alexpgp | LJ Idol 7.0: Introduction

I came out of a sound sleep to the sound of a ringing telephone. I picked up the receiver on the second ring, a neat trick considering I don’t own a handset with a receiver.

“Yeah?” I croaked into the mouthpiece. “Hello? Who’s this?”

“Hey, Mac,” said a familiar voice. “Sam Spade, here. Got a minute?”

“Do I have a minute?” I repeated Spade’s question with a growing sense of incredulity and then spat back: “Do you know what time it is?”

“Of course,” said Spade. “It’s really the only time I can call and get a hold of you. You know that.”

I said something unprintable.

“Now don’t get all huffy and hang up the phone,” said the detective, and I could hear the scrape of a match as Spade lit one of his cancer sticks. “I’m working on a job whose subject you might find interesting.”

“Yeah?” I answered, still sore at being awakened in the middle of the night. “What subject?”

“You,” he said.

“What’s the gag?” I asked. My curiosity suddenly was piqued.

“A certain party engaged me to do a rundown on you—enough info to make it sound like an introduction.”

“Who?”

“That’d be telling, chum.”

“So if you’re not going to tell me who, why are you calling me?”

“I figure I’d give you a chance to clear up any errors I may have made digging up this dope. Do you want to hear what I have?”

I sighed, quietly. “Shoot,” I said.

“You’re a fairly regular guy, educated in the public schools, served in the Marines. You’ve got a technical background and you speak Russian and French. You work as a translator and interpreter, and you travel a lot. All that jake with you?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve worked in the publishing industry, the travel industry, and as an entertainer in a bar in Buffalo and on Broadway—”

“Under Broadway,” I interrupted.

“Huh? Under Broadway, you say?” Spade sounded surprised.

“Yeah,” I said. “I had a really short run as a stage magician in a theater under Broadway. I was on a bill that included a sword swallower and a geek.”

“That must’ve been a hell of a way to make a living,” said Spade.

“Tell me about it,” I said. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. It says here you’ve done some writing outside your work, mostly non-fiction, but the past couple of years, you’ve been a part of some kind of writing competition on something called a ‘live journal’. Probably one of those ‘on line’ net gizmos you’ve told me about, from about eighty years from now, right?”

“On the nose,” I said. “And I’m about to do it again, for a third time.” I heard Spade draw heavily on a hand-rolled cigarette, so I took advantage of the pause to ask: “C’mon, Sam, tell me—who are you collecting this information for, anyway?”

“Listen, old pal,” said Spade, and let loose with a couple of wicked coughs, “you know that pamphlet that came packaged with my shamus badge in the Rice Krispies box? Well, that booklet says if I tell everyone who I work for, someone will come to take my badge away, and I wouldn’t like that, so stop asking.” He paused for a beat and then continued: “Are you going to be more active in something called a ‘green room’ this time around?”

“Well—” I began, and hesitated.

“Quit stalling,” said Spade, “I don’t have all night. Will you or won’t you?”

“I’m going to try to be more active,” I said.

Spade snorted in disgust. “I’ll put that down as a ‘no’,” he said.

“Wait a second, Sam, that’s not fair—”

“What’s not fair was Miles getting bumped by the O’Shaughnessy dame,” interrupted Spade. “All you mugs who go around saying ‘I’ll try’ make me sick, because it’s ten to one you won’t even budge your little finger, and about a hundred to one against there being any result.”

“You finished?” I asked.

“Yeah, well—” Spade paused. “Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions, but I’m just calling it the way I see it. No offense intended.”

“None taken,” I said. “To be frank, I'm aware I've been pretty insular the past couple of years. I didn't do much in the Green Room and didn't comment on other posts all that much, either. Shy, I guess. I'm working on it, okay? Anything else?”

"Yeah, there's one thing I can't put my finger on, so maybe you can straighten me out," said Spade. "Why do you do this writing contest? It can't be for the prize money, because there isn't any. So why? And please don't hand me any high-sounding horse puckey that'll make me want to get sappy and burst out singing some Gullah spiritual about love and peace."

"Well, paraphrasing the answer of a Russian acquaintance of mine who used to fly in space, the reason I do it—the bottom line—is I love to write. Is that answer good enough for you?"

"It most certainly is not, but it'll have to do," said Spade. “Anyway, thanks for your time. I’ve got enough for my report. And I’m sure you’ve guessed by now who it’s for.”

“Yeah, I have," I said. "I should have figured it out long ago. But now I need to get back to sleep. Good night, Sam."

“So long, pal,” said Spade. “Though I'm not sure you've actually been awake.”

I hung up the phone, put my head back on my pillow, and fell asleep so fast it made me think Spade was right.