by Dan Taylor
I’m most proud of Grace for the last achievement. It took real restraint.
Before we grab breakfast and then head to my apartment, we decide to grab new threads for Grace from a shady-looking ladies clothing story called Lady Love. I’m not too sure about it, as this end of Hollywood Boulevard isn’t in the greatest neighborhood, but Grace has her heart set on it. She picks out a dress not unlike the one she’s already wearing. At least it’s a different color, which might help if Rebel Black has been let out of the walk-in refrigerator already and called the police, causing them to have issued an APB on Grace.
I offer to pay for the dress, but Grace won’t hear of it. I think she’s having fun with the heavily tattooed and pierced employee who’s manning the cash register when she asks if she can part exchange the dress she’s wearing. To my surprise, she can.
After the part exchange, the dress comes to fifteen dollars. I couldn’t buy a sock for that.
We hop back in the Winnie Pooh and head to a diner I know well—Vine and Dine. The name’s not up to much—not if you’re not a big fan of puns—but they do one hell of a pancake stack. The chef, Harry, makes sure each pancake has butter on it before he sends it out. None of this drizzling syrup on a dry stack of pancakes. And the bacon? It’s as brittle as a ninety-year-old’s hip.
I order what I always order and Grace orders the same—plus scrambled eggs and a couple Belgian waffles.
I make small talk before addressing the woolly mammoth in the room.
“Wow, pancakes and Belgian waffles?”
“Yup.”
“What do you usually eat for breakfast?”
A smile grows on her face, knowingness shining in her eyes. “What do you really want to say, Jake?”
“Yeah. I was kinda wondering when you were gonna phone the cops to let your husband out of the refrigerator.”
She’s stalling. How do I know? She’s adjusting how her dress hangs on her breasts. “Do you like this dress, Mr. Private Dick?”
Harry’s pancakes haven’t arrived yet and I’m already drooling.
“It’s nice. But we need to talk about your husband.”
“What about him?” She looks down at her chest. “High up, like this, or down?”
“Grace?”
She petulantly pulls up the dress so it hangs as to show less cleavage, and says, “Okay, okay. I’ll make the call as soon as we’ve eaten breakfast. Not a minute before. Phoning the cops makes me nervous.”
“Deal.”
She says, “Geez, I thought you’d be more fun,” before going outside and smoking a cigarette, but only after she’s ripped the filter off first. You don’t have to go looking for class in Hollywood. It has a way of just finding you.
“Sorry,” she says as she comes back inside and sits down. “I do appreciate you letting me come along. And for the help this morning with Rebel. I guess I just needed a cigarette.”
“It’s okay. I’m used to the young ladies in my life acting sassier than Paris Hilton after being served a warm glass of champagne.”
“Paris Hilton? You need more up-to-date references. But apology accepted.”
The food arrives. Grace is extra nice to the waitress who brings it over. And the waitress isn’t anything special. She isn’t providing an amazing customer experience, I mean. Not deserving of Grace’s prolonged, almost forceful smiling, and her continual attempt at making eye contact.
The waitress smiles politely at Grace and then avoids making eye contact with her, probably for fear that she might get into a conversation with this overfamiliar young lady. I don’t blame her.
When she’s gone, Grace says, “Make sure you tip her real good. I like her.”
Grace eats like a hog with worms. I’ve never seen a young lady put away food like she is. And that figure. How has she stayed so slim? The way she’s eating, I’d expect her to have to be airlifted out of her apartment before the age of forty, straight into a coffin big enough to house a small family.
It’s made me lose my appetite.
She catches me watching her. Then says, “What?” her mouth so filled with Belgian waffle that it sounds like “Phot?”
“Nothing.”
She swallows. “You’re smirking.”
“It’s just nice to see a young lady throwing caution to the wind and eating like there isn’t a tomorrow. That’s quite a rare thing in Hollywood.”
“It is? And stop calling me ‘young lady.’ I’ll be twenty-nine next week. And I always eat breakfast like this.”
I think a second.
Then say, “Can I ask you a personal question, Grace?”
“If I say no will you ask it anyway?”
“No.”
She looks at me through slits for eyes for a second. “Go ahead. I’m intrigued.”
“How have you managed to stay so slim?”
She smiles and her eyes light up from my compliment. “I attribute it to my job. I’m on my feet all day.”
Her reasoning isn’t watertight. I’ve seen waitresses who work in busier-than-hell diners and who looked like they were ready to hibernate.
I decide to drop the subject.
When she’s finished, she takes a second to burp silently a couple times, pressing a fist against her mouth to control the flow of wind. Again, you don’t have to go looking for class.
Then she says, “Right then, Mr. Serious, I’ll go and make that call.”
I watch her using the payphone in the far corner of the diner. She turns her back to me, speaks for a couple minutes, and then disappears into the bathroom.
Five minutes later she comes out, walking too sprightly for a girl who’s just eaten as much as she has. Sorry, for someone who’s eaten as much as her. Misogyny is a terrible thing, like racism or soft rock.
I signal to the waitress that we’d like the check.
Grace comes and sits down and says, “Done.”
“That was quick. What did you say?”
“That I’m a customer at the diner Rebel owns and that I tried to go for breakfast, found it locked. Looked like the place might’ve been robbed.” She makes her voice deeper and lends it a southern twang. “‘A terrible thing, considering how nice the waitresses are.’”
“Nice touch. And did they buy it?”
“What reason would they have not to? They’re sending a squad car right over.”
“Do you think he’ll tell?”
“Nah. Rebel’s got a few cousins in the force. I figure he wouldn’t want word getting out that he was overpowered by his wife and some customer. He’ll probably just make up that he locked himself in there.”
“Is that even possible?”
“It isn’t. But what could they say?”
The waitress comes over with the check. This time she avoids Grace’s eye contact as though it may carry some life-threatening contagion.
I take out my wallet and pay the woman, tipping her generously. She makes a quick getaway. I’m about to put my wallet away when I feel an intense burning sensation in my chest.
10.
“FUCK, WHAT’S THAT?” I say, doubling over so that my head is resting on the table.
“What is it?”
Grace’s concern seems miles away, as does the diner. As strange as it sounds, something seems familiar about this pain. I rock back and forth, riding it out. It lasts thirty seconds or so.
I sit up. “It’s gone now. Let’s go.” I start making my way out of the booth.
Grace stops me with a hand on my shoulder. “Jake, sit down. You really scared me then.”
“It’s fine.” I take her hand away but remain where I am, and then sit down. “Now that I think about it, I’ve had a problem with heartburn for the last month or so. I went to see my doctor not so long back, I think. That’s what it was, heartburn.”
She frowns. “You think? I thought you said you only forgot the last week.”
I rub my temples. Guys in movies always rub their temples when they’re getting into some
deep thinking. “I’m pretty sure it is just heartburn, though some of the memories before that seem blurry. Like an editor has cut bits of the reel out.”
“Just because we’re in Hollywood it doesn’t mean you have to use movie industry anal-whatever-it-is.”
I carry on rubbing. “Analogy. And it wasn’t one of those; it was a simile.” Mr. Priorities has everything under control. No need to panic, ladies and gentleman.
“Anyway, I have no idea why we’re talking about this.”
“Nor do I. Fuck. ‘Nor’? My head’s all scrambled.” I look up to the heavens. “Why I am speak like this?”
“You okay, Jake?”
“Just playing around with the last part, but to answer your question, no, I’m not.”
“I’m worried.”
“Don’t be. I’m getting my senses back.”
She watches me with deep concern until she catches me glancing at her cleavage. This act assures her I’m okay, at least for the time being.
“Let’s get back on track,” Grace says. “No fucking around and making lame jokes.”
“Okay, I think I can manage that.”
“Let’s review what we know so far: You woke up in some motel room and have no idea what you did for the last week. On top of that, there are holes in your memory from before last week, including the knowledge of what this condition you have, which you suspect might be heartburn.”
“Right.”
“Is there anything we’re missing from the list?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Do you think these two things could be related: the chest thing and the memory loss?”
“It would make narrative sense if they were.”
“What?”
“I said it would make sense if they were.”
“What was that other word you used?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
She frowns. “Okay. So if we run with that theory, finding out what happened to you will also reveal whatever happened to you just now.”
“Seems like a decent enough plan.”
“In the meantime, we can book an appointment with your doctor, just in case it’s unrelated.”
“Right. Just in case. But I’ve just realized that the doctor’s office will be shut. It’s Sunday.”
We sit in silence a minute, sipping our coffees.
“What do we do next?” she asks.
“We go and investigate.”
Her eyes light up. “This is way more exciting than waiting tables.”
11.
The Agency headquarters…
THE AGENCY BOSS Andre—real name Bertram Earnhardt—is flossing after breakfast. He’s wearing his satin silk pajamas—never nylon. By his side is his butler, Jimothy Forthright the second, who’s holding up a freshly polished silver plate, where several strands of non-waxed floss lie. Each strand is exactly seven inches long, the approximate length needed to floss between a quarter of Andre’s teeth.
Despite having lived in L.A. for most of his life, Andre’s still very much British.
“Is Tim polishing the iron lung?” Andre asks, as he attempts to reach the nasty gap between his second-to-last molar and wisdom tooth.
Andre’s referring to Timothy Forthright, Jimothy’s younger brother, though he could swear they’re identical twins.
“He is.”
“I saw that.”
“What, sir?”
“The eye rolling. Just trying to keep a tight ship, Jim.” Andre removes the floss from between his teeth and examines the piece of bacon rind he managed to extract. He tries to hand it to Jimothy, who responds by pressing the pedal for the bathroom wastebasket, making the lid pop open. Andre glares at him for a second before disposing of the floss himself.
Jimothy sighs. Then he says, “Explain to me why you use the iron lung again, sir.”
Andre rolls his eyes. Not this again. “As you already know, Jim, the iron lung is an affectation. I don’t have a medical condition that requires my use of it, but it is a tactical necessity. I present a position of physical weakness, appearing infirm, so that if there are enemies in my midst, they might be fooled into being complacent.”
Andre uses the iron lung for all public appearances and for meetings with his employees.
Jimothy responds, “And who would those enemies be, sir?”
Andre doesn’t like the skepticism in Jimothy’s voice. “You never know when there might be a rat dropping in your tea, Jim. You never know.”
“I do hope you’re not still suffering from the effects of ’75.”
The incident Jimothy is referring to is when some damn hippy spiked his drink with a triple dose of LSD, by today’s standards, sending Andre into ten hours of unrelenting blind panic. Well, not unrelenting, ten hours’ worth. But still, it was a traumatic event nonetheless.
Staring into space, Andre says, “Poppycock. I recovered in time for supper and have felt fine since. It’s just best to be cautious, Jim.”
“Okay. I’ll my keep my eye out for any rat droppings in the tea I serve you, sir—floating or otherwise.”
Andre turns to Jimothy and eyeballs him. “What did I tell you to remember?”
Jimothy takes a deep breath, feigning remembering. “You tell me, and on a reasonably regular basis, that you pay me to be subservient, not to entertain you.”
“Very right. Leave the wisecracks to the comedians, Jim.”
“I’ll bear that in mind, sir.”
“Good.”
Andre finishes flossing his teeth in silence. When he’s done, he gets dressed and makes his way to the billiards room, where he’ll have his morning meeting with his right-hand lady Gerry Smoulderwell.
The Agency couldn’t function without Gerry. She’s an intelligence expert with a sharp mind and a great pair of legs. She handles the day-to-day running of the Agency: coordinating with governmental intelligence agencies, and the hands-on managing and coordinating of the Agency’s spies and private investigators.
The private investigators are unaware that the Agency has a broader purpose beyond their investigating cheating husbands and solving mysteries. Only one is, Jake Hancock, a loose cannon on occasion, but a bloody brilliant P.I. when he can keep his hands off the ladies and his mouth away from the rim of a beer glass.
Which brings him to this morning’s agenda. Gerry has news about Hancock’s impending return to work after that Cole Baxter disaster.
It’s been playing on his mind, what happened to Cole. He died while doing some run-of-the-mill espionage work in Antarctica, looking into the function of an observation station the Russians had set up. His bones were found in the observation station’s septic tank, the station abandoned.
Jake Hancock had been retired from the Agency for six months when he decided to bring him back and put him on the case of investigating what happened to Cole. They received no intelligence from Cole before his disappearance. So the only way, it seemed, to investigate his death was through a Norwegian recruitment agent. She had recruited Cole, under the alias Troy Kellerman, to carry out a role in the observation station. He would use his cover to gain their secrets. Following Cole’s death, Andre suspected the Norwegian to be a triple agent, working for the Russians, the Americans, and her home country. Hancock, using his charm with the ladies, was to “bonk the secrets out of her.”
That he did. Bonk her, that is. Though she wasn’t hiding anything. Turns out she was just a recruitment agent and she had nothing to do with Cole’s death. Hancock, on his return from Oslo, reported that he suspected Cole Baxter to be the victim of the demented Russian scientist with whom Cole shared the observation station.
Case closed.
Or is it?
There are a few details that don’t sit quite right with Andre. A few things that seem fishy. Nothing concrete, but Andre’s always been a man that listens to his gut. And on this occasion his gut’s telling him something stinks more than the break room at an onion packing plant.
Why
did the Russian kill Cole? Sure, Hancock reported that he had a history of mental illness, but is Andre to be naïve enough to assume that it was a coincidence that the first man that Russian killed was a spy working for an American private intelligence firm? And that it was just some random act of insanity-driven violence?
Andre suspects that the Russian found out who Troy Kellerman really was. But how?
Andre thinks of this as he sips a Scotch.
There’s a knock at the billiards room door. A second later, his second butler, Timothy Forthright, opens the door a little and pokes his head in. Then he says, “The bitch has arrived, sir.”
Andre’s outraged. “Tim, what have I told you?”
Timothy thinks a second. “That you pay me to be subservient, not to be a comedian—”
“Not that. About using the B word to describe Ms. Smoulderwell. And the C word, and definitely the M word.”
“The M word, sir?”
Andre thinks a second. “What’s that one you used again?”
“I called her a Wh—”
“All right, all right. That’s enough, Tim. Not M, then. W. Never the W word.”
“Forgive my curtness, sir. But I don’t like the woman, never have.”
“You’ve made yourself quite clear.”
Andre tries to dismiss him with a wave of his hand, but Timothy isn’t finished. “The last time she was here I fixed her a glass of wine. And she asked me if I thought she was seventeen years old. I told her yes, she looked it. I figured she was fishing for a compliment. She called me—forgive my language—a pretentious nincompoop.”
“Ah yes, the Pino Noir Sparkling Rosé incident. I remember it well. You’ll do well to select a wine that doesn’t tickle the tongue for a lady of refinement next time, Tim. Now send her in, but stall her for a couple minutes. I need to hop into the iron lung.”
“And how would you like me to stall her, sir?”
“Talk about the weather.”
“We’re in L.A., sir. The conversation you just suggested would last maybe three seconds.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Andre frowns. “Make conversation about that documentary we watched the other night. About the declining bee population.” Andre becomes pensive and slowly shakes his head. “Fascinating stuff.”
