Authors: Stan Crowe
“So I says to her,” he said, continuing the conversation that had barraged Lindsay since he had forced his way into the seat next to her, “you know me, baby. I’ll drink to that!” And he laughed openly again. Some shot him looks, but most of the passengers ignored him, intently staring at the floor or newspaper or the front of the seat in front of them. It was surprisingly packed this time of the morning, or Lindsay would have found another seat ten blocks ago. She looked back over her shoulder for the hundredth time this trip, silently hoping—begging—that her client would look up from his thoughtless stupor and recognize her predicament.
No. There he was, three rows back, staring at the ceiling and looking dumb as a rock. It was bad enough he’d rejected her by deliberately placing himself as far away as open seating would allow, but to have him refuse to even be a gentleman when she was being accosted by exactly the kind of man her mother had always warned her about? It was outrageous! Unfathomable! Insulting! Her mind’s eye pictured a knight clad in polished steel riding his white horse up to the dragon, and then asking for directions to the nearest pub while the damsel squirmed and screamed in the dragon’s claws, waiting for the knight to get a clue and drag her out of harm’s way so they could share an endless kiss, silhouetted by the sunset. When had the knight turned into a moron? That wasn’t the way it was
supposed
to work.
Wow
, she thought.
His eyes… No. No!
She exhaled sharply, and whirled to gaze out the window. That crusty old hand was back on her knee again, and she forced it away, and stood.
“Awww. You’re goin’ already, honey?”
Lindsay squeezed her eyes shut.
Think nicely of people, Lindsay. You promised yourself you would.
“Yes,” she said with faux sweetness, “my stop is coming up soon.” To her credit, that was true. Thankfully, there was an out on Market and Fourth, only a few blocks from the parking garage. Lindsay hefted herself out of the seat, and wriggled through the press of people as the driver was calling out, “Fourth Street.” She heard a wave of excited murmuring behind her. She glanced back to see her Client plowing gracelessly through the other passengers as if trying to escape a fire. A cluster of women of all ages wore shocked, besotted expressions at his passage. Several began fixing their hair, others reached out to tug at his shirttail, and one seized his leg.
“Uh, ladies,” he croaked, “this is my stop, thanks. You all ride safe now.” As one, the gaggle of love-struck women bustled to their feet. Their muttering crescendoed into screams and cat calls.
The bus rolled to a stop and Lindsay stepped out on the unloading area to await her clueless knight. She turned to see the Client hanging out of the bus, one foot dangling over the platform, the other still on the stairs. Five different ladies had hold of his shirt or pants; pure terror burned on his face. Sensing this was not a situation she wanted to be involved in, Lindsay put some distance between herself and the scene.
“Serves him right,” she mused aloud. Taking time to enjoy his distress, she leaned against the corner of a building as he flailed and spun in a frantic escape attempt. A loud “rip!” cut the air, and he stumbled forward out of the bus, and into a flat sprint up Stockton.
“RUN!” he cried.
Lindsay laughed openly, watching as the feminine horde devolved into open brawling in the stairwell of the bus stop. Through the bus windows, she caught glimpses of the driver making his way back toward the fray. Before he could reach the altercation, one woman broke free from the scrum and raced after Clint. That broke the log jam. Within seconds, the entire herd of crazed females was running, loping, or huffing along in Clint’s wake. With a final “Ha,” Lindsay turned and walked calmly after her first client.
She caught up with him at Union Square, vaguely recalling that he’d run sprints in high school instead of cross-country. He was slumped behind a planter wall, sweating beads and panting deeply. Every other second, he would scan back toward the bus stop with panicked eyes. His dress shirt was torn in at least two places she could see, and smudged with a few lipstick stains. His head looked like rats had built their nest on it. His tie drooped limply across his left shoulder, and she could see a welt from where it had dug into his neck. This was so perfect. She’d been waiting for this moment for over a decade. The mighty Clint Christopherson reduced to a quivering mass of fear. So much for Mister “I’m so hot I can melt you with my smile,” or Mister “My love letters make thousands swoon, but I write them only to you.” No, he was only a scared little boy beneath that shell of a man who was (she hated to admit) even more delicious than he had been as a high school senior.
“So, Mister Christopherson, I see you’re in good shape. I think you clocked about five seconds flat for those two blocks.”
He looked up at her through reddened eyes, and brushed stray hairs out of his face. “Are… they… g-gone?” he panted.
She adopted an air of ignorance. “Who?”
He weakly gestured toward the bus stop. “Crazy… women. Foll… owing… me.”
Lindsay smiled demurely. “Was that the Clint Christopherson Fan Club, or just more ‘jealous exes’?”
“Gone?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“G-good. Time?”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“What… time… is it?” Her Client straightened a little, and tried popping his back.
Lindsay glanced at her watch. “Ten fourteen. Why?”
At that, he froze, and then sagged to the ground, looking defeated. “Blue blazes,” he murmured. “I was going to be early.”
He suddenly looked oddly vulnerable, there on the sidewalk. She reached to comfort him, and then thought better of it. He’d hung her out to dry.
But you’re better than that, Lindsay. Don’t stoop to his level.
“Early for what?” she asked kindly.
The Client hid his eyes with a hand. “No, no, no, no.”
For the briefest of instants, Lindsay actually felt bad for him. Utter defeat was plastered on his face like a bad advertisement.
A long, sad sigh escaped him. “Let’s just get my car, and make the best of what’s left. I’ll… I’ll call Graphitti and tell them… I had some car trouble.”
“With your Audi, right?”
He shot her a pleading look. “Hey, I’m sorry about your car. Even though I woke up this morning thinking, ‘Hey, I need to get someone’s car shot up’ doesn’t mean I picked yours intentionally.”
“Wait,” she said. “You mean, that was
planned
?”
He groaned. “Are you for real?”
Oh, right
, she thought.
He’s a jerk. How silly of me to forget.
“Look,” he said, “I’m sorry. I owe you a car worth probably five years of my wages. I’m not sure I can make that up to you anytime soon. Let’s get this case finished and I can at least give you a good referral and an IOU, and we’ll call it good.”
She gasped.
No, Lindsay. Happy thoughts. Don’t be like Mom.
Lindsay forced her breathing to slow, and turned away from where he was looking up at her, just long enough to paste on a fake grin. “Well, Mister Clint,” she said, “I suppose there’s always ‘forgive and forget.’ However, we’ve got a few other problems on our hands. Namely that we were part of a high-speed chase that involved firearms. The San Francisco Police Department is sure to look into that. What’s to keep me from telling them that you were the one behind the wheel? I was an innocent bystander.”
The Client hauled himself to his feet, and made the sound of a rimshot. “You’re a P.I. and a comedian. I have a friend at a local club. I’ll get you a gig and that’ll help you get some extra cash to get your car prettied up again. Now will you please go get my car?”
His tone was like a slap in the face. “I don’t recall you asking nicely,” she retorted. “Actually, I don’t recall you asking at all, before now.”
He shrugged. “I was giving you the benefit of doubt by assuming you were intelligent enough to comprehend simple instructions the first time.”
Her jaw dropped. He hadn’t changed at all. No, take that back. He no longer cared about maintaining the façade of a polite gentleman. Was he really
so
enamored with himself and his gorgeous face that he reasoned he could treat people any way he pleased and they’d still fall all over him?
“I’m sorry, Mister Christopherson—”
“That’s Clint, Self.”
“Will you quit calling me
Self
, please?”
“I’m Clint. Mister Christopherson is my father. You’re Sullivan and Self. Same person.”
“Whatever,” she said hotly. “Clint. There. Happy? Are you always this arrogant?”
“Are you always this sensitive?”
She clenched her teeth, but fought the anger down. She would not let this situation fly away. She
should
just drop the case here; but even in the act of firing her client she needed to maintain the lead. “As I was about to say, I’m sorry, but you hired me to locate a specific individual—
not
to be your personal valet slave.”
“I’m paying you. Slaves don’t get paid.”
She made an indelicate growl. This man was infuriating! “
Never mind the semantics!
Why do
I
have to be the sacrificial goat here?”
“You have the keys, and you know where you parked the car.”
She held out his keys. “It’s on the third level of the garage on the corner of Sutter and Stockton.”
Clint shook his head. “Me getting the car is a bad idea.”
“So was driving through a
hedge
at two hundred miles an hour!”
“That was necessary. And I think I was only doing one-twelve right before impact. But hey, we’re still alive, right?”
She had no words for that.
“Look,” he said, “Jane knows my face too well. She wasn’t driving that car, either. That means she has help. Her help probably knows my face as well. Jane also seems to have an uncanny ability to find me even in the middle of a crowded city.
“Jane almost certainly doesn’t know who you are. Sending you to get my car—while I stay out of sight—is the safest plan for getting us out of this mess. I’m going to head into that building over there,” and he pointed to a shop, “and pretend to peruse the merchandise. You get my car—I’m sorry,
your
new car—and then drive back to get me. Honk the horn three times fast, and I’ll come running out.
“Got it?”
For several seconds she stood frozen, her breathing heavy. This… thing… had insulted her in every way she could imagine. He could be the last, and handsomest man on earth, but that wouldn’t entice her to spend a single moment more with him than she had. She could find her own cases, thank you, and she would be happy if he walked out into the Bay and never returned. She’d keep his car as payment—she knew she could get away with that—and he could make his own way around. The BART train was reasonably convenient.
Clenching her teeth, she jabbed an accusatory finger at him. “I’ve hunted for your missing person, and given all due diligence to the case.
Despite
your rudeness and flippant manner, I’ve done my level best to provide high-quality services in a timely manner. I’ve already poured hours into locating someone that you gave me almost no information about, and made it my personal duty to ensure you got the best customer service possible. And after all of that, you treat me like this?”
Keep it together, girl
, she fumed inside.
Don’t let him have the satisfaction of bringing you to your knees again!
Clenching her fists to keep control, she went on. “I have been shot at repeatedly, nearly killed in a vehicle accident, lost my
Audi
, will probably end up with a police record before this is all over. Oh—and my face looks like a patchwork quilt now. When you hired me, you failed to warn me of
any
of the risks involved.
Thank you
for ruining my day, my face, and my life!” She felt herself beginning to tear up.
He blinked. “Hey, look. I already apologized. And yeah, I didn’t warn you. You were never supposed to be involved this deep. There was never any reason to worry you about things that didn’t concern you.”
“Oh, I’m
plenty
concerned now, Client.”
“There’s no ‘E’ in Clint.”
“
I don’t care!
I am
done
with this
excuse
of a case!” Her hand lashed out and nearly caught his face, but he dodged with surprising agility. She was faster on her return swing, though, and got her handbag around before he could react again. The bag took him squarely in the nose, and he jumped back with a yelp.
“Hey!” he exclaimed, thrusting his arm out as a shield and retreating. “What was
that
about?”
She answered with her purse; the time for words had passed. Lindsay poured her frustration, fear, and all her years of rejection into each swing. Satisfaction flooded her with every thump of the bag against his thick skull.
This
was for putting her in mortal danger.
This
was for turning what was supposed to be an open-and-shut case into a living nightmare.
This
was for taking business away from her by forcing her to abandon the case.
This
was for all those letters he’d sent her from college, calling her sweet names and sharing his latest sketch with her—her and no one else. This was for making her
care
! Over and over she pummeled him, all the way across Stockton Street. The coward tucked tail and ran into a clothier, yanking a glass door closed behind him.
“Get out here and take it like a man!” To the flames with professionalism. This was payback.
“Yeah, not going to happen,” came his muffled voice.
Lindsay seized the handles of one of the double doors, and yanked on them with all her might. No good. She slammed her purse into the door with a satisfying “thwack!” and hauled back for another swing. If she couldn’t force it open, she’d break it open. A corner of her mind noticed bystanders staring, and a worried looking store manager hurrying toward her from inside.