“Oh my…, and so you can see everything? Tell me about her apartment. Is it clean? Does she have furniture, clean sheets and blankets?”
“Yes, ma’am, her apartment has no rooms, except for the bathroom, so her kitchen, living room and bedroom are all in the same room.”
“Oh my.” She said again.
Finally Mr. Livingston asked for the rest of my report, and that’s when I told him about Chris feeding the beggar and of her being fired. When I asked him, he said he had heard of the Blackstone’s, but not of their daughter, Melinda. He was angry. I assured him that Chris got in the last word, much to the displeasure of Ms. Blackstone. And then I assuaged his anger by telling him of how, after she was fired, Chris had walked by a liquor store, looked at it momentarily, and then kept walking. I believed that was the tipping point for her.
“Tomorrow is her birthday. Could you… I have presents for her.”
My heart melted in spite of its self when Mrs. Livingston showed me the stacks of presents she had personally picked out for her daughter’s birthday. She followed my eyes as I looked at Mr. Livingston for the answer.
“Please, Carl, it’s her birthday and she’s doing so well. What can one present hurt?”
I heard myself taking up Mrs. Livingston’s cause, “I can sneak it over to her door and‒”
He interrupted me, “And who shall we say it’s from, hmm? Listen, I want to do this as much as you two do, but isn’t it more cruel to get her hopes up like that? She only has three more months to go, and then we’ll celebrate everything we’ve missed when she comes home.”
His reasoning was sound, although I don’t think Mrs. Livingston thought as much. I couldn’t help but wonder what Chris would do when she returned home to all those presents, all that wealth, and all that liquor.
***
Something Interesting Evolving — George Kirk
Melinda called me just now and asked for my help in locating the girl who had told her off at the restaurant. She said it was just to set things right, but Melinda has never, in her entire life, sought to right a wrong she had caused. Could there be something evolving that even Melinda is not aware of? Could it be that she was truly sorry for getting that young woman fired?
I try not to be a pessimist, but knowing Melinda like I do, it is more than likely she just didn’t like losing an argument to a waitress. But how will finding her now help? It’s not like Melinda will have an audience to see her prove a point. The woman is unemployed now.
However, and this is what gives me cause for hope, Melinda tried to get the woman’s job reinstated. I listened to her, gaping in shock, as she told me over the phone how she had gone back to the restaurant and talked privately with the owner. He finally admitted to Melinda that he had paid Chris in cash and food, and did not have her address, nor did he have her telephone number. He had asked for that in case he needed her to cover a shift and she had told him she didn’t have a phone. Though I didn’t say anything, I found that hard to believe in this day and age.
So now it’s up to me to locate a waif of a girl who could be anywhere in the big city of Memphis. This is so far removed from my prevue, that I suggested she hire a private investigator to locate the girl. Melinda blew me off, telling me to do whatever I thought best and to send her the bill, just leave her name out of it.
So first I did an Angie’s List search and learned that there are sixty-nine private investigators in Memphis. Most of them were large firms so I narrowed the list down to eight private individuals. Then I chose the highest rated person, based on customer satisfaction. There were three rated the same, so decided to pick the prettiest one.
I copied the address and phone number down, now I just need to book a flight to Memphis, reserve a hotel room and pack my bags.
I seldom get out of Los Angeles, and even rarer is a trip outside of California for an extended period of time, except to accept an award or secure a customer. On those occasions, it usually only took a day or two, and even then, it was always New York or Chicago. Never have I been in the south before, or to such a small city like Memphis. I wonder if it’s true that all southerners eat pork rinds and guzzle beer, like my cousin Jake does. Pork rinds? That would certainly add some synthetic flavor to my book.
***
Attitudes ‒ Melinda aka Blackie Blackstone
“Happy birthday, Blackie!”
“What’s happy about it?” I asked her, though we could barely hear each other over the band playing up on stage. I was back in Las Vegas, my sanctuary, and the hotel my father owned was having a birthday party just for me. Boring… every year it’s the same thing.
“It’s all in how you look at it. You’re stinking rich, stinking beautiful and stinking drunk. You can’t top that…, can you?”
“What’s your name?” It was unusual for me to even care but I thought just this once, I’d like to know the name of the girl I was about to take to my bed.
“I told you, it’s Penny, as in a penny for your thoughts.”
“You’re not very clever‒”
“What?” She yelled over the music.
“That’s was really clever.” I shouted back.
Finally the dreadful music ended and we walked back to our secluded booth where the waiter met us instantly with fresh drinks.
“Raise your glasses for a birthday toast to Blackie Blackstone.” The maître d' cheered into the microphone, and everyone raised their glasses. Never one to pass up a chance to drink, I nodded at them and gulped my champagne in one swallow. I don’t know a single person here.
“Blackie, aren’t you happy?”
“Huh? Where did that come from?” I asked Penny. Where did I pick her up from?
“It just seems like you aren’t satisfied with anything. You’re here, but not in the moment. I’ve told you my name three times already, and you still don’t know it. Those are classic signs of disassociation.”
Now I remember, I picked her up at the university that has my father’s name stenciled across the top of the buildings. I was there dedicating a new wing to the psychiatry department. When, when, when will I learn never to pick up psych majors!
“Penny.., there, you see, I remembered it. Listen, I’ll give you a thousand dollars if you promise not to analyze me any more tonight, all right?”
“You’re serious?”
“Of course I’m serious.” I pulled out a wad of cash and slapped it on the table in front of her, “Promise?”
“Shit yeah!”
Thought as much. Problem solved, we drank some more, danced some more, and then made love until we passed out. But come the morning, I woke to find her sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at me.
“Blackie, I had a really good time with you last night, and although I’d like to see you again, I have a feeling I will never get that call.”
I started to assure her she was wrong, even though we both knew she was right, but she wouldn’t let me speak.
“I want to leave you with two things. First, find someone to love you, Blackie, to love your heart, not your money. There has to be someone out there who can see past your billions. Unfortunately, it’s not me.”
“And second?”
She stood up and slipped on her clothes, pushed her feet into her shoes and stuffed my money into her purse, “And second, I’m keeping the cash. Thanks!”
She skipped out the door leaving me naked and alone, figuratively and literally. I closed my eyes, trying to feel her touch, smell her skin, feel her sex, and none of it had lingered behind. The emptiness became overwhelming, and for the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure what to do.
***
Attitudes ‒ Christine Livingston
Today is my birthday! I’m going to stay in bed a little longer this morning because today is supposed to be special. My mom always made my birthdays something special, even when I thought I was too old for such things. I was so stupid back then. Oh what I wouldn’t give to be at one of my mom’s special birthda
y parties right now. The parties were actually fundraisers in the guise of my birthday, where my mom always made me the center of attention, and gave me anything I wanted, even as she plied the adults with drinks and accepted their money. I never knew what charity she was fundraising for, and it never really matter as long as I got the presents I wanted. Now all I want for my birthday is her.
I’m trying really hard to have the right attitude. It would be so easy to fall into that depression that keeps knocking at my door, but I know that if I gave into it, I would lose everything. Granted, that’s not very much, but it’s everything to me. It’s the difference between waking up in a warm bed with my kitten on my face, or waking up in a dark alley with an empty bottle of liquor in my hand.
I can’t help feeling the same today, at twenty-six, that I did yesterday at twenty-five. I guess birthdays are only special when there’s someone here to make them that way. And this year, it’s up to me to make my birthday special, and it is because I’m alive, and sober.
Blackie, my kitten, crawled up on my stomach and wobbled up to my face where she put her cold wet nose against my chin. I don’t know if she was wishing me a happy birthday or telling me I needed to get out of bed and feed her, but never-the-less, it still made me smile. I picked the kitten up and kiss the top of her furry little head and together we ate breakfast in bed.
“Tuna for everyone and it’s on me, because today is my birthday!” Of course it was just me and the kitten, but I was still feeling generous on my birthday.
Chapter Three
Private Investigator for Hire — George Kirk
The sign on the door in the freshly painted high-rise building read, Francesca Bonner, Private Investigator. Opening the door set off a tinkling bell that alerted the older woman sitting behind a small desk, dressed in an immaculate business suit, to my presence. I walked in and gave her my name and she politely asked me have a seat. Then she picked up the phone and a second later an inner door opened and a beautiful woman emerged through it.
“Mr. Kirk, right on time, please, won’t you come in.”
I followed the beautiful woman into her office, and it too could have passed for an art gallery. The woman reminded me of Lauren Bacall the way she moved, the way she dressed, the way she looked up at me with her head tilted down. She was wearing a silk draped crossover pink blouse underneath a sheer back wool ivory blazer that gave her a fluid motion as she moved. Her long, thick brunette hair draped over her shoulders, added to her style and grace.
“My name is Francesca Bonner but most people call me Frankie. May I get you some tea, or perhaps something stronger?” She held out her perfectly polished hand, so soft and slim, and I embraced it.
“No, thank you, I drank on the plane.” I said it in jest, and she received it with a chuckle.
“Was it a rough flight for you?” She asked as a matter of conversation. She waved to a Victorian mahogany armchair with faux leopard skin upholstery, and as I sat down, she sat down beside me in a matching armchair. I’m glad Blackie is paying for this, because I don’t think I could afford the woman.
“No, but I don’t like to fly, so I temper my anxieties with liquor. It seems to work well for me.”
“And when did your flight get in, Mr. Kirk?”
Ah, she knows her stuff. “Not to worry Ms. Bonner, I got in last night, took a cab straight to the Peabody and slept in this morning. I am perfectly sober and ready to do business.”
“Forgive me for prying; it’s the nature of the business. So, you said on the phone that you need someone found, is that right?”
Her accent was positively delicious. Her voice was smooth as silk, and the slight southern drawl was soft, and sweet, like cotton candy, but distinct in its southern charm. Unfortunately, she had a wedding ring on her finger, so… wait, what am I saying, I’m gay!
“Yes. I am here on behalf of a client, who requires your services and your discretion. She’s looking for a girl that she accidently got fired from a restaurant last week. She’d like to make amends for her grievous mistake.”
“Of course.” She retrieved a pen and pad from her desk and asked, “Would you mind if I made some notes?”
“That would be fine, if you intend to take the job?” I didn’t see a reason to takes notes unless she was going to, but I wanted to clarify that up front, because I didn’t know what I was doing.
“I will be happy to wait on the notes, if you would prefer to tell me first, who it is I’m looking for, and who is requesting my services?”
“Fair enough. My client’s name is Melinda Blackstone, better known as Blackie Blackstone. Do you know her?”
“Only through the media. I believe she’s the heir to the Blackstone fortune in California.”
“That would be correct, and she wants you to find Christine Livingston, a waitress about twenty-five, long sandy hair, medium height and green eyes.”
I looked over at her and saw the most curious look on her face, as if I had surprised her somehow.
“Is there a problem Ms. Bonner?”
“No, not at all. However, if you have a minute, I would like to check on something, and be right back with you.”
“That’s fine, I’m not in a hurry.”
I watched her disappear through a side door, and a moment later, her receptionist came in from the reception area, asking if she could get me anything. I told her no, and she politely left. I entertained myself by looking closer at the paintings, until Ms. Bonner returned with a slight smile on her face. Another woman, slightly taller, darker and stronger, disheveled looking, like she hadn’t slept in months, followed behind her. My gaydar was ringing so loud I almost told it to be quiet.
“Mr. Kirk, this is my wife, Meg Bumgartner. She is also a private investigator.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Bumgartner.” She extended her hand and I shook it, noticing that unlike her wife’s hand, her hand was hard, with a firm grip and she squeezed my hand tightly. Then I turned back to Ms. Bonner. “I’m slightly confused. I thought you were an independent detective?”
“I am. We both are. You see, we were recently married and have not had a chance to consolidate our business. But sometimes we will consult with each other, at no extra charge to the client of course. I believe that Meg may have some insight into your missing girl, if you wouldn’t mind answering a few more questions?
What’s another question or two, if I get twice the help at half the price. “I’d be happy to answer any questions you might have.”
Ms. Bumgartner wasted no time in asking, “Mr. Kirk, you say your client, Blackie Blackstone, is looking for a waitress named Christine Livingston, is that correct?”
I nodded my head, trying to hide the curiosity I was developing over her interest in an unemployed waitress. Am I missing something here?
“And you say that Ms. Livingston is about twenty-five, long sandy hair, and medium height, with green eyes, correct?’
“Yes, do you know her?” I would be very happy indeed if that were true and I could return to LA tonight. Not to mention how pleased Melinda would be.
“I apologize, but I need to make a phone call. Please be patient with us for one more minute.” Ms. Bumgartner left the room, leaving me gaping after her.
“What is that all about?” I asked.
Ms. Bonner enticed me with her cryptic explanation, “It is complicated, but I promise you, it may well be worth your patience.”
“In that case, I think I’ll take that drink now, if you’re still offering?”
“I’d be happy to offer you a libation. What would you like?”
“Scotch on the rocks, please.”
The surreptitious way that the two women were acting made me wonder if they were going to hit me up for more money, but I soon lost my train of thought when Ms. Bonner handed me my drink and sat down beside me again. She was very polite and very interested when I answered her question about my friendship with Blackie. I explained that I was her parent’s biograph
er, and someday would be Blackie’s as well. And by doing this favor for her, I could also do some research for my next book. I hadn’t realized that we had been talking for twenty minutes until the clock struck two and Ms. Bumgartner entered the room again.
“Mr. Kirk, I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. I needed to check something out before I spoke with you further.”
“That seems to happen a lot in this office.” There was something going on I was beginning to get irritated. Still, I smiled at them and waited for the explanation.
The two women looked at each other and suddenly a legal document was handed to me.
“Mr. Kirk,” Ms. Bumgartner handed me an ink pen, “I know who Christine Livingston is, and where she lives, but I cannot divulge that information until you sign a release form stating that you have hired my wife, and in doing so, promise not to reveal what I am about to tell you.”
“But I must tell Blackie, that’s why I’m here.”
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t clear. I meant that by signing the document you agree that you will not write or publish anything on Ms. Livingston without her signed consent, or should she become incapacitated, her parent’s consent.”
“Damn, who is she, the President’s daughter?” I asked jokingly, but their staid stares revealed nothing.
I read the contract completely, and saw that it was the standard confidentiality form that I’ve signed before for the Blackstone’s, and others. I signed it and handed it back to them, waiting almost with bated breath to find out who this unemployed waitress really was.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Kirk. You may tell Ms. Blackstone that Ms. Livingston can be found at this address.
She handed me a slip of paper with the name and address of a restaurant, “What’s this? I thought you were going to give me her home address?”
“I’m sorry, but that would be too much of an invasion of her privacy. Ms. Blackstone will be able to find her there, but considering what happened at their last meeting, don’t expect Ms. Livingston to speak with her.”
From Riches to Rags Page 3
