by Mary Hughes
“How do we get him out, Aunt Lena? Do you do plumbing? Daddy always swears when he does plumbing.”
I didn’t bother to correct present-tense Daddy. Maybe Date Number One had already auditioned on the casting couch. Maybe that’s why Gretch was calling him “Daddy”.
“I don’t do plumbing, Starshine. I’ll call in a professional.” I went to the contact list by the phone and found what I wanted right at the top. “Go back to bed, Stella.”
“But Aunt Lena, Pookie’ll be scared.”
I tried to think like a five-year-old. “Pookie’ll be embarrassed to be caught in the toilet.”
She giggled. “Silly Pookie.” After I promised to bring her the teddy bear when he was rescued, she trotted off to her room.
Then I picked up the phone, and dialed Bo Strongwell, Viking building manager.
Chapter Four
A simple clog, but I didn’t hesitate calling. Bo was a suspect, he’d avoided my questioning, and this was a perfect opportunity to corner him. Besides, what work did a building super do? Deposit rent checks, change light bulbs? The building wasn’t big, maybe sixteen units. And, despite the gorgeous outside, pretty basic. Gretchen’s apartment had two small bedrooms and a single bath. A tiny kitchen, and my sister loved to cook.
And not one single window in the whole apartment.
Apparently you can suffer brain damage from snorting too much fingerprint powder. I saw that and didn’t think anything more of it.
Bo answered on the first ring. “What’s wrong?” he barked.
Well, no need to snarl at me. Especially when his black satin voice was so much better. My nipples tightened at the memory of black satin and I gritted my teeth. Annoyed at both his tone and my stupid nipples, I snapped back. “The toilet’s wrong. Blocked.”
“Detective O’Rourke? Is this an emergency?” His voice smoothed down.
“Hello? Five-year-old and no toilet? Hell yes, it’s an emergency.”
“I see. And you’re calling me because…?”
“Because you’re the building super and it’s your job? Wait. Don’t tell me you have to go patrol.”
“Sunset’s not until seven forty-nine.” There was a smile in his voice. “I’ll be right there, Detective.”
“Right there” was ten seconds flat. I opened the door to Bo (and his four-foot wrench), wondering where his apartment was. Even next door would have been a fast run.
And he had that huge tool to carry.
Following him to the bathroom, I decided to practice my professional observation skills. Six-foot four, weight two-twenty. Heavily muscled. He glided like an athlete—or a hunter. His butt was so tight I could’ve bounced bullets off it.
O-kaaay, maybe that wasn’t so professional.
Bo attacked the clogged toilet, handling his big wrench like a sword or an axe. It made me think of horned helmets and furs and sweating male torsos. As he worked, his biceps clenched and flexed. My body clenched and flexed in rhythm.
I ground my teeth. What, did I now have a thing for sex and toilets? True, in college, Poindexter “Baldy” Beine and I stayed late to do a chemistry lab and ended up making out in the attached bathroom. That was one of my first brushes with Murpheous Interruptus. I was sitting on the throne with Poindexter’s head between my thighs when his unknown-to-me steady girlfriend found us and tossed mercury fulminate in his hair. It was only my quick action, shoving his head into the bowl, that saved “Baldy” from worse than burning off his hair (hey, the water was fresh).
But I must have been more scarred by my aborted sexual encounters than I thought. My body’s ready-to-eat reaction couldn’t have been because of Bo. I was not instantly, wildly attracted to a janitor/suspect.
“Pookie’s a bit bedraggled.” Bo held the small toy up by one ear. I wondered how he’d gotten it, since the toilet drained directly into a pipe in the floor and he hadn’t taken the throne out.
I was immediately distracted by the water pouring from the stuffed bear, running over Bo’s strong hand, down his powerful arm. Wetting his T-shirt until I could see the outline of a taut nipple. Molding the tee to the rope of muscle flaring along his side.
“It’s nothing that…” My voice came out husky. I cleared my throat with a quick swallow. Hopefully Bo couldn’t see my nipples poking their heads up to take a peek. “Nothing a few rounds in the dryer won’t fix.”
His eyes flashed down my front and that almost-smile flirted across his lips. Damn. Stupid perky tits. I was so getting a padded bra next paycheck.
I plucked the bear from his fingers and practically ran to the utility closet. I couldn’t hear Bo following, but I could feel him, a sexy satin shadow running over my skin.
Sexy satin shadow? What was I thinking? I was not attracted to Bo Strongwell. I was only extremely, excruciatingly horny. But not because of Mr. Muscle-y Maintenance Man. Because I hadn’t gotten properly laid in five years, three months and three days.
I stuck the bear in the dryer. Said the first combative thing I could think of. “Pretty cheap apartment, with no windows.” Hell, he was standing right behind me, radiating ultra-intense sexual heat. I had to say something. And preferably something to counter that very wrong idea I’d given him, all husky-voiced and stiff-nippled. So I challenged him, so what? As Vince Lombardi said, a good defense is a thump on the head. Or something like that. At least I didn’t shoot him.
A single warm finger grazed my cheek. Electricity shocked my skin. Jagged down my throat, exploding in my gut. A single touch, but it generated a whole storm system in my body.
All that from one touch, what would sex with him be like? my body wondered, and my mind smacked myself.
“It makes the apartment safe from intruders,” Bo said.
I stared into his blue eyes, now the color of tropical waters. Safe from intruders? Oh yeah, no windows. But what about the intruders already inside? I backed away, barely suppressing the urge to go for my clutch piece. “Uh, sure. Well, thanks for rescuing Pookie.”
He gave me another devastating half-smile. “My pleasure, Detective. I must go now, but feel free to call me any time.”
And then, before I could go into complete melt-down, he took his killer smile and dark stroking voice and glided out the way he’d come.
I slumped onto the couch. What the hell had just happened? Was I so hard up that anything wearing pants and fogging a mirror would do? Well, anything fogging a mirror with gracefully curved lips. Anything wearing pants molded to a bullet-bouncing ass. Anything with thick blond hair and shoulders to block out the sun… I snatched up my magazine and tried to read. “Five Friction-Filled Moves to Wrap Him Up Tight”…ow.
Gretchen came home just before nine. She looked happy and sated. I barely noticed, racing off to work.
Well, I also barely noticed because I was struggling to put graceful lips and Viking bodies out of my head. Like pink elephants, they only recalled every instant of the encounter. Bo’s body. Bo’s flank, taut under his wet tee. Bo’s abs, rippling under my gun.
Gretchen, peeking from behind his warrior mass.
I was nearly at the station when my brain woke up with a bang. Gretch had put herself between my gun and the building manager. Had risked her life.
And that odd little jerk, that nod.
Why had my sister bowed to the maintenance man?
–—
At the police station, I brewed strong, hot coffee and sat down with a cup to think. I needed to interview the witnesses, but I needed to organize my thoughts more. My brain was whirling, I got that. I was excited, because of the case. But that didn’t explain the eager buzzing in my vulva, like not only my brain expected big things.
It also didn’t explain why I read Sass-Cgal instead of my usual Midwest Police Monthly while I drank my joe. And why, when I saw the sample for Hulk It Perfume (Guaranteed to Turn Him into a Raging Testosterone Monster), I tore it open and swabbed it all over my body.
Two cups of coffee later I managed to put away
Sass-Cgal (Blatzky yelling about the pervasive stench of Hulk It as he fled the office might have helped) in favor of the ME’s prelim.
The report was succinct. Two puncture wounds to the scrotum, three-point-five mm diameter (which I translated to size four knitting needles). Victim bled out.
Poor sucker. Stabbed viciously in the balls. Gored genitals, bad enough. But slowly seeping blood until you lost consciousness…wait.
If the victim bled out, where was the blood?
I checked my notebook. No blood soaked into Schrimpf’s clothes. None pooled on the pavement or spattered the car, confirmed by the crime-scene photos. I pulled out a magnifying glass to check. No bloody footprints or drips or even drag marks nearby.
Winds that tied Scout knots, apartments with butlers and now this. It was almost…unnatural.
Unless the vic bled out elsewhere. If he was moved to the parking lot after he was drained, that would explain it.
Sure. Nothing unnatural about it. Schrimpf was somewhere else—when he was stabbed in the balls by some rabid prostitute (who knitted).
Oh yeah. That made so much more sense.
I wished there were someone I could talk to about this. Someone smart, with my sense of justice. Like my dad. When Dad was still alive, I’d call him a couple times a week with questions. Do I take sociology, should I buy a car. Stuff I could have answered on my own, but Dad’s opinion was always so reassuring. I wished now I hadn’t wasted my questions.
Of course, I could have bounced ideas off Blatzky—if he hadn’t skedaddled because of the Hulk It.
So I fell back on tried and true. Analyze evidence, interview witnesses and suspects. Dig up information on everything and everybody. Even a weird case was still a case, and by-the-book hadn’t failed me yet.
Statistically, the prime suspect was Napoleon Schrimpf’s wife of four years. I had tried to contact her yesterday. Suspect, sure. But more importantly, someone had to inform her she was now a widow. I dialed (the phones were that old) the number. When the line cut in on the second ring I braced myself for the difficult duty.
“Schrimpf residence, Martinez speaking.”
“Josephine Schrimpf, please.” (Napoleon and Josephine. Honest, that was her legal name.)
“I am sorry, Mrs. Schrimpf is out of town.” The woman had a slight accent reminiscent of my Grandma Sanchez.
I identified myself. “I need to speak with Josephine as soon as possible.”
“Is this about Mr. Schrimpf’s death?”
Gossip travels fast in Meiers Corners. Bad if you’re trying to keep a secret, but in this case I wouldn’t have to break the awful news. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss it with anyone but Josephine. Can you tell me where she is, when she’ll return?”
“Mrs. Schrimpf is at a convention in Las Vegas. She booked a return flight the minute she heard about the death. I expect her back late tomorrow evening.”
“Is there a number where I can reach her in the meantime?”
“I’m sorry, I am just the maid. Mrs. Schrimpf did not leave anything with me.”
I got a vague buzzing at that. I’d have said Martinez was lying, but couldn’t tell over the phone. I made an appointment to see the widow the next evening, thanked the maid and hung up.
Next I did a little digging on Schrimpf—and Bo. Neither had criminal records. Schrimpf paid his taxes and bills on time. Strongwell paid ahead. Both were remarkably clean.
The only thing that popped were a couple domestic disturbances called in on the Schrimpfs. But when the officer investigated, both Josephine and Napoleon said nothing was wrong. Either they were liars or their neighbor was channeling Gladys Kravitz.
By this time it was ten thirty. Time to tap the witnesses at Nieman’s Bar. So to speak.
Nieman’s was a typical neighborhood tavern. Bartender, mirror, peanuts, amnesia supplies—all the amenities. A bar ran the length of the room. Tables lined the far wall, but Nieman’s didn’t have waitresses. Customers ordered for themselves. Serious drinkers sat at the bar, where they wouldn’t have to stumble to get their next drink.
Tonight’s crowd was mostly old regulars, and I do mean old. Tuesday was Ladies’ Night elsewhere in the universe, but at Nieman’s, it was Seniors’ Night. Not one person was under sixty.
They tried to look young. The lighting should have helped, being just this side of blackout. But hip and trendy to these folk meant chunky gold necklaces and polyester.
If these people had freshness stamps they would’ve read “Best used by last century”.
A few of the more daring women snapped themselves into vintage spandex. One old grandma’s saggy bod was bound by two ultra-wide rubber bands (skirt and tube-top). Her scrawny legs and arms were bare. She looked like a skinny Michelin Man. Granny knocked back a shot of something, chased it with beer.
I put down my two bucks and ordered a cola with lime. While I waited, I scanned the bar for the wits. Maybe if I was lucky, I’d find out more about Schrimpf’s hookers. The holes in the vic’s balls suggested a crime of passion. Wife, or mistress.
Unless Schrimpf had pissed off a carpenter with a nail gun.
But the stabbed scrotum was why I didn’t favor Viking Bo Strongwell for the murder. Why bayonet Schrimpf’s balls if you could just step on him and squish him?
I found the witnesses at the far end of the bar. Putting on my regulation cop face and manners, I strode over and flashed my badge/ID case at the smaller of the two guys. “Are you Dieter Donner?” I pronounced it Dye-ter, but I should’ve known better.
“That’s Dee-tehr, cutie.” Donner was a small, shaggy man with bright blue eyes and teeth too big for his face, like a horse’s mouth slapped on a collie. “What’s a cutie like you doin’ in a place like this?” His words were slurred.
“Original. And that’s Detective Cutie to you.” I turned. “You, sir?” Donner’s partner was a large distinguished-looking man, bald but for a skirt of hair hula-ing around his ears. Surrey with the fringe on top, ’cause if Donner was the horse, this guy was the stately old carriage.
The carriage stood and bowed, offering me his seat. “Franz Blitz at your service, Detective Cutie.”
Donner and Blitz. Thunder and Lightning. Honest to Pete, would I make this up?
Blitz continued, “May my compatriot and I buy you a drink?”
“Thanks, I already ordered something.” The bartender slid my cola down to me as I sat between them. “I just have a few questions.”
A cheer erupted from behind me. Donner hiccupped. “In a minute. Brunhilde Butt is dancing.”
I turned, only to be blinded by the sight of the grandma tottering on top of the bar, pulling down her tube top. She yanked it all the way to her navel before her nipples were exposed.
“Aw.” I winced. “That’s just wrong.”
“Take it off! Take it off!” Rhythmic pounding started on the bar.
Donner cheered. “She’s goin’ all the way!”
It was like a car wreck—I had to look. Grandma yanked up her skirt. I prayed for a layer or two before the ship hit the iceberg, but…ye gods! I had no idea they made orthopedic thigh-highs. And I really didn’t want to see if granny’s rug matched her sparse silver curtains.
The old woman did an experimental strut or two on the bar. A bump-and-grind was followed by a wince of pain. But the way her hips moved made me think she’d had it at one time, and in spades.
It wasn’t her imagination slowing her down, it was the arthritis.
Unfortunately the arthritis also tripped her up. Strutting along, Granny hit a puddle of beer, slipped. Her size six loafers flew up into the air, peanuts scattering like shot. She bounced off a fat drunk like he was an airbag and pitched onto the floor.
“I’m okay!” She sprang to her feet. The spry move was followed by another wince. I thought it was the arthritis until Granny picked a swizzle stick from between her thighs. Ew.
“Show’s over.” Donner held up a finger for another beer. “You got some qu
estions, cutie?”
“Detective Cutie,” Blitz corrected.
“Yes.” I wondered if I got hazard pay for this. “About the body you found last night.”
“Napoleon Schrimpf,” Donner said.
“Worth ten thousand a month,” Blitz said.
“Spent half of it on greedy women,” Donner started.
“And the other half on hookers,” Blitz finished.
“We’re his accountants,” Donner said modestly.
Sitting between them, my head bounced like a demented ping-pong ball. “You.” I pointed at Blitz. “Just you talk. What greedy women?”
“Wives. Schrimpf had to buy a bigger house just to store all their clothes and shoes.”
“I see. And the hookers?”
“Lana,” Blitz said.
“And Lena,” Donner added.
My head swung.
“And Loni and Lori,” Blitz said.
My head swung back
“And Luci.” Donner.
I was getting dizzy. “Enough—!”
“Don’t forget Drusilla,” Blitz said.
I blinked. “Drusilla?”
“Drusilla,” they said together. “Schrimpf’s favorite.”
I hit Main Street, looking for streetwalkers.
Technically, not all of Meiers Corners’ hookers walked the street. Some worked Nieman’s parking lot, and one or two even had a flop.
But Main was where most went, especially the younger ones. Blowing guys in cars, maybe hoping for a ride out of Dodge in lieu of cash since ten bucks a blow was definitely sub-standard wages. (There was actually some talk about unionizing. A couple gals even picketed for a few days. But they never could decide whether to go Teamster or AFL-CIO.)
On my second circuit my cop sense buzzed. I spun, hand on gun. Sure enough, a gang of five bore down on me. I tensed for a fight.
“Officer O’Rourke!” A mass of short skirts and skimpy halters tottered toward me on skyscraper sandals. Meiers Corners’ part-time hookers. “Yoo-hoo!” The lead prostitute waved at me. “Donner and Blitz said you wanted to talk to us so we came right away.”
