Читать книгу Operation Bob Dylan’s Belt - Linn Wyllie - Страница 6

My name is Jesse Jake Randall and I’m a private eye. It says so on my office door. That office is in Clearwater, Florida, and that’s my hometown. I look for things and people, and sometimes I get paid for it. I go by Jake. It’s not short for Jacob, it’s just Jake. I was in my office trying to reason with a hellacious hangover from last night. I hadn’t made it home. Tequila, I think. My alligator boots were crossed at the ankles and were propped up on my desk. The blinds were drawn in an attempt to hold back the bright late-morning sun. The drumming in my head was accompanied by a light show on the inside of my eyelids. At least that’s what I was watching. I dimly remember hearing the tinkling of the wind chimes I have on the office front door. It was either being opened, or my tinnitus was kicking in again.

The tall dame walked into my office and stood expectantly at the front of my desk. Really. Right at my desk. She had come in and marched all the way down the hall to my office. The receptionist must have been off that day. Anyway. Things were looking up. She was one of those high-profile, high-maintenance dames that only rich playboys and queer actors have. One eye focused on her and eyed her up and down. The other eye couldn’t manage just yet. Black patent-leather high heels tied at the ankle. A light gray wool suit that clung to her curves better than Mario Andretti at Sebring. Blue silk plunge-neck blouse that showed enough of the Valley of Contentment that imagination could take the rest of the day off. Her amber hair was sun streaked, professionally coiffed, cut, and colored. Hazel-green eyes were clear and alert. High cheekbones, cute little ski-jump nose, and those lips. Full luscious lips in red’s own red. I blinked and tried to focus, but she was still there. The light show wasn’t going away. I tried to speak through dry cracked lips.

“Yes?”

“I need to hire you.”

She said “need.” Not “want to” or “I’d like to.” Or even “may I.” Used to getting her way. Not used to discussion. Oh, and a voice like tinkling crystal. I was sure I would wake up any minute.

I managed to ask.

“What about?”

It sounded like an old frog croaking.

“You need to stop a murder.”

Pause. How do you stop a murder unless one’s already being contemplated? Things got more interesting. The throbbing in my head reached a drumming crescendo as I forced Mr. Brain to go to work.

He wasn’t very happy about it.

A fat white number 10 business envelope hit the desk with a noticeable thunk. I’d seen that movie before. A number 10 envelope always contained cash. Lots of cash. Crumpled, used bills. Filthy lucre.

Interesting just became curiously intriguing.

I looked up at her with the question in my eyes, and she explained.

“There’s a ten thousand dollar retainer. There’s more if you get the job done right.”

Damn. Ten grand. One hundred hundreds. Ben Franklin, the centurion. That was essentially a quarter of this private eye’s annual revenue. I decided this would be an excellent time not to mention that my standard retainer was a grand. And then only if I could get it.

The envelope got swiped into my desk’s top drawer. There was life coming back. The drummer in my head was doing a solo.

“OK, let’s hear it.”

She glanced around. I nodded to one of the overstuffed chairs in front of my desk. She took a seat on the edge, knees together, those long legs crossed at the ankles, back straight, hands folded daintily in her lap. This dame had class and breeding. You could tell. It showed. What a dish.

“Well, I had a dream last night about getting killed.”

Oh, boy. Mr. Brain was begging for the day off. My head was making throbbing sounds in my inner ear. It drowned out the tinnitus.

“A dream.”

It was a statement more than a question.

“Yes.”

I waited for her to continue.

She took a deep breath as she figured out where to start.

“It’s about Bob Dylan’s belt. He had auctioned it off for charity and I won the bid for it. It was a nice engraved leather belt with a large cowboy-style buckle. A bas relief of Bob Dylan in pewter. Maybe it was silver. I don’t know.”

Uh-oh, I thought. Mr. Brain was trying to wrap his arms around this. We’d never solved a bad dream before. Mostly insurance cases. Ten grand, I told him. Stay with it. It’s ten grand.

I attempted a smile, and my chapped lips cracked and bled. She pretended not to notice.

“So it’s time for him to autograph it. Dylan, I mean. Which will make it authentic and more valuable, I suppose. So I and my bodyguard spot him in the crowd and work our way over. But there’s a rabid redheaded female fan hovering around him, and as I get close, she jumps up at me and stabs me in the neck. In the carotid artery. I see my bodyguard draw his .45 from his shoulder holster and shoot the woman in the head. But the knife is still my neck. Well, Bob Dylan’s bodyguard sees all this, draws his pistol, and shoots my bodyguard. But he was only using a 9mm and my bodyguard had enough time to shoot both Dylan and his bodyguard dead before he died.”

She paused and took a deep breath. She looked down, her impossibly long eyelashes fluttering. Reliving it was work for her. I wondered exactly how in hell I factored into all this. Mr. Brain was whispering in my ear. It came in over the tinnitus. Ten grand, Jake. Focus. Ten grand.

I paused and just looked at her expectantly, like I’ve seen psychologists do with their patients in those old movies. Waited for her to continue. It was a good play. I didn’t know what the hell to say to her anyway.

At least she understood ballistics.

“So everybody’s dead, and I’ve got to figure out how to get this knife out of my neck. I can’t leave it in, but if I pull it out, I’ll bleed to death in mere seconds. And on top of everything else, now I can’t get Dylan’s autograph on the belt. And I already paid for it!”

I could hear little capillaries in Mr. Brain popping and bleeding out. I was sure the blood was collecting in the whites of my eyes.

“What . . . I mean, what can I do?”

She looked at me as if I had farted at dinner.

“Do? You must stop that redhead from stabbing me!!”

“You said it was a dream.”

“Yes. You need to find her and stop her from getting in it.”

“I’m not sure I understand. Who is she? How’d she get in your dream? And are you going to dream a do-over, just so you can get Bob Dylan’s autographed belt?”

A disbelieving stare.

“Well, of course.”

I was not sure how to go forward. My liver was working overtime to process last night’s tequila. My stomach was making noises even I had never heard before. And my tinnitus had my ears ringing like church bells.

Then my Zen kicked in. Solutions presented themselves. I knew exactly how to beat this. It was just too simple.

I looked at her for a long beat. What the hell. I had to go with it.

“I think I may have just the thing.”

I rooted around in my bottom desk drawer where I keep all the stuff I don’t need or can’t use. There it was. A souvenir from the pub bar at the Harborview Club. It’s the ritziest private club in Clearwater. Very exclusive. Top floor. Overlooks the bay. You know the type. Dark wood, lush ferns, expensive drinks, mediocre food. But a great view. I had saved it from that time I took Rebecca Lynn Russo there on a date. She was Miss Chamber of Commerce then and we were the social climbing couple to be seen with. But that’s a story in of itself. For another time.

With all the pomp and circumstance I could muster, I presented the little pink drink umbrella to her. It had Sword and Shield printed on it with an image of a shield with a medieval heraldic crest and sword. That was the name of the place. The bar at the Harborview.

I hoped it would work.

“Go back to sleep and dream it all over again. This will protect you from the redhead, and you can get Bob Dylan’s belt without any more trouble this time.”

Her eyes glowed with almost childlike joy as she took the tiny umbrella.

“Wow.”

I thought I heard the tinkling wind chimes again.

I had.

I looked up as a man appeared at the office door. He too had walked down the hall. Past the receptionist’s desk. Following the voices, I guess. He was tall and very distinguished. Older. My age, maybe. European slender and impeccably dressed. Tailored Savile Row dark charcoal suit. Regimental tie. Windsor knot. Pocket square. Black wingtips.

I just stared. Mr. Brain was impressed. He spoke.

“Ah, there you are, love. It’s time to go, I’m afraid.”

He reached out his hand to her. She took it and smiled. I stood up. He didn’t introduce himself.

“I do hope she was no trouble for you, sir.” British accent. Plumy. Very aristocratic.

“Oh, no. Not a bit.” I let my eyes feast upon her one last time. Maybe I’d see her again. Yeah, right, Jake.

“Right. Well. Shall we go then?” She stood, smiled, and slipped the little umbrella into her purse. That thousand-watt smile left me staring.

“Thanks ever so much.”

I just nodded and tried to smile as they left.

The wind chimes on the front door verified their departure.

I plopped down in my chair and leaned back. Sighed. My alligator boots went back up on the desk. Mr. Brain wasn’t bleeding as badly, and I desperately needed a drink. Anything but tequila.

Then it hit me.

No one had asked for the ten grand back. Ten grand, Jake. Did I really earn it? Don’t go all altruistic on me, Bub. Yeah, we damn well earned it. The umbrella will work because she believes it will work. Mr. Brain had advised wisely.

Right. Moral debate over.

Ten grand.

I picked up my phone.

Dialed Rebecca Lynn’s cell number.

Ten grand.

Rebecca Lynn, now my third wife, didn’t take my call. Probably was with a client or in maybe court. In fact, she rarely took my calls. It used to piss me off, but then I learned to just ignore her rudeness. She’s a prominent attorney, a legend in her own mind, and I’m just a normal guy who expects an answer to my very occasional calls.

OK. That’s not fair. She’s busy. Me, not so much. I cut her some slack. Hung up before the auto-answering menu chimed in.

Besides, the mood had passed.

I went downtown.