The Drunk Detective

by Mary Jean Curry

  “Thanks for joining us, Ms. Davis,” said the bishop. “Take a seat.”

  “It was the hundred-dollar bill you sent.” She settled into a leather chair that gripped her ass like a hand in a soft glove.

  “Were you in an accident?”

  “Just my lip.”

  The bishop took a seat at the desk with his back to the crucifix.

  “I wanted to thank you in person for doing such a fine job this morning,” he said. “The Church doesn’t have many friends right now. Do you happen to be Catholic?”

  “Nope. Too much kneeling. Same reason I couldn’t keep my husband.”

  The bishop nodded as if he understood. “I am quite disturbed by Sister Tudor’s indiscretion. I hoped she would be canonized soon and help revive the diocese.”

  “I guess she found other ways to be revived herself.”

  He smiled. “I am destined for cardinal. His Holiness practically gave me the red hat during his visit here last year for the Meeting of the Families Celebration. Of course, it’s not official, yet.”

  “You’ve made plane reservations to Rome and all I bet.”

  “Don’t interrupt His Eminence.”

  “It’s OK, Lynch. If I lost my patience I wouldn’t be in this position.”

  Dotty said, “Your leading lady checking in and then out in a prostitute’s bed wouldn’t work so good for your image in Rome, I’m sure. Of course, that’s why you tried to blow me into tiny pieces.”

  “How so?”

  “The lynch mob director here didn’t know that I lived above Frankie. He rigged his apartment to blow my pretty face off, only it blew off Frankie’s work equipment.”

  “What is she talking about?”

  “The gigolo’s apartment caught fire this morning,” Lynch said. “I saw it on the news, that’s how I know about it.”

  “You weren’t responsible?”

  “Oh my God,” Dotty said. “Pardon my French, Father.”

  “That building is a death trap, Your Excellency. A fire could have easily started there.”

  “Cops found an IED that started it.” Dotty folded her arms, causing the leather to fart. “I have pictures. Lots of them. They’re with a friend as we speak. You know the drill.”

  “You looking to extort the Church?”

  “I’m not dressed to be an extortionist. Let’s just call it blackmail.”

  On a serving cart was a silver tray containing two long-stemmed glasses and a cut-crystal decanter half-filled with crimson-colored liquid. The bishop removed the stopper and poured a glass for Dotty and himself.

  “We should drink. This post allows me two vices: a little red wine and I smoke a Cuban cigar a day.”

  “And what are we celebrating, Your Excellency?”

  Dotty resisted the urge to touch either glass.

  “Your new job as Chief of Diocesan Security. The pay is as handsome as you and the hours are easy.”

  Dotty smiled and rubbed her hands together. “Am I now Lynch’s boss?”

  “Dotty please with the dumb questions,” said Lynch.

  “Lynch works directly for me. The Chief of Security works without supervision and has an office downtown at the diocese headquarters.”

  “And in return, I develop a case of amnesia?”

  “And pass along all relevant material to me, naturally.” The bishop sipped from his glass.

  Dotty lifted hers, then. “What’s to stop Lynch from polishing me off after that?”

  “Neither Lynch or I had anything to do with that fire. You have a dim view of religion.”

  “Come on. People getting burned at the stake and nailed to the cross, what’d you expect.” She gulped down half her wine. It wasn’t that good.

  “Are you familiar with the Bible, Davis?”

  “I knew my dad’s up-close and personal. He beat me with it.”

  “Then you know how important your secrecy is. Do you accept the position?”

  “I don’t really want to be cooped up in an office. I like my current job. Tell you what: put me on retainer, for a few grand per month to do discreet inquirers, and I keep the pictures for a lifetime. Think of it as a lifetime appointment.”

  “Not a chance. The pictures are a part of the deal no matter how you slice it.”

  “Well, you’re shit out of luck. ‘Scuse my Flen—French.” The room was beginning to close and the air thickened. She could barely take a deep breath.

  “Your Excellency?”

  “Do nothing yet, Lynch.”

  Dotty’s grin spilled all over her face. She dumped the balance of her wine chasing the intoxicating feeling that it gave her. “Don’t feel bad Lynch. I know you’re not the first person the bishop ordered around.” Her vision was blurring and she began to think there was a point to the theory about not mixing the grape with the grain.

  “Are you all right, Davis? I fear my company is putting you to sleep.”

  Dotty could no longer see the bishop or the crucifix behind him. They were both shadows. She leaned over to return her glass to the tray and kept going, to the floor.

  She thought, dammit, I bet this means no job either.

  8

  She awoke feeling no different than she did every other morning, with her head pounding, and a tongue blew up the size of a Boeing 747. Her eyes were glued shut with crust.

  She rubbed them, pried them open, and thought she had lost her sight. A street lamp beamed on her and she shifted, forcing a cheap bottle of wine to fall to the floor of the judge’s luxury car. Something in three jackets and a man’s fedora was on the floor prying off her shoes.

  “What are you doing?”

  A dirty face looked up at her. An old-fashioned face, possibly female, slim nostrils, bloodshot eyes, and no more than two teeth in a pink hole of a mouth. Dotty smelled wine. Or maybe whiskey.

  “I assumed you were here because you were dead,” said the monster.

  “I’m not.”

  “Are you certain? I seen dead rats get up and scurry away because no one told them.”

  “Get off my damn feet.”

  “Dead people don’t need shoes. I don’t know why people waste money burying dead people in them.”

  “Old man, you don’t either.”

  He moved back. “You’re parked in a cemetery. No need to be here if you’re alive.”

  “What?” Dotty popped up and looked around at all of the headstones.

  “Yes. Greenmount Cemetery.”

  “Jesus. You sure this ain’t the Marriott Hotel.”

  He cackled. It sounded like ice being chopped in a blender. “Now that I think about, maybe it is. This here is a Philadelphia cheesesteak. Sorry, no fries.” He pulled a dead mouse from a jacket and dangled it by its tail.

  “You eat mice?”

  “You can have half for the shoes.”

  Where’s my gun, Dotty thought. Maybe the glove box. She popped it open and the man threw his hand up and caught a fifth of vodka. He unscrewed the cap and took a huge swig. Dotty reached for the other bottle and took a long pull. As she let the liquor warm her belly, she pondered about Patrick Swayze. He was supposed to call the cops at ten.

  “Give me my lucky ascot asshole.”

  “I didn’t take no ascot. Do I look like I wear fuckin’ ascots?”

  She turned on the car and looked at the clock. It was 10:16. “Holy macro. I have to go.”

  “Leave me the rest of the bottle.”

  “Get lost.” She slammed the door shut and swung the car out onto Front Street. She drove through the Hunting Park section of North Philadelphia hoping not to be carjacked in the crime-ridden area. The area was home to turf wars, prostitution and the drug trade. She'd bet that even devilish Lynch treaded lightly after dropping her off so far from downtown.

  Her time with the bishop was still a blur. Whatever the bishop had slipped her had to have been clear and in her glass before he handed it to her. Surely a premeditated attempt to show her who was in charge. Why didn’t he
just kill her? Certainly, Lynch could handle that. Whatever the drug was it was good, because her memory was back and she even knew where she was the night before. As luck would have it, she had had a marvelous night.

  She got onto the busy, heavy populated Broad Street, and called Swayze from her cell phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Patrick. Dotty.”

  “Get out of my life.”

  “Stop the jokes, OK. Did you send the photos to the cops, yet?”

  “Huh? Photos? What are you talking about?”

  “The ones I e-mailed for you, idiot.”

  “Oh, no, I didn’t.”

  “You’re an ass. Why not?”

  “Why not what?”

  “If you didn’t hear from me you were supposed to send them off.”

  “OK, I didn’t. Move on.”

  “What’s the point in using you if you’re not going to do your part?”

  “You’re right. Did you pay me? Did you get any money out of the Church?”

  “I got drugged.”

  “What’s new?”

  “Man, they slipped me something. Knocked me out and I awoke in a cemetery with a bum trying to take my penny loafers.”

  “Only a bum would want them.”

  “Look, Swayze, if you don’t hear from me in twenty-four hours, please get the pics to a cop named, Rodriguez. He’s an arson investigator.”

  “OK, when do I get my money?”

  “Listen, if you have to send the pics I’ll be dead.”

  “Then, I’ll be a winner.” He hung up.

  Dotty hung up and imagined being confronted by Chen as soon as she walked into the apartment building about his cut of her money. Her landlord wanted money. Her pal, Patrick, also wanted money. Neither of them realized, she wanted to squeeze money out of someone just as bad. The money from the he-bitch was chump change and Chen had already put a dent in it. She hoped Chen hadn’t reported her little tampering with a crime scene to the police. She dialed the massage parlor and Chen’s home number, and both rang nine-thousand times without an answer.

  Chen had never gone anywhere. He had his groceries delivered and was a frequent online shopper. Where the hell could he be?

  “The precinct. Dammit.” Dotty hurried around a SEPTA bus and spun the Benz’s wheels just over sixty MPH.

  Chen didn’t own a car and hated to pay for taxis. He surmised he’d be kidnapped by an Uber driver and thought it was the riskiest business created since prostitution. Dotty made a left onto Vine Street and hoped she’d intercept Chen walking to the cop house. She knew his distinct walk and knew she’d see it a mile away. Dotty thought she saw him posted up at a corner, but it turned out to be an inflatable doll that some idiot had leaned on one of the last phone booths left in the city.

  The massage parlor was pitched black, with the CLOSED sign in the window over Kim Kardashian’s boobs. Dotty paralleled into the space where Lynch’s vehicle had been earlier and slid into the apartment’s foyer. The security buzzer hadn’t worked since Clinton’s first term.

  Dotty knocked on Chen’s door and waited.

  “You’re probably looking at me through the peephole, you fucker. Open up,” she said, knocking again and then turned the knob.

  She walked right into the apartment. It was neat with the kind of flare made for an apartment in the Plaza Hotel. It was obvious how he spent his money collecting poor people’s rent. “Pompous bastard,” she said and helped herself to a Mike’s Hard Lemonade in a well-appointed kitchen.

  She walked around swishing the cooler in her mouth to get rid of the poisoned wine taste.

  No Chen.

  She helped herself to a Swarovski crystal shot glass before heading to the door. She had no idea where Chen was, but it wasn’t like him to call or go to the police, period; especially when the money came if he didn’t. Free money was Chen’s first wish if asked by a genie.

  Brooding if he might be at Frankie Robinson’s place assessing the damage, or creating more, for insurance policy purposes. Dotty hopped off of a mohair sofa, locked up (there were thieves in the building), and bound the stairs to Frankie’s apartment. The hallway smelled of smoke and stale water drying.

  Chen wasn’t there, either. The door to the burnt apartment was boarded by crime scene tape. She doubted that he was in there.

  She went up to her floor, hoping Chen hadn’t used his key and was waiting in her apartment. The key really was pointless considering Adam the fireman and his chop for gigolos.

  Dotty’s first thought was that she needed to get her place in order. She needed to throw everything away and start over from scratch. The living room sofa was faux leather which was peeling and missing leather exposing cotton. A travesty. Thanks to the wine, the spiritual wine, her memory was slowly resurfacing. Why was her glove box in such disarray that the vodka bottle popped right out when she opened it? The bum had no reason to leave it there.

  Lynch did.

  She wondered what had he learned about her from being in there, besides she had liquor, which wasn’t so bad since the bishop drank wine and smoked cigars.

  Dotty walked towards her bedroom anticipating a shower. The door was shut, something that she never did. Where’s my gun? Having no idea, she grabbed a small bat kept on her mantle by the front door in case she had to bludgeon a robber to death. She eased open her bedroom door and then barged in. Inside the door she tripped, lost her balance, did an ungraceful pirouette and slammed onto the bed. Luckily. Finally, God was on her side. She bounced up, flicked on the light and looked at Chen. Chen was what had tripped her.

  The landlord was on his back, spread eagle, and undoubtedly dead. A Versace ascot was wrapped into a Windsor knot around his neck.

  “Now, Chen, how’d you get my lucky ascot around your throat?”

  9

  “Evening, Mrs. Lombardo,” Dotty said.

  The dame was in nursing scrubs and a leather bomber. She paused before descending the stairs, found her glasses out of her pocket, and peered through them at Dotty. “I thought that was your stuffy voice. You sound awful.” She knew how to throw shade and be totally oblivious to it. “Who’s that with you, hun?”

  “Just a pal, ma’am.” She leaned harder into Chen’s soggy frame to stop him from forming a pile of poop on the old runner.

  “Looks like Chen to me,” she said. “You better get the stench of smoke outta my place, Chen. Don’t tilt your head at me, mister China man.”

  Dotty laughed. She said, “He’s a little choked up from smoke inhalation. You know he’s as old as you. I’m taking him for a drive to get some fresh air.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You had him up there drinking, I bet. The whole building knows what you’re into, Detective Dotty.”

  “Don’t you have to get to work, ma’am?”

  “Pardon me. I know that. I was wiping asses at that nursing home before you were born.”

  “Point taken. Good night, Mrs. Lombardo.”

  “Just a tragedy what happened to that young man, Frankie. I mean, he turned a few tricks, but that was no reason to blow him up. Don’t look at me like that, Chen. The whole building knows you’re a pimp. He tricks and gives you money. You sly, China man.”

  “Right. Just horrible.” Dotty’s shoulder was going to sleep and cramping. “Well, good night.”

  “Did your other friend get home all right earlier?”

  “Absolutely. She needed rest and is really resting in peace now.”

  “Hell, Chen doesn’t look much better. You gotta stop drinking with light weights. Apparently, they can’t tolerate the white lightening like you.”

  “I guess you’re right. Good night, Mrs. Lombardo.”

  “Don’t forget the smell of smoke.”

  “He won’t, ma’am.”

  She moved past them and made her way down. The door closed behind her, then Dotty lifted Chen as if he was a bride, carrying him to the first floor. The landlord weighed as much as a jockey, much less than Sister Tudor. She rushed
because she couldn’t bump into any other residents of the building. Mrs. Lombardo was a non-factor. No jury would believe her word. Dotty thought about waiting until four a.m. because apparently, that was the perfect time to move a dead body. At the rate she was going, she’d have the art of moving corpses down to host a TED talk.

  At the bottom, she gently sat Chen on the floor not to cause post-mortem marks. She remembered Lynch’s stellar guidance, fishing into Chen’s pocket for his keys. She opened the door to his lair and inside laid Chen on his sofa. She grabbed a magazine from a coffee table, placed the news rag on Chen’s chest, opening to the infamous page six. She crossed his arms over his stomach. With regret, she took the earlier stolen Swarovski thingy from her pocket and put it back in its place.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  “Mr. Lee Chen? Lee Chen?”

  Dotty froze like a seasoned cat burglar. The voice calling out for Chen belonged to arson investigator, Rodriguez.

  “Are you home, sir? Just a few questions.” He knocked some more, forcing Dotty to jump. Her nerves were shot, but she remained cool.

  She looked for the nearest window and past the body splayed out on the sofa unresponsive. She wanted to set off an IED to blow the door right into Rodriguez to knock him out so that she could escape. The doorknob began to turn. She couldn’t remember if she had locked the door before she put the landlord in the place he’d be found and pronounced dead.

  With luck, the knob stopped turning. Someone jiggled it, though. Then, there was silence and Dotty needed bourbon. Or maybe, vodka. Perhaps another Mikes Hard Lemonade from the landlord. She became nostalgic for the stink breath dog at Moriarty’s. She prayed the cop wasn’t looking for a spare key or a way to break in.

  Then, she heard footsteps fading away before they began to climb the stairs.

  Dotty waited a second before she tiptoed over to the door and put an eye to the peephole. The foyer was empty. Quickly, she opened the door slipped out, and into the vestibule. Rodriguez started back downstairs. She put her cell phone to her ear, and said, “You know I really hate you. I am home now, and I am hanging up before my husband hears me,” as she met Rodriguez in the foyer.