“We do.”
“Excellent.” He turned towards Agnes. “I expect that you’ll take care of and show a measure of kindness towards Agnes. I’m very fond of her and do not want her to be hurt.”
“It’s not my desire to hurt her.” He smiled and raised his hand towards Agnes.
“Then please enjoy your evening.” It was then that I noticed the two goons waiting at the door. Agnes was also waiting.
“Your sandwich is getting cold.”
I slid in next to her and took my half. Fortunately, her admonition wasn’t true. The steak was tender with just the right amount of seasoning. Once again I realized I had eaten very little and was far hungrier than I thought. We quietly finished our meal leaving nothing other than a small patch of ketchup on the plate.
“The sandwich was a good choice. I feel better now.”
“It’s not healthy to skip meals, Monk. You might need your energy later.”
“I might.” Her smile returned now that there was no boss to interrupt us. “So, can I ask what prompted you to ask me for a drink?”
“Cause I liked the way you looked. Not many men come here wearing a suit, and, I don’t know, there was something about you that appealed to me, so I thought what the hell. Why’d you say yes?”
“May I be honest?”
“Please.” I leaned in.
“Because you have an engaging smile, because I was curious, because it’s been a while and you have great boobs.”
She laughed. “They are nice, aren’t they? Men have been admiring them for years. It’s been a while for me too. Maybe we’re just two lonely people looking for a little company.”
“I would think an attractive woman like you would have all the company she desired.”
“You would think, but I foolishly spent most of those years trying to hold on to the wrong man. After that I floundered for a while, so I took a break. Only it lasted longer than I thought it would.”
“I know how that goes.”
“So you’re all mine for now.”
“I’m all yours.”
“Good.” She raised her glass. “A toast, to the two of us, and a glorious evening together.”
“To a glorious evening.” Rey strolled over to pick up our plate and refill our glasses.
Agnes pulled herself even closer to me. “Do you like to dance, Monk?”
“I know enough to be dangerous.”
“Then let’s dance. Rey, would you be a sweetheart and put on my dance music?”
“Coming up.” Rey obliged, turning up the sound in the bar.
Agnes loved to dance. There was a little of everything, but I liked the slow stuff. She held me close and pressed those delightful breasts to me as often as possible. A break here and there for a drink, then it was back out for more. The air around us was filled with perfume, musk, and perspiration. Towards the end she would kiss me more and more.
“Monk…”
“Agnes…”
“Would you like to come home with me?”
The answer was self-evident as she pressed against me, but there’s nothing wrong with saying it out loud. “Yes, I would.”
In a fluidity remarkable given the drinks we’d consumed, we gathered our belongings, bade farewell to Rey; who barely acknowledged us, made our way to my car; apparently, I was driving, made it to her place just down the road, and fell into bed wrapped around one another.
It was, indeed, a glorious evening.
7
It’s amazing how good it can feel to be with a woman. I drifted into a deep sleep until the sun woke me. Agnes was still asleep, pressed next to me. I ran my finger along her shoulder. I thought about morning sex, but my bladder couldn’t wait. By the time I was done I’d found the clock and knew I didn’t have as much time as I thought. Her phone was by the door. I fished Jones’ number out of my pants pocket and called the number.
“Jones?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s Buttman. I’m over by Dulcimer’s joint. Where do you want to meet?”
“I’ll meet you there. There’s a guy up north that knows this Desiree. How much time do you need?”
“Maybe an hour.”
“I’ll be there in an hour. What are you driving?”
“64 Falcon convertible.” I noted the sigh on his end.
“That figures. Be there, Buttman.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Jones.”
Agnes was still in bed, and while it was tempting to jump back in with her, I hit the shower instead. The next stop was the kitchen. I was hungry and needed to eat before my time with Mr. Jones. He didn’t strike me as someone who spent a lot of time thinking about food. Fortunately, Agnes had a little something in the kitchen. I got the coffee started and heard her coughing. I filled a glass with water and grabbed the Tylenol out of the bathroom. She was sitting up, the sheets around her waist. When I came in she crossed her arms out of a sense of modesty, which made me smile. After all the time I spent indulging myself with her fine breasts and now she was self-conscious.
“Good morning.” Her hair, makeup, and demeanor were what you’d expect after a night of drinking, dancing, and sex.
“Morning.” She half-heartedly brushed the hair out of her face. “I thought you were gone already…”
“No, not yet, I have to meet Jones in a little while. Here…” I offered her the water and Tylenol. “In case you might have a headache.”
“Thanks.” She carefully opened the bottle, taking a number of tablets, and slowly washed them down with the water.
“Hungry? I need to eat before I go. I noticed you have some stuff for breakfast, would you like some?”
“That would be nice.”
I started breakfast while I assumed she was doing whatever she does in the morning. I found some plates and silverware and placed them on the small table adjacent to the kitchen. I poured two cups of coffee, toasted the muffins, and filled the plates with eggs and sausage. She wandered in and sat down. Her hair was pulled back and she had removed the previous evening’s makeup. There was a glow to her skin after our night of debauchery.
“I can’t remember the last time anyone made me breakfast.”
“It’s nothing special, eat up.”
We quietly ate our food as the morning light filled the room. It was the kind of domesticity I occasionally longed for. Agnes would periodically peer over at me as I finished the meal. I couldn’t tell if she meant to say something or not.
“I assume I need to drop you off at work?” I asked.
“That would be nice. My legs are a bit wobbly from last night. I can’t remember the last time I danced that much!” She smiled at repeating herself. “I’d prefer not to have to walk today.”
“Sure, but I have to get going soon…”
“I’ll hurry.” She finished the last few bites and headed back to her room. I cleaned off the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. She was quiet on the short ride back to her office. I parked the car, surveying the lot for Mr. Jones.
“I had a good time last night, Monk.”
“So did I.”
“I wouldn’t mind doing it again sometime, if you’d like?”
“I would like. I had a wonderful time, you’re a beautiful woman.” She smiled at me sadly. She reached in my coat pocket and retrieved Mr. Jones’ card.
“Here’s my number.” She wrote it on the back of the card. A long sweet kiss followed. “Bye.”
“Goodbye,” I watched as she made her way across the lot, disappearing behind the door of her o
ffice.
I did not notice Mr. Jones.
“You ready, Buttman?” he semi-shouted, causing me to jump like a fool.
“Yeah!”
“About fucking time. Head over to I-5, we’re going north.”
Mr. Jones ran his hand along the edge of the dashboard. There wasn’t much else to do as we drove past the endless subdivisions, malls, and indistinct buildings that made up this never-ending town. The weather was, as it generally is, sunny and warm. I pulled the top down before we took off. I liked it that way. Jones seemed to enjoy the air cascading across his domed head.
“You got a nice ride, Buttman. When you first told me what you were driving I pictured something a little different, but I can see you keep this baby up. I like that.”
“Thanks. I’ve had it for more than twenty years. A guy not far from here takes care of it for me.”
“I knew a guy years ago had a car like this. Not a bad way to go.”
“Speaking of which, where are we going?”
“We’re going to see a man named Frankensense. Apparently he knew Desiree when she worked in the porn industry. Might know who she’s shacking up with. The cops checked her home address, but there was no one there. Whatever she’s up to, leaving was a part of it.”
“Are you a PI?”
He seemed dismayed by the term.
“No. I do security; have for years after I got out of the army. I know a lot of people in the PD, and over at county, so I know people who can help with information, but I don’t do that too much anymore. My thing now is production, music acts and entertainment, that sort of thing. I’m not happy that I’ve got to waste my time chasing after some damn woman. But, she’s got my money, twenty-five G’s worth; money that I need to get my acts through to the next level, so here we are.”
“That’s a lot of cash to have on hand.”
“It is, but in this business, cash still speaks loudest, and very few people will take checks or swipe your debit card. It’s money under the table; it’s money that gets your people seen. Shows, websites, tweets, all of it, exposure is everything, Buttman. If they don’t see you, they don’t know you.”
“I see.” Other than Joanie’s occasional comments on the state of local entertainment, I knew very little of how it all worked. Jones could be blowing smoke. The traffic thinned as we rode north. Not every hill had houses on it. More and more there were industrial parks dotted on either side of the interstate.
“Get off at the next exit. Go right,” he directed.
This led us to a nondescript warren of single-story buildings, one of which was a small office complex. I parked the car and we went into suite 106B. A woman with long hair and a bright smile greeted us. It was hard not to stare at her rather prominent and well-displayed breasts.
Jones ogled behind his sunglasses. “We’re here to see Frankensense. Jones and Buttman. We’re expected.”
“I’ll let him know you’re here.” She hit the buzzer and out came her employer. Frankensense was a middle-aged guy with graying hair and a paunch. Not at all what I expected. We could be at Walmart and he’d fit right in.
“Gentlemen.” We followed him into his office. There was little to indicate that pornography was his business. A few pictures of clothed adult films stars, a calendar and a landscape of the cliffs off the ocean adorned the walls. His desk was a lot like Desiree’s, only more papers and files littered the top. There was a couch and three chairs. Frankensense motioned that we sit.
Jones spoke first. “We here to get some information on Desiree Marshan. It’s my understanding that you know this woman.”
“I do indeed, Mr. Jones. I also understand that she’s gotten herself into a bind.”
“Apparently. I’d appreciate hearing what you know about her and where she might be or who she might know. ”
“Word got to me that this is through Johnny D. Are you here on his behalf?” I noted the slight change in Frankensenses’s voice.
“Buttman might be, but she has something that belongs to me; that’s my interest.”
“Good enough.” Frankensense opened up his laptop and tapped on the keys. He smiled in a way that suggested he’d done this before and then looked at us. “Desiree came into this business about seven, maybe eight years ago. Most of the time the people I see are looking for opportunities for any number of reasons; they need money, want exposure, want to be famous, think this is a good way to get some pussy, and so on. I don’t normally deal in coercion; I don’t like it. I can find plenty of talent through normal channels. Desiree, whose working name was Rosarita, was a little different. When she was first brought to me it was made clear that I would find work for her in specific genres, and she was to work until she had paid off her commitment. The individuals making this request were not the kind you say no to and I like being known as a cooperative guy.”
“Which individuals were these?” I asked.
“I’m not going to name names. Let’s just say that the story going around was that Desiree got mixed up with a man who thought he could steal from the wrong people, and they believed she knew about it. They gave her a choice, pay us what you owe us, or find yourself in a bad way, if you know what I mean. Adult films were an option for paying them back, and they wanted a dose of humiliation thrown in, so she became the girl doing anal in our interracial films.” Frankensense gave Jones a sidelong glance at this last comment, maybe to see if that was his thing, or if he was offended.
“How long did that last?” was Jones’ response.
“About three years. And they worked that girl hard, no pun intended, even though she rarely smiled and looked bored most of the time, but then I don’t think many people were looking at her face.” Frankensense cracked a smile at that. “Amazingly, a kind of cult evolved around her; chat rooms, file sharing groups, stuff like that. She sold well. I even heard there was a small club called Rosarita’s Riders devoted to her; men who would pay, and pay well, to enjoy Desiree’s ample ass.”
“And then?” I asked.
“She split. I heard she hooked up with a tranny called Derek/Dahlia. The two of them made movies together or with another guy, something like that. Anyway, that lasted about a year. From what I heard Dahlia left to be a counselor in the tranny community. As for Desiree, I was told she found a guy who got her a job with some lawyers, but I assume you knew that.”
“What’s this Desiree look like, any distinguishing marks?” Jones sounded bored.
“She has a long rose tattoo.” Both Jones and Frankensense turned to me. Frankensense had a sly grin on his face.
“That’s true. So you know Desiree, Mr.…”
“Buttman, Monk Buttman. I know her from the law office. Her tattoo peeked out from beneath her blouse at the neck and wrist.”
“More than that, Mr. Buttman. See here…” He turned his laptop our way. There in all her pixilated glory was Desiree Marshan glaring at the camera without a stitch of clothing. Frankensense toggled between pictures showing her front to back. “As you can see it’s quite a tattoo. It starts at the small of her back, winds down her left cheek, between her legs, with a rose around her asshole, then it comes out the other side, along her thigh, up around her tits to her neck, and then down her arm. ”
“Yes, it’s something else,” said Jones in a flat voice. “Do you have a headshot of her, and do you think this Dahlia can help us?”
“I’ll see what I have. As for Dahlia, I couldn’t say. I didn’t know her and Desiree never brought her around.”
We got up as Frankensense printed a picture of Desiree for Jones. For some reason, he gave me his card. We thanked him and returned to the car. Jones sat there lost in thought.
“I’m hungry, Buttman, and we need to talk. There was a Denny’s just off the freeway. Let’s go.”
8
The man in black was not a happy camper. As we waited for my club sandwich and his chicken salad, he worked the phone while growing increasingly agitated. From what I could tell, he was being threatened with the loss of whomever he was representing if he couldn’t get the ball moving on whatever was coming up. Between calls to people unknown he would glance towards me with a look of either exasperation or what have you gotten me into. More and more the tone grew tense until he slammed the phone onto the table. The waitress cautiously approached with our food.
“Is everything alright?” She set down the plates with a delicacy usually reserved for nitro.
“It’s alright. Just business,” I replied. Jones glowered, but said nothing. “Thanks for your concern. The food looks good.”
“Enjoy your lunch, gentlemen.” She eased off towards the kitchen. Jones picked at his salad, his shoulders hunched forward, his eyes canvassing the contents of his meal. I didn’t believe his heart was in it. My sandwich, on the other hand, was quite good. I was proud of myself; I’d had both breakfast and lunch at the socially accepted times in God knows how long. Jones must have noticed my reverie.
“What are we doing here, Buttman?”
“Having lunch?”
“I’m serious, man. What the fuck are we doing here?”
“We’re looking for Desiree Marshan.”
“Why?”
I understood the point, but wondered whether it was wise to play too many cards with essentially a stranger. I didn’t feel uncomfortable around Jones, but I had no idea as to his motives beyond a claimed desire to recover stolen money.
“I don’t really know.”
“Then why are you here, Buttman? What the fuck good are you if you don’t know why you’re here?”
“Why do you think I’m here, Mr. Jones?” He sat up and put his fork on the plate.
“Cause maybe, motherfucker, you took the money and this ruse about Desiree Marshan is just a runaround. Maybe the expectation is that sooner or later I’m goin’ hafta beat it out of you? How ‘bout that?”
Where Fools Dare to Tread Page 6