It was a cloudy night. A single streetlamp illuminated the corner of Cynicism Street and Despair Boulevard where the dilapidated Noir Building stood. Once a monument to prosperity, it now served to remind those wallowing at the bottom of the economic food chain just how far they had fallen.
My office was on the fourth floor, and, at the moment, I was panicked.
My case had consumed me. It invaded my brain and my brain had provided resistance in the classic French style: It folded like a wet paper towel.
It was a crossword puzzle. No longer worth debating"" was the clue. ""Moot,"" right? Every schmuck with half a brain could figure that out. But the puzzle had five spaces. Five blank spaces staring back at me, laughing at me.
As I sat there, lost in thought, I remembered how this case had started, like these things always start, with a beautiful damsel in distress.
She had knocked on my door and come into the room; my jaw dropped. She was a bombshell, packed from head-to-toe with curves that would make a mathematician drool with delight. She wore a red dress that looked painted on, and her blonde hair cascaded in perfectly concordant angles from her well-formed head. I drank in the beauty of life, and it tasted sweet.
""Are you Mr. Shoe?"" she asked. She had a voice like honey, colored by the naiveté of youth and tainted by the experience of heartbreak and sorrow. I needed to play it cool.
""That's me, Gus M. Shoe, private investigator. What can I do for you?""
""Well, Mr. Shoe, I hear you're a pretty smart man, and I've found myself in a pretty bad spot. I need someone strong and intelligent like you to get me out of it.""
She reached into her bag and pulled out a crossword puzzle, half finished.
""I can't figure out this clue: 'No longer worth debating.'""
""Well that's easy, try 'moot.'""
""But there are five spaces, Mr. Shoe.""
""Well, let me take a look at it.""
That was three days ago. The dame had left the crossword with me with promises to return and reward me once I had finished it. My nostrils still tingled with the pleasant sensation of her perfume.
But the case left me scratching my head and searching through thesauruses, dictionaries, even Alex Trebek's ""Almanac of Useless Trivia That You Should Know Already.""
I was feeling the pangs of exhaustion, so I went down to my favorite coffee shop. Caffeine and Desperation, open 24 hours. The caffeine cost a couple bucks, but the whipped desperation on top was always free of charge. It was a private eye's dream. I ordered my coffee black. Black like the night. Black like my soul.
The barista, Stan, came over to my end of the bar.
""How's it going, Gus?""
""Not so well, Stan. I can't solve this dame's crossword puzzle. Twenty-six down. 'No longer worth debating.' Should be 'moot,' right? But there are five letters.""
""Let me take a look at it.""
I slid the crossword puzzle to him and he peered down at the indecipherable mix of letters and blank spaces. His eyes widened. When he spoke, it was with the hushed voice of a man who has seen the light.
""You're looking at the wrong clue! 'No longer worth debating' is 26-across!""
He was right. The truth crashed down onto my brain like a tidal wave, obliterating the past and leaving a single line of text - the new clue - etched into my mind like a cattle brand:
""Walken co-star in 'Balls of Fury.'""
The dame would be upset that she misread the clue. But now that was all moot, like this case was moot. Like my life was moot. Because now I had a bigger problem. I had to find someone, somewhere, who had watched that movie.
And I knew that would be next to impossible.
If you also have watched a few too many film noir movies, e-mail Keaton at keatonmiller@wisc.edu.
