Two Kinds of People
The rain hadn’t let up all evening, turning the streets of Pittsburgh into mirrors of neon and shadows. I pulled my coat tighter as I jumped from the taxi aiming for Astor’s, a small but elegant bar tucked inside a fancy downtown hotel that catered to men who wanted to look like they belonged. The place smelled of new leather—a far cry from the dive joints I usually worked in.
At the far end of the bar, I spotted Hector Langley nursing his drink. He’d been a spy in a past life, but he never really left the trade. No one does. He wasn’t the kind of guy you found—you let him find you. He had that casual, unreadable confidence of someone who had spent a career managing deception, knowing which lies were useful, which ones were dangerous, and which ones even he believed in.
I scurried onto the stool next to him. "Your fancy scotch," I told the bartender. Hector smirked.
“Macallan?” asked the bartender.
“That works,” I said.
"Didn’t think you were the type, Sam. Always pegged you for a beer man."
"Thanks for meeting up, Hector. Oh, I can adapt to the place."
"That’s the spirit. So, what’s this about?" I was glad he didn’t smile when he made the pun.
I lowered my voice. "I’m working a case. My client wants to know what a man is really like. Publicly, he’s been saying things that don’t add up. Denying basic facts, contradicting himself. I’m supposed to figure out what’s going on when he’s at home or, more importantly, at his desk.”
"Oh, the mommy and the most handsome kid problem," laughed Hector swirling his what smelled like Bourbon with obvious pleasure.
"What the hell's that?" I asked. Maybe this was a mistake.
"That's where the mommy knows her kid is butt ugly, but she promotes him as the most handsome kid in the world."
"Yes, I guess," I offered. "I'm not sure any mom knows her kid is ‘butt ugly.’"
"Oh they do. Some will even say it. But, let me guess. . . “
“I’m not sure I trust a mom who would say it.”
“Let me guess,” he insisted. “This person you're hired to tail is on X mouthing off. . ."
"I wouldn't say tail."
"Fine. This person you're tracking is out there on X tweeting support for the lies of the president?"
"Yes. Russia didn't start the war in Ukraine. USAID was funding $50 million for condoms in Gaza. Shit like that. You’ve read the news, Hector."
"Is this person an accountant?"
"Controller for a large Pharma company. Everything has to be by the book. If he can lie like that in public, can he be trusted to be ethical in keeping track of the numbers for a company? By the way, how do you know so goddamn much?" I asked, taking a deep breath and beginning to relax.
What would we do without alcohol, I wondered. It keeps us honest. Maybe that's what's wrong with Trump.
Hector chuckled. "I'm a goddamn spy, for Chrissake! This is my profession. You think truth works that way? Like a Newtonian formula, like two plus two?”
”Yes, I do. But I’m aware that’s more and more a precarious position to be in.”
“You’re assuming the guy knows he’s lying,” said Hector. “By the way, aren't pharmaceutical executives getting taken care of by random gunmen these days? What’s to worry about?”
"Haha. Not really funny.” I finished off my drink and tried to get the bartender’s attention as though he existed in this world just for me. “He has to know he's lying. The facts are obvious."
Hector sighed, finishing off his glass and setting it down. He looked like he was in for another.
"It's just a guy out there pathetically tweeting for a little popularity. Doesn’t everyone know that in the era of Elon, all tweets are lies? Is this any reason to hire a detective?" I asked, knowing that another drink could start rearranging my sentences. Or worse. Start putting them in my mouth.
"You ever heard of Hannah Arendt?"
"The name rings a bell. Jewish philosopher?" I ventured, relieved that Hector was going to give me a lecture. There’s something about people jumping on their soapboxes that relaxes me. Go figure.
"German-Jewish philosopher. She had to flee Germany in the early 1930's. Anyway she wrote about totalitarianism, about how the worst kinds of lies aren’t just spoken, they’re lived. A person can know something and yet act otherwise—not out of malice, but because reality itself has been reshaped for them through propaganda or any number of ways."
"You’re saying the person believes his own bullshit? I tried to tell my client this. I was very dubious of this case. He insisted." I knew Hector was smart, but I didn’t expect hardcore philosophy.
"Not exactly believes his own bullshit. More like—he exists in two realities at once. The one where he knows the truth, and the one where denying it is necessary for his well being. The need to belong to a tribe is a powerful motivator. You think spies don’t do that? We live in contradictions. But we keep track of them. This guy? He’s not tracking. He’s just adapting. And that’s worse."
Speaking of tracking, the man I’d been tailing walked in--the pharma controller. Honest to god walked in the same bar!
He was alone and brushing off his removed coat, oblivious to the fact that he had just stepped into a conversation about himself. He took a seat a few stools down. Ordered a drink, laughed with the bartender, exhaled like a man relieved to be away from something. Or was I making that last bit up?
There are facts about the world that everyone accepts, aren't there? The man walked into the bar. That was a fact. It was a bloody strange coincidence, though. Was that a fact as well? Yes, the coincidence was a fact too. I felt my stomach twist.
"Hector, don't look now. The guy who just sat to the bar is the object of our conversation."
"No shit?!" Hector lit up like a cigarette being inhaled deeply. "See that? He’s not posturing. He’s not scheming," said Hector. "Whatever doublethink he’s doing, he’s comfortable in it. You think you’re chasing a liar. You’re not. You’re chasing someone who doesn’t need to lie to himself anymore. And that, my friend, is a dangerous man."
Maybe my client wasn’t wrong to be worried. If a man could erase the gap between knowing and acting, if he could reshape reality without losing sleep over it—what did that mean for the people who depended on him? What about his kids?
"What am I doing in this god awful profession?" I asked rhetorically and aloud. "My client's asking me to be a fucking philosopher!"
“I thought you detectives were all philosophers, the working man philosopher. Sam, there are two kinds of people in this world: those interested in money and those interested in the truth.”
I raised my glass.
“What about the most illustrious, Hercule Poirot?” he went on. “Now there’s a philosopher.”
“Hercule Poirot’s an ok guy,” I said. “And the way I remember it, he was usually pulling in a good size check.”
“Are you kidding? Living in that small flat, cooking his own food?”
Come to think of it, Hector was right. “He did get some nice chocolates on Christmas, anyway,” I said.
“Here’s to some nice chocolates on Christmas, kid.”
The next week I met my client in his office. No low-lit bars, no ambiguity. Just the clean lines of his desk, polished surfaces, buzzing fluorescent lights and the certainty of a world where people’s words still meant something. Capitalism may be corrupting us, but it does require honesty. What’s the good in lying to the investor, or better yet, the customer?
"What did you find?" my client asked, leaning back in his chair.
I considered everything Hector had said at the bar on that rainy night a week ago, everything I had seen since then. The unease still sat with me, but here, in this office, I felt better. Contained. Part of a world bigger than me.
"He’s exactly what you think he is," I said. "And that’s the problem."
My client nodded, as if he already knew.
Outside, the world went on as it always had. And the truth remained, however neglected.