Goose

by Hildreth, Scott

  There was a lot about Ghost we didn’t know, and it bothered me. I planned on learning as much as I could from George and Ally. I hoped a better understanding of his last days would bring me comfort. The sorrow and guilt would remain, but I was deserving of both.

  “So, this chick,” I said. “The one who left the panties. We rode up to Encinitas and—”

  He went bug-eyed. “You let a split-tail get on the back of your bike?”

  “Jesus with the interrupting, Baker,” I complained. “Yeah. I took her for a ride. It was part of the agreement.”

  “What agreement?”

  “The agreement we made. I had to drop off the car with the guy that owns that diner, that George fella. I didn’t really want him to give me a ride back to my place, because I didn’t know him, and at that point in time, I didn’t like the thought of him getting that car. So, I asked that chick if she’d give me a ride back to my place. She said she would if I gave her a ride on the bike afterward. I agreed to it.”

  He shook his head and laughed. “Let me get this straight. You didn’t want George giving you a ride? George? The guy that Ghost thought enough of to leave half his money and his prized possession, Eleanor? Because you didn’t know him? So, you got some chick you didn’t know—who, by the way, leaves her nasty panties in random biker’s coat pockets—to give you a ride, because she could be trusted?”

  “You’re way off track.”

  He smirked. “How so?”

  “You’re making points that aren’t relevant. Or, at least you’re trying to.” I raised my brows. “Can I tell my story now?”

  “Please, do.”

  I glanced around his office. I was out of the mood to continue. His off-hand comments and attempted stabs at humor weren’t what I was hoping for.

  “I don’t even remember what I was talking about,” I muttered, lying my way out of continuing.

  “You were taking the pantyless chick for a ride.”

  I wanted to tell Baker about Ally. Intrigued beyond belief at her many quirks, I found her rather fascinating. She lived her life away from the technological advances most people found necessary, choosing to spend her time watching old movies, listening to records, and reading books.

  I would have gone on to tell him about meeting George, what a great guy he was, and how he planned to keep the Shelby forever, only driving it on Sundays.

  Now that I had a taste of Baker’s argumentative nature, I remembered the other reason I didn’t like going into his office.

  He was always right, and I was always wrong.

  He was also somewhat of a hypocrite. He was in a relationship, but felt that the rest of us shouldn’t be, because it put the club at jeopardy. The only other member of the club who had an Ol’ Lady was Cash, and Baker didn’t even try to get in the way of that, because Cash would whip his ass in a minute if he tried.

  “Yeah. So, I took the chick for a ride.” I stood and gestured to the letter. “You can read that at the meeting if you want.”

  “Wait.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re leaving? What about your story?”

  “I just told it,” I said. “I took her for a ride.”

  “Don’t get all butt hurt and stomp off, Goose.”

  “I’m not butt hurt, and I’m not stomping off,” I said. “I’m tired from being up all night.”

  “Why were you up all night?” he asked.

  I’d spent half the night convincing myself not to fuck Ally. The other half had been spent going through Ghost’s belongings, hoping to find something that made accepting his death a manageable task.

  For the time being, I’d succeeded at the first task. The second was a miserable failure. I hoped in time I could find a way to succeed at living without Ghost in my day to day life.

  The few minutes I’d been in Baker’s office reminded me why I chose to listen to everyone’s problems but keep my own bottled up inside me. Sharing with him the true reasons why I’d been up all night would only cause him to question my reasoning or stability.

  He’d already done enough of that for one day.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” I said.

  He looked away. “I’ve been suffering from that myself.”

  “I’m sure it’ll get better with time.”

  “Want to go in that diner one of these evenings and get something to eat?” he asked. “Maybe talk to that owner about Ghost?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “We’ll see. I’ve got a lot to do at his place. Getting all his shit sorted out isn’t going to be an easy task.”

  He stood. “Just let me know. And, let me know if you need any help going through his stuff.”

  “Will do.”

  I planned on talking to the owner about Ghost, but I had no desire to bring Baker along. Furthermore. I had no intention of having him sort through Ghost’s things. Doing so was going to be my therapy. And, until I found a way to accept Ghost’s death, the diner would be my place of refuge.

  For everyone’s sake, I hoped that acceptance came sooner than later.

  6

  Ally

  There were two groups of people I considered my clientele. Those who were wealthy, and those with high incomes. They were two totally different groups of people, each of which provided a unique opportunity.

  People with high incomes were in-your-face with their alleged wealth. They often drove the most recent model of BMW or Mercedes-Benz, wore Rolex watches, designer clothes, and spent five hundred dollars on dinner while struggling to make their mortgage payments on a home that provided an obstructed view of the ocean.

  The obstruction was caused by the many glass-walled two-story homes that lined the beach.

  Those homes were owned by the wealthy. The wealthy were stand-offish, slow to trust others, and unwilling to carry on a conversation with someone they didn’t know. They chose to drive a ten-year-old Lexus over a BMW or Mercedes-Benz, ate at inexpensive restaurants, and wore inexpensive Seiko watches.

  High-income clients carried large amounts of cash, flaunted it, and were eager to tell you of their perceived successes. Their retirement income was nestled away in an employer matched 401(k) drawing minimal interest.

  My jobs with them took less than an hour.

  Wealthy clients carried less than one hundred dollars in cash. Extracting information from them required that I immerse myself into their lives. Their retirement income came from real estate investments, business ventures, and interest income from the tens of millions of dollars they’d accrued over their lifetimes. A job with a wealthy client was an investment. It required the development of trust, which often took months.

  Seated in a Starbucks just off the highway in Del Mar Heights gripping an empty coffee cup, I watched intently as people came and went. The area was north of San Diego, half the distance to Encinitas, where Goose and I had dinner just two days before.

  Seeing a BMW or a Mercedes Benz in the neighborhood was as common as seeing a palm tree, and palm trees lined the streets. In short, the residents had extremely high incomes, but they weren’t wealthy.

  It was my kind of neighborhood.

  A handsome thirty-something parked in the corner of the lot. He got out, traced his hand across the temple of his perfectly sculpted business haircut, and turned toward the entrance. A double-take of his sparkling metallic black BMW M5 two times before he reached the door confirmed his high-income status.

  He would likely be a perfect mark. I studied his left wrist as he reached for the door. When he did, his arm extended beyond the sleeve of his tailored suit jacket.

  Gold Rolex Presidential.

  Married.

  Married men with high incomes were the easiest marks on earth. They spent more time in their offices watching porn and daydreaming about fucking twentysomethings than they did working. If given an opportunity to speak to an attractive young lady, they always took it. If for no other reason, the interaction would feed their ego for a month.

  Their subconscious minds knew it and yea
rned for the attention.

  To remove a watch unnoticed was a simple task for someone who possessed the skills. The only difficulty was giving the mark a reason to allow me to touch his left hand for a moment.

  He quickly scanned the seating area. Upon seeing me, he did a double take, took a few steps, and stretched. While arching his back, he stole another glimpse.

  His watch was as good as mine.

  Men who drove sedans chose to do so for one or more of three reasons. To provide other men rides on business luncheons, as a status symbol, or to transport their family. The two car seats in the rear of his BMW let me know he was burdened with the task— at least for the day—of transporting his children.

  It was 2:10 on a Friday afternoon. My guess was that his wife was shopping in Palm Springs for the weekend and he’d left the office early to enjoy a cup of coffee before picking up the kids from school.

  I had an hour before he’d check his watch and realize it was gone.

  I only needed three minutes.

  Coffee in hand, he turned away from the counter. I ogled him until he noticed. After holding his gaze for long enough to convey interest, I glanced at the empty chair at my side. An inviting grin followed.

  Just as I hoped, he took the seat. “How’s your day going?”

  “Great, now.” I looked him up and down. “How about you?”

  He hoisted his left ankle over his right knee and relaxed against the back of the overstuffed chair. “Not bad, considering I probably lost more money today than most men make in a year.”

  Here we go…

  I set my cup on the table between us with one hand and simultaneously pushed my Neverfull bag beside his chair with the other. It was a standard slight-of-hand maneuver, drawing attention to my coffee cup to keep him from noticing what was going on beneath the table.

  I crossed my legs and placed my folded hands in in my lap. “Bad day of investing?” I asked. “I’m Jasmine, by the way.”

  “Kenny B. Gottschalk. The pleasure’s mine.” He chuckled a composed laugh. “Let’s just say I’ve had better days. I’m not worried, though. It’s just money. I’ll make it up, and then some, on Monday.”

  I tilted my head toward the parking lot. “Well, at least you’ve got that awesome car to drive. I love those things.”

  His brows lifted. “BMWs?”

  New cars were a waste of money. So was the bag I was carrying and the shoes I was wearing, but I needed them as props.

  “Well, of course.” I slid my palms along my bare thighs as if warming my legs. “But I meant the M5, more specifically. I was skeptical about them going to all-wheel-drive this year, but who can argue with six hundred horsepower, five hundred and fifty pounds of torque, and a zero to sixty time in three seconds? Find an American car that can do that.” I laughed. “I think not.”

  “A beautiful woman who knows as much about cars as a man.” He set his cup beside mine and looked me over good. “Well, aren’t you an exquisite find?”

  His contrived nasal tone was the fingernail against my life’s chalkboard. Rich people, in general, made me want to vomit. People who spent their entire income in an effort to be perceived as being rich were much worse.

  To slap him into awareness, I began my Del Mar Heights acting debut. I stood, took a step, and pretended to catch my heel on something. With my knees buckled, I plummeted toward his lap.

  He steadied me before I landed, which was exactly what I’d hoped for. The shoes I was wearing—a pair of Louboutin red-bottoms—had been altered to appear ‘broken’. I used them for such occasions.

  I brushed the wrinkles from my dress and peered down at him like he’d saved my life. “Oh my gosh,” I gasped. “Thank you.”

  He glanced at my feet. “New shoes?”

  You’re a piece of shit, you unfaithful prick. Your wife outrun you in a pair of these. Guaranteed.

  “Oh, these things?” I said dismissively. “I’ve got a dozen pairs. I must have caught the heel on the tile.”

  He looked me up and down, taking an ample amount of time to make sure my cleavage wasn’t damaged in the mishap.

  While his eyes were glued to my tits, I continued my act.

  “When you caught me, I couldn’t help but notice your hands. They’re so soft,” I gushed. “I can’t get over it. I love soft hands. There’s nothing worse than having a man with hands so rough that he can’t, well, you know, touch a woman in all the right places.”

  “The Mexicans do the yardwork, and a maid cleans my home,” he said in a pompous tone. “These hands don’t do much but spend money.”

  You’ll be spending some on a new watch here pretty quick.

  “Can I touch them?” I reached toward him and then paused. “Do you mind?”

  Beaming with hope, he turned his palms up. “Be my guest.”

  I bent at the waist, giving him a full view of my cleavage. I cupped his wrist—and watch—with my left hand. I rubbed his palm with my right.

  “Wow,” I murmured. “They’re incredible.

  With a quick slip of my right hand, I unclasped the watch. Retracting my hand along the surface of his palm allowed me to remove the watch with my left hand without him noticing.

  Still bent over in front of him, I dropped his watch into my bag. “I can only imagine if they were touching…” I fanned my face with my hand and stood. “I need to get something to cool to drink.”

  I took a step back and stumbled. A quick “inspection” revealed a missing rubber pad on the heel of my right shoe.

  “Well, here’s the culprit,” I said. “One of the little pads came off.”

  He leaned forward and stared at the shoe. “You’d expect they’d stay glued on as much as those things cost. I’ve bought a few pairs of them. Damned things aren’t cheap.”

  “I’ve got a pair of flats in the car.” I reached for my bag. “Let me go get them. I’ll be right back.”

  “I’ll be right here,” he said with a smile. “Waiting impatiently.”

  I batted my eyelashes and turned toward the door. After hobbling out of sight, I got in my car and drove away ten thousand dollars richer.

  I knew Kenny B. wouldn’t care. It was just money. He could make it up, and then some, on Monday.

  7

  Goose

  Dressed in Khaki pants and a crisp powder blue button-down shirt, the physically fit man standing on my front porch was either a cop, an insurance salesman, or a spokesperson for a health and wellness company. Hoping to put my foot against an insurance salesman’s ass, I opened the front door a few inches and prepared to send him on his way.

  A quick scan of his person revealed a Sig Sauer .40 caliber pistol holstered to his hip. I swallowed against the taste of regret as it rose in my throat. “Evening, officer.”

  “Detective,” he snapped back. “Detective Barnes.”

  “I didn’t know there was a difference.” My mouth twisted into a half-assed smirk. “What can I do for you, detective?”

  He nodded beyond me, toward the living room. “Mind if I come in?”

  “As a matter of fact,” I said dryly. “I do.”

  I peered toward his unmarked car, which was parked at the curb. The additional antennas, downgraded wheels, and muted bronze color glistening in the evening sun forewarned any savvy would-be criminals that a cop was in their midst. He—and his car—were as inconspicuous as a cock on a wedding cake.

  “Do you need directions, or something?” I asked. “You get off the freeway and get twisted around? It’s easy with all the cul-de-sacs around here huh?”

  He leaned back and looked at my house number. “Six forty-eight. I’m at the right place.” He gave me a quick look over. “You’re Gordon Pearce, right? Bank robber? Thief? Self-proclaimed weapons expert? Murderer?”

  My asshole puckered tight. My face flashed hot. I struggled to maintain my nonchalant stance.

  “Think you’ve got the wrong Gordon Pearce,” I said, the words nearly getting tangled in my throat. �
�I’m an amateur chef. I like planting flowers. I manage carwashes. I murdered a mosquito once. It was in Louisiana, though. I’m guessing that’s out of your jurisdiction.”

  He looked me over. “You ought to do stand-up comedy.”

  “You ought to go find a real criminal to fuck with, officer. Like I said, you’ve got the wrong Gordon Pearce.”

  “I’m a detective,” he huffed. “And, I’ve got the right man, asshole. I need to ask you a few questions about an investigator that’s gone missing. He started nosing around you and your cohorts and just up and fucking vanished. Sound familiar?” He grinned a smug little grin. “We can either do it here, or at the station. I’ll let you pick.”

  To convey innocence, I needed to maintain my jovial attitude and appearance. I started to give a smart-assed response. Before I got out my first word, he continued.

  “If you choose to go to the station, you’re going in cuffs.” He smirked. “Just thought I’d clarify that.”

  I wasn’t going anywhere in cuffs. The .22 caliber silenced Walther tucked into the small of my back at my waistband would make sure of that. I opened the door enough to lead him to believe I was going to offer him inside. Then, I offered him a smile and my departing remarks, instead.

  “I’m sorry, detective,” I said in a mock apologetic tone. “This is where I exercise my right to have an attorney present before answering any questions.”

  His eyebrows raised. “Are you sure that’s the position you want to take?”

  “Are you sure you want to continue to pry and prod after I told you I didn’t want to talk to you?” I pointed toward the infrared camera centered in the door’s frame. “You’re being recorded, officer.”

  He glanced at the camera. “When I come back, it’ll be with a warrant.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less,” I said with a smile. “Call in advance, and I’ll have some fresh donuts ready. I make my own dough. They’re dripping with grease and fattening as hell. I double dip ‘em in sugar, too. You’ll love ‘em. All my cop friends do.”