Caper

by Parnell Hall

  The congressman and the kid wandered off to the Hudson News shop to purchase something for their trip. A newspaper for him, a coloring book for her.

  She actually bought a teen magazine. At least, that’s what she had in her hand when the big board went clack, clack, clack, and the Washington Acela went 13E, which meant it would be departing from track 13 at the east gate, and there was a sudden stampede for the escalator in that direction. The congressman hissed at the kid to come on. She reluctantly left her magazine on the counter, went out, and got in line, which was good. I didn’t want them at the end of the line. That would have made it hard for me to be behind them. I got in line about a dozen people back, showed my ticket at the gate, and hopped on the top of the escalator just as the congressman and the kid were nearing the bottom.

  They followed the crowd toward the back of the train, the congressman pushing Sharon along as if he were the big grown-up and she were the naive kid who’d never ridden a train before. I wondered how much that carried over into their role playing.

  I hit the bottom of the escalator and hoofed along after them. They went in a business class car, which was good, because that’s the kind of ticket I had. I caught up, hopped onto the train.

  I’d ridden the Acela before, so I knew what to expect. Nonetheless, I had envisioned something out of North by Northwest, with a sleeping car and a classy dining car where waiters served you cooling drinks at tables with cloth napkins, and handed you menus, as opposed to a café car that would microwave you a burger. If I was going to have a train adventure, that was what I wanted. Spies slipping notes to henchman in the next car.

  But it was not to be. The car was your standard railroad train car, filled with seats. Granted, there were a few instances of seats facing backward with a table between them, making an alcove for four. Still, it was a wide open alcove, not behind closed doors like in The Lady Vanishes, my other railroad movie. Both directed by Alfred Hitchcock.

  Well, it would have to do. This wasn’t about me having a good time. It was about saving a girl from disaster without trashing my pitiful career.

  There was an pair of empty seats halfway down the car. Naturally, they took them. Which presented a problem. I would have to find a seat further down the car. Which meant walking past them. Not that I expected the girl to recognize the back of my head. Even so. I kept my arm up, scratched my ear, covered my face as I went by.

  Directly in front of them was an empty seat. Too close. Didn’t want it. Would it look suspicious if I passed it by? Would I call attention to myself? Would suddenly every eye in the car be on me? People staring. Pointing. In amazement. In awe. In horror. He didn’t take the seat! That man didn’t take the seat! Mommy, Mommy, I’m scared!

  I kept going. No alarms went off. No bells and whistles. I flopped into another empty seat a little way down the car. Perfect.

  Except it was on the same side as they were. I couldn’t peer at them diagonally across the aisle. To see them, I would have to peek over the top of my seat. And I wouldn’t see them. I would see the people directly behind me. Which would have fine if I’d sat in the seat directly in front of them but which wouldn’t work now. Should I get up and go back? Should I look for a seat across the aisle? Should I consider another line of work?

  I was still contemplating my options when the train pulled out of the station. That was a relief. I was afraid someone would come and sit next to me. I would have to explain that I needed the aisle seat. I would have to give some reason other than surveillance. Why do you need an aisle seat on a train? Particularly, an Acela Express, where the stations are far apart. It’s not like I’d be getting right off. So what could I plead? Acute and chronic diarrhea. There’s a romantic image. Just the sort of thing to tell the young lady who sat down with you. Perfect for the secret agent. “Bond. James Bond. I poop a lot.”

  The conductor came around and punched my ticket. Unfortunately, he didn’t say, “Ah, Philadelphia. Just like the couple six rows back.” On the other hand, he didn’t recognize me as the man wanted for murder at the UN.

  Fifteen minutes later we stopped in New Jersey and more people got on. I was sitting on the aisle, so if anyone wanted the seat they would have to climb over me or ask me to move. No one did. The train pulled out of the station. The conductor came down the aisle, quicker this time since most tickets were already punched and he only had to deal with the few passengers who just got on.

  I sat and stewed. Wished I’d brought a newspaper, or a book, or a crossword puzzle, or a Sudoku, or a KenKen.

  After the conductor went by I had a flash of panic. What if they got off. When everyone else got on, they got off, and here I was, riding a train to Philadelphia with my quarry on the loose in Newark, New Jersey. Which would not be apt to earn me the PI of the Month award.

  It was ridiculous, of course. No one takes an Acela for one fifteen-minute stop. It’s an expensive, high-speed train. You don’t pay the premium to save the potential one to two minutes over the local train.

  But what if you did it to throw off your tail?

  Bullshit. He doesn’t know he’s wearing a tail.

  Unless he spotted you. After all, he’s being followed by the world’s least competent detective.

  I stifled such thoughts. Tried to calm myself with cool rationale. Told myself I was an obsessive, compulsive, paranoid fool. That wasn’t as calming as I’d hoped. Nonetheless, the idea I was being silly hit home. They’re right there. You can check on them if you want, but they’re right there.

  I knew that was true. They were right there, and I didn’t have to check on them.

  I had to check on them.

  I needed a plausible excuse to walk past them. Was the café car in that direction? Was the bathroom at that end of the car?

  Moron. No one’s going to stop you and ask where you’re going. Just get up and go.

  I slid from my seat, started up the aisle. As I did, a sudden fear gripped me.

  What if they’re making out?

  If they were making out, as I was terribly afraid they might be, I couldn’t ignore it. I would have to do something about it. I would grab the son of a bitch and pull him off her. Which would be an utter disaster. Aside from blowing my cover, I’m no fighter, and he would beat the shit out of me. Of course, he’d have some explaining to do to the cops. Even so, it was not the way I wanted to spend my afternoon. But if they were making out, I was gonna do it.

  They weren’t making out. He was reading the newspaper. She was doing her homework.

  It killed me, her doing her homework. Just like practicing cheerleading. All the normal little girl things broke my heart.

  I kept going, reached the end of the car.

  Okay, now what? Go to the men’s room? Go to the café car? Go back? Stay here?

  I didn’t want to go back to my seat, but I didn’t want to stand up for the rest of the trip. Could I walk back in the other direction without having accomplished any useful purpose?

  Absolutely. No one was looking at me. No one would know.

  Cool. Secret Agent fakes out passengers, walks length of car.

  Oh, the tiny victories.

  I walked back past the congressman and the kid. Reached my seat and kept going. I didn’t want to sit there again. I wasn’t happy there.

  A few rows down was an empty seat on the other side. I slid into it and looked back up the aisle. Excellent. From there I could see if they left their seats. Of course, I had to turn around and crane my neck, but it was possible. It occurred to me that if were a woman, I’d have a makeup mirror I could angle and watch the aisle without turning around.

  Of course, I’d also have breasts.

  I wondered if I could keep from staring at them.

  15

  THEY GOT OFF IN PHILADELPHIA.

  They were closer to the back of the car, so they went out that way, which was good, it put me behind them. Of course, if they’d come my way, I would have just scrunched down until they went by and woun
d up behind them anyway. Still, I was at the point where I was appreciating anything in my favor.

  Outside the station was a taxi waiting line.

  Shit. No way that worked. In order to get a taxi in time to follow them, I’d have to be right behind them, and they’d see me. If I was any further back in line, by the time the dispatcher got me a cab, they’d be long gone.

  I ignored the taxi line, walked in the direction from which the cabs came. I hit the street just as a cab was about to turn in. I stepped in front of it. The driver hit his brakes, honked his horn, and cursed.

  In a flash I was at the driver’s window. “I need a cab. Twenty bucks says this one’s mine.”

  “I could get fined.”

  “Forty. Last offer.”

  The driver looked at me. “Hop in.”

  “Drive by, pull up where the cabs pull out, stop there.”

  “I don’t want no trouble.”

  “I’m not giving you trouble. I’m giving you cash.” I whipped out my license, flashed it in his face. “I’m a private eye, I’m tailing a guy and a girl. No rough stuff. For you it’s all gravy.”

  The cabbie stopped at the exit. I opened the door, stood, half in, half out, in case the son of a bitch tried to drive off. The congressman and the girl were now fourth. With a steady stream of taxis lining up, it was only a minute and a half before the starter ushered them into one and slammed the door.

  “That’s them. Don’t lose ’em, but don’t let ’em know we’re following them.”

  “No rough stuff.”

  “None.”

  My cab pulled out, dropped in behind theirs.

  I sat bolt upright in the backseat, tried to keep from telling my cabbie he was getting too close, or, alternately, letting them get away.

  We drove down Independence Mall and took a lap around the Liberty Bell. I wondered if he was showing her the sights. I couldn’t imagine he would care.

  We were heading out of town, which didn’t make sense, but none of this made sense. Spending a bundle for a hooker, you’d think you’d rather spend your time in bed, rather than tooling around the country. I mean, New York or Philadelphia, it’s the same girl, what’s the big deal?

  A short way out in the suburbs we pulled into the huge parking lot of the Show Palace.

  Show Palace?

  If he was putting her to work in a girlie joint, I was setting my speed dial for MacAullif. I didn’t care if he had jurisdiction here or not, he knew people, he could make some calls. By God, I’d shut down the place.

  Only it didn’t appear to be a titty bar, at least from the clientele. There were as many women as men, maybe more, and a lot of them were young. Maybe not as young as Sharon, but pretty damn young. What the hell was going on?

  I found out at the door.

  It was a dinner theater. With some pop singer performing. Along the lines of Celine Dion, but not as famous. I knew her name vaguely, couldn’t match a face or a song to it.

  I gave them a ten-second head start, then followed them in.

  A woman batted false eyelashes and smiled too much lipstick at me. “One? Fine. Dinner’s a hundred dollars minimum. You pay in advance, your waiter will charge you the balance. Cash or credit card?”

  I wanted to pay by credit card with a receipt for my client, only if I did that, they’d be long gone. I fished out five twenties, handed them over.

  Before I could follow the congressman, a young waiter, attracted by the sound of my money, appeared at my elbow to guide me through the front door.

  Inside was a spacious dining room, a bit of an optical illusion, appearing way too large for the size of the building. The stage on which the pop singer would perform was about a mile from the door. There were hundreds of tables, some for two, some for four. I was guided to a table for one, which was actually a stool by a pillar, but what do you expect for a hundred bucks? I didn’t care. I wasn’t staying there anyway. I accepted a menu while my eyes probed the semidarkness for the congressman and the kid.

  I spotted them weaving their way through the tables in the direction of the restrooms. I stood my menu up on my table like an open book, and took off after them.

  They didn’t go into the bathrooms. They went right on by toward an unmarked door at the end of the corridor. A burly, tattooed skinhead stood next to the door. The congressman approached him, said the magic word, and the Hell’s Angel wannabe opened the door and let them in.

  My mind was churning a mile a minute. Backstage? He’s taking her backstage? To meet a pop star diva? A kinky pop star diva? What had the congressman got going on? Or, worse still, was the girl a mere bargaining chip, something to throw to the roadies while he got it on with the chanteuse? If that’s what she was. Could a pop star be a chanteuse? What the hell was a chanteuse anyway? Why am I throwing around words I don’t understand—trying to appear more intellectual than I am? I should be going old school, tough guy private eye long about now. Kneeing the roadie in the nuts and walking through the door, cool as ice.

  I wandered in that direction, just to see what would happen. The minute I passed the men’s room door, the roadie’s nose twitched, like a dog on guard who just smelled an intruder. Actually, a bad move on his part. It made me conscious of my own nose, and the air, and what it smelled like. And coming from the direction of the door was the unmistakable odor of marijuana.

  Great. Something else to bust the congressman for. Now I had him on sex and drugs. I wondered when he was up for reelection. The guy might have a hard time.

  I walked down the hall. Three hundred pounds of tattooed roadie blocked the door.

  “What do you want?”

  “Could I get in there?”

  “What?”

  “I was wondering if I could go inside.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m a fan.”

  “Get lost.”

  “You let those other people in.”

  “They got a right to be there.”

  “How come?”

  He opened his mouth, closed it. Scowled. “None of your business. Get the hell out of here. What are you, a reporter? If you’re a reporter, wait in the autograph line like everybody else.”

  “I’m not a reporter.”

  “Then you got no reason to be here. Go on. Run along.”

  I went back to my table, kept an eye on the door. The waiter came over, asked me if I’d like a drink. I ordered a Diet Coke. He wasn’t pleased. It would take a lot of Diet Cokes to earn out my hundred-dollar minimum.

  They were out in twenty minutes. I sized up the kid, tried to see if she looked any the worse for wear. She didn’t. Just a schoolgirl, toting a book bag. She wasn’t giggling like she’d been smoking grass. Of course, I wasn’t too up on what a teenager smoking grass acted like. I hadn’t even seen any of the stoner movies. I only knew the half of Harold and Kumar that was on House. Nonetheless, if she was buzzed, I would have expected some difference. She did seem a little exhilarated. I don’t recall marijuana producing exhilaration. A goofy, mellow groove, not an upper. Or so I hear.

  Sharon and Congressman Blake returned to their table, which was not that far from mine, but closer to the stage, which was good in that they’d be looking in that direction, whereas I’d be looking at them.

  The congressman signaled the waiter over, gave him an order. Eager to use up his two hundred bucks, no doubt.

  When the waiter left they picked up the large leather-bound menus on the table. I had one on mine but hadn’t paid any attention to it. That’s because I never took the advance course on private eye surveillance about appearing natural in a restaurant by pretending you were there to eat.

  I picked up the menu, flipped it open, so if a waiter appeared I’d be ready. I could place my order without taking my eyes off the congressman and the kid. I took a look at the entrees. The rib-eye looked good. At sixty-five bucks it would take a whack out of the hundred-dollar deposit. What the hell. I was hungry. Might as well use it up.

  A
nd for starters, a pear salad, with shaved reggiano and balsamic vinaigrette, for a mere eighteen ninety-five. Throw in tax and the Diet Coke, and my waiter might start liking me again.

  My waiter seemed in no hurry to take my order. He reappeared with my Diet Coke, plunked it on the table, and was gone before I could ask him about the day’s specials. Not that I was going to, but even so.

  I wondered how many tables the guy was covering. Not the congressman and the kid. Their waiter was back with a tray from which he delivered the congressman a martini, and the kid … a margarita!

  Oh, the charges were adding up.

  Sharon sipped her drink, giggled, licked salt off the rim of her glass.

  I wondered if they carded anyone in this place. Or if she just got by because she was with the congressman. I wondered if he was a regular. That would make sense. He was allowed backstage. He was allowed to order booze for his pubescent date. After smoking dope, no doubt.

  The waiter came back, asked me if I’d made up my mind. I hadn’t, really. I was torn between ordering the rib-eye and breaking the congressman’s nose. It was a tossup, really. I mean, the rib-eye sounded good, but the thought of hearing that nose crack …

  I stifled the urge, ordered salad and the steak.

  “How would you like it cooked?”

  “If I say rare, what will I get?

  “Rare is bloody. Medium rare is red. Medium is pink.”

  “I guess I tend toward medium.”

  The waiter repeated “tend toward medium” as if he were writing it down. More likely, “asshole, burn it.”

  “Would you like another Diet Coke?”

  I’d barely touched the one I had. “Not just yet.”

  As the waiter hurried off in quest of fresher game, I realized my attention had been diverted momentarily from the congressman and the kid. There was a waiter at their table too, going through a similar routine, though probably with more deference. He seemed quite happy with what he was writing. Probably “big tipper, remember to smile.”