I shot McGlade an I hate you glance, which was real even though he was fulfilling his end of our arrangement.
“If you came here in the back of a squad car, I’d be happy to give you a ride somewhere,” Harry told her.
Leah looked at me, the corners of her lips curving. I could almost hear the gears turn in her head. “You know, Harry, I’m going to take you up on that ride. I really appreciate your offer.”
I feigned anger as I watched Harry snake an arm around Leah’s waist to lead her out.
“Done. Hey, you wanna get a beer somewhere? I’ve got some stories about when Jackie and I were partners that I think you’ll get a kick out of.”
Leah turned that sideways grin to me. “You don’t say. I’d love a beer. Sounds great. Thanks, Harry. And you know what? I’m not familiar with Chicago. Think I’ll stay a few extra days. Nice city. You mind showing me around?”
Harry’s face brightened like a kid at Christmas. “I’d be glad to.”
I watched them leave. Then Herb came in.
“You sure you trust that idiot?” Herb asked.
“No. But if he doesn’t keep tabs on her, I won’t sign his stupid waiver. He’s a terrible human being, but he’s not entirely terrible at his job. I want some answers, and I want to see what’s on her laptop, and she’s the type who will spend a month in jail just to defy authority.”
“You’re counting on a bottom feeder, Jack.” Herb moved a hand over his belly. “Speaking of feeding, I could use a bite. Wanna go get a burger?”
I wanted to find Stanley Carey. I had a hunch he was the one in the friendly neighborhood spider-ninja suit. But I was hungry. I’d been on my way to lunch when I noticed Leah looking suspicious on Diversey. Herb had gone his own route, opting for hot dogs when I wanted a pita wrap, and we’d split up during our lunch break. He’d gotten to eat. I hadn’t. You wouldn’t know that listening to his stomach rumble.
“Yeah. I can use a nice, big salad.”
“I know this place on Wabash, they have a fried chicken salad. Whole chicken, covered in ranch dressing.”
“Sounds like it should be covered in statins instead.”
“They also have a pizza salad. Fried dough, sausage, cheese, French dressing. But they fry it in canola oil, so it’s healthy.”
“Do they have regular old salad with maybe some oil and vinegar?”
“Sure. Comes with a whole pound of bacon bits. I’ll eat them if you don’t want them.”
“Do they have Wifi?”
“I think so.”
“Deal,” I told him. “And bring your laptop.”
I wanted to see what Google had on Stanley Carey.
LEAH RYAN
I’d actually seen Harry McGlade’s TV show, and while it had underwhelmed me with its terrible acting, terrible writing, terrible directing, and terrible storylines, it was still kinda cool driving through Chicago with him.
“So, wanna grab a bite somewhere?” Harry asked. We were in his Corvette, and he liked to squeal his tires at every green light. I wondered how many sets he went through a year.
“I could eat,” I admitted.
“I know this salad joint, it has a salad with whole fried chicken on it. I bet Herb loves that place. Probably thinks it’s healthy.”
“Do they have beer?”
“Nah. Lost their liquor license for serving tequila to junior high kids. Made the news. Owner swears he thought they were midgets.”
“How about someplace with beer? I could use a drink.”
“No problem. You want the roofie now, or should I drop it in when you aren’t looking?”
I laughed, and it felt good. “You’re the type who sleeps with anything that isn’t nailed down, huh, Harry?”
“Not at all,” he said. “Nailed down doesn’t bother me.”
“I bet.”
“I think all woman have an inner beauty.”
“And I bet you want to get in them, to see that beauty.”
“Any entry point is fine. All three is even better.”
We wound up on Rush and Division, which I’d heard was a Chicago bar hotspot. Harry parked in a handicapped zone, put a fake sticker in his window, and said, “If anyone asks, I’m a quadriplegic.”
We went into a bar called Mother’s, which looked and smelled like a college bar. It was only about half full, and Harry was the oldest guy in there. He didn’t seem to mind, and neither did I.
Harry ordered two Goose Island ales and two shots of vodka. I asked for the food menu and the bartender looked at me like my nose had grown into a dick.
“They don’t have food here,” I said to Harry.
“Eat your vodka,” he told me.
On our third round, the drinks were getting to me. Harry, on the other hand, either had a lead-lined stomach or he was puking between beers and I was too buzzed to notice.
“So you gonna tell me how you lost your hand?” I asked, trying not to slur. Harry’s right hand looked real enough, but was made of latex rubber and had a motor inside. It even vibrated, which I found both funny and kinky.
“Ex-wife,” he said. “She took half of everything.”
I couldn’t tell if that was the truth or not.
“So you’re a private eye, too?” he asked.
I nodded, amazed there was a fresh beer and shot in front of me. I would have sworn I’d just finished a round.
“I never did the repo thing. Good money?”
I shrugged. “It’s okay. I prefer private investigating. I got a great partner.”
“How’d you get on this Stanley Carey thing?”
“Took the job to help an old friend.”
“Boyfriend?”
I considered Callahan. “Sort of.”
“Does his hand vibrate?”
“No.”
“You should drink. Your beer is getting flat.”
“I’m drinking too fast.”
Harry locked his prosthesis around my pint glass, its mechanical whir audible above the Top 40 music in the background. Then it began to vibrate, and the shaking made the beer foam rise.
“I like a man who can give a woman head,” I said, laughing.
A song came on that I liked. I closed my eyes and bobbed my head to the music, feeling pretty good.
“So you really didn’t know about Lauren?” he asked.
“That the lady was dead, or a dude?”
“Either.”
“Nope.”
“Think Carey knew?”
“How could he not. Right?”
“Can’t run for mayor with a transgender girlfriend.”
A good point. But one I didn’t really care too much about. I hadn’t been hired to locate Stanley Carey. I’d been hired to repo the Bentley.
“I want the Rolls,” I said.
“We can grab a bite after the next round.”
“The car Rolls, not dinner rolls. The Rolls Royce.”
“It’s in the police impound lot. Evidence in a murder case.”
I turned to him, giving him a sly grin. “You used to be a cop.”
“Yeah.”
“Still got friends on the force?”
“Maybe a few.”
“Friends in the police impound lot?”
Now he smiled. “You want to steal the car from the impound lot?”
“No.” I poked him in the chest with my finger. “I want you to steal it.”
“Probably stinks. Dead bodies don’t smell like flowers.”
“I still need it. Can you help?”
“Maybe. I heard you were attacked by a ninja.”
Word apparently gets around fast in the Windy City. “Yeah. And he had a bulletproof jockstrap.”
“I’ve been thinking about getting one of those.”
“Kevlar tighty whities.” I laughed again. “In case you piss off the wrong chick.”
“Think the ninja was Carey?”
I shrugged. “Dunno. Never met the guy.”
“Never got a look
at the ninja?”
“He was all covered up. Coulda been anyone. Coulda been you.”
“So where do you think Carey is? Think he killed Lauren?”
I narrowed my eyes at Harry. “Are you pumping me?”
“I’d like to be.”
I meant for information. But instead of explaining I said, “You don’t have to get me drunk for that, Harry.”
He made a face like he’d just won Mega Millions. “Seriously?”
“I kinda dig you. And I have low standards.”
“I’ve heard the guy’s shitter is really romantic.”
“I like Corvettes.”
“That would work, too.”
Harry threw down some bills, and he took my arm and helped me walk out of there. Part of me wondered if I was doing this so he would help me get the Bentley. Part of me wondered if it was the liquor. But Harry, in his own, creepy kind of way, was kinda cute. Like a flea-bitten, three-legged dog. I’d taken home strays before, and after the day I’d just had, maybe drunken pity sex in a Corvette with a dude who wanted me bad was the perfect capper.
We got into the front seat of Harry’s Vette, and he kissed me like he was drowning and my mouth was a regulator. I placed his fake hand between my legs and he fired it up and I was feeling pretty damn good. Then he suddenly stopped and was reaching over into the glove compartment.
“What?” I said, a little breathy.
“Protection.”
“A gun?”
I thought that was about the funniest thing I’d ever said, and went on a laughing jag. Harry spent at least a minute searching for a condom, and I was quickly losing the mood and becoming bored.
“How about this?” he finally said.
Harry was holding up a latex glove.
“Seriously?”
“What did you expect? It’s a glove compartment.”
“Jesus,” I groaned. “That joke actually hurt.”
“Look, it’s made of the same stuff.” He stretched it until it snapped. “Shouldn’t break. And it will protect us both from our pasts.”
I shrugged. “I’ll try anything once.”
Harry unzipped his fly, then paused.
“What?” I asked.
“I can’t decide what finger to put it in.”
I squinted at him. “The thumb.”
“Hey now. Be nice.”
“Okay, the pinky.”
“It gets bigger.”
“I hope so. Because last time I saw something that size, it had a toothpick in it.”
“Want to borrow my reading glasses? They magnify times three.”
I stared and frowned. “It just looks so… stupid.”
“I could go bareback.”
“You could also jerk off. This is drunken pity sex, Harry.”
“No, it isn’t. I don’t pity you in the least.”
I felt my stomach becoming unhappy.
“Just stick it in the middle finger and let’s do this before I sober up.”
“No problem. What I lack in size I make up for in speed.”
Harry fussed with the glove, a snapping sound emanating from his lower regions.
“Wait,” I told him.
“Please don’t tell me you came to your senses.”
“No.”
“Thank God. What, then? Latex allergy?”
“No.”
“What is it?”
“Is that a… used glove?”
“No. Never been used. For sex.”
I made a face. “What has it been used for?”
“I may have picked up some evidence with it.”
“What?”
“A severed ear or something.”
I made a yuck face. “And now I’m sober.”
“Are you serious?”
I pointed. “You come near me with that glove on your dick, I’ll break your nose.”
Harry frowned. Then he shook his hips, which looked like someone waving. “How about a quick thumb wrestle?”
I wanted to reclaim the word slut. Not the word idiot. All booze and no food gave Leah impaired judgment. And with it came a terrible feeling I’d done the wrong thing.
“I don’t think I’ve ever felt this bad about myself,” I said.
“Normally women don’t say that until after.”
“I’m serious, McGlade. I was ready to sleep with you, just so you’d steal the Rolls for me.”
“And I’m totally fine with that.” He shook his hips again. “Hi! I’m over here!”
I thought about Lauren, dead and decomposing in the trunk of her gifted Rolls Royce. She certainly didn’t deserve that. But it didn’t make me feel good about using sex to get what I wanted. Unless what I wanted was sex. And staring at Harry desperately wanting a high-five, my ardor was successfully extinguished.
I looked around the Corvette. “Where are my panties at?”
“What panties?”
I spied something sticking out of Harry’s pocket. “Seriously? You stole my panties?”
“Not to prance around in. Just as a trophy. To show off on YouTube. And to prance around in.”
I got an unwanted mental image of Harry prancing around in my underwear and decided I didn’t want them back. Instead I found my jeans and began the awkward task of climbing into them.
“Look, babe, I get that you don’t want the Harry Special with the extra sauce, and I’m cool with that. But would it be okay if we, you know, just held each other for a little while?”
I suddenly felt like even more of a shit. “A hug? That’s all you’re asking for?”
“That’s all. Just a nice, long hug between two consenting adults. With my penis inside you.”
I zipped up my pants. “Desperation isn’t attractive, Harry.”
He sighed. “Fine. Your money is on the dresser.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry. Habit.”
“Can we go get something to eat now? And don’t shake your hips and say chicken fingers.”
He stopped shaking his hips. I found my shirt, but didn’t know what had happened to my sports bra. Unless…
“Jesus, Harry. My bra, too?”
“Something to remember your girls by.” He tugged the bra from his pocket. “Nice set, by the way. I like how they match.”
I snatched it back. “I’m never getting drunk again.”
“I hear that a lot.”
Then I felt the last shot of vodka coming up fast, and I managed to open the door before I threw up.
“That’s how most of my dates end,” I heard Harry say.
Blech. But with the vomit came some clarity. I spit, blinked, and finally sat back in the car.
“Got any mints?” I asked him.
“No. But guess what tastes like mint?”
More hip waving. “Kinda looks like udders,” he said, staring at his lap. “Want to milk the cow?”
If puking wasn’t enough to turn him off, I didn’t know what would. But I felt I owed it to him to at least let him down easy.
“The truth is,” I said, “I like you, Harry. But I’m in love with someone else.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. That’s why I can’t sleep with you.”
His glove deflated like a balloon.
“Love,” he said. “The erection slayer.”
We sat there for a minute, silent.
“I’m sorry, Harry. I didn’t mean to lead you on.”
“It’s my fault. I thought a naked woman kissing me in my car meant she wanted me.”
“I sorta did. For a little while. But I was really doing it so you could help me with the Rolls.”
“That’s okay. I was pumping you for information so Jack would sign the waiver.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. Apparently we’re both assholes.”
More silence, and then we both began to laugh. Real, genuine laughter, not drunken giggling.
“Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll tell you everything I know and
help you find Carey, if you help me with the Rolls.”
“Deal,” Harry said. “Shake on it?”
He waved his hips at me again. And once more we began to laugh like crazy.
JACK DANIELS
So Stanley Carey is the owner/president of Carey’s Luxury Cars,” Herb said, sucking at the bottom of his milkshake cup so that it made that sucky-slurpy sound that was like nails on a blackboard to me.
“The milkshake is finished, Herb.”
“I know. I’m just in denial.” He rested the empty cup between his large legs, since my 1988 Chevy Nova had no cup holder. His laptop was in the back seat, but laptop was probably a misnomer. Herb didn’t have a lap. Maybe he could call it a hilltop.
“His father started Carey’s Cars back in the sixties. Now he has four dealerships, and he has more money than he knows what to do with.”
“Lauren was driving a Bentley supposedly bought by Carey.” Herb said. “Did he know she was transgender? Maybe he found out, didn’t take it well, and killed her in a rage. Then took off.”
“Why leave her in the car he bought, in his own garage?”
“He didn’t think she’d be discovered.”
“Then why did he stop making payments on the car? And why did he buy a car from someone else when he and his parents own dealerships?”
We were in spitball mode, spouting ideas to see if any stuck. “He wanted to run for office. Maybe he feared negative reaction if anyone knew he had a transsexual mistress. So he bought it for her to keep it a secret. As a politician, his past would be poured over by journalists.”
But then again, those same journalists would probably dig so deep they’d find the loan, and Lauren, just the same. So why go that route?
Herb picked up his cup again and took another slurp.
“Seriously, Herb?”
“Gravity. All the ice cream clinging to the sides has slid down by now.”
“Wasn’t your fried meat lover’s salad enough?”
“It was delicious. You should have gotten one.”
“I’ve never seen a salad without any vegetables before.”
“They were in there. You didn’t see them because they were all battered and fried. Hey, wait a sec. I saw Lauren Madsen before. In a commercial.” He snapped his fingers. “Yeah. Remember? A Mercedes commercial. For Carey Luxury Cars. She was in a black pencil skirt, champagne lace blouse. Gorgeous.”
“Sitting in the Mercedes convertible, red hair blowing back.” I nodded. “Yeah. Champagne, huh?”
Jacked Up! (A Lt. Jack Daniels/Leah Ryan Mystery) Page 4