by Paul Neuhaus
He seemed like a pleasant enough guy. Millennial. Tattoo sleeves. Shaved head. I went over to the bar and sat down. “Scotch, neat.”
He threw his towel over his shoulder and poured the drink. “I would’ve pegged you more as the white wine spritzer type.”
“Don’t let the get-up fool you,” I replied. “I’ve got a hollow leg and fists of fury.”
He laughed as he put the drink in front of me. “I believe you. Now that I’ve seen you up close I’m tempted to hire you as a bouncer.”
“I’m tempted to take that offer. You the owner?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“First of all, I gotta say, ‘Bravo’. This is the weirdest bar I’ve ever been in and I’ve been in every bar everywhere.”
“I take that as high praise.”
“Please do. I’m in the presence of genius here. Can you walk me through your process? Why Richard M.?”
“I’ve always had a taste for irony,” he replied. “One day it just occurred to me, ‘Why not have a bar dedicated to the worst rat-fuck of a president we’ve ever had?’ Present presidents excepted, of course.”
“Of course. Well, succeed or fail, just know you’ve done a great thing here. A’salut.”
He brought up a bottle of seltzer and we clinked.
“I’m looking for someone. Maybe you can help me out.”
He pulled the towel down off of his shoulder and started polishing the bar. “Okay but be specific. A lot of people come through here, and a certain sameness starts to creep in.”
“How’s this for specific? Female, black, late twenties or early thirties, tight afro, tall, pretty, built like an Olympic athlete—in fact she’s got walnut-crusher thighs.”
“I think I’d remember someone like that.” He leaned toward me and whispered. “You see, I like the dark meat.”
I cocked my head, pondering the phrase. “Is that racist? I’m honestly not sure.”
The bartender shrugged. “I dunno. Who can keep up? I’m guessing not since I like the dark meat. I mean I really like it. I would crawl through a parking lot full of broken glass and salt to get to just one strong, beautiful black woman.”
“That’s dedication.”
“You’re goddam right.”
“How about cars? You a car guy?”
He grinned. “Oh, yes. I’m from South Carolina. I could strip down and rebuild an engine before I could shit.”
I had to do the math on that one. I decided not to challenge him. “You ever see a Ford Mustang 390 GT 2+2 Fastback in your parking lot? Probably sixty-eight.”
“That’s the Bullit car, yo! Fuckin’-a, it’s so weird you mention that because I did see that car in my parking lot and I said, ‘That’s the Bullit car, yo!’ because that’s just naturally what you say in that situation.”
I liked this bartender very much. “That is what you say in that situation. Any idea who the owner was?”
“Ordinarily, I’d say no. Most cars that park in my lot aren’t worth noticing, but this was the fucking Bullit car, and I had to know. I tossed away my cigarette—half smoked—and went back inside. I called out over the noise, ‘Would the owner of the sixty-eight Mustang 390 GT see me at the bar, please?’”
“And?”
“And this guy comes up. He says, ‘Yeah, is there a problem?’ And I was like, ‘No, there’s not problem’, and I pull him in tight for a bro hug. I also tell him his money’s no good at the bar.”
Now we were getting somewhere. We were closing in on the getaway man. (Which is weird come to think of it because The Getaway is another movie with Steve McQueen.) “What’d this guy look like?”
“Like a fucking Rockstar. I mean he was really well put-together. Impeccable clothes. Impeccable shoes. Fucking handsome as all get out. Did you ever see Sting from the eighties? Police-era Sting?”
I nodded. This kid hadn’t been born during the age of Police-era Sting. I’d been there.
“I’m not gonna lie, I’m straight as an arrow, but I would fuck Police-era Sting. Anyway, this dude looked exactly like Police-era Sting. Let me ask you something... Look at me... I’m doing alright. I got my own business, but, let’s face it, I got a head like a potato. Does it seem fair to you a guy should have the Bullit car and look like Police-era Sting?”
I laughed. I really liked this bartender. “No, no it does not. What’s your name?”
“Todd,” he said, holding out his hand. “What about you? What do you drive?”
“My name’s Dora. I drive a ’76 Sierra Gold Pontiac Firebird Esprit.”
“The ‘Rockford’ car. See, that’s not fair either. You drive the ‘Rockford’ car and you look like a young Monica Bellucci.”
“Nobody said life was fair, Todd.”
“A-fucking-men.”
“Can you tell me anything else about Mr. Bullit Car?”
“Mmm. He didn’t talk much. He thanked me for the drinks. He did have a sweet voice. Real smooth. Like honey or velvet or something.”
“I think maybe you’ve got a crush on this guy.”
“Duh. I told you I did.”
“He say if he was from around here?”
Todd shook his head. “Nah.”
“When was this?”
“Day before yesterday?”
I sighed. So close and yet so far away. “Think for a second, Todd. Did he say or do anything else that might help me track him down?”
Todd thought for a second. “Um... He did ask me if I knew of a place nearby where he could get his tire pressure topped off.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“MacDuff’s. It’s just down the road a piece.”
I sighed a sigh of relief. I’d gotten another link in the chain. I stood and dropped a bill on the bar. Todd pushed it back my way. “Take it, Todd. You’ve been a huge help.”
He shook his head and held the money out to me. “Nuh-uh. Today’s on me. On one condition...”
“What’s that?’
“You gotta come back. This is one of the least boring conversations I’ve had all week.”
I laughed. “It’s funny... You own a bar, yet I take it you’re not much of a people person.”
He shrugged. “Neither was Tricky Dick. It fits.”
I thanked him again, told him I’d be back, and headed out for MacDuff’s.
MacDuff’s Auto really was only a couple of blocks down, but I was glad Donatella gave me sandals rather than heels. I was hoofing it all over Long Beach, and it was hot outside. When I got to the shop, I saw that he had a couple of gas pumps and one of those old school hose thingies you run over, and it dings a bell. I figured I’d save myself a little time, so I stomped real hard on the hose and got my ding. A guy—shaggy-haired, probably early fifties—came out to see what was up. I walked toward him. “Yeah?” he said.
I flashed him a big Bellucci smile and put on my damsel in distress tone. “I know this is gonna sound funny, but I was at Tricky Dick’s the other night and there was this girl. She had the same purse as me. We sat near each other and, wouldn’t you know it, I got hers and she got mine. Problem is, there wasn’t anything in hers but lipstick and a dildo. I have no idea who she was.”
He reached inside his shirt and scratched his belly button. Boredom and irritation flowed off of him like heat waves in the desert. I guess the cutie in the short dress thing wasn’t working for him. “That sounds like a you problem rather than a me problem.”
“Well, the bartender up at Tricky Dicks said he told her boyfriend to come down here to get air in his tires. I thought you might know him and be able to point me in the right direction.”
“Lady, I don’t talk to the customers if I can help it. I don’t talk to anybody if I can help it. This is the longest conversation I’ve had with another human in more than six months. And that includes my wife. Why would I know this purse snatcher and her boyfriend?”
This guy made me look bright and cheerful. “Well, you wouldn’t necessarily. I’m just followi
ng whatever leads I got. These two—this girl and this guy—were real distinct. Todd from the bar said you might remember them. Do you know Todd? From the bar?”
He just stared at me blankly. Tough crowd.
“He told me to tell you the guy drove a sixty-eight Mustang. ‘Tell him it’s the Bullit car,’ he said. Does that ring any bells with you?”
Again, the belly scratch. “Steve McQueen was over-rated.”
“Should I take that as a no?”
“Take it however you want.”
“Alright. The other thing about this guy was he was real handsome. Like unusually handsome. Todd said he looked like Sting from the eighties.”
“Do I look like someone that pops wood every time a hunky guy comes through? Besides, I was more into REO Speedwagon.”
I fought back a laugh. The fact he was into REO Speedwagon spoke volumes. “Can’t Fight This Feeling” my ass. “Okay. Don’t remember the car? Check. Don’t remember the guy? Check. Hear me out on one more thing. The girl—the one who has my purse—she was black. Real pretty. Maybe a Whitney Houston type. Only, unlike Whitney Houston—”
“She was alive?”
“Yes, she was alive. And she was also in crazy good shape. If she was wearing a skirt, you probably noticed her legs. She—”
“I don’t like the dark meat.”
“Okay, fine, but she had like runner’s legs. Like Olympic athlete legs. She probably—”
“I remember her.”
I almost finished the sentence I started. “Wait. You remember her?”
“Yeah, she bought something. In the little general store-type area I set up in there.” He pointed at his own building.
I sighed, both exasperated and relieved. “She bought something?”
“Yeah. A Mountain Dew and them orange cupcakes. That’s the reason it stands out in my head. Nobody ever buys the orange ones. Most people get the chocolate. Or else Sno-balls. The pink ones.”
Sometimes you just gotta find the right button to push. Here was a guy who tracked the world via cupcakes. “Do you remember if she paid with cash or a card?”
“Card.”
I looked at the decrepitude of his building and knew the answer to my next question before I asked it. “You guys electronic or manual?”
“Manual. We’re still doing the ka-chunk! thing.” He mimed running a credit card through one of the old-school machines.
“You still got the slip?”
“Oh, yeah. We gotta hold onto ‘em for a while. Credit card company rules.”
“Would you be kind enough to dig that slip out for me? I really gotta track down that purse. My I.D.’s in there. My credit cards. You name it.”
“I might be kind enough. But this is the part where I ask you if you’re a cop.”
‘“Do I look like a cop to you? I mean, not to put too fine a point on it, but have you ever seen a cop as pretty as me?”
He raised one eyebrow and whistled. “Ooo-ah. Look at you. Little Miss My Shit Don’t Stink. What’s it like to be so stuck on yourself?”
I bristled. “I’m not stuck on myself, and I’m not Little Miss My Shit Don’t Stink. All I’m saying is, male cops, some of them are handsome guys. I won’t lie to you: I’ve slept with more than my share. You know, support your local sheriff and all that. But think about it: When was the last time you saw a lady cop that got your motor revving?”
“My motor don’t rev. I was in the first Gulf War. I got myself a particular kind of injury.”
“Oh, jeeze, that sucks.” I told him I was sorry, and I meant it, but I was running out of patience. “Are you gonna show me the slip or what?”
MacDuff finally showed me the credit card slip. Harper Adcock was the girl’s name. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. On the one hand, it had a nifty ring to it. On the other, her name was “Adcock” which made me think things like “Instant Whore: Just Add Cock”. That’s the way my mind works sometimes.
I don’t have one of them fancy smart phones (can’t afford it), so I couldn’t just hop on and look up Ms. Adcock. Fortunately, I wasn’t too far from the main branch of the Long Beach Public Library, a nice facility with a big courtyard full of sketchy people. I made the mistake of taking the Pacific Avenue entrance. That’s the side where the sketchiest of the sketch tend to hang. I got two offers for carefree, anonymous sex and another for, and I quote, “the fisting of a lifetime”. Part of me was curious, but the guy’s hands were dirty, so, you know, deal breaker.
Once I was inside, I went for the bank of free computers. I sat down next to a guy looking up Furries. In case you haven’t heard, Furries are people who dress up as anthropomorphic animals and have weird sex. Before I brought up Google, I made sure the guy didn’t have his wiener out. He didn’t, so I dove in. Turns out there were four Harper Adcocks in the continental United States. Two of them were men—which I thought was sad. I’ll make fun of a girl named Adcock all day long, but when I think about boys named Adcock, all I can picture is decades of extreme psychological torture. I’d bet serious money boy Harper Adcocks come out of the public-school system as twitchy ne’er-do-wells. Broken losers that tic every time they hear a dick joke. I decided to focus on the ladies.
Harper Marie Adcock was an eight-year-old banjo savant from Auxier, Kentucky. Regionally famous. I watched a couple of her YouTube videos. The tiny bitch could play.
Harper Antoinette Adcock was from Tustin, California, she was African American, and she was a high school track star. She went to the USC Marshall School of Business. The Daily Trojan quoted her as saying, “I have a drive and a will to succeed. I am a strong, beautiful black woman.” Somewhere, Todd the bartender was popping wood. Not only did she run track in college, she was an actual Olympian. Bronze medal in the biathlon. That’s the event where you cross-country ski and then you target shoot with a rifle. I did not see that part coming, but I definitely I had my girl. A quick glance at the online White Pages and, soon enough, I had an address. Damned it if it wasn’t four blocks from where I was sitting. Things were looking up.
As I weaved back through the weirdos outside the library, it occurred to me how strange it was one Harper Adcock was middle named “Marie” and the other Harper Adcock was middle named “Antoinette”. Marie Antoinette. The “let them eat cake” bitch. Was that what the seers call a portent? Was the Universe trying to tell me something? Probably not. The Universe was never as cooperative as I needed it to be.
Long story short, I found Harper Adcock exactly where the White Pages said I would.
Short story long, I went over to her place and knocked on the door. She answered it dressed in sweats with her feet bare. I’d caught her in the middle of a 13 Reasons Why Netflix binge. “Yeah?” she said. She was surly. I couldn’t blame her. I didn’t like having my binges interrupted either. I figured I’d make it short and sweet. I said, “Hi” then I reached into my purse, slipped on my brass knuckles and broke her nose. “Peekaboo”, indeed. I dropped the knuckles back into my purse and took out the pepper spray. I held the can upside down and shot a generous helping into her bloody face. That kicked off what I call the Ceremony of the Screaming and the Clawing of the Eyes. While she writhed around trying to not only stop the pain but make sense of her new circumstance, I sat down on the couch and crossed my legs. I picked up her remote and paused the show. Then I turned off the TV. I was sitting underneath a wall-mounted bronze medal and a rifle. “Don’t worry,” I said. “You can pick up your show where you left off. After I’m done with you, and you get that nose splinted.”
She didn’t turn toward me. She was still in way too much pain. Finally, she managed a “Who... the... fuck’re... you? Why would you—? Why would you—?”
“Why would I? You don’t recognize me?” I took off Mrs. Padovano’s wig and laid it on the couch next to me. “There? Is that better?”
She looked over at me. I wasn’t catching her at her best. Her eyes were the color of beets and streams of water poured from them down her c
heeks. She stammered something, but I could tell she knew who I was. I’m guessing Sting hadn’t warned her I kick like a mule. He probably didn’t know. He was gonna find out. I still had the pepper spray in my hand. I held it up, so she could see it. “Do I still need this?”
She shook her head several times fast, genuine fear clear on her face.
I dropped the sprayer into my purse along with the brass knuckles. “I’m gonna say something to you now, and I bet you can guess what it is. Bitch, where’s my jug?”
She gasped for breath and wiped the tears off her cheeks. She tried to speak but it came out as gravelly squawk.
“You need a minute? Okay. There you go... Think happy thoughts. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Close your eyes—you’re not gonna need ‘em for this.”
She closed her eyes and laid down on her side. It’s no picnic having your nose broken and being pepper sprayed in rapid succession. Believe me, I know. I waited patiently. Finally, Adcock said, “I. Don’t have it.”
“Okay. Who does? I’m assuming you gave it to Sting?”
A long pause full of wheezing and a strained, thoughtful expression. “I. Don’t know Sting.”
“Pop star. Big in the eighties. Handsome fella back in the day. Actually, he’s still handsome. Plus, he does this tantric sex thing. Supposedly, he’s able to last for hours. Which I think sounds tedious. Mostly, momma wants to get her rocks off and go home, you know what I mean?”
“No. I mean I don’t know Sting.”
I sighed. Was she fucking with me? I didn’t want to be fucked with. “I know you don’t know the actual Sting. I was speaking metaphorically since I don’t know the dude’s name. I’ve been told your boyfriend looks like Sting, so I figured it’d be good shorthand. Let me rephrase so we’re all on the same page: Did you, Harper Adcock, give the jar you stole from me to a man who—while he’s not the real Sting—probably resembles Sting?”
She was finally able to breathe in a reasonable rhythm. She sat up with her back against a chair. She kept her eyes closed. “He said you wouldn’t come here.”
