by Parnell Hall
“Yes, of course.”
Jennifer blinked. “What?”
“I was doing Scared Straight. You know, with Peter Falk.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Never mind, you’re too young. I was putting the fear of God in the girl to leave the life of sin.”
“Who asked you to do that?”
“Well, I had to do something. I only had one day.”
“Did I ask you to reform my daughter? To scare my daughter? To even talk to my daughter? No. All I asked you to do was follow my daughter.”
“I followed your daughter.”
“That’s all you were supposed to do. Follow her and report back to me. Was that so hard?”
“I don’t see why you’re so upset.”
“You traumatized a young girl.”
“Bullshit. This is New York City. Things like that happen all the time.” I put up my hands. “I know, I know, I’m giving the city a bad rap. I like it here. Things like that don’t happen all the time. But in a city this size, that’s all I was saying. Trust me, she’ll get over it.”
“I’m glad you’re so sure. She happened to be very upset.”
“Did she tell you where she was when I spoke to her?”
“Yeah. On the street. In the middle of the goddamned street.”
“Before that.”
“Huh?”
“Did she tell you where she was before that? She got out of school, walked out in the street, and got picked up by the first car that slowed down.”
“Yeah. Danny Goldstein. Got his driver’s license. I shouldn’t let her ride with him, but I do.”
“What?”
“You don’t approve? Pardon me but I’m not taking my parenting advice from you.”
“Danny Goldstein has a Lexus?”
“It’s his parents’ car. Probably a Lexus. I don’t know.”
“You had me follow her when she was being picked up by a classmate?”
“He’s not a classmate. He’s a year older. Goes to Hunter.”
“Good for him.” I was having trouble controlling my temper. “Why did you have me follow her if you knew she was going home with a friend?”
“I didn’t know she was going home with him. You think she tells me anything? So, you really screwed things up.”
I took a breath. Tried to keep the steam from spewing out my ears. “Yes, I did. Without getting into whose fault it was, let’s just say nothing was accomplished. No harm, no foul. Your daughter got scared by a random guy in the street. She’ll get over it. So will I, and, believe it or not, so will you. Here’s your money back. Find some other guy and start over.”
That rocked her in her sockets. There’s nothing like the shock of someone acting against their own best interests to grab your attention. For the first time since I met her, she lost some of her self assurance.
“You don’t want the money?”
“I don’t want the grief. You think I did a bad job, fine. Let’s take a page out of Bob Dylan’s book and pretend that we never met.”
“Huh?”
“Oh, hell, you’re too young for Dylan. This just ain’t my day.”
She was really agitated. I could tell because her chest was rising and falling inside a loose purple cotton top that tended to gape every time she leaned forward. No, I was not looking, I don’t know where I got that image.
“Did I ask you for the money back? I didn’t ask you for the money back. I paid you, you did the job. You may have done it poorly, but you did it, and I always pay my way. The job is over, finished, done. Give me your report and I’ll get out of here.”
“My report?”
“Yes.”
“You expect a written report? I thought you didn’t want your husband to know.”
“Not a written report. A report. Tell me what you did.”
“I told you what I did.”
“You told me like an old woman. I want to hear it like a private eye.”
I probably could have given her a better account of the grammatical misconstructions of those sentences than I could of my surveillance techniques, but the customer is always right. I whipped out my pocket notebook and flipped it open. This time it actually had notes in it.
I cleared my throat, dredged up recollections of private eye books and movies for the appropriate lingo. “I staked out P.S. 64 at three oh five. Subject emerged three forty-seven, stood on sidewalk. Three forty-nine, gray Lexus pulled up to the curb and subject hopped into the front seat. I followed the Lexus to the private underground garage of an apartment building on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Eighty-eighth Street.”
I broke off at the look on her face. “What’s the matter?”
“That isn’t Danny Goldstein’s address.”
9
I WASN’T FIRED. DAMN IT. I HAVE TO TELL YOU, IT’S A HELL OF a job when not getting fired is bad news.
I got Sexy Psycho Mom out of my office and called MacAullif. “You trace that plate?”
“I’m getting to it.”
“You gonna get to it soon?”
“You got an appointment with your client?”
“I had it.”
“She fire you?”
“No such luck.”
I gave MacAullif a rundown of my meeting with Mom. Needless to say, he was amused.
“So, you pulled a Peter Falk on the girl.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“Of course, I’ve seen it. Bullshit, of course. Nothing scares these hardass punks. Prison is like a merit badge. You ain’t done hard time, you’re a wimp.”
“Yeah, yeah, fine. Can you trace the fucking plate.”
“Oooh! No one taught you to say please?”
“I got a short fuse on this one, MacAullif. I just got royally reamed for doing the right thing.”
“That must be unusual for you. Doing the right thing, I mean. Getting bawled out is par for the course.”
“I got your meaning. Can you trace the plate?”
“I will bump it up on my priority list. It was twenty-seventh. I can probably make it twelve. I get anything, I’ll give you a call. You’re working, aren’t you? I mean for Rosenberg. You’re not staking out the school all day.”
No, I wasn’t. I called the switchboard, told Wendy/Janet, Richard Rosenberg’s twin switchboard girls, I was back on the clock. They’re not twins, by the way, they don’t look anything alike. They just have identical voices, so I can never tell which one I’m talking to.
Wendy/Janet was surprised to hear I was back on the job, largely because Richard had never mentioned I was off it, probably on the theory that if she beeped me with a case and I was close enough, I’d go.
I did three cases for Richard, all trip-and-falls, and was back in front of P.S. 64 by three fifteen.
Sharon came out at 3:45, laughing and chatting with a bunch of other girls, and walked down the street swinging her book bag just as if she were one of them, which, in a way, she was.
I followed the gaggle across town, losing girls on almost every corner, a nice metaphor for my life, actually, until finally I was down to one.
I watched her from across the street. She walked up into a newsstand in the middle of the block. I wondered if she was going to purchase cigarettes. If so, she was underage, and I could bust her for it. Wouldn’t that be a hell of a thing. MacAullif would be proud. If he ever got done laughing.
No such luck. She came out sporting candy. A Milky Way. Bad for her teeth, no doubt. I could issue a stern warning, get my picture in Oral Hygienists Monthly. Or registered as a sex offender.
She flounced down the street, swinging her book bag and eating her candy. She looked like she might start skipping. If she did, I was really going to lose it. There’s nothing in the private eye manual about skipping.
Three blocks later she turned onto Park Avenue. And, oh, the wonderful feeling, knowing I’m on the street where she lived.
I whipped out my cell phone, called MacAullif. �
��How’s your homicide coming?”
“About how you’d expect. Some gangbanger dissed the wrong dealer, got shot for his trouble. All we gotta do is put the names to it.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“Piece of cake. We got an eyewitness.”
“Oh?”
“Rival dealer wants to see the competition go down.”
“Think he’s telling the truth?”
“There’s a damn good chance. There’s also a chance he’s the perp. And the other dealer will finger him.”
“What do you do in that case?”
“Put ’em in a cage and let ’em fight it out.”
“I’m glad you have no political aspirations.”
“Why?”
“Rather racist statement.”
“Oh? I don’t recall mentioning the race of either dealer. You making assumptions about them? I would say that’s rather racist.”
I could imagine MacAullif grinning as he hung up the phone. The son of a bitch got me again. Hoisted by my own liberal petard.
My cell phone rang.
It was MacAullif. “Why did you call me?”
“Huh?”
“You didn’t call me to bullshit about my homicide. Why did you call me?”
“Oh.”
“What’s new with the case?’
“I followed the girl.”
“And?”
“She went home.”
“And?”
“Now she’s home.”
“You’re waiting outside her apartment?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t know when she’s coming out?”
“No.”
“You did call me just to bullshit.”
“Well, it’s boring.”
“Get used to it,” MacAullif said, and hung up the phone.
He called back ten minutes later. “I traced the plate.”
“Oh?”
“Got a pencil?”
“I’m standing in the street.”
“I’m sitting in my office. You got a pencil?”
“I gotta get it out.”
I dug in my jacket pocket for a pad and pencil.
“You wanna know why I traced the plate?” MacAullif said.
“Because I asked you to.”
“That was yesterday. I didn’t trace it yesterday. You know why?”
“You were busy.”
“I was busy yesterday. I’ll be busy tomorrow. You know what’s different about today?”
“You weren’t busy?”
“I’m always busy. But today, you called me on the phone, you didn’t bug me about the plate. I called you back, you didn’t bug me about the plate. See what happens? I start resenting you less, and I do you a favor.”
“This must be really good.”
“What?”
“What you got.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The slow roll.”
“Huh?”
“You’re like a poker player with a winning hand. You know, who’s torturing you with it, letting you think you’ve won, before flipping over the hole cards to dork you completely.”
“It is rather good,” MacAullif admitted.
“I knew it. Let’s have it.”
“The car is registered to a Jason Blake.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“I didn’t think it would. Forty-five years of age, married man, one kid. Lives at Five Twenty-one Fifth Avenue.”
“That’s the guy. What’s the punch line?”
I could practically see MacAullif smile, the cat who swallowed the cream.
“He’s a congressman.”
10
AFTER MACAULLIF’S PHONE CALL, I WAS A LITTLE LESS BORED. Sharon’s john was a congressman. Granted, he was probably a one-night stand, unless Sharon satisfied some kinky, congressional urge I didn’t want to know about, still it was an interesting tidbit.
I called Alice. “You on the computer?”
“Why?”
“I want you to Google someone.”
“Is this for your case?”
“Yes.”
“Please tell me it’s not a high school girl.”
“It isn’t.”
“Good, ’cause you get into Facebook and tweets and twitters, and you don’t wanna go there.”
“I don’t?”
“You can’t pick up your e-mail without help. I’m not guiding you around the Net.”
“Hey, I can Google. I’m just not at a computer.”
“Nerds in India thank you.”
“India?”
“Haven’t you ever called for tech support?”
“I always ask you.”
“Who do you want Googled?”
“A congressman.”
“What district?”
“How the hell should I know? I assume in New York City. He lives in New York City.”
“Got an address?”
“Actually, I do.”
“That would narrow it down somewhat. Give me what you got.”
Alice typed the information into the computer. Not necessarily in Google. Alice has search engines the general public has only heard rumors of.
“Oooh!” Alice said.
“What?”
“This is not just any congressman. He’s the driving force behind Proposition Nineteen.”
“What’s that?”
“A bill to raise the age of consent in New York.”
“Raise it?”
“Yeah. Right now it’s eighteen. Anyone under eighteen is a minor. You have sex with them, it’s statutory rape. He wants to raise it to nineteen. Anyone under nineteen’s a minor. So he’s the All-American boy for God, family, and Mom’s apple pie. That’s your pervert?”
“That’s the guy.”
“You following him tonight?”
“I hope not.”
“Huh?”
“I don’t want him anywhere near this girl.”
“Stanley.”
“Don’t Stanley me. I’m not going to stand by and let it happen.”
“You can’t stop it. You have no authority. Even if you did, don’t you have to have grounds?”
“I’ve got grounds.”
“Legal grounds. That would satisfy a judge.”
“I’m not a cop. I’m not getting a warrant.”
“What are you doing?”
“I have no idea.”
“Stanley.”
“That’s her! Gotta go!”
I snapped the cell phone closed and set off in pursuit of the nymphet, who was hightailing it down the street with the purposeful stride of a young lady up for action. I was not up for action. I was up for hanging around outside her apartment bitching about the fact that I had nothing to do. That sure beat the hell out of rousting some john the girl happened to pick up, pissing her off again, and alerting her to the fact that my accosting her in the street was not just an accidental, one-time encounter.
I don’t mind walking fast, I prefer it to dawdling. Still, there is an upper limit, a comfort zone, beyond which it becomes a major pain in the ass, and I was puffing heavily as the girl turned east on 86th. I could have used a rest. Instead I tried to shorten the distance. If the girl was going to pick someone up, the wide, commercial cross street seemed the place to do it.
She didn’t, however. If anything, she quickened her pace. She crossed Lexington, kept going east to Third Avenue, caught a break in the traffic, and crossed 86th Street, heading uptown. I did not catch a break in the traffic, and nearly got killed trying to follow, which probably would have got me a mention in the New York Post. Somehow I made it with no worse consequences than several irate car horns and an occasional finger.
I hit the sidewalk just in time to see Sharon hang a left into the Loews 86th Street multiplex.
Good Lord. Was she meeting men in a movie theater? I suppose it was possible. I peered in the door and, sure enough, there she was in the ticket line. Not that the
re was a line for the evening show on a school night, but she was there, and as I looked she bought a ticket and headed for the escalator.
Oh, hell.
I went in, took a look. There were seven movies playing. I had no idea which one she bought, but it probably didn’t matter. I got a ticket for the latest Matt Damon thriller and hurried to the escalator as rapidly as possible without drawing attention to myself. At the top an usher tore my ticket and let me into the concession area. I didn’t buy popcorn. I looked around for my quarry, who was long gone.
Great. Seven films to choose from. I tried the one I had the ticket for, not that it mattered, no one was checking ticket stubs at the door. Once you bought admission, there was nothing to stop you from theater hopping. Which I proceeded to do.
Sharon was not servicing a john in the Matt Damon movie. Nor was she plying her trade in the one I tried next. Or the one after that.
In my case, sixth time was the charm. I came in the door, and there she was, sitting with two other girls who appeared to be approximately her age. A bevy of hookers? Had I stumbled on some high school sex club? Would the girls be joined by a bunch of old lechers?
They would not. As the previews gave way to the feature film, no one came near them. No one even seemed to be checking them out. Except me. I could imagine the projectionist watching me through the window, picking up the phone, and turning me in.
Up on the screen, a girl’s heart was being broken because the boy she liked supposedly liked someone else, only he didn’t, he really liked her, but it would take nearly two hours before the two of them figured that out. And as the plot slowly—and not nearly as amusingly as I’m sure all parties involved intended—unwound, it gradually dawned on me that I was being paid two hundred dollars to watch a chick flick.
It wasn’t worth it.
11
MOMMY WAS APOLOGETIC. IT DIDN’T MAKE UP FOR THE chick flick, but after getting reamed out the day before, I wasn’t unhappy to have an apologetic mom.
“She wasn’t supposed to go to the movies.”
“You mean she snuck out?”
“No, she just didn’t tell us she was going. In advance, I mean. It was, ‘Where you going, don’t you have homework.’ ‘Done it, I’m going the movies, see you.’”
“That was okay with you?”
“It was better than other things she could have done. So, did you trace the car?”