A Faceful of Lies, continued

The opening of A Faceful of Lies prompted many responses, most urging that I discontinue the detective novel forthwith. (If you have nothing better to do, you can read the beginning of Chapter I here.) However, it is a slow news day, the usual boring catastrophes, and I can summon up no thoughtful commentary. So my thought-free cyberzone once again runneth over.

Chapter I (continued)

Mrs. Cato (we'd known each other but 10 minutes and were already on a last-name basis) asked, "Can I get you a drink?" As I went through a mental Rolodex of possible answers, she continued:

"I know it's … " She glanced negligently at a wristwatch that was so petite and thin and tastefully unadorned that I knew it had cost at least two grand. "… 10:23 a.m., and besides being morning it's a day of mourning" (I could swear I heard her pronounce the u in her cultured voice) "and it's your office. So, what'll you have?" She glanced around the office. It was a cluttered, loathsome place. I'd never noticed before. "Or maybe I should ask, what do you have?"

Playing for time while trying to figure out what grand monkeyshines were in production, I said, "Let me check." I got up, went to the filing cabinet that held my case records for the last five years, and pulled open the drawer labeled A–Z. Bottles of varied shapes, sizes, and hues were revealed.

Well, I thought, if she wants to play the Duchess, I'm going to be the Country Squire. "Seeing as how this is such a solemn occasion, and life is short — uh, sorry — perhaps you will take a glass with me of Côtes de Fort Lee '99," I said. "Hard to find these days, you know, one of the best vintages of the 20th century. Rumor whispers that some of the vintners over in Jersey are holding back a lot of it for their old age. I paid over the odds, I'm afraid, but I'm sure you'll agree it's worth it."

"Quite," she answered. Were we now playing members of the English aristocracy?

I extracted the cork, sending up a prayer to Bacchus that the wine hadn't gone off in its two years of laying down in my file cabinet/wine rack. I'm just a private investigator, a stranger to society, but no one had to tell me that plastic Dixie cups were not on in this kind of situation. I rummaged in an unlabeled file drawer and found two glasses (not wine glasses; this was a working office, not a suite at the Plaza) that were almost entirely translucent. Unlike the windows, I thought, and suppressed a shudder.

After I'd poured us each a generous tot, we clinked glasses. "Let us drink to … " I stopped. To what? To having survived September 11? To having a new client, if she didn't turn out to be a stone loony? She was up to the task. "To detection," she finished.

"Detection," I agreed, as though that was a sacred ideal.

We sipped some more. Although apparently in no hurry, Anne-Lisa Cato was anything but casual. Her gaze was expressionless yet penetrating. Maybe she was weighing me in the balance. Maybe the joke was about up, and in another minute the door would be flung open and several of my best buddies would pop in, shouting and doubled over laughing. But I don't have any best buddies.

Perhaps it was time for me to look Mrs. Cato over in turn and try to get some sense of whom I was dealing with. Looking her over was well worth the effort. I've already mentioned the green eyes, emeralds come to life. Yes, she had gorgeous green eyes. Cracking. Once my eye-gazing lease was up, I checked out the rest of her that she had chosen to display. Skin properly pale as a widow's should be, framed by auburn hair smartly styled. Lips poised for a kiss or a cigarette: slightly puffy and naturally curved down a little on both sides, giving her a continuous hurt-but-bearing-up-bravely aura. The silk blouse hinted of anatomy worth detailed exploration.

I poured her another glass and refilled my own. She had taken her soundings of me and was ready to get on with business. "Thank you, Mr. Pflug … David. New Jersey can be proud of that wine, and you of your connoisseurship. Now, can we talk about finding the person who murdered my husband?"

"Your husband who was killed — murdered — in the North Tower, just before the terror strike."

She let out the briefest of sighs. "As I said, yes. Let's get started. What do I have to do, fill out a form or something?"

It occurred to me that she filled out her form extremely well, without even trying. But I smiled at her joke and said, "No, just answer some questions and put a farthing in the poor box as you leave. It's to the right of the door."

"Good." She was actually beginning to show signs of expression, a slight pleasure in her voice, even a slight relaxation of her body language. I thought, irrelevantly, of the '50s pop song "Teach Me Tonight." The Côtes de Fort Lee '99 had thinned the ice, if not broken it.

"Mr. … uh, David … go on. I'll tell you anything you want to know."

Mrs. Cato? Anne-Lisa? Formality or courage? I had to decide. So I didn't address her by any name at all. "I need to know a lot about your late husband," I said, the "late" making me feel like an obituary writer. "Did he have —"

"Any enemies. Anyone who would benefit from his death. Yes. Yes."

"I see. Well, I'm starting to get the picture. We're making progress already."

She smiled. Smiled! "That didn't take long … David. I had faith you wouldn't stay becalmed in the Horse Latitudes all day."

I returned the smile with interest and reached into the desk drawer to retrieve a note pad. Actually, I have total recall, visual and auditory, but clients feel reassured when I write things down. Unfortunately, along with the note pad I managed to dislodge a dog-eared copy of Seven Steps to Surveillance Excellence, which fell on the floor to the port side of the desk.  She glanced idly at it.

"Oh, wonderful!" she said. "I'm a big fan of Wittgenstein myself."

But it was accompanied by another smile. They were coming thick and fast now.

"All right … " Mrs. Cato? Anne-Lisa? This was getting ridiculous. "Mrs. Cicero, I mean, Mrs. Cato, let's start with a list of your husband's enemies."

"That would be a long list. I don't want you to get writer's cramp this early in the game. You might need that hand for something sooner or later."

"Point taken," I said. Who had wired me up to a car battery and was turning a crank? "And those who benefit from your husband's death?"

"If you wrote out the names on a list, it wouldn't be long enough to make a skirt for a snake. One name. Olympia Fibonacci. That's all."

"And Olympia Fibonacci is … "

"I'll give you the résumé highlights. Mmmm, may I have another glass — thank you. Olympia Fibonacci. Objective: Assume a controlling interest in my husband's wealth. Present position: Executive secretary to my husband. Work history: Seducing gentlemen at steadily increasing levels of responsibility. Education: Paris-on-Hudson Finishing School for Tarts."

I laughed. It was a faux pas. She didn't laugh this time.

"Well, I'll need to know a lot more in good time, of course. But for now, where can Mrs. … Miss … Ms. … Fibonacci be located?"

Anne-Lisa's good humor settled in again. One corner of her lips descended another increment in wry amusement. "That, I am afraid, is for you to find out. You could ask my husband, but he's dead." My face must have registered a little shock, because she added softly, "Sorry, I don't mean to be crude. Just trying to keep the terrible reality at arm's length while I deal with it …

"But I'm serious: I don't know where she lives, or anything, really, about her personal life. Last seen impersonating a fashion victim, looking at jewelry in Tiffany's. The store's not up to her standard, just practice for a trip to Milan and Zurich. Which, I am afraid, will be financed by my husband's estate."

To be continued, maybe.

Words without songs — III

"Darby's poetry refreshes the parts that other poetry cannot reach."
— Guinness Guide to Modern Writing

"Utter rubbish. Do not read this blog posting."
— Reflecting Light Literary Advisory Board

"I get tired of either sense or nonsense if I am kept very continuously to either and like my mind to undulate between the two as it likes best."
— Walter Bagehot (1858)



Trackless Waste in Heaven

We climbed in through the window, to the hall of the Carnival mask
Where a China dog sat patiently striking its chimes,
We knew what to do without having to ask.
It was only a step to sun-blessed climes.

Aida watched in wonder as the pyramids turned blue.
Yes, Aida watched in wonder as the pyramids turned blue.
She said, I’ve seen great Hathor’s shadow, but this is brilliant too.

You looked through all the records, then went into a decline
While gladiators whistled and led a pet parade,
We heard rumors of a glory that was neither yours nor mine.
It was only a sound the astronomers made.

A zen monk with a tuba warned me away from this place.
Yes, a zen monk with a tuba warned me away from this place.
I said, I’m only passing through while looking for an honest face.

I put shells on the table and polished the silver plate
Arranging the chairs where damaged saints sat,
Knowing the future was already too late.
I was only the wheel you fell asleep at.

Words without songs — II

"Darby's latest effort at poetry aims at the stars, but bounces off the aluminum siding." — Seattle Fish Wrap

"Mesmerizing, if you ignore the words" — The Complete Skeptic's Guide to Literary Pretense

"A none-too-eagerly awaited preview of his forthcoming collection, Wrinkled Fingers" — Robert G. Loophole, Aerolam Chair of Contemporary Poetry, Johnstown University

The Bardo of Skin and Paper

We looked behind the sofa to classify our fate
But found only dusty ideals and push pins to declare.
A chariot we borrowed from Zeus took us here and there
Among the tangled skies that sank beneath our weight.

You asked the Greek policeman, “Can these ancient words be true?”
Yes, you asked the Greek policeman, “Can these ancient words be true?”
He said, “Suicide gives better odds, but careful love might do.”

We thought our Elvis statue was showing signs of wear
And called a discreet repair man, but he wasn't in.
We found him behind his house, looking alarmingly thin,
Trimming the garden hedges, followed by his hair.

I sold my Coptic prayer rug when I had to make ends meet.
Well, I sold my Coptic prayer rung when I had to make ends meet.
The merchant said, “Enjoy your ends, but prayer is far more sweet.”

We sorted the ginkgo leaves while plotting a minor crime
Beneath portraits of your noble ancestors framed in lemon peels.
Our souls seeped into the valley, down where the moonlight congeals
And sacred marmots sip from the river that dreams our time.

Words without songs

A blogging breakthrough!

"Rick Darby, whose blog posts have been noticed by dozens of readers on two continents, advances into new territory with a turn to poetry." — Pecos River Observer

"Darby breaks through the walls that have bound poetry in the late postmodernist period. Those walls will be rebuilt by close of business, you have my word." — Chaldean Review of Literature

"The most challenging new voice to come my way this morning." — West Quoddy Head Monitor

"Promising, but can it be sustained, or is he a one-hit wonder?" — Bury My Duodenum in the Old Root Cellar: New Directions in Poetry, 2007–2007

Frivolously Serene Palette

I was rescued from town, by a crank sniffing glue,
But he vanished before he was through.
I climbed Mount Rainier to see how low I could sink.
A voice said, “More than you can know, but less than you think.”

Well, I tried to sail the Black Sea, just to ease my mind
Yes, I tried to sail the Black Sea, just to ease my mind
But the captain wasn’t fond of me
He said, “I know your kind.”

“I’m fleeing a rocket, please let me through,”
Said a Sibyl just out of view.
My heart is a key, a key without a lock.
She said, “I know you’ll arrive, to join our sweet flock.”
The wind pawed the ground to add, “Now ask why.”
Was that meant for me or you?


The note on the door said, “This message is true.”
One of many, or few?
I spawned several letters and mailed them on a moonlit breeze,
But one of the best was caught in the trees.

Well, I spoke to King Arthur, just to show I care
Yes, I spoke to King Arthur, just to show I care
He said, “I’m touched by your frozen honor,
But I can’t stand those clothes you wear.”

You were gentle enough, but fearsome too,
Which should have been a clue.
My eyes were dazzled, closed tight against the shade.
I said, “You know I’ll arrive, it’s the choice I’ve made.
We’ll open the window, peel the curtains, drink that sky,
That sky of green on blue.”