by Dan Taylor
“Come on, it’s obvious.”
It’s obvious that the hitman was drunk when he did it? Is that a thing? Tweaked, maybe. Drunk? Only if he was sloppy.
I say, “Annabelle, I don’t think people in that profession tend to drink on the job.”
“What profession? And two out of three people who commit hit-and-run offenses are drunk behind the wheel. I haven’t done the research, but that sounds about right.”
Now I’m really confused.
“Are we talking about the same person? Greg?”
“Of course.”
“Annabelle, Greg wasn’t…” My voice trails off. I remember something I was distracted from thinking about during my conversation with the detective. Dukes saying the word on the grapevine is that it was a 480.
“Greg wasn’t what?” Annabelle asks. “And why have you got that funny look on your face?”
“Just a second.” I take out my cell phone.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m just checking if what you said about two out of three hit-and-run drivers being over the limit is correct.”
“Okay… We could always check that later, but whatever.”
“It’s this thing I have. It’ll be on my mind all evening if I don’t check.”
Keeping my phone tilted enough towards my chest so that Annabelle can’t see the screen, I google ‘Police code California 480.’
Sure enough, the full page of search results is of various websites telling me the same thing: 480 is the police code for a hit-and-run felony in the State of California.
I say, “Yep, you were right. Two thirds of hit-and-runs are committed by drunk drivers. Pretty impressive stuff.” I put my phone away.
Annabelle frowns. “Impressive that two thirds of them are drunk?”
“No, that you were able to pull that statistic out of your ass like that.”
Annabelle’s suspicious. How can I tell? I go to give her a high-five, but she leaves me hanging.
“Okay… And what were you going to say about Greg?” Annabelle asks, after I put my hand down.
“Come again?”
“Before you took out your phone, you said, ‘Annabelle, Greg wasn’t…’ and then you just kinda trailed off.”
I think a second. “Oh, that. I was going to say…”
“Yeah?”
I look around for inspiration, and notice one of the waiters carrying a plate of bangers and mash, a British favorite.
“I was going to say, Greg wasn’t… circumcised, was he?”
“Ew, Jake! What’s that got to do with anything?”
“It seemed relevant at the time.”
Annabelle gets up, and I expect her to slap me, but instead, she says, “I’m going to go to the ladies’ room, and when I come back, I kinda expect us to have a normal post-funeral conversation. Maybe one where you don’t ask about my dead boyfriend’s penis.”
“Okay, Annabelle. And I was just interested, is all.”
As Annabelle walks away to the bathroom, shaking her head as she goes, two things are on my mind: Why does Annabelle think Greg was killed in a hit-and-run incident, and why the hell couldn’t I think of a better way to finish that sentence?
Figuring I’ve got a couple minutes before Annabelle comes back, I take out my cell phone and dial Detective Dukes.
5.
“DUKES, HANCOCK,” I say.
“I know who it is, dummy. I’ve got your number saved in my phone.” He lowers his voice and says, “And why the hell are you phoning me?”
That pretense of not being acquainted with me? It’s gone. The reason he was doing so in the first place is related to this cover-up involving The Agency, which I mentioned earlier.
Let’s call it ‘The Bad Thing.’
I won’t bore you with the details, but it involves Cole Baxter, a fellow Agency detective, who had to go into hiding afterwards, which involved traveling the world, and leaving his family thinking he was dead; our immediate boss Gerry Smoulderwell, who masterminded the covering up of an indiscretion involving Cole, which was then further covered up by Agency boss Andre; a crazy Russian scientist, a mere pawn; a waitress, named Grace Black, who helped me uncover what had happened, but who was drugged by The Agency with a memory-affecting drug, along with a bunch of other people, to keep the controversy a secret; and Detective Dukes, who rescued me and the waitress from the repercussions of our investigation into finding out what had happened, but who was bribed by Andre to keep The Bad Thing a secret.
And me, of course. I was left with a souped-up pacemaker in my heart, which can be activated by Andre at any time, to persuade me that I shouldn’t inform anyone about what happened. I also have some Agency goons following me around, to keep tabs on me. Top of their list of priorities is to make sure I don’t go to see the waitress, who lives her life oblivious to our encounter. I’m pretty sure I’m in love with her and, before Greg died, I went to see her on a regular basis anyway, only dressed as Marky Mark, so I didn’t jog her memory and so that Greg, the dead guy, could double as me, fooling the goons into thinking I was in my apartment.
Up to speed? No? All you need to remember is that Cole is AWOL. That a crooked, eccentric millionaire decided to protect his star employee instead of doing the right thing, and that he can kill me at any time. That I’m in love with a waitress of all people. And that both Detective Dukes and I shouldn’t be having the conversation we’re about to have.
Back to the conversation with Detective Dukes.
I say, “Why the hell does Greg’s girlfriend think he was killed in a hit-and-run incident?”
“Because he was, you idiot.”
“That’s not what you said when you phoned last time.”
“Wait a minute, have you told Greg’s girlfriend what happened?”
“I’m confused. Which is it? A hit or a hit-and-run incident?”
“Don’t say a word to her.”
“Don’t say a word to her about what?”
“Hancock, I’m looking at a dead hooker with a nauseating mixture of cocaine and dry blood around her nostrils.”
“Is that some sort of metaphor? Because if it is, I don’t get it.”
“No, you idiot. It’s my way of saying now’s not the best time to have this conversation.”
I hear a slapping sound, and I wonder if Detective Dukes is taking his frustration out on the dead hooker.
I ask, “What was that?”
“That was the sound of me slapping my forehead. I should have never phoned you.”
I think a second. “But you did, and to presumably tell me that, even though you guys are officially saying Greg was killed in a hit-and-run incident, you think he was taken out by a professional.”
“The dead hooker has just miraculously sat up and started clapping, having heard what you said.”
“Am I on speaker?”
“Don’t be an ass, Hancock.” He sighs. “Look, I must’ve had half a brain thinking you were the person to phone about this. But I did, and now it’s done. At least tell me you haven’t told anyone, least of all Greg’s girlfriend.”
“She’s none the wiser.”
“Good. Let it stay that way. When I get off tonight, you might find me at Joe’s Tavern. You know Joe’s, right?”
“The bar in Glendale? Should I wear a bulletproof vest?”
“Come incognito. And if you’re followed, by you know who, don’t come in. We’ll rearrange it.”
“Got it.”
He hangs up.
And then I realize I have no idea what time Detective Dukes gets off.
A second later my phone beeps. It’s a text message from Dukes. It reads, “Nine o’clock. And I forgot to say bye.”
I put my phone away.
But then it beeps again.
I take it out to find I’ve got another message from Dukes. One word, “Bye.”
Thirty seconds later, Annabelle comes back from the bathroom and says the last thing I expect her to say.
6.
“THEY’VE GOT THE NICEST toilet paper in this place,” Annabelle says, after sitting down.
“Really. This place?” I look around, thinking that, by the looks of them, the bar’s patrons would put up with the quality you’d find in a youth detention center. “How good are we talking? Cotton wool soft or freshly hatched goose down?”
“Saville Row bowtie velvet soft.”
“Nice. Did you take a roll?”
She gestures at her bag, which is bulging.
Then she says, “Two.”
“That must’ve involved a complex double-stall extraction mission. I’m impressed.”
She shrugs. “I figure I’ll need them later on.”
Anyway, super-soft toilet roll aside, I turn my mind to this Detective Dukes revelation and how it relates to the other complexities in my life. My first thought is that this somehow relates to my former employers, The Agency. I haven’t kept up my end of the bargain of keeping away from Grace Black, the waitress, but I don’t know if they’re onto me. The bargain between us that if I keep quiet they won’t kill me. Sure, I go to see her, but I haven’t reminded her of what we found out or that we knew each other for a day. So what, they take out Greg, mistaking him for me? If it’s true, with the LAPD keeping it under wraps, the LAPD must have one hell of a break room. Maybe a pool table, dart board, and even a Nespresso machine. All paid for by The Agency.
But then again, that doesn’t make any sense. If The Agency thinks I’m dead, then why would Detective Dukes warn me about not being tailed by “you know who”?
Unless the LAPD have let it slip they got the wrong man.
But even then, it wouldn’t make any sense: The Agency has the power to kill me anytime, at the click of a button.
“You seem pensive,” Annabelle says, interrupting my thoughts.
“Do I?”
“Yeah, you were staring over there, frowning.”
“Was I?”
“What’s on your mind? Greg?”
“No. Why would you think that?”
“Because we’ve just come from his funeral.”
“Oh, like that.”
She frowns. “What other way is there?”
“No other way. I have no idea why I said that. And you’re right. I was just sitting there, thinking about all the times Greg made me laugh. All those great memories of Greg… doing stuff that was funny and amusing.”
“Jake, I know Greg wasn’t your favorite person, but I appreciate you pretending he was for today.” She gets up and kisses me on the forehead.
“Where are you going? Do you feel guilty about the toilet paper and are going to put it back?”
“No, I just don’t feel like socializing at the moment. I think I need to grieve alone. Do you mind?”
“Not at all. Phone me if you need me.”
“I will. And if Megan gets in contact, send me a text.”
Annabelle half smiles and then leaves.
Jesus… Megan. I forgot all about her for a second. I take out my cell phone, hoping to have received a message from her. I haven’t.
I think about phoning again, but then decide against it. She’ll be in contact when she hears my voicemail message.
The way I figure the evening to go is this: as my seat’s warm, I’ll stay at the bar a couple hours, get on the session ales so that I’m not too drunk for my meeting with Detective Dukes. An hour and a half before, I’ll leave for my apartment, get incognito and take a cab to the Joe’s Tavern.
As I sit and drink the next pint, I’ll come up with a way of taking Greg’s death off Annabelle’s mind. Maybe plan some sort of getaway for us, as long as the meeting with Detective Dukes doesn’t result in me going on some crazy investigation to find out what happened to Greg. I roll my eyes… knowing my luck, that’s totally what’s going to happen.
But I don’t get a chance to start thinking about where, as someone taps me on the shoulder.
7.
I TURN AROUND.
A woman says, “Trueheart.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s my name. Michelle Trueheart.”
“Oh. Hi.”
“May I?”
Michelle Trueheart gestures at the bar stools surrounding the table.
“Take one. Sure.”
“Not that.” She smiles, her lip rising to reveal white teeth with a faint smear of red lipstick on them. “May I join you?”
“Why?”
“Gebacci.”
“Come again?”
“That’s who I’m wearing.”
Despite having not received a response for her request to join me, Michelle Trueheart takes a seat. She stares at me for what must be five seconds, though it feels like ten. She looks as though she might be placing me, or mentally undressing me; I’m not sure which.
Then she says, “Are you famous?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Oh, come off it. I recognize you.”
“From what?”
“Something.”
That look again.
“Well?” she asks.
“Well what?”
“Is that the drink you bought me?” She indicates Annabelle’s spritzer.
“No. I’m here with someone.”
She looks around. “Where is she?”
“She’s in the bathroom.”
“Okay if I keep her seat warm while she’s away?”
“I don’t think she’d like that. Sorry.”
“Just messing with you. I just saw her leave, the girl who was sitting here with you. Is she your girlfriend? Because I don’t mind if she is.”
“You don’t mind if she’s my girlfriend? That’s kind of you. Thanks.”
“You know what I meant.” She winks at me, but the eye she doesn’t intend to close closes a little. Nailed it.
I decide to take control of the situation. Why? I don’t think Michelle Trueheart’s getting my hints. She picks up Annabelle’s drink and starts sipping from it, using the straw seductively. Clearly this lady is beyond hints.
“Look, usually I’d be up for an offbeat conversation with—” I don’t finish the sentence, as I feel something. I look under the table to find she’s pulling a Cinderella on me: She’s taken off one of her slippers and is caressing the inside of my calf with her stockinged feet, threatening to move up to my thigh.
“Stick a Sock in It,” she says.
“Huh?”
“That’s where I recognize you from.”
I reach down and push her foot away.
She raises an eyebrow, then says, “And Playing Hard to Get.”
“I’m not much of a foot man, and what are you talking about?”
“They’re the two TV series I recognize you from.”
“Stick a Sock in It and Playing Hard to Get?”
“Yeah, you played the dishwasher and pool boy respectively. You were quite good.”
“I’ve never heard of them.”
“Oh, come off it,” she says again.
“No matter how much I try to come off it, it won’t change the fact that I’ve never acted in my life.” I think a second. “Except during my marriage. A little then.”
I get up to leave, thinking it’s a shame I didn’t get to drink my Star Gazer in peace, when I feel Cinderella making her move again.
When I reach down this time, it isn’t her toes I feel, but a tiny pistol, one she’s got clamped between her toes.
I look up at her, to see she’s raising her eyebrow again. Then she says, “Are you sure you aren’t a foot man?”
8.
AS I SIT THERE, with Michelle Trueheart’s pistol aimed at my balls, I have a number of questions: One, who the hell is this woman? Two, what the hell does she want with me? Three—right on the tail of that last question—is it possible to be raped, as a man and by a woman, without being forced to take Viagra? And four, is the threat of having my balls blown off supposed to inspire me to have a foot fetish?
/> But I don’t ask any of those. What I say is, “Is the safety off?”
I hear a click. Then she says, “It is now.”
Me and my big mouth.
Even so, I’m not still convinced this is a real threat, and not just because the pistol I glanced at looks like it couldn’t put a dent in a tin can, but because of a curiosity I have: “Can you pull the trigger with your toes?”
She smiles. “I can, and twice.”
I frown. That’s a weird thing to say.
“Because you have two—”
“Okay, lady, I believe you. There’s no need to say it. What do you want from me?”
“You’re going to accompany me outside, to the back alley.”
“Which one?”
“The one between the pub and its neighboring building.”
“That’s the definition of a back alley, sure. But what I meant is, there are two of them. Ow!”
I don’t get to finish, as Michelle Trueheart, if that’s her real name, tries to jab the pistol into my thigh, missing where she was aiming.
“Just get moving.”
I raise a hand.
She lowers her voice. “Put your hand down!”
“I just wanted to ask a question, and without you jabbing that thing into my balls.”
“It’s not school and I’m not playing. Just get moving.”
I get up, turn around, and start making my way out the front door. I wonder if she’s still got the gun trained on me, and if so, if it’s between her toes. Probably not, as I would hear her hopping behind me.
I also wonder how she could’ve improved that zinger she said. Kindergarten is where kids play. I suppose she could’ve said it’s not school and I’m not your teacher. But that doesn’t really work.
I got it: This isn’t kindergarten and I’m not playing. But then again, kindergarten teachers tend to be the ones minding the kids, not playing.
Anyway, I give up.
I take a right when out of the door and head down the back alley.
Five or so meters in, I ask, “Is this far enough?”
“Keep going.”
When I’ve gone an extra step, she says, “Okay, that’s far enough.”
Control freak pedant.
