Dreams of Jeannie and Other Stories

by Catherine Dain

  Hotel security arrived first, then the hotel doctor, fol­lowed sometime later by Detective Matthews and the crime team from the Reno Police Department.

  I told the story and Billy confirmed it.

  Sada was taken into custody.

  The first security guard to arrive tossed a clean towel over Billy, but he spent a lot of time naked and cuffed while people walked in and out of the room. If it wasn't Sada's idea of punishment, it was certainly mine. I'd have to think later whether it was enough.

  Billy not only gave his own name and address to the po­lice, but Sada's as well. The silent partner no more.

  "How long are you planning to stay in Reno?" Matthews asked him. "We'll need your testimony to make the charge stick."

  "I'll stay as long as you need me," Billy said. "After all, I have family here."

  I winced.

  "Yeah, sure," Matthews nodded. He had raised his eye­brows when I introduced Billy as my cousin, but he was now beyond shock. "I won't blame you if you decide not to stay at the hotel after this. But make certain I have a good local address and phone number, okay?"

  That was to me as much as to Billy.

  I waited until Matthews had left and Billy was dressed before I brought up the question again.

  "Where are you going to stay?" I asked.

  "I'll have to think about it." He was still badly shaken. "The detective is right. I don't think I want to stay here."

  "Do me a favor and sleep on my couch tonight. I don't want to worry that Sada might make a phone call and get somebody to come after you." I was still pissed at Billy for getting me into this, and I wasn't happy with the idea of spending more time with him, but I didn't want to lie awake wondering whether he was going to disappear, whether he wanted to or not.

  "Oh, God," he groaned, "she's capable of it."

  "Okay. Tonight you sleep on my couch and we'll figure out the rest of it tomorrow. Maybe you could stay with Ramona for a while. Work on your tan."

  "Do you have to tell Aunt Ramona what happened?"

  "Billy, there was a murder in a hotel-casino. What hap­pened will be in a police report. TV news vans root out crime scenes the way pigs root truffles. I won't be surprised if Ramona knows before I can call her. She watches the eleven o'clock news."

  He thought for a moment.

  "She'll know about the murder. She might even find out that the railroad tank car situation wasn't quite on the up-and-up. But I was led astray, and I can explain. It's just—she doesn't have to know about Sada, and about me being naked and cuffed, and all that, does she?"

  Billy was looking at me with hope in his soft, hazel eyes.

  "Maybe, maybe not. I'll have to think about it."

  "I'll owe you," he said, starting to twitch. "Remember when I dragged you around the pool? I'll let you drag me around the pool. Any pool in town. What do you say?"

  I almost liked the idea. But the thing was, he liked it better. The hope in his soft, hazel eyes was that I would drag him around the pool.

  Whatever punishment he wanted, thought he deserved, I wouldn't help him out.

  I clapped a hand on his shoulder.

  "Hey, Billy, we're family. I forgave you for that a long time ago. And don't worry. Your secret is safe with me."

  The hope drained from his eyes, then came back.

  "I'll think of something else," he said.

  I was uncomfortably aware of the old joke about what the sadist responded when the masochist begged, "Hurt me." But I said it anyway.

  "No."

  Caught in the Act

  A Freddie O'Neal Mystery

  Lane Josten was a minor character in The Luck of the Draw, and I wanted to give him more screen time—or page time, in this case. Since the Freddie O'Neal series was cancelled before I had the chance, the best I could do was offer him a starring role in a short story.

  I could argue that the decline of America as a great power, a symbol of liberty and justice for all, occurred sometime in the years between 1953 and 1980—between High Noon and High Noon II. In the original, Gary Cooper is the lawman who puts duty before any petty personal considerations. Love has to wait until he shoots Hank Miller dead in order to save the town.

  In the so-called sequel, the marshal is greedy and venal, no better—maybe even worse—than the ex-con he is hounding, while Lee Majors, in the former Cooper role, is a righteous man who operates without a badge. The law can no longer be trusted. The good citizen is forced to step in, with nobody discussing the line between the good citizen and the vigilante.

  Distrust for law enforcement breeds disorder and decline in the community. And no matter how necessary the orig­inal vigilance councils of the West might have been, when we start to prefer them to due process, the barbarians have crashed the gates.

  Of course, I could also argue that the causes of disorder in the community are more complex than the plotlines of a couple of old movies, and since I've never made it past the first half hour of High Noon II, the ending might undercut my original point.

  For the record, I don't believe that my PI license gives me the right to take the law into my own hands. I consider myself an adjunct peace officer, bound by the same laws, if not always by quite the same rules, regulations, and proce­dures. And I've never personally had a bad experience with the police.

  Nevertheless, I know people who have. So I was willing to listen when Lane Josten, anchor of the "Channel 12 News at Eleven," brought me a problem that he really should have taken to someone with a badge instead. Black­mail is, after all, a crime.

  Lane and I had a friend in common, journalist Sandra Herrick, who had once been Lane's co-anchor. And I had met him a couple of times when another woman who used to be his co-anchor had been involved with a murder sus­pect. I had even borrowed his shirt. I hadn't gotten to know him for two reasons. There was a lot else going on in my life at the time, and I'm uncomfortable around men who are not only prettier than I am, they're prettier than any woman all the way up to Cindy Crawford.

  His black hair had a glistening wave that didn't quite fall onto his forehead. His face seemed blessed with a perma­nent ski-bum tan, wide dark eyes that crinkled with smile lines, and a generous mouth that usually gleamed with teeth so aesthetically perfect that the dentist should have signed them. Or maybe had, for all I know. I didn't get that close.

  This day, the gleaming teeth were hidden by lips drawn tight in a face so rigid that the tan had cracked into Seurat-sized dots. As he sat across the desk from me, in one of the black-and-white cowhide chairs placed there for clients, he wasn't smiling. The tension and lack of animation added several years to the appearance of perpetual youth he pre­sented on camera. I suspected his birth certificate would confirm that this older Lane Josten was the real one. Even so, he had the most perfect face I had ever seen in the flesh.

  "Someone has some pictures of me." His eyes were fo­cused beyond my shoulder at the fish swimming on my computer screen. "The person who has them wants money for them. I want you to make the exchange."

  "Why me?"

  "I don't want to see him."

  That wasn't enough. I waited.

  "Because I trust you. You're Sandra's friend." He glanced over at me to see if that meant anything. I nodded and waited some more. "I don't think you'd hurt me."

  "What kind of pictures and why are you paying for them?" Whether I was going to hurt him depended on what was going on.

  "Pictures of the two of us. Together. And I'm paying for them because he threatened to send copies to Horton Robb if I don't." He glanced at me again, hoping he wouldn't have to get any more explicit, then back to the fish.

  Horton Robb was the station owner and general man­ager. He wasn't known for tolerance. A local joke went that Horton wouldn't have a stereo in his home because it had a left speaker.

  "Sandra hasn't talked about you," I said. "In case you were wondering, she didn't betray your confidence."

  "I didn't think she would—or at least not witho
ut some good reason." Lane ran his hand through his wave, the only clue that he wasn't just fascinated by the fish.

  "Okay. This is extortion. My professional advice is to go to the police, set up a sting, and press charges."

  Lane looked down at his hands, away from the cartoon aquarium, and shook his head.

  "Okay," I said again. "You don't want to go to the po­lice. What would happen if you simply called the black­mailer's bluff? How bad could it be?"

  "The end of my career. Even if Reno could accept a gay news anchor—and I haven't seen any encouraging signs of that—Horton couldn't. He'd demote me to field reporter immediately, even though it's in violation of my contract, and dare me to sue."

  "You could sue and win."

  "Maybe. And the suit would take years to drag through the courts, and he'd appeal, which would take more years. I wouldn't have a job. And the only person more undesirable than a gay news anchor is a gay news anchor in the middle of a breach of contract lawsuit."

  I thought again of Sandra Herrick, who had moved from television to newspapers rather than sue Horton Robb over breaching her contract when she became pregnant. Lane was probably right. Still, I couldn't help wishing somebody would sue Horton.

  "You know this, but I'll say it anyway. You'll have no guarantee that you'll receive the only copies of the photos. Even if this person gives me the negatives, he could have contact negatives stashed somewhere. Once you pay a blackmailer, you're setting yourself up for a lifetime of dread. Every time you check the mail, every time you an­swer the phone, you could get hit again."

  "That's why I want you to go. I want you to make it clear—this is the only time. If he tries again, I'll tell him to go to hell. I'll leave Reno and start over somewhere else be­fore I'll pay another dime."

  I had to puzzle over that a minute. "You think he may not believe you—but he'll believe me?"

  Lane swiveled around to face me, and his mouth flick­ered with a ghost of its usual smile. "You're tougher than I am."

  I couldn't argue with that. "Set up a meeting. I'll only charge you for the couple of hours it takes to do the job. And I won't threaten him—I'll simply report what you've told me."

  He nodded. "That'll do."

  It took him a minute to gather the strength to pick up the dark blue jacket draped over his knees and get out of the chair. The late October day was too warm for a jacket, but Lane evidently hadn't watched his own station's weather re­port the night before. Indian summer, the guy had said.

  "How many people know?" I asked.

  Lane paused at the door.

  "That's hard to say. My friends know—Sandra knows, of course—and I have an occasional drink at Tom Thumb's. Not often."

  Tom Thumb's was a bar on South Virginia, a couple of miles past the city limit.

  "You thought you could do that and stay in the closet?" I asked.

  "I hoped," he answered. He hadn't looked back at me. "I hoped we were all friends."

  "I guess this guy isn't the friend you thought he was."

  "At least not the friend he used to be."

  Lane flashed a half smile over his shoulder and slipped out the door.

  I hit a key on my computer to bring back Tetris.

  Lane called again two days later to tell me he had set up a meeting. He stopped by my office that afternoon to give me a fat envelope. An address was written on it.

  "His name is Jimmy Dahl. He's expecting you at four o'clock."

  "How will I know I have all the photos?"

  "You won't. I have to trust Jimmy on that." His skin and smile were almost back to normal, but a soft red glow trav­eled from his neck to his cheekbones. "I'd just as soon you didn't look at them."

  "I'll ask him to seal them."

  "Thanks." He hesitated, as if there might be something more, then closed it off with a smile.

  "I'll call you when I get back," I said.

  "Right."

  When Lane had gone, I placed the envelope in a zippered leather folder that could hold the photos coming back and checked the address on a map. It was in a rundown area just off Glendale Avenue, between 395 and the Truckee River, ten minutes away at most.

  I gave myself twenty.

  I parked the Jeep in front of a crumbling stucco six-plex wedged sideways between two clapboard houses of uncer­tain vintage. Some kind of deciduous tree held out bare limbs as if it didn't know how to react to the sun. I had grabbed a denim jacket as I left the house, out of October habit, but I left it on the seat.

  Jimmy Dahl's apartment was number three.

  As I started down the walk, a man wearing a tan cowboy hat brushed past. His head was lowered against an imagi­nary breeze, and I didn't see his face.

  When I knocked on the door marked three, and it swung open at my touch, I had a sinking feeling that I should have been more observant.

  The apartment was only a combination living room and sleeping area, with a counter-topped half wall marking where the tiny kitchen area began. The unmade sofa-bed took up most of the room.

  And a naked male body on blood-soaked sheets took up most of the bed.

  I should have picked up the phone and called the police. I know that. Even if I wanted to protect my client—which I did—I would have had time to look, carefully, for the in­criminating photos while I waited for an official response. We could have worked something out.

  But adrenaline kicked in, and I raced back to the street to see if I could catch a glimpse of the man in the tan hat.

  He was waiting for me, leaning against the leafless tree. Beneath the cowboy hat he was wearing a blue work shirt and boot-cut Wranglers. His face was round, bland, and full of good cheer.

  "Pete Lowry," he said, holding out his right hand. A tan cowhide briefcase was in the left. "You're Freddie O'Neal, right?"

  "How do you know who I am?"

  When he realized I wasn't going to shake, he retrieved his hand and lightly touched his hat brim in what might have been a salute.

  "Saw you on television—that nasty bidness at the univer­sity."

  He actually said "bidness." I don't think even real cow­boys say "bidness" when they mean business. And Lowry wasn't a cowboy, he was a private investigator. Even though I hadn't met him, I'd heard the name. He'd retired under unspecified pressure after not quite twenty years on the Las Vegas police force and moved to Reno. A Las Vegas PI had e-mailed me to be careful if I ran into him.

  "What are you doing here?"

  Lowry pointed to the leather folder under my arm. "I suspect we're here for similar reasons. The unfortunate young man in number three had some photographs that a client of mine was willing to pay good money for."

  "So what have you got in your briefcase?" I realized when I said it that I was pushing, but I didn't think he'd pull out a gun and shoot me on the sidewalk. Not that the man on the bed had been shot. Even though I hadn't looked closely, I was sure there was too much blood for that. And none of it was on Lowry.

  "Well, little lady, I'm afraid I can't let you see that." I must have frowned, because he added, "Figure of speech, no offense. I took the time to find the pictures I came for, and I don't think my client would approve if I showed them to you."

  "If you have the pictures—and you didn't kill Dahl—why did you wait for me?"

  "If you'd called the police, what's the first thing you would have said?"

  "I saw a man leaving the scene."

  He nodded, smiling again. "There you go. Thought I'd save you the trouble of looking through mug shots."

  "And save yourself the trouble of defending why you left a crime scene without reporting it. Which is what we have to do right now."

  "After you."

  I turned back toward the building, but stopped short as a beefy man wearing tight slacks and a loose jacket walked up. This one I knew. His face was red, and he had to be sweating into his shoulder holster.

  "Hello, Crane," I said. "You know Lowry?"

  "O'Neal." He nodded at me, then
glanced at Lowry and added, "I haven't had the pleasure."

  Crane didn't look like it was a pleasure. Neither did Lowry, who gripped his briefcase a little tighter even as he smiled.

  "Pete Lowry, Barry Crane," I said. "Lowry and I both have clients facing an extortion threat from one Jimmy Dahl. You too?"

  "So it seems," Crane said, "so it seems."

  For a moment I couldn't figure why they were both doing the puffed chest routine instead of shaking hands like col­leagues. Even if Crane had heard of Lowry and didn't like the information, it would have been like him to offer a damp palm. Then I remembered that my client and the dead man were both gay. I'd make book that their clients were as well. Neither of these guys would refuse anybody's money, but they each evidently felt some tension over this one.

  "There's a dead body in number three," I said.

  "What?" Crane jerked around, the loser in the staredown.

  "I'm going back to call the police."

  Maybe they didn't want to touch each other, but they were both willing to touch me. A moist, heavy hand fell on my right shoulder, a dry one on my left.

  "Let's not be too hasty," Lowry said. "After all, we have our clients to consider."

  "And if that dead body is Jimmy Dahl, our clients are suspects," Crane added. "All three of our clients. Which means giving information about them to the police."

  "Information they paid us—and were willing to concede to extortion demands from Jimmy Dahl—to keep secret," Lowry finished.

  "Yeah, but then it wasn't murder," I said, brushing both hands away.

  "Think for a moment, lit—O'Neal," Lowry said, tipping his hand to his hat again. "Our clients will be ruined. And at least two of them unnecessarily. Maybe all three are in­nocent. Who knows how many poor wretches were victim­ized by that Jimmy Dahl?"

  "I want to see the corpse," Crane said. "After that, we talk. I don't think we want to rush our clients into the hands of the police."

  I wasn't happy about this. Nevertheless, I led the way back to number three.

  Jimmy Dahl's body was still on the bed, slowly cooling to ivory. A jagged wound on his chest looked as if someone had stuck a knife right below the breastbone and twisted. From the condition of the sheets and walls, the blood had spurted and pumped before he died. His face had the glazed, gaping expression of a small rabbit caught on the highway. He had seen the weapon and known it was the end.