Newly licensed and weaponed, Private Detective Hurley stood before the full-length, three panel Salvation Army thrift store mirror admiring the way the hat sat atop his wildly unkempt curly crimson locks. The chapeau completed his new working costume, a simple black suit, white shirt, funky skinny tie. The simple black pork pie sat atop it all like a period on an upside down exclamation mark. Hurley stood proudly, reflecting the new detective into an infinity of images the way those department store mirrors do when the outer panel s are pulled inward against themselves, images going on forever, ever smaller, but never disappearing. His bright green eyes squinted into the infinite images of himself in his new gear. He donned sunglasses. He turned this way, then that, his image moving across the triple screen. “You talkin’ to me,” Hurley whispered, “you talkin’ to me? Yeah, you are.” He smiled broadly. The pork pie topped off his new working attire with a simple, comfortable class. The whole spread looked lived in and, of course, it had been. He smiled again, approvingly, as did all his infinite mirrored images. “Hey! That’s my hat!” Hurley turned slowly, his multiple reflections following in unison like a diminishing back-up army in a reverse Busby Berkley routine. “What?” “It’s mine. Gimme the hat.” The man was stately plump, well-passed middle age, a tsunami of white hair bursting off his scalp, a thin, perfectly manicured mustache. He dressed in tan lightweight slacks, a tan polo shirt and tan loafers. All tan. All beige. All the time. “You sure?” Hurley was suspicious. “Yeah, I’m sure. I set it down to try on these others.” Using his new skills, Hurley detected a bit of falsity in the man’s voice. And he wondered why a man would cover up such a beautiful white pompadour or why he would add a black hat to an all beige costume or why he would try to claim the hat. “Listen,” Hurley suggested, “I’ll give you two bucks.” “Ten.” “Ten?” “Twelve.” “What’s the matter with?” Hurley huffed. “It’s the Salvation Army, for Christ sake. I’ll give you five, tops.” “It’s mine, not the Army’s. Fifteen.” “We’re bidding here, damn it. I come up a little, you come down a little. We meet somewhere in the middle.” “Seventeen, American.” “You asshole!” Hurley’s normal coolness was rapidly heating up into an agitated boil. “Twenty.” The guy was more adamant with each negotiation. This was totally unreasonable, Hurley thought, although the man's manner was reasonable enough. No shouting or mocking, just stating his case & his price as the negotiations proceeded. He was of reasonable height, had a reasonable voice and reasonable eyes. “The longer you wait, the more you pay,” “You unreasonable asshole!” The color of Hurley’s face beginning to match the color of his hair. “Twenty-five.” Hurley returned to the mirrors, adjusted the hat repeatedly, his curly locks looking better with each movement of the hat, his infinite mirrored copies confirming the crowning glory of the porkpie. As he turned once again, he noticed a price tag tucked in the ribbon circling the brim, just peeking out as if going into or coming out of the ribbon. Hurley pulled it out. “Two fifty, it says here.” “Yeah, that’s what I paid for it.” “When?” “When I bought it. What do you think?” “I think you’re trying to fuck me. I think this hat is not yours and never has been. I think I may have a job for you.” Hurley tossed a crumpled Andrew Jackson in the air. Izzy caught the bill as it fluttered downward, quickly stuffing it in his pants pocket. And that is how Izzy came to work with Hurley. And how Hurley came to know when to press and when not to press. He paid for his new outfit, calling out to Izzy, “C’mon, I’ll buy you lunch."
Fiction Chapter Two Lilliannaloo stood absent mindedly at the end of the counter, leaning on the cash register, her cigarette loosely dangling from her lips and bouncing lightly in sympathetic unison with the tap-tap-tapping of her foot, which was tap-tap-tapping lightly to the music of some Polka band. The art-deco chrome, mirrors and reflective windows and surfaces of the diner played out the boredom and animation of the customers like a surrealist movement dance piece.
As she looked about, she saw a confusing cacophony of clientele. Some of them smoking (no one obeyed that law in here), some talking, some ignoring each other looking about, some in complete silence but staring into each other eyes, others regarding each other in complete indifference, totally outside or totally inside themselves, their problems: money, the next meal, the next drink, next fix. This slow dance of junkies, old folks, poets, prostitutes and actors seemed to curl into and about each other in the glossy chrome, silvery mirrors; everything bending in time. A good place to get a freak out when you’re out of drugs. If stilled, Max Beckham or Otis Dix would have painted it. Too much action for Eddie Hopper. A photo-realist painting, if nothing else.
She reflected on the clientele and sighed. Sighing not for them but for her own predicament. An ash fell off her cig into the March of Dimes coin container on the counter.
“Yo, you want my money?” She snapped to and eyed the black clad, black dyed Mohawk, many pierced human standing before her. He tossed his money and ticket at her.
With a thwptt of her lips, she swept up his ticket and rang up his bill, depositing the money in the cash register drawer. She slapped his change on the counter and smiled without any small amount of sarcasm. She leaned on the counter, her elbow catching spot of ketchup, which caused her arm to fly off, and her chin to come down hard on the counter, her cigarette bitten in half. “Shit!” She threw the bill and the money at the punk. In turn, he spit a big lugee that hit her in her left eye. “Fuck!” Love at fist sight. “Asshole!”
“I’ve been called worse,” he smiled. “What’s your name?”
“What? You can’t read? What’s this on my tit? The name of some Egyptian goddess?"
He stared at the nametag. “Lilliannaloo,” he stuttered, then shuttered.
“Nice job, Reading-boy.”
“That’s my grandmother’s name,” he replied. “Only her name was Lilly Anna Loo,” he enunciated each syllable, spreading it out in a slow cadence.
“Huh? That’s a shitty pick-up line.”
“No, no. Her first name was Lilly, her middle name Anna after her mother’s sister, and her last name –“
“Let me guess, Loo.”
Chuckling, he said, “Yeah, she was Vietnamese.”
“So, that explains your squinty eyes?”
Ignoring the racist comment, he said, “My grandfather’s name. He & my grandmother came over in the fifties.”
“Well, third generation American,” she taunted, “look,” her eyes narrowing, “there are three customers behind you who would like to pay their bill and I’d like to take their money. Gimme your cell. I’ll call you.”
Chen grabbed one of the restaurant’s business cards from the coconut monkey cardholder on the counter. After writing down his number on the back of the card, he flipped it to Liiliannaloo. It flew all about like a drunk butterfly and just out of her reach. The two bumped heads as they tried to retrieve it simultaneously from its landing spot on the floor, his Mohawk crushed. “Shit!” they simultaneously moaned, crumpling to the floor, each holding their foreheads.
********************************************************************************
“So, where’s lunch,” Izzy asked, as they walked along First Street.
“Odessa. Great pirogies.”
“I got a condition,” Izzy warned.
“What kind?”
“My gall-bladder.”
“Yeah?” annoyed with Izzy’s short answers but intrigued.
“Yeah. It exploded one day, outa the blue. Just like that, spewing blood all over the place. Emergency room, the whole deal. You know.”
Hurley knew. His exploded a year ago. On top of that liver problems. He stopped drinking immediately. Hasn’t touched it since.
They each had ice tea tea and a salad. Hurley added potato perogies, while Izzy ordered a fake-meat soy-cheese burger.
About half-way through the meal, Izzy asked Hurley if he might be able to get an advance, "I'm kind tapped right now, if you know what I mean."
“I’m buying lunch. I flipped you a two spot. If you can convince me by the time we’re done talking and eating, well, then you’ve convinced me.” Hurley loved this kind of negotiation.
Izzy snorted some phlegm into a napkin, a discharge that sounded like an affirmative answer. He took a pull from an asthma type breathing pump, slumped back in the booth and settled down. His breathing slowed, as his airways and lungs relaxed and opened.
"You all right?"
"Yeah, yeah," Izzy sighed, waving his hand.
FICTION-Chapter Three
Prince and Grease Monkey yapped at each incessantly, neither listening to the other. Born fraternal twins, they couldn't have been more different than their respective names implied. Prince, thin, slight, blonde hair long, curling round his face like a Raphael Aryan. He pranced his sexuality and his Republican politics around like a schizoid circus. Grease Monkey, short, stout, muscular, hair straight as a Mormon and black as a demon. He seemed menacing with his macho mechanics' tools and hard drinking. A union member, he was not keen on his brother's politics, which led to endless arguing, at times. That night, sitting at the bar in Bea's Lounge, it was no different. Yadda-yadda-yadda, getting louder as the night grew longer.
"Look, you two," Bea's brother, Sammy swooped in between the two, "you're going to have to keep it down." Winking, "Of course, I know it's hard to keep it down when I'm around." His eyes mascara-ed and his lips lipstick red, the only concessions that Sammy made to his drag tendencies. Otherwise, he was crass, unshaven, dressed in the polyester of the day and smelling of more than a bit of alcohol. His dyed blonde mop top and his sarcasm got him through days and situations. Being bartender, of course, helped, as well.
"Oh, just kick them out already," demanded Paul, who looked and sounded more like Paul Lynde himself. He was so into playing the part that we didn't even know if his name was really Paul. "Who needs two gay boys who have no idea how to conduct themselves in public, let alone any idea of which topics to avoid? They should just fuck themselves and get it over with. My god, if I had a twin . . ."
"And when did fucking stop two people from arguing?" Sammy asked, smiling at Prince as he touched Grease Monkey's hand just slightly.
*****************************************************************************
On the street, outside the restaurant, Hurley lit a cigarette.
"Might I join you?" Izzy inquired.
Handing Izzy the pack, "Sure, take a couple."
"Thanks."
"No problem. Let's go the office."
"Office?" Izzy was surprised that Hurley actually had a place of business. "Your apartment?"
"No, a dive on Rivington. Sixth floor walk-up. Small but it works except when the dealers next door break through to avoid the cops."
"Sounds wonderful," Izzy sneered.
"It'll do."
Chugging up the six flights of stairs, Izzy falling behind, they finally reached the sixth floor, Izzy huffing and puffing. Hurley took a satisfying seat behind his desk, which was made out of an old door and two saw horses. It was a daily routine. Hurley would come to his office, unlock and unscrew the door from its hinges. He would then level the door as a desk over the two saw-horses & then sit behind it satisfied.
Iz inquired of Hurley, "Gotta drink?"
Hurley pointed to a small frig in the corner behind Izzy, who when he opened it, groaned mournfully. "Any alcohol?"
"Nah, gotta liver condition. Inherited from my mother's mother, sister got it, too. Women got a seventy percent chance of getting it and men only a thirty percent chance. Never won the lottery but I won this."
"Damn," Izzy slightly sympathetic.
"Yeah, well docs tell me I can live to be a hundred or I can die tomorrow. Hey, but who couldn't."
"Guess so. You know, you could use a door on the office, maybe with your name on it?"
Hurley smiled, "Yeah, that's where I got this desk, had someone else's name on it."
Izzy looked around the office, sparsely furnished: the mini-fridge, the desk, a twirly office chair; no file cabinets, no bathroom, no office door. Izzy saw a very small, claustrophobic office with a shit desk, the pits.
"This is your office?"
Hurley smiled, "I'll be on the pavement most of the time. Make yourself at home."
Taken aback, Izzy surveyed his sudden working domain. Potential, he tried to fool himself. "Think we could get a file cabinet?"
"Yeah, sure," agreed Hurley, "saw a couple at the Salvation Army."
"You got a phone?"
"Cell."
"Advertising?"
"Word of mouth."
Izzy frowned. Hurley eyed a slim sliver of light that shot across Izzy's face like fast lightning. It danced a moment ephemeral.
Hurley smiled, his bright green eyes twinkling. He's got protection.
Lilliannaloo decided she’d had it. Looking at herself in the backroom mirror, seeing the ketchup, mustard, relish, gravy & god only knows what else splattered all over the front of her apron like a an insidious Jackson Pollack, seeping through the apron and onto her blouse. The real insult, though, was the unidentified semi-liquid dripping from her hair as she watched it slowly descend in the mirror. Soon, the real deal, spied out her side sight, blending into the image in the mirror became entangled with the strand of snotty material on mirrored surface even if in image only, it seemed real enough.
“Fuck this job,” she decided. She quickly changed into her street clothes, throwing her work uniform in the corner, running cold water over her face and hair. “What’s the song? Yeah, “Take This Job and Shove It,” she shouted to the short roof in the changing room. She bounced out of the waitress’ changing room, grabbed two beers from the bar cooler and skipped out of the joint, singing merrily something about “shootin' the Shute.”
She hit the pavement skipping in stride. This was freedom, if fleeting, at best. Nothing like quitting a shitty job at the end of a shitty day. She was euphoric and wanted a drink, wanted some friends, wanted to celebrate. After skipping through her main phone contacts and coming up empty, she started ringing up the B list. Hurley finally answered.
“Oh, hey, Hurley,” she sounded disappointed that he’d answered.
“Hey, Lilli, what’s up?” Hurley was in his office with Izzy sitting across the door/desk from him.
“I don’t know,” she sighed, “I just quit my job. I couldn’t take it anymore. & I have no energy to do anything anymore.”
“Hey, it’s gonna be OK. Come to my office & I’ll make you some tea.” She hung up, unconvinced that Hurley could do anything about her bluey work related doldrums, but hey, when Hurley says tea, he doesn’t mean Earl Grey. It was worth a shot.
******************************************************************************
Grease Monkey was perched on the edge of the arm of the couch; Prince answered the door with a flourish unusual for even him, a drama queen.
“Entre-vous.” Prince bowed as he opened the door.
The Visitor walked past Prince, past Grease Monkey and into the kitchen. The two following the Visitor as if they were caught up in some gravitational force, dragging them behind his big hulk into the kitchen. The Visitor, a tall, muscular man dressed in the all-black of the secret services and their movie counter-parts, from glasses to underwear, all black. He removed his Columbine-long black leather coat and tossed it across a kitchen chair at the table. He raided the refrigerator, helping himself to several items, making himself a haphazard meal as he spoke.
“Mr. Gold is not happy with his latest acquisition – “
“I assure you,” Prince interrupted, “our work is of the utmost quality –“
“Not your work,” the Visitor plowed on. “The lamp. You sold him two months ago from now.” He slapped two or three different meats and cheeses on a slice of whole wheat bread. His accent was of vague Eastern European flavor.
“Well, if he doesn’t like it –“
“Not that. Found something inside. Requires you come now. You have lettuce?"
After the meal, the three of them were off in Mr. Gold’s Limo, squished into the front seat as Mr. Gold did not allow anyone in the back without his presence. The Visitor now the Chauffeur, Grease Monkey and Prince all scrunched into the front seat, Prince grumbling something about a cheap old Jew. Grease Monkey slapped the back of his head, playful so not as to alarm the Visitor who was their now their Master, as their immediate lives seemed to be in his hands.
“Mr. Gold not Jew.”
“Well, it wouldn’t matter anyway,” stammered Grease Monkey.
“Hmmm.” The Master pulled the car into a playground parking lot and asked them to walk ahead but stay on the path. “When the time is right, you will meet Mr. Gold and everything you wish to know will be revealed. “ The trio entered what seemed a small park. The Master bowed (Prince-like) and gestured for them to take the lead. They walked a while down a small path over-grown with thick brambles & thorny underbrush. About a quarter mile on the path and the group came to an open meadow. A vast clearing that seemed so out of place and so perfectly drawn as to be thought that aliens may have slapped out this precise circle in the middle of a dark, humid forest, as no other explanation seemed possible. It was like walking through a dark tunnel & rewarded at the end of the journey with a bright, white anti-depressant commercial. Butterflies fluttered everywhere, the sun shone brightly through the surrounding tree tops, the grass grew greener here than on any astro-turf stadium floor.
Directly opposite the entrance path, the exit path led not back into more dark wood but rather down a long path lined with fu dogs of amazing colors and designs sitting atop long pedestals. The dogs with their garish laughing faces taunted the trio of travelers of this path as they made their way uncomfortably down the path. Even the Master was a bit unnerved. As the fu dogs fades behind them, another dark path lay before them.
“Ya know,” said Prince, “this is all a bit melodramatic.”
“For your pleasure, sir.” The Master spoke.
“What about mine?” Grease Monkey whined in a voice that made his nickname clear once again.
“I believe Mr. Gold has made accommodations for both you, according to your individual tastes.” He took their coats, hung them up on an stand consisting of a full length mirror, an umbrella stand on either side and just above those, hooks for hats and scarves. The mirror was one of those fun house mirrors, distorting the views of the body, this way and that.
“That’s a cool mirror,” slurred Grease Monkey, the day’s inebriation catching up with him.
“Yes, Mr. Gold had that commissioned, to his own specifications."
Looking closer, Prince and Grease Monkey saw different bodies and spirits popping out of the frame. The mirror was perfectly still as mirrors tend to be but produced no reflection as discussed in numerous scientific and art history texts and journals; but the frame, the frame moved, twisted and squirmed, like a moving loaf of Challah bread, like a nest of thick snake hair rope, like a restless Celtic knot of hemp, twisting and turning on itself until strangulation seemed all but impossible..
“Your rooms are this way," mumbled the Master. “Freshen up and dinner will be served. After which and only after which will you discuss business with Mr. Gold. Is that understood?”
“Yeah.” “Sure.” “Whatever.”
“Good.” the Master stopped abruptly. “Mr. Prince. If you have no objections this will be your room.” He flung open the huge wooden door to reveal a room strewn with pornography all over the floor, the magazine count must have been in the thousands, a full set of medieval armour & furniture so dark and heavy that the whole room resembled nothing so much as a fairly comfortable dungeon.
Prince strode about the room, running his hands along the dark surfaces of the desk, the bureau and the chest of drawers. He noticed no windows in the room but a skylight above the bed that may offer some sunlight. “Yeah, this’ll do,” he tried to hide his enthusiasm. The Master threw his bag into the room and said goodnight. Grease Monkey caught the eye of Prince and winked, everything will be all right, Grease Monkey decided.
The Master showed Grease Monkey to his room, next door to Prince’s room, separated by a shared bathroom and kitchenette, college dorm style. Grease Monkey’s room was decorated in the décor of race car driver posters and race results. A wet bar was hidden in the pantry but pointed out to Grease Monkey by the Butler as he moved in. The bed was not in the shape of a kiddie-style race car but rather it was a Lamborghini, a real Lamborghini, fully functional. “Nice,” said Grease Monkey. “This is real nice.”
“Well, take care. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“What? Wait. Where you going? What about dinner? I Never slept in a Lamborghini. Never sat in a fucking Lamborghini.”
“Mr. Gold’s pleasure.”
"Yeah, well, what about dinner?"
It will be delivered shortly," reassured the Butler.
Prince was already fast asleep in his room on a fluffy, over-stuffed bed, as Grease Monkey
fawned over his red Lamborghini, wiping spots from the gleaming red paint. Tenderly wiping the leather interior, till he fell fast asleep underneath the vehicle like a dead mechanic. Dinner never arrived.
*************************************************************************
Lilliannaloo breathlessly climbed the six floors to Hurley's office only to be pushed aside by a well-dressed woman hell-bent with all the energy in the world, climbing the stairs like they headed downhill.
"Hey, what the --bitch, who do you think--hey!" Lilliannaloo was pissed but a young man quickly came to her side.
"Sorry, Miss, she's in a hurry. Can't see the forest. . ."
"Can't see shit."
"Is there anything I can do for you, ma'am?"
Lilliannaloo looked suspiciously at her new friend.
