The Jar of Nephren-Ka

Pensacola

Pensacola, Florida: 9:12 PM, Sunday, June 3rd, 1984

By the time I got back to my office, the sun was already dropping to the horizon. I drove around in front of the building, searching for anything taped to the door.

The office, built sometime around the turn of the century, was on Palafox street in the Pensacola historic district. Built in the style of a Creole townhouse, it had a ground floor overlooked by a full-length gallery with intricate antique iron railings on the second floor. The first floor was mine.

Glancing at the door, I let out a pent up breath. No eviction notice, just my signage on the glass:

PARATA & ASSOCIATES Private Investigators

I pulled the Caprice around the building and parked in the little secluded lot out back. I swiveled in the seat, letting my bad leg straighten out while I massaged the knee back to functionality. Exiting the car, I unlocked the office door, flicked the bank of lights, and entered.

The room was 30' long and 12' wide, with bare concrete floors, worn brick walls, and no AC. The heat escaping felt like a blast furnace. I propped the door open for ventilation.

Old buildings had a distinctive smell, a scent of old paint, dust and wood off-gassing that always reminded me of home. I breathed in as I looked around.

Half of the long room was bare. It was originally a storage area for the bar and grill that had been here before, and frankly, PIs have less demanding storage needs.

That's not to say I hadn't taken some advantage of the space. My battered desk was halfway down the left wall, back flush to the old brick. I had mounted a cork board with colored push-pins on the wall above it. My TV, an old 13", was on a cheap stand on the other wall, directly across from the desk.

Further on, I had a row and a half of filing cabinets, and a rolling clothes rack by the far wall, on which hung my only suit. I had piled the rest of my clothes inside a huge old trunk near the filing cabinets.

My bed was in the corner across from me, a single that was little more than a cot.

I walked through the room and opened the door on the far wall. Cool AC flowed out, and I moved quickly through and shut the door. I walked down the long hallway, passing the bathroom, and made a right turn into the kitchen.

I opened the battered fridge and pulled out a gallon of milk. In the cupboard, I grabbed a bowl the width of a hubcap, a serving spoon, and two boxes of Honey-Nut Cheerios.

I emptied the boxes into the bowl and topped it with milk. I ate right there on the counter, finishing by upending the bowl and drinking the milk, like a cultist at some black rite.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, put the bowl in the sink, and left the kitchen. Turning right, I moved into the main office.

I reflected, not for the first time, on how oddly beautiful this building was, even in its current state of disrepair. The floors were some kind of ancient hardwood, stained and restained so many times it seemed to swallow light, the coating on top so thick it was like a sheet of glass.

The ceilings had intricate patterns done in plaster, and even though they were cracking and crumbling in places, they were still breathtaking. Sometimes I would sit at night, chew on a cigar, and stare at them.

This room, the only room most clients saw, was the one I had spent the most effort on. My public desk was a huge, ornately carved, antique hardwood job that I had purchased at a consignment shop. It was an enormous pain in the ass to move, but the gravitas it lent to the room was worth it.