by Gary Starta
“I can’t see colors.” She was not color blind, she just didn’t care to be led by her sight when it came to visual cues. “And if I did, I wouldn’t even know how to appreciate them. I can’t be bothered with looking at a sunset, a flower garden. I don’t even know why you tell me I’m beautiful. I don’t see it. But I know you’re wired to see it. You fucking guys are all the same. Some of my bozos even see beauty in the lines of their precious sports cars. Now ain’t that fucked up? These shit heads got themselves believing they can see beauty. But they’re just seeing the kind of beauty corporate America wants them to see. Pretty legs in a skirt—a sleek sports car—a nice big flat screen television. If they could actually see beauty, they’d be home complimenting their wives, having sex with them and not me.”
She needed to expand her argument in a way that might finally discourage Jay. She cleared her throat, pivoted in her chair to face him and stared directly into Jay’s sea foam green eyes. “And the longer you hang around with a vampire, the more they’re going to bleed you dry.” Her laugh was coarse. “Well, not literally. I would never hurt you—physically. But I’ll just drag you down with me—I’ll be an albatross hanging around your neck. And there’s nothing wrong with you, that’s not why I’m rejecting you. You’re normal. So normal you could go find a real woman.” She paused. “You’ve got a respectable job. And sometimes . . . I do wish I could be like you. Walk the streets all noble and good. But I’m not that. Not everyone can be that.” Her eyes hardened. “Understand . . . Sugarman?”
“Promise me you’ll think about my offer.”
He had offered her a chance to quit street walking: live with him while she found a career; use the money he paid her as a client to help her reclaim her soul; could go to a doctor; buy some respectful clothing. Get her shit together.
She rolled her eyes. Her ‘vampire’ act still had not broken him.
But maybe it wasn’t all about her. She had heard his plea before. Each time, she wondered if he was offering to help her or help himself. He wanted to atone for what he called the failure of a career. He said he couldn’t right the wrongs that victimized clients. But she didn’t quite believe that. She had seen a spark in his eyes when he mentioned the words ‘help’ and ‘avenge.’ He said his clients had all been victimized. They were jilted wives reeling from failed marriages or gullible SOB’s who invested their life savings with shyster brokerage firms. She wasn’t convinced her actions would appease Jay. Would one single righteous act take the sting out of every psychological bite Jay had ever experienced? Or would it just make him feel empowered? It might encourage him to take other people’s private matters into his own hands; to right a bunch of wrongs . . .
When he finally drove her back downtown, she envisioned herself as one of many desperate piranhas in a sea. She fucking hated it, but it was her life. Jay had his empty life. They made a pathetic, desperate pair.
Chapter 2
“Lynn . . . Lynn . . . the city of sin . . .”
Jay hummed the old ditty about the city of Lynn as he sat in his car, waiting for a cheating husband to slip up. He was sure he could garner substantial evidence to confirm Dan Collins had been sleeping around on his wife, Therese. He had some audio, recorded from his car with a gadget that could pick up a conversation from nearly half a football field away. He listened to talk and noises in the house of Anna Wong—the woman Dan was screwing. A doctor of holistic health, Wong poked people with needles for a living. Dan Collins had begun seeing her a few weeks before, seeking a cure for back pain. According to Therese, the acupuncturist had been doing wonders for her husband. Yet Dan also told Therese that the doctor warned the pain might come back without repeated therapy. At first, Therese suspected Dr. Wong of only bilking her husband. Then, when she found her husband to be very uncomfortable describing Dr. Wong’s methods, she realized being bilked was the least of her problems.
“They’ve been intimate, I’m sure of it,” Therese had told Jay a few days earlier. Jay didn’t doubt his client’s intuition. In fact, he believed Ms. Collins could have probably obtained her own evidence of the affair. Therese probably feared getting caught tailing her husband. Dan would know her car. Still, the real reason Therese wasn’t confronting her husband might be denial.
People needed an outsider to validate their worst fears. That’s why Jay had steady business. His clients needed someone else to pull up the carpet and see the nasty bugs lurking underneath. It’s often quite a slap in their face, a bruise of their ego, to realize they’d been played by someone they once confided in. His job as an investigator was no different than a cop’s. He uncovered the dirt, held it up in the light of day and let the court mete out justice. Yet, the court’s justice was just a slap on the wrist for the offender.
Dan Collins’ actions had opened a wound that would never heal. Only monetary compensation, alimony, could be awarded to Therese; no amount of money could heal an emotional scar. It baffled Jay that Lucy didn’t see this. The money she made sustained her physical being, but did nothing to sustain her spirit.
A door opened, breaking Jay’s train of thought. He turned the key and his hybrid Accord came quietly to life. He had a hunch that today would be the day he got a break. Dan Collins and Anna Wong exited the residence, a two-story colonial. They were smiling as they stepped onto the circular driveway. The situation of the drive probably made it easy for delivery people to visit the house. Or, for people like Dan Collins, to allow easy access and egress.
Jay’s audio recordings insinuated the pair’s intimacy. He had their groans and sighs on tape. Still, Jay wanted visual documentation. It would help Therese Collins take what little vengeance she could on Dan. He watched as they walked to their separate cars. He had a feeling they were going to meet somewhere else. It was nothing more than a detective’s intuition, much like Therese Collins’ suspicions of her husband’s infidelity.
As he waited for them to exit the drive, a man in a brown suit pulled up in a UPS van. The driver jumped out and waved to Ms. Wong. She waved back and said something Jay couldn’t quite hear—he had already disabled his eavesdropping device. The courier dropped a package near Wong’s doorstep. Jay hesitated, wondering if the package would somehow incriminate the adulterers. Then, following his instinct, he decided to tail the couple; he was sure they were up to something. Dan Collins’ Audi idled as he waited for Wong to follow him.
Twenty minutes later, they arrived at Central Square. They parked, exited their cars and walked hand in hand to a CVS pharmacy. Jay zoomed in on them just in time to capture the moment on a memory card. Wong was carrying a package.
I wonder what she’s carrying. Probably condoms. I guess that’s why they postponed sex. Jay captured another incriminating moment, their kiss.
Jay had no time to enjoy his evidence. The couple was no doubt headed back to Wong’s, no doubt ready to take hand holding to the next level. Reversing his route, the PI hoped to beat the couple back to Wong’s place but ten minutes later found him stalled at an intersection. It was a school day and a crossing guard motioned for children to cross in front of Jay’s noiseless hybrid.
Flexing his hands to ward off stress, Jay swore under his breath. Damn, they probably took an alternate route.
Sure enough, Jay found the couple had indeed beaten him to Wong’s moments later. He flexed his hand again sure Wong would retrieve the package. Yet she approached the door walking arm in arm with Collins. Where did the package go? More importantly, what was in it?
Jay sat and pondered, staring at the residence through binoculars. Wong and Collins had already enter Had someone taken the package? He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He pondered what it contained. Okay, it could just be her medical supplies. Or, possibly something for Collins. He dismissed the conundrum. It didn’t really matter what the package contained—he had enough evidence to give to his client. Ms. Collins would receive proof of her husband’s adultery later in the evening.
***
Jay
had some time to kill. He fought the afternoon traffic to Brian’s Bar to meet Sid. As he drove, he tuned his HD radio to a classic rock station. Sting sang a Police hit. It was the same song that had played when he was with Lucy.
Despite his concern for Lucy’s welfare and his anger at Dan Collins for screwing around on his wife, the song managed to lift Jay’s spirits a bit. Maybe hearing the song again so soon was some kind of message, possibly the universe was dispensing some wisdom. Hope springs eternal. He even managed to find a parking space on his first pass down Ruggles Street where the bar was located.
Inside the bar was dark. Dark was the way Sid liked it. Sid had expressed on more than one occasion that he liked the anonymity the bar gave him. When Jay entered, his friend was already seated at his favorite booth, his hand curled around a glass.
“Why you so happy?” Sid asked. “Geez, you usually skulk in here, shoulders hunched, expecting the worst from life.” He emptied his glass and asked the barmaid for a refill. “Ah, I know. You had an afternoon rendezvous with your woman.”
“No such luck,” Jay answered. “I got a break on my investigation today.”
Jay explained Dr. Wong had been ‘treating’ Dan Collins. Sarcasm drained all the cheer of just moments earlier from his face.
Sid tried to play off the tension with humor—as usual. Jay kept his eyes focused on Sid’s posture even while the curvy barmaid refilled his glass.
“So that’s ironic. Good ol’ Dan is poking the acupuncturist. Serves the needle-stabbing bitch right.” Sid grimaced.
Jay wasn’t sure if Sid’s anger was really about Dan.
Sid arched his back and chugged. Jay could actually hear him swallow above the din of the bar. Man that’s gotta hurt—but I wouldn’t mind some comfort.
The subject of alcohol made Jay yearn for something stiffer than his regular non-alcoholic beer. He wanted to join Sid for a moment, to fall into his same cynical niche of self absorption his cop friend hid in, allowing the worst actions of humanity to roll off him as if they were nothing more than beads of water. But he knew, deep down, that even alcohol wouldn’t cause him to be so detached and clinical—not even for a minute. He was an investigator because he cared. He sometimes wondered how fate let Sid be the cop and not himself. And maybe that was just it. A caring cop had a quick expiration date. Maybe police training was why Sid came off so gruff at times. Jay let habit dictate his choice of drink and ordered a non-alcoholic brew from the cute young barmaid, Denise. He watched Sid eye Denise’s backside as she sauntered away to fill the order.
He decided to change the subject completely. “So things good with you and Nancy?”
“Good as can be, fella.” Sid smiled dopily. Jay surmised the sudden change from grimacing to grinning was not because Sid was happy about his marriage, but because his senses had become dulled by alcohol.
“You know, come to think of it, I kind of enjoy my breaks from Nancy. You better watch out, my friend. Maybe your Lucy friend will stop street walking and become your bride after all. Then you can spend your days on guard. Fearing to speak.”
“Fearing to speak?”
“Don’t be so naïve. You must have encountered it somewhere in your long history of meaningless trysts. Eventually a woman, or significant other”—he grunted—“will attempt to control and edit every damn thing you’ve got to say. Suddenly every topic is controversial. Not the big things like how you’ll pay insurance or taxes, but the itty bitty ones like a crumb on a table, the fucking way you pronounce a word or even a fly buzzing around the house. Say what comes to mind and you’ll be volunteering yourself for a verbal thrashing—if not worse.” Jay noticed Sid’s speech was slurring, sounding a lot like the mobster character he remembered his buddy imitated back in high school. He didn’t know if it was the anger or the alcohol—or both.
Jay desperately wanted to drop the subject. The song that had lifted his spirits earlier came to mind. He told Sid about the Police song.
“You got an HD radio, Sid? You ought to get one.”
“I have it. It’s in the wife’s car. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, she lets me drive it.”
He sensed the new subject matter was only aggrandizing Sid’s pity party.
He sipped his faux beer in silence. Sid rubbed at the mark on his forehead. Jay observed this habit whenever Sid grew uneasy.
“Sorry to be such an asshole. I know we come here to unwind about things.”
Jay held up his free hand as if a stop sign. With the other he polished off his drink. “No need to apologize, buddy.”
“So, are you seeing Lucy tonight?”
“No. I’ve got an appointment with Therese Collins. I’ll finish up business with her, apprise her of the evidence, and collect my final check.”
“You’re a good soul, Jay. Some PI’s might milk another week or two.”
“Well, that’s not my style, besides I’ve got another case tomorrow: a runaway. Family doesn’t want police involved. They don’t even want me to confront her. Should be another easy gig.”
“Why don’t you give me her name, pal? I can always keep an eye and ear out for her. Don’t worry I won’t confront her. I’ll call you with any leads.”
“Cheryl Thomas. Eighteen.”
“Kinda old for a runaway. She’s an adult, for Christ sakes.” Sid accented his words thickly. He reminded Jay of a brute. Uneducated. No tact. Nothing like the friend who held the sergeant’s rank he envied. Must be the alcohol talking. He suggested Sid finish up and he’d pay the tab.
Sid refused. “No. I’ll take care of this. You’ve got a high maintenance girlfriend,” he wisecracked. “You know, seriously, I think you and this Lucy might work out. Maybe she’s a kindred spirit.”
“See, you can be a wise man—and not a wise ass—when you want to,” Jay said. “I believe you’re right. I think I want to help Lucy so bad because I see part of myself in her.”
Sid laughed knowingly, suddenly sounding more like his confidant, the buddy from Weymouth High.
He wondered if Sid’s ranting about Nancy a moment ago was just a put on. Maybe some joke he liked to play on him; or maybe it was just some melodramatic wallowing.
“I’ve got an appointment to keep. Promise me . . .”
“I know. I know, Jay. I’ll take a cab.”
***
Visually, Therese Collins appeared to be thriving. Her radiant smile, sparkly jewelry and bright eyes dazzled. Perched on her sofa, the woman didn’t appear diminished in any way. Therese had just received the confirmation from Jay. Her husband had engaged in sex with his doctor.
As Therese began to vocalize her reaction to the news, Jay began to see through her veneer. The first few sentences were painful to listen to. They came hesitatingly in dribs and drabs and the pauses between were garnished with exasperation. The women used sighs as if they were periods.
Jay flexed his hand and listened. It was all the comfort he could give Therese at the moment. She needed to be heard. But what she expounded upon was nothing different from any other victimized spouse. She emphasized her husband ‘didn’t know how lucky he was’ and that ‘she was a good person.’ Jay counted at least three variations of these thoughts.
Therese was simply blowing off steam. Of course, what she said made perfect sense. Perhaps it would make better sense in a courtroom where a high-priced attorney might rake cheating Dan over some financial coals.
It was this conclusion which angered Jay. He stared at his fist which was balled tight. The lawyer won’t care about defending Therese’s honor. It will all come down to money. It was as if Dan Collins could simply pay his way out of this jam. This wasn’t a parking violation. Dan had damaged something internal. Therese might look fine . . . In fact, she looked quite alluring in that floral print address with its plunging neckline.
Jay relaxed his hand to accept the drink Therese had offered.
His initial sip made him wince. It was alcohol. Jay was still on the clock.
He had never ab
used drink. He’d never fallen on his face drunk, become downright shit faced drunk or required assistance to walk from an alcoholically induced impairment—at least not since high school. Jay Fishburne didn’t believe in drinking on the job. All the good cops refrained from it when on the clock. Sid only imbibed off duty. If Jay refrained and behaved like an officer of the law, he believed it would garner him respect. Jay wanted to be known as something other than the private eye detective who was turned away because he came up short (literally—measuring only 1.60m—a hair less than the 1.65m requirement). Sid had no doubt shared this fact with Captain Eldridge who told Jay at a police ball seven years ago ‘shrimps can’t be cops.’ Jay sipped at his drink again, recalling how he’d slinked off into the night after the ball. Eldridge had no right to disparage him. Why don’t they measure a person’s character? He never dared voice this thought to Sid, though. Unlike his victimized clients, Jay knew the real score. That waving your fists in the air and launching into a Bible-thumping self-righteous rap couldn’t make life fair.
Therese bent to hand Jay a shot of whiskey, exposing her generous breasts to him as if offering him more than a drink.
She sat down, crossing her legs, revealing the fine tone of her calves.
This woman wants revenge—the kind not metered out by a judge. He perused the living, breathing piece of candy before him.
