The Drunk Detective

by Mary Jean Curry

  He smiled. “He’d give me a pink slip on the spot.”

  “And then you say something to make his tighty-whites slide into the crack of his ass. Do you ever think about saying something rude to him?”

  “Well,” Swayze said, having noticed Naim stalling.

  “Yup, spit it out. I’m sure you have it. What you wanna say?” Dotty asked.

  “Only when he tried to tell me how to work and he’s never been the lead on any real investigation.”

  “And?” That was Swayze instigating.

  “I hate his cheap suits. He looks like a dressed-up penguin at the zoo for Halloween.”

  “Tell him,” Dotty said.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “You must. Otherwise, it’ll build up and when you shit it out, your throat will be on fire.”

  “You better take her advice,” Swayze said. “Dotty knows her assholes, she’s been one for a while now.”

  “Thanks you old fart. I’ll remember,” Naim said.

  “Is that what you think of me. I’m appalled.”

  “What? You can’t fire me, so.”

  Swayze shut down the computer, stood, stretched. “What do we do now, Dotty? And don’t suggest a trip to DC.”

  “I got a place to hide out. Can I get a lift to Cheltenham?”

  “You gotta go stick ya thumb out on Broad Street and find out.”

  “You’re an ass, Swayze. Come on, man.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “I gave it to a homeless woman.”

  “I bet it never knew the difference. The car, I mean.”

  “The police found it,” Naim said. “It was on the radio. No one was in it. Nor were the airbags or tires.”

  “Come on, Naim. I bet you’d ride me up there.”

  Naim furrowed his brows. “Isn’t that—?”

  “Harboring a fugitive. Accessory after the fact,” Swayze finished. “Your internship under Dotty is just a ball of once-in-a-lifetime experiences.”

  “How about I drive you five minutes away to the police headquarters to turn yourself in Dotty? The sooner that you do that, you can clear your name.”

  “Right now, it ain’t my name that I am trying to clear.”

  “You’re a real piece of work. This how you repay him after his B&E?” Swayze pulled out his cell phone. “I’ll call you an UBER.”

  “You know what, tell them I’ll be on the corner.”

  Fifteen minutes passed before Dotty stood on the corner, hands deep in her pockets and fighting off the cold without a jacket. Swayze had left first and Naim had rearmed the burglar system. For the first time, Dotty had Absolution on her mind. Definitely, a first.

  A pair of Halogen lights parked in front of her, blinding her while pulling into the space. She stepped forward and reached for the driver’s door handle. Instantly, she realized it was the hearse-like vehicle that carried Sister Tudor from her apartment building. The driver stuck his sickly face out of the window and said, “Get in.” Lynch’s hand gripped the butt of an automatic with a silencer attached to it, which he pointed at Dotty.

  18

  If Dotty was asked, she’d confess to knowingly being in the company of a killer only once in her life. She happened to be consoling a widower whose wife had died from a fall down the basement stairs, while he cooked on the grill and had no clue. He understood really quick when the boys in blue came and arrested him for assisting her with the deadly fall. As luck would have it, she was the second woman to have died from a fall while in his company. Dotty had read once that one could see death in a killer’s face, but she had been busy looking at the man’s pectoral muscles, and since they were at the top of the basement stairs when the police came little mattered. She had not gone into the home of a grieving spouse since. She didn’t want her blood splatter canvassing some detective agency client’s wall. That was not an option. Moreover, she had surmised the philosopher that claimed it was all in the eyes was probably full of shit.

  Alas, it was all in Lynch’s face and eyes, which were wide open like a casket.

  Dotty had no idea how long he was going to hold her at gunpoint with her simply staring at him like a marvelous painting on display at the Art Museum of Philadelphia. He was in a vehicle that was the twin of a hearse. Long enough, Dotty guessed to ruffle even Lynch’s patience, for he gestured ‘come here’ quite eloquently with the gun. He told Dotty again to get into the car.

  “Have a good night, Dotty.”

  Whether it was the sudden invasion of Naim Butler’s soulful voice or the sheer brilliance of his car’s headlights shining on Lynch, Lynch turned around and took his attention off Dotty for a split second. Dotty threw her bulk into action: scuttling down the sidewalk behind the faux hearse, clawing open the Charger’s door on the passenger side, piling into the seat next to the young law student.

  “Step on it, Nai.”

  “What? How’d you know my nickname?”

  Exhaling. Dotty flipped her leg over the console and smashed her foot down on the accelerator. She screamed, “Take your foot off the fucking break and drive.”

  The car sped up Arch Street. At Broad Street, Nairn turned right, merging with traffic at a high speed. Out of the rear mirror, Dotty saw Lynch out of his car pointing the gun at them. He was too far away to get a clean shot.

  “Punch it and get on the Vine Street Expressway at Broad and Vine. Hurry up, he’s behind us.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Where are we going?”

  “Anywhere that creep can’t find us.”

  “Us? What the hell have you gotten me into now?”

  “A high-speed chase. And that’s just for starters. That’s Lynch.”

  “The killer?”

  “No, the good Lord. He’s back for another resurrection.”

  Two lights up, police strobe lights were flashing on the entrance ramp to the expressway, where a New Jersey Transit bus had stalled out on the ramp.

  “Take Vine Street and be careful passing Tenth Street; there’s a police station there. Go to I-95,” Dotty said. “And drive a little faster,” she said, and then added, “I’m kind of in a hurry. And the hearse’s headlights has gained a block on us.”

  “That’s not a hearse.”

  “And you’re not Dale-fuckin’-Earnhardt. Just drive.”

  “Southbound lanes to I-95 are closed for construction.”

  “Son of a bitch. I forget. Turn right here.”

  Naim did. They tore down Fourth Street towards Market Street. They were a block from police headquarters. Lynch remained behind them, just a few cars back now. They passed Market and right before Chestnut Street, a valet was waving in a sedan to the curb. Dotty pointed behind the car. “Get in the valet line.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No.”

  A uniformed parking attendant that had to be Naim’s age took the car’s keys and handed him a ticket. “We’re on foot now,” Dotty said, walking into the alley.

  A few feet behind a hotel was a parked van with SIMPLE FABULOUS PARTIES painted in calligraphy along its sides. A server wearing black wire-rimmed glasses directed them in the hotel’s waitstaff door. “Right through for the kitchen.”

  The kitchen was as big as the Pennsylvania Convention Center, lined with stainless steel, and a waitstaff donning aprons and server uniforms. The room smelled of seafood and vodka—Dotty’s favorite things—and those enjoyed by the rich and fabulous that stayed at the hotel. A tall, black man with curly hair, slightly balding, wearing a black cutaway and white shirt board, looked hard at Naim and Dotty from head to toe with disgust in his eyes.

  “You been in an accident?” he asked.

  Dotty said, “Nope. We woke up like this, Sir.”

  “Firstly, it’s Desmond, and only refer to me as that.” The man flung open a cupboard and pulled out two short silver jackets from hangers inside. “Put these on. Then carry out two of those trays of canapés into the main exhibit area. Use the swinging doors on the right
. You do know which one that is, right?”

  “I go by which hand gropes my breast to say the ‘Pledge of Allegiance.’ What do you use?”

  The tall man grunted. “My mother wanted me to be a model, but I chose this. Poor me.”

  Dotty’s jacket was tight and Naim’s was too long in the sleeves. They grabbed trays, and Naim said, “So what’s being celebrated out there?”

  “The annual convention of the F. O. O. P. B. and T. You know nothing, I see.”

  “Sounds like something that smells like a fart. What’s all that stand for?” Dotty headed towards the swinging door.

  “Fraternal Order of Pit Bulls and Terrors, I mean, Terriers. I keep getting that wrong.” The man smiled.

  Naim Butler caught Dotty’s tray, but not before a canapés clung to one lapel of his jacket like a gymnast.

  “Dopey idiot!” said the tall man. “Are you filling in for someone that usually gets things right?”

  “Afraid not,” Dotty said, and added, “My bad, hun. So they chit chat and mate the two mutts. Pit Bulls having sex with terriers seems odd.”

  The man was appalled and clutched his imaginary pearls. “It’s a dog show.”

  “With human food being served, that you expect me to carry out there to them?”

  “There’s been no accidents in four years running.”

  “What happened before that?” Naim asked.

  The tall man’s patience had run thin. “‘We have nothing to fear but fear itself.’ Franklin D. Roosevelt.”

  “Lynch has to have parked by now,” Naim said.

  “Let him carry the can of peas.”

  “Canapés,” corrected the tall man. “You working or not? If not, and I hope that’s the case, you must leave.”

  “Can I keep the jacket?”

  “Out. Get out.”

  “OK. OK. I’m taking some munchies out, but I want my check at the end of this shindig. You sissies have no sense of humor.”

  The tall man gave her a new tray. “Have no fear, pit bulls can be well behaved, so long as they don’t smell fear.”

  Dotty asked, “Which way is downwind?”

  19

  Ten minutes had passed before Dotty and Naim burst back into the kitchen through the wrong door. Their pant legs were shredded and their silver jackets in tatters. They shoved the door against the barking and snarling claws on the other side. Dotty was missing her right loafer.

  “What happened?” demanded the tall man in the black cutaway.

  Dotty left Naim at the door and ran over to begin pushing a table to place against the door. “Help me, dammit. You’re standing there striking a pose and shit,” Dotty said to the tall man. “Pose for the camera, why don’t you.”

  The tall man nodded at two shocked servants to help and when the door was blocked Naim and Dotty collapsed against it. The raucous on the other side was menacing.

  “You can think the damn vodka balls. I had too many,” Dotty explained. “I have an out of body experience every time.”

  “You weren’t being paid to eat them. You were supposed to serve them to guests,” said the tall man. “What happened out there?”

  Naim said, “She purred and hissed at one of the mutts with a crown on his huge head.”

  “Cat sounds?”

  “Best imitation this side of Texas,” Naim said, snickering.

  “Damn, pit bulls need to lighten up,” Dotty said.

  The tall man looked around the room at the other staff. “Who hired these idiots?”

  “You,” Dotty said.

  “This is a nightmare. Nothing has ever happened like this at F.O.O.P.B. and T. Who makes cat noises at a dog show?”

  “Dotty Davis.”

  “That’s right. Me. But what happened four years ago?” Dotty asked.

  “That was nothing. Mr. Barnabe was chased into the pool by Prince Harry. A really first-rate pit, but he hated the smell of Chanel No. 5.”

  “That’d be Mrs. Chanel Barnabe his fifth wife?”

  “No, you stupid son-of-a-bitch.”

  “That was wicked rude.”

  “Where’s your work orders?”

  “Prince Harry ate them. Seeing he had a crown, I assume we’re talking the same charming pit that acted up four years ago.”

  “Perhaps. Simple Fabulous will get a full dose about you two.”

  “What’s that, a private pound?”

  “Your employer. Or maybe not. Who are you?”

  Dotty inhaled and tried not to lean to the side. “I’m Ryan Seacrest and this is Kevin Durant. We’re with Animal Control. We got a tip that you’ve been exceeding your dog limit per square inch the past four years and we came incognito to get the facts. Ain’t that right, kid?” She tapped Naim.

  He whispered, “Don’t you ever, even jokingly, refer to me as a member of the Golden State Warriors.” Out loud, he said, “Yes, that’s right. And you’re busted.”

  “What dog limit?” The tall man was rocking on his heels.

  Philadelphia County Ordinance eye-eye-ex-ex-T-T, subsection F: No hotel shall be in excess of one Pit Bull per three square feet. On account of they get hostile and belligerent in groups of three or more. Google it yourself.”

  “And your findings?”

  “You just made it this time,” Naim said.

  “Yup. We gotta go now to file our report. Let’s go kid.”

  Outside. the station wagon wasn’t in sight. They retrieved their car from the valet and Dotty put Naim into the passenger’s seat, because he was in no condition to drive, and she knew the way to Cheltenham. The accelerator was freezing cold under her socked foot. As she turned the key, metal was pressed against the back of her head.

  From the back seat, Lynch said, “Drive.”

  Naim snickered. “The audacity.”

  “Shut up kid, sounding like a character in the Fresh Prince of Bel Air,” Dotty said. The snickering stopped. “How’d you get into this car? And why the hell are you holding me at gunpoint?”

  “No time for that now, just drive.”

  “I ain’t too good a driver with American cars. I lost my Benz to Homeless a few hours back.”

  He tapped the back of her head with the gun. “You better learn and fast.” Dotty checked the rearview mirror and looked coldly at Lynch. “Where to, Sir?”

  “Don’t be an ass. Straight to hell if you don’t get me from in front of this hotel.”

  “See, kid,” Dotty said to Naim. “This is why tinted windows are no good. I mean, good for sex, but not armed robberies.”

  Dotty pressed the brake and backed up the car a bit, before she accelerated and turned through the hotel’s kitchen. The tall man, the kitchen staff, and some F.O.O.P.B. and T. guests had scattered. The car slammed hard into the table that Dotty had earlier pressed against the door leading to the ballroom. Lynch slammed into the back of Dotty’s seat and fell onto the floor of the car.

  Naim was sprawled in his seat, holding his forehead, which pounded into the dashboard. Dotty using quick acuity, left her young operative, spilled out of the car, and pulled herself to her feet, leveraging on the tall man. Lynch climbed out behind her, gun in his hand.

  A second passed before Dotty kicked him in the gut and sicced pit bulls on him. They’d been trained to attack men with guns to protect their uppity owners. Big, square, husky brutes with triangular ears were all over Lynch. He had dropped the gun and was balled in the fetal position, trying to protect his face with his hands. The dogs were a variety of colors from black to albino and in an uncontrollable angry rage. For a split second, they reminded Dotty of her father.

  As for Dotty, she made her way out of the dog’s way and into the ballroom looking for an escape route through the hotel’s lobby or something. A white-whiskered dog turned to walk with her, obviously too old for the night’s shenanigans for yet another year, when the owner called out, “Donald J. Trump, whatever are you doing?”

  “Probably going to find a new name,” said Dotty.


  Amongst the chaos behind her, Dotty heard the loud report, but couldn’t tell if the sound was from the car door slamming, or Lynch’s gun had gone off. Either way, she was wanted by cops and had to clear her name, an impossibility if she was in jail. She had a slow simmering sense of guilt for leaving behind Naim Butler, but this was how young people learned—on the job training. If he was going to be good, he had to pass this test with an A. On her way out, she grabbed a hand full of rum balls and washed them down with brandy from an abandoned snifter. Fuel.

  20

  Hank Robinson answered his door wearing boxer briefs and a doo rag. Dotty’s body reacted immediately. Hank looked at her hardened nipples. “You really missed me? I just got in and took a shower.”

  She gave him a silly smile. “I pressed the buzzer with these missiles,” she said salaciously, flashing her nipples. “Where’s my Jerry beads.”

  “Where’s your other shoe?” He looked at her from head to toe and couldn’t believe his eyes. Her pants were torn up and she’d throw the silver jacket out of the cabs window incidentally at Broad and Champlost Streets outside of the 35th Police District station.

  “I just left a pit bull convention.”

  “The rapper Pit Bull is in town?”

  “No, the dog breed. An actual dog show.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t want to even know, but I have to ask, what were you doing there?”

  “Eating vodka balls, serving can of peas, and running for my life. Are you going to invite me in?”

  “Yes. Don’t judge my place. I just moved in a few days ago and hadn’t had time to buy furniture.” He stepped aside and said, “You may be in the mood for chocolate balls.” He locked the door behind her. He smelled of soap and hair grease.

  “You were heading out or something?”

  “Nope, just got in. Took a bedtime shower.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “You don’t wash off the day’s dirt before getting into the bed at night?”

  “Why? No one’s going to smell me covered in soap. And, besides, I drink myself to sleep, and usually in my clothes.”