“I still say that guy is really weird,” Cindy
said offhandedly, visualizing Otto sweating in a jersey, zinc oxide
over the better part of his face, leaving a streak with his nose
down the glass of her teller window. She shuddered before
continuing,
“Anyway, forget him.”
“
Fourth, the funds discovered in Osborne’s
office safe were wrapped in a green plastic garbage bag identical
to the bags used in the robbery. Fingerprints of the bank robbers
as well as blood and fingerprints from wounded hostage Anthony
DiMento were on the bag. When faced with this overwhelming
evidence, Osborne claimed to have received the funds from wounded
hostage DiMento.’
Osborne’s second-in-command and presumed go-between,
local mob enforcer Milton Twiddle, was arrested and taken into
custody at the same time as Osborne. Twiddle was convicted last
week on charges of acting as an accessory to the crime. Currently
awaiting sentencing, Twiddle is confined to a high-security prison
hospital in Atlanta, Georgia, at the insistence of the United
State’s Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.”
“You know the part I don’t get, Tony,” she
said, putting the paper down and looking at Merlot. “Why did you
take that bag of money with you? Why didn’t you just start
screaming for help, like I did? God, I mean how dumb were those
guys? There were about a thousand cops around. Why did they even
stop at that place?”
Merlot gave his practiced answer, the same
one he’d given her since the morning she met his mom.
“I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to get
those guys after they took you hostage, and I was afraid they’d get
away.”
He waited a beat or two. Then just as he was
about to suggest they grab something to eat, she struck.
“So, okay, I mean I get all that, but the
wig, your disguise, the gun, what was all that again?”
“I told you a thousand times, I was going to
ask you out, pretend I was a different guy.”
“But why would…”
Merlot quickly kissed her.
“Why…”
He continued to kiss her, getting a charge,
just like the very first time.
“Let’s get something to eat and then go
home,” he whispered in her ear. “See how things go from there.”
Visit
mailto:www.mikefaricy.com
Email
[email protected]
I was sitting in the Spot Bar, minding my own
damn business, content in a mild and steadily growing alcoholic
haze. A client had paid me. The check was enough to cover my
overdrafts and fund a night or two of partying.
I saw her come in the side door and look
around for fifteen seconds. She was blond, hot looking, thirty
something, maybe wearing a little too much makeup. Dressed in a
delightfully slutty sort of way. Conversation didn’t stop but heads
turned as she walked past. She headed toward an empty stool. There
were four on either side of me. Her chest was like the prow of a
battleship and plowed a firm, bouncy course down the length of the
bar. She passed the first three empty stools and pulled out the one
next to me. It was red vinyl and edged in worn duct tape.
“Is anyone sitting here?”
I caught the slightest hint of an accent.
“Not that I can see.”
“You are Mr. Devlin Haskell, right? The
private dick?”
She batted her eyes a few times, which at the
moment struck me as extremely sexy. Her perfume wafted over me like
a plastic dry cleaning bag and forced me to gasp for breath. It was
strangely spicy.
“Yeah, that’s me. Although it’s not all that
private,” I joked.
Incredibly she smiled but didn’t comment.
After a moment she said,
“Mr. Haskell, I’ve been looking for you. Of
course the other places were a little nicer than this,” she said,
gazing around at the dingy brown, smoke-stained ceiling. Maybe she
caught the two bullet holes in the front door now filled with putty
and supposed to have been painted sometime just before Obama took
office. Maybe it was the 60s-style cheap wood paneling on the
walls, or the ode de beer reek of the place. Maybe it was the worn
wood-grain Formica tables in the booths or the twenty-watt bulbs in
the light fixtures. Maybe it just didn’t matter, I thought, as she
sat up straight, spun toward me on her stool, and thrust her
death-defying cleavage in my face.
“You were looking for me?” I asked, wondering
if my luck had finally begun to change.
“Yes, a friend gave me your name.”
“Really, what can I do for you?” thinking
maybe a getaway weekend to a quiet lake, or a bed and breakfast
with a jacuzzi in the room, or just your basic tawdry night at my
place.
“Well, I hope you won’t think I’m
strange.”
At this point Grace, the bartender, stepped
in front of us. An experienced little voice inside my head said
just smile, finish the drink and get the hell out of here before
you get in real trouble
.
“Buy you a drink?” I asked.
“Will you have another?”
That experienced little voice whispered
no
.
I nodded yes toward Grace who rolled her
eyes.
“Yeah, okay, I guess I’ll have a double vodka
martini, two olives,” she ordered quickly, then smiled at me.
A double, my kind of girl.
“So, I was about to think you’re strange?” I
said.
“What? Oh yes. Look, I wanted to hire you, to
sort of find someone. I will pay you,” and with that she dug in a
small beaded handbag suspended on a chain over her shoulder.
I hadn’t noticed it before but then I’d been
otherwise engaged making careful notes as to her physical
characteristics.
“Oh, sorry,” she said as she snapped the
handbag closed with an audible click and then reached into her
front pocket. She pulled out a small wad of hundred-dollar bills. I
was actually more amazed there was room for anything thicker than a
dime in her pocket. The jeans looked to have been sprayed on over
her perfect thighs.
“Here is five hundred dollars I can get you
more if you need it.”
“You still haven’t told me who you want me to
‘sort of’ find. A name would help, for starters. Not to mention,
you know my name but I don’t know yours.”
Grace brought our drinks, grabbed a ten off
the bar from the small pile in front of me.
“Oh yes, sorry, I’m Kerri.” She held out her
hand to shake.
“Nice to meet you, Kerri, call me Dev. Your
accent?” I asked.
“Ahhh French.”
She nodded, batted her eyes innocently, then
proceeded to drain nearly half her martini glass.
“Mmm-mmm, that is a very good vodka,” she
gasped. “Yes, French, but from a long time ago. I was just a little
girl. Dev, I hope you’ll help me find my little sister.”
“Your sister?”
“Yes, she is called Nikki.”
“Hmm, Kerri and Nikki, sisters. Anyone else
in the family? Mom, Dad, brothers, more sisters?”
“No, we are the only ones. My, I mean, our
parents passed away eight years ago, maybe six months apart,” she
made a quick sign of the cross, in the Orthodox way, reverse order
to the Irish Catholic I grew up with. Then she washed it down with
a hearty sip of martini.
“Oh, sorry.”
“Don’t be. My father killed himself, one
drink at a time. And my mother was a religious crazy woman. She
wore herself out trying to put a stop to anyone thinking of
enjoying himself. You know the old question? Which came first, the
alcoholic husband or the long-suffering wife?”
“Can’t say that I do, but I know a couple or
two it might fit.”
“Yes, well.”
“So, Nikki?”
“Oh right, I have not seen her in maybe two
months. Not that we were really close or anything, but she hasn’t
been home for quite a while as far as I can tell and her phone is
disconnected. Her car remains in the same place, in her driveway. I
have a key to her house. I went through it but nothing seemed
unusual, do you know? It was not trashed or ransacked or
some-such.”
“Husband, boyfriend, kids?”
“Not that I know about. She had a boyfriend
about a year and a half ago, but he did away with her. Actually he
was keeping her on the side and had a regular girlfriend. He
married that woman last spring. Nikki read about it in the
newspaper.”
“That’s a tough way to find out.”
“Yes. I think he was maybe four years older
than Nikki, Bradley Cadwell. Brad the Cad we called him. He is a
lawyer now. But I must be honest, she only spoke of him, I never
really met him.”
“But a lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“Say no more.”
She didn’t, instead she drained her glass and
left the olives. With a nod I had Grace mixing a new double just
after her empty glass hit the bar. Things become a little bit
bleary after that.
I remember checking the rearview mirror
constantly on the drive home to make sure she didn’t lose me,
although I couldn’t swear to the exact route we took. I remember
she could drink vodka like a fish, had a gorgeous figure. She was
trimmed as opposed to shaved and had a little Victorian-looking
angel with wings, sitting on a cloud tattooed on her right butt
cheek. I was too drunk to read the writing that encircled the
angel.
I’ve got a bite mark on my left nipple,
scratches on my back, my bed’s a mess, and the place reeks of stale
spicy perfume. My head is pounding and I just finished reading a
note that says she only took a hundred dollar bill from the five
she gave me out of “professional consideration”.
She penned her phone number at the bottom of
the note, just after she wrote to hold onto her emerald green thong
from Victoria’s Secret should I run across it.
I needed aspirin, coffee, and a sauna. Any
phone call to Kerri could wait until after those things were
accomplished. And ever the professional I made a mental note to
find out her last name.
While recovering I sat in a back booth at
Moe’s a little after one in the afternoon. Moe’s was my morning
office at least three days a week. The earlier sauna and aspirin
were working their magic, and the third cup of coffee kept me going
until breakfast was delivered. I was just finishing up the last of
my hash-browns, dragging the remnants through a slick of
heart-stopping hollandaise sauce as I phoned Kerri. Her phone
message kicked in, but the voice didn’t sound like her at all.
“Hey baby, thanks for calling. Sorry I’m all
tied up at the moment. Leave your name and number, and one of us
will get back to you just as soon as we can, bye-bye.”
My guess was Kerri didn’t work for a
pediatrician. I checked my watch as the beep sounded to leave a
message.
“Hi Kerri, Devlin Haskell here. Please give
me a call when you can. I’d like to schedule an appointment so we
can review some facts on your case and I can begin my
investigation. It’s Wednesday afternoon at one-thirty, you can
reach me at ...”
I’ll be the first to admit it was a bit
presumptuous to suggest I’d be able to review facts on her case. I
really only had four facts; Kerri’s first name, her sister’s name,
Nikki, Kerri’s phone number, and five, make that four hundred
dollars, cash in advance.
A half hour later I was behind the wheel of
my car, debating about starting it up or going back into Moe’s for
a couple more aspirin when my phone rang. I glanced at the number
coming through like I always did and just like always couldn’t read
the numbers.
“Haskell Investigations.”
There was a very long pause on the other end
before a female voice sounding somewhat confused said,
“I think I must have the wrong number,” then
hung up.
The phone rang again less than a minute
later, I did my routine of looking at the incoming number, just
like before I was unable to read the damn thing.
“Hello,” I said in what I thought passed for
pleasant considering my hangover.
It was the same voice from a minute before,
female, young sounding.
“Yeah, I’m calling for Devil.”
“That would be me, Devlin, actually,”
annunciating the last syllable in my name.
“What do you need, baby?” sounding decidedly
unimpressed with my attempt at correction.
“I need to speak with Kerri, actually. Is she
available?”
“She can’t do nothing I can’t do better,
honey. You don’t need her, do you?” She hissed the word nothing,
suggesting maybe there was a space between her teeth.
“Actually, yes I do, ahh, need to talk with
her. Is she there or is there a number I can reach her at?”
“You a cop?”
“No, I’m not. But look, I’ll call the cops
and give them this number unless you have Kerri call me in the next
half hour. If I don’t hear from…” Whoever she was, she was so
impressed she hung up.