The Shamus Sampler II

by Nick Quantrill

  Eventually Veronica left me, or our marriage just expired, and I began running the agency alone, scrounging for a living every month, putting off our creditors by refusing to answer the phone. And now here I am, fifty-five years old and sleeping on a fold-out bed in a sublet studio apartment, taking orders from a callow rich kid and grateful for the work. A helluva life for a man of such ambition.

  That evening I applied my superior research skills to the case. I typed the words Rebecca Faulkner accident into Google and found several news stories that agreed that Rebecca Faulkner had run numerous red lights, zig-zagging through a crowd of pedestrians at close to 80 miles an hour until she plowed into an old lady in the crosswalk, killing her instantly. And Rebecca was legally drunk at the time.

  I looked up Rebecca’s Facebook page and found a message she had posted on her wall right after she got out of the hospital. It had been deleted, of course, a few hours after it was posted.

  I was goin 100 miles n hour down the hill when I hit that old chinees lady i hope shes okay but probly not she was bleeding pretty bad I’m okay, a few days in the hospital no damage to my face porsceh should hire me to do an ad for them they’re cars r indestructible ha ha ha. XO R.

  I scanned through the girl’s pictures on Facebook, most with a drink in her hand. Pretty girl.

  Finally I looked up her father, the infamous Charles Faulkner, Founder and Chairman of the Board of Freedom Resources Group, a security consulting firm with over $1 billion in active government contracts. Rumors were that Faulkner was ex-CIA and had set up secret prisons where his people tortured Al Qaeda operatives, and others, while also providing intelligence and training to numerous foreign governments and multi-national corporations. All these activities had helped Faulkner become one of the wealthiest men in the United States. There’s never an off season for war.

  The next morning, I paid a visit to one of my few remaining cop buddies to find out what they had on Rebecca Faulkner. Eddie greeted me with his trademark sarcasm.

  Jesus, I can’t believe Stelmancyk hired you.

  No, the family hired me directly. Stelmancyk’s their attorney? Didn’t think he handles traffic cases.

  He does when one of the Faulkners is involved. But it’s an open and shut case. We’ve got multiple witnesses, and the car, and the paramedics found her unconscious and bleeding and drunk behind the wheel.

  Shit, this oughta be easy.

  Sounds like a case even you can’t screw up. Would you mind giving me the names and addresses of those witnesses?

  Sure, why not? And maybe you’d also like me to give you back the car so her family can ditch it somewhere where we’ll never find it?

  That’d be fine. If it’s not too much trouble.

  We’ll send all that information to Stelmancyk, when it’s time. You know the rules, Snake.

  I’m old enough to realize that rules only apply to certain people, in certain situations.

  Eddie smiled, as if to say tell me something I don’t already know.

  Stupid bitch. As soon as she got out of the hospital she was bragging on Facebook about how the only reason she survived the crash was her expensive Porsche. Fucking rich kids.

  How do you know that post was her? Somebody coulda hacked into her account.

  Yeah, right.

  Rebecca called me the next afternoon to set up our first meeting. I drove the obstacle course of crooked roads that led to the Faulkner estate high up in the hills, surrounded by a ten-foot-high fence. The butler led me into the foyer and offered me the choice of two supremely uncomfortable chairs, art pieces from Milan. I told him I preferred to stand.

  Ten minutes later, she appeared on the staircase. And from then on, even to this day, I am unable to say the name Rebecca without summoning up a mental image of her gauzy descent down the stairs, curves like an obstacle course, skin like a chiffon milk bath. Rebecca. Let me say it again, Rebecca. She walked as if she was dancing. And then she spoke, a throaty purr, calculated for male enchantment.

  Sorry to keep you waiting.

  Do you like to keep men waiting?

  Sometimes. Some men like to wait.

  Most men do, I think. As long as you come eventually.

  Thank you for coming.

  I’m glad I came.

  I was in the middle of a ten year famine with women that I usually referred to as a drought. Veronica and I finalized our divorce in 1991; all of our conversations since then have been about money. At first I’d pay what I could; she’d take me to court for the rest, wobbling between begging and harassment. Now she doesn’t even ask me anymore.

  After Veronica came Jenny, who adored me as I was and never discouraged me from becoming more. She’s fifteen years younger than me, an age difference that once seemed comical, now grotesque.

  When we met, she was 25 and I was ridiculously proud of the fact that such a pretty young girl liked me. She met me at my low point, right after Lenny’s stroke, and she kept me going when I couldn’t make the rent, deferring her dreams of dancing on Broadway to shake her pretty ass in a gentleman’s club.

  She just kept on loving me until my jealousy wore her out. I found her so indescribably beautiful that I interpreted every innocent conversation as a goddamn flirtation. I was ready to kill any man who brushed up against her, or smack her in the face for arousing such a reaction. I’d rather have cut off my hands.

  Even now, every time I hear Rock Me Amadeus playing in an elevator or a mall, I get sentimental. That was our song.

  Once Rebecca finished her slow-motion descent, she took me on a tour of the house. It was as big and bright as a Safeway store, and books had been positioned at acute angles on the tables by a decorator to give the impression that someone had actually been reading them. I offered the requisite oohs and aahs.

  You and your brother live here by yourselves? So where are your parents?

  Away in Europe for a few months. We aren’t kids, you know. My brother’s 28, I’m 25.

  Really? You seem younger.

  Thank you.

  I didn’t intend it as a compliment. What do you do for a living?

  Do I look like I need to do something for a living? I just live.

  She wobbled a little as we ambled toward the vicinity of her bedroom.

  How many drinks you had today?

  If you can remember how many, you haven’t had enough.

  I think I’ve heard that somewhere before.

  How could I explain to her that I’d given up drinking eight years ago, afraid of dying on a dirty mattress, lapping up spilled whisky from the front of my shirt? Even though I didn’t respect Rebecca, I still craved her approval. Nobody wants to be the adult in any room.

  She changed her mind about showing me upstairs, if she ever really meant to, and we ventured out onto a heated patio. She told me that she had a witness who could clear her name. I was still trying to get the details when her brother slid the glass door open, bearing a pitcher of margaritas. She squealed as soon as she saw him.

  Darling.

  Lover.

  Miss you terribly.

  Mostly you missed Julio’s margaritas. They’re so goddamn authentic.

  They started kissing each other on the mouth. He clung to her neck like a kid on a carousel horse.

  Do we embarrass you, Snake? We’re Siamese twins joined at the crotch.

  Derek, don’t be vulgar. I’m sorry, he embarrasses me sometimes.

  I smiled, in mock understanding.

  That’s what siblings are for.

  After a couple more drinks we returned to the study and I spent the next hour detailing all the evidence the cops had against her. Within a few minutes, Derek and Rebecca had taken out their phones and started sharing pictures with each other, using some application where you could mess with other people’s photos, add devil horns or mustaches, make them look like a centaur, strip them naked. They kept swapping their phones back and forth and giggling at each other.

  If I’m bothering
you I can leave. I’m trying to save this girl’s life.

  You do that, buddy, Derek said, and they both laughed uproariously and started making out again.

  I got up to leave. Rebecca shook my hand dismissively.

  So let’s get to work, she said.

  The witness was an old family friend of the Faulkners named Mr. Yamamoto who claimed he’d been driving the car when it crashed. I interrogated him as an attorney would, and it soon became clear that Rebecca hadn’t gone over the facts of the case with him in even the most cursory detail. He couldn’t remember what kind of car it was, where the crash happened, how fast he was driving, and whether Rebecca was in the car with him at the time.

  Finally he confessed that he used to be the family gardener, and was lying to save the girl’s life. They’d offered him $50,000 to testify. I told him he should’ve held out for a lot more.

  Just don’t tell her I won’t be testifying. She’s such a sensitive little girl.

  She’s 25 now.

  Really? She seems a lot younger.

  A week later, Rebecca showed up at my office uninvited, poured herself some coffee from the three-day-old mud in Willie’s antique coffeemaker and offered herself my chair. She just sat there starting at me, extending her bare leg like a trophy I was certain I could never win.

  Nice place.

  Thanks. It’s a temporary situation.

  Everything’s temporary.

  Amen.

  She put her hand on her knee and started rubbing it suggestively, but I knew if I kissed her she’d scream.

  I don’t need a fancy office. It’s not a competition.

  Everything’s a competition. What did you think of my witness?

  Amazing witness. He doesn’t even remember where the accident happened, or what car he was driving, or what day it was, or really anything at all.

  Probably suffered amnesia in the crash.

  Then there’s that Facebook message.

  Someone hacked into my account.

  And all those pictures that make you look like a drunken slut. Take those down.

  Wouldn’t want anyone to get a false impression. I would’ve assumed a man named Snake would be a lot more sex positive.

  Maybe we could at least pretend to take this a little bit seriously.

  All right.

  I found flirting with Rebecca exhausting and pointless. I’m fifty-five and balding and overweight with ketchup stains on my shirt, tingling with excitement when a twenty-five-year-old girl treats me like a cute stray dog. When I was younger, I would’ve been reduced to watching helplessly as she took up residence in my subconscious; now I just pitied her. She was bright and quick but oh so incredibly stupid, keeping score by the number of random men she’d beguiled.

  Just get your expensive defense attorney to make a plea deal. You’ll be a lot better off.

  I get the sense you don’t respect me very much.

  Is there any reason I should?

  My father is dirty, you know, much dirtier than me. If you figure out a way to get me off, I’ll give you enough information to shut his whole company down. You’d be the first person to see this stuff; I’ve never dated a journalist. His company’s involved in all sorts of shit, secret CIA work. Torture. The government’s probably reading our emails right now.

  They’re reading everybody’s emails, aren’t they?

  She laughed, and lit a cigarette in honor of Willie’s dusty No Smoking sign.

  I assumed you were an idealist. That’s why you work in such a shitty office.

  I’ve given up marching, it makes my feet hurt. Sorry, no deal. You’re guilty, you’re gonna have to do the time.

  My father never loved me. He left me in the company of nannies my entire childhood.

  I’m sure that’s true. Maybe he shoulda bought you a few sessions with a good psychiatrist, instead of that sports car.

  I probably deserve a good spanking.

  You probably do. But you’re not getting it from me.

  As far as I was concerned, I was done. I dismissed Rebecca with a wave of my hand, but I couldn’t help ogling her ass as she wandered away. Such a magnificent piece of engineering.

  Two weeks passed, and I still hadn’t gotten around to submitting my bill. It was 10 PM and I’d begun dozing off when my cell phone rang for the first time in three days, Rock Me Amadeus. It was Rebecca; she sounded scared, or maybe just out of breath, speaking in short staccato sentences. She told me someone was threatening her, following her, it was hard to tell what she was trying to say.

  I told her to come over to the office at 9 AM. If she showed up on time, I’d know she was serious. She arrived at 9:15.

  I’m scared.

  It’s fine. I’m here to protect you, but I’ll have to check with your brother first. I’m working for him.

  You work for me now.

  Okay. Is there anyone who might be inclined to threaten you?

  It’s not uncommon for my father to get threats.

  How about you personally?

  Oh loads of people, ex-boyfriends, the girls I went to high school with, various former domestic workers. I have quite a reputation.

  The family of the woman you ran over?

  Oh yeah, them too. My brother’s been acting strangely lately too.

  How can you tell?

  The next day, I returned to the Faulkners’ house to plan out our strategy. Derek was sitting on the patio with Rebecca, head flopped in her lap like a fish, staring up at the sky. He sounded thrilled to see me.

  I thought I fired you, bitch. I mailed you your check a few days ago.

  It was obvious from his eyes that he was lying. He’d make the world’s worst poker player.

  Your sister rehired me. And anyway, I haven’t gotten any check.

  You don’t believe me? I’ll write you one right now.

  Let’s just say I’m skeptical.

  Rebecca looked exasperated.

  Would you two boys mind shutting the fuck up for a minute? I have things I need to discuss with Snake.

  I don’t give a fuck what you bitches do. I’m going out of town for a few days anyway.

  Derek charged back into the house. I’d forgotten how good it felt, that sick feeling of triumph at another man’s surrender.

  I’m sorry about that. He gets weirdly jealous. He can’t handle the fact that I’m seeing other men.

  From his mannerisms, I would’ve assumed he’s gay.

  He’s a sexual buffet, a little bit of everything. So anyway, I’ve been receiving these weird notes in the mail.

  It’s so nice when someone takes the time to mail a letter.

  She laid them on the glass table, flapping around in the wind, secured by the pitcher of margaritas.

  “I know u lied.”

  “Slut, don’t give yourself away to strangers.”

  “I’ll kill u if u don’t behave.”

  I explained that there wasn’t much I could do right now, but that she needed to keep me informed if she noticed anything unusual. As I was getting ready to leave, I spotted a cellphone on the table.

  Is that yours?

  No it’s Derek’s. Mine’s over there.

  When she turned around to talk to the butler I pocketed both phones and excused myself to take a leak. I sat on the toilet and installed a $50 app on both phones called INoWrUR. It enabled me to track both of them, where they were, where they had been, their passwords, financial transactions, their email and voice activities—everything they did with their phones, which was pretty much everything.

  When I got back, I returned the phones to where I’d found them, and eventually billed them for the cost of the app, artfully concealed in my miscellaneous expenses. I said goodbye for now, and told Rebecca I’d be in touch.

  For the next few days I followed Rebecca around from my bedroom, tracking her cellphone on the circuit of extravagance she made every day. First to the spa, then to Chez Bernardo, then off to some dance club to snort away the remain
ing hours of the day. Add the contact info for some new boy in her address book. Refuse to answer when he calls.