A Study In '90s: Singer in a Smoky Room

The beginning is always the difficult part, isn’t it? Well, I suppose we should just try to get that part over with. My name is Jonathan Watson (although my friends call me John), and I am a retired detective, formerly of the NYPD. I suppose, also, I should provide an account of how I came to become acquainted with the legendary private investigator Canterbury Holmes. After all, if you are here, reading this blog, I will assume you to be interested in her work, first and foremost. 

I was born the elder son of a grade-school teacher and a veterinarian, at Coney Island Hospital. My life had been generally unremarkable – I failed out of pre-med and joined the NYPD on a whim. I was quite happy with the career choice, and worked my way up to detective, in the homicide division. All in all, I spent about a decade in the NYPD, give or take. For a while, all was well… until the fire nation attacked.

I had chosen to leave the NYPD after my wife, Mary Watson, had been fatally shot during an armed bank robbery. Unfortunately, to this day, the suspects have not been apprehended. I will not say that I wasn’t hit hard by her death, because I was. Mary is the love of my life, and for a long time, I felt quite lost without her presence. I sold our Park Slope flat, and I quit my job, which had previously been my world.

It was six months after Mary’s death that I found myself ready to do… something. I wanted a fresh start, but I did not know what sort of new beginning I was looking for. It is then that the new beginning found me. I had been taking a walk in Central Park on a chilly January day; it was around noon. I was lost in my thoughts and not paying attention to where I was going. So, I was a bit startled when I heard –

              “John!! John Watson! Wait up!” Hearing the familiar voice, I turned around and came face to face with my old friend from my NYPD days, Mikey Stamford. Mikey’s a pudgy sort of guy, with a receding hairline and a deep love of Journey. We first met while I was in pre-med; years later we became reacquainted when he took up a post with the morgue as a forensic pathologist. We’d met countless times over the cold steel of the examination table and in a dark dive bar over beers once in a blue moon but this – daylight, a park – was a first.

              “Mikey!” I exclaimed, not displeased to see a familiar face.
              “John!” he finally caught up with me, a bit out of breath. “I haven’t seen you in ages –“ Not since before Mary, we both thought but didn’t say. “–how have you been?”

              “Oh, you know, the usual.” I told him. “Thinking of taking up professional mud wrestling or something. Yourself?”

              “Same old, same old. Hey, are you free? We should get lunch or something. You know, catch up a bit,” said Mikey. I found myself unable to come up with any objections to the proposition.

And it is thus that we found ourselves at Gray’s Papaya, scarfing down legendary hot dogs from heaven.

“So, sold the flat, did you? I heard some girls from the precinct stopped by a month or two back, but you weren’t living there no more.” Mikey remarked in between bites.

“Yeah, no, I just… I couldn’t, you know?” I said. “We had plans and stuff for that place, Mary and I. Been staying with family. Thinking of getting a place or something, but landlords these days want your soul, your right toe and the soul of your firstborn child as deposit, you know?”

Mikey looked thoughtful as he chewed his hot dog. “Have you thought about getting a roommate?” he asked at last after swallowing.

I scoffed. “Come on, with who? Hipsters? College students? Hipster college students?”

“You’re the second person to say those exact words to me, you know.” Mikey said, looking out the window onto the street.

“Really, now?” I asked. “Wanna tell me who the first was?”

It was later that day, as dusk embraced the city in its frosty embrace, that Mikey led me into a dive bar somewhere in Williamsburg, way off Bedford on one of those side streets closer to the East River. As we entered, we were hit by a rolling wave of smoke, sweat and cheap booze. Mikey pushed his way past a couple of drunk girls instagramming their drinks. A long-haired hipster with a beat up leather jacket and what was probably a Custom Shop relic Strat crooned his best imitation of Steve Perry, having taken the adage “the only way to make a room of white people happy is to play Don’t Stop Believin” to heart.

“Why are we here again?” I called out to Mikey. I knew he was a Journey enthusiast, but this was a bit much even for him.

Mikey shook his head and led me over to a corner booth. Strangely, it was empty, except for a pale woman with prominent cheekbones, blonde hair, a bored expression and a gin & tonic in front of her. She sat with her back to the wall, and studied the people in the room with an air of mistrust. Mikey slid into the booth, and I sat down next to him.

“…This is my friend Jonathan Watson, we went to school together, actually,” he was saying. The woman’s icy blue eyes flickered over me in an appraising glance as she stirred the cucumbers in her drink with a sprig of rosemary.

“Hello.” I said, smiling politely and nodding. She smiled in return, her eyes glinting almost predatory in the dark, smoky room.

“Jonathan Watson, you say,” she purred. “So, a policeman… former policeman? Either you’re looking for a roommate, or Mikey’s trying to get you a blind date with my big brother.”

“Er… it would be the first one, I think. I’m straight.” I stammered, glancing over at Mikey. He shrugged with a grin, as if to say, Don’t ask.

“Name’s Canterbury Holmes.” She said, pushing a few strands of hair behind her ear. “And it just so happens I’m looking for a roommate. My last one moved out without giving me any notice except a damn note on the fridge. Something about a damn walk-up in Williamsburg or whatever, I forgot it already.” She rolled her eyes dramatically with a loud sigh. “Bloody hipsters.”

“Hazards of living in New York and all. Where’s the flat at?” I asked, curious.

“Up in Astoria, near Broadway. It’s not so bad, pretty quick ride into the city. How do you feel about guitar? And violin?” responded Canterbury.

“I don’t mind it if it doesn’t suck?”

Canterbury nodded. “Fair enough. I play myself, and the guy upstairs is a beast.” She leaned in and whispered in a conspiratory tone. “Think he’s sold his soul or something, the way he plays.”

I nodded, a bit confused but not questioning it. Musicians, as a general rule, were and always will be a superstitious lot, even if they are perfectly reasonable people in all the other areas of their lives.

Canterbury pulled a sharpie out of her bag and scribbled an address and a phone number on a paper napkin. Sliding it across to me, she stood up, drink in hand. “As lovely as it was to meet you, I’ve got to run. Serial killer about to strike and all the wonderful stuff. Meet me at this address tomorrow, around noon?”

“Will do!” I said, but she was already striding out, tossing her drink back and slamming the glass down on the bar on her way out. I turned to Mikey, who was smiling in bemusement. “How much did you tell her about me?” I asked.

He shook his head, still grinning. “Absolutely nothing,” he said. “Canterbury does this. I don’t know how, no one knows, but she can read your life story with a single glance.”

I nodded, as a young waitress came over to take our orders. It would be a mystery worth exploring. Five minutes later, armed with a white Russian, I realized something else quite odd.

“Mikey, what did she mean, about the serial killer?”

At that time, Mikey had shrugged, but as we left the bar an hour and a half later, flashing lights of NYPD and FDNY cars occupied the space across the street. I had no idea what I was about to get myself into.