Ghost Private Detective

After I died, people ignored my spirit’s presence, and I fought depression. I dealt with insecurity my entire life, and although logically I understood they couldn’t see me, the snubs still hurt. The key to turning my afterlife around was recasting my affliction into a strength. To interact with the living, I became a private investigator. However, the results haven’t always been edifying.

Since I’m visibility challenged, I can’t directly solicit clients. The best way for me to generate work is to catch one person doing something another person wants investigated, and nailing a cheating spouse is a staple of the trade. My modus operandi has been to hang out in upscale hotel lobbies, mingling like a poky wave of invisible light awaiting a middle-aged guy to show up with a young thing on his arm. For confirmation, I follow them to their room. If I had a stomach, the subsequent pawing would make me retch, so I flee, later following the husband home and collecting his wife’s contact information. 

Afterward, I send her an email headlined: “Cheating Husbands Must Pay. I get the dope. You get the dough.” Tacky but effective.

I’d freak out any prospective client I met face to… well, you know, so I asked to be contacted on Zoom and used a voice synthesizer, without video of course. When they contracted for my services, I retained a photographer to snag the incriminating snaps.

My divorce-settlement success rate has earned me a slew of referrals, and my clientele swelled along with my bank account. Money, money everywhere but not a cent to spend. Alive, I could afford Men’s Wearhouse suits. Dead, I could buy Armani, Patek Philipe, and a Ferrari but luxury, alas, eludes my grasp. Who says God doesn’t have a sense of irony? 

My former profession was as a CPA and every April 15th I feel a tinge of nostalgia for the thousands of tax returns I filed. With all the income I generated as a PI, I experienced a Pavlovian wave of responsibility and felt compelled to fill out a 1040, using my old social security number, even though I risked triggering an IRS fraud alert as someone using a dead person’s identity. 

A point of reoccurring frustration centered on the observation that after a woman split from her husband, she slimmed down, purchased sexy outfits, and strode boldly back into the dating game. Not untypically, I received an unsolicited Zoom call from a grateful divorcee with copious thanks for that mysterious, hero private detective who triggered her lucrative financial settlement. A good bit of eye batting and an inuendo about the benefits of finally meeting followed. I would die for another chance to have sex. Regrettably, an ED pill doesn’t do the trick and cold showers aren’t an option, so I must endure my many unfulfilled fantasies.

________________________

Unintentionally, people whisper secrets around me. As a bit of daring fun, I frequent The Spiked Head, a biker bar in Brooklyn, which hitherto I wouldn’t be caught dead in. I hang near suspicious looking types hoping to hear something juicy. One day, I put my wispy arms around two hulking tattooed gang members with a “Furies” club patch on the back of their black jackets as they were hunched together at a far corner table. At my touch, one shivered, and the other brushed his shoulder as if shooing a fly. Great fun, I thought, until one dude said, “Gunner, best we make it look like suicide.”

Shuddering, I removed my arms and sat back.

“Rooster,” the other man said, “on Friday. I’ll have the money then.”

They clinked their mugs of beer sealing their agreement.

I silently shouted, “Who’s the target?”

To my chagrin, they changed the subject to women and motorcycles. When they split for the evening, I did an eeny meeny, and followed Gunner to his lair, an abandoned warehouse near the docks. I performed a warrantless search and found drugs and stabbing weapons, but no gun.

He collapsed into bed, and I realized I had two days to prevent a murder. What to do? I weighed making an anonymous tip to the cops, but aside from identifying Rooster and Gunner as potential killers, I hadn’t sufficient information for the police to arrest them. 

I could follow Gunner, ultimately witness the murder, then alert the authorities, but I wanted to stop the crime before it happened. 

While I pondered my options, I found a clean place to sit in Gunner’s crib and waited for morning and his next move. Even though I’m dead, I’m most happy at home where I can watch TV and check my emails. I don’t sleep, just stare into the blackness, and hanging out is a bore. Worse, Gunner snored all night.

Luckily, my diligent surveillance paid off. The next day, I followed Gunner when he met Rooster and a drug dealer they called Bowser. They haggled a bit before reaching a deal to purchase Bowser’s cocaine on Friday evening. They agreed to meet for the exchange at an abandoned train station. I surmised that Rooster and Gunner intended to murder Bowser and steal the drugs. 

Saving a drug dealer’s life was not why I became a PI. Nonetheless, murder was murder, and I didn’t want to be confronted by Bowser’s ghost and need to explain why I hadn’t stopped the crime. 

I tried phoning Bowser using my voice synthesizer, but he screened my call as spam and deleted my voice-message warning.

I had to personally confront him with the danger he faced, but without physical form, my options were limited. I could inhabit a body if someone keeled over dead in front of me. Not likely. I also had the option to comingle my soul with a living host but figured the experience might do permanent psychological damage to the person.

My only choice was to approach and recruit a reputable psychic, which you might think is a contradiction in terms. He or she would need to alert Bowser. My method for weeding out fake clairvoyants was simple – a real medium would see me coming.

I’d exhausted almost the entire list of advertisements for spiritualists in the Yellow Pages when I approached Leonard Stryker. 

His eyes narrowed. “I don’t see ghosts without an appointment. You need to call my office.” He began to walk away.

At his attitude, I half-considered giving up, but he was nearly last on the roster of so-called mediums I approached and the first who recognized me.

I swallowed my irritation and caught up to him. “This is an emergency.”

He displayed annoyance. “That’s what they all say.”

I spoke quickly. “A couple of bikers intend to kill a drug dealer. I need you to warn him.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Call the cops.”

“They’ll only respond to a crime.”

He kept walking. “Phone him.”

“He ignored my voice message.”

Stryker stopped and put hands on hips. “I’m not getting involved with bikers and drug dealers. Find someone else.” He took off, again.

I tried flattery. “The city is overrun with frauds. Gifted people like yourself apply your skills for the benefit of mankind. By saving a life, your reputation will soar.”

Stryker slowed and puffed up a bit. Nonetheless, he said, “I don’t wish to put myself at risk.”

I said, “Disguise yourself.”

Stryker turned to me, kneading his chin. “If I decided to honor your request, you must return the favor.”

Warily, I asked, “How?”

“Conjuring up spirits at a séance is hit and miss. You must agree to fill in whenever I need you.”

Stryker could’ve asked for something nefarious or to enrich himself. His request seemed innocuous, and I was on the clock.

“Agreed.” I extended my hand, but he gave me a funny look, so I pulled back and said, “Let’s get you that disguise.”

Stryker emerged from the costume shop with a false beard, a wig, and a black hat, looking like a Hasidic Jew without the payot. 

“Limited choice?” I asked.

“No way I was going to walk around looking like Barbie or Spider-Man.”

I saw his point.

When I led him to Bowser, he viewed Stryker’s approach with suspicion.

“Who the hell are you?”

Stryker took a deep breath before speaking. “I have it on reliable authority that Rooster and Gunner intend to steal your drugs and kill you when you meet them at an abandoned train station on Friday.”

Bowser’s jaw dropped. He took a moment before asking, “How did you come by this information?”

Stryker gazed at me before responding. “You wouldn’t believe me. Nonetheless, I suggest you heed this warning and ply your trade elsewhere.”

Stryker turned on his heel, and we left Bowser with a confused look on his face.

When we were out of earshot, Stryker stripped off his ridiculous disguise and said, “Do you think he believed me?”

“Drug dealers aren’t known for being Rhodes Scholars, but we’ve done our best.”

He nodded. “I have a séance scheduled for this afternoon. As we agreed, I’d like your attendance.”

________________________

I scanned the papers and TV news, and there was no word of a drug deal gone bad, so Bowser must’ve respected our warning.

Stryker held séances every Friday, and I was obligated to attend. He’d call up a loved one’s spirit but only asked them the questions posed by relatives sitting around the table. To the obvious amusement of the loved one’s ghost, Stryker commanded me to make knocking and rattling noises and move objects around like a trained monkey. Well, a deal is a deal and there might be a situation when I’d need Stryker again. Like I said, since becoming a PI, my interaction with the living hasn’t always been edifying.