Chapter 1

Chapter one. I am born. Been used already? Well, I guess that these are the best of times and the worst of times.

This is all you need to know right now. I was born in New York City. Virtually from birth, I was immersed in the two activities that have stayed with me throughout my life: jazz and baseball. Regardless of whatever passions, long-term or of the moment, I have acquired, these two will always be my core of delights. In fact, if you add movies, food, reading, and sex, I'll be over in twenty minutes.

I was a conscientious objector during Vietnam, or at least I tried to be. ("Look what they did to Lew Ayres," my mother bawled. "Look what they did to Glenn Miller," I riposted.) Early in the war, they rewarded unpopular moral convictions by drafting you immediately and shipping you to a combat unit. My case was on appeal, and I was actually scheduled to be sent to 'Nam. In the nick of time, the courts permitted me to do noncombat service. I requested the medical corps. They made me an MP. So, I spent my service time policing drunk, stoned, and otherwise rowdy GIs in Germany and the Philippines. It was during this time that I learned about self-defense, weapons, police procedure, and a bit of karate from a deranged Okinawan fisherman whose near-lifeless body I pulled from a sump in Manila. He is a book in himself.

After I got out, I got myself together by hitch-hiking around upstate New York, New England, and Pennsylvania, watching minor-league ball in places like Scranton, Pawtucket, and Rochester. I read constantly, and pored through all of Sherlock Holmes and Raymond Chandler. I returned to the city, enrolled in a community college, and worked nights as a waiter.

I had a brief fling as a stand-up comic. This is the hardest job in the world, after things like brain surgeon. Think you're a funny guy?-All your friends think so? Well, try getting up in front of a roomful of strangers who couldn't care less if you immolated yourself. If you aren't funny for three minutes with your buddies, no big deal. If you aren't funny for three minutes with the savages who frequent nightclubs, they throw furniture at you.

One night, at the restaurant where I worked, I got into a fistfight with an obnoxious customer and got canned. The next day I quit school, and on a whim, I applied for a Private Investigator's license. All that Raymond Chandler, don't you know.

I have an office in a quaking ruin of a building on East 14th Street, the northern border of hip squalor. North lies money and prestige. South lies tenements, hipsters, ethnics, and the yeast of urban ferment until you get to Wall Street, and the yuppie havens of Southport. I am certain that my landlady sneaks by the building every night to remove the CONDEMNED sign.

There are two floors of offices, four on each floor. Three are vacant. The offices sit atop a large store run by a Guatemalan refugee. The store is one of those places that has been going out of business for about six years. It sells everything from mattresses to plastic vomit.

The building also houses two lesbian psychics in separate offices. They fight each other for clientele every day, and sleep together every night. Talk about cozying up to the competition.

There is a marriage broker (Feinbaum's Love Link) in another office who has solved the problem of how to deal with baldness by painting the top of his head black. No kidding. When he takes off his glasses, you can see that he has painted the image of eyeglass frames on his face. I am waiting to see what happens if his nose falls off.

As a private investigator, most of my work is extremely boring. Sometimes, I simply go through court records, or real estate records for my clients. Other times, I stake out buildings and carefully note who enters and leaves. I get to serve a lot of court papers.

The work often involves providing bodyguards on an as-needed basis. I do most of this myself, but I have a list of dependable muscle I can use for the big or dangerous jobs. I am not a daredevil.

Sometimes, the work is spotty. I usually have a fund I can live off of during tough times, especially if I am frugal.

I won't take divorce cases. I know how messy they can be, and I am not the type to burst into motel rooms with Polaroid cameras. This cuts down my income considerably, but there have to be some standards, after all. Besides, the interesting cases make up for all the boredom and occasional lack of income.

Back to book page.