Art wasn't the only mark she had left on his life. She had taught him to dream. When they would meet, usually at the diner, the conversation would often be about what was to come. She talked about the family she would raise with her fiancé when he returned from saving the world. What Henry found most endearing is that the dream constantly changed. The names of the children were never the same. The houses moved from the city to the country and all around the world. Even her plans for the big wedding were a work in progress.
She did have one constant, and that was the dress. Henry loved hearing her describe it. She knew every detail and would blush when realizing that she was going on about it, again. Henry always told her to continue, which she gladly did.
She was simple and complex, light and dark, day and night, and more than anything, she was unlike anyone he had ever met, before or since.
Her memory brought Henry such pain mixed with joy…he couldn't bring himself to utter her name. He thought about saying it, just once, but held his tongue.
Just as he was fading off to sleep, he cursed his radio, for it, really, was the one that poured the salt into his wound.
If Henry had not had the radio on, he would have remained at home. He might have still been in his shop when the flash of light and loud pop came from his closet. He would have noticed the new “present” left for him in the strange closet.
He may have been able to stop what was about to happen.
Chapter Three
While Henry slept, his old mentor was celebrating just ten blocks away.
Michael Thomas Moore, named for the poet, gave Henry his start in the private detective business. Now he was nearing the end of his days of stakeouts, crappy food, and sleeping in his car with the Leica camera on the seat next to him.
Everyone called him “Mickey.” He taught Henry to pick a lock, trail a suspect, and always have friends on the force. Mickey would say things like, “The clients always lie,” or “If the retainer is too generous, the job is too dangerous,” and “Never forget your notebook... and write down everything.”
Mickey had shown Henry the art of observation. They had spent hour upon hour just watching people. If they weren't on a case, Mickey was teaching him to see his surroundings. At any moment, Mickey would ask, "What color hat was the woman we just passed wearing?" If Henry didn't know, it would cost him lunch. Henry didn't make a lot of money back then, so he had to learn fast, or Mickey would eat up his entire paycheck.
The Dublin Rogue had darts, a pool table, peanuts and pretzels on the bar, half a dozen booths, and a perpetually sticky floor. A hangout for the local beat cops, this had become a favorite of Mickey's twenty years before. There were few people who could remember a day when he wasn't perched in his favorite spot. The bar had opened shortly after Prohibition ended, and not long after Mickey had become a fixture.
“The next round is on me!” Mickey said, as he raised his drink.
Everyone in the bar cheered. The waitress and bartender, though surprised, started handing out the beers. Three of New York's men in blue from the ninth precinct were giving Mickey a hard time about his largess. "I must really be plastered, did I hear that correctly? Mickey is finally buying a round!"
“I’m celebrating,
Mr. Thompson…er, sorry, Officer Thompson. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, and it isn't a train,” Mickey shot back triumphantly. He had known Bobby Thompson since he was a young boy trying to sneak into the bar. Mickey never got used to the idea of him being a full-fledged peace officer.
The short, round officer called Carl added, “You come in ta some dough, Mickey?”
The tall, thin sergeant, who everyone called Slim, said, “What's the story, Mic? You finally going to sail off into the sunset?”
Mickey had been telling everyone about his dream of buying a boat for years. He planned on sailing to Florida, opening a bar, spending his days on the beach, and his nights serving and drinking Mai Tais. Those who frequented the bar knew his dream by heart. They could describe the pool table in the corner, name the specials on Tuesday, and picture his vision as if it were a photo hanging on the wall.
He had developed a reputation for being a bit of a tightwad, which was true. Mickey had been living like a bum, which suited him, for thirty years. He saved every penny and knew exactly how much he needed.
Mickey took a long pull of his beer. “As you know, I have been looking forward to the day when I can sail off into the sunset and leave you rascals behind. This morning, I took my last job. Two weeks, three tops, and I will be done with this racket! By June first, I should be ready to head south.”
“Cheers to Mickey!”