Where Fools Dare to Tread

by David William Pearce

We went out where the two attacked me. Jones dialed my number and a faint beeping came from over in the grass. I retrieved the phone.

  “Neat trick.”

  “Goodnight, Buttman.” The weary promoter left for his more promising endeavors. I made for the planter and my weapons of destruction.

  They were gone.

  A soft voice spoke.

  “You should be more careful with these, especially this.” There was Benitez holding the gun. I nearly collapsed; my heart was pounding into my throat.

  He was smiling.

  I tried to hide the look of terror in my eyes. “Yeah, I should.” My legs were shaking so badly I was certain I would fall down.

  “Easy, Amigo, let’s go inside.”

  “Yeah.”

  We went in and I fell into the chair. I didn’t have the energy for this. Benitez settled onto the couch where Jones had been a moment before. My heart continued to race. I couldn’t breathe; I was going to have a heart attack. Right here, right now! Benitez put the weapons on the table and went into the kitchen returning with two glasses and the bottle of whiskey. He calmly poured the liquor, handed me a glass, and sat down. He took a drink and placed the bottle next to the gun. I reciprocated, the glass rattling in my hand. The whiskey tasted harsh against my throat as I forced it down. I could tell blood was mixing with it by the aftertaste of iron. Slowly the heartbeats began to ease as I finished the whiskey.

  “Now that you’ve nearly frightened me to death, what brings you back to my door?”

  “My apologies, it was not my intention to frighten you. I was merely waiting for the right time to announce myself.”

  “I see. So how long have you been here?”

  He sipped the whiskey. “I waited till you left your car. For a moment I thought I might need to assist you, but you handled it well…”

  “Yes, my Kung Fu skills came in nicely.”

  “…Enough. After that I thought it better to remain hidden ‘til you were finished with the police and Mr. Jones.”

  “Ok, that answers that. So, why are you here?”

  “Mainly to keep in touch.”

  “Did you put the bug in my car?”

  The dispassionate Miguel Benitez smiled. “I have no connection with that. I’m here to help, if I can. In consultation with my associates, we’ve decided that it might be beneficial to your investigation if I shared a little more information from the people I’m working with, those interested in Desiree Marshan.”

  Finally, something other than guessing. “I’m all ears.”

  Benitez drank the last of his whiskey. “I’m going to tell you a story. You can believe about it what you like.” He paused for effect. “Some time ago, back during the height of the US drug war, with all the violence in Columbia and some of the other countries involved in the trade, a patriarch of one of the families financing the business decided to begin moving his assets out of the country. He worried that the violence was destroying his family and his country. He did this very quietly, with the help of a few trusted associates, so as not to alert the people watching him. His legitimate assets were no problem; others were leaving as well, but his profits from the business were handled in great secrecy. This went on for many years. Finally, after he had moved the last of his wealth, he made plans to leave the country and the business. Unfortunately, he and a number of his family were killed by a car-bomb just days before they were scheduled to leave. Ironically, he had been so careful that no one knew where the money had gone because the two men who had helped him were killed too. It was as if it had all just disappeared. Not surprisingly, many have tried to find the money over the years, but they were unsuccessful, and the money became nothing more than an interesting story, a kind of myth.”

  “But we know better.”

  “Do we?”

  “Then why the interest? What would be the point? Desiree would be nothing more than an angry ex-porn star cavorting with a has-been tech guy. No one in the business would care.”

  “You’re assuming the business does care.”

  “If it didn’t then why are you here? Chasing down an old myth? Seems unlikely.”

  “Perhaps, but as I said, you can believe the story or not, just as others might. Motivation isn’t always the product of clear thinking or based on known facts. Sometimes, it’s based on hopes and dreams, wishes and desires.”

  “Ok, now you’ve lost me, and maybe that’s because I’m tired, sore, and developing a terrible headache.”

  Benitez got up and collected the whiskey glasses. “Then I should go and let you get some rest.”

  I got up too, “That’s not a bad idea. Who knows who’ll be trying to beat my ass tomorrow?”

  We went into the kitchen. He handed me the glasses and I put them in the sink.

  “It’s not as easy as it looks, is it?” He laughed.

  “No.”

  “Moses asks about you. Why don’t you go see him? He misses you.”

  Why hadn’t I thought of that! Odd that he would bring it up just as I was planning to see the old man. “Maybe I will. Take a break from the hullabaloo of chasing people down.”

  Benitez put his hand on my shoulder. “Tell him I said hello if you see him.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “You might also ask him about Marsyas Durant. Your father, at one time, stood at the crossroads of this business.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Miguel put his arm around me. “That’s what you need to find out.” He released me and headed for the door. “Be careful with those.” He pointed to the table.

  “I will.”

  “I’ll keep in touch, my friend.”

  He closed the door. I took the gun and sap from the table. My head ached, and it was hard to stand. I went to the bathroom and surveyed the damage. Other than the plugs in my nose, I didn’t look any worse than I did before. I carefully removed the plugs, took a pain pill, and washed my face. That would be enough for now. I needed to lie down. The bed was soft and inviting. I found myself dreaming of three small boys running through the fields of my childhood.

  The sun, omnipotent and persistent, drove me from my fitful slumber and my comfy bed. I saw no reason to get up. I covered my eyes with the pillow in a vain attempt to circumvent its authority, but I failed. As I lay there in my dirty clothes, I noticed that dried blood was everywhere. My nose bled while I was sleeping, staining the sheets. I had to get up if for no other reason than to clean my sheets, my clothes, and myself. The dreary labors of domesticity awaited. Some things you can’t get out of. Stiff and sore, I forced myself up, removed the dirty clothes, and showered.

  After a cup of coffee, I gathered the offending apparel and set out for the laundry. It was in a small room at the end of the courtyard shared by the bungalows. I dutifully plied the machine with quarters and watched listlessly as the clothes made their seemingly endless circular journey in the washer. I wandered back to my place for another cup of coffee, offering polite hellos to the ancient couples seated outside in the cool of the morning. Afternoons were too hot and evenings were too tiring, leaving mornings as their time to gather in the sun’s rays and commiserate about life’s shortcomings. One of which was my waking them from their slumbers by fighting with Artie and Gordy. Joanie caught me as I headed back to the laundry room.

  “I hear you had another run in last night, might be time for a new line of work, Mr. Private Dick.”

  “Might be.”

  She gave me the once-over, checking the fine lines of my features. “You don’t look so bad, certainly better than the last time. I guess that’s a plus.”

  �
�I guess.”

  “You think it was the same guys as last time?”

  “I think so.”

  “So now what?”

  “Exactly.”

  She followed me to the laundry room where we planted ourselves in two of the plastic chairs facing the washers and dryers. We sat there watching the clothes spin. Joanie looked over at me with an expression of both relief and alarm. I didn’t quite know how to respond.

  “How was the gig?”

  “It was good, nice crowd. How’s it going with all the women? Did you fuck the rich one?”

  “Does it matter?” I wasn’t interested in arguing about Judith.

  “Sorry, that was probably unkind.”

  “Probably.”

  I got up and put the laundry in the dryer.

  “So did you fuck her or not?” Curiosity beat out decorum.

  “I didn’t go there for sex, Joanie.”

  “Uh-huh. Really, Buttman, you know this can’t end well?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m aware of that.”

  “I’m just looking out for your best interests, you know. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “How thoughtful.”

  “Well, we both know that.” She leaned over and kissed me. “I’d just hate to see you crash and burn, but you’ll go wherever your private dick takes you. See you later.”

  “Adios.”

  Me and my private dick.

  The dryer hummed along, monotony defined.

  I sat there mulling over the events of the last day. It was, if nothing else, eventful. I tried to piece together the information I’d picked up from Dahlia, Judith, Bernie, Llewellyn, and Benitez. Could it really be about a hidden treasure laundered through a tech company? And if it was, how did that work? And if it did work, how would you get the money back? Were they all in on it? Or better yet, where did they fit in? I was thinking specifically of Durant, Dulcimer, and Benitez, or whomever he represented. They were the more important players, or were they? From what Llewellyn said, Martin, and maybe Judith, were merely beards fronting the scam, living out the charade. I assumed Desiree was in with whoever could deliver the goods. Where Dahlia was involved depended on the real nature of her relationship with Desiree. It was possible they were scamming Martin. Whatever Desiree and Martin were planning, I couldn’t see how they could get it past Judith or Durant, since it would require both hers and A and A’s participation. Did killing Boyer screw that up? I had no idea how Johnny D fit in, other than money was a part of it, and money was his stock in trade. I assumed Benitez either represented the last of the family, or a group that felt entitled to, as he put it, the profits from the business. It was quite a group. Then there was Benitez’s admonition that it may be nothing like what I think or believe. That didn’t help.

  The clothes were dry.

  I gathered up the warm scented sheets and returned to the bungalow. The phone was ringing as I walked in.

  “Yes?”

  “Monk, Johnny D.”

  “Mr. Dulcimer, what’s up?”

  “Nobody calls me that, Johnny D is fine. I’m calling about Agnes. She’s not at work, and when I checked my phone she left a cryptic message about being an embarrassment to me, and a failure in life. Rey said she had a bad night at the bar and that he had to take her home. You didn’t hear from her did you, Monk?”

  “No. I talked to her about seven last night, asked if she wanted to get together, but she said she was tired and wanted to go to bed.”

  “That’s not good, not good. I worry about her, Monk. I want you to do me a favor.”

  “Sure.”

  “Go see if she’s ok.”

  “I can do that.” Should I do that?

  “Good.”

  “No problem.”

  “And Monk…”

  “Yes, Johnny?”

  “She’s a good woman, maybe a little emotional sometimes. Know what I’m saying?”

  I got it. “I do, Johnny, thanks.”

  I put the clothes away and made the bed. I called Agnes, but got no reply. Not even her voicemail. The weapons were where I had left them, by the bed. They went back into my pockets. I’d worry about the implications of that later. On the way to the car I noticed the blood and vomit had been washed from the courtyard. No suspicious characters could be seen as I left. The car appeared to be untouched, so I unlocked the door and lowered the top. I turned it over and hit the road. The ride was pleasant and uneventful, even the traffic seemed lighter than usual. I pulled in front of her house, took a deep breath, and got out. The knot in my chest that started as I drew closer tightened. Tempting, as it was to run, I knew that wasn’t an option. I knocked on the door and waited. Agnes opened the door.

  She looked terrible. My heart sank.

  25

  “Why are you here?”

  Her eyes were bloodshot, rimmed by streaked mascara. A sad disconsolate expression was all she had to offer. Her hair was a mess, and she was still in what I assumed was the blouse she had on the night before, same for the skirt which was twisted and bunched around her waist. Those bloodshot eyes were wet with tears as she looked at me.

  Stunned doesn’t do justice to how I felt seeing her.

  “Johnny D asked me to check in on you. He’s worried, said you had a bad night last night.”

  “You could say that.” We stood there in the bright sunshine. It was oddly out of place given our emotions.

  “May I come in?”

  She opened her mouth, then stopped. She turned and went in. “I guess if you want.”

  I followed her in, closing the door behind me.

  The house was a mess. Evidently, she acted out after Rey brought her home, and some of the furniture paid the price. Agnes sat on the couch. Out of habit I started putting the room back in order.

  “Did you come here to clean?” She was still clearly angry.

  “For a start, yes. Have you eaten anything today?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “That wasn’t the question, have you eaten anything today.”

  “No, I didn’t eat anything, ok!” I finished putting the lamp and table back and held out my hand. “What?”

  “You need to eat something. Let’s go.”

  “Why are you here?” Tears were running down her face.

  “I told you why.”

  “Then why didn’t Johnny come?”

  “We both know why, please, Agnes.”

  Reluctantly, she took my hand and I led her into the kitchen. She sat at the table while I looked in the pantry and refrigerator for something to eat. As I expected, the pickings were lean. I had meant to go to the store with her the night before. Fortunately, there was coffee, so I brewed a pot, and made do with some toast and jam. It was becoming the usual. We sat, eating in silence. I watched her as she stared off into space.

  “What’s got you so worked up?”

  “What do you care?”

  “Agnes.”

  “I’m tired of being an idiot and a fool, that’s what’s got me worked up.”

  “I don’t think you’re either.” She just stared at me. “Then how about some specifics as to why you are.”

  She reached for her phone, which was on the counter. After playing with it, she handed it to me. It was a text message from her ex-husband. Simon wasn’t happy with her wanting to come up. They were busy and he didn’t want her upsetting Anna with any new boyfriends or comments about him and Eric, maybe another time, when they had more time. Agnes shot back that he was being
unfair, controlling. Simon said that’s because she was out of control. It went on, back and forth.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, it gets better. Push the next arrow.”

  Next was a text from Anna parroting what her father had said; she was busy, maybe some other time. I looked over at her. She was crying.

  “Keep going.”

  The next message was the garrote to the tightening knot in my chest. There, in living color, was a picture of me leaving Judith’s house. The word proof was below it.

  “Proof of what?”

  “That you’re fucking his wife.” Agnes was staring intently at me.

  I didn’t see any more messages, “Martin called you?”

  “He didn’t say his name.”

  “What did he say? That I was fucking his wife?”

  Her face softened a little. “Not exactly…”

  “Then what exactly did he say?”

  Agnes wiped her face and looked off in the distance. “He said, tell your fucking boyfriend to stay away from my wife, and when I said I didn’t believe him he sent the picture.”

  “So, you assumed I was fooling around with her?”

  “Yes. What would you think?”

  I took this in. I wondered how they knew about Agnes, but then if they were following me… Either way, I had to be careful.

  “When did you get this message?”

  “Yesterday around five, right after my fun little text war with Simon.” I handed her the phone. “You were there weren’t you?” I couldn’t say no.

  “Yes, I was there.”

  “So he was right.” Tears were falling down on her hands clutching the phone.

  “Yes and no.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I was there to talk to her about where I could find her husband and his girlfriend. I didn’t go there for sex.” Joanie didn’t buy it, but maybe Agnes would. I didn’t see how a confession would help.

  “Then why would he say that?”

  “For the same reason they had the goons try to jump me again last night, to scare me off, to stop me from looking for them.”