“C’mon, Uncle Spinelli . . . just one more game of Sorry! Please?”
“Girls . . . girls, we been playin’ for nearly two days straight. Time to get ready to get off this tug.”
“You’re good with kids,” Alexis said as the girls ran below deck.
“Well, I’m a big one myself.”
“How can I ever thank you for saving my life?” she said, watching the dock master wave the yacht into a berth. “And the lives of my girls.”
“Promise me one thing,” I said.
“Anything. Name it.”
“Promise me that you’ll talk to Kate Howard; tell her to give her Met tickets to someone else. And never, ever suggest . . . even slightly hint to Maxie that she and I might like to spend another night at the opera.”
“Deal.”
“Then, counselor . . . we’re square.”
Chapter 12
Damian Spinelli
and the Case of the Muscle-Bound Mama
It was a quiet afternoon at the offices of Spinelli & McCall. I was finishin’ up the second half of herring salad and potato chips on a cheese bialy, but I was already thinkin’ about skirt steak that Maxie’d promised to fry up for me later on.
Then I heard the front door close downstairs.
I knew the orthodontist on the first floor was on vacation, the bookie across the hall was doin’ six months in county on behalf of the IRS, and I wasn’t expectin’ nobody.
I heard steps on the stairs; I pulled out my roscoe and set it real gentle on the desk.
A silhouette grew large outside the office door, remindin’ me of the time Carly Jacks paid me a visit wearin’ nothing but a mink trench coat, size: mini. But this time, it weren’t no dame.
The door opened real slow. I pushed the brim of my hat forward over my eyes and leaned back in my chair. I pushed a little too far and went ass over eyeballs onto the floor. But I was back up like I was shot out of a cannon and sitting pretty as you please in no time. I checked the desk for my heater . . . still there. In fact, the mook in the doorway hadn’t moved an inch.
“You gonna stand there in the dark and make me guess who you are?” I said, startin’ to lean back in the chair again, then thinkin’ better of it. “Or are you gonna come in like a regular joe . . . maybe sit . . . maybe chat? ’Cause I’ll give it to you straight . . . sometimes I don’t do the guessin’. Sometimes my pal here tries to figure it out.”
I patted my gun.
The son-of-a-bandolier didn’t move. Then I realized he was shakin’ hard. Then he sniffed back a nose-full and ran his hand across his face as he stepped into the light.
“I’m sorry,” Lucky Spencer said. “I just wanted to be a little more . . . calm when I came to see you. I tried to clean myself up . . . but I can’t seem to stop crying.”
He sat in the closest chair and started bawlin’ like a kid who’d just found out there was no Santa Claus; that it was his parents all along and, either way, he wasn’t gettin’ the G.I. Joe with the “Kung-Fu grip.”
“Hey, pal . . . and I mean you, Lucky . . . not the gun. What’s the story? What’s got you snifflin’ like Maxie when she runs her fishnets?”
But the poor guy couldn’t speak. I was cool at first. Even tried to be a little understandin’. But then, after about five minutes, naturally, I started to get a little steamed. I can handle a dame gettin’ weepy; I handle it with a few kind words, a bottle of smell-nice, or half a grapefruit in the kisser if it gets serious. But I couldn’t clobber this fella . . . or could I? Could I? I was startin’ to consider my options on the subject, when Lucky shook it off. He sat up straight and aimed his peepers right at me.
“I need your help.”
“You need somethin’ all right. A shot of whiskey, maybe?”
“No,” he said. “Not that. I’ve been drinking for six days straight. I’d been off the sauce for months, but this . . . this has sent me right off the wagon.”
“Well, I’ll have one if you don’t mind,” I said, pourin’ a shot into a nearby glass. I watched his eyes dance all over the hooch and I realized there were times I could be a cruel bastard.
“Sorry,” I mush-mouthed, puttin’ the drink away. “What’s up?”
“It’s my wife,” he said. “I mean my ex-wife. I mean . . . God, I don’t even know what to call her anymore. It’s Elizabeth.”
“I just call her the Maternal One, since she has all those kids by all those different . . . uh . . .”
A real bastard. And I wasn’t even tryin’.
“What’s happened?”
“A couple of weeks ago,” Lucky started in, “I was dropping the kids back off at Elizabeth’s. But I was earlier than she expected, and when she opened the door, she was out of breath . . . and sweating.”
“Glowin’,” I corrected.
“What?” Spencer asked.
“Ladies prefer the term ‘glowin’.’ Go on,” I said. “So she was hankin’ yet another fella’s pank, eh?”
“Well,” he said, “that’s what I thought at first. Although I’ve never heard it put quite like that. So, naturally I called her all sorts of names, shoved the kids inside, and took off.”
“Naturally.”
“But I couldn’t get it out of my mind . . . what she’s doing and who she’s doing it with. So I borrowed an unmarked car from the PCPD and I spent the next three days staked out across the street from her place.”
“Ah, the stakeout,” I said. “A time for chili burgers and cold coffee. Crossword puzzle books and B. B. King playin’ so low you think Lucille might have broken a string.”
“May I continue?” Spencer said.
“What the hell.”
“The only thing I saw was a delivery man . . .”
“It’s always the delivery man.”
“But it wasn’t! That’s just the trouble. He never went inside. He just dropped off packages or boxes marked ‘AI’ and left. And they were heavy. He had trouble getting them to her door, and she really had a hard time. Then, a week ago, it was my turn to take the kids again. Only this time, when I went to pick them up, I noticed that Elizabeth had a nice new television and a new couch. Fortunately, Cameron was late coming down the stairs, so I just eased myself in. Then I saw her kick a dumbbell under the couch. And there was a fire hose nozzle on the floor behind the table. And then she tried to hide a little white hat between two cushions, but I got a look at it. It was one of those little caps that French maids wear.”
“You sure it wasn’t her nurse’s cap?” I asked.
“I know the difference,” Spencer said. “Besides, I know she’s a nurse at General Hospital; why would she need to hide it from me?”
“Good point. Then what?”
I noticed other new things around the room. New Persian rug. A crystal vase. And Elizabeth had a manicure. She never gets one of those. Claims she doesn’t want to spend any money on herself . . . it all has to go for the kids. And then I saw what looked like a policeman’s nightstick in the corner, but she was in such a hurry to get rid of me, I didn’t have time to ask. I took the kids, but on my way down the drive, I looked into the garage. Jackal . . . there was a new Mercedes sitting in place of her old Honda . . . the car she said she’d never give up!”
“Okay,” I said, gettin’ up. “What do we have? Costumes, new stuff, a mystery company, and a sweaty dame. That’s pretty standard stuff for an in-home call-girl operation.”
“Oh God!”
“Easy now!” I put a hand on Lucky’s shoulder. “Don’t pop the clutch just yet. The thing that gets me is the dumbbell.”
“I’m afraid to ask,” Spencer said. “But I swear I didn’t see anyone else going into the house, front or back . . . and I was staked out for days.”
“I’ll bet,” I said. “Ah, the stakeout. Doughnuts and sudoku. Fightin’ to stay awake. Callin’ your gal for a little pettin’-via-phone . . .”
“Spinelli!” Spencer snapped.
“Right here! Baked beans . . . I’m
on it!”
“I thought I could get to the bottom of this by myself. But I haven’t slept for the last three nights. I’m a detective, for heaven’s sake, and I can’t bring myself to investigate my own . . .”
“That’s why I’m here, friend. I’ll find out what’s goin’ on and I’ll break it to you gently. Deal?”
“Deal.”
The next night, I had a little stakeout of my own. Spencer was a fine detective, one of the PCPD’s best. But he wasn’t me. I had a pretty good feeling he’d missed something or someone somewhere along the line.
I had two chili burgers with extra pickles, two cans of orange Nehi, a box of doughnut holes, and a thermos of coffee. The Ford Echo was tucked away in a nice little spot where I could keep an eye on both the front door and the back walkway of Elizabeth’s house. The night vision goggles were on, the black Lycra was fittin’ nicely, and Anne and Nancy Wilson were callin’ me a barracuda on the eight-track, soft and sexy.
The hours ticked away and . . . nothin’.
I stayed well into the next day. Lucky Spencer came to pick up the kids and take ’em to school. With my high-powered binocs, I saw lips moving at the front door and thought I made out something like Lucky sayin’, “I’ll keep them overnight” and Elizabeth saying, “Fine. Bring them home tomorrow after school.” Interesting: Now the kids were gone. Made me wonder how she pulled off whatever it was she was up to with the kids at home. Maybe she was only up to her hijinks when the coast was clear.
Elizabeth got a delivery around 10:00 AM, but this time, whatever it was needed a dolly and two men. She answered the door and I could tell, she looked fine. Nicely put together (and this was a woman who put most other dames to shame . . . at any age). At 11:40, she came out for the mail, only now she looked kinda flushed. She was wearin’ a bathrobe over . . . dark slacks and policeman’s lace-ups. At 12:10, another delivery truck pulled into her driveway. This one was from M. Henry’s Fine Appliances. The two palookas in the cab jumped out and, quick as Vegas takes your money, unloaded a new refrigerator into the home of Elizabeth “No Tricks Here” Spencer.
At 1:00, the garage door opened up, and out she rolled in a fire-engine red Mercedes coupe. Her nurse’s cap was on tight, and she headed off for her shift at General Hospital; one of the finest needle-stickers that place has ever seen, now or whenever. She was on until midnight. I knew; I checked.
I popped another doughnut hole and waited until the sky got dark. Fortunately, there was no moon, and I slipped out of the Echo like an oyster out of a shot glass.
Suddenly, Spinelli stopped talking. I was so tired that it took me a second to realize that the buzzing in my ears was now only the sound of the bare fluorescents overhead. I looked up from my notepad and saw Spinelli, white as a sheet, staring at something over my shoulder. Another time I would have turned to look myself, but his eyes, growing larger each second, froze me as I sat. Something was approaching.
“Is it bad?” I asked softly.
Spinelli nodded slightly. I saw his gaze go high.
“Big?” I whispered.
He nodded again . . . more of a shudder. All at once, I was aware of someone standing next to the booth. I turned slowly and stared at the faded denim surrounding a thigh the size of Texas. I forced myself to look up . . . and up.
“I’ve been waiting a long time, lady. You have something of mine.”
Big Dave. The biggest of the bikers from the bar Alexis and I had stumbled upon on our “Lucy and Ethel” road trip a few years back. Big Dave (Cates was the last name, I’d come to know) had taken a shine to Alexis and, in a moment of panic, I’d taken his gun. We’d also made off with a couple of hunting jackets belonging to Big Dave and his friend, Gunnar, and those we’d returned, but somehow I had never gotten around to sending back his weapon.
“Hi,” I wheezed.
“Yeah, hi. I rode in this morning. I was gonna drop by your office tomorrow. Nice coincidence, huh?”
“You bet.”
“You have it?”
I nodded.
“On you?”
I nodded again and reached into my purse. I pulled out the standard barrel .38 Special like it was a spitting cobra. Like I hadn’t had it in my purse(s . . . including the occasional clutch) for the last two years, give or take. Like I hadn’t been packing. I handed it to Big Dave, who stuck it down the front of his jeans. Then he looked at me like he was expecting me to levitate.
“Oh!” I said after a second. Then I took five bullets (I had used a sixth to shoot out an overhead lamp at the biker bar) out of my makeup bag and put them into his pork-shoulder-sized hand.
“Thanks,” said Big Dave. “Later.”
He strolled out of the diner. Then I turned to Spinelli, who apparently was saying something to me.
“Huh?”
“The Brusque Lady must breathe sometime soon. Otherwise I fear an aneurysm. Possibly a stroke.”
“Oh. Oh, yes . . . of course. Uh. Huh. Yes . . . where were we? Wow. Okay . . . you were just getting out of your car like an oyster. Go on.”
My skeleton key got me in the back door. I looked around for an alarm system . . . nothin’. This dame was a trustin’ sort; it figured: all anyone needed to do was take one look at the mooks, joes, and shmoes she’d been with to know that she was a trout waitin’ for a worm . . . so to speak. Too bad, ’cause she was a looker all right. Just needed some knight in a shinin’ tin can to treat her right.
I was on my way to the livin’ room, where Lucky said he’d seen a lot of evidence of her shenanigans, when my night-vision specs caught sight of something strange in the back room. More than just something . . . a whole lotta things.
As luck would have it, first room I came to, I hit the mother lode.
There was no need to flip on the light; I didn’t want to alert the neighbors anyway. I could see everything in front of me just fine.
Elizabeth Spencer had a room full of exercise equipment that would have put any local gymnasium outta business. Weights and machines that, together, musta set her back at least two hundred Franklins times ten.
Then I saw the copper’s nightstick that Lucky had mentioned lyin’ over by a closet, next to a fire extinguisher, a fire hose, a little kid’s school desk, a fryin’ pan, a statue of the Virgin Mary, and a feather duster. That’s when I looked in the closet.
There was a full copper’s uniform that looked fairly jake, an entire Port Charles Fire Department getup, a Hazmat suit, a teacher’s dress (complete with ruler and school name tag), a nun’s habit, a mother-type outfit (sweater set and pearls), and a French maid’s costume. Each outfit had a mask to go with it, and everything had a little logo on a front pocket: “AI.”
I looked closely at the Gorgeous George equipment: There was a tiny “AI” somewhere on each piece. I’d seen the logo before . . . but where, dammit! I didn’t know what to make of anything.
I turned around and saw the camera.
And the computer.
I walked across the room and flipped on the Mac. After that, it didn’t take long to put all the pieces of this crazy puzzle together. Pictures of Elizabeth in a policeman’s uniform doin’ crunches. There she was, dressed like a schoolteacher, curlin’ her biceps with free weights; as a fireman on the rowing machine; and as a nun . . . doing jumpin’ jacks. Sure, she was masked, but I didn’t have to be a private dick to know it was her.
I hit the link that said “videos.” And I watched . . . as long as I could.
You know the sayin’ “You can’t un-ring a bell”? Well, I had a whole damn cathedral goin’ off in my head. Elizabeth Spencer, in a Hazmat suit, expertly demonstratin’ the proper way to work a quad. Elizabeth Spencer, dressed like a nun, yellin’ about rotator cuffs. Elizabeth Spencer, sittin’ on the Bowflex, just as pretty as a new bride, with a fryin’ pan in her hand, screamin’, “Move maggots! Ten more reps, you sorry sons-of-a-British-bulldog!”
Only she didn’t say, “British bulldog.” I ain’t gonna repeat what she
said, because I wanna remember her like she was . . . before.
Suddenly, messages started to appear in her e-mail: “Mistress! You’re home! I am ready for my workout”; “Guess you didn’t have to go to work tonight . . . Can’t wait to start breathing . . . hard”; and “My muscles are on fire and I need you to put it out! Hint: fireman’s suit, please!”
Elizabeth Webber Spencer had a side business, all right, and I smacked myself in the noggin for not realizing it earlier; the clues had been right under my nose.
She was an abdominatrix.
Fully clothed and fully in control, admonishin’ her clientele via the streamin’ Internet to “feel the burn,” “stretch it out,” and “step and reach and step and reach!” And all of it was under the banner of a completely legit if somewhat unsavory company: Abdomination Industries. The name was right at the top of her computer screen. I knew I’d seen it before: I’d run across the company when I was tryin’ to find my mother . . . but that’s another story. It catered to lonely men (and sometimes women) who just couldn’t get themselves to a gym and needed a goose from someone they respected: a person of authority. If their “mother” told them, in the privacy of their own home, to get the lead out . . . that was all they needed. Nuns, teachers, coppers, firemen, were pretty obvious. And I guess a Hazmat guy . . . well, if he told you vamoose from someplace, you’d go, right?
But none if it was my cross to bear. All I knew was that Elizabeth had a part-time job, whippin’ the rotund, slightly or otherwise, into shape, while wearin’ crazy getups, via the Net. She was an online abdominatrix.
And “AI” was her pimp.
I suddenly realized that the last time I’d seen Elizabeth, she’d reminded me of Burt Lancaster in Trapeze! She was in the best shape of her life.
I was just about to start browsin’ through older files tryin’ to get a bead on when she’d first started her trip into crazy-town, when I heard the familiar click of a heater . . . a Lady Smith & Wesson if my ears told me right . . . behind me.
“Whoever you are, you have three seconds to turn around . . . keep your hands high.”
The Secret Life of Damian Spinelli Page 15
