by John L. Monk
After a shower and shave, I got dressed and headed down to the scooter rental. Sheepishly, I explained to the man behind the counter what had happened, feeling an odd mix of horror and elation when he told me that yeah, three guys had brought the bike back saying it was blocking traffic in town.
So they hadn’t been lying.
The man was more than happy to rent me another bike, admonishing me to watch where I parked. I said I would. This time, I paid the $50 insurance fee. Because you can never be too careful in a foreign country.
When I got to the Palm and asked for Kate, the man at the desk asked for her last name. I didn’t know her last name so I just said, “She’s tall.”
The man held his hand a foot over his head.
Even though she wasn’t close to that tall, I nodded and said, “That’s her.”
He looked apologetic. “She checked out already, sir. I think she wanted another hotel.”
“She say where?”
“No sir, I’m sorry.”
After learning about Mrs. Swanson’s detective agency, I’d found the website for McLean Investigations. It was horrible. Nothing to click on—just a few lines of text with a phone number on it. Almost like they didn’t want any clients. My guess was they primarily handled the Swanson account. Considering Kate worked there, I figured the place was staffed with other foster kids.
I called their number using my Simple Call account.
“Hello?” a man said, and nothing more.
“It’s me, Tom Harrington,” I said, trying my best to sound like the lawyer I’d spoken with while faking a cold at the same time. I also spoke with my mouth an inch or two farther away from the receiver than could be considered helpful.
“Tom? I can barely hear you, you out of town? You sound horrible.”
“Yeah, bad cold,” I said, coughing loudly. “Listen, I talked to Kate. She’s in Nassau and had a legal question, but she forgot to leave her room number.”
“You talked to Kate? How is she?”
“She didn’t say. So, uh, about that room number?”
“You try her cell?” he said.
He just didn’t want to go look for it.
“I keep getting a weird error,” I said, trying not to sound irritated. “Anyway, I need to fax her a few things so I can get back to bed.”
I coughed again.
“Ah, man I’m sorry. You sound terrible. Here, hold on.” I heard some clicking from a keyboard. “You know, it’s funny. She called about thirty minutes ago, pissed off about something. She demanded an upgrade, so we moved her. Lemme see … here it is: British Colonial Hilton, room … uh … 206. Anything else?”
I coughed. “Nope, that’s it. Thanks again.”
“Take care of yourself, okay?”
I coughed again and hung up. Then I went online and pulled it up: the British Colonial Hilton was actually pretty nice. Right on the water.
Feeling marginally better after my grapefruit juice and ibuprofen, I went down to the lobby again and bought a camera at the boutique electronics shop in the retail wing. Cracking safes had to be easier than taking a picture with this thing, it had so many useless buttons and what not. Back in my room, I let it charge while I tackled the inch-thick manual.
When it was ready, I got directions from the concierge and took a short ride over the bridge to the main island, then a right and a few blocks and lucked into a spot in the shade with a great view of the entrance. Glad to be finally doing something other than waiting for Mrs. Rhodes to come to town, or possibly the FBI, I hunkered down under a tree to wait for Kate to either leave or come back from wherever she was.
An hour into it, my butt hurt and various appendages were taking turns falling asleep on me. It was a nice day, better than yesterday, but it was still hot, and I hadn’t brought any water. Another hour and not only was I parched to distraction, I was on the verge of switching over to the other side of the tree for sweet bladder relief. Ten more minutes and I gave up and took a careful, rupture-free walk through the lobby on a holy quest for the men’s room.
If I’d taken the time to wash my hands, I would have missed the opportunity to letch over the tall, athletic-looking woman not twenty feet away talking to a man at the front desk. She had on a sleeveless yellow sundress and white sandals that wrapped up her ankles. Elegant neck, short-cropped hair. And boyish as hell.
Heh.
Quickly, before Kate saw me, I snapped a picture and ducked out of sight.
When she finished her business, I followed her to the parking lot and saw her get into a faded white car. Not wanting to miss her, I sprinted back to my scooter. I caught a glimpse of her exiting right, down Bay Street, heading deeper into the city.
When she parked, I tailed her from a safe distance while she window-shopped and strolled around. In time, I realized she was going in circles. Two turns around the block and she got a seat outside at a small cafe, where she ordered a piece of cake and a cup of coffee. With exquisite timing, I got a picture of her taking a too-big bite, her cheeks all puffed up like a hamster. After she finished, she picked up her dishes and took them inside, rather than let the waiter take them. Then she sat back down and wiped her mouth carefully with her fingers to get the chocolate off. When she didn’t leave, I wondered who she was waiting for.
Five minutes later, she stood to greet a tanned, macho-looking guy with a deceptively square jaw and theoretically dreamy eyes.
I snapped a few more pictures.
“Hey there!” he shouted.
When he got to her, Kate reached to give him a hug—except he thought she wanted to shake hands, so he shook her hand at the same time, turning it into an embarrassing handshake hug. When nobody nearby vomited, they both stood back and giggled like kids on a first date. Kate said something I couldn’t hear and acted like she’d be back in a minute. He nodded, overly agreeable, and sat down while she ducked back into the cafe.
Just as I was about to pack up and go, an idea came to me served half-baked, the way I like it. Effecting a worried, frightened expression, I shot across the street and approached Kate’s date, hoping she was in the ladies room and not buying more cake for herself.
“Hey, buddy, I need to talk to you,” I said, breathless and nervous.
“Who me?” he said warily. “Do I know you?”
“You’re with Kate, right?”
His chest puffed out fractionally and his jaw took a hard set. “Yeah, who are you?”
“Who am I?” I said, returning his stare with a look of frank openness, nothing to hide. “I’m the last guy she pulled this on. How long have you known that woman?”
“Since yesterday. What’s it to you?”
I could practically smell the macho pheromones swirling around.
“I’ll show you,” I said. “Have a look at this.”
I pulled up my shirt and showed him all the bruises on my back.
The guy flinched, making me worry it was worse than I’d thought.
“Jesus, bro, what the fuck?”
“Exactly,” I said, and pulled my shirt down. Then I glanced around nervously, making a real show of it. “I gotta go. If she sees me, I’m dead. But from me to you, this is how it’ll go down: you two are going to have a nice day together. She’ll make you trust her, and wherever you eventually wind up, a bunch of locals are going to break in, beat you up and say they’ll kill her if you don’t go with one of them to an ATM. That’s what happened to me two days ago. The police around here are all in on it—they won’t help you, so don’t bother.”
“Jesus,” he said again with a look of mounting horror. “Were they black guys?”
Just barely, I kept from smiling.
“Black as the living night,” I said, then turned around and fled as if chased by all the black people in Nassau.
Chapter 19
Back in my hiding spot under the tree at the Hilton, I caught sight of Kate returning from her aborted date with that proto-racist. She appeared decidedly less sunny i
n her fetching sundress.
I zoomed my camera in for a close-up and snapped a picture.
When she got to the entrance, she slammed through the revolving door so hard it spun an additional turn in her wake. Strong, for a girl. I wondered if I’d gone too far.
Kate’s hotel had a business center with computers and a color printer, and I used that to print out the photos. Five minutes later, I stood in the lobby appreciating my handiwork. Great shots.
I went to the desk and said I had an urgent delivery for room 206, and did they have a large envelope they could spare? They did. On the outside, I wrote, I heard you were free tonight. I’m down at the bar.
“Can you get someone to bring it to her room, rather than calling her?” I said.
“Certainly, sir,” the clerk said, his smile friendly enough to give even Donald a run for his money.
I tipped him and went to the bar, feeling entirely too pleased with myself. The place was empty, it being a bit early for dinner. I asked the bartender if they had any grapefruit juice.
“Yes, sir.”
“Put it in a dirty glass,” I said, which earned a polite smile.
I’d been expecting Kate to show up in her sundress, but she had on her private eye suit again. A shame, really. When she came over and turned toward the bar, I expected her to order a drink. In reality, she was winding up for a punch that started way out in the lobby and knocked me off my stool. Kate didn’t stop there. While the bartender yelled, “Please, Miss, calm down! Calm down!” she loomed over me and delivered a vicious kick to my ribs, followed by another to my stomach when I twisted to protect my exposed side.
“You do not fuck with my life, Bo—got it?” she yelled and kicked me again. “How dare you?”
“Pretty and a southpaw,” I said, laughing and wheezing at the same time.
Thankfully, a security guard showed up and pulled her away from me.
“Don’t worry,” I said when the bartender helped me to my corner. “I can take her.”
Kate and I spent the next ten minutes separated while I held bag of ice to my eye and she talked to the manager. I don’t know what she told him, but he let her go with a there-there pat on the hand.
I guess he was all patted out when he got to me.
“You have to go,” the manager said. “You leave that lady alone, okay? She doesn’t like you. If you come back, I will call the police.”
For the second time in two days I had pissed off a hotel manager. I totally tried not to laugh, but everyone knows when you do that all that happens is you make funny faces with your lips. And how was I supposed to know this guy totally hated that?
“That’s fine,” I said, when he grabbed me and led me out by the arm. “There’s still like a hundred other hotels I haven’t gotten kicked out of yet.”
When we got outside, the manager gave me a final shove, then stood blocking the entryway, flanked by the security guard and my formerly friendly bartender.
“If you come back, I will call the police,” he said again in a loud, authoritative tone, and pointed out to the main road.
An old couple and a young couple with kids stopped what they were doing to watch.
“Just a warning,” I told them. “If you see any roaches, they prefer you keep it to yourself—and whatever you do, don’t mention it to the other guests.”
As one, they continued to stare at me, their expressions blank except for the old man, who just grinned.
Limping back to my scooter with the ice pressed to my swelling eye, with my sides, stomach, and back all beat up, I briefly wondered if I was cut out for mingling with polite company.
When I got back to the hotel, I took more ibuprofen and washed it down with water. Then I got in bed and did little more than watch TV for the rest of the day.
***
Every day that went by my back hurt a little less. Monday morning came, the day Isabella was set to arrive, and I was appraising my ugly eye in the mirror for the twentieth time. Black and purple, and a painful reminder that working alone at night hadn’t done anything for my social skills.
“You’re a real jerk sometimes,” I said to myself, probing my eye with a finger and watching how it went from white to purple again in the span of half a second.
“You did get Anna away from Manny and Fruit,” I added. If Kate knew how I’d handled that she would have been too afraid to tangle with me.
After a hot shower and some stretches, I slipped down to the little convenience store and bought a pair of cheap sunglasses. My sore eye stood out like a sore thumb. The clerk wasn’t above staring at people, so I told him, “I fell on my eye.”
Just outside, I bit the tag off and threw it away with the bag, then slipped on my new glasses and checked myself out in a mirror. I never wore sunglasses inside, but it was either that or deal with people staring at me all day.
There were posters in the lobby announcing Isabella would be performing in the Grand Ballroom, starting tonight. I went to the concierge table to see about tickets and was surprised when they weren’t sold out. The man told me they always kept extras for their more spontaneous guests.
“She is an amazing lady, sir,” he said, handing me my ticket. “I’ve met her. You will certainly love the show.”
It seemed like I was the only one on the island who hadn’t met the woman. Remembering my experience with Danny Fleer, I decided I was fine with not having personal contact with another mark.
With plenty of time until the show and not wanting to go out and actually do something, I visited the casino. My first casino ever, if you can believe it.
I’d never felt the need to gamble, and had skipped the turnoff to Atlantic City every time I visited Jersey City. Now that I was here and had a pocketful of money I’d probably never run out of, I figured I’d see what the fuss was about.
There were about a thousand first things I noticed, and one of them was an enormous anemone sculpture blazing with light in the middle of the room, hovering over a structure that seemed pulled from the ruins of mythic Atlantis itself. All around it, a small city of slot machines dinged, blinged, whizzed, and flashed at the assorted people who worked their buttons and levers. Another thing I noticed was how, though there were a lot of people there, nobody was with anyone.
I stood there for maybe five minutes, just watching. Everyone was possessed of a quiet, almost frightening intensity.
A waitress came over and asked if I’d like a drink, sent by a man in a dark suit over near the cashier’s booth.
“Thank you,” I said, taking something at random.
She told me the drink was free for customers. I thanked her again and said I was trying to figure out what to play first. When she lingered to see if I’d pay her or tip her or leave or whatever the man had told her to wait for, I tipped her an orange-colored five and stepped down onto the gambling floor.
I went to the first machine I saw—a gaudy contraption in a swarm of shimmering lights, with an Ancient Egyptian theme. I inserted a twenty. The instructions were sparse, so I just hit buttons until I ran out of money. It didn’t take long.
An hour later, it seemed like I’d only just gotten there, which proves time flies even when you’re not having all that much fun. I’d been winning about four different times, once by almost a hundred bucks, but in the end I left the place two hundred lighter. And here I thought I was a thief.
When I got back to the lobby, Kate was there, sitting on a couch facing the entrance. Figuring she wanted to apologize, I nonetheless kept going, a study in quiet dignity. She didn’t follow, she just sat there knowing full well I’d turn around and come back. But I fooled her. I pivoted, then went back.
She looked me up and down.
“What are you doing here?” I said.
“New developments. You’re wanted back in Virginia. I’m here to see you get there.”
I laughed. “You’re gonna do that all by yourself?”
“Anna’s in trouble,” Kate said, as if uttering
magic words that could bend me to her will. Clearly she wasn’t abreast of the latest news.
“That’s totally fixed now,” I said. “I was amazing.”
Kate got up slowly and fixed me with a look of profound wonder. It was weird, standing eye level with a girl.
“I’ll say. You pissed off Fruit by tasing him in his own neighborhood.”
I felt my mouth actually fall open when she said Fruit’s name—I hadn’t told anyone about him, only that I’d found Anna and gotten her to a safe place.
“How did you…?”
“Fruit told Mrs. Swanson, last night, before kidnapping Anna’s eleven-year-old son, Jimmy.”
“Jimmy? Anna has a son? Wait a minute…”
Not waiting a minute, Kate said, “Fruit punched Mrs. Swanson when she tried to stop him from taking Anna’s eleven-year-old son Jimmy. When she looked out the window, Anna was in the back seat of a car. So he’s got them both.”
“Wait, what? Are you saying he hit her? Fruit hit Mrs. Swanson?”
“That’s right,” she said, “he hit her. Because of you.”
“Is she okay?”
“She says she’s fine.”
Kate had a look on her face that said she didn’t believe it and wanted me to know she didn’t.
Eventually I said, “That’s all … pretty bad. But what does she want me for? Can’t you go to the police?”
Kate glanced away and then back again. “Fruit’s a DC pimp, and we have information suggesting he’s … protected in some way. Nobody will talk to us about him.”
I laughed. “What like some kind of government conspiracy? You’re kidding, right?”
Kate pulled a neutral expression. “Just take my word for it okay? Nobody will listen to us. We’re powerless to do anything about it.”
“Powerless? We still talking about the same old lady?”
That earned me an impossibly brief smile, almost a twitch.
“Mrs. Swanson still thinks you might be able to help. Can you think of anywhere they might be?”
