I had a business office!
It was only the next day. I lay on the floor on my back, thinking about all the potential names I had come up with for my soon-to-be-real, one-man detective agency. I had gotten the emergency work blanket from my vehicle’s trunk, which was for use if I ever broke down and needed to do work on the Pony—which would never happen, but that’s why it was an emergency work blanket. I lay on it on the floor, which was littered with crumbled wads of paper. I had been doing this for the last three hours. The only sound for the longest time was the rain against the tall windows, and then I heard it.
The door opened, and I sat up quickly, looking into the reception area. I realized the door must have been unlocked all this time, which was completely out-of-character for me. I was the OCD guy, who checked the front door to make sure it was locked five separate times before I went bed. Who could it be? Did the Realtor guy return? Was it some street punk? Two people appeared at my open office door.
It was him! The guy who scratched my vehicle!
When you were kids in elementary school, stepping on and scuffing a man’s pair of kicks (sneakers) was a fighting offense. But boys grew out of that childishness. They grew to be men, when scratching their hovercar was a fighting offense.
That was easily five years ago, but I had not forgotten his face. Though I never expected to see his ugly mug ever again in my life, I remember the day he scratched my vehicle, almost like it was yesterday.
There were people who drive and then there were drivers. For us real drivers, there was no such thing as an accident that wasn’t your fault. It was the core of the defensive driving mindset. You must anticipate any contingency, and if a bad thing happened, the blame resided with you. But I had safely parked my vehicle and was just about to turn it over to my mobile security guy—actually, it was Flash—and go about my day.
This maniac came out of nowhere, going against traffic, dove, turned in a semi-circle, hovering above the road, dipping closer to the ground and stopped, scratching my car and slamming into a concrete parking stall divider.
My mouth hung open in shock.
The guy got out and surveyed the damage to his car, but could not care less about what he had done to mine. My spotless, perfect, immaculate, heavenly red Ford Pony was gouged by a deep blue-gray scratch straight through to the metal. My eyes were bulging with rage.
“Get over here!” I yelled. “You scratched my vehicle!”
The guy was on his mobile and completely ignored me, carrying on a conversation.
I looked at Flash, who probably saw the growing agitation in my face.
“Just call your insurance and get away from me, you plonker,” he said.
I lost any bit of composure remaining and ran at the guy. I was going to punch him, push him, whatever. As I neared him, he turned and dropped his mobile to the ground to brace for my attack. Suddenly, someone grabbed me from behind—it was Flash.
“He’s not worth it,” Flash said. “No, Mr. Cruz. You can’t assault him. He’d be able to call the cops, and they’d haul you away.”
“You scratched my vehicle!” I yelled again.
“So what!” he yelled back.
“You’re going to pay every dime it takes to fix it!”
“All it needs is a paint job with a spray can!”
I went ballistic, and Flash really had to hold me back.
“It’s a classic hovervehicle, and they’re going to have to strip off all the paint and redo it paint coat by paint coat—fifty at least. You don’t touch-up a classic hovercar with a spray can!”
“Screw you! My insurance is not paying for that. Get a spray can from the local market. One coat. I may even have a can in the trunk for you.”
I desperately tried to reach for his face and claw it off, but Flash restrained me.
“You touch me, and I’ll sue you and take that pile of junk from you!”
My head was throbbing; I was so enraged. It took Flash fifteen minutes, at least, to calm me down but I did, eventually.
His insurance paid, but it was a bargain basement one. All I got was ten percent of the damages. I sued him in small claims court. He never showed up, and I won my judgment, but the clerk said good luck getting him to pay. There would be an arrest warrant filed, but no police would ever act on it with murderers, rapists, and gang members to deal with.
I did all I could do, so I did all that I shouldn’t do, channeling all my OCD negative energies at him. I found out where he lived, where he worked, his girlfriend’s house, his favorite market, every place he went; I stalked him. I stalked him twenty-four hours a day. And I made sure he saw me.
At the beginning, he laughed at me, throwing a curse or two at me, and an occasional obscene gesture. Then he got angry, especially when I followed him to his girlfriend’s or when they went to a restaurant for dinner.
The girlfriend was never amused by me, and one time, she came out to go somewhere—he was still in the residence—and saw me and ran back inside. Soon after, I could see she was getting scared—and so was he.
There was a massive rainstorm, so much so the hovercars were staying out of the sky. But not me. I staked out a spot right across from his place and I could see their silhouettes watching me from the third story. If they were on a higher floor, they would have ignored me, but people who live close to the ground look out their windows to the ground. It’s just what you did. And there I was.
They thought they were clever one day and sneaked out of their residence the back way into their hovercar and had gone to another neighborhood, clear across the city. I illegally bugged their car, and I set it to ring my mobile if their hovercar started up.
The looks on their faces when they came out of the restaurant and saw me was priceless. They were really scared and bolted away from me. I realized I had reached into my jacket for something and they thought it was for a gun.
The next day, the Guy Who Scratched My Vehicle came out of his residence, his girlfriend standing behind him and watching, and he threw a brown paper bag at me.
“Take it psycho,” he said. “You got your money. Count it.”
I picked up the bag from the wet ground and opened the bag. I knew they expected me to just take it and go, but I walked a few feet, sat right on the sidewalk, and counted every last bill. They watched me with utter contempt.
When I finished, I got up and left, glancing back one last time to glare at them. I actually didn’t gain anything in my episode of madness. I got every dime to fix my car, but the expense in time and money of following them and doing the surveillance on them was all on me. But I felt good, as most fools do.
I never expected to see them ever again, but there was the Guy Who Scratched My Vehicle and the same girlfriend standing in my new detective’s office, staring at me with smirks.
“Well, well,” he said. “A detective. I should have known.”
I had just gotten a basic desk and three chairs for my new office. Basic furniture and delivery was quick and easy. I could feel my blood boiling. Why were they here? How did they find me? I wasn’t even looking at them anymore. I sat behind my desk, looked up, and they both were sitting down in front of me, smirking.
“You probably thought you’d never see us again,” GW said.
“I kinda thought that’s how we left things.”
“Were we surprised to hear that you were a detective.”
Was this more of Phishy’s doing? “Who told you that?”
He smiled. “Yeah, I was told that too. You’re a confidential detective.”
This had to be Phishy!
“Well,” he continued, “the wife and I need a detective. We did some looking in the Yellow Pages, and there’s so many in there, it makes your head spin. And when you have no one to recommend someone, you’re just playing Russian roulette with your wallet. Then we heard about you. We said, we got personal experience with that psycho. He locks his sights on you, and you’re done. He’l
l never stop till he gets what he wants. Don’t ever be on the opposite end of his sights when he locks on you. The perfect detective. Surprised you didn’t do it sooner.”
“What makes you think I’d ever take you as a client?”
“People beating down the door to hire you, are they?” his girlfriend-wife quipped.
“You can’t still be sore about the incident? I paid you your money. So we’re even steven.”
“Any man who hurts a man’s woman, his kids, his family, his pets, his vehicle…you damage a man’s vehicle and…he needs to be put down. You scratched my vehicle. I would never work for someone so venal. No way. No how.”
The smirks from their faces were gone. They realized that I was not over it.
“You really are psycho. Hold a grudge for this long. It was over five years ago. Yeah, you’re the right psycho for this, and as the wife said, no one else is beating down the door to hire you.”
“Listen here, I have integrity. I have standards. I’m going to pick the clients I work for. That’s what I’m going to do. I’m going have solid clients with integrity.”
His wife burst out with a laugh.
“Good luck with that, psycho,” he said and turned to his wife. “Watch this.”
He threw a bag on my desk and leaned back. The smirks had returned to their faces.
I looked at the bag—slightly open, filled with small bills. I looked at them, looked at the bag, stared at it. This was a critical junction in my life—what kind of detective would I be? Principled or just some ratty PI for hire. Starve or have money for bills and food.
I grabbed the bag of cash.
Humble pie. I, of all people, was not one to eat anything I didn’t know all the ingredients, and that was apart from friends poisoning me back in grade school. But there had to be an exception to every rule. Humble pie wasn’t its real name; it was some kind of natural cross-bred apple—humble pie was apple pie and it was damn good. I had it often, and though I was sitting in an old-style diner in a seedy part of the city, surrounded by other grimy establishments, I was enjoying that pie.
I sat in a faded and stained yellow booth by myself. Other identical booths lined the circular wall of the diner. In the center were four-person square tables—all empty—and both the main counter and open kitchen grill were opposite the main entrance. The counter had old bar stools, each with the butt of a customer seated, eating and drinking whatever. There were only seven other people in the yellow booths lining the wall, sitting solo like me. Seven of us were on one side, and way on the other side was one punkish, mustached guy who had glanced at me more than once since I entered and sat down. Even now, after I had ordered and started stuffing my face with my humble pie, he was pretending not to watch me. Seven of us were male, and one was a female. She was the only female in the place, besides the waitress, and this lone female had also glanced at me more than once.
I was almost to the end. I never licked a plate of food, but I scraped every last morsel of humble pie with the fork. My drink was gone, and I gave off the hint of a customer who was done, satisfied, and ready to get out into the rain to go about their day.
“Hey, Mister.” The girl was now standing at my booth—not the waitress. She slid into my booth opposite me. “Can you believe this rain?”
“It’s a wet one out there,” I said.
“You said it. Wet all around. What are you going to do now?”
I pushed my empty plate away from me and wiped my hands with my napkins. “It’s funny you asked. Is that a dove tattoo on your forearm?”
She smiled as she extended her arm over the table. “Yeah, it’s sweet, huh?” She admired the design.
I slapped the handcuff on her wrist.
The girl jumped up, first with a look of fear and then came a flash of anger.
“What the…” she yelled.
She pulled her handcuffed arm, but the other end I had handcuffed under the table. The table was old, but it was sturdy enough.
“Help!” she yelled looking at the other customers, but mostly at that seventh man way on the other side.
People barely registered any concern, including the waitress and the cooks behind the counter.
“You should sit down and relax.”
“Help!”
I was not about to listen to a screaming fifteen-year-old female delinquent—though she probably had graduated to other criminal designations by now. I reached into my jacket for my mobile and was already dialing the number. It was pressed against my ear.
“I found her,” I said into it. “Get down here now. Action Alley. Cafe Fifties is its name.” I hung up.
“Who are you talking to?” the girl yelled at me.
“Who do you think?”
“Help!” She repeatedly yanked her handcuffed arm as if she wanted to pull it out of its socket.
“Stop that,” I said.
“Help! I’m being kidnapped!”
I stood up.
“Gentlemen, and lady, I am a private detective and was hired by this girl’s, if that’s what you want to call her, family to find her so they can take her ass off the streets before she gets STD’d or dead, whichever comes first. Please ignore her.”
I really didn’t need to say anything, because that’s what they were already doing—ignoring us.
The girl was going crazy, yanking her arm and screaming. I had enough and got up. I stood at the main entrance, but kept my eye on her—and that seventh guy from the corner of my other eye.
The Guy Who Scratched My Vehicle arrived about fifteen minutes later. How he got to the Cafe so fast, I didn’t know. But he wasn’t alone. There was a shorter and older man with him—the spitting image of him. It wasn’t his twin, but his father. It was freaky how similar they looked. So GW knew exactly what he’d look like in about twenty or so years—all gray and balding. But the star of the show was also with them. A shortish, roundish, fattish woman with a big, fluffy, yellow hairdo. It had to be a wig. These were his parents? The father was wearing some kind of leather tank top, and the mother was wearing a sleeveless dress that came to her knees. Both were wearing white socks, visible just under their knees, with their boots. My God, if I were GW, I would never go out in public with them.
The trio was through the door and staring at me, and I had only to gesture with my chin.
“I handcuffed her, so she couldn’t run away. She was yelling and screaming before you came, but now she’s hiding under that table doing her impersonation of a ninja.”
They walked over to my table, and the mother bent down. Then it erupted. GW was the clone of his father. The mother and daughter were clones, too. Only the girl was the slim as a twig version before her metabolism quit, and she blew up to be a fatty too. The girl, still hiding under the table, cursed simultaneously at the mother, who was screaming her own obscenities. I’ve heard some cursing, but even I felt I would need to wash out my ears with soap. Finally, the girl came out and was standing almost nose to nose with her mother—both screaming at each other at the top of their lungs. All I could think about was the spit they were showering each other with. I couldn’t believe what I then saw. The mother punched the girl in the head, dropping her to the floor. That was the end of the cursing and screaming.
The mother joined father and son, who had been watching the whole exchange like zombies. The trio walked back to me.
GW turned to them. “I told ya, Ma. I found the guy to find her. He’s a psycho when it comes to tracking people.”
The mother, who had no perception of personal space, was inches from me when she said, “You’re a good detective. Those cop bums couldn’t find our daughter. No one could. You found her in one day.”
“There’s more,” I said.
“More?” she asked, as her head cocked back like a chicken.
“You don’t think your daughter was led into temptation all by herself. The source of her corruption is sitting right behind y
ou over there.”
The trio followed where my finger was pointing to the punkish guy, sitting in the booth way over. I almost felt sorry for him as his head shot up in the air when he noticed GW and company’s eyes locked on him. I saw their eyes narrow and their mouths contort into snarls. They bolted after him.
The punk jumped out of his booth and over the counter into the kitchen. The cooks yelled at him as he ran through, and I heard what could only be the back door thrown open. GW’s mother rolled over the counter after him with GW and father following. She may have been fat compared to their skinniness, but she was twice as fast as them.
I stood there shaking my head. How long was I going to be here? I couldn’t just leave the girl handcuffed to the table unconscious. I walked back to the adjacent table and sat. I was tempted to order another piece of humble pie, but I decided to just wait.
The trio returned almost an hour later. I was boiling mad, but kept it to myself. I had to be nice, because I hadn’t been paid yet. I would ask (demand) a bonus.
I stood from the table, and now, I really felt sorry for the punk—but only for a couple of seconds. GW had a serious black eye, the father also looked like he had been through a major fist fight, and the mother was scratched up, too.
They were all grinning at me. I hoped I wasn’t an accessory to murder.
“You’re going to get a good bonus, Mr. Cruz,” she said.
“And I want a good business review too,” I said as I handed GW the key to the handcuffs.
Then it began again. The girl was standing and cursing again, and the mother, as if by levitation, moved back across to her and was screaming at her with full intensity. I was paying attention, but I still had no idea what they were saying—kind of like Dot and her mother, but they were yelling in another language. This was English, but it wasn’t. My brain wasn’t comprehending a word of their yelling. Then I saw it. The girl punched her mother in the face KO-style. The mother fell to the floor like a rock. GW and father rushed at her like the dogs.
“I’m out of here,” I said to myself and exited the Cafe.
Liquid Cool Page 10
