Look down some dark midnight street, into the black recesses of a smoky dive where the scarred barroom floor is carpeted by broken teeth and dreams, and you will find him there. He is the private detective who turns over the rock of city life, doing the kind of work not likely to boost the sale of fedora hats. Listen to the husky saxophone's wail, lifting and dropping in sad echoes off hard buildings. The click of heels on the harsh noir sidewalk you hear through the black night is The Blue-Eyed Indian.* "You the Injun who's been axing questions?" I batted my baby blues at him, sought to emphasize the Irish portion of my pedigree.
He wasn't having any of it. "You're trespassing." He and the other fellow laid hands on me. I thought I was going to be taken to the limo, but I was wrong. They picked me up, carried me to the canal, and tossed me in. I bobbed to the surface of some of the most unpleasant water in which I have ever bathed. I got a close-up look at some floating water cabbage and hyacinth. Something along the far bank that looked like a log eased under the surface. I decided I'd had enough of the rinse cycle and began to struggle up the muddy bank in my dripping suit.
