Nick Remington and I were in the middle of our Beam Break waiting for something to happen. Mostly, we bounced ideas back and forth. Sometimes it worked, and we solved a case.
This time, think was going thunk.
Nothing was happening.
“Ready for seconds, Matt?” Nick said as he schlossed two fingers of Jim Beam into my mug. Once the Jim Beam was poured, what choice did I have? I added a finger of black coffee and reached over to do the same for him.
It was a cold, city-winter day in January. You know the kind. The snow is gray, the brownstones are gray, and the sky is indistinguishable, like an old black-and-white flick. The late-afternoon sun had given up in disgust. On the street, three floors below, muffled shapes moved through gray mists created by cold air and automobile exhaust, each blob chancing not being run over by one of the cabbies taking bets.
Spike, my twenty-one-pound Abyssinian, was asleep on the corner of my desk with his back to the window. He didn’t like this day any more than I did. Of course, he couldn’t make it any better with Jim Beam and coffee. Still, Spike must have known something was about to happen because he lifted his huge head seconds before someone knocked hard on the door.
Archer came in without waiting for a “Come in.”
Spike pushed his hind end toward the ceiling as his front paws slid across my desk, his sharp, feline teeth exposed in a luxuriant yawn. Graceful, as only an overweight cat can be, he moved toward the edge of the desk toward Archer, anticipating an affectionate massage.
Archer didn’t disappoint, stroking Spike behind the ears before getting down to business.
“There’s a Mrs. Hansen here to see you, gentlemen.”
Archer started working for Hyde & Hyde Investigations when her mother and father were Hyde & Hyde. Joe Hyde, my brother, and his wife, Nancy, died a few years back. A car bomb meant for a client did the job. They left the agency to me, the younger brother. The only condition was that I take care of their gangly, bratty teenage daughter. Yeah, my niece, so I can talk about her that way.
At the time, I was about to sign on for another hitch in the navy. I had twenty years under my belt, but I was going for thirty. I decided it could wait and put in for extended leave. I hadn’t taken a day off in three years, so I had plenty of time on the books. I was determined to find Nancy’s and Joe’s killer. That meant I inherited a daughter and a business. As soon as I solved the caper, as the movie PI’s say, I would be back flying off the deck of a ship. Archer would have to go to some boarding school. Maybe I’d visit her on leave if the town had a port o’ call.
My initial investigation, with Archer’s able assistance, led me to Nick Remington. Nick was no suspect, though. He ran a detective agency in Harlem. Joe and Nancy helped him on previous cases, hauling in cat burglars and trapping adulterers. Petty crimes mostly, but he felt he owed one to their memory. He’s that kind of guy.
We bounced theories off each other’s noggins and headed into some of the seediest parts of downtown. Who knew that would lead us to the killers in some of the swankiest parts of uptown? We eventually nailed the killers: a respectable businessman and his respectable wife with a not-so-respectable sideline—providing a front for a massive (and quite illegal) gambling operation. It turned out Joe and Nancy were getting close to hauling them in when the mob sent a hit man with a message. Cost them their lives. But Nick? Nick didn’t even bat an eyelash when it came time to make the collar. Yeah, like I said, he’s that kind of guy.
Nick also gave me some good advice. Not so much on the detective business, but on staying alive. You know, like when someone points a gun at you, duck before they pull the trigger, not after. Stuff like that. He watched me follow his advice for a while, but after a couple of slugs to the jaw, I knew I needed a full-time guardian angel. That’s when we joined forces. His fairly lucrative detective agency, plus my fairly lucrative detective agency, added up to our fairly lucrative detective agency. We became known as the black and white Mutt and Jeff. He is short and powerful—a wrestler’s body. I’m long and lean—a runner’s body. He is black with white hair. I’m white with black hair. We call ourselves Hyde & Seek Investigations. Kind of catchy, isn’t it?
Nick didn’t even mind not having his name on the sign. He said, “If they know who you are, it makes detective work harder.” Yep. He’s that kind of guy.
“Does she look like she can pay?” slurred Nick. He clearly had too much Jim Beam today.
“She looks real classy,” answered Archer, saying “clashy” instead of classy, mocking Nick, a mischievous glint in her eye.
“Show her in,” I said. We slid the evidence of our Beam Break in the desk drawers, grabbed some paperwork, and assumed our tough-guy, private-eye demeanor. Archer returned, followed by what appeared to be a large Eskimo or small bear. It was, in fact, a tall woman covered in a scraggly, matted wrap, her bright rose face peeking out of the dark brown fur. I had seen an outfit like it before—on King Lear in an old movie. He was nuts at the time.