I was sound asleep and didn't hear the bedroom door open. I heard it close, however. When I rolled over lazily, the room was empty. A mysterious bag was laying next to my head. It was far too small to be a horse's head, and it didn't appear to be ticking. Those are always good signs when it comes to mysterious bags. I picked it up. It was lightweight and seemed to smell familiar. Bacon... Eggs... Cheese. A biscuit from McDonald's... but the nearest McDonald's is on Pierce. And Pierce is dead. In fact, the nearest McDonald's is LITERALLY on Pierce, It was built over the shallow grave where we had buried him 8 years earlier.
Someone was sending a message... A message of deliciousness. Not quite the same message of affection as, say, a Steak, Egg, and Cheese Bagel, but an effective, efficient "I'm thinking about you and what you did to poor, dead Pierce" kind of message.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Here Comes The Sun?
The ring of the telephone woke me up. I had fallen asleep, leaned back in my chair, with my feet propped up on my desk. It has been happening frequently over the last few days. For more than two weeks now, St. Louis has been blanketed by thick cloud cover, so that we've gotten NO direct sunlight. Combine this with my usual insomnia, and it's made me especially tired.
I planted my feet back on the ground and answered the phone. It was Mike Tanner. I still don't know how he can manage to sound chipper at.... I checked the clock... 9:40 in the morning. Even if the sun were OUT, I couldn't be chipper at 9:40 in the morning.
"We're still on for lunch, right?" he asked.
"It's not even 10 yet, and you're wanting to know lunch plans?"
"I like to know what I'm doing."
"Call me at noon," I responded. "For now, my only plans are to walk down to Caribou and get an espresso."
We hung up and I stood and stretched. I took a brief look out my office window. Another overcast day, spreading depression across the city. The weatherman predicts a brief bit of sunshine this afternoon, but clouding back over by tonight...I'm rapidly switching between insomnia and narcolepsy...
I planted my feet back on the ground and answered the phone. It was Mike Tanner. I still don't know how he can manage to sound chipper at.... I checked the clock... 9:40 in the morning. Even if the sun were OUT, I couldn't be chipper at 9:40 in the morning.
"We're still on for lunch, right?" he asked.
"It's not even 10 yet, and you're wanting to know lunch plans?"
"I like to know what I'm doing."
"Call me at noon," I responded. "For now, my only plans are to walk down to Caribou and get an espresso."
We hung up and I stood and stretched. I took a brief look out my office window. Another overcast day, spreading depression across the city. The weatherman predicts a brief bit of sunshine this afternoon, but clouding back over by tonight...I'm rapidly switching between insomnia and narcolepsy...
Friday, January 15, 2010
Compassion
The grim daylight drifted through the window and illuminated the thin layer of dust covering everything in my tiny office. I was sitting at my desk, captivated with the CNN coverage of Haiti's earthquake. I quickly pulled out my cell phone and texted a $10 donation to the Red Cross. It was the fifth time in two days. I wish I could do more, but in lieu of anything else, donating some cash always helps.
As I took a break for lunch, I bumped into a woman on the sidewalk in front of the Globe building. She gave me an icy stare... particularly icy. She struck me as the kind of a woman who wears a coat in the winter to keep the warmth out.
Through a fluke of luck, I managed to win about $200 last night at poker. It was already gone. I had texted $50 to the Red Cross, written a $100 check to Compassion International, and I had already owed $50 to Mike Tanner. Somehow, I figured that would end up with the Red Cross as well...
I tried in vain to find something to keep me busy through the afternoon. I answered a few e-mails, caught up with an old High School friend, but in the end I couldn't pull myself from those heartcrushing pictures from Haiti. I thought about going, but I don't have any special skills they need. I have no medical training, no military experience. I walked down to my local Red Cross office to see what I could do. They were already overloaded with would-be volunteers.
I donated a pint of blood and wrote a $200 check.
I know people come here to read the supposedly exciting exploits of a private eye. I try to keep you amused, but some things in life are too important. If you've got $10 (and who doesn't? $10= 2 packs of cigarettes, 1 good cigar, 4 gallons of gas, a fast food lunch for two, or an evening at the movies alone.), get off your ass and text "Haiti" to 90999.
As I took a break for lunch, I bumped into a woman on the sidewalk in front of the Globe building. She gave me an icy stare... particularly icy. She struck me as the kind of a woman who wears a coat in the winter to keep the warmth out.
Through a fluke of luck, I managed to win about $200 last night at poker. It was already gone. I had texted $50 to the Red Cross, written a $100 check to Compassion International, and I had already owed $50 to Mike Tanner. Somehow, I figured that would end up with the Red Cross as well...
I tried in vain to find something to keep me busy through the afternoon. I answered a few e-mails, caught up with an old High School friend, but in the end I couldn't pull myself from those heartcrushing pictures from Haiti. I thought about going, but I don't have any special skills they need. I have no medical training, no military experience. I walked down to my local Red Cross office to see what I could do. They were already overloaded with would-be volunteers.
I donated a pint of blood and wrote a $200 check.
I know people come here to read the supposedly exciting exploits of a private eye. I try to keep you amused, but some things in life are too important. If you've got $10 (and who doesn't? $10= 2 packs of cigarettes, 1 good cigar, 4 gallons of gas, a fast food lunch for two, or an evening at the movies alone.), get off your ass and text "Haiti" to 90999.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Coffee and Cigarettes
The dim daylight of an overcast morning crept through the venietian blinds, casting vauge horizontal stripes across my face. Chronic insomnia kept me up until 4 this morning. I turned on the television, it was nearly 11. Just in time for "The Price Is Right."
I wriggled my feet into my Fredbird slippers. I learned last year, via a dislocated shoulder, that bare feet and hardwood flooring is a bad combination. I stumbled over to the kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee, which I poured into a mug, with about a 50/50 blend of Bailey's. I walked across the room and opened the blinds. The dim light still managed to reflect prismatically off the lingering cigarette smoke from last night. I cracked open the window, to thin out the air, and resumed last night's chain-smoking marathon.
I finished off the mug of coffee/booze and poured another. I fired up my laptop and checked my e-mail. A bunch of junk, and a note from Dad, reminding me of our regular Thursday night poker game at his house. This has been a tradition for almost 15 years, beginning at the apartment Tanner and I shared straight out of college. For the first month, it was a regular Friday night game, but that conflicted with the race schedule at Fairmont Park, so we pushed it back to Thursdays. Up until October, we had been playing at Tanner's place in Shiloh, but when he married, the rules changed. His wife is a vehement anti-smoker, so the cigarettes and cigars were banned from the game. That lasted exactly ONE week, before Dad decided there was room in my childhood home to host the group.
The core of the group has been steady for a decade or more: Dad, Mike Tanner, my uncle Jim, and myself. Tanner will occasionally bring other writers from the Post. It was a great thrill for me to play poker with Bill McClellan, and I've had the luck to do it about three times now. Hell of a poker player. Uncle Jim is a tobacconist on "the Hill." He always brings more cigars than we could ever smoke. He refuses to allow us to pay for them, but he plays poker VERY well, so he usually makes out all right. Jim will occasionally bring favorite customers over to play, but most of them don't care to trek out to the Metro East to play in a home game. When college friends of Tanner and I are in town, I invite them to play, and since I've been dating Susan, she and her brother Gary frequently join us.
Dad's reminder e-mail always begins a flurry of correspondence, trying to figure out who is bringing who, so we know how much food, soda, booze, and cigars to bring. Dad always brought the food. Uncle Jim brought cigars. Tanner was picking up a case of Coke, he and I were splitting a case of beer, and I decided to pick up bottles of Kilo Kai rum and Dewar's White Label scotch. Tanner wasn't bringing anyone tonight, Uncle Jim might bring a friend, Dad was flying solo. I shot off an e-mail to Tim and Monica McKenzie to see if they were joining us. Tim was a college friend, as well as my most recent client, when he discovered forged Al Capone letters at the ballroom he was refurbishing. I also e-mailed Susan and Gary. It looked like I was going to be responsible for the bulk of guests tonight.
I finished the pot of coffee and dressed. I needed to check in at the office, on the off chance that there was a case waiting for me.
I wriggled my feet into my Fredbird slippers. I learned last year, via a dislocated shoulder, that bare feet and hardwood flooring is a bad combination. I stumbled over to the kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee, which I poured into a mug, with about a 50/50 blend of Bailey's. I walked across the room and opened the blinds. The dim light still managed to reflect prismatically off the lingering cigarette smoke from last night. I cracked open the window, to thin out the air, and resumed last night's chain-smoking marathon.
I finished off the mug of coffee/booze and poured another. I fired up my laptop and checked my e-mail. A bunch of junk, and a note from Dad, reminding me of our regular Thursday night poker game at his house. This has been a tradition for almost 15 years, beginning at the apartment Tanner and I shared straight out of college. For the first month, it was a regular Friday night game, but that conflicted with the race schedule at Fairmont Park, so we pushed it back to Thursdays. Up until October, we had been playing at Tanner's place in Shiloh, but when he married, the rules changed. His wife is a vehement anti-smoker, so the cigarettes and cigars were banned from the game. That lasted exactly ONE week, before Dad decided there was room in my childhood home to host the group.
The core of the group has been steady for a decade or more: Dad, Mike Tanner, my uncle Jim, and myself. Tanner will occasionally bring other writers from the Post. It was a great thrill for me to play poker with Bill McClellan, and I've had the luck to do it about three times now. Hell of a poker player. Uncle Jim is a tobacconist on "the Hill." He always brings more cigars than we could ever smoke. He refuses to allow us to pay for them, but he plays poker VERY well, so he usually makes out all right. Jim will occasionally bring favorite customers over to play, but most of them don't care to trek out to the Metro East to play in a home game. When college friends of Tanner and I are in town, I invite them to play, and since I've been dating Susan, she and her brother Gary frequently join us.
Dad's reminder e-mail always begins a flurry of correspondence, trying to figure out who is bringing who, so we know how much food, soda, booze, and cigars to bring. Dad always brought the food. Uncle Jim brought cigars. Tanner was picking up a case of Coke, he and I were splitting a case of beer, and I decided to pick up bottles of Kilo Kai rum and Dewar's White Label scotch. Tanner wasn't bringing anyone tonight, Uncle Jim might bring a friend, Dad was flying solo. I shot off an e-mail to Tim and Monica McKenzie to see if they were joining us. Tim was a college friend, as well as my most recent client, when he discovered forged Al Capone letters at the ballroom he was refurbishing. I also e-mailed Susan and Gary. It looked like I was going to be responsible for the bulk of guests tonight.
I finished the pot of coffee and dressed. I needed to check in at the office, on the off chance that there was a case waiting for me.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Nocturnal Lament
A hair before midnight, I returned to my loft. The nachos from Del Taco were sitting heavy in my stomach.
Dinner was uneventful, but it was uneventful with a friend, which beats the hell out of uneventful alone. Tanner writes for the Post-Dispatch. He spent the day on the crime beat, following up on that ABB shooting last week.
After dinner, I wasn't ready to go home, so I parked at my loft and walked down through CityGarden, seeing if it had warmed up to the point that my tongue wouldn't stick to Bernar Benet's Arcs. Fortunately for me, it had. I spent an hour and a half walking through a slushy downtown, listening to Jeff Wayne's "War of the Worlds" on my .MP3 player.
I returned to my loft, sat heavily on the bed and lit a cigarette. I spent a good five minutes watching the smoke drift in little circles up to the ceiling fan, to be scattered to the far corners of the room. I booted up the laptop, answered some e-mails, then surfed over to Expedia to look into flights to Anchorage, a vacation long deferred. For the record, January is a HORRIBLE time to fly to Anchorage, but I'm ready for a change of pace.
Dinner was uneventful, but it was uneventful with a friend, which beats the hell out of uneventful alone. Tanner writes for the Post-Dispatch. He spent the day on the crime beat, following up on that ABB shooting last week.
After dinner, I wasn't ready to go home, so I parked at my loft and walked down through CityGarden, seeing if it had warmed up to the point that my tongue wouldn't stick to Bernar Benet's Arcs. Fortunately for me, it had. I spent an hour and a half walking through a slushy downtown, listening to Jeff Wayne's "War of the Worlds" on my .MP3 player.
I returned to my loft, sat heavily on the bed and lit a cigarette. I spent a good five minutes watching the smoke drift in little circles up to the ceiling fan, to be scattered to the far corners of the room. I booted up the laptop, answered some e-mails, then surfed over to Expedia to look into flights to Anchorage, a vacation long deferred. For the record, January is a HORRIBLE time to fly to Anchorage, but I'm ready for a change of pace.
An Introduction to Justin Case
Well, what can I say???
After solving the Ghost of Capone case, things haven't exactly been busy. What's that? You've never heard of the Ghost of Capone? Don't worry... you will. That's what I get for hiring a ghostwriter through Craigslist. Memo to self: sack ghostwriter, see if Mike Tanner can finish the book.
Actually, it's so slow around here, I may just finish the book myself. For the past few weeks, I've been sitting either in my office in the Globe building on Tucker Boulevard in downtown St. Louis, or in my loft three blocks away on Washington Avenue. The phone hasn't been ringing heavily. It's been cold, which probably keeps a lot of people from doing the kind of stupid shit that I'd get hired for anyway...
I got a good fee for the Capone case, so it's not like I'm hurting for money... I'm really just struggling with boredom. As an adult ADHD sufferer, it doesn't take much for me to get bored.
As I was finishing the last sentance, the phone rang. Mike Tanner, my longtime friend and occasional assistant, called. He's bored, too. So, for now I'm closing the laptop, shutting off the lights, and going to meet Tanner at the Del Taco on Grand for a bite. More tomorrow, unless things pick up around here.
After solving the Ghost of Capone case, things haven't exactly been busy. What's that? You've never heard of the Ghost of Capone? Don't worry... you will. That's what I get for hiring a ghostwriter through Craigslist. Memo to self: sack ghostwriter, see if Mike Tanner can finish the book.
Actually, it's so slow around here, I may just finish the book myself. For the past few weeks, I've been sitting either in my office in the Globe building on Tucker Boulevard in downtown St. Louis, or in my loft three blocks away on Washington Avenue. The phone hasn't been ringing heavily. It's been cold, which probably keeps a lot of people from doing the kind of stupid shit that I'd get hired for anyway...
I got a good fee for the Capone case, so it's not like I'm hurting for money... I'm really just struggling with boredom. As an adult ADHD sufferer, it doesn't take much for me to get bored.
As I was finishing the last sentance, the phone rang. Mike Tanner, my longtime friend and occasional assistant, called. He's bored, too. So, for now I'm closing the laptop, shutting off the lights, and going to meet Tanner at the Del Taco on Grand for a bite. More tomorrow, unless things pick up around here.
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