BLACK TOM’S BAR AND GRILL can be found in most cities around the country, hovering near the centre of the business district, closer to the money marts than the legalist end of town. From power bizniz-breakfasts throughout the dining and drinking day there is a willing crew of indulgers, male, female and indifferent, passing the time defaming their fellow diners whilst plotting for coup, the ancient Plains Indians lifting of your enemy’s scalp, nowadays performed in the bloodless ritualistic lifting of the wallet.
Pirates, rogues, rapscallions, hellions, scapegraces, scofflaws and scoundrels abound at Black Tom’s – and that’s only the lawyers. Interspersed amongst the riffraff were a few of my old mates including a scribbler of lesser note who travelled under the nom de guerre of Senseye and myself. Senseye considers himself a master of the quill, a penciller of perfect prose. Although he doesn’t have a white stick or a Labrador attached to his quivering hand, he is blind to the passing parade, wandering around lost in his own maze somewhere in his addled brain. He wanders in and out of the story like a discard from St Vincent de Paul. At least his vagueness is offset by some of my other dining companions whose amazing exploits and encounters are related further into the book. However, one who is presently at my table is what you might term a dealer. He dabbles in deals. Perhaps I’ll call him Dabbler, real name Elroy. Maybe calling him a dealer is oversimplifying things. He puts people together to put deals together which somehow puts money in his kick whether the project proceeds or not. He is not crooked, just flexible, I think. On the above basis you could probably call Senseye the Scribbler a prevaricator. He outwaits people with a kind of bovine patience that defies human time frames.
For myself, Terence John McLernon, I am a Private Investigator of some substance, I like to think. Others may see me as a sleuth of the first water, enemy of corruption and defender of the truth. I say in a rare moment of humility, they are quite correct in their views. Others, including the penciller, apparently, were less generous, as he murmured something like, “About as humble as a copper taking the oath on the stand…”
But I have to put up with that sort of dribble when, as today, I am buying lunch for the scribbler who holds that all ‘truths’ flow in direct proportion to the nature, quality and quantity of the wine accompanying his freeby meal.
In one very real aspect though, I feel that I am something of an avant-garde in my calling, most of my fellow sleuths having accessed their PI licences in a neck-and-neck race before their impending dismissal from the police force of the State in which they presently reside. It is a system tried and forged in the fires of history, ensuring a continuity whereby the other coppers that didn’t get caught carry on in their profession of calumny, corruption and general crime inherent in our various police forces. Meanwhile the unfortunate resignees get a cushy number with numerous referrals from their uniformed mates whilst simultaneously providing laundering services for lots of money that has become awkwardly traceable. There are a few of them in Tom’s this fine day topping up their wages and intermingling with grovelling public servants and other government employees of various ilk trading information for cash, whether it be inside information on stocks and shares, rezoning, fixing speeding tickets or info from various computers. The worst are private details from the police computer and worse. They are all up here peddling their influence to the highest bidder. Give me a good old-fashioned crook anytime. I can say that I was one of the few who resigned honourably from the force, disgusted with the conduct of my cohort coppers.
‘Dabbler’ of the eagle eye who can spot an uncommitted dollar at fifty paces on a dark and moonless night, moves the corner of his mouth like a pointing stick. “Circles,” he says. I look over and lo and behold, it is that gem of a PI, Colin ‘Circles’ Pace.
“Circles,” repeats the Scribbler, “Why, Circles?”
“All will be revealed in time ” I say.
© Copyright 2009 Terence J McLernon Books