything, except the e’s.

The low-maintenance version, eh?

I suppose so. What have you got there? She was fishing dollar bills from her pockets as the clerk, waiting impatiently, kept one eye on the TV screen. It blared some modern incarnation of horror film.

"The Big Sleep," he responded, checking again as he said it to make sure that it was indeed the same.

I think I’ve heard of that. Is that . . . She took the cassette box and turned it to see the cover. Yes, Bogart and Bacall. I’ve heard of it. What’s the story about? Have you seen it before?

He looked her in the eyes, slightly confused for some reason as he thought about her question. Yes, he said. It’s about a detective.

Really? How original. And, let me guess, he falls in love with his client? She smiled coyly.

One of the daughters of his client.

Interesting.

I suppose.

Taking her video, in a plastic bag with some other store’s name on it, from the outstretched hand of the clerk, she turned playfully to leave the store, leaving Marlowe agape. At the door she spun on her heels and said to him, looking at the video in his hands, Would you like to get some coffee?

Marlowe was stunned at the turn of events. He had planned merely to evaluate the chances of the woman’s being Helen Harvey, then head back to the office and get some sleep. I’m forty-seven, he said.

And? She winked at him.

Okay. Lead the way.

They walked a couple of blocks in the lessening storm until they reached a string of small cafes and shops. Marlowe was following the woman, scanning everything as he went by. She looked back at him every few steps with a vague flirtation in her eye. The stares of people he passed felt different now—he was with someone, a woman, and it made him forget about filing away details in his head for the investigation. He felt more legitimate somehow, like maybe he belonged on these streets, not just as a detective, but as a person.

* * *

She ordered a cappuccino, he ordered a regular black. He barely recognized some of the drinks on the menu as products of the coffee bean. It was his first time in a modern coffee shop, that fin de sieclé salon. As much as the mysterious menu items disturbed him, the smell of the place put him at ease—the familiar, pungent, and timeless smell of coffee.

They took a table by the small glass window that looked out onto the sidewalk. Once they were settled, Marlowe felt a queasiness in his stomach, as he didn’t know quite how to proceed.

You haven’t told me your name? Jenifer half-asked, wondering herself if coming here had been a mistake.

Christopher, said Philip Marlowe. The answer came naturally, as Christopher was his given first name. He hadn’t used it in years, though, even when operating under cover. He offered the name now not so much as a means of disguise, but rather from a temporary disconnect with his detective persona.

That’s a nice name. I had an uncle named Christopher. She sipped her drink. So tell me about yourself, Christopher.

I’m . . . in engineering.

Really? That’s interesting. What kind of engineering?

I mainly work on bridges. This was living dangerously, offering a job he knew nothing about and hoping she’d buy it without requesting further detail. It was these seemingly small and inconsequential moments that made a detective’s life exciting.

How interesting! What kinds of bridges?

All kinds. As he thought about how best to expand on his lie, he decided simpler was better. I help people get from one place to another.

Interesting, she said. Everything was interesting.

And you? Marlowe asked.

I dabble, you could say. I make sure to have plenty of time to indulge my interests.

What are your interests?

Well, I seem to be in a movie phase right now. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll pursue the writing or the making of them, but right now, I just love watching them. Watching can be quite an active experience, not just the passive, couch-potato laziness that’s usually associated with it.

Have you lived here long?

A few years. I’m originally from England, if you can believe it. I fear I’ve lost whatever English charm I may have once had, and replaced it with an American accent.

No, I can tell. It’s well hidden, but I can tell. I have a good ear for these things.

"And what about yourself? You don’t have much of a New York accent, compared to what I would have expected. How long have you lived here?"

Marlowe looked away briefly, but realized that wistful was not the image he wished to present. He caught himself, and looked back at the table.

Too long, I think sometimes. He smiled.

Jenifer was quiet, respectful of the statement.

She silently evaluated the man across from her. He was strange, no doubt about it, but something in him came through despite his closed-off personality. There was an underlying warmth in him that had been shrouded over time. How, she wondered?

What’s your last name? she asked.

Marlowe, he said. He felt a strange compulsion not to lie to her about this. Christopher Marlowe.

She giggled. You sound like a movie detective, the way you said that. ‘Brandlee. Jenifer Brandlee,’ here.

He smiled, self-consciously, then began to laugh openly.

C’mon now, what’s your real name? she said suddenly, still laughing.

What? Marlowe was taken aback, unsure of how to handle the question.

Christopher Marlowe? Let me see your license.

She said it playfully, but there was an edge to her voice, as if she was evaluating him in several different ways at once.

I don’t drive, and I don’t carry a wallet.

That’s really your name?

Christopher P. Marlowe, Marlowe lied.

Christopher P. Marlowe. I’ll be damned. What’s the P. stand for?

Philip.

Do you know who Christopher Marlowe was?

It rings a bell, but no, he said.

"He was an old English playwright. He wrote Doctor Faustus."

I thought a German guy wrote that.

She paused for a moment. He was holding back . . . maybe even testing her? Goethe? They both did, in a manner of speaking. Marlowe came first, I believe. Later, Goethe and Thomas Mann, among others. But if you believe that there’s a historical precedent for the story, then the only one who can truly be called the author is Faustus himself.

You believe the story actually happened?

No, I guess not. Just the romantic in me. Are you the romantic type?

He squirmed noticeably at the question. He had a strange desire to give away all of his secrets to the woman across from him. I suppose so, in a way.

So how do you know so much about literature?

I don’t, really. I just remember studying that one in school, years ago.

What age was that?

Younger than you, he said quietly, reluctant to be reminded of the difference in age between them. How old are you, anyway?

Twenty-nine, and don’t worry about it. I’m old for my age inside, where it counts.

The coffee was beginning to get cold, and though he didn’t want to leave, Marlowe’s sense of duty kicked in and told him to get moving.

I should be going now, he said. I, uh . . .

She deftly saved his hanging question. Do you want to meet here tomorrow? We could continue our conversation.

Yeah, that’d be nice. What time?

About 4 o’clock?

I’ll see you then.

* * *

On the way back to the office, Marlowe began to notice things, things he’d never noticed before, like the way pedestrian traffic viewed from a distance was like the ocean, swelling and ebbing like the waves at high tide.

The isolation of being a private investigator opened an unseen world that the average person never discovered. He watched people rushing by around him, increasingly buried under layers of advertising, headlines, work, career, health. That is not the world, he thought. What was the world? He didn’t really know. But it was not that.

He returned to his office, and killed half an hour trying to figure out how he was going to spend the time until tomorrow at 4 PM.

The Harvey case was nearly forgotten now, but the sealed environment of his office was, this time, a helpful angel. The bare room compelled him to revisit the Harvey file, if only to escape the feeling of claustrophobia that had suddenly come upon him. He opened the file again, reread the letter, the offer, the description of the girl, stared at the picture some more. Finally, he decided that blue eyes or no, he had just spoken with Helen Harvey in the coffee shop.

He argued against himself, citing the statistical improbabilities of Jenifer and Helen being the same person, and the absurdity of his coming across Helen Harvey by chance. He blamed the likely inclination for his brain to associate the case he was working on and the first person he’d really talked to in months.

Fear began to prey on his mind, and he decided to go to sleep to try to escape it. He hoped he was wrong about the woman being Helen Harvey, but he wasn’t quite sure why.

* * *

The next day, he visited the video store again. He looked inside, saw the clerk from last night, alone, and entered.

Hey pal, how’d you do last night? the clerk greeted him. A look of voyeuristic expectation made his sallow complexion even more unattractive.

Marlowe ignored the question. What do you know about that girl from last night?

Not much, the clerk answered. He seemed disappointed, perhaps thinking that if Marlowe was asking such basic questions, there certainly wouldn’t be forthcoming any juicy details of whatever transpired after they’d left the store yesterday.

She comes in all the time, her name’s Jenifer, always pays in cash, and she—hey, wait a second. I shouldn’t be telling you all this. You’re not some weirdo, are you?

I’m a cop, plainclothes division. Name’s Riley. He held up a fake badge quickly, slipped it back in his pocket just as fast. He’d gotten plenty of mileage from his knowledge of police procedures and his ability to bluff, and there was no risk of being found out by the marginal intelligence behind the desk. What else do you know?

I don’t know . . . nothing, really.

How long has she been coming here?

As long as I’ve worked here—three years. Must’ve rented just about everything we’ve got.

Where does she live?

The clerk looked up her account on the ancient desktop computer. Address is 243 W. 23rd, Apt. 4A.

Thanks. This is all undercover, so don’t say anything to anyone.

Is she in trouble? the clerk’s eyes lit up again at the prospect of vicarious excitement. What’d she do?

Police matter. She’s a witness to something important, that’s all. He held a finger to his lips to end the conversation, and left the store.

* * *

Lots of ways to change a name, Marlowe thought. There were plenty of people in a city this size who could help you become someone else, but they always held that information for the right price to anyone who might come calling. For all the other PIs to have failed, and with the money Helen must have known would be on the line as a reward, she couldn’t have done it that way. Someone would have talked.

What about just changing her identity herself? Maybe the birth certificate scam? She could have pulled it off easily, simply wander though a graveyard and assume the identity of a dead kid, complete with Social Security number. But again, with the money she had, it didn’t seem worth the risk, and the other detectives would have found it.

Any one mistake would leave the truth for anyone who dug hard enough. And he, a one-man operation, wasn’t about to out-dig any of the big group setups, people like Meadows and company, who had decided long ago that the case wasn’t worth the effort.

Maybe he was overthinking. Were there really any documents that were essential to an identity? Was it necessary to have a piece of paper validating who she was? If she was willing to keep her head down, there was nothing preventing her from simply lying low and living off the cash.

Maybe the real change of identity had happened the moment Helen Harvey decided not to go back to England.

* * *

At 4 o’clock, he made his way to the coffee shop. He would test Jenifer on her identity, and see what came out of it.

She was sitting at the same table by the window, looking like she’d been meant to be there since the world began. Marlowe’s pulse quickened when she noticed him, and he marveled that for once his heart rate was rising without someone attempting to do him bodily harm. It was a nice change.

He sat down across from her. A cup of steaming black coffee awaited him on the polycarbonate table. He slid it closer to him, across the fake wooden veneer. He looked down at the coffee for a moment, then up at Jenifer.

I figured you’d be on time, she said. You seem the type.

He looked at his watch. It was exactly 4 PM.

You’re good, kid, he smiled. He instantly regretted using the word kid, but she didn’t seem to notice, or mind, anyway.

So, what’d you do today?

Ah, the usual, he lied smoothly. Ever since the Wainwright case was taken off the table, things had been anything but usual. I’m more interested in you, though.

Well, before we go there, I’ve got some other information I thought might interest you.

Marlowe settled back in his chair, unsure of what was coming.

I thought the name Philip Marlowe sounded familiar, so I did a little research at the library. It started off as aimless wandering on the internet, actually. But I put in the name Philip Marlowe as a lark, and guess what turned up?

Marlowe knew that he was no longer smiling, but he couldn’t help it.

She continued, not looking at him. It seems that Philip Marlowe was the name of a famous fictional detective. Would you know anything about that?

Yes.

Then you may know something about this next bit, too. It’s quite a coincidence.

Marlowe’s mouth opened, although he wasn’t sure what he was going to say. She stopped him with a gesture and continued.

"You see, the fictional Marlowe first appeared in the novel . . . ready? The Big Sleep. That, in case you’ve forgotten, is the same movie you had at the video store."

They stared at each other, with nothing but the sounds of clanking coffee cups to distract them. Marlowe sat silent a long time, then stood up from his chair and began to walk from the table. He stopped halfway to the door and turned around. He was aware that the other patrons were watching him, but he didn’t care. Jenifer was watching him too, even-eyed, matching his thousand yard stare as thoughts whirled through his mind.

No one had really challenged him on his identity before. Oh, people knew—Meadows and others who went back to his police days—but no one who had first known him as Marlowe. He’d kept himself intact as Marlowe by avoiding unnecessary contact, and the questions it might bring.

Now, the clients were few and far between. There was no one left to talk to; no one to share his observations on the titles of movies, or soothe his pain when he was beat up in the line of duty, no one whose relationship extended past the details of a contract. And now, he had someone. Maybe.

He approached the table and sat back down.

Over the next ten minutes, he spilled his guts. He didn’t tell her about his past as a cop or his present as a private detective. He told her about cerebral achromatopsia, and life in black and white. He just talked about the name change, going from Christopher Lilly to Philip Marlowe. He congratulated her skill in guessing the source of his new name. He talked about feeling the need to recreate his identity, to start over, ten years ago.

She said that she understood exactly what he meant.

Her hand slipped over his as he said these things, and she squeezed his fingers tightly.

After he was finished, he stood up again. He was empty—unburdened, but empty. He had nothing more to say today.

See you tomorrow? Jenifer asked.

4 PM, said Philip Marlowe.

* * *

The next morning, Marlowe awoke early to stake out the address the video clerk had given him. He stood at a bus stop across the street and down half a block, and allowed the aspiring straphangers to cut him in line whenever a bus arrived. I’m getting the next one, he would say each time.

After an hour of this, he saw the door of the apartment building open, and Jenifer Brandlee emerged into the harsh sunlight. She looked fiercely up at the sun, as if annoyed by its intrusion, and donned a pair of sunglasses. She turned uptown, walking at a leisurely pace.

When she was out of sight, he crossed the street and entered the building. There was no security lock on the front door, and he was thankful he didn’t have to resort to picking the lock to gain access.

Once inside, he reviewed the mailboxes—one large whole made up of separate units for each apartment. It reminded him of a honeybee’s hive, divided into perfect geometrical compartments. He realized the analogy could be extended to the building and its apartments just as easily.

The label next to 4A’s mailbox was blank. He searched the foyer for some sort of sub-level access, and found a door hidden around the far side of the narrow room.

He tried the doorknob—open. There were concrete stairs dimly illuminated from above. The stairs were cold light gray to him, and partially coated with old, chipping paint. He thought the paint might be yellow or some other bright color, because of the way it contrasted with the dark walls. The stairs led down to a storage room that housed assorted varieties of tools, none of which seemed to belong to the same master set.

Hello? he called.

There was no response.

Marlowe proceeded into the room, cautious of its many hidden and shadowed areas. The staircase light was faint away from its source, a single exposed light bulb hanging from insulated wires that looked ready to give up the ghost.

Don’t move, came a voice.

Marlowe put his hands up slowly, and turned despite the warning. Standing before him was a slightly overweight Hispanic man, wearing a bandana on his head and a thick, heavy tool belt. He held a hammer in his right hand.

Take it easy, Marlowe said. I’m a cop. Nobody’s in any trouble, I just need to ask a couple of questions.

You a cop? Where’s your gun, then?

Marlowe gave a light smile. I don’t have it on me. Tends to upset people.

You ain’t no cop, man. Who are you? What you want? The gleam of metal caught Marlowe’s eye as the hammer danced back and forth in the nervous man’s hand.

OK, I’m not a cop. Smart guy. I just want a couple of answers, and I’ve got fifty bucks for you if you’ll be the answer man. After that, I’m gone, goodbye.

What questions?

Do you know a Jenifer Brandlee?

Maybe.

She lives in apartment 4A of this building.

OK, the man admitted. Yeah, I know who she is. What about her?

She a good tenant?

The best. No complaints. Every month, she pays me cash, I give her a receipt. No problems.

What else?

Nothing else, man. I hardly ever see her. I’m a busy man.

Does she ever ask you to do anything for her? Does she ever get any strange packages?

No packages. Once she asked me to get her a TV, she gave me money and where to go. She gave a nice tip.

And that’s it?

That’s it, man.

You’re sure, now?

Sure, man, sure. I told you.

She never gave you money to do anything else? Run an errand, make a phone call?

Only other thing she gives me is a hundred bucks a month.

And that’s for?

For not talking about her to anyone. He smiled. But nothing’s guaranteed, man. I figure if you’re asking me about her, you’re also asking a lot of other people, and I’d rather get fifty bucks now than a promise from somebody may not be here tomorrow.

Here’s your money. Marlowe handed over his last fifty and turned to walk back up the stairs.

The man did not lower the hammer in his hand until Marlowe was out of the building.

* * *

You know, they say people only dream in black and white, Jenifer said with a smile.

Are you implying something? Marlowe sighed.

"Not at all. Just thought it was