“Yes,” said Piers. “And speaking of Hollywood stories, Ted Mann called me about the almost-famous star of a recent TV series. He’s a pretty good actor, apparently, but he’d been doing a lot of marching powder in his trailer and running prostitutes in and out and making about six hundred people on the set miserable. Finally, the guy got carried away one day and beat up one of the girls in his trailer. The next day, the network canceled the show. So a few days later, he comes in to see the producer and says he’s sorry and wants to know if his behavior might have had anything to do with the cancellation. The producer looks at him and says: ‘Slap a ho. No mo’ show.’ ”
“Then there was the time,” said McGovern, “many years ago, when Albert Einstein went to visit his friend Charlie Chaplin in Hollywood. Chaplin took Einstein with him to his favorite restaurant. When they got out of the car there was a crowd gathering around. So Einstein turns to Chaplin and says: ‘Why are those people pointing at us?’ ”
“Why is Ratso pointing at Sherlock Holmes?” I asked. For, indeed, Ratso appeared to be pointing at the bust of Sherlock on my desk.
“I’m not pointing at Sherlock,” said Ratso. “Look at the screen.”
The entire group now crowded around the desk where Kent’s little laptop stood in the spotlight. I walked over too, but the assembled multitudes prevented me from even seeing the desk.
“Does the photo look like Tana?” I asked nobody in particular. “Is the girl a brunette?”
“She’s a brunette, all right, mate,” said Brennan. “Have a look.”
Brennan pushed McGovern and Piers out of the way as if they were sides of beef. Like a modern-day Moses he parted the Red Sea for me, not to the Promised Land or the throne of Jesus, but to the laptop of Kent Perkins. The image of the real Tana Petrich filled the little screen. She was a brunette. She was also a jovial-looking, chubby black woman who bore an almost eerie resemblance to a young Aunt Jemima.
“She’s right off the pancake carton,” said Kent. “You know what this means?”
“I hope it means that Aunt Jemima’s coming to cook us some real breakfast,” said Ratso, “instead of fucking baked tomatoes and beans and fried eggs on top of everything and spotted dick—”
“Cook it yourself,” said Pete Myers, and, in an unusual display of emotion, he threw a large spatula, narrowly missing Ratso’s head.
“It means,” said Kent, oblivious to the mindless activity behind him, “that our Tana Petrich is a little imposter. And I think she’s hiding a nasty little secret.”
“And what of Aunt Jemima?” asked Piers.
“She’s dead, of course,” said Kent.
“You lives by the watermelon,” I said, “you dies by the watermelon.”
“That statement is rather alarmingly racist,” said McGovern.
“Kiiinnnnnk,” said Kent.
“I’m not a racist,” I said. “I’m just trying to save a soul some pain.”
Chapter Thirty-three
So what’s our next amusement?” said Piers, early that evening as a chill wind blew recklessly down Vandam Street. I’d been huddling at the desk with Kent for the better part of two hours, bracing myself with Pete Myers’s hot tea, and also bracing myself for what I strongly suspected was the imminent end-game.
“Our next amusement,” I said, “will no doubt demonstrate to us all what a funny, sick world we really live in.”
In spite of the chill wind, I was feeling fairly feverish now and I could almost see Piers’s intelligent eyes calculating not unkindly my relative sanity at the moment. That was probably why I motioned for Kent to explain the plan the two of us had hammered out. Kent had been my eyes and my legs. Now he could speak with my very voice. Malaria had brought reality to my life. It was the reality of a dreamer who now realized, perhaps a little too late in the game, that he was impotent when it came to holding on to his dreams. I could no more save the girl who called herself Tana than I could save myself. Or the girl I used to know.
“It’s more than just a hunch now,” said Kent. “It’s more than just some domestic abuse going on here, not to make light of domestic abuse. But there’s something else at play. This girl has another name out there somewhere. She has a reason for going to all the trouble of assuming a false identity. When you see enough of this kind of thing you develop an internal alarm system. Lots of people carry fake IDs, kids have learned to falsify their driver’s licenses so they can buy liquor. It’s often no big thing. But this one feels different. For one thing, they usually cross-reference credit bureau records with the death index these days. We know Tana’s paying the rent for that apartment across the street and we know she’s lived there a long time.”
“How do we know that?” asked Ratso.
“Because if she’d tried to rent the place in the recent past they’d have known she was dead. So she’s probably continued to maintain this false identity for over ten years. Why? Why would she go to the trouble? Why would she take the risk?”
Ratso and Piers pondered the question. McGovern was asleep on the couch. Brennan was standing near the window, making minute adjustments on the spotter scope. As I watched him, he suddenly let out a shriek that sounded like it came all the way from Lower Baboon’s Asshole.
“Treacle ahoy!” shouted Brennan. “Just off the starboard bow, maties!”
Suddenly, I was wide awake. McGovern was wide awake. The whole place was as active as a recently-stepped-in ant hill. There were of course, differing reasons for this behavior.
“Crikey! The bird’s just getting out of the shower!” shouted Mick. “She’s wearing nothing but a little plastic cap on her head!”
“Let me have a look!” shouted Ratso, elbowing his way through the crowd. “I’m getting more interested in the investigation.”
“What else do you see?” I asked Mick.
“Not much,” said Brennan. “Other than the bird, of course. This spotter scope is brilliant! Now she’s turning around to towel off her legs! Hey, Kinkster! I thought you said this place didn’t have a view!”
“Is the guy there?” Kent asked.
“No sign of him,” said Brennan.
“Anything else happening in the apartment?” I asked.
“Nothing much. Everything looks about the same. There’s a suitcase on the bed. Now she’s applying some kind of lotion to her body—”
Kent and I exchanged a hurried glance. It looked like the last train was about to leave Gun Hill. If we were going to make a move with the woman who called herself Tana Petrich, it would have to be pretty damn quick. Otherwise, our bird would have flown.
“The old suitcase on the bed trick,” said Kent. “I’ve got to interview this girl before she flies the coop.”
“Can we get in the building?” I asked.
“It’s a lot more secure than this one, I can tell you that,” said Kent. “I’ve already done it. But there’s no listing for her apartment number and we don’t know when the guy’s coming back and besides, I don’t want to panic her.”
“I guess they don’t have puppetheads over there,” said Ratso.
“Doubtful, mate,” said Piers.
“Well, Watson,” I said, turning to Kent. “In this time of my infirmity, I must rely upon your astute judgment even more than usual.”
“Let’s call her,” he said.
“There’s one little problem with that plan,” said Ratso. “Not only do we not know her real name, we don’t even have her telephone number.”
“If she’s hidden her true identity for more than ten years now,” said Piers, “it’s highly unlikely that it’ll be listed in directory assistance.”
“Worth a try,” said Kent.
While I lit a cigar and Ratso checked the refrigerator, Kent tried information. There was no Tana Petrich.
“If at first you don’t succeed,” said Kent, “ask for a supervisor.”
“A wise adage, Watson,” I said. “I’ll have Mrs. Hudson stitch it on a pillow for us.”
&nbs
p; But Kent Perkins was already on a cell phone, waiting for the supervisor to come on the line. Piers and I leaned our elbows on the kitchen counter and watched him with bemusement. Pete had gone out for more provisions, or “tucker,” as Piers invariably called it. And as for Ratso and McGovern? They were aiding the investigation by helping Mick Brennan monitor the action across the way through the spotter scope.
“What I’m about to do I haven’t done in twenty years,” said Kent, covering the cell phone with his hand. “Not since I worked for a crooked PI in L.A. But something tells me the situation calls for it. Tana’s life might be in danger. She may be being held against her wishes. It’s even possible—Yes, Ms. Dsouza, this is Detective Sergeant Johnny Dark from the Airport Police, badge number 7492, calling with a police emergency. Yes. The mobile command post at Kennedy. I’ve tried to reach the security office. There’s a problem. You’re the backup number on my log. Yes. I need the number of a Tana Petrich, 198 Vandam Street, apartment 412.”
As Kent waited, I noticed fine beads of sweat breaking out on his brow. This was obviously something that pained him to do. He was a pilgrim, all right, I thought. He still had that thing they used to call a conscience.
“Okay, that’s 586-4275. Thank you, Ms. Dsouza.” Kent flipped the cell phone closed and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I guess I needed the practice,” he said.
“What’s next?” asked Ratso.
“Next comes the hard part,” said Kent.
Chapter Thirty-four
Matlock had nothing on Kent Perkins when it came to country charm. Add to that Kent’s father confessor–good cop approach, and it was almost like providing a roadmap to a lost soul. But first, of course, we had to get the lost soul to agree to cross the street, climb four flights of stairs, step over a few errant cat turds and beer bottles, and be interviewed by Kent Perkins. It was not going to be an easy task to convince someone to follow this course of action. Particularly, I thought, if she already had her suitcase on the bed.
I was just emerging from the dumper, attending to some early evening ablutions, when I noticed that the end-game had already begun. I would have preferred to have been more actively involved in the end-game, but sometimes that’s not the card life deals you. Sometimes you just have to learn how to play a poor hand well.
“I’m going to call the girl,” said Kent, as he stood by the windows with his cell phone and gazed purposefully across Vandam Street. “Mick! Spotter scope down!”
“Aye, aye, mate,” said Brennan, as he began quickly disassembling the tripod.
“Oy, oy, mate is more like it,” said Piers. “This little adventure could turn into a real disaster. You have a jealous, abusive psycho with a gun living right across the way, and now you’re luring his equally unstable sheila over here. Remember, Kinkster, the rest of us can always leave. You’ve been grounded by Dr. Skinnipipi.”
“Fuck Dr. Skinnipipi,” I said, “and the proctoscope he rode in on.”
“The whole thing is academic anyway,” said Ratso. “Today, even if you can make yourself heard, no one believes what you tell ’em.”
“What?” said McGovern. “Say again? You believe the cat turds are smellin’?”
“No, McGovern,” I said. “We were just discussing the voyages of Magellan.”
“I can hear you,” said McGovern petulantly. “You don’t have to shout.”
“What he was really saying,” said Piers, with an almost aboriginal insight, “is that the girl may be a dangerous felon.”
“Those may well be,” said Kent Perkins, “the truest words we’ll hear all night.”
It’s possible, of course, in this funny old world we live in, for someone to be the bad guy and the good guy at the same time. Or the good girl and the bad girl. I knew I was empathizing a bit too heavily with the woman who called herself Tana Petrich. And when you empathize with someone it severely impedes your abilities to think rationally, much less reason deductively. Empathizing with someone, I reflected, was almost as bad as loving them.
“My name is Kent Perkins and I know your name is not Tana Petrich,” said Kent into a cell phone seemingly smaller than a magpie’s testicle.
The big man with the small phone, standing casually by the window as if he were talking to a friend, was a portrait of relaxed confidence. It was almost like he was fishing. He’d hooked the fish when she’d picked up the phone. One false word or reckless nuance and we all knew he’d lose her.
“I’m not a cop or I’d be over there kicking in your door with an arrest warrant and handcuffs right now. Believe it or not, I’m interested in helping you.”
I think at that moment every one of us believed that Kent Perkins could and would help the girl. Even those cynics who thought he was doing what he was doing out of friendship for me or out of some misguided stratagem to bring me out of my malaise were impressed with his cool demeanor and his humanity.
“I know you’re in trouble, but there is a way out. But you’ve got to meet me halfway. I believe I have some information that might just save your life.”
For a telephone conversation of this nature, this was already a long one. It was beginning to look like Kent might, indeed, reel her in. From across the room, McGovern was already giving him an enthusiastic thumbs-up, a gesture that was as well-intentioned as it was poorly timed. I’m not sure Kent even saw it. I’m not sure he saw anything during the torturous course of that call except a last chance to help a lost soul.
Certainly, the words themselves were well-chosen and crucial. But it was the voice itself, simple, sincere, urgent, charitable, that, I believe, made the difference. And, of course, it was high drama. Kent seemed to know that everything was riding on every word. This was no longer just another case. This was no longer a matter of routine, of going through the motions. Maybe it really was nothing more than a common case of domestic abuse, but it was clear that Kent had put his heart into it. He was talking her down from the bridge. And though the spotter scope was now turned away from the window, and the night was dark, and we could no longer see the girl, we could almost feel her glancing at the suitcase on the bed. The conversation continued for a few more moments, then, with a breathtaking suddenness, it reached its conclusion.
“Okay,” said Kent. “I’ll meet you in thirty minutes on the street. Now dry off that big, beautiful vagina of yours and get yourself downstairs, honey.”
The small audience in the loft received Kent’s closing remarks in stunned silence. For a long moment, no one said a word and only the puppethead was smiling. Then Kent gave a small shrug and a somewhat sheepish smile.
“Just seeing if you were paying attention,” he said. “I’d already hung up.”
Chapter Thirty-five
I relapsed very badly that evening. Maybe it’s just what happens when you have malaria. Maybe it was brought on by my over-identification with my field of study. Maybe it was the sheer karmic intensity of Kent trying to reel in the big one. Maybe it was none of the above. None of the ceilings or lesbians or stars. All I really remember before getting my ticket punched to Neverland was Kent asking everybody to please leave the loft for a while so he could interview the girl. The next thing I remember was Ratso tucking me into bed like a little child and saying he’d come back later to check on me.
There wasn’t that much to check really. My mind seemed to be floating somewhere over the Mexican-Israeli border. I was having the kind of vivid, twisted, opiumlike, technicolor dreams that normal people never have. I was fucking a girl who couldn’t remember where she was when JFK was assassinated because she wouldn’t be born for two more decades. She thought JFK was an airport, RFK was a football stadium, and Martin Luther King was a street running through her town. The only common ground we ever found was on her futon. She’d never heard of Jack Benny, Humphrey Bogart, or Abbie Hoffman, but she thought Hitler may have been a punk band in the early eighties. We got along pretty well because I didn’t remember much either. All in all, it wasn’t a bad dream.
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When I woke up I didn’t know where I was or what time it was. I only knew that I was sporting a monstro erection and drowning in an ocean of sweat. Then I heard the two voices in the living room. A man and a woman. The man, I quickly realized, was Kent Perkins. The woman, I knew in my gut, was the woman who called herself Tana Petrich. The same instincts that told the cat to hate Ratso told me that the next amusement was going to be a tragedy.
“Nobody’s going to grab you or hold you here, young lady,” said Kent. “Nobody’s going to force you to stay here to meet with me. That’s why I’ve put your chair closer to the door.”
“Okay,” she said, rather tentatively.
“I know you’re here tonight because you’re worried about what I might know. Well, it’s not my job here to tell you about yourself. It’s my job here to see if we can help you get into a safer place, out of the bad situation you’re in.”
“But I’m—”
“I know you’re in trouble. I’ve been conducting an ongoing investigation. I’m working for someone who will remain nameless for now, for reasons which I’ll explain later. I’m not a cop. I’m not here to hurt you in any way. In fact, I would like to help you.”
“Thanks, but—”
“You’re a person who is very, very afraid, and I understand that.”
“Do you?”
“I know you’re in a desperate situation with the man across the street.”
“I think I’d—”
“Better go? That’s fine. But I have evidence that could get the police involved. I don’t want them handling this. I think it might be in your better interest to leave them out of it.”
“All right.”
“You know, you’ve got to be the one to help yourself here. I can bring some suggestions to the table, but you’ve got to be the one to take real action to change things. That guy has beaten you nearly to death a few times and now he’s waving a gun around. Frankly, I don’t think your life expectancy’s too long at 198 Vandam. I’ve been an investigator for a long, long time and I’ve seen situations like yours before. Nobody ever de-escalates violence on his own. It just gets worse. So, you see, you’re free to leave, but if you do, you’ll never know whether we might’ve been able to help you.”
The Prisoner of Vandam Street Page 15