I’m Max Callahan, P.I. That stands for Private Investigator if you’re not hip to the detective game like me. You might be more familiar with my uncle Dirty Harry. Dirty Harry Barkowski. He runs a rug cleaning service in Hoboken, New Jersey. He also bowls for the Hoboken Purple Hornets. If you’ve never heard of him, that’s OK, you can keep reading.
Anyway, I do all right. It’s a lonely dangerous job but somebody’s got to do it. I guess that’s me. That and the fact I already had my license from working for the Immediate Response Security Company as a security guard. We called it the IRS as in, “I’m Callahan with the IRS.” That’ll curl your toenails, cookie.
So I went ahead and bought some business cards ($7.29 for 500 at Peebles Printing on East Hubbard Street) some office supplies, a spiral notebook (80 sheets 3”x5” for $2.67 at Staples) plus a coffee maker ($11.48 from Walmart). I rented a walkup office on West Lake Street in Chicago. Madame Gazeebow, a.k.a Cindy Bushelman, occupies the ground floor. She’s a seer, mystic and tells fortunes. Cut-Rate Insurance has the next floor. I’m on the third floor in the back with a view of the alley and a couple dumpsters. Across the hall from me, in the front is the law firm Burleigh and Cross. I put my name on the door – Callahan Investigations – with those stick on letters ($3.94 at Walmart). The V is a little crooked. I was in business.
Nothing happened. The first week I answered the phone, “Max Callahan Private Investigations.” The second week I shortened it, “Callahan Investigations.” Now I just say, “Hello.” It doesn’t make any difference; all I get are spam calls. So I figured I better drum up some business.
First I bought a hat, a classic men’s fedora ($14.79 at French’s Menswear on Roosevelt Road, reduced from $37.99). I figure you gotta have a hat if you’re a detective, right?
Then I went out knocking on doors, introducing myself. I gave out business cards, saying I was new in the area, with no results. I did meet some interesting people, though, like the receptionist babe at Anderson Electric. High-voltage, you know?
So I changed my tactics, taking the CTA Brown line, the elevated train known as the El ($1.25 reduced rate) and visited used car dealers up and down Western Avenue, explaining I specialized in repossessions. That got some business. Eventually I had to buy a car of my own, a used Mustang. If it was good enough for Lieutenant Frank Bullitt, played by Steve McQueen in the movie Bullitt, it was good enough for me ($1299.00 at Auto Supreme Motors – Walk in – Drive out).
I started getting work from Burleigh and Cross, the lawyers across the hall. Remember them? That was mostly surveillance work, following errant spouses. Cut-Rate Insurance also provided some business. Second floor, remember? That was mostly investigating suspicious claims. I picked up some industrial accounts, primarily theft and vandalism. “There were 300 what-ya-ma-call-its here yesterday, where’d they go?” They went into the foreman’s Toyota, that’s where.
So I wasn’t overly surprised when a beautiful blonde walked into my office. Just moderately surprised, usually I can hear people coming up the stairs. You think I’m in an elevator building? Think again, sweetheart. Also who goes calling on detectives at 9:30 in the morning? We might not be up yet.
Myra Landusky, that’s who.
She looked around my office. It isn’t much to look at, furnished mostly from the Salvation Army Thrift Store ($80 for my desk at the N. Clybourn Avenue location; it has one drawer missing) and some curbside refuse collection points and dumpsters. My framed photograph of President Herbert Hoover is an example. It cost me nada, nothing, zip. I wiped the ketchup off with some paper napkins I got from McDonalds. They always give you way more than you need.
“Mr. Callahan?” she asked hesitantly. Her voice sounded like a pawn shop cello, musical and attractive, but out of tune.
“Call me Max,” I told her. “Have a seat.” I gestured toward two chairs in front of my desk. She looked at them as if inspecting them for dirt. She was a smart cookie. She would have been smarter turning the one she selected over, looking at the bottom. I’d used wood screws to fix it so it didn’t wobble. That was Myra Landusky, bold and daring as well as beautiful.
“How can I help you?” I inquired, watching as she crossed one leg over the other. You might think I was admiring her legs. They were admirable but I was concerned about the chair. It creaked a little bit.
“Do you find missing loved ones?” she said plaintively. She sniffled; perhaps she was ready to start crying. Or maybe she had allergies. What do I know? I’m a detective, not an ear, nose and throat doctor.
“Do I find loved ones?” I asked confidently. Then I stopped, thinking about it. Sure, why not? What could possibly go wrong? “Of course I do,” I assured her. I was tempted to reach across the desk and pat her hand, but didn’t. I asked, “Who have you lost?”
She sniffed again, digging in her purse for a Kleenex. “B-b-bluebelle,” she finally managed. “My kitty.”
Adroit questioning on my part, and hesitant answering on hers revealed Bluebelle, her 2-year-old Russian Blue cat ran out her townhome’s door Monday morning and hadn’t been seen since. Bluebelle was neutered, declawed, wasn’t microchipped and hadn’t been away from home overnight before. Boo-hoo!
I recorded this information in my spiral notebook. I’ve found information is key to solving crimes. I’m a crime-solver. I wondered if there was an international aspect to this mystery since Bluebelle was a Russian Blue, mentioning it to Myra Landusky.
“D-d-do you think so?” she responded in a grief-stricken tone.
“Anything’s possible, girlie,” I told her. I also collected $100 for a retainer while assuring her I’d start on her case immediately, postponing everything going on before she’d walked into my life and my office. It wasn’t necessary to mention my only plan was to see a movie, that afternoon. I watched her depart and listened to her footsteps on the stairway. Perhaps she knew where they creaked and squeaked, the sound was soon lost.
I considered how I might go about finding Bluebelle, deciding going to breakfast was a good start now that I was in funds. Grabbing my hat and laptop computer ($114.89 at PC Liquidators) I went downstairs, poking my head in Cindy Bushelman’s (a.k.a. Madame Gazeebow) door.
“Hiya Max,” she greeted me in her normal tone of voice. She’s from Broken Springs, Kansas. Doing professional readings she uses a Romanian accent she’s perfected. Well, maybe not perfected, she’s still working on it. Right now it sounds like someone from Broken Springs who once visited Bucharest. She’s cute as a little button.
“You haven’t seen a blue cat have you?” I asked.
She thought pensively. “No, I haven’t. Have you lost your cat? I don’t think we’re supposed to have pets in the building.”
“Not at all,” I reassured her. “It’s for a case I’m working on.”
“OH!” she said, wide-eyed. She thinks being a sleuth is more exciting and adventurous than it really is. “I haven’t, but I’ll be sure to let you know if I do.”
“Thanks, Cindy.”
“Is there a reward?” she asked. I shook my head and closed the door to her studio, pausing before walking onto the street, making an entry in my notebook ($15.00 Professional Consultation). I’ve found creatively keeping track of expenses is another step on the path to success in the gumshoe game.
I learned early on, mostly through reading detective novels and watching shows on TV, it’s important for any self-respecting Shamus to have a pal in the local police department. Mine was Mabel Watkins, a Chicago Police Department meter maid. She’s about 50 years old and seriously overweight. I tracked her down several blocks away on West Lake Street, writing a parking ticket for a red Lexus.
“What do YOU want?” she greeted me.
“Hiya Mabel,” I responded. “You haven’t seen a blue cat around have you?”
She looked at me suspiciously. “Do you think I’ve got time to be lookin’ for cats?” she asked. “No.”
“What do you think about grabbing some breakfast?” I suggested.
“Nah, I’m busy and besides I already had breakfast. Thanks anyway. Why can’t you start your day like normal people, in the morning?” I didn’t point out it was technically still morning, 11:32.
I figured I’d go to the scene of the crime and look around. I might find a clue in Myra Landusky’s neighborhood, like a book of matches with the address of a Moscow restaurant or an empty half-pint of vodka. I had her address. What could go wrong?
My Mustang wouldn’t start, that’s what went wrong. Plus I found a parking ticket stuck underneath the windshield wiper ($60 at City of Chicago which I noted in my spiral notebook under Transportation Costs) for parking in a loading zone. What was worse, it was signed by Mabel Watkins. I transferred the ticket to a white Prius parked nearby. You never know, maybe the owner would pay it.
I walked to the Ham ‘n Egger restaurant where I could use their free Wi-Fi and get a good breakfast ($12.99 for 3 scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese, 2 bacon strips, 2 sausage links, toast and coffee which I entered in my notebook as Business Breakfast) served by a friendly waitress who had too many facial piercings for my taste. Her name’s Sparrow. She’s the kind of girl who makes me glad I opted for business cards, not refrigerator magnets. Arranging for Windy City Recovery to rescue my car, ($160 Transportation Expense) I checked with Chicago Animal Care and Control who hadn’t seen Bluebelle, making a report on her disappearance. Same with Cook County Animal and Rabies Control, now she was in the system. I thought about calling veterinarians. Google showed me 4,600,000 results for Chicago veterinarians so I discarded that idea, at least temporarily.
With a strong admonishment from Windy City Recovery to get a new battery I drove to Myra Landusky’s address on the Near North Side and double parked out front. I stared at the door Bluebelle had purportedly run out of. No clues there. I wondered, “Where would I go if I was a cat with my first taste of freedom?”
The answer was, “I had no idea.” I’m an investigator, not a freedom-loving feline. While I idled there, considering that, the boys in blue pulled up behind me and turned on their overhead lights. The Chicago Police, not the Boy Scouts. An officer approached my car. It says “We serve and protect” in big white letters down the blue stripe on the side of the car so I rolled my window down asking him, “Where would you go if you were a cat with your first taste of freedom?”
He looked at me strangely. “You can’t park here,” he told me. “Move along.”
“Look, I know Mabel Watkins,” I explained to him.
“Don’t be a jerk,” he told me. “I don’t care who you know, you’re blocking traffic. Pull up there,” he pointed, “like a regular guy and park where you’re supposed to.”
“Will do Officer, but you didn’t answer my question”
“Where would I go? Probably a Cubs game.” I hadn’t thought of that. In the interest of cooperating with local law enforcement I pulled forward and over to the curb. The police car drove off. After I stopped seeing their tail lights I realized I should’ve asked the officer if he’d seen a blue cat. I briefly considered a car chase. All good detectives have car chases, right? Maybe I could squeeze one in later if the Mustang didn’t die out.
Rather than sit there doing nothing and burning gas ($3.44 per gallon at SuperFuel on Lake Street) I decided to get out and knock on doors. You never know, maybe one of the neighbors had seen Bluebelle. I didn’t want to shut the Mustang off for fear of it not re-starting. I left it running and jiggled the key out of the ignition, a trick I’d learned doing repossessions. I locked it up and proceeded to canvass the neighborhood.
“Sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for a…” He slammed the door in my face. “Excuse me ma’am, I’m looking…”
“We don’t want any,” she responded before closing the door.
“Have you seen a blue cat the past few days?” I asked. The old-timer who answered the door chuckled.
“Blue cat! That’s a good one!” He too closed the door, still laughing. Several townhomes in the vicinity left the door unanswered when I knocked including one where I distinctly heard a television set. Once, my knocking set a dog barking although no one answered. In another I saw the curtains open a bit and a suspicious old woman peered out. She didn’t answer her door, either.
“Sorry to bother you, sir, but I’m looking for a cat that one of your neighbors lost, a two year old Russian Blue,” I asked a man who’d just awakened.
“Have you tried the Chinese restaurant up the street?” he answered grouchily.
I’ve heard rumors about Chinese restaurants and cats. I’ve never known them to be substantiated. What could it hurt to ask? This was the best lead I’d had all day, I walked north a couple of blocks and pounded on the back door of Lung Chen Fung’s Restaurant. A stocky young man in an immaculate white chef’s apron opened it. He had a cleaver in his right hand and he looked annoyed. “Whada ya want?” he asked. It was a big, sharp cleaver and I’ve learned NOT to annoy the chef. I had second thoughts about asking after Bluebelle.
“Could you tell me the best way to get to O’Hare Airport?” I asked instead.
He looked at me strangely. “Call an Uber,” he answered. He closed the heavy steel door in my face concluding that line of investigation.
At a loss for directions to take the case, I stopped in Wink’s 24-Hour Food Fair. Like a lot of grocery stores they had a message board where customers posted want ads and messages. Some of them had little tear-off strips with pre-cut telephone numbers. Ads for babysitting, house cleaning, in-home Yoga classes and opportunities to sell your home direct to a home buyer predominated. There were several for lost pets, some featuring photos. I never knew there were so many lost pets.
“Come home Sparky, we miss you!” might be helpful if Sparky could read and happened into the store. “Missing – 8-year-old Irish Setter – answers to Mindy,” was another. An ad mentioning a reward caught my eye, “REWARD – Danny Boy is missing can you help us find him?” Danny Boy was a Cocker Spaniel. They never mentioned that in the song. I tore off one of the little strips with the phone number just in case I stumbled across Danny Boy. There was even a lost cat listed “Adorable Persian Kitty –claws furniture legs – Requires medicine daily,” was a real heart-breaker. Nothing about Bluebelle.
I grabbed a free advertising circular (Big Bargain Hunter – Cook County’s #1 weekly read newspaper) and a free religious tract, (Are YOU on the Road to Salvation? – No, I was on West Belmont Avenue) heading back to my car.
Some interesting stuff was listed in Big Bargain Hunter although I don’t know who’d want just one ski even if it was in good condition. I considered the ‘free pool table, you haul, one small rip’ but decided I’d never get a pool table up my office stairs.
Then I came across it. “FOUND – Young Russian Blue cat, declawed and very sweet, Belmont and Damen Ave.” It had a phone number.
A child answered, “Hullo?”
“Could I speak to your mother or father please?”
“Hullo?”
“Your mother or father, are they there? Could I speak with them?”
“No.”
I was perplexed. The child sounded much too young to be home alone. Then it dawned on me. “Is there someone else there besides you?”
“Nana.”
“Could I speak with Nana please?”
“Okey-dokey.” The phone was put down. Clunk! I waited. Several minutes elapsed before someone picked it up.
“This is Lydia Builderback,” a quivering, quavering voice told me.
“Ms. Builderback, I’m calling regarding the ad in the Big Bargain Hunter about the cat you found.”
“My son-in-law found it. He’s not here.”
“I understand,” I told her. “That sounds like it might be my client’s cat. She lost it on Monday.”
“Careless of her,” the old woman remarked. “It’s around here somewhere.” I heard her voice, away from the telephone, say, “Baby, see where the kitty is.”
“Kitty?”
“Does it answer to Bluebelle, Ms. Builderback?”
She called, “Bluebelle!” and in the distance an answering Meow!
“It seems to,” she told me. “Hard to say.”
“I’d like your address, so my client, a Myra Landusky, could possibly identify the cat. She’s really heartbroken.”
“Oh! Myra Landusky! She lives three doors down! It will have to be after 6:00. That’s when my Bonnie gets home. I never let anyone in if she’s not here. Just this afternoon a suspicious looking man came knocking on the door. I saw him through the window. He was wearing a hat. Who wears a hat these days?”
“Very wise of you, ma’am. About that address?”
Myra Landusky called me that evening after she’d been reunited with Bluebelle. She was ecstatic, telling me she’d let all her friends know what a wonderful detective I was. I explained the retainer she’d left me didn’t cover all the expenses and I’d bill her for the balance.
Her check bounced.
