The Prisoner of Vandam Street (15 page)

W
hile Kent Perkins’s mysterious friend tried for a computer match of Tana Petrich’s photo, I paced the loft like a wind-up toy, smoking cigars and contemplating what our next move would be if the photos matched, or if they didn’t match. Energy was coming back to me. Yet because of the stupid doctor’s orders, I couldn’t leave the loft. Not that there was much I could’ve done. I could, I suppose, have tried to stake out apartment number 412 across the street. I might still want to do that, I thought. But for the moment, the better strategy, it seemed, was to pace back and forth, smoke a cigar, listen to the pounding hooves of the lesbians above me, and wait for whatever results Kent’s technological efforts might produce. It was a tedious job and I got to do it.

Some of the other Irregulars trickled back into the loft after a while, several of them expressing a renewed interest and confidence in the case the way Kent and his PallTech system appeared to be handling it. This got up my sleeve a bit until I thought of something Rambam had told me long ago. He’d called his weapon of choice in crime-solving “the hard-boiled computer.” Reflecting upon it, I realized that Rambam quite possibly relied upon technology even more than Kent. It was simply that Rambam never used the computer or the Internet or PallTech or whatever the satanic system was around me. I only saw Rambam as a man of action. I never observed the sausages as they were being made.

Hell, I thought. The world was changing. Maybe every private investigator except me was now a technological junkie. I hoped not. As a rule of thumb I resisted change in all its nefarious forms, always remembering the wise words of Joseph Heller: “Every change is for the worse.” Hell, I didn’t even bother to change my underwear. I didn’t, of course, wear any underwear. I preferred to go about commando-style. A little trick I’d picked up in the tropics. Probably about the same time I’d picked up malaria. Probably about the same time my penis had sloughed off in the jungle.

“There are only two databases for reliably obtaining photos,” Kent was explaining to the small group of lookers-on gathered about the desk. “One is the federal passport database. That one’s harder to get into than Fort Knox. The other one’s the Department of Motor Vehicles database which every state has. What I haven’t told you is that I’ve learned recently that Tana Petrich’s last known address was in Florida.”

“Why didn’t you tell us that, mate?” asked Brennan.

“Because you didn’t ask,” said Kent.

He hadn’t told me that information either, I realized. Some fucking Watson. Holding back vital details from Sherlock. Ah, well, I thought. Good help is hard to find these days.

“PallTech turned up the Florida address,” Kent continued. “I happen to know a retired state trooper in Florida.”

“Here I sit, strainin’ my pooper,” I chanted. “Tryin’ to give birth to a Florida state trooper.”

Kent chuckled politely. Several of the Village Irregulars glanced briefly at each other with worried expressions.

“What?” said McGovern. “Say again? Who took the pooper-scooper?”

“Troopah,” said Ratso helpfully. “A Floridah state troopah.”

“I heard you,” said McGovern petulantly.

“Well, moving right along now,” said Kent. “I’m now going to upload this beautiful photo of the girl known as Tana Petrich. I’ll upload a digital image of Tana and my friend in Florida will have it along with my request for an identity match all within less than a second. That’s pretty amazing if you think about it.”

“So your friend gets the digital image,” said Piers thoughtfully.

“Wrong tense,” said Kent. “He’s already got it.”

“Pluperfect asshole,” I muttered, but by now nobody was paying me any attention.

“So the former state troopah searches the Florida DMV database,” said Ratso. “What’s he actually looking for?”

“There aren’t many Tana Petriches in this country,” said Kent. “Maybe there’s only one. PallTech tells us that she had a Florida driver’s license. Kinky saw the driver’s license and confirmed that the girl herself and her driver’s license photo matched—”

“You’re relyin’ on his opinion, mate?” said Brennan, gesturing with a VB bottle in my direction.

“Hypnosis rarely lies,” said Kent. “And PallTech never lies. PallTech has given us Tana’s driver’s license number, which I’ve also e-mailed to my friend. His job now is to find another photo of Tana and then we’ll know if Tana’s really Tana.”

There were nods of understanding and agreement from most of the Village Irregulars. Pete Myers interrupted me in midpace to give me a hot steaming cup of Ulong Blue Dong or whatever limey tea is supposed to be served at 1:17 p.m. to a man convalescing from malaria. I sipped the tea. I puffed a bit on the cigar.

“What do we do now, mate?” asked Brennan.

“Now,” said Kent, “comes the hard part. We wait.”

It was kind of a funny picture actually. Six men standing around like village idiots, occasionally peering over the shoulder of a large blond-haired man sitting at a desk essentially doing nothing. They looked for all the world like seven city workers standing around watching a machine. Maybe, I thought, the glorious, wonderful, satanic, fucking technological revolution hasn’t come as far as people would like to think.

Time passes slowly when you’re waiting for a response from a machine that supposedly operates at the speed of light. There was time for three or four hearty rounds of drinking by all of the Village Irregulars except for Kent. There was time for McGovern to break into his stash and pass around another kingsize joint of his “wheelchair weed.” There was time for McGovern to follow up this particular amusement by patronizingly inquiring about my general state of health. I told him it was incredible to me that after all this time my body and mind still often seemed in the grip of malaria. He did his usual, maddening, “Say again?” routine and when I ignored it, he wanted to know why I was planning a trip to Bavaria.

Perhaps it was because Kent was trying to maintain the interest of his crowd that he launched into a series of Hollywood celebrity stories, mostly dealing with Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin. He did, of course, have somewhat of an insider’s knowledge of these men because his wife, Ruth Buzzi, was much adored by both of them. Frank regarded her as his daughter and Dean wanted her on every Dean Martin Roast. The Village Irregulars, like almost all of us, were suckers for firsthand Hollywood celebrity stories. While Kent’s little laptop hummed hopefully, the little group stood around him listening to his tinseltown tales with their eyes popping and their jaws hanging open. Much of this reaction, of course, could have been attributable to the wheelchair weed. As I paced back and forth across the long, cold living room of the loft, I picked up little snippets of conversation. It was interesting. It was kind of like the atmosphere you might find on a stakeout. Some of the most interesting, freewheeling conversations I’d ever had had occurred when I’d been on stakeouts with Rambam.

“Yeah, I currently own Dean Martin’s old Rolls-Royce,” Kent was saying. “It’s tan and sand. Beautiful car.”

“How much did it cost?” asked Ratso.

“Let’s just say,” said Kent, “it was an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

“Ever had one of Frank’s cars, mate?” asked Brennan.

“No,” said Kent. “But Frank really was a loyal, classy guy in his own way—if you were his friend, of course, or maybe just somebody in need of his help. Every year, in fact, he’d call Ruthie on her birthday. He’d say: ‘Let me speak to Ruthie.’ And I’d say: ‘Who’s calling?’ And then he’d say: ‘Frank.’ Then I’d say: ‘Frank who?’ And then there’d always be a long pause. Then he’d say in a low, growling voice you knew not to mess with: ‘Frank Sinatra.’ And I’d say: ‘Just one second, Mr. Sinatra.’ ”

“Yes,” said Piers. “And speaking of Hollywood stories, Ted Mann called me about the almost-famous star of a recent TV series. He’s a pretty good actor, apparently, but he’d been doing a lot of marching powder in his trailer and running prostitutes in and out and making about six hundred people on the set miserable. Finally, the guy got carried away one day and beat up one of the girls in his trailer. The next day, the network canceled the show. So a few days later, he comes in to see the producer and says he’s sorry and wants to know if his behavior might have had anything to do with the cancellation. The producer looks at him and says: ‘Slap a ho. No mo’ show.’ ”

“Then there was the time,” said McGovern, “many years ago, when Albert Einstein went to visit his friend Charlie Chaplin in Hollywood. Chaplin took Einstein with him to his favorite restaurant. When they got out of the car there was a crowd gathering around. So Einstein turns to Chaplin and says: ‘Why are those people pointing at us?’ ”

“Why is Ratso pointing at Sherlock Holmes?” I asked. For, indeed, Ratso appeared to be pointing at the bust of Sherlock on my desk.

“I’m not pointing at Sherlock,” said Ratso. “Look at the screen.”

The entire group now crowded around the desk where Kent’s little laptop stood in the spotlight. I walked over too, but the assembled multitudes prevented me from even seeing the desk.

“Does the photo look like Tana?” I asked nobody in particular. “Is the girl a brunette?”

“She’s a brunette, all right, mate,” said Brennan. “Have a look.”

Brennan pushed McGovern and Piers out of the way as if they were sides of beef. Like a modern-day Moses he parted the Red Sea for me, not to the Promised Land or the throne of Jesus, but to the laptop of Kent Perkins. The image of the real Tana Petrich filled the little screen. She was a brunette. She was also a jovial-looking, chubby black woman who bore an almost eerie resemblance to a young Aunt Jemima.

“She’s right off the pancake carton,” said Kent. “You know what this means?”

“I hope it means that Aunt Jemima’s coming to cook us some real breakfast,” said Ratso, “instead of fucking baked tomatoes and beans and fried eggs on top of everything and spotted dick—”

“Cook it yourself,” said Pete Myers, and, in an unusual display of emotion, he threw a large spatula, narrowly missing Ratso’s head.

“It means,” said Kent, oblivious to the mindless activity behind him, “that our Tana Petrich is a little imposter. And I think she’s hiding a nasty little secret.”

“And what of Aunt Jemima?” asked Piers.

“She’s dead, of course,” said Kent.

“You lives by the watermelon,” I said, “you dies by the watermelon.”

“That statement is rather alarmingly racist,” said McGovern.

“Kiiinnnnnk,” said Kent.

“I’m not a racist,” I said. “I’m just trying to save a soul some pain.”

S
o what’s our next amusement?” said Piers, early that evening as a chill wind blew recklessly down Vandam Street. I’d been huddling at the desk with Kent for the better part of two hours, bracing myself with Pete Myers’s hot tea, and also bracing myself for what I strongly suspected was the imminent end-game.

“Our next amusement,” I said, “will no doubt demonstrate to us all what a funny, sick world we really live in.”

In spite of the chill wind, I was feeling fairly feverish now and I could almost see Piers’s intelligent eyes calculating not unkindly my relative sanity at the moment. That was probably why I motioned for Kent to explain the plan the two of us had hammered out. Kent had been my eyes and my legs. Now he could speak with my very voice. Malaria had brought reality to my life. It was the reality of a dreamer who now realized, perhaps a little too late in the game, that he was impotent when it came to holding on to his dreams. I could no more save the girl who called herself Tana than I could save myself. Or the girl I used to know.

“It’s more than just a hunch now,” said Kent. “It’s more than just some domestic abuse going on here, not to make light of domestic abuse. But there’s something else at play. This girl has another name out there somewhere. She has a reason for going to all the trouble of assuming a false identity. When you see enough of this kind of thing you develop an internal alarm system. Lots of people carry fake IDs, kids have learned to falsify their driver’s licenses so they can buy liquor. It’s often no big thing. But this one feels different. For one thing, they usually cross-reference credit bureau records with the death index these days. We know Tana’s paying the rent for that apartment across the street and we know she’s lived there a long time.”

“How do we know that?” asked Ratso.

“Because if she’d tried to rent the place in the recent past they’d have known she was dead. So she’s probably continued to maintain this false identity for over ten years. Why? Why would she go to the trouble? Why would she take the risk?”

Ratso and Piers pondered the question. McGovern was asleep on the couch. Brennan was standing near the window, making minute adjustments on the spotter scope. As I watched him, he suddenly let out a shriek that sounded like it came all the way from Lower Baboon’s Asshole.

“Treacle ahoy!” shouted Brennan. “Just off the starboard bow, maties!”

Suddenly, I was wide awake. McGovern was wide awake. The whole place was as active as a recently-stepped-in ant hill. There were of course, differing reasons for this behavior.

“Crikey! The bird’s just getting out of the shower!” shouted Mick. “She’s wearing nothing but a little plastic cap on her head!”

“Let me have a look!” shouted Ratso, elbowing his way through the crowd. “I’m getting more interested in the investigation.”

“What else do you see?” I asked Mick.

“Not much,” said Brennan. “Other than the bird, of course. This spotter scope is brilliant! Now she’s turning around to towel off her legs! Hey, Kinkster! I thought you said this place didn’t have a view!”

“Is the guy there?” Kent asked.

“No sign of him,” said Brennan.

“Anything else happening in the apartment?” I asked.

“Nothing much. Everything looks about the same. There’s a suitcase on the bed. Now she’s applying some kind of lotion to her body—”

Kent and I exchanged a hurried glance. It looked like the last train was about to leave Gun Hill. If we were going to make a move with the woman who called herself Tana Petrich, it would have to be pretty damn quick. Otherwise, our bird would have flown.

“The old suitcase on the bed trick,” said Kent. “I’ve got to interview this girl before she flies the coop.”

“Can we get in the building?” I asked.

“It’s a lot more secure than this one, I can tell you that,” said Kent. “I’ve already done it. But there’s no listing for her apartment number and we don’t know when the guy’s coming back and besides, I don’t want to panic her.”

“I guess they don’t have puppetheads over there,” said Ratso.

“Doubtful, mate,” said Piers.

“Well, Watson,” I said, turning to Kent. “In this time of my infirmity, I must rely upon your astute judgment even more than usual.”

“Let’s call her,” he said.

“There’s one little problem with that plan,” said Ratso. “Not only do we not know her real name, we don’t even have her telephone number.”

“If she’s hidden her true identity for more than ten years now,” said Piers, “it’s highly unlikely that it’ll be listed in directory assistance.”

“Worth a try,” said Kent.

While I lit a cigar and Ratso checked the refrigerator, Kent tried information. There was no Tana Petrich.

“If at first you don’t succeed,” said Kent, “ask for a supervisor.”

“A wise adage, Watson,” I said. “I’ll have Mrs. Hudson stitch it on a pillow for us.”

But Kent Perkins was already on a cell phone, waiting for the supervisor to come on the line. Piers and I leaned our elbows on the kitchen counter and watched him with bemusement. Pete had gone out for more provisions, or “tucker,” as Piers invariably called it. And as for Ratso and McGovern? They were aiding the investigation by helping Mick Brennan monitor the action across the way through the spotter scope.

“What I’m about to do I haven’t done in twenty years,” said Kent, covering the cell phone with his hand. “Not since I worked for a crooked PI in L.A. But something tells me the situation calls for it. Tana’s life might be in danger. She may be being held against her wishes. It’s even possible—Yes, Ms. Dsouza, this is Detective Sergeant Johnny Dark from the Airport Police, badge number 7492, calling with a police emergency. Yes. The mobile command post at Kennedy. I’ve tried to reach the security office. There’s a problem. You’re the backup number on my log. Yes. I need the number of a Tana Petrich, 198 Vandam Street, apartment 412.”

As Kent waited, I noticed fine beads of sweat breaking out on his brow. This was obviously something that pained him to do. He was a pilgrim, all right, I thought. He still had that thing they used to call a conscience.

“Okay, that’s 586-4275. Thank you, Ms. Dsouza.” Kent flipped the cell phone closed and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I guess I needed the practice,” he said.

“What’s next?” asked Ratso.

“Next comes the hard part,” said Kent.