“That’s her, over there.”
“Over where?”
“Over there. Alone in the corner…”
The bartender looked up from cleaning glasses and pointed loosely towards the corner booth. It was already evening outside. A light rain in the air.
I had entered perhaps the most rundown tavern in all of Clearview; a place with more bars and drinking establishments to its name than schools, hospitals, or day-care centres put together. But hey, that was just about fine by me. This one was a small, pokey joint. A single flickering light bulb hung solitarily above the counter, illuminating the poor disinterested bartender like something from an old movie.
“What do you want with Clara anyway?”
So, her name was Clara. The bartender’s curiosity got the better of him. Although he portrayed an image of someone far more preoccupied with wiping down tabletops and staring blankly into the space ahead, I could tell he would not let me go without interfering. Not without gleaning some kind of insight into my…
…potentially threatening motives.
“Nothing much…” I told him, “…just a word, that’s all.”
“Just a word eh…?” the bartender smiled suddenly.
“Yeah, just a word.”
He looked at me with an air of suspicion, before swiftly turning his back and scrubbing down the bar.
“…go easy is all I’d say, “ he muttered, “…she’s already had quite a big night as it is, if you get my meaning.”
I knew exactly what he meant, but that didn’t matter.
The estranged patrons of Crosby’s Bar would slowly come to light as I made my way over to the booth. There they sat beneath age-old lampshades under clouds of smoke and sorrow. I noticed about five or six tables all tucked closely together in the middle of the bar, with two rows of booths running parallel from one another along the outer walls.
A small group of men sat around the largest table playing dominos. Another man sat alone at the other end of the bar, appearing somewhat relaxed as he wiped his spectacles with a nearby napkin. I, meanwhile, quickly straightened my hat and got down to business. There had been some movement up ahead; a lady in a black dress, to be exact.
I watched the light bounce off her pointed shoes whilst great rings of smoke rose from the air around her and drifted into nothingness. Then, the lady turned around and lay her eyes on me, little beady eyes shaped by years of mistrust.
And so began the start of a rather memorable evening…
“Look ‘ere…” I heard her mumble drunkenly, “…get me a double martini, will ya!”
That caught me off guard a little, but only a little, “…sorry miss, didn’t mean to disturb you. I’m not actually the waiter here, you understand… ”
“Oh yeah?” she said, “…what the hell good are you then!?”
That would take a little more explaining.
My mystery date was younger than I had anticipated, a touch more hostile too. Her hair was dark and ruffled…that was a tick, yet both her light complexion and somewhat undernourished figure had failed to match the description I was given. Something odd was afoot. There were blurred mascara marks around her eyes as if she had been crying, whilst her red lip-stick was all smudged and messy.
Leading me to wonder...
As her pale face and wide eyes slowly emerged from the shadows of the booth, however, one thing would become abundantly clear. The poor girl was drunk…dead drunk. She reeked from head to toe in cheap booze, mostly from the half bottle of wine unashamedly spilt down her front. There were more empty bottles stacked up in front of her than I could count. But the lady did not seem to mind, in-fact.
Once she had canvassed me over with her fidgety eyes several times more, the girl lit herself another smoke and leaned back inside the booth.
“You ought to be careful…” I told her, “…lighting that cigarette in here…”
She scowled at me, slurring her words slightly as she struggled to keep still, “…if you ain’t gonna buy me a drink, I got nothin’ to say to you mister!”
“Aren’t you gonna ask me who I am? What I want with you?”
“Only after that drink we talked about…” she smiled.
But that wouldn’t do…
“Ok, I’m going to just go ahead and say it…” I posed without warning, plucking up all the earthly courage I could earnestly muster. This journey had to begin somewhere, and I supposed the murky interior of Crosby’s unloved tavern would provide as good a start as I was likely to find.
The lady in the black dress was suddenly all ears, “…say what?”
“Your name’s Clara, right?”
“Sure…”
“And you’ve only just arrived here in Clearview? That’s what they tell me…”
“Oh, and what else do they tell you, then!?”
“…they tell me you are Coburn’s sister.”
She said nothing, predictably, but her silent frowns and narrowed eyes spoke volumes. Enough so that she had stopped thinking about that drink. Out of nowhere the lady took to her feet, slamming her empty beverage down upon the table with little care or attention placed toward the security of those around her.
“And just who the hell do you think you are then, eh!?!” she cried, loud enough for the rest of the patrons to look away in unison, pretending they did not hear, “…don’t think I won’t smash this bottle clean over your head if you don’t tell me what’s goin’ on!”
“Look, calm down, I didn’t mean to…” I muttered clumsily.
“Don’t…don’t you dare come at me like that again, you hear!?”
“I understand.”
“You’d better understand…”
“But am I correct?” I asked cautiously, moving a tactical step backwards.
“About what you blabbermouth? All you do is talk…”
I cleared my throat and tried a second time, “…are you Coburn’s sister?”
She nodded. So it was true.
I suppose that little nugget of information will serve this story in more ways than one. Firstly, though, it casts a rather important spotlight on the unknowing ringmaster behind this dastardly circus of doubts and disarray, leading us nicely to the man himself.
I am referring to Clarke Coburn, of course. The once widely admired performer whose fortunes had all but run dry. And in the worst of ways too....
Coburn had seen his name tarnished in the eyes of those Big City film-critics. Tarnished and vilified. Thanks to a string of poorly received stage ventures, some equally ill-fated television exploits, and countless failed attempts at relaunching his floundering acting career over and over again...Coburn’s reputation as a once serious movie-maker had gone to hell in a hand-basket. His status had deteriorated faster than a damp ice-pole in the middle of the desert.
And that's putting it lightly, I'm afraid.
So the actor moves to Clearview, just like that. He ups sticks and boldly turns his back on the Big City, signalling his hiatus from the movie-making scene. It causes something of a stir back home…for about five minutes, maybe. Some think he’s left on business. Others assume it’s just a holiday of sorts. Either way, it seems like an odd choice for the actor to make.
But then, as is the case with most frivolous matters of the superficial celebrity gossip-sphere, the whole affair would soon blow over pretty quickly. Most of Coburn's former fans all but forget his name over the two and a half years he spends in Clearview.
But not me.
Not for one second.
“Yeah…” Clara muttered proudly, “…Coburn’s my brother. What’s it to you?”
“I didn’t think you’d be so young. I was expecting an older sister…”
“Listen mister…” she spoke, slamming down another empty bottle, “…I just told you, Coburn’s my brother. You got a problem with that or what!?”
“No, no problems…”
“Good.”
But that was precisely the issue, I did have a problem. The problem of solving what really happened to the luckless entertainer...
On the final weekend of the month of March, a time usually associated with the theme of rebirth and the joyous hope of new life, Clarke Coburn was officially declared missing. The actor was 47-years-old at the time, ageing and greying, with little in the way to stop his formally dazzling persona from simply drifting behind the red curtain for good, and fading into oblivion.
It was a strange, strange ordeal. Coburn was last seen arriving at his hotel in the early hours of the morning. He was spotted by the receptionist on his way back towards his room. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, our man remerges alone in the middle of the night with no visible signs of a suitcase, or any particular luggage on board. He bids farewell to the hotel-clerk in the usual fashion, disappearing out into the street for what appears to be the very last time. No security footage, no witnesses, no nothing. It was like trailing a ghost. A slippery apparition of formally famous standing.
Of course, the hotel staff were keen to decipher the actor’s whereabouts as soon as his return became a matter of such grave uncertainty. From the shadowy basements of regular family households, to the eerie corridors of the nearby psychiatric hospital, and the once bustling cinema park that now lies abandoned on the outskirts of town…the search played out. The local authorities checked all four quarters of the community with equal due diligence, examining every last known bar and half-way house from top to bottom.
But no matter how much the good people of Clearview sought to discover the missing actor and bring him back to light, no matter how much they toiled, how much they cursed, nor how much they wished such a disreputable and dubious act had never taken place within their very own town, not a single soul out there proved able to find out what really happened. That all took place over three months ago, and in that time no one had been arrested and only a handful of so-called suspects had even been interviewed.
It was one of the most curiously offbeat cases you’re ever likely to find...
...isn't that right?
“If you don’t mind…” Clara heard me declare as I proceeded to sit down beside her, “…I’m going to take a seat right here, is that ok?”
“...you…just…tell me just what you want!”
“I want to talk about your brother.” I said.
“And…what of him? Are you a cop?”
“No. No I’m not a cop…not anymore.”
“Well you oughta be some kind of cop…” she spoke rather angrily again, “…there ain’t enough of them out there…looking for my brother! It’s been…?”
“Three months…” I told her, “…to the day.”
“Yeah, three months! And those bastards ain’t done a single thing about it, have they!?”
“Maybe, I’m not sure yet.”
“Pffft…” Clara spluttered mockingly, “…who cares what you think? I’m here to find the fools who did this…that’s the only reason I came to this deadbeat town, in the first place! If the police ain’t gonna do nothin’ about it, then I guess I’m gonna have to do it myself. And if you’ve got a problem with that…”
“…believe me Clara, I haven’t got a problem…”
“…if you’ve got a problem, then I suppose I’m just gonna have to get you out of the way first!”
With that Clara leaned in and pulled me closer. The reek of alcohol coming off her breath was enough to make me feel lightheaded. The look of madness in her eyes was nothing to be sniffed at either. I suddenly found myself with a terrible knot in the pit of my stomach. And the feeling that something was about to go wrong, awfully wrong indeed…
“Are you listening to me…?” she asked, with her fist now tightened around my collar, “…I’m going to make sure…that whoever did this to my family…whoever did this…I’m gonna make sure they pay, do you understand!? Family means everything! You don’t get to do that kinda thing and expect to get away with it!”
"No..." I spluttered, "...of course not!"
She soon let go of my shirt and I reeled back slightly, never wanting to be that close to the deranged young lady ever again.
As a means of response I quickly called over to the bartender and ordered another round of drinks. My mystery date did not require any more hard booze in her system, in truth. She had already sampled enough corrosive cocktails to warm the cold cockles of her heart for one night. But it’s like they say; a stiff drink often leads to loose lips and even looser conversation.
And who was I to stand in the girl’s way?
The distraction was a successful one, in the end. Clara soon sat back inside the booth and began to cast aspersion around the rest of the bar. Naturally, her attention would divert somewhat. First towards the bouquet of dying flowers innocently perched next to the window, before swiftly drifting over to the bumbling homeless man staggering towards the counter.
This guy was something, alright. He was already dripping wet from the rain outside, wearing a shabby green jacket over his large imposing shoulders. A pair of ripped jeans served to hide his scabby knees with about the same convincingness as the holes in his shoes. Yet, I could feel the apprehension rising as the hairy vagabond made his approach.
"Get out of here, Bill..." the man behind the counter sighed, "...you're barred, remember?"
"Just one drink..." he said, "...come on, just one...?"
The bartender shook his head in a routine manner, possessing the look of someone who had long since grown accustomed to the rigmarole of such requests. He quickly refused the intruder and pointed towards the exit. The pair argued back and forth for a few more minutes before the beggar eventually departed for the doors...
...cursing loudly as he went.
“Eh, what's a sweetheart like you doing in a dump like this then…?” he suddenly called out to the woman sitting opposite me, taking Clara by surprise, “…dirty rotten bastards in here, the ‘ole lot of them!"
"Me...?" she mouthed back, slowly pointing at her chest.
"Yeah, you missy. Get yerself outta here on the first train in the mornin'. Place is nothin' but a cesspit, I'm tellin' ya...”
Well, he might have had a point come to think of it…
You see, Clearview was not a town for the gutless. Nor was it a place where the weak-willed could gather, sharing their feeble grievances among the spineless and the squeamish alike. The people around these parts were as tough as they were rugged. So, in the absence of a better plan or anything better to say, I quickly loosened my collar, turning back towards the girl…
“Ok, let’s just calm down a bit…shall we?” I whispered, avoiding eye-contact with the homeless man as he finally left the premises, “…I’m not here to stop you Clara, I just want to talk.”
“What exactly do you want, then?” she spoke after a short pause, “…I ain’t gonna ask you again.”
“I want to know if you’ve already spoken to the authorities here in Clearview…?”
“What about?”
“About your brother. What have the police had to say on the matter?”
Clara shot me another threatening look, daring me to probe her any further.
“No mister…” she spoke slowly and quietly, “…I don’t speak to cops.”
“Very well.”
“…and I’m tired of this. What kind of man comes over here and doesn’t even tell me his name, huh?”
That was true. I should have told her my name by now.
“Call me Lucky…”
“Oh yeah?” she sniggered, “…why would I do that?”
“Lucky. That’s me.”
“…what the hell kind of name is that anyway!?”
Damn it…I knew this part was coming. This is the part where I, the humble narrator behind this troublesome tale, have to introduce myself to you…the witness, the bystander, the omniscient onlooker to all this madness. You see, it’s not exactly in my best interest to mention this too often, but I’ll do so nonetheless.
I’m here, talking to you now as a private-investigator. A hard-boiled detective with his finger on the pulse. You can call me ‘Lucky’, just like everybody else does. Much like Coburn, I too was plucked away from the Big City only to find myself stranded and bewildered among the unassuming township of Clearview. And I too, seemed to stumble across an explicit air of peculiarity when I got here.
This damn case was like that stubborn tree at the bottom of the garden. The one with its roots set so deeply in all manner of puzzling directions, it’s enough to make you want to just dig everything up and turn the whole thing upside down on its head. There were just so many factors that could have, and perhaps should have, played out oh so differently. But of course, you will come to learn of that all too well…
“So you’re a detective…” spoke Clara curiously.
“Something like that…”
“And you came all the way to this town just to find out what happened to my brother?”
“Along those lines, I guess.”
“Well, mister detective…” the lady spoke brightly, her inebriated smile looking all the less pretty under the dim lighting of the booth, “…what about that drink then?”
I shook my head, we were getting nowhere, “…maybe another time.”
“Maybe there won’t be another time…”
“Maybe so.”
“Maybe I don’t like you anyway…” she growled, “…maybe I think you’re a phoney?”
I smiled, for perhaps the first time in a while, “…maybe we all are, to someone.”
“Maybe I already know who did it…” Clara grinned from the other side of the table, “…maybe I already know what happened to Coburn.”
“Only maybe?”
“Maybe…” she smirked, “…but all you need to know is that the person who did this to my family is gonna get what’s theirs! They’re here in Clearview. I know they are. It doesn’t matter what they say about this town, about all those stories of what happened in the forest…it’s like I already told you, I’m gonna make whoever did this pay for what they’ve done! And if you’ve got some kinda concern about that, if you’ve got a problem, mister…then you can just shove your questions right where the…”
…as tantalising as it was; the prospect of finding out what Clara thought I should do with all the ongoing lines of inquiry I still wanted to throw her way, the answer would eventually go on to escape me. I never did discover where she was going with that particular throwaway, for a certain someone had just entered the bar. This person was serious, intent on gleaning my attention. They must have picked me out with my back turned to the rest of the room...
“Are you the investigator going around town calling himself…Lucky?” the uniformed policeman asked, gripping my shoulder.
“Depends who’s asking…” I replied sternly..
The cop smiled, “…mister Lucky, or whatever your name is…I’m now placing you under arrest in conjunction with conspiracy against the town of Clearview. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may or may not be used as evidence…”
“What…!?” I demanded, “…what’s this all about!?”
He wasn’t listening.
The stony-faced officer bore slicked-back hair and was clean shaven. He appeared tall and slim with a distinctly athletic build, sporting the badge code '103' proudly upon his chest. I got the impression that this particular breed of cop was the smug and snarling type. An officer who took to his civil duties with just a little too much...enthusiasm.
“What’s going on!?” I repeated, as another officer pulled me up to my feet and pinned both hands behind my back, “…why am I being arrested!? How do you know my name…?”
“You just told us your name, Lucky.”
“How did you know where to find me? Please…someone just tell me what’s going on!”
But, alas, they refused. I got nothing more out of them for the rest of the night. And nothing more out of Clara either, who stayed put in the booth whilst the cops wheeled me away.
The lonely people still drinking their lives away barely looked up from their tables in response to what had happened. If they cared, they certainly did not seem to share it with anyone. The bartender, meanwhile, gave one token nod towards the police officers as they went about their business, before quickly glancing back down in the opposite direction. He would not be the last person to look the other way in this town, not by a long stretch.
*
Whoever you are, whatever your cause, I urge you to take heed dear reader. This is a story not for the faint-hearted. It is a tale of drama, of chance…of circumstance. What I am about to recall will likely leave you reeling for the exits, with your tail between your legs and a mighty firm spring in your step. There will be no half-measures, no subtle settlements, nor any crude concessions. Just the pure, unadulterated facts at hand.
Forgive me, forgive me now for the heartache and sorrow that will soon come to define this wholesome tragedy of events. I envy you not for what you’re about to hear, but time is of the essence you understand. There is blood on the soles of my shoes as I speak to you now...my cheeks and my forehead too.
Yet, my hands, they remain remarkably clean, dear reader. That’s right, you heard correct.
My hands have always been clean…
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