Detective

to anything. If it did, he never would have thought of hiring an attorney and, even then, his first thought would have been that he couldn’t afford one.
    TV changed all that. People who didn’t know what the words “contingency basis” meant all knew what the word “free” meant. It meant that your broken leg might be worth money, and that it didn’t cost anything to find out. By the time Richard emerged from college, several prominent law firms, notably Jacoby and Meyers (“It’s about time. . .”), and Davis and Lee (“Dial L-A-W-Y-E-R-S”), had built up sizable reputations and practices through TV and radio advertising. Richard looked around and said, “Hmmmm.”
    He rented an office on West 12th Street and opened the law firm of Rosenberg and Stone. Stone was a dummy. Rosenberg was the whole show.
    He took out all the loans he could get and sank the money into twenty-second TV spots. He made three spots, all similar. A typical one showed a black family sitting on a couch. The young mother is holding a baby in her arms. A three-year-old is playing on the floor. The father is sitting next to the young mother, his right leg encased in a huge, white, hip-length cast. The wife, bravely holding back tears, says, “How we gonna pay the rent, Sam? How we gonna pay the rent?”
    The answer, of course, was to call Rosenberg and Stone. Their slogan: “No case too big. No case too small.” Then there was a lot of other stuff about how it wouldn’t cost you anything, and how you could get a free consultation right in your own home.
    In the beginning, Richard actually went to those free consultations. He had to. He was a one-man show. Later, as the settlements began to trickle in, he branched out. He moved into a larger suite of offices in the building and hired girls to answer the phones. He hired law students as paralegals to handle the paperwork. And he hired people to do the legwork.
    One of the first people Richard contacted was Fred Lazar, who ran a detective agency in Manhattan. It was no go. The most Richard would pay was ten bucks an hour and thirty cents a mile. Fred was out of his league.
    Fred and I had been on the Goddard College soccer team together, he at fullback, I in the goal. Together we formed the backbone of the team’s defensive unit, which is not really bragging, considering the emphasis they put on sports at Goddard. Anyhow, since we both live in Manhattan, Fred and I occasionally saw each other at New Year’s parties and the like. He knew I was out of work and looking for something that would be flexible enough to leave time for writing, so he gave me a call.
    I was surprised to hear from him. All his detectives were ex-cops, and there had never been any question of me ever working for his agency. The subject had never come up, and never would. But this was something different. It was something he didn’t want, and something I could do.
    Fred introduced me to Richard, who offered me the same deal he’d offered Fred—ten bucks an hour and thirty cents a mile. There were only two requirements for the job—a car and a detective license.
    I had a car.
    Fred got me the license. There was nothing to it. I filled out an application. I signed an affidavit attesting that I was not a known criminal, member of the Communist party, or a general nogoodnik. Fred took me down to the 23rd precinct, where I paid ten bucks to get fingerprinted. He also took me to Woolworth’s, where I had a color photo taken for two bucks in one of those little booths. “Look mean,” Fred told me. I tried and ended up looking stupid. It didn’t matter. Fred sent the whole mess off to Albany, and two weeks later he handed me a notarized photo I.D., the one I use to impress people like Gutierrez’s super.
    That’s all there was to it. Richard gave me a half-hour crash course on how to sign up clients and take pictures, handed me a briefcase full of sign-up kits, maps, and a camera, and off I went.
    For a while it was fun. Hey! I’m a private detective! Me. Stanley Hastings. With a real I.D. and everything. Christ, if I weren’t married, I bet I could hang out in singles bars and get laid all the time. Stanley Hastings, P.I.
    The thrill lasted about a month. During that time I was the lion of any social gathering, since all my friends wanted to know what it was like for an ordinary person, one of them, to be a private detective. But the excitement quickly waned. Soon, aside from the anxiety I built up