The Memory Book by Howard Engel

picking her brain whenever I got stuck. Martha was the true essence of Grantham: friendly, nosy, and comfortable. Kogan, my landlord, was a former panhandler who used to work the crowd shopping along St. Andrew or Queen Streets. He was once a public eyesore. Now he was living proof that being lucky still beats out being enterprising. Hearing his name and Martha’s voice suddenly made me want to see St. Andrew Street again and feel the familiar pavement under my feet. But it all seemed so far away and so long ago.
    “Benny? Are you still there or have they carted you off to the operating room?”
    I grunted a response.
    “What I mean to say is,” she continued, “are you managing? Do you need anything? Because unless you need me bad, I’m going to open another bottle of beer. That’s my formula for beating the hot weather. Okay?” I’d forgotten all about weather. It didn’t exist here.
    “It’s good to talk to you, Martha. I’ve missed you. I need my Martha fix.”
    “ Now you tell me! Where were you when I needed you?”
    “Martha, you don’t need anybody. You’re an established institution.”
    “M’yeah. Don’t let the bright paint fool you, Benny. I’m running short of durability. I’ve lost three drinking companions in seven months. If I look at somebody, she has to go into hospital; if I shake hands, she drops dead. People clear the room when they see me coming. I’m not counting your cop friends, Staziak and Savas. They told me straight out that they get danger pay when I turn up.”
    “How are they?” Staziak and Savas were the cops I got to do my detecting for me. I went to public school with Pete Staziak.
    “They live under the threat of being forced to take up honest employment. They’re aging fast. They told me your office was tossed by the crowd that tried to do you in. Is that right, Benny?”
    “Martha, you’re way ahead of me on that. I don’t even know what my blood pressure is. Can’t remember details any more.”
    “You always were more of an idea man than an encyclopedia. But really, Benny, is there anything I can do? Short of cooking and baking, that is. I don’t run to canapés or chocolate cake. Try salted peanuts and I’m yours forever.”
    “Martha, I can’t tell you how good it is to have you to talk to. Around here I get the ‘Mr. Cooperman’ treatment, which gives me gas. There’s such a thing as too much respect.”
    “M’yeah. I’ve had my share of that, too. Whenever I hear the word ‘ma’am,’ I look around for the arresting officer. The break-in at your office was in the paper. And your friend Staff-Sergeant Savas has one of his theories. But he won’t tell anybody what it is until he’s proven right.”
    I had always loved Martha’s line of talk. She could strip the egotistical barnacles off the hulls of the worst of our politicians. I wish she would.
    “Martha, did you get a call from my mother?” Two ideas were colliding in my head: one was about something Martha had just said, the other was why she had picked this moment to call me. Just then, one of the questions was lost.
    “What?”
    “You heard me. Have you talked to my mother?”
    “Well … yes. Seems to me she called. Just to keep me in the picture, you know?”
    “Yeah, I know.” My mother should be running the Secret Service. She’s like an iceberg: you only see a small fraction of what’s there.”
    “Benny? Did you hang up?”
    “Martha, I’ve been trying to place a name.”
    “Hell, I do that all the time. Is that all that’s bothering you?”
    “It’s the name of a local girl, I think. Someone with a connection to me and my job. It may be important. Could you spare it some thought?”
    “Benny, I’ll take a crack at anything. You know me. Are you going to tell me the name, or do you want to include that in the puzzle, too?”
    “Sorry, Martha. I’m getting forgetful in my old age. The name is Rose. Or Rosie. Something like that.”
    “What’s the last