Two pages from "Sword and Fire"

Sword and Fire
Re-write of first two pages of chapter one

“Daddy,” the boy said.

He was about three I guessed, and I had been watching him as I made my way through Harry’s restaurant to meet Gus at one of the back tables. It was clear he wanted something and he was doing everything he could to get it.

He was sitting in one of those high chairs restaurants provide for parents who have their kids with them. His body, held in place by the tray on the chair, was stretched out as far as it could go toward the dinner rolls on the table. His face was red from the strain and his feet were trying to get traction on air. His mother, if it was his mother, sat with her cell to her ear, yakking away at someone and staring out the window in the direction of Elliot Bay. The boy was exercising tremendous restraint under the circumstances, I thought. He didn’t cry or scream or repeat “mommy” over and over again. Maybe he was used to being ignored or maybe he was already blessedly independent, but without a sound he just kept trying to reach those rolls. Every other stretch, he’d look at this woman to see if things had changed. Then he went back to work. She was mad at him was my guess. God only knows what the boy’s guess was. I wondered if her husband got the same treatment.

As I maneuvered around the chair the boy looked at me, his eyes moist, his lips trembling. He said, “Daddy.”

What could I do? I leaned over the chair, picked up a roll, broke it in half, then in half again, and stood there feeding the kid. His mother, a perfect example of someone who expects to be taken care of, with big earrings and bright red lipstick, mouthed a “thank you” and kept on talking. When the boy was happy again, I took out one of my business cards, wrote a brief note and dropped it on the table. The card read “Matt Chandler: Private Investigations” and gave my address and phone. The note said, “For services rendered, $500.” She glared. I walked. Harry’s Downtown Luncheonette serves anybody.

I looked around and saw Gus sitting at our usual table in the corner by a window. The sun was just breaking through the morning drizzle and it spotlighted the wispy strands of hair that formed a kind of halo around the top of his head. If I believed in heaven, I thought, this is what it would look like -- all of the great people who get the job done and none of the bums who don’t want to bother. I’m a PI and Gus is a cop. We’re two of the guys who make sure the bums don’t take over. It was 12:15 by the clock on wall, so I was a bit early for our 12:30 date.

Gus nodded his head in my direction and waved me into the seat across from him.
“Any trouble getting here?” he said.

I grinned. “No. Why? Am I late or something?” I said. I’ve been to his house, I’ve met his wife; he showed me the ropes when I was just getting started. He’s never asked if I had trouble getting anywhere.

“No, no.” He paused for a click. “It’s just . . .” His voice trailed off. I sat. He groped for the words. “I guess . . .” He stumbled again. Then he looked at me as though he didn’t know for sure that I’d understand. “Do you ever get the feeling that the bums are taking over and you might as well quit and go into hiding somewhere?” he said.

“Jesus, Gus, don’t you go reading my mind like that. I swear, I was just thinking something like that.”

He didn’t believe me. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better. You don’t believe in that stuff.”

“No, but you keep this up ...” I told him about the boy and the rolls and the note I handed to the bum mother and about what I though heaven should be like. I left out the part about the hair. When I was done he grinned.

“That’s what I like about you, Matt; you sure know how to cheer a guy up.”
“So tell me, what’s eating at you?”