by David Chill
A pained expression filled his young face. "Can you at least find out why?"
I pondered the question while I glanced at the bare walls in my spartan office. I kept meaning to hang some pictures, but procrastination got the best of me. While I scanned my white walls, I also considered whether to order a pizza tonight or splurge and go for some steamed clams near the beach.
“I can’t guarantee I’ll find the answer. But I can promise you the same thing I promise every client. I’ll do the very best I possibly can and I’ll give you your money’s worth.”
Norman nodded. “Okay.”
"Does anyone else know you've come to me for help?"
"Just my father. And he's completely supportive. In fact he'll pay for it."
Time to test the waters. "My usual fee is six hundred a day," I said, watching Norman's expression carefully. "Plus expenses."
Showing not the least bit of hesitation, Norman Freeman pulled himself to his feet and reached hastily into his pocket for a wad of greenbacks. He peeled off a small stack and handed them to me.
"Here's a week's retainer. Would you mind keeping receipts for the expenses? Dad would like to deduct them."
In my hand sat thirty pictures of Ben Franklin. I tried to spread them like a deck of playing cards but they barely budged. The bills were fresh and crisp and clung together as if they were bonded. They felt good in my hand. It had been a while since this much cold cash had dropped into my lap and I savored the feeling. Steamed clams, I decided. Definitely the clams.
*
Before they left, I instructed Norman to jot down a list of Robbie's friends and acquaintances, and how I could reach them. He also mentioned that many of them would be attending his, Norman's, bachelor party the following evening. He invited me to join the festivities as well, although he warned me Robbie was going to bring some rather outgoing ladies to liven up the gathering. I told him I'd be on my best behavior.
So now I had two paying clients: Norman Freeman and the Differential Mutual Insurance Company. The Differential, as they were so fond of referring to themselves, had hired me to investigate one of their claimants, a middle-aged woman named Cindy Wachs. She lived in Carson, a smoggy, blue collar suburb about twenty-five freeway minutes from my office on Olympic Boulevard in West Los Angeles.
It was a warm day in the Southland with the mercury rising to the mid-seventies. This summer was very typical so far in the basin: warm days followed by cool evenings. As was my custom in the summer, I spurned the button-down look and wore a red knit shirt with a little tiger crouched over the heart, dark slacks and black sneakers. My hair was short and black, and parted on the right side. While I’d never be in football condition again, I still was lean and strong. I left the windows open as I navigated the San Diego freeway, the warm winds lapping at me as I drove.
Mrs. Wachs lived in a modest, working class neighborhood lined with stucco homes that featured pickup trucks parked inelegantly on the front lawn. A few of the local gentry sat on the curb and sipped refreshments contained within a surreptitious brown paper bag. A couple of ten year olds were carefully playing with matches in the middle of the street.
I pulled out my file from the Differential and examined it once again. Mrs. Wachs was about forty years old and had been involved in a rather curious car accident. While stopped at a red light, her Plymouth Fury was rammed on the passenger door by a van which had rolled mysteriously down the embankment of a driveway. Despite being on the other side of the vehicle, Mrs. Wachs complained of a stiff neck and an aching back. Her doctor happily provided an exhaustive battery of medical tests and physical therapy to the tune of forty-two thousand dollars. Mrs. Wachs herself had filed a multi-million dollar lawsuit against the Differential, the van owner's insurance company, of which two thousand dollars was for vehicle damage and most of the remainder geared towards compensation for pain and suffering. To say the least, the Differential was not pleased.
My client’s person of interest had yet to arrive home, so I parked my black Nissan Pathfinder across the street and awaited her arrival. I used to own a Jeep, but after spending a few evenings tailing a wayward wife through a series of torrential winter rainstorms, I decided to invest in a vehicle with a permanent roof. Unpacking the camcorder, I played with the zoom lens and pretended I was directing a documentary about the other side of Los Angeles. I inserted a George Winston CD into the tray and used it as a soundtrack. My career imitating Ken Burns lasted ten minutes. Mrs. Wachs had arrived home.
Cindy Wachs may have been forty, but she looked every bit of fifty-five. She had a stocky build, a pug nose, brown hair combed without much attention, and an enormous brace wrapped around her neck. She parked her car in the driveway, exited it gingerly, and went to unlock the padlock on her garage door. All the while, the camcorder whirred and picked up her every movement. After opening the door, she walked back to her car and drove it into the garage, and my work day had come to an abrupt conclusion.
Driving up to Santa Monica I took Vista del Mar, the coast route, and watched the sea gulls mingle among the surfers and the hang gliders. A pair of bikini clad girls wearing baseball caps tapped a volleyball back and forth. It was June, sweet June, and the golden sunlight would linger past eight o'clock. I would have time for a leisurely dinner at The Lobster, and if the clams didn't fill me up, the crab cakes certainly would. Afterwards, I might sip on a Mojito and help the sun fall below the sea. Summer was here, and the climate was warm and pretty. Life seemed good right now and I was eager to take advantage of it. I knew things wouldn't stay that way. They never do.
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