The Comicbook Detective

By Al Clover

The story always starts with a dame. Or so it does in Alex Carter's imaginary noir-world.

When Naomi Price walks into Alex's Comics Clubhouse one day asking for help cataloging thousands of rare, inherited comicbooks, Alex is sure he's hit the comics jackpot. Along with his two best friends and a ready supply of Mountain Dew, A

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sidekick Press
• Release date: Nov 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9781958808085

Al Clover

Born in the Midwest, Al came to the Pacific Northwest in the early '60s. Crossing the Lake Washington floating bridge he knew he wasn't in Iowa anymore. Growing up in the days of the 1960s, Al witnessed many historical happenings including a President being assassinated, and a man landing on the moon. Finding that neighborhood grocery store with the spin rack filled with comics was the dream of many a young person with an imagination beyond the usual. The twenty-five cents, his allowance that week, in his pocket would prove to be the beginning of the journey. With comic fueled imaginings Al made his way to present day. All the characters he encountered along the way added to his life and his imagination.

Book preview

The wet streets and cloudy skies make The Avenue a dangerous place. Around each corner lurks the potential, I’m sure, for evil . . . but I walk these streets anyway. Today I don’t have any appointments, but my latest client is keeping me busy. I’m concerned he may have upset one of the local bosses. At present there haven’t been any threats, but it’s still early in the investigation. I keep my eyes and ears tuned to my surroundings. That awareness has saved my bacon more than once.

Ten a.m., Monday—the start of the workweek—and The Ave, as it’s known by the locals, was coming alive. The city’s denizens, heads down and clutching coat lapels, avoided puddles dotting the sidewalks from last evening’s downpour. They scurried to their destinations. The Ave sits in the heart of Seattle’s U-District—an eight-block melting pot of restaurants, bookstores, coffee shops, and a tattoo parlor or two.

My office, which some called a shop, is nestled between a Chinese restaurant and a tattoo parlor. It fits right in with the quirky nature of the area and offers a respite from the perilous Seattle streets.

I wrinkle my nose at the smell of cigarette smoke. Rounding the corner to my nondescript office, I see a man I’ve been trying to avoid. He’s standing next door to my office. I doubt I’ll be able to dodge him. The multiple butts discarded around him tell me he’s been waiting a while. The fracas can no longer be tabled.

Wong (whose real name was Thomas), the proprietor of Wong’s Chinese Food Emporium, stood on the sidewalk, enjoying his morning cigarette. A light breeze blew the noxious brew of smoke away. The resulting fresh air tasted of mouthwatering flavors. The kitchen was prepping for the lunch crowd.

Wong’s has the best Chinese food in the city. Back in the ’60s, it’s rumored Bruce Lee was a waiter there. I love Bruce Lee, and I love Wong’s, so it’s a win-win for me.

Good morning, Alex. Wong stood by the open door of his restaurant. The cigarette glowed red when he took a drag and a cloud formed in the air over his head when he expelled the deadly fumes. I’d never figured out the allure of smoking.

Hey Wong, how’s it going?

It’s good. Wonton soup and fried rice for lunch?

We’ll see. Got a lot on my plate today. Ha, I cracked myself up sometimes. So many clients, so little time.

All right, well you know where I am when you get hungry. The end of the cigarette blazed cherry red. Wong took one last drag, and with a flick of his finger, exiled the spent butt to the gutter.

I nodded, You know it. I continued toward my office where a Post-it note stuck to the office door caught my attention.

I looked around—one can never be too vigilant. No one seemed to be interested in me or the note. I pulled off the note and read: Come next door, I’ve got something for you.

Normally I’d hope that kind of message was an invitation (nudge-nudge, wink-wink) but being familiar with the handwriting and the fragrance attached to the Post-it, I knew this time the message was all business.

The Ave motor traffic with thick clouds of exhaust, tires squealing on wet pavement, and the occasional horn honking played a discordant symphony. I continued past my doorway to Inks Enough Tattoo Parlor next door. The tattoo parlor bookended my office opposite Wong’s. I was curious about what surprise awaited me.

I knew the dame inside always meant business.

I pushed the door open, removed my fedora—I’m a gentleman after all—then stepped into the parlor. Sheela Rocher, or Rocker, which she preferred, the proprietress of Inks Enough, stood in front of the counter opposite our connecting wall. She was lovely, dressed in her usual leather miniskirt and black, sleeveless blouse, displaying her full-sleeve tattoos on both arms and hints of a larger tattoo I imagined covered her entire back. Her hair was shaved three-quarters on the left side and the rest swept over to reach just below her jaw line on the right. She looked punk, but classy punk. A red leather vest completed the look. Sporting the tattoos, the punk hair, the leather, and a few piercings in each ear, the look reminded me of a pirate. A refined punk pirate.

The walls of the tattoo parlor were covered in photos of tattoo art, along with hand-drawn illustrations for Rocker’s clients to choose from. Standing in the entryway, my eye was drawn to the chair-like apparatus in the middle of the room, which reminded me of a barber shop’s or dentist’s chair. Not every person who came into the tattoo parlor was comfortable with the tattoo gun and the pain it brought. I often heard cries of distress through the connecting wall. In the past—Rocker had told me, with a devious smile on her face—the chair was where the magic happened. No question she could work some magic, but tattoos seemed too much like torture—nope, not my thing at all.

Her first customer stood beside the chair with his shirt off. I ignored him as he settled in, reclining. I could see he had other tattoos, so reasoned he must have been a regular. I didn’t expect to hear any cries of pain from this guy.

Hey Rocker, what’s up? I always began conversations with a question. It helped to get people talking.

Not much. Another day, another dollar, she said with a smile. She pointed to the package sitting on the counter. Here, this was dropped off a little bit ago. You know I’m not always here. One of these days you may need to figure out another method of accepting delivery. But the UPS guy was cute, so thank you for not being available this time.

And you’re sure he worked for UPS? Was he wearing an official UPS uniform?

Can’t be too careful.

She looked at me with a slight shake of her head—the same look clients gave me when they weren’t sure what I was asking. Alex, you’re weird. Yes, it was the same uniform he wore the day before and the day before that.

"Hmm, did he ask you to sign anything?" I clarify.

She shook her head with a tired sigh, UPS, Alex, that’s it. It’s comic-books for your store. Like every other delivery.

Well, it’s probably safe, I agree.

Rocker rolled her eyes. Uh-huh, okay. All right. Rocker sighed again, but since we’d had this conversation in the past, she was used to my quirky personality. So . . . anyway, I signed for it and now it’s all yours.

Thanks. I’d better get to the office in case a client needs me. I set my fedora on my head with a nod and grab my package.

Rocker waved goodbye.

I stepped back onto The Ave and before the door closed, I heard her say to her client, He owns the store next door. Lives in a fantasy world where he thinks he’s a private eye. Nice guy, though. Harmless.

The package was heavy, well-wrapped, and no movement or sound came from the contents. I stepped around a puddle on the way to my shop door, inserted the key in the lock, and of course, it stuck. I twisted and turned trying to convince the locked door to cooperate. Success! This was a battle I fought every morning. One of these days I should get a locksmith, I thought, for the hundredth time this year. But something always seemed to distract me.

I looked through the window and admired the store. Inside The Comics Clubhouse, I could see a massive counter. It dominated the space in the center of the floor. From behind that counter, I could see the entire store, peer into every corner and aisle where one might hide. The counter was waist-high, with openings on each side. The countertop was made of a dull, not-quite-shiny metal, and the base was poured concrete—industrial. Fake plastic conduit tubing, like you might see in an old-fashioned factory from the 1950s, stretched across the ceiling and the base of the counter. The tubing seemed to support the counter to complete the industrial look. One wall of the store was covered with comics, in order from A to Z. The other two walls held graphic novels and action figures, comic character T-shirts, and posters.

Two long, glass display cases held older, more valuable, collector-worthy comics that needed to be secured under lock and key. A small door in the back corner of the space led to a shoe-box-sized office. Situated off to the side of the sales counter was a huge wooden bin, painted black to match the overall aesthetic; the bin held the store’s back issues. My store carried everything a good comic store would stock. The shop was comfortable, not too crowded even on those days when everybody decided today was the day for a comic. It wasn’t Barnes and Noble huge, nor was it one of those shops that required you to turn sideways to walk around other customers.

I looked outside to see dark, fat clouds filling the blue sky at the speed of fast forward on a DVR. Rain was on the horizon.

Pushing the door open and stepping into my dimly lit office, I flick on the lights, one-handed. Setting the package from under my arm on the battered wooden desk, I see the reflection in the windows: a balding and slightly overweight, yet dapper, man dressed in a white shirt and black tie with a dark jacket. I hang my jacket on the back of my chair, exposing my shoulder holster. The sky is full of dark and ominous clouds—the kind of weather that brings out the desperate and sinister. My mood takes a downturn with the weather, and the darkness overtakes me. I want a drink, even if it is only nine in the morning. Conveniently, a half-full bottle of Old Grand-Dad bourbon stands on the desk next to a glass, with yesterday’s dregs gathered in the bottom. The bottle tempts me, waiting for my hand to grasp it and pour a shot to start the day. So, I do. I grimace at the spicy, peppery taste mixing with yesterday’s remnants and today’s fresh liquor. Around the bottle and glass, case files lay scattered over my desk. Opposite the bottle on the desk is a three-tier stacking tray those files should be occupying, but my filing system balks with disgust at my arrogance—the files proudly ignoring the stacking tray. I set my fedora on the filing cabinet behind me. The black, four-drawer filing cabinet holds all my case files and a potted cactus. The plant looks parched, but don’t let that neediness fool you. I fell for it once and almost killed that cactus. Turns out cacti don’t need to be watered every day. Who woulda thunk? The prickly bastard was given to me by a former client. She gave it to me after I solved her rather complicated case. I named the cactus Pokey, a warning to all to not get too close after it stuck me more than once.

I take my gat, Betsy, from the shoulder holster she occupies and place the weapon in the left-hand drawer of the desk.

The rumble of a passing truck on The Ave shook me from my mood. I finished locking my gun in the secure gun safe located under the counter. My gun was not named Betsy, and being a responsible gun-owner, I never left it laying around. I carried it only when appropriate, like when I took the day’s deposit to the bank. Otherwise, the weapon was locked in the gun safe. The gun in question was a Walther PPK, the chosen firearm of James Bond and one of his quirks I emulated, but no way in hell would I drink martinis. I took off the shoulder holster and folded it up, placing it in its spot under the counter next to the safe.

The walls of The Comics Clubhouse brimmed with comicbooks. Glass cases overflowed with action figures and comic character statues. I was standing next to the sales counter where a half-empty bottle of yesterday’s Mountain Dew and a 7-11 Batman glass sat. The glass was partially filled with a sad mixture of warm, flat soda. Yuck.

I eyed my Nick Fury Action figure sitting next to Pokey. And to be clear, it was an action figure, not a doll.

Some of the first comics I ever read featured Nick Fury. In those stories, Fury was a cool cat in addition to out Bonding James Bond. Along with the books and movies I devoured featuring James Bond and Sherlock Holmes, characters like Nick Fury became a part of my imaginary world. I’d spent my childhood, a shy, overweight nerd. My idols, spies, private detectives, and superheroes helped me navigate the pitfalls of those early years. When I was being picked on by enemies or friends, life was easier when I could submerge into the fantasy I’d created. I could be a spy saving the world or a private eye protecting the dame, an average guy on a quest who would become the hero. Or even Batman stopping the Riddler. Who wouldn’t want to save the world like Nick Fury or James Bond? Or solve mysteries like Sherlock Holmes? And saving the dame like Phillip Marlowe, Private Eye extraordinaire, was a dream I’d always harbored. During my youth, an imaginary world was totally acceptable, but as an adult my imagination sometimes complicated my life.

No customers yet this morning, but at least the sun peeked out between the clouds. Typical Seattle weather: one minute, rain; next minute, sun. The Pacific Northwest winter had passed, and we were now in the less aggressive months of spring. Still, overcast skies with a side of rain were common, but at least in late spring there’s the occasional sun break. Next month, June, was the kickoff for NW summertime.

I stood at the front counter, eyes closed, the sun warming my face. I heard the door open, bringing with it the sounds of The Ave traffic speeding toward mid-morning. A client. I reached for my fedora. Gotta look the part, otherwise the client might not think he was getting his money’s worth.

The man was young, tan, in his early twenties—I made a mental note, in case a question of his identity became a concern later. With a wrinkled brow, he hesitated. He might be questioning if he was in the right place. His light blue windbreaker looked wet from the earlier rain and now reflected the light. He removed his baseball cap and revealed damp brown hair—a typical look for Seattleites. Seattle had barely seen the sun in the preceding months, which meant his tan must have been from another location on the globe. He stood a step inside the door and peered into each corner of the room, searching for who knew what—an Avenger or an assailant? With the brightly lit office, any hidden adversaries would be visible. And then, stepping in, he jumped at the squeak of his own tennis shoes—he must be in trouble. I was sure of it.

What can I do for you, sport?

He glances at the open bottle of Old Grand-Dad on the desk. The air retains a peppery flavor from the bourbon. Did he wet his lips in anticipation of me offering him a shot? His jumpiness tells me he needs a stiff drink, but it’s before noon—five o’clock somewhere in the world—and I’ve had days like that.

The drops collecting on his face could be from the rain. Or nervousness? Might be sweat. He rubbed the back of his neck and focused on a spot over my left shoulder. Um . . . ah, he stuttered, and started over. Okay, I’ve never been here before. Can you help me? I’d like you to find a comic for me.

So, what’d this comic do to you? Tell a bad joke?

What? He looked at me in the same way Rocker had this morning. Not everyone got me.

I should have left my imaginary friends and daydreaming adventures in my childhood, but I didn’t. Sometimes I slip into a black-and-white world populated with private eyes and leggy dames.

No clock in the office, but if there was, you’d have heard the seconds ticking away in the silence.

If this were a movie, there’d be a shimmer/wavy pattern when my black-and-white unreality shifted to the colorful real world. The scene would change from the noir private detective office to my comicbook store with the counter covered in comics and invoices. And my white shirt with the black tie would become a Superman T-shirt with a stain from yesterday’s burrito. The delivery I’d retrieved from Rocker still sat unopened, most likely the back issues I ordered. I deposited the package behind the counter, removed my fedora, and reality came rushing back.

I gave my new customer a friendly smile and shifted the half-empty bottle of yesterday’s Mountain Dew to the other side of the counter, along with the 7-11 Batman glass still holding the residue of the previous day’s drink.

How can I help you?

I’m trying to find a comic.

I might be able to help with that. My grin widened, and I swept my arms to encompass the shelves filled with comicbooks.

He chuckled. Yeah, good point.

Comics Clubhouse at your service. I’m Alex. Whatcha looking for?

Um, Batman comics?

Okay, any particular one? We’ve got a lot to choose from.

I need the issue where Alfred dresses like Batman, so Bruce Wayne can fool the Joker.

I knew exactly which issue he meant. Any Batman comic fan would know the iconic Batman cover from the ’60s. But before I showed him the issue in question, I grabbed a stack of single-fold paper towels from behind the counter. Let’s dry those wet hands first, before you touch anything . . .

Sorry, he said, drying his hands. He hesitated for a moment, not knowing what to do with the paper towel. I took it from him and stuffed it in my back pocket. You never know when you might need a DNA sample. Just sayin’. Rocker would be rolling her eyes.

I led him over to the floor bins containing all the Batman back issues, and before he could drag his wet sleeve across the comics, I flipped through several of them until I found the one he was looking for. I pulled out the plastic-encased comic he’d described and released the issue from its protective cover. I believe this is the Batman you’re looking for.

With reverence, he took the comic from my hands and admired the cover depicting Batman swinging across the Gotham rooftops, where the Joker stood shaking his fist at the Bat.

This is the one! With a little dance of happiness, he went from the downtrodden, drowned rat façade to the gleeful look of a kid who had just found his missing puppy. I knew The Comics Clubhouse would be my best shot.

Thanks, that’s a nice compliment. Hey, cool T-shirt. My powers of observation were working overtime. Okay, I cheated. I had the same shirt in my closet.

In his excitement, his jacket had parted and revealed a red T-shirt with an image of the original Green Lantern, Alan Scott. Alan Scott was the Green Lantern in the 1940s. Over the years, there have been different Green Lanterns in the comics. In the 2011 movie, Ryan Reynolds played Hal Jordan, the Green Lantern most comic fans knew from the ’60s.

I saw another moneymaking possibility. That’s Alan Scott, right? You’re an old school Green Lantern fan, I’m guessing? Guy Gardner is my fave, especially during the ’90s when he was seriously funny. I was in comic nerd mode, Keith Giffen and J.M. DeMatteis were a hilarious comedic duo. It was never the same after those two left and other writers took over the Green Lantern title.

Wow, good guess. With a grin, he looked down. Yeah, I’m a big fan of Alan Scott. He unzipped his jacket to further show off his Green Lantern T-shirt. The idea of Alan Scott’s power being susceptible to wood, as opposed to Hal Jordan’s inability to affect anything the color yellow, makes more sense to me. Also, I like that his ring is powered by magic, not some giant space battery.

Hey, the other day I got some older Green Lantern comics in, and if I remember, I saw some Alan Scott issues. Wanna take a look?

Oh man, that’s great! I’ve been looking for some issues to complete my collection. I heard the happy in his voice.

I led him back to the front of the store, slipped behind the counter, and, grabbing the package from earlier, ripped it open and pulled out some older Green Lantern issues. Oh yeah. All from the 1940s. That’s what I thought. They’re not mint, but still in mid-grade condition. I spread them out on the counter.

Forgetting to be not-a-nerd, he hopped from one foot to the other. I smiled at his animation. This is great, he gushed, and with a fist pump, he grabbed an issue. I’ve been looking for this issue for so long. I need a few more and I’ll have the entire series. I thought I’d never complete my collection. Wow, this is so cool! Comic collectors are completists, so when we can own an entire series from issue one, that’s often our holy grail. Helping a comic fan complete a collection of their favorite comic series is one of the best parts of my job.

Excellent, I’m glad to help you finish your run. What other issues do you need? My salesman’s hat was firmly planted on my head and had replaced my fedora.

Not exactly sure. I need to check. I wasn’t thinking about Green Lantern issues; let me run home and grab my list.

Gotta love his enthusiasm. It had been a while since I’d experienced the rush of finding a comic to complete a series. It didn’t happen much for me anymore. Not since I bought The Comics Clubhouse. Now I lived vicariously through my customers. Maybe someday I’d feel a sense of wonder again. Mind you, I wasn’t complaining. I loved seeing the light in their eyes when I handed clients that one perfect, sought-after comic. It made me feel warm inside. Like eating a s’mores straight from the campfire.

I’ll be back in, like, twenty minutes! He was so excited he turned to run out the door and then stopped, owing to the fact he’d gotten distracted from his original mission. The Batman comic. Oh yeah, sorry. I should probably pay for these comics first.

No worries. You don’t have to come right back, I reassured him. Check your list at home and call me. If I have the issues, I’ll hold them for you. And if I don’t have them in stock, I can use my online database to do some detective work. I can find some of the issues by next week, but it may take longer. I grabbed my business card from the Iron Man metal mesh card holder on the counter. Here’s my card. Give me a call. Let’s finish your Green Lantern run.

This is awesome. He dug out his credit card.

I kept the salesman hat on while I finished the purchase. Just remember The Comics Clubhouse next time you’re looking to complete a run. If I don’t have it, I will find it, guaranteed. That’s not a money-back guarantee, but you get the idea.

Thanks again! he called, braving the rain that had started again with his comics safely stored in a plastic bag under his arm.

I found myself alone in the store again, and though the thrill of the sale stayed with me for a while, my mind wandered. I drifted away to a case of the beautiful woman with a no-good husband. Maybe she would need someone with wit and wisdom to find out how the no-good husband had swindled her family out of a fortune. I plunged into my imagination while the weather cooperated with my dark noir fantasy. The skies opened, and with the sound of rain hitting the sidewalks, began dumping the proverbial Washingtonian liquid sunshine we were so well known for, among other Pacific Northwest oddities. The morning progressed in this fashion until hunger suggested the need for lunch.

After caving to the siren song of a Wonton soup and fried rice lunch, it was back to work. I love the food at Wong’s, but per usual, I ate too much. I could hear my personal trainer, Lucinda, giving me grief about my food choices, but today I let it slide. I considered