SOMETHING SMELL FISHY? DON’T FLOUNDER. CALL HALIBUT.

That’s what my business card reads. I haven’t changed it in fifty years. Never saw the need.
I’m Harrison Halibut. That’s my real name. Sounds like something someone would make up, but that’s not the case. I was born with it. It’s real. 

Everyone calls me Hal.

I’m a private eye. I’m licensed and everything, totally legit. I don’t do divorce work, and I don’t do surveillance. Actually, I don’t do much of the stuff you ordinarily think a PI does. I do pre-emptive stuff. I stop bad things from happening. That’s what I get paid for. I sense things, and I’m aware of vibes;I extrapolate from that. I take the vague and make it concrete. I un-fuzz the fuzzy. And then I take action if it is needed. Or I let things unfold naturally. Or maybe with a little help. Sometimes, they need a little help. 

It’s a niche, a specialized segment of the market. No one else does this. I’m good at it, and it pays well. At least when I get paid for it. Often I don’t, but that’s by choice.

I do favors for friends. If they have bucks and can afford to give me some, great. I’ll take it. But if they don’t, that’s cool, too. As long as they’re my friend. 

It’s hard to believe, but I’ve made a pretty good living at this for a long time. Somehow, I’ve been allowed to grow old. I’m not fat, gray, bald or dead. I’m still here. 

Yesterday, I ran into Claire on the street. Somehow, she is still here, too. I hadn’t seen her in years, but she still looked great. She looked exactly the same as she did back in the day, only older. Slightly older. 

In a Proustian flash, I was blasted back to the beginning of my career – to a thing that happened a long time ago – the first time I solved a problem for a friend and got paid for it.
I did it for Claire. She didn’t pay me at the time because she had no money then. She paid me years later when she had some. 

She didn’t have to pay me then either, but she did. She never had to pay me.
She’s my friend.

#

There was ABSOLUTELY NO DANCING ALLOWED at The Strand Bar & Grill. The faded, hand-printed sign hanging on the wall near the men’s room made this quite clear. Why anyone would ever even consider dancing in The Strand was uncertain. There was no juke box, no room for a band to play, no radio, no sound system, no music of any kind. But you can never be too careful, and the sign proved to be an effective deterrent.
I never saw anyone dance there. Ever.
In the musty, faded puke green and brown, beer-and-a-shot bar, Claire and Marci were like fresh sudden springtime sunshine, sneaking in through a crack in the ceiling and infusing the old saloon with the possibility that all life on earth just might not curl up and die in the next hour or two. But only if they stuck around. If they left, all bets were off.

I was a kid—nineteen—but Claire and Marci were even younger. They were in high school—maybe sixteen. We were all way too young to be drinking here. Or anywhere for that matter. The drinking age was twenty-one. But the two ancient German guys who owned the place were likely legally blind and hadn’t asked anyone for ID since Nixon ran for president the first time. So, there we were sharing The Strand with regulars like Two-Beer Tony, who only liked warm beer. He always ordered two beers at a time— one to drink and one to get warm while he drank the first.

Drafts were fifteen cents. We were half a century younger than anyone else in the place.
The girls wore big grins and what might have been their moms’ prom dresses—frilly and delicate. But they had each added flashes of psychedelic colors—scarves, hats with ribbons, sunglasses and sewn on patches. They reeked of patchouli oil, which threatened to overcome The Strand’s persistent odorous combo of stale beer and urinal cake. Perhaps they had broken the bottle. Or poured it over their heads. Or both.

It was party time. It was ten AM. 

They were probably stoned. They were both pretty, but Claire was a true stunner— movie star beautiful and stacked. Her blond hair hung straight down, framing her healthy peach colored face. Today, she sported lipstick and make-up that was totally unnecessary but had the effect of making her look cosmopolitan rather than cheap.  Marci was the kind of perky, pretty best friend that every beautiful girl must have—gorgeous in their own right but no threat. Nobody could be a threat to Claire, and she knew it.

I was eating a bowl of fifty-cent chili—breakfast. They swept in, spotted me in my booth, and sat down—both across from me, their bodies touching. That’s how they were. They were very close. They called themselves The Dykes, but who knows what they meant by that. It might have meant they were gay, or maybe it meant they were tough, no-bullshit gals. Or maybe they just liked each other a real lot, which is what I think they would have said if anyone asked them directly. Who knew? Who cared? 

“No school today girls?” I asked.

“School burned down this morning,” deadpanned Claire.

Marci added “We lit the fire.”

I was pretty sure they were kidding me.

They both giggled. “It’s a holiday, Hal,” said Marci.

“Every day’s a holiday,” added Claire. “Today is Allen Ginsberg’s birthday.”

“June third,” I said. “You might be right.”

“Of course I’m right. It’s also the day Billie Joe MacAllister jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge. The third of June. Like in the song.”

“It’s another sleepy, dusty Delta day,” noted Marci.

“School is cancelled. It’s a state law. School is automatically cancelled when two or more cool things converge.”
I had to smile at this. The girls often made me smile. They were funny, and you could never be sure when they were putting you on. My uncertainty showed through my smile.
Claire noted this and clarified “Actually there’s some kind of anti-drug assembly, which we had to skip out on.”

“We’re high on life,” said Marci  They laughed. 

I laughed too. The girls were clearly high on something this morning. 

Claire flashed a twenty at me. “We got your chili, Hal, and your beers. However many you’re having. It’s on us. Happy holidays.”

“Did you guys rob a bank? Or did somebody die and leave you a fortune?”

“We’ve got a mysterious benefactor, Hal. This is just the tip of the iceberg.” Claire replied.

“Hence, today’s outing. We’re having drinks here, lunch at Sam’s, then a drive out to the lake—I got daddy’s car—we’ll hang out there and maybe even swim a little.” 

Claire was excited. She bounced playfully on the hard wooden bench and continued. “And The World’s playing at The Drowning Pool tonight. They’re our favorite band. A full fun day. Dykes’ Day Out if you will. But you could come if you want.”

Well, yeah, I did want to. That’s pretty much how my life played out in those days—I drifted along and went with the flow. I didn’t plan much, but plenty of stuff sought me out and dragged me along for the ride. Claire and Marci were often the draggers. 

But, no—I declined. Looked like it was their private day, despite the kind invitation. I stayed there a while and finished my chili and a few beers, which they did pay for, and I thanked them profusely.

“Your thanks should be directed to Claire,” said Marci. “This mysterious benefactor is totally hers, not mine.”

“Yeah, I’m digging the money,” Claire added.

“Money can have its place,” I commented. “Even if one rejects societal norms and prioritizes community and experience, as I imagine you both do. It can sometimes allow one to indulge even more deeply into community and experience.”

Claire got my point. “Yeah,” she said.  “Plus you can buy things with it.”
Once again, as usual, the girls made me smile.

Claire went on. “But this is just too darned easy. I don’t have to do anything, and still, this guy showers me with gold.”

“He wants something,” I informed her as if she didn’t already know.

“I know. It seems too good to be true. It smells kind of fishy, Hal.”

I made note of the smell as I went on with my day.

#

Early June—the sweetest, most gentle time of year. Warm but not too hot with summer’s promise budding all around and that unidentifiable thick immersive scent in the air. Kinda smelled like snakes, as John Prine said Paradise smelled like. You could almost see that bouquet floating in the air, hazing everything up like white pollen. It was both soothing and intoxicating. 
Public Square is a small park in the center of town. Its trees and grass were a lush moist green, contrasting with the crisp early June air. I sat on a bench. The morning go-to-work crowd had long since made it to their offices, and the lunch parade would not begin for a while. So it was quiet.  I watched the humans approach and pass by one at a time as if choreographed.
I thought maybe I’d go to Sam’s for lunch and meet up with Claire and Marci again, but it was still a while before they would be there so I crossed the street and went into Buster’s Corner where I could easily kill a few hours.

#

Buster’s Corner was another old man’s beer-and-a-shot joint. There were lots of them in those days. Buster was usually behind the bar.

A former heavyweight boxer who rumor had it was this close to getting a title shot at Joe Louis in 1949 just before The Brown Bomber retired. Buster did what a lot of washed up fighters do—he returned to his home town and opened up a saloon.  He had some kind of congenital heart defect, which slowed him down a bit. Despite that, he was still known to throw a few punches in anger. so you were smart not to piss off the big man, and few did. He was large and scary—still looked and acted like he could be champ or at least beat the living crap out of you if you misbehaved. 

Buster’s son Ray was perched at the upright piano in the corner. The dude was no amateur. He was a serious musician. He helped his dad when things got busy—clearing bottles off tables, sweeping the floor, helping tend. But he was really there for the piano. He would plunk out some Mozart or Satie or Gershwin or McCartney or Morton (that would be Jelly Roll) or even some of his own stuff. Ray was a pro boxer, too, a middleweight, nowhere close to his old man’s former level. He moonlighted as muscle for a local small-time Irish punk hood. “Just another way to use these talented hands,” he would say as he admired his fingers splayed out like peacock feathers. Ray was no kid—early thirties maybe.  

The place was nearly empty in the late morning—one middle-aged guy in a shabby suit, alone at the bar crying into his beer. And now me. 

I was greeted by Ray’s stately and serene plunking, some abstract minimalist thing dripping out of his impressionistic head—one of his subtle jazzy originals. It should have sounded incongruous in this sleazy dive, but it didn’t. It just served to underscore the quiet desperation that was so pervasive here. It was soundtrack stuff—background for the movie you felt like you were in when you were there.

I ordered a Steg and sat at the bar. Buster laid it out in front of me, and I picked it up and wandered over to the piano. This was where the soul of the place was throbbing.  I wanted to be closer to it.

I stood there for a long minute, beer bottle in hand, until Ray slowly ran out of gas.  The plunks got further and further apart, then they finally stopped altogether. Ray wheeled around on the stool and looked up at me.

“Requests, Hal?”

“I liked that piece.”

Ray asked if I wanted to hear it again. Actually, I would have liked that, but I doubted he could recreate it. It was improvisation. I told him no.

“Just as well,” he replied. “Can’t get stale. Gotta keep moving on.” 

I’m not tall, but I towered over Ray as he sat there and looked up at me. I made him look helpless.  He didn’t like looking helpless so he stood up.   He was much taller than me and a muscular dude.  Now, it was me who felt small. He walked over to the bar and ordered a Steg from his dad. He didn’t pay for it.

He gave me a subtle nod and led me to the back of the joint where he used a key to unlock a door to reveal an alley with a small grassy patch that was surrounded by  grime, grease, and dirt. I saw a rat scurry away. It was the size of a corgi but looked much meaner. 

“Daddy used to fry up catfish back when he did more food. Still does it once in a while. Did some the other day. That fish smell lingers, doesn’t it? I think the rats dig it.”

Ray sipped his Steg as he showed me around. He was very pleased to be revealing his secret place to someone new.

“You like this spot?” he asked. “My private sanctuary. Nobody comes back here but me. I use it to get my head together. Sometimes, I camp out here for days at a time. Keep a sleeping bag stashed over there. Nobody else has a key. Daddy gives me space. Everybody gives me space, and somehow, this dump calms me down.”

Ray lit up a butt and didn’t offer me one. He puffed out the smoke with a gust like he was blowing out birthday candles.

“Not good form for an athlete,” I said. 

“I’m not an athlete. I’m a boxer.”

“And a piano player,” I added for him. 

“That too. At least I’ll be able to do that for a while. Unlike the boxing.”

“What’s up, man? You’re way too young to retire.”

He patted his chest. “I got the same thing the old man has,” he said. “Bad ticker. The boxing commission hasn’t found out about it yet. I just found out about it. But, just like Daddy, I’m gonna keep fighting.”

“How bad is it?”

“It’s bad.” And he patted it again. “But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you,” he went on. I looked at him questioningly.

“Those girl friends of yours,” he said. “Those two pretty hippie dykes …”

“Yeah. You mean Claire and Marci? What about them?”

“That’s what they are, right? Dykes?”

“Well, that’s what they call themselves, but I’m not exactly sure what they mean by it. They’re tough chicks.”

“I met them across the street at The Strand a couple weeks ago. They’re awful cute. Especially that Claire girl. How well do you know them?”

“Pretty well. They’re my friends. They’re fun. They’re cool.”
“So if they’re not real dykes then what’s the story on Claire? Does she have a boyfriend? Is she available?”

Ray was starting to piss me off. “She’s way too young for you, Ray. She’s underage.” The age meant less to me than the fact that Claire was my friend. Nobody messes with my friends. But I thought the legal threat might put the fear of God into him.

It didn’t. “No such thing as underage when you look like she looks,” he said. 

“It’s illegal, Ray— what you’re thinking about.”

“Well, all of us do illegal things all the time. Just one more.”

“This is not cool, Ray. Stay away from her.”

“You’re a day late and a dollar short, Hal. This is happening. She likes me.”

Ray was staring me in the eye, almost daring me to do something more than talk. But, for now, I stuck to talking, and then said “I think maybe she likes your money.” 

“My money comes from me. She likes me. Stay out of it.”

That’s what I was going to do. Then I looked at Ray’s grinning pale face. 

“Stay away from her, Ray. Back off,” 

He gave me a sly smirk, almost a sneer. “No can do. I got big plans for that dyke. I got a lot of lessons to teach that little schoolgirl.”

He laughed. The air no longer smelled like snakes. It smelled like rotting catfish.  

“What are you, anyway?”  he asked. “Her dad?”

“Just her friend.”

“Well, mind your own business, friend.”

“This is my business.”

He started to walk back into the bar. 

“Your piano playing isn’t really very good,” I said, just loud enough for him to hear as he was moving away. He stopped in his tracks and turned back.
“You’re wrong, Hal. I’m good. I went to Julliard. I’ve won prizes, competitions.”
I wasn’t making this stuff up. I can see right through pretenders like Ray.  “That was all a long time ago. Now you suck. You’ve lost it.”

He laughed louder than before. “You’re an expert on piano playing I guess.”

“I know what I like. You’re accurate and precise, but there’s no depth of emotion. You’re not original. There’s nothing individual there.”

“My professors would disagree. So would Claire.”

I decided to expand on my analysis of this loser. “You suck as a boxer, too.”  

“I’m undefeated.”

Once again, I wasn’t making anything up. I had seen one of Ray’s bouts. I know a faker when I see one, and a faker who doesn’t know he’s faking can be very dangerous. 

“What, three fights?” I asked. “And they were all stiffs. You’re slow, and your feet get crossed.  Your shoulders are too tense so you lose power. You telegraph your punches. Wait til you fight someone who knows what they’re doing. You’re going down.”

He went into his fighter’s stance, fists at the ready. “Do you know what you’re doing?” 

“I’m not a fighter,” I said. “Or a piano player. But I can see. And hear.”

He took a mock swing, not really trying to hit me. 

Somehow, I was starting to get into this. I was getting under this guy’s skin.

“You suck, Ray.”

He took another swing. This was a real one, and he hit me in the jaw. It hurt like hell, but I didn’t let him see that. I barely flinched.  My mouth was bleeding a little.

“Your father sucks too.”

This really pissed him off. He adored his dad. Dads are sacred. He swung at me again and  missed— tried it again and again. I dodged, and he missed each time.

“My dad is a great man,” he said between heavy labored puffs. Ray kept swinging, gasping for breaths. I backed off a little further with each swing. He was really sucking wind now. Still he kept approaching and swinging.

His face got red, and I could see it throbbing now. Sweat dripped down into his eyes. I did some Ali style bob and weave dancing, bouncing on my toes, taunting him, waving my hands in a ”bring it on” motion. He continued swinging and missing, swinging and missing, each time with more effort than before. 

“I don’t suck,” he said, running out of breath. He swung wildly. I ducked, and he missed.
“My dad doesn’t suck.” Louder this time. He swung even more wildly, hitting only air. This action was wearing on him.

For a brief second, he stopped and our eyes met. I stared him down. His eyes bulged out, and the veins in his forehead looked like they might burst. He took a deep breath, gathering up all his remaining strength.  Then his right arm snapped towards me as if sprung loose from a trap—one enormous roundhouse aiming for my face, which missed off to the left.

That swing drained the life out of him,  causing him to whirl around in a full circle and fall to the ground.

Trying to laugh it off, he managed to spit out as he laid there, “fighting with wimps can get you dizzy.” 

His legs buckled when he tried to get up. He fell back down. 

I just watched and observed, trying not to feel anything. My anger was too deep for me to even recognize it. 

But he wasn’t done yet. Up again. Down again. Harder this time. I wasn’t touching him. I was observing coldly. Then he stayed down. 

After a few seconds, he moved slightly as if he were going to try one more time to get up, but he had nothing left.

He laid there, helpless. You could see him twitch as if he was thinking about trying to get up one more time. Then his eyes glazed over, and his hands rose to his chest where they stayed. He held them there loosely. Then the grasp got tighter. Then it turned into a clutch.

He got redder and redder. I could see his chest going up and down, in and out, slower and slower.

I stood there watching, not moving. Then the red began to dissipate, and the flesh tone returned.  Ray slowly, subtly turned a deathly pale white. 

And then he stopped moving altogether.

Something palpable happens when a life stops. You feel the stillness, the absence. You know something has changed.

Ray was gone, and no one was likely to find him for a while.

#

The dude had a bad ticker. He shouldn’t let himself get worked up like that. It was a shame. Yeah, it was a shame.  

Two days later, I was again having breakfast at The Strand when Claire and Marci strolled in. They were less celebratory than last time—no fancy vintage clothes like then, just their usual hippie-girl torn jeans and peasant blouses. But they were still laughing, probably still stoned. Life was a non-stop party for them. 

Apparently, they had less money now, too. No one flashed a twenty. They paid for their two beers with a quarter and a nickel.

“Claire’s admirer has vanished,” Marci said. 

“Haven’t heard from him lately,” Claire added.

“Might be for the best,” I chimed in.

“Yeah, I think so,” said Claire. “The guy totally weirded me out. He wanted something, and he was gonna get it. Or try like hell to get it. In fact, he was already trying like hell. He was a creep and probably a dangerous creep. The whole thing felt totally wrong, totally fishy.”

Then she smiled at me. “Your lip’s a little swelled up, Hal, and there’s some dried blood there. Cut yourself shaving? Walk into a door? Get into a fight? But you’re no fighter.”

“Yeah? You should see the other guy,” I said.  We all laughed.

“Yeah, right,” Claire said. “But seriously, I would gladly pay you, Hal, pay you big time to make that guy disappear.”

I sipped my beer. “Some day, Claire, some day.”

THE END