Where Fools Dare to Tread

by David William Pearce

  Next I dialed Bernie’s number after rummaging through the drawer in the kitchen for his business card.

  “This is Bernie.”

  “Bernie, Monk Buttman.”

  “Monk Buttman calling me on the phone? Interesting. What’s up?” I could hear his chuckles even though it sounded like he was trying to stifle them. One of our many talks had focused on the cellular phone and the ability of the phone companies and the government to track and spy on an unsuspecting public. I had sworn never to get one, and technically, I hadn’t. It was a gift.

  “I’m taking a road trip this weekend and was hoping you’d have some time to make sure the Falcon can go the distance.”

  “Sure, how about five tonight; I got some time then.”

  “Great. Also, I was wondering if you could get me in touch with Llewellyn. I remember you said he was good if I needed to find some information.”

  “You’re in luck. He happens to be in town this week. I’ll let him know, anything else, Monk?”

  “No, that should do it. Thanks, Bernie.”

  “See you then.”

  It was ten-thirty, time to get serious. Hidden under the dresser in the bedroom was a locked metal box. In it I kept a gun and a sap. The gun I’d had since the old man gave it to me just before I left for Virginia. He had always condemned our obsession with firearms so I was surprised when he gave it to me. It was an old 1911 Navy 45-caliber automatic, a big heavy hunk of metal.

  Along with the gun, he gave me a box of shells and a manual for keeping it clean. In all those years I’d only fired it once. A collector in Virginia had stopped by to look at it when I considered selling it. He wanted to know how accurate it was, so we went to a field and fired the thing. It made a lot of noise and kicked more than I thought it would, but it was accurate. For reasons I can’t explain I decided not to sell. Now, the gun rested in my hand. It felt hard and mean. I loaded the magazine and set it aside. The sap I’d found at a second-hand store. The woman there didn’t know what it was, but an old dude told me it’s what they used in the old days to take a guy out. A quick strike at the back of the head or neck was all it took. I thought it was cute.

  Now it was in my pocket.

  The gun was destined for my other pocket. I slid in the magazine, made sure the chamber was empty and the safety was on. The thing gave me the willies. With the implements of destruction safely deployed upon my person, it was time to check out the car. The sun was bright and angry, beating down upon me and the dry tired ground. What little clouds there were drifted thin and high above the haze below. It hurt my eyes, but I’d left my sunglasses in the car days before.

  Out in front of the bungalows a number of landscape workers were trimming up the hedges, pruning the plants, and cleaning the weeds out of the beds. I couldn’t remember there ever being anyone to take care of the yard. It was a sad patch of earth, overgrown, unloved, and forgotten. Now there were guys cleaning it up. They were finally fixing up the place. Perhaps it was a good thing Agnes came along; I might need a new place to live.

  The car hadn’t moved and appeared to be unchanged. A coat of dust obscured the light blue paint and dulled the white soft-top. There was nothing in it to steal, not even the old AM radio held enough value for a would-be thief. I opened the trunk, noting the smudges near the bottom of the rear bumper, and placed the 45 in a small handbag that held a few emergency tools. The trunks of old cars had a smell all their own and the Falcon was no different. It was like an old friend, a combination of decaying fabrics, rubber, with a little oil thrown in for effect. Other than the spare tire and the small bag, the trunk was empty.

  The driver’s door had a few dings in it. I couldn’t tell if they were new or not. I rolled down the window, hopped in, and released the latches so I could lower the soft-top. That released the pent-up heat and allowed the breeze to take away the fifty-year-old musk that collected when the car stayed closed for too long. I put the key in and turned it over. The motor roared to life, and I sat there enjoying that beautiful sound. I loved old cars and this was mine. I popped the hood and made sure there were no missing connections, leaks, or odd noises. I knew the car well enough to tell if something wasn’t right. I closed the hood, took the sunglasses off the dash, and headed down to the gas station. I filled the tank and cleaned the windows. It was then I noticed the envelope under the front seat. I put it in my pocket. The landscapers were still caring for the yard when I returned.

  I decided to walk to the diner. Nobody was on the street and I could use the exercise. There were twenty minutes to kill till Dahlia was supposed to meet me. The same shops lined the street: a place for hair and nails, a computer repair store, and a tattoo parlor that now had a full-time person for body piercings. The diner was next to the parlor. A plump middle-aged woman with blue hair directed me to a booth and handed me a menu.

  “What happen to you, hon?”

  “I fell off my bike.”

  A knowing smirk plastered her plump face. “Don’t we all.”

  The diner’s specialty was sandwiches; big fresh monstrosities made with only the best meats and cheeses. Here in the middle of our old, disheveled neighborhood was this great rib-sticking food. The aroma in the diner was filled with its glorious bouquet of lunches to be. I ordered a Rueben, onion rings, and a Guinness. It was noon and I was both hungry and thirsty for something thick and tasty. The meal arrived as Dahlia haltingly entered the place. I waved her over. Other than the sunglasses, she looked exactly as she had the last time we’d met.

  “Hungry?” I inquired.

  “I don’t eat meat.”

  “They have a great avocado club. No meat. Try that.”

  “Alright.”

  Dahlia was processing my multi-colored face. Her eyes were hidden by the big dark sunglasses she had on. Her nose was puffy, and the same purple hue I saw in my mirror was there just outside the lens covering her right eye. I ate as she took the tour of my new look. The onion rings were perfect, crisp and sweet. The Rueben, too, was just the way I liked it with the corned beef and sauerkraut complimenting the Swiss cheese and the rye. A swig of Guinness and it was time for business.

  “What’s on your mind? What don’t you want to say in front of my partner?”

  “I wanted to tell you to be careful, but that doesn’t matter now.” She was still hiding behind the glasses.

  “Yeah, I guess after you told them where I lived, that kind of became secondary.”

  “I’m sorry about that. I thought I could call before they got there, but I couldn’t find your number. I didn’t think they were going to hurt you that much.”

  “These things happen, part of the game.” I decided to lay on the detective shtick.

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “I think you would, but we’ll save that for later. What do you really want? Spare me the concern for my health and well-being and get to the point.”

  Dahlia removed the sunglasses revealing the shiner the goons delivered. It didn’t look that bad, more for effect, same with the glasses. She had a nice face. Maybe a little plain without the makeup, but it went with the rest of her, lean and smooth. I wondered what she used to look like, before she decided she was a woman. What was the sex like? It was an idle thought. I didn’t really care, but it was what got her together with Desiree, whether for business, pleasure, or both.

  “I want to know why you’re looking for Desiree, and what you know about what happened where she worked.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “She didn’t say other than it was taken care of. No more cops, no more lawyers.”

  “You said you didn’t care what happened to Desiree, or that you’d talked to her; only that she was a horri
ble bitch who stole and lied and fucked you over. Yet now you want me to be open and honest with what the fuck I’m up to as concerns our dear, dear friend, Desiree Marshan. This after you had two goons work me over.”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

  “Did you know who they were?”

  Dahlia’s puffy nose crinkled as she thought up a reply. “No, but they might be those creepy rider guys.”

  “And just who are these creepy rider guys?”

  “They started out as fans who had a thing for Desiree. They were jerk-off buddies or something like that. Anyway, one of them contacted her to see if she’d be interested in some personal services work and over time she and this group of creeps got together so they could take turns fucking her while the others watched and jerked off. It made me sick. She didn’t care. For her it was easy money, no worse than what she had to do on film. They were very protective of her and their little gang.” She picked up the menu, then put it down.

  “I’m pretty sure one of them is the guy who got her the job with the lawyers,” she continued, “but now that I think of it that was bullshit too. We were on the outs by then, but we’d talk from time to time. She always had a number of dinks in play. The guy who helped her; the guy she killed, and those rider creeps. I don’t know why she killed him, but she knows that you know, and she wants you to leave her alone. That’s what I wanted to tell you. I know she’s up to something and she doesn’t want you to mess it up.”

  “That’s what she told you.”

  “Yes. She also told me I should mind my own business otherwise I might get another visit from her friends.”

  “Well, no one wants that.”

  “I don’t need your bullshit, Buttman. I’m just trying to help.”

  “My apologies. So you have no interest in the money, just our health.” Her expression didn’t change. “She probably didn’t mention there was a lot of money involved, did she?”

  “She said there was some, but it belonged to her man.”

  “Do you know where she is?” I watched her eyes twitch.

  “I know she left her apartment. She wouldn’t tell me where she is.”

  “But she’s with her new man. Do you know his name?”

  “She didn’t say, but I think she is. I don’t know his name.” Her lips were trembling.

  “How about her phone number?”

  “She had it changed. To anticipate your next question, she called me.”

  “Anything else?” I noticed her eyes tearing up.

  “No. Maybe this was a bad idea. I should go. I just wanted you to know I didn’t mean to get you beaten up. I didn’t think it would be like this when I met her, but I don’t want to be assaulted again, and I don’t want to be a part of some crazy money scheme or whatever she’s got going on. I just want to be left alone, alright?”

  “If I see her, I’ll let her know.”

  Dahlia, of the trembling lips, donned her sunglasses and left me where she found me. I watched her exit the diner and head down the street. I finished my lunch and prepared for the next little challenge of the day.

  Judith.

  I thought about what she might be wearing.

  21

  The beautiful homes and gardens along the way were resplendent as always. If nothing else, money buys a kind of visual beauty. I pulled into the drive and hit the intercom to let her know I was here. The buzzer sounded and the gate opened. Judith, dressed in a thin gauzy blouse and a pair of silver slacks, stood at the door, a drink in her hand and a smile on her face.

  She handed me the drink.

  “You’re looking better today, Monk, I’m glad you could make it. Come in.”

  “You look as delightful as ever, Judith, I’d be a fool not to stop by.”

  She came close and kissed me softly at first and then with more pressure. “I don’t care for Judith so much, please call me Judy.”

  “Whatever you like, Judy.”

  The kissing continued as she closed the door.

  I don’t have a good reason to explain my lack of fortitude in resisting the embrace of Judith Delashay. After spending time in the desert, a thirsty man will drink all the water he can, knowing it may be gone tomorrow. I didn’t blithely ignore my comments to Agnes concerning other entanglements; a lovely buzzword, and I had no good excuse for lying other than I didn’t consider myself in a relationship with Judith. It was a temporary partnership that had a sexual component. That was my answer. Hypocritical? Absolutely, but should I ever have to explain myself to Agnes or Joanie or whomever, it was business, simple as that. I wasn’t stupid enough to believe it would fly two feet, but it allowed me to take advantage of Judith’s favors, and as I told myself, once she had what she wanted my butt would be kicked to the curb. I could live with that. What it might do to my evolving relationship with Agnes depended on variables not yet in play, so as a matter of conscience, I left them alone. I would bravely face that mess when and if it blew up in my face. Till then I was happy to delude myself and accept all the favors Judy was willing to offer.

  I had, if I was honest, expected that maybe sex would be a part of our afternoon together. I was not disappointed. One thing I’ve learned as I’ve aged into manhood is that any relationship either grows or stunts depending on all those little things we like or dislike in the person we’re with. For now, we were in our growth phase. What we started the last time branched out this time. Judith was more playful and more giving in responding to my desires and I was happy to do whatever she asked. The pleasure more than made up for the pain. Today we ended up in her bedroom with its spectacular view in all our erotic glory. If I was indeed destined to end up neck deep in trouble, I felt it was worth it. The breeze through the window kept the temperature in the room comfortable, and took away the heat from our exhausted bodies. We lay in the shade of the room waiting for the other one to break the spell.

  “Mind if I ask you something?” I was feeling mischievous.

  “Not at all.”

  “Where do you see this going, you and me?”

  “Into the kitchen for something to eat.”

  “Meaning you don’t see this as anything beyond the here and now.”

  “Meaning I’m hungry. We can discuss as we cook.”

  We moved to the kitchen to indulge in our William S. Burroughs moment. Having never eaten naked, nor prepared meals sans clothes, it was a new experience with the obligatory fear of spilling hot oil all over my exposed genitalia. Sensing my anxiety, Judith handed me an apron, furnished with a knowing grin.

  “It’s for the inevitable splatters, they can sting.” She found one for herself.

  “Yes, they can. What are we making?”

  “Garlic shrimp over angel hair pasta. I assume you cook, Mr. Buttman?”

  “On occasion. What would you like me to do?”

  “I’ll let you clean and devein the shrimp.”

  I gathered my thoughts along with the shrimp and the knife and got down to business. Judith rummaged through the cabinets for what she needed to cook the pasta. We were an efficient team; by the time I had the shrimp ready, the pasta was cooking, and the olive oil, garlic, butter, and parsley were waiting for me.

  “You cook,” she said this while fondling my exposed butt, “that way I can properly focus on the nature and future of our budding romance.”

  “Excellent.” I put the oil in the pan and began sautéing the shrimp.

  “If I may anticipate your questions, you want to know if this is serious, if I’m using you, can this be love, what’s next, and what about Martin?” She was standing right behind me. “Is that about it?�
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  “It’s a start.” I gave her the raised eyebrows treatment. “I just want to know if we’re on the same page, so that neither of us is surprised later by whatever happens.”

  Judith, in kind, raised hers. “If you must know, I don’t have any illusions about what we’re doing or where we’re going. I’m not looking for someone to replace Martin, I’m not looking for love or romance; although if I’m honest, I wouldn’t say no to a little romance. I’ve met a lot of men over the years, slept with a number of them and learned some hard lessons in the process. To me love is simply a collection of emotions rolled into one: desire, longing, affection, and hope. Martin did his best to beat those out of me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Was it the kinky sex or other women? I ask because I found his tablet the other day and saw what was on it. Some of it was pretty wild.”

  “No, it wasn’t that. I’m no innocent. I’ve tried a lot of things over the years, the kinky and the wild. It wasn’t the acts so much as the attitude that went with them, the objectification, the pornographic nature of the encounters. I didn’t want to be some whore he was fucking. Martin lost his ability to make love to me, to care about the meaning of intimacy. In some ways, I suppose, he’s no different than all the other men driven by fortune and fame. It’s all about them. And in a town filled with beautiful women, and men, more than willing to tell them what they want to hear, I grew tired of it. At one time I wanted to be loved, but that was long ago. Now I just want to be made love to, even if there’s no depth behind it. I don’t expect or want you to love me, Monk. If there are moments of intimacy and desire, even affection, then I’ll have what I want.” Judith returned to the pasta. “And you, Monk, what do you want from this?”

  “Are you sure you don’t want some handsome young stud? This town’s full of those too, you know.”

  She laughed.

  “Why would I want that? To pretend that I’m younger than I am? I already hear enough about how my looks are fading, that I need to lift my face, enhance my breasts, tuck my tummy, tighten my clit, and bleach my ass. On top of that I should parade around some kid who doesn’t know a thing about love or romance and who most likely is only interested in my money or has no greater ambition than to be the companion of an older woman? How is that better than you? You’re a nice cheap date, Mr. Buttman. The kind of date I prefer at this point in my life. And you? You didn’t answer my question?”