Five-Eighty is a novel about a private detective working in the suburbs of the Bay Area of California in the early 1970s. Each Saturday morning a new installment appears. As the events of this novel take place during the election season of 1974, the story will be released during this, the election season of 2024. May it prove an entertaining distraction from the news of the day. Please enjoy, and as always, comments are welcome!
—HF
Chapter 6
Morning. I am in downtown Oakland, to check up on details for 6860 Balsam. A quick trip to the county offices had given me an owner: Paris Holdings, Inc., with the contact listed as a lawyer in the city. Hungry, I walk over to old town, over by the housewives’ market, and pop into Ratto’s. It is an old haunt. Back when I was dating Laura, I would swing by Ratto’s, pick up sandwiches of soppressata, mortadella, and fresh mozzarella and bring them by the old office on Piedmont, a bribe for her father. Feeling sentimental, I order another sandwich just like the old days, then I go outside to the tables on the sidewalk, sit down, and begin to unwrap it.
“Ciao.” A hand pats my right shoulder, and then a figure moves swiftly past me and deposits itself in the chair on the other side of my table.
“Cute.”
“Yes, I do rather like this new jacket, but I’d probably not call it cute. Maybe bravura. Or molto elegante.”
This is my little brother, and his sense of humor. Though he is right, the new jacket—and it does look brand new—was the color of caramel, and though I have not touched it, the leather looks supple and smooth and perfect. From behind a pair of Ray-Bans, Nick wiggles his eyebrows, then he reaches across the table and steals a pepperoncini from the other half of my sandwich.
“You just can’t leave well enough alone.”
“Hrm?”
“My pepper.”
“Are you that hungry? That’s a pretty big sandwich.”
I sigh, and push it ever so slightly closer to the center of the table. Nick reaches out and grabs the half in the paper, puts it up to his mouth, and bites down. I half expect a big glob of olive oil and vinegar to come squirting out all over his new jacket. But no. No. There’s no damage, no loss, just squirrel cheeks and a rapidly disappearing sandwich that was once mine.
“So,” licking his fingers, “What are you doing here, anyway? Something to do with your secret detective stuff? Your Sam Marlowe stuff?”
“Phillip, it’s Phillip.”
“Okay, Sam Phillip stuff.” He picks up another stray pepperoncini from the paper between us. “No that really doesn’t sound right. I think it is Sam Marlowe after all.”
“Are you done?”
Nick takes his sunglasses off and squints at me. “Sorry. I know it’s a sore subject.”
“It’s not a sore subject.”
“You mean Laura’s okay with it at last?”
“No, I mean, yes, I mean. Laura’s always been fine with it.”
“Reallllllllllllllly.”
“Anyway, yes, I was checking some records at the county. Say, what are you doing, anyway? Where did you get the money for an expensive new jacket?”
“It was a gift.” He beams. He puts a finger up against his nose and winks. “From un belle femme.”
I roll my eyes. “That still doesn’t answer what you are doing these days.”
“Doing? I’m an artist, I am always doing.”
“Artist? Of what, bullshit?”
“I keep busy.”
I shift in my chair. “Listen… do you still hang out with some of the party set?”
“Party set? Oh, here we go, it’s time for a lecture.”
“No, seriously. You always seem to have a wide social circle. Know a lot of very random people. Random things.” He just stares at me. Then he puts his sunglasses back on. “Have you ever run into a guy who drives a blue Opel? One of those sporty ones.”
“I’ve seen the car but I can’t say I know the driver.”
“Seen it. At parties? And things?”
“What are these parties you keep going on about?”
“I don’t know. Parties. Women. Booze…. Reefer.”
“Jesus. You sound like an old man. Nobody calls it booze or reefer anymore. They haven’t since… shit, they haven’t in our lifetimes.”
“Look, I just want to know if you’ve ever run into this guy, and anything you might know about him. I’m not trying to give you a hard time.”
“Are you trying to turn me into a source? A snitch?”
“Snitch implies that you know something illegal is going down.”
Nick breaks into a grin. “Alright, alright, I’m just messin’ with ya. Look I don’t know the guy. Not even his name. Yes I have seen the car around… yes at a few parties but not what you’ve been dreaming up. More like the kind of parties that are also fundraisers at big houses in Atherton or Belvedere.”
“What were you doing at parties in Atherton and Belvedere?”
“Hey,” he grabs the lapels of his new jacket, and tugs them down, straightening them against his chest, “I got style.”
Once more, I roll my eyes. “What about a company called Paris Holdings? Ever heard of them?” Nick shakes his head. “One more thought, but listen, you can’t repeat any of this, okay?”
“I feel so important!”
“Have you ever heard of or met Richard Santini? Or the Carpenters? David and Iris Carpenter?”
Nick frowns. “No, I can’t say I’ve met them, but I know that they’re invited to a party I’m going to tomorrow night. Big thing, fundraiser. Up at the Mark.”
“Can you get me in?”
“Certo. Of course. Though… you’ll need a tux.”
Twenty minutes later, and we are standing in yet another of Nick’s many squats. I’d never been to this one before, down near the marina at Fifth Avenue, in the upper floor of some old ramshackle wood warehouse that is now a haunt of hippies and self-proclaimed artists. The ceiling is low, the floor covered in thick orange shag carpet, newly installed by all appearances. The room is large, despite the king-sized bed in the middle of it. At one end there is a long steel cable strung between rafters, and on this hangs more clothing than I have ever owned in my life; shirts, pants, suits, blazers, jackets, coats. We stand side-by-side in front of the clothes, and Nick pushes them back and forth on their hangers, searching. “I know I have a couple tuxes in here, but only one is likely to fit you… aha!”
From off this rack, Nick pulls out a black tux on a hanger. “You’ll need a shirt for it, but that white button-down you’re wearing now should be enough to try it on with. Give it a shot.”
I pull off my khakis and set them on the bed, then thread myself into the black pants. “They sit a bit high on the waist.”
“They’re supposed to. There’s a cummerbund somewhere….” Nick rustles through some boxes behind me, then hands me a black silky thing like a scarf, with hooks on each end. “Put that around your waist, and hook it behind you. It goes over the waistband so you don’t see it.”
I turn and look at myself in the full-length mirror. “I look like a pirate in mourning.”
“Bah, you look fine.” Nick steps in behind me. “Here’s the jacket,” he says, then holds it for me to put my arms through. It goes on and, except for my shirt and lack of tie, everything comes together a little. “See? Even you can look sharp, sometimes.”
“Thanks. Just where did you get all these clothes, anyway?” Nick whistles behind me with a soft, lilting tune. “Seriously, though. How are you fixed up these days? Other than your belle femmes?”
In the mirror, I can see him behind me, playacting bashful. Then he drops his shoulders a bit, and sobers up a bit. “Really, I’m fine. Better than fine, have a line on some new business soon.”
“Another of your get rich quick schemes?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
I take a long hard look at him in the mirror, and then my eyes go to my own reflection. I am annoyed. I compare our faces, so much alike, but not. Where I have little wrinkles or little patches of softening, he is taught and smooth. Where my eyes look bloodshot and tired, his are rested—despite the fact he probably went to bed last night at four. My hair goes akimbo, makes cowlicks or stray clumps that get in the way and bother me; his is soft and smooth, a few locks rolling down his forehead like an invitation for some woman to brush them away with her fingertips. This is him in a nutshell: Nothing ever seems out of place, he always has it together, even when he seems to have no job, no visible means of support, no sense of responsibility or planning for the future. Nick is the guy who never pays the bill and not only doesn’t get caught, but somehow gets thanked by the restaurant owner, embraced as a beloved son come home.
“So, I can borrow this? You won’t need it for the party yourself?”
“Oh. No. I have another. And besides,” he adds, twisting the knife, “that one is too big for me.”
More each Saturday!
Enjoy this installment of Five-Eighty? Watch for future installments every Saturday morning during Fall, 2024. The next intallment will post on Saturday, September 23rd, 2024. Previous chapters can be viewed here.
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Harbour Fordyce 