The Alternative Detective (Hob Draconian) (3 page)

I’d met him there. It wasn’t long before Kate and I were breaking up, and Harry and I used to meet in Manolo’s bar in Figueretas to push back the little shot glasses of brandy that were so cheap you could hardly afford not to become an alcoholic. When Harry heard I was starting a detective agency, he thought I was crazy.

“You?” he asked. “A detective agency?”

“Me,” I said, rubbing the stringy biceps on my left arm.

“But you don’t know a damn thing about it!” Harry said.

“I’ll tell you something,” I said. “I think there’s entirely too much emphasis put on expertise. I read a while ago about this guy who used to get into hospitals posing as a brain surgeon. He did great cases, operations, everything. Then the authorities would catch up with him and he’d go on and find another hospital.”

“What the hell has that to do with anything?” Harry said.

“It’s obvious what a private detective does. It’s even easier than brain surgery. There are books. And there are books which correct the mistakes of the first books. So what’s the problem?”

“Licensing, for one.”

“I’m not going to set up as a private investigator,” I told him. “I’m going to set up as a research establishment. That’s what a detective does, really. Researches people, or situations, in order to uncover evidence to bring certain things to light. There’s no license needed to be a freelance researcher.”

“Then how’ll people know you’re really a private detective?”

“Word of mouth,” I said.

“It’s cockamamie,” Harry said.

“If you think that’s strange, listen to this: I want you to come into the business with me.”

“Me? Get out of here!” Harry said gruffly. But I could see he was pleased. There’s nothing like a couple of months of retirement on a fun island, with fun people on all sides of you, to bring on a desire to do almost any damn thing as long as it isn’t fun. This is especially true if you’re a short, thickset, balding guy with a heavy jaw like Harry, whom you would never mistake for a fun person. Although he was, of course, in his own way, just like all of us.

We went to my apartment in the Peña. Harry came in, took off his hat, tossed it into the wicker chair, draped himself across the couch like a slug wearing madras shorts, lit a cigarette. He looked me up and down like he was appraising me.

“Are you really serious about this?”

“Look at it this way, Harry,” I told him. “There’s need of a people’s detective agency. Not the usual sort of place that caters only to the wealthy, or at least the affluent middle class. No, what about the poor; what about the hippies; haven’t they any rights? What about the American exiles living abroad, not really protected by local law, and with nobody they can turn to if something goes wrong?”

“What’s wrong with the cops?” Harry asked. “They can’t go to them?”

“Nothing’s wrong with the cops,” I said, “but you know as well as I do, some guy comes to your stationhouse in Jersey City speaking broken English, how much attention is he going to get? He’s not even a voter, for chrissakes.”

“I guess you got a point there,” Harry said.

“This thing can work,” I told him.

“All right, let’s suppose it can work,” Harry said. “I’m the one who knows all about detectives and criminals and cops. What do I need you for? Why don’t I set up by myself?”

“Simple, Harry,” I said. “If you did that, you’d be lonely. What does the money matter to you? You’re retired; you just want something to keep your hand in. Let me be your associate. Your manager. Your boss. Try it, you’ll like it.”

“You know, Hob,” Harry said, “you’re like those hippie kids my son was always hanging out with when he lived here.”

“What’s your son doing now? Still with the longhairs?”

“No. Scott’s running a massage parlor in Weehawken.”

“At least he’s not a hippie,” I said.

Harry shook his head impatiently. He had talked enough about his son.

“Well,” he said, “it’s crazy, but I’ll think about it.”

That’s how I got my man in Ibiza. It was almost as good as being there myself. Almost, but not quite.

IΒIZA

5

Ibiza is like you attached Coney Island to Big Sur and put the whole thing under Mexican rule.

Ibiza and its adjacent island of Formentera lie south of Majorca and Minorca, roughly on a line drawn between Valencia and Marseilles.

The island has a reputation as an international spot for jetsetters. It was one of the world centers of the counterculture back in the sixties and seventies. Many people went to Ibiza to live that dream. A lot of them, and their children, are there still. I had been one of those people.

There are a lot of reasons for Ibiza’s peculiar charm: the dense interpenetration of different layers of society; the constant arrival and departure of the uncountable thousands who make the island a part-time home. There’s prosperity, due in part to Ibiza being one of the favored places to take your ill-gotten gains and live a pleasant life. For a certain type of person, having a good income and living in Ibiza would be two definitions of paradise.

The people come and go. They flow in and out, get into the busses and U-drive-it cars and taxis and fan out over the island. Some have chauffeured cars waiting for them. The ships come in every day from Barcelona and Palma with more tourists, and their cars, Jags and Porsches, that get a lot of wear on their suspensions on the rocky Ibiza roads.

The island is about thirty-five miles long by eight or so wide. Its year-round Spanish population is under fifty thousand. During the summer, over a million people pour in and out.

Ibiza is also one of the important transshipment points on the international heroin and cocaine networks. Not to even bother mentioning marijuana and hashish; let’s stick with the big ones. Ibiza is a convenient spot to off-load goods by sea from laboratories in the south of France, Corsica, Italy, and get them aboard other carriers going to northern Europe or North America.

Some of the finest houses in town are owned by dope dealers. They’re the elite of the Old City, the crowded, twisting, little, cobblestoned streets of the Peña that runs down to the waterfront. On the ten or so blocks of waterfront there are perhaps a hundred or more bars, restaurants and boutiques crowded together.

Ibiza has a big fashion business. There’s a lot of money here. There’s a lot of rivalry here if you’re into crime. Crime is probably the only interesting occupation on the island. It’s the only one people really work at. And kill over.

Ibiza is a great hideaway for all sorts of illegal or semi-illegal people, ranging from ex-concentration camp commandants to topflight art forgers. People tend to congregate here with wealth acquired elsewhere. Other people tend to move in around them, and sometimes succeed in ripping them off. This is a separate layer of crime, distinct from the dope wars.

There are a lot of separate worlds here: ex-Nazis; kept women; homosexuals; almond farmers; police; restaurateurs; dropouts.

There are lots of pretty islands in the Med. What makes Ibiza so special? It’s the lifestyle. What is this lifestyle? A mixture of traditional Ibicenco manners and dropout hippie laid-backedness and peace. On Ibiza, not only are there things to enjoy, there’s the possibility of learning how to enjoy them. That’s important for all sorts of people, including gangsters who want to retire and better themselves.

Ibiza is not one of those places where the natives are invisible. Ibicencos still own most of the property on Ibiza. Some of them are rich. They are a tight society, shrewd, good-humored, passionate, and, above all, tolerant. They are one of history’s great generous-minded people. They are peasants. But whoever heard of peasants being interested in outsiders, willing to talk to them, to make friends with them, to marry them, to do anything for them? Go to a village in the Auvergne or the Marche and see how quickly you’re accepted. Or go elsewhere in Spain, even to Majorca, the next island. Ibicencos aren’t like anyone else. They have handled the tourist invasion well. Ibiza remains Ibiza, not an outpost of England or Canada.

A distinction must be made between Ibicencos and Spaniards. Ibicencos are Spaniards, of course, but they’re not like other Spaniards. In fact, it’s difficult to isolate a single Spanish type, since Spain is intensely regional and can be divided into at least five distinct regions, with many subdivisions possible. Spaniards are not a homogeneous race; they’re a bunch of tribes with a few shared characteristics, living side by side and never quite getting the hang of getting along with each other. Political instability is endemic to Spain, as is violence.

The Ibicencos are part of the Catalan people. But their primary allegiance is not to Catalonia. They are Ibicencos before being Catalans. Ibiza is a distinct and separate civilization. One of the finest the world has produced.

I knew it would be a good idea for me never to go there again.

KATE

6

i called my ex-wife Kate to tell her the news. My daughter Sonya answered. Sonya is fourteen and does real well in school. She lives in Woodstock, New York, and I don’t see her or her younger brother, Todd, anywhere near as often as I should. That’s because it’s difficult for me to see Kate even though we’re long divorced and I’ve married Mylar.

“Hi, kid,” I said, “how are you?”

“I’m fine, Daddy,” Sonya said. “I got straight A’s again on my report card.”

We chatted for a few minutes. Then I knew that I had to say it.

“Listen, darling, I don’t think I’ll be able to come to your graduation week after next.”

“Oh, Daddy! What’s come up this time?”

“It’s a job, honey. Necessary to keep us all eating. I’ll be leaving in a day or two.”

“And when will you be back?”

“Probably three weeks, a month. I am sorry.”

“I know, Daddy. Good luck. Just a moment. Mommy wants to speak to you.”

And then Katie’s voice, a little anxious. “Hob? What’s this about a job?”

“It’s a case for the agency. I can’t tell you much about it. It’ll take a few weeks.”

“Will it pay anything?”

“There’s a bonus arrangement. It could pay pretty well.”

“It would be nice if you could help out with Sonya’s orthodontia. I know it’s not in the agreement, but I just don’t have the money, and she’s a pretty kid, Hob; it would be a shame not to straighten out her teeth now, when it’s relatively easy.”

“Sure, I’ll be able to help.”

“Thanks. Where are you going?”

“Paris.”

“Not Ibiza?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Even going to Paris. Is that such a great idea?”

“All that trouble is in the past,” I said, hoping it was true. “I’ll call you when I get back. How’s that drunken Irish husband of yours?”

“Kevin is fine. He asked me to ask you why you don’t come up to Woodstock any more.”

“Tell him it’s because I can’t stand seeing you with another man.”

“Kevin will be so pleased to hear that. He thought you didn’t care.”

“Katie, why don’t you get rid of that guy and come back to me?”

“You just say that to be gallant. For one thing, you’re still with Mylar.”

“That’s only temporary,” I told her, “until Sheldon makes the big decision and takes her away. Kate, you know it’s always been you.”

Katie laughed. “Hobart, when are you going to take life seriously? You know very well that if I showed the slightest inclination to come back to you, you’d run like a thief in the night.”

“You might have something there. Tell you what, why don’t you and I have one last mad fling at this little hotel I know in Miami?”

“Sure, if I can bring Kevin.”

“I didn’t know he’s a pervert.”

“He’s not. He just likes to talk. He’d probably have a lot to say about something like that.”

“Kate, I don’t think you’re taking me seriously.”

“My dear, you forget that I lived with you for ten years. I ought to know by now when not to take you seriously.”

“And when not to take me at all.”

“I learned that, too, yes,” Katie said. “You’re really going to Paris?”

“That’s right.”

“Hob, take care of yourself. Don’t try to prove anything. And for your own sake, try to stay out of Ibiza.”

“All I’m doing is trying to earn a living,” I told her. “I pay you support, you’ll remember, despite the rapidly increasing wealth of your shyster lawyer husband.”

“Stop that,” Katie said. “Supporting the kids has nothing to do with Kevin. It doesn’t matter how much he makes. They’re yours and mine.”

“I know that. Only kidding. I’ll call you when I’m back.”

“Hob,” she said, “how are things with you and Mylar?”

“The same,” I said.

“Is Sheldon still living with you?”