The Little Black Book: Shall We Begin?

Cedar Hincapie used to resent being the middle child, forgotten and ignored. Or worse, expected to be just like his two older brothers. Nowadays, he wonders why he hadn’t considered invisibility his superpower. His throbbing head and clamorous alarm at six o’clock in the morning had him roaring curses. Silencing his phone, he tucked his engorged member into the waistband of his boxer-briefs and rolled skillfully out of bed into a push up position. A morning ritual to get the blood moving and cure his self-medicating last night.

“You need to change that ringtone if we’re going to be sharing rooms,” his brother, Javier said. Cedar was waiting to close on a property in New York. “I tell myself to, then remember it’s too annoying to sleep through,” Cedar replied.

His seven person family lived in his building, siblings sharing one bathroom and three bedrooms on the second floor of the duplex-townhouse. His parents enjoy a spacious first floor with their own bathroom. ‘They earned it,’ he often reminded his siblings. The two adjoining units were rentals. It’s common for immigrant families to have two or three generations under the same roof. Definitely economical in Paterson, New Jersey.

After a productive meeting at his office, he changed out of his suit and into a plain white t-shirt and jersey knit shorts; slipped into his trusted running shoes and stepped out into the cool east wind, tasting the salt in the air. He was a lean 6’4 with honey colored skin and wavy black hair that fell below his jawline. He looked like an early thirties Benjamin Bratt.

Uncle Fernando normally indulges in his afternoon porter if he wasn’t working a case. Cedar jogged the two miles to the local watering whole and saw Uncle Fern on his weary stool at the bar. Slouched over and sipping his beer; jotting down notes from the day’s observations, listing contacts made and scheduled follow-ups, and most importantly, Uncle Fern would say, filling out expense reports with attached photocopy receipts, ‘never hand over originals kid,’ he’d tell Cedar.

Cedar secretly enjoyed his uncle’s Private I stories he was usually reluctant to tell. ‘It’s called ‘private’ for a reason boy,’ he’d say to a younger Cedar beaming with childish anticipation. “You need an assistant Uncle,” Cedar said, greeting his uncle with a kiss on both cheeks. “I imagined that’d be you,” he stated more than examined for interest. Cedar ordered a pint and pondered the idea.

Uncle Fern knew Cedar wasn’t cut from the same Peruvian cloth his siblings were. He reminded him of himself in his youth; inquisitive, night owl circles beneath his eyes and a pathological brain that was almost audible like the ticks and tocks of a clock, and its perpetual movement.

Uncle Fern comforted a young Cedar once, afraid of the dark; ‘don’t fear the dark boy, if you can’t see what lurks there, you can hide there.’ That predication struck a chord with him for the rest of his life. But at this point in time, Cedar wore a glazed over look like every shmoo who detested their occupations. They conversed about their chosen professions, sipping their beers. And Uncle Fern was prodding, Cedar observed.

Achieving their desired alcohol level, they tipped Igris, the red headed bartender generously. She was a stringy, flat chested and spirited Scottish girl, with the mouth of a German plumber. “The carpet matches the drapes,” Igris said, winking vicariously at Cedar when she caught his stare and held it. Cedar winked back and asked his uncle if he should be worried, to which Uncle Fern replied, “terrified, boy.”

Her father owned the pub called ‘Lucky’s,’ and had ties to the New IRA. The locals’ weekly benedictions for harmony and protection anointed this the safest place in Jersey. Thus, indebted to God, an aging Peruvian PI, a kissed by fire, Scottish father-daughter duo, and an Irish Godfather. The local fealty deemed it ‘the Parish.’

They crossed the street to the convenience store below Uncle Fern’s apartment for cigarettes; up a narrow flight of stairs and down a long and dingy hallway. They passed a communal shower shared by four tenants of the second floor, to the last and largest unit, where a frosted glass windowed-door read “F. Hincapie and Company, Investigative Services.” The apartment faced the street with hip to ceiling windows and a modern industrial design.

“Have a seat boy,” Uncle Fern said waving at the cracked leather couch behind a dusty glass and wrought iron coffee table. Cedar resented being called ‘boy’ at his pretentious age of twenty-seven years old. But he figured a family member thirty-eight years his senior acquired the right. Cedar was a real estate agent for six of those years and a broker for the last. It’s afforded him a few properties, a lofty savings and investments, but frankly, he abhorred it.

His family didn’t pay rent in his building, he only required they conduct the maintenance and ensured the two adjoining units were occupied year-round. His sisters; Ana and Dehlia managed the marketing and leasing while his brothers Alejandro and Javier managed maintenance in between castings, rehearsals and events. His parents Pablo and Tuti ushered the exit process for tenants.

He also owned a ranch house in Buffalo, NY which Dehlia, the youngest; he trusted to keep profitable nine months of the year. His other siblings were irresponsible. His brothers threw an after party there after Javier’s premier of ‘Pele.’ Their guests caused tens of thousands of dollars in damages Cedar would never be compensated for. ‘It’s just money, can’t take it with you,’ was his long winded motto in lieu of ‘whatever.’

He seldom dreamed of the tranquil nights and crisp mornings there and would vacation once a year to unplug from the hustle and bustle of ‘Always Be Closing.’

Uncle Fern returned with a stack of files. “Start with that,” he said. The weight of the files thumped onto the table. Cedar opened the top one and gagged. Intrigued, yet queasy, he tried to wrap his mind around the images in the photos.

It appeared to be an exhumed grave sight. The body was dismembered with the head placed between the feet. The grim sight of the decomposing body and fleshy-rotted parts clinging to bones drew his eyes to focus. He’s seen his share of gruesome crime scenes binge watching True Crime series on Netflix, but this was authentic. This was palpable. This was close to home.

Cedar stood balancing against a window next to the fire escape, drawing heavily on his cigarette, thumbing through the notes and photos of the folder labeled ‘Little Black Book.’ Curious, Cedar cocked an eyebrow and asked, “why do you call it the Little Black Book?” Forgetfully, Uncle Fern replied “Oh, yes,” he unlocked a drawer in his desk and pulled out a Moleskine, little black book. “It’s the missing piece to this case,” he replied, handing it to Cedar.

Pulling hard on his Camel 99 Red again, Cedar removed the elastic strap and skimmed it’s contents carefully.

‘Joseph Hillman - $20,000’

‘Michael Thompson - $26,000’

‘Lorraine Hodges - $32,000’

There were five other names on the list, but these three were striked through with a red pencil. The fourth name he recognized as the seller in his agreement of sale; his stomach churned. There were bank accounts, off-shore accounts, properties, stocks and bonds, and other assets, social security numbers, addresses, contact numbers, family members’ names and ages; it even included the pets of each person.

Determined, he poured whiskey from a crystal decanter on his uncle’s desk. Plots thickened with the warmth of the whiskey filling his chest. He closed his eyes and imagined the Upper East Side; generational wealth, private townhouse communities and studious personal drivers, doorman and elevator men, gracious and kind, chefs, maids and nannies, all eager to serve. Cedar projected himself onto it’s wet streets lit in urban lights, manicured window boxes and open courts, the scent of lilacs and roses filling his nostrils. A violinist fretting notes into the night.

He frantically flipped through the remaining folders, his eyes darting from one page to another. Police reports revealed the affluent community of the Upper East Side was being terrorized by theft, vandalism, assaults and carjacking for months. Joseph Hillman’s son and wife were kidnapped and held at ransom. He was forced to sell his property to pay the ransom. Mr. Hillman disappeared hours before his wife and son were returned to him. His family singularly suffered this fate.

Cedar’s pupils were dimed-sized and frenzied. “I know what’s happening here uncle; it’s an illegal, racially discriminatory practice in the real estate world called ‘blockbusting,’” Cedar confirmed. “Parties are coerced into selling their homes through scare tactics, to minorities or people of ethnic backgrounds. Then a sales agent will contact other owners in the previously all-white neighborhood and inform them that their property’s value will fall if they don’t sell right away at a depressed offered price,” a flush cheeked Cedar finished. He was enamored with his ability to apply seven years of real estate knowledge to the murder of the identified body, Michael Thompson, Joseph Hillman’s missing person’s case, and what he now believes to be multiple criminal acts taking place.

A taciturn Uncle Fern listened intently, hiding the pride he felt for his nephew, then methodically said “$500 a week, plus a 10% commission on each case. Some cases, mind you, are pro-bono; I’ll select those personally. But others can potentially be five to six figures to you, easily; like this one. Expenses are paid by the client but are initially covered by petty cash. You’ll handle expense reporting, accounting, client calls, messages, emails, and create one of those social media things for me. If business picks up, as I predict it will, your commission increases incrementally and is to be determined by business growth and sustainability. Then you can hire one of your sisters to do the office stuff.”

Uncle Fern paused for a moment, looking down at the little black book. Then he added; “you’ve got a head for this kid, I see it. Right there,” Uncle Fern jabbed a finger in between Cedar’s eyebrows. “Your real estate knowledge is beneficial to this case and white-collar crimes like it,” he said.

Uncle Fern went up to his loft to nap, smug in the generosity of his offer. Cedar picked up the little black book and began to read again, like a dog gnawing on a bone. He sought affirmation that all the details connected pathologically.

Four hours, seven cigarettes and three whiskeys later, Cedar leaned back and realized he'd fallen in love. He fell for the dark, dank, gore and mystery that was the shadow life of a private investigator. Cedar realized he would have accepted an apprenticeship. Then wondered if he should pursue the property he anxiously desired in the Upper East Side. A pang of guilt rushed through his chest.

Cedar narrowed his eyebrows at the floor plans of Mr. Hillman’s house, and the photos of the interior walls after it sold for a $20,000 commission to the broker. “What’s wrong boy?” A waking Uncle Fern boomed from his loft. Cautiously, yet slurring his words, “I think I found Mr. Hillman,” Cedar almost whispered. Uncle Fern stared at him plainly for a beat, deciding if the whiskey was talking; “show me,” he said. Cedar circled a blank space next to a wall on Mr. Hillman’s floor plans, then circled a wall that was erected in that space in the photos.

Uncle Fern replied; “you may have found him indeed, and the motive and the suspect or suspects. We’ll need to reach out to Jack Hillman, the client.” “As in, Real Estate Guru, the second richest man in New York, Jack Hillman?” Cedar asked in astonishment. “Yes, he’s Mr. Hillman’s grandfather. Do you know him?” Uncle Fern inquired. “Only by reputation,” Cedar responded. Uncle Fern sighed, then asked, “shall we begin?”