by Joel Travis
Lori agreed that it might be fun, but she was a single mom with bills to pay. What else would she get out of it? I told her I’d deduct five hundred bucks from the money she owed me. Furthermore, I promised to use my connections with Detective Gardner to make sure she’d never be arrested or fined for lewd dancing.
We talked about the best way to execute the plan. Lori had lots of good ideas, which didn’t surprise me. The assignment was tailor-made for a girl with her skill set.
Funny thing, but as our conversation drifted to other subjects, I began to see Lori as a real person. Maybe she was really two people—one real and one fake. The fake one was Ecstasy, a sexy dancer who rips off her clothes and tosses them into a crowd of gawking strangers. The real one was Lori, a young girl who told me that she wanted to get a kitten. Not a pit bull or reptile, the pets preferred by most topless dancers. Lori wanted a cute, cuddly kitten.
I ran over my neighbor’s cat a few years ago. That cat is dead. There’s no bringing him back. Yet I marvel at the way nature renews itself. One cat ends up embedded in my tire treads, and a few years later a kitten finds a home with a stripper.
“Let me ask you something, Lori. You’re earning big bucks as a professional dancer, but haven’t you ever wanted to do something else?”
“Well, yeah. Those dreams went down the tubes when I got pregnant and dropped out of the sixth grade.”
“What was it you wanted to be?”
“Don’t laugh. I wanted to be a D.A.”
“District Attorney?”
“Dental Assistant.”
I heard someone knocking at the front door. I didn’t stick around to see who it was. I sneaked out the back way, sliding out the sliding glass door. I climbed over the patio fence and took a circuitous route to the parking lot. I started the Pinto and sputtered out of the apartment complex, a trail of lingering black smoke the only indication I’d been there at all.
#
Later that evening I was sitting in the study drinking a beer I had located at the back of Marty’s refrigerator. He’d tried to hide it behind a giant jar of mayonnaise.
Marty entered the study carrying a bowling ball bag. I wondered when he’d taken up bowling. He set the bag down and smiled like a man who’d just bowled a perfect game.
“Hey, I saw the Pinto in the driveway,” he said. “Is it still running okay?”
“You know it hasn’t run okay since the late seventies.”
“I know it doesn’t run like it did back in high school. But it still runs like it did when I lent it to you?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“You know that car means a lot to me. I never lend it out to anybody. I was trying to do you a favor. It’s better than walking, isn’t it?”
“I haven’t run any comparison tests. I just know it’s a dangerous piece of junk. The engine died five times on the tollway during rush hour.”
“I can see how that would be stressful,” he said. “I’d offer you my last beer, but I see you’ve already got it.”
I took a swig from the bottle. My brother thanked me for returning the car, picked up his bag, and headed for the door.
“What’s in the bag?” I asked.
“Oh, nothing,” he said as he left the room.
I know there was something in Marty’s bowling ball bag. I’m not saying it was a bowling ball necessarily. On the other hand, I don’t want to go out on a limb and say that the bag contained Melvin Hedgeway’s severed head, though it would have been a perfect fit.
I dismissed the ridiculous notion of my brother carrying around a severed head. What would be the point? He couldn’t show it to anybody. They’d want to know where he got it. No one would want to see the head anyway. Even when it was attached to his body, nobody wanted to look at the Codger’s bald head. I decided to give my brother the benefit of the doubt. I told myself he was a novice bowler, not a murderer. We tell ourselves what we want to hear.
I retired early to my chambers. I moved the ironing board up against the laundry room door, an impenetrable blockade against any head-snatchers who might be roaming about in the night. Just as I was drifting off, I heard a loud noise. Someone had broken through the impenetrable blockade! I cringed in the corner as my eyes adjusted to the light streaming in from the hallway. Backlit in the doorway stood a tall, thin figure. I thought it was human until I saw its hideous, ghostly white face. I shuddered in revulsion.
The creature must have possessed some form of intelligence, because it flicked the laundry room light on and folded up the ironing board. I could see its face clearly in the florescent light. The ghastly creature was none other than Crenshaw, wearing a mask of cold cream. She dragged a basket of clothes in from the hallway.
“You’re blocking the machine again,” she said.
“How come you always do the laundry when I’m trying to sleep?”
“When aren’t you sleeping? I wanted to do a few loads this morning. You slept well past noon.”
“That’s because I was hung over.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” she said. “I can’t schedule my chores around your hangovers.”
“Who gave you chores? You don’t even live here.”
“Neither do you,” she said. “Some of us like to pull our own weight.”
“Then you won’t mind pulling your own weight back to your own room so I can get some shuteye.”
Instead of leaving, the Stork began to load the washing machine. I pulled the blanket up over my head. At least I wouldn’t have to look at her frightening face.
The irritating intruder wouldn’t let me be. She asked questions about the case, curious if there had been any new developments. I issued brief answers from under the blanket. Gradually, her probing inquiries drew me out. I told her about my interview with Sergio Moreno and my suspicion that he and Hedgeway had been working together in a shady investment business.
Our discussion continued throughout the wash cycle. The clothes were tumbling in the dryer when the Stork told me that her great-grandfather once met an infamous man on a ship that docked in a New Orleans port in the summer of 1926. I thought she had veered wildly off the subject of the Codger case, but I was wrong. By the time we had folded the clean clothes and separated them by owner, I knew why Melvin Hedgeway had been murdered.
#
Old man Enright was a new man. I could hardly believe the transformation. Making good on my promise to drop by for the weekend reunion of his old Army buddies, I entered his room expecting to see the old blind man shriveling away as usual in his recliner. He was still sitting in the recliner, but he was all decked out in a checkered vest and bow tie, hair slicked back over his bony skull, smiling ear to ear. If not for the pointy nose, bulging eyeballs, and scarecrow body, I wouldn’t have recognized him.
Seated to his left was a stocky fellow with thinning red hair. I introduced myself. He sprang to his feet and greeted me enthusiastically.
“Charles Fogelman,” he said, shaking my hand vigorously. “My friends call me Charlie.”
“Good to meet you, Fogelman,” I said. “John speaks highly of you. He’s told me a few of the old war stories from when the two of you worked in the kitchen at FortBliss.”
He slapped me on the back. “Did he tell you about the stolen spoon investigation?”
“Yeah.”
“God, we had fun back then,” he said. “John and Mel and me. I was hoping Mel would be here for the reunion.”
I looked at Enright. “John, didn’t you tell him Melvin is dead?”
Enright nodded. “I told him Melvin was murdered, but he won’t believe it. He says Melvin is a survivor. Says he’d like to see the man who could take Mel down.”
I had a flashback to a day in the topless bar when, in a dispute over a table dance tip, a skinny stripper took Melvin to the ground and proceeded to beat the money out of him.
Charlie said, “Until they find his body, I’ll consider him ‘Missing in Action.’”
“That’s a
nice way to look at it,” I said, thinking I’d never heard anything so ridiculous. “If he’s alive, he’s been walking around for a year without his wallet. He’d have no money, no credit cards, and no identification. Hasn’t bothered to contact his niece to say he’s alive.”
“Of course,” Charlie said, “I’m a realist. If he’s dead, he’s dead. It’s only natural that things change over time.” He placed his hand on Enright’s shoulder. “For example, this man here once had the eyesight of an eagle. Now he has the eyesight of a mole, if that.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Right, John?”
Enright shrugged, but his smile never wavered. He was happy to be with his friend, Charlie, after so many years.
“So is anyone else coming to the reunion, or is this it?” I asked.
Enright said there were five others playing poker in another room. I was glad to hear that. The reunion was a brief respite from his dreary existence and I knew how much it meant to him. I intended to do everything in my power to build him up in front of his friends and make it a weekend he would remember fondly for the rest of his pitiful life.
“I have a surprise for you, John,” I said.
“What is it?”
“Well, I wanted to do something as a sort of tribute to you and your talent.”
“What talent?”
“Now see, he’s being modest,” I said to Charlie Fogelman. “I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but your friend is a very gifted poet.”
“You’re not still writing those anti-war poems, are you?” he asked Enright.
“No, I gave that up many years ago. Long before I started up my handmade cigarette holder business.”
“Anyway,” I said, “after reading John’s poignant poem, Pappy’s Song, I thought it would be a fitting tribute to compose a poem in the same style and read it here at the reunion. All his poems contain the F-word in the closing line, so I stuck to that winning formula when composing my little tribute. However, my poem differs from Pappy’s Song in terms of viewpoint. Instead of an admiring son writing about his beloved Pappy, this time it’s a soldier writing one last letter from the front lines to his selfish son. Of course, war is never pretty, so when I sat down to—”
“Just read the damn thing,” Enright said.
I pulled the verses from my pocket and read my poem aloud:
#
A SOLDIER’S LAST PAYCHECK
I told you ten times, Son, I get paid tomorrow;
Until I can send it you’ll just have to borrow.
Conditions are rough here, there’s little to eat;
The best meal I’ve had was the corns off my feet.
Yesterday’s lunch was a helping of moss;
That reminds me, Son, can you send me some floss?
The bugle sounds and I head for the door;
I must join my men; I must leave my whore.
Our battle plan stinks, it’s total disaster;
The wind is against us, so the bullets come faster.
My friend, Bill, screams and falls;
He took a bullet in the balls!
It’s too late to tell him what I wish I could say:
“When you see me shooting, stay out of the way!”
I scream and fall, will I need mending?
Don’t worry, Son, I’m just pretending!
I fake my wounds instead of fighting;
So I can spend a moment writing.
Though death is near and I must go;
There is one thing you’ll want to know.
Son, if it’s my fate to die today;
You’ll still receive my fucking pay.
#
I looked up from the page, disappointed by the dead silence in the audience. I knew my poem wasn’t any Pappy’s Song, but I had hoped to hear at least a spattering of courtesy applause, the kind you hear at a golf tournament when a non-contender sinks a short putt.
Cynthia entered the room, wearing jeans and a beige sweater. She seemed surprised to see me. I explained that Andrea had let me in and that I’d dropped by for the reunion to pay my respects to Enright and the other veterans. She started to thank me for coming, but I cut her off. My cell phone was ringing. I stepped out into the hall to take an important call from a stripper.
Strippers don’t pay much attention to clocks or calendars. So it was a pleasant surprise when Lori called in right on time to report her progress. I eagerly awaited her report, for I knew that if she’d executed the steps I’d written down for her in plain English, we had a good chance to trap a killer.
“Thanks for calling, Lori. Did everything go as planned?”
“Better than planned.”
“Great, I can’t wait to hear what happened.”
“Well, at first I followed the steps you wrote down. Sergio reacted just like you said he would, too. You didn’t tell me how attractive he is.”
“Yes, he is very … wait a second, back up. You said you followed the steps ‘at first.’ Didn’t you follow the plan to the end?”
“I went past the end.”
“That doesn’t make sense, Lori. The end is the end. You can’t go past the end.”
“Well, I did.”
I had no idea what she meant, but I let it slide. It would all come out in her report.
Lori said she went to Sergio Moreno’s office building. She waited on the thirteenth floor, peering around a corner from the end of the hall. A silver-haired man in an expensive suit came out of Suite 1310 at five o’clock, and Lori knew from the description I’d provided that it was Sergio. She took the stairs down to the parking level so she could intercept him on his way to his car. When he came around the corner, Lori was waiting there in skintight leather pants and a skimpy halter.
I smiled. Lori was executing my plan flawlessly, starting with Step One: DRESS LIKE A SLUT. Step One was probably a waste of ink, since Lori always dressed like that.
When Sergio looked her way, Lori appeared to be flustered and upset. She asked him if he had a cell phone she could borrow to call a friend. Sergio was more than happy to oblige. As she dialed a fake number, Lori explained that she’d just had another fight with her worthless boyfriend who’d been so angry that he’d pulled his truck over to the side of the road, pushed her out, and sped away, leaving her without a ride home. And now, to make things worse, her friend wasn’t answering the phone.
Demonstrating that chivalry is not dead when it comes to helping sluts in distress, Sergio offered to give her a ride home. Lori was so grateful that she gave him a big hug, squashing her huge knockers against his chest (Step Five).
He took her straight home. Lori was impressed with Sergio’s home, an expensive condo somewhere off Inwood Road. He lit a few candles, put on some soft Latin music, and poured two glasses of white wine.
Again I smiled. Although Sergio thought he was setting the stage for a romantic evening of wild sex, it was I who had set the stage. Lori was playing her part to perfection, but I was the casting director who gave her her start, as well as the scriptwriter who put the words in her mouth. With Lori’s body and my brains, Sergio never had a chance.
Critics of my plan may say that it looks like something a pimp drew up. They may say that if I really believed Sergio was a cold-blooded killer, I had knowingly put a young girl’s life at risk. Let them say what they may. Anyway, it’s too late.
Lori snuggled up to Sergio on the love seat. She told him that he looked uncomfortable in his suit and tie, and he might want to change into a pair of jeans or something. He said he’d be right back. If Lori was surprised to see Sergio return in only a silk robe, it was nothing compared to the exhilarating shock he must have felt when he saw that she was nude.
I almost dropped the phone. There was no nudity in my script! Step One required Lori to dress like a slut, but none of the steps instructed her to undress like a slut. I told myself to remain calm, Lori was just improvising. Actresses improvise from time to time. And strippers get naked all the time. It was my fault for hiring a stripp
er/actress. Still, it stuck in my craw.
What was really bothering me? Was it the fact that Lori had strayed from the script? Or was it the fact that I took her to Las Vegas and never saw her naked? Consider the sequence of events:
1. I take Lori to Vegas.
2. She incurs a debt to me when she steals my life’s savings from the safe.
3. I let her work off the debt by helping me trap a killer.
4. Instead of trapping the killer, she gets naked for the killer.
If you follow the money trail, it’s like I spent my life’s savings for Lori to have sex with Sergio Moreno. No wonder I’m having problems with my craw.
You may be curious how I know that Sergio is the killer. Okay, I don’t. Frankly, I need him to be the killer, because it would clear the way for me to marry his wife. Hopefully, he’ll get the death penalty. I’m not a lawyer, but I’m assuming that if the State of Texas executes her spouse, Cynthia will be legally up for grabs.
Of course, it’s always hardest on the child. The day after the execution, I’ll have to sit down with Andrea and explain that her father is as dead as the man he murdered (Uncle Melvin). It will be a double blow to the child.
To soften the blows, I’ll tell Andrea about how my father ran off to Vegas in the middle of my little brother’s birthday party and never came back. Maybe when I tell her that I was only four years old at the time, she’ll realize that she was pretty lucky to get seven or eight years out of her dad before he was executed. My old man was only good for four years and I don’t even know what he looked like because my mother cut his head out of all the family photos.
Lori must have sensed that I was lost in a daydream.
“Did you hear me, Brit? I said when Sergio came back into the room I was nude.”
“Yeah, I know you were.”
“You’re not surprised?”
“Not really,” I said. “I should have seen it coming.”
“Guess what happened next.”
“You screwed his brains out.”
“Is that what he told you?”
“No. I haven’t talked to Sergio since I interviewed him Monday afternoon.”
“Then how did you know?”
