Mr. Invisible
As promised, here is the private investigations feature appearing in the latest Vancouver Review:
"I want to pimp you out," I tell Randy over the phone.This feature is chockers with killer photography--it makes the story, really. Luckily, you can find the VR on magazine racks nationwide.
"Excuse me?" he asks. I can almost hear his facial expression.
"I mean want to write a story," I add. "About your job."
I know he wears James Bond's watch, the Omega Seamaster, waterproof to 300 metres, in case things get murky and deep. I know he"s allergic to barley, and that his other car is a motorcycle. At parties he tends to drift away to the cheese platter, anthropologically observing our movements. I know Randy Fiarchuk is a civilian spy. Beyond that, it's a question of imaginative glimmers.
What I have in mind is one part Hollywood noir, one part hardboiled fiction. A standup guy in a lowdown world. What I'm after, to be honest, is sleaze. People up to their armpits in secrets and lies, caught out in the white blitz of exposure.
To my surprise, he agrees. "It'll be good publicity," he says.
You have no idea, I think.
As it turns out, neither do I.
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