Free MemorialDay by Wayne Greenough

Chapter One
    It has been written many times, and verbalized a lot more often, that hardboiled detectives are cynical and old fashioned. They will take no live prisoners because they enjoy the sound of gunfire and the viewing of corpses. They believe in nothing because they have seen it all. In addition, what’s happening in the world around them makes them bone tired, weary, and stone-faced to where they never smile. A cloud of cigarette smoke is always surrounding them. They constantly booze on cheap liquor, are rough in speech and manner, and only by luck do they ever manage to solve their cases.
    Every word in the above paragraph is true. I ought to know. I’m Private Detective Thanet Blake, and I’m sure as hell hardboiled in my attitude on life. My voice has a deep growl. Every word I say is slow, to the point, and reeks with danger. My face is overly rugged and has the appearance of a logging truck running over it.
    Enough of that. I’ll enter the private detective beauty contest, next week—and yes, when they declare me the winner, I will graciously sign autographs.
    Right now, it’s Memorial Day . I’ve already paid my respect to Father Jones’ grave. It’s located behind the church where he was the Pastor. He was a guy the world needed and offed by a guy the world didn’t need.
    I’ve picked up Mother. She is presently sitting in the car next to me and being very quiet. Her nice looking, wrinkle-free, face is solemn and she’s dressed in respectful black. It’s that kind of day for her, and also for me. We’re on our way to do our traditional visiting of three graveyards.
    At our first stop, we see cars parked haphazardly and everywhere. After a few minutes, I managed to squeeze the old Ford into a spot without whacking anybody’s car.
    My car’s full of flowers. Mother grabs an armful and so do I. It’s a quiet and humble day for everybody we meet as we begin decorating the graves of those that we remember, and are no longer with us. Yet, in their special way, they are still with us by the memories we have of them—how they looked, the sound of their voice, their smile, their favorite flowers, a thousand things they liked.
    Normally, I’m a very talkative guy. On Memorial Day, in the graveyards, I sew up my big mouth and listen to people reminiscing. Sometimes I smile with them, other times I laugh, just a little. Often, I cry with them.
    It’s a warm day. The sun is shining, and there is a slight breeze. The United States’ flags, dozens of them, spaced fifteen feet apart along the roads leading to the graves, are making flapping noises and at times they sound as if they’re making an attempt to talk to us. In a way, I think they are. They’re asking us never to forget the veterans buried in this hallowed ground.
    The grass has been freshly mowed, its pleasant scent still in the air. Glancing at the graveyard’s driveways, I see that there are still more cars coming in and parking. A variety of people are pouring from them—young, middle aged, and old, along with husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, children, relatives. They all had one thing in mind, and that was to decorate the graves, to say a few words, to talk, to cry, and to wish that the dead were still alive.
    Mother and I walked across the grass, being careful not to step on the graves as we headed for the military section. Fred and Frank were in the Navy during WWII.
    “They’re over here, Sonny,” said Mother, who was walking ahead of me.
    Two plaques, level with the ground, United States Navy , killed in action, their names, when they were born, when they died. Gone, but not forgotten, ever.
    Mother started talking and I smiled at her. She says the same thing every year, and every year I deeply appreciate what she tells me.
    “Fred and Frank were fifteen years old when they talked their father into signing some papers saying they were age eighteen. It was right after Pearl Harbor and the boys wanted to join in protecting our