by Jack Kilborn
“He’s seven.”
“We only accept four-year-olds.”
“He’s got the mind of a four-year-old. Retard. Mom dropped him down an escalator, he fell for forty minutes. Very sad. All someone had to do was hit the off switch.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Why? You a retard too?”
“Mr. McGlade…”
“I’m willing to pay money, Miss Janice. Big money. I’ll triple your enrollment fee.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Okay, I’ll double it.”
“I don’t think that…”
“Look, honey, is Mikey there? He assured me I’d be treated better than this.”
“You know Mr. Sousse?”
“Yeah. We played water polo together in college. I saved his horse from drowning.”
“Perhaps I should put you through to him.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll be there in an hour with a suitcase full of cash. I won’t bring Stimey, because he’s with his tutor tonight, learning how to chew. Keep the light on for me.”
I hung up, feeling smug. I hadn’t shared this with Morribung, but this case really hit home for me. Years ago, when I was a toddler, I’d been forced to drop out of pre-school because I kept biting and hitting the other children. The unfairness of it, being discriminated against because I was a bully, still haunted me to this day.
I hit the computer again and prowled the Internet for dirt on Sousse. Nothing jumped out at me, other than a minor news article a few weeks back about one of his teachers being dismissed for reasons unknown. According to the story, Sousse was deeply embarrassed by the incident and refused to comment.
Then I surfed for Morribund and his wife and kid, and found zilch.
Then I surfed for naked pictures of Catherine Zeta Jones until it was time for me to keep my appointment.
But first, I needed to gear up.
I wound my spy tie around my neck, careful with the wires. Concealed in the tie clip was a digital camera, a unidirectional microphone, and a 20 gigabyte mp3 player loaded with bootleg Tori Amos concerts. It weighed about two pounds, and hurt my back to wear. But it would be my best chance at clandestinely snapping a few photos of Mr. Sousse during our meeting—photos I could later retouch so it looked like he was molesting a pile of dirty laundry.
People would pay a lot of money to keep their dirty laundry out of the news.
Forty minutes later I was pulling into a handicapped parking spot in front of the Salieri Academy on Irving Park Road. Last year, I’d bought a handicapped parking sticker from a one-legged man in line at the DMV. It only cost me ten dollars. He had demanded five hundred, but I simply grabbed the sticker and strolled away at a leisurely pace. Guy shouldn’t be driving with only one leg anyway.
The Academy was a large, ivy-covered brick building, four stories high, in the middle of a residential area. As I was reaching for the front door it began to open. A woman exited, holding the hand of a small boy. She was smartly dressed in skirt and blazer, high heels, long brown hair, maybe in her mid-thirties. The boy looked like a honey-baked ham stuffed into a school uniform, right down to the bright pink face and greasy complexion. When God was dishing out the ugly, this kid got seconds.
I played it smooth. “Wouldn’t let you in, huh?”
“Excuse me?”
I pointed my chin at the child.
“Wilbur, here. All he’s missing is the curly tail. The Academy won’t take fatties, right?”
The boy squinted up at me.
“Mother, is this stupid man insinuating that I have piggish attributes?”
I made a face. “Who are you calling stupid? And what does insinuating mean?”
“Just ignore him, Jasper. We can’t be bothered by plebeians.”
“Hey lady, I’m 100% American.”
“You’re 100% ignoramus.”
“What do dinosaurs have to do with this?”
She ushered the little porker past me—no doubt off to build a house of straw—and I slipped through the doorway and into the lobby. There were busts of dead white guys on marble pedestals all around the room, and the artwork adorning the walls was so ugly it had to be expensive. I crossed the carpeted floor to the welcoming desk, set on a riser so the secretary looked down on everyone. This particular secretary was smoking hot, with big sensuous lips and a top drawer pulled all the way out. Also, large breasts.
“May I help you, Sir?”
Her voice was sultry, but her smile hinted that help was the last thing she wanted to give me. I got that look a lot, from people who thought they were superior somehow due to their looks, education, wealth, or upbringing. It never failed to unimpress me.
“I called earlier, Miss Janice. I’m here to see Mikey.”
Her smile dropped a fraction. “I informed Mr. Sousse that you were coming, and he regrets to inform you that—”
“Cork up that gas leak, sweetheart. I’m really a private detective. I’d like a chance to talk with Mr. Sousse about some embarrassing facts I’ve uncovered about one of your teachers here,” I said, referring to that incident I’d Googled. “Of course, if he doesn’t want to talk with me, he can hear about it on the ten o’clock news. But I doubt it will do much for enrollment, especially after that last unfortunate episode.”
Miss Janice played it coy. “Whom on our staff are you referring to?”
“Are you Mr. Sousse? I can avert my eyes if you want to lift your skirt and check.”
She blushed, then picked up the phone. I gave her a placating smile similar to the one she greeted me with.
“Do you have ID?” she asked, still holding the receiver.
I flashed my PI license. She did some whispering, then hung up.
“Mr. Sousse will see you now.”
“How lucky for me.”
She stared. I stared back.
“You gonna tell me where his office is, or should I just wander around, yelling his name?”
She frowned. “Room 315. The elevator is down the hall, on the left.”
I hated to leave with an attractive woman annoyed with me, so I decided to disarm her with wit.
“You know, my father was an elevator operator. His career had a lot of ups and downs.”
Miss Janice kept frowning.
“He hated how people used to push his buttons,” I said.
No response at all.
“Then, one day, he got the shaft.”
She crossed her arms. “That’s not funny.”
“You’re telling me. He fell six floors to his death.”
Her frown deepened.
“Tell me, do they have heat on your planet?” I asked.
“Mr. Sousse is expecting you.”
I nodded, my work here done. Then it was into the elevator and up to the third floor.
Sousse’s office was decorated in 1960’s Norman Bates, with low lighting that threw shadows on the stuffed owls and bear heads and antlers hanging on the walls. Sousse, a stern-looking man with glasses and a bald head, sat behind a desk the size of a small car shaped like a desk, and he was sneering at me when I entered.
“Miss Janice said you’re a private investigator.” His nostrils flared. “I don’t care for that profession.”
“Don’t take it literally. I’m not here to investigate your privates. I just need to ask you a few questions.”
A stuffed duck—of all things—was propped on his desktop, making it impossible for me to get a clear shot of his face with my cleverly concealed camera tie. I moved a few steps to the left.
“Which of my staff are you inquiring about?”
“That’s confidential.”
“If you can’t tell me who we’re discussing, why is it you wanted to see me?”
“That’s confidential too.”
I shifted right, touched the tie bar, heard the shutter click. But the lighting was pretty low.
“I don’t understand how I’m supposed to—”
“Does this office have
better lights?” I interrupted. “I’m having trouble seeing you. I’m getting older, and got cadillacs in my eyes.”
“Cadillacs?”
I squinted. “Who said that?”
“Do you mean cataracts?”
“I don’t like your tone,” I said, intentionally pointing at a moose head.
Sousse sighed, all drama queen, and switched on the overhead track lighting.
Click click went my little camera.
“Did you hear something?” he asked.
I snapped a few more pics, getting him with his mouth open. My tech geek should be able to Photoshop that into something particularly rude.
“Does your tie have a camera in it?” he asked.
I reflexively covered up the tie and hit the button for the mp3 player. Tori Amos began to sing about her mother being a cornflake girl in that whiney, petulant way that made her a superstar. I fussed with the controls, and only succeeded in turning up the volume.
Sousse folded his arms.
“I think this interview is over.”
“Fine,” I said, loud to be heard over Tori. “But you’ll be hearing from me and Morribund again.”
“Who?”
“Don’t play coy. People like you disgust me, Mr. Sousse. Sure, I’m a carnivore. But I don’t get my jollies hunting down ducks and mooses and deers and squirrels.” I pointed to a squirrel hanging on the wall, dressed up in a little cowboy outfit. “What kind of maniac hunts squirrels?”
“I’m not a hunter, you idiot. I abhor hunting. I’m a taxidermist.”
“Well, then I’m sure the IRS would love to hear about your little operation. You better hope you have a good accountant and that your taxidermist is in perfect order.”
I spun on my heels and got out of there.
Mission accomplished. I should have felt happy, but something was nagging at me. Several somethings, in fact.
On my way through the lobby, I stopped by Miss Janice’s desk again.
“When Sousse fired that teacher a few weeks ago, what was the reason?”
“That’s none of your business, Mr. McGlade.”
“Some sex thing?”
“Certainly not!”
“Inappropriate behavior?”
“I won’t say another word.”
“Fine. If you want me to pick you up later and take you to dinner, stay silent.”
“I’d rather be burned alive.”
“We can do that after we’ve eaten.”
“No. I think you’re annoying and repulsive.”
“How about a few drinks? The more you drink, the less repulsive I get.”
She folded her arms and her voice went from sultry to frosty. “Employees of the Salieri Academy don’t drink, Mr. McGlade.”
“I understand. How about we take a handful of pills and smoke a bowl?”
“I’m calling security.”
“No need. I’m outtie. Catch you later, sweetheart.”
I winked, then headed back to my office. When I arrived, I spend a good half hour on the Internet, digging deeper into the Salieri story, using a reverse phone directory to track a number, and looking up the words insinuating, plebian, ignoramous, and taxidermist. Then I gave Morribund a call and told him I had something for him.
An hour later he showed up, looking expectant to the point of jubilation. Jubilation is another word I looked up.
“Did you get the pictures, Mr. McGlade?”
“I got them.”
“You’re fast.”
“I know. Ask my last girlfriend.”
We stared at each other for a few seconds.
“So, are you going to give them to me?”
“No, Mr. Morribund. I’m not.”
He leaned in closer, the whiskey coming off him like cologne. “Why? You want more money?”
“I’ll take all the money you give me, but I’m not going to give you the photos.”
“Why not?”
I smiled. It was time for the big revealing expositional moment.
“There are a lot of things I hate, Mr. Morribund. Like public toilets. And the Red Sox. And massage girls who make you pay extra for happy endings. But the thing I hate the most is being lied to by a client.”
“Me? Lie to you? What are you talking about?”
“You don’t want to get your daughter into the Salieri Academy. You don’t even have a daughter.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You’re insane. Why would you think such a thing?”
“When I went to the Academy, I ran into some kid in a Salieri uniform, and he was uglier than a hatful of dingle-berries with hair on them. If he got in, then the school had no restrictions according to looks. Isn’t that right, Mr. Morribund? Or should I use your real name… Nathan Tribble?”
He sighed, knowing he was beaten. “How did you figure it out?”
“You didn’t pay me with a check or credit card, because you didn’t have any in the name you gave me. But you did give me your real phone number, and I looked it up in the Internet. I also found out you once worked at the Salieri Academy. Fired a few weeks ago. For drinking, I assume.”
“It never affected my job! I was the best instructor that stupid school ever had!”
I didn’t care about debating him, because I wasn’t done with my brilliant explanation yet.
“You came to me because you found me on the Internet and thought I liked dogs. That’s why you wore that Save the Dolphins tie tack. You said Sousse was a hunter, to make me dislike him so I’d go along with your blackmail scheme.”
“Enough. We’ve established I was lying.”
But I still had more exposing to expose, so I went on.
“Sousse isn’t a hunter, Tribble. He’s a taxidermist. And you’re no animal lover either. You can’t be pro-dolphin and also eat tuna. Tuna fisherman catch and kill dolphins all the time. But your breath smelled of tuna during our last meeting.”
“Why are you telling me things I already know?”
“Because that’s what I do, Tribble. I figure out puzzles by putting together all the little pieces until they all fit together and form a full picture, made of the little puzzle pieces I’ve fit together. Or something.”
“You’re a low-life, McGlade. All you do is take dirty pictures of people. Or you make up dirty pictures when there are none to take.”
“I may be a low-life. And a thief. And a voyeur. And an arsonist. And a leg-breaker. But I’m not a liar. You’re the liar, Tribble. And you made a big mistake. You lied to me.”
Tribble snorted. “So? Big deal. I got fired, and I wanted to take revenge. I figured you wouldn’t do it if I asked, so I made up the story about the daughter, and added the pro-animal garbage to get you hooked. What does it matter? Just give me the damn pictures and you can go play Agatha Christie by yourself in the shower.”
I stood up.
“Get out of my office, Tribble. I’m going to make two calls. The first, to Sousse, to tell him what you’ve got planned. I bet he can make sure you’ll never get a teaching job in this town again. The second call will be to a buddy of mine at the Chicago Police Department. She’ll love to learn about your little blackmail scheme.”
Tribble looked like I just peed in his oatmeal.
“What about the money I gave you?”
“No give-backsies.”
He balled his fists, made a face, then stormed out of my office.
I grinned. It had been a productive day. I’d made a cool twelve hundred bucks for only a few hours of work, and that was only the beginning of the money train.
I got on the phone to my tech geek, and told him I was forwarding a photo I needed him to doctor. I think Sousse would look perfect Photshopped into a KKK rally, wearing a Nazi armband and goose-stepping. Also, raping a manatee.
Sure, I wasn’t a liar. But I was a sucker for a good blackmail scheme.
Not bad for a pre-school drop-out.
The end.
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“Mmmm-mmm. This is some fine pie, Amos.”
I wiped off my mouth on his wife’s dress and gave the little filly a playful slap on the ass.
“I’m glad you enjoyed them, Brother McGlade. I’d offer you more, but you’ve eaten all six.”
It was just as well. I needed to lose some weight. I know this because I’ve got a recent picture of me hanging on the wall, and it keeps falling off.
“Just bring over that tub of lard and that bag of brown sugar,” I said. “That’ll be fine.”
I dipped my finger in the lard, then the sugar, and licked it clean. I could certainly see the appeal of living like this, eating organic, with no harsh chemical additives like guar gum, or yellow number 5, or H2O. I hated harmful additives so much that I’ve completely given up soda pop, which was bad for you. These days I drink only straight corn syrup.
“So you say a woman named Lulu hired you?” Amos asked.