The Prisoner of Vandam Street

N
obody can stay in the middle forever and it was becoming increasingly clear to me, the longer I knew him, that McGovern was losing it. By it, I did not mean his wit, his health, his sex drive, or even his mind. All of those faculties, as near as I cared to tell, seemed to be as intact as was humanly possible in a person like McGovern. But the it he appeared to be losing, unfortunately, was something even more deleterious to his interpersonal relations, the brunt of which, I hasten to point out, fell squarely upon the shoulders of a man already burdened with far too many earthly responsibilities, namely myself. What McGovern was losing, though he did not realize it himself, was his hearing.

Now, I’m not making light of people who are deaf or losing their hearing. I am not mocking a disability that afflicts millions of Americans as they grow older, effectively cutting them off to varying degrees from the hearing world. All I’m saying, and I’ll try to speak loudly and slowly and enunciate clearly, is that they should get medical help or a hearing aid or a large, metal ear-horn like the kind that was used in medieval times, and stop constantly blaming hapless, sensitive friends like myself for mumbling. I do not mumble; I vocalize with intensity and tonality not dissimilar to the shriek of a parrot on the shoulder of an altar boy out bird-watching with the cardinal. The only person I’ve ever met who’s been inherently unable or unwilling to understand me is Mike McGovern and I believe he enjoys the high degree of frustration he engenders in his listening audience, which, fortunately for you, is usually me. So while McGovern may technically be the party with the medical malady, as time goes by, I increasingly see myself as the victim.

What I find particularly maddening about McGovern is that, instead of doing something to help his condition, he instead chooses to incessantly repeat the phrase, “Say again?” Compounding the tedium of this mortal, yet irritating crutch, is that McGovern, being a veteran journalist, first in Chicago and then in New York, is one of the most prying, inquisitive creatures on the planet, and one who fashions his entire system of communication in the form of questions. So McGovern proceeds to interrogate his prey ad nauseam, and then, as the innocent victim dutifully answers every question in an endless stream of verbiage, with almost every answer, McGovern follows up with, “Say again?” This ingrained behavior makes a short conversation virtually impossible, a longer conversation interminable, and any conversation unpleasant. The whole situation is usually not improved upon by the fact that McGovern is invariably drinking during almost all forms of human intercourse.

Thus it was mildly ironic that McGovern, one of the most irritating of that irritating group of men known as the Village Irregulars, was soon to become my primary care-giver in a nightmare scenario I never could’ve dreamed up. When you’re in the business I’m in, of course, you don’t worry much about irritation. Irritation comes with the territory—like evil, ennui, and cat turds, in a random and haphazard order. As a private investigator in the City of New York, you come to depend upon those whom you consider your friends, even if they are sometimes unreliable, unredeemable, and, in one case I can think of, unhygienic. You are a mender of human destinies. Your work can often be a matter of life or death for your client, yourself, your associates, or for someone who may be a completely innocent bystander. Fortunately, there are very few completely innocent bystanders in New York.

It all started, as near as I can recall, one seemingly normal night in the dead of winter. McGovern and I were inhabiting two barstools at the Corner Bistro, maintaining a low-key celebration of a case I’d wrapped up fairly recently. As things had transpired, McGovern had played a rather constructive, not insignificant role in resolving the investigation. He had fought several pitched battles with his editor at the
Daily News,
emerged triumphant in both of them, and written two major features involving my quest to find a small autistic boy who’d gone missing in the city. New York is not a small town in Kansas. For an amateur private investigator to have any luck here, he has to rely upon the help and good will of others. In other words, if you have to have a friend, he might as well be in the media.

The kid’s name was Dylan Weinberg. His nanny was an old black woman named Hattie Mamajello. His father was an asshole. His half-sister was gorgeous, a fact that almost derailed the usually peerless detecting ability of my sometimes partner, Steve Rambam. The kid, though brilliant, had a rather limited vocabulary, consisting, in fact, of only one word. The word was “shnay.” In the end, it was enough to solve the case.

“Shnay,” I said to McGovern.

“Say again?” he said.

“Shnay,” I said again, a little louder, looking up with mild irritation from my third pint of Guinness.

“Shea?” said McGovern, looking up blamelessly from his fourth Vodka McGovern. “The stadium?”

“Shnay!” I said viciously, and loudly enough to turn the heads of several nearby patrons.

“You don’t have to shout,” shouted McGovern petulantly. “I can hear you!”

We drank for a while in a state of sullen silence. Either we were heroic friends or we were stuck with each other and either one was bad enough. However, there was no reason to let little things put a strain on a relationship that was already hanging by spit. I didn’t want McGovern to go into one of his famous McGovern snits, so I made the first overture.

“We’ve been through a lot together,” I said wistfully.

McGovern turned his barstool toward me. He leaned his large head closer and looked me right in the eyes.

“Say again?” he said.

It was sad really. On the other hand, what the hell difference did it really make? Most of the people in the world drank a lot less than McGovern and their sense of hearing was far superior, yet they went through life never really understanding, never really listening to anybody anyway. McGovern, I thought, was like a big, autistic child. He’d never grown up; he’d just gotten older. If you had a few pints of Guinness and thought about it for a while, it was kind of admirable.

“Remember the first time we met?” said McGovern.

“Yeah,” I said. “Didn’t Piers Akerman introduce us?”

“That’s right.” McGovern laughed with his big Irish laugh. “In the closet of your suite during that wild party at the Essex House.”

“We’re the only two men in New York who ever went
into
the closet,” I said.

It was amazing, I thought. McGovern had maintained an entire snatch of conversation without losing the thread and without saying “Say again?” Maybe he was some kind of meditational guru who’d trained himself only to hear things in which he was interested. Maybe he was in touch with some form of high spirituality like a dog or cat who could detect the essence and the meaning of things without needing to hear the words. Maybe he was akin to George Bernard Shaw, a fellow Irishman, who reportedly had such native sensitivity that he could review a play without even having to see it.

“Maybe you
are
a genius,” I said.

“I’m drowning in sarcasm,” said McGovern.

“No, I’m serious. You have the uncanny, childlike ability to hear when you want to hear and not hear when you don’t want to hear.”

“What?” said McGovern. “Say again?”

“I’m not going to say
anything
again!” I said very loudly.

“I heard you!” shouted McGovern angrily. “You don’t have to shout! You don’t have to make a scene! Life knows you better than you know yourself!”

It was at this point that I began feeling decidedly strange. I’d been experiencing some chills in the past few days and now they seemed to be coming home for their class reunion. I was not only literally contorting with the shaking chills, but I also seemed to be breathing rapidly and sweating profusely. Suddenly the whole place seemed hot as hell.

“God,” I said. “I feel like I’m burning up with fever.”

“Say again?” said McGovern, signaling the bartender for another round, totally oblivious to my condition.

“…burning…up…with…
fever,
” I managed to stammer.

“What?” said McGovern. “Let’s get some
beaver?
”

I must have passed out because when I came to again, the Corner Bistro was gone, the whole world was bathed in a sickly envelope of white, and I thought I was dead. It would require six more weeks for me to wish I were.