Detective, Comics

4:31 PM, Thursday, October 14:

I dropped the copy of Playboy in the drawer with my gun when I heard the light knock on my door.

"Entrez!" I yelled. The volume was to be heard through the door. And the French? Well, I figure if you’ve got to yell, you might as well do it with some panache.

I sat up straight at my desk. The least I could do is look businesslike. But the only thing that came through the door was a kid’s head.

Orthodontist’s across the hall, I grumbled, and went to retrieve my read.

I know, but— he said.

And the bookstore’s downstairs. So beat it. This was the problem with acting as my own receptionist. I’d fire myself for incivility if I thought I could find anyone cheaper.

"I came to see…the detective." He made it sound like I was the orthodontist.

You’re looking at him. Now scram.

He didn’t. Instead, he walked in, closed the door and walked over to my desk. It wasn’t much of a trip. My office isn’t as large as a parking lot, but it is larger than a parking space. Slightly.

The kid stood in front of my desk, his eyes wide. But he swallowed his fear, drew himself up with some attempt at dignity, and looked me square in the eye.

I wish to avail myself of your services, he said.

You want to hire me?

I believe I just said that. May I sit down?

Uh… Sure, I said. I aimed my chin at the client chair in the far corner of the room.

Well, my brain shrugged, if he’s intent on staying, the least I can do is be a professional and size him up.

Size was not the kid’s long suit, unless it was the size of his vocabulary. But my vocabulary isn’t exactly—what’s the word—limited. The kid was tall and thin. Skinny. One missed Happy Meal away from scrawny, even. His head was swimming in dark, unkempt curls. He looked like a cat after a bath. I couldn’t even guess his age. Maybe eleven, judging from the general gawkiness. Maybe not. He had a boney, triangular face and a long, equine nose. He was a cute kid, as far as kids go. And as far as kids go, I wish they’d just go away. Far away.

He grabbed the heavy wooden chair by the seat and pulled it in front of my desk. His blue eyes photographed the room in quick, darting glances. I don’t know what he saw. He might have seen a blood red Persian rug, tasteful Impressionist prints in ornate frames lining the walls, a pair of Louis Quinze chairs bookending a hand-carved Chinese tea table. But if he did, he was hallucinating. All there was to see in my broom closet office was a file cabinet, a desk, and me. He chose wisely. He looked at me.

So, I said, as much to amuse myself as to humor him, what’s the problem, kid? Somebody steal your bike? Dog run away? Bully picking on you and you need some protection?

He looked at me with a mongrel composite of disappointment and resignation. But he looked at me levelly.

Mister, he said, I came here in good faith on a problem of extreme seriousness. I may be somewhat younger than your customary clientele, however, I see no reason to patronize or condescend to me, or to treat me with any less respect.

I cringed in chagrin. He had no way of knowing I treat everyone with equal disrespect.

Kid, I said, in this business, there’s only one thing that gets any respect.

He nodded. I brought that with me, too.

He dug into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a dog-eared sheaf of Franklins. He flipped through them. Double zeroes danced in the double zeroes of my eyeballs.

Good afternoon, sir, I said. And how may I be of service?

He smiled wanly, wearily. I guess Uncle Scrooge was right, he said. ‘Whoever’s in charge will welcome anyone that carries these credentials.’

I laughed. He smiled a little. It broke the ice.

OK, I said. So what’s this ‘problem of extreme seriousness’ you need a private detective for?

Someone has stolen one of my comic books.

I thought we were going to get serious, I said.

I am serious. Someone has stolen a comic book from my collection.

C’mon, I balked. How much is a comic worth? A couple a bucks?

He laid out five Franklins on my desk. An expensive visual aid. But impactful.

May I have a description of the missing object, please?

He smiled again. Just a little. The Uncle Scrooge effect, he said. It rarely fails.

Five hundred dollars? I marveled. That’s about two years worth of allowance when I was your age. How’d you get hold of a comic book worth five hundred dollars?

Well, I’m a collector, he said. And a part-time dealer. So I’m used to handling high-value, high-remuneration merchandise. The book in question is really only a medium-level item. It’s never even made the annual Top Fifty Valuable Books list.

What comic book are we talking about here? Specifically.

"An early issue of Detective Comics," he said.

Somehow it figured.

Issue Number 38, he continued, dated April 1939. Origin and first appearance of Robin, the Boy Wonder.

Batman’s sidekick, I nodded. Boy, that brought back memories. I hated him. I mean, what was so special about him, he got to hang out with The Batman? All my friends hated him, too. But not as much as we hated Snapper Carr. That juvenile delinquent got to hang out with the entire Justice League. And drive a hot rod.

Were you a collector?

Nah. Not really. More like a reader who just never threw anything away. But I did read an awful lot of comics when I was your age, I continued. Early sixties. Marvel Comics was just starting to publish their superhero line—Fantastic Four, Iron Man, Spider-Man, Thor…

Captain America, he added. Ant-Man. The Incredible Hulk.

Yeah. God, I loved that stuff. The great thing about Marvel comics was that they changed over time. It seemed like they grew up along with kids my age, reflecting our problems, getting a little more complex, a little smarter, a little more emotionally sophisticated as we did. I gave ‘em up in college, though. Marvel found its ‘formula’ and stayed there. The comics didn’t grow with us anymore—didn’t mature. They just cycled the same old adolescent problems over and over. They never discussed sex, drugs, politics…college-age concerns. I guess they suffered from arrested adolescence. So I had to leave them. Left them behind when I went off to college.

You still have them? he asked with guarded eagerness.

I shook my head. "Lost in moves, sold for dope money…the usual. I wonder what some of those old mags are worth now. I had the first Fantastic Four, for instance…"

Over two thousand dollars, he said.

My jaw dropped. For a ten cent comic book?

He nodded.

"Spider-Man Number One?"

"Amazing Spider-Man Number One, or Amazing Fantasy Number 15, where Spider-Man first appeared?"

Uh…Brown cover…Spidey swinging and carrying a crook under one arm…

He nodded again. "Amazing Fantasy Number 15. Ditko cover and art. Origin and first appearance of Spider-Man. Good condition, three hundred dollars; Fine, four hundred fifty; Mint, as high as a thousand. Continues to set record prices, although the market for collections of Amazing Spider-Man peaked a couple years ago. Amazing Fantasy Number 15 remains a solid investment book, however."

How do you know all this stuff?

I just memorize the comic book price guides when they come out every year, he shrugged. It’s my job.

I wish I could do my job as efficiently as he does his. But then again, what would it take to commit a few pamphlets to memory once a year? And if he needed me, he couldn’t be all that great at his job. So there.

You have all these comics in your collection? I asked.

Those, certainly. They’re solid growth investments, and the bedrock of any Silver Age portfolio of any value.

Then you must have them insured.

He nodded. Certainly.

And, you know, it’s probably going to cost you more to hire me to get your comic back than it would to just take the insurance money and buy a new copy.

I’m aware of that.

So…why, then? Why hire me?

I want that specific copy back, he said.

Sentimental attachment?

His blue eyes frosted over and he became rigid in the chair. "Let’s just say I want…justice."

Boy, he learned that from a comic book.

But then again, so did I.

OK, I said. But before I commit myself, I want to make damn sure I get the facts straight. So let’s just take a moment and be methodical. Now: Is it possible that one of your friends walked off with the book?

He shook his head. I don’t have any friends.

I let that pass.

Maybe your mother was cleaning your room and moved it?

Again the headshake. I hoped to hell he didn’t say he had no mother.

She’s not allowed in my room. I have the only key. It’s my personal space and her agreement is not to violate it. I must have looked at him quizzically, because a moment later he added, Her words, not mine.

Maybe it fell behind a bookcase?

Don’t be juvenile.

OK, then, I snapped. Let’s hear your version.

At approximately four PM on the afternoon of October 11th—last Monday—I arrived home from school and went immediately to my room. My mother was at work, so I planned to use the quiet time to do my homework on my personal computer—

Isn’t that cheating?

Not when your homework assignment is designing a computer program, he answered. Shall I continue?

I proffered him a palm with a flourish.

However, upon entering my bedroom—which was still locked—I noticed the open window, an unprecedented event. Upon examination of the outside frame, I detected fresh scratch marks in the aluminum.

The window was jimmied open.

Very astute. Also the correct assumption based on the evidence. The ground outside was not damp enough to yield any footprints, but I did find traces of dirt and weeds on my desk, which is located directly beneath the window. And the book in question, which I’d left in the top desk drawer, was gone. I assume the thief left as he had entered, but as there is no handle on the outside of the window, he couldn’t close it entirely. I found no fingerprints anywhere.

I bit my tongue before I asked if he’d used his Dick Tracy Junior Detective kit to dust for prints.

I queried the neighbors as to whether they’d noticed any suspicious activity in the area on that day, he continued, but they were all at work. My one neighbor who works the night shift was asleep, so he saw nothing either.

The kid was doing my job for me. I hoped he didn’t decide to charge me.

Anything else missing? I asked.

No, he said, and that’s baffling. I have some fairly valuable original art on my walls, for instance. And my computer. But nothing else was missing…or even touched, as far as I could discern, except for a few other desk drawers. It’s as though the thief knew exactly what he was looking for, found it, stopped searching, and left.

Any ideas about who might have done it? Or how they knew it was there?

Well, I have been showing the book around to different dealers in the area lately. I need cash for software, and my solution to the cash-flow problem was to sell that book. I have two copies. So maybe someone in one of the stores saw me and the book and came out and stole it.

Did you leave an address with any of the dealers?

Of course.

Well, it’s a start, I said. If I’m going to take your case, though, I’ll need some more information. Like your name.

Oh, he said, rising and extending a hand. I went to shake it but saw he was holding a business card. It read:

ROBBIE’S COMICS

Robert Smith, Prop.

Buy, Sell, Trade & Collect

Off to one side was a tiny drawing of Robby the Robot, the bulbous mechanical man from the science fiction film Forbidden Planet. The card gave an address in San Jose, just past the outskirts of Los Gatos.

I knew the area. I knew the street. I knew the house.

And I knew this wasn’t the time or the place for a stroll down memory lane. But it did inspire a question.

Just how old are you, Robbie?

Thirteen.

Thirteen, I said. Swear to God, he didn’t look older than eleven. Puberty had passed him by. I hoped it wouldn’t hit him too hard when it arrived. Thirteen going on thirty, my instructors say.

Hmph. My mom claims I’m thirty-one going on thirteen. No offense.

Water off a duck, he shrugged.

There is the little matter of your status as a minor, I continued. I’m afraid I’m going to have to get parental consent before I can accept this assignment.

Not if we don’t sign anything, the kid said, fingering his credentials. We just make it a gentlemen’s agreement. Shrewd little operator. But a touch disturbing.

OK, we can work around that for now. Is there some reason why you couldn’t obtain parental consent if I need it?

Well, he said, I’m not sure their consent would even be legally binding. My parents are separated, you see. My father is a paranoid schizophrenic dipsomaniac and my mother is a narcissistic nymphomaniac.

I understand you have a large vocabulary, I said, but are you sure you know the meaning of those words?

I don’t even know where my dad is, he continued, ignoring me. Although I could probably contact him. I saw him just yesterday, for instance. He follows me around a lot. To protect me. Or something.

Protect you from what?

His brow creased. "I’ve never been quite clear on that. Kidnappers, perhaps, or child molesters, or drug dealers. Or from his own delirium tremens. I don’t know. I don’t worry about it. He’s harmless enough…although he did take a shot at my mother once."

Swell. Is that why they separated?

Oh, no. She’s always counseled me about giving my father the space to be an insane alcoholic. She just decided one day that space should be at the Y.

Uhh… Listen, I said. I don’t mean to sound unsympathetic, but maybe we should stick to the problem at hand. Your comic book.

That’s quite satisfactory. My parents are tangential to this process. I have no real emotional investment in them. I have simply detached myself from their concerns and continue with the business of my own life.

Very adult, I said. One more question: Did you go to the police about this?

He grimaced. I tried.

‘Tried’? What, the bus doesn’t stop there?

He looked at me. It wasn’t a friendly look. Remember how you treated me before I let Big Ben do the talking? he said.

I nodded soberly.

They took a full report, he continued, but they could hardly conceal their amusement. I was mocked through the entire process.

You’re lucky, I sighed. You have no idea how they treat me. OK. So… You want to give me a list of dealers you showed the book to, so I can start balding my tires?

Actually, I had a better idea. This coming weekend the annual Northern California Comic Book Convention—the CalComiCon—takes place at the Santa Clara County Fairgrounds. It’s one of the largest conventions of its kind, and attracts collectors and dealers from all over the country.

Even better, I said. We’ll let the mountain come to Mohammed. Are you sure the local dealers will be there?

The CalComiCon’s Dealer’s Room has been especially outstanding in the past, he said, which is to our advantage. A book as valuable as the one stolen from me wouldn’t be displayed at any but the largest conventions, but it stands a good chance of surfacing at the CalComiCon, especially if the thief is too lazy or too poor to take it to L.A. or New York. There’s no reason he should have to go to such lengths, really—he’d assume that even if I were to recognize my book, there’s no way I could prove it’s mine. So the thief is in no danger, even by openly flaunting the book locally. Except for two important details.

Which are…?

One, the thief would probably never suspect that I’d hire a private investigator.

I find that a bit difficult to swallow myself. The real question is, how are you going to identify your copy in the first place?

That’s my second point. In general, the older a book gets, the more unique, identifying marks it collects—a curled spine, rusted staples, a dog-eared corner… That kind of thing. And this book is over forty years old. In this specific case, suffice it to say this particular copy bears a mark which sets it apart from all others. A mark known only to me.

Would you care to reveal it?

When the time comes.

OK, I shrugged. We’ll play it his way until we play it my way. Question Two: What do you want from me? Aside from a ride to this convention?

That should be glaringly conspicuous, he said. Priority Number One: Get back my book, by hook or by crook. The police are powerless, or not so inclined, to operate in this manner. Priority Number Two: Deliver up to justice those culpable. In both cases, I am sorely limited by the burden of my youth and my size. You, sir, have no such constraints upon you.

Mm. I see your point. Maybe I should add that to my business card: Adult for Hire.

So you’ll do it?

Well, I drawled, it does sound interesting. For which, read: I’ve been having trouble paying the bills lately. I was beginning to understand the Uncle Scrooge Effect. So let’s go to the convention and see what develops.

He showed no trace of relief or joy, only a courteous smile.

Fine, he said. Why don’t you come by around eight AM on Saturday?

Why don’t I come by around noon, I said.

Fine. Still no reaction. Kid’s mother must have been scared by Mr. Spock when she was pregnant.

Just one more question, I said. Why did you pick me? I need to know for market research.

I buy a lot of comic books from the bookstore downstairs, he said. When I needed a private investigator, I remembered your name listed in this building. Besides, I can get here on the bus fairly easily.

I’ll have to remember to put that in my next Yellow Pages ad: Convenient to major bus lines. At least he’s not another one who saw that old TV show about me.

"Then when I realized that you were the same person about whom Channel Six produced that documentary, Watching the Detective, I figured you’d be all right."

Are they still rerunning that piece of sh…ow?

I saw it when I was a child, he replied.

I pulled my creaking old bones out of my creaking old chair and extended my new client a hand.

Congratulations, kid, I groaned. You just got yourself the best comic book justice that money can buy.

TWO

5:14 PM, Thursday, October 14:

My life didn’t flash before my eyes as the car came barreling towards me.

So in some crazy, back-of-my-mind logic, I assumed this wasn’t the end.

But, I realized, I could be wrong…

There was nowhere to run. I was trapped in a recessed doorway—backed into a cramped dimple in the building that offered no protection and no escape.

I was a sitting duck.

I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth, waiting for the impact…

But I’m getting slightly ahead of myself, so I’d better fill in the setup:

4:59 PM, Thursday, October 14:

After the kid left, I saw no reason to hang around the office. Even in the unlikely event that another prospective client might drop in, it would just break my heart to have to turn him down.

So I prepared to leave. I ran an arm over the edge of my battered desk. That handled dusting. Housekeeping would get the rest, if I ever hired them. The only other chore was to move the client chair back to the corner. I braved three feet of scarred checkerboard linoleum to accomplish that task.

Clients frequently seem surprised that I have such low-class digs in such a high-rent location. Little did they know that my broom-closet office is rent-free—payment for some favors I did the old high school buddy whose father owns the building. He even offered to decorate for me, but I let him know I was going to do it myself. You and what army? he laughed. So I told him: The Salvation Army.

I headed back to my desk to retrieve my jacket, which was draped over my desk chair. But I stopped to enjoy the single best feature of my second-story corner: the view. Out the side window, I could see little Montebello Park across the street, for instance. The tree-lined lawn was about the size of a postage stamp, just half a block wide and a block deep. The park started right across Main Street, which ran alongside my building, beneath this window. To the right, the emerald island was bounded by Santa Cruz Avenue, gateway to the Post Office and Highway 17 South. The main drags of town. The crossroads of America. Or of downtown Los Gatos, at any rate.

Two one-lane roads ran along the far sides of the park. Montebello Way was lined with shops and parking spaces. The Post Office was on the corner of Broadway, the other road, and Santa Cruz Ave. The building was almost hidden from my window behind a horseshoe-shaped planter full of tall, tightly spaced pines. The planter curved around a pair of round fountains: cement-curbed dirt mounds topped with cement balls too big to hug. From my vantage point, the fountain spheres looked like a giant pair of tits. Like I said, great view.

Over the roof of the Post Office, I could see the opening act of sunset, always a spectacular, crimson-cloudy sight. Sometimes the very air seemed tinted pink, turning from glowing white to pale rose. Sometimes the entire sky seemed streaked with fire, only to mellow to baby pink and blue pastels before night brought the curtain down on the scene. By then the pinpoint lights of houses in the hills mirrored the specks of stars, only the rough outline of the mountains defining their separation. I was so inspired by one particularly awesome sunset that I actually wrote a haiku about it. Please don’t tell the nominating committee at the Mickey Spillane Hall of Fame.

This was my town: Los Gatos, California. If you have a large enough Rand-McNally atlas—and a magnifying glass—you can find Los Gatos. Just draw a line south from San Francisco to the bottom of Silicon Valley. The maps still call it the Santa Clara Valley. Few residents did anymore.

You could call Los Gatos a peaceful, low profile, high-income community—just don’t call it a sleepy little suburb of San Jose. We hate that. We hate even having to share a valley with that low-class, low-rent, lowbrow burg. We’re upscale, we’re elitist, and we’re proud of it. The difference between San Jose and Los Gatos is this: San Jose suffers an inferiority complex because no one outside of Silicon Valley knows where it is. Residents of Los Gatos don’t want anyone to know where our little hideaway is.

About once a year I realized a new reason to be fond of my moneyed hamlet. This year’s insight: Los Gatos reminds me of the model towns I used to build as a teenager for my HO train layouts. It’s a museum-quality replica of the archetypal American Small Town, carefully maintained by the residents to retain exactly that image.

There was no telling what one might witness on the streets of this eccentric little village. Maybe that girl will be out walking her lamb on a leash. Maybe I’ll spot that bumper sticker, HONK IF YOU’RE A BIZARRE CULTIST.

Maybe I’d better get going if I want to be home by dark.

I slipped the jacket of my jogging suit over my yellow Felix the Cat T-shirt and headed for the door. I’d been getting more and more casual, cazh, as they say, in my dress lately. Just trying to keep up with the times. Ironically, the same establishments that a decade ago were refusing to admit me while wearing Levis are now packed with customers clad in designer jeans and are turning me away in my jogging suit. Now that’s progress!

The single concession I’d made to fashion was wearing running shoes with the jogging suit. My usual Hush Puppies looked terribly gauche. C’est la vie. The running shoes were just as comfortable, even if they did cost more. C’est la merde. So, I became Mr. Trendy Californian, fer sher, rilly. C’est moi. I did, however, pass on the semi-obligatory Sony Walkman. And nobody ever said I actually had to jog in these clothes…

I walked down the back staircase and out the back door, a recessed doorway that locked from the inside so clients were forced to use the Santa Cruz Ave. entrance. My intention was to cut across the parking lot behind my building, cut through the Old Town parking pit, hit University Avenue, and head home, a few blocks away. But no sooner did I leave the building than I changed my mind and decided to check my Post Office box. So I headed in the opposite direction, ready to cross Main Street and stroll across the park to the P.O. It would be closed by now, so I wouldn’t have to fight the crowds. And now was the time to check the bills, when I had some money on the line.

I stood in the little doorway alcove of my building, breathing the crisp air of the autumn twilight. I took a right and walked down the sidewalk along the back of my building toward Main. They used to call this alley Boone Street. Now the signs said Station Way Parking Mall. I still called it Boone.

I didn’t pay any attention to the sound of the Volkswagen rolling up behind me until I heard the thump as it jumped the curb. By then it was too late.

I turned around and saw the car barreling down the alley, half on the asphalt and half on the walkway—and directly toward me.

I threw myself against the building. The car whizzed past me. Its hot wind-wake rippled my jogging suit.

What an asshole! He missed me by inches, if that much! There’s a reason for the five mile per hour limit in this alley. What almost happened to me is the reason. I mean, I used to be all for anarchy in the streets. But I never meant in cars.

The beat-up blue Beetle squealed left, making a U-turn around the planter at the end of the parking lot. It disappeared behind the tall trees in the planter, popped into view again on the other side of the lot, made another squealing U-turn and headed back in my direction.

I turned right onto Main Street. I could still hear that damn bug rattling and wheezing.