Everyday People

by Louis Barr

  After I finished all that, I sat poolside with a cold beer in hand. My thoughts veered to Shane Danning’s abduction.

  I wondered why the kidnapper continued his game of withholding his ransom payment instructions. With each passing day, the odds of Danning escaping or getting to a phone improved.

  Maybe Shane’s dead, I thought. But that didn’t seem likely. Not with five million dollars at stake.

  I kept feeling I’d missed something. I drank some beer. Maybe whatever I thought I’d missed stemmed from my overactive imagination; the same imagination that had created my Sierra echoes and hallucinations.

  I took another sip of beer. Too many things surrounding the Danning case did not add up, and with no leads, I could only sit around with my thumb up my ass waiting for further instructions from the kidnapper.

  But I had an ace up my sleeve: a sketch of the probable kidnapper, who would not remain unidentified for long.

  My phone vibrated on the table. I checked the number. “Que pasa, Aunt Vona?” I already knew. I held the phone about three inches from my ear.

  “You’re as brilliant as your father was at spotting the industry’s next superstar,” Vona boomed.

  I returned the phone to my ear. “Let me guess. You loved Raoul and signed him.” Again, I held the phone away from my ear.

  “What’s not to love. Hell yes, I signed him.”

  When my Aunt Vona became excited or genuinely pissed off, she could out-trumpet a bull elephant. I finished my beer, reached into the cooler, and opened another.

  Vona lowered her voice. “Raoul’s a talented actor and a paragon of professionalism on the set. He took one look at the test script, then delivered every line flawlessly.”

  I grinned. “I’m not surprised.” I could hear Vona signing documents and flipping pages while she continued singing Raoul’s praises.

  “No actor I’ve tested has been better than Raoul in a dramatic scene. No one’s sexier, and nobody has better pacing and timing. He’ll be the model for the industry’s leading men to try to follow.”

  “That’s great to hear.”

  I knew Raoul hadn’t needed to think about what the contract said. He would have signed, even if it had been the worst deal since the Manhattan Island trade. Raoul’s dream had come true and nothing else mattered.

  “With all the cast members signed, we’ll be leaving Los Angeles for Houston Sunday afternoon.”

  No surprise that; I understood production time and budget constraints. I said good-bye to Vona.

  A new star would soon be born. Steele Productions’s publicity department had doubtless already swung into action. Wardrobe and hair designers would create a Raoul Martinez look. Once the Peter Remington shoot began, every minute of Raoul’s days would be filled.

  I couldn’t have been happier for him.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  If I Told You, I’d Need to Kill You

  Clint, Saturday Night, May 19

  Dan got to the restaurant on time. Did I mention loving punctual people? He wore a dress shirt and black slacks that looked damned good on him and made him appear a bit older. But not that much older. I briefly wondered whether I should ask to see his driver’s license but decided to keep my mouth shut.

  After getting seated at a deck table, the cocktail waitress arrived and took our drink orders. She asked Dan for a photo ID. He sighed, pulled his driver’s license, and handed it over. He frowned as he slid it back into his wallet.

  “Rejoice in getting carded at thirty,” I said. “As with all good things, it won’t last forever.”

  Drinks served, the waiter took our dinner orders. Dan went for the surf and turf. I asked for grilled sea bass with parsley and lemon sauce.

  Physically, Dan had a great deal going for him: blue-gray eyes, blond boy-next-door good looks, a nice smile, and a pleasant voice.

  We talked in a balanced back and forth. Without giving him names, I could speak of my work as a private eye. Other than mentioning I’d been with Special Forces in the military, I could not say anything about my Delta missions. That was probably best for Dan. I didn’t think he’d appreciate Delta’s “Go hard or go home” maxim.

  Our dinners were served. As we ate, Dan told me about the research he’d soon be conducting and explained it all in English for dummies. I thought it a sure bet his IQ went off the freaking charts.

  I realized there was some chemistry between us, but our attraction was only physical. Doc Grant Stenton had recommended that I get back into the swing of life. But when it came to Dan, I knew I’d gotten on the wrong swing.

  Before we’d finished eating, we’d run out of things to talk about. Dan began glancing at men seated nearby. His wandering eyes didn’t surprise me. After all, he’d swooped down on me like an eagle to prey the moment I walked into the Jugs & Mugs Saloon to interview the bar’s owner. It seemed a safe guess that Dan preferred quick, NSA, fuck-and-run liaisons. I did not.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  I’d know that voice anywhere. Mars Hauser stood beside me with a drink in one of his paws. Without waiting for an answer, he pulled out a chair and sat down beside me. As is the case with many if not most mad scientist cybertech nerds, Mars sometimes behaved a bit backward in matters of social propriety. I didn’t mind.

  He’d removed his contacts, opting for black-framed hipster glasses that accentuated his dark brown eyes and curly blond hair—an uncommon color combination that had captured my attention the moment we’d met in our barracks.

  I made the introductions. “Mars and I were West Point roommates.”

  “Oh, you both attended the U.S. Military Academy.”

  Dan’s condescending tone annoyed me. He might as well have said we had trade school written all over our chiseled faces.

  “Yes, the U.S. Military Academy, also known as West Point…honor, duty, country, and all that shit.” Admittedly, sarcasm is not one of my strongest suits.

  “When it comes to colleges and universities, the Point is more selective than most Ivy League schools regarding standards of academic excellence and physical fitness,” I told Danny Boy.

  Mars chuckled and heightened the sarcasm. “Instead of ‘Duty, Honor, Country,’ the Point’s motto should be changed to ‘There’s the right way, the wrong way, and the Army’s way. Get used to it.’”

  “Or this Army gem, ‘If you’re not the lead dog, you’re merely sniffing the lead dog’s ass.’”

  “I always liked that one,” Mars said laughing, “Here’s another, ‘Drop your cocks and grab your socks!’”

  Dan didn’t bother to smile.

  “Will you be a high school senior or college freshman this fall?” Mars asked Dan.

  Dan stiffened. “I’m afraid you’re wrong on both counts. I’ve earned my doctorate.”

  “Oh wow, I get it. You’re a wunderkind who earned his doctorate at seventeen or eighteen. That’s damned impressive.” He looked at Dan’s empty cocktail glass. “May I get you another Shirley Temple?”

  “I’m thirty,” Dan snapped. “Given your build, you must be either a physical education teacher and coach, or the owner of a gym, or a personal trainer.”

  “Wrong on all counts,” Mars said. “I do contract work for Uncle Sugar.”

  Dan appeared stunned. “Are you saying you’re a hit man for mob boss Sucrolosi? Isn’t his moniker Uncle Sugar?”

  Mars’s mouth quirked. One snort became a chuckle, lifting to gales of laughter.

  I smiled at Dan’s ignorance of common figures of speech. It happens when you spend too many years behind ivy-covered walls, separated from the facts and practicalities of the real world.

  “The mob boss you’re thinking of goes by the moniker Sugar Daddy and not Uncle Sugar,” I said.

  Mars stopped laughing, removed his metro-hip glasses, and wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands. “I’m not a mob hit man. I resolve security issues under contracts with seventeen federal agencies.”

  Mars had given his standard
answer to questions about his occupation. Many people assumed CIA spook and either moved away from him or changed the topic. But did Dan? Oh, fuck no.

  “So, what do you do for these unnamed agencies?” Dan grinned. “Oh wait, you can’t tell me.”

  “Yes, honey, if I told you—”

  “You’d need to kill me,” Dan finished.

  Mars looked at him sternly. “No, what I started to say was, if I were to tell you some secrets, you wouldn’t have a fucking clue what I told you.” He grinned. “Then I’d need to kill you.”

  We fell silent.

  Finally, Dan glanced at his watch. “I need to hit some clubs. There may be a few endowed tops left.” He started to pull cash out of his wallet.

  “Put your money away. I’m buying dinner.”

  Dan forced a smile. “Thanks, Clint. Maybe I’ll call you one of these nights.”

  Mars and I watched him walk away.

  “He’s goddamned cute in a jailbait sorta way,” Mars said. “Oh wow, Moose, did I cock block you?”

  “No, Dan and I have nothing in common.” I watched his face. “Hoser, you jerk, did you follow me here?”

  Mars smiled shyly and shrugged. “What, you don’t believe in chance meetings?”

  “Only when they are chance meetings.” I looked Mars straight in the eyes. “You couldn’t have tailed me. I would have spotted you.”

  “I know, it’s what makes you the private investigator.” Mars chuckled. “What difference does it make? It could be a chance meeting or not.”

  “True that.”

  I watched Mars check the time. As long as I’ve known him, he’s worn the face of his watch under his wrist. Hell if I know why. Some people, particularly nerds, adopt strange habits.

  He leaned closer to me. “Can Ian’s sitter stay with him a while longer?”

  “Ian’s having a sleepover at his best friend’s house. I’ve all night. Why?”

  “In about an hour, my Epiphyllous Oxypetalum will go into full tilt, balls-out bloom. Want to drop by my house and take a look? I made a cutting of the cactus orchid for you that’s ready for planting.”

  Mars neither wanted nor expected me to say thanks. It’s a gardener’s superstition that if you express your gratitude for plants, seeds, or cutting, they won’t grow.

  I dumped cash on the table. “I’ll follow you to your house.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Lost Somehow Somewhere Sometime Along the Way

  Clint, Beverly Hills, Sunday, May 20

  I woke in a strange bed. Opening both eyes wide, I saw Mars’s tabby, Miss Smoochies, staring at me. The set of the cat’s lower jaw gave her a continuously pissed-off look. She began to purr…with her ears folded back.

  I groaned. “Jesus H, only Mars would adopt a schizophrenic kitten from the shelter.”

  Miss Smoochies hissed at me, jumped off the bed, and shagged ass out the bedroom’s open door.

  I sat up and scanned the room for my clothes. My head hurt no matter which way I turned it. My day hadn’t started with a hangover since the morning after Sierra’s funeral.

  Then I noticed the rumpled linens on the other side of the California king–sized mattress. Getting down on my hands and knees, I looked under the bed for my jeans.

  “What pleasant sights to behold first thing in the morning—broad shoulders, narrow waist, and a high, muscular ass in tight black skivvies. Is it my birthday?” Mars added, “If you’re looking for your clothes, I washed them. They’re in the dryer.”

  Wearing red sleep shorts, Mars crossed the bedroom in his bare feet and set two mugs of coffee, a bottle of water, and aspirin on the nightstand.

  “Thanks, buddy.” Sitting on the floor, I swallowed four aspirin with water and a java chaser. I closed my eyes. “Did we sleep together last night?”

  “Yeah, what about it.”

  “So, do I still have my honor?”

  He sipped some coffee. “Well, the closest to anything sexual happening in here last night involved me getting your drunken ass undressed down to your skivvies. Then I fell asleep on the other side of the bed.”

  “You crawled into bed with me last night?”

  Mars exhaled a laugh. “Christ, you’re sounding like a scandalized Victorian queen.” He said in an unmanly squeal, “Ooh, don’t touch me weenie! Ooh, leave me nethers alone, you bloody brute!”

  “We are not amused,” I said.

  He grinned. “Moose, we used to sleep closer in our barracks bunks than we did in this bed last night.”

  “We did,” I allowed. Then I sipped some more coffee.

  “I guess you don’t hit the bottle much anymore. After you drank about a pint of scotch last night, I needed to fireman carry you into the house and up the stairs.”

  “As if I never did the same for you back in the day.” Still sitting on the floor, I closed my eyes. A high-speed rerun of last night began to play.

  Mars had given me a walking tour of this season’s backyard ornamentals, ferns, and colorful flower beds. His Epiphyllous Oxypetalum cactus orchid stood almost six feet high and five feet across in a remarkable display of large white blooms with an exotic scent. I waited for the damned thing to start demanding, “Feeed me!” (The Little Shop of Horrors, 1960, JFGI.)

  Then Mars and I sat on a bench in his backyard gardens talking in our customary ebb and flow. One after another, old memories resurfaced. We laughed, drank, and reminisced some more.

  After a while, Mars looked at me with his big, dark-brown, puppy-dog eyes. “We’d planned to build a life together after we graduated and completed our military service. Moose, what the fuck happened?”

  “I guess life happened.” I started slurring my words. “You went milit’ry intel, I went Delta. We mustered out and open’d our own businesses. You got married first, then so did I. My wife died, and your chain of five wives each d’vorced your crazy ass.” I forced a smile. “Sic volvere Parcas.”

  “So spin the Fates,” Mars translated.

  I’d sipped some more scotch. The colors and lights in the nearest flower bed began to shimmer and warp. I could no longer hear the nearby fountain.

  Mars had fallen silent for a while, finally asking, “Do you think we could recapture what we had back when you and I were young men?”

  I yawned loud and long; then I slurred, “Recap’ure? Wha’ the fuck makes you think we set anythin’ free?” I forced myself to concentrate on what I was saying. “But we can’t ’splore what we both feel tonigh’, Hoser. Think I’m a li’l drunk.” I’d sort of snapped my fingers. “Like they say, if you love somebody, fuckin’ let ’im go.”

  “And if he doesn’t come back to you, hunt him down and kill him,” Mars completed the quip.

  “Yeah, tha’s it.”

  Then I’d passed out—my head landing in Mars’s lap.

  I’d gotten way past shitfaced last night. But this morning, I was undeniably sober.

  “With both of us sporting wood that Miss Smoochies couldn’t scratch, we don’t need to confess our wants. But you and I need to have the talk,” I said.

  “Talk about what?”

  The nerdy mad scientist of the cyber-tech world sometimes turned a little dense when it came to simple matters. “For shit sakes, Hoser, when did you last get tested?”

  Mars winked at me. “Oh, that. I get tested every six months. I’m always negative. And I haven’t had sex with anyone in over a year, except for the protected dockings you gave me and the big toys I’ve been practicing with.”

  “Negative and unlaid for a little over two years, except for our aforementioned poolside dockings. I also get tested every six months. The results are always negative.” I smiled. “Throughout my life, I’ve had unprotected sex with only two people—you then Sierra.”

  The friendship, respect, admiration and love Mars and I’d shared as young men may have been set aside, but never forgotten. A decade later, we were older and a lot wiser. We now understood not to turn our backs on the few good things
that come into our lives.

  By 0930 hours, Mars and I had begun recapturing things we’d somehow lost somewhere sometime along the way.

  All we’d shared years ago returned without a hitch. And nothing outside these four walls mattered.

  Until around 1300 hours when my phone vibrated on the nightstand. I recognized the Pruitts’ number.

  “I’m afraid our boys got into an argument after Sage’s model car collided with Ian’s and knocked it into the pool. Ian’s still crying and wants to come home.”

  “Tell Ian I’ll be there in half an hour.” I ended the call before she could ask how my date went with Dan, her man-whore brother-in-law.

  I told Mars I needed a shower.

  “I’ll get your clothes out of the dryer. You’ll find a new toothbrush in the vanity’s right middle drawer.” He nudged me. “Put it in the holder for next time.”

  I was showered and dressed minutes later. “I’ve got to go. Do you want to drop by my house for dinner this evening?”

  “I’d love to, but I’ve an appointment with duty, honor, and country tonight.” He grinned. “I’ll be busy transferring several hundred million dollars American from Vlad’s offshore accounts into Uncle Sugar’s coffers.” He shrugged. “That’s only a down payment for his fucking with our democracy.”

  He might be joking, but probably not, I thought. Snagging my fob, phone, and wallet off the nightstand, I tapped Mars on the ass, then headed out for the Pruitt manse.

  I thanked Joan Pruitt for letting Ian stay overnight, mentioned that Dan and I had a great dinner, and hustled my son to the car, his Mustang Shelby drained of pool water but still not working.

  I took Ian to a toy store specializing in drones. We spent over an hour perusing the shelves, having father and son talks about the model aircraft. Ian chose a Black Hawk helicopter. Knowing he could handle a toy intended for someone two to three times his age, I didn’t utter a word. I pulled my black plastic out at the register.

  We got home in time to catch Raoul with his bags packed, waiting for his limo ride to the airport.