Ikoya Downtown - Chapter One

The taxi hit a pothole, jolting the detective against the ceiling and jamming his fedora down over his eyes. As he struggled in gray felt darkness, he heard the chuckle of his driver. “Sorry about the bumps. But believe me, this is the safest way downtown.”

The man pried the hat off and looked out the window. The late afternoon cast stark shadows between the buildings, glancing off faded murals and basketball courts. The sidewalk was cracked and overgrown, with flowers untrodden between.

The driver, who’d introduced herself as Janisha, pulled to a stop outside of a dull brick monolith. “921 Onmy Way,” she called, leaning back over the seat. “Sorry, again, about the road.”

“It’s really alright,” the man said, fishing out his wallet. “Thanks for your service.”

Janisha counted the change by hand. “I’m guessing you’re here for long-term business. What kind?” She glanced up, looking apologetic. “I’m the only cabbie here, so I like to know the area.”

“Ah, I don’t mind.” The man tweaked his fedora and grinned. “Mister Simon Abe, private eye.”

“Private eye?” she repeated.

“With a capital ‘eye’,” he affirmed. “Or, technically...info broker? I’ll decide once I print the business cards.” His expression had become nebulous, blank with scraps of color like the surface of a jawbreaker.

Janisha unlocked the door. “I’ll recommend folks your way, then. See you around, Mr. Abe.”

“Simon is fine.” He grabbed his valises and stepped out of the taxi.

The world unfolded like a pop-up book as he took in the tufts of grass beneath the porch, and the building with cracked yellow paint revealing scabs of exposed brick. It was a new dimension, and he welcomed it with bracing stride. Simon marched up to the door and found it unlocked.

He pushed it open slowly, assessing its safety. The door hinge was smooth, but the floorboards had a creak as loud as any doorbell. Inside the house was a foyer, decorated with a table, a single vase and a mirror. It opened left to a living room, where a man sat upright on the couch, drinking a cup of tea. A kettle, cups, and doilies adorned the coffee table.

“Welcome to my house!” the man said. “Lock the door behind you, would you?”

Simon did as he said, taking in the room. The apartment building seemed to be a converted house. It was small and quaint, with stairs leading up to the upper floor. Another person was to live there, as he understood.

The man on the couch rose to meet him. He was a Caucasian around his sixties, where the facial features grew dry like limestone. His silvering hair had been tied into a ponytail, which he laid over one shoulder of his suit. He moved through the quaint room as though enveloped in its history, and Simon wondered how if the house had been his before renting it out.

“You’re Mr. Parker?” Simon asked.

“That I am,” the silver-haired man replied, extending a gloved hand. Simon shook it politely.

There was a girl on the couch as well, leaning over the armrest on a smartphone. Her brown hair was grown long like her father’s, and falling a bit over her face as she looked down at the screen.

“This is my daughter, Zasha.” The man patted her head, sitting down beside her. “When I said our new tenant was a detective, she wanted to see for herself.”

Zasha lifted her head and glanced at Simon. A band of light seemed to spin in her eyes for a second, before her gaze dropped back to the colors of her game. In the moment he looked, Simon couldn’t find anything in her gaze.

The silver man smiled. “She can be shy, but she really does like detectives. Would you like some tea?”

Simon threw up his hands. “Can’t say no.”

The landlord gently picked up the kettle and poured, steadying it with his other hand. “So, Detective Abe. Investigators are hard to come by in Ikoya, let alone a man who claims he can close every case in it.”

Simon sat down and spread his shoulders. “I’ve got a good reputation for getting the real story.”

The landlord scoffed. “Everyone has their own story here. You see, the only real story is what people will believe.”

“I can back it up,” Simon said, “and I’m also pretty well-known by the Ikoya police.”

“As an ally or an crook?”

Simon twiddled his thumbs and admitted, “I’m polite, at least.”

“Ah, godliest of virtues.” The two men shared a laugh. Simon stopped giggling to find his landlord, sobered into a quiet expression.

“I wonder, though,” said the landlord, stroking Zasha’s head, “what you plan to do when you discover that truth. This city swallows up those who observe it too closely.”

“I know that,” Simon responded. “And I’m a detective first and foremost. Not in it for money, either.” His finger jabbed the brim of his hat, then pointed severely at the landlord. “All that matters to me is knowing, Mr. Parker. And I intend to know everything Ikoya has to give.”

The landlord looked at him long and hard before breaking into a smile. “You might just make it here,” he mused. Almost on cue, the doorbell chimed electronically.

“You know, I also own a bar near 3rd and 25th,” the landlord said as the doorbell rang. “Drop by sometime; I’ll treat you to a good story. You should get that.”

Simon stood up and walked to the door. Before his hand reached the knob, there was a sound of keys turning, and the door opened to a towering man in a hawaiian red shirt, holding a ring of master keys in oversized hands.

Simon blinked. “Can I help you?”

The giant man raised an eyebrow. “Can I help you, Mr. Abe? How did you even get in?”

The pieces clicked together for Simon. “So you are…”

“Joaquin Parker, your landlord.”

“I see,” said Simon. “That’s a shame.” He knew what had happened before he looked over his shoulder, but did so anyway. The man and girl had vanished, leaving three cups of tea steaming on the coffee table.

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“So you sign here, here, here, and here.” Parker flipped down the pages on the clipboard and pushed them across the coffee table.

“And he just sat there, knowing that he wasn’t my landlord, but choosing to let me believe it. Do you know what kind of power landlords have in this economy?” Simon glanced up at Parker, who raised an eyebrow. “I guess you do.”

“Yeah.” Parker shifted his weight and checked his phone absentmindedly. “Well, other than your mystery stranger, nobody can get in but you and me.”

Simon blinked. “You don’t believe me?”

“I don’t handle break-ins.” Parker tapped his pen on the contract. “I thought crimes were your department anyway.”

“They are.” Simon swiped his pen across each solid line and handed back the clipboard. “I’ll find that crook if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Sure.” Parker took the forms, checking the signatures. “Really, I couldn’t care less about what you do here. Solve mysteries, sell drugs, whatever. Payments are monthly; call my number if something breaks.”

“Of course,” Simon said, sipping his tea. “Could I maybe pay for this month in information services?”

“I love information,” Parker replied, standing up. “And at the end of the month, I’d love to know where my money is.”

Simon laughed nervously. Parker glared at him as if to add weight to the threat, then stood up and walked out the door. With no one else in it, 921 Onmy Way fell into a dim stasis.

The detective remained sprawled out on the couch and let the teacup fall to his side. He had thoughts of lying down and taking the rest of the day off, but decided against it, like he did every day. “I should get going,” he said to no one, and realized how lonely it was.

He rearranged himself in the hallway mirror: unruly black hair tucked beneath a fedora, small grey bowtie with an iron-grey vest. His lips quirked into a smile of the positive can-do variety.

He opened the door. The sun was a bit lower in the sky, but he preferred the shadows it made. Simon was brimming with the mysteries of Ikoya. Every crime awaited its seal, and Simon would do his job with gusto. He made sure to lock the door behind him, and at last he strode into the life waiting for him in Ikoya's downtown.