by Mark Coggins
My personal favorite was the woman who held an infant swaddled in blankets close to her chest and looked up at you with mournful eyes as you approached. The last time I had dug into my pocket to give her some change, I realized the “baby” she held was really a plastic doll and rapped it sharply on the head with the quarter I’d retrieved. “Sounds a little hollow in there,” I said. This prompted a string of invectives, followed by a quick series of blows to my head as the woman swung the baby doll by the foot like a club.
I waded through the sea of tourists and panhandlers near the cable car turnaround without incident, and went east down Market toward the Ferry Building. Only a little ways on, I paused to indulge in a superstitious ritual of mine by tapping the Samuel’s Jewelers street clock, then headed into the lobby of the Flood Building at 870 Market where I had my office. I rented a couple of rooms on the twelfth floor near the back. The front room I subleased to an insurance agent, and he and the part-time secretary we shared occupied it. The back room I kept for myself.
The insurance agent was named Ben Bonacker, and he was without question the biggest horse’s ass on the planet. The secretary was named Gretchen Sabatini-and we had once been engaged.
I came through the door and dropped the two questionnaires I filled out the day before on the outgoing mail stack. Bonacker was standing by the coffee machine pouring sugar into his coffee cup at the rate a cement mixer pours concrete. He was about fifty years old, about five feet eight inches tall, and had a belly like a Hefty bag filled with Jell-O. He had white hair, a white beard, and a ruddy complexion from too much drinking. His teeth were large and obviously capped, yet through nature or lack of skill on the dentist’s part, his uppers protruded in a significant overbite. He was wearing one of the two business suits in his closet-a powder blue number from JC Penney-with suspenders, a threadbare dress shirt, and a tie that looked like it had been used to wipe out a soiled petri dish.
“Riordan, you little pecker head!” he said affably. “How the hell are you?”
“Swell, Ben, just swell. Remember how I promised to feed your face into the document shredder the next time you called me a pecker head?”
Bonacker blanched and stepped back involuntarily, causing the flow of sugar to shift from his coffee cup to the top of his stomach, and from there to the floor. “Shit,” he said, and thrust his cup and the sugar container down to brush himself off. “Lighten up, buddy. I’m just trying to make with the friendly here.” He gave me a smile that was about as genuine as the capped teeth it exposed. “Say, I heard a joke that I know you’ll like.”
Every time you saw Bonacker he had at least one new joke, usually involving a recent disaster, minorities, or a bodily function. I knew from experience there was no way to duck this one.
“What’s the gift that keeps on giving?” he asked with a broad grin.
“You got me.”
“A fart cut in a revolving door.”
I rolled my eyes and walked past him to Gretchen’s desk, which was a few feet from my office. She looked up at me with an amused expression, and said, “Good morning, Auggie. You should count yourself lucky. I’ve already heard it three times.”
I generally liked people shortening my first name to Auggie about as well as I like them calling me pecker head, and I had fought innumerable battles in grade school to make the point stick. But I didn’t mind it when Gretchen did it because she was, well, Gretchen. The product of a second-generation German mother, and a first-generation Italian father, she never got the joke when I called her my “Axis Powers girl” during the time we were going out. Her eyes were a devastating cornflower blue, and seen without makeup, they looked touchingly like those of a young child. She had a lithe figure with an extremely narrow waist and beautiful, shoulder-length auburn hair that women were forever asking her where she had cut-as if the same hairstyle would somehow equate to the same luxuriant locks. While her nose was small, she had inherited the shape of her father’s heavy Italian schnozz, and that and the freckles that dusted her chest were her least favorite features. I loved them both-along with the rest of her.
We had been engaged for about six months when I broke it off because I felt hemmed in and burdened by the need to support her financially. She took it in stride and within two weeks was going out with a rich urologist she met while sailing on the bay with friends. I was intensely jealous and on the verge of asking her back when she came into the office one day with two skinned knees and a couple of skinned elbows. “What in the world happened to you?” I asked.
“Rug burn,” she said with a mischievous smile.
Hearing that cut my heart out and cauterized the wound in a single step. I never thought of us together again.
I said good morning to Gretchen and walked past her into my office. Nobody was beating down my door to feature pictures of it in Architectural Digest: it looked like the office of a vice-principal in a poor school district. I knew because I’d bought everything at an auction when the school burned down. There was a large gray metal desk with a Formica top and touch of smoke damage, two gray metal chairs with no arms and very little upholstery for clients, and a hard, wooden swivel chair behind the desk on which I could play the William Tell Overture in squeaks. The only things that made the office mine were a couple of framed black and white pictures of my favorite bass players. Those, and the half dozen or so paper cups of rancid coffee with spots of mold floating on top I was too lazy to clean up.
I plopped down in the swivel chair and began sorting through the mail and phone messages Gretchen had left on the desk blotter for me. There were two messages from Bishop so I dragged the phone over and dialed his number.
I could tell right away that he was cranky. “Riordan,” he almost shouted. “Just what have you been up to in the last twenty-four hours?”
“Oh, let’s see. I’ve been to a drag bar, done a spot of breaking and entering, and watched a very interesting porno tape. All in all, it’s been a spanking good time. Why, what’s it to you?”
“Whatever you’ve been doing, you’ve stirred up trouble-trouble for me. Last night I got a threatening phone call. I was told to stop hounding Terri McCulloch and to call off my private investigator.”
I sat up a little straighter. “Did you recognize the caller?”
“No, it was a man and he was obviously trying to disguise his voice. However, I don’t think he reckoned on my having caller ID, and I recorded the phone number from which he called.”
Bishop read the number off to me and then I explained to him about my own call and told him I thought the numbers were the same but would double-check. I ended with, “What I don’t get is how Terri’s friend-if that’s who he is-knew so quickly that I was involved. Have you told anyone you were hiring me?”
“No one apart from my lawyer. I assumed the call was triggered by an over-zealous pursuit of the software on your part, perhaps in conversations with Terri herself.”
“I never got that far. She hasn’t been home. If neither of us has told her about my involvement, that leaves only Roland Teller at Mephisto software. He wasn’t any too happy yesterday to hear that Terri McCulloch had ripped him off. It’s conceivable he got hold of her and gave her an earful.”
Bishop produced one of his wheezing fur ball laughs, which over the phone sounded like the cat was in an iron lung. “That’s certainly possible, given Mr. Teller’s pugnacious reputation in the industry. However, it does beg the question of why Teller seems able to locate Terri McCulloch more easily than you. I’ve already given you her address and phone number. Would you like me to prepare a map as well?”
“Let me dish the sarcasm, Mr. Bishop. I’m a trained professional. I’ll locate Terri all right, but in the meantime I suggest you have your lawyer contact Mephisto and encourage them to put on hold any plans they have for your software. My sources tell me Mephisto is very close to releasing a variety of products based on the program, and I don’t think we want that happening before we can prove ownership.�
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“Yes, that point had occurred to me. I’ll take care of it today.”
I said good-bye after promising to get to the bottom of the phone calls, and then put in a couple of hours working on a report for another client. I was trying to decide whether to hide a whopping bar tab under “fees paid for information” (i.e., bribes) or “mileage, parking, and tolls” when Gretchen sauntered into the office, closed the door, and leaned against it negligently. I noticed for the first time that she was wearing a black linen jacket with a pleated black skirt. But then, she always wore black.
“You have a visitor, Mr. Riordan,” she said in a tone that sounded more like I had a social disease.
“Oh, yeah? What’s its name?”
“Jodie something-or-other. But I suspect most people know her by her title: ‘Ms. D Cup of Northern California.’”
“That’s right,” I said. “It slipped my mind. The pageant committee asked me to do a credentials certification. Send her right in.”
Gretchen mumbled, “Little boys,” pulled open the door, exited. A moment later, Jodie something-or-other of bikini and Monopoly fame stepped in.
JODIE’S TIP
SHE WORE A SHORT WHITE DRESS MADE of neoprene rubber. It fit like a milk bath. A silver-colored zipper with a large pull ring ran down the middle. Zipped as far as the tensile strength of the rubber would permit, it still exposed enough to certify her member in good standing, D-cup Delegation. Two more zippers for pockets were installed above her hips, on the off chance she wanted to tote around a dime or a postage stamp.
She wore matching white pumps, dangling silver earrings, and a silver Egyptian ankh on a chain around her neck. If she were wearing anything else, I’d have needed a CAT scan or a strip search to find it.
“I feel like I’ve been sent to the principal’s office,” she said, taking in the room and its meager contents.
“Vice-principal, actually. But I’ve been empowered to act on his authority. Have a seat and I’ll adjudicate your case.”
I struggled to keep my eyes above her waist as she sat down in one of the hard metal chairs and crossed her legs. “Adjudicate?” she said. “Is that something we can do sitting down?”
“You’re probably thinking of something else. I just meant I would decide what punishment to give you.”
She grinned at me. “I know what adjudicate means, Mr. Riordan. My dad happens to be a judge of the District Appellate Court. I was just pushing your buttons.”
“I’ll say. So, can I get you something? A cup of coffee? A diamond mine in South Africa? My heart on a platter?”
“You’re sweet. I don’t need anything right now, especially coffee.” She gestured at the many half-filled cups around the room. “It looks like you’ve got too many cups already.”
“Doctor’s orders. Keeps the humidity up.”
She nodded at me like I’d said something important. I felt the pressure of a growing silence. When I couldn’t take it any longer, I tilted my chair back with a loud squeak and said, “I forget. Did I call this meeting or did you?”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m not sure what to say. I hate going behind Edwin’s back.”
“I take it you have something to tell me about the chess software.”
“More or less.” She picked up the Egyptian ankh and began moving it back and forth on the chain in front of her chest. It was very distracting. “Look,” she said abruptly, “it’s like this. I’m pretty sure that Terri did take the software. There’s been a lot of bad blood between her and Edwin, and I wouldn’t put it past her to take it from him when he kicked her out. But she’s a good friend of mine, and I don’t want to see her get into any more trouble. She’s already screwed up enough as it is.”
“You don’t want Terri to get into trouble,” I said. “Check. But what specifically did you want me to know?”
Jodie sighed and let the ankh fall back to her chest. “I suppose it’s nothing that you wouldn’t have found out eventually, but before I tell you I want you to promise that you’ll protect Terri. Once you convince her to give the software back, you’ve got to keep Edwin from filing charges against her with the police.”
“I can’t guarantee that. There are too many variables outside my control. Terri might not have held onto the software, or she might refuse to give it back. If she does have it and agrees to return it, Bishop might still want his pound of flesh. And if the cops aren’t brought in by Bishop, they could get in some other way, like through Mephisto.”
Jodie thought for a moment, then said, “Okay, just promise you’ll do your best for her. However things turn out.”
“All right, I promise. Now what’s the deal-have you got her waiting downstairs in the car?”
“No, but I know where she’s working.”
“Where then?”
“At a place called The Power Station.”
“I gather we’re not talking about generation of electricity here.”
“No, it’s an S&M club.”
I picked a paper clip off my desk and began bending it into a miniature version of Rodin’s The Gates of Hell. Either that or a badly formed letter C-I wasn’t sure which. “That’s just swell,” I said. “This isn’t under the same management as The Stigmata by any chance?”
“I’ve never heard of that,” she said.
“Never mind, not your kind of place. So what’s Terri doing at The Power Station? Handing out towels in the locker room. That sort of thing?”
Jodie giggled. “The dungeon would be more like it. And she’s probably handing out a lot more than towels.”
“I suppose I asked for that. Where is this place and how do I get into it? I mean do I have to flash my piercings at the door?”
“It’s in North Beach, in the old brewery on Chestnut near Powell. You can walk right in. There’s a public section that’s open to everyone. There’s also a private section for club members that you need a referral to get into. I can set you up with that if you want.”
I flung the paper clip into the waste can and leaned forward over the desk. “Jodie, what’s the story with you girls? Are you all into this stuff? And for that matter, what in the heck are you doing with Bishop at all?”
Jodie made an impatient gesture. “Next you’re going to ask what my parents would think. We’re not living in Saudi Arabia here, Mr. Riordan. Women don’t have to wear veils and kowtow to men. I don’t happen to be into the S&M scene, but I’d never judge Terri for participating-there’s something to be said for kicking a little male behind and getting paid while you’re at it. As for Edwin, I’m very happy to be with him. He’s intelligent, he treats me well, and he really asks very little in return.”
That was more dignity and strength of will than I expected from her side of the table. It didn’t make her right, though. “You win that round on points,” I said. “Let’s get back to Terri. What I want to know is why Bishop kicked her out in the first place.”
“She was doing drugs.”
“What sort of drugs?”
“Several kinds I guess. I know she did Special K and Edwin told me she also shot heroin.”
“Better and better,” I said. “By ‘Special K’ you mean that stuff they invented to knock out rogue elephants?”
“Yes, Ketamine. It’s some kind of animal tranquilizer. That and Ecstasy are the drugs of choice for the rave set.”
“What happened exactly? Did Bishop catch her shooting up one day and kick her out, or did he work his way up to it?”
Jodie pushed the heels of her hands into the seat cushion, lifted herself up, and recrossed her legs. I nearly had an out of body experience. “Edwin knew she’d been taking drugs for some time,” she said. “He kept trying to get her to stop, but one day she OD’d on Special K and he had to rush her to the hospital. After she came home, they had a big fight and he told her she couldn’t stay.”
“Did she leave immediately after the fight? Or did he give her time to find a new place and so on?”
“No, she didn’t leave immediately. She would have had enough time at the house before she left to take the software.”
“When’s the last time you spoke with her?”
“She called the day she got the job at The Power Station to tell me about it. That was about a week ago. I haven’t talked to her since.”
That seemed a tad unlikely. “You mean you didn’t get hold of her once Bishop discovered the software was missing?”
“I tried. I called and left messages and I even drove over to her apartment one evening. She doesn’t seem to have been there much.”
“And there was no talk about taking the software or getting even with Bishop in any of your prior conversations?”
Jodie hugged herself and shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Look,” she said with some asperity. “I told you that I think she took the software. She never said word one about it to me, but she was extremely upset with Edwin, and she can do some pretty crazy and irresponsible things at times. Her relationship with him has always been very-well, very charged. It’s different than Lisa’s and mine. Anyway, the way things were between them, what happened doesn’t surprise me.”
“You mean when you have someone literally licking your boots, it’s pretty easy to graduate to ripping them off?”
“That’s not very nice, Mr. Riordan.”
“I suppose not,” I said. “I haven’t been keeping up with my blue green algae, so it’s probably the result of a selenium deficiency-whatever that is.”
Jodie’s lips curled provocatively. She said, “Maybe it’s because you’re not getting laid.”
Now this was a girl who had deep insight into the human condition. Suffering from a sudden inability to focus on the topic at hand, I wrapped up the discussion of Terri McCulloch by asking Jodie for the address of The Power Station and a pass to the back room. She pulled an engraved card from her purse that had nothing but the name of the place written in gothic script and a Chestnut Street address and phone number in small print on the bottom. She asked for a pen and wrote, “I nominate August Riordan” with her signature on the back of the card before passing it over.
