Professor Emeritus Graham B.D. Rice had been my advisor initially, which is why he was none too pleased that I decided to become a private eye. He was sore, too, because he had staked his legacy on me; I had been his last endeavor before retirement, his last justification. The last deft serve of tenure. My savior. Without him, I would’ve descended into the low ranks of folly. Or, ascended into mythology as the Wandering Scholar. But I digress.
I didn’t have time to be sentimental. I had to find the Tenny Bros. My Finnish client depended on it. And I knew (since Rice was not offering help) I would have to turn to my other great resource. I found Schlep in my office and demanded use of his Directory.
Schlep, as an assistant, was valuable for a number of reasons. He was a decent teacher, wore a fabulous fake moustache, had novel theories about the works of Joseph Conrad, but chiefly, he was the progenitor and editor of “The Party Directory.” Part history, part atlas, part living document, part encyclopedia, it was a work on par with Pliny’s “Natural History,” Sir Thomas Browne’s “Pseudodoxia Epidemica” and Denis Diderot’s “Encyclopédie.” And it was invaluable to my line of work.
I picked a few spots on Mills Street, some of the innumerable old rentals. The party scene was not my scene, but it was one of the best ways to pick up information. There were no stories too embarrassing, too shocking, that couldn’t be told in the torpid morass of a house party.
Before I left, I treated myself to a little plate of mozzarella pearls, giardiniera and (as it happened) a Rhinelander shorty from the bureau fridge. When in Rome.
I made my way to Mills Street languorously, the city passing me like the slides of a magic lantern. It was only nine when I arrived, but the first house (as the Directory told me) was already hopping. It was weedier than an octogenarian’s backyard. I had brought a toothpick to put in my mouth, to make me look dangerous. But then I remembered the fate of Sherwood Anderson, so I ditched that pick quick.
Inside was a sweaty tangle of people. Just looking at them made my overcoat glisten. There was no right way in, so I forded it like a big ox fording the Missouri.
I installed myself at the bar in the living room—a long wooden plank resting on an old cathode ray television and an empty bookshelf—where a fat Caucasian in a do-rag was tending. A plastic bottle of vodka and a navel orange rested on the plywood. He glanced at me with sullen eyes, then went back to staring at the people—no, the girls—dancing to mid-2000s rap music.
“What’re you pouring, hombre?” I asked.
He stared at me with fishy eyes and gestured at the vodka. “That’s all.”
“What about the orange?”
He looked at the fruit as if it had blinked suddenly out of never-never land. “The orange is for effect.”
I changed tactics and pulled out one of the Finnish telegrams. “Have you heard of these guys?”
“Ten E Bros?”
“No. Ten-eh. Tenny. Like Tennyson. Or Tennis, I guess.”
The Caucasian shrugged. It dawned on me I would get nothing done here.
Without asking, he poured me a solo cup full of vodka and thrust it at me. To my chagrin, some of it splashed on the fabric. Even through the fuming sweat of the writhing bodies and the faint, acidulous tinge of beer vomit, the vodka reeked like mosquito repellent. I think he wanted me to leave.
As I left, I asked if I could have the orange as a consolation prize. He said of course not.
I walked out of the haze of sweat and vomit toward the kitchen, where a new element—pungent, earthy gas—introduced itself to the scene. Someone had turned all the knobs on the stove. As I set the knobs right with my left hand, holding the vodka in the other, I remembered something from my F. Scott Fitzgerald. Taking drinks until they take you. I poured the vodka on a nearby houseplant and stepped out the back door. I had other parties to go to.
