SPARK

A Bo Fexler Short Story

by Clair Dickson

Picture a warm, sunny, lazy summer afternoon. That's what I'm picturing, too, because right now, it's ten at night, cold and rainy. Not really rainy either, but that misty, drizzly rain that chills you long before you're wet. A slow miserable process of soaking. And by the time I'm done, I will be thoroughly soaked.

The name is Bo Fexler and I'm a PI. I'm not what people usually expect from a PI. I look more like the damsel in distress who shows up at the private eye's office late at night, disturbing his rendezvous with a familiar bottle. Standing at the corner between First and North Street , I've stopped not for a drink but a smoke. I found some semblance of shelter under a large overhang and lit up.

Maybe it's just me, but I seem to spend a lot of time wandering the streets looking for people who don't want to be found. In this case, Crystal, who up and dumped her boyfriend three years earlier with no good reason and just ran off. Ran off to the city. The jilted boyfriend now wanted to see if the spark could be rekindled.

Lucky for me, Crystal had an unusual last name and my client even remembered how to spell it. Or maybe it's not so lucky: I get paid by the hour. So, I looked up her address, but she had since moved. That's the problem with the phone book only being put out once a year. People get these notions that they'd like to live someplace else between printings. It's very inconsiderate.

I'm not much of a talker, but I can listen. One of the people I spent a good deal of time listening to was Crystal 's old neighbor. Parsing through the long-winded stories, accusations of scandalous behavior, and half-recalled memories, I was able to discern something about Crystal moving in with a fellow on First Street . Armed with her picture and facing a long dark road, I couldn't help but think that I don't get paid enough for this.

Snuffing out the cigarette on the wet pavement, I looked down the lonely street. It was a commercial street but the businesses had closed down for the night. A scattering of cars sat dark, edged by rivers of slowly collecting drizzle-water. Diffuse lamplight glowed in windows of loft homes above the businesses. About half way down the block, where a small road or alley met First Street , a business was still lit up.

Through the gloom, I could make out that it was a coffee shop. I walked down the quiet street, looking for anyone I could pounce on and interrogate. They must have known I was coming. Even the nocturnal creatures were in hiding.

The drizzly night seemed to enhance my less than joyful feeling. I had suspected all through the case that I wouldn't have any happy news to tell my client. He was a nice enough fellow, hopeful too. He had this elaborate fantasy cooked up in his head about how I would find his lover, and they would be so enamored again that they would laugh about how foolish it was for them ever to be apart. It had been bad enough to sit there and listen to my client talk so grand about it. It would only be worse if I had to go back and tell him that she had moved on. I'm not much for romance or mushy stuff.

Yellow streetlights tried in vain to cut through the gray drizzle. The surfaces of the cars barely reflected the light it was so gray and dark. The light from the coffee shop nearly blinded me. I squinted, held one arm up in front of my face to ward off the light. Too many late nights make me feel like a vampire.

"What can I get for you?" the man at the coffee shop counter asked.

I ran my hand over my wet hair, as if that small gesture would make a difference. "Whaddaya got?" I joked, straight-faced.

He looked at me like I was escaped from the Psych ward or something. Truth is, they haven't caught me yet, so I can't have escaped.

"Could I get a coffee to go, please?" I asked, more serious. I leaned against the shiny metal counter where the older man had been dragging a rag disinterestedly across the surface.

"Yeah. Wet out there."

An astute observation. "Yeah. You don't mind if I stay here a few minutes and warm up, do you?"

He frowned, shrugged and shook his head. "What are you doing out so late, and getting all wet for?" He had a slight accent and one of those grandfather kinds of voices. Gentle. His face, a little gruff when I first walked in and worse when I teased him, had now soften into a smile. Gentle again.

"I'm looking for someone."

"A little late for that, huh?"

"She's something of a night owl, from what I remember."

"Where does she live? Maybe I can help you."

"See, thing is, I'm not sure where she lives." I took the photo from my pocket and set it on the counter beside my cup of coffee. The steam from the drink was warm as I leaned over it. "Maybe you've seen her?"

The man placed thick fingers on the edge of the picture and drew it towards himself. He peered at it, studying the lone figure. "Yeah—I have seen her. She lives nearby. Her and this guy. Unpleasant looking fellow, really. Always mad about something, looks like. Always scowling."

"Where have you seen them, do you recall?"

"Oh, I remember. I see them often. They live around here. I think it's upstairs, but I don't know which one."

"How many apartments are their upstairs?"

"Two. One you get to from the front of the building." The man laid the photograph back on the counter. "There's another apartment in the back of the building. It's harder to rent out now with the buildings behind it getting kind of run down, you know. People don't feel so safe. Or maybe you get drunks and druggies. Not good for business, them sorts of people about. A little old guy lives in one of them. He lives alone, doesn't go in or out much but he comes down in the morning to have coffee."

"I see. Do you talk with this girl?" I asked, gesturing to the picture.

"Me, no. I don't see much of her. Only when she goes by. Sorry. She's a friend of yours?"

"I've been looking for her. She moved and didn't tell very many people where she went."

"Mmm. Maybe she got something to hide. Maybe she doesn't want anyone to know about that boyfriend. He looks like he's trouble, you know, like he would hurt someone just for looking at him wrong. Looks like trouble."

"Thank you—I'll be careful," I added softly. I paid for the coffee, took the cup and the picture and stepped back outside. In the reflection of the door as it swung shut, I saw the man watching me, rag in hand but not in use. Once I rounded the side of the building, I dumped the cup of coffee into a trash can.

I don't drink coffee.

There was a light on in the front apartment, and in the back one I could see the flickering bluish light from a TV. I debated, looking up at the two apartments. As I debated, the drizzle parted to make way for icy cold, fat rain drops. I let them run down my face. I was already chilled to the core.

Someone was likely wake in the rear apartment, so I decided on that one. I found the entrance to the apartment and made my way up the stairs. I tried to think of what to say. There were probably a hundred and one different ways that I could try for the information I needed. Walking up the stairs, I really only had time to think through a dozen or so.

I knocked on the door. After a moment, it opened. There was a man standing there. He looked me over. I knew I looked like a drowned rat.

"What do you want?" he demanded. His dark hair was tousled and greasy like it was overdue for several regularly scheduled showers. His lip bore a dark red slice where a deep split was healing.

"I was looking for Crystal . Does she live here?" I produced the photo from my pocket and held it out for him to see. He looked at it, ran his tongue over the split in his lip.

"She's gone." He handed the photo back. I said nothing and he continued. "Said the spark was gone," he deadpanned. Then he went to close the door on me. I stopped it with the heel of my hand so I could ask where she's gone to.

He looked me over again, then explained, "She started going by Andrea, her middle name. She met some guy at a club a few months back. That's my guess."

I didn't realize she'd been gone that long. "What can you tell me about this guy?"

"Why should I tell you anything?"

I shrugged and took a ten from my pocket. I held it against the doorframe in a subtle gesture. His eyes locked on the money. Tearing them free, he checked my face to see if I was serious. I met his gaze as evenly as I could without a level.

"I think he lives at the Manor Place Apartments. I don't know his name. Didn't really care, you know."

I nodded. "Where's Crystal —Andrea—work?"

"Work?" he sniffed at the idea, snatching the ten from my fingers. "Her? Not if it cuts in her time at the club." He swung the door shut again, and this time I let it slam.

Going to the Manor Place Apartments, several blocks away, would have been as useful as cleats on an inflatable raft. I didn't have the guy's name and people don't take too kindly to being woken up by a PI for questioning. They are surprisingly less receptive than normal. Instead, I found the club scene-- quiet since it was a weekday-- but that's a relative term anyway.

Photo in one hand and bottle in the other, I worked the crowd with one of the best pick-up lines ever: "Hey, you know this chick?"

Finally, I found a DJ that had dated her for a spell. From the off-colored comments he made after that, I got the impression that "dating" was a word he used loosely. She'd moved in with him for a few weeks before she found someone else. I got Someone Else's name and thanked the fellow by handing off my un-touched drink. I almost asked the DJ if the spark had gone.

I stopped at a phone book for directions to Crystal 's newest place—since she wasn't staying at the Manor Place Apartments anymore. The girl moved more times than a checker piece. There were lights on, which I took to be an invitation. As I waited for the footsteps to approach the door, I reflected that perhaps a PI's misguided idea of what constitutes an invitation is part of the reason we are looked down upon.

The woman who answered the door looked like a drunk version of the woman in the photo. Drunk and unkempt. I explained who I was and why I was standing on her doorstep on a cold, rainy night.

She stared at me blankly. Finally, she said, "Ohhhhhhh," drawing the word out as only the inebriated can. "Nick. I r'member him."

"He's looking for you," I reiterated.

"That's sweet."

"Can I give him your address?"

"Oh. Sure. But I think I'm moving soon. 'S not workin' out here, y'know. Lemme give you that address. I found this guy . . ." she slurred, walking back into the apartment for a piece of paper and something to write with. Since she left the door open, I decided that meant I should follow her in.

She tried unsuccessfully to write with a retractable ballpoint without first clicking the pen out. Laughing at herself, she tried again. I read the address back, making sure I could decipher it. I asked if she was interested in getting back together with Nick.

"Nick? Oh yeah, Nick. He's sweet. I went out with him for awhile," she told me by way of response.

"Might you date him again?"

"Nick? I don't think so. I already did that," she laughed, as if it should be obvious to anyone. Perhaps I had to be drunk to understand.

I checked on the address, asking the fellow who lived there if Andrea was home. He smiled at me, told me she wasn't and asked if I wanted to come in. It was, after all, cold and dark. Even though my clothes were wet, I was not interested in taking them off, so I declined his invite. I asked again about Andrea.

He shrugged and told me she was just supposed to stay there for a little while until she found a more permanent place to stay. I asked the stupid question next: What did he get out of it.

His feral grin answered my question sufficiently, but he said it anyway. "What do you think? I get to sleep with her. She's not bad looking, you know."

"Ah." I offered thanks and went back out into the night. I'd parked around the corner, having been unable to find any place closer. The rain came down harder with each hour that had passed since my trek began that night.

Somewhere along the way back to my car, I stopped under a tree that pretended to block some of the fat raindrops. Amber street lamp light made a wavy, dappled pattern under the tree on the wet pavement. I rested one hand on the tree trunk, used the other to push my stringy wet hair out of my face. Also under that tree there was a wet trash can, surrounded by decorative wrought iron bars that curled at the top.

I took out the paper with Crystal 's new address, crumpled it up and threw it away. I wouldn't need it.

Thoroughly soaked and dissatisfied, I went home.