by Michael Beck
"Where are you?" I murmured.
"Kitchen."
I passed a bedroom, which was being used as a storage room, and entered the kitchen. I saw a big shape crouched next to a closed door. Bear.
"Basement," he said, indicating the door. "Car's in the garage so he must be down there."
There was a trash can next to the door and I pushed it away with my foot. I glanced down and saw the remains of an ice cream cone. I touched it, then licked my finger.
Chocolate chip.
Tick tock tick tock.
I pointed at the can. Bear looked down and nodded.
We moved quickly down the wooden stairs, guns ready. Suddenly, a scrambling noise as a dark figure tried to escape through a small window. Bear caught him. The man screamed as the pincers from Bear's prosthetic cut deeply into his leg. With one hand, Bear negligently threw him into the brick wall, where he lay still.
The room, lit by a single, bare globe, was filled with old boxes, tools and an ancient furnace. Lying in a bed in the corner was a small blonde girl, still dressed in jeans and T-shirt. She was not moving.
Bear held up a glass vial sitting on the bedside table. He smelt it and his head reared back.
"Ether," he said.
I gently put a finger on Anna's neck.
Thump, thump, thump.
Slow and regular.
She was still asleep from the drug her abductor had given her. By the looks of it, she had been asleep the whole time. I looked at my watch.
One hour fifty-eight minutes.
CHAPTER 2
November 2012
I lived in Jamaica. Not on a beautiful, Caribbean island with sun kissed beaches, but in Jamaica, Queens, New York. The closest I ever got to a sun kissed beach was sweeping the sand that accumulated inside my Winnebago, courtesy of the scummy trailer park I lived in. This was actually a step up. Until last summer, I had lived in a rotting thirty-year-old trailer that had enough holes in it to throw a ball through one side and out the other. All it took was a couple of Arab zealots sent by another mad fucker eight thousand miles away, a bomb and a dead girlfriend.
Life was sweet.
A white van was parked on the road outside the trailer park. My guardian angels had returned. On the side of the van was printed Breast Pump Supplies. You had to be kidding. I was obviously at the bottom of the FBI's to-save list. I checked there was nothing stuck in my teeth in the reflection of the van's blackened windows, combed my hair, waved, and drove through the gates of Heavenly Falls.
What use they'd be out there I had no idea. I'd probably be dead by the time the cavalry arrived. Perhaps that was the point. I was just a worm on a hook to them.
I parked my '89 Beetle and walked around the tarp that covered the twisted remains of my old trailer. As usual I felt sick to the stomach as I passed it. But there was no way I was ever going to get rid of it. Melanie died there.
It struck me, not for the first time, that I was a dark hoarder. But where most people collected items that marked special occasions of great sentimental value, like weddings and birthdays, I kept things that reminded me of murders, violence and death. I suppose that says something about me but I'm not sure what.
Standing next to my burnt out trailer was a four-foot tall whiteboard on which I had earlier written What do FBI agents use as contraceptives? I picked up the old rag that was draped over one corner and erased it. Then wrote, Their personalities.
My black Labrador, Little Bear, was jump-playing again. Behind my Winnebago there was an open field, a dumping ground for unwanted tires, fridges, cars and the like. Little Bear was running around jumping over as many as these objects as he could. And not over just small items like tires and chairs, but over fridges and beds, too. As I watched, he bounded over the hood of a wheelless, rusted pickup truck. He glanced at me as he ran past as if to say, What can you do?
I shook my head. Ever since he had the new prosthetic attached to the stump of his left front leg he was like a fucking, Olympic high jumper. Bear had the same aerospace engineer who tooled his own prosthetics make one for Little Bear several weeks ago. The prosthetic was nothing like a dog's leg at all. I remembered seeing Oscar Pistorius run in the 400 meters at the Olympics. His prosthetics were S-shaped, rectangular, and extremely springy. The guy bounded along like Usain Bolt morphed with a cheetah. Little Bear wore a similar, slightly modified prosthetic. The results were amazing. Now he was like fucking wonder dog, jumping over this, soaring over that. And he knew it. Little Bear was unbearable at the best of times. Now he treated me like I was his sidekick, Robin to his Batman.
As I watched, Little Bear leapt over a five foot stack of tires, landed on a rusted trampoline that was missing one leg and soared over an upside-down trailer to land next to me. He looked up at me.
"You know you're a real smartass?" I said.
He yawned.
"Well, am I going to get blown up today?" I asked him.
He cocked his head to the side as if to say, What? I have to save your butt too?
"You sleep in there as well, boyo." I gestured toward the Winnebago.
He sighed and ran around the Winnebago, his head poised, sniffing. Little Bear had his leg blown off by an IED in Afghanistan and if anyone could detect a bomb it was him. He did a circuit around the Winnebago and then went straight up the stairs. He stopped and gave me a look which said, What are you waiting for, Braveheart?
"Dipshit," I muttered, following him inside.
As I entered, I checked the light that was linked to the motion sensor cameras that were fitted underneath and on top of the Winnebago. It was not blinking so I probably wasn't going to get blown up today. I know Little Bear had already cleared the van but I liked making sure. He was running around minus one leg, so he wasn't exactly batting a thousand.
I sat at the small table, kicked off my shoes and automatically hit the button on the recorder. Jade's voice filled the Winnebago.
"Ice cream please...tooth hurts...go there..."
I pulled out the memory card and checked the date. It was from three weeks ago. I put it in the shoebox standing next to the recorder and pulled out the next card from the thirty or so in the box. Each card held a week's worth of recordings of Jade's dreams. It was the only way I ever heard my sister's voice. For twelve years her mind had been locked away in a mute-trance. Then, two years ago, out of the blue, she had uttered three words that were crucial in my solving a kidnapping case. That still freaked me out.
There was no way she could have known anything about the case. She had spent her days sitting like a statue in SeaView Sanatorium for chrissakes! Yet she had known. Jade was like an old, broken radio. And suddenly, from nowhere, a blindingly clear voice had cut through the static. But that voice only spoke the once, just those three words. Afterwards, silence. Then, a year ago, she began talking in her sleep. At night, disjointed words and phrases popped out of whatever place she was in. Each day I listened to the memory cards, trying to find some clue as to what had happened that day fourteen years ago and, even more importantly, a way to help her find her way back. But her dreams, like everyone's, were obscure and convoluted, and, most of the time, were nonsense phrases.
The light was flashing on my answering machine. I hit the button. A man's voice.
"You don't know me. But I know someone who can help you. Go to Ladies For Gentlemen and look for the whore with the mermaid tattoo."
* * * *
You would think the one place you could find a woman is in a brothel.
Especially a Chinese woman, dressed only in a pair of black, lace panties and with a mermaid tattoo covering the whole of her back. Kind of think she would stand out. Especially since it was the eagle eye of yours truly doing the looking.
Apparently not.
I had been wandering through the bar area of Ladies for Gentleman--or as I liked to think of it, "Whores for Bores"--for ten minutes without any luck. White woman with pink panties, black woman with white panties, yellow woman
with blue panties. Even a brown woman with no panties. It was a hell of a job, but I was no shirker. I'd keep at it until the job was done.
I wasn't searching for just any Chinese hooker in black lace panties, though normally most people wouldn't put this past me. On this occasion, I was seeking Blossom Chang, a Chinese hooker who, I was told, might have some information on my parents. It was probably another wild goose chase anyway. After fourteen years the trail was as cold as an Arctic Christmas. But when someone kills your parents, time hasn't much meaning.
"You want to party?" someone said in my ear.
I turned to find a small Japanese girl dressed in only red silk panties standing behind me. Well, she was Asian. I was getting closer.
"Hi, I'm looking for a Chinese girl," I said.
"I can be Chinese girl."
"Ah, yes. I'm sure you can. But this girl has a tattoo of a mermaid on her back."
She leaned close to me.
"That's nothing. I have a tattoo of a monkey fucking a tiger. Come to my room and I will take my panties off and show you."
I glanced down automatically. Her fingers had already slipped under the sides of her panties.
"No, no," I said grabbing her hands. "I'm sure it's fantastic. I've always wanted to see a tiger being fucked by a...monkey? It's number one on my list of things to see before I die. Just after elephants being screwed by rhinos. But, unfortunately, I'm really just into mermaids. You know, only girls with tails and scales do it for me."
"You one sick white boy, you know that? I like you. My name Jukan. You come to my room now. I show you my tattoo and we fuck."
Jukan grabbed my hand and began pulling me towards the stairs that led to the bedrooms. I stopped when another small Asian girl stepped in front of me. She had black panties and, if I wasn't mistaken, I could see the end of a mermaid's tail on the side of her waist.
"Hi, I'm Blossom. You were looking for me?" she said.
"Go way. He no want mermaid anymore. He want rhino screwing elephant," said Jukan, while pushing between me and Blossom.
"Jukan, I was just joking ab--"
"Step back, monkey girl. He asked for me first."
My cell rang.
"Tan, it's Liz."
Liz, my ex. Oh boy.
"Oh, hi, Liz."
"Is this a good time?"
"Get out my face. I know why you like mermaid. You smell like dead fish," said Jukan.
"Sure," I said.
Blossom slapped Jukan, who screamed and jumped on her. They fell to the floor. Jukan began pulling Blossom's hair while Blossom continued slapping her in the face, both screaming the whole time.
"Smelly fish!"
"Monkey girl!"
"Tan? Tan, are you there?"
"Yeah, still here."
"Tan, where are you? Who is that?"
"I'm at home. Sorry, I was watching a show on TV about Japanese martial arts for women. Very educational. I'll turn it down. There is that better?" I stepped through a doorway and found myself in a small living room with a beaded-curtain doorway at the far end.
Even over the cell I could hear her sigh.
"Yeah, sure you are. Tan, I don't care where you are or what you're up to. I need to see you."
"I get that a lot."
"Yeah, but I won't be serving you with a subpoena. I have a favor to ask."
"Sure, anything."
"You won't like it."
"What is it?"
"Not over the phone."
"Okay, where then?"
"Tonight at eight. I'm having a small party."
"A party? I don't know. I think I'm kind of busy tonight."
"Why? Have you got some other dive you have to be at?"
"Liz, you're completely wrong. That's the old me. These days I'm trying to develop the inner me through meditation and serenity."
A girl's high pitched squeals came from behind the curtain. I glanced around, pulled open a closet door and stepped inside. I pushed aside the lingerie hanging there and shut the door.
"You could say I'm in a quiet place right now," I said.
"Tan, come to the party. It will be good for you."
"Why do I have to come to a party? I hate parties. Can't we meet somewhere else?"
"No. It has to be here. Why do you hate parties so much, anyway?"
"Everyone is too happy. I can't stand happy. And you have to talk to people. People I'd walk ten miles to avoid, crammed so close I can smell the beer and garlic on their breath. And I've got to talk to them. And be polite. I can't do polite. You know that. What was that?"
"Nothing."
"Oh, and you know I hate dressing up."
"Tan, you know you'll just wear a pair of jeans."
She knew me too well.
"Yes, but they'll be my good pair."
"There will be women there. The type you like." Bite to her voice.
"How do you know the type I like?"
"Dumb and slutty."
She had me there.
"So, this is how you ask me for a favor, is it?"
Silence.
"Tan, please."
And, of course, that's all she ever had to say.
CHAPTER 3
Liz's little get-together was in Forrest Hills, Queens. Cars lined the street in both directions. BMWs, Mercedes, Ferraris. All brand new. Top of the range. My Beetle felt right at home.
"Service entry around the back," said the tall, black guy in a black suit. It was nine o'clock at night and he was wearing sunglasses.
"Will Smith, right? Men in Black? Good job, you look great," I said, climbing out of my Beetle. "No one told me it was fancy dress."
"Then why did you dress up as Sonny Crockett from Miami Vice?" he said, dead-pan.
I glanced down at my jeans, tee shirt and jacket. Damn if he wasn't right.
"I'm here for the party."
"You got an invite?" He sounded doubtful.
"Just my pearly smile." I gave it to him. Lucky he had his sunglasses on. Wouldn't want to blind him.
"That wouldn't get you in to my grandma's bingo club, and you only need a walking stick or no hair to get in there. But if you're game enough to wear that outfit, who am I to stop you? I'm kind of interested to see what the boys on the door will say anyway. Here, Tommy, park it for me, will you?" He threw the keys to a weedy, white kid in a red jacket who appeared no older than fourteen.
"You want me to park it or dump it?" said the kid.
"You old enough to drive?" I asked him.
"You old enough to buy a real car, Grandpa?"
Grandpa?
"I'll have you know that car has had more hotties in it than you've had shaves."
The kid climbed into the Beetle and then called out, "If by hotties you mean garlic pizzas I believe you." He drove off down the street. Probably to park it in a tow-away-zone.
"You think he'll park it carefully?" I said to Will.
"Does it matter?"
I sighed and walked over to the wrought iron gate, which was guarded by another two men in black suits. I was in a Men in Black convention. As I neared the gate, I was blinded by a flash coming from the six foot high hedge that surrounded the property.
"Did you get it?" said a girl's husky voice.
"Who cares? You saw the piece of shit he was driving? He's no one."
Two dark figures stood in a slight hole in the hedge, sheltering desperately under its flimsy cover from the heavy rain. Dressed in thick coats and hats they looked like extras from The Perfect Storm.
"This 'no one' is going to be in a warm, dry house in a minute. Guess who'd I rather be? And for your information, the '89 Beetle is a classic," I said.
"Sorry about that," said a woman's voice. "Hey, can you get me inside?"
I tried to make out the girl's features but in the dark, under the hedge, it was impossible. Her voice was interesting though, mountain water running over jagged rocks.
"Sorry, I don't even know if I can get in."
I turne
d to go, and then paused. "Do you get paid a lot to do this?"
"Not really."
"So, you enjoy standing in the pouring rain at night taking strangers' photos?"
"Gee, let me think about that while I empty the water out of my shoes. What's your name? Are you one of the coaches?"
"Coaches? What are you talking about?" I could always dazzle the ladies with my quick repartees.
"You do know whose house this is, don't you?"
"Will Smith's?"
She laughed. She had a nice laugh, knowing and warm.
"Troy Decker's."
"Oh."
"Yes, oh. Troy Decker, the quarterback for the New York Turbos. What are you doing here if you're not part of the team?"
That was a very good question. And one that Liz would have to have a very good answer to when I saw her. She knew I wanted nothing to do with football. Football killed my parents and I would never forgive it for that.
"I'm Troy's astrologist. I better get in there. He really needs to know if the stars say he should play this week. He never plays unless I give him the all clear."
The male photographer called out to me as I walked away. "Hey? What did the stars say? Will he play?"
"You, jerk, shut up. He was joking," the girl said.
"Name?" said the tall, white guy in the black suit at the gates. He stood under an umbrella held by his associate. Water ran off it in a steady stream.
"Mark Tanner."
He ran his hand down the list. Near the bottom of the second page he stopped.
He glanced up, puzzled. "Mark Tanner, dancer?"
"I'm more limber than I appear. Do you want to see me do a pas de deux?"
"Buddy, I've got no interest in seeing any of your parts. All that matters is that you're on the list. I'm sure you'll fit right in." I've never heard grown men snicker before but I swear that's what he and his black suited friend did with their heads together under the umbrella.
I feigned not to hear this parting shot. I had my dignity. Of course, with the rain running down my back it was slightly hard to find.