A visit with private detective Wes Fitzgerald

The address given to Vinny by sergeant detective Clyde Jablonsky led us to a historic section of the city’s downtown. The area was full of badly aged buildings from the turn of the century. They were constructed of red bricks whose color had been faded and stained by decades of punishment from inclement weather and air pollution. The windows were so opaque you could not begin to see what was taking place inside. Some windows were cracked and taped over. The ridges of many buildings were lined with pigeons that defecated freely, scorching the upper portions of the once majestic structures with stark white streaks of bird shit. In some areas, moss and ivy had sprung to life and were migrating up the walls. Tiny shards of broken glass glinted in an almost ornamental way along the sidewalks. Why the city had not taken more care in preserving its historic roots defied explanation.

Vinny pulled his Jeep Cherokee to the side of the road, wondering why this hot- shot investigator was hole up in such a dilapidated district. He shut the motor down and we stepped out of the vehicle, taking extra care to make sure the vehicle was locked its alarm system activated. The building’s lobby was a threadbare and moldering affair. I pushed the button to summon an elevator. There was a distant mechanical clatter of cables, pulleys and sliding doors. After waiting for some time it was decided the elevator was not going to show. We took the stairs to the fourth floor. On our way up we passed an agitated man headed the other direction wearing a blue jumpsuit and a tool belt.

Our rubber-soled shoes moved quietly along the corridor until we reached suite 412. The door was open and the investigator was standing twenty feet away with his back towards us, peering out the office window at the parking below, keeping an eye on his 1967 Buick LeSabre. It was fully restored in royal blue paint and white-walled tires. We would later learn that on a couple of occasions he found would-be vandals messing

with his car and chased them off by pulling his snub-nosed .357 revolver from his armpit holster and firing a couple of rounds into the dumpster just a few strides from the LeSabre.

The detective was a big man and had a hitch in his stance. The tweed blazer and its elbow patches had seen nattier days. His office was sparse to the extreme. A desk, a phone, an answering machine, and one battered four-drawer filing cabinet. We smelled a whiff of hard liquor. It was 2 p.m. Based on this unimpressive montage, I gave Vinny a screwed up look and motioned for him to follow me out of the place, leaving the statuesque detective standing in suspended animation. When I shifted my weight for locomotion the floor creaked. We froze as the investigator turned and saw us.

“Yes?” he said.

The man’s face resembled the lunar surface, cratered from a catastrophic case of teenage acne. I swore he could see a miniature of Neil Armstrong’s legendary footprint in the hollow of the investigator’s cheek. I could not help but think, “That’s one small step for man ...”

We stepped into the office. “Wes Fitzgerald?” Vinny said.

“Who wants to know?” Fitzgerald took a few lumbering steps towards the strangers. I could feel the aging floorboards flexing under the man’s weight. Fitzgerald had plenty of reason to be paranoid. His years of law enforcement and private investigation made a tremendous number of enemies, several of whom had sought retribution over the years.

Vinny did more than stand his ground, stepping up to the detective and extending a hand. Fitzgerald warily engulfed it in his own hand.

“Vinny Marciano,” he announced. “This is my brother Mickey.”

I extended my hand and the investigator put a squeeze on it that announced he had the strength to crush my knuckles into dozens of bone fragments if provoked.

“As you can see, my identity is no secret,” Fitzgerald said, lazily motioning towards the door, which had a frosted panel of glass with stenciled lettering that spelled out:

Wes Fitzgerald 

Private Investigator

We took our places on respective sides of the desk and exchanged some preliminaries.

“I think my girlfriend’s having an affair.” Vinny’s statement caught me by surprise, both because he did not have a girlfriend at the moment, and because that was not the purpose of our visit.

“How do you know this?” Fitzgerald said.
“All the signs are there.”
“Such as?”
“She’s losing interest in sex — at least with me. When I ask her what she’s

thinking about or where she’s been, I get elliptical answers.”
It was obvious from the sudden daze in Fitzgerald’s eyes that he didn’t know the

definition of the word elliptical and was doing his best not to let on.
“I’m also worried about her safety. There’s no telling what kind of man she may

come across. It’s important she has some protection.”
“You sound unusually charitable for a guy whose girlfriend is supposedly

polishing another man’s knob.”

“I care about her ... indiscretions and all. I figure we can work it out.”

“You might consider seeing a florist instead of an investigator. A dozen red roses can do wonders for a woman’s disposition and sex drive.”

“Don’t worry about the florist,” Vinny said, “he’s getting his share of my business.”

“How’d you find me?” Fitzgerald was looking askance.
“You’re in the book.”
“Very scientific of you.”
“We’re just talking about tailing somebody. I didn’t think an executive search

firm would be required.”
I looked back and forth at the men, following their game of verbal ping-pong.

Judging from their hardboiled repartee the both of them had seen too many second-rate noir crime films.

Fitzgerald rubbed a hand across his badly scarred face. He was not sure how to regard this latest client. Nothing extraordinary about a distrusting man wanting his girlfriend tailed.

“Are you sure there isn’t something more you want to tell me?”

Vinny shook his head. Fitzgerald needed another paying gig, so he laid his suspicions aside. Besides, he liked following women.

“I’ll need a photograph,” he said.

Vinny dug into his wallet for a two-by-three-inch color mug shot of Sister Angie. He slid it across the desk like he was dealing a playing card. Fitzgerald picked it up, took one look and let out a pretty-girl whistle.

“Detective,” Vinny said, “do you mind?”

“Relax,” Fitzgerald grumbled. “It can’t be any secret to you that men find your girl attractive. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

He handed Vinny a yellow legal pad and a Bic pen.

“I’ll need her home and work addresses, and her daily schedule. I’ll also need a deposit. My fee is $100 per hour, plus expenses.”

“How are you going to go about keeping tabs on her?” I asked

“My techniques are proprietary,” Fitzgerald said. After a pause he shrugged and added, “Some of this stuff is pretty obvious. I’ll make sure she actually goes to work in the morning, see how she spends her lunch hour and make sure she heads right home after work. Those are the three keys points of opportunity during a working person’s day. If you go out of town without your girlfriend, let me know. You give her a bigger playground and that means I have to put in some extra hours.”

Vinny handed over a $500 deposit check.

“My work will start after this thing clears,” Fitzgerald said, tucking it in his breast pocket.

We left Fitzgerald’s office and found the elevator sitting there with its doors open. It seemed to beckon. We got on board and pushed the first floor button. After the doors closed the elevator car gave us a few seconds of undulation but didn’t go anywhere. The doors slid back open. I hit the first-floor button again. The doors closed and the elevator did another palsied rendition of the rumba and threw its doors back open. Then we heard the workman in the elevator shaft below pounding hard on something metallic. We made a fast exit to the stairs.

@copyright/Mike Consol