Week 22: Lee & Emily- ...What are the Chances?
Full Prompt: “It was a rainy December day and there was only one seat at the bar. One seat empty with anticipation, and then disappointment. It stays open…and then is taken. Forever. What are the chances?”
Story:
He watched the smoke rings drift from his face, through which he stared at the faded pinkness of the cracked and dimpled ceiling. His first cigarette in weeks, it was a good time for brain work- if he could muster it. His head laid back on an old leather sitting chair. The smell of it he knew well, he’d had it for decades and had many breakthroughs whilst relaxing in it. The chair plus this lone cigarette was as close to his former self as he could muster in this place. Now. What could he recall? The ring of smoke in view dissipated and he breathed another. He yearned for the times when this technique was reliable to him. He used to, at will, be able to sit back, calm himself, center his mental focus, and voilà- a breakthrough. As he mused about the old days he puffed another ring but this one was different, it transformed. It became as a mental portal of old. One with a direct route to his past.
***
I caught myself in a staring contest with the cracks in the wall across from me. It was covered in flaking pink paint. It had previously been several other colors. Dark wooden shelves interrupted those cracks and colors, as did the dozens of bottles that lined them. I hadn’t expected it to rain this much here. Speaking of here, how long had I been in this seat? I check my watch. The better part of two hours? I should have expected it with who I’m meant to meet, but even this is pushing it for Harry. A bead of sweat rolls down the back of my neck. Both that and the rain were something I wasn’t used to in December. It had taken me quite some time to get down to “The Crescent City,” and this was how it welcomed me. I’m sitting with my back to the street- something I don’t make a habit of- but I figure no one knows me well enough here; I can relax a little. Besides, there are only three stools in this place, two with backs to the street and one to the right, positioned perpendicularly to the other two. That one is currently taken. Somewhere from the street, on this unseasonably wet and warm day, brass is playing it slow. Has been for a while. It serves to accentuate the long draw of this dreary December day. To see things moving so slowly and drably in a place known for its riotous behavior is an interesting dynamic, to say the least…
“Suh?” The bartender questions with a drawl.
“Yeah, another,” I nod.
I look down at my drink and I’m reminded of my newly procured, ridiculously colorful tie. I bought it specifically for this journey. Or rather, specifically for Harry. I figured he would get a kick out of it. Where the hell is he anyway?… “Come on down,” he had cabled barely a month ago, “we’ll have some fun…” I took him up on the offer as I was considering hanging up the proverbial hat on my business. I’d seen… well… I’d seen. Maybe “The Big Easy” was a place I could do just that, take it easy. Especially with such a successful and well connected friend in town. I take off my hat and place it on the bar top, wiping the sweat from my neck and scoffing while I knock back the freshly poured shot. I figure if Harry doesn’t show up in the next fifteen I’ll take a walk around. My legs need a stretch.
“Hey pal,” I draw the bartender’s attention from the only other patron.
“Yessuh?”
“You happen to know a Harrison Shipp?”
“Oh Harry?”
“Yeah, Harry,” I chuckle. Of course he knows Harry, everyone knows Harry- he’s one of those guys, always has been.
“Oh Yessuh, he’s usually in by now most days.”
“Most days? That sounds about right. Well, I’ll pay ya… and if he drops by let him know how long Dirk was in on this particular day.”
Our interaction is cut off by the occupation of the third stool, though it is decidedly not by Harrison Shipp.
“Oh, I hope you’re not leaving on my account.” A woman sits down who I’ve never laid eyes on, but don’t mind at all to do so.
“No ma’am, just time for me to be on my way,” I stand up, put my hat on, and fumble through my wallet to settle up
“Oh, come now… Mr. Marlowe…”
My hat’s back off and we’re both sat down at the now full three stool bar top.
“Well you seem to have me at a disadvantage, miss…”
“My name is Gloria Rhinehart, your friend Harrison is my employer and I’m afraid he’s not coming.”
“Any particular reason he’d invite me down here, set the time and place, and send you instead? Not that I’m complaining.” She’s got sort of a crooked halo look to her, dressed very conservatively but with a hint of… what is it? Daring? Secrecy? She interrupts my evaluation. “Well, Mr. Marlowe…” “Dirk.” I interject. “Dirk,” she smiles as she says my name and I try to steady myself. She continues: “What I should have said is I assume Harrison isn’t coming as I haven’t heard from him in thirteen days.” You could practically hear that brass that had been trumpeting all afternoon screech off key. I guess in a city full of superstition and hoodoo a number known to be a bad omen is meant to hold some kind of weight. To me all it meant was one more than twelve and one shy of two weeks. As the rhythm of the place reengaged I inquired, “Is that abnormally long? I hadn’t heard from Harrison in years.” “Oh yes,” she confirmed. “I hear from him most every day, be it by telephone, in person, or notes left at the office, always signed: ‘truly, Harry.’” I motion for the bartender- “Gloria, what’s your drink?” “I’m partial to an old fashioned with a twist of orange.” “Old fashioned, with a twist?” I glare at her playfully while ordering my own, “I’ll have a dirty vodka martini. Throw a couple extra olives in there will ya? I’m starving.”
As I hadn’t seen Harrison in several years, Gloria informs me he had managed to become somewhat of a shipping magnate, specifically in the field of imported sugar. Her job was to oversee his record books and handle the mundane day to day tasks, while Harry remained the enthusiastic salesman. With the decline of sugar production in the Hawaiian islands, Harrison, ever the venturist, began to develop Cuban relations in order to export the sweetener at low cost, charting ships through Miami Florida and directly into New Orleans from there. The libations continued as did our conversation. Fortunately, I’ve conditioned myself to handle my fare share of both, and it seemed Gloria had not. The further we imbibed, the grayer the details got; all the while I began to form an idea of what Harrison Shipp had actually been up to for the past decade. While it did involve sugar, it wasn’t by any means the focus of his endeavors.
After our last drink I’ve got a few remaining questions, so I pour us into a cab and we’re at the offices of “Shipp Transports.” A play on words I know Harry found funnier than anyone else. Nothing seems out of place as Gloria ushers me into the offices. Seemed no skirmish took place here. Everything looks in order and I’m about to say so until Gloria gasps. I whip my head around in time to see her go white, fearfully clutching a piece of paper. I rush to her side to take her weight, coaxing the paper from her fist. It’s from Harry. What’s written on it would ensure I wasn’t hanging up my hat on private detection just yet- maybe ever.
“Mr. Marlowe!” A screech ripped him back into the present. “You know there is absolutely no smoking allowed at Shaded Palms… where did you even get that cigarette?!” The reclining octogenarian had little trouble with the scolding but took great offense to the intrusion of his surprisingly clear recollection of events. Events whose outcome had plagued him for years. He grabbed his crutch and got to his feet. He could still stretch to his impressive six foot- three inch height, though it did hurt a few joints to do so. “Get. Out.” He sternly demanded, staring daggers into the orderly. He took one last draw from the cigarette and extinguished it against his crutch before blindly tossing it out the open window behind him, maintaining eye contact throughout. His intimidation tactic obviously working, the diminutive five foot eight inch orderly meekly rebutted: “Well, I don’t want to see that again.” “You won’t.” The taller of the two retorted before slumping into his cracked leather easy chair and blankly staring out the window- desperately grasping for what he had just lost.
