by S. G. Browne
Ciphers. Spooks. Frauds.
My life has so much meaning.
“So, where do you live when you’re not trespassing on someone else’s territory?” I ask. “Or is that top secret, too?”
“Tucson.”
“No kidding. I used to live in Tucson.”
“Small world,” she says.
Yet another bond we have in common. Poaching and Tucson. What are the odds?
“So what made you leave?” she asks.
“Let’s just say I needed a change of scenery.”
“Or maybe you got in over your head,” she says, giving me another one of her smiles with a cock of her head.
Maybe it’s the two and a half Bellinis. Or maybe it’s the way she cocked her head. Or maybe it’s because I have a dead body in my office while I eat a nice lunch and flirt with another luck poacher. But I decide it’s time to let her know what I suspect.
“So,” I say, taking a swig of my Bellini and sitting back in my chair. “What’s a nice girl from Tucson doing in California working for Tommy Wong?”
“I don’t work for anyone.”
“Then who sent you to take me to lunch?”
“I wasn’t sent by anyone.”
“Then why were you at my office?”
She finishes chewing and swallows. No sign of a smile. No twinkling of the eyes.
“I think you need to understand exactly what type of man you’ve managed to get involved with,” I say.
I’m not sure if she thinks I’m referring to me or Tommy Wong. Either way works, I suppose.
“Can I get the check?” she asks the waiter a second time.
“Yes, of course,” he says. “My apologies.”
He hurries off, leaving Scooter Girl and me with our awkward silence.
“You haven’t answered my question,” I say.
“Which one? I’ve lost track.”
“The one about why you’re here,” I say, leaning forward. “Why you showed up at my office door.”
“That’s two questions.”
“There’s a dead woman in my office,” I say, leaning closer, speaking only loud enough for her to hear. This is probably a mistake, but I’m used to making them by now. Or maybe I’ve had one too many Bellinis.
She stares at me with no expression, her eyes betraying the calm of her nonreaction as the waiter arrives with the check.
“Can I get you anything else?” he asks.
“No, thank you,” she says, flashing him a smile as if nothing were wrong. When she turns back to me, the smile is gone like a magic trick.
And I’m thinking I’ve managed to kill any chance I had with her. Oh well.
“The dead woman,” I say. “Do you know who put her there?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be the detective?” she says, pulling out a wad of cash and throwing down more than a hundred dollars on top of the check.
“Tommy Wong put her there. The man who told you to take me out to lunch. The man you came to San Francisco to contract for.”
“I told you. I don’t work for anyone.”
She gets up and walks away from the table and out the front door. Like an obedient dog I follow her. Or maybe it’s out of desperation. At this point, I don’t care.
Out on Powell Street, the cable car clanks past us heading toward Union Square. Scooter Girl walks in the opposite direction, head down, arms swinging, short hair bouncing as she walks past the Beefeater standing out in front of the Sir Francis Drake.
“Hey!” I yell out, trying to get her attention. It would be easier if I had a name, since I doubt she’ll respond to Scooter Girl. But I don’t think she’d turn around even if I told her she’d just won an all-expenses-paid trip to Tahiti with Johnny Depp. So I just run after her.
She reaches the intersection of Sutter and Powell and is turning the corner just as I pass the entrance to the Drake.
“Hold on,” I shout. “Wait a second!”
Suddenly, a large, white-gloved hand attached to a large, red-clad arm is lowered in front of me like a crossing gate, blocking my way.
“Nice of you to drop by,” says the large owner of the large arm.
I look into the Beefeater’s face, which is round and friendly and black with a thin, well-groomed mustache. His head is shaved. His arm is as big as my leg. Come to think of it, so is his neck. He looks like he could have played middle linebacker in the NFL. And he looks like he’s eaten more than his share of beef.
“Do you know me?” I ask.
“Let’s just say that I know enough.”
His voice is deep and eloquent and commanding, like that of a practiced actor. Someone who is comfortable onstage or in front of the camera. He doesn’t look famous, or like anyone I know, but his voice is definitely familiar.
When I glance back up the street, Scooter Girl is gone. I don’t know what I thought I would accomplish by hounding her about working for Tommy Wong, but the thought of her getting away strikes me as a missed opportunity on multiple levels.
I look back at the Beefeater, who is staring at me so hard I’m afraid I might crack.
“You’re not going to hit me or drug me are you?” I ask.
“Not unless I have to.”
“Have we met?”
He gives a slight shake of his head. “Not in so many words.”
Now I can add cryptic to the assortment of adjectives to describe what is turning out to be one of my more interesting days.
Another Beefeater, this one white and bald, sans the mustache and the NFL career, steps out of the Drake and nods at us. Rather, he nods at Gigantor, here. I just happen to be in proximity. But even though the second Beefeater doesn’t seem to give me a second glance, I recognize him. It’s Baldy from Union Square. The guy at Rulli’s who was checking out Tuesday and followed her to the bus stop.
Before I can say anything or try to figure out what’s going on, Gigantor takes me by the elbow and leads me into the Drake. “If you’ll come this way, sir.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not really.”
This not-having-a-choice thing is becoming a habit.
He leads me past the downstairs lounge and around to the bank of elevators, then guides me into one of the cabs and steps in after me, pressing the button for the top floor. Harry Denton’s Starlight Room. I don’t know who’s performing at the club at this time of day on an August afternoon, but I hope I’m not the warm-up act because I haven’t prepared any new material.
We ride in silence as the elevator begins its ascent, the numbers counting off one by one, building to a climax that I’m not really interested in experiencing. But since I’m here, I may as well be Buddhist about the whole thing and try to make the best of it.
I take a few deep breaths and glance at Gigantor, my glance turning into a stare as I try to figure out what it is about him that seems so familiar. He doesn’t look famous, but I know I recognize his voice from somewhere. Eventually he notices me staring and slowly turns to assess me.
“Did you used to play professional football?” I ask.
“No.”
“Any college ball?”
He ignores me.
“How about sumo wrestling?”
He gives me a look that says he’s getting annoyed with me. Yeah, get in line.
“You ever do any acting? Movies? Television? Stage?”
Nothing. Not even a sigh.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“I don’t really think that’s relevant.”
I’m pretty sure we’ve never met. And I know I’ve never poached his luck. I’d remember someone like Gigantor. But I’ve definitely heard his voice before. Maybe in animation. Or on commercials or something.
“Do you do voice-overs?”
“I think it would be best if you stopped talking,” he says, staring straight ahead, as if even looking at me is too much of an effort.
“You don’t like me, do you?”
“Let’s just say I fi
nd your lack of silence disturbing.”
That triggers a memory that eludes me, hovering maddeningly just out of view, until I remember where I’ve heard that line before. Or something almost like it.
And then it hits me.
“Can you do me a favor?” I ask.
“Doubtful.”
“Can you say, ‘Luke, I am your father’?”
Nothing. Not even any deep, arrhythmic breathing.
“Okay, then how about ‘This . . . is CNN’?”
He looks at me as if he’s considering cutting off my hand with a light saber.
What a killjoy.
Before I can ask him to do one of my favorite lines from Field of Dreams, the elevator stops on the twenty-first floor. Probably for the best. Having him say I’m going to beat you with a crowbar until you leave is a little too close to home.
When the doors open, he gestures for me to exit, then follows me out of the elevator and into Harry Denton’s Starlight Room, the nightclub atop the Drake with a 360-degree view and 1930s throwback style. Decorated in ruby reds and Egyptian golds, with deep-velvet booths and rich crimson silk drapes and signed celebrity photos in the bar, Harry Denton’s looks like something you’d see straight out of a noir film. Standing at the bar with a half-finished cigarette and a full set of curves is a long-haired brunette in a formfitting, long-sleeve, black shirt; a tight, leopard-print skirt; black stockings; and high-heeled shoes that match her skirt. But I only notice her shoes because they’re connected to her long, sleek legs. Which are connected to the rest of her anatomy.
When she sees me, she turns and offers a warm, million-dollar smile. She looks familiar, but I don’t know where I’ve seen her.
“Mr. Monday,” she says in a deep, breathy voice as she stands up and extends a hand with long, delicate fingers. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure’s all mine,” I say, then I fake a sneeze into my hands, which should get me off the hook for shaking hers. “But I’m afraid I’m at a disadvantage, Miss . . . ?”
“Knight,” she says, withdrawing her hand. “But please, call me Tuesday.”
“So, you’re Tuesday Knight,” I say.
Which explains why she looks familiar. Though it doesn’t explain why there are two of them.
“My father’s always been a big fan of Tuesday Weld,” she says, taking a drag on her cigarette and pointing to several pictures of the actress on display along the walls of the bar. “So he convinced my mother to name me after her.”
“I always thought she should have won the Oscar for Looking for Mr. Goodbar,” I say, not really knowing why I’m saying it. But I have to say something until I can figure out what the hell’s going on.
“That was my father’s favorite film of hers,” she says.
“And your father is Gordon Knight.” I turn my attention back to Tuesday. The new Tuesday. The second Tuesday. Whatever.
She takes a drag on her cigarette and blows the smoke off to one side. “You’ve been doing your homework.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be much of an investigator if I didn’t know these things,” I say, hoping the bullshit police don’t show up and arrest me.
“Have you been investigating me, Mr. Monday?”
I let my gaze wander briefly across her breasts and thighs, then I glance over my shoulder, where I see Gigantor standing like a statue by the elevator, shaking his head in disapproval.
“No,” I say. “Not exactly.”
“Then what, exactly, have you been doing?”
I’m not sure which Tuesday I like better. At least the first one showed more skin and gave me a glimpse down her sweater and the promise of more glimpses to come. Of course, we’re just getting started here.
“Just trying to make sure I’ve got things straight,” I say.
“And do you have things straight, Mr. Monday?”
I sit down at the bar. “Nick. Call me Nick.”
“Very well.” She takes a seat next to me and stabs out her cigarette. “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to, Nick.”
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
“No. But you’ve been following someone who looks a good deal like me. Someone who’s been using my name and social standing to get free hotel rooms and complimentary meals and pretty much whatever she wants.”
Well, that explains why there are two of them. But it doesn’t explain why the other Tuesday is pretending to be this one.
“I only met her today,” I say, still trying to figure out what I’ve gotten myself into. And if there’s any chance of turning it into soft-core porn.
“How did you meet her?” says Tuesday.
“She came into my office.”
“To hire you?”
I nod.
“What did she hire you to do?”
“That’s confidential.”
This time it’s Tuesday who nods. “Although she’s apparently been impersonating me for the past couple of weeks, I didn’t know about her until I showed up at the Tadich Grill for lunch last Friday and the maître d’ apologized for the misunderstanding about my previous bill. Over the past few days I’ve learned that she’s eaten at more than a dozen restaurants and stayed at two hotels using my name. I wasn’t able to track her down until she showed up at Rulli’s in Union Square this morning.”
That explains why Baldy took such an interest in her. And how I ended up here.
“So it seems,” she says, “that you’ve been hired by an impostor.”
I have to admit, this Tuesday seems a bit friendlier than the other one. Her face has softer lines and her shape has fuller curves and she has a scent drifting off her that makes me acutely aware of my own anatomy. Still, I’m technically working for the first Tuesday, so I have to respect that, even if I do want to sleep with both of them. Preferably at the same time.
That thought isn’t exactly helping me to stay focused.
“How do I know you’re who you say you are? How do I know you’re not the fake Tuesday and she’s the real one?”
She pulls out a driver’s license from some hidden place on her body and shows it to me. The driver’s license, not her body.
“This could be a fake,” I say, knowing it’s not but trying to act like I know what I’m doing. “And so could you.”
“You’ll just have to take my word for it.”
“Yeah, well, in my line of business, I’ve learned that words don’t mean much.”
“And how is business these days, Mr. Monday?”
Maybe it’s the playful tone of her voice or the way she raises her eyebrows after she says it, but I can’t help but feel that she’s talking about my poaching business.
I stand up and walk away and pretend to be interested in the collection of signed photos on the walls. “What exactly do you want with me?”
“I want to know who this impostor is.”
When I turn around, she’s still sitting on the stool at the bar, one leg crossed over the other, one foot bouncing up and down. It’s hypnotic.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” I say. “She’s my client.”
“You don’t understand. I want to hire you to find out who she is.”
“You want to hire me?”
“That is what you do, isn’t it? Investigate? Detect? Find things out?”
“On my better days.”
“Then consider this a retainer for your services.” She reaches into her leopard-print purse and removes an envelope, which she places on the bar and slides toward me.
I walk over to the bar and pick up the envelope, which contains in the neighborhood of two thousand dollars. Not the same neighborhood as what the first Tuesday paid me, but it’s still got decent property values. Considering I was going to try to find out who the other Tuesday is anyway, the thought of getting paid for it seems like a bonus.
“All you want me to do is find out who she is?” I ask.
“That’s it. And for that information, I’m willing to p
ay you another twenty thousand dollars. Double if you can deliver my doppelgänger.”
The thought of sleeping with both Tuesdays runs through my head again and I wonder if it’s something I could propose. I don’t think that violates any sense of professional propriety. If it does, it shouldn’t.
“Not that I don’t appreciate the chance to take your money,” I say. “But why pay me when one of your Beefeater goons could just grab her and bring her in like they did with me?”
“I heard that,” says Gigantor from down the hall.
“You were an exception,” says Tuesday. “And you almost literally fell into our lap. Plus you were rather compliant. Had you made a scene, this meeting would have taken place at your office.”
“I take it you prefer to avoid any publicity.”
“My father owns this hotel, which I help him to run. Sending out employees of the hotel or the club would lead to unwanted connections and exposure, so we’d prefer to have this taken care of out of house, if you get my meaning.”
“I get your meaning. And it seems to me that keeping this hush-hush would be worth more than twenty grand.”
She gives me a smile that’s more condescending than good-humored. “If you even think about using my father’s celebrity as leverage for more money, then the next time you see me, I won’t be so accommodating.”
The appearance of Gigantor at my side signals that our little meeting has come to an end.
“Sorry about the goon comment,” I say to him. “I didn’t mean any disrespect. Please know that I hold you in the highest regard.”
He just looks at me with something that could be exasperation or disdain. It doesn’t really matter. I have a way of engendering both.
I grab the money out of the envelope and stuff it into my pockets, then I thank the second Tuesday for her time and generosity.
“I hope this is one of your better days, Mr. Monday,” she says, lighting up another cigarette. “I’d hate to be disappointed.”
“That makes two of us,” I say, walking past her and following Gigantor to the elevator.
