by Chill, David
There were about a dozen young men in their early twenties standing around the living room laughing and joking and offering toasts with beer bottles. They looked rather alike, muscular guys wearing jeans, untucked shirts and running shoes. Their voices were as loud as their physiques were strong. I had on a dark blue shirt, white cotton trousers and topsiders. I didn't exactly fit in, as I had almost twenty years on most of them. Much of the group had their hands around bottles of Budweiser, with some holding shot glasses filled with gold tequila. Four large bottles of Patrón Añejo sat on the kitchen table, one of them empty, the others partially consumed.
The kitchen was off to the left and I ambled in to see if I could locate more palatable refreshments. A quick perusal of the refrigerator confirmed it had been stocked by a college student rather than by one of the Iron Chefs. Four cases of Budweiser, some cold cuts, Miracle Whip, and white bread were the delicacies of choice in Robbie Freeman's apartment. I sifted around and managed to find a bottle of Corona.
"You made it," a voice called from behind.
I turned and saw Norman Freeman approach me, arm extended. We shook hands and I suggested he introduce me around to the guys.
"Seems like a small crowd," I observed.
"A few more should stop by," he said ruefully. "School's out though and some of the crew went home for the summer. Actually these are more Robbie's friends than mine. They're more into this bachelor party thing."
"Young kids are like that," I said, smiling. Norman agreed with a wholehearted sincerity just as I was taking a sip of Corona. It was all I could do to keep the beer from shooting out of my mouth. Norman, who was all of twenty-four years old, smiled innocuously and led me through the kitchen.
Nobody I had spoken with today was at the party and that made me feel more comfortable. "To avoid making anyone too nervous," I said, "maybe you should introduce me as someone who works for your father, rather than a private investigator. Especially if your brother isn't too crazy about the idea of you hiring one. It'll come out eventually, but no sense hurrying it."
Norman nodded. "Okay. But don't worry. The only ones who know I hired you are my father and Ashley."
“When’s the big date?”
“Next Saturday. Ashley didn’t think it was a good idea to have the bachelor party right before the wedding. She didn’t want me hung over when we walked down the aisle.”
“Understandable.”
We first walked through Robbie's bedroom, which must have been designed by a decorator using Playboy as inspiration. An enormous bed with a dark pine base took up half the room. The black satin sheets were covered by a mink comforter with furry white spots, and a circular mirror was positioned on the ceiling, directly over the bed. A bookcase filled mostly with magazines sat against the far wall. No text books were in sight.
"Let's go meet Robbie," Norman suggested. I offered no objection.
Robbie Freeman was about four inches shorter than his brother, and his reddish hair was fairly long in the back. He wore a tan shirt, jeans, and a pair of stunning maroon suede cowboy boots. The boots were accented with golden buckles and tiny gold spurs. A real cowboy would probably die of laughter. From appearances, this was one improbable set of brothers. Finally, unlike Norman's clear and innocent complexion, his brother's face was loaded with freckles and he seemed to have a look in his eyes that foresaw mischief on the horizon.
"Robbie," Norman said, placing an arm, around Robbie's back. "I'd like you to meet Burnside. He's a new guy out at the Honda lot."
Robbie reached out and pumped my hand enthusiastically. "Glad to meetcha. See you found my stash of Corona."
"I hope you don't mind," I said.
"Nah. None of these guys can tell the difference so I figured I'd pump 'em up with Budweiser."
"Nice place you have here," I commented, hoping Robbie wouldn't ask me any questions about Hondas. Like where the dealer lot was located.
"The place suits me," he laughed. "I spent my first two years in the jock dorm before they kicked me out. They like athletes to stay on campus but if you get rowdy enough they decide you can live in an apartment. Big of ‘em."
"How did you like LAU?"
"Fun, fun, fun," he smiled.
"Till his daddy took his Porsche awaaay!" broke in a tall, skinny kid with a nose that a hawk might envy. A bottle of Patrón was gripped in one hand and an empty shot glass in the other.
Robbie jabbed at the guy's ribs. "You gonna drink that stuff, Lenny? Or just show what a big, tough man you are?"
Lenny poured out half a glass of tequila unevenly before Robbie said "gimme that" and grabbed the bottle out of his hand. He took a gulp in the manner of an old west gunslinger and offered the bottle to myself and Norman. We politely declined.
"Wimps," he declared.
A few years ago I would have considered it a point of honor to take the bottle and prove him wrong. But the experience of a tequila hangover taught me that restraint is often the better part of valor. Looking at his buddy, I decided I was right.
Lenny took a big gulp of the fiery liquid and his eyes widened as he gasped a couple of mouthfuls of air. "That was awesome," he managed.
"Awesome, huh?" Robbie laughed, as Lenny struggled to keep his balance. "You wouldn't know awesome if you slipped in it."
"Friend?" I asked Norman.
Norman jerked his thumb at Robbie. "Friend of his. The name's Lenny Caputo. He played backup flanker."
"Lenny's always gonna be a backup," Robbie added. "Strictly minor league."
Lenny's eyes flared and for a moment I thought there might be an altercation. Instead he just nodded at Robbie and mumbled, "Later."
"Is everyone here a football player?" I inquired.
"Damn near. Norman doesn't have any real friends to invite."
"C'mon, Rob," Norman whined. "Quit being such an ass."
Robbie did a facial mimic of Norman, which caused his older brother to squirm noticeably. They were a pair, these two. There was enough about their features to validate bloodlines, but Norman and Robbie Freeman might otherwise have been culled from entirely different litters.
"I want to introduce Burnside here to some of the other guys," Norman said.
"Enjoy," he remarked, "I think it's time for another beer, personally."
He sauntered off and Norman quickly apologized. I told him not to worry about it. At the age of twenty-four, Norman should have learned by now not to take himself so seriously. I could hardly wait to meet the rest of the family.
As Robbie attested, the typical partygoer was a football player, either current or former. As it was with most jock gatherings, there was a preponderance of drinking, yelling, and general horseplay. Over the next half hour I was introduced to everyone, but they were either too high to give me any background on Robbie, or just too cautious. A few struck me as having a suspicious look about them but that may have simply been their nature. Or mine. As I began to feel the evening would turn out to be completely unproductive, the life of the party arrived. In duplicate.
They were both dressed in navy blue policeman's outfits and each waived a billy club merrily over their heads. Both had piles of hair tucked underneath their caps and the skin tight uniforms were unlike any I had seen at the Academy. The girls tossed their police caps in the air and shook their hair loose. One blonde, one brunette. Variety is the spice of life.
"I'm Tiffany," the blonde shouted. "And this is Danielle." Tiffany appeared to be in her mid-twenties and had the look of one who had grown up on the streets and knew all the hustles. Danielle was younger, so young that I almost winced. She looked like Judy Atkin. Another Judy blue eyes. They strutted around the room to the pulsating beat of the stereo and playfully slapped the bottoms of a few of the lads. In the corner, a swarthy man wearing a silver suit, dark grey shirt and thick black moustache watched carefully. When a blond haired guy named Max reached out and grabbed a handful of Danielle's buttocks, the man appeared poised to swat his hand away. To Max's good f
ortune his hand resided on her bottom for only a second. Danielle gave a sexy smile that conveyed the message that she didn't really object.
The girls danced and smiled and flirted for a few minutes. Tiffany shook her long blonde tresses as she strutted over to the guest of honor. Putting her billy club around the back of Norman's neck, she rubbed her voluptuous body provocatively against his. Norman smiled in an embarrassed sort of way and his face turned a shade of scarlet. The girls began to peel off their clothes, starting with the shirts, button by button, until they were discarded casually on the floor. They wiggled out of their tight trousers, fabulous bodies hidden momentarily by extensive lingerie including a-size-too-small bras. As each article of clothing came off, a hungry masculine roar came out of the crowd, accompanied by the raw clapping of hands. These were men determined to enjoy themselves.
The girls continued to lift temperature levels throughout the room, and it was with profound reservation that I steered my eyes away from the temptresses and back to business. There were about twenty men in the room and they formed a loose semi-circle around the dancers. One fellow named Scotty was busy recording the event with a camcorder. I noticed a few of the guys had jackets on, which was odd for a warm June evening. Judging by the lumps protruding out from a couple of armpits, I got the feeling some serious hardware was being packed. I also got the feeling I was the only one licensed to do so.
The girls' escort was Curt, and he made no secret about letting his own piece dangle precariously from a shoulder holster. Advertising one's armament up front can often deter having to produce it later. To Curt's left, there was a football player named Evan who hid what was either a pistol under his white linen jacket, or else a highly developed left rib. And on the other side of the room was another player named Paul who wore loose fitting trousers that seemed to bulge around his right ankle. Normally I'm the only one packing something and the sight of a few compatriots was a concern. The ladies, however, did not seem to notice. Maybe they were just used to this.
"Who wants to play the whipped cream game?" yelled Tiffany. By now the two were down to just their panties. A cadre of volunteers stepped forward to meet the challenge. Lenny, the receiver whose skills were lambasted by Robbie, took a step towards the girls before stumbling and falling clumsily on his face. He staggered to his knees but as he attempted to lift himself to his feet, he tumbled once again to the floor. Immediately, Robbie was standing over him and counting to ten like a referee counting out a boxer. By the count of seven, the whole party joined him.
"Eight...nine...ten!!" they roared and everyone applauded as Robbie held up the bottle of tequila and signaled the bout was over.
"The winner and still champion!" he cried.
"Long live the champ!" a voice yelled.
"Somebody give me a hand with this lightweight," Robbie said. "We'll stick him in the next room." The bouncer, Curt, stepped forward quickly and the two of them lifted the fallen soldier from the carpet and dragged him off into Robbie's bedroom. The whipped cream game consisted of spraying the white topping carefully on the breasts of the two girls. After a dose was lavishly distributed the men would take turns licking the cream off with their tongues. Norman was drafted as the first to sample the wares and he did so competently, albeit without any real display of enthusiasm. As he performed the ritual, the camcorder zoomed in for an up-close-and-personal vantage point. Half a dozen more took turns lapping up the confection before the girls removed their last remaining garments and took the party to its next level.
"Who wants to play the dildo game?"
At this point I decided to leave. I didn't think Norman's assailant would materialize tonight, if he ever did. It was a needle in the haystack. I'd talk to a few of the guys when they were sober and then see if any leads developed. The focus for the rest of their evening though would be lusting after buxom young women who would tease and tantalize and create a few fantasies. They weren't going to be showing me anything I hadn't seen before. Or at least so I thought.
I slipped discreetly out of the party and rode the chrome express down to the main floor. By comparison to the party, the lobby was so quiet I could hear the rubbing of my shoes on the soft grey carpet. I started to walk out into the street when the aging security guard called me back.
"Could you sign out for me, sir?"
I walked back to his station and signed my name again, directly adjacent to my signature from two hours ago. Checking my watch, I wrote down 11:01 p.m. next to my name. As I put the pen down, the silence was shattered by what sounded like an explosion in the street. We looked at each other and raced outside.
On the hood of a crumpled white Corvette lay the battered and bloody pulp of what was once a human being. The upper torso had landed directly on the windshield, shattering it on impact and sending shards of glass upwards of thirty feet from the car. The legs were twisted grotesquely and an arm dangled awkwardly to one side. The body lay face down so the features were not visible, but I didn’t think much identification could be garnered. One thing remained intact however and there was no mistaking it. Maroon suede cowboy boots with little gold spurs. There was no doubt about it. Robbie Freeman was dead.
Chapter 4
The police cordoned off the area near the building's vestibule, and the usual curiosity seekers hovered on the other side of the barrier. An ambulance arrived and scraped what was left of Robbie off the Corvette to take him to the County morgue for an autopsy. Knowing the local coroner, it might take him a few minutes to determine it was too late for surgery.
The police directed the partygoers to remain in the lobby until we could be questioned individually. The group had sobered up considerably and mulled around wide-eyed and stunned. The two strippers were now dressed in sweats and appeared to be more nervous than anything else. Little wonder. From experience, I knew that some were hookers, some had police records, and all wanted to simply do their thing and slip quietly back into anonymity.
In a corner, Norman looked stunned and a few of the guys went over to pat him on the back and whisper a few supportive words of sympathy. I expressed my condolences briefly, noticing the dampness on his cheeks and the raw shock that emanated from his reddened eyes. There are few things in life as horrible as losing a family member in a tragic and sudden way. One moment they’re right beside you, and then they’re gone forever. Norman will never talk to Robbie again, never joke with him, and Robbie will only exist in Norman’s memories. As hardened as I had become through working in law enforcement, I never lost sympathy for people forced to deal with the sudden death of someone close. My heart went out to them. My feelings about cops however, were another matter.
I was interviewed last, and most of the crowd had dissipated at that point. The investigating officer who took my statement was a short, bulky man named Mickey Batson who seemed more interested in taking a doughnut break than in probing my answers. He had black hair cropped short, a weak chin and a bulbous nose. If I squinted, his face came close to resembling that of a boar.
"What’s your story, pal?"
"I don’t have a story," I said, a little weary from the long wait.
Batson peered at me. "Oh, a tough guy. I remember you. You were on the job. Got yourself into some trouble."
"That’s right, Shorty," I said evenly, my weariness suddenly being replaced with annoyance.
"Hey look it, you get cute with me and your last set of problems'll seem like a trip through Candyland," he said, a tiny piece of spittle growing in the corner of his bottom lip.
"I’m real scared.”
"Watch it," he growled. "I wanna get outta here sometime tonight. Now tell me what you saw up there."
"You want to knock off work early? Okay. I’ll make it simple for you. There was a group of wholesome young men eating chocolate chip cookies and drinking milk. A pair of virtuous young women came by to explain the difference in the cholesterol levels between regular milk and low-fat."
“Hey it’s been a long night asshole. Yo
u gonna cooperate?”
“Not with a goldbrick like you.”
Batson reached out and grabbed my shirt with both fists. Even though we were about the same weight, I was six feet tall and probably had about five inches on him. I jerked my arms between his hands in a fast upward motion, snapping his grip on me. He fell off balance momentarily and I reared back and gave his left shin a hard wallop with my right foot. He drew back his fist, but before he could let it fly, someone came between us.
"That's enough, officer!" the man barked at Batson.
"Captain, this man started to assault me."
"I didn’t see any punches thrown. Not by him anyway. Get some coffee. I'll take over here."
Batson straightened his jacket and glared at me as if to say this wasn't over yet. He walked away gingerly, and I smiled to myself. I not only got away with being a smart ass, but it allowed me to move up the ranks and talk to someone with more authority. You never knew where that might lead.
"All right. Burnside is it? I'm Captain Lafferty," he said. The Captain was my height and had the resonant voice and the polished look of an ambitious man running for office. He had black hair with a touch of silver at the temples, slicked back with a healthy dollop of mousse.
"I understand you're a P.I. now.”
"That’s right."
"Tell me what you're looking into."
I recanted the story of Norman and Robbie, detailing everything except my conversation with Terry Kuhl. Some things simply take too long and aren't worth the trouble.
"How drunk was the boy Robbie?"
"He'd had a few, although it didn't seem like he was out of control. When one of the guys passed out, he was able to help carry him off with no problem. If you're asking was Robbie wasted enough to stagger over the edge? I'd say no."
