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I sat and chewed the fat with Gumshoe in a desultory kind of way. There wasn't much he had to add. Just then, the phone rang. He ignored it; so did I. It rang four times, then the answering machine cut in with Gumshoe's recorded no-nonsense tones. "Gamshank, PI. I can't take your call right now. Leave a message." At the time, I thought this was the break I was hoping for, that Gumshoe's contacts had finally came up trumps. The caller was an old acquaintance of his, a long-time copper in the city's police force, name of Jaz. "Hi, it's Jaz. Just got off-shift. If you want to buy me a beer, then meet me at the usual bar. I've got something you might want to hear about some guy named Rigg." Gumshow sat for a moment then glanced at his watch. "I'd better do this one on my own. That bar is pretty crowded and rowdy, especially late at night. My friend Jaz can be a bit rambling when he likes, and he'll probably want me to buy him beer all night." "Okay," I agreed, "But put it on expenses." The muffled rumble that was Gumshoe's laughter indicated that he knew just what I meant. I got a report by phone from Gumshoe early the following morning, before I even made it into the office. He had caught up with his contact in the bar, fed him a series of beers and bar snacks, and listened to the old copper rattle on. Eventually, and with many detours and distractions, he got to an interesting bit of station-house gossip. Jaz's story was that, the night before, somebody had got drunk in a bar. Not of itself such an unusual event, of course. People get drunk in bars all the time - even done it myself a time or two. Yes, I know, you just wouldn't believe it, would you? However, this particular drunk, name of Milton, started telling wild tales of strange creatures abroad in New York: monsters and aliens of multitudinous aspects and diverse habits, and invisible beings spying on innocent citizens. His tales had attracted a crowd, some of whom had taken it into their heads to buy him more drinks, perhaps just to hear him crazy-talk. Through the haze of alcohol, he finally detected the derision and disbelief in his audience. At this point, he got surly and argumentative, which soon erupted into a full-blown bar-room brawl rowdy enough that a couple of uniformed cops had to be called in to break it up. Milton himself was the only one stupid enough to hang around when the police cruiser arrived. The cops hauled him away and threw him in the drunk-tank, along with the night's other catch of belligerents and ne'er-do-wells. He howled and wailed so loudly and so piteously that the police medical examiner was soon called, who rapidly concluded he was suffering some kind of psychosis beyond the usual pink elephants stage of delirium tremens. The strength of Milton's delusions clearly made an impression on both examiner and the assorted uniformed coppers, enough so that it became the subject of the day's gossip around the the water cooler. Gumshoe's contact Jaz would have thought nothing of it if Milton hadn't also mentioned the name "Rigg" repeatedly. "Rigg'll be back," Jaz had reported Milton’s words, "To take down the evil creatures. He'll send them back to where they came from or blow them away where they crawl." It all sounded very promising, I thought. "Can you get to interview this psycho?" I asked urgently. Gumshoe's laughter rattled the receiver in my ear. "That's funny, Gask," he said, "My contact assumed I would want to talk to this Milton guy. Jaz will have a word with his Captain when he gets on-shift. I should be able to talk to Milton himself later today."
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Part 57