Liquid Courage

by K. S. Adkins

  Huffing once she finishes with, “Fine. Please.”

  Handing over the right ticket, she checks it out and claps, “Love you, Lenny and I mean it, you conniving bastard!”

  Grinning in spite of himself he shrugs and says, “Can’t blame a guy for trying, Mercy.”

  “True,” she nods enthusiastically. “But you can shoot him.”

  “Also true,” he concedes with a smile.

  “See you next week!” she calls out heading for the door and hi-fiving the customers upon exit.

  Catching up to her I ask, “You’re coming back here?”

  “Uh huh,” she says checking her phone.

  “Why?”

  “To find out if I won or not.”

  “But you won’t let him cash your ticket?”

  “Uh no, did you miss the part where Lenny’s a shyster?”

  “Then why come at all?”

  “Why does anyone do anything?”

  I was figuring out how to respond to that when she says, “Shit, duty calls. See you around, suit!”

  And then she was gone.

  Again.

  As much as I hated running surveillance on workmen's comp claims, they were a necessary evil, paid the bills, and very common. They also came with an enormous amount of paperwork.

  Of course, most employees were the real deal and didn’t abuse the system. But, yesterday’s lead was not only abusing the system but draining it dry.

  Nailing that chick while still off balance from being in close proximity to The Suit got me decked in the face. Which basically closes out the employer’s case since the employee in question was supposed to be in a motorized wheelchair and unable to walk, let alone street fight.

  And let me tell you; she was surprisingly limber for someone nursing an injury.

  This left me available to work on the identity fraud file I accepted last week. I personally believed there was a special place in hell for thieves. Especially thieves who stole single mothers’ identities.

  I’m literally standing behind the woman who did, in fact, steal my client’s identity and was in the process of using that money to buy Nikes. Fucking Nikes.

  She loaded up on footwear while maintaining conversations on, not one, but two cell phones.

  People that do dumb shit like this are extremely difficult to deal with because they feel that they are owed, due.

  So, keeping my distance I jot down my notes, take photo proof and even follow her outside to where she had parked her Cadillac. Yes, she had a brand new Cadillac, two cell phones, bags of shoes and an innocent woman’s identity.

  This made her an asshole.

  Taking a final photo of her plates, I was satisfied with what I had and started walking back when I heard tires squeal. Whipping around, I see the credit ninja heading straight for me.

  With murder in her eyes, a smile on her face and both phones still in her hand, she guns it and I did the only thing I could do.

  Scaled the closest car and hid lamely behind a garbage can. Slamming on the brakes, she exits her car and stalks toward my crouching form. Ready to beat my ass, since the runover was unsuccessful, she was right on top of me when I warned, “Fifty-thousand volts isn’t going to tickle sweetheart. You’re busted. You know it and I know it. Walk away or I will put you down and trust me, concrete is even less forgiving than I am.”

  Oh, I knew the look. This bitch wasn’t walking away, it was on.

  “I warned you,” I sigh wondering why she brought the bags full of shoes and those damn phones with her.

  “Bitch, I’m gonna –”

  Aiming the prongs at her center, I fire and instantly she squeals before hitting the concrete where she began flopping around like a fish. Several passersbys stopped to watch briefly before going on about their day which I found hilariously sad.

  Taking a seat on the bench, I warn her, “Keep glaring at me and I’ll zap your broke ass again.”

  Snagging both phones, I take each one and explain to the callers, “She can’t talk right now, literally.”

  When a sweet older gentleman walked up, possibly homeless but certainly amused, I pointed to show him his bounty. “Help yourself, honey.”

  And I smiled while he did.

  Several minutes later, she attempted to get up and since the cops hadn’t arrived yet, I zapped her again.

  And yes, it was just as satisfying as the first time. Especially when folks stepped over her and kept right on going.

  Once she was picked up, I sat on the bench a little bit longer thinking about the man in the suit.

  When what I needed to do was focus on my job before I got myself killed.

  Over the years I have been called distant, closed off, reclusive, abrasive and even scary.

  Good to know adding stalker to my resume was actually an improvement.

  Because there was no fucking denying it. I was obsessed with this woman.

  After the party store incident, I followed her home and sat down the street for hours. Yes, I said hours. As in, the entire night. Because I needed to know if she shared her home with another man. Because if she did, I had no problem using my creativity and influence to get rid of him.

  When she pulled out of her garage, I trailed and watched as she stopped for coffee, breakfast from a food cart (which smelled really fucking good) and then witnessed Mercy doing surveillance.

  Was I expecting her to nearly get run down by a woman holding two cell phones, bags from the Nike store and driving a Cadillac?

  Fuck no.

  How did I react to her tasing a woman in broad daylight? I got a hard-on and strongly considered jerking off in my truck. No shit, when the boxes went flying I nearly came in my pants.

  As keyed up as I was, I was certain she enjoyed it even more than I did. If the smug I-told-you-so smile on her face was anything to go by, it keyed her up too.

  After she sat on the bench for a while, she stood, setting out on foot.

  If she was working a case, I couldn’t tell since she was popping in and out of businesses too fast to keep up.

  When she gained speed, I found myself actually running to keep pace and losing.

  Rounding the corner, I come upon her bent over reaching for something inside her car. At the same time a young man was approaching on his tip toes. Just as I was about to rush over and aid her, she stood up and swung, connecting with his shoulder sending him to the concrete. Both hands up he yells, “Mercy!”

  Now, had I not heard her clarify this was her name earlier I’d think he was begging.

  Clearly, he knew her. Even more clearly, she didn’t like him much.

  Whacking him all over, he yells again, “Mercy stop! It’s me! Pita!”

  This guy was named after food? This is why I didn’t have kids.

  Stepping back and dropping the giant snow scraper she grunts and yells, “Pita! Are you crazy?”

  Crossing over, I interrupt Mercy before she takes another swing. “What’s going on?” I ask her.

  “Oh hey,” she smiles up at me and I nearly groaned. Fuck, she was too beautiful for words. “I never got your name and calling you the suit seems rude.”

  “Dion.”

  “Dion,” she positively lights up. “Totally knew I’d see you again!”

  She did? Shit, I was losing focus. “Are you killing him, or should I?” I ask impatiently.

  “Kill me?” the sandwich kid laughs. “She isn’t going to kill me. She loves me!”

  “Okay that’s debatable,” she snorts and it was adorable. Hell, everything about her was.

  “Who is this guy?” Pita demands ready to brawl on her behalf. Though, by the looks of things he hasn’t grown into his man body yet or ever been in a fight.

  “I believe I just made it clear, I’m Dion. And you are?”

  “Her number one fan,” he says waving his skinny arms around. “Duh!”

  “I’m confused,” I admit looking to her for help.

  “It’s true,” she says sheepishly and
fuck, that was adorable too. “He is my number one fan.”

  “See!” he exclaims. “Tell him the rest, Mercy.”

  “Oh,” she claps tapping her nose. “He’s also a pain in the ass.”

  “I’ve noticed,” I grunt wondering how I managed to lose track of this odd conversation. “Hence the nickname, Pita.”

  Ah. Lightbulb. “Then why keep him around?”

  Getting in my space he says, “Uh, maybe because my vlog is brill? Or that I have amazing sources, and,” he nearly yells in excitement. “She’s training me to be her partner.”

  “Am not,” she says pushing her hair from her face.

  “You are,” he corrects waving her off. “You just refuse to admit it or actually train me.”

  “What the hell is a vlog?” I ask lost once again.

  “He doesn’t know who you are,” Pita says genuinely perplexed. “Not only am I her very own personal pain in the ass for free, I should add, my vlog features all things Mercy.”

  “A vlog is a video blog. And the kid here likes private investigators,” she offers with a shrug.

  “No,” he counters. “You. I like you. You are bad ass and do bad ass things! I highlight these things for your fans and they love it so much you keep going viral. You have almost as many followers as Grumpy cat. You’re welcome, by the way.”

  “She doesn’t look sick,” I frown wondering if it’s a hidden disease.

  “She’s not sick as in contagious,” he rolls his eyes. “Viral in the vlog world means millions have seen it.”

  “Millions?” I blink not sure I had heard him right.

  “Don’t look at me,” she says crossing her arms. “That’s his thing, I don’t even watch the videos.”

  Leaning in he smiles and repeats, “Millions.” This kid has no regard for personal space.

  “So, you spend all your time filming her? For free?”

  “It’s not all I do,” he says with irritation. “Aside from working on my own PI skills, I’m also working the management angle.”

  “Here we go,” she whistles.

  “Mercy needs management?”

  “And a man,” he says under his breath. “It’s been a while…”

  “Pita,” she warns. “Do not make me get punchy in front of company. You hate crying in public, remember?”

  Eyeing me, but speaking to her he says, “I’m not the only one following you these days, Boss. And, it has been a while. I know this because you’re bitchy.” Looking at me he says, “Women get bitchy when they aren’t getting it on the regular.”

  “You know what?” she huffs. “I’m not feeling punchy, I’m feeling stabby.”

  Wanting to switch topics because I was pleased she was in a drought too, I add, “You were talking about management?”

  “Right,” he grins. “She needs management because she refuses to take her career to the next level.”

  “What’s the next level?”

  “Uh, accepting a movie deal for starters,” he says pointing at her in annoyance.

  “Pita,” she sighs. “He doesn’t care about this. Now, I have a thing, so what’s with the sneak attack?”

  “I have information,” he whispers.

  “Why are you whispering?” she whispers.

  “I have no idea,” he smiles at her and it’s evident he loves this woman. Loves her like family. His older sister, perhaps? Before I could ask, she lovingly stabs his chest and orders, “Get in the car.”

  “Shotgun!” he calls out and attempts to leap over the hood, only to slide off and hit the pavement.

  “Kids,” she shrugs smiling in pride. “Can’t shoot ‘em, am I right?”

  I was about to ask her to dinner and for her number when Pita yells from the passenger seat, “Search more than meets the eye private investigations! You’re welcome! And I love the suit!”

  Waving me off, Mercy offers a sexy smile before absolutely gunning it.

  Instead of following her, I went back to my office and looked her up.

  Mohr Than Meets The Eye

  Private Investigations

  Mercy Mohr, Owner & Lead Investigator

  Since 2012

  Licensed and Insured

  PayPal accepted as is most major credit cards

  Her website was as adorable as she was.

  www.thetinypi.com

  She even had the Better Business Bureau stamp, oh, and about three hundred glowing testimonials.

  And that was before I found the link to the vlog.

  Pita was right, she did have a following.

  Clicking on the Contact Me tab, I filled in the information and hit send.

  The sooner I inserted myself into her life the better. Because Mercy Mohr was courting trouble and didn’t even know it.

  Since I could walk, I was curious about everything. If an item went missing, I would spend hours searching for it. Asking the right questions, doing my research and ultimately locating my prize. It hadn’t mattered what the item was. Just that I had found it. While there were times this drove my parents insane, they had to admit I had the knack. Plus, my idea of toys had been a notebook, magnifying glass, and tape recorder. I was an easy child to keep entertained.

  When my dad realized this wasn’t a phase, he created mysteries for me to solve.

  As a kid, I hadn’t caught on. I genuinely thought my dad was the king of misplacement.

  As an adult, I look back on what he had done to encourage me and could never thank him enough for stoking that fire.

  Whereas, my mom refused to admit she ever lost track of anything. I was around eight years old when I gave up trying to connect with her over mystery solving. The mere mention of it set her off. While I was too young to understand why it bothered her so much, I never questioned it. So, when something went missing, I would locate it, return it and never took credit.

  It was my sophomore year of high school that I was brought in on my first official case. When the principal explained our mascot had been stolen, in effort to spare the student(s) responsible any blemishes on their record by bringing in the police, he asked me to look into it.

  After three days of non-stop investigating, my hard work paid off and I not only located the mascot, I returned it to the principal explaining it was our rival and expressed their apologies. That day my skills were acknowledged publicly, over the intercom, to the entire student body.

  That day I was Mercy Mohr, the student who solved the mystery of the missing mascot.

  The recognition sparked something in me. I mean, the curiosity was always there, as was the need to solve puzzles, but that day, I had made a difference.

  That was my focus and intent when I enrolled for college, and little by little I lost sight of what I truly wanted. It’s not like universities were offering sleuthing courses. The further I was from my dream the easier it was to settle for the next best thing. When I graduated with a degree in criminal justice, I had planned to become a detective.

  However, to do that I had complete the police training academy first.

  So I did.

  While I didn’t love being an officer, I did give it my all because I couldn’t afford to be over looked for any reason.

  Not when I was certain being a detective was the second-best choice for me.

  It took roughly five months to realize, I had miscalculated. But, I forced myself to see it through.

  For a time, I will say I had found some satisfaction in it. But I didn’t get much joy from it. The cases had so much red tape it was a miracle I had managed to close any. (As the rookie, they gave me the cases no one else wanted, which meant I had zero resources at my disposal.) But guess what? I pushed and argued until I was given bigger cases, harder cases.

  In fact, it didn’t take long for my persistence and willingness to go the extra mile (break the rules) to earn the best ratios in the department. It also got me suspended so often I was going broke for going to work. Well, more broke than I had been going in anyway. (My student debt bi
ll was fucking brutal!)

  So, I asked myself, “Are you living your dream?” and as I stared at my reflection, I knew the answer.

  And for the first time in my life, I would not finish what I had started.

  I was also okay with it.

  Because that very day I made two important decisions that would change the course of my life.

  I was done playing it safe. No one was going to hand me happiness so that meant taking a risk.

  With the help of my best friend, we financed what we could afford so I could open my own place.

  That was six years ago and in that time I’ve covered nearly every kind of job including the whack jobs.

  When it came to meeting clients, I preferred a neutral location.

  Turns out, that was the safest and smartest choice.

  So, responding to this inquiry that was being held at a gentleman's club wasn’t unusual for me.

  From what I’ve heard this place is quite pricey and prestigious. Given that I’ve conducted similar meetings in moldy basements, a crack house, a confessional, under a viaduct off Vernor, a movie theatre and things of the like, this place was a nice change of scenery. For most folks hiring an investigator is done on the down low. Not out of shame but out of necessity and sneakiness.

  I’m successful because the fact is, everyone is hiding something.

  I’m good at finding out what that something is.

  In my line of work, secrets and lies paid the bills. And while some jobs flat out sucked, most were pretty damn exciting and you never worked the same job twice.

  So, stepping inside of The Foxxx Den, I told myself, “For this kind of money, I bet it’s a cheater.”

  And I wasn’t ten feet from the door taking in the scent and scenery when I heard my name on his lips.

  Never had hearing it held so much promise.

  She was here.

  Parked in my lot. On my property.

  Any moment, she would be within my reach and I was so fucking pumped that my hands were sweaty.