by Sean Lynch
“No, but Belicia has a stash of the same kind in her closet at home. Along with almost three-hundred dollars in cash.”
“I won’t ask how you know that,” he said.
“You got his phone?” I asked.
“Yeah. Why?”
“I would never presume to suggest how to conduct your police investigation,” I said, “but I believe the contents of his phone might prove of value.”
“You don’t say?” Boyer said. “A regular Sherlock Holmes, that’s who you are.” He withdrew the driver’s phone from his pocket and punched in the most recent call. Within seconds a buzzing sound emanated from Belicia Hernandez.
“Imagine that,” Dave said.
“Hell of a coincidence,” I said. I walked back over to where Belicia stood fuming.
“Give me the phone,” I said.
“I don’t have one,” she lied.
“Give me the phone, like a good girl, or I’ll hold you upside down and shake you until it falls out.” The driver watched this conversation from the back of Boyer’s patrol car.
“You better not say nuthin’, bitch!” his muffled voice yelled from inside the car. “You know what’ll happen if you do! Don’t say shit!”
I walked over to the patrol car, opened the rear door, and gave Mr. Suck My Dick a solid uppercut to the gut, knocking the wind out of him. He doubled over as much as the handcuffs would allow and went silent.
“You’re not supposed to hit a handcuffed prisoner,” Boyer remarked casually.
“Wrong,” I said. “You’re not supposed to hit a handcuffed prisoner. I’m not a cop, remember?”
“Valid point,” Boyer said.
I returned to Belicia and stuck out my hand. “Phone,” I said. It wasn’t a request. She removed a phone from inside her boot and slammed it in my hand. I handed it to Boyer.
“I’ll get this one cloned and scanned with the other one,” he said. “I’ll let you know what I find.”
“You may also want to get her a medical examination,” I said, “given the circumstances of her association with the current resident of your patrol car.”
“I was thinking the same thing myself,” Boyer said, looking at Belicia.
“Belicia,” I began, “I want to speak to you about-”
“Fuck you,” she cut me off. “I ain’t sayin’ shit.”
“I can help you,” I said.
“You want to help me? Leave me alone. I’m probably already fucked just for being seen with you. You keep my phone, I’m gonna get fucked up for sure.”
“Skipping school to sell your ass for a wanna-be pimp is already fucked up,” I said. “How much more fucked up can you get?”
“Why don’t you ask Marisol?” she said.
She had me there.
Chapter 13
Scott’s Seafood Grill and Bar, in downtown Oakland’s Jack London Square, is as fancy a place as I ever eat. If it were any fancier, they wouldn’t let me in. Scott’s overlooks the estuary connecting the San Leandro and San Francisco Bays, giving it a panoramic view of the Oakland and Alameda Marinas, and what was once the Alameda Naval Air Station. I like Scott’s. There’s linen on the tables and the waiters wear ties. The food is good, too. I don’t hold Oakland against it.
I was seated at the bar, nursing an Anchor Steam draught and glancing too much at my watch. It was 5:22 PM and Karen Pearson told me she’d meet me at Scott’s at 5:30.
Belicia Hernandez wouldn’t talk to me and I couldn’t make her. So I left her in School Resource Officer Dave Boyer’s capable hands, along with the still-unidentified punk who tried to shoot me she’d been riding with. He was going to jail, and his car was going to the impound yard. Belicia was going to Eden Hospital for a medical examination. Then she was going home to Reyna Sandoval; Dave Boyer told me she would be suspended from school. He promised to keep me posted on what developed. I planned to take another shot at Belicia tomorrow at Reyna’s home. Hopefully she would be less hostile and more forthcoming by then.
Before I said my goodbyes to Boyer I asked to borrow his phone. He grinned when I dialed the number Karen Pearson had given me. She answered on the second ring.
“Hello Dave,” Karen said over the phone. “What can I do for you?”
“This isn’t Dave,” I told her. “It’s Chauncey. I’m borrowing Dave’s phone.”
“I know an awful lot of Chauncey’s,” she said. “It’s a terribly common name. How do I know which one you are?”
“I’m the auburn-haired devil with the strong chin and sparkling eyes,” I said.
“You forgot to mention the crooked nose,” she pointed out.
“I generally try to downplay that feature,” I said.
“Probably a good idea. Why are you using Dave’s phone?”
“I happened to be in the neighborhood,” I said. “I’m calling to see if you’re available anytime soon?”
“What did you have in mind?” she asked. If I answered her question honestly she’d reach through the phone and slap me. Instead, I said, “How about meeting for dinner?”
“I’d love to. When?”
“Is tonight too short notice?”
“Not at all.”
“Shall we say Scott’s, in Jack London Square, about five?” I was glad we were conversing on the phone; she couldn’t see me bite my lip.
“Make it five-thirty,” she said. “I have a conference after school.”
“Five-thirty it is,” I said. “I’ll see you then.” I resisted the urge to do an end zone dance.
“You lucky bastard,” Dave said ruefully when I handed him back his phone. “She’s a real doll. If I wasn’t married, I’d be chasing her myself. You’d better treat her right.”
“I treat everybody right,” I said indignantly.
“I saw how you treated the driver of that Honda.”
“That asswipe got treated exactly the way he deserved,” I said.
“So he did,” Dave agreed. We shook hands and I thanked him. He told me he’d call me in a couple of days once he’d obtained the warrant for the contents of the two phones.
I had a few hours to kill, so I drove home. I phoned Scott’s and made reservations for two at 5:30. Then I had a tuna sandwich and an apple for lunch. I make my tuna spread with sea-salt, cracked pepper, tobasco and sriracha sauce, and serve it on nothing but Dave’s Killer Rye Bread. Dave’s Killer Bread is the best damned sandwich slab on the planet. After lunch I took a nap. Not every working Joe gets to do that. It was a slice of heaven.
I awoke a little after four feeling rested and anticipating dinner. I took the time to iron a shirt and slacks and rub some polish on my only pair of oxfords before I showered. Fifteen minutes later I was taking the Broadway exit off the Nimitz Freeway to Jack London Square.
The bartender at Scott’s, a rather attractive blond in her early forties, poured my beer into a proper pint glass with a smile and left me to wait for Karen to arrive. I murdered time by checking out my fellow patrons at the bar. It was a Thursday night, so the after-work crowd was a little thicker. Nothing like an early start to the weekend.
I saw a lot of older stockbroker types with comb-overs, pinky rings and too many buttons on their two-hundred dollar shirts unbuttoned. Most of them were accompanied by mammary-enhanced arm candy younger than their daughters. A couple of these mid-life crisis pilgrims gave me snarky looks when they caught their ladies checking me out. Vert de jalousie.
I saw Karen Pearson walk in and get directed to the bar by the hostess. It took her a few seconds to find me in the crowded bar, which hurt my feelings. I was disappointed the musk of my raw masculine sexuality didn’t draw her like a beacon. She was still dressed in her work clothes; khaki slacks which accented her tiny waist, and a button-front denim shirt which strained its design parameters containing her breasts. I’m sure the high school boys kept her at the top of their masturbatory fantasy list. She had her coat and a large satchel over one arm; she was smart enough to know you don’t leave valuables
in your car when parked in Oakland.
I stood to greet her, taking her coat and bag. “Thank you for coming,” I said.
“I was hoping you’d call,” she answered, giving me a million megawatt smile. “I could use a night off. Been having parent conferences all week. Between the late nights and hostile parents, I’m bushed.”
I gave the hostess a nod and she motioned for us to follow her to the dining room.
“Why the parental hostility?”
“A lot of parents get pissed off when they show up to their kid’s parent/teacher conference and find out their offspring is a senior in high school and can barely read at a third grade level. As if they didn’t already know. Of course, a lot of the time the parents have offered no support to their kid whatsoever and don’t hold them accountable in anything they do. They merely drop their bundles of joy off each day and expect the school system to turn them into well-behaved Einstein’s. And they wonder why their little monsters are out selling drugs and getting arrested?”
“Easier to blame teachers than it is to look in the mirror,” I said. “Sounds like you had rough day.” The hostess seated us. I’d asked her previously for a booth with a water view and she remembered. I’ll remember to tip.
“Listen to me gripe,” Karen said. “I haven’t been in your company five minutes and I’m already bitching.” She blew a lock of dark hair out of her eyes gave me another jolt of that electric smile. “Some first date, huh?”
I liked the sound of that. By saying “first date,” she implied a second. Rock steady, soldier.
“What you need is a drink,” I told her.
“Clairvoyant, too? And I thought you were just another pretty face.”
“Neither,” I said. “I simply know the medicinal value of alcohol.” I was rewarded with a laugh. She had a good one.
Our waiter came over and Karen ordered a Sonoma Sauvignon Blanc; I got another Anchor Steam. Then she ordered the Pear and Walnut salad for starters; I got the Caesar. I resisted the impulse to get a double order of Scott’s Fresh Shucked Oysters; too overt.
“So tell me about the thrilling life of a private detective,” she said, sipping wine.
“Not much to tell,” I said. “I usually start the day by having a mysterious woman in black come into my office, which of course has a ceiling fan to stir the fog of cigarette smoke and noir which surrounds me. I wear a porkpie hat and a shoulder holster, and sip rye whiskey for breakfast. The woman-in-black tearfully begs me to unravel an unsolvable mystery filled with danger and intrigue. By lunchtime I’m typically in a car chase or shootout with a horde of diabolical kidnapers, or diamond smugglers, or arms dealers, and by dinner I’m basking in the arms of the woman-in-black, who is desperately imploring me to run off with her to Sri Lanka or some other exotic destination. Did I mention I have my own theme music?”
Karen laughed once again and sipped some more wine. I liked her laugh. I also liked the way her mouth met the glass.
“Do you really have your own theme music?” she mocked.
“Nah; I made that up. I don’t even have a ceiling fan. Don’t have an office, either. With my luck, if I did have theme music, it would be The Ballad of Gilligan’s Island. To be honest, my life is fairly mundane.”
“I’m not so sure,” Karen said. “I asked Dave about you.”
“Now who’s the detective?”
“Dave told me you used to be a S.W.A.T. cop. He told me you were a soldier once, too.”
“Dave’s right on both counts,” I said. The Anchor Steam was going down smoothly. I’d have to slow down; I wanted my wits about me, among other things.
She went on. “He said good things about you. Said you were kind of hard-headed, but had a reputation as a stand-up guy.”
“I’m flattered,” I said.
“He also said you were…how did he put it? A ‘capable badass.’”
“Not me,” I said. “I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
“That remains to be seen,” she said, holding up her empty glass for the waiter.
I put my jaw back in place, drained my beer, and held up my own glass. To say I liked her was like saying Bernie Madoff skimmed a little off the top.
The waiter arrived with our salads. “If you don’t mind,” Karen said to both of us, “could I also get a bowl of your Boston Clam Chowder and some sourdough bread? I’m famished.”
“Make that two,” I told him. A girl with an appetite; my kind of gal. The waiter scurried off to get our soup and drinks.
“My dad was a building contractor,” Karen began after the waiter left, “and I have two older brothers. We ate hearty growing up. I’m sorry for not being coquettish, but I missed lunch today and am too hungry to care. Didn’t think you’d mind; you look like a guy who can chow down.”
“No apology necessary,” I said. “I grew up in farm country. I can eat; especially when the food and company are good.”
“Apparently you like to work out, too,” she said.
“Daily physical training got instilled in me during boot camp,” I said. “I guess I never grew out of it.”
“Don’t,” she said. “The physique suits you.”
The waiter returned with Karen’s second glass of wine and my third beer. He scurried off to retrieve our chowder.
Karen peered at me over her glass. “You’re not married, are you?”
I grinned. “Do I look married?”
“Lot of guys on the make cultivate an available look. And you didn’t answer my question.”
“I’m not married,” I said.
“Ever been?”
“Nope. Was close to it once.”
“What happened?”
“She got to know me,” I said.
Karen laughed again. “Touché.”
“You have the advantage,” I said. “You apparently know all about me. Tell me about Karen Pearson.”
“Fair enough. First off, my name will only be Pearson until the end of the school year. I’m going back to my maiden name, Velasco, after that.”
“Why not now?”
“The divorce isn’t final until April first. Besides, it’s easier to switch during summer break. Don’t want to confuse my students too much.”
“Velasco; Spanish?”
She nodded around a bite of salad. “My father was of Spanish descent and my mother Portuguese. My brothers and I look like the stereotypical gypsy extras from a B-grade vampire movie.”
“Don’t knock it,” I told her. “It’s a stunning look.”
She set down her fork. “From most guys, that line would sound cheesy. From you, for some reason, it actually sounds sincere.”
“It was. Life’s too short, and I’m too simple-minded, to play games. I say what I mean.”
“I believe you do,” she said. She returned to her salad.
The waiter came back and took our dinner orders. Karen got the Char-Broiled Hawaiian Ahi Tuna and I ordered the Cedar Planked Orange and Bourbon Salmon. I happen to know Scott’s uses Jim Beam in their sauce. I’d eat fresh road kill if it was slathered in Kentucky bourbon.
“I was in the main office when Dave Boyer was briefing the vice-principal about your escapade with Belicia Hernandez earlier this afternoon,” she said. “You apparently left quite an impression.”
“What can I say? I like to loiter around local schools with candy in my pockets,” I said. “It’s one of my hobbies.”
“Seriously; what were you doing at the school?”
My silence was my answer.
“You can tell me Chauncey; I’ll keep it confidential. I want to know what’s going on with Marisol’s investigation. I can only assume what happened between you and Belicia today is connected to that.”
“Only if you call me Chance.”
“It’s a deal, Chance,” she said, looking into my eyes. I folded.
“I wanted to see how Belicia looks and acts without her grandmother Reyna around,” I told her. “I was hoping to speak with her, but that didn�
��t work out so well.”
“Dave said her friend pulled a gun on you,” she said. “That he was going to shoot you.”
“He wasn’t her friend. And yeah, he threw down on me. I didn’t give him a chance to prove he had the balls to pull a trigger.”
“If he wasn’t Belicia’s friend, who was he, and why would she be cutting school to ride around with him?”
“I think he was her pimp. Or works for her pimp.”
“Her pimp?” Karen’s eyes widened and she set down her fork for the second time. If the conversation kept going like this the poor girl would starve.
“Maybe we should talk about something else,” I said. “I’m pretty sure ruining your appetite diminishes my chances for a second date.”
“Belicia is only fourteen years old,” she said, ignoring my quip. You really believe she’s prostituting herself?”
“I’m not positive, but it looks that way. Some of the things I’ve learned in my investigation point in that direction. Her chauffeur certainly had all the trappings of a Romeo pimp.”
“A Romeo pimp?”
“Kind of like a Judas goat,” I said. “Looks like a lamb but leads the other sheep to slaughter.”
“I’m not sure I’m following you,” she said, picking up her fork again and resuming her meal. “But I’m fascinated. Please explain it to me. As far as your chances for a second date, I will commit to seeing you again only if you educate me on this ‘Romeo pimp’ thing.”
“Already using your feminine wiles to control me,” I said. “Am I that easy?”
“Yes, you are. I guess that would make me your Romeo pimp,” she smirked, “if I knew what a Romeo pimp was.”
“A Romeo pimp is usually a slick Casanova type. Kind of a cross between a member of a boy-band and street gang. Loiters around schools, arcades, the mall; anyplace where at-risk young girls can be found. Romances them. Plies them with stuff. Buys them clothes, jewelry, and pays them the attention they’re not getting at home. Makes them feel special. It’s powerful magic to some of these girls.”
“And you believe Belicia is an at-risk girl?”
“She fits the profile. Pretty kid with no father figure, being raised by a grandparent who is away at work most of the time. Belicia is actually quite vulnerable on a number of levels.”
