John L didn't have much. But John L knew that things could crop up. Things happened and the old energy was back. Lately, John L had been highly motivated. Lately, John L was like his old self. When John L was on form, there was pretty much nothing he couldn't do. He had decided to find things out. He would never use the word detective - that wasn't John L's style. But he was the best in the business. I could tell you about the woman with the scar across her cheek or the fire monkeys of the Philippines but I won't.
John L didn't drink liquid. When he was thirsty he would suck on a lemon or an orange. John L could not stand the idea of liquid in his throat. His hatred of the ocean must be mixed up in this, much in the way all things play their part. I don't know this for sure, I'm just saying. If John L were here today, he'd give it to you for sure. But he's not here, as I'm getting on telling.
John L had this case. One of his birdfeeders, just a breadgetter. Missing persons. A man had misplaced himself. It can happen to anyone. This old goat comes in, says his friend hasn't been seen around. What's his name, asks John L. The goat clears his throat like he's digging a trench, J Latham's his name. A good man. A lost soul of sorts. Man went far as he could and couldn't get back. Well - John L runs it through his mind. It don't ring. This old goat starts looking at John L crooked. What's up? John L thinks that this old goat, he was my age once, and I'll be his age. We meet along the way just for a bit. John L squeezes a little more out. Seems Latham disappeared before John L's time. Before he can remember, anyhow. John L is sceptical. Not by nature. He's an optimist, leaves his door unlocked. But this old goat wasn't setting down straight. Still, he lays down a pile, taller than a baby rabbit. Bread you don't eat.
So, John L had this case. He didn't have a photograph of Latham. But he'd done that before. Pulling faces out of nowhere, like drawing a picture. You find out he liked to laugh, you put creases by the mouth. Find out he was in a knife fight, chunk missing from his lip. Can't sleep at night, sad black eyes. The way John L saw it, a man was more than he looked anyway and a man never looks like himself. John L went to the older bars in town with what he knew: Latham was an old time docker, played backing guitar till he got in a bar fight with a meat hook. John L began to warm to Latham. This always happened. John L was such a pro. It was easy to imagine Latham hanging around these gin joints (or piss parlours, as John L used to say), taking the girls out back. John L saw how that would be easy. Sometimes it was good to be easy. John L was a pusher. But all pushers know how to lean. Maybe all pushers wanted to be leaners. What is it that don't let us do what we want? If John L were here, he'd tell you.
John L is at a loss. It has to happen. There are layers in a case like this. Sure, it's easy to find people who remember a man. What is a man? Standing bones and job. It's easy to check his library records, parking tickets and such. But to get into the man? To second guess that move that took him under? That was tricky. John L was good - the best - but it took some doing. John L went down the docks. He got some funny looks down there. Maybe they took John L for a Frenchman. An old drunk fella came right up and stared John L in the eye. But John L stared him down. No problem. What a pro. Done it before, do it again. Down the docks is this old house boat. Words scratched on the side. Hard to make out. Words peeling off the paint, falling into the ocean. That's all there is. John L likes those odds like nothing. So he goes in. The boat's got about a foot of water. It's rotting like a bad memory. Worms in the sink, coming out of the taps. John L hates water. So, he's really laying it on the line, here. Cold as he is, John L starts sweating. He hates all that liquid, sloshing around. All loose and uncontained. Rifling through the stuff, John L strikes. He finds a soggy old document, half the words are running down the page like a bunch of Jesse Owens. Still, born '14. John L finds this interesting. Not much is known about John L. Comes to town with a brain the size of a football, so we don't really ask questions. John L has a past. You can see it in his eyes. John L has seen some life with those eyes. Never seen him lose those eyes. You look at John L and he has world all over him. You couldn't say John L was a happy man. Spends most of his time alone, wandering around the streets, picking things up. The thing about John L - not that we talk much anymore - is that he looks like he's trying to get somewhere. That's John L's way. That's his style. You see john L late at night sometimes. You say hi and he doesn't even recognise you. Other times, you catch him looking at the mirror behind the bar. What do you want, John L? You're so smart. Can't you see we all wanted you to be happy? We weren't saying nothing. John L was a lonely man. Perhaps the last true lonely man this country has seen.
John L didn't drink liquid. When he was thirsty he would suck on a lemon or an orange. John L could not stand the idea of liquid in his throat. His hatred of the ocean must be mixed up in this, much in the way all things play their part. I don't know this for sure, I'm just saying. If John L were here today, he'd give it to you for sure. But he's not here, as I'm getting on telling.
John L had this case. One of his birdfeeders, just a breadgetter. Missing persons. A man had misplaced himself. It can happen to anyone. This old goat comes in, says his friend hasn't been seen around. What's his name, asks John L. The goat clears his throat like he's digging a trench, J Latham's his name. A good man. A lost soul of sorts. Man went far as he could and couldn't get back. Well - John L runs it through his mind. It don't ring. This old goat starts looking at John L crooked. What's up? John L thinks that this old goat, he was my age once, and I'll be his age. We meet along the way just for a bit. John L squeezes a little more out. Seems Latham disappeared before John L's time. Before he can remember, anyhow. John L is sceptical. Not by nature. He's an optimist, leaves his door unlocked. But this old goat wasn't setting down straight. Still, he lays down a pile, taller than a baby rabbit. Bread you don't eat.
So, John L had this case. He didn't have a photograph of Latham. But he'd done that before. Pulling faces out of nowhere, like drawing a picture. You find out he liked to laugh, you put creases by the mouth. Find out he was in a knife fight, chunk missing from his lip. Can't sleep at night, sad black eyes. The way John L saw it, a man was more than he looked anyway and a man never looks like himself. John L went to the older bars in town with what he knew: Latham was an old time docker, played backing guitar till he got in a bar fight with a meat hook. John L began to warm to Latham. This always happened. John L was such a pro. It was easy to imagine Latham hanging around these gin joints (or piss parlours, as John L used to say), taking the girls out back. John L saw how that would be easy. Sometimes it was good to be easy. John L was a pusher. But all pushers know how to lean. Maybe all pushers wanted to be leaners. What is it that don't let us do what we want? If John L were here, he'd tell you.
John L is at a loss. It has to happen. There are layers in a case like this. Sure, it's easy to find people who remember a man. What is a man? Standing bones and job. It's easy to check his library records, parking tickets and such. But to get into the man? To second guess that move that took him under? That was tricky. John L was good - the best - but it took some doing. John L went down the docks. He got some funny looks down there. Maybe they took John L for a Frenchman. An old drunk fella came right up and stared John L in the eye. But John L stared him down. No problem. What a pro. Done it before, do it again. Down the docks is this old house boat. Words scratched on the side. Hard to make out. Words peeling off the paint, falling into the ocean. That's all there is. John L likes those odds like nothing. So he goes in. The boat's got about a foot of water. It's rotting like a bad memory. Worms in the sink, coming out of the taps. John L hates water. So, he's really laying it on the line, here. Cold as he is, John L starts sweating. He hates all that liquid, sloshing around. All loose and uncontained. Rifling through the stuff, John L strikes. He finds a soggy old document, half the words are running down the page like a bunch of Jesse Owens. Still, born '14. John L finds this interesting. Not much is known about John L. Comes to town with a brain the size of a football, so we don't really ask questions. John L has a past. You can see it in his eyes. John L has seen some life with those eyes. Never seen him lose those eyes. You look at John L and he has world all over him. You couldn't say John L was a happy man. Spends most of his time alone, wandering around the streets, picking things up. The thing about John L - not that we talk much anymore - is that he looks like he's trying to get somewhere. That's John L's way. That's his style. You see john L late at night sometimes. You say hi and he doesn't even recognise you. Other times, you catch him looking at the mirror behind the bar. What do you want, John L? You're so smart. Can't you see we all wanted you to be happy? We weren't saying nothing. John L was a lonely man. Perhaps the last true lonely man this country has seen.
John L feels it developing in his spine. The hunch. John L thinks those dockers looking at him funny, they got some knowing to undo. Night time's the best time for John L. Man, does John L love the night. He winds his way down to the dock with his engine and lights off, just letting the car roll. That's an example of how smart John L was - who else would have done that? John L didn't take risks. That was his style. He breaks into the yard office and takes a look around. The pictures on the wall. Something catches his eye. Here comes the sweats again. The hotter it gets the colder he is. That's what happens when you're finding things out. That's information for you. John L wasn't in the water but he didn't like being down those docks, knowing all that water was waiting outside, out of control. He goes through the files. Comes to a document Four. Has a ring to it. John L pauses a while, he looks back to the pictures on the wall. The sweat's in his eyes now. You were too smart John L. You should have been stupid. So, john L reads through document four. John L reads about the terrible shipping accident of '34. John L reads about no survivors. John L reads the ship roll and reads Latham's name out loud to himself. Now, John L was a smart man but this wasn't intelligence he was dealing in. This was regular terror. John L stared at a particular picture on the wall, a particular picture of the dockers. 1934. Was that Latham? Picture said it was. But sometimes a man's more than just what he looks like, right? Sure, sometimes. But sometimes, not. John L reads down into document four, wiping the sweat from his eyes. Blinking. And it says, J Latham, John Latham recovered dead. Terrible accident. John Latham. John L's thinking nothing but John L. Too smart to be happy. That's what we say now. Looking at the picture of the open casket in the file, John L knows. He knows he is Latham. It's his face. It's his name. He can see it. Smart old John L knows that he is dead, knows why he hates the water, knows why he's lonely, why he can't remember nothing, why he's trying to get somewhere. It explains a few things. But, man, it don't explain it all. If John L were here, maybe he'd explain it. But no-one's seen him since.
P. Cabrelli
