A Perfect Day for Sailing

“If you don’t mind me asking, what’s a guy like you doing in a town like this?” my client asked.

“Oh, just lucky, I guess. I have a small boat. I can go sailing whenever I want. Which is all the time.”

“Except when you practice your profession ashore? Or do you also solve mysteries on the water?”

“As the case requires. And speaking of business, suppose you tell me why you want to hire me.”

“I’m writing a book about the Delta and hit a snag. I thought a local detective might be of help.”

“Is that your way of saying you’d like me to give you a nice little crime plot to relieve writer’s block?”

“It’s the other way round: I’ve brought you a plot. Here it is. A wise guy settles in an all-Chinese town. He opens a steakhouse, draws customers with his anything-goes antics and becomes a legend. The world beats a path to his door. I can’t figure it. Maybe you can help me find the man behind the legend.”

”Cold case or missing person?”

“Both. He’s been dead for 60 years.” I did a double take and said I was in.

The professor’s assumption that a private detective such as myself was wasting his time in a backwater burg of the California Delta was undoubtedly influenced by the sight of kayaks, canoes, sailboats, speedboats and houseboats out my office window. I reassured him by showing my personal map of the Delta’s thousand-mile web of interlocking waterways, marked with investigations into marinas and cantinas, lost isles and secret coves, bars and bistros, rendezvous inns and charming restaurants, meditational retreats and a school of paddleboard yoga. A world entire, a world of its own.

On and off the Delta Dazzler, my cases have run the gamut from routine to bizarre. I make my rounds among hunters, campers, sailors and socialites. I’ve sought runaways and hideaways escaping debts, frauds, soured marriages or dead-end jobs. Some are fleeing the law; some are missing persons; some do not wish to be found.

Enticing as it is, the Delta is not paradise. Wherever human beings gather or wander, trouble is a fellow traveler. It would undoubtedly be a better world if crime took a holiday in this wonderland. It would be the worse for me. I’d be out of a job. Something I keep in mind whenever I see prospective clients in my shaded courtyard, following the twisting garden path to the entrance of Delta Detections. The door is flanked by statues of a clue-hunting Sherlock Holmes and a grizzled old mariner we affectionately call “Delta Dan.” Visitors are welcomed by Iris Noire, my all-purpose receptionist, office manager, scheduler, consultant, case historian and wise woman. Without Iris, I’d be selling fish.

Professor Marvine, a California history honcho, was hoping to write a definitive history of Locke, a town founded and settled by Chinese pioneers without whose labors the Delta would have remained a tule bog . My academic friend was sorely puzzled by the mystery of Al Adami. And here he was in luck. I’d heard enough tales, rumors and conjectures about the legendary wise guy to offer him a clue or two.

Al came to town in 1934 from neighboring Ryde to buy a restaurant from town founder Lee Bing and open a steakhouse named for himself. Why did he set up in an all-Chinese town among those for whom steak was an alien entree? Was he cooperating with or muscling in on the town’s Tongs? Was his steakhouse a cover for illegal activity? If, as some said, he bought a new Cadillac convertible each year, could he afford to do so simply by selling steaks and pastas?

“The more I learn about him, the less I know,” the professor complained. “This guy is more slippery than a banana peel on a mopped floor. He could teach an eel a few tricks. A bit of rogue, a slice of scoundrel and the kind of guy you don’t figure to meet here. What was his game? And why Locke?”

“An intriguing personality,” I agreed. “That’s why folks are still talking about the guy. He’s a legend now. He wasn’t when he began. He played the wise guy for his customers. Maybe it wasn’t entirely an act, but wise guys are always popular with the crowd. Legendary wise guys have restaurants named after them. Al took care of that himself. He loaned his own nickname to the enterprise.”

We were sitting at the bar of Al’s, which still sells steaks and pasta, and is purportedly haunted by the fun-loving rascal who founded it. Stories about his antics are plentiful. Some say Al had a secret door behind the bar and several secret passages. He lived upstairs with a hidden room above that. On the job, he encouraged customers to throw currency up at the ceiling with a technique that secured it there, where it remained to be used for charity feeds. The practice continues to this day. Currency dangles like confetti from the ceiling. Al joked he was a retired paperhanger and wanted to keep in practice. That comment made me wonder if the jokester might have been offering some kind of clue to himself.

“I heard he could be confrontational,” I told Marvine. “He’d greet customers with ‘You want a steak or don’t you?’ If you were smart, you ordered steak. The house rules were simple. If you wore a necktie, your host would cut it with his scissors because formality was against the rules of the house. If your lady ordered a drink, or Al ordered it for her, he would stir it with a finger to give it his personal touch.”

“Charming gentleman,” the professor frowned. “How did he get away with it?”

“Because he was Al, the legend, the star attraction. Customers came to see him play the role, have a few drinks and the big steak dinner and whisper to one another that Little Al was in like this with Big Al.”

“Who would have been in Alcatraz by then. I wonder if his enemies had a score to settle with Adami?”

“A sweetheart if ever there was,” I said, directing him to the large facial photo of Little Al that hung on the cluttered wall behind the bar. He studied the face and nodded with a small smile of recognition.

“Joe Pesci lookalike. But was the guy acting or was his act the real thing? A wise guy going public as a steakhouse proprietor? Could it have been a cover for criminal activity? Bootlegging, perhaps?”

“Doubtful. Prohibition was over by then, so bootlegging wouldn’t cut it. But if the Tongs controlled the town and he bought into the action, it was anything goes—gambling, opium, you name it. Or just steaks. Whatever, Al drew customers from all over. He still does. Time stands still in Locke. So does Al’s.”

“And that wisecrack about paperhanging?”

“The money on his ceiling was a sign of prosperity and success. Nobody but Al was allowed to touch it once it was up. But I’ll tell you something you may not know. ‘Paperhanger’ is underworld slang for counterfeiter. And one other thing: a two-word wise guy is just a smart aleck, but a one-word wiseguy is trouble. Was Al both? The case is all yours, sir. And, yes, a Modelo Especial will compensate me nicely.”

“One last question. You mentioned a room on top of this building and a secret room above that. I didn’t see anything at all up there. So where was Al’s retreat? Where did he hide his hideaway?”

”You’ll have to ask him,” I said, raising my glass to the memory of the mastermind of mystery.

“What time does his ghost arrive?” the professor asked soberly as we clinked our glasses.

​

– II –

​

Of course, there are more tangible cases, with more tangible rewards. I recently wrapped a missing sister caper with an interesting twist. My client’s little sister had disappeared in San Francisco, where she was arrested for keeping company with a high-roller who rolled more than dice. The felon swore the girl was “only an acquaintance” who had nothing to do with anything. Not that the police believed anything he said, but they had no need of her for a conviction. Once free, she skipped town, leaving no forwarding address. A belated post card to her older sister, postmarked Rio Vista, was the only clue. The way I read it, the card said she’d left her past behind in search of a new and better life. I made inquiries, pursued leads that led nowhere and kept my eyes open for ones that might.

Sometimes a missing person stays missing; sometimes you find one because your client gives you enough useful information to enable you to narrow the hunt and refine the search. The key to success is patience and persistence, or what you might call dogged perseverance, plus a professional sense of when to walk softly and when to do the dance.

The little sister had done some waitressing in Frisco. It wasn’t long before I noted a server matching her description (though with different hair color and makeup) serving dinners at a posh getaway called the Tide’s Inn, chatting up customers and pocketing fat tips for her recommendations and pleasantries. She used an alias for meeting the public, but her real name was on the payroll. That clinched it.

“There’s a lady to see you,” Iris announced in a bright tone that also said “And she brought payment.”

My client had come by the office with a check and a thank you for services. Iris gave her the once over and flashed me a look that asked why the lady hadn’t simply put her check in the mail. I handed Iris the check and took the lady down the road to Yolanda’s Cantina for coffee and fresh baked pie. She talked about her sister and herself at length, confirming my impression of a warm, caring woman.

“I feel responsible for Glenda’s wayward path in life,” she said. “I should have been a better sister and a more positive influence in her life. Not that I’m a role model for anything. I’m my own worst enemy.”

“Which of us isn’t? But it’s a mistake to blame yourself for the shortcomings of others. I know that for a fact. I had a brother who served in the military, came home and went to the dogs. Could I have saved him from himself? Not likely. Still, I tried. And failed. And tried. And failed. I still blame myself….”

She looked at me then as if she was seeing me for the first time. “So you understand,” she said.

When the coffee and pie were gone, it was time for us to go our separate ways. What more can you say when it’s time to forget the past, if you can, and get on with the business of life? Even so, neither of us was in a hurry to depart. We’d found common ground. The more we talked, the more we found.

The morning slipped away. We sat silently until she reached a hand across the table to clasp mine and murmured a quiet goodbye. “Go easy on yourself,” I urged her. “Have self-compassion.” My eyes followed her to the door. So did the gaze of the café proprietor who poured me a fresh cup of consolation and asked, ‘Alguien que le encanto?’ in her native tongue to ensure confidentiality.

“Yes, that charming lady and I loved your pie. No one makes a better pie than you, Yolanda.”

“I did not mean the pie,” she said, nodding as the door closed behind the departing woman.

“I know what you meant.”

“And I can see that you care for her, perhaps care deeply, do you not?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. A woman always knows. Maybe you think she doesn’t, but she does. She knows what you are thinking. You never have to say word. Don’t bother to deny it. Why is it a man always thinks he can hide the truth from a woman? No man can! Has any man ever been able to do that?”

The only one who might have was a clever con who “papered” the most famous steakhouse in Locke.

​

– III –

​

The next day was ideal for sailing, but I’d been summoned to testify in a Stockton court case regarding the matter of a death that may or may not have been a homicide. There was reasonable suspicion of foul play (my contention) without indisputable evidence of same (defense argument).

Hours elapsed before I was called to the stand to give my professional opinion, but there were further delays over issues of admissible evidence. Time stood still like a clock without hands. Then I saw my opportunity for escape. The defense attorney made the mistake of challenging not only my evidence but my credibility. I took prompt exception to his challenge, expressing myself in language that drew a quick reprimand from the presiding judge. Emboldened, the attorney resumed his attack on me. I saw my opportunity and let him have it full blast with the rockets and mortars of a surprise counter-attack.

The judge said she’d heard enough and waved me out. But the jury had heard my side of it. Even though the judge would tell jurors to disregard my testimony, she couldn’t make them forget what they’d heard. And what I had given them was more than a theory. It was the most likely version of the truth.

I had to postpone sailing once again when Iris sent me to a medical center for a physical exam required for insurance purposes. The doc was a jaunty young fellow who believed everyone should live to 100 and billed himself as a longevity specialist. He shook his head at my unfit habits. The key to long life, he said, was early to bed, early to rise, exercise, kale smoothies, meditation, more exercise, living in the moment, still more exercise and embracing the art of wellness. I had no intention of living to 100.

I drove slowly back to the office, reflecting on the brevity of life and the fate that awaits us all. I determined to take what was left of the day to enjoy the river and as much fresh air as I could gulp, thereby satisfying the doc’s mandate. I would anchor in some quiet cove for a rest, a snooze and a yoga squat on my deck. I’ve actually seen folks doing yoga positions on their paddleboards. Go figure.

“I’m taking the rest of the afternoon off to go sailing,” I told Iris before she could utter a word. Then she uttered it and took the wind out of my sails.

“You have a gentleman waiting to see you.”

“Impossible. My calendar was clear. Does the gentleman have an appointment?”

“Are you the man in charge?” the newcomer said, springing from his seat in the waiting room.

“Ms. Noire is in charge. We are merely her obedient servants.”

“And you are?”

“The senior detective. Old enough to know what I’m doing and young enough to do it.”

“Just the man I’m looking for!” he said. I sighed and waved him into my office for consultation.

Not that I was looking for more business on a day that was absolutely perfect for sailing. But professional courtesy demanded that I hear whatever problem he saw fit to bring to our attention.

“I’m having a little problem with my ex-wife,” he explained.

“Doesn’t everyone? What kind of problem would require a detective rather than a lawyer?”

“She’s haunting me.”

“All exes do that.”

“Not like this. It’s way out of the ordinary. I explained the matter to the lady here and she very kindly and graciously permitted me to see you on short notice. Hope you don’t mind?”

“He doesn’t,” Iris assured him, closing the door and adding that wandering spouses and vanished partners were my cup of tea. As if I drink tea. Well, maybe an occasional Darjeeling to ward off sniffles.

“When I first met her I thought she was everything I ever wanted,” the walk-in confided. “How could I know she was the jealous type? Not that I gave her any cause to be, but it went from bad to worse until we divorced. Now she’s back from God knows where and planning God knows what. Murder, maybe.”

“Let’s not be alarmist. If she’s stalking you, consult a lawyer and get a restraining order.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Or the police.”

“They can do nothing. No crime has been committed—yet. And she has the perfect alibi in case one is. You see, sir, she’s been dead for years.”

“But the gravediggers forgot to seal the coffin?”

“Dead to the world, I mean. After the divorce, she disappeared. I mean she vanished. Years passed and not a word from her. It was as if she was dead. We assumed she was and had her legally declared. That should have ended it, once and for all.”

“And now she’s back? How can you be sure it’s not your imagination playing tricks?”

“Consider the evidence. Midnight calls that die when you answer. The lingering scent of her perfume. A moving shadow that ends as soon as you glimpse it. Whisperings in empty rooms. It’s one thing after another. What can we do to stop her? You can’t accuse a ghost of murder, can you?”

Nice legal point. I’d made up my mind that the guy was either the victim of a plot so ingenious Hollywood should buy it or else a guilt-ridden victim of depression with the imagination of a thriller writer. But at that moment, something clicked; I began to entertain a very different explanation.

The more he went on, elaborating details of a supernatural stalker, the more I got the sense not so much of a client, but of someone posing as such. Why would he do so? What did he hope to gain? I took a closer look at the man and keyed on his facial characteristics. I pride myself on never forgetting a face even though it sometimes takes a while before the bell rings and the light flashes. I was certain that I knew him from somewhere, yet not personally or familiarly. Where and when had I seen that face before? Once I answered that riddle, I’d have the solution not to his mystery, but to mine.

I played along without letting on that I was wise to his game. Not that I wanted to play. It was still a perfect day for sailing and I was overdue for my favorite recreation. Escaping to the water was my game plan, but fate had not been kind. It inflicted me with a legal shouting match, a medical school whiz kid preaching the virtues of longevity, and the sinister plot of a presumably supernatural assassin.

I could of course blame Iris for letting this character in the door, but I wasn’t about to do that. It’s hard to fault a woman who combines a keen mind, sharp eye, sharper tongue, dash of bright wit and slap of dark humor. She’s the kind who could have brought order to Sam Spade’s chaotic files and Sam’s even more chaotic private life. “All dames are deceptive except your office manager,” as Spade once remarked of his Effie. It’s in my book of detective quotations. You could look it up.

I would gladly have palmed the case on one of my associates, but both Raul and Paula were out on investigations. I kept a poker face as the drop-in gave me details of his late wife’s marital vexations and post-mortem intrusions. Then he stopped and asked my opinion.

“Don’t answer the phone,” I said. “Or change your number.”

“It’s not as simple as that. What do you make of the perfume scent? The whisperings? The moving shadows?”

“A shrink would tell you that it’s your own subconscious desire to be reunited with a wife you lost.”

“God forbid! I have no such desire. I want to be rid of her. How would you deal with a haunting?”

“Pack up, leave the scene and relocate elsewhere,”

“And just where would I go? And how would I live? Could I be certain she wouldn’t follow me? I think she’s trying to create a state of havoc in my mind to make it seem I’m imagining all this, and make easier for me to have an accident. Surely you see the pattern here? The hands of the police are tied if no crime has been committed and the criminal isn’t flesh and blood. I hope your answer isn’t the same.”

“I frankly don’t believe in ghosts: not in fiction, film or life. So why don’t we start at the other end? Let’s assume she’s alive. That’s why I’d suggest changing your address or leaving town.”

“Can you guarantee she won’t follow me wherever I go?”

“Not if I’m following her–or whoever is responsible. I can be a shadow man in my own right.”

“You put a lot of faith in your powers, don’t you?”

“It helps pay the rent.”

“You assume this is something physical or material. Suppose it isn’t? Suppose we’re dealing with something far darker than the case of an embittered ex. This could be a curse. If it is, well, your faith in the rational may be shaken. You may have to change your mind about the dead returning to life.”

“If she’s a ghost, you’re wasting your time and mine. What you need is an exorcist.”

“The last thing I need is an exercist. I work out three times a week with a trainer. But if, as you say, I’ve wasted my time here, you’re not going to charge me for that, are you?”

When you hear a question like that, it’s time to cut the caper and run to your boat.

“I like your sense of humor, pal, especially the exercise bit, and the wife turned spooky avenger, but the guy hasn’t been born who can fool me,” I said, rising and shooing the haunted husband to the door.

“How did you know?” he asked with a rueful smile, abandoning the pretense.

“You made the mistake of assuming a detective doesn’t read detective stories. I remembered your face from a dust jacket photo. The faint smile, the little squint in your right eye and the small mole near your mouth—all gave you away. You were testing me, weren’t you? Trying out your latest plot to see what a real detective’s reaction would be to an otherwise incredible story. Am I right?”

“I must say I’m impressed. If you’ve no objection, I’d like to make you a character in my next novel.”

“Not unless you want a lawsuit on your hands. Now off you go, sir, I’m a busy man.”

Iris had gone on a long lunch break—she mentioned something about doing her hair or nails or both, time permitting, given her talent for maximizing an extended lunch hour. Raul or Paula would be back by then and either was capable of handling the calls, visitors and office routine until she returned with her newly styled hair or newly painted nails, or both. My calendar was clear and my time was now my own.

I locked up and broke the speed limit to Yolanda’s to pack tamales wrapped in banana leaves (not corn husks) and a few Modelos to go, in case I decided to spend the night anchored under the luminous moon and radiant stars. Then I steered the Dazzler out of the narrow marina into the spacious Delta.

Give me a small boat, a sunny day and fresh breeze and you can have whatever else the world offers. The late afternoon wind freshened. Sunlit waters rippled and shimmered in patterns of gold. A squadron of wild geese honked navigational guidance signals as they passed overhead in a perfect V formation except for a single straggler who was either tiring or entranced by the world beneath his wings.

I was exactly where I wanted to be, setting out into a world of channels and sloughs, orchards and vineyards, tourist-beckoning river towns and sleepy settlements where tourists wandered aimlessly.

Here, I could forget about challenged professors, wise guys and wiseguys, troubled little sisters and remorseful big sisters, purportedly haunted husbands, spammers and scammers, card sharps and carjackers, true crimes and fiction spinners. I had left all that behind. I was a free man. I had arrived.

Time to start the journey.