True Detective

By Martha Duffy

BLYE, PRIVATE EYE by NICHOLAS PILEGGl

21 8 pages. Playboy Press. $10.

"I need a man good-looking enough to pick up a dame who has a sense of class, but he's got to be tough enough to swap punches with a power shovel. I need a guy who can backchat like Fred Allen, only better, and get hit on the head with a beer truck and think some cutie in the leg-line topped him with a breadstick. "

As a job description, Raymond Chandler's sketch of a private eye is irresistible--the urban gunslinger with all the smarts. It makes a powerful myth. No matter how many Sunday-supplement articles report that a private detective is probably an ex-cop who guards industrial secrets, some romance still clings to him. Nicholas Pileggi, a New York-based investigative reporter, has written a book about one authentic private eye. It is a painstaking job, which makes it pleasant to report that while this trim detective has little chance to crack wise with classy dames, there are a few traces of the exotic in his work.

Irwin Blye will never be mistaken for Philip Marlowe: he is handmaiden to the nation's lawyers, a shrewd middleman in America's judicial process. His assignments, almost always from attorneys, involve collecting evidence that is presentable and persuasive in court. The highest praise for the shamus comes from a lawyer feared in settlement circles as a "matrimonial bomber": "Irwin Blye puts things together. He knows the law." He also knows civil liberties and how to abuse them. To him information is power. His weapons are things like UCC-11 forms (for $3 you get everything on anyone who has ever applied for a loan) and Cole's Metropolitan Householders Directory ($200, but it lists telephones by address and is crucial in tracing an erring husband's surreptitious calls). There is no evidence that Blye has read any Kafka, but if he did, he would probably want to call up the guy and chat. He loves red tape. Lew Archer is never seen writing depositions, but Blye must take them to exacting specifications from any credible witness. Every line of testimony from a witness is numbered, then read back to the speaker, who must swear that he understands each word. Blye even takes a Polaroid picture so that lawyers can decide whether the person will go over with a jury.

Blye himself is something of a chameleon. He is 42, with a pleasant, forgettable face. It is in some of his convictions about how to do the job that fact and fiction touch. His wardrobe includes "an FBI outfit" -- blue suit, white shirt and red tie ("It makes people want to stand up and salute"). His car is filled with hats of all styles -- deeply valued props. Another prop consists of a wife and two children. The Blye family drives up to a house and, as the detective notes, "even subpoena-shy people are usually helpful to a man with a wife and kids."

Blye also shares the conviction with his thriller counterparts that he is a shrewd listener and talker. With poor people, a strong stomach counts. Says he: "I've had to drink coffee out of cracked cups with roach wings floating around inside." But if Blye sits at their tables, they shed their mistrust. With the more affluent, a smooth line of backchat comes in handy.

For much of the book. Pileggi is content to let the subject describe these activities. Since he grew up behind the family shirt shop right across from the old Lindy's on Broadway, the surprisingly likable Blye is full of pungent city speech. Though he works fifteen hours a day for his $50,000 income, he loves his work as few men do. Consequently, Blye, Private Eye is that most mesmerizing of pastimes: inspired shoptalk.

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