The Boy Detective Fails (7 page)

“Billy?”

At that moment, Melinda, a handsomely dressed brunette in a professional blue suit, takes Billy’s hand. Billy nods in response. Melinda wears a huge amount of makeup, her lipstick bright red and smudgy. She continues to shake Billy’s hand as she goes on speaking.

“You must be Billy, am I right? Terrific! You’re going to be just terrific, I can tell. This is going to work out great. Let’s go a head and get you started with an entry-level hair-replacement product evaluation, OK?”

Like that, the boy detective finds himself taking a written exam, matching various hair products to their names, guessing at answers for the two hundred question true-or-false test:

Question #9: T or F: Toupee is French for savvy hair product.

Question #36: T or F: All Mammoth Life-Like Mustache International products are guaranteed flameproof.

Question #115: T or F: Wigs are only for women.

“Terrific! You’re a natural, I tell you! It’s amazing! I’m going to recommend you for an immediate interview with Mr. Mammoth. Just take a seat, he’ll be with you in a minute, OK?” Melinda says.

Billy sits in the hard green chair outside Mr. Mammoth’s office, his hands shaking uncontrollably. Melinda reappears, touching up her lipstick, waving the boy detective inside. Billy stands, clasping his shaking hands together, following the strange woman into the small room which is institutional-green and wood-paneled, instantly reminding Billy of the director’s office at St. Vitus.

“Now as you may know, the president of Mammoth Life-Like Mustache International, J.D. Mammoth, besides being an amazing entrepreneur, world-class athlete, and noted left-hander—that’s why everything in the office is left-handed, Billy—well, he was also something of a technological wizard. He passed away twelve years ago in a mysterious elephant-hunting accident right before we were federally investigated for the first time. It was a terrible year for the company and we would have been sunk if Mr. Mammoth hadn’t arranged all of his future affairs beforehand. He recorded over ninety thousand hours of plans, initiatives, directives, conversations, and requests on reel-to-reel tape to be played in his future absence. Hirings, firings, disciplinary actions—all handled by a color-coded system. Isn’t technology just amazing?”

Billy nods, frightened, looking about the room. A painting of Mr.

Mammoth, a bald, short, round, mustached man in a suit, hangs over an empty mahogany desk. There are several giant color photos of Mr. Mammoth hunting various big-game animals—a tiger, a lion, an elephant—their eyes staring back at Billy, plaintive and dead. Melinda steps around behind the desk, silently pressing a button on a large reel-to-reel tape player, the machine green and plastic and full of dust. Melinda leans to the side of the player and begins to smile widely.

“Now, there’s nothing to be nervous about. Go on and have a seat, Billy.”

Billy takes a seat in a small chair, holding his hands, staring at the tape machine as it whirs to life. From its gears and sprockets, a ghostly voice begins to rise:
“Welcome! First of all, good citizen, we wish to welcome you to the world of Mammoth Life-Like Mustache International. By now, you’ve passed our extensive evaluation process and are about to enter the exciting world of hair-replacement telephone sales. Before you begin, we feel it’s important you know the history of the company you’re about to represent. How does that sound, good citizen?”

Billy does not know if he is supposed to respond but does so anyway. “OK.”

“Well, we’ll be honest with you, kind worker. When we were your age, we would often sit and stare up at the ceiling and wonder,
is there room for us? Is there a place where we belong?
And that’s when we hit on it, kind worker: mustaches. Do you know how many American men are unable to grow a good-looking mustache? Thousands. Hundreds of thousands. Some of them are fair-haired, some have low testosterone, some are victims of terrible crimes, but all of them have a dream. The dream to look good. Slowly, our product reached the homes and hearts of thousands. Then thousands after that. Then the international market—do you understand how many beards we sell in the Far East? Now we’ve moved into the brand-new world of weaves, extensions, and wigs, growing to cover all of our customer’s hair-replacement needs. Why? Because the world is a better place when we are all looking our best. Now, kind worker, I ask you, don’t you share that dream, kind worker?”

The boy detective whispers: “Yes.”

“Well, kind worker, with that, we want to wish you the best of luck here at Mammoth Life-Like Mustache International. Remember, in each of you is a little bit of me. End tape.”

“Um, thanks,” Billy mutters quietly.

Melinda shakes his hand once more and exclaims: “Terrific! Welcome to the team of Mammoth Life-Like Mustache International. How about we go and get you started off with something simple?”

TEN

The hair catalog of Mammoth Life-Like International looks like this:

For the Modern Attractive Male

It amazes the boy detective that hair replacement is an actual business. It is not amazing enough, however, to keep him from wondering what he is doing there in the first place. Once he takes a seat in a small gray cubicle, Melinda hands him a phone receiver, which is connected to a large, greenish-gray computer; it is all plastic, like an appliance from the ’70s, and seems strangely out-of-date.

“Terrific! How about we start you off with something nice and easy, then? Super. Have you ever used a left-handed phone before, Billy?”

“No.”

“Well, you’ll get used to it quick. Now, the computer here does all the hard work—the dialing and account information—all you have to do is talk. Isn’t that easy? Now, Billy, Mammoth Life-Like maintains its competitive edge in the hair-replacement market by exclusively targeting the unwell and also the elderly. What happens is we buy lists of hundreds of prospective clients from credit card companies—prospective clients who are, let’s just say, not healthy: cancer patients, car-accident victims, survivors of fires and other natural disasters—clients who are getting on there in years. Sometimes it takes a while before we know whether a prospective customer is dead or not, which, believe it or not, isn’t necessarily a ‘dead end’ in itself—sorry for the pun, Billy. Believe it or not, sometimes the person who answers is also a cancer patient, sharing a hospital room. Or maybe they were in the same car accident or fire and managed to live, or maybe—maybe, just maybe—they’re also getting on there in years. The important thing is not to be discouraged. This will give you an idea of what to expect while you’re trying to improve the overall hair quality of someone’s life.”

Billy nods, staring down at the telephone receiver.

“So OK, here’s a beginning script. I’ll give you a few minutes to get comfortable, make a few calls, you know, just have fun with it!”

“Terrific,” Billy mumbles to himself as Melinda quickly exits.

The boy detective picks up the phone and watches as the computer noisily begins to dial, its gears and sprockets turning wildly. Busying himself, his heart pounding, he nervously flips through the Mammoth Life-Like hair catalog and stares at the strange words on the salesperson script.

Out there in the world, somewhere, a lonely customer—a middleaged widow in a yellow housecoat—answers the ringing phone, her hands weak, her eyes gray and sad. In the background, her children are screaming and fighting. The customer tugs on her stringy blond hair and black mascara streaks down her face as she stares at a photograph hanging in the hallway, a picture of her husband: a square-faced brickmason, recently deceased.

“Hello?” the woman whispers.

“Hello,” Billy whispers back.

“Yes? What? What is it?”

“I’m sorry …” Billy says, his breath coming quickly. “I …”

“Glen … is that you? Oh God, just say something. Please, say something … anything …”

Billy sighs, holding the phone nervously, unable to speak.

“Oh, Glen, you don’t have to talk at all. I miss you. I miss you so much. Just, shhhh, just be quiet. I’m so sorry. I miss you. I miss you so much. When are you coming back? Just tell me when.”

“I …” the boy detective sighs.

“No, no, you’re right. I need to be strong on my own. I need to make it on my own.”

“Yes.”

“The kids, Jesus, Glen, they miss you, too. We all do. You, you would have been proud of little Leonard. He went right up to the casket and kissed his daddy’s cheek and … Oh, Glen, what am I going to do without you? What am I going to do?”

At that moment, the boy detective remembers Caroline in her small white coffin, her long blond hair spread out like a glowing halo, the image exactly matching the Nordic Princess wig from the catalog Billy is now holding.

The customer is now crying on the phone.

Billy cannot think what to say or do. Holding the phone against his ear, he whispers, very sadly, still thinking of his sister Caroline: “I’m so sorry.”

Billy hangs up the phone. He wipes many small tears from his eyes. He gets up from his desk and heads for the bathroom, falling into an adjoining cubicle before he really begins to cry uncontrollably.

The boy detective stumbles into the men’s bathroom and finds another man inside, also weeping. He is drinking from a flask and wiping his teary eyes. The man is a short, greasy, round salesman with an enormous black hair piece and a tiny black mustache. He is wearing a ton of gold chains and several gold rings. The man smiles, shrugging, then offers the flask to Billy.

“This here, friend, is the only way to make it through the sob stories, day after day.”

Billy frowns, backing away. The man shrugs his shoulders, taking another swig.

“We’ll see what you say after a week of being here. They sign you up for the graveyard shift yet, kid?”

“No.”

“Well, those are the worst. You never know what people are going to say when they’re all alone in the middle of the night. You do one week of the night shift and then you’ll be as lousy as me, I promise. Poor old Larry here? I worked the graveyard shift for five years straight. They say you get used to everything being left-handed, but you don’t. I know that much.”

Billy looks at Larry’s left hand and sees the white spot where a wedding ring used to be. He notices there are green markings beneath all of Larry’s remaining rings.

“Sure, well, I’m the national sales leader in this office now, you know, but it wasn’t always this easy.”

“I believe Patrick Vigo is the national sales leader. I think I just saw his plaque outside in the lobby.”

“That’s this month, kid. I’m talking for the whole year.”

“But Debra Cummings was the national leader for the year. Her plaque was beside the others.”

“Well, sure, you’re a sharp one, huh? Well, what I mean is this
current
year. I’m not talking about the past year. The current year.”

“It’s better never to lie. To be honest, I don’t care either way.”

“Why’d you say that, kid? Why’d you call me a liar like that?”

“There’s a pawn-shop ticket stuck to the top of your shoe. And all your jewelry is fake.”

“Well, sure, I had to pawn the good stuff, but I got this junk because I have to keep up the image. Wow, well, that’s amazing, kid. You some sort of mind reader or something?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s uncanny is what it is. How’d you do all that? Figure me out like that?”

“I dunno. Everyone is good at something. I’m good at finding out the truth.”

“Well, you’re a real danger to have around here. You’re OK by me, pal. You sure you don’t want a quick snortful?”

Billy stares down at the white tile floor. “No thanks. I think maybe I should go back to my desk.”

“Well, OK, stay alive out there, kid. It’s more than you can say for your clients, ha ha. You get dreary, you know where to find me.”

Larry shakes Billy’s hand. Billy slowly returns to his desk, wiping his hand on his pants.

The boy detective picks up the phone and dials once again.

Somewhere, some other phone rings. Sitting at a table, an old man with large glasses stares at a photo of his deceased wife and answers the telephone regretfully.

“Good afternoon. Is Gladys in?”

“Hello? No, no, I’m afraid Gladys isn’t home. No … not, not anymore. Not ever again.”

Billy hangs up the phone quick. He lifts it again and the computer dials the next number.

Somewhere else, on the edge of town, in a tiny, run-down boarding house, Killer Kowalzavich—a monstrous, hammer-faced ex-convict in a dirty blue torn shirt—sits in the darkness of his shabby rented room. He is shaved bald and has all kinds of tubes and devices hooked up to his person. He is very old and very sick, but still frightening. The boy detective begins: “Good afternoon …”