by Faricy, Mike
Just as I got to the front steps she opened the door, and stood in the entry. She was wearing a very small bikini, a very large smile and sipping from a martini glass. Nice work if you can get it.
“You’re just in time. I was getting ready to work on my tan. Come on, this will be fun. Close the door behind you,” she instructed, then walked down the hall toward the rear of the house. Her bikini bottom was a thong, a very small powder blue thong, to go with her extremely small, powder blue top.
I had the sense of complete emptiness. Other than her heels clicking down the hallway as she walked, the only other sound was the clock ticking when we passed Mr. Softee’s office. The lights were off in the room and I noticed the hospital bed was gone. I couldn’t see his walker.
Lola strutted across the kitchen, opened the freezer door, and refilled her glass from a frosted pitcher. She took a deep sip, then topped the glass off and returned the pitcher to the freezer.
“Delicious,” she grinned, raising her eyebrows.
I waited in vain for the offer of a cold beer.
“Come on,” she said turning and heading out the patio door.
The back yard was picture-postcard beautiful, not as much as a blade of grass out of place. Music was playing from somewhere, pure crap. I couldn’t tell who the band was but I knew I didn’t like them. There was a cushioned lawn chair stretched out on the patio, covered with a long striped beach towel, blue stripes to match her thong. A pillow rested at one end. A small round end table, metal with a granite top, stood close to the pillow. A tube of suntan cream and a coaster rested on the table. She carefully placed her martini glass on the coaster.
“Make yourself comfortable, Mister Haskell,” she said. Then with her back partially toward me she dropped her top. She took her sweet time meticulously folding the tiny thing before placing it on the table next to her drink. Once folded it looked smaller than the coaster. She laid down on the lawn chair, stretched out, facedown, ready to bake in the relentless sun.
“Say,” she called, then turned her head sideways in my direction, “be a dear and make yourself useful, will you. Put that suntan cream on my back.” She pointed to the tube next to her folded top.
Oddly, given the circumstances, my first thought was about her dogs. If she was setting me up, and they so much as appeared, I planned to shoot the damn things without a second thought. I squirted a puddle of cream into my hand, and then nervously looked around for the dogs to appear.
“What are you worried about? I told you before it’s very private back here, no one can see us. We could do absolutely anything, and no one would ever know.” She rolled onto her side, exposing a very impressive chest without so much as the hint of a tan line. Then reached for her martini glass and took a long, slow sip. She held that position with just the hint of a smile.
“Real nice and private back here, isn’t it?” she asked, then took another sip and licked her lips. Her eyes never left mine.
I could tell she was waiting for me to act stupid, babble some dumb guy line, or look away and comment on the flowers in the garden.
“Lola, you got a hell of a great rack.”
“Enhanced,” she bragged.
“Real nice. Now roll over, will you? So I can do your back and get this suntan glop off my hands.”
“Oh, for a moment I wasn’t sure what that was,” she giggled then took another long sip, shrugged, set her glass back on the coaster and settled in, face down.
I began applying the cream. I purposely missed an area about the size of a silver dollar on her back, just where I thought the hooks from her bra would rub. I figured forty minutes in this sun without protection would leave a nice burn. I worked my way down to her hips.
“Do my buns too, will you, it feels so good.”
I squirted the suntan cream directly onto her rear.
“Whoa, that’s cold.”
“Oh sorry,” I wasn’t in the least.
“Better rub it in deep.”
I massaged the suntan cream. I’ll give her this much, she was toned. No doubt about that, she arched her back, raised her rear suggestively. I got up and grabbed a nearby chair.
“Afraid I’m too much?” she asked, face still buried in the pillow.
“Afraid? No, just on kind of a short time frame and I never like to rush.”
“Really?” she said into the pillow sounding genuinely curious.
“Lola, remember you told me about a guy used to work for you, Bernie Sneen?”
“Oh yes, I do. As a matter of fact, we had a call from the police about him. Involved in some dreadful accident, I guess. They wanted some background information. Not that we could tell them much, other than he was caught stealing.”
“Did you tell them anything else?”
“Anything else? No, there was nothing to tell. I suppose I could have mentioned you thought he was the one who ran into us. Attempted to kill us with his car, but that’s really conjecture now, isn’t it? I didn’t want to get you in trouble. Besides, what difference would it make? He wandered around barefoot and then taped himself to the train tracks. Sad really, not to speak ill of the dead or anything, but I would guess he quite possibly never, ever, accomplished anything positive in his whole miserable little life.”
“I guess that pretty much sums it up,” I replied.
“Maybe, I guess, it’s just all sort of sad, you know? There are so many wonderful things to do and try in this world. They’re just there for the taking,” she said, then turned her head and squinted at me.
“Yeah, right. Hey, did you guys get my invoice? I could save you the cost of a stamp if you…”
“I think he put something in the mail to you the other day.”
“Mister Softee?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, thanks. Look, I better get going. Mind letting me out the front?”
“Tell you what, just go out the back gate. The lock release is right inside the garage door. Push that and it’s good for ten seconds. Mind getting me another refill before you go?” she said, then held her glass out, wiggled it back and forth at me and licked her lips.
I stood up, picked her top off the table and used it to wipe the excess suntan cream off my hands.
“As a matter of fact, I do mind,” I said, then strode toward the back gate.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I was still parked in front of Mr. Softee’s when I phoned Detective Manning and left a message. I glanced in the rearview mirror after I hung up and watched as a large black Mercedes turned onto the side street. It was followed by a white Escalade. Through the tinted windows I could just make out two large silhouettes in the front seat of the Escalade.
I pulled away from the curb, rounded the next corner, then slowed opposite the alley and watched just as Mr. Softee drove into his garage. The Escalade pulled in front of the garage, and my two pals from the other night casually climbed out.
They actually looked larger in the daylight, even from this distance. They glanced in my direction, but gave no indication they recognized me before they strolled into the back yard where Lola was presumably still stretched out.
Another one of those coincidences I didn’t like. Christ, I was beginning to sound like Detective Manning.
I drove home, sorted through the mail, three grocery circulars, an overdraft notice from my bank and the letter from Mr. Softee. I opened the envelope expecting to see a check. What I got was the invoice I had sent, with a note scrawled across the front in red ink.
“Please furnish signed documentation of our contractual agreement.”
Documentation! They’d signed my contract less than twenty-four hours before I mailed my invoice. I phoned Mr. Softee, left a message reminding him they’d signed my contract on his kitchen counter. I finished with a line indicating I planned to deliver my invoice, for full payment, and to please call me if he had any questions or concerns. I hoped I sounded suitably upset.
I drifted down to The Spot, fortified myself with a f
ew beers, then phoned Jill. It has never served me well to drink and dial.
“Oh hi, Dev, look I…” she sounded cheery enough.
“I thought I’d just check in, see how your head was after last night,” I interrupted.
“My head? Fine, why?”
“Well you know, I feel kind of bad, having to run off last night. I had that meeting this morning…”
“Who’s that?” a male voice in the background on her end came across the line.
“Oh yeah, your morning meeting. I’d like to hear about it but, well I’m sort of busy right now. Look, I hate to rush off, but...”
“Who is that?” The same male voice, but this time a bit more forcefully.
“Sorry, guess I caught you at a bad time. Hope I didn’t cause you any problems, I’ll talk to you later,” I said, then hung up. Serves her right, I thought.
I phoned the sometimes available Heidi Bauer, a friend with benefits, but had to leave a message. I hope I didn’t sound too drunk or too desperate. I tried a couple of other numbers from the past. It seemed everyone was busy at the moment, or was it just that goddamn Caller I.D.?
About a half hour later my phone rang, unfortunately not a date. Detective Manning. This time I thought thank god for Caller I.D. and let his call drop into my message center.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The phone woke me about nine forty-five the following morning. By the time I found it under the couch it was in the message mode. I climbed off the couch, made coffee, used the bathroom, then checked my messages. There were actually three.
The first was from Patti, a gorgeous Asian American woman I used to date. The last time she spoke to me she told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was never, ever to contact her again.
Emboldened by beer and just plain desperate, I had a foggy recollection of phoning her last night sometime after midnight. Her message was about the same as the last time she spoke to me. Except a little more forceful and a lot more profane.
The second message was from Jill.
“Hi, this is Jill. Sorry I was unable to talk when you called earlier. Please give me a call when it’s convenient, thanks.”
The third message was from Detective Manning.
“Haskell. Manning. Returning your call.”
Charming.
I decided to take the best of the three and phoned Jill.
“Hi Jill, Dev Haskell.”
“Oh, hey thanks for returning my call. Maybe I should ask you, how’s the head?”
I cleared my throat a bit, then said,
“What do mean?”
“You just sounded like you weren’t feeling any pain last night when you phoned.”
“Oh sorry, no, actually I was doing some computer stuff and was just a little preoccupied is all.”
“You always slur your words when you work on your computer?”
“Hey, Jill, I hope I didn’t goof up your night or anything. I didn’t realize you were with someone. I’m sorry if my call…”
“With someone? Oh god, you idiot. I was visiting my grandfather, he’s in assisted living now. He sort of wanders you know, so when he’s having a good spell I want to make the best of it. Otherwise, I would have loved to get together.”
“How about sometime today?” I asked.
“Tonight would work better. I’ve gotta meet with the insurance people again, a couple of contractors. Free for dinner?”
“Yeah, but only if I buy. You know Shamrock’s?”
“Yeah,” she scoffed, like it was a stupid question.
“Seven?”
“I’m there. Look, I gotta run, I can see a contractor pulling up in front right now. See you tonight,” she said and hung up.
I phoned Manning, amazingly he answered.
“Yeah.”
“Detective Manning, Dev Haskell.”
“I can see that.”
“Any progress on Bernie Sneen.”
“I really don’t care to comment, that’s an ongoing investigation.”
“I might have something for you.”
“Such as?”
“You interested in trading a little information?”
“Are you interested in being held without bail?”
“You aren’t going to do that, and we both know it. Look, just tell me, you mentioned a dog bite on Bernie Sneen. Was it a big dog, a Chihuahua, what?”
“We don’t know the breed, but I can tell you this much, it was big and damn vicious, tore a chuck of meat right out of your buddy’s ass. Your turn.”
“I went to see my former clients yesterday…”
“And their name is?”
“Mister Softee. Actually I spoke with, what did you call her, Loretta?”
“The girlfriend? Lucille.”
“Yeah, I know her as Lola. Anyway, talking with her yesterday, she mentioned Bernie getting hit by the train, then mentioned the duct tape. She said he taped himself to the train tracks after walking around barefoot. You’d told me you were keeping that quiet. Maybe you mentioned it to her, maybe not, just thought you should be aware.”
“How did she phrase it, exactly?”
“Exactly? She said, he never ever accomplished anything in his life. He wandered around barefoot and then taped himself to the train tracks, is what she said, or at least that’s how I remember it.”
“You react when she said that?”
“No, there were a couple of things going on at the time and…”
“Such as?”
“Not getting paid for starters. I sent that bastard an invoice. They wanted documentation, it’s all bullshit, they’re stalling.”
“You talking a lot of money?”
“Not really, certainly not to them. But it’s more the principle with me, you know?”
“Yeah, you’re a principled kind of guy. Anything else?” he asked.
“No, just thought you should know. Hope it helps.”
“Thanks, always nice to hear from a concerned citizen.”
“Yeah, well let me know if…” but he’d already hung up.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jill appeared through the side door of Shamrock’s twenty minutes late in white linen slacks and a beige blouse. She looked worth the wait.
“Hey, sorry I’m late. I had to give Annie a lift,” she said giving me a kiss on the cheek.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah, just pain-in-the-butt stuff, brakes went out, she had to get there before seven to pick her car up. Her boyfriend had to work late, and she called me, last minute.”
“Sauvignon Blanc,” she said to the waitress, a frizzy red-headed girl, who had just barely stepped up to our table.
“Another beer, sir?”
“Please.”
“Hey, I spoke to that Jennifer here the other night, but I haven’t seen her yet. I wonder if she’s working?” I said absently looking around.
“Did you ask anyone?”
“Ask? No, not yet, I was just looking…”
“Typical,” she smiled.
Her wine and my next beer arrived a few minutes later.
“Can you tell me, is Jennifer working tonight?” Jill asked the waitress.
“What was her last name, again?”
“McCauley, Jennifer McCauley,” I said.
“Oh, didn’t you guys hear? She was in a car accident.”
“A car accident? No, we didn’t hear anything, least I didn’t, you?” Jill asked looking at me.
I shook my head.
“What happened? Is she okay?”
“Well, she’s in the hospital. She’ll be okay, I guess, but she was pretty banged up. Some guy hit her from behind and just kept on pushing her. She was driving home last night. I think she was on the High Bridge at the time. She’s lucky he didn’t push her off or something, you know?”
“Did they get the guy?” I asked. I was pretty sure I knew the answer.
“No, it was after her shift, so sorta late at night, you know. Hit and run.
I guess all she saw were these big headlights, you know those real bright kind. Her car was totaled. She’s lucky she wasn’t killed is all I can say. Anyway, you guys ready to order?”
“Maybe give us a minute,” I said.
“God, the poor girl,” Jill said after taking a big sip of wine. “Sometimes people are just crazy.” She grabbed a menu and opened it.
“Jill, is it just me or does it seem a little strange that after your fire, the only potential witness is rear ended on the High Bridge by a big car with bright lights.”
“What?”
“Jennifer’s accident. Mister Softee gets broadsided in a hit-and-run. Your fire. Now this Jennifer in a hit-and-run. What does all that tell you?”
“That you’re some kind of a paranoid freak?” she said not looking up from her menu.
“What about the brakes on your sister’s car?”
“Hey look. Annie doesn’t think to put oil into her car until the light comes on. As for her brakes, they’ve been making noise for five weeks. Her solution is to just turn up the radio. God knows she didn’t pay attention to me bitching about it. What are you going to have?”
“Another beer.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The following morning, armed with the remnants of a hangover and the not-so-pleasant memory of Mr. Softee’s note scrawled across my invoice, I decided to pay him a call.
He answered the phone at the gate and buzzed me in himself. The dogs were nowhere to be seen. Although I’d just spoken to him less than a minute before I had to ring the doorbell and wait. I rang it again.
After I rang the third time the door opened almost immediately. Mr. Softee stood there with a chrome metal cane. Most of his weight rested on his right leg. His right hand held onto the large brass door knob and his left arm rested against the door frame, blocking my way. His injured leg was set inside a gray plastic walking cast and held in place with a series of black nylon straps. He wore pressed, loose-fitting navy blue trousers, an expensive looking polo shirt and a dark scowl.
“What the hell is it?” he snapped.
“Well, for starters it’s my invoice. You sent it back to me.”
I pulled the envelope out of my back pocket, took the invoice out and unfolded it. I hoped his note, foolishly scrawled in red across the bottom would be self-explanatory and he would just cut me a check.
