The Great Bixby (The Job)

I’d like to spare it for another night guys, but this is brilliant. I was told this story and more of them fifteen years ago when I was having a beer in Cleveland and this old man came to me.

What are you? He asked with a cigarette stuck in his mouth as if it would have been there since he was born. A journalist? Sort of, I replied. Well you might be interested in some old stories I happen to know.  Uh, ok… I said pulling my recorder out of my pocket. What’s with that? I told him that my memory wasn’t the best and that… Turn it off son, you’re not a Hoover boy are ya? You mean a fed? Yeah, what the heck did I say? No no I ain’t mister, I’m just a student. I study fiction… Fiction? The hell is that? I create stories you know how it is… No I don’t know how it is… Alright, alright enough! Bring in your notebook and I’m gonna let you have it son…

I had with me a small block of paper, the same where I wrote orders at the campus cafè. Yeah that will do… Here, use my pen. He gave me a pen that wasn’t just a pen, but an art-deco Wahl-Eversharp fountain pen that once I tried it on paper it leaked ink all over it. I said fuck and the old man frowned grabbing my arm. Hey! You talk with some respect when you hold that pen you follow? That’s Bobby Randall’s pen, he gave it to me when he died and you mind your words kid… Well Mr… I’m Roy Shelton Bixby. Mr. Bixby I apologize, that’s really a nice piece of antique! Oh to hell with it boy, it’s just a pen… Listen now, if you buy me a drink I’ll tell you about “the job”… Sure, beer? Yeah, buy me a chaser of that beer and a shot of good Old Overholt and you’ll have your goddamn story, a real one for a change.
It took ten minutes for the bartender to find that old bottle of rye whisky, but it was there where it had always been, behind all those shiny unsmelly brand-new globalized spirits with different names but still sons of the same concept, progress, future and whatever. I could feel America standing behind them as a frowny wild cat incapable of resting. The old man swallowed his first whisky in one gulp and took a sip of his chaser. Then he looked at me. Alright kid, you got a spare cigarette?

The Job

The night was moist that 15^th of June in Cleveland. Roy Bixby was counting all those unfinished cigarette butts on the golden over-brimmed ashtray or scattered here and there on the floor. He thought that he would have spared some dollars for another bottle of gin instead of buying Camels again.  He thought he could do that but he knew for a fact that he was a big smoker, especially when he drank. So he would stand still in his office chair trying to solve that conundrum. Booze or smokes, booze or smokes? He lit up half a cigarette and looked at the door opening. A rich woman would appear there in front of him. Beautiful, crossing her legs and asking for a light with that office finally turning into a respectable place with no dirty corners and no stains of alcohol or ancient phlegm everywhere. She might leave me a bunch of her long classy cigarettes too, he fancied. No, no, she’d give me tons of money to find her stupid cat and then we’d go dancing at the Euclid and I would be her rich lover, yeah… sure, he sadly concluded sipping what remained of his quarter of rye whiskey. Yeah sure. You’re still dreaming Roy. And as if he was really dreaming the phone woke him up sounding like a train whistle in a cemetery. What the hell! It scared the shit out of Roy Bixby alright.

Roy? It was John Leonard, AKA Lenny or “John Gimmeacall” for the reason that he used to pay back his debts by providing clients to Roy or to the Police Departement.
Yup.
You drunk?
Whaddaya care?
I got a job for you.
Forget it John I’m closing up. Gimme the money instead.
It’s a small talk, then you’re free to go and buy another bottle.
I need cigarettes too…
Than take this job. A guy should drop by in fifteen minutes or so.
What is it?
Easy stuff, nice pay.
No kicker?
No kicker.
All right, I’ll take it.
Good, I’ll give you a call later.
For Chrissake, thought Roy. His head was like a balloon with broken toys in it. A small talk, yeah sure… So what? He said aloud. Right after the last sip he reckoned that he was a thirty-five years old man who complained almost about everything. Might as well let that guy in. He was a private detective after all…
One of his smaller troubles was that he felt alone in his dull existence. He craved to talk to someone just for kicks but that room was business and his dick attitude wouldn’t let him, so that he looked like a taciturn asshole most of the time. That’s what you get Roy, burping up all that whisky as an old tractor. That’s what you get when you help people solving their stupid problems, they would leave you alone in the end. Alone and welcome, that’s it. To hell with it. He kept wracking his brain on that thought but he couldn’t cry anymore but if he would have considered again that a private detective was the one who would get to know people’s secrets, you can bet your ass he would have cried as a kid cause he wouldn’t get any friends out of it at last. He was aware that secrets were the key to friendship in that life. Knowing all those things and not being loved in return was inhuman. Ok, there were lies at the beginning, because it would take too much for a client to tell him that he was a queer in the first place. The case could have been solved earlier with no lies, but since he was to be paid by the day lies made him richer, so to hell with it. His wallet would get empty pretty soon and all those lies would please him just for a while, then again the truth as heavy as a granite block would fall on his head in a hangover morning when he’d wake up alone and miserable with no cigarettes.
Somebody knocked twice on the glass panel where the smudged letters “R Y BIX Y” appeared outside on the silent corridor of The Big Memphis Hotel. Yeah, to hell with it… said Roy scratching his eyes and slapping himself a bit. What do I care? The door opened and a guy without money walked toward him and sat on the small wooden chair in front of his desk. Roy was glad for the fact that maybe he wouldn’t waste too much time being the other moving so fast and all. Maybe he’s gonna speak even faster and I can go to bed and start with it first thing tomorrow, he thought smiling as a kid, but he wasn’t even thinking, really, he was drunk as a barrel.
Yeah?
Mr. Bixby?
Yeah.
I’m Terry. Mr. Leonard told me that you might need some details.
Details for what?
For a job.
A job.
Yes. Lots of money.
…
Oh yeah. There is this woman. Someone stole her diamond and she’s ready to pay a lot of money if you find it.
Oh really? If it’s a lot of money why don’t you find it yourself?
I’m not very good at this kind of things Mr. Bixby. I live on the street…
What are you in for then?
Five bucks.
Here’s one. Talk. The rest later, maybe…
Alright, listen. Yesterday night a man called Frank Sender broke into this rich woman’s house and stole her dead husband’s diamond. She didn’t call the police but she called me to help. But I ain’t got a gun sir, so? What do a I do? I thought it was better to tell what I knew to a pro, make few bucks out of it and goodbye.
This Sender guy, you know where he lives?
Oh yeah. 51 Morris Street. He’s a full time hustler.
What where you doin’ there?
I was eating a sandwich.
A sandwich?
Yeah, the thing is, I was walking there when I saw this guy sneaking out of a window. I knew that it was Mrs. Budreau’s window. I bring paper and milk now and then, you know how it is…
No I don’t know how it is… But I might wanna talk with this lady. She’s the one who pays in the end is she?
Yeah but she’s in Florida now.
I don’t like it… What’s your name kid?
Terry, I told you.
That’s it?
I’m an orphan.
Alright, what else?
That’s all I can give you.
All right listen, I’ll give you two bucks for it.
Oh c’mon man! Four!
I don’t trust you boy.
Alright alright…
I’ll see you around, take a hike…
Alright Mr. Bixby, and remember, a lot of money for you if you find that diamond.
Yeah yeah… Hey, you got a spare cigarette?
No I don’t.
Ok leave me alone now. Goodbye.
When that boy left Roy had less money than before, so no booze and no smokes. His mood went bad just like the Indians last season and he thought that the best thing was to go out and produce some real dough out of that lousy story. So he grabs his trench coat, walks down the smoky stairs and starts his old Plymouth under the heavy summer rain. He drives five miles through Carnegie Avenue and when he gets to Morris Road he imagines himself lighting up a cigarette. Jesus, I’m so broke… What now? Oh yeah 51.
And number 51 was there, a sad red-brick building that looked like it was built in a day. A porter, no, a wino pretending to be a porter was sipping a cocktail from an amber glass bottle. Roy saw a big bundle of fresh crisp dollar bills coming out of that man’s right patched zoot suit brown jacket. He thought he could have some of that money and he did. Muttering something like “fucking day” at the man’s ear Roy snatched the notes and made them disappear under his sleeve. His mind went to hell with it… It’s a free world and every way you skim it’s your problem pal… The lightheaded wino was half asleep but he managed to repeat “fucking day” back, touched his crotch and flamed up half of a cheap cigar out of a paper envelope. He didn’t notice, good. You keep those cigars thought Roy, you keep them friend, now that I got your money I feel just like quitting, ah ah ah, hell!
Roy’s night had changed in a jiff and he felt like he hit the jackpot alright. Still he thought it was too soon to leave that case alone, might have been some extra money there for him.
With a childish grin on his face he disappeared inside a dirty hall and reckoned that he would be better in robbing people than getting the robber. Yeah, but there was a time when being a cop… That time is gone Roy, he admonished himself, you better get that through your head or you’ll have to put your mind to sleep with red pills. He climbed up three stories full of roaches panicking on the walls because of those heavy raindrops falling down from an open ceiling that made him feel right on the edge of a roman pantheon. Cleveland sure can look creepy on rainy days, used to say his dead pal Bobby Randall before getting killed in that hell of a police ambush. Being cops together was like sitting in a bar, drinking and dreaming of a better life and believing in something that was clean and immaculate. It took two to believe that, and still took two for one of them to die and leave the other poor bastard alone. It’s a hell of a city, said Roy spitting out a raw oyster of phlegm on that one last step.
The only door that had a rusty tag with the name “Sender” carved on it was open and everyone could get in. Roy drew his heater with the same one bullet that was left there from 1934, the year he decided not to shoot it into that lawyer’s chest. She can have the money, the bitch. No Roy, he said, let’s do this together, we can win this Roy! I tell you this Roy, listen to me…  You give me half of the money she wants from you and we’ll get rid of her in court! You can bet your shoes we will Roy!
And Roy bet his shoes and lost them alright. After he’d been paying that shark for a year for an endless divorce trial he had found out that the spiv was banging his ex and buying her things, hats, horrible hats with paper pineapples on them. What a fruit… He remembered he told Bobby who went: men like that I’d like to shack-up with the wives, and Roy rebutted that it was the precise point: this guy ain’t got a woman Bob and he got mine. But you don’t want her right? Hell no… So? To hell with them no? Yeah, to hell with them…
Roy entered the small apartment and freaked out. There was a giant big black spider coming down the roof. He turned on the light and found himself in a small creepy living room under a hang lamp that was just a hang lamp and not even a spider. There was nobody there, nobody but the scent of a ghost coming out from hundreds of cheap rye whiskey bottles amidst a dozen pictures with a man and an old woman. He picked one, unframed it and looked at the other side. “Frank and his old beloved mum.” The man in there had the same sad face of the porter from whom he had stolen that bundle. Roy felt guilty, so guilty that he touched the money and felt guilty again. C’mon he said, stealing from a poor bastard with no mum… And what about the diamond? You go down now Roy and give back the money! No, no, you ask him about the diamond first and where the hell it is and only then you give that money back you follow?
He ran down the stairs feeling all balled up and thinking about those lazy cops laughing at his name. Roy Bixby a private dick? Yeah, he couldn’t solve a case if the case itself would knock on his door and tell him what happened… He don’t have the eye for opportunity this guy, he never did. Yeah alright but at least I got morals don’t I? I am bringing back the money ain’t I? And as for opportunity I sure did what had to be done. If opportunity doesn’t knock build a door, and that’s why my office has a door with my name on it…
With these bitter thoughts Roy stepped out of the building and caught that wino by the name of Frank Sender playing with a crow bar on his Plymouth door. What the hell! Went Roy pulling out the gun.
Hey Frank!
Frank Sender stopped and startled. He must’ve thought for a second that it was the cops. No, wait, this guy looks just like me, nothing more than a wino… and Roy thought: no wait, he’s nothing more than a clumsy cat this Sender… They kept staring at each other, two immobile felt hats under the rain.
Hey bozo! You might wanna reconsider stealing my car. I got your money right here!
What! Asked Frank putting his hands in his right empty pocket. Hell! He exclaimed.
And here’s my heater too Frank, wanna look in the hole?
Hey wait friend…
Yeah I’ll wait… We talk?
Yeah sure thing. That’s a nice car by the way.
I know, and you leave it alone you follow?
Anything you say chief!
They sheltered from the rain in the hall like a strange couple with Roy holding his gun in one hand and that man’s bundle in the other. He thought he had money and power in one single shot but also that the case was still chintzy as a charity gift. Ok Frank, here’s the thing. I know you stole that diamond. What diamond?
I’m a private detective…
Ah… You stole my money Mister…
That don’t change it don’t it?
Don’t know, you tell me uh?
Don’t crack wise with me bozo… I got the gun remember?
Ok ok… A good horse got me that money, I swear!
It came up that Frank hadn’t sold the diamond to a junk shop and very little else. Just a horse and that lucky ticket still with him. That night he was celebrating his next day when he would hop up on a train and leave Cleveland for good. Big deal, thought Roy. You’ll spend your hundred in two months time if you keep smoking those big cigars and buy what it takes for your crappy cocktail...
Since when you adopted me?
You better get your flaps down kid, or you’ll take off!
Can I get my money back? I earned it!
If you shut up and listen you’ll get the chance to earn it back you follow? Now, I want you to answer to a couple of questions while we drive…







They got in the Plymouth and left Morris Street when two prowl-cars had just pulled up to the curb in front of number 51. Lieutenant Pioppi and Detective Mackey were sitting in the rear with that guy Terry in the middle. The orphan liked to play with two figures to have it right.  
And why the hell did you tell Bixby? The man can’t pinch a fly sitting on his nose… Said Mackey who never liked Roy, not even back in the days when he used to throw lots of them flies in the cooler. Pioppi shut his partner up with a fast look, returned to the young man and became serious from the top of his trench lighting up a cigarette. He was a clever man, police laziness had got into him in a small percentage.
Let me tell you something Terry, you don’t wanna jive us, we are the police… And this is not jacks, you get up to go home… if you lie to me you ain’t goin’ home you hear? Detective Mackey nodded at those words making a serious face and blowing the smoke on the car window. Yeah we are the police alright… Roll it down Mackey! Said the lieutenant, it’s getting’ London in here for Chrissake!
They went over there for the same reason Bixby did. To catch the thief. The other patrol pulled up at the front of 51 and two cops got out and drew their pistols. Pioppi stepped out and told Mackey to wait in the car and watch the snitch. The Detective complained and asked for how long and his superior said to stay there until he made lieutenant.
They acted like they were in the worse ambush training, with the two coppers chatting about broads on the stairs and Pioppi getting in that flat and getting out of it without any clue and no pinch. He reckoned that John Leonard was to get out of the help list, involving the police in a joke like that. The only thing that kept the other half of his mind real was Roy Bixby, and he decided to pay him a little visit first thing in the morning.

…And why this Terry would call you a thief Frank? Asked Roy holding the wheel and a nice cigar with one hand and the loose heater with the other. I don’t know no Terry Mister… He’s an orphan Frank, does that ring a bell? No it don’t, I told ya!
The Plymouth entered a hairy neighborhood not far from downtown and after a few silent red-brick buildings it reached what it seemed to be an old school with shut windows. What’s with this place Mister? Asked Frank who if still would have had his money with him he could have afforded to get the creeps.
I don’t like this story Frank, and that’s the same reason why I go for the worst place and the worst urban home in town you follow? You know Mr. Bixby… Call me Roy. You know Roy, I can’t fucking believe that just one hour ago I was gettin’ my kicks by drinkin’ a nice cocktail and touchin’ that race money and now I’m here with nothing but a darned piece pointed at me!
Yeah it’s a crazy town ain’t it Frank?
Roy didn’t quite know if that man would help him with the case as he didn’t know if he wanted to keep the money he stole from him in the end. What he knew was that he was talking to somebody for a change. That Sender guy seemed alright to him, nothing like a shuckster really.
Youn know Frank, we might even find this Terry I was tellin’ you about… If I get the chance to face him Mister, this Terry who put the but on me to-morrow, I’ll be glad to help you and myself Mister… Good, you ain’t no bum Frank, you’re a good man.
But will I get my money back right? We’ll see about that, you just make sure we make our interest in this story and you’ll get what it’s yours… Remember, I need to find that diamond…
They left the Plymouth behind a dark corner and walked together to the gates of that scary orphanage,  both pretending to be brave by making a serious mug, but truth is that place was giving them the willies.
It happened that these two similar men, Frank and Roy, two broke winos, went yellow that night when once inside that drain, they heard some whispers coming up from the basement. Hell! Croaked Roy, and Frank went: what’s cooking downstairs? No clue, let’s go down and have a look see…
They crawled down two stories of stairs where a few red-eyed rats would stare at them from the black corners. The more they were going down the more they could hear what was what. The clean voice of a crooner produced by a huge grammophon behind the one door standing at the bottom of the stairs. Roy held tight his revolver and put his ear on that strong oak panel willing to tell how big was that train coming toward them. In that instant Frank reached for Roy’s pocket. He wanted his money back and for what he knew that night was getting too much in the soup.

Next morning Lieutenant Pioppi went to see Bixby. He didn’t want to talk on the phone, he wanted that case pegged and he knew that Roy was usually more in the know about these kind of things than the police. Once he stepped out of the door and put his feet on his green lawn he saw Detective Mackey leaning against the patrol car and smoking his tobacco. We go and have a word with Bixby Lieutenant?

Git in the car…
On the third floor of the Big Memphis some young Mexicans were running along the corridor with a burning pinata on their hands and shouting “arriba arriba arriba!”
Pioppi stopped in front of Roy’s office and knocked once and the two times faster on the glass panel. A feeble voice inside muttered “whaat?”
It’s Pioppi, open up.
Wait a minute…
You drunk?
Wait a minute for chrissake… wait…
Detective Mackey asked the Lieutenant if he thought Bixby was crying. He might, Pioppi said with a pessimistic mug. To hell with him, he thought. Open up Bixby or I’ll kick the door in!
Roy Bixby opened the door with his two tiny peepers half-shut and the smell of an unflushed john on the weekend. He looks pretty much fried to me sir, declared Mackey.
Come in and sit down… Oh God he’s dead… He’s dead!
Who’s dead Roy? Asked Pioppi feeling like that day when Bobby Randall got shot and Bixby was crying like a baby in the changing room. Who’s dead son?
Frank…
You mean Frank Sender? The guy from the job?
Yeah, we went… How come you know him?
John Leonard sent us this snitch Terry…
I should have known better, we’ve been on same case Lieutenant…
Terry told us. He’s in the cooler now, don’t you worry about him, police took care of him alright, said Mackey proud of the force. Then Pioppi went out to the kitchenette and poured a stiff jolt of Old Overholt in two glasses, one for him and one for Roy. He looked at Mackey’s proud mug and sent him out to buy some lunch. Take your time he uttered, and the other closed the door behind him. Now Roy was looking at his piece as if it were a kid with a fancy toy.
I’ll have to hold it on you but I think you better let me have it…
Alright. Roy put his whisky down and stood a moment listening to the same silence in that room that would get him sad an lonely. Then he took another long sip and began with the story.
He happened to meet what kind of crooked society dwelled in that abandoned school, that orphanage they broke in last night. Mrs Budreau would pretend to be robbed by some guy once a year to feed those orphans by selling the same old diamond story to a detective. And there was a list of a hundred private dicks caught on that web. They would buy some name and an address to get that diamond in order to get paid by the lady; they would give away few bucks that would turn into big ones if fifty or sixty flatfoots were going to buy another story like that with another lady around the town. All those

details were profitable for the orphanage.

I’m not gettin’ any shut-eye… These Mexicans went off the deep end…
Why the dead?
Sender?
Yeah.
I was holding him as a suspect and he tried to escape…
What’s your take on him Roy?
Innocent, he was just a gambler, nothing more… A good man.
Alright Roy, listen... You’ve closed the case and I’m sending the boys to that school to bring these damned orphans down.
Roy Bixby stood silent, ready to take whatever that mouth would have sentenced.
I’ll leave you alone with your dead, it’s a swell pinch and you gave it to us, we’re even Bixby. I’ll tell the boys to bring some cigarettes. The feds will go bananas when they’ll know we pinched those orphans.
I’ll see you around Roy.
Yeah. I’ll see you around Lieutenant.

Waco Guzman