Dirty Harriet

by Miriam Auerbach

  I ignored that.

  “So, bottom line, girlfriend, you are screwed. When you go out the door, or any other exit point, you will trip the alarm. If the company doesn’t get a call within thirty seconds with a code word letting them know it’s a false alarm, the cops will be on that place like white on rice.”

  “So what am I gonna do?” I wailed. “Wait, let me rephrase that. Will you please help get my ass out of this jam?”

  “How nice of you to ask. I’d be delighted. Okay, here’s the plan. You’ve got to wait till something big goes down somewhere else tonight so that the heat are otherwise occupied. Then you can give ’em the slip.”

  Well, there was an apropos term. Of course, he didn’t know that.

  He went on, “I’ve got a police band scanner in my office. I’m going to monitor it. If, and when, the shit goes down, I’ll give you a call.”

  “Thanks, amigo,” I said. “I owe you.”

  “You got that right,” he said. “Next trade show that comes around, you’re my date.” He hung up before I could respond.

  I sat around the waiting room. So I’d gone to all that trouble of erasing any sign of my presence from the file room, all for nothing. Farber and the cops would know there’d been a break-in anyway.

  Okay, so maybe I was a little rash in my investigative methods, but, hey, I hadn’t failed on a murder case yet, had I?

  I sat and sat. The boredom was murder.

  Finally the phone rang.

  “This is it,” said Enrique. “A boatload of refugees just landed on the beach. I’m watching the whole thing out my window. That is one sorry-looking mass of humanity. They’re jumping off the boat, running every which way. The boys in blue are all out here—city, county, Coast Guard, Border Patrol—here comes ABC, CBS. This is your lucky break. Go take a hike! I’ll meet up with you and Chuck at Hog Heaven when I get off here.”

  It was a lucky break, although this refugee thing is a pretty common occurrence here in South Florida. Every time there’s political unrest in Cuba or Haiti, which seems like every couple months, these poor people come washing up on our shores on some rickety, overcrowded craft. The media think this is entertainment, so they’re always all over it.

  Well, I couldn’t dwell on that particular societal sickness right now. I hung up. I opened the clinic door. The red light on the alarm box started flashing wildly, accompanied by a frantic beeping,

  I calmly stepped out, then leisurely strolled west, while sirens screamed and helicopters whirled above, all headed in the opposite direction. Man, was I ready for a brew!

  Chapter 28

  I REACHED Hog Heaven, a dingy dive clinging to the edge of town, right next to the Dew Drop Inn, a hooker motel commonly known to the locals as the “Ho Mo.” About a dozen choppers were parked outside, their polished chrome reflecting the flashing gold neon beer sign that hung in the joint’s only window.

  I heard Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” blasting from the jukebox inside as I opened the door. A few leather-clad bikers and their strung out “ol’ ladies” were standing around, shooting pool. I waved my hands in front of my face to clear a path through the smoky haze.

  I spotted Chuck at the bar and made my way over. I climbed up on the stool next to him.

  Then my greased-up ass slid right off. I landed on the sawdust-strewn floor with a dull thud.

  Of course, when you wipe out like that in public, you’ve got to act as if nothing had happened, as if you had planned it that way all along. So I just picked myself right up and climbed right back on again, ignoring the stares and snickers. I didn’t brush the sawdust off my ass, as I realized it would provide much-needed traction.

  “So, what’s shakin’?” Chuck asked, magnanimously playing along with my “nothing just happened” act.

  “Other than my cellulite, you mean? Listen, I need a cold one. Then I’ll fill you in.”

  I motioned to the bartender, a woman named Marla whom I knew from my few previous visits to the place. She was basically the same bartender that inhabits every biker bar on every squalid back street of the country. Her graying hair dangled in a long braid down her back, her face was lined like a sheet of notebook paper, and her boobs sagged indifferently in her black leather halter. Her old man had just fallen off the wagon again, her eighteen-year-old son had just been busted for dealing, and her sixteen-year-old daughter had just dropped out of school to have her second baby.

  I asked her for a Dos Equis. I only drink Hennessy when I’m alone. She brought me the bottle—no glasses in this place. She banged it down in front of me, the whole motion signaling defeat. My heart went out to her.

  “Marla,” I said, “what’s a woman like you doing in a dump like this? You’ve got brains. You’ve got spunk. Why don’t you ditch that loser you’re with, break out of this rat hole, get a life?”

  Hey, I don’t take advice from anybody, but that’s never stopped me from giving it.

  “Honey,” she drawled in her gravelly voice, “at my age I’m lucky to get paid and get laid. Anything else is gravy.”

  Damn! What had I just said about her? Brains. That woman had just managed to distill an entire feminist manifesto into one simple catchphrase.

  All that aging boomer women everywhere wanted were those two little things—to get paid and get laid. Was that so much to ask? Instead, once you hit the fifty-mile mark, you were no longer hireworthy or sexworthy.

  Maybe Hillary could use that as her platform in the next presidential election. The “Get Paid and Get Laid” campaign. Kind of like Hoover’s “Chicken in Every Pot.” How about “A Check and a Dick for Every Chick”?

  I took a long draw on my Dos Equis.

  ZZ Top came on the jukebox with ‘”Cheap Sunglasses.” I brought Chuck up to speed on the evening’s events.

  “So anyway,” I said, winding everything up, “Enrique said he’d meet us here.”

  “Really?” Chuck’s eyes lit up.

  Hog Heaven wasn’t Enrique’s kind of hangout. South Beach was more his scene. However, Enrique liked Chuck, and Chuck liked Hog Heaven, so Enrique occasionally popped in. It always made Chuck’s day.

  As if on cue, ZZ Top segued into “Sharp-Dressed Man” and Enrique walked in—Armani suit, stickpin, wingtips and all. No cheap sunglasses, either.

  Okay, it’s a generally accepted fact that a sharp-dressed man is usually a gay man. This observation was not lost upon the clientele of Hog Heaven. Some bozo sitting a few stools away at the bar said loudly, “Hey, anybody feel it getting hot in here? Check out the flamer that just walked in the door.”

  Oh, shit. I sensed trouble brewing.

  The Hog Heaven regulars all knew about Chuck and Enrique, and they didn’t give a rat’s ass. Chuck was the one man in town who could keep their Hogs humming, and that’s all that mattered to them. However, once in a while some ignorant out-of-towners would roll through, ready to rumble.

  Everyone ignored the punk, hoping he’d just shut up and slink away. But it was not to be.

  Enrique had just sat down, ordered a Bud, and started to tell me and Chuck what had happened to the washed-up refugees—they’d all been apprehended and sent to detention—when the jerk bellowed, “Hey, y’all gonna let a hunch of fairies in here?”

  That did it. The fur started flying. Bottles broke, chairs smashed, and tables collapsed. The regulars wouldn’t go for the gay-bashing. For them, it was a matter of pragmatics. Of course, I had to get in the act, too. For me, it was a matter of principle. The way I looked at it, if two human beings loved, respected, and sheltered each other from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, did the world really need less of that?

  Okay, call me a romantic at heart—just don’t do it to my face.

  I grabbed Enrique’s beer bottle, raised it over the chump’s head, and said, “Hey,
bud, this one’s for you!” Then I smashed it on his thick shining dome.

  He was dazed just long enough for me, Chuck, and Enrique to make our getaway.

  I paused at the door.

  “Go to hell—on the Hog you rode in on!” I yelled.

  Then we were outta there, just as Marla pulled a long-barreled Colt from behind the bar and fired a slug into the ceiling.

  Chapter 29

  THE THREE OF us made tracks away from Hog Heaven, Chuck and me on his Shovelhead and Enrique in his Beemer. Man, what a day! A pelvic exam, a jammed ass, and a barroom brawl, all in less than twelve hours. It was a little much, even for this tough chick. And it wasn’t even over yet. I still had to meet my mother at the cruise terminal and restrain myself from commentary upon her ill-advised romantic liaison.

  Chuck dropped me off at the port in Fort Lauderdale just as the ship pulled in. The gangway was lowered and a throng of passengers emerged. Eventually, I saw my mother. Her shoulder-length, light blond hair illuminated her already-radiant face. I had to admit, she looked happy. At her side stood a tall man who could only be her spy suitor. He was in his late sixties, with a tanned face, piercing blue eyes, silver brush cut, black slacks, and Polo shirt. I had to admit, they made a pretty striking pair.

  I yelled and waved. “Hi, Mom! Over here!” She saw me and rushed over to hug me.

  “Harriet! What a wonderful surprise! I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Just wanted to welcome you back home.”

  “That’s lovely.” She put her hand on her companion’s arm. “This is Leonard Goldblatt, whom I told you about on the phone. He just recently moved to Boca from Washington.”

  Oh. So maybe that explained his lack of a local phone listing and driver’s license.

  “Very nice to meet you,” he said, shaking my hand. “I’ve heard so much about you. I want you to know that these past few days with your mother have been some of the happiest of my life. I’ve had some thrilling times before. But after the Cold War ended, I thought I’d never have so much fun again. Now, all that has changed.” He beamed at my mother.

  We picked up their luggage, then got a cab and rode to Boca. Mom sat up front, leaving me to make small talk with this stranger in the back seat. Great. Just what I wanted.

  “So your mother tells me you’re a private investigator,” Leonard ventured.

  “Uh-huh,” I replied. I wasn’t going to give an inch to this conversation. Hey, I’d already extended myself enough, hadn’t I?

  “I’d love to hear more about your work sometime,” he plowed ahead. “Maybe we could exchange some tricks of the trade. I bet spying and private eyeing aren’t so different.”

  “Yeah, I’d like that,” I mumbled.

  Mom turned around in her seat to face us.

  “Leonard’s daughter is a construction engineer in Washington. She’s about your age.” She beamed right back at Leonard.

  “Yes,” he said to me. “I bet you and she could exchange some war stories, too. Two women both working in a man’s world. And my son, he’s a nurse.” He chuckled. “It’s not what I had in mind for my kids. I always figured my daughter would follow in her mother’s footsteps—that’s my late wife—being a homemaker and having babies. And of course my son would follow in mine, although they never knew what I really did for a living. Well, they did surprise me with their choices. But what are you gonna do? Your children have minds of their own. You’ve got to let them go their own way.”

  Hmm. I was liking this guy’s attitude. Maybe he could teach Mom a thing or two about relating to one’s adult offspring.

  We chatted some more, then dropped Leonard off at his new condo. He had some pretty nice digs on the Intracoastal. Okay, maybe he had a few bucks of his own.

  Mom and I rode to her house.

  “You know the big question I told you Leonard was going to pose?” she asked me.

  “Yes,” I said slowly. Here it came. The bad news about her betrothal.

  “He asked me to accompany him on a lecture tour in the summer. It’s called the Iron Curtain Tour—all the old spy capitals, Berlin, Budapest, Sofia. It will be wonderful. I’m so excited.”

  Oh. What, no marriage proposal?

  “That’s great, Mom,” I said in all honesty.

  Mentally, I kicked myself. Damn it, I’d been wrong about some things about him. Okay, maybe he was a little freaky with his Cold War fixation. But his past didn’t seem to be as murky as I’d thought. Nor did he seem to be after Mom’s money, at least not immediately. I had let my emotions get in the way so that I’d made hasty judgments and assumptions—not a good thing for a private eye. Or a human being, for that matter.

  “Harriet, I truly appreciate your coming to meet us tonight,” Mom said as we arrived at her house. “It has meant a lot to me. And I appreciate your concern for my welfare, too. I know you meant well. Now good night, dear.”

  Man, maybe Leonard’s attitude was rubbing off on her already. This was not a bad thing.

  I helped her take her eight pieces of luggage to her door. I gave her an awkward hug goodbye, then had the cab take me out to my dock. I fired up the airboat and took off across the swamp. It was approaching midnight by the time I pulled up to my cabin. I downed a glass of Hennessy. Exhausted as I was, I pined for my old goose down, Egyptian cotton comforter. But the only comforter around was Lana. I wished her a good-night and hit the sack.

  The next morning, Chuck called.

  “Your parts come in,” he said. I’ll have your bike ready this afternoon. But we got us a little snag here. The slugfest went on after we got out of Dodge last night, and it spilled outside. Five choppers got busted up in the process. So I’m swamped. I’m not gonna be able to pick you up this afternoon. But if you like, I can come get you now, and you can hang around the shop till your bike is ready.”

  “Are you kidding?” I said. “I will kiss your pigeon-toed feet. I will prostrate myself before you. You are a god!”

  “Oh, can it,” he said.

  “Okay, a minor deity in the pantheon,” I amended, but he was already gone.

  In truth, I really didn’t mind the prospect of hanging at the Greasy Rider for a few hours, watching Chuck work and talking Hogs. I could always pick up a few maintenance tips.

  I showered, dressed, had a cup of java, kissed Lana goodbye (okay, not really), and took off for dry ground. Chuck met me at the dock, and we thundered to the shop.

  There, I sat around on a cardboard box full of oil cans, watching as Chuck replaced both my wheels and several engine parts, as well as my twisted handlebars and all my busted lamps. At lunchtime, I went across the street to Connie’s Coneys and brought us each back a foot-long chili dog and fries. We sat down to chew the fat.

  Chuck had his radio tuned to an oldies station.

  “What’s with the oldies?” I asked.

  “Don’t knock it, darlin’,” he said. “Soon enough, the tunes you grew up with will be on the oldies station. You know how it is. Our favorite music is always what we listened to in high school. Back in my day, it was all about peace ‘n’ love. So whenever I hear that stuff now, it takes me straight back to Haight-Ashbury. Spent the summer of ’69 out there, then went back to Vidalia, only come to find out the movement hadn’t never made it there. I’ll tell you, there weren’t no flower power in Georgia. Then I graduated, went to ’Nam, everythin’ changed. Anyway, my point is, our musical tastes mark our generation.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “My generation will forever be identified with the New Wave wonders. The Flying Lizards, the Suburban Lawns, the Boomtown Rats. Great legacy, huh?”

  Chuck just grunted.

  The afternoon passed as Peter, Paul, and Mary puffed the magic dragon and left on a jet plane. Late in the day, Chuck finally pronounced my Hog ready to roll.

  I did
a few genuflections before him till he kicked me out the door.

  Man, did it feel good to be back in the saddle again. I pushed the starter, and the engine roared to life. Yeesss! I had my groove back.

  I left the shop and headed into the sunset in the Glades. There was nothing but open road ahead. The sawgrass reached toward the sky on either side of me. It was a gorgeous Florida twilight. The Hog thumped along rhythmically, the vibes pulsating through my whole body. The wind buffeted past me. I was one with the bike, and the bike was one with the road.

  In short, I was high on the Hog.

  And that’s when I got the insight that solved the case.

  Chapter 30

  I COULDN’T WAIT to get home to expound on my incisive theory of the crime to Lana. But first, just to be sure I wasn’t about to make a major fool of myself, I swung back to the office to look up something on the Internet.

  Yeah, it was there. My theory wasn’t totally off-the-wall. A little on the edge, maybe. But completely wacko, no.

  So I went home, got my Hennessy, sat in my rocking chair, and laid it all out for Lana as she sprawled there in rapt awe.

  “To begin,” I began, “I was on the wrong track with Big Tomato. Yeah, they’ve enslaved the Mayans and polluted your habitat with banned pesticides, not to mention their bribes and buy offs, but they didn’t have anything to do with Gladys’s murder. Here’s what really went down. Imagine for a moment, if you will, the Boca Babe lifestyle. You and I know it takes a village to support a Boca Babe. Indulge me while I review the cast of supporting characters. Here we go: Housekeeper. Cook. Gardener. Pool cleaner. Dog walker. Car detailer. Personal trainer. Hair colorist. Hair stylist. Massage therapist. Bikini waxer. Dermatologist. Caterer. Party planner. Manicurist. Personal shopper. Interior decorator.”

  Lana rolled her eyes. “Okay, okay, what’s your point?” she seemed to be asking.

  “Hold on,” I huffed. “I’m setting the stage here.”

  I continued. “Now, we also know this—the Boca Babe doesn’t give a second thought to this whole class of personal servants whose only function is to meet her every need and desire. She simply deserves it, just for being a Babe. It’s like an egotist’s entitlement program.