Home, sweet home.

Stella is my building. She was originally named "Stellar Apartments" back in the sixties. By the time I bought her, she was so vandalized and covered with graffiti that the only part of the sign that was still legible was the word Stella. The first that I did when I bought her was to tear down the original sign and replace it with chrome lettering. Now it still just reads Stella, but it's much more attractive than it used to be. She's got two floors; five apartments on either floor. My office takes up two of the one-bedroom apartments on the ground floor. I live in the two-bedrooms across the hall, and Percy in the unit next to mine. The second floor is vacant; has been for a few years now.
On my roof there's a boxed garden. If I get out of this mess, I was thinking of building a greenhouse so I can have my tomatoes and peppers year round. Vegetables can get expensive in the city, and hot house tomatoes have no taste anyway.
The garden itself was built by the previous owner. Stella's on the corner facing east and south, so she gets plenty of sunshine. I'm rambling.
When I got back to the office,, I found Percy sifting through online clothing stores; looking for that piece of gothic gold. Did I mention that Percy is a goth kid? Percy is the kind of Goth kid that makes emos step back and say, "Whoa; man." He only ever wears Victorian fashion; riding boots, tails, ruffles, and scarves. He always looks like he just stepped off the set of A Christmas Carol. He even has a silk top hat that he likes to bust out on occasion.
I put my spy kit on the desk in front of him, staggered over to the slightly ratty leather couch in the living room and dropped heavily into it.
I didn't mean for it to be the first thing out of my mouth, but it was. I said, "I ran into Cynthia tonight."
Percy immediately stopped clicking the mouse, swiveled to face me, and said, "The Cynthia? The girl that you've been pining over for over ten years? The one person in this world that might have a chance to get you to stop drinking?"
I raised my weary, bleary eyes to him and said, "Yeah, that's the one."
He pushed himself away from the desk in my direction and leaned in with his hands on his knees saying, "How did that go?"
"She's working as a bartender at Victoria's club."
When I didn't say anything further, Percy slapped the back of my head and said, "Is that all? Come on."
Percy may not look like it, but he's a fighter and I didn't feel like having a tussle, so I suppressed the urge to hit him back and said, "What else do you want? She's working ass a bartender in a strip club and living in Russel. We had a nice conversation and I did my fucking job."
Do you know that look that girls get when they know you're holding out on them? Percy donned that visage and said, "Are you serious? Are you really going to tell me that you didn't even get her phone number?"
I was drunk. I so did not feel like talking about much of anything, but I knew that Percy would not let me go to bed until he at least had a summary of what went on with me and Cynthia. I took out my phone, tossed it to Percy and said, "She put her number in my phone and made me promise to call her."
Percy quickly looked up Cynthia's number and wrote it down on a rolodex card saying, "Are you going to?"
Rubbing my temples, I said, "I'll think about it."
This earned me another smack to the back of the head; harder than the last one.
"Think, nothing! If you don't call this girl, I will, and I'll fill her in on every intimate detail of the last decade."
I knew Percy was serious. I also knew what would happen if he was the one to tell /Cynthia about my life to date. Visions of flying rolling pins danced through my head for a moment. I closed my eyes and said, "I'll call her on Monday."
Percy tossed my phone on the couch and said, "How was the party?"
I glanced over tat my spy kit and said, "There's a few faces on there that need to disappear. You'll know when you see them. Call Bobby and tell him that he'll have everything he needs. There was more than enough gash being hashed at that party to give an old Irish Catholic a heart attack."
Percy nodded and set about uploading the video on the computer. I never was much for the technical side of detective work. It's a good thing that I've got Percy or I'd be completely adrift.
I pulled Punch's card from my pocket and tossed it on the table saying, "We need to call this guy tomorrow. He's an accountant for the Malloys."
Percy snatched up the card and said, "Punch? Like fruit punch?"
I smiled and said, "You should be so lucky. I really have no idea. Victoria gave me his card and said that he would bring us a stack of job apps."
Percy tucked Punch's card in a sleeve on the rolodex and asked, "Did anything else interesting happen tonight?"
I told him about Tommy and Katsumi, making note that she said nothing about my eyes. It's a rare thing when someone doesn't mention them.
I told Percy that I had a meeting with Benny, and that I would be taking care of the business with Punch. The last thing I remember before nodding off on the couch was Percy saying something about detective Ruiz, dinner, and Thursday.

Cheers

Home; Chicago, my dark kingdom. I call Chicago the Dark Kingdom because every Batman movie that's worth a shit was filmed here (excepting of course, Adam West's original), that and it's just so fucking big, and dark. I had a lot to think about on my way back to the DK. Forty minutes of it, with Fats Domino, Etta James, and Susan Tedeschi filling in the background. Mostly, my thoughts kept creeping back to Cynthia, and how we were together. I actually hadn't thought of Cynthia in a couple of months; not at any length anyway. I tried to concentrate on the work that lay ahead of me, but her amber eyes kept popping up, burning into my brain; keeping me off balance.
Thoughts of invoices and interviews were constantly interrupted by rumpled linen sheets and butterflies in the garden at the compound. New equipment lists were ripped to shreds by soft moans and singing in the ballroom. By the time, I reached Ohio St. I abandoned all hope of keeping Cynthia out of my thoughts.
I exited ninety-four at twenty-second St. and took it down to Uncle Benny's Irish Pub on the east end of Chinatown. It was three a.m. so I had a little time before last call. I felt like topping off the buzz that I had been acquiring through the night.
I took off my party glasses and tossed them in the glove box along with my mp3 recorder. I looked at my eyes in the mirror for a moment. A lot of people find my eyes disturbing. First off, they're blue, so the black hair really makes them stand out. They're not just blue though. My eyes are more like a bluish white really, than actual blue. It's not like an albino's eyes, but not far off either. Second, they never smile. Only a very select few people can make the smile come out in my eyes. Tommy Tsung, the bartender at Uncle Benny's is one of the few souls in my life who doesn't find my eyes disturbing. Uncle Benny is another.
Uncle Benny came to America forty years ago with nothing but twenty bucks and a dream. Benny Tsung wanted to own an Irish pub. Benny worked at more then twenty different Irish pubs between New York and the Dark Kingdom. He literally walked from the Statue of Liberty to Millennium Park. It took him five years to get here. He sold booze in at least seventeen different cities. When Benny finally got to the DK, he was two grand in the black, and looking to set up shop.
Thirty-five years ago, two k was quite enough to get started. He rented his space and bought booze and a license. For the first five years, he slept on a bed roll behind the bar and spent every last dime on making improvements. Over the course of ten years, his bar went from being a dinky little chirish dive to being a dark, smoky, dirty, grimy, beautiful Irish pub.
Benny has all of his furnishings from the same family owned Irish imports company, so by the time that he had any substantial gains from his efforts, he had a substantial discount on all of his furnishings. When Benny got word from home, about twenty years ago, that he had ten nephews, he changed the name of the pub from "Song Tsung Blue" to Uncle Benny's Irish Pub. Fifteen years ago, Benny finally bought the building and currently lives in the remodeled flat on the third floor.
When I walked in the door, Benny's nephew, Tommy greeted me with his big gopher grin. When I first started out with my business, Uncle Benny was having problems with vandals coming around; breaking his windows, burning large patches on the door with hairspray, general hoodlum shit. The police weren't doing anything for Benny because their hands were full elsewhere, so Benny found me in the phone book and called me up. He told me he'd give me an unlimited tab at the bar if I would take care of his problem.
This was Before I partnered up with Percy so I told him it was a done deal. I staked out the front of Uncle Benny's for three days before anything happened. On the third night, around four am, these four kids came walking down the street. They were all wearing homemade ninja costumes and one had a milk crate in his hands that clinked with the sound of full glass bottles with every step. I smelled the gasoline before they made it half way down the block.
By the time that I was finished with those thugs, they were all tied to a lamp post, doused in their own gasoline and I was standing over them with my grandfather's commemorative CPD Zippo burning in my hand. I didn't say anything to them. I didn't need to. When the police showed up four hours later, they were crying and begging to be thrown in holding cells so the "eyeless mother fucker" couldn't come back and burn them.
Nowadays, when I want to drink, I just walk down the street and pop in to see Tommy or Benny. I'm pretty sure that's why Benny helped me get my building at such a low rate. The only liquor I still keep in my apartment is Bailey's and Berenjager.
I walked up to the bar, sat down, and was immediately presented with a tall Crown and Coke. I thanked Tommy, who's grin was plastered to his face like it was painted on, and took a look around the bar.
It was the usual Friday night crowd. All but three tables by the door were packed with second shifters, lowlifes, and late night partiers. The jukebox was blaring "Hurt so good" by John Cougar Mellencamp while the Irish band cleared their equipment from the small stage in the back corner. There was a blonde sitting with some friends who had noticed me when I came in. She absolutely wreaked of the coven, and Hawaiian white ginger. When my gaze rested on her for a moment, she winked at me. She had extremely deep brown eyes; so deep that they could have been red. I'd just seen Cynthia for the first time in over a decade. I was so not in the mood to let some young stripper try to work me over. I just passed over her like she was part of the scenery.
Off to my right was a table filled with UPS teamsters drinking their paychecks and flirting with the waitress. One of them; a big, beefy fucker with hair and eyes to match the color of the trucks he loaded for a living, had his hand up her short denim skirt, fondling her left butt cheek.
I think I've made it clear that I have very few scruples about who I work for. Uncle Benny's Irish Pub is a front for a Chinese brothel. The waitresses disappear at random into the back rooms past the kitchen for fifteen minutes to an hour at a time. I've been propositioned non-gratis for services rendered to the bar. Now, I'm not one to turn down a pretty face out of hand, butt something about the smell of shower sex with some nameless face in the bar cranks up my moral-o-meter.
I'm not being judgmental; just cautious.
The only things about Uncle Benny's that don't look Irish are the bartenders, the waitresses, and the bathrooms. There's little that screams "Chinatown!!!" like the intricate tile work on the floors and walls of Uncle Benny's privies. It's like stepping from Dublin to Canton in three easy inches.
The bar itself sat in front of the kitchen in an L shape from the corner in front of the stage to the middle of the wall to the right of the door. Uncle Benny never put an entrance in the bar. If you wanted to get back there, you had to either jump it or go through the back rooms. Bags of sawdust lay stacked in a corner by the office door, just in case. All in all, it's a pretty nice place.
It took three Crown and Cokes to get my head too fuzzy to linger on too much of anything. Tommy knows how I like my drinks. Most men my size would be put in a severe coma by the sheer volume of alcohol that I consume on a daily basis. What can I say? It's all in a day's work.
I've known Tommy for two years now; ever since he was fresh off the boat. His dream is to be a news anchor. He's been taking speech lessons since he got here and now he sounds a lot like Dan Rather. Tommy drinks almost as much as I do, but he's still a good kid.
By the time that I was halfway through my fourth Crown and Coke (I'm not much for beer), I finally remembered the actual reason that I came to Benny's that night. Getting drunk is not a reason. It's an excuse.
I looked to my left and saw Tommy chatting up a very cute asian girl. I reached over and tugged on his sleeve. He looked my way and I motioned him to come in close.
Tommy brought his chin to my shoulder and I said, "Tell your uncle that I need to see him tomorrow." The first try sounded something more like "Kell erncle Inedu seem chumba." By the third try, I just said, fuck it and forced my brain to function.
In that moment, I noticed something significant. Tommy had pulled away to give the universal "just a sec" sign, so I took a sec to look over his potential lass. First off, her eyes were fixed on Tommy. Secondly, she was biting the inside of her lower lip. Third thing; the fingers of her left hand were fidgeting with last three inches of her chestnut hair. Fourth, and finally, her right thumb was stroking the neck of her Corona bottle.
I'd never seen a girl look at Tommy that way before. I just had to know what kind of girl my friend was landing.
When Tommy brought his attention back to me, I said, "She really likes you, man."
Tommy glanced at her then asked me, "How can you tell?"
I smiled and said, "I can smell it on her. What's her name?"
"Katherine."
I smirked and said, "What's her real name?"
Tommy smiled sheepishly and said, "Katsumi."
My eyebrows raised a little and I said, "Japanese girl, huh? What's Uncle Benny have to say about that?"
There was a distinct and audible "thud" as Tommy shrugged his shoulders and said, "This is America, Jack. Benny can think whatever he wants. It's not going to make a lick of difference, if he sees grandnephews."
I couldn't help myself. My eyes wide in shock I said, "Wow! Did it hurt?"
Tommy got a confused look on his face and said, "Did what hurt?"
I grinned and said, "Just now, when your balls dropped. You should really pick those things up, man. You don't want 'em dragging, you know."
Tommy smiled, embarrassed. He was used to my back-handed jokes and compliments, but they always hit close enough to home to make him blush a little, or a reasonable facsimile there of. Tommy has a good sense of humor though, and takes everything in stride. He adjusted himself accordingly, and sniffed with faux derision.
He said, "So, what do you need to see Benny about?"
"Irish guy, name of Robert Malloy. He's in the family way, and I need to know things that computers don't."
Tommy knew exactly what I was talking about. It's very difficult for Chinese americans to operate on the levels that Uncle Benny operates on without having connections with Triad. You've played six degrees of Kevin Bacon. You do the math.
Tommy nodded and headed over to the other side of the bar, yelling back at the irate customer who was in turn, yelling at him to "Stop dragging ass!"
Katsumi traveled the two seats down the bar to sit next to me. She moved with all the confidence of a dancer and all the grace of an inveterate office clerk.
She said, "So, you're the infamous Jack Bowman."
I gave her the most sober and suave look that I could manage. This consisted of one half raised eyebrow and a pale shadow of an Elvis sneer.
I said, "So, you're the infamous Katherine."
This was apparently quite amusing because the lovely Katsumi burst with laughter.
Tommy turned around with a jealous look on his face, which faded when he saw that it was me making her laugh. I'd been trying to hook that boy up since I met him. There was no way I'd try to make a move on his girl. The last girlfriend he'd had, left him to make internet porn with every Harry Dick and John that didn't mind being filmed. Besides, everyone who hangs out at Uncle Benny's know who I am. They know that I'm the reason that you don't mess with Uncle Benny or his family. From that night on, no one at that bar would ever try anything with Katsumi Shinobi.
When she was finished laughing, she brushed aside her hair with her left hand and offered me her right, saying, "Just call me Kat. It's easier."
I gave her a knowing smile and took her fingers in my hand. I said, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Kat. I'm sure you'll be seeing a lot more of me. This is my haunt after all."
I released her hand and she said, "Tommy's told me a lot about you. I must say that your apparent sense of honor impresses me."
Tommy has a habit of playing me up when he tells people about me. I said as much to Kat. We talked for about twenty minutes before Tommy called last call. She told me how she and Tommy had met on the blue line the week before. She said that she fell in love with him the second he gave up his seat for her. We talked about law school and dealing with cops. Kat was going in for small business law. I told her about my police liaison, Detective Ruiz, and about Percy and how we got into business together.
When last call was sounded, I excused myself and headed for the door. I would be walking home that night, as I do at least three nights a week. I've never gotten a DUI and I'd like to keep it that way.
I went to my car, grabbed my spy kit and started the trek two blocks north, to Stella.

Reunions

I found Victoria's choice of words unsettling, but hid my discomfort with practiced ease. Victoria led me into the hallway where she instructed me to turn my camera back on. We then went back out onto the balcony where we were met by writhing, sweaty bodies and the powerful voice of Peter Steele, singing "I like Goils" coming from the loud speakers. Coming out the door, we veered immediately to the left. We walked along the catwalk over the main floor. At the intersection, we came across a couple of furries engaged with one another. He had on an elaborate goat costume which had obviously received much love and care in the making. The mask, which as proportionately accurate as I've ever seen, featured glass eyes with amber irises framing the horizontal hourglass pupils. The horns were actual goat horns that had been etched in gold. The face itself actually had faux fur with tan, white, and black facial markings. Said mask was attached to a faux fur cowl with the same colors which draped down just past his chest in front, and down to form a tail at his posterior. On his forearms, he wore faux fur gauntlets. He wore a pair of faux fur speedos which apparently opened at the crotch, as well as faux fur leg warmers over a pair of hoof-like boots. His bare skin was airbrushed in the same colors and pattern as the cowl and mask.
His playmate was dressed as a red vixen. Her costume had obviously been constructed by the same hands that had produced the goat costume. Her face was covered by a tightly fitted faux fur vixen mask which connected to a cowl which came down to the middle of her back, but covered nothing of her natural endowments in front. Instead, it came down to her collarbone where it attached to full-length sleeves. If she had been wearing her own bikini at some point, it was long forgotten by now. All the bare skin on her backside, hips, thighs, feet and hands was air-brushed in red. All of her nails were painted black. She wore wrap lace six inch stiletto sandals underneath her leg warmers. The front of her from breast to box was blessedly bare. Her pale flesh was light enough a hue to simulate the white crest of the beast she wished to emulate.
With her hands gripped firmly around the guard rail, she pushed herself back into her lover's thrusts. As I followed Victoria along the catwalk, I noticed the fluff of red and white fur which indicated the tail and bikini which completed the vixen ensemble.
The section on the opposite wall where Victoria seemed to be taking me looked like a series of storage rooms filled with dim lighting and couches. Each of these little rooms had impromptu curtains hung at the entrance to offer a sense of privacy. There were seven rooms in all. Each looked to be about six feet square. Several of the rooms had the curtains drawn to hide the obvious activities going on inside. Were the music not blaring so loudly, I certainly would have heard the goings on that I had glimpsed on Victoria's security monitors.
When we reached the balcony, Victoria directed me to the right. We walked down to the fifth set of curtains. Victoria stopped, drew aside the curtain and guided me inside. Once inside the threshold, I had to stop short. I literally froze in place. The scent in this room was as familiar to me as my own, as familiar to me as the lithe yet curvaceous shape laying seductively across the couch in front of me. My nostrils flared of their own accord and my hackles raised, as it were.
Victoria stepped past me into the room and with a grand gesture said, "Norman MacQuade, I would like to introduce you to Synergy." Cynthia.
I released the breath that I hadn't realized I'd been holding. Memories flooded the room like a backwash of velvet covered boulders; each one hitting me hard, but not entirely unpleasantly. The smell of lilies and fresh cut grass overwhelmed all of my senses. For a moment, I was back in Beatrice's library, sitting on the divan in front of a warm fire in the middle of a very cold January with Cynthia's head resting on my chest. I recalled looking down at her oval face and watching the flames dance in her enormous amber eyes as it gently illuminated her high cheek bones and button nose. Though it was more than ten years ago, I could still feel her short, sugar blonde hair between my fingers. I could still feel her delicate fingers resting on my lower ribs. Her right shoulder tucked under my left, we laid wordlessly for hours, just enjoying the feeling of each other. She always said that she loved the way my skin felt; that we should just lay in bed all day some time, and just be naked with each other.
We never got the chance to do that. I left the commune after being there for only a year or so, and just never really kept in touch. The two months that I had with Cynthia were the brightest time that I can remember. It seems such a shame now that we were cut short so quickly.
Cynthia had changed certain things. Her hair was red now, a little darker than Victoria's almost burgundy curls. The sequined belly dancer costume was certainly a far cry from the baggy white sweater and tight jeans that she wore when I first met her. Overall though, she was still the same exact Cynthia who made me laugh until I cried, and made me cry when I needed to. I haven't cried in a very long time.
I did not miss a beat. I did not skip a step. I released Victoria's hand, took a step forward, then offered my hand to Cynthia saying, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Synergy."
She blushed when she took my hand, just like she had so many years ago. Then those terribly familiar words came tumbling out of her mouth, filling me with a sense akin to de javu. "Just call me Sin. Everyone else does."
Just like rote, the long unuttered words that I had almost never hoped to say again, "I could never call you a sin." For the first second time, I raised her proffered hand to my lips and kissed it. Just as it had then, her blush deepened and again, when I said once again, "It would make me a hypocrite."
Victoria stepped out silently with a look of approval plastered on her slightly pinched features.
When boss lady was gone, Cynthia jumped up and hugged me so tightly that I was afraid she might break my mp3 thing. Something did break though, I'll tell you that for free. The last decade or so just melted away and I wrapped my arms around her and breathed in her scent. I was twenty-one again and she, nineteen. We were standing under the mistletoe at Christmas dinner. The other hundred and fifty or so members of the commune were either sitting to eat, talking in their small cliques, or cutting a rug.
Just as suddenly, I was thirty-three again, and it was a frigid fucking February, and my hand was once again in her hair; three feet longer now than it had been then. I crept my hand up her neck, grabbed a handful of hair and twisted it tight. She gasped a little, then backed up with one eyebrow raised saying, "You always said you wanted to do that."
Her voice has this breathy quality that makes my heart slow down then skip a beat. When it was time to cool my temper, Cynthia was always the first person that everyone would turn to. Her voice quiets the beast. I cupped her left cheek in the palm of my hand and said, "What are you doing here?"
Cliché I know, but what else do you say in a situation like this?
She turned it around on me saying, "What are you doing with that ridiculous moustache? It looks like a Chihuahua scooted across your upper lip!" She sniffed the air and a look of revulsion crossed her face as if someone had thrown rotten meat at her. She said, "Oh God! You've been drinking! A lot."
I had no response for her; no witty retort about embalming or preservatives. I could only stand in silence while shame quietly crept over me. This was the woman that I measured all women up against. It didn't matter where she was or why she was there. She was still the same Cynthia that I remembered, and I had changed drastically in a downward direction.
Cynthia didn't let me remain morose. She quickly gave me a kiss, then rubbed her upper lip where my moustache made her itch. The humor of the scene made me smile though I still felt the pangs of guilt gnawing away at my subconscious. I heard that little bastard at the back of your head who likes to kick you when you're down. You know, the little fucker that's always wearing a blue and yellow baseball cap and a ripped red t-shirt. What the fuck are you thinking, you loopy cock-sucker?!? You think you can still measure up? When's the last time you went on the hunt? You're pathetic! In my head, he always sounds like a midget.
She sat me down on the couch, then sat down next to me and nuzzled her right shoulder under my left. She undid two of the buttons on my blue Hawaiian shirt and slid her hand inside to rest it on my stomach. All that was missing was the library and the fireplace. Almost as an afterthought, she sat up, snatched my glasses and tossed them on the table. Thankfully, they did not break. She looked me in the eyes and said, "Don't ever wear glasses around me. I've missed these eyes, and I wanna see 'em while I've got 'em."
Just then a disturbing thought occurred to me. I said. "Did you know that I was going to be here?"
Her face turned slightly stricken. She knew what I was thinking. Emotional attachments aside, how could I not have suspicions?
She bit her lip, embarrassed, then tapped her fingers on my chest and said, "I heard Vic mention your name yesterday. I was in shock, so I told her that I knew you. She asked me how long it had been since I'd seen you. I told her and then she told me to be here tonight. Don't usually do the parties. I just bartend next door."
At that moment, I was hit by a ton of bricks called relief. After what I've seen, I'm not sure how well I could handle my Cynthia being a dancer.
"Speaking of the bar," said she, "I have to be around guys who smell the way you do all night. If I'm gonna see you again, I wanna smell less of it."
I smiled at her and said, "Is that a threat? You gonna sic the dogs on me?"
She smirked and said, "You've seen the dogs that we have here."
Thoughts of Mr. Sweeney made me squirm a little. I said, "Yeah, about that. Do you know what you're in the middle of here?"
Cynthia blew a stay hair out of her face and said, "I know exactly where I am, mister. When I left the coven, I left their ways with them. I don't take after bigots like Donald. So long as we remain civilized, everyone gets along just fine."
"How much does she know about me?" The question was burning too hotly to be denied.
She hit me in the chest with her fist and said, "Probably more than I do. I haven't seen or even heard from you in twelve years. Ass! You could have at least sent me an e-mail."
Her eyes burned through me with the passionate fire which still sometimes invades my dreams. I never could turn away when she had that look. It was like staring into a vortex of inferno, flames dancing and swirling into each other in a scene that could have been choreographed by Fred Astaire.
She resumed her comfortable position under my arm and said, "I don't know how much Vic knows about you. She's a very tight-lipped human being. All I really know about her is that she's a fair boss, and that her brother hates her. I don't even know his name. She always just calls him, 'me bruther'. It seems kind of weird to me, a little too detached. It's like she doesn't really want to acknowledge him. You know what I mean?"
I certainly did. When the police were investigating the bank robbery and my brother's death, they never referred to him as Tony. They only ever called him "the victim". It takes a while, but eventually you become accustomed to detachment. It just becomes a part of the character that you have to assume to make it through the day; like rum, or whiskey. When you finally reach the point where you are no longer feigning aloofness, you should take a moment of silence to mourn the final passing of your childhood. I haven't called a victim by name in eight years.
She went on to say, "You know, Donald won't even let anyone say your name when he's around?"
I cocked my head to look at her face and said, "When did you see Donald?"
She turned her face up to look in my eyes and said, "About a year ago; when I left the coven."
"How long have you been working for the Malloys?"
She rolled her eyes in thought and said, "I've been working here for about eight months now. There's no real benefits, but the pay is good."
Without even thinking about it, I said, "Do you have your own place? I own an apartment building in the city on twentieth. We've got six apartments just taking up space, right now."
Three things happened. First: her eyes lit up like roman candles. Second: she blushed a bright scarlet. Third: she giggled like a school girl. Then, she said, "Don't ever let anyone ask you why I love you." Which she followed up with, "I've got a place in Russel with a two year lease. I don't want to think about how much they'd charge me for early termination."
I could easily cover any charges that her slum land-lord might lay against her, (who the fuck makes you sign a two year lease anymore?) but I bit my tongue. I wouldn't want her to feel beholden to me. Freedom of choice has always been very important to me and I would not assume to take that freedom from someone else, no matter how good my intentions.
I decided that changing the topic might be good tac. I said, "What made you leave the coven?" I hadn't called it a coven in a very long time, so the word stumbled clumsily off my tongue rather like a sailor walking sown the wharf on his second night of shore leave. Certain things are by rule when you separate yourself from the commune. First, and foremost: you don't talk about the commune to outsiders. I've only ever talked to Percy about it. Second: if the commune calls you, you answer. I've never had to worry about that one.
Cynthia just stared off at the curtains for a moment then said, "It was Jody."
I thought about it for a moment. When I couldn't match the name to a face, I said, "Who?"
She waved her hand dismissively and said, "You don't know him. He joined the coven maybe three years ago. Immediately, he was obsessed with me; didn't stop hounding me till the day I left. That, and he was one of Donald's clique, so of course Donald kept on pushing for him. He kept on telling me to give Jody a chance. It was all bullshit. He just wanted to have something over me because he hates you so much. Finally, I just got fed up. I went to Bea, told her I was leaving; she set everything up and out the door I went. No one knows where I am but you and Bea."
That was good to hear. Beatrice is good people, but I fear it won't be too long before Donald makes a move to knock her out of the power seat. When that happens, I may just have to bring myself out of exile. I know Bea'll call me then.
By this point, we had been talking for a good fifteen minutes, and I didn't want to stop, but I was working. I was working on a time limit at that. That was why Victoria had put me into this room with Cynthia in the first place. She wanted me to spend the rest of my time at the party catching up and reminiscing. She really didn't know me. I knew that it would kill this warm, comfortable mood, but I said it anyway.
"So, Victoria said that you're supposed to escort me around the party."
Cynthia dug her nails into my stomach and gave me the look of anguish that I knew was coming.
"You're working."
She knew that work was the only thing that would make me break a moment like this. Of course, If she hadn't known that I was working, she didn't know who I was working for, and I really didn't want to tell her. Thankfully though, I think that she was too upset to ask. Instead, when I nodded she said, "Of course you're working. I've been dreaming of this for twelve years; imagining what I would say to you, what I would do to you. I'll tell you right now, mister; it wasn't all as nice as you got."
I could imagine. That's why I stopped her talking by grabbing her by the back of the neck and kissing her; kissing her the way that I'd been wanting to for so long. This was the kind of kiss that soldiers dream about getting upon their home-coming; the kind of kiss that makes other people blush when they walk in on it.
In that kiss, everything was right. It felt as natural as slipping into my battered bomber; true as the rain on my face. It felt like coming home after trudging through fields, knee-deep in dead bodies. In all honesty, I've seen enough dead bodies to make that analogy fit.
When I released her, she had a dazed and happy look on her face which she promptly shook off before smacking me and saying, "Did I give you permission?"
I simply smiled, scooped her up into my arms and stood up. She squealed and giggled, and I knew that I was forgiven.
She buried her face in my neck and bit me, hard. It'd been so long since anyone touched me the way that she does that I very nearly said, "Fuck work," and threw her back down on the couch. I didn't though. I set her down on her feet and picked up my glasses from the table. They weren't broken, but they had shut off when Cynthia tossed them down. I pressed the button on the right wing until the green light flashed twice to indicate that they were in working order. I checked my recorder to see if it was running. I had to turn it back on as well. This was a good thing. It meant that no one else would hear our conversation. I didn't need Robert finding anything to hold over me. It was bad enough that one mob boss knew that Cynthia and I have a past. If things like that get around, it can cause problems quickly. Look at Superman.
As I was gathering myself, Cynthia reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my phone. She quickly dialed her cell phone, then with a satisfied expression, placed my phone back in it's proper place.
I was absolutely amazed. I said, "How did you know what pocket that was in?"
She smiled an impish grin and said, "That's the pocket that you always kept your phone book in. Now you can't just ditch out on me again."
I didn't say anything. Nothing needed to be said. I simply cupped her face in my hand and smiled. She put her hand over mine and pressed it tight against her face. With my thumb, I wiped away the single tear that had welled up and run down her cheek.
"I've missed this," she said, then took my hand and led me out through the curtain.
I'd like to say that Cynthia and I had a grand adventure at the mystical, magical, fetish party. I'd like to say that we made more than our fair share of noise. Truth be told, Cynthia simply took me back downstairs and escorted me around, introduced me to all the right people like a good little girl, and when my time was up she escorted me to the door. We kissed goodnight and I started the trek to my car.
God, that was the longest party ever.
In the parking lot, I heard a constant rustling in the snow all the way to my car. Once I reached my car and opened the door, the light from inside illuminated something small and furry just behind me and to the right.
Did you know that it takes less than three pounds of pressure to crush a rat's head? That's assuming of course, that you are faster than the rat. My boot came down with the full force of my weight behind it. The satisfying crunch and squish told me that I was indeed faster than the rat. I crouched down to inspect the rodent and found a now ruined lipstick camera strapped to it's back. I lifted my leg and sniffed at my pants cuff. Smelling nothing, I repeated the process with the other leg. This time, I gagged and almost threw up. I pulled down the cuff and out fell a piece of moldy green cheese.
Nonplussed, I kicked the rat off into the woods, got in my car, slammed the door, turned on Little Willy John, and started on my way home.

Chapter 4

I could tell that she didn't believe me. Still though, I went on as if nothing were amiss. I said, "So, what kind of compensation are we talking about here?"
She motioned to the chair that I had so recently vacated and said, "Why don't ye take yer seat, Mr. Bowman? I find it's best to discuss business upon one's posterior."
I smiled and sat down. This was going to be an interesting discussion. I decided to let Victoria lead this dance because… well, she had the upper hand. She knew it too. I could tell by the smug smirk on her pale, be freckled, mick face. Don't get too uppy. I'm a kraut mick, myself. She knew that I knew that she had me by the balls, and she liked it.
Rather than just putting an offer on the table, like most rich rubes that I come across, Victoria started by asking me questions; questions like, "How much do ye generally charge fer yer services, Mr. Bowman?"
Rather than embellishing like I would have done with any common wealthy dupe, I said, "I charge five-hundred a day for footwork; minimum of two days. I charge two-hundred per picture disc, and three per video."
Victoria nodded and said, "Those numbers would put ye in the top thirty percent as far as p.i.s go, wouldn't they?"
I was fucking insulted. I said, "Statistically, I'm in the top fifteen percent, fuck you very much."
Victoria narrowed her eyes and took a drag from her second cigarette. She said, "With a mouth like yours, I'm surprised you keep yourself fed."
I glanced down at my lean frame and said, "Barely." Not true, but who the fuck really cares.
A spark of recognition lit in Victoria's eyes and she said, "Ye work with the police alot. I saw ye on the box a couple of years ago. Ye helped the cops bring down old man Sanccini for racketeering and murder."
Fucking newsies. They'll end my career for me; violently! I shrugged my shoulders and said, "Evil twin?"
Victoria laughed and said, "Ye have a sense of humor, Mr. Bowman. That's a good thing," her expression turned suddenly stony as she said, "because I don't."
The finality of that "I don't" made my skin crawl like a thousand spiders. She waved it off though, and said, "I d'nae care if ye work with the police. Obviously yer scruples are a bit out of the ordinary. What I do care about, Mr. Bowman, is that the people who work fer me, do so with my best interests at heart. This keeps me working with their best interests at heart. Do ye ken?"
I did. I kenned quite well enough. Visions of fire dancing through my building, with me and my bull-shi-tzu still inside, entered quite freely into my mind. I nodded, and she continued. She said, "Good. Now, I would like very much te know how much my bruther is payin' ye."
I could tell that I was so not going to take the lead again, but I decided to try anyway. I said, "Alot."
Victoria smirked. The music downstairs had taken a turn toward rock and roll. The DJ was playing "Runaround Girl" by the Bodyrockers. Victoria's left pinky was tapping to the beat as she said. "You are a very frustrating person, Mr. Bowman. Perhaps I should have Mr. Sweeney come in from the hall and persuade ye te be a bit more amicable."
After what I had seen and smelled in the hallway, I really didn't want that. I was suddenly in a much more accommodating mood. I said, "Seven-fifty a day and regular price for the extras."
She smiled cheerily and said, "Much better. Why don't ye take those numbers and double it then, Mr. Bowman."
I nearly came in my pants. This was better than the first time that a girl lifted her ass off the couch so that I could pull down her pants; not by much, but better none-the-less. Fifteen-hundred a day for footwork alone; I was slightly flabbergasted. I said, "Now, when you say double…"
She nodded her head and said, "Yes, Mr. Bowman. I mean everything. As extra incentive for ye te do an extra good job, I'm even willing te trow in whatever equipment ye need as a sign on bonus."
The term, "sign on bonus" caught my attention. When I asked her about it, she said, "Look, I d'nae really have the time or even the inclination te try te earn yer trust, Mr. Bowman. What I do have is the money and the power te buy it. When I say sign on bonus, what I mean is that I could use a man like you in my organization; a man who does nae stand out, who is good at shadowing people unnoticed. I need a man with police ties, who is nae afraid to buck authority every now and then.
If ye get me what I need and do it in a timely fashion, ye just might have a future working for me."
I started to argue that I only work for myself, but she cut me off saying, "I do nae expect ye te come to board meetings, or change yer office location, or even ennythin' like that. What I'm sayin' is that if ye do yer job well, I would like te keep ye on retainer at an on call fee of fifteen percent. Does that sound fair then?"
Fuck, dude. Fifteen percent would cover all my monthly bills. For a moment, I just sat there slack jawed and starry eyed. When I felt tears of joy welling up in my eyes, I forced myself to regain my composure. It would do no good to start blubbering all over myself. My throat was closing up a little bit from heavy emotions and I had to beat my chest a couple times and clear my throat. Victoria opened the bottom right drawer of her desk and pulled out a half full bottle of Maker's Mark and two nine ounce rocks glasses. She poured two fingers into each glass and handed one to me as she took in the aroma of her own. I saluted her with my glass, then downed the whole thing in one big gulp. The bitter-sweet fluid burned it's way down to my stomach, opening everything back up as it went.
The liquor was laced with marijuana resin. I could tell by the stringent after-taste. I was not happy that I was being drugged, but at least I knew that it wouldn't incapacitate me. I set down my glass and thanked my hostess for her hospitality. She asked if I would like another, and I politely declined, saying that any more liquor might put me to sleep behind the wheel. She just smiled knowingly.
She set down her glass and said, "So, do we have a deal then, Mr. Bowman?"
I knew that the drink had been drugged, but drugged can be to cover poisoned. I hadn't seen Ms. Malloy drink from her glass, so I thought it best to make sure that if I went to the ER, so did she.
I said, "I'll call Percy as soon as that glass is empty."
She smiled and tossed back her drink as quickly as I had downed my own. I was already starting to feel the effects of the THC, so I pulled out my phone and dialed the office immediately so that I could speak to Percy before it was too apparent that I was stoned. Percy picked up after two rings, and before he could give his customary greeting, I said, "Percy, could you check and see if we've got any blank retainer contracts?"
Percy answered my question with his own saying, "How much is she going to pay us?"
When I told Percy how much Ms. Malloy was willing to pay, I heard him topple to the floor as his chair rolled out from under him. I heard him scramble to his feet as he said, "Please; oh God please, don't tell me that you're joking."
I confirmed that it was indeed the truth, and he said, "Is this the same kind of deal as with the brother?"
I told Percy to hold on for a sec, and turned my attention to Victoria. I said, "How often do you want your reports?"
Without hesitation, she said, "I want yer assistant te repart te me via phone, daily, whether ye've sumthin' te repart or not. For some reason, I feel that he will be more forthcoming with me. Also, I want you te repart te me here, in person, any time that ye've sumthin' concrete. I will pay ye retroactively upon each personal repart. As te yer sign on bonus; I will be givin' ye a black card before ye leave her so that I can track what ye've parchaced fer equipment. It will be a new card that I will activate online tomorrow under yer agency name, in affiliation with my lawyer's firm."
I took a moment and processed all of this, then un-muted my phone. To Percy, I said, "I'd say that we've got a better deal here. Why don't you fax over one standard contract with the modified numbers, and a retainer contract."
My speech had already slowed from the THC in my drink. This did not pass Percy's notice. He said, "Jack?"
I said, "Yeah?"
"Are you stoned?"
"Not by choice."
"Drink a Monster before you try driving anywhere."
"Sure thing, mom."
Percy's disapproval oozed out of my phone; none-the-less he got right on the fax, and we hung up. Victoria raised her eyebrows at the fact that I had not once asked for her office fax number. A moment later, when it rang and started printing in the cabinet where it was hidden, she looked in it's general direction and said, "Y'are very thorough, Mr. Bowman."
I just smiled. Now she had an inkling of what I knew about her. Now she had an idea of what I had to offer. Now, I had an advantage. Yeah, right! Advantage, my lily white ass! If I'd known everthing about the Malloy family, I'd have grabbed that contract from the fax machine, and then and there, shoved it up Victoria Malloy's pert little ass with a splintered piece of balsa wood; but I digress.
Victoria rolled her chair over to the cabinet; a distance of no more than two feet, then opened it to reveal the smallest, sleekest, most modern looking fax machine that I'd ever seen. Instead of buttons all over the place, it had a ten inch lcd touch screen panel framed by a two inch thick pitch black chassis. The paper fed in from underneath to be almost magically transmogrified into exact replicas of the two different contracts that every gumshoe should have on hand in his top left desk drawer.
Victoria tore the sheets off at the perforations. Each contract is seven pages of legalese that I don't understand so much as appreciate. It's kept my butt out of big bald Bubbah's hands on several occasions. We sat for almost an hour, pouring over the details and particulates of our future working relationship. Were Victoria a more sentimental person, it might have taken longer, but thankfully her god is gold and she has enough god to make things move at the pace that she wants.
We filled out the standard, signed it, and made two copies so that I would have a back up, just in case. The retainer, we filled out, but did not sign. Ms. Malloy placed it in a file folder marked, BOWMAN in bold black letters on the tab, then placed said folder back into the file cabinet left of the fax machine. It was agreed that we would sign it upon a satisfactory completion of her pending case.
My eyes were burning from the cigarette smoke after half an hour, so I was more than happy to be done with business in Victoria's office. After everything was in it's place, Victoria pulled out from her bottom right drawer, a simple black envelope with a security number on it. From this envelope, she produced the mythical black card. I'd heard about law firms and banks using black cards as a form of payment or compensation, but I had never actually seen one before. There was not a jot of color marring the jet black surface except for the magnetic strip on the back, and the sixteen digit card number emblazoned in silver.
Victoria held the card up in the air as if to taunt me and said, "This card has no upper limit. It is only to be used to parchase equipment. All parchases made on this card will automatically be noted in my accountant's e-logs. Enny parchases not falling under the parameters of professional private investigation will result in cancellation of the card. If ye use it to buy booze, you will be immediately terminated." Anyone could understand what she meant by terminated. "Do we have an accord, Mr. Bowman?"
I looked her steadily in the eye and said, "Yes, we do."
She handed me the card which disappeared into my trifold wallet before she even realized that I had pulled it out. She radioed security, letting them know that I was coming back down to the party, and that I was to be allowed wherever I liked for the next hour.
After setting down the two way radio, she looked at me and said, "Just a couple more things, Mr. Bowman."
I raised my eyebrows, not really knowing what to expect. She could be preparing to ask me for a cough drop. She could be getting ready to ask me for a kidney. It was one of those pot luck moments where you know that something is coming directly at your head because you can see it getting bigger and bigger, but you just can't quite tell what it is, and you have two choices. You can either catch it and roll with it, or you can let it smash into your cranium and knock you over. Fully prepared to relinquish full custodial rights to my first-born, I nodded my head and said, "Such as?"
In that moment, her eyes looked truly old. If I had to guess Victoria's age, I would put her on the lighter side of thirty. For just a second though; one tick of the universal clock, as if a stray memory had lowered it's own brief little curtain of morose sensitivity, her eyes reflected much closer to a hundred years on this here spinning ball. Considering some of the things that I've seen in this line of work, it wouldn't have surprised me in the least to find out that those eyes gave a more accurate reflection than the firm and sensuous body that housed them.
The shadow of reminiscence passed as quickly as it had come. She looked up from her silent reverie with the same icy gaze that she had favored me with upon our first meeting down in the party. Projecting a creeping frost across the massive expanse of the oaken desk in my general direction she said, "I'm certain that ye noticed the calibre of certain among my guests."
I simply nodded. I didn't need to tell her how many a-list faces were on my little mp3 recorder. I also did not need to hear her request to know what it would be.
"I and my friends would be extremely grateful if ye were to do some creative editing on this disc before turning it in to my bruther."
At that moment, I smelled the sweet aroma of opportunity again. What can I say? When opportunity comes knocking, I don't ask for credentials. I straightened up, leaned forward and asked, "How grateful?"
The frost halted in mid creep and Victoria narrowed her eyes and said, "That depends on yer definition of gratitude."
I steepled my fingers and stared at my nails for a moment in mock thought before saying, "I want to hire on a crew. I figure three k a week should be enough."
Victoria pursed her lips in silent indignation for a moment. Perhaps she had thought me above extortion. When you live on the back fence of the law, no one is above a little extortion. Wordlessly, she reached into her left bottom drawer and pulled out an over-stuffed rolodex. She quickly flipped three quarters of the way around, and pulled out a business card, then slid it across the desk.
There was nothing especially strange about this card. It smelled like paper and ink. It was stiff the way that a business card should be. The number on the card was a seven-seven-three number. The only thing that truly struck me as odd was the name. Aside from the number, it was the only thing on the card, and it was just one word; Punch.
I laughed quietly at my own private irony then said, "Punch?"
Victoria shrugged with a lax daisy expression on her face and said, "Punch is my accountant. That's the name that he used when I met him. That's the name that I know. I'm sure that I must have heard his real name at one time or another. I've since forgotten. It doesn't matter. Call him tomorrow. Tell him that Vic wants ye te have a stack of applications. He'll have them in your hands before the end of the day."
Isn't it nice when someone brings prime rib to the pot luck dinner?
It took an effort for me to keep from smirking, but I did it. I said, "Percy will made the necessary changes. No one will know that your friends were ever here. Now, as to the other thing?"
Victoria stood up and came around the desk. She said, "Ye will allow yerself te be escarted by a person of my choosing for the remainder of your visit here."
I tucked Punch's card into my inside pocket, stood myself up, and said, "It's not going to be Sweeney Tank out there, is it?"
Victoria actually laughed a bit of a real laugh, and I could smell the jasmine and patchouli that is her scent. Her jade green eyes sparkled, revealing a hint of the youth that she still had left over. She snatched up my left hand and said, "No no, Mr. Bowman. I wasn't lying when I told you that someone wants to meet you. You caught the eye of one of my girls down there. She has a thing for mangy, lone-wolf types."

Party Animals 2

October 31, 2008 - Friday  Spider Lake Blues chapter 3 by: MJ Carson Current mood:Exhausted  Category: Writing and Poetry    I didn't have a whole lot of choice,  I had no idea how she had caught me following her.  No one had been able to do that the whole ten years that I had been in business.  I really am just that good.  I sat down in the chair, which looked like one that you might find in the waiting room of a high class shrink; the kind that tells celebrities that there is something horribly wrong with them, and that they should schedule regular appointments.    Ms. Malloy leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk.  She pressed her fingertips together and said, "So, let me see if I've got all the particulars here.  My bruther paid you to follow me around while I do my shoppin' all week, and now he has the gaff to send you into my club so that he can show Da what a very naughty girl I've been.  Does that sound about right?    I folded my hands in my lap, and cocked my head to the side and said, "I guess it wouldn't do me any good to say that I have an evil twin, would it?"    Victoria smiled sadly and said, "Yer brother is dead, Mr. Bowman, and we both know that I'm the one with the evil twin brother."    I'm fairly certain that she didn't mean to hurt me by saying that, but the mention of my brother, Tony made my heart skip and the old pain surface a little.  I pushed the pain back down into the deeper recesses of my psyche and resumed my faux calm.  The whole while, my palms were sweating so profusely that I don't think I could have held onto my gun even if I had brought it with me.  Never the less, I was having a fantasy at that moment about shooting my way out of the warehouse, and speeding home at roughly an hundred and ten miles an hour.    Victoria, ignoring my discomfort, leaned back in her chair, put her feet up on her desk, and said, "How much is the little leach paying ye then?"    Now it was my turn to impress.  I leaned back myself and said, "I set my own prices."    The look on Victoria's face was satisfying, I guess.  A slightly raised eyebrow, and minor pursing of the lips doesn't mean much on most people's faces.  Something gave me the feeling though, that Victoria Louise Malloy was not easily impressed.  Her next question told me that I had made a deeper impression than I had thought.    She said, "What if, Mr. Bowman, I wanted to acquire yer services?  Professionally speaking, of course."     Did you just hear that knocking sound?  I did.  It sounded distinctly like opportunity, and it's so easy to open the door and let the devil in.  I considered for a moment, how best to approach this newly evolving situation.  If I said the right things, not only would I make it out of the club alive, I might make it out with a profitable contract in hand.  I decided that I would play the loyal employee.    I said, "You have to understand, Ms. Malloy; if I were to even consider taking work from you, that it would put me at an ethical conflict of interests."    Victoria smiled.  She knew this tune, and was ready to dance.  She said, "I understand yer reservations, Mr. Bowman.  I can assure ye however, that my interests lie along the same lines as yer own."    I gave her my "Oh, really" look and said, "And what lines would those be?"    She raised her eyebrows in mock innocence and said, "Why, self interest of course.  I know that my bruther means me harm, and I don't want him to succeed."    Boy, I was sure feeling the love in this family.  It was feeling kind of like salt on an acid burn.  I said, "When you and Bobby were kids, did your parents often starve you then stick you in a room with a single plate of food to see who would prevail?"    That may have been the wrong thing to say.  Victoria's eyes narrowed, and she said, "Ye should ken, Mr Bowman; my family carries a great deal of influence down in the city.  It would be prudent for ye to curb yer snide tongue with me."    I was tempted to laugh in her face, but I could tell that she was serious.  Instead, I made another snide comment.  I said, "Funny, you don't look Italian."    Obviously, Ms. Malloy had heard that one before.  She shrugged her shoulders, which sent a kind of ripple out into the ether from her elfin frame.  She said, "The Italians own the unions and the bookies, not the bars."    This time I did laugh; at myself.  Sometimes I can be quite blind; not to mention dumb.  I said, "Irish mob.  Wow!  I thought you people died off when Daily got into office."  Bobby apparently didn't feel that it was necessary to let me know that I was getting involved in a mafioso power struggle.    Ms. Malloy smiled and said, "We are very much alive and well Mr. Lone Wolf MacQuaid. Thank ye however, fer proving that y'are indeed smarter than the average street thug.  Perhaps we could continue with this negotiation then, or would you prefer that I have Mr. Sweeney out in the hall there, escort ye off the premises?"    The way that she said escort made me picture alot of blood and bruising.  I decided that she was right.  It would be prudent of me to curb my tongue.  Of course, I would only curb it as far as I fucking felt necessary.  I did also notice that as Victoria grew more sure of her position in this transaction, the more she reverted to a slight Irish garble.  This showed that she was getting a little cocky.  I needed to maintain with her that I myself am not one to be fucked around.   I said, "If I decide to do more than listen to you, and that's a big fucking if, what would I be expected to do?"    Victoria was taken slightly aback by my defiant nature.  She put her feet on the floor and dug around in the top right desk drawer for a moment.  She pulled out a pack of non-filtered Pall Mall cigarettes and a long black cigarette stem.  She pulled one of her advanced cancer sticks out and placed it in the wide end of the stem.  She tossed the pack back into the drawer, then produced a Zippo lighter that looked like it had been through world war two.  She closed the drawer then lit her fag.  The smell of naphtha made me gag a little inside.  It completely overwhelmed the smell of patchouli and sandalwood that had previously odored the office.  She then tossed the lighter on the desk and began to talk again.    She said, "Ye wouldn't really be doin' ennythin' different from what ye're doin' now sir.  I will pay ye te keep tabs on me bruther fer as long as it takes te catch him doin' sumthin' so bad that Da will completely ferget about ennythin that he'll see on this video.  Don't be too long about it though.  The doctors give Da less than a year to live."    Vic's got balls; I gotta give her that.  She sat there puffing happily away at her doctor's meal ticket, letting me process all of this.  I had just about chewed right through it when something about the way she spoke struck me.  I looked her in the eye through the heavy smoke and said, "You talk like you're the head of the corporation."    She shrugged again, and again it gave the same disconcerting rippling effect; as if she had some kind of supernatural control within these walls.  She said, "When Da passes on, I'll have at least half ownership."    Whoa!  Bobby didn't let on to even an iota of all this happy horse shit.    Noticing the painfully astonished expression on my face, Ms. Malloy felt it necessary to point out the obvious.  She said, "My bruther did nae tell you."    Duh!!!    I was already embarrassed enough without having it pointed out how limited my information was.  I just glared at her for a moment, watching her blow smoke rings as her half smoked cigarette seemed to hover at the end of the stem.  She seemed to ignore the fact that the ash at the end of her fag was more than an inch long, so too did the ash.  It clung to the rest of the cigarette, refusing to fall on the perfectly tidy surface of the desk.    Victoria grabbed a small marble ashtray that I had missed earlier, from behind the phone.  As she finally ashed her atomic c-bomb she said, "Are ye really mulling over me offer there Mr. Bowman, or do ye just like long uncomfertable silences?"    I exhaled a long breath and said, "I think I'd like to talk to my partner first.  Do you have any private rooms in here?"    Victoria chuckled and gestured to the surveillance monitors which showed multiple views of every room in the building, including Victoria's office.  The two small speakers on the bottom shelf brought Victoria's point into sharp relief.  She said, "Why don't ye just use my phone?  I saw ye eyein' it when ye came in."    Despite the thought of how it would feel to speak into a gold and ivory handset, I was not even the least bit tempted.  The phone was obviously tapped, and I really don't like people hearing both sides of my phone conversations.  I fidgeted nervously at my jacket lapels and said, "How about this?  I don't want to see you listening in on me."    Victoria shrugged again and said, "Fair enough, Mr. Bowman.  Just go out into the hallway then.  Mr. Sweeney's half deaf.  He won't hear ye unless ye're yellin'.    I nodded, stood up, and walked my happy ass out into the hall.  Once I closed the door behind me, I promptly pulled out my silver hip flask and took a swig of the blessed Bacardi 151 inside.  Then I took another swig for good measure and pulled out my trusty Nokia.  I really shouldn't call it "trusty".  It was my fifth phone since starting my plan with Cingular wireless two years ago.  I'm presently on my seventh phone with this plan.  My line of work doesn't lead to cellular longevity.    I dialed up the office, and Percy answered with the customary greeting, "Bowman and Baxter Private Investigative Services; this is Percy Baxter speaking.  How may I help you?"    Hearing that heavily pronounced lisp sent me a little over the edge.  I said,  "Why are you still my partner?"    I ask Percy that question at least twice in an investigation, and at least twice an investigation, he says, "Because no one else will tolerate you for long.  Not even your own-"    Privacy being a strong imperative in my life (not to mention, I just didn't want to hear it at that moment) I interrupted saying, "Hold that thought."    Percy was quiet for a moment, then he said, "Oh, someone's listening.  Are you on a secure line?"    I must confess, I let my temper get the better of me for a moment because I said, "Of course someone's listening, you tootie fruity twit!  Why else would I call before check in?  And as to a secure line, I'm on my cell."    Percy, being the expert on appropriate timing, decided that this would be an appropriate time for a joke.  He said, "Well maybe you might call because you miss me.  A girl can hope."    When I didn't answer to the taunt, Percy switched back to business mode.  He said, "So, the job's been botched."    Oh Percy.  You and your firm grip on the obvious.    I tried, oh how I tried to think of something, anything to say other than "yes and no".  Failing utterly, I said, "Yes and no."    Sticking to the subject, thankfully, Percy said, "So, what went wrong?"    For once, Percy was giving me the opportunity to set the blame for a screw-up on shoulders other than mine.  I was so not going to pass this up.  I said, "Our intel was incomplete.  Apparently, the mark's resources are greater than we gave her credit for."    I never talk like that unless I'm about to blow.  Usually, I have some colorful punctuations to my speech.  Percy knows this, but I really don't think he cares if he pisses me off.  Honestly, I think he enjoys it sometimes.  Ignoring my obvious state, he said, "What do you mean, our intel was incomplete?  I did nothing but research the Malloy family for the last week."    St. Edna's got nothing on me.  I let loose saying, "Yeah, well you could have dug a little fucking deeper, princess; so you could tell me that our fucking, shit heel client is the son of a goddamn Irish mob boss!  That way, I could have told that slimy son of a whore some bullshit excuse or another as to why we could no longer follow around his devious bitch sister.  That way, I wouldn't be standing here outside her fucking office while she listens to me calling her a devious bitch, you prancing pony push monkey!"    One of the fluorescent lights at the far end of the hall flickered violently, catching my attention.  I glanced over in time to see the very large, very robust Mr. Sweeney unfastening the safety strap on his shoulder holster.  This sight prompted me to reign in my temper a little.  Victoria could easily tell him on that little earpiece of his that the walls could use a fresh coat of brain matter gray.    Percy however, was under no such constraints.  He went off on his own little "Leary rant" saying, "OK, first off, Jack; even with our capabilities, certain things are going to slip past.  Second: mob heir is not something you often find on someone's online profile.  Third: in the ten years that we've been in this business, you have not once put forth any real effort to hire on some decent help, and don't you even mention that girl back in '99.  She left after just three months!"    I was fairly certain that I was not to blame for that debacle, so I stepped up to defend myself saying, "Hey now, Ashley left because she thought you were getting too friendly with her boyfriend."    This is a good example of how I often have no idea what's going on, socially speaking.  Percy often tells me that I need to pay attention to those that are close to me the way that I pay attention to marks and clients.  He counter-attacked, and completely blew away my feeble defenses saying, "No, see, that's what she said that she would tell you.  The truth is that she couldn't take working for an alcoholic, and your abusive language was driving her to seek therapy.  You wanna try another?"    Speaking of alcoholic; I took another swig of rum to keep from raising my voice again, and attracting more of Mr. Sweeney's attention.  I did think about trying another, but the warmth running down my throat carried some of the heat of my temper down with it.  I imagined Percy sitting in his chair in the office, tapping his left index finger against his teeth, waiting for me to respond.  When I made no further argument, he said, "So, how is it 'yes and no', Jack?    Sometimes he can be worse than a wife.  I guess that's what I get for partnering up with a homosexual.  I suppose the stress of my situation could have been worse.  I don't care to think of how.  Working for the mob is not a stress point for me.  I've done it before.  No what was really stressing me was that I didn't know that I was working for the mob.  I have a knack for knowing who I'm dealing with beyond just their name and number.  Some would call it a sixth sense.  Something had smelled... off about Robert Malloy from the start.  I had let it go because the money was just too good to pass up.  Standing in that hallway, I was regretting not listening to my nose.    I crouched down and leaned up against the wall.  Then I said, "She wants to hire us."    I could hear the gears in Percy's head whirring smoothly before he said, "Same thing like Robert wanted?"    With my free hand, I began massaging my forehead and said, "Yup."    Percy said, "What's the pay?"    I continued massaging my forehead saying, "She's willing to negotiate."    Percy jumped on that notion like a tabby on a wounded rabbit.  He said, "Well, why don't you see if you can negotiate enough for us to hire on a few people.  Maybe then we can start taking on some of these smaller cases that keep calling us.  Don't you ever get sick of every case being of the overly dangerous kind?  Besides, it's not like you're still paying the mortgage on this place."    Percy had a point.  It would be nice to be able to call my mom and actually talk to her about a case that I'm on.  After ten years, it get's kind of tiring, looking for moles in big companies, and tracking down various low-lifes for the police and mafia.  The kind of people who don't have a problem putting people like me through a wood chipper.  Don't laugh.  That actually happened to one of my colleagues; two days before the police handed the case to me.  My line of work doesn't lend much to longevity of any kind.  Generally, you're lucky if you quit drinking and start teaching classes to other wannabe p.i.s.  Big cases pay the bills with a little extra sometimes, but they're far too dangerous to keep doing them your whole life."    I asked Percy, "What do you want to do with this then?"    I could hear the creaking of Percy's chair as he leaned back in thought.  He said, "How are you playing it right now?"    I smirked and said, "You are a good and loyal employee, Percy.  I don't know what I would do without you."    When you're in my line of work, it's good to have a list of code phrases for situations just like this.  Just make sure it's something you would never say otherwise.  Percy came up with most of ours.  I'm no good at that sort of thing.    Understanding perfectly, Percy said, "Is she really swallowing that crap, or are you just underestimating her like you've done all week?"    Calling up another of our code phrases, I said, "Just stick it in a piece of meat.  He'll eat it."  Not really, but it doesn't matter.  "The vet said he has to take all of them."  If we don't take the deal, it's going to get messy.    I could feel beads of sweat welling up on my back as I waited for Percy's answer.  Finally, he said, "See what she'll offer, then call me so I can send over the proper papers." *click*    Percy hung up without even wishing me luck.  Worse than a wife; just like I said.  Putting away my phone, I stared at the hip flask in my other hand.  The fiery fluid inside called to me, beckoning me to have another swig; take another draught of instant courage.  I ignored it's siren song and tucked it back inside my back pocket.    Just then, I noticed something that most people wouldn't, couldn't really.  Mr. Sweeney, the very spatially domineering, seemed to do something that he shouldn't have been able to.  Perhaps he had just been tugging his nose hairs, but I was fairly certain of what I saw.  While his back was turned, I crept a little ways down the hall to confirm my suspicion.  As I got closer, I took in the smells around me.  The air was saturated with the smells of cheap and stale perfumes and colognes mingled with body odor and sex.  As I got closer, I shut those smells out of my consciousness; only one smell mattered to me now.    I only got a few feet before Mr. Sweeney turned back around, but it was enough.  I was certain now that the shit that I was in came to my eyes and not just to my waist.  I had underestimated Victoria more severely than I had thought.  Apparently, her ties ran deeper than just old bootleggers and hit men.  This did not however, change my game plan.  If I was to get out of that place at all,  Victoria could not be allowed to know that I was aware of her business practices.    Checking to make sure that my testicles were in their proper place, I turned back around and headed back into Ms. Malloy's office.  Victoria switched off the speaker box and swiveled around to face me.    She gave me a sly smirk and said, "So, what kind of dog do ye have, Mr. Bowman?"    I gave her a smirk of my own and said, "He's a shi-tzu."

Party animals

October 29, 2008 - Wednesday 

Spider Lake Blues chapter 2 by: MJ Carson Current mood:Sanguine  Category: Writing and Poetry    The invitation didn't come with directions, and as a result, I spent half an hour driving up and down Rt 41/94 between Illinois and Wisconsin.  Finally, I stopped at the truck stop on Russel Rd and asked for directions.  As luck would have it, the girl behind the counter said that her sister worked there and was able to give me directions.  The lyrics "follow the road 'till you see a road you think's not a road and take it" come to mind.    Victoria's club was literally back in the woods.  She'd set up shop almost a quarter of a mile off the main road.  I had to drive down a dirt path to get to the parking lot, which was so full by the time that I got there that I had to park back by the trees.  I half expected a bear to come out and attack me.  It took me about five minutes just to get from my car to the door.    When I reached the door, there was a very large Italian bouncer with a scanner pen.  I handed him my card, he scanned it, threw it in a bin to his right, and waved me in.    This was not a party.  This was an orgy of roman proportions.  I mean this place had everything a perv could want.  There were models, actors, strippers, and even midgets, mingling and mingling with guests and each other to the sound of a woman's fake orgasm set to a heavy techno beat.  Brightly colored twirling lights in the ceiling revealed more than an hundred sweaty bodies in various states of undress, either dancing or in some form of sexual activity.    There were steel catwalks crisscrossing over the main floor, connecting the four corners of the wrap around steel balcony.  These were filled with party goers till I thought that they might not hold.  There were naked women walking around with candy/cigarette boxes filled with condoms and sex toys.  The smells of sex, and cigarettes, and marijuana, and opium saturated the air.  It was a little hard to concentrate on my job while trying to ignore those scents.  I have a good nose for pretty much everything, and there's not alot of smells that I really like.  Smoky smells give me problems.  In the center of the room was a small stage upon which stood a very large black man, wearing nothing but boots, chaps, and a raging hard-on.  This gentleman was flogging a skinny little blonde haired, blue eyed white guy with a bullwhip.      Insert joke here.    I was in the door for not even two minutes, when a latina midget named Rosalita came up to me, unfastened my pants and went to work on me like she was getting paid for it.  Maybe she was.  I don't know.  I think her name was Rosalita.  I couldn't really understand what she said when I asked her.  Once she finished with me, she went over and went to work on a couple of stoners sitting on the couch in the corner.  I pulled out my note-pad and wrote in it, make doctor appt.  In one corner of the room, I found my favorite actress from ER in a foursome with two strippers and her latest boyfriend, whom the tabloids speak very highly of.  It's so hard to put sarcasm on to paper.  Go figure, huh?  You dream and fantasize, and when you finally get to see it, you're working.    Stationed at eight points in the room were sixteen very large bouncers.  Each was wearing a black Value City suit jacket over a green vest and white tuxedo blouse.  There was one bouncer on the floor wearing a purple vest.  I pegged him to be a manager.  They were watching the party with ernest alerness, masked by practiced indifference.  There was something off about a few of them.  I couldn't tell what it was at the time.  I didn't get close enough to really investigate.  That's not what I was there for.  I was there for the party.    Speaking of the party; I never knew you could fit so much debauchery under one roof.  The strip club next door must have seemed tame.  I know every strip club I've been to did at that moment.  I know I'm not the best looking guy around, but my crotch was molested by so many delicate feminine hands at that party that I felt like Brad Pitt.    So anyway, I was standing there watching a pair of strippers going at it with a hot pinay girl, using toys that I've never even heard of, when guess who walked right up to me.    It was Victoria Malloy herself.  She tapped me on the shoulder and said,  "Mr. MacQuaid?"      Yeah, um.  I haven't told you my name yet have I?  Well, it's not MacQuaid.    I turned to her and said, "Yes, little lady?  What can I do to you?    She smiled and said, "There's someone who would like to meet ye, sir.  Please, follow me."    I didn't have much choice without blowing my cover, so I followed her leather chaps wherever she was going.  By the way, Victoria's secrets were showing.  I followed close behind with a limp in my step the whole way.  She led me up the stairs to the steel balcony, then through a door into a hallway which must have connected the warehouse to the strip club.  Once the door was closed, nearly all noise from the party just stopped.  The floor and walls however, still vibrated from the bass flowing out of the immense woofers.  Fluorescent lights flickered softly down on the red walls and black carpet.  An exceptionally large bouncer with blonde hair and blue tinted glasses stood at the end of the hall like a vigilant monolith; guarding the entrance to the strip club.  Ms. Malloy walked up to the first door on the right, and stepped inside.  I followed quickly after, trying not to stare at the bulge under the bouncer's left shoulder.    Stepping inside of Victoria's office, the first thing that I noticed was that there was not one single family picture; no pictures of friends, no vacation photos.  None of the things that you would generally see in someone's office.  Either she has no social life, or she has something to hide behind the hedonism.  On the orange faux stone finished walls hung numerous prints of Olivia paintings featuring Julie Strain in different states of undress or in fantasy costumes.  The window to my right had a large window looking out over the party below.  Under the window was a set of bookshelves, packed with volumes that you mght not find at your local book vendor; books such as "Burlesque: an Insider's History."  To the right of the window were four very large filing cabinets.  In the rear center of the room, featured quite prominently, was a large oaken desk.    Upon this neat and orderly structure sat a brand new HP pc with a seventeen inch plasma screen, a desk calender featuring art by Shel Silverstien, and an antique phone which probably cost more than my entire entertainment system.    The phone in particular, caught my eye.  It was fashioned out of real ivory, with gold filigreed caps on the ear and mouth pieces, and matching gold filigreed feet.  It was a rotary phone; the numbers were set in gold and the rotary wheel was also gold.  That phone made me seriously consider for a moment, opening my own strip club.    Behind the desk and to my right was an old looking surveillance system, with a number of five inch screen monitors set up on five shelves with two little speakers on the bottom shelf, close to the desk.    I took two steps inside and said, "Wow!   This is one hell of a fine office.  You sure the boss won't mind us being in here?"    Ms. Malloy stopped at the corner of the desk, in her thick Irish brogue, without turning around, "Ye can drop the act now, Mr. Bowman.  While ye're at it, ye may as well turn off your camera too."    My whole body went stiff as a board, and my stomach clenched up as if it might perform an emergency evacuation, one direction or the other.  I was caught, plain and simple.  This was something that had never happened to me before.  I didn't know how it had happened, but it had.  Perhaps I should shave my mustache some time.    Standing there, feeling like a deer in the headlights, I did what any sane, rational human being would have done in my position.  I lied, "I'm sorry?  What did you call me?  I don't think I''m hearing so good right now."    Victoria stepped around the corner of her desk, and sat down in her black, leather, ergonomic chair.  She swept her dark red hair behind her shoulders and said, "Sure and ye know who you are now; Jackson Andrew Bowman, head of Bowman Baxter Investigative Services, based out of Chicago.  Ye were raised in Glenwood Illinois.  Ye attended Bloom Township High school, where ye received two AFLA awards for excellence in foreign language studies, three awards in mathematics, and were voted most likely to join a suicide cult.  After graduation, ye took a job as a security guard at River Oaks Mall and started taking correspondence courses to earn yer license to investigate privately.  After quitting yer job at the mall, ye went below the radar for a couple of years.  About ten years ago ye resurfaced and opened shop with Percy Silas Baxter.  Have I forgot anything?"    I put my hand on the back of the chair closest to me for support and said, "I don't know.  Did you get my hat size?"    Ms. Malloy smirked.  I figured the only way for me to get home in one piece that night was to be cool like a cucumber.  I was just hoping that I wouldn't get sliced like one.    Victoria leaned back in her squeaky leather chair, and absently played with one of the straps on her purple fishnet tank top saying, "So, will ye turn off the camera Mr. Bowman, or do ye need some assistance?"    She was trying to keep me off balance.  The fact that her fishnet top was assisted by nothing in covering her was helping her cause.  Have you ever had a fantasy about a squeaky leather chair?  I was determined however, to keep my sensibilities.  I reached into the inside pocket of my leather bomber jacket and pulled out my remote mp3 recorder and turned it off.  This shut down the fiber-optic camera, and miniature microphone in my glasses.  You'd be surprised at what you can find on the open market.    Once my camera was off, Victoria smiled and motioned to the chair next to me and said, "Please, have a seat, Mr. Bowman.  There's no use in chairs if noone ever sits in them."

Nailed

October 29, 2008 - Wednesday 

Spider Lake Blues chapter 1  Current mood:Sanguine  Category: Writing and Poetry    Cold; fucking cold!  Y'know, it's bad enough that I got kidnapped, my head was used as a speed bag, several of my ribs are broken, I'm nailed to a wooden platform by my hands and feet, and have been sunk to the bottom of a great big fucking lake.  Does it have to be the middle of fucking frigid November?!?  Seriously; I would like to know, 'cause it's cold as Hell down here.    No, wait.  Scratch that.  I always pictured hell as a bright and cheery place featuring sadistically chipper demons, dressed in cheerleader uniforms, and brandishing olde fashioned cats-of-nine with the sharp little bits of metal tied into the leather.    This, on the other hand is me staked to a huge chunk of wood, subjected to nothing but freezing silence.  I think this has my old idea of Hell beat by ten books; no reneges, and you're probably wondering how I got here, aren't you?  Are you wondering how I wound up at the bottom of a freezing cold lake in the middle of Wisconsin's north woods, in the middle of fucking November?    Ok, I guess we should rewind some.  I suppose it started back when I was eighteen and I opted not to take my dear mother's advice about becoming a proffessional photographer.    I remember one day, we were standing in the kitchen.  Mom was frying bacon for blts, while I was washing dishes and snagging the occasional piece of hot, fresh, pan fried pork.  My grandfather was sitting in his laz-e-boy recliner, reading the paper and smoking his wide bowl cherry wood pipe, pretending not to listen to the one sided conversation going on in our neck of the timbers.    I remember my mother saying, "You know, Jacky, you really do have a very good eye.  I really like most of the pictures you take."  I knew that she was reffering to my nature shots and candid portraits.  She had stumbled across my less dignified work once, and given me a deep and wide ass reaming over it.  She went on saying, "You should send some of them in to someone.  You could work for a newspaper, or some big magazine like Time Life.  You're that good, Jacky.  Hell, you could even work for one of thos disgusting porno companies that you, and your grandfather seem to like so much."  On that last bit, I heard grandpa choke on his black Cavendish.  Then she said, "I swear, it's like I have two eighteen-year-olds in the house."    Of course, it probably goes back a little further than that.    One day, when I was fifteen, my older brother, Tony and I were walking home from school.  We didn't know it, but the bank across the street from the school was being robbed.  Apparently, one of the gunmen had nervous hands.  One second I was happily tailing behind my big brother, and the next I was sitting on the sidewalk cradling Tony's head in my lap; tears dripping into his face while his brains dribbled ount onto my pants.  I still see the look in his eyes sometimes.  I see that fading light in my dreams.    For weeks, the police searched for the cock-suckers who killed Tony.  They never found them.  Those trogs probably made it to Jamaica after a week.  For months, Mom and I shared Tony's bed, crying ourselves to sleep.  Neither one of us ever really got over it.    Summer of the following year, I hitched out to New Mexico, looking for my spiritual path, and a reason for why Tony had to die.  On the way from Glenwood Illinois to a small reservation in New Mexico, I got beat up four times, robbed once, and almost raped in a public toilet.  While in New Mexico, I met the wisest man that I'll ever know, and the first girl that I ever fell in love with.  I did not however, find any reason for why my brother had to die.    The year after that, my best friend Gina, got raped.  The police told us in not quite so many words, that their hands were tied.  I found the guy who did it, and I beat him to a bloody pulp.  This chain of events probably had alot to do with me not taking dear old ma's advice.  Instead of becoming a proffessional photographer for any newspaper, magazine, or porno company, I got a job as a mall security guard so that I could get my perc card.  Then, I took all the necessary classes to become fish bait.  I mean a private investigator.    Of course, none of that explains what I'm doing stapled to a piece of wood at the bottom of Spider lake, breathing through an air hose.  I started eating mosquitoes yesterday; the stray ones that smell my breath and fly down the hose.  I'm not starving or anything.  My captors have seen to that.  Their daily visits to my bouy give me all the nutrition I need.  No, I just eat the squitoes to keep from chewing off my tongue out of boredome.    I'm getting off track again aren't I?  I apologize.  I have a habit of ranting.    Ok.  So, anyway, back in February, my partner and I picked up a case of sibling rivalry.  Apparently, dad was leaving a very large inheritance and Chad didn't want to share with Buffy.  Well actually, their names were Robert and Victoria Malloy.  Vic to friends and clients.  Get the picture?  You will.    Bobby (he likes it when people call him that) had paid me to follow Victoria for a weeek and video tape everything.  He paid me damn well too.  Mostly it was just shopping trips to places like Gurnee Mills or the Magnificent Mile.    Anyway, it turns out that Ms. Malloy owns a strip club up by the Wisconsin border.  Percy, with a little bit of digging, found out that on that particular Friday, Victoria would be holding an invitation only fetish party in the warehouse adjacent to the club.  Pull a few strings, bribe the right people, and bam; I'm in through the front door.    Of course, that was if I could find the fucking place.