by Dan Taylor
There are at least a couple holes in that story, if not a few gaping chasms. Sister-in-law being tight enough with a brother-in-law to be running around L.A., concerned for his wellbeing is one. Detective Dukes’s experience tells him that brother-in-laws and sister-in-laws aren’t usually chummy with each other. Guess he could be fucking her.
But even if that were true, it wouldn’t explain away the other holes in her story.
He calls over Officer Peoples.
“What is it, Detective?”
“Funny, that.”
“What?”
“Concerned sister-in-law comes down to the diner to look for her brother-in-law, and seemingly on a whim, if we’re to believe her version of events.”
Officer Peoples shrugs.
“Can you find out if there actually are some Toothridge’s in L.A.?”
Officer Peoples starts to walk away, but stops, turns around, looking confused. “Check how many people have tooth ridges in L.A., Detective?”
“No, if there’s a family named Toothridge in L.A. and if it has a member called Hayley.”
“Okay, on it, Detective.”
“And send over Chef Ramsey over there. I’m not finished with him yet.”
Officer Peoples walks away. A minute later Rebel Black walks over.
“Take a seat,” Detective Dukes says.
He looks putout, but does. Then he says, “I already told you my side of the story, Detective—”
Detective Dukes interrupts him. “Rebel, cute name.”
“What of it?”
“You give the lady her coffee on her way out?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Because she earned it.”
Rebel frowns. “How, exactly?”
Detective Dukes eyeballs him. Hard. “You wouldn’t be sticking your shit-sniffing trout into official LAPD business now, would you, shit face?”
Shit face is Detective Dukes’s favorite way of referring to members of the public he thinks less kindly of. Like this scum-sucking, no-good shit face Rebel Black.
“Was just asking about the investigation, is all. The investigation in which I’m a victim, no less.”
“In which? Nice grammar for a burger-flipping grease trap like you. And I don’t think you are the victim, not by my definition.”
“It was me who was found in my own refrigerator. I nearly caught pneumonia in there.”
“Just tell me your side of the story again, shit face. Go through the series of events real slowly, like you’re talking to the drunk brother at your son’s bar mitzvah.”
“Shit face a second time? I resent that.”
“Resent it all you want, it doesn’t change the facts.”
“Which are?”
“That you’re a shit face for one—”
“I don’t really know what that means—”
“You able to do one plus one, asswipe?”
“Yeah, one plus one is two.”
“Round of applause. Well shit plus face equals shit face. It’s simple. Anyway, two, this story of yours stinks worse than a hobo’s armpit. Like I said, I want you to go through the series of events that led up to you being locked in your own walk-in refrigerator.”
“It’s like I said. This Hancock guy comes in—”
“He a regular?”
Rebel frowns. “A regular what?”
“A regular linebacker for the Cowboys. What do you think, a regular customer?”
“Never seen the guy before in my life.”
“But you’re the chef, right? You work in the back. Is it possible this guy Hancock comes in regular and you don’t know about it?”
“No. I keep an eye on the dining area, especially on the level of service the waitresses give.”
“Mm, I bet you do. Carry on.”
“Anyway, this Hancock guy comes in, real early. He starts getting real friendly with Grace, my wife. Starts asking her strange questions.”
“Like how?”
“Very strange. On a scale of one to ten, maybe a seven-point-five.”
“Not how strange. Give me an example.”
“Guy was asking if he’d come in last night. Stuff like that.”
Detective Dukes leans back on the backrest and considers that for a second. Man doesn’t know whether he’s been in the night before. Could be that he was drunk, but that doesn’t seem right. Not with the other fishy things feeding into this investigation. Investigating what, exactly?
“Did he? Come in, I mean,” Detective Dukes asks.
“I already said I never seen him before in my life.”
“Any drunk guys come in last night, then? Real drunk.”
“Not that I can remember.”
“Mm. Any other strange questions?”
“Guy was asking if Grace had seen anyone else come in here the night before last. A guy with a limp.”
“Had she?”
“What’s going on here, Detective?”
“We’re getting the facts straight.”
“So you can catch the guy, right?” Skeptical.
“Right.”
“Well, she didn’t answer that question, as far as I could tell. They started flirting with one another. That’s why I—” Rebel stops, thinks.
“That’s why you what?”
“That’s why I carried on with my duty as normal, doing prep for the day’s cookin’.”
“So let me get this straight. Just in case I’m being stupid and this actually does make sense. They started flirting and that’s why you ignored it and carried on chopping lettuce and slicing tomatoes and whatever shit you were doing?”
“Right.”
“You’re about the worst liar I’ve ever come across, shit face. And I’ve come across some doozies.”
“I aint lyin’.”
Detective Dukes sighs. “Carry on with your story.”
“They stop flirting, Grace took his order, and then she came back to the kitchen to relay the order. I admit, Detective”—he raises his hands in a gesture of honesty—“I did question why she had been flirting with him, with her being my wife, an’ all. But I didn’t lay a hand on her.” Mr. Forthcoming all of a sudden.
Detective Dukes starts looking around theatrically.
Rebel frowns. “What are you doing, Detective?”
“I’m looking for the guy who accused you of laying a hand on your wife.” He then checks his notepad theatrically. Detective Dukes likes theatrics. “Because I didn’t. Did you hear me accuse you of laying a hand on your wife?”
“No, but—”
“But nothing. So where did this accusation come from, if no one accused you of it?”
Rebel’s silent.
“That’s what I thought. Want to hear what I think happened this morning?”
“No—”
“I think you’re telling the truth about Hancock asking strange questions, and probably about them flirting. And I think you spoke to Grace about her flirting with the guy. But this is where our stories diverge. I think you did lay a hand on your wife. Hancock, being the good Samaritan that he is, got up from his seat and went over to the kitchen—ignoring the STAFF ONLY sign on the door—and he confronted you about hitting your wife.”
“That’s a God damn lie!”
“A conflict ensued. A physical conflict. Hancock got the better of you and knocked you unconscious. Then, the two of them, fearing the consequences, dragged you into your own walk-in refrigerator and locked you in there, and then they fled the scene of the crime. But the only crime that I can see is your domestic violence and the crime you’ve committed against your marital vows. Oh”—Detective Dukes raises his coffee cup—“and your ongoing crimes against the coffee bean.” He puts down the coffee cup and slides it towards Rebel.
Rebel doesn’t respond, just sits there, looking like he might start crying.
“Get out of here, shit face. Before I arrest you for wasting police time.”
Rebel looks reluctant a second, but then goes
.
Detective Dukes watches that sorry sack of shit skulk off back to his kitchen. Then he turns his mind to what he’s learned so far. Hancock comes in here asking strange questions, doesn’t know whether he’s been in here the night before. Asks about some other guy. Some limping guy. Dame with a fake name and equally fake story comes to the diner asking similarly strange questions about Hancock.
Could be something or nothing. Detective Dukes hasn’t anything better to do, so why not find out?
Thirty seconds or so later, Officer Peoples returns, carrying a piece of paper. He says, “I found a number for a Toothridge. Right here in L.A.”
To himself, Detective Dukes says, “Well what do you know…this thing keeps on getting stranger and stranger.”
“What’s that, Detective?”
He takes the piece of paper from Officer Peoples. “Nothing.”
He waits until Officer Peoples has gone back to guarding the door of the diner and then dials the number.
A haughty-sounding lady answers on the fifth ring. “Toothridge residence.”
“Hi, this is Detective Dukes of the LAPD. As part of my investigation, I’d like to know if there’s a Hayley Toothridge at the residence.”
The lady sighs. Then, her voice sounding far, she says, “Beatrice!”
22.
“WHAT ARE WE doing again, sir?” Timothy Forthright asks.
“We’re apple bobbing for rat turds in my tea,” Andre replies, distractedly. He’s distracted because he’s watching his right-hand woman Gerry Smoulderwell leave some diner. Greasy Fingers Diner, outside which is a news crew and a couple police cars. He and Timothy have parked in the emergency stopping lane of the freeway, a safe distance from the diner.
“Apple bobbing for rat turds, sir?” Timothy asks.
“Oh, you know what I meant. Does that look like a woman who’s worried about her colleague and is taking some time off?”
“Which woman, sir?”
“That’s Gerry over there, incognito.”
“Oh yes, it is. I see that now. I would’ve never have guessed that was her.” Sarcastic.
Timothy is making fun of the disguises Andre has chosen for them. For himself, a Cat Stevens beard, stick-on wire brush eyebrows, and a turban. He also has a walking stick, but hasn’t had opportunity to use it, as they’ve been confined to the car the whole time they’ve been tailing Gerry.
Timothy’s disguise is only slightly less conspicuous: glasses and a mustache, minus the Groucho Marx eyebrows. They were a deal breaker.
Timothy continues, “To answer your question, no, it doesn’t look like a woman recuperating during some time off. Unless flirting with the idea of a coronary stent later in life is her way of recuperating.”
“Stop being cute, Timothy. It doesn’t suit you nearly as much as you think it does. Do you think it’s a coincidence, Gerry turning up at a diner outside which are a news crew and police cars?”
“Is it a coincidence in regards to what, sir?”
Andre hasn’t told Timothy what this is all about, their tailing Ms. Smoulderwell, so it’s a pretty fair question. But a servant should know his place nonetheless. “Of course it isn’t a coincidence, Tim. This whole thing stinks worse than a five-day-old burrito.”
“Would asking you again exactly what we’re doing here prompt you to enlighten me, sir?”
“I think the less people who know about this mess the better.” What mess, exactly? Hancock mysteriously quitting. This fishy business about Cole Baxter’s disappearance. And now Gerry acting very strangely. If this were some trashy novel these would all be narratively linked for sure. “All you need to know, Tim, is that you’re here to drive me where I need to go, and protect me if need be. Do you still have the Beretta in the glove compartment?”
Timothy opens it and checks. “I do. Do you want me to go over and shoot Ms. Smoulderwell on the spot?”
The spot he’s referring to is Gerry standing a short distance away from the diner’s entrance. She’s presumably waiting for a cab.
“Timothy, what have I told you about overstepping your bounds?”
“To not do that.”
“Exactly. You won’t be shooting anyone today, Tim. Only if they try to shoot me first.”
“How comforting.”
“Where do you think she’s going?” Andre asks.
“Do you want me to take a guess?”
“No, I was thinking out loud.”
“Then I suggest you think silently next time, sir.”
They sit in silence a couple minutes. A cab arrives at the diner and Ms. Smoulderwell gets in.
Timothy says, “I assume you want me to follow that cab, sir.”
“Exactly, Tim. Let’s keep on bobbing for rat turds in my tea.”
23.
WHEN I COME to, Grace is kissing me. I push her away, “Now’s not the time for getting to know one another better, Grace.”
“I was administering CPR. I thought you were dead.”
She moves away and I get up and dust myself off. Then I say, “How long was I out?”
“It’s hard to say. I was panicking. But I did manage to do five heart compressions and one…I want to say mouth blow.”
“Probably not the correct term, but I know what you mean. You need to be more careful, Grace. Mouth blowing a man whose heart hasn’t stopped can be dangerous.”
She looks down at my crotch. “I don’t see your penis complaining. We need to get you to a hospital.”
I shake my head. “That’s a perfectly natural response to being mouth blown by an attractive waitress.”
“Not that, silly dummy. There’s something really wrong with you.”
“Silly dummy?”
“Stop changing the subject.”
“Okay, I admit it. I’m a little worried too. This blacking-out thing looks like it might be a regular occurrence. Still, I’d much prefer to just wait until the doctor’s office is open tomorrow. My insurance isn’t what it used to be. Plus, my erection’s a pretty good sign that this is probably nothing, right?”
“I don’t know, on an episode of Six Feet Under a dead man got an erection.”
“Remind me to never take you to a fancy restaurant. I’m not sure your brand of small talk would go down well with the regulars.”
“Jake, this is serious, not small talk.”
“Okay, I’ll stop changing the subject. You do know that if we go to the hospital, chances are we’re going to get arrested for the assault on your husband.”
“I know that. It’s probably time to face the music, anyway. Besides, we haven’t done anything wrong. We’ll just explain what happened and they’ll deem it a necessary crime. Rebel has a history of beating on me.”
“And I have a history of being the good guy. You’re right. This thing will work itself out and then we can pick up where we left off with the investigation, after the doctors have found out the problem behind the blackouts and fixed me. Sounds like a plan. But I’ll only agree to going to hospital on one condition?”
“What’s that?”
I look down at my pants. “We go back to my apartment so I can change my pants first. You were right, this color is horrible.”
24.
“FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK,” Gerry says under her breath.
The cab driver looks at her in the rearview mirror. “Four fucks. You must be having a hell of a day, lady. Most I’ve heard is three in a row. And that was a guy who I rushed to hospital after he chopped off his thumb in a fight with marinara sauce.”
Always with the stories, cab drivers, Gerry thinks. Then forces a smile.
He’s right: a hell of a day. She didn’t count on Detective Ducks or whatever his name is being there. She vaguely remembers him as the clutz that Hancock helped arrest the criminals who compromised the Agency six months back. Now, what does he know?
The cab driver interrupts her thinking. “You still haven’t told me where you want me to take you.”
“Head in the
general direction of Hollywood. I’ll decide on the way.”
“The general direction of Hollywood?”
“That’s right.”
She can see the cogs turning in his mind. She doesn’t want him interrupting her again, so she waits for his comment. “You don’t strike me as a sightseer, and you don’t look the kind to be suicidal—”
“Why would you even contemplate that?”
“Person who goes for a ride in a cab with no place to go, in my experience, has some real deep thinking to do. You wouldn’t be the first to get in my cab, ask to go in the general direction of some place, then ask to get out while on a bridge, throw yourself off.”
With conversation like this, she doubts it, too. Must have quite the suicidal thoughts-actual suicide conversation rate.
She sits forward slightly, humoring him, and says, “Go ahead then. What am I doing in your cab?”
He thinks a second. “Wouldn’t be polite of me to say, ma’am.”
But it would be polite to assess whether she’s suicidal or not?
“No, it probably wouldn’t.”
With the driver concentrating on the road, she sits back and turns her mind to this Detective Clutz situation. Where was she? Oh yeah, what does he know? He’s probably worked out by now that there’s no Hayley Toothridge in L.A. He was onto her the moment she uttered the name Hancock. Big deal. She thinks further ahead in the conversation they had. She didn’t let anything concrete slip.
Then why does she have this deep sense of dread?
Just paranoia.
Or is it?
She thinks a couple minutes.
Then it comes to her, hitting her in the stomach like a heavyweight boxer’s uppercut.
She checks her clutch bag, even though she knows she put it in there, and then gives the cab driver her location. “Hollywood Boulevard. And step on it.”
25.
