by Jim Stevens
Seeing herself on the screen, Tiffany’s entire body tightens with the tautness of a coiled rattlesnake.
“Tiffany, are you okay?” I ask.
She’s comatose. Only the pupils of her eyes are moving as she sees herself splayed out on the floor like a TKO’d prizefighter.
It takes a few seconds for the people in the scene to come to her aid, and for me to tell Care, “Turn it off.”
The screen goes black. I rush to Tiffany, grab her, and pull her to face me. Her face is ashen; her body barely moving. Clearly, she’s in shock. “Tiffany, look at me.”
Her eyes finally focus into mine. She speaks, “That was me, but it can’t be me. Things like that don’t happen to people like me.”
“Drink some more power drink,” I tell her.
“Here, she can have mine,” Care says, handing over her almost full glass.
Tiffany takes a sip, then another. The color returns to her cheeks. She starts to move. “Wow,” she says. “I’m giving that movie no stars.”
“Girls, pick her up and walk her around.”
Kelly and Care each take one of Tiffany’s arms and lift her out of her seat. “Can we go see your closet?” Kelly asks.
“Great idea,” I say. “Go.”
After closing the door to the room, I watch the DVD a second time, change discs and watch the same scene from the second ceiling camera twice. There is a third DVD in the envelope, which is a wide-angle, straight-on view from another camera facing the bar. Whoever owns the Zanadu doesn’t want to miss a thing. I watch the third DVD twice and remove it from the player. I put all the DVD’s back in the envelope, turn off the unit, and go out to find the girls.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I call out.
The three emerge out of the hallway. Kelly runs right up to me. She has a look in her eyes of pure wonder and amazement. “Dad,” she says, “I’ve visited heaven.”
“We’re out of here.”
I make sure Tiffany will be fine before leaving. She said her masseuse was on his way over to rub her into reality. We leave.
I get the girls back to the apartment. Talk about a residential letdown. They start their homework at four. We eat at six, or I eat while they complain that my chicken would make Colonel Sanders hurl. On Sunday, they seldom eat at home since they know their mother will take them to McDonald’s if they bellyache enough. At eight, I drop them off at my ex-home. I kiss them goodbye, tell them I’ll see them Tuesday after school, and that I love them more than life itself.
I go straight back to my apartment, and for the next three hours watch the DVDs over and over and over. And for the life of me still can’t see who slipped Tiffany a Mickey.
CHAPTER 3
Bruno Buttaras, aka Bruno the bartender, lives in an impressive looking high-rise facing the Chicago River. Not too shabby for a guy who mixes drinks for a living. Maybe I should get into that line of work. I park my Toyota in the 15 minute zone in front of the building, place an old parking ticket on the windshield, and walk quickly up the driveway. The doorman doesn’t open the door. I have to do it myself. Some doorman.
“Can I help you?” the doorman asks. He seems wider than he is tall and is dressed in a blue uniform with gold stripes.
“Does a Bruno Buttaras live here?”
“Who wants to know?” the doorman asks in a snotty tone of voice. Put a couple of epaulets on a guy’s shoulders and watch his head swell.
“Richard Sherlock,” I pull out my PI’s license to impress him.
He takes a long look. “You’re a detective named Sherlock? That’s pretty funny.”
“Funny ha-ha or funny peculiar?”
“You pick,” he says.
“Why? I’m not the one laughing.”
We stand and stare at each other for a few seconds before I ask, “Is Bruno in?”
“Can’t say.”
I pull a bill out of my pocket, fold it and slip it in the uniform’s breast pocket. “Is he in?”
The doorman takes the bill out, checks the denomination, puffs his big chest out, and puts it back in his uniform’s side pocket. “Can’t say,” he says.
“Then give me my five dollars back.”
“Why should I?”
“Because you didn’t give me anything on Bruno,” I snap back.
“I thought that was my tip for opening the door for you?”
“You didn’t open it. I did.”
An old lady approaches. He opens the door for her. “Good morning Mrs. Frobisher.”
“Good morning, Guido.”
I wait for her to go into the inner foyer of the lobby before I say, “You got a lot of nerve making fun of my name when you’re a Guido.”
“Fine,” he says. “Bruno lives on the 41st floor. His code is BB12 on the directory. Call him if you want.”
I move to an opposite wall where there’s a listing of the building’s residents on a screen. I pick up the house phone, punch BB12 on the dial, wait, and listen. I hang up the phone after ten or eleven rings. “He isn’t in, or he’s asleep,” I, for some unexplainable reason, tell the doorman.
“Guess what?” the doorman, enunciating slower than molasses, says. “You … are … right … now …” I hear each word as if a 45 was playing at the 33 speed. “Get … ing … a … tic … ket.” He then slowly points his finger to the street.
I turn around, and see the meter maid is pulling up behind my car. I run outside like Snaglepuss making one of his quick exits.
The meter maid is off her three-wheeler and examining the old ticket on my windshield. She is taking out her hand-held computer ticket gizmo when I catch up to her. I could attempt to charm her with my wit and poor excuses. Instead, I scream out “No.” I don’t bother waiting for her response. I jump into my Toyota, fire it up, and drive off. I thankfully don’t get my ticket punched.
I head south to the Harold Washington Library.
I sign in and only have to wait five minutes for a computer terminal. This is where people go if they want to be a nerd in public or can’t afford a computer of their own and still want an e-mail address. I sit down and start my homework.
The Zanadu Club is listed under Restaurants and Entertainment services. It’s owned by Zanaprise, a Delaware Corporation. The CEO is Jimmy Cappilino. The COO is Frank Buck. Due to it being a privately held entity, there are no yearly figures or gross dollar amounts given.
I Google the CEO and find no listing. I have an odd feeling Jimmy isn’t Jimmy’s actual first name. There are thousands of listings for Frank Buck. Evidently, he was a big game hunter back in the 1920’s who made movies of his adventures in deepest, darkest Africa. There are lots and lots of stories, pictures, reviews, links, and other assorted info on the jungle exploits of Mr. Frank “Bring ‘em Back Alive” Buck. I watch a few excerpts from his films of him co-starring with poisonous snakes, charging rhinos, lunging lions, and other assorted beasts who were kind enough to attack while the cameras just happened to be filming. I quickly surmise this is not the Frank Buck I seek. I scroll through another ten pages and find nothing on Zanadu’s Frank Buck. I get bored and give up the search. That’s the problem with Google; who wants to go through thirty pages of stuff to find what you’re looking for?
I try another tactic.
About six months ago, when I had more money than I have now (which is none), I took advantage of a one-time-only offer and shelled out $110 for a yearly subscription to BackgroundChecker.com. It’s a website for daters who want to find out if the men or the women they meet on Match.com or some other dating sites are convicted rapists, thieves, on parole, or wanted in connection for some illegal act. I signed up because my propensity of picking quality women is not one of my better traits. For an additional ten dollars, the site also offers information on the current marital status of individuals who claim they are “single, athletic and toned, love to laugh, enjoy long walks on the beach, and are truly seeking their soul mate.” I didn’t o
pt for the add-on service. Personally, a woman being married would be a minor problem compared to some of the problems I have had with the women I’ve dated.
I discover a number of guys named Cappilino who women shouldn’t date because of their assorted criminal records. Or they maybe should date if they like bad boys. None of the Cappilinos listed has the first name of Jimmy or James. When I narrow this down to Cappilinos in Chicago, there are six. I write down the specifics on each; some have addresses, some don’t. I next search for Frank Buck, which is a very popular name if you’re a criminal, but oddly enough, there are no dastardly Frank Bucks listed in Chicago.
I hit three cherries on my next spin. Bruno the bartender pops up on the screen like one of those cute little rascals in a Whack-A-Mole machine. Bruno has had his share of problems with the law. A stint in juvie at sixteen, busted for shoplifting at twenty-one, got caught passing bad checks at twenty-six, and an aggravated assault charge at twenty-nine. Excellent upwardly mobile career path I must say. He’s been out of the joint for three years. Gone straight? I doubt it.
Just for the heck of it, I type in Gibby Fearn and come up with a guy on another upwardly mobile career path. He started out on Rush Street, tending bar in college. He eventually became a manager and hopped around job-wise to a couple of other bars and restaurants. About five years ago, he worked at a big club downtown as its general manager in charge of events, décor and design. An odd job description in my opinion. The listing ended with: Currently employed at Zanadu as the VP of Operations.
I get off the website, feeling my money had been well spent. Next, I Google City of Chicago Building Records and add the address of the Zanadu Club. Nothing comes up.
I get up, walk over to the Research Desk, and ask the librarian for assistance. “Excuse me. Could you help me find out something about a building?”
“What do you want to know?” the woman asks.
“I’m not sure.”
“It would help to know what you want to know.” The woman has a pair of glasses attached to a string of fancy beads,
which go around her neck. I’ll bet librarians are the only profession known to wear designer lanyards.
“I was in this building the other night and heard this weird whoosh/plop sound coming from one of the closets in an office on the second floor.
“Okay.”
I continue, “And there has to be some reason for that sound. I thought it might have something to do with the construction.”
“Okay.”
“So, maybe if I find out what the history of the building is, the whoosh/plop sound might make sense.”
“Give me the address.”
I do as told. The nice librarian types into her computer and in a few minutes reads off some information. “It was built after the Chicago Fire as a meat processing plant and was converted into a fish cannery in 1910 which went broke during the Depression. It was converted again in 1939, this time to build parts for radar systems. After the war it became a warehouse or maybe a distribution center.” She stops reading off the screen, takes off her specs, and peers up at me. “Does any of that help?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Should I keep going?”
“Please do,” I say in earnest. “You’re doing great.”
She puts the glasses back on. “It pretty much stayed a warehouse until the late 1990’s when it was converted to a mini-Merchandise Mart, specifically for the backyard accessories market.” She stops.
“What are backyard accessories?” I ask.
“It doesn’t say,” she says. “But you should know, you’re a man.”
“Just because I’m a male doesn’t make me an expert on backyards,” I say to defend my honor. “I happen to live in an apartment.”
“I apologize,” she says.
“Let’s go back to the building.”
“Good idea.”
“It’s the Zanadu Nightclub now,” I tell her.
“That has a whooshing/plopping sound in its closets.” She seems to enjoy adding the obvious sound effects to her sentence. Librarians probably don’t get a lot of opportunities to poke fun or take exciting liberties in their day-to-day work.
“Exactly.”
“You could go down to the building department in City Hall and search for the original plans, but I doubt if you’d find any whooshes or plops in the details.”
“I just might do that anyway.”
The librarian rises from her computer chair.
“Thank you very much,” I say sincerely. “I appreciate your help.”
“You’re welcome.”
At that instant Lady Gaga erupts out of my phone. Those kids of mine are always sabotaging my ring tones.
“The sign says to ‘turn off all cell phones,’” the lady librarian says to me, her fun personality disappears; replaced with a stern, air of frustration.
I panic. I can’t turn it off. Lady Gaga keeps singing; if you want to call what she does singing. “Sorry.”
She walks away. I punch the screen of the cell phone and finally answer the call. It’s Tiffany. “I can’t talk now,” I say in my best whisper. “I’m in the library.”
“Libraries aren’t cool, Mr. Sherlock,” she tells me. “Because nobody takes books out of them anymore.”
“I’m not very cool either, so I fit right in.”
“You got to get an iPad, Mr. Sherlock.”
“I’ll put it on my shopping list, right after my new car,” I assure her. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” she says. “Have you figured out who roofied me yet?”
“No.”
“Seven point two hours is already up.”
“Tiffany, we have to go over the DVDs again,” I tell her.
“Oh, Mr. Sherlock, I hate that.”
“I need names to go along with the faces.”
“Can’t you just look at the credits?”
---
I’m able to freeze the picture at different intervals of the DVD, so that Tiffany will not have to see herself sprawled out on the barroom floor like a spent, out-of-water tuna.
“Who’s this?” I ask pointing to the woman to the left of Tiffany, a petite brunette, well-dressed, and dripping of old money wealth.
“Marley.”
“Marley, who? I need last names.”
“Marley Spencer.”
“Is she a friend of yours?”
“Kinda,” Tiffany says.
“What’s a kinda friend?”
“Marley is really nice, but we can’t be too friendly with each other.”
“Why not?”
“Because we compete for the same men, Mr. Sherlock,” Tiffany explains. “There’s only so many of our kinda guys to go around.”
I point to a guy with an intentional four-day beard, who follows the current scruffy is cool fashion sense. “This guy?”
“Hayden. His father owns a company that makes seeds that grow corn that doesn’t get worms.”
“What do you think of him?”
“He’s still in his teenybopper phase.
“Lucky him. This guy?”
“Don’t know him.”
“This woman?” I point to a very attractive brunette, who sits back-to-back with Tiffany at the bar.
“Bitch.”
“How so?”
“Total bitch.”
“Elaborate, please.”
Tiffany gives out a sigh, and says. “Alix Fromound. Her daddy’s in steel. Her grandmother had a stateroom on the Mayflower. Their house has more lake frontage than the city of Glencoe. She drives a Tesla. I hate her. She hates me.”
“Why?”
“Duh, a guy.” Tiffany doesn’t wait for me to ask for more. “It was about two years ago.” She pauses, now I wait for more.
“I was seeing Radford Wilson, his daddy is the head of some board of trading firm or something, and he owns a nine bedroom house. Raddy was on me like Prada on purse, but I wasn’t putting
out until I knew he was serious.”
“Good for you, Tiffany.”
Tiffany points her thumb at herself. “This girl’s not going to be a notch on any guy’s Ralph Lauren belt.” She pauses for a moment before continuing. “Anyway, somehow word got out that Raddy was getting itchy and Alix, who always had a horny twitch for Raddy, went on a birddog attack.”
I’m so glad I asked.
“Raddy and I were like on our third date, dancing at a club. I leave to use the ladies room and up comes Little Miss Horny Pants who latches onto Raddy like calories on a donut. She couldn’t have been more transparent if she woulda been stark naked coming out of a cake. People told me she was pushing her phony C cups into him like a stripper doing a lap dance.”
I cut her off. Way too much information. “Okay,” I say. “That’s why you hate her. Why does she hate you?”
“Because when we were in high school I did the same thing to her.”
Could there be any doubt whatsoever why I hate my job?
An hour later, I had the names of six of Tiffany’s friends/foes, but not those of four anonymous talkers, nine passersby, and six guys caught on the wide-angle lens leering in Tiffany’s direction.
“When you catch the person who did this to me,” Tiffany says. “I want him thrown in one of those prisons where they torture every hour on the hour.”
“That might be difficult.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s no proof that a crime was committed,” I tell her. “You suffered no lasting physical affects, you weren’t robbed or molested, and you didn't suffer any emotional hardship.”
“What about damaging my reputation?”
“You just admitted you swooped in on Alix just like she did to you.”
“But I was just a child; Alix was an adult when she did it to me.”
---
It’s late in the afternoon. I’m tired, but before going home, I swing by the building where Bruno the bartender lives and experience phenomenal parking karma. I pull into a legal spot right across from the main entryway. I’m still sitting in the car, enjoying my good fortune, when I see Bruno and a man of similar size and height, exit the front door. I pull up on the front door handle, but the door won’t open, yet another device that doesn’t work in my life. I have to reach behind me and pull up the locking pin. By the time I get the door open, get out and lock the car, as if someone would ever be dumb enough to steal this thing, the two guys have about a block head start on me. They move east along the river walkway, heading towards Marina City, a sixty-story structure that resembles a very tall stack of flapjacks.
