~ The Bogey Man ~

by

Marja McGraw

The phone rang. Without glancing up, I reached over and picked up the receiver.

“Webster Investigations. This is Sandi Webster. May I help you?”

“Sorry, wrong number.” The caller hung up.

Before turning back to the report I was writing, I glanced out of the office window and sucked in my breath.

It had been a week, and there he was again, walking right by my office just like he belonged on my street. Maybe he did. After all, this was Los Angeles.

He was wearing a tan trench coat and a brown Fedora with a black band, just like the other night. A cigarette hung out of the right side of his mouth.

My jaw dropped and I blinked several times. My imagination must be working overtime. No! I knew what I’d seen. Jumping out of my seat, I ran to the door and yanked it open. He was gone. I’d waited too long.

An old green 1940s-vintage Chevy was heading down the street. Was it the one I’d seen before? Did the driver have on a Fedora? I was too far away to see the license number, but what did it matter anyway?

My partner, Peter Goldberg, walked around the corner of the building from the parking lot. “What are you looking for?” He turned his head and followed my gaze.

“I, uh, saw someone walking by the office.”

“Yeah? So who was it?” Pete would never understand. I avoided looking up into his big brown eyes.

“Just… someone.”

“Who?” Pete asked impatiently.

“It doesn’t matter. He’s gone now anyway.”

“Sandi, it does matter. You look like you saw a ghost.”

I sighed, my one big talent in life. “I think I did.” Turning, I walked back into the office.

Pete followed behind, placing his hand on my arm and stopping me. I turned around, still not looking up at him. I knew Pete well. I knew that at five foot three, I’d have to look up to meet his five-foot-eleven height. I knew I’d see dark brown, almost black hair with streaks of gray at the temples, and I’d see the little scar by the right side of his mouth. I knew each crease and line on his dark-complexioned face. Pete Goldberg was, after all, the man who’d recently asked me to marry him. And don’t let the name fool you. He’s Italian.

I didn’t want to tell him whom I’d seen. Why should he believe me? I didn’t believe me.

“Sandi? What is it? Who did you see?”

When I’d opened Webster Investigations, the first thing I did was hang a picture of Humphrey Bogart near my desk. I stared at the picture. Same trench coat. Same Fedora. Same face. My hero.

I pointed at the photo.

“What? You’re trying to tell me you actually saw the Boogey Man? A ghost?” Pete didn’t get it.

“No, Pete, but you’re close. I guess you’d have to say I saw the Bogey Man.” Sighing again, I sat down at my desk. This is why I hadn’t wanted to tell him. He’d make light of it and try to convince me I’d simply seen someone who resembled Humphrey Bogart.

“You saw someone who looks something like Bogart, right?”

Did I know Pete or what? “Nope. I saw him. And it wasn’t the first time.” I rubbed my blue—and now probably bloodshot—eyes, knowing this was going to be a fruitless conversation. I’d been working a lot of hours, and I guessed that Pete would chalk this up to fatigue. Turning, I once again stared at Bogey’s photo. Pete was right. It couldn’t have been Bogey.

Pete walked over to my desk, obviously waiting to see if I’d elaborate. I didn’t.

“Sandi, look at me. You know that wasn’t Humphrey Bogart. He died in the late 1950s.”

“It was 1957.” I continued to stare at the photo. Bogey held a cigarette in his right hand in the publicity shot. He stopped short of grinning, looking to the side of the camera.

“Yeah, okay.” Pete placed his hand on my shoulder. “So you saw Humphrey Bogart walking past this office. And I suppose you’re going to tell me he had on a hat and trench coat.”

I was right again—he didn’t believe me.

I finally looked up into his eyes. He was watching me intently, waiting for my reaction to his comment.

I ran my hands through my long, dark brown hair, stalling for only a moment. “Pete, I’m not joking. This is the third time I’ve seen him.”

“Explain. Please.” His eyes had darkened, and he had a concerned expression on his face. One time he could brush off, but three meant I’d probably actually seen the man. Or at least someone who looked exactly like him.

“I’m not losing my mind, Pete. The first time was about a week ago, around two o’clock in the morning. I was coming off a surveillance, and he was standing under a streetlight, watching me.”

“Two o’clock in the morning. You were tired. You saw someone who looked like Bogey, but who couldn’t have been. This is an actor who’s been gone a very long time, Sandi.”

Ignoring him, I went on with my story. “As I pulled out of the parking lot I looked in my rearview mirror and saw the man climb into an old car. When we drove under the streetlights, I could see that the car was light green. He followed me for about a mile and then turned off.”

Pete’s expression changed. “The car you were watching when I got here was an old green car.”

“Yeah.”

“So what about the second time you saw him?” He sounded like he might be taking my story a little more seriously. He’d seen the old green Chevy. It was something solid that he could see and touch.

“The second time. That’s a story in itself. You know I hate taking domestic cases, but I took the Simms case anyway. You know, the woman who thought her husband was cheating on her? Anyway, Mrs. Simms followed me to the motel where—”

Pete stiffened. “You didn’t tell me about Mrs. Simms following you. As partners we should be sharing information, Sandi.”

“I know, but you were out on another case and by the time I saw you, two days later, it didn’t seem like it would make any difference.”

“It does make a difference.”

“Oh, Pete. Sometimes you’re way too protective. Have I ever told you it gets on my nerves?” I wanted him to be quiet and listen to me.

The small scar by the corner of his mouth turned white as his lips tightened. “Just get on with the story.”

“Anyway, Mrs. Simms apparently followed me to the motel where her husband was meeting his lover. She seemed so meek when we met her that I didn’t expect her to do anything like that.

“When she saw which room I was watching, she stormed up to the door and confronted her husband. I could see her pointing at me, letting him know he was being watched.

“Before I could so much as sneeze, he came flying at my car. He was out for blood, and I couldn’t close the window and start the car at the same time. I knocked the key out of the ignition.

“Out of nowhere comes this trench-coated man wearing a Fedora who says, and I quote, ‘Get outta here before I drill ya.’ And then he belted Mr. Simms and knocked him down.”

Pete started to chuckle.

“I’m not kidding, Pete. That’s what he said, and that’s what he did, while I started the engine and drove for my life.” It suddenly struck me funny too, and I began to giggle.

“Then what happened?” Pete snorted, obviously trying not to laugh out loud.

“Like I said, I started the engine and hauled my little self out of there.”

“‘Get outta here before I drill ya?’” Pete finally started laughing. “Oh, Sandi. You get yourself into some of the weirdest situations.”

My giggle grew louder. Pete was taking me seriously and making me laugh in the process. “Can you believe it?”

The door to the office opened and Stanley Hawks, a greeting card verse writer turned Webster Investigations researcher and friend, walked in.

“Get outta here before I drill ya,” Pete said, and laughed harder.

Initially surprised, Stanley glanced from me to Pete and back again. Laughter is contagious, and Stanley began to grin. “What’s going on here? Do you really want me to leave?”

That made Pete howl.

“Nooooo,” I said, now holding my side. “Pete’s not gonna drill ya.”

I sobered when I glanced up and saw an old green Chevy drive slowly past the office.

“Uh oh. Don’t look now, but there he is again.” I pointed out the window.

Pete and Stanley, who preferred to be called Stan, rushed to the door. I watched as they each reached for the door handle, stopped and let go, and then bumped into each other when they tried to get through the door. I grinned, but stifled the giggle that was building up in me again. Nerves?

By the time they managed to reach the sidewalk, the green Chevy was a memory.

They returned to the office, all signs of humor gone.

“You said you’d seen this guy three times,” Pete reminded me. “Tell me about the third time.”

“Who is this gentleman?” Stanley asked.

“She thinks Humphrey Bogart is following her.”

Pete’s explanation showed me that he still didn’t quite believe me. Of course I knew he was right. It couldn’t be Bogey. But he looked like him, he sounded like him, and he dressed like him. What’s that old saying about If it quacks like a duck then it must be a duck? Who on earth was he?

“What about the third time you saw him?” Pete asked again.

Stanley pulled a chair up to my desk and sat down, waiting to hear the next part of the story.

“Actually, the third time was when Bubba almost knocked him down.”