The Beginning of Icarus Investigations: Part 1

Here’s how the detectives of Icarus Investigations got their start. It wasn’t pretty. Taken from the first case file of the company, the case of the Flapjack.

Story told exclusively by Roger Murphy (the reluctant team member and founding partner)

The Very Beginning

The sound of whirling motors resonated outside my bedroom window, and I pulled my pillow hard over my head, attempting to make the sound go away. It was the first day of April, and a thoughtful lawn crew was doing their daily wake-up call at my luxury apartment home, as the management chose to call it.

I decided it would be best to go ahead and stumble out of bed. As I made my way to the bathroom, I ran my shoulder into my bedroom wall and tripped over clothes strewn on the floor. I missed the toilet, took a five minute, slightly warm shower, and shaved my face with a sub-standard razor. It was quite a way to start another day.

Before leaving the apartment, I took a quick gulp of some questionable orange juice that resided in my refrigerator, and off to work I went, ready for anything.

Possibly some excitement or drama awaited me this day, but so far it wasn’t turning out that way. A crappy commute through crowded freeways and rude drivers confronted me as I went to my home away from home.

I worked at Tesla Technology Suppliers. It sat on a grassy knoll behind a gleaming ten-story office building in an industrial park in northern San Diego, California. The company had been named after the great inventor Nikola Tesla, the man who demonstrated wireless communication in 1893 and was a pioneer in electromagnetism. But Tesla Technology was not as great as the inventor’s name it used. If he were alive, Tesla might wonder why his name was on a sign where the “s” had slid off many months ago, and the “T” and “e” were obscured by a mutant tree that pushed up the pavement in front of the building. Because of this look, we jokingly referred to ourselves as “la Technologies.” Either we were from Mexico, given our location in southern California, or if we were lucky, from France. Neither of those spots helped business.

I was never sure what we really did. It had something to do with copper for electronics or some such thing. I was an account executive, and unfortunately, the title didn’t fit the job. I simply made sure we got paid for this copper stuff we were selling to someone to put into something. It could be sliced, eaten, or worn as a hat for all I cared. It didn’t matter to me.

“You parked in the wrong spot again,” I heard as I was greeted by Belinda, our sloth-like receptionist who peered at me over her thick glasses. “They’re coming to pave that area today, you knew that,” she told me scornfully.

“They can pave over my car today for all I care. I got an envelope in the mail that says I have parking privileges anywhere in the state. I could even park on someone if I liked.” I strode past her, not making eye contact.

“Uh-huh,” she muttered, tapping away on her computer keyboard with her nicotine-stained fingers.

I walked slowly to my “office,” a six-foot by six-foot cube I had christened, “The Madman’s Sanctuary.”

A voice boomed from a neighboring cubicle as I sat down. “Did you know Elvis and Nixon had a private meeting where Elvis wanted to help with the war on drugs? He even got a complimentary badge as a member of the Drug Enforcement Agency.”

“That’s a fascinating tidbit of information,” I replied flatly, fiddling with things on my desk.

This was a common occurrence between my cubicle neighbor and me. He always attempted to stump me with little-known trivia early in the day. We used it to decide who would pay for lunch.

“Don’t tell me you’re not interested in the paradox and irony of that meeting,” the voice snapped back.

“It is quite fascinating. But did you know Elvis also gave Nixon a Colt-45 and family photos to commemorate their meeting? Plus, Presley requested to be a Federal Agent-at-Large in the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs. He was concerned about the increase in drug use in the country.”

“Yes, but why was that nutty?” the voice questioned.

“He had something like 5,000 pills prescribed in the months before he kicked off. I believe it was narcotics and amphetamines,” I replied smugly, as I scoured the papers on my desk. “You gave me an easy one this morning, Galveston. Lunch is on you.”

“So, I’m a little off my game, so sue me,” Galveston said dryly from behind his cardboard and metal partition, the sound of a clicking mouse coming from his desk. He was cheating, no less, and using the computer to facilitate his questions.

It had become a morning ritual with us — useless banter about useless facts of the world. We had both become obsessed with these history bits that few realized occurred and even fewer cared about. It told so much about the way we receive and disseminate information and how little everyone knows about true history, but we mainly used it to fight the urge to put our head between the cubicle walls and end it all. So that is rather melodramatic, but Galveston had become the one saving grace in this seventh dimension of hell we kindly referred to as, “la Technologies.”

Dan Galveston was his full name, I think, as he only liked to be called by his last name. I always joked that he changed it to that after he threw a dart at the globe and managed to hit the Texas City of Galveston. He told me it was either that or La Marque, a city up the road from Galveston, but that one sounded fruity, and he didn’t want to be called a dandy his whole life. I went ahead and believed him about his name, but not much else. Galveston was an enigma, only in the sense that he could change his persona in an instant to suit the situation he was in. He was a quick thinker, quick-witted, and very smart. He was the one thing that challenged me in this rathole.

Galveston was officially called a sales representative — a title he hated. He would have preferred to be known as a lackey; he felt it suited him better. Galveston and I had arrived at this place at similar times and under similar circumstances. We both had gone through major career changes. I from the world of academia and business, him from the real world, I surmised.

Galveston’s voice came from behind the cubicle wall again. “I had a guy this morning tell me that he didn’t receive his latest shipment, and boy, was he pissed. I told him, ‘Look, Ed informed me that you didn’t want that shipping until tomorrow.’ Of course, that was a complete pant load. I had pulled up Ed’s name off their website. It ought to take him at least two hours to figure out who the hell ‘Ed’ is, and why vice president Ed was making these decisions.”

We commonly worked with companies that were too big for their own good, and like a government, they had complicated bureaucracies where little got done, and one hand didn’t know what the other hand was doing. Galveston was a master at this manipulation, for a good reason. We didn’t work with the most competent of people, nor did we have a very competent structure in this place. Taking a few liberties when in a jam only made our jobs easier, plus it was good fun.

We were minor slackers, not major ones. We showed up for work and did our job every day; we just did it with a little more flare to keep it interesting.

“You should have said that we stopped shipment because we had gotten a call from the creditors saying they’re going bankrupt, but nobody had the heart to say anything,” I quipped.

“Nothing like giving the poor schlub a coronary first thing in the morning,” Galveston fired back, holding a grunting laugh.

I decided to try a little work and perused my inbox for new items for the day. I had to check on two problems with a shipment, a customer hadn’t received the right stuff, and there was a memo from our glorious leader with one, two, three misprints. Next was a letter from a customer about stopping future business with our company and under it was a handwritten note from Belinda about the paving of the parking lot today which I tossed into the trash — two points.

I clicked on my computer, an ancient machine about a step above an abacus. As it whirred to life, I strolled over to Galveston’s “Den of Sanctitude,” as he referred to it, and peered over the wall.

He had sheets of paper strewn everywhere, his superior filing system. He called it A.M. and P.M. The A.M. he would do in the morning, and the P.M. would get stuffed in the inbox of Hank in the next cubicle who was usually getting over a hangover for half the morning.

“Where’s lunch today?” I asked. The orange juice I drank earlier had already lost its punch.

“I have a coupon for Rusty’s Barbeque.” He produced a ratty piece of paper, torn unevenly from side-to-side.

“Pencil me in,” I replied as Galveston taped it to his calendar.

“Done, and today I’ll buy the water.”

The morning passed without incident. A few phone calls here, a bit of daydreaming, a trip to the bathroom, a drink at the water cooler, avoidance of our boss, and a return to my desk to see that my computer had almost made it halfway through booting up. I sat down and sighed heavily.

Galveston grunted from behind his blue cubical wall, obviously checking his stock picks in hopes of stumbling on the next great start-up or tech stock that would take all his worries away.

I wasted more time by watching Stan, our esteemed leader, crouched in his office as he saved the world from its many problems. Stan was a heavy-set guy, to put it lightly. His dreams consisted only of the gin and tonic he would put down that evening. Stan was constantly hatching schemes to convince his wife that he couldn’t come home on time. I didn’t know what Stan was up to after work, and I didn’t want to know. I needed to get a good night’s sleep.

My morning productivity was of course, nonexistent, and when lunchtime rolled around Galveston and I made our escape past Belinda’s sullen gaze of disapproval.

“Little early to be leaving for lunch, don’t you think?” Belinda snapped, again peering over the flat plastic rim of her thick glasses in her most annoying way.

“Actually, we were just going out to vandalize your car,” Galveston said as he strolled past her. “Would you like one scratch or two?”

“You really shouldn’t provoke her,” I said to him when we were out the door.

“Ah, she’s non-provokable. She’s like someone hired a gigantic rock and told it to get a personality.”

Galveston opened his car door and popped my side. We slid in and drove to Rusty’s, a slightly beat-up restaurant with greasy tables and an even greasier staff, but the best real barbeque in town. We got our food and sat down at the nearest table.

“I have something important to discuss with you today — for a change,” Galveston started.

“If you’re going to tell me this could change my life, I’ll just walk back, thanks,” I told him in my most disdainful tone.

“No, this is legitimate and serious. It’s seriously legit. I got a call from an old acquaintance of mine. I thought about it last night, wrote up a couple of things, and figured you might be interested. I’m going to try it with or without you.” Galveston squinted his eyes and furrowed his brow, his best serious look yet. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

“My first question then; is this legal, and how much will it cost me?” I asked with an air of suspicion.

“It’s only slightly, just slightly, on the fringe of illegality, but only if you’re looking at that sort of thing. I have it all worked out,” Galveston answered quickly.

I felt as if he was going to tell me he had a plan to bilk little old ladies out of their bus fare or Social Security checks.

“I want to start an investigation service. Like a private eye but a little more secret. We would deal with things private investigators wouldn’t touch,” Galveston told me bluntly. “I’ll explain why I want to get in this business and why I want you involved. I have it all planned out.”

I didn’t say anything and ate my sandwich slowly. My interest was piqued, however, because when Galveston said he had worked something out, I believed him.

Move on to Part 2 of The Beginning.

Taken from Flapjack, The Case Files of Icarus Investigations, Book 1.

The entire Case Files (enter only if you want to have fun)