by A W Hartoin
Dad didn’t ever trust me. He pretty much thought I was a doofus but a convenient one since he could get me to do work for free. “It’s for the family,” was a familiar refrain. Right. Whatever.
“I don’t know.”
“Dad,” I said. “It’s for the family.”
“Isn’t that my line?”
“Because it works and it’s mostly true,” I said.
“Mostly?”
“Mostly. Go get Mom to call and tell me what you come up with.”
“First, tell me about Contempo Casual. How’s the wardrobe?” asked Dad.
“Total time warp.”
“Good old Tracy. Never changes.”
I hesitated and then told myself to suck it up. I was an adult technically and I should be able to talk to my dad about adult stuff in a case. “Well, I think she’s changed for the worse.”
“Spill it.”
I got one measly sentence out before he cut me off. So much for adult conversations.
“Dad, listen you have to tell Morty about—”
“Mort is a genius. He’ll figure it out.”
“But—”
“No.”
“Dad, come on,” I said. “There’s one—”
“Mercy, is there something you don’t understand about the word no?” he asked.
“I understand, but I have to tell you something.”
“No.”
“Deep fakes,” I burst out.
It took him a minute, but he finally said very slowly, “Not you, right?”
Oh, yeah me. Plenty of me.
“Catherine. Tell Morty I have a feeling about that.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. It’s just…oh, I don’t know.”
Dad chuckled. “You know that’s it. That’s the key.”
“Yeah, but there’s no good reason. The porn si—”
“No.”
“Oh, fine, you big wuss. Just tell him to look into that.”
Dad said he would and went off to find Mom. I crossed my fingers that he was telling the truth. I was about to call Mr. Cabot when Fats came around the corner with a basket overflowing with pet supplies.
“Holy crap! Did you get everything?”
“I might have to come back,” said Fats.
“You got a fifty-pound bag of dog food. How much do you think she eats?”
Fats looked down at the dog, who was staring at her lovingly. “I don’t know. She looks hungry.”
I went through the basket and got rid of three of the four dog beds, the dog food, and sixty-seven toys. I talked Fats into a super high-end dog food that came in small packages and a bag of bacon treats. We checked out and got into the Denali with the dog spinning around on the center console, refusing to sit.
“You’re going to have to name that thing so you can start training her,” I said.
“I already named her,” said Fats.
“What’s her name?” My mind clicked through a list of dog names. Bella, Coco, Angel. You know normal names for dogs, but Fats said, “Moe.”
“Moe? She’s a girl.”
“She reminds me of my uncle.”
“That tiny female weird-looking dog reminds you of your Uncle Moe?” I asked.
“It’s in the eyes,” she said, driving out of the parking lot.
The bulging, extra-moist black eyes? That doesn’t speak well for Uncle Moe.
“Alrighty then. What’s his real name?”
“Moe.”
“Moe Licata?”
“That’s right.”
If that guy wasn’t a mobster it would be a miracle. “What’s he do?” I asked.
“Golf. He’s mostly retired,” she said with a sly smile.
“From…”
“He was a bagman for Cosmo.”
And there it is.
Cosmo Fibonacci was Calpurnia’s twin and supposedly the head of the family, but it was really Calpurnia. “Do you have any normal relatives?”
“Define normal. You’ve got your father and Morty.”
“I see your point.”
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“I guess to see Martin Doyle. Morty’s in the wind.”
“Doyle it is. Do you think he’ll be happy to see us?”
I plugged the threatening ex’s address into my phone. “Isn’t everyone?”
We both started laughing and Fats flipped on her monster sound system. I braced myself.
“Don’t pull out the earplugs yet,” she said. “How about some Drake?”
“God’s Plan?”
“That’s what I’m talking about.”
Fats cranked Drake and we sped toward a man who would definitely not be happy to see us.
We didn’t find Martin Doyle at home or in the nearest two bars so I broke down and called Spidermonkey. All I gave him was Doyle’s phone number and he had his location in five minutes. Not for the first time, I was creeped out. It was so easy to find people, to pinpoint their actual location at any time. Smartphones were a stalker’s dream. Spidermonkey thought my continual naïveté was charming. Doyle wasn’t exactly straining his skills. He checked in at the St. Louis Galleria Cheesecake Factory on Facebook. I guess I could’ve found him that way and I would tell Dad that’s how I did it, but it reminded me to have Uncle Morty check my phone again. I’d kept the same phone for two months and it was some kind of record. Who knows what might’ve gotten on it and Jimmy Elbert was persistent.
He was two cars behind us in his little Golf, hunched over the steering wheel like that made a difference. “I might have to ask you to tell that guy to beat it,” I said.
“He’s not hurting anybody,” she said. “Let him be.”
“What if he was following you? How would you feel about that?”
“I get my fair share of nut jobs,” she said as she pulled into the Galleria. There was zero parking. Sunday afternoon. Nightmare.
“I’ll pay for valet,” I said.
“With your five bucks? Right.” She drove to the valet, scared the crap out of a teenager that didn’t look old enough to drive, and told him that if the truck came back in anything less than pristine condition she’d snap him like a grissini. That kid had no clue what a grissini was, but he definitely got the point.
Fats picked up Moe off her seat and said, “Let’s go find ourselves a loser.”
“What are you planning to do with her?” I asked.
“Moe is with us.”
“They won’t let dogs in.”
“People don’t say no to me. When are you going to get that?” asked Fats.
“Maybe Alex here can keep her,” I said.
Alex, who looked ready to have an attack of nervous diarrhea, shook his head. “We can’t take dogs. I’m sorry. I’m really really sorry.”
Fats put a hand on his shoulder and his knees nearly buckled. “Don’t worry. She’s with us. You just look after my truck.”
“Yes, sir.” His eyes went wide and he stammered, “Ma’am. I meant ma’am.”
I eased him to the driver’s seat, putting myself between him and Fats. “Go now. Save yourself.”
Alex drove off and I only hoped he didn’t barf on the steering wheel or worse.
“He called me sir,” said Fats. “Do I look like a sir?”
Well…
“You’re just really tall,” I said. And beefy.
“I’m more feminine than you,” said Fats.
That’s really not good.
“What’s wrong with me?”
She looked me over and said, “That sweatshirt. You look depressed.”
“I’m not depressed. I’m comfortable.”
“That’s code for depressed.” She pushed me away from The Cheesecake Factory and into the mall. People were staring, but for once I was certain it wasn’t me. It was the human bulldozer beside me saying things like, “You need to seduce him,” and “Grey sweats say ‘I hate sex.’”
As in everything, Fats was efficient. She
picked out a clingy red cardigan not meant to be worn alone, but I was going to. Fats wanted me to wear a skirt, but I was mad at Chuck and hadn’t shaved my legs.
“I’ll give you the name of my waxer,” said Fats. “You’ll thank me.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
Instead of the skirt, I got skin-tight jeans and she tried to put me in stilettos. Nope. I told her that stilettos have a tendency to make me look like I’m going to fall on my face. Being top heavy wasn’t a good thing. She agreed reluctantly and I got to replace the red flats that I lost in Paris. The ones that Chuck hated. These were an upgrade in suede with a keyhole and a bow. When I saw the price tag, I clinched so hard I think I popped out a hemorrhoid.
“What’s your problem?” asked Fats. “We’re on the clock here. Cabot’s loaded.”
“He’s not paying for clothes.”
“But he’s paying by the hour at your Dad’s rates.”
“Yeah.”
“You can afford it and this will save time in the end,” she said. “Between the two of us, that man will collapse like my Aunt Marge’s meringues.”
“Bad cook?”
“The worst, but she keeps trying. I’d admire her if she wasn’t hosting Thanksgiving this year.” She looked at the hovering salesman. “We’ll take them and a pair of those fabric mules.”
“For me?” I asked.
“Who else?”
“Er…you.”
Fats turned to the salesperson. “Do you have those mules in a fourteen wide?”
“Well…” he said with a bead of sweat rolling out of his sideburn.
“I’m living vicariously,” said Fats. “She’ll have them.”
And I did. Fats carried the box, cooing over the jacquard fabric and leather lining.
“Do you need to take a moment?” I asked.
“You don’t understand,” she said. “I haven’t bought shoes in a store since I was nine.”
“Where do you buy shoes?”
“They’re all custom.”
“Wow.”
“Tell me about it.” She tucked the shoe box in the bag and flipped it over her shoulder. “So what do we want this guy to say?”
“Why he threatened Catherine for starters and we’ll go from there.”
Fats texted Tiny and told him she would be late. I asked her why since this was supposedly going fast and she told me we were eating.
We walked in and the hostess took one look at Moe, opened her mouth, and then saw who was holding Moe. She did not say no. She asked if he was a service dog and Fats said he was.
We got a booth and I started looking around. The Cheesecake Factory was huge and I didn’t know where to start. I texted Spidermonkey for a picture and got one thirty seconds later. If I knew him, he was compiling a dossier on Doyle just in case.
“This isn’t going to be easy,” I said, holding up the photo array from Facebook.
“Jesus, could he be more white bread?” asked Fats.
Doyle was generic. Five foot ten, brown hair, brown eyes, and a rather sad fondness for bland colors. In one photo, he was dressed in head-to-toe beige. His features were regular and his haircut came out of a catalog, men’s haircut number three.
“I’ll take care of it,” said Fats. “What are you having?”
“Are you kidding?” I asked. “If Aaron smells this place on me, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“He’ll actually say something?”
“Well, it will be more like staring sadness, but I can’t take it.”
“You have to eat. It’s the Cheesecake Factory,” she said.
“Exactly. Factory is in the name. Aaron is an artist. This place hurts his little soul. He believes food should be lovingly crafted.”
“I believe you’re hungry. Pick something and send the little guy to me if he finds out. I suggest pizza. Get me the Louisiana chicken.”
“Where are you going?” I asked, but she was already gone.
Five minutes later, Fats came back with Doyle’s location. He was at a birthday party for his mother. She was seventy-five. The waitress brought our drinks and I told her I’d be right back.
“I’m coming,” said Fats, starting to slide out of the booth.
“No offense, but I’m noticeable. You’re ridiculous.”
“Fine. If you need me, I’ll be here.” She fed Moe a bacon treat and took out my mules again.
I headed off and predictably got lost, taking fifteen minutes to find the Doyle party of sixteen in an alcove. Martin Doyle was sitting next to a woman that if I didn’t know it wasn’t Catherine I totally would’ve thought it was her. At second glance, she wasn’t as pretty, but her clothes were certainly better. I caught Martin’s eye and smiled. His eyes widened and he glanced at the woman. Probably the new fiancé. When he looked again, I crooked a finger at him, he reddened and looked down at his plate, shoveling in a taco salad.
I have to admit I didn’t expect that. I don’t usually crook a finger at men, but on the rare occasion that I have they always come over to see what I could possibly want if nothing else. Martin refused to look at me again. I sensed a problem of an unusual nature and approaching the table wouldn’t be the right thing.
So I called Spidermonkey and asked what his deal was.
“Oh, right,” he said. “I was afraid of that.”
“What?”
“He has a thing for you.”
“Ah, crap.”
“The fiancé must know. Is Fats still with you?” he asked.
“She is.”
“Send her in. I’d like to see the man that can refuse her.”
There was some chatter in the background. Spidermonkey’s wife, Loretta, had recently found out about his hacking hobby. Now she had opinions and she was rarely wrong.
“What does Loretta say?” I asked.
Spidermonkey sighed. “Here she is.”
“Have a waitress tell him that there’s a message at the bar for him,” she said. “He’ll have to go or the future wife will want to know why.”
“That’s good. Thanks.”
I did as Loretta suggested and Martin Doyle, wearing a stunning outfit in brown and brown came to the bar dragging his feet. “I was told there’s a message for me,” he said.
The bartender frowned and I slid onto the stool next to Doyle. “Never mind that, Mr. Doyle. I have a bone to pick with you.”
He gasped and backed away, bumping into a man behind him, spilling his drink.
“What the fuck, man?”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
The irate drinker caught a glimpse of me and leered. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“You’re not meeting me.” I told the bartender to put his drink on my tab and took Doyle by the elbow to a secluded corner. “Let’s talk about Catherine Cabot.”
“Who?”
“I don’t have time for that. My food just got to the table. This sweater cost 150 bucks and it itches like I’m covered in chiggers. You threatened Catherine Cabot and I want to know why.”
“I don’t know any Catherine Cabot,” he said with his eyes veering to the left and two spots of pink appeared on his cheeks. At least he had some color.
“You dated her, dumped her, and then threatened to push her into traffic. Sound familiar?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He kept glancing back in the direction of the party. Being me wasn’t helping the situation.
Dammit, Fats. I could’ve worn my sweatshirt.
I poked him hard in the chest. “Look. You can talk to me or you can talk to her.” I pointed at Fats, who slid out of the booth and came to her full height with Moe tucked under arm like a brindle clutch purse.
“Who is that?” he asked.
“Does it matter? She thinks you threatened Catherine and that’s really the important part, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t threaten her.”
“Try again. She told me this story with several bullet holes in her so
I’m inclined to believe it.”
“Oh my God,” he gasped. “You don’t think I had anything to do with that.”
“I might be persuaded to think so if you aren’t forthcoming.”
“Okay. Okay. I didn’t mean it. I just wanted her to leave me alone. She kept calling and leaving messages. Dropping by my house. It was embarrassing.”
“Why’d you dump her?” I asked.
The pink turned red. “I’d rather not say.”
“I’d rather you did say right now.”
“It’s personal.”
“So are bullet wounds, Mr. Doyle.”
He shook his head. “I have to go. They’ll wonder where I am.”
“The cops don’t know about you yet, but they can,” I said. “They don’t mind walking up to birthday parties and neither do I.”
“Oh God. Please don’t go over there. I’m engaged.”
“How nice,” I said. “I should offer my congratulations.”
I started to walk away and he grabbed my arm. “No way. Kendra knows who you are.”
“That’s not a small club. So what?”
“I had a…picture of you.”
“A picture?” Something about the way he was blushing made me say, “You mean a video.”
“Yes. Dammit. But it wasn’t you,” he said quickly.
“Was it by chance a deep fake?”
“Yes. Can I go now?”
“Not a chance,” I said. “So you have a porno with my head on somebody else’s body?”
“Yes, but I don’t anymore. I deleted it. Kendra found it and she wasn’t happy. Do not go over there.”
“You didn’t tell her it was fake?”
He leaned back and looked in the direction of the party. “I did. She didn’t believe me.”
“Tell me why you dumped Catherine,” I said.
The blushing flared up again. “Why does it matter?”
“It matters because I say it matters. Why?”
“You’ll think I’m a freak,” said Martin Doyle, man of beige.
I laughed and crossed my arms. “We’re way past that. Tell me.”
“Catherine…I don’t know how to say it. She was…I saw her…”
“You saw her on a porn site.”
A whoosh of breath came out of him and he sagged a little. “Yes. I couldn’t date a woman like that. It was sick.”
