Fantastic Metropolis

“How do I know who? Maybe some up and coming obit writer already hates your guts and is busy making plans. Are we communicating?”

“It’s a tempting offer, Simon, if I may call you Simon, considering. And flattering.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m not proud of all this. But the idea of people reading your words about me is too seductive. Too tempting. Calming.”

Pickle shoved his briefcase across the carpet. Ruben Blade bent slowly to pick up the batch of papers, changed his glasses and began reading. Simon Pickle focused on a wall clock and watched time fly. Pickle fought to keep himself awake. Then he noticed that his prisoner was also nodding off.. “What’s the problem here? Eye strain? Diabetes?”

“The problem, Pickle, is that your life is a long yawn. For all the slam-bang heroics, there’s no story here worth more than one column, two inches. And nothing worth my craft. I’m astonished a man like you would presume…”

“What? What? Aside from more than two thousand cases solved, ranging from fraud to multiple homicide, there’s a beautiful love story.”

“Is there? Where?”

“In front of your nose. Me and Hannah. Married to the same woman for more than sixty years. The ups and downs.”

“You want a cake or an obituary? This is dime-a-dozen dribble. You don’t want me, you want Jackson Pollock. No. I’m sorry for obvious reasons, Detective, but I don’t see Ruben Blade material in this collection of scraps. A man without the courage of his convictions? I couldn’t write it and if I could nobody would print it. Besides, nobody can be married to the same woman for more than five minutes. Motion denied.”

“You’re being vindictive. Sulky. Silly. You know what’s on the line?”

“Not my lines. I’ll take my chances with a jury of my peers.”

“I could kick myself,” Pickle said. “It serves me right for coming out on such a rotten night. Show me a serial killer and I’ll show you an infant having tantrums. Where’s your telephone? I got to call the precinct.”

“There, on the table. A cellular. You didn’t think I’d have a cellular? You got to keep current. A literary undertaker is always on call.”

“Suppose I give you a few days to think things over,” Pickle said.

“I trust first reactions,” Blade said. “Accept it, you’re not usable. I have a responsibility not only to myself but to the young folks studying the profession at places like the New School. Did you know I teach a class? Some of my students have real spunk”

“You’re an exasperating person,” Pickle said.

“Is that the album where you pasted my articles? You mind if I flip through it while you make your call?”

“No, suit yourself,” Pickle said. “But don’t bend the pages. By the way, approximately how long does it take to get a typewriter ribbon delivered from—where was it?”