Nighthawks

“Where do we go from here?” said Betty.

Craven looked at his watch.

“If we leave now we’ll make it back uptown in time to hit the sack by midnight and get some shut eye. This coffee shop gives me the hives. Too quiet.”

“I don’t mean that. I mean what are we doing with ourselves? Besides drinking coffee and trading barbs? We don’t seem to have a purpose. We’re like treadless tires in a muddy rut. Bound for nowhere but life’s junkyard; tossed in among the other discarded daydreams. We once had promise. But look at us now. Two schlubs rubbing nickels together for crummy coffee and a shared cigarette. I swore I’d never puff another one of those things again.”

“Say what you want about each other,” said the counterman, “but leave my coffee out of it. Fresh ground is all we ever serve. I think it’s your state of mind that’s crummy. See that guy sitting over there? He comes in for the coffee. Has three cups. Leaves me a dime tip and tells me to keep up the good work.”

“She meant nothing by it,” said Craven. “Betty’s having an existennial predicament.”

“You mean existential,” said the man seated at the counter. “The feeling that you might as well tie an anchor to your neck and toss it in the Hudson River.” 

“Exactly!” said Betty.

“Not a bad way to go,” said Craven. “Let the anchor do the work. No blood, and no body bag being dragged to the morgue to be poked at by some ghoul in a white coat munching on a tuna sandwich. Let the fishies have a feast on my sorry carcass is what I say.”

“That’s a grim thought,” said the man seated at the counter.

“Oh, he’s the grimmest. On our wedding day he asked our priest if he’d be available for last rites.”

“I was only being practical,” said Craven. “In the private detective business one must always be prepared to meet our maker.”

“Yeah, I’d like to meet him, too. Find out what he was thinking when he put you together.”

“Sarcasm, Betty? Try learning manners. They got books on that, ya know.”

“Private detectives?” said the man. 

“Yeah,” said Betty. “So private that no one knows we’re here. We’re an exclusive agency.”

“That’s right. The Craven Danger Detective agency. That’s me. Craven Danger. This here is Betty, my partner in crime and the true backbone of the organization. I do the leg work. Betty does the brain work.”

“He’s a little wayward with words, mister. By legwork he means tossing them on his desk to mull over over the latest runners at Belmont. Pleased to meet you.”

“My pleasure,” said the man. “What brings you to the Village?”

“We were following a lead,” said Craven. “But the lead had other ideas and started following us.”

“I told him to keep his cool,” said Betty, “But you can’t keep what you never had. So, when Craven started running I had to play catch-up. And this is where I found him, cowering in that doorway across the street.”

“I wasn’t cowering. I was taking a breather and didn’t want to block the flow of pedestrian traffic.”

“Pedestrian traffic? The only traffic flowing outside this time of night has a long tail and whiskers.”

“I’m telling you it was a virtual parade out there!”

“You sure have an interesting life,” said the man.

“Yeah?” said Betty. “Just how bored are you?”

“And who might you be, Mr. Nosy?” said Craven. 

“My name is Harold Floss. And I’m interested in making a friend—or two.”

“Smells like money we don’t have,” said Betty. “How about we buy you a coffee and call it even?”

“Can you toss in a cigarette?” said the man. “I gave my last one to the cab driver, who had given his last one to the man with the British accent. The British accent gave the cabbie his card, who in turn gave it to me. And I, in turn, will give it to you in thanks for your generosity.”

“Talk about being wayward with words,” said Craven. “What’s the card say, Betty?”

“Manny Moreso. Private Investigator with British Intelligence. The Highest Form Your Money Can Buy.”

“Manny Moreso! That UK cretin with the ghoulish grin?”

“You know him?” said the man.

“He has a new PI practice in our neighborhood,” said Betty. “And he doesn’t like Craven. He thinks Craven’s weak-kneed, with an inappropriate beer belly that's not doing his wobbly knees any favors.”

“Hey!”

“What makes you think we’d want his card?” said Betty.

“You don’t seem suited to the profession," said the man. "Well, one of you doesn’t seem suited. I thought you could use some professional advice on detecting.”

“Hey!”

“We don’t need any advice, Mr. Floss. Mr. Danger may be weak-kneed and bloated, but he’s a work in progress and until further notice you can keep the card.”

“Hey!”

“So be it,” said Mr. Floss. “I may have use for it myself. Good night.”

“What does he mean by that, Betty?”

“How should I know. You’re the detective.”

“Hey!”

 

photo courtesy of Wilicommons:

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Nighthawks_by_Hopper.jpg