The day I died was the day I met Eileen on the subway. That’s not quite right; I met her outside the station, but I saw her on the subway first, if that counts. I suppose the first thing I almost said to her, while still on the subway, was to compliment her matching earrings and scarf. She created an ‘African art’ ambiance with the tiny wooden masks hanging from her ears and the sub-Saharan rock art design on the scarf. I’m not gay or anything, though my parents probably would like some confirmation on that. I just notice those kinds of touches. Isn’t that why girls do that? To be noticed?

It was her who broke the silence as we stepped outside and the first thing she said to me was, “That man just stole your wallet.”

I responded: “I like your outfit.”

“Huh?”

“I said, that I like your outfit. Your earrings and your scarf match.” Bad move. When someone tells you that your wallet was stolen, it’s usually a good idea to acknowledge that statement before shooting the breeze about fashion.

She gave me the look that all girls put on when they meet a weird guy, but that some girls really own. I’m pretty sure it’s an evolutionary development to ward off unworthy mates and I’m definitely sure it’s all about the eyebrows.

“Let me explain,” I began, before I scared her off. “I wanted that man to steal my wallet.” Eyebrows rose higher, reaching the upper stratosphere. “I’m a private detective. That wallet has a small GPS device in it and I’m going to go follow the thief back to his den. Wanna come?”

***

You didn’t see that one coming? Yeah, it’s that kinda story. I work as a PI, but not alone like you read about in Dashiell Hammet. No one does that anymore. I work for a company called Professional Investigative Associates and I mostly handle adultery and background checks. Seen Chinatown? It’s actually pretty realistic, except for that fact that anything intriguing happens. I do own a gun, but only because the company suggests me. No, I’ve never seen a dead body. I would like to think, however, I’m as charming as Jack Nicholson, but with a better hairdo and worse wardrobe.

This is when she was supposed to walk away after calling me a weirdo, but instead she adjusted her tortoise-shell glasses and asked me how the tracking device worked, if most pickpockets just grabbed the cash and dumped the wallet down the nearest storm drain.

“That’s a good question,” is what I said. You’re smart and pretty is what I thought. “We simply embedded it in one of the bills. It’s small, though he’d probably notice it if he looked properly. But we put it in one of the bigger bills that he’s less likely to spend quickly.”

“You’d better start following him, or he’ll get away.”

“My colleagues are watching him. They’re going to call me if he leaves the vicinity of the subway station.” I motioned to the large crowd. “Rush hour is a buffet for him, so we’ll have an hour at least. Wanna get a falafel?”

“Sure.” She smiled. “I’m Eileen.”

“I’m Manny.” And that’s how I met Eileen.

***

For those of you who are breathlessly awaiting the part where I die, I’ll get there soon enough. For those of you who like a little character development, I’ll give you the Spark Notes, ‘cause that’s all you really need.

We sat on a bench and observed the common folk with the sharp eye of people-watchers studying at the graduate level. There was a business woman wearing yoga pants and a Blue-tooth on her way to kick-boxing class where she’d drain a week’s worth of stockpiled rage against her male counterparts. The teenager whose beloved skateboard is mysteriously devoid of any wear and tear and whose Ipod is set to Vivaldi, not the Dead Kennedy’s. I’d even bet his earring is a clip-on. The man with a nicotine patch on his arm and a cigarette in his mouth, buying nicotine gum from a vendor. Can’t explain that one.

There wasn’t romance so much as there was the kind of natural flow between two people who’d never meet again, but might as well enjoy their time together. She had that girl-next-door kind of face that always looks familiar and attractive, if not stunning. I didn’t learn much about her, except that she had moved here from Seattle and that she somehow or another worked in the publishing industry. The only personal information I divulged was that Manny was short for Manfred and that I was most-assuredly of Germanic roots. Floating somewhere in the psychological ether between us was the ancestral anticipation of the hunt, the knowledge that this people-watching was just a warm-up to the big show. I was testing that she was prepared to follow me and she was testing that I was sane enough to lead.

My phone buzzed and my colleague Danny - who pretends like he lives in a spy movie - told me, “The mark is on the move. Condor will track from the street. Over and out.”

The chase was on.

***

Our bald suspect took his time strolling down Jefferson and then across the park on Wisteria until he picked his pace and turned sharply towards the bad part of town. Eileen wasn’t fazed, and I almost wished she was. It would give me an opportunity to act like the ‘manly man’ most people associated private eyes with. She eyed the thief closely while I fiddled with the zipper on my jacket, trying to decide how high to zip it to attain my ideal body temperature.

“Is this supposed to be fun?” Eileen asked as we skirted underneath the elevated train. “‘Cause I kinda like it.”

“Just wait till the shooting starts,” I joked.

She was quiet for a long time and I’d thought I’d offended her. Then she spoke. “Do you have a gun?”

“Not with me right now.”

“Oh,” she said, disappointed. “Might come in handy.”

“Not really for this job. I do have a lock-picking set, though.”

“That’s not gonna help us.”

“What?”

“Keep your hands where I can see them, Manny. And the girl too.” I didn’t have to turn to know that it was Simon. He’s the only person in the world with an effeminate lisp that doesn’t make me wanna laugh. But why he was pointing his Beretta at my head, I had no idea.

***

My employer was a man named Howard J. Gills. Gills was a former cop who started the company after he retired in the late eighties due to a gunshot wound. It was the career-ending kind, not the kind you gab about in a pissing contest with other detectives at an after-hours bar. Tough bastard he was, he’d already gotten a couple of those before. This time, the high-caliber bullet turned his knee cap into oatmeal; the doctors were forced to amputate. As a result, the gruff inspector whirled around his office in a wheelchair like a Tasmanian devil.

“The suspect is a male, mid-thirties. His head is shaved bald and he’s been seen wearing a black leather jacket.” Gills tossed a file to the three of us. The team. This was three days ago, when Danny, Jerome, and I were called into the boss’s office to get our next assignment, apparently an important gig. “He’s a purse-snatcher and pick-pocket. Standard stuff, but he managed to grab something important.”

Whether from the wheelchair strain or hitting the gym, the detective was broad-chested and thick muscled, clearly to compensate for any perceived disadvantage from his lack of bipedalism. The old war horse hunkered forward in his chair, every kind of muscle bristling, and jabbed the folder.

“Our client insisted that we take care of this expediently.” His steel wool moustache jumped at the end of his sentence. “We are being compensated greatly for our service. Naturally, should you complete the assignment to his pleasure, that money will work its way into your bonus.”

Jerome coughed and Danny gulped. Gills had never given us any kind of bonus before. In fact, he rarely showed any affinity for his employees with the exception of Simon and George. That golden partnership was lucky enough to normally handled all the high profile cases. Simon was independently wealthy from a piece of cell-phone technologically he invented in the nineties and used his extra cash to furnish a collection of techno gadgets. George loved black turtlenecks, Mel Torme, and his self-proclaimed look alike, Tom Brady.

“Who’s our client?” I asked.

“Confidential,” huffed Gills. Many of our clients choose to only work with Gills himself. We were just the foot soldiers, though it usually wasn’t hard to figure out who you were working for. I recalled the time my team was hired to take pictures of a blond bimbo who looked very similar to a certain senator’s daughter. She had enough ‘snow’ in her penthouse apartment to open a ski-resort. Soon after the story was sent to the Times, Senator Fitzgerald Watson cancelled his presidential campaign.

Jerome spoke up. “I’m feelin’ a little uneasy too. All this money, you say --- to retrieve a purse?” I had always liked Jerome and I liked him even more for his suspicion. The kid had grown up on the streets and the streets had become a part of him forever. I think that’s a loose paraphrase of an LL Cool J song, but it still fits.

“A briefcase actually. Brown. Leather. Initials on the side, FJW. And a combination lock, probably smashed by now.”

“If it’s been broken into, what are we supposed to find in it?”

“Nothing!” Gills barked. “The owner wants it for sentimental value.”

“Sir...”

“Get out or you’re fired.” We got out.

***

“Bam,” Simon yelled. He smiled when I flinched. “Do you think I should kill them here?”

A slim black car stopped alongside the curb and George slid out onto the sidewalk, looking stylish in a charcoal blazer and black turtleneck. It even matched his stubble. “Too messy,” he replied. “And I’d prefer not to use a gun.” He pulled out a set of keys from his pocket and hit a button so we could hear the sound of his Mercedes chirp-chirp.

“At least let her go,” I said. Eileen looked at them. She had the “weird” evolutionary look with raised eyebrows turned on. It definitely skewered Simon ‘cause the douchebag readjusted his grip on the gun.

George eyed his partner. “She might be useful.”

Simon shifted his gun to his other hand and nodded. “She’s probably be better at it than we are.”

My heart was going like Little Drummer Boy and I was seriously considering making a move for Simon’s gun. I didn’t know what the hell they were talking about and I didn’t care. The facts were this:

a. Simon had a gun that could turn my head into soup.

b. Simon was distracted by his handsome partner.

c. I had enough adrenaline in my system that it appeared like Simon’s lisping lips were moving slower than your Uncle Hank’s bowel movements.

“What do you know about dying hair?” George asked Eileen. I had heard lots of stories about what happened to dead people, but having their hair dyed was not one of them.

Eileen’s eyebrow landed on the moon.

***

“Ow! Stop...jeez...is bleach supposed to hurt this much?”

“Yes. This is what women do to look nice for men, so settle down, Manny.” Eileen gave me a little smack on the head and I winced. Imagine a million needles pricking your skull. Wait, imagine a million flaming needles pricking your skull. That’s in the ballpark. A girl in high school once said my hair color was called chocolate. Now it was going to be platinum blond. As fake blond as Senator Watson’s coked up daughter. Awful.

“You don’t have blond hair,” I remarked. “How do you know what this feels like?”

“I did,” she said. “For many years. I have to die it brown now, ‘cause it isn’t the same as it was before.”

“What color did it used to be?”

She sighed. “Chocolate.” I tried to turn in my seat to get a look at her expression, but she gently stopped me.

“Stop squirming. You’re dead, remember.”

***

“So you’re going to kill me, to save me?” I asked. An hour before I was getting the hair salon treatment I was in George’s Mercedes as it slipped through the streets on its way to a secure apartment where I would receive a new identity.

“Senator Watson - former Senator Watson that is - hired Gills to have you killed. The old fart has a lot of bad blood about his derailed campaign. The pick-pocket operation was set-up to get you separated from your team,” Simon explained.

“So you babies could take me out,” I finished. “Jesus.” I collapsed on the seat. “Some sense of humor you guys have.” Simon had waited till the last possible moment to lower his gun and explain to me that he was actually an angel from heaven.

“Gills would never any of his agents die, not for any amount of money. But he wanted to make sure you were safe even if he blew Watson off. It isn’t very hard to find someone who would kill for money in this town.”

“He’s not going to stop if he knows you’re still alive,” said Eileen. She had been quiet until now.

“Exactly. We went along with Watson’s plan. Except for the part when we fake your death.”

“And give me a new identity.”

“And let me color his hair,” chimed Eileen.

“Exactly,” lisped Simon. I didn’t like the gleam in his eye.

***

“How do I look?” I asked. My hand drifted to the gelled tips of my new hair.

“Don’t touch it,” chided Eileen. It was strange to see Eileen and her hipster sensibilities next to Simon and George and in an apartment that could most readily be described as seedy. The water stains on the wall would actually be a pretty design if they weren’t snot colored.

“You look beautiful,” cooed Simon.

“Your own mother wouldn’t recognize you,” said George. And he was probably right. I had a new haircut, hair color, colored contacts, and a pair of glasses. My Old Navy wardrobe had been replaced by a sharp shouldered blazer. It only hit me just then that I’d never be able to wear my Back to the Future t-shirt or sleep in my room or even talk to my parents again. There was no going back now.

“I guess I can’t say goodbye to my parents?”

Simon shook his head and stood up. “I’m sorry, Manny.” He handed me a bag. “In here is everything you’ll need. A train ticket out of town, another set of clothes, a few hundred dollars. A driver’s license. When Watson gets the message you are killed and wires the blood money, Gills will put it in a bank account to help start you off.”

“Thanks.” I gave him an awkward handshake. “Goodbye Simon.”

“There is one more thing.” Simon pulled a cellphone from his pocket. “Dial 000 on this cellphone and it’ll send an SOS to George and I. A little gadget I invented.”

“Let’s hope I don’t have to use it.”

“Let’s hope.”

***

Simon and George stayed behind in the apartment to finalize the online aspects of my new identity - an email address, Facebook, that sort of thing. Eileen and I took the rickety elevator down so I could get to the train station. I was glad to be alone with Eileen because something she had said in the car was bugging me.

“It’s weird wearing glasses without a prescription,” I said suddenly.

“I bet.”

“You should know, shouldn’t you, Eileen?” My hands were in my pockets and I discreetly opened the cellphone Simon had given me. I had texted under my desk in school enough to know where the 0’s were without looking.

“Pardon?”

“I know your glasses are a disguise, Eileen. Or should I say Eileen Watson.”

Confused? Let me explain. When we were eating first falafel I had thought she looked familiar, but attributed it to a girl-next-door type face. Then she had made a comment about Senator Watson - about her dad - in the car as if she knew the man. Even when she dyed my hair, I had thought of the ‘blonde bimbo.’ And there was one final question I had never understood: why had she followed me this whole time? Why had she stayed with a strange private detective who noticed her earrings? My gut had known all along and now my brain knew too.

She was very quiet. Her head bowed down to look at her feet and I couldn’t see her expression. She rubbed her eyes.

“I don’t think that you are going to shoot me, are you? I don’t need to call for Simon and George to come and rescue me?” I closed the phone and took my hand out my pocket.

“I came to warn you,” she whispered. She finally looked up and I realized that she hadn’t been crying. She had been removing her own colored contacts. “And to thank you.”

The elevator hit bottom, but neither of us tried to get out.

“When you took those pictures of me, it forced me to see who I was. I didn’t like that person. I went to rehab, I stopped dying my hair, stopped dying it blond at least. I became a whole new person. A better person. But my dad is a spiteful man and I overheard him talking to your boss about having you killed. I couldn’t let that happen to the person who helped me.”

“And you couldn’t have told me earlier?” I cried, half-joking.

She shrugged. “I didn’t know how he planned to do it. I was going to come to your apartment when I spotted you on the subway. Things just fell into place from there.”

“Well, Eileen, I’m glad that I was able to help you.” I started to draw back the elevator door. “But it’s too late to help me now.”

She shook her head and her African mask earrings jangled. “It’s not fair. You shouldn’t have die, even if only on paper. My dad doesn’t deserve that satisfaction. He should be in jail.”

“Sometimes life isn’t fair, Eileen.”

“He tried to kill you by cheating. That’s exactly how we’re going to stop him.”

“What are you saying?”

“Damn it, Manny. I’m saying I have a plan.”

***

It was very cold on the metal slab, but I was sweating profusely. They always say that dead bodies are cold, but I’ve never seen a dead body before. Simon assured me that the makeup would make me look dead. I hoped he was right and that I wouldn’t sweat right through it. Then again, what were the odds former Senator Watson knew what a dead body looked like?

“The big problem, of course, is going to be breathing,” said George. “We’ll have a fan in the back that will hopefully cover up any noise you make, but you’ll still have to breath shallow so the sheet doesn’t rise too much.”

“That’s if Watson shows up,” said Simon.

“Eileen will pull through,” I assured him. Eileen had the hardest job in this plan. She had to convince her father that he needed to see my dead body before he could hand over any money. Our job was to capture this illegal exchange on Simon’s hidden cameras to get all the proof needed to put him behind bars. So far, Watson’s communication with Gills had been indirect, through an aide on an untraceable phone. We needed to have the man himself or it wouldn’t be enough in court.

“Eileen just called. The Eagle has left his nest,” Danny called from the back of the morgue. “Everybody, take your positions.” Simon and George left me to practice being dead.

“Don’t worry, Manny. We’ll keep you safe,” said Jerome. “You packing heat?”

“Yes...I, uh, I have my gun,” I said. The company-issued pistol rested awkwardly against my side. I prayed that I’d remember to take off the safety if it came to that. “How’s the wig look?” We had fretted about my hair, now a totally different shade than it was hours ago. Wouldn’t Watson be suspicious? When we spent so much time trying to make me look different, we hadn’t considered how hard it would be to reverse it. So, we had a settled for a wig and hoped for the best.

“Looks fly, my man.”

“Alright...man.”

“The Eagle’s reached our position!” hissed Danny. Time to die, again.

***

The hardest part was keeping my eyes closed. I had a translucent plastic sheet draped over my face but I could still make out shapes through it, which meant that Watson could probably tell if my eyes were open. So they stayed closed. It seemed like forever until I heard the clatter of shoes on the tiled floor signal Watson’s arrival. There were a lot of feet. He wasn’t alone. When I concentrated, I could make out two other men alongside him. Big ones, judging by the thumps they made. He’d come with a posse.

“Where’s Gills?” a voice demanded. It was sharp enough to cut glass and I knew it must be the former senator. Eileen had succeeded.

“He’ll be down in a moment,” said George and the elevator dinged right on time. Gills wheelchair squeaked across the room. I could smell a lit cigar. It struck me as very disrespectful to smoke in the presence of a dead body. Maybe that was the point. It made Gills seem more like the kinda guy who take money to kill his agent and less like an ex-cop.

“Watson! This meeting is highly irregular,” gruffed my boss.

“Yes, it is. But I like to see results when I’m paying my hard earned money for them.”

“Of course. Your results are limp on the table.”

“Ah.” The wheel chair grated across the room. I took a quick breath and waited for the sheet to be pulled back. The sheet came back and I struggled not to shiver. Watson’s tall frame blotted out the harsh light.

“Did you shoot him?” the senator asked.

“Shoot? No, we have better methods. An injection into the jugular,” Gills poked at a fake needle mark on my neck, “and we induce a heart attack. He’ll go back to his apartment and when he starts to smell, his landlady will find him. The poison will be long deteriorated.”

There was a long silence. Suddenly the hairs on my neck stood up and I realized Watson was leaning close enough to my face that I could feel his breath which meant if I exhaled he’d certainly feel mine.

“Good work.”

The wheelchair whined backwards a few feet. “How about the payment?” Gill clapped his big mitts together. All we had to do was finish the transaction and we were in the clear.

“About that payment...” the former senator began. A ominous chorus of ratchets and clicks finished his phrase. I couldn’t see it, but I knew that Watson’s boys had just pulled out their firepower. Judging by the sound of the hammers locking back, they had enough firepower to takeover for the sun if it got tired.

“You’re messing with the -” Gills sputtered.

“Quiet,” Watson hissed. “Calmly put your weapons on the floor and line up against the wall.” As their guns clattered to the floor, my sweat finally broke through my make-up. I had to try not to whimper when I heard Gill’s wheelchair squeak to the wall.

“I knew something was up the moment my daughter told me to come here. She hardly ever looks at me, let alone opens her mouth in my presence. I want whatever idiot who dreamed this plan up to know that after I make you as dead as that kid on the table - and much uglier too - I’m going to go home and do the same to my daughter. That little girl has messed up my life for the last time.”

In ten seconds the dead man in the room was going to be the only one left alive. Even worse, Eileen was going to die too.

I was a private eye who’d never seen a dead human body. I’d never experienced any danger. I spent my days eating falafel and hoping I could get somewhere with the pretty women I met on the subway. I was no hero. Watson’s men were trained killers with more hardware than a Home Depot. But I had two things going for me: I still had my gun, and I had one hell of an element of surprise. Geronimo...

“HEY WATSON!” I screamed as I rolled off the table. Somehow I landed on two feet, my gun held erect by two hands like they do it in the movies.

Watson hadn’t yet registered that his least favorite private detective was pointing a gun at his head, but his two Uzi toting thugs’ reflexes were much better. They swivelled in unison, their black Matrix-esque trench coats billowing like whirling Dervishes. I realized that the safety on my gun was still on and that their fingers were closing around 4 pound triggers. I didn’t want to become Swiss cheese. So, I dove.

My trajectory dumped me on the plastic sheet. The friction between the sheet and the tiles was slightly better than black ice; I slid forward on a direct path for the former Senator Watson’s legs. His goons tried to follow me with their guns, but with their boss in the way of their guns, there was no way they could shoot.

The agents of Professional Investigative Associates took advantage of the chaos. Jerome socked one assassin in the face while Simon yanked the Uzi from his hands. George judo flipped the other one, while Danny scooped up two pistols from the pile on the ground and deftly threw one to Gills. Gills snagged it from the air and jammed it up Watson’s nose. On the ground, I finally flicked off the safety and let my sights rest whereabouts the crooked senator’s left testicle. I desperately searched for something witty to say.

Before I could drop a catchphrase, I noticed Watson staring at my head. My hair, to be exact. I must have lost the wig in the fracas.

“You like the dye job? You little girl did it. Maybe your cellmate will do it for you in prison.”

***

“That’s what you said?” She laughed and it fit right in with the birds wheeling through the sky and the dogs barking and the kids chattering on the jungle gym.

“I know; it’s not very good, is it?”

She shrugged and took a bite of her falafel. “It’s not everyday you get the opportunity to be as cool as a movie detective.”

“Have you seen Chinatown?”

***

The day I fell in love was the day I met Eileen. At least, I think so. If love is fried chickpeas, I’m on the right track. For those eagerly awaiting the part where we fall in love and get married, there is no Sparknotes version of this story. There is only life, death, and Eileen.