A Playboy in Peril

by Kelly Rey

  Maizy shrugged. "I miscalculated."

  Gilbert Gleason leaped from the van and raced toward us, cackling madly. My first thought was Albert Einstein is a very bad driver. That didn't make any sense, so I refocused while he pounded on the Escort's windshield. My next thought was Albert Einstein is a very bad driver. I couldn't help it. Gleason's hair was white, wiry, wild, and too long. His mustache was white, wiry, wild, and too bushy. His nose was a little too large. It wouldn't have surprised me if he'd started reciting the theory of relativity.

  "Hey!" Maizy yelled. "Hey! He's beating up your car!"

  Gleason abruptly stopped pounding. He leaned closer to the glass to stare in at us with wild eyes. "You thought you'd get away with it, didn't you?" he shouted.

  "What's he talking about?" Maizy asked.

  I didn't want to make eye contact, but I couldn't look away. "No idea. This is the guy whose trailer you wanted to break into?"

  Maizy shrugged. "Who knew he was a few nanoparticles short of a quantum dot?"

  I thought everyone knew that.

  "Lock your door," I said.

  "You should sue him," Maizy said. "He's going to dent your hood if he keeps that up."

  "He killed my car!" I shouted.

  "Is all the drama really necessary?" Maizy asked.

  Gilbert was still ranting. "When is it enough?" he yelled. He was getting worked up again; I saw his hands bunching into fists ahead of another windshield pummeling.

  "Where's the nearest urgent care center?" Maizy asked. "We have to document some personal injuries to support our lawsuit. You should know this stuff."

  "Just start the car," I said. "Let's get out of here before he breaks the glass."

  She started the car and stomped on the gas. Nothing.

  "Stop messing around," I said.

  "I'm not," Maizy said. "We must be stuck in the sand. I knew this would happen if some demented ex-lawyer forced us off the road. I just always figured it'd be Wally."

  Gleason leaned close to the windshield again, shaking his head and waggling his index finger back and forth at us. "You're not getting away from me that easily!"

  "We need to weaponize," Maizy muttered.

  "I'm pretty sure there's an armory in my trunk," I said.

  "Let me rephrase," she said. "We need to weaponize without getting out of the car. What've you got?"

  "Anxiety," I said. "High blood pressure. Cramps."

  She just looked at me.

  "Well, what've you got?" I asked peevishly.

  Gleason started pacing back and forth, waving his arms wildly. "It's never enough! You want me to open a vein?" He spun toward us, arms extended, palms up. "You want blood? Is that it? You want blood?"

  Maizy watched him raptly. "This guy is seriously skewed."

  "Why are you doing this?" Gleason yelled. "It's not my fault! I told you it's not my fault!"

  Maizy did a calm-down air pat. "Okay," she yelled back. "It's not your fault! Doofus," she muttered.

  "Not helpful, Maize," I told her. "Don't antagonize him. We have to find something to protect ourselves."

  "Are you open to improvisation?" she asked.

  "I'll sue you!" he shouted. "I'm still allowed to do that much!"

  Maizy snorted. "That's rich. He's going to sue us?"

  I'd seen it before. He'd find some bottom-feeding lawyer somewhere who'd be willing to front him the filing fee to clog up the court docket. With my luck that bottom feeder would be named Wally Randall.

  "Why's he so agitated with us?" I asked. "He couldn't have even known we were following him."

  "It's probably a misdirected expression of hostility vis a vis erectile dysfunction," Maizy said.

  I looked at her. "Yeah. That must be it." I snapped my fingers as a thought occurred to me. "That morning star you bought from Herbie Hairston, is it still in the trunk?"

  "Do you really need to ask?" she said.

  I speared the air with my finger. "I knew it! Why do you always have to keep your psycho starter kit in my car?"

  "You never know when you're going to need a ball gag and a fireplace poker," she said calmly.

  My jaw went slack.

  "Maybe we should just ask him nicely," she said. She rolled down her window, hoisted herself upward to sit on the door, and banged on the roof of the car to get his attention. "Hey, goober! What's your problem?"

  That was her idea of nice?

  Gilbert Gleason paused his screeching medley about jurisprudence and a free press. "I'll sue you!" he yelled. "That's harassment!"

  "I'll sue you back!" Maizy yelled. "That's intentional infliction of emotional distress!" She bent sideways to look in at me. "That's a thing, right?"

  "Beats me," I said.

  "That does it," she said. "I'm nominating you for Employee of the Year."

  "Why are you following me?" Gleason yelled. "Haven't you people done enough?" He stormed toward the car.

  Maizy pointed a can of spray paint at him. A second later a splotch of lime green appeared on his sweatshirt.

  "How much of that did you buy?" I demanded.

  She did another sideways bend to show me innocent eyes. "I didn't buy any, 'cause I'm underaged. That wouldn't be legal." She straightened again, muttering, "And you'd already know if you cleaned your back seat once in a while."

  What was the point? It would only get dirty again.

  "Hey!" Gleason shouted. "That's battery! I'll sue you for that!"

  "It's getting old, dude," Maizy told him.

  He wouldn't be stopped. "I'll throw in harassment, too. You'll be facing some pretty stiff fines, I can tell you that!"

  Well, that wouldn't be good. I couldn't afford fines, stiff or otherwise.

  "Chill," Maizy said. "We only wanted to ask you some questions."

  That stopped him cold. His face relaxed, his hands unclenched, and his shoulders dropped away from his earlobes. "About time you showed up," he said.

  Maizy slithered out the open window onto the ground. With a sigh, I opened my door and got out, too. We stood at the trunk of the Escort, Gilbert Gleason a few yards away. Maizy slipped the key into the trunk lock but didn't open it; still, I knew she was keeping the morning star option open if things got out of hand. Which gave me a small measure of comfort. Not as much comfort as, say, a seven-foot poison-tipped flaming lance, but it would have to do.

  "You should have come sooner," Gleason said. "I warned you people a month ago something bad was going to happen, and no one believed me. And now it has." He squinted at the purple stripe in Maizy's hair. "You are FBI, right?"

  "We're not—" I began.

  Maizy shifted a little to stomp on my foot. And not accidentally, either. I knew that because she elbowed me at the same time.

  "The hair threw you, right?" she asked. "It's part of a new initiative at the DOJ. About Nicky D's murder."

  "What?" His eyes got comically wide. "Nicky D was murdered?"

  "That was impressive," Maizy said. "Next time try less exaggeration. You know he was murdered. You just said you warned the Bureau about your plan a month before you carried it out."

  "My plan?" he repeated.

  "So you admit it," Maizy said. She nudged me. "Go get the camera. I want to film his confession."

  "Confession?" he repeated.

  "Camera?" I repeated.

  "I didn't expect this to be so easy," Maizy told me. She turned back to Gleason. "What happened between you and Nicky D?"

  "Nothing happened," Gleason said.

  "And then you killed him!" Maizy said.

  I frowned at her. She gave me a what'd-I-say? look back.

  Clearly it was time for a gentler approach from a more reasoned mind. Unfortunately, Curt wasn't available, so it was up to me.

  "You're a lawyer, right?" I asked him.

  His face wrinkled as if he'd tasted something sour. "Was a lawyer. I had a decent practice before…" He trailed off.

  "Before you killed Nicky D and became a fugitive?" Maizy
asked. "Tell us all about it."

  "Give it a rest," I told her. "Before what?" I asked him.

  "Before I represented Virtual Waste," he spat. "It was the worst thing I ever did. And I've done a few questionable things in my life, I promise you that."

  "Like killing Nicky D?" Maizy asked.

  Enough, already. I jabbed my elbow at her. She made a casual ole! move, and I wound up elbowing the car, sending a jolt of pain up my arm, which made me lose track of my searing line of questioning. And pretty much everything else except the thought that I'd better get to the local hospital for some x-rays.

  "How did that happen?" I asked through clenched teeth. "Becoming the band's agent?"

  "I represented Nick in a personal matter," he said. "Unfortunately, we didn't prevail, but when the band was looking for an agent, they hired me on his recommendation."

  "What kind of personal matter?"

  "That's irrelevant," he said. "Next question."

  Maizy stuck out her chin. "Bet the job description didn't say anything about dropping an amplifier on the drummer's head."

  Gleason's mouth twisted. "Is that what happened to him?"

  "Like you don't know," Maizy muttered.

  "Lighten up," I whispered.

  "He's jerking our chain," Maizy whispered back.

  "Excuse me," Gleason cut in. "Hello? I can hear you." He shook his head. "The FBI sure has relaxed its standards."

  "Let me guess," Maizy said. "He did nicky-nack with your wife."

  Gleason stared at her. "Why would you say that?"

  "He did nicky-nack with everyone's wife," Maizy said. "You just maybe took the revenge thing a little too far. You can admit it. You're among friends."

  "I didn't kill him," Gleason said. "But I wish I could send flowers to whoever did. Nick cost me my livelihood and my marriage and my home."

  "Yeah, we saw it," Maizy said. "Lovely place."

  "Not that home," Gleason snapped. "The home where my ex now lives with the pool boy. Twelve rooms and a tennis court on four acres. Everything but a pool."

  Geez.

  "And that," Gleason added, "is after he made me untouchable and stiffed me on my fee. Don't I deserve to be paid for my work?"

  I had no experience with that concept, so I kept quiet.

  "What does untouchable mean?" Maizy asked.

  "For all his faults," Gleason said, "and God knows there were many, Nick was media savvy. He slaughtered me. And I didn't realize it was happening until it was too late."

  "How'd he cost you your livelihood?" Maizy asked. "Sounds like he gave you a better job than you had chasing ambulances in a graveyard."

  "Theft by deception," Gleason said. "That six-figure salary he promised became a couple hundred bucks a month real fast. What'm I going to do with that? I can make more than that staging slip and falls." His face reddened. "I mean, I made more than that cutting grass when I was twelve."

  Note to self: price lawn mowers.

  "Sounds like you had a lot of grievances with him," Maizy said. "So you killed him, right?"

  "Wrong," Gleason said. "I quit. I've got my pride."

  Yeah. That was evident in the rattletrap van he drove and the palatial cracker box he now called home.

  "That's not what I read," Maizy said. "I read you were fired."

  Gleason snorted. "That's ridiculous."

  "Then why leave the area?" I asked.

  "I didn't," he said. "I took advantage of an offer from a friend to move across the street until the pressure died down."

  Maizy and I exchanged glances, and I could tell we were thinking the same thing. The Norman Bates trailer was across the street. The least Gleason could have done was clean up after himself before he left. He'd probably left the toilet seat up, too. No wonder his wife had taken up with the pool boy.

  I did a now-what? eyebrow raise.

  She shrugged. "I think we're done here. Don't leave the area. We may have some more questions for you."

  "Oh, shucks," Gleason said. "I'll have to cancel that trip to St. Tropez."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Five minutes later, after Gleason had driven off, Maizy and I were back in the Escort. The engine was running. The wheels were spinning. We were going nowhere, still stuck in the sand.

  "We have to stop doing this," I said.

  "Hey, you know what?" Maizy asked. "We never found out why Gleason called the FBI."

  "You're right," I said. "Let's get him back and ask him. Then he can push us onto the road."

  "Wonder if he filed a police report, too," she said. "I could probably acquire that."

  "What about your shovel?" I asked. "It's in the trunk, right? We can dig ourselves out."

  She shook her head. "Lent it to someone. He needed it for an important meeting."

  That didn't seem like a question I wanted to ask.

  Maizy drummed her fingers on the wheel, thinking. "Have you got anything we can put under the back tires for traction?"

  "You tell me," I said. "My trunk is your storage unit."

  We got out of the car. As soon as we opened the trunk, we heard the rumble of an approaching motorcycle. Immediately I closed it again. There were things in my trunk best left unseen, even if I wasn't sure what they were.

  Seconds later, a hulking mass of black and chrome rumbled to a liver-quivering stop behind my car, its headlight pinning us against the trunk like butterflies to a bulletin board.

  Maizy yelled, "Bryn!"

  I took a closer look. "Bryn?" How did she always manage to turn up at opportune moments?

  "She's fierce!" Maizy whispered. Clearly she was full-on awestruck. It irked me. Throw a little training and forty pounds on me, I could be fierce, too. Although I'd have to lose that perfectly rational fear of spiders. And learn to ride a Harley. Maybe get a few tattoos and buy some leather pants. Of course, leather pants and Walmart sneakers didn't go together, so I'd have to add biker boots, and I didn't think Howard paid me enough for leather pants and biker boots. Plus a ratty tee didn't exactly complement the whole leather ensemble, so I'd have to spring for one of those leather vests and probably a leather jacket, too.

  Oh, forget it. I didn't have the budget for fierce. I could only afford ill-tempered. I didn't need an expensive leather wardrobe for ill-tempered. I could manage that stark naked.

  Bryn lowered the kickstand, removed her helmet, hung it on the handlebars, and got off the bike. "Hello, Alana." She nodded at me. "Hortense."

  And that was another thing. Hortense wasn't a fierce name. I'd have to pretend to be a Rocky or a Rusty instead, and that was bound to get confusing.

  "Is everything okay?" Bryn asked. "Did you have an accident?"

  I shuddered, remembering Gilbert Gleason's van in the middle of the street. "Almost," I said.

  "We were tailing a suspect," Maizy said. "He made a countermove."

  Countermove. Much better than admitting she'd driven off the road.

  Bryn grabbed her by both shoulders and looked at her hard. "Did he hurt you?"

  Maizy shook her head. "I'm indomitable," she said. "But the car's stuck in the sand."

  "That's not a problem," Bryn said. "I've got a few minutes to help you out. I was just on my way home to my boyfriend's place anyway. The important thing is that you two are safe."

  Standing there to the side, watching the two of them bonding, feeling as awkward as I had in high school, why didn't that feel like the important thing?

  "Who was it, anyway?" Bryn asked.

  "The band's old agent." Maizy pulled the key out of the trunk lock. "I'll get in and steer."

  Bryn's eyebrow arched. "Gilbert Gleason's back in town?"

  "He says he never left," Maizy said. "He squatted in a neighbor's place for a while. You push, okay?"

  "That sounds like Gil." Bryn shook her head. "He's a piece of work."

  Gil?

  "Do you know him?" I asked.

  "Not well," Bryn said. "He and my uncle knew each other for years from bar a
ssociation functions, but I mainly saw him at the band's gigs. I know he didn't have much experience with agenting. They weren't very happy with him. That's how Uncle Doug got his job."

  Maizy tapped impatiently on the trunk.

  "Was Gil fired?" I asked. "Or did he quit?"

  "Fired, I think," she said. "After he got disbarred."

  "What do you know about the disbarment?" I asked.

  "Hel-lo!" Maizy said. "While two of us are young?"

  Bryn's face clouded. "I heard he slept with a client, that's all. He blamed Nicky D for being fired, but let's face it—Gil wasn't the spark Virtual Waste needed anyway." She paused. "I can tell you two are really serious about this. Can I help?"

  "Yes," Maizy said. "You can help right now. How about a push?"

  "We'll keep it in mind," I said. "But we usually work solo." And sometimes with Curt. Once with Eunice. Generally speaking, I liked as few witnesses as possible.

  "Well, keep me in mind." Bryn turned her attention on the car, its back tires mired in the soft sand. "This doesn't look too bad. Let's see what I can do." She moved behind the car, bent to grab the bumper, hoisted the whole rear of the car into the air with a lot of groaning and creaking (from the car, not from Bryn), hauled it a few yards to the right, and put it down again with the rear wheels sitting on asphalt. "There." She brushed her hands together and smiled brightly. "Anything else I can help you with?"

  I gaped at her.

  "Fierce!" Maizy whispered. "That ought to do it," she said. "Thanks a lot. I'll catch you at the Pinelands next weekend."

  Bryn gave us a wave, climbed onto her bike, kick-started it into life, did a tight U-turn, and roared away.

  "Did I mention Bryn rocks?" Maizy asked as we got back in the car.

  Too many times. Only this time, I had to agree.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  "What do you believe when you don't believe anything?" I asked on Friday night. Curt and I sat at his kitchen table, sharing a fettuccini dinner with meatballs and garlic bread. A summer thunderstorm pounded at the windows. It was my first chance to fill Curt in on what I'd learned or, more appropriately, what I hadn't learned. This is what we did. I went out and made a mess, and then I brought it home for Curt to help me sort it out while he fed me. It was a pretty good system.