Drink, Dance, Divorce

by Charles Alworth

  She pulled Waltz out of the chair and kissed him. She smiled. "Always there is romance with us."

  ***

  Lala kissed his shoulder. "Thank you."

  Waltz loved compliments on his lovemaking. He smiled in anticipation. "For what?"

  Lala stretched and yawned. "For giving me freedom at last."

  That was good. Setting her free. He wanted to savor it. "How do you mean? Setting you free?"

  She kissed his neck. "You take care of Jazz for me."

  What a disappointment. "It's nothing. You don't need to go see him. I know it's depressing. I'll visit him. I want to."

  She played with his chest hairs. "Silly. No is what I mean. Jazz abuse me. You stop him. Thank you."

  Waltz sat up. "You mean, you think I poisoned Jazz?"

  "No ready to talk about it?"

  "I didn't poison Jazz. I can't believe you think I did."

  ***

  Waltz glanced at the clock radio. He caressed Lala's shoulder. "Almost time."

  She opened her eyes. She smiled. "I iron my ear good, yes?"

  "Yes, you did."

  She got up and started to dress. "You have ideas about where Jazz hid his stash?"

  "Have you searched his stuff for any little keys? You know, like the little keys they have for safety deposit boxes?"

  "Is why I need you. You are brilliant. I will look for little keys."

  He liked watching Lala put on her hose. He liked the way she stretched her legs out, long and curvy, and fondled them as she slipped the hose up. He scooted to the side of the bed and found his underwear. "Find my stock certificate while you're at it, so I can hire that detective."

  "I no find stock certificates. Jazz leave things in a mess. Maybe they're in deposit box, with stash."

  Waltz pulled on his pants. "It's the only way he'll take the case."

  "Try the other one. What her name? The one Jazz like?" She hung her head down and shook it, allowing gravity to straighten out her long coarse hair. It was beautiful, like a horse's mane. She snapped her head back and her hair arranged itself.

  Waltz waved his finger. "No. Not Hook 'Em Harns. No. Not in a million years. She's a wiseass. She's turned me down three times."

  Lala pushed him back on the bed, hovered over him, and kissed him. Her hair hung over their faces, smelling good, tickling his ears. They were together, hidden from the world under a waterfall of hair. They could solve any problem.

  She kissed him again. "Is no good, people in Yellow Pages. Is possible this private investigator who want your stock certificate was a used-car salesman last week."

  "Better a used-car salesman than her."

  "But is he honest?"

  Waltz shook his head doubtfully. "I'll bet he's as honest as Hook 'Em Harns."

  "Who knows what he do with your stock certificate? Is worth a lot more than his fee."

  "I'd rather have anybody hold my stock certificate than her."

  She lowered her body onto him and nuzzled his cheek. "Jazz said Hook 'Em is honest. Jazz is smart. He know. I will try to hire her, on credit, no pledge of studio."

  "I've tried to hire her three times. I met her in person. I think I know more about her than Jazz. Maybe she's honest, but I don't want her."

  Lala nibbled his earlobe under the tent of her hair. "The stock certificates must be free. Is possible we want to sell studio."

  "Sell the studio? No. Jazz wouldn't like it. Mom either."

  She kissed him again. "Is possible we have to. Lieutenant still think you do it. I found Jazz's will. He leave us each half his share. We own together. We will sell the studio and collect insurance on Jazz. Then we have money to go to Mexico."

  "I can't go to Mexico."

  "You want to live with me, no?"

  "Sure, but I promised Jazz I'd get the guy that poisoned him."

  "Is dangerous for you here. You must go to Mexico and safety."

  "They'd catch me."

  "You know they will go for the death penalty. In that case, Mexico no will extradite you."

  "What if they didn't go for the death penalty? They'd bring me back then." What was he doing? Hoping for the death penalty?

  "I know Mexico. I speak Spanish. They no find us there. We live like kings. We have servants. We be high society."

  "But I want to get the guy that poisoned Jazz."

  "I know. We will if possible. No sell studio unless is necessary. If is necessary, there must be no problem. Sale must be fast." She hugged him and nibbled his neck. "Please, I no want to lose you. Remember, Jazz want Hook 'Em. Is for him. We get the guy. Okay?"

  Waltz laughed. "You think you can hire her? For a murder case? For me? On credit?"

  "Yes."

  Why was he arguing? Even Lala couldn't do it, not in a million years. "Go ahead, but do it right away. She'll turn you down. Then I can hire the other guy."

  ***

  After Lala left, Waltz called his students. He needed money. He'd set up appointments.

  He talked to most of his students, and they all gave him excuses. It took a while, but he got the idea. They were afraid of him - and disgusted too. They thought he poisoned Jazz.

  Even Lala seemed to think he'd done it. She thought he poisoned Jazz, yet she loved him. That was true love. She was so sweet. His love for her filled him.

  Maybe it was better that his students didn't come in. He needed to concentrate on getting the guy and clearing himself. That was priority number one.

  He searched the house for the stock certificates, Jazz's stash, and safety-deposit keys. The only thing he found was an extra key to the studio. He pocketed that. He was half owner. He should have a key.

  ***

  He was watching TV when Lala got back from the studio. He grabbed the remote and turned it off. "Did you find the stock certificates?"

  Lala put her purse on the top shelf of the closet, back in the corner. "No, but good news."

  "Good news? Lay it on me. I need it bad."

  "Hook 'Em Harns agreed."

  He levered the recliner upright. "She agreed? On a job that's not domestic investigations? How did you do it?"

  "Simple. I read people. I tell her about all our students who are separated and want divorces. I tell her in one year we give her one hundred clients, ready to divorce, who want custody of children, who want child support, who want money."

  "I can't believe it."

  "You will go with her tomorrow on a stake out. She will discuss the case with you."

  "Well, at least it's on credit."

  "No credit. She mad at you. You must pay six hundred, like before."

  "That'll only give me two days."

  "By then, we find the stash. We pay the rest from that."

  "If the stash is still around."

  Horror distorted her face. "What you mean?"

  "What if Jazz lost the stash in Vegas?"

  "No is possible. His last withdrawal was the day he poisoned. It must still be around. Maybe we find it. Hook 'Em will help you."

  "Maybe. And maybe we can find the real poisoner in two days - yeah, maybe - wait." He slapped his forehead. "It's no use. I don't have six hundred dollars."

  "No?"

  He sank to the couch. Only six hundred dollars. It was nothing. But he didn't have it.

  "What happened to your money?"

  "Bail." He raised his eyebrows.

  She held up both hands. "Studio broke."

  "That broke?"

  "Yes."

  Was she lying? He bet she was. So what? He wouldn't get it either way. Not that it mattered. Hook 'Em was crazy. He gave her the six hundred once, when he still had it, and she threw it in his face. Rachel saw her do it.

  Rachel. Maybe he could borrow more from Rachel. She still had a little in her savings. He could depend on Rachel. "Wait. I forgot about that six hundred dollars. Rachel has it - in the envelope with her picture."

  ***

  The next evening, Waltz climbed into Hook 'Em's van. "So you're my n
ew private dick?"

  Hook 'Em pulled away from the curb. "Just make sure you don't get the idea that you're mine."

  "I didn't mean that. I was trying to start a conversation, trying to be polite."

  "Yeah. You make-out artists. Polite."

  "What makes you think I'm a make-out artist?"

  She glared at him. "What makes me think you're a player? You think I can't tell?"

  "You mean you can tell by looking at me?"

  "Your appearance, the way you act, everything about you screams womanizer."

  "Not me. I love Lala."

  "Yeah. That's what you Romeos always say. Good thing for you Lala is nice, or I wouldn't take this job. She seems to like you. You got her fooled. You should do her a favor. Leave her now before she gets attached."

  "I love her." He reached for the seat belt. Not finding it, he turned and fumbled behind his seat. A burnt-orange motorcycle, lashed to the sides of the van, gleamed in the dim light. "Where's the seat belt?"

  She pointed with her thumb. "Glove compartment."

  He pulled a package out of the glove compartment. "What's this?"

  "Firecrackers."

  "Firecrackers?"

  "They make a good diversion."

  He pulled out the seat belt and held it up. "It's not attached."

  "Drape it over your shoulder. The cops will think it's all hooked up."

  He stuffed the seat belt and the firecrackers back in the car pocket. "That wasn't what I had in mind." He turned and studied the giant motorcycle. "That's some scooter."

  "My baby. Antique Harley. I restored it myself. Want a ride?"

  "No thanks. Those things are dangerous."

  "Not compared to marriage."

  "You think marriage is riskier than riding a hundred miles an hour on a motorcycle?"

  "Damn right. Ask any married person whose life was ruined. I've seen people lose a fortune."

  "I thought Texas had a no-fault divorce law."

  She laughed. "It does. They passed it a few years ago."

  "Then how can you make a living doing divorce work? I thought no-fault meant it doesn't matter what you do. You just divide up the community property and go your separate ways."

  "That was the legislature's original idea, but the courts got into the act. In dividing up property, the courts considered whether you beat your wife, ran around on her, drank, abused drugs, or refused to work."

  "Or beat your husband?"

  "Yeah, yeah. Or husband. Then the legislature started amending the law. Originally, it was the size of a pamphlet. Now, it's the size of the Greater San Salsa phone book. Under special conditions, we now even have limited alimony - all thanks to the no-fault divorce law."

  "So this woman we're staking out. If we prove she's running around on her husband, she'll get a smaller property settlement?"

  Hook 'Em pounded the steering wheel. She smiled. "That's right. She might not get anything. And her husband will get custody of the children. And not have to pay any child support."

  "Because under the no-fault divorce law, it's her fault."

  "That's right."

  "And the husband pays you good money to prove it's his wife's fault."

  Hook 'Em grinned and flashed the Hook 'Em sign, both hands touching the top of the van, the wheel unmanned. "Us PI's love no-fault divorce. It keeps us in business."

  She stopped at a light. "Speaking of business, let's talk about your problem. Tell me what's happened. Start with the dog."

  "I just realized. You're getting paid twice tonight."

  "Pretty good, huh? Two clients with one blow." She flashed the Hook 'Em sign again. "Give me details."

  He told the story. She drove and, at dramatic points, tooted a fanfare on her harmonica, interspersed with wah wahs. When he finished, he was drained. He sagged back in his seat.

  Hook 'Em tooted another wah wah. "Boy, you do have a problem. I advise you to flee the country, head for Rio."

  "No way."

  "You're my client. Anything you tell me is confidential. Did you do it?"

  "No. I love my brother."

  "You sure?"

  Waltz threw his arms up and talked to the ceiling. "I didn't do it. Why does everybody think I did?"

  Hook 'Em studied him. "Not even for Lala? He abused her and you love her. It would be a natural thing to do. To protect the woman you love. I wouldn't condemn you for it. In fact, I would admire you. You can tell me."

  "I didn't do it." He put his face in his hands.

  "Okay. So you didn't do it. The cops believe you did. They're going to put it to you. You're going to end up on death row." Another fanfare. "You ought to fly down to Rio - now."

  "I can't."

  She slowed the van. "Sure you can. I'll call a guy. In a couple of hours, you'll have a passport in a fake name. You can be in Rio tomorrow. You'll be home free. I hear they love to dance there. Plenty of work for a dance instructor."

  Waltz slapped the dashboard. "I know I can. That's not what I mean. If somebody murdered me, Jazz would get the guy. I'm staying here and I'm going to find the guy that poisoned Jazz and I'm going to make sure he gets what he's got coming."

  "You're not going to find the guy. Lala could sell the studio and meet you in Rio. She told me she would."

  "She said Mexico. Rio is in Brazil."

  "You sure?"

  "Yes."

  "It doesn't matter. Head somewhere south of the border."

  "No. I'm getting the guy."

  She picked up her cell. "Let me call the passport guy. You could fly down, be in Rio in four hours." She stuck her cell in his face. It showed the time. "Your brother could be dying right now."

  He held up his leg and pointed to the ankle monitor. "The cops are monitoring me."

  "Simple. I cut it off. You shag. By the time the cops figure out what happened, you'll be in Rio, wearing a sombrero and dancing salsa with a beautiful Mexican girl. No sweat."

  "I don't have enough money for a ticket to Rio - or even Guadalajara."

  "Don't worry. I'm sure Lala will loan it to you."

  He laughed. "You don't know Lala. She's cheap."

  "She's not so cheap that she'd let you stay here and be executed. Nobody's that cheap."

  "You don't know Lala."

  "Really?"

  "Really. So I have to stay here."

  She reset her hat. "No problem. I know a loan shark. He'll loan you enough."

  "Knowing I'm leaving the country?"

  "We won't tell him that."

  "He'd come after me."

  "No sweat. He'd never find you in Rio. You know how many people they got in Rio?"

  "No. How many?"

  "Lots. Most of them women. You'd never run out."

  "No. I promised Jazz I'd get the guy and I'm going to do it." His voice shook.

  "You're sure?"

  "Yes." His voice strengthened.

  "You really didn't do it?"

  "No. I didn't do it!" It came out a scream. He hadn't intended that.

  She shrugged, put down her cell, and accelerated the van back to its previous pace.

  After a few minutes, she slowed down again. "Just think. The death penalty. The grand finale." She took off her hat and fanned her face. "You're sure?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay." She careened off the road into a subdivision. She made several turns and rattled to a stop in front of a modest ranch house.

  She handed him a notebook and a pencil. "Make a list of everybody who was at the party. Make another list of everybody who could've put poison in Cha-Cha's beer. And list everybody who has a grudge against Jazz."

  "I don't see how making lists is going to help me."

  "We'll compare them. Anybody on all of them would be a prime suspect."

  "I already have this stuff in my mind."

  "I can't compare lists that exist only in your mind, can I?"

  Waltz shook his head.

  "So make the lists."

  Waltz started s
cribbling.

  "And list any place Jazz might have hidden his stash. Follow the money. My business is all about the money. You'd think it was about love and sex and jealousy, but it's mostly about money."

  Hook 'Em propped her feet on the dash and played her harmonica.

  Fifteen minutes later, a hard wind slammed the van broadside and rocked it. Tree limbs bent. Rain hit the van. The sound on the tin roof drowned out Hook 'Em's harp, but they were dry and comfortable in the van.

  Hook 'Em slapped her harmonica on her thigh. "There goes the husband. The wife will leave soon."

  ***

  Hook 'Em put down her feet and her harp. "Here she comes."

  A woman with an umbrella, wearing a raincoat, trotted through the downpour toward a green Honda. Waltz Charleston, private eye, felt a thrill of excitement. He set the notebook on the dashboard.

  Hook 'Em hit the ignition. The van coughed and sputtered like an old man who spent eighty years inhaling big black cigars. She pumped the accelerator and hit the ignition again. The old man coughed, sighed, and died. She pounded the steering wheel. She gave it the finger. "You traitor. I should have let the junkyard crumple you."

  She doffed her hat, pulled the drawstring out of the crown, replaced the hat, and drew the drawstring tight. She turned and grabbed two yellow slickers from the back. She threw one to Waltz. "Quick. Help me. Before we lose her." She shrugged into her slicker and got out of the van.

  Waltz struggled into his slicker. He braced his feet on the hump in the middle of the floorboard and shoved hard to open the door against the wind. Rain stung his face and eyes. The wind tore the door from his grasp and slammed it shut.

  Hook 'Em was behind the van. He felt his way along the side. He shouldn't have worn his dance shoes. They had suede soles, and they were soaked, maybe ruined. On the good side, maybe the rain would wash off the white R and L on the toes.

  Hook 'Em opened the hatch. It fluttered in the wind. "Hold it steady."

  He braced himself to keep the hatch up. The wind gusted. He kept resetting his feet to keep his balance. She slid out a ramp and hooked it on the bumper. She mounted the bike and walked it to the ramp. "Steady the ramp."

  Waltz put his foot on the ramp. The wind gusted from his side and tried to pick the ramp up and flip it. He leaned on the ramp and pushed up against the hatch. His body wobbled with the hatch and the ramp. It was like wind surfing in a hurricane.

  She couldn't ride her bike in such a driving rain. She was crazy.

  She raised a lever with her toe and stomped it down. The big burnt-orange bike roared to life and settled into a steady potato-potato-potato rumble. She eased down the ramp. At the bottom, she folded the longhorn handlebars down and out and locked them into place. She yelled over the storm. "Slide the ramp back into the van."