‘You think?’
‘Of course. So when I get to tell my grandchildren that I met you and they say, “So what did you talk about, Grandpop?” I don’t want to have to reply, “Nothing. I just poured him drinks.” ’
‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘But as I, although I might at times have a high opinion of myself, do not believe that I will be a Saviour of All Mankind, I doubt very much whether it matters what you tell your grandchildren.’
‘Well, thank the Lord for that!’ said the barman.
‘What? ’
‘Well, I’m gay, aren’t I? And the thought that I was going to have to go straight and get married and have children, so that they could have children, so I could tell them that I met you, frankly had little appeal.’
‘So it’s all worked out okay for you,’ I said. ‘Would you care for a drink?’
‘I would.’
‘Then help yourself to the optics as all barmen do.’ [22]
The barman went off in a bit of a huff and I gulped on with my drinking. And I reread the letter and I did a lot of deep, deep thinking.
I really didn’t like that bit in the letter about Mr Ishmael having orchestrated my life since I was a child. But the more I thought about it, the clearer it became that he had been orchestrating my life from the moment I met him at the Southcross Road School dance, and from then until now. Which I didn’t like one bit.
I drank my drinks, ordered more and paid with the hundred-dollar bill. And I counted my change when I recovered it, because I wasn’t that drunk yet. Although I was obviously sufficiently drunk as to have forgotten that the barman was supposed to be paying for all my drinks that evening, because I’d showed him the letter. And then I had a bit of an idea. I would phone home. Speak to my mum and dad and to Andy.
That was a good idea.
That was not a good idea.
I phoned and I did get through. And I spoke to my mum, who was up even though it was three a.m. English time, hoovering the carpets. But with the Hoover turned off, so as not to wake my daddy, who was no longer working as a roadie for The Stones but now as a roadie for T. Rex.
My mum got all tearful when she heard my voice. And then she told me that I was a very bad boy for not calling for so long and how had it been in prison?
‘Prison?’ I asked her.
‘Your brother Andy said that you had been taken off to prison for being naughty with children.’
‘What?’ I said. Considerably appalled.
‘Well, I was so worried that you were dead or something. And I kept on and on at Andy to find out the truth. And finally he said that you were okay, in perfect health and being well looked after in the psychiatric ward of Sing Sing.’
‘Oh splendid,’ I said. ‘Good old Andy.’
‘But I don’t see much of him now,’ said my mum. ‘He mostly lives on his island.’
‘His island?’
‘In the Caribbean. Near Haiti. Andy Isle it’s called, I think. He flies there on his private jet.’
And I groaned very loudly.
‘You should have stayed in the band,’ said my mum, ‘rather than getting yourself involved in illegal playground activities.’
‘Thank you, Mother,’ I said to her. ‘And goodbye.’ And I replaced the receiver and never spoke to my mother ever again.
And I returned to the bar.
‘Are you going to buy me a drink now?’ asked the barman.
‘Yes,’ I said and I sighed when I said it. ‘Why not? Go on. What will you have?’
The barman helped himself to the drink of his choice, took my money, cashed it up in the register and obligingly short-changed me.
I just sort of smiled at this and said, ‘Life.’
‘It’s a funny old world, ain’t it?’ said the barman.
‘Oh yes,’ I agreed. ‘I have no idea at all exactly what the purpose of my life has been up until now. Or even if it had a purpose. I am inclined to think that life is totally without purpose.’
‘And you would be correct in this thinking,’ the barman agreed.
‘You think?’
‘Of course. Life is a finite entity. Men live, men die, and whatever they leave behind – literature, music, art – will eventually die also. Nothing lasts for ever. All creations have a finite existence, therefore all creations are ultimately without purpose. Because once they have ceased to be, and the memory of them has also ceased to be, it is as if they have never existed. It is all without purpose. Well done for noticing it.’
‘Thanks a lot!’ I said.
‘My pleasure. So how do you intend to go about your mission of saving Mankind? You apparently being the Chosen One and everything.’
‘I have no idea at all,’ I said, downing further bourbon. ‘In fact, I have no idea what to do. It feels as if my whole life really has been orchestrated and I have absolutely no free will at all. I am just a pawn in some terrible game. Or, more precisely, a puppet, with someone pulling my strings.’
‘Nasty,’ said the barman. ‘That must be horrid. Perhaps you need something to take your mind off all this. A distraction. A hobby or something.’
I shrugged. ‘I suppose.’
‘You’re out of work at the moment, right?’
‘Absolutely. I was a musician. And also a private detective. But I’m out of work now and totally lost.’
‘A private detective, did you say?’
‘I did say that, yes.’
‘Well, that’s a coincidence. Perhaps this is what you need.’
The barman pulled that copy of American Heroes Today magazine towards him and leafed through its pages to the small ads. ‘This might be what you are looking for,’ he said.
He had circled the ad in question.
With a thick-nibbed pen.
The American Heritage Society is proud to announce that due to Government funding, the 27th Street Private Detective District is to be saved from redevelopment. A number of office placements have been made available to suitable candidates. One remains.
Lot 27. The office of Lazlo Woodbine, Private Eye, missing, presumed dead. Comprising hatstand, carpet, ceiling fan, filing cabinet, desk, two chairs, venetian blind.
To be sold as a single lot. Including also the remaining wardrobe of Lazlo Woodbine, comprising trench coat, fedora, Oxfords, trusty Smith & Wesson, etc.
Eighty-five dollars.
‘How much change do you have from your one-hundred-dollar bill?’ asked the barman.
And I took out my change and counted it.
‘Eighty-five dollars,’ I said.
45
Exactly eighty-five dollars! How handy was that?
It was indeed a happy coincidence and with its coming I recalled once more that the barman was supposed to be paying for my drinks, and so I let him buy me a few more doubles before I made my way back to 27th Street.
