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PRIVATE EYE-PART 1
FRIDAY 11:16 pm, I’m still hard at work in my office. I’m still wearing yesterday’s suit, drinking this mornings stale black coffee, in between shots of whiskey, and going thru a box of personal effects with blood shot eyes. My office is a mess, with books and papers scattered around like so many leaves on an autumn day. The small well worn couch across from my desk with the pillow on it, has become home on more nights than not. The faded pictures on the wall spoke of a happier time for me. One shows me smiling in my dress blue uniform, and getting an award from the department. Another shows me with my wife on the day I made detective, and still another with the mayor, after solving one of the biggest cases in the history of the city.
For a broke down, out of luck P.I. like me, this was the kind of case I should have stayed away from. I should have told her no when she walked in here yesterday morning with this box of shit and a sob story a mile wide. The minute she told me she couldn’t even cover my expenses I should have thrown her out like yesterdays newspaper. After all I don’t see the word charity on my door. P.I. Private investigator, Private Eye, that’s my business, not family counseling, or the lost and found. I need to learn how to say “no”. It’s not like I’m living high, I barely mak’in it, and I’ve been dodging the landlord and the building super for weeks on the rent payment.
Back in the day, I was a damn good cop, and even a better detective, maybe one of the best, but after 15 years the long hours, gambling, and my drinking got the best of me and soon I lost both my job and my wife. In retrospect, I guess I should have stayed away from the booze, bribes, and the ponies. Anyway, I’ve been working on my own for a couple of years now, tak’in any case and handout from my old buddies on the force that I can get. I’ve been waiting for that one big, high dollar, high profile case, that seems to have eluded me up to now. Instead I’m getting the low profile, cheating husband, missing uncle and lost kitten cases.
Anyway, this morning I was sitting there staring at my phone when a 20 something, dame walks in carrying this box and crying like a new born baby. She’s obviously a young Italian girl, made up in a long red dress and her hair done up, just the way I like it, tucked under a smart looking hat . Even though she was no knock out, I gott’a admit she wasn’t half bad looking either, and I’m a sucker for a women in distress.
She lays out this story about her how dad went missing about a month ago, and he wasn’t the kind of guy not to keep in touch with her on a daily basis. Of course she went to the police, but all they did was fill out a report and very little else. She got the distinct feeling that they were not going to investigate the case.
Here it is, a month later and she had just about given up hope, until she saw my little sign above the book store from the sidewalk.... “Rocco Vinchenzie/Private Eye, and here.. she was. I told her to leave me the stuff she gathered together from his apartment, and I’d take a look at it. There was little more than a few pictures, some receipts, a couple of handwritten notes, a little black book with some names and numbers, and some personal belongings. She thanked me and gave me a handful of crumpled up singles she had in her purse and promised me more if I agreed to help. I instructed her to get back to me in a couple of days and bring whatever money she could scrape together. I really had no intention of spending any time on the case, but didn’t have the guts to tell her so at the time, while she was so obviously upset. Besides, it wasn’t like I had a full case load anyway.
Anyway, this morning I wake up early, because a man can only sleep so long, huddled up on a 3’ long couch, especially with his landlords banging on the door and looking for the rent money. So, here it is 8am, and I’m already walking the streets. No wonder they call us old cops, “flatfoots”. I can’t afford gas for the old Buick, so shoe leather is my only transportation right now. I grab an apple off the display in front of the local market and slip it into my jacket pocket. To ease my conscience, I tell myself I’ll pay the old man back when I score my next big case.
It’s only a few short blocks back down to the old precinct where I worked. So, it’s the first place I went for a little intel. After hanging around until after the shift change, I pulled aside a few of my old buddies to see what was up. It seems the brass had put the brakes on any further investigation into this case after the first day or two. The beat cops were told the guy was a two bit gangster, and it was not worth the department’s energy to pursue his whereabouts. From my experience that usually meant it was mob related. I felt better I had that little bit of information but it also just cost me a pack of smokes.
I had looked thru all the junk that teary eyes had dropped off yesterday and found a balled up note with the scribbled words 9/9 diamonds . In my mind one of the nines probably meant 9 PM, but what about the other. I ran thru every possible scenario in my mind and figured maybe it was an address or bus route number. How the hell was I supposed to figure out what 9 stood for in a city the size of New York.
I was getting pretty frustrated by now after a few hours of walking and not a lot to show for it. It felt good to have a few dollars in my pocket for a change and I decided to stop at my favorite diner to get a bite to eat. This place didn’t look like much but the locals knew the food here was as close to home made as you can get. Just as I was finishing my meal I overheard a delivery man taking to the owner of the restaurant. He mentioned that he had one more load to pick up at the docks and then he was done for the day. Then it hit me, maybe the 9 at 9 was dock 9 down on the waterfront.
FRIDAY 11:16 pm, I’m still hard at work in my office. I’m still wearing yesterday’s suit, drinking this mornings stale black coffee, in between shots of whiskey, and going thru a box of personal effects with blood shot eyes. My office is a mess, with books and papers scattered around like so many leaves on an autumn day. The small well worn couch across from my desk with the pillow on it, has become home on more nights than not. The faded pictures on the wall spoke of a happier time for me. One shows me smiling in my dress blue uniform, and getting an award from the department. Another shows me with my wife on the day I made detective, and still another with the mayor, after solving one of the biggest cases in the history of the city.
For a broke down, out of luck P.I. like me, this was the kind of case I should have stayed away from. I should have told her no when she walked in here yesterday morning with this box of shit and a sob story a mile wide. The minute she told me she couldn’t even cover my expenses I should have thrown her out like yesterdays newspaper. After all I don’t see the word charity on my door. P.I. Private investigator, Private Eye, that’s my business, not family counseling, or the lost and found. I need to learn how to say “no”. It’s not like I’m living high, I barely mak’in it, and I’ve been dodging the landlord and the building super for weeks on the rent payment.
Back in the day, I was a damn good cop, and even a better detective, maybe one of the best, but after 15 years the long hours, gambling, and my drinking got the best of me and soon I lost both my job and my wife. In retrospect, I guess I should have stayed away from the booze, bribes, and the ponies. Anyway, I’ve been working on my own for a couple of years now, tak’in any case and handout from my old buddies on the force that I can get. I’ve been waiting for that one big, high dollar, high profile case, that seems to have eluded me up to now. Instead I’m getting the low profile, cheating husband, missing uncle and lost kitten cases.
Anyway, this morning I was sitting there staring at my phone when a 20 something, dame walks in carrying this box and crying like a new born baby. She’s obviously a young Italian girl, made up in a long red dress and her hair done up, just the way I like it, tucked under a smart looking hat . Even though she was no knock out, I gott’a admit she wasn’t half bad looking either, and I’m a sucker for a women in distress.
She lays out this story about her how dad went missing about a month ago, and he wasn’t the kind of guy not to keep in touch with her on a daily basis. Of course she went to the police, but all they did was fill out a report and very little else. She got the distinct feeling that they were not going to investigate the case.
Here it is, a month later and she had just about given up hope, until she saw my little sign above the book store from the sidewalk.... “Rocco Vinchenzie/Private Eye, and here.. she was. I told her to leave me the stuff she gathered together from his apartment, and I’d take a look at it. There was little more than a few pictures, some receipts, a couple of handwritten notes, a little black book with some names and numbers, and some personal belongings. She thanked me and gave me a handful of crumpled up singles she had in her purse and promised me more if I agreed to help. I instructed her to get back to me in a couple of days and bring whatever money she could scrape together. I really had no intention of spending any time on the case, but didn’t have the guts to tell her so at the time, while she was so obviously upset. Besides, it wasn’t like I had a full case load anyway.
Anyway, this morning I wake up early, because a man can only sleep so long, huddled up on a 3’ long couch, especially with his landlords banging on the door and looking for the rent money. So, here it is 8am, and I’m already walking the streets. No wonder they call us old cops, “flatfoots”. I can’t afford gas for the old Buick, so shoe leather is my only transportation right now. I grab an apple off the display in front of the local market and slip it into my jacket pocket. To ease my conscience, I tell myself I’ll pay the old man back when I score my next big case.
It’s only a few short blocks back down to the old precinct where I worked. So, it’s the first place I went for a little intel. After hanging around until after the shift change, I pulled aside a few of my old buddies to see what was up. It seems the brass had put the brakes on any further investigation into this case after the first day or two. The beat cops were told the guy was a two bit gangster, and it was not worth the department’s energy to pursue his whereabouts. From my experience that usually meant it was mob related. I felt better I had that little bit of information but it also just cost me a pack of smokes.
I had looked thru all the junk that teary eyes had dropped off yesterday and found a balled up note with the scribbled words 9/9 diamonds . In my mind one of the nines probably meant 9 PM, but what about the other. I ran thru every possible scenario in my mind and figured maybe it was an address or bus route number. How the hell was I supposed to figure out what 9 stood for in a city the size of New York.
I was getting pretty frustrated by now after a few hours of walking and not a lot to show for it. It felt good to have a few dollars in my pocket for a change and I decided to stop at my favorite diner to get a bite to eat. This place didn’t look like much but the locals knew the food here was as close to home made as you can get. Just as I was finishing my meal I overheard a delivery man taking to the owner of the restaurant. He mentioned that he had one more load to pick up at the docks and then he was done for the day. Then it hit me, maybe the 9 at 9 was dock 9 down on the waterfront.
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