The Last Private Eye by John Birkett

shuddering halt. Cars, horns bleating, rushed past on both sides. In the rearview mirror he watched the Camaro swerve into the right lane. As it slid past, tires squealing, Rhineheart leaned forward and got the license number. It was a Jefferson County plate—HJL 356.
    He looked up—into the rearview mirror. A mammoth semi, an eighteen-wheeler, was bearing down on the Maverick, its horn bellowing loudly. He jacked the gearshift down into first and squealed away. He continued down the expressway for a few miles, but the Camaro was nowhere to be seen.
    He got off the expressway at Lee and took Second Street back downtown. He parked in a lot at the corner of Third and Jefferson and walked across the street. It was a seedy, squalid block occupied by porno shops and massage parlors and topless bars. Rhineheart stepped into a narrow open doorway that adjoined the Peep Show movie theater. He climbed a rickety set of stairs to the second floor and pushed open a frosted door whose faded letters read F RNS ORTH D TEC IV A G NCY.
    Farnsworth was seated behind an old, beat-up desk. He had his feet up and was asleep in his chair, his head thrown back, mouth open, revealing a set of badly fitted dentures. He was wearing a shiny blue pinstripe suit and a white shirt with a frayed collar. A thin black tie was knotted tightly around his neck. On his feet he wore old-timey suede-on-leather, gray-on-black, two-tone shoes. There was a hole in each sole.
    Rhineheart sat down on a hard wooden chair and cleared his throat loudly.
    The old man came awake with a snort, dropped his feet to the floor, sat up straight, and tried to look alert. He ran thin shaky fingers through the sparse tobacco-colored hair that was combed straight back from his forehead. His face was long and narrow, his features a collection of sharp angles and severe planes. He squinted at Rhineheart. His eyes were like slits.
    â€œWhat can I do for you?” The voice was thin and high-pitched.
    He doesn’t remember me, Rhineheart thought. “It’s me,” Rhineheart said.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œRhineheart.”
    â€œRhineheart?” Farnsworth said.
    â€œYou don’t remember me,” Rhineheart said.
    â€œWhat do you mean I don’t remember you?” Farnsworth said, peering at him. “You nuts or something? How could I forget the Kid?”
    Rhineheart smiled. The Kid was what Farnsworth had always called him. Back when they had worked together—in the early ’70s. Rhineheart had been a young street kid just out of the army who wanted to become a private investigator. Farnsworth had given him his first job, had taught him the business. Farnsworth had been an old bastard even then. Old—but sharp.
    â€œIt’s been a little while,” Farnsworth said.
    It had been years since they had seen each other. “Too long,” Rhineheart said.
    â€œHow ya doing, kid?”
    â€œFine. How about you, old man?”
    â€œI’m not doing too bad,” Farnsworth said.
    â€œHow’s business?” Rhineheart asked. It was a dumb question. One look around the room told him how Farnsworth’s business was doing.
    But Farnsworth said, “It ain’t bad. I get all the night watchman work I want. Every once in a while I get a real case—a divorce, or a runaway, or something. With that and my social security”—he shrugged—“I’m doing okay.” He gestured at the room. “This place is a dump, but the rent is cheap, and you can look out the window, Rhineheart, and see the city. There ain’t a suburb or a shopping center for miles.”
    Farnsworth, Rhineheart remembered, had a thing about the suburbs and the country. He didn’t like wide open spaces or any neighborhood that didn’t have sidewalks. The best private eyes, he claimed, were city boys who had grown up on the crowded urban streets.
    â€œWhat about you?” Farnsworth said. “You still in the