The Japanese Client

University of Nebraska at Omaha DigitalCommons@UNO Theses/Capstones/Creative Projects University Honors Program 5-2018 The aJ panese Client: A Novel Andrew Aulner [email protected] Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.unomaha.edu/ university_honors_program Part of the Fiction Commons Recommended Citation Aulner, Andrew, "The aJ panese Client: A Novel" (2018). Theses/Capstones/Creative Projects. 13. https://digitalcommons.unomaha.edu/university_honors_program/13 This Dissertation/Thesis is brought to you for free and open access by the University Honors Program at DigitalCommons@UNO. It has been accepted for inclusion in Theses/Capstones/Creative Projects by an authorized administrator of DigitalCommons@UNO. For more information, please contact [email protected]. Aulner 1 The Japanese Client A Thesis Presented to the Writer’s Workshop and the Faculty of the College of Communication, Fine Arts, and Media in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirement for the Degree Bachelor of Fine Arts University of Nebraska at Omaha By Andrew J. Aulner May 2018 Aulner 2 Chapter 1 The ringing telephone cut through my sleep. I was slouched across my desk, my face resting on the desktop so that the vibrations from the ringing rattled my teeth. I stretched out my right hand toward the receiver, pushing aside an empty whiskey bottle as I did so. I held the cold metal receiver up to my face and wiped sleep out of my eyes with my free hand. “Rick Dale.” “It’s Mr. Como.” The voice was high and piping enough to make even a neutral introduction petulant. “I’m calling to ensure that you make your next rent payment for this upcoming week.” I rubbed my temple. “Yes, Mr. Como, I’ll be sure to make out the check next—” “I am not finished. I do not want a check that bounces like last month. I wish to make it clear that payment must be received in order to continue using my services. Real, actual payment. No money, no apartment. No apartment, you find a nice breadline, yes?” “Yes, that would be a logical progression,” I muttered. “Though with the post-war boom, breadlines aren’t exactly commonplace right now.” A glance at my watch. “Look, Mr. Como, why are you calling me at eight in the evening?” “I know your type, Mr. Rick Dale who bounces checks.” Impossibly, the voice had become even more high-pitched and whining. “You sleep in the mornings and work late into the nights, only with no money to pay the landlord with when it is all said and done.” “As a matter of fact,” I grunted, tapping a notepad and a pair of photographs that were sitting on the left hand side of my desk, “I sleep when the work dries up and work when the sleep dries up.” “A check next week, Mr. Rick Dale,” Como repeated. Click. Aulner 3 I set the receiver back down, ran my hand over my face, and gave a weary look at my office. It was perhaps ten by twelve feet. The door was directly across the room from my desk. It had a frosted glass window with “Richard Dale, Private Investigator,” stenciled across the top in thick black letters. A bookshelf filled with tomes on Nebraska statutes, Omaha city ordinances, and ancient Greco-Roman philosophy sat to my right, propped up beside the window that overlooked the humble Omaha skyline. To my left was a wall full of newspaper clippings, the certificate of my licensing as a private dick, and a black, wooden shadow box with a few tokens from my time fighting in the Big One. I walked around my desk and turned the knob on my radio. A rich male voice backed by a gentle chorus began singing something halfway between a lullaby and a love song. I sang along as the song came to an end. “While you’re away, oh, then remember me. When you return, you’ll find me waiting here…” The song faded away and a smooth-voiced announcer rushed in to fill the gap. “That was Bing Crosby’s hit number, ‘Now Is the Hour,’ one of the top singles of 1948 thus far. What a marvelous voice that man has!” I flicked the radio back off. Quite a marvelous voice for the work that he does, I thought, shuffling back over to my desk. Sitting on the edge, I pulled a business card out of my pocket, picked up my telephone receiver, and began spinning the dial. I wonder if ol’ Bing would have much of a voice for the sort of work I do. The line clicked open. “Redford residence,” a husky female voice said. “Yes, could I speak to Mr. Redford, please?” I asked. “May I ask who’s calling at this late hour?” Aulner 4 I rubbed the back of my neck impatiently. “I’m a business contact helping with an upcoming divorce case. Mr. Redford wanted to give him a call as soon as I finished my work for him, even if it was after the workday had ended.” There was a brief pause, and then the voice said brusquely, “I’ll just go get him, then.” After a bit of rustling on the other end, I heard a deep male voice that I was being paid to recognize. “This is Joe Redford.” “Hey Joe, it’s your pal from the office, Rick Dale. It’s about the memo you sent me earlier this week,” I said. The man sighed. “Yes, Mr. Dale, I understand your meaning. Thank you for responding so quickly. What have you managed to find out?” I grimaced before answering. “Your wife couldn’t be listening in on a different telephone, could she?” “She’s in the parlor right now, Mr. Dale,” Redford said. “Is it bad?” “I was able to charm my way into perusing the notes of a pretty secretary at the Jefferies and Thompson Law Firm the Thursday after you hired me.” “I don’t care much how you found these things out, Mr. Dale,” Redford said, a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice. “I just care to know what you did find out.” “This particular secretary happens to work directly for Mr. Edward Thompson, newly minted partner of the firm.” “Well?” “Mr. Thompson’s secretary noted her employer leaving the firm for lunch at exactly 12:15, every Wednesday and Friday of every week, for the past three months. The girl told me Aulner 5 that his lunch plans were flexible every other day of the week, but those dates and times never changed.” “And?” I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “The secretary also noted that Mr. Thompson always went to the same restaurant on those days: the Montpelier. Naturally, I staked the café out the following day—this was Thursday.” I picked up a notepad from my desktop and squinted to read my own scribbled marks. “A man with slicked-back, black hair and a dapper, three-piece suit sat with his back to me. He met with a blonde woman who wore a red, double-breasted coat and a black beret, the kind that Lauren Bacall wears in the movies.” The voice on the other end of the telephone moaned. “They had coffee and shared a plate of fish. It only took them about half an hour to work their way through it. After they were finished, she left with him in his red sports car. I recognized it from an automobile magazine. Some fancy English outfit called ‘Jaguar.’” “Where did the car take them, Mr. Dale?” I could imagine Redford biting on his nails. “They, uh, they went to a hotel.” Despite nearly three years in the business, I still hadn’t found a gentler way of putting it. “I was waiting in the lobby the entire time. They went up to a hotel room, and they stayed up there for just over an hour.” “And I suppose that when they were finished, they left like. like nothing had happened?” Redford’s voice was shaking. “They weren’t exactly cursing each other, if that’s what you mean.” Redford drew in a deep breath. “What happened next, Mr. Dale?” Aulner 6 “He took her back to the restaurant. She drove off in her car, and he drove off in his. I managed to snap a picture of the two of them at lunch, as well as one of them together in the hotel lobby.” “Do you have those photographs, Mr. Dale?” I imagined Redford crushing the receiver in his grip. “That’s what I’ve been working on this evening, Mr. Redford.” I had actually fallen asleep at my desk after I pulled them from the darkroom adjacent to my office, but Redford hardly needed to know that. “That will do, I think,” he said. “You just hang on to those photographs, Mr. Dale. I will collect them when I drop off my check for you next week.” “Monday at the latest,” I cut in, thinking about my rent. “I got the work done fast, and I’d like to get paid fast.” “No matter,” he said. “I can drive it over on Monday. And as for my wife…” “Mr. Redford,” I said with more urgency than I’d intended. “I’ve worked a lot of infidelity cases. Advice isn’t my business, but I’ll be damned if I don’t tell you not to do anything you might regret.” “Thank you, Mr. Dale, that will be all,” Redford said abruptly. Suddenly, the phone slammed, and the line went dead. I picked up the two developed photographs and put them inside one of my desk drawers.

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