“What happened in 1963?” I asked after a long pull on the glass.
“That’s not what we are here to discuss.”
“Yes, it is. You pushed me in that direction.” I gestured to the area by the entrance. “You insisted that I work closely with Hector. You insisted that I talk to Gao—”
“Jimmy,” he corrected with his usual smirk.
“What actually happened that day?”
I didn’t expect him to answer, and he obliged.
I was coming to the uneasy conclusion that I was being played the entire time. All along it wasn’t about his granddaughter but it was about the museum and Gao and getting what he wanted. Jeanette might just have been a pawn in the whole thing.
“Was Hector covering up for you? Or did you cover up for Hector to gain his loyalty? Whatever this feud was between you and Li, I imagine it manifested itself in some sort of proxy war among the people down a few levels. At least you paid Hector back with some lifetime employment driving you around. I guess that was a fair bargain. The other guy didn’t fare so well.”
Valenti stared at me with no emotion.
“And now it’s all come full circle with the younger Li,” I said, being deliberately vague with the details. He took the bait.
“How do you mean?”
“Just what I said. He’s involved. And maybe trying to exact a little payback.”
I decided to leave it at that. If I was going to be dismissed, there was no reason to give him any information I had discovered. Hector would probably fill him in later anyway.
Valenti was intrigued by the developments I alluded to. I wanted to pretend that didn’t mean anything to me but it did. In a strange way I felt all along like I needed to impress this man, or the money that elevated this man to such a stature. Sometimes we look for validation wherever we can get it.
“Why’d you hire me in the first place? Look, I am my own biggest fan, but if I wanted this task done, and done right, I would have hired a real private investigator or gone to the police.”
“Ironically, you were hired for the same reason you’re being dismissed — indiscretion.”
He slid over a printout from a local gossip blog.
“You know I didn’t place that article,” I said. “But you’re pissed off or scared or humiliated or whatever it is and you’re going to relieve yourself as you have all your life — on someone else. So if it makes you feel better, have your speech about indiscretion. At least let me order another drink.”
I pointed to my glass, and the attentive waiter hurried off to bring a refresher.
“By the way,” I said when the waiter returned. “She had the baby. That’s probably what the forty thousand was for — to pay for the right to have her baby in some crummy building in Alhambra with a bunch of strangers.”
“What?” he whispered.
“Trust me that you wouldn’t want to see this place. Ten to a room, not exactly sanitary. Hector can fill you in,” I told him, somewhat uncomfortable with the cruelty of the words coming out of my mouth. “Maybe because she didn’t know where else a fourteen-year-old with no support can go to have a baby. Or maybe the family didn’t want her to have that baby. You would know why, not me.”
“I’ll make your life a living hell,” he hissed and white spittle formed on his lip.
“Too late,” I replied. “Now that I give it some thought, I think you knew about the baby the whole time. At least at the very end before she went ‘missing’. You conveniently left out those little details,” I reminded, “so before you give me another speech about indiscretion or whatever, look within, pal, look within.”
That’s when I noticed the check on the table written out to me for five thousand lousy dollars. I asked the hovering waiter for his pen and full name and then endorsed the check over to him.
“Better cash that now before he cancels payment,” I instructed as I handed the man the check.
I went out the front entrance, passed the idling sedan where Hector sat behind the dark glass, and grabbed the first available taxi for the long and expensive trip back to Eagle Rock.
HOGTIED
Pat Faber set up a six-thirty touch base on Monday morning as a not-so-subtle reminder that he was still in charge. Normally, calling in was accepted for any meeting starting before 8 a.m., but with a touch base you had to do it in person.
Touch base meetings where people just talked to each other were the darlings of the corporate world. For managers, it was tangible proof that associate feedback was important to them. For associates, it was the opportunity to talk about your accomplishments and hint at the need for a salary increase, something your manager never truly acknowledged and certainly never did anything about.
I always followed a standard approach. I would come with a list of three topics. Never more than three because that would overwhelm Pat, and when that happened he assumed that the person overwhelming him had a communication problem. At the end of my agenda of three I would always drop, “…and one thing I need your advice on.” Pat relished the opportunity to pass along wisdom, so I would quickly roll through my three items, always presenting the challenge first and then how I overcame it. We’d then spend the remaining twenty minutes of the thirty-minute touch base going over the issue I needed help on. To be sure, the issue was never a real one and if it was, I already knew the answer. But to Pat, it was portrayed as something I really struggled with. The value of the touch base was measured by the amount of time Pat talked. Sometimes he’d speak for the entire meeting and when it was time to leave, he was so energized that he’d show me to the door and with a slap on the back he’d say, “We need to do these more often.”
That’s how I kept off management’s radar. But on this particular Monday morning, I flirted with danger. Distracted by my work outside the office, irritated that I had to drag myself into work on a Monday just as the sun was creeping over the horizon, pissed off that they had yet to replace the half-and-half in the break room, I walked into Pat’s office without an agenda.
“Whatcha got for me, Chuck?” Pat chirped a level or two louder than was needed in the empty offices.
“What a week,” I stumbled. “I’m barely keeping my head above water.”
Pat nodded but he didn’t like it. “Busy” was an acceptable reply in elevator banter but not in a touch base.
“Well, that’s why they pay us,” he reminded me.
We bandied about a couple of things I was working on but we never quite got into a good rhythm. I was distracted and my words showed it. Pat grew frustrated and decided to take the lead.
“What do you think of this whole obesity thing?” he asked casually. I was taken aback. All along I never felt my co-manager Paul’s relentless focus on eradicating obesity from the firm ever garnered much support but here was Pat taking up the mantle. He either believed in the cause or it was just a ploy to stir the pot holding the two people about to duke it out for head of the group. “The health costs are becoming prohibitive,” he added. “We really need to help these poor people.”
Now I was nervous. Pat was quoting verbatim from Paul’s messaging plan. When you can get someone to repeat what you say, you have won the game. I knew not to dismiss Paul’s idea outright — that would never be received well, even if the receiver was not a fan of it. I had to tread carefully.
“It’s a real concern,” I started solemnly. “It’s something that’s going to take the full attention and resources of our group.”
I foolishly hoped that would be enough. It wasn’t.
“So what would you do?” he asked straight out.
“There’s no silver bullet solution,” I began tentatively, “but more a series of smaller efforts and initiatives.” I babbled on like this for a minute plus which must have felt like twenty. It was all empty jargon, and Pat wasn’t buying a word of it. “Anyway, it’s something I’d need to get my head around and put out a recommendation, or something.”
I had flown under the radar i
n enemy territory for a long time but it felt like I was about to be discovered. My reputation was built on being an innovator but the truth was I hadn’t had a fresh idea in over ten years, ever since I invented the Stoplight System for dealing with sexual harassment. And no one seemed to notice or care as long as I played along and talked a good game. The real concern wasn’t that I had no ideas, it was that management would figure it all out. But reputations, once built, are very hard to undo. Thankfully, no one ever looked that closely.
“Chuck, you haven’t had a fresh idea in ten years.”
My heart skipped.
“If you’re going to take this group to the place it needs to be, you’re going to have to bring a new perspective, a new vision.” The lecture that ensued was as direct a dressing-down as the corporate world ever saw. They were very rare, and that did not bode well for me.
“You’re right,” I mustered like an already defeated man.
There was a long, uncomfortable pause.
“Nothing for me?” he asked like the seventh kid after a six pack of sodas has been passed out.
“No,” I answered, though I wished I did have something. “Not this week.”
“Thank you, Chuck,” he dismissed without getting up.
I scurried out of his office before anything more was said and nearly ran over Paul on his way in.
“Hey, Chuck,” he smiled. “Little touch base with the boss?”
“Yeah, we just wrapped up.”
“Did you touch them all?” he laughed at the same joke he’d been telling for fifteen years.
“Yes, Paul, I touched them all.”
“Hey Chuck,” came the earnest voice, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about all this…craziness. I just want to say ahead of time that there are no hard feelings.” Why would there be any, I thought to myself. “No matter how this turns out, whether it’s you running the group or me, I’m going to be happy. Because at the end of the day, it’s the group that matters, and with you or me at the helm it’s going to be a huge success.”
It was a terrific speech, and I didn’t believe a word of it.
“Paul, thank you for those kind words. You have to know that I feel the same thing about you. And if put to a choice,” I said placing a hand on his shoulder and mustering up the same level of unctuousness to match his, “I think you are the better man for the job.”
“I believe you, Chuck, when you say it.” The bastard somehow got a tear in his eye. I could compete with Paul on many things but false sincerity was not one of them. If he went in for hug I might have punched him.
“There are my boys,” Pat smiled, watching over the proceedings like a spectator with a fistful of crumpled bills. “Sizing up the competition, are you?”
Paul and I played it off like good sportsmen do, but I resented the cockfight element of it and the way Pat stood over us with that glib smile at his “boys” who were about to be pitted against each other for a fight for their corporate lives.
Pat never had to fight for anything and was kept around for fear of an ageism lawsuit. And still he clung on despite the firm stripping him of any kind of responsibility. I hated that old man because he was a dithering fool who believed the opposite. I hated him because he made it and men like my old boss, Bob Gershon, didn’t. I hated him because this was the man who controlled my destiny. And it was at that very moment that I decided I actually wanted the job.
I didn’t want the responsibility of the role, or the bump in salary, or the juicy title that came with it. I didn’t want the A-level parking spot or the secret double-bonus opportunities that opened up once you entered this rarified layer of upper management. I wanted it because I wanted to shove it down Pat Faber’s throat.
“Make sure you touch ‘em all,” I advised Paul and stormed off.
***
Despite any misgivings I had of ever using Badger for any work assignments, I needed him for some personal use because, even though Valenti fired me from the job, I was nowhere near ready to quit. For some reason I simply felt like I owed it to Jeanette to find her and make sure she was safe.
I had placed a call to him the night I was dismissed by Valenti with a request to track down the real name and address of the gossip blogger who wrote the story about Jeanette. These sorts of mentions were universally placed by sources with motives — mostly public relations hacks but also people with personal grudges to grind. Perhaps there was value in knowing what motivation drove the person who placed this particular story. Badger told me he would have the information to me in a few hours. But then I never heard back.
After several attempts to reach him and having his phone go straight to voicemail, I decided to make the short drive over to his office/home in Echo Park.
I found parking in front of the building. A few spots down I spied Badger’s car and I got a dry tickle in my throat. In my previous dealings with him, the one constant was his reliability. Like many of his self-proclaimed merits, his “Johnny on the Spot” moniker was consistently accurate. My mind raced at the possibilities and the growing fear that I, and my amateurish sleuthing, had set him on a course that brought him into harm.
I looked apprehensively at the large bay windows but couldn’t see past my own noon-day reflection in the glass. I crossed the ten feet of sidewalk to the front door and entered the office.
It was ten degrees hotter inside than out. The air was still and rank. I didn’t see Badger but the half-opened curtain leading to the back room sang out that if I wanted my answer, I needed to cross through it. My feet sank in the gold-plush carpet as I moved towards the back of the room. Passing the desk, I lifted up the yellowed newspaper. The gun was not there.
The curtain dividing the office space from the living quarters hung heavy on a metal rod. As I pushed it aside I took a step forward and leaned back at the same time; the bottom-half of my body entered the room while my head remained in the doorway. I knew what was back there but wasn’t quite ready to confront it.
I saw the awkward figure sitting on the floor with its back to the wall. He was shirtless and had his hands bound behind him. His head, covered in a pillow case, slung down onto his shoulder in an unnatural position.
I suddenly felt nauseous and fought off a bout of the dry heaves. Then I heard rustling and realized that Badger was moving.
“Jesus!” I shouted and ran over to him. I ripped the pillowcase from his head and his hair piece came with it. Even with the labored breaths reverberating throughout the room, it still felt like I was looking at a dead man. His skin was a sickly white, his eyes bloodshot.
“There he is,” his voice scratched, lacking its normal enthusiasm. “Give me a little water, would you?”
I found a never-washed glass on the sink in the bathroom and filled it up. I held it to his lips and he greedily drank from it. Most of the water just rolled down his chest, but those few swallows put some of the life back into him.
“What happened?” I asked.
He muscled himself upright. I heard the grinding of metal on metal as the handcuffs that bound his wrists rubbed against the drain pipe they were looped around. The areas under the cuffs were raw and even bloody and spots on the pipe shiny among the rust where he had struggled mightily to break free.
“Get the key,” he instructed. “It’s in the top right drawer of the desk.”
I scrambled back to the front room and found the key among a pile of metal paperclips and discontinued thumb tacks. I thought of the humiliation he must be feeling, the equivalent of a cop having his squad car stolen. Badger had been overcome and bound with his own handcuffs.
It took me a few tries but I was finally able to release his wrists. “You’re a prince,” he whispered and went into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face.
“Tell me what happened,” I said as he returned to the room, recovered his hair piece, and put it back in its rightful spot.
“It’s nothing,” he said.
I detected a tinge of embarrassment.<
br />
“What do you mean it’s nothing? Who did this? Did you get a look at them?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m very worried.”
“It’s not that,” he dismissed. “It’s just something we do.”
“Wait…what? Something who does?”
“Yeah, a little role-play me and my lady friend like to do.” He might well have said something about taking out the trash. It was a non-event in his eyes. “I must have said something that upset her. I never thought she’d take this long to get back.” He turned to face me. “Guy, I let you down.”
The man responsible for unearthing the seamy side of potential candidates, the one whom I was about to rely on to help me track down Jeanette, was too busy getting himself hog-tied to radiators to complete his duties and was asking for forgiveness. And for some reason I wasn’t even angry.
“I found your gossip blogger,” he said. “Sorry I couldn’t get this to you earlier but I was preoccupied.”
He handed me a slip of paper with a name and address. Putting aside whatever misgivings I had about his personal life and overall demeanor, I decided to engage him on a long-term assignment to help me track down Jeanette. He could do things I couldn’t and he had already proven to be very handy in unearthing information.
“I have another job for you,” I told him. “A big job.”
I explained everything to him, including details I withheld from Detective Riocohr. Badger nodded solemnly but the obligatory declaration of this job being the top priority never came. Instead, he sort of stalled like there was something more to be said.
“Does that all make sense?”
“Perfect sense,” he replied. “Full commitment required.”
“I would imagine.”
“Job could go in many directions.”
“Most definitely,” I said.
“And for an indeterminate length.”
“I guess so.”
He nodded his head but not in agreement.
The Eternal Summer (Chuck Restic Private Investigator Series Book 2) Page 12
