Way Past Dead

There was a number, but no address.

I punched in the number. Two rings later a shrill voice with a harsh Brooklyn accent shouted into the phone: “Agon Dumbler, Syndicated Columnist, may we help you?”

“Good morning,” I said. “My name’s Harry James Denton and I used to work with Mr. Dumbler at the newspaper. I wonder if he has a moment to spare.”

“I’ll see if he’s in,” she screeched. Then, mercifully, I was put on hold.

Two minutes passed before a voice came on, and this time it was the phlegmy perpetually allergy-plagued voice of Agon Dumbler. “Denton,” he drawled. “Denton … Let me see, now, the name sounds familiar.”

“We used to work together at the paper. I was cityside, you were in the entertainment section.”

“I was the entertainment section,” he interrupted.

“Of course. And you kind of took me under your wing. You were my mentor.” I bit my lip to keep a straight face.

“Oh, yes, Denton. Young fellow, if I remember.”

“Yeah, that’s me, Agon.”

Young fellow, my keister. Agon and I are the same age.

“So what can I do for you, Denton?”

“Well, you knew I left the paper a couple of years ago.”

“No, actually I didn’t. I prefer not to have contact with”-he sniffed loudly-“those people.”

“I know what you mean. I don’t blame you. I’ve even left the field altogether. I’m a private investigator now.”

He made a sound like he’d just accidentally stepped into doggie surprise.

“Anyway, I’m working on a case and I’ve run into a dead end. I’m absolutely at my wit’s end on something, and I remembered how whenever any of us at the paper got into this kind of situation, we always came to you.”

God forgive me, I thought, for lying to this poor man in such an unholy, brazen fashion.

“Yes, you all did, and if I remember, none of you ever appreciated it. Not one bit.”

“Well, I always did, Agon, and if I didn’t let you know that, it was just because of the atmosphere down there.”

“Nevertheless …” he said, then let loose with a long sigh. “What case are you working on?”

I gritted my teeth and steeled myself. “I’m digging into the murder of Rebecca Gibson.”

“Oh, my heavens,” he blurted. “Get thee behind me, Satan!”

“I know,” I said. “It’s a nasty one, all right.”

“Who are you working for?” I hesitated. “Well, I’ll tell you, Agon, but you gotta promise not to hang up on me.”

“I never make promises.”

“Okay. I’m working for Slim Gibson, but before you say anything else, let me state that I believe he’s innocent. Rebecca Gibson’s killer is still out there.”

There was a long silence. I held the phone away from my ear, waiting for him to slam it down. Only he surprised me. “What makes you think I can help you?” he asked softly. “I need some information.”

“Ah, information is a valuable commodity. It’s my stock-in-trade.”

“I realize that, but I’m afraid my financial resources are rather limited. My client expects to be impoverished by this process. Consequently, there’s not much extra in the defense fund.”

“If it was money we were talking about,” he said, “you’d definitely be out of the running. You certainly can’t afford my consultation fee.”

I was confused. “So what do …?”

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I have a one o’clock lunch appointment at the Sunset Grille. You meet me there at twelve, and I’ll let you buy me lunch.”

Wait a minute, I thought. You have a lunch appointment at one, so meet you there at twelve, and I can buy you … I started to say something, then let it go.

“Sunset Grille at twelve,” I said.

“Twelve,” he answered, then hung up the phone without another word.

I pulled the cashier’s check out of my pocket and stared at it. Sunset Grille, huh?

This check wasn’t going to last long.

It’s not that I have anything against the Sunset Grille, you understand. It’s a damn nice place, very chichi, close to the Vanderbilt campus. It’s more that I’ve left that life behind, for the time being anyway, and the thought of spending big bucks for lunch makes me blanch.

I stopped by the bank, deposited the check, took out a hundred in cash, and hoped for the best. The Sunset Grille was across the street from Faison’s, another trendy restaurant, but one that I find much more laid-back and comfortable. I’d have rather been there anytime, but this was a command performance.

The kid handling the valet parking screwed up his face when I pulled the Mazda to a stop in front of him. When I got out, he inspected the car as if something inside might bite him.

“What kind of car is this?” he asked. He was early twenties, well built, genuine 1950s crew cut.

“Mazda Cosmo. Very rare. I’m restoring it, so be careful. Don’t ding it.” I turned and walked into the restaurant as he snickered behind me.

“I have a lunch appointment with Mr. Dumbler,” I told the young woman with the clipboard who looked like she knew what she was doing. “Has he checked in yet?”

She looked over the top of the clipboard and curled her upper lip. “Oh, yes, he’s here. Try the bar.” She pointed. I walked.

The bar was a darkened room, small, with booths lining two of the walls. Against the far wall, in the corner booth, Agon Dumbler sat taking up all but a couple of inches of the bench seat. He still wore the white suit, but he’d gotten even heavier since I last saw him. His skin stretched so far over the bones of his face I thought it would split. His eyes were swollen almost shut, and even in the lousy light, I could tell there was a pink splotchiness to him that I didn’t remember seeing before. Age had not been kind to him. Frankly, he looked like hell.

“Agon, you haven’t changed a bit,” I said, extending my hand toward him. Not only was it a lie, but it was the worst possible insult I could have dispensed. Only he didn’t know that.

He stuck a fat hand out toward me and clasped mine. The hand felt hot, moist, yet somehow clammy at the same time. After we let go, I fought the urge to wipe my palm across my pants.

“How are things?” I asked as I sat down.

“Fine, Henry. Just fine.”

“That’s Harry, Agon. Harry.”

“Whatever …” He stared away at the ceiling, forcing himself to appear bored.

The waitress came up and introduced herself, as all waitresses seem compelled to do these days. She handed us menus, then cocked her hand. “Will this be one check or two, gentlemen?”

“Ugh, one,” I offered, pointing to myself.

“Can I get you something from the bar?”

“I’ll have a glass of the Woodbridge merlot,” Agon said. I looked down at the wine list. Six bucks. I gulped.

“Unsweetened tea,” I said.

“We’ll order now,” Agon announced. He then proceeded to order the most expensive item on the menu, some kind of steak doobie or something. I didn’t read the description, only the price: $18.95.

I scanned the sandwich section of the lunch menu.

“I’ll have the club sandwich,” I said.

After the waitress left, I lifted the glass of ice water and took a long slug, trying to steady myself.

“Well,” I said uncomfortably, “shall we get right to business?”

“Splendid,” he said, “Now, what are you attempting to do here?”

“I’m attempting,” I said, “to prove that Slim Gibson is innocent of the murder of his ex-wife.”

“And what proof do you have?” he demanded. Why did I feel like I was talking to Professor Kingsfield in a