“Elevator out of order?” Buford said.
“I don’t think there is an elevator. The doors and buttons are just for show.”
We went down the stairs and across the street to Oliver’s, a small saloon that serves an ample drink at a reasonable price.
We took a booth for the privacy. Sammy came over with my usual, a double Jack neat.
“This is Sammy,” I said, “my closest friend and confidant.”
Buford reached up to shake hands. “I’m Buford. I’ll have the same.”
Sammy went to the bar to get Buford’s drink.
“You can trust Sammy,” I said. “The soul of discretion.”
“Every good bartender is,” Buford said.
Sammy brought Buford’s drink and returned to the bar. Buford looked at his glass for a while then took a sip.
“This is better.” He took a cigar from his pocket and lit it. I lit my last cigarette ever. I was going to quit. Did I already say that?
“Penrod said you used to be a cop.”
“I was. We were partners. Homicide.”
“Tell me why you’re doing this and not a cop anymore. It can’t be for the money.”
I didn’t like telling this story. But everyone wants to hear it. I should just go on Jerry Springer.
“Got canned,” I said. “I was a good cop. Caught killers. Closed cases.”
“And they let you go?”
“That’s a nice way of putting it. I took a swing at a suspect. He swung back. End of fight. With me as first runner-up. According to the bosses, they can’t have suspects beating the shit out of detectives in the squad room. Makes them look bad.”
“They fired you for losing a fight?”
“They did. If only that citizen hadn’t been there with his cell phone. Click. Smile. You’re on candid Youtube. And the six o’clock news.”
“I can see where that would piss off the brass.”
He shifted around. His girth took up most of the bench.
“Punching that moke was the last straw, according to the Lieutenant. Came as a surprise. I didn’t know I had been piling up straws.”
“Sauce?”
My secret was out.
“Yeah. The Lieutenant was one of those guys who bores the shit out of you with his endless litany about the evils of drink, meetings, twelve steps, one day at a time, and all that shit.”
“I know the type. I married his sister.” He took another drink.
“He asked who my enabler was.”
“Your what?”
“Someone who encourages the drinking. Like my ex-wife. And maybe your wife. They nag you about your drinking so you drink more to block it out.”
I looked toward the bar and said, “I told him these days my enabler is Sammy.”
We both took slow sips. Buford took another pull on his cigar. I lit another last cigarette.
“So you wound up a P.I.”
“After I retired without a pension, I got a license, had cards printed, and painted my name on the door. It was that or be a Walmart greeter.”
“You like this line of work?”
“If I have to work for assholes, I might as well be self-employed.”
“And now you find missing persons.”
“Runaway teenagers, deadbeat dads, bail jumpers, cheating spouses, hidden assets. The usual.”
I downed the last of my bourbon.
“Now,” I said, “are you going to give me some details about the shakedown or are you going to have another drink?”
“Yes,” he said.
I signaled to Sammy to bring another round. I took a pencil and pad from my trench coat pocket. I don’t always take notes, but detectives on TV do it, and it’s expected.
Like most clients, Buford recited his life story first, something I usually don’t care about, but if you don’t let them spill their guts, they’ll keep trying. So, I am a good listener. A booth in a bar can be a kind of confessional.
“I’m a financier. Investment counselor. Big money. High-profile clientele. Moguls, movie stars, politicians. You ever read the financial section of the newspaper? Or the Wall Street Journal?”
“No. I figured I’d take that up after I make my second million.”
“Already made your first?” He was probably wondering if I was a potential client.
“No. Gave up on that. Working on my second.”
“That’s why you don’t know my name. I make a lot of money in investments.”
“Ponzi? Like Madoff?”
“No. Not yet anyway. I know my shit. My clients all made money in 2008. There’s a Rolls parked in the alley behind your office with a driver waiting to take me home to a twenty-two year old wife in a big house in the Heights. I want to keep the Rolls, the driver, and the house. Not to mention the wife. I need to hang onto my money.”
“And you need help with that?”
“I do.”
“To help you find a blackmailer.”
Buford leaned back and crossed his arms. His cigar hung out over his suit jacket, and the ash grew longer with each puff. I waited for it to drop off and burn a hole in the expensive garment.
“I wasn’t always a successful investment counselor,” he said.
“Were you an unsuccessful investment counselor?”
“No. I mean, I got into investments late in life. I’m good at it.”
“You don’t look like the typical investment counselor.”
“What do I look like?” he asked.
“More like the typical biker bar bouncer. Except for the clothes. You got tattoos under those threads?”
He ignored my sarcasm and took a long drag on his cigar. The ash grew longer.
“I know you’re a big mother,” I said, “but how does a guy with a moniker like Buford Overbee get a job as a wise guy?”
Buford smiled for the first time. “That wasn’t my name back then. I changed it when I went into this line of work. More respectable, more impressive.”
“More anonymous.”
“Right. I chose a name that doesn’t look like me. Not only do my present clients not know about my past, my former employers don’t know about my present. I keep a low profile. No pictures, no interviews. The press refers to me as ‘the elusive Buford Overbee.’ Like Howard Hughes in his later years. Always in the action but never in the picture.”
The cigar ash was due to fall off on its own. He flicked it off in the ash tray. Now I could breathe again.
“What was your name before?” I asked.
“You don’t need that.”
“Why not?”
“Because your knowing that could draw the attention of the boys back home.”
“And they’d come after me to learn what I know?”
“They would.”
“How would they know that I know?” This was getting complicated.
“Stan, you’re going to come into contact with some of my people and, I hope, the blackmailer himself. These kinds of secrets are hard to keep.”
“You don’t trust your people?”
“I don’t trust anyone. Remember, the family pays well for information. Like if you tell them what they want to know, you get to keep your arms and legs.”
He still had some secrets, even from me, his personal detective as of a thousand bucks ago. I’d have to break down that wall eventually, but not yet.
“I assume there’s a reason you don’t want your previous colleagues in the family to know where you are.”
“A very big reason having to do with a grand jury and a federal prosecutor.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m guessing that after testifying, you joined the witness protection country club.”
“I did.”
“And that’s how they don’t know where you are.”
“It is.”
“And the blackmailer, whoever it is, figured it all out.”
“Apparently.”
I reached my arms out and stretched them behind me on the back of the bench.
“How does a wise guy from the streets choose investment counselor as a cover profession? Why not something easy like brain surgeon or theoretical physicist?”
“I always had a feel for the market. I learned the ins and outs of insider trading when I was connected. You can do great things if you don’t have scruples and don’t have to worry about being caught.”