Читать книгу Off the Beaten Path - John Schlarbaum - Страница 5

A quick rule of thumb for everyone involved in a serious relationship: trouble is looming when your partner begins to introduce you as their insignificant other. They’ll say they were just joking and you need to lighten up but without a doubt, it’s one of the first fiery shots across your heart’s bow.

Trust me on this. I know things.

However, there are always exceptions to the rule, with Dawn being one of them.

The best part of our evolving courtship is we can pretty much say anything to the other knowing there’s never malice behind the words, even when the literal definition sounds mean spirited. Maybe it’s the age difference or my insecurity. I might overstep the boundaries of acceptable humour to make Dawn laugh, although it’s only because I know she’s smart enough to see how desperate this older man is to keep her around. Of course, that’s enduring and pathetic at the same time - two qualities often attributed to me by the fairer sex. Why she remains with me is one mystery I don’t intend to investigate. She could choose from a line-up of younger, wealthier and more debonair men than yours truly, yet every night she returns to my house. A real leave-with-the-one-that-brought-you type of girl, so far. This scenario suits me just fine. I could use some positive romantic energy after a lifetime of failed dalliances that included a marriage, one-night stands and long distance relationships. Then there was that short-lived engagement to a librarian, which ended when the female associate I was having an affair with was killed during a botched martial investigation.

Sucks to be with me, right?

Dawn entered my life after I threw myself a drunken pity party at the local Sunsetter Pub & Eatery where she works as a waitress. When it comes to women, I don’t have a type, per se. If I did, Dawn’s killer smile, curvy small build and curly brown hair that rests easily on her shoulders would surely be checked off a “Steve’s To Do” list.

We’re an unlikely pair. I’m by no means a curmudgeon when it comes to trying something new; still, I don’t go out of my way to find anything new to do either. For example, I have no issue with checking out a happening bar but only to drink, not to dance, karaoke or ride a mechanical bull for several nauseating seconds; three things Dawn loves to do. The same goes for house parties, no matter who is throwing it or what the reason. Mind you, working solo day in, day out, doesn’t give me the opportunity to mingle with many people, or become friends with them. Dawn is in the complete opposite situation and takes full advantage of it when the occasion arises.

Tonight’s social gathering invitation indicated a starting time of 8:00 p.m., which we figured was code for 10-10:30 p.m.

“It’ll be fun. You’ll meet a bunch of cool people,” Dawn said as she checked her hair in the hall mirror.

“Says you,” I said, pulling on my jacket. “The only person I’ll know there is you.”

“And Doug.”

“Really? Doug, The Sunsetter’s master short order cook? Why didn’t you mention that before?” I asked with a grin. “Maybe if we get bored, he can whip us up a burger or wings.”

Dawn zipped up the side of her knee-high boots and walked past me to the front door. “If we get bored, I can assure you Doug won’t be whipping you in any way. Me, on the other hand . . . ”

I turned and gently pushed her up against the wall to give her a kiss, which she generously returned. “Promise about that whipping part?”

“To clarify,” she began, looking up at me, “I was talking about the white fluffy stuff you put on dessert.”

“Yeah, sure. You. Me. Dessert topping. That’s what I was talking about too.”

“Uh-huh.”

***

It was 10:15 when we arrived at a very nice two storey house, set comfortably in a section of Darrien that the mid-1980’s yuppies had claimed for their own.

“Remind me again why this stockbroker invited us to his soirée?” I inquired as we walked up the driveway.

“I don’t know. During the week he’d come in for lunch with a few buddies, then one day he started coming in by himself. I thought it was odd, so I asked him about it and one thing led to another.”

“How exactly did one thing lead to another?”

“You know, this party invitation.”

“So, he wasn’t one of the lucky few you slept with before we became exclusive?”

“I like it when you show your jealous side, but sadly no,” Dawn replied with a warm smile. “I don’t think his wife would have gone for that.”

“One look at how cute you are and she might have changed her mind or even joined in. Did you think of that?”

“I suppose I could ask her tonight.”

“I suppose you could.”

The door was opened by a slim woman in her late forties, who exuded the confidence and charm I assumed she’d been trained to fake from an early age. “Hello, please come in. I’m Patricia Wallace.”

“Thank you. I’m Dawn and this is my insignificant other, Steve Cassidy.”

Our hostess glanced at me with a mildly shocked expression while extending her hand, which I took. “It’s very nice to meet both of you. Daniel has spoken about you often, Dawn. He’s a stickler for good service and thinks you’re one of the best waitresses he’s ever had.”

“We appreciate his business, especially after the firm let those brokers go last month,” Dawn said.

“These are tough times,” Mrs. Wallace replied shaking her head. “Actually, a few of those who were laid off are here tonight. You might recognize them, even without their business suits on.” She paused and took in Dawn’s smoking hot outfit and boots, before adding, “I’m sure they’ll recognize you in any case.”

Zing! Pow! Wham!

Ladies and gentlemen, please give it up for the comic stylings of Patricia Wallace!

We hung our coats in the foyer closet and were escorted into the living room to be introduced to the assembled crowd, many of whom were already showing visible signs of motor skill impairment.

“Dawn and Steve, everyone. Everyone, Dawn and Steve.”

There was a smattering of slurred “Hello-Hey-Hi” greetings, possibly even some applause, before backs were again turned on us.

“With that taken care of, would you like me to open that for you, dear?” Mrs. Wallace asked, pointing to Dawn’s bottle of white wine.

“Actually this is a gift for tonight’s invite,” Dawn replied cheerfully. “It’s from a local winery. I like to support area businesses.”

As a keen observer of people, I’m pretty good at determining the meaning, hidden or otherwise, behind a person’s body language. The way Mrs. Wallace’s nose crinkled ever so slightly, combined with the downturn, then quick phony smile upturn of her lips was bad enough, without her adding a barely noticeable stagger backwards for good measure.

Now you’re just showing off, I thought defensively.

“The wine is very generous, but please let’s share it.”

After pouring a glass for Dawn in the kitchen, our wholly unimpressed lady of the house left her glass empty, making the excuse someone in the other room had called her name. Once out of earshot, Dawn raised her wine to my now Jack Daniels-filled tumbler and noted, “She has very good hearing or–“

“Is a first class snob,” I offered, finishing her thought.

“Exactly.”

We toasted each other and after downing a large amount of whiskey, I thought the evening could turn out to be an entertaining one after all.

Our first decision was which one of the stereotypical party cliques to initially crash. Maybe the rich, established crowd that included our hosts? Or what about the sad sack, newly unemployed barely graduates, discussing strategies for dealing with their current midlife crisis? As these whiners were all male, it allowed, or forced their female partners and one metrosexual male to form their own separate splinter group. We were still debating our next move when Doug sauntered away from a throng of three couples, none of which, surprisingly, looked particularly well off, distressed or neurotic.

Just what kind of party is this exactly?

Doug had been at The Sunsetter for a few years, working his way from dishwasher to cook in a relatively short time. He was in his late twenties, average looking and with a sense of humour that is an acquired taste. Always in a happy mood, Dawn enjoyed working with him and that was good enough for me.

“Hey guys,” Doug said, before bending forward for an obligatory hug from Dawn. I raised my drink to my lips and held out my other hand, which he fist pumped for some reason. “You two look lost.”

“That’s because we don’t know anyone here,” Dawn replied, “aside from you and Mr. Wallace. I feel like we’re crashing a wedding reception.”

“I’m in the same boat. Daniel . . . ah, Mr. Wallace . . . just said ‘the more the merrier’ and gave me his address, although I don’t think his wife is too pleased.”

“Shocker,” I interjected, sharing a knowing smile with Dawn. “We think she’s against local businesses, which regrettably includes the good old Sunsetter. From an earlier experience, I don’t think she’s accustomed to socializing with the help.”

“The help, huh?” Dawn said. “Look at us with a title all our own, Doug. I kinda like it, even if others here don’t.” She raised her glass. “To the help!”

“The help!” Doug and I joined in, much to the consternation of the nearby whiners.

“Are you excited about your murder mystery tour this weekend?” Doug asked. “I’d think as a P.I. you would be, Steve.”

“I’m sure visiting a bunch of locations where murders took place will be interesting in a touristy type of way, but when I was a cop I used to arrive at murder scenes, sometimes only minutes after someone was killed. Now that was exciting.” I got the feeling more than just Dawn and Doug heard this statement, as a few guests turned their heads in our direction. Maybe I was speaking louder than I realized. I lowered my voice a notch and added, “I don’t really care what we do. It’ll be a nice relaxing getaway, no matter what.”

“Will you actually be entering the murder scenes to examine them?” Doug asked Dawn.

“A few maybe,” she answered, looking to me for confirmation. “For the most part, I think it’s like a typical bus tour with some walking involved. Instead of seeing enormous churches, skyscrapers or historic landmarks, we’ll visit houses, apartments and other places where a big time murder happened.”

“Like those Homes of the Stars tours in California that point out Jennifer Love Hewitt’s mansion or George Clooney’s house,” Doug said.

“Exactly,” I chimed in. “Except instead of learning the length of Jennifer’s pool or how many rooms she has, we’ll get details about where a puddle of blood was discovered on the property and how it got there.” Once again my words held some kind of fascination with these partying strangers. I caught the attention of one of the job-losers glaring at me. “What are you staring at?”

A look of Who me? registered on his face.

“Yeah, you,” I said. “Do you need medical help? We can call 911 if you want.”

This raised not only the intended’s ire, but also Dawn’s.

“Steve, what are you doing?”

“Don’t worry, Dawn, I won’t cause any trouble,” I assured her. “I just overheard this unemployed bonehead talking about how unfair the world is, after the same world provided him a $2000 a week job for the past three years playing the market with other people’s money. He rubbed me the wrong way. Unlike us, he obviously doesn’t appreciate the value of a buck.”

“Are you going to fight him?” Doug asked expectantly, a glimmer of bloodsport twinkling in his eyes.

“And hurt my knuckles? I don’t think so.”

As my opponent half-stumbled across the room, the groups seemed to break apart to form one bigger, yet still dispersed crowd. Had I picked on their de facto leader? It wouldn’t have been the first time I’d messed with the wrong person and certainly wouldn’t be my last. I pegged this tough guy to be about 28, not bad looking, an inch shorter than me, clean cut, wearing his casual Friday’s khaki pants, Blue River designer shirt and surrounded by an aura of entitlement. You know the type, full of themselves until someone knocks them down a peg or two.

Let me demonstrate.

“Do I know you?”

“In what sense?” I answered indifferently.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Didn’t they teach you any sense at that preppy business school you’re bragging about? What’s its name again? Cylinder, Solenoid?”

“The Solinder Institute of Finance is not preppy!” my adversary declared loudly, which brought a stop to any other conversations in the room. We were now the main event.

“Ah, yes, Solinder. The home of flipped up collars and wing-tips worn by trust fund daddy’s boys, inexplicably named Kal or Regent, who go by equally inane nicknames like The Calculator or Righteous D. Bill.” I paused to allow this information to soak in. “Nah, that doesn’t sound preppy-like at all, Corwin.”

A look of bewilderment dawned across my interrogator’s features, as his red spidery veined eyes widened substantially. You’d have thought I’d produced an elephant out of thin air and laid it at his feet. Some audience members appeared impressed, or more likely, baffled by my seemingly inside information of Corwin Stewart Donovan Mulvoy. In truth I was simply regurgitating facts he’d been randomly spewing to others over the past half hour. Luckily, being drunk only disengaged his memory recall, not mine.

“I don’t know who you think you are or how you know so much about me,” Corwin began his defense. “Someone said you’re a cop or an investigator. Is that true?”

“If someone said it, then it must be true.”

Corwin awkwardly turned to his left, almost losing his balance to pronounce, “I’d like to introduce to you Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who knows everything about everybody!” He attempted a half bow in front of me. “Good day, sir,” he said, invoking a wave of subdued laughter around the room. “I beg of you, please continue to wow us with your mental . . . and I emphasize the word mental . . . wizardry. Tell me something about him.”

A shaky finger was pointed in the direction of a nebbish male sitting on the couch. A short time earlier, he’d stood near us and I’d overheard a few arbitrary facts, which I proceeded to recite with great flare, playing to my audience of one.

“The first thing you should know about Herman is he hates to be called Herm. It sounds too much like germ for his liking.” My target straightened up. It was, to some extent, an educated guess with a name like that. I recalled my childhood friend Wayne hated being called Wayner, because it sounded like wiener. “Next, if you don’t know already, the striking eyewear Herman sports are cosmetic fakes to make him appear smarter. The lenses are made of plain glass with no magnification whatsoever.” As Herman began to fidget, anyone not fully engrossed by my cheap parlour act before, was now. Feeling bad, I said, “The funny thing is he’s very smart, graduating at the top of his class. It’s all of you who aren’t very bright for not recognizing this yourselves. If I had a brokerage firm, Herman, I’d hire you in a minute, with or without your glasses.”

“Enough of him!” Corwin bellowed, agitated I was showing him up in front of his colleagues and friends. “What about him?” he demanded, singling out another recent unemployment statistic.

My many years working the streets, bars and in Vice sting operations had prepared me well for this task. Without having overheard this man speak a word, I had to rely on the two things I’d noted during the evening: his physical appearance and his body language, especially when in close proximity to Corwin The Great.

“I’m sorry I don’t know your name,” I said to my next reluctant volunteer. “I’ll call you Mr. X, okay?” He nodded in the affirmative. “Okay, so . . . it’s quite apparent you and Corwin frequent the same clothing stores. Those slacks and shirt hang side-by-side on the display racks at uppity boutiques. Even Mr. X’s fashionable $500 Prada shoes match yours, Corwin. Did you two share a springtime retail therapy session together?” This elicited some much deserved snickering and smiles all around. “His taste in clothes and the ability to pay for them would indicate he went to an overpriced snooty business school, Solinder perhaps, to learn how to be a financial mastermind, or as you like to crow, a broker. Unfortunately, the one thing they don’t teach in class is how to deal with real-life failure, like when you lose your job and are still stuck with a BMW car payment for two more years.”

As I drive a nondescript family mini-van for a living, I admire the occasional Beamer or Porsche I stumble upon parked on the street. Tonight, I had seen at least seven luxury sports cars and knew Corwin and Mr. X must have keys for a couple of them.

Corwin was at a loss. I had drained his bravado in a few short minutes. I concede that with my cop training this exercise in cold-reading really wasn’t fair, but I didn’t start this ball rolling - he did.

“It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what Scott does for a living. Most everyone here is in the stock market,” Corwin proclaimed in an effort to discredit my significant brilliance. “If you’re so smart, tell me something I don’t know, Holmes.” He dragged out the syllables for effect: H-o-l-m-e-s.

“Steve, let it go,” Dawn said softly, gently putting a hand on my arm.

“Yeah, Steve, let it go,” Corwin repeated, again dragging out more syllables: S-t-e-v-e.

I looked at Dawn’s half-empty wine glass. “Is that the last of the bottle?”

“Yes,” she answered tentatively. “Why?”

“No reason.” I lifted my glass to hers and clinked the edges together. “To a wonderful party. Thank you for inviting me. Now drink up. I don’t want to waste a single drop.”

Reluctantly, Dawn downed the remainder of wine, as I killed off the whiskey. I turned to Doug and whispered in his ear, “Please escort Dawn to the front door and wait for my signal.”

“What signal?”

“Believe me, you’ll know it when you see it.”

The last time I saw Doug look this confused was when he had thawed a package of hamburger and it stayed a grey colour, instead of the rosy red it should’ve turned. You could almost smell the wood burning as he decided if he should still use the meat for the Wednesday chili lunch special.

“Give up?” Corwin drunkenly asked.

“Not by a long shot, kid,” I said, reasserting myself in the conversation and Corwin’s personal space. “The question is, do you really want me to proceed?”

Corwin’s face tightened and his upper lip curled into a Billy Idol sneer. “Everybody’s waiting.”

So they were.

“I know you asked me for only one interesting unknown fact about Scott, however, like potato chips, one is never enough.” I stepped forward and began to ramp up my big finale that I knew would be a real show stopper. “What’s interesting about your friend, Corwin, is how nervous he seems tonight, even before you put him in my sights. I started to think, why would a best friend be jittery in the presence of his closest compadre? You are obviously more than just business associates or classmates. You’re buds who watch each other’s back, which is something you can’t put a price on, right?” Both Corwin and Scott were eyeing each other nervously. “You trust his stock advice, his fashion expertise. Yet, when sulking in your little Us Against Them support group earlier, I saw something in Scott’s eyes you missed, which I’m thinking is exactly what Scott is betting on.”

The stale living room air was still with expectation.

“Corwin, I don’t know what he’s talking about. He’s making this shit up as he goes,” Scott pleaded nervously.

Dawn and Doug had dutifully walked unnoticed to the front door, where they stood with their shoes and boots on. Doug pointed to my sneakers tucked under his arm, smiled and gave me the thumbs up. Dawn grinned and mouthed, “I like you a lot,” to which I mouthed back, “I know.” We shared one last moment of togetherness before Corwin broke the spell.

“I don’t like where you’re heading with this. There’s no way Scott is into me, so you can stop going there,” he warned.

I smiled and replied, “Scott and you? Please. First off, I think everyone here can tell he has better taste than that. Believe me, it wasn’t only his eyes that gave his secret away. It was the way he stood in the group, the way he held his glass, the times he laughed a bit too hard and the occasions when he listened a tad too attentively.” Another person in the room began to sway uncomfortably on their feet. “It was how he lightly touched the lower back of one of your group, as he made his way to the kitchen to fix two more drinks and again when delicately handing the second drink to the same party-goer. Of course, you were too busy to notice any of these romantic shenanigans going on. You can admit it, there’s no shame in being the last to know. I see this type of thing all the time.”

I never like to be the bearer of bad news, especially if it kills the mood of a party. In this case I had no choice, right?

“Are you saying Scott is fooling around with one of our friend’s girlfriends?” Corwin asked slowly.

“I’m new to this scene and don’t know everyone here, well, anyone really, but if you want to know if I believe Scott is behaving badly with that blonde in the red dress, standing beside my boy Herman, then the answer is yes.”

“The blonde in the red dress,” Corwin stammered incredulously, “is my girlfriend, Elizabeth.”

Simultaneously exhilarated and bored, I couldn’t be bothered to feign shock or outrage and shrugged my shoulders, as I moved my left foot back a step to counterbalance what I knew was coming next.

“You son of a bitch!” Corwin screamed, lowering his head and taking a run at me with all the finesse of a linebacker, which he no doubt was during his teenaged glory days.

My left leg withstood the human onslaught for a moment, before my tackler’s forward motion carried both of us toward the front foyer. Corwin’s downfall, literally and figuratively, was his earlier alcohol consumption. Like a drunk at a bar, he was all speed without agility, allowing me to easily grab his shirt and toss him aside to the floor. This slowed him temporarily and I soon had him bent over in a violent headlock, as I inched toward the now open front door.

“I’ll start the van! Hurry up loser,” Dawn taunted me from the sidewalk. “Oh, and we have to give Doug a ride home,” she laughed.

I was afraid I might do the ever-flailing Corwin real harm, and pushed the bulk of his body against the doorframe for support. I looked up to see our stunned hosts cutting their way through the crowd and decided it was time to go.

“One more thing you didn’t know, Corwin,” I said as Team Wallace was almost upon us. “Daniel here was the one who personally recommended you be laid off, because you’re such a toolbag.” I dragged out the last word: t-o-o-l-b-a-g.

After this completely fabricated utterance, I heard a collective gasp from the halted tag team and many of the living room spectators. During the following five seconds of shocked silence, I dropped Corwin and hastily exited the house, slamming the door closed behind me.

The last words I heard screamed were, “You son of a bitch!” and knew that all’s well that ends well.

“That was fantastic, don’t you think?” I asked as I climbed into the passenger seat, out of breath. “We should do this party crashing thing every week.”

“Are there any other customers likely to ask us over after this gets around, Dawn?” Doug began to laugh in the backseat.

Dawn quickly pulled away from the curb and sped down the deserted street.

“I can’t take you anywhere,” she said to me. “Either of you!” she added, looking up into the rearview mirror and beginning to smile ear to ear. “You owe me, Mr. Cassidy. Daniel was one of my biggest tippers and now he’ll never come back.”

“Never? Is that what you think?” I countered. “After meeting his wife, I’ll bet you’re his only daily oasis.”

“Do you really think so?” she asked hopefully.

“Sure,” I said, “just as soon as he’s out of the hospital or jail. I’m thinking he’ll be at his regular table Monday, after we return from our murderous vacation. If not, I’ll find a way to make it up to you.”

“Promise?”

“I promise with whipped cream and a cherry on top.”

Waiting at a stop light, we heard the first emergency response sirens wailing through the cool crisp night air.

“I always get confused,” Doug piped up. “Is that a police, fire or ambulance siren?”

Dawn and I glanced back and in unison said, “Yes.”

As the streetscape behind us was suddenly awash in red and blue lights, I remembered we hadn’t really eaten all night.

“I’m starved. Anyone up for a burger or wings?” I asked.