Detective

there is no defect where the client fell down, and therefore no liability. In those cases, Richard will sometimes send me back to try to get a camera angle on some small crack or crevice so that it looks like a precipice. I’d have had no such problem here. One of the stairs was cracked in two, one of the risers was separated from the stairwell, and a good six feet of the handrail on the wall was missing. I concentrated on these defects, and had some pretty good liability shots in the can before the flash attracted the super out of his apartment.
    The super was a skinny Hispanic of about 45, with short black hair, and a small, close-trimmed mustache. He was dressed in a white sleeveless undershirt and shorts. He was hot, tired, and hostile. His attitude gave the impression that my presence in the building had caused him to have to move, and for that he hated me.
    “Hey, what you doin’?” he asked.
    “Taking pictures.”
    “I see that. Why you takin’ pictures?”
    “Someone fell down the stairs and hurt himself.”
    “Oh yeah? Who?”
    I took out my notebook, made a show of looking up the name. “Guillermo Gutierrez.”
    The super snorted. “Oh, him. So why you take pictures?”
    “This guy fell down the stairs and hurt himself. He’s gonna make an insurance claim.”
    “You gonna sue?”
    “We don’t use the word sue. We call it ‘making a claim.’”
    “You call it anything you like. You gonna sue, you gonna sue. Who you gonna sue?”
    “I don’t know. That’s not my department We might have a claim against the owner of the building, or the landlord, or the real estate agent.”
    “You gonna sue me?”
    “You the super?”
    “That’s right. You gonna sue me?”
    “No.”
    “You sure?”
    “I’m sure.”
    “How you know that?”
    I smiled at him. “Cause you ain’t got no money.”
    He looked at me for a moment as if deciding whether or not to be angry. Then he laughed. “Hey, you all right.” He laughed some more. “Who are you, anyway?”
    I took out my I.D. as a private detective. It was in a brown leather folder that opened up to show a photo I.D. of me in my suit. At the top it said “SPECIAL INVESTIGATOR.” Below, in smaller print, “LICENSED BY.” Below that, in big print again, “STATE OF NEW YORK.” Below that, three lines: one, small print, “THIS IS TO CERTIFY THAT”; two, typed in a blank, “STANLEY HASTINGS”; three, small print, “IS EMPLOYED AS A SPECIAL INVESTIGATOR.” Below that, small print, “SHIELD NO.” and a blank, left blank, since I am not a cop. Finally, below that, the authorized signature of the private detective who had gotten me the license.
    Technically, the license only empowered me to work as a private detective for his agency, which I didn’t, and not to run my own agency. But technically, I didn’t run my own agency, as I had no employees, and I had a perfect right to do what I was doing, and if anyone ever complained, the worst that could have happened would have been I might have had to take down the signs on my door and in my lobby, which were there mainly to amuse my friends anyway.
    At any rate, it was a genuine I.D., and it was invaluable in my work. I’d go into a bar where a woman fell and broke her leg, show it to the owner, tell him I was investigating an insurance claim, and he’d assume I was from his insurance company and let me take pictures of anything I wanted, never dreaming I was actually working for the person who was trying to sue—excuse me—making a claim.
    He took the ID., looked it over. A silly grin came over his face.
    “You private eye?” he said.
    “Guilty as charged.”
    “You shoot people?”
    “That’s just on television,” I told him.
    “Yeah, TV,” he said.
    I decided to trade on the image. “Look,” I said. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with this guy, Gutierrez, for four or five days. He doesn’t answer the phone. He doesn’t answer the door.”
    “What you want him for?”
    “You like to get paid?”
    He stared at me. “What, are you nuts? I like to get paid? Sure I like to get paid.”
    “Yeah, well I like to get paid, too. And I don’t get paid until I find the guy.”
    “What you want him for?”
    “He has to sign some papers for his lawyer.”
    “That’s all?”
    “That’s enough.”
    He shrugged. “Maybe. You talk to Rosa?”
    “Who’s Rosa?”
    “His girlfriend.”
    “What’s her name?”
    “Rosa.”
    “What’s her last name?”
    “I don’t