Jack in a Box

by Pringle McCloy

  Jack thrust his palm at me. “Sit down, Hamster. I’ll need you for a while.” He headed for his bathroom with fresh laundry over his arm while I waited for Trish the Terrible, Jack’s assistant, to usher a shyster in. A word about Trish. Redheaded and bossy, Trish ruled the office with an iron fist. She was meaner than a hyena scaring up breakfast and Jack had been known to hide on her, from time to time, like in the warehouse or under his desk. He joked about Trish being the real boss and that he was merely the owner. The yellow owner.

  Shortly after Jack’s exit Trish appeared in the doorway, flushed and with a little girl smile on her face. She was quite a looker, actually, with her dark auburn hair, deep green eyes, and freckles tumbling over her nose in no particular order. A looker until she turned nasty, that was. Then she looked like Chewy from Star Wars. “Marco Midolo is here to see Jack,” she announced, like she was about to usher in Prince. “I mean, Marco Midolo?”

  I was excited enough to yawn. “Stall him, Trish. Jack is cleaning up.”

  “My pleasure!”

  So, who better than a shady corporate lawyer to beat Julia at her game? I mean Marco Midolo? About as crooked as the Upper Levels Highway, and twice as slippery, Marco had this phony baritone voice that he liked to project as though belting Othello to an empty theatre. Boom! A womanizer to the nth degree he had a habit of haunting late night bars with other men’s wives, due to his glassy good looks and their stupidity. His claim to fame was a collection of overcoats in every style and shade and Overcoat Marco turned ugly on a dime.

  No way did I like this Dr. Zhivago, especially after he sauntered in and drawled, “So, you are the Hamster. I’ve heard much about you.”

  Really? To me this meant he’d been reading graffiti left by bitter women in hotel washrooms all over town. But since he dared to call me ‘the Hamster’ I didn’t feel bad in saying, “You too, Overcoat.”

  He cringed a little. He got it. “Ok. You don’t like me. Well, I don’t like you either.”

  I giggled. “Oh, boo hoo! You’re breaking my heart.” Since I wasn’t exactly likeable this was not fresh hot news.

  All spruced up, Jack joined us at a good time, while Marco still had teeth. With cheeks shining like a choirboy’s he sat forward in his chair to intervene like a Boy Scout leader. “You two are going to make the greatest team. I just know it!”

  Overcoat showed his teeth. “Right.”

  I tried to fart. Where was gas when a guy needed it?

  Slimy Marco caught sight of the photo on Jack’s desk. “This isn’t your daughter!”

  Jack beamed. “She’s something else, isn’t she?”

  The lawyer drooled. “Beyond. She’s every man’s dream.”

  “That’s how people get false teeth,” I mumbled.

  Marco didn’t get it.

  “They get them knocked out.”

  Nothing. Not even a flicker. Talk about vacancy! They weren’t going to fill up this motel anytime soon. I removed my Gucci loafer and banged it against Jack’s desk. “You’re not going to believe this, Jack, but someone has crapped in my shoe.”

  Jack was hardly amused. Taken with charming Marco he considered me a goof. “I’d really like your cooperation here, Charlie.” Oh. Oh. Charlie? He only called me Charlie when he was boiling mad. “Could you cut me a little slack?”

  Since I was sitting on my knife at the time and couldn’t cut much of anything I leaned over to whisper in his ear. “Leo has plans. Big plans for three weeks down the road.” Then I yelled. “And don’t tell that simpleton you’re about to hire as your lawyer.”

  Chapter Four

  JACK’S MONEY WAS BEGINNING TO look good on me. From my posh room on the thirty-third floor of the Oceanic Hotel I had a panoramic view of the North Shore. I also had several adult films to view via the tube, plus a smart-bar clever enough to send virtual messages to a refueling station on Mars. Across the sound, Jack’s mansion loomed on the mountainside, lonely with the fierce opinions all gone. It would be quiet over there without the Jones women and their habitual raving against this or rhapsodizing over that and Jack would no doubt be wrestling with his conscience, about the only exercise he could manage without falling down. ‘It’s all about consequences, Jack.’

  Inspector Charlie was on a case, on Leo’s case, and Leo was about to receive a glamorous guest. As the door opened wide the visitor whisked right past Willy Chan, as though she’d never caught him fighting in the hallways of 33 Terrace Place or kissing girls. Julia Mattingly strode into the living room full speed.

  “Leo! How nice of you to invite me up to lunch.”

  Talk about intimidation! Julia looked fierce in her tight black suit and with her dark hair twisting into a knot. Leo’s fingers trembled. He was scared of her — scared of her elegance, of her assuredness, of her crisp bones and wispy silhouette levitating through the room like a ghost, smiting him dead in his Birkenstocks and socks. But he did gain the courage to clear his throat. “My extreme pleasure, Mrs. Mattingly.”

  Lunch arrived. Ham sandwiches and watercress sandwiches. Leo had done his homework. After arranging the lunch on the red flowered plates, Willy escaped the room.

  They ate in silence, Leo shoving only a quarter sandwich into his cavern, then applying a napkin to the corners of his mouth. With long red fingernails Julia picked apart her lunch, giving some thought as to what may be edible and what might not. Mostly not.

  Willy returned to collect the plates and to pour the brandy, a surprise move on Leo’s part since he didn’t drink alcohol.

  “I understand you are a connoisseur of fine spirits, Mrs. Mattingly.”

  Julia looked pleased. “Indeed, I am. And 1973 vintage Napoleon suits me well.”

  Leo beamed. He pressed the snifter against his nose and extended his pinkie like a birddog’s tail. “It’s good business brandy. I am about to make you an offer.”

  Shortly after Julia exited the Royal Suite one of several mobile phones on the desk rang and Leo snatched it up. “They’re here, Mr. Chan,” he hollered. “Go down and get them.”

  Soon the service elevator clanged and when the door to Leo’s suite flew open my chin hit my chest. There they were! The big boys. Four of the most formidable dudes on the planet. Enter the boss, Richard the Cleaver Chang, who stretched well above six-feet and oozed an air of importance, a presence mostly acquired at maturity, not mastered at thirty-three. He was a handsome devil too, with chiseled Asian features and the sharp eyes of a falcon. He meant business in his expensive, dark-olive suit and with his hair slicked seriously back, like he was suddenly DeNiro late for a funeral on the lot. There wasn’t a smile to be found anywhere on his face.

  On Richard’s heels marched King Kong Chin, the Butcher, beady-eyed, balding and anxious, while Fat Freddy Fong, with no eyes to speak of, trudged along behind. Lastly, and most deadly according to the rumor mill, traipsed Sweet Shorty Poo, teetering on platform shoes and still not measuring five feet tall.

  I was like an awestruck kid. I mean, scientists could launch a spaceship to Pluto with the energy in that room. I found myself smiling and wondering if these boys, as children, had played street games against other little kids who carried knives and won. Richard looked like a winner to me. And as for Shorty, well. I’d soon learn not to make fun of Shorty Poo.

  Startled, I leapt when my iPhone rang.

  “What’s up?” barked Jack.

  “Charlie!” boomed Shoeshine. “We’ve been missing you here at the warehouse.”

  “Yeah, right,”

  “We do, though,” Tony said. “We miss your big mug.”

  “Thanks, guys.” I could picture the three of them kibitzing in Jack’s office and sipping afternoon whisky. They’d be missing me, alright, having no one to bully. “You’ll never guess who just walked in next door.”

  “Who?” they asked in unison.

  “The big boys.”

  “What?” Jack said excitedly. “You mean the Cleaver?”

  “Yes, the Jack. The
Cleaver. And King. Also Fat Freddie and Shorty Poo.”

  “Shorty Poo is a gourmet cook,” Tony quipped.

  Well, that was Tony. Full of useful tidbits.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I don’t know how I know. I just know. I thought everyone knew.”

  I doubted it since Shorty rarely came out in the open.

  “What are they saying?” Jack asked.

  “Shush! So I can hear. They’re saying something about the Port. And a warehouse. There’s a contract out on someone. A big man. With curly hair. And a fat behind. John somebody. No. No. It’s Jones. Jack Jones.”

  Dead silence.

  “Guys?”

  Nothing.

  “I was just kidding! They’re speaking Chinese. How would I know what they’re saying?”

  An uneasy pause.

  “That’s not very funny,” Tony barked.

  “That’s not funny at all,” Shoeshine boomed.

  “You little brat,” Jack hollered. “I ought to take you over my knee.”

  I giggled. “You’ve done that before. I don’t know whether it’s Cantonese or Mandarin. And Willy’s no help. He’s out in the hallway schmoozing with the firepower, the goons accompanying the brass.”

  “You’re mean, Charlie,” Tony whined.

  “It’s how I stay alive.”

  “Bring the disc over tonight. I’ll translate for Jack. But I still don’t think you’re funny.”

  Shoeshine cleared his throat. “Not funny at all.”

  Chapter Five

  INSIDE THE CHINESE RESTAURANT PLATTERS sizzled as waiters in white jackets scurried by. I was sitting there in a foul mood toying with the idea of sticking my foot out, just to see how far a waiter would fly before dumping a tray of food on someone’s lap. In the name of science, I mean. It was a simple physics experiment designed to take my mind off placing my hands on a scrawny neck and squeezing. Overcoat’s scrawny neck, to be exact. Across the table from me Marco Midolo had parked his skinny ass beside Jillian and was drooling like a Pavlovian dog.

  So, I was in a particularly foul mood because Jack had been right about Overcoat’s ability to charm his daughter back onside. Mission accomplished. Only minutes into lunch Jillian was giggling like a schoolgirl and agreeing to talk to Jack by phone. And giving Marco the cow eyes. Yikes! It pissed me off that Leonard the Letch had been replaced faster than a light bulb, since I was beginning to like him better now dead.

  Marco lowered his voice three octaves, like he was suddenly Lorne Green on his last Bonanza ride. “Jack never told me he had a beautiful daughter.”

  Never? Like he’d known Jack all of two days. The loser.

  I raised my voice like bad guys in western movies tend to do. “Pa Cartwright doesn’t wear silly purple rags, Overcoat. So get back on your horse dude and ride out of town.”

  He shot me a quizzical look. Of course, he didn’t get it. Oh, no. He was much too busy seducing Jillian with his coal-black, glassy eyes.

  ”A beyond beautiful daughter.”

  I patted my gun. For this I’d given up watching Leo eat?

  Jillian didn’t like my squinty eyes. “Charlie and I grew up together, Marco. We’re like sister and brother.” The message was clear. I wasn’t in the picture and never would be.

  I could feel my upper lip curling into a snarl. Maybe Overcoat was going to go where Leonard supposedly went. I could even picture myself mixing the cement.

  Marco smacked his chops. “Like brother and sister then.”

  She nodded vigorously. “But Charlie is Jack’s favorite. He’s going to inherit the gang.”

  “Jillian’s only going to inherit the money,” I said feebly.

  She tossed back her long blond curls. “It’s not that simple. You see, it’s very sexist. I’m the one that should get the gang. I’m the tough one. I’m the Greenpeace whacko, the one who chains herself to trees. I’d tend Jack’s guys like a Collie if he’d only give me the chance.”

  Autobiography. Using me as a prop.

  Overcoat was wolfing down his food like a wilderness survivor. Eat up, buddy, I was thinking. This may very well be your last dim sum.

  But Jillian was on a roll. “Charlie is a McGill grad. He speaks poor French and can hardly read the cereal box now. In either language.”

  Overcoat laughed his head off. “I know French. Darling je vous aime beaucoup,” he sang an inch from Jillian’s nose. He slid his arm around the back of her chair.

  That did it for me. I threw down my napkin and pushed back my chair. “By the way, Overcoat. In case you haven’t noticed it isn’t raining in here. Unless bullshit counts.”

  So much for a day away from Jack. The call was arranged for four p.m. and I arrived at the warehouse shortly before. “She won’t see you but she’ll talk to you by phone.”

  Jack sat slumped at his desk. “What are her demands?”

  “A little crow. Humble pie. She can’t be certain about what happened to Leonard. No one can other than you. And possibly Shoeshine.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t be so sure.”

  I met his glare. “I’m pretty sure.”

  “You might be surprised.”

  “I won’t be.”

  Standoff. We sat there drinking coffee, shitty coffee that Trish had spiked with a substance I could not, and would not, identify out of fear.

  Jack was sweating. He had just the one chance to make it right with his daughter and if he blew it, well… “Get her on the phone, will you, Hamster?”

  “You got a broken finger, Jack?”

  As it turned out, he did. Three of them from punching walls. Leo, in the process of taking over his company, had riled him.

  “Trish!” I hollered.

  Trish came to the door. “Yeah, Charlie?”

  “How are you at dialing phones?”

  She shot me a filthy look. “This good.” The lovely redhead’s eyes disappeared into her head and her mouth stretched across her face like she was transforming into Beast Wars. Then out popped the longest, reddest tongue I’d ever seen. She stomped away.

  Jack snorted. “You’re batting a thousand, Hamster.”

  My mind searched the warehouse for someone else to coerce. Hughie and Bob Along, for instance, ranked below me on the org chart but were proven fighters and tended to work together in pairs. While Sammy in the Tree might be wrestled to the ground even I couldn’t stoop low enough to level a senior. I picked up the phone. “Speaker, sir?”

  He nodded.

  “I only want to know one thing,” Jillian said in a tiny voice. “I want to know what happened to Leonard.”

  Jack cleared his throat. “Would you believe that Leonard is an alien? And that he’s gone back to his ship?”

  Silence.

  Good start, Jack. I shook my head.

  “Would you believe me if I said that I don’t know?”

  “No.”

  “Would you believe me if I said that I heard something.”

  “Like what?”

  “I heard that he went away.”

  “Where?”

  His round green eyes pleaded with me but I only managed a shrug. Good thing he couldn’t hear the giggles caught in my throat.

  “They didn’t exactly say. The people who told me this.”

  Click.

  “Women!” he hollered. “Who needs them?”

  Chapter Six

  DARK CLOUDS CAME ROLLING IN from the North Shore bringing with them a sense of uneasiness. Tension gripped the Loyal Suite where Leo frantically tried to hedge his bet throughout the day. He paced. He sat at his computer for only seconds at a time before leaping up to pace again like a cougar on the prowl. Buying and selling the controlling interest in North American companies, legal or otherwise, was taking a toll on old Leo who often rubbed his sticky baldhead. In the adjoining office avarice Willy kept busy by stretching Richard’s empire down the coast to California, as coded emails went flying back and forth. But he wasn’t sharing
anything with me. “You’re the PI, Charlie,” he told me. “Figure it out.”

  Simultaneously, Julia sat in a boardroom with her high-priced lawyers pouring over the fine print on Leo’s offer, while Jack and Marco prepared to stall her in court. Anxiety cut the air. I took to drinking in the morning just to settle the jitters. Well, in my own defense it wasn’t really drinking in the traditional sense of the word. No, it was just crème de menthe from the hotel mini bar, several little bottles of mouthwash, since nobody actually drank the stuff except accidentally, which would be me. It wasn’t whiskey, you realize, or anything quite so nasty.

  According to Tony’s translation the heroin was en route and due to arrive at the Vancouver Port on or about May fifteenth. On May fifth Leo sent Julia a Ming vase, which Julia, on principle, declined. On May tenth he sent a diamond necklace, also declined. Funny that. She wanted to screw Jack but she wanted to do it ethically. On May fourteenth Leo received a summons from the law. Jack had been granted an injunction and the case would proceed to court, September ninth.

  Poor Leo. I almost felt sorry for the little criminal as he took to his sofa, hugging pillows and howling like a banshee, shaking like an electric chair victim. Leo, in fact, took crying to a new level of noise, likely scaring hotel guests three floors below. In due time Willy appeared with a blanket and a whack of sedatives.

  “There, there,” he said, wisely standing at arm’s length from the thrasher. “Take these, sir. They’ll help.”

  Leo slapped the water glass out of Willy’s hand. “I don’t do drugs.”

  I headed for the mini-bar muttering, “So, let me see. Taking drugs is different than selling drugs, you little creep.”

  “They’re aspirin, sir. Just aspirin. If you chew a couple they’ll help your headache.”

  “Did I say I have a headache?” Leo barked.

  “Well, you have something.” Willy didn’t crack a smile. “You sound like you’re in pain.”

  Having sadly slipped into the loud sighing stage, Leo sat up. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt.” He wiped his tears with his sleeve. “I suppose I could take a couple.”