Trick and the Pop Star

Being the assistant to a private investigator isn’t all its cracked to be.

         In a city full of people in the background, Los Angeles, I propped up an anachronism.  Trick, my boss, looked like he stepped right out of the 1920s.  His white hair was always slicked straight back.  He always wore a white dress shirt with a tie, complete with matching suspenders.  When we went out, he always is wore his dress hat, like he was on the way to pick up his number one gal for the fox trot, or whatever people did back then.

         As you might imagine, in this time of technology that captures keystrokes as you type and advanced DNA techniques solving crimes, private investigator isn’t the business that it once was.  We didn’t even advertise, save for a small ad in the phonebook which simply says in small capital letters, “TRICK.”  For all I knew, people thought we ran a professional prankster service.

         So, that afternoon flowed by like most in our cramped third story L.A. office.  Trick sat behind the mountains of paper on his desk, on what was either his third or fourth scotch.  I sat in front of the desk, in one of the two chairs that would be saved for the few clients we landed.

         The knock on the door startled me to the point I almost sprung out of my chair.  I glanced at Trick, who motioned for me to get the door, as he downed the last of his scotch.

         I opened the door to find Jayne Moonstar, the “it” singer of that year.  Moonstar had just released her first album, which I think everyone in L.A. had a copy.  She bounced into our tiny office, complete with her pink dyed hair, her shades that nearly engulfed her face, and her nose rings.  A large bodyguard followed behind her silently, his entire focus engulfed on the pop star.  Moonstar plopped down in the seat I had previously occupied; I went and wedged myself behind Trick’s desk chair and the window.

         “Do you know who I am?” she asked.

         In his gravelly voice, Trick coolly answered, “The lady with the pink hair.”

         She laughed hard, flipping her head back to let the laughter escape to the ceiling.  The bodyguard didn’t flinch, maintaining perfect focus.

         “You did a job for my friend, Kate Alexander,” she continued.  “I had to come see you for myself.”

         The Alexander job was typical private investigator work that we pulled.  Like I said, despite Trick looking like he was from the 1920s, no one used private investigators to solve crimes anymore.  We followed her husband around for a couple of weeks, and we confirmed what she already knew.  But, Kate Alexander was a secretary; Jayne Moonstar was the hottest pop star in the country.

         “Ah, yes, Kate Alexander,” Trick said, tenting his fingers and leaning back in his chair acting like he was remembering.  I knew he had no idea who Kate Alexander was.

         “Katie’s a good friend of mine.  But, I don’t want you to do anything like that for me.  Oh, no.  Nothing as sordid as that affair.”

         I thought I should say something but didn’t.  I’m sure Trick and myself had the exact same thought.  What do you want?

         “My new album is coming out next year, and all the cover art so far…” she shook her head sadly, and trailed off.

         “Cover art?” I blurted out.

         “Oh, yes,” she said, brightening up.  “All the cover art has been a complete disaster.  I know you probably think my fans will buy anything with my name on it, and, maybe they will, but I want this album to be special.  The cover on my last album was completely controlled by the studio.  I have control over this one, complete control.  This cover will have…authenticity.”

         She had paused and accented authenticity.  Now, she waited watching us behind her shades.  And, we probably had the look of two dogs trying to understand a calculus lecture. 

         “Katie,” she continued, “Katie, told me all about you … Mr. Trick?”

         “Just Trick.”

         “Trick, then,” she said smiling.  “You are authenticity.  You have that vintage look perfectly, and I need to capture that on my album cover.  I don’t want some faux vintage look that everyone will see past.  I want to use you as the model for my next album cover.”

         Silence filled the room.  I stopped myself from blurting out, a model?  You want Mr. 1926 to be a model for you?

         “Of course, you will be handsomely rewarded for your time.”

         “Lady, you got yourself a model.”

         The shoot lasted three days.  We were both paid insanely well, and, after that, I decided to leave the private investigator assistant business forever.  Didn’t need it anymore, obviously.  Haven’t seen Trick since, but I can’t imagine him doing anything but sipping scotch behind his desk in a cramped office and wearing his dress shirt, tie, and matching suspenders.   

         The husky bearded guy on the bar stool next to me shook his head.  “That wasn’t the bet,” he said with his words, slightly slurring together.  “The bet was whether you’ve ever been on the cover of Rolling Stone.”

         Smiling, I reached down into my bag, and pulled out the Rolling Stone I always carried with me.  The issue with a cover featuring Jayne Moonstar’s second album, which went triple platinum.  The Rolling Stone that was going to win me this bar bet.

         “I was able to weasel myself onto the cover.  That’s me, the shoeshine boy.”

         He shook his head again, heavily this time, upon seeing it.  “Is this authentic?”

         “That is why she saw us in the first place.  Trick and I, why we are authenticity.”

         “Give me his tab,” he told the bartender.  “His drinks are on me.”