by Parnell Hall
The waiter’s routine ended with a gesture toward their drinks.
Sharon’s margarita was half gone. She nodded yes. The congressman shook his head.
Son of a bitch. Staying sober while plying her with booze. I wondered why. Was there anything he wanted she wouldn’t do? Something particularly kinky, perhaps? Which would explain the elaborate preparations, the trip, the dope, the booze.
Sort of.
The lights went down, and the performance began.
It wasn’t the singing star. It was her opening act. Some god-awful boy band I’d never heard of, no doubt aping some god-awful boy band I’d heard of vaguely but hadn’t a clue who they actually were. They didn’t play instruments, just sang and danced, if that’s what you could call it, or at least moved in unison. They had short hair, huge smiles, wore matching slacks and polo shirts.
They made me wish I hadn’t ordered dinner. Perhaps I’m just jealous. Perhaps I just wished I were one of them. Young and successful, singing for a roomful of people. Instead of conducting a sordid clandestine surveillance.
The song ended. Sharon was cheering, wildly, enthusiastically, almost spilling her drink. Her second drink. Which I noticed was almost gone.
The congressman surreptitiously motioned the waiter over, pointed to her glass. The waiter smiled and nodded.
So what was I going to do? I couldn’t sit here and watch him pour booze down her throat all night. And I couldn’t bear much more of the Backside Street Boys. I had to get her out of there.
I got to my feet, wove my way through the tables in their direction. Weighed my chances. I had the disadvantage that she knew me. The advantage: she must be pretty drunk.
Plus she was watching the stage. The boys were performing another nauseating step-in-time routine, which, from the way she was paying attention, must have been absolutely fascinating.
I stumbled against their table. Put out my hand to brace myself. Actually knocked over their salt shaker. Muttered, “Sorry, sorry,” and stumbled away.
I didn’t look behind me. If the congressman was coming to beat my brains in, I didn’t want to know. If a waiter was coming to escort me from the dining room, I didn’t want to know that either. I just wanted to put as much distance between me and the congressman’s table as possible.
That and screw the top back on what was left in my bottle of chloral hydrate.
She had another drink after that. The girl clearly had an iron constitution. She probably didn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking wet, and here she was, guzzling margarita after margarita with enough chloral hydrate in her to fell a bull moose. Had I missed her glass? Poured it all over the table?
I had not. Just as the boy band was leaving the stage to thunderous applause, which I could fully understand (I was delighted to see them go too), she folded her arms on the table, leaned forward, and put her head down, just as if it were nap time in school.
The congressman peered at her curiously. He couldn’t know she’d been drugged. With all the booze she’d had, he must have thought she’d just passed out. He poked her, tried to rouse her, but no luck.
If he asked the waiter to call a doctor, I was sunk. But I didn’t think he would. He wouldn’t want to explain to some medic why the sixteen-year-old girl he was sitting with in a nightclub was sloshed to the gills.
The congressman checked to see if she was breathing, a point in his favor—and there were damn few—and headed in the direction of the restrooms. More likely he was going backstage, to tell the diva there’d been a slight hitch in his plans.
I watched him disappear down the hall, then snagged a passing waiter, neither mine nor theirs. “Help me, please! My daughter’s sick!”
“What?”
I pointed. “My daughter. Over there. She’s sick. I think she’s going to throw up.”
The waiter, a young dude with a pointy headed haircut, was eager to pass the buck. “Hey, man, that’s not my table.”
“Come on, help me get her out of here. It’d be better if she throws up in the parking lot. Please.”
He smelled a tip. “Okay, man.”
With his help, I lifted Sharon up from the table, put her arm around my neck. “Take the other side.”
The waiter did. Once he’d agreed to do it, the guy was actually getting off on being a hero. He led us through the tables, saying, “Excuse us, please. Sick customer coming through.”
Glancing over my shoulder I saw the congressman coming back. Damn. Why couldn’t he stay for a joint? He’ll reach the table and raise the alarm.
No, he won’t. He’ll assume she came to and went to the bathroom.
But then he would have passed her.
What the hell will he assume?
Will he hear the words “sick customer,” and put two and two together?
Why should he? Surely people’s lives aren’t so dreary they’d still be discussing our impromptu exit.
Damn. How big was this fucking room? Where the hell’s the door?
We reached it, went through the lobby, outside, and down the front steps.
I stuck a twenty in his hand. “Thanks, man. Get back to you tables. I can take it from here.”
He grinned and left.
The doorman, attracted by the size of the bill, came over. “Need some help?”
“I need a cab. Can you get me one?”
“Where to?”
“Thirtieth Street Station.”
“Car service would be cheaper.”
“I don’t care what’s cheaper, just what’s quicker. My daughter’s sick. I want to get her in a cab.”
“Wait right here.”
The doorman ran out in the street, blew his whistle like he was a referee calling the most flagrant foul in the history of the NBA.
A taxi in the passing lane slammed on its brakes, cut off a bus, and swerved in the entrance.
I slipped the doorman a bill, which was not lost on the cabby, and hopped in. The doorman slammed the door, and the cab took off.
Through the rear window I could see the congressman appear in the door of the nightclub.
He didn’t look happy.
16
EVER HANG AROUND A TRAIN STATION WITH AN UNCONSCIOUS girl? It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Aside from the strong possibility of being mistaken for the very pervert you’re attempting to save her from, there is also the simple logistical problem of keeping her upright. The damn benches don’t have sides. Or arms. Or anything to lean a young girl against in order to keep her from slumping sideways, or keeling over on the floor, a dead giveaway that something is wrong.
I managed to prop her up while I bought a ticket. Two tickets, actually. Expenses were adding up. I hoped Mama wouldn’t be mad.
I sat down next to Sharon, put her book bag in her lap, angled her head in the right direction, and acted out a scenario in which the parent is lecturing the stubborn child, who has closed her eyes and is pretending not to listen. I doubt if it fooled anyone. On the other hand, I doubt if anyone was paying attention.
Meanwhile, I kept watching the door, in case the congressman should burst in. Which I fully expected to happen. It didn’t, which confused me. What was wrong with the perverts today? No resolve, no gumption. Damned if I’d ever vote for him again.
The light blinked for our train. I held Sharon up, walked her through the gate.
This was the part where the guy checking tickets says, “All right, buddy, what you trying to pull?” He didn’t. We sailed right through, Sharon teetering on wobbly legs like a seasoned pro.
I had a little trouble getting her up the steps of the train, but no one was looking. At least no one in authority. I got her up, marched her in, found a seat, sat her down. Propped her up against the window, peered out to see if any congressmen were running down the track. None were.
“Go to sleep, I’ll wake you up when we get there,” I said for the benefit of no one in particular.
I wondered how long it would take the drug to
wear off. I had a little more, if I needed it, but I didn’t know how I’d get her to swallow it. When I had my EEG I think I slept about an hour. Maybe more. Times flies when you’re asleep. Try as I would, I couldn’t dredge up an accurate assessment of how long I’d been out.
I had an image of a cartoon character: every time the girl stirs you bop her over the head with a wooden hammer. Probably not a good move. I didn’t have a wooden hammer. Passengers might look at me funny if I tried to borrow one.
We’d just stopped at a station when the girl woke up. I don’t think she saw anything. Or if she did, she didn’t comprehend it. If she saw me, she’d scream. So, even if her eyes were delivering a picture, her brain wasn’t processing it.
While I was trying to figure out how to handle her, she passed out again. Some days you get lucky. This was one of them. She slept all the way to New York.
I marched her off the train right onto the escalator and up to the waiting room. From there it was just a long, long city block through an indoor row of shops to Seventh Avenue and the street.
There was an officer right outside Penn Station. I was sure he’d arrest me. He didn’t. He looked at me in a bemused fashion when I walked by with the girl. I was tempted to take his badge number. I stifled the urge.
I wrestled the girl across the street, propped her up against a lamppost, fished my wallet out of my pocket, found the parking stub.
Five minutes later I had my car.
I considered strapping Sharon in the front seat with a seatbelt. Decided against it. Not unless I wanted a teenage bobblehead. With my luck, I’d snap her neck. I opened the rear door, flopped her down on the back seat. If the garage attendant thought that was weird, he didn’t say so, just accepted the dollar tip with all the disgust a piker of my ilk deserved. I couldn’t help it. I was running low on cash.
I hopped in the car and drove away with an air of satisfaction.
I had done it.
I’d rescued the girl.
17
I PULLED UP NEXT TO A FIREPLUG ON THE CORNER, WHIPPED out my cell phone, made the call.
Luckily, I got Mommy. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d gotten Daddy.
“I have your daughter,” I said.
There was a sharp intake of breath. When she spoke, her voice was strained. “Is she all right?”
“Yes, of course.”
“She’s not hurt?”
“Don’t be silly. Is your husband there?”
“Yes.”
“If you don’t want him to know, you’d better come outside.”
She started to answer, then broke off suddenly as if the phone had been wrenched from her fingers.
A male voice said, “If you hurt my daughter, I will kill you! Do you hear me?”
“I hear you. No one’s hurt your daughter. Just calm down.”
“You have her with you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“She’s all right?”
“Yes, she is.”
“I want to talk to her.”
“She can’t talk to you right now. You can talk to her when she gets home.”
“How do I know she’s all right?”
“I’m telling you she’s all right. If you don’t believe me, come see for yourself.”
“If you won’t let me talk to her, how do I know you even have my daughter?”
“Well, it would be a pretty stupid bluff if I didn’t.”
“All right. If you really have Sharon, where did you find her?”
“At a nightclub in Philly.”
“You picked her up there?”
“That’s right.”
“How did you get her to come with you?”
“I’d rather not discuss it on the phone.”
“I’ll bet you wouldn’t. Look here, I’m not playing games. I want my daughter back.”
“I brought her back.”
“But you won’t tell me how, and she can’t talk on the phone.”
“Phones aren’t safe. Particularly cell phones. You should know that. Look, you’re wasting time. You want your daughter, come out and get her.”
“Where are you?”
“In my car.”
“Is Sharon with you?”
“Yes.”
“Put her on the phone.”
I took a breath. “I don’t know what kind of power trip you’re on, but this is ridiculous. Do you want your daughter or not?”
“How much?”
“What?”
“How much money do you want?”
“How much money do I want?”
“Don’t play games. I’m not in the mood. How much do you want for her?”
“You’re worried about money at a time like this?”
“I don’t have that much on me. We can go to an ATM. How much do you want?”
“We’re not going to an ATM. There’s no need. Though this will be a little more costly than you might imagine.”
Things happened fast.
The front door of my car flew open. Hands grabbed my arm. My cell phone flew from my fingers. I was wrenched from my seat with such force I could feel my arm dislocating itself from my shoulder, a searing pain that rocked my body and scattered whatever was left of my wits. Before I knew what was happening, I was slammed facedown over the hood of my car, the hard metal threatening to undo my dentist’s attempts to save what little was left of my teeth. Pressure from all sides squashed me to the hood like a bug. My chest pressed down, my arms jerked backward and up, and my legs kicked apart as if I was about to be sodomized by a bull moose. Before I could take that in I was wrenched to my feet again, spun around by what proved to be a gaggle of uniformed cops, who shoved me into the back of a patrol car and slammed the door.
18
THE DETECTIVE WORE A SUIT AND TIE AND A PERPETUAL scowl. I’ve seen angry men before, but Detective Coleman was something special. He looked like he’d been born on the wrong side of the bed and was determined to make everyone pay for it. All in all, he didn’t fit in with the detectives I knew. They were homicide detectives. They might be embittered, sarcastic, hard as nails, but there was one thing they didn’t have that Detective Coleman seemed to. A holier-than-thou attitude. A contempt for the scum of the earth with which they dealt. Not that homicide cops don’t despise perps—they do, but not with the same sense of loathing. A cop can respect a clever killer, in a way. Well, not really, but you get the idea. And Coleman wasn’t like that.
So I didn’t peg Coleman for homicide.
I pegged him for vice.
Coleman spun a chair around, sat down opposite me in the interrogation room. I was glad there was a table between us.
“All right, numbnuts,” he said. “Why’d you grab the girl?”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“You didn’t grab the girl? You didn’t slip her a dose of chloral hydrate and put her in your car?”
“Would that be a crime?”
“I’m not here to answer questions, you are.”
“Not if you phrase ’em that way. I’m here to cooperate. I’m not here to take the fall for any crime, technical or otherwise, that you might feel I have committed. Now, you want to stop the insinuating questions and discuss what happened, or you want to go at this adversarial?”
Coleman practically growled. “I’ll ask any questions I want. I don’t think you understand the situation here, or you wouldn’t be cracking wise.”
“I’m not cracking wise. I’m trying to get through this conversation without calling my lawyer because he won’t be happy to hear from me. And you won’t be happy to hear from him. If Richard gets involved, this will be unpleasant.”
“Unpleasant? You don’t think abduction’s unpleasant?”
“You’re charging me with abduction?”
“No one’s charging anyone with anything. We’re having a discussion here. I’d like to know how you came to grab the girl.”
“Again, I don’t like the phrasing.”
“I’m not charged with anything?”
“No, you’re not.”
“So I could walk out of here right now.”
“No, you couldn’t.”
“If I’m not charged with anything, you can’t hold me.”
“Then I’ll charge you with something. If that’s the way you wanna go. I thought you were innocent and wanted to clear this up.”
“Exactly.”
“So, what’s this talk about being a hardass and walking out?”
“You’re treating me like a perp. You wanna have a discussion, fine. I’ll tell you exactly what happened.”
“Let’s hear it.”
I told him about Sharon’s mom hiring me to keep tabs on the girl. I left out any cars the girl might have hopped into, and Mom’s suspicions regarding same. I also left out sitting in the movie theater watching a chick flick. Somehow, it didn’t seem relevant.
Coleman waited impatiently through the narration. “That’s all very interesting background, but could you tell me about today?”
“This is where we need to have a little understanding.”
“What do you mean, a little understanding?”
“That you’re treating me like a human being and not like a perp. If we’re a couple of guys having a talk, I would have no problem. If you’re a cop trying to pin something on me, I have to watch my step.”
I had to hand it to Coleman. His wide-eyed, credulous, mocking tone was pitch-perfect. “You want me to promise if you’re very good and tell me everything I’ll let you go?”
“If you really mean it. Cross your heart and hope to die.”
“Not my style. But I wouldn’t worry about it. I’m not going to try to pin anything on you unless you’ve done something wrong. Of course you wouldn’t do that.”
“Naturally.”
“So why don’t you tell me what you did.”
“This is the part my wife hates.”
He frowned. “What?”
“Talking hypothetically. She hates it when I talk hypothetically.”