Shame ON You

by John W. Mefford

  And then he cleaned up and went home to his wife. Life goes on.

  7

  I was witnessing a contest for who could be the most anxious. Right now, I think my friend Brook was winning this stress test hands down. The Austin police detective flipped her well-coiffed hair over her shoulder and banged her elbow onto her desk. She mumbled a few expletives under her breath. Something about the APD computer system?

  I looked at Ivy next to me, who huffed out an impatient breath.

  “Can I get anyone a drink or snack from the vending machine?” I asked, hoping to break the edgy silence with a mundane question.

  Ivy’s head slowly turned in my direction. Brook mumbled some more.

  Suave move, Ozzie.

  Another minute passed. “So, have we thought about asking someone else if they know how to navigate this computer system?”

  Brook twirled around in her seat. “Are you saying I don’t know what I’m doing?”

  “I, uh…” My eyes darted around, looking for safe refuge. I held up my hands in a mock defensive posture.

  Brook flicked her hand off my arm. “I’m just messing with you, Oz. You’re right, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve been here how long…two months? And I still don’t have a grasp on how to search for old case files. Well, I get it right some of the time. What is it with these old software packages? They must have been developed by blind people.”

  Brook, as usual, was dressed to impress. She was wearing denim leggings, boots that matched her brown flannel shirt—a look that was professional, yet casual. She could be modeling the outfit for a Nordstrom catalog, if she was inclined to turn her frown into a smile.

  “Hey. Be kind to those of us who live with impairment.”

  She picked up the keyboard and let it drop a couple of inches. That drew a few looks from her colleagues. Brook, obviously, was ready to chuck the whole thing out the window, while I wanted to simply ask one of her detective buddies to help us locate information on someone with a nickname of Psycho C.

  A couple of minutes passed. Ivy went from leaning over Brook’s chair to standing up, her arms folded across her chest. She looked a little more put together today than last night. Jeans that fit her nicely, a teal sweater that allowed you to believe she was actually a woman—although it almost seemed to clash with her pale skin—and a pair of running shoes that looked only slightly worn. If she was wearing any makeup at all, it was minimal. Her hair was tucked behind her head, with about ten percent still refusing to be corralled. It had been the inverse last night, when more like ninety percent of her hair was going in every direction.

  “You said something about having a bartender friend who might be able to help us out?” Ivy asked me.

  “Poppy.”

  “She makes a damn good dry martini,” Brook said, her fingers still clacking on the keyboard. Brook was persistent—I had to give her that much.

  “Yeah, she’s got a bit of a past…”

  “Who doesn’t?” Ivy said.

  Mine was more like the present, or at least the very recent past, but her point was duly noted.

  “I guess I’m saying, she might have red dreads and a hundred tats and more piercings than fifty women, but she’s not into that drug scene anymore. She’s been clean for two years or more. Now, she could know someone, who might know someone…that’s all I was saying.”

  Ivy dropped her arms to her side. She looked like she’d just lost her favorite dog. “So, your two options were really just one.”

  She was good at putting people in a corner.

  Just then, Brook’s boss walked down the aisle near us. He was reading something inside a manila folder. He had the rank of captain and appeared to enjoy his position of power. His name was Rick Porter. But if you asked Brook away from the precinct, she’d say, “We call him Rick with a P.” In other words, she thought he was a prick. From what I’d witnessed, I couldn’t disagree.

  Everyone seemed to have a beef with their bosses. Ivy and I were fortunate to own small businesses. So, there was no chain of command or a manager who was in your face day in and day out, but it didn’t mean we had a free pass. Every client who walked into my office was my boss.

  “Doing another favor for your boyfriend, Pressler?”

  Porter had just pulled up next to me. I picked up a waft of fish. My mind couldn’t make sense of the fish scent in the morning. I wanted to scoot away, but I held my ground and tried to act nonchalant, or like I wasn’t really there.

  “Captain,” Brook said in monotone, her eyes glaring at her screen, “he’s not my boyfriend.”

  He chuckled as he looked at me. I wasn’t into that good-old-boy thing, where guys pretended girls were a piece of meat. Most guys were smart enough not to do it in front of women. Apparently, Porter wasn’t in the “smart” category. I might have said something, but I knew he had the power in this setting. So, I pretended I didn’t hear him and continued staring at the computer screen.

  “Hey,” Ivy said to Porter, “do you know anything about a drug dealer who goes by the name Psycho C?”

  Porter put his manila folder to his face. Was he thinking, or thinking about how he was going to go off on Ivy or all of us?

  “Ivy,” Brook said, “there’s no need to bother the captain. I’m just about—”

  “Cobb,” Porter smacked the folder against his opposite hand. “That’s his name. Psycho Cobb.”

  I turned my head.

  “I know what you might be thinking, Novak. Ty Cobb, one of the greatest players to ever step on a baseball diamond. That’s the only reason this dirtbag’s name stuck with me. Ty Cobb had a lifetime batting average of .367. He won twelve…count ’em, twelve batting titles. He once stole ninety-six bases in a single season, a record that stood almost forty years.” He started jabbing the closed manila folder at me. “Ty Cobb was a fucking legend. This Psycho Cobb…he’s pond scum. Yeah, that’s the only reason I remember the guy’s name. The great Ty Cobb.”

  He finally stopped with his monologue. Three sets of eyes were on him.

  “You asked, so there you go.”

  “Do you remember his actual first name?” Brook said.

  His shoulders shot upward. “What do I look like, a fucking database? Just do a search on ‘Cobb.’ Then you’ll find a reference in one of those files to ‘Psycho.’”

  He began to walk off.

  “Sheesh,” Ivy said under her breath. “I thought I was intense.”

  Porter got halfway across the open space and then flipped around. “Kids these days have no respect for the great game. Baseball is played the right way, at any level. You want to see a real game, go watch the Round Rock Express.” His eyes darted between Brook and Ivy. “You probably don’t have a clue what I’m talking about. The Express is a Triple A team up in Round Rock. They’re the affiliate for the Houston Astros.” He paused, put his hands at his waist. We were silent, wondering if this baseball rant would ever end. “You want to know why they call them ‘the Express’?”

  I was certain Brook and Ivy could care less. Being an Austinite, I knew the answer, but I couldn’t keep Porter from having his big moment.

  “Nolan Ryan,” he said. Another dramatic pause. It seemed like he was expecting us to pump our fists with excitement. He smirked, shook his head. “The Ryan Express? Ah…you guys are worthless.” He flapped the folder in our direction and finally walked off for good.

  “Is that guy really your boss?” Ivy asked Brook.

  “Yep.” Brook’s fingers typed in double-speed until, finally, she said, “I think I have him.”

  “Is he in jail?” Ivy asked.

  “Is he even alive?” I asked.

  Brook shook her head. “George Herman Cobb, also known as Psycho Cobb, is thirty-nine years old. Been in prison twice, both for dealing. According to this latest update, he has no known address, but there are three locations listed here where he’s been seen.”

  Brook looked up at us.

  “Can you print
off his mug shot?” Ivy asked.

  “I can do better than that. With a quick right-click, and then…” Her voice trailed off. “I texted you the picture. You should see it within seconds.”

  “Cool. Thanks.”

  “What about the locations?” Ivy asked.

  “One is an alley off 14th Street, one is an old apartment building near Davis and Chicon, and the other…”

  There was the Brook smile.

  “What’s so funny?” Ivy asked.

  “Let’s just say it’s some place off Lake Travis.”

  “Okay…is there a joke I’m not getting?” Brook lifted from her chair and grabbed her purse. “Are we going to split up, one for each of us? Or do we all get to experience Hippie Hollow together?”

  “Makes sense that a drug dealer would be at a hippie location,” Ivy said.

  Brook put a hand on Ivy’s shoulder. Ivy looked at it. It seemed to make her a little uncomfortable. She didn’t seem like the touchy-feely type.

  “It’s a nude beach, dear. I say we go there first. And I’m driving,” Brook said, leading the way around her desk.

  “Hold up, Pressler.”

  Porter scooted across the concrete floor in black loafers that had to be older than Mackenzie. He was putting on his jacket. “Got a possible armed robbery at the Whole Foods off North Lamar. You’re coming with me.”

  Brook looked like she was about to hurl. Just wait until she was in the same car as Fish Breath.

  “Have fun,” I said, waving as she walked off. “We’ll let you know what we find out.”

  I motioned to Ivy and then headed for the exit. “Ever been to a nude beach?”

  8

  I chose the nude beach first, because I thought we could quickly cross that one off the list. Why? It was winter. While the sun was peeking between swift-moving puffy clouds, it was still in the high fifties. Not exactly tanning weather.

  I hadn’t underestimated those who longed to live “free.” Not many people were on the beach alongside Lake Travis.

  We got out of my car, a Cadillac that had bullet holes and scratches down the side, and spotted two guys, fully clothed, sitting on their car. They appeared to be taking pictures with their phones.

  “Perverts.” A couple who was holding hands walked in front of our cars. They had on shoes and nothing else. They looked to be in their sixties, in decent shape for their age.

  “So, this is why Brook wanted to come with us?” Ivy ran a hand across her face. “I’m all about freedom for everyone, but—” She stopped short, apparently unsure how to finish that thought.

  We quickly made our way to the nude couple, introduced ourselves as private investigators, and said we were interested in the whereabouts of a George Herman Cobb. It was difficult not to look down—just because you weren’t supposed to look down.

  “Why are you wearing clothes?” The lady held up a finger that appeared to be arthritic, giving me a once-over.

  “I, uh…” I raked my fingers through my thick head of hair, turning to Ivy.

  “We’re both getting over colds. Kicked our asses. But we’re here for just a few minutes, hoping to find this Cobb person.”

  “Why are you so interested in finding him?” The man wasn’t obese, but he had more than one chin.

  We were transparent and shared how we were looking for a girl who’d been missing for two months.

  “Why would she have anything to do with this George Herman Cobb?” he asked.

  “He’s been to prison twice for dealing drugs,” I said, momentarily distracted by a man and a woman jogging behind Chins and his significant other. “We have reason to believe that she might know him.”

  The lady glanced at Chins, and then she shook her head. “We have to wear shoes out here because of the used needles. It’s really disgusting. Of course, it’s worse in the summer.”

  Chins said, “To cut to the chase, we don’t know anyone by that name.”

  I found Cobb’s picture on the phone and showed it to them. Still nothing.

  Just then, the couple I’d seen a moment earlier jogged up to us.

  If Chins and his wife—I assumed they were married to each other; they were both wearing rings—were your average-looking sixty-year-olds with a fair amount of sagging, this couple belonged on the cover of Health & Fitness magazine. Quick introductions all around, although with the wind and their mumbling, I missed their names.

  “What’s up with the clothes?” Mr. Fitness asked. He looked at me, but his green eyes fell on Ivy, and they didn’t let go. He reached out and shook her hand, and then he kissed it. Mrs. Fitness was chatting with Mrs. Chins and didn’t seem to care. I wondered if they were into “open” relationships.

  Ivy scratched the back of her head as her eyes moved downward. Her face turned pink a second later.

  To reduce the blood-filled tension, so to speak, I shared the photo of Cobb and asked if they’d seen him.

  He shook his head. I noticed his forehead protruded out a bit. “We haven’t missed a day in three years, right, hun?”

  Mrs. Fitness raised a finger to her chin. Her boobs twitched at the same time. That told me something. “Well, we did miss a couple of weeks around the time I gave birth. I hope you remember that event.”

  She scoffed, then he laughed, smacked a hand off his thigh. “Right. Junior. Seriously, if this guy’s been here, it hasn’t been very often.”

  Ivy tugged on my arm. She wanted to leave.

  We thanked the two couples and headed back toward the car. “You don’t want to continue checking out Hippie Hollow?”

  “Thank you, but I’ve had enough embarrassment today,” she said, a hand on the passenger-side door handle.

  “You looked down.” I chuckled.

  “How could I not?” Her eyes got wide. “It was a fricking diving board.”

  I laughed so hard I had to put my hands on my knees to steady myself. I managed to say, “You know that was all for you, don’t you?”

  She tilted her head and tried not to smile. It didn’t work. “What about you and his wife, Mrs. Octopussy?”

  “Hey, I came up with my own nicknames.”

  “Don’t want to answer the question, I see.”

  Considering the web I’d been captured in only a week prior, I was in no mood for any woman in my life. Well, outside of the thoughts of Nicole, my estranged wife. “If you only knew how little that did for me.”

  “Okay. Whatever. I’m calling Saul on our way to this next place.”

  We all had our ways of coping with temptation.

  9

  As we drove to our next destination, Ivy tried and failed to reach her boyfriend. We got to the intersection of 14th and Palma in about forty minutes. We spotted a single alleyway, parked, and walked all the way to the other end, maybe a half mile. I tried a few doors on the lone building, which was on the south side of the alley. All were locked.

  “No cars, no sign of anyone,” she said, cupping a hand over her blue eyes. The clouds had returned, but there was still a strong glare. “I didn’t even see a stray cat,” I said.

  She pointed back up the alley from where we’d walked. “We didn’t check the dumpster.”

  “You think Psycho Cobb has his drug operation set up in a dumpster?”

  She tilted her head again and gave me one of “those” looks. Maybe she was getting annoyed with my attempts at humor. Can’t blame a guy for trying to keep it light. “Let’s go,” I said, gesturing with my head as I walked toward the dumpster.

  When we got there, my eyes almost rolled to the back of my head.

  “What? It’s not that bad of a stench, Mr. Manly Man.”

  “Nice try at the sarcasm. It needs work.” She had no idea the degree of sensitivity in my olfactory receptors.

  I pulled the top of the bin back and let it drop until it clanged off the side. We peered over the edge. Lots of garbage but no Psycho Cobb.

  “You going to jump in, or do you want me to?” she asked, a foot on
a metal step.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Psych.” She smiled and walked off. I closed the dumpster and caught up to her at the car.

  “Your sense of humor is…unique,” I said.

  “I’m not used to being around adults all the time.”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t you remember Cristina?”

  Right, her partner or employee or whatever at ECHO. “She’s still in high school?”

  “Just graduated. She thinks she’s all grown up now. Full of attitude. I guess she’s always been full of attitude. But I love her anyway. Still, though, I feel like I’m more of a mom or a much-older sister. She doesn’t have any parents around, if you recall.”

  Boy, did I. Her mom had been sent to prison for killing the man who’d raped Cristina. On the surface, that sounded somewhat honorable, unless you knew that her mom was originally allowing the cops and the DA to pin the crime on Cristina.

  When I started the car, Ivy pulled out her phone and tapped the screen. It must have rung, but I didn’t hear it.

  Her face lit up. “Hey, Saul.” As I wound my way to our final stop, the apartment building on the east side of I-35, I did my best not to eavesdrop. Their conversation didn’t interest me much. I was more intrigued by Ivy’s instant change in mood. She had this extra lift in her energy level. She even sat up straighter. She looked at herself in the mirror behind the sun visor—that didn’t seem like the Ivy I knew. The Ivy I knew seemed to have this attitude that said, “I don’t really care what you think about my appearance or my demeanor.”

  But with Saul, even on the phone, it was different. She asked about his life. It sounded as though he had a client who was giving him the run-around. She expressed true empathy toward his situation.

  “I miss you too,” she said into the phone, turning toward her window. She then spoke softly. I couldn’t hear it, didn’t really want to hear it.

  The whole time, though, as much as I tried to avoid it, I kept comparing Ivy’s conversation to how Nicole interacted with me over the phone. Well, up until she went Darth Vader on me. The last few weeks had been an elongated push-pull session with her. We used to nearly always be on the same page. Since she crossed the line, though, something had been off. Our interactions weren’t all bad—in fact, at least one sent us both into that hallowed euphoric state—but something had changed.