Last Ditch Effort

by Isobella Crowley

  But lately, anything in his possession that might bring him revenue had rekindled his interest. His proverbial stream had been drying up.

  Now, he had this letter. Its author was rather cryptic but they had alluded to specific things he’d mentioned when, a week or so ago, he’d dispatched his attorney to inquire about the firm’s status. At the very least, he could be certain they’d received his message.

  The letter’s author wanted to know why he was looking for the company and promised to deliver what information he required if he’d agree to meet for dinner and a discussion. That sounded quite reasonable to him. The letter even included an email address for easier communication.

  “Well, then…” He breathed deeply. “I’ll have to take care of that directly. This might even be entertaining.”

  He leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head. To be honest, he didn’t feel very well. His head spun and swam a bit, his skin itched, and he felt strange—as though he were hungry or thirsty, even though he’d eaten only an hour ago and washed it down with a full glass of water while the cleaners did their thing.

  Obviously, his body was still under the impression that it needed a fix. He longed for a joint to soften the hard edges of the world. Or a drink, and not of water. But he knew he needed to stay clear-minded, at least for the moment.

  David stood and went to the desk in his study, where he opened his laptop and turned it on. The password screen flashed before him, and his brain suddenly turned to wet cotton.

  “Uhhh…” he stammered while he simply stared and blinked at the screen. “I, ah…what the hell is my password? Fucking withdrawal symptoms…the human body is ridiculous and stupid. It doesn’t even know what’s actually good for it.” He scratched his face, chest, and armpits.

  He honestly wished he’d tried to quit drugs a few weeks earlier. If he had, he might already be past this crap.

  After a moment—and once his brain stopped the active attempt to remember— the password flickered into clarity within his mind. He hunched over the keys at once, faintly afraid he’d forget it again unless he punched it in immediately. The task complete, he struck the Enter key.

  The computer came to life and all was well. He sighed.

  His first task was to draft a brief message to the email address mentioned in the letter. He wanted to have this taken care of soon. If he was lucky, they might even respond quickly enough to have this dinner meeting that night. He pressed Send and leaned back to rub his eyes.

  “Now,” he said, “let’s see how my…things…are doing.”

  His first instinct—powerful, insistent, and totally evil—was to send a coded Facebook message to his dealer. It seemed the normal, logical, healthy thing to do.

  “No.” He grunted with irritation. “We will not waste our time like that again. Or our money.”

  Plus, he’d promised the cleaners that they would never again have to clean up…that. The abomination in his bathroom. Even he wouldn’t have permitted that if he’d been sober.

  He honestly even felt sorry for the team for having to deal with it.

  It occurred to him that the mere fact of his having to make such a promise indicated that the time had come to make some permanent changes. In that light, getting high again would only keep him where he was.

  No matter what, he refused to stay where he was. That left him with only one option since it was unlikely he could sink any lower—move up.

  David logged into his bank account. While he wasn’t exactly destitute yet, it would only be a matter of time.

  “It could be worse, I suppose.” He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “I’d rather have two hundred thousand in the bank and at least be able to afford lunch when I go looking for a job than nothing but a goddamn hat in my hand and a cardboard sign under my arm.”

  This was, in fact, the lowest he could ever remember his balance being. Regrettably, the cardboard sign scenario might become a real possibility.

  He needed income and he needed his business to keep generating revenue like it was supposed to. And finally, he needed some kind of miracle that would persuade his family to speak to him again.

  But first, he’d have to arrange this meeting with whoever the hell was responsible for the Moonlight Detective Agency. Which meant ensuring there was enough money on his credit card to pay for appropriate transportation. He rubbed his temples and focused on his bank’s site again, prepared to transfer the necessary funds to—

  “Shit!” He bolted from his chair when he suddenly realized there was no semi-flat lump in the back seat of his pants. He had no idea where his wallet was. Had he simply left it lying around when the cleaners had come through? Had one of them seized it with their grubby little paws and slipped it under their shirt?

  David raced to his bedroom, which seemed like the best place to start his search. He glanced around frantically, seeking a dark leather object which, hopefully, ought to be somewhere in plain sight.

  There—on the dresser and very obviously placed atop a white doily. One of the cleaners must have stumbled onto it and left it there for him. How courteous of them, he thought, and his relief was such that he’d already forgotten his unfair suspicions.

  He rushed over to it and flipped it open. All his cards were still there. He exhaled and relaxed.

  Another pang of craving clawed at him as he trudged back to his laptop but he ignored it. Once settled in his chair, he transferred an amount from the investment account to his personal checking. He didn’t want to deal with possible overdrafts if he could help it.

  A new message appeared in his inbox. Someone at the agency had already replied with a time and place for their little dinner date.

  “It’s so nice when my employees don’t make me wait for things,” he commented.

  Now, David merely needed to arrange for transportation. Traveling in style was no longer really affordable. He’d have to settle for a ride-share instead of a chauffeured limo. It was cheaper and would still get him from Point A to Point B.

  He did, of course, have three cars of his own, but like any sane person, he hated driving in New York City. It was much easier to pay someone else to do it.

  Chapter Three

  Sotto Suolo, Chelsea, New York City

  David had a tendency to swallow continuously on the rare occasions that he felt anxious. Saliva seemed to pool under his tongue and his Adam’s apple would roll up and down, over and over again, as he tried to ingest it all.

  It irritated the hell out of him. Somehow, it didn’t seem right for a Remington—a goddam Remington—to have a nervous tic, especially one so common.

  “So,” he began and pretended to adjust his tie to disguise the weird undulations of his throat, “this…uh, is the right place?” He shifted his position in the back seat, suddenly conscious of how uncomfortable the seatbelt was.

  The driver glanced into the rearview mirror. “Yes, Mr Remington,” he responded in a polite monotone. “I triple-checked the address and I’ve taken people here before. Don’t you worry, sir.”

  That was exactly what David was afraid of.

  “Oh, uh…good. Thanks.” He removed his hands from his silk tie and wiped his sweating palms on the car seat. Sweat did not belong on his Armani suit.

  When his mysterious contact had first told him where they’d meet, his mind—still somewhat addled by the ravages of sobriety—had only dimly registered that it was an Italian restaurant.

  It wasn’t until later—after he’d already climbed into the car and placed himself at the driver’s mercy—that he’d recalled that the place had a reputation. Which was a polite way of saying that everyone knew it was owned by the Mob.

  Whatever, he’d thought. The person who’d written the letter probably merely liked the cannolis and was ignorant of any of their behind-the-scenes activities. A naïve foreigner or nerdy suburban kid, someone who didn’t understand the subtleties of New York. That was all.

  The car came to a stop. Bef
ore it, the restaurant loomed like a square island of bright red light amidst the glare of the lamps and night-blackened concrete of the city.

  David drew in a deep breath as the driver got out and opened the door for him. He pulled his phone out, went into the app, and left a tip—the bare minimum amount that could be considered appropriate.

  He reminded himself he was the Remington scion and turned with fully assured haughtiness toward his destination. Assuming he wasn’t murdered or threatened with murder, this slightly off-putting endeavor would still be worth it—he’d find out, at last, what was going on with his agency.

  Almost as soon as he pushed his way through the front doors, the host appeared before him. “Mr Remington! We’ve been expecting you. Please, come with me.” The man wore an almost theatrically fancy tuxedo with a blood-red rose in the lapel.

  “Oh?” he remarked as he adjusted his tie again and tried to sound calm. “I didn’t realize I had made a reservation.”

  The host did not reply to this but only led him into the far wing of the establishment. In the main dining area, a group of five men ranging from muscular-going-to-fat through the-full-Pavarotti conversed in low voices over heaped plates of penne and meatballs.

  Infuriatingly, his palms were sweating again. Being expected when he had not even contacted the place struck him as very definitely odd. The individual he was meeting must have made the reservation and given his name. That was not acceptable. He’d have to talk to him about that.

  The tuxedoed man ushered him all the way into the farthest corner of the restaurant, he noticed.

  Exactly what kind of company do I own?

  He wasn’t particularly scrupulous about where his money came from, but he sure as shit did not want to be associated with anything blatantly illegal. For some reason, he’d assumed that the Moonlight Detective Agency was a talent firm for wannabe super-sleuths with daytime jobs that wanted to kick.

  But now, as the host guided him toward a table in the darkest corner of the establishment, the word agency conjured up far more sinister images.

  David flicked his gaze around to take in the details without moving his head. There was no one in this section. If he were meeting with a Mafia underboss, he would have expected to at least see a couple of goons hanging around as protection. The only person he could see was a rather small woman seated at the table in the rear corner with her back to him.

  He released the breath he’d been holding and relaxed a little. Women were strange and wily creatures and could be fucking dangerous in their own way, yes. But a lone female did not portend an immediate life-or-death threat.

  The maître ‘d nodded and walked away. David ignored the man and circled to the far side of the table. The lighting was terrible and he could not see the small woman’s face. He decided to greet her in a show of confidence.

  “Hello. Is this seat taken? I’d be shocked if it was but, you know, politeness and such.”

  She extended an arm toward him and a slim white hand gestured toward the chair, indicating he had her permission to sit.

  He complied and cleared his throat. “Well, then. How are the cannolis here? I—”

  Suddenly, a waitress appeared. “Are you ready to order, sir? I can get you some cannolis as an appetizer if that’s what you’d prefer?”

  “Ehhh, no,” he told the server, “let’s start me off with a cup of coffee, like a normal, sober person. One creamer, no sugar.” Until he knew exactly what this meeting was about—and how safe he was there—he intended to stall on ordering food.

  The waitress jotted the order down. “Certainly. I’ll be right back with your coffee.” She glanced at the dark figure in the corner. “Uh, anything for you…madame?”

  The shadowed woman shook her head and held up a flat palm.

  David turned away from the waitress and tried to study his still silent companion across the table.

  It was odd because it didn’t seem like the far side of the normal-sized restaurant table should be almost totally covered by shadows. Still, he could make out no more than a vague silhouette, a darker shape amidst the darkness. Only the lady’s tiny, red-nailed hand was visible in the dim light.

  A voice emerged from the blackness. “You are Mr David Remington?”

  He tried to give her a jaunty, playboy smile. “Yes, I am he.” He re-adjusted his tie.

  The woman spoke in a soft, musical, almost girlish tone. Part of him immediately found it appealing and yet the whole situation still felt subtly wrong. The setup was like something out of an old noir film. And her voice, while suggestive of all manner of tantalizing promises, also carried a cold undercurrent of threat.

  “Why,” she began, “do you want to know so much about the company all of a sudden?”

  David, wondering what he’d gotten himself into, almost wiped his hands on the legs of his pants but stopped himself at the last instant and shook open the cloth napkin in front of him.

  “Oh, you know,” he drawled. “I wanted to do an audit to make sure things are being run profitably.”

  The waitress materialized and set a steaming mug of coffee before him, along with a tiny jug of half-and-half. He dumped the creamer into the black liquid, stirred it with the spoon, and sipped immediately.

  It burned his tongue, of course, but he did not visibly react. Instead, his toes curled into fists of sorts within his polished shoes.

  The woman drummed her fingertips on the tablecloth, but only once. “I see. Well, I can assure you that everything is being managed properly. All the i’s are dotted and every t is crossed. From what your attorney told me, it sounds like you somehow managed to lose your own paperwork, which is why you had difficulty finding us.”

  He took another sip, more carefully this time. At least the coffee tasted good and fresh.

  “Something like that,” he remarked. “Although I don’t seem to have records of even receiving any such paperwork to begin with. It’s all very mysterious. Not that I really care about the specifics, but I invest in businesses to make money and I don’t want any…problems to develop. Problems are expensive.”

  The woman readjusted her chair. “There are no problems. And I can deliver the most up-to-date reports. The agency is profitable. Every quarter, you will find, we are in the black. I will have my assistant send you the accounts post-haste so that you may look them over at your leisure. Then, you can rest assured that all is well.”

  She paused and drummed her fingers again. It occurred to him that she might be trying to get rid of him. Perhaps she was busy and didn’t want to waste time having to summarize her activities for his benefit. His curiosity sharpened and he leaned forward, almost spilling coffee onto the fine red tablecloth.

  The woman seemed to sense that he would not be fobbed off so easily. She continued. “In fact, I wondered if you might be interested in simply selling the company. I can make you a good offer and then, of course, you would have the money and no further worries about it.”

  David had not expected this. He blinked and gave it a moment’s thought.

  “Errmm, no,” he replied before he returned to his coffee. “What I really need is not a lump sum but reliable, long-term income. I need companies that can be trusted to pay dividends every quarter.”

  The woman did not speak. After a moment, the waitress returned to top up his cup.

  As she traipsed away, he guzzled another half of the beverage and set it down before him to look across the table again. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “You may call me Taylor, for now,” said the shadow.

  “Taylor…lovely, yes.” He kind of had to pee but he decided it would be best to stay where he was until he’d prised more information out of the mysterious lady. Taylor was a modern name, yet something about her seemed…old. Her hand showed little sign of visible aging, though.

  Somehow, knowing her name was Taylor made him less nervous.

  “So, what kind of agency is this?” he asked. “I’m curious.”

&n
bsp; He felt, rather than saw, her smile faintly at him from behind her curtain of darkness. “Private investigation. By and large, we acquire useful information that interrupts trouble before it happens. I’m proud of the work we do.”

  David nodded. “Fascinating. Vague, but fascinating. It sounds like the kind of thing that would definitely be profitable—with the right kinds of clients.”

  “Of course,” she returned. “If you insist on knowing more, I can arrange that, but it would involve a considerable amount of boring, tedious paperwork.”

  The obvious ploy made him chuckle. “You won’t get rid of me that easily. I hate paperwork, yeah, but I do technically own you.”

  Putting it that way might be risky but sometimes, a hard turn of phrase was exactly what was needed. It would allow him to test her reaction and better determine what he was dealing with.

  The slightest tension seemed to ripple through the woman. “Technically.”

  She’s toying with me, he realized. In a sadistic, cat-and-mouse kind of way.

  “Well,” he said, “I can tell that you want me to go away and leave you alone. So, let’s make a deal. Provide me with enough information to know that my revenue stream is secure—and legal and kosher and all that—and I’ll go away and leave things in your obviously capable hands.”

  Taylor nodded. “It’s true that I’ve become very comfortable with being able to run things on my own without interference. Imagine how much fun you’d have if your parents—or the board of directors of one of your parents’ companies—constantly poked into your apartment during one of your half-a-million-dollar parties, wanting to make sure that the money was spent well. Picture it that way and I’m sure you can appreciate my position.”

  “Indeed.” He honestly didn’t even want to think about that. “If you know about my parties, you must be a hell of a good private investigator since I never mentioned them to you.”

  “Hah!” she retorted. “Everyone knows what the Remington kids get up to in their spare time. Which is to say almost all their time. This is the first time you have ever inquired about the agency’s status so obviously, you must be having financial problems.”