Читать книгу Off the Beaten Path - John Schlarbaum - Страница 4

There are few things more depressing than walking through a maze of dirty city streets at 3:00 a.m. seeking a hooker with a heart of gold.

Been there, won that stuffed teddy bear.

Yet here I am on a random Wednesday doing just that.

Before you jump to the easy conclusion that I’ve again fallen on hard times and am looking for love in all the wrong places, let me calm your frayed nerves: I’m working a file.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Marital cases and I have a long and troubled past. They are the worst type of investigations for a number of reasons, most notably the fact that information provided by the distraught client is usually wrong. For example, the subject almost always leaves at a different time than the one given, be it from work, a buddy’s house, the ex’s apartment after visiting the kids and so forth. Then there’s the matter of how much time these files can suck out of one’s life. There’s a television program that specializes in this entertaining field and it kills me when the creepy host proudly states, “On Day 9 our investigator locates the target’s vehicle parked in a visitor’s spot near a friendly female acquaintance’s townhouse.”

Are they serious? If I don’t get results by Day 3, my head is on the chopping block.

Day 9. As if.

My current case has the added element of the potential cheater carrying on a disjointed conversation in his sleep with a prostitute named Mary. Or Kerry. Or Sherri. Apparently this dolt snorted or snored at an inopportune time and the exact name couldn’t be rendered. The second strange aspect of this file is the wife’s claim that hubby handed over a gold heart charm hanging from a necklace. More specifically, her necklace.

“I’m certain he mumbled something about ‘a down payment’ and ‘tonight at The Cougar Trap.’ That can only mean that disgusting Drake Road area in the east end, right?” She paused before adding, “And believe me, I’ve searched everywhere and my necklace is gone!”

I examined my early thirties average everything (height, weight, looks) client and had to make a swift assessment. Should I throw her out due to such flimsy evidence or break it to her that if loverboy was making plans anywhere near The Cougar Trap, her marriage was probably already over?

Decisions, decisions, decisions.

“I’ll do what I can,” I stated, making sure to get her money up front, a business practice private investigators and hookers share, among other seamy traits.

The fact that my girlfriend and I were heading out on a mini-vacation in three days probably played a role in how I answered. A little extra spending cash would come in handy.

And really, how hard could it be to locate a phantom lady of the evening wearing a gold heart charm inscribed “I Luv U” and working mid-week in the roughest area of town?

Wednesday: Hump Day. Sounds about right.

***

“Hey honey, if you’re lookin’ for some action you came to the wrong side of the street.”

“And how’s that?” I asked skeptically, approaching an over-the-hill streetwalker. She was quite the vision with her garish make-up, matted mop of brown hair and Daisy Duke short shorts with fishnet stockings, topped off with a stole over her shoulders made of a mink needlessly killed circa 1972. “Let me guess - you’re celibate?”

She shook her head and smiled, revealing gaps in her upper and lower rows of teeth. “Oh no, not this girl. I proudly sell-a-bit here, sell-a-bit there, sell-a-bit anywhere you’d like, sweetie,” she laughed.

Given her outlandishly sad appearance, her laugh wasn’t an unpleasant sound, which caught me off guard, although it really shouldn’t have. After all, she was a human being with real emotions, once an innocent little girl and the glimmer of sunshine in her parents’ eyes. Certain personal characteristics can’t be beaten out of you, regardless of how hard someone (drunken Daddy, pimp, abusive boyfriend) tries.

“Then why am I on the wrong side of the street?”

“Because my dance card is full. I’m just waiting for a taxi to arrive.”

I slowly glanced down the infamous Drake Road and noted we were the only people out at this time of night: no other pedestrians, no barflies stumbling out of the fabled Dark Stallion or Mickey’s Den watering holes, and not a car in sight. It was eerily quiet, too.

“Believe it or not, I wasn’t aiming to hook up, but I am looking for one of your co-workers.”

“To talk or just cuddle?” She stopped and gave me a cool look. “She’s not your sister, is she?”

“Not that I’m aware of, although around here I suppose anything’s possible.” Headlights came into view a few blocks away. “Your name wouldn’t happen to be Mary or something similar sounding, would it?”

“For a price it could be,” my near-toothless wonder replied.

Always the businesswoman, I thought.

“Are there any other girls in the immediate vicinity with such a pretty name?” I inquired as I lifted $20 out of my wallet. “I see you as the unofficial Den Mother down here and I want you to know your acquaintance, if she exists, is not in any trouble.”

“Whenever a cop–”

“Ex-cop.”

“Whatever. I’m just sayin’ anytime the likes of you comes a-lookin’, someone is in trouble.” My colourful new best gal pal took the money when her taxi pulled up to the curb. “There’s a fire escape at the back of The Cougar Trap that leads to a second floor apartment. You might want to start searchin’ there.”

I followed her gaze across the boulevard and noted the fire escape bathed in blue neon from the building’s gaudy wraparound flashing sign.

“Can I use you as a reference?”

“Sure thing, babycakes. Tell the twins Truffle Divine says you’re okay.”

The taxi sped away before I could thank my helpful guide but not before I confirmed my client’s lost necklace wasn’t part of this evening’s costume drama.

Knowing that being out alone in this neighbourhood was frowned upon by the police and county coroner, I began to briskly walk to my next and possibly final destination. Unlike many of my P.I. associates, I don’t carry a gun, brass knuckles, nunchucks or pepper spray. I figure if I can’t talk my way out of a situation and am overpowered, these same weapons could easily be used on me, which would be a real shame in my humble opinion.

“What do I have to lose except my life?” I asked myself aloud as I crossed the street.

***

I cautiously approached The Cougar Trap, a recent addition to The Strip that was known for its seedy nightlife, regardless of the actual time of day. Catering to a specific clientele, it’s a unique enterprise that isn’t a peeler bar, a restaurant or a swinger’s club, yet magically combines aspects of all three.

As for its name, in the late 1960s a “cougar” was easy to spot. She was Mrs. Robinson, the horny older housewife in the classic film The Graduate, who seduced the son of her husband’s business partner. More recently, the ultimate cougar is Stifler’s divorced mom in the American Pie movie series. These days, the definition is a grab-bag term for any unattached woman over 30, usually with a kid or two in tow, who enjoys reliving her golden high school years in the company of younger men.

Climbing the fire escape, I noted two surveillance cameras mounted on the roof; one aimed at the stairs and the other trained on the upper back door. Recalling my science teacher’s assertion that for every action there’s a reaction, I flashed a big stupid grin, waved at both cameras and mouthed, “Hey dude, what’s up?” As if on cue, the stair cam slowly panned upward as its lens zoomed in on my face. Finding no wall buzzer, I gently knocked on the door and waited, knowing that Spielberg and company would eventually make contact.

“What’s your business, pal?” a woman asked in a loud, although friendly, tone.

I haven’t been called pal since my father passed away during my last few months of high school. Then again, I just called her dude, so I guess we’re even on that count.

“I’m searching for a necklace.”

“Does this look like the jewelry counter at Walmart?”

“No, it doesn’t,” I replied nonchalantly, before quietly saying, “Mary,” under my breath.

There was no immediate quip this time. Only silence for several entertaining moments, as I smiled for the cameras.

“What did you say?”

“Oh, that I agreed this didn’t appear to be a Walmart location.”

“After that.” Getting no answer, my hidden mystery woman asked the obvious. “Did you call me Mary?”

“Maybe, I guess,” I responded, playing dumb, another trick private investigators have in common with hookers. “Is she your sister?”

“Excuse me?”

“I was thinking that maybe you were Mary’s twin.”

Without warning, the heavy metal door was flung open and I was warmly greeted by the barrel of a Dirty Harry-type gun targeting my forehead and then my crotch area. My police training kicked in and I calmly stood my ground, making no sudden movements. My gaze confirmed that the gun’s hammer was cocked in the “let’s party” position, before settling on my aggressor’s beautiful eyes, which were darting around like two pinballs. Her overall features suggested a sense of impending Game Over doom.

“Hi, I’m Steve. What’s your name?” I asked, figuring the direct approach was my best bet. While she was forming a response, it allowed my eyes to pull back a bit to get a clearer picture of what I was up against.

A crazed woman with the knowledge of firearms? A look of determination that cautioned me against pouring on the old Steve magic? A cute, blonde college student wearing a t-shirt that barely covered two enormous beach balls set upon her chest? Check, check and check.

“Wow,” I managed to say, momentarily forgetting the danger I appeared to be in. “When Truffle mentioned ‘the twins‘ I was thinking, you know, twin-twins. The ones who dress the same and cause all sorts of trouble on sitcoms.” This comparison was met with a stare that conveyed, What is wrong with you? “Not that I think those aren’t identical in their own special way, mind you,” I added, not wanting her to think I was some weirdo.

“Are you done?”

Never good with rhetorical questions, I answered, “I think so.”

“How do you know Truffle? Are you one of her customers?”

I saw the anger behind her eyes slowly replaced with bewilderment.

“Again, wow,” I said shaking my head. “Even dressed in these old clothes, do I really strike you as the kind who’d pony-up cold hard cash for a whirl on that depressing carnival ride?”

It was now her turn to step back and take me all in, as it were. A few years past my thirtieth birthday, I attempt to keep my five-ten, one-hundred-seventy pound frame in a shape other than round. Although not vain enough to call myself handsome, I have no problem when the ladies do. I’m clean-shaven with collar-length brown hair and dark brown eyes, to which my armed appraiser continued to gravitate.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she stated, standing her ground.

“You see, the truth is, the lovely and I’m sure talented, Ms. Divine gave you up for $20. And before you ask, no bodily fluids were exchanged during our brief encounter.” A flash of annoyance returned to my not-quite-friend’s face. “If it makes you feel better, she would’ve taken $5 if that was all I had. Unfortunately, banking machines no longer spit those out.”

Charm is a funny thing. Too much, too soon and you look like a creep. Too little, too late, you look desperate and go home by yourself. However, my slow and steady approach usually pays dividends. Behind her tough exterior and the cannon she was now gripping with both hands, I felt my first impression was correct: a young girl paying her way through school the hard way.

“Can we talk without the gun being part of our conversation? I promise this won’t take long and I’ll remain way over here by the railing,” I offered as I took several steps back, coming to rest against the wall at the top of stairs. “Is your name really Mary?”

“It’s Terri,” she relented, lowering the gun to her side. “I don’t know anyone here named Mary, although I only arrived in town on Monday.”

“What about a guy named Ryan? Do you have one of those on your speed-dial?”

“Nope.”

I reached into my pocket and retrieved a snapshot of my client’s husband. “Does this face ring any bells?”

Terri looked intently at the photo and shrugged her shoulders. “He might have been in the audience for my show but in the dark they all sorta look the same. I know I didn’t give him a private dance or anything like that.”

This was going nowhere fast. “Do you wear any necklaces?”

“We’re back to that again?” she asked exasperated. “The answer is no. I don’t have your stupid necklace.”

“A gold charm in the shape of a heart, maybe?”

“And we’re done. Can I go back to freshening up? I have a big spender coming to pick me up in 20 minutes.”

I cocked my head in response. “A date, huh? And what would his name be?”

“If his name were Brian, not Ryan, would that be of any interest?”

“Maybe. Deviants often use a new name that sounds like their own, so they don’t get confused if things go sideways.”

“To be honest, I have no idea what his name is. All I know is he paid the owners up front. Maybe his last name is Money. Brian Money. That would be kinda funny, right?”

“Hilarious,” I stated without emotion, putting the picture away and heading down to street level. “It was a pleasure to meet the three of you, Terri. Take care of yourself and that new boyfriend of yours.”

At the base of the stairs, I heard rushed footfalls coming up the alley. Poor bastard is probably paying by the minute and is worried he’s late, I thought. I stepped around the corner and figured I’d have a little fun to end my night. “She’s all primed and ready for you, sailor,” I said to the startled man who was now blocking my path.

Wearing a dark overcoat with the collar up and his hands in his pockets, he reminded me of a superhero looking for a place to change into his tights and cape. Yet on closer inspection, I knew this wasn’t the case. Ryan Hartford was a mild-mannered accountant, with no visible abnormal super powers.

“What did you say?” Ryan asked nervously, not knowing if he should stop to chat or keep quiet and proceed to the second floor.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to amateur night at The Cougar Trap.

I ignored his question and asked one of my own. “Do you know you talk in your sleep? You’d make a really poor spy.”

“W-w-w-hat?”

“And you’re aware that necklace you are clutching in your pocket is ultimately going to contribute to your social, personal and professional failure, right?”

“Who are you and how do you know–”

“Everything? How do I know everything, Ryan Hartford? It’s a gift. It’s a curse. It’s who I am, I suppose.” My prey appeared to weeble then wobble but refused to fall down.

“Is this a robbery? I’ll give you everything I have. Money. Credit cards.”

“He wants the necklace and a heart of gold,” a heavenly female voice from above shouted. “Just give him the damn thing and get up here now! I don’t have all night.”

Oh, how he wanted to run. To the untrained eye, this had all the earmarks of a classic set-up. Lure the naïve target into a dark alley with the promise of sex and then rob him blind. Ryan’s eyes were wide with fear and his face turned a ghastly shade of oatmeal.

“Take it! Here!” he cried out, removing his left hand from his pocket and tossing something shiny over my head. As I involuntarily followed its trajectory, Ryan busted a move in the opposite direction, rounding the side of the building, out of view.

“Are you kidding me?” Terri screamed down over the fire escape railing. “You’re going to be sorry you did that,” she continued. “That’s him. That’s the guy who wanted to beat me up for a lousy $20!” she lied. “Well I’m not that kind of girl, Sicko Steve!”

Within seconds, a small army of very large bouncer-types were careening down the steps, racing to see which one could land the first deadly blow to my tender solar plexus.

Note to self: Comparison shop for nunchucks at the mall.

I snagged my prized booty off the ground and hightailed it out of the area with the sole aim of not becoming another unsolved murder statistic. My would-be welcoming committee were huge, muscular men, the kind who strike fear into the hearts of unruly club patrons. They weren’t, however, very scary or athletic when challenged to a sprint. As I easily outdistanced them block by block, one by one, they ran out of stamina and were left gasping for precious air in the middle of Drake Road.

I found my van still intact in the well-lit lot of an all-night pizzeria where I’d left it earlier, knowing it might be useful to have some witnesses to relate exactly how I was killed. I believe it’s easier on those left behind to know how their loved one’s last breath was taken, regardless how grotesque the crime scene might be.

“A dead body is always better than no body,” a homicide detective once told me.

Pulling off the lot, I checked my mirrors and blind spots for any incoming winded gorillas. None had survived the mini marathon. With this all-clear sign, I draped my client’s necklace over the rearview mirror and admired the attached heart of gold charm. As it gently swung to and fro, streetlights and oncoming headlights illuminated it as if it were somehow alive.

“Another job well done,” I stated to my smiling doppelganger in the mirror. “Your girlfriend better appreciate your effort tonight to help make this vacation one to remember.”

I was soon home, quietly slipping into bed, trying not to disturb Dawn’s slumber. Consciously or unconsciously, her mind instructed her body to gradually push against mine, allowing us to form the perfect spooning position.

“Are you okay?” she whispered sleepily.

“I am now,” I said. “Night, you.”

“Night, you too.”