The 1960’s were a historic era of cultural and political upheaval worldwide, and Los Angeles along with San Francisco were at the west coast epicenters. The 1970s amped the Vibe; from the grit of L.A, and glitz of Hollywood, to the sunny beach-lined communities north and south of the Los Angeles International Airport.
There was a thriving evolution of new ways to live, to expand one’s mind, and new ways to do business. And one of the rising big businesses was within the Drug Culture. The times were ripe for anyone to grab the reins and take hold of whatever they could. All ideas, trends, and concepts if not new, were brought forward from the past to be celebrated. With these near daily new enterprises and concepts came great ideas implemented for the good and some for the bad.
William Trent, a young private investigator, maintains his office and living space above the garages of an adjacent apartment building in the “Ghost Town” area of Venice, California. The rickety, but sturdy stairs to Will’s office were open for anyone who needed his services.
Will was experienced in both deductive reasoning and altered states of consciousness. He had taken nearly every drug, hallucinogen, and psychotropic known, and used those experience’s benefits to become successful enough to hold down his own one man investigation business.
There was much to be said for certain stoners’ abilities to use their clouded stoned appearance to actually gain detailed insight on those who momentarily let their guard down due to thinking that they were dealing with just another stoned Hippie.
Tonight’s 1977 Episode: “To Trip And Die In L.A.”
It was summer 1977, in the past ten years since graduating high school in 1967 Will had taken his obsession of solving mysteries and the psychedelic aspects of mind-expanding drugs and built a business as a successful private investigator, known throughout the “underground” scenes of L.A. as the Stoned Private Eye.
While most investigators were retired, moonlighting, or former policemen or detectives, Will needed to be free to do his job unencumbered by rules and regulations. He knew what he was up against, but he wouldn’t be deprived of using a gift given just because others did not approve or understand his tactics.
Will’s first professionally paid solved case was due to applied deduction, reason, and cosmic knowledge. What that means is Will was able to do what most people can; use their intuition. But with Will, he could feel the Vibe of a person, place, or thing, generally in a positive or negative way, and then intuition completed the picture.
While this was of great help detecting lies, it also allowed for quick elimination or addition of anyone along the path to a solved case.
Will was not psychic, what he had was a connection. A connection that was there all along but that psychedelics: LSD, Mescaline, Psilocybin, and others, triggered and served as catalysts for a level of thought and action that fit Will like a glove with a soft calm lined interior and a spiked armored exterior.
Before the Summer of Love became a historic event, the Beatniks of the late ‘50s and early ‘60s were gettin’ high on Marijuana with a little LSD spread lightly around the edges. But it was the mid-to-late ‘60s when the Psychedelic influence greatly flourished and held strong up into the mid-to-late ‘70s. This time period was embraced by Will, there was so much happening every day; one could sit back and watch the show, or get up and be a participant; Will did both.
Will wasn’t a loner, nor a joiner; he just had a path to follow long before he knew that he did. And just like a true artist, he had to experience some creativity every day or he was faced with the waste of his abilities. That was a sin to him; every moment he was not on a case was a moment lost forever.
That didn’t mean that he couldn’t enjoy life, as he was actually having the time of his life as it was the psychedelic swingin’ ‘70s – what other decade had the trailing underground innocence of Flower Power and Free Love with the height of Counter-Culture shenanigans?
And like a true artist, Will could not retire, he’d retire when he died. And maybe not even then.
While quickly scanning through his mail he saw a reminder letter from his high school, it was about his upcoming ten year reunion. Will stared at the invitation while flashing on the past; he had a few good friends in his class but he really hung out with guys a grade or two above him, and although it could be fun, he had slightly overbooked on cases and needed to concentrate on business.
One of the cases involved a background check and positive identification, the other was criminal; Will was asked to locate stolen goods.
Will was very good at blending in with whatever level of society required, however by the ‘70s people expected personal expression, so the established “suits” had been educated that appearances didn’t matter as much, it was about getting the job done – which is what Will was known for.
The members of a quasi-gang of biker hippies were suspects who supposedly robbed a well-known businessman and big collector of his erotic art – and as usual the client didn’t want his “interest” publicly known and just wanted his art back.
In this case, Will could slip into a former element, he rode a ‘69 Harley Davidson 900cc Sportster for awhile, but he was never part of a “gang”.
The other suspect was a close business associate of the collector. Will had already narrowed it down to these two different suspects; the associate had plenty of motive and the gang, well, it was an easy grab once one of the gang members knocked boots with a female stable-hand at the collector’s ranch house.
Will set the reunion invitation back down on his desk and picked up his notes on the other case, an investigation of one Riley Jones, alias Riley James, James Riley, and James Jones, none very inventive aliases, but all the same guy. Will needed one last verification about his background to file his report, get paid, and then focus on the stolen goods.
Will did his “drinking” in his mid-teens and switched to pot, pills, hash, psychedelics and other forms of mind expansion that didn’t bloat and cause lack of memory. Memory is a valuable thing for everyone, but especially for Will in his line of work.
For example he just remembered that there was an erotic art show up on Melrose at a well-known gallery. This otherwise unimportant memory would have dissolved soon as most do if never in need of retrieval, but since the stolen items were erotic art the brief catch of the ad in a newspaper or overheard somewhere at sometime was part of Will’s deciphering of not only memory, but of signs, important signs, signs that when acknowledged assisted Will’s abilities of deduction and of the cosmic aspects of any case.
With this in mind Will hit a couple of Venice beach bars well-known to the criminal element; the always shady “The Reef”, and the downright criminally-owned, but friendly neighborhood above-board appearance of “Castle In The Sand”.
The Reef’s ambiance was surfside sleaze; bar-hops in skimpy mermaid suits, lurid lighting, and a raunchy pirate motif, kind of like Disney’s Pirates of the Caribbean on acid.
Will approached the bar ordered a beer that he never intended to drink and observed the room. He was beyond incognito these days, as he was well known by the local beach denizens and the “other side of life” that most tend to ignore, therefore he met each encounter head on.
When the bartender returned with his drink he motioned Will to the back corner of the bar.
Will picked up his drink and walked across the room and between the pool tables to a sequestered corner. There was T-Rex, Will’s old nemesis with a mermaid sitting next to him on each side.
T-Rex: “Well, well, if it isn’t the Stoned Private Eye.”
Will: “You’re looking comfortable.”
T-Rex: “That’s right I am, I just bought this joint, made a nice business investment, and upgraded the place with the mermaid babes ‘n’ pirate stuff.”
Will glances around: “Nice, good for you.”
Will knows that this is just a front for crime, but goes along with the legit attempt.
Will: “Does Riley Jones, or James Riley or any other combo sound familiar?”
T-Rex: “What’s in it for me?”
Will, as he holds up his beer: “Further patronage.”
T-Rex: “He’s a small timer, a gopher, a nobody.”
One of the mermaids kept giving Will the eye. Why is it always the bad girls, or worse, the good girls who were always so foxy and hot?
Will trusted T-Rex’ description as he could tell that he was high on his new bar ownership and felt it below him to lie on that mundane level. Plus with T-Rex’ verification that’s all Will needed to file his report.
On his way back he stopped at the Castle In The Sand beach bar to see if any gang members were there, they were, and had been drinking.
Will ordered another beer that he never intended to drink and surveyed the room. These guys were the kind that gave Hippies and Bikers both a bad name using both traits to spread pseudo-love and peace while ripping people off. They even had the audacity to name their gang The Gods Of Love. Although Will would like to see them go down, he needed the actual guilty culprit or culprits to be caught, but secretly hoped it was them.
He had a list of the stolen objects, pulled them out from his inner jacket pocket and began to read aloud the stolen items, their descriptions, and value.
At first, the gang members and other patrons were taken aback by his intrusion and loudness, but when the value of these items were announced by Will, people became interested, but not to Will’s intended response. None of the gang members reacted as to any knowledge of what he was reading off. If they had, there would have been evidence of knowledge, which could lead to guilt.
Will stopped reading and announced “drinks for all”, paid the bartender, and left – it is always good to stay in favor with enemies, possible enemies – and friends.
Will motored over to Beverly Hills to confront and instill a verbal acid trip to the Collector’s business associate and hopefully wrap this case up, but first he stopped off at the Erotic Art show taking place that evening – he wanted to familiarize himself with current trends in art – and the clientele.
Will was feeling edgy and he knew why, he hadn’t taken any psychedelics in a while, two or three weeks, at least, and his whole being missed the symbiotic flow into insight, the thrill of being, and a psychic energizer that could be counted on.
He pulled to the curb a block down from the gallery, got out, opened his trunk, and popped open an inner side panel and removed a large bag. He always kept a “jam bag” filled with essentials; a hermetically-sealed section was designated for a range of drugs and psychedelics, also in the bag were two bottles of water, a couple granola bars, a toothbrush, strike anywhere wooden matches, one roll each of paper towels and bathroom tissue, a nice-sized surgical steel Bowie knife in a custom leather sheath, a first aid kit, a roll of Jacksons and Hamiltons with a few Lincolns and Washingtons, and a few other items. He also had a .38 caliber Smith and Wesson back at his place – as well as one hidden in his car.
Will opened the sealed section and chose an excellent strain of LSD; Windowpane, dropped it, locked the trunk and car, and headed for the gallery.
Once inside “Gallerie Phantastique” Will saw all manner of sexually-explicit paintings, sculptures, and even a fashion show in the back. The attendees looked like most art show collectors and art lovers, and Will was not getting any negative vibes.
As he wandered the gallery he did get a strange vibe, not negative, but unusual, but as a human among the playfully erotic and the deviant erotic there was surely to be primal reactions with an accompanying vibe. As he absorbed it all, he was still getting a strange vibe.
He had some time to spare because he wanted to confront the business associate “after hours”, as that was when Will could truly exert his modes of persuasion. When night falls things seem more important, more mysterious, more romantic, more dangerous – all with a thrilling uncertainty that most times reveals the truth.
Will would usually run into someone he knew at a function like this, but he only saw people with melting faces, big eyes and mis-proportioned features, this cued Will that he was coming on to the acid.
There was a shadowy painting on the wall in front of Will of two lovers intertwined who began to slowly gyrate; first slow hip thrusts, then fondling, groping, and the gallery’s ambient music of a low-tempo African beat seemed to synch with the lovers.
Will looked away to see the expressions on the faces of the attendees – they seemed full of carnal lust with primal sexy looks, and the whole place had become the interior of a sacrificial ceremony with the fashion show in back as the altar where sadomasochistic acts were performed on the models.
Will was looking for his Psychedelic Buddy in his head but he was not there. Will had to administer the old “Maintain, it’s only the drug” saying as his Psychedelic Buddy would usually show up just when needed. But he was not there. Or was he?
Will stepped outside, leaned up against the wall next to a large potted plant and regained his cool.
Wow, he forgot the initial kick that the Windowpane had on him. Some acid and mescaline can have grinding come-ons before gliding along, some take a while then, bam, some are roller coasters, but this really threw some heavy hallucinogenics at him quickly.
For the first time Will had to consider the fact that maybe, just maybe his youth was slipping away. His grasp of everything with brawn and brain lately seemed to not be one hundred percent.
One look down the boulevard and he remembered what it was like back in his late teens; he was one of less than a dozen “dopers” in the high school population, and had a sense-memory of the rush of being stoned at night, and staring down the boulevard, bursting with life.
And that’s how he felt then, thrilled to be alive, bursting with life.
As Will let the acid simmer, he decided to make the commitment to attend his ten year high school reunion. Most of his class would probably not know him as the Stoned Private Eye – his clients and underworld activities were far removed from “normal” life.
He made this solemn promise to attend to the small trusted space bug that he had made friends with that resided in the gallery’s front planter.
Taking command of his car he drove to the business associate’s house, knocked on the door, and was greeted by the business associate.
Will: My name’s William Trent and I’m here about your business associate’s stolen property.”
ABA: “If you mean Quigley’s trash, he’s already accused me, he’s pathetic, if we weren’t in business together I’d . . . ” He doesn’t end his sentence.
Will: “Still there’s a lot of money in that trash.”
ABA: “For someone, not for me, besides, I want less involvement with him, not more.”
He pauses: “What are you, an insurance investigator?”
Will pauses a beat: “Yeah, just an investigator doing his job.’
Will turns to leave.
ABA with a loud voice, makes a statement: “They got you workin’ late hours!”
Without turning Will waves, and as he brings his hand back down to his side the LSD trails nearly form a wing, it took all of his mature control to override waving his arms up and down to make psychedelic wings and run down the block “flying” all the way.
While normally Will would have certainly given in to the fun urge he had a bigger issue that pushed fun into the background – if it wasn’t his two main suspects; the business associate or the Gods of Love – then Will was back at square one.
Solving cases relied on the ability to see many different perspectives, and while some cases were easy to solve in a few days, sometimes it took weeks, but rarely months as even Will couldn’t commit to that kind of time, even a great mystery can be solved in two hours on a TV show and Will liked to jump a few scenes ahead in real life to make up for commercials and unimportant plot developments.
Will found that by staying open to anything and everything solutions sometimes came to him – and as he drove he felt as though his third eye was emerging with a almost blinding throb coming from his pineal gland.
Then Will had an inexplicable feeling, a knowing, an understanding.
He needed to speak with his client Quigley, so he pulled over to the nearest pay phone and called.
At Quigley’s place Will informed him that he talked with the person who stole his art and it is being returned.
Quigley, a little surprised: “Really? Good! Great!”
Will could sense Quigley’s nervousness: “Mr. Quigley you need to put a halt to this charade, I know this is about collecting insurance on your “stolen” art, that is probably out at your ranch right now, and you needed proof by hiring me to “not find” the goods to help your insurance fraud case.”
Will pauses: “Did I leave anything out?”
Quigley, sheepishly, but very scared: “I needed the money, they’re going to kill me.”
Will could sense real fear in Quigley’s voice.
Even in Will’s psychedelic state he realized that this just went from a stolen goods case, to insurance fraud, to having a client with not long to live. Will didn’t want to know who Quigley owed money to, his mere association with Quigley put him in danger.
Will: “Listen, let’s just call us square – I am no longer working for you.”
Will turns to leave and Quigley pulls a gun: ”How much are you worth?”
Will turns back to see a couple select Gods of Love gang members come out from adjoining rooms to back him up.
Will, smiling: “Really? What are you even talking about?”
Quigley: “The way I figure is that you may just be worth more than I owe. I figure you have more value in your head than I owe.” “Why do you think I hired the Stoned Private Eye? Because either way I win.”
Quigley motions to the bikers he hired: “Take him out to the ranch.”
Will’s had enough, as the two bikers approach him Will allows them to get just close enough so when they grab each arm he is in the perfect position to jump straight up to come down with a karate kick on each bikers outside kneecap breaking both of their legs. And as they crumble to the ground in excruciating pain the now not so macho Quigley runs out the back to his car.
Will runs, gets in his car, and follows Quigley down the streets to a stop light.
Quigley’s car stops at the light.
Will is several cars back, the light turns green.
Quigley’s car does not move.
The other cars honk and pull out and around and drive on.
Will pulls up behind Quigley’s car, gets out, and as he slowly looks in the window he sees that Quigley committed suicide, he didn’t want to face his fate at the hands of those who would probably torture him before killing him.
It was probably the only time he had ever used a gun.
Four months later . . .
Will is preparing for his night out attending his ten year high school reunion just as he had promised the space bug.
He hadn’t seen any classmates over the years unless in isolated passings. But there were a few guys that he used to hang with in his early teens that would be great to see as they had some righteous juvenile adventures together.
As far as girlfriends, Will had a couple steadies, and a few week end/week night love affairs, but he was usually too busy to devote time to a serious relationship, then and now.
He decided against taking any psychedelics that night as it would probably be a trip all on its own.
Will felt great, finally a place where he could experience relative anonymity, a place where he could just be himself for a night.
Will wasn’t in the hotel event room a minute before someone pointed and yelled out, “Look who’s here, it’s the Stoned Private Eye!”
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Copyright 2018 00individual TLL
Written spontaneously over a few hours during January 15 – January 16, 2019 with only The Stoned Private Eye, the 1970s, To Trip And Die In L.A., and a Noir Vibe as inspiration.
THE STONED PRIVATE EYE 