Work Text:
October 1946
“Charlie, your coffee is ready,” Isaac calls out. My body creaks as I stretch and get out of bed. I then make my way over. Over the years we’ve shared this apartment, this has become our morning ritual: Isaac makes me coffee as I stumble out of my room while his tea is brewing (god-awful substance if you ask me), and we drink our respective morning brews at the kitchen table.
I’ve really lucked out with this arrangement, even if I do have to live in a half-library, half-walk-up. Not that that’s a bad thing.
He's already brought in our copy of the New York Post, early riser that Isaac is. I pick out the page with the crossword section, fold it into quarters so the crossword faces up, and place it to my right. I then lay out the rest of the newspaper before me and turn it to the classifieds section.
I have been doing it every morning for the past several weeks. Combing through those ads, trying to find something that will help us pay our rent at the end of the month. I won’t pretend I’m not starting to feel a little desperate; our landlord isn’t the type who allows us to be behind, even though we have been model tenants in this fifth-floor apartment. I was originally supposed to get into publishing when I was mustered out of the army towards the end of the war, but that dream has long since faded. Maybe I should consider going back to Columbia and getting my master’s, but that won’t solve our current rent shortfall.
As I scan through yet another nondescript mid-town office job, where I’ll be rejected if I apply, halfway down the page, I see something that piques my interest.
WANTED
YOUNG MAN FOR INVESTIGATIVE OFFICE
Typing, filing, errands, field work. Knowledge photography advantageous.
Must possess discretion & attention to detail.
Flatiron.
Write Box 2017.
I take out my green-inked biro and circle the ad.
“I mean, I wouldn’t exactly call you young, Charlie.” As I jump out of my skin, Isaac places the black (just as I like it) coffee gently on our kitchen table so it doesn't slop over the sides and onto the saucer; as per the ritual, it’s also the least chipped cup that we own.
“How many times do I have to tell you, Isaac? Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“I’m just offering some friendly commentary.” He sets his own tea down, pulls up to the table, picks out the crossword, and takes a pen from his shirt pocket. “Also, really, do you really think your hip will be up for it? Aren’t PIs mostly staking out places for hours on end? Are you sure you’re up to that?” The comment brings a dull twinge to the Nazi bullet lodged in my hip.
“Well, I suppose there is no harm in finding out. Also, beggars can't be choosers. Who says I'll even get an interview?”
We sit in silence for a few seconds when Isaac breaks it. “One down. French friend. Three letters.”
“Ami.” I say without missing a beat. That was one of the handful of French words I had picked up in Normandy in ’44.
That somehow makes up my mind for me. My notepaper and envelopes are somewhere for replying to 2017, but first, I need to finish this coffee.