The night was dank and my mood sour, like an I-270 commuter with a dead radio and no air conditioner. Somewhere out there, a new highway with Bud's name on it was inching northward, and some wise guy at AASHTO was hatching another scheme to pencil in a new US 400-something stringing together a set of towns you never heard of, who collectively might be able to sell out Yankee Stadium on a good day.
But in other places, a DOT offensive line gave way like a paper curtain, and another US 7 expressway plan lay flat on its back, sacked in its own end zone; and even here in Sin City, work on the 215 was held up because they ran out of those pillow-sized rocks they use for landscaping.
Maybe I could move out to North Carolina, or Texas, or Florida; I'd trade my city's evils for new ones, but at least they're building highways there.
I'm Mike Planner, private detective.
I needed a case soon; I was down to my last dollar, and even the co-branded Rand McNallys at Walmart were out of my reach. The guys running the building know I'm from the south side of Boston, and let me know that if I didn't come up with the rent by Monday, I'd be deader than Boston's Inner Belt after the trade-in act of 1973.
I held up my can of Colt 45, thinking of Houston for no reason in particular, when the door opened. The dame didn't knock, which was funny because her knockers looked in great shape to me. Her face was prettier than James Lin's website, and her body had more curves than the Springfield Mixing Bowl. Like the original Bowl, she might have really been decades older and miles away, and knowing my luck, she was probably one of those gals that drove on the left.
I put those thoughts aside. It's hard to entertain a girl in style without some clams, and for that I needed some business. "Have a seat," I said, motioning with the can of 45.
She remained standing, the shadows from the window blinds crossing her face. "Nice map," she said, glancing at the wall frame above my seat. Her voice was husky enough to give Mike Krzyzewski flashbacks about the '99 championship.
"Socony '26," I said. It was a nice map, made in the day when life was a little more innocent, back when you thought you could trust a guy. The US routes, brand new back then, were shown in plain circular markers.
She quickly got to her case. "It's my husband. He's involved in something that smells like a rat, and I think he's in over his head."
Two and two were adding up to 17 here; I couldn't make sense of it. "Is he treating you good? If not, then what's it to you?"
"He's not treating me at all. Most of the time, he's not even around; when I ask him where he's going, he always comes up with the strangest places."
Like what, I asked, and then she came up with a smorgasbord of second-tier cities, picked as if throwing darts at the "Interstate System Status" maps they used to have in Public Roads. Pine Bluff, Arkansas. Danville, Virginia. Scranton, Pee-Ay. Quincy, Illinois. Durham, North Carolina. There was no pattern. It didn't make sense.
"Where is he now?" I asked. If I was taking a flight someplace, I'd have to get an advance.
"He's staying at Paris."
"That flight's gonna be expensive," I warned. Maybe a first-class seat would be nice change of scenery.
"Not the city, the casino. Right there on Route 604."
"Fancy digs," I said. 604 was for oil sheiks, rich kids, and tourists. These days, you couldn't even find a $10 table, not that I had $10 to my name.
But when we made the trip crosstown, the bright lights, bustling traffic and triple left-turn lanes on the 604 worked their old magic and the clouds in my head began to lift. This was the city of boundless opportunity and endless second chances; I'd be a fool to leave. Maybe this case, starting this night, would be the one that turned my luck around.
Spoiler: it didn't. The story was never finished.