which I make clear to sweet Suzanne by
going ahead and handing over the wallet.
“I’m an
environmentalist,” I say. “Keep the sack.”
She takes out
and keeps seven-hundred fifty two dollars while she’s at it. Hands me back the
wallet.
“How much was
that buckle, sweetheart?” I ask real polite, though I have to admit I may be a
bit less smooth here than is customary. Four hundred twenty dollar belt buckle,
apparently, but then again you’re the only guy out there carrying Manhattan around at crotch level, and you have to admit that’s something.
Out on the
sidewalks I am a beacon of well-tailored freedom, flashing Lady Liberty’s ruby
at the huddled masses. High-stepping it back downtown I cause at least one
traffic accident and an unconfirmed second in less than ten blocks. Apparently
Italian style combined with one of the finer hats money can buy will inflict a
sudden loss of motor skills on your average driver. I’m thinking there ought to
be a law.
By Union Square I’m also thinking that as proud as I am to be wearing a hat called The Kid,
there’s a reason the detectives don’t wear cowboy hats in the movies. A hat
like The Kid does tend to stand out, and there will be times in your
investigations when that’s exactly what you don’t want to do, specifically when
there’s a giant in a fedora who’s somehow managed to pick up your trail again.
Miss Madonna apparently has her admirers. Either that, or I’ve walked into the
wrong mystery, and if that’s the case, I’m really in a mess. It’s enough to
make a fella nervous. You start imagining the particulars of what a giant like
that could do to you, and the more you imagine it, the more nervous you get,
until you’re better off just imagining it all the way to the bitter end. Think
your way through death and out the other side again.
This is what I
do in my mind: I turn around and run straight for the beast. He’s ugly and
mean, I see as I close in, but when he comes for me I’m prepared and give him a
taste of my matador trick. I whip out my cape and spin away, then drop my fist
down on his skull like a sword. He is bullish, however, and that fist-sword of
mine is about as effective as a toothpick. He’s coming in tight with his fists
pumping like horns, sharp little blows that bust right through me. First
there’s pain, then there’s numbness, and then you don’t really want to know.
Struggling for breath, I fall to the sidewalk and see the cape there across the concrete. My cape, my last hope, but it’s too far, so I die there, my fingers
stretching out before making one last twitch.
Which does
return a little spring to my step. Even if he gets me in the end, he can’t do
anything that hasn’t already been done. Not that he’s any less prominent in my
rearview mirror. I might even consider running if it weren’t entirely contrary
to my whole philosophy. And it’s the philosophy you’ve really got to hold onto.
Kierkegaard, Kant, Mister Friedrich Nietzsche – they’ve stood by me in the hard
times, I stand by them. Not that the philosophy can’t sometimes use a little
refresher, which is just what I’ve got in mind when I fake right and duck left
into a bookstore south of the square. I figure I’ll wait him out. In the
meantime I head over to the philosophy section to bone up on what the great
minds advise in situations like these. Also it gives me a clear view out to the
entrance and anyone who might have a mind to separate me from my philosophy and
a few other things besides.
I do love a
bookstore, even when I’m not hiding out in one for the sake of my own person.
Just walking into one gets me aquiver with anticipation of great wonders. So I
get to scanning the shelves, alternating that with scanning the front door.
Makes you feel near-genius just to be reading these titles, and I’m getting
along into the E’s when I come upon a slim little book called The Praise of
Folly by Erasmus, a Dutchman according to the
going ahead and handing over the wallet.
“I’m an
environmentalist,” I say. “Keep the sack.”
She takes out
and keeps seven-hundred fifty two dollars while she’s at it. Hands me back the
wallet.
“How much was
that buckle, sweetheart?” I ask real polite, though I have to admit I may be a
bit less smooth here than is customary. Four hundred twenty dollar belt buckle,
apparently, but then again you’re the only guy out there carrying Manhattan around at crotch level, and you have to admit that’s something.
Out on the
sidewalks I am a beacon of well-tailored freedom, flashing Lady Liberty’s ruby
at the huddled masses. High-stepping it back downtown I cause at least one
traffic accident and an unconfirmed second in less than ten blocks. Apparently
Italian style combined with one of the finer hats money can buy will inflict a
sudden loss of motor skills on your average driver. I’m thinking there ought to
be a law.
By Union Square I’m also thinking that as proud as I am to be wearing a hat called The Kid,
there’s a reason the detectives don’t wear cowboy hats in the movies. A hat
like The Kid does tend to stand out, and there will be times in your
investigations when that’s exactly what you don’t want to do, specifically when
there’s a giant in a fedora who’s somehow managed to pick up your trail again.
Miss Madonna apparently has her admirers. Either that, or I’ve walked into the
wrong mystery, and if that’s the case, I’m really in a mess. It’s enough to
make a fella nervous. You start imagining the particulars of what a giant like
that could do to you, and the more you imagine it, the more nervous you get,
until you’re better off just imagining it all the way to the bitter end. Think
your way through death and out the other side again.
This is what I
do in my mind: I turn around and run straight for the beast. He’s ugly and
mean, I see as I close in, but when he comes for me I’m prepared and give him a
taste of my matador trick. I whip out my cape and spin away, then drop my fist
down on his skull like a sword. He is bullish, however, and that fist-sword of
mine is about as effective as a toothpick. He’s coming in tight with his fists
pumping like horns, sharp little blows that bust right through me. First
there’s pain, then there’s numbness, and then you don’t really want to know.
Struggling for breath, I fall to the sidewalk and see the cape there across the concrete. My cape, my last hope, but it’s too far, so I die there, my fingers
stretching out before making one last twitch.
Which does
return a little spring to my step. Even if he gets me in the end, he can’t do
anything that hasn’t already been done. Not that he’s any less prominent in my
rearview mirror. I might even consider running if it weren’t entirely contrary
to my whole philosophy. And it’s the philosophy you’ve really got to hold onto.
Kierkegaard, Kant, Mister Friedrich Nietzsche – they’ve stood by me in the hard
times, I stand by them. Not that the philosophy can’t sometimes use a little
refresher, which is just what I’ve got in mind when I fake right and duck left
into a bookstore south of the square. I figure I’ll wait him out. In the
meantime I head over to the philosophy section to bone up on what the great
minds advise in situations like these. Also it gives me a clear view out to the
entrance and anyone who might have a mind to separate me from my philosophy and
a few other things besides.
I do love a
bookstore, even when I’m not hiding out in one for the sake of my own person.
Just walking into one gets me aquiver with anticipation of great wonders. So I
get to scanning the shelves, alternating that with scanning the front door.
Makes you feel near-genius just to be reading these titles, and I’m getting
along into the E’s when I come upon a slim little book called The Praise of
Folly by Erasmus, a Dutchman according to the
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