3 The Case of Tiffany's Epiphany

by Jim Stevens

  “Richard Sherlock, how are ya?” Les is behind the counter where hot dogs used to lie wrapped around the greasiest fries in town.

  “My phone broke, Les.”

  “Was it under warranty?” Les asks, eyeing Tiffany.

  “I didn’t know your phones have warranties,” I mention to the owner.

  “I got guarantees, warranties, protection plans. The whole nine yards. You want it Sherlock, I’ll sell it to you.”

  “Do you have any iPhones?” Tiffany asks.

  “Let me see,” Les turns around and peers up at what used to be the Meaner Wiener’s menu board. According to it, you could chow down on such cholesterol –laden delicacies as the Big Bad Brat, the Devil Dog, and the Ferocious Frank. In their place now are easily removable listings of the phones currently in stock. “No iPhones,” he says. “But I did just get a shipment of top of the line ZLE Smartphones.”

  “What’s a ZLE?” Tiffany, my phone consultant asks.

  “Only the hottest phone to come out of China since they put up the Great Wall.”

  “Literally, the hottest?” I ask.

  “Bad choice of terms,” Les says as he reaches behind the counter, where the food orders used to come up, grabs a phone, and hands it to Tiffany.

  “What’s this?” Tiffany asks, pointing out a blotch on the screen of the phone.

  Lester takes the phone back, scratches the gunk off, and explains, “Relish.” He hands it back to her. “This phone’s got it all, talking, texting, twittering, it’ll even make ice cream cones on a hot day.”

  “Do you have any Samsungs?” Tiffany asks.

  “Tiffany,” I interrupt. “I don’t need a music service on the phone.”

  Tiffany looks at me as if I had one of Jack Wayt’s diseases.

  “Sammys? No, I don’t have any right now,” Les tells Tiffany. “But I could order one from my supplier and have it here by tomorrow.”

  “Let me see what else you got,” Tiffany tells him.

  Les goes back into the kitchen area and returns holding a greasy wire basket filled with loose cell phones. He dumps them on the counter in front of us as if they were sizzling French fries.

  “Do all of these come with a set of directions?” I ask.

  “No.”

  Tiffany uses her nail file to pick around the phones so she won’t get her nails chipped. “This is all you got?” she asks Les.

  “Today.”

  “These are like TV’s without HD,” she says of the array of choices.

  “Tell me what kind you want,” Les tells her. “And I can special order it.”

  “Are they all used?” Tiffany asks.

  “Usually, in more ways than one,” Les explains.

  Tiffany finally chooses one that has a very tiny keyboard that slides out of the side of the phone; the logical progression from my prior flip phone. Les puts in my old number, and gives me a plug-in charger. I write him a check for seventy bucks and ask him not to cash it for a few days. A new phone, a free charger, and no interest until my check clears. Am I a great shopper or what?

  As we’re leaving More4LesMobile, Tiffany says, “Ya know, Mr. Sherlock, technology hasn’t just passed you by, it’s lapped you.”

  ---

  Monroe Chevelier has an office with a television, a wet bar, a 36-inch computer terminal, plus a number of medals, trophies, and awards hanging on its walls. There are no papers on his desk. His wooden in-box is empty, so’s his wooden out-box. He sits behind a mahogany desk wearing a perfectly tailored blue blazer that enhances his muscular upper body.

  “What can I do for you, Tiff?” he asks as Tiffany and I sit and share the very comfortable leather couch.

  “I wanna talk about the night in the Zanadu.”

  “Which night?”

  “The night I got roofied,” Tiffany explains.

  “I don’t have a lot of time left,” he informs us.

  I wonder if he means he’s got some terminal illness, but I don’t ask because he’s as buffed and brawny as that guy on the paper towel package. “I understand some guy came between you and your date while you were at the bar?” I pose this more as a question than a statement.

  “She wasn’t my date.”

  “Told ya,” Tiffany says to me.

  “What happened?” I ask more simply.

  “I was there, minding my own business, talking to Alix Fromound, and this geek comes up and …”

  “Cock blocks you,” Tiffany chimes in.

  “Yeah, exactly.”

  “So, what did you do?”

  “I stand up, tap him on the shoulder, and I’m just about to crush his windpipe …,” Monroe demonstrates by shaping his right hand into a claw.

  “But you didn’t?”

  “Nope,” he says. “Everybody starts going apeshit over something that’s going on a couple stools down.”

  “That was me they were going apeshit over, Mr. Sherlock.”

  “Yes, I figured that out, Tiffany.”

  “And when I look back to the guy I’m going to bust,” Monroe continues, “he’s gone.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Did you go after him?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not? You wanted to crush his windpipe, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, but all these chicks are screaming, the bartender’s climbing over the bar, the security guys are running up. It was like a Super Bowl touchdown in the last minute of regulation.”

  I sit back, conjure up the DVD scene in my head, and come to no conclusion. When I come back to reality in a few seconds, I ask Monroe, “What do you do here?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Nothing, I just wondered.”

  “I’m the Executive Vice President of Preferred Accounts.” He glances down at his gold Rolex and stands up. “Time to go.”

  “Big meeting?” I ask.

  I turn and see a man in a gym suit approaching us. This guy is equal to, or better than, Monroe in every muscle category on the body. “Ready?” he asks.

  “Right with you,” Monroe says to the gym rat. Nice to see you again, Tiff.” Monroe is well-schooled in the art of giving people the bum’s rush. “Sorry, you got roofied.”

  “Me too,” Tiffany says. “I’m used to people going apeshit over me, but not that many people in such a big group.”

  Monroe Chevelier and the gym rat turn left when they reach the hallway, Tiffany and I turn right. We walk by a number of offices, and a big room with thirty or so cubicles. “What does this CEI do anyway?” CEI being the name of the company.

  “I don’t know,” Tiffany says. “Monroe’s dad started it.”

  I walk slower, trying to listen in on employee conversations. Nothing. When I reach the reception area, I ask the attractive lady wearing a headphone. “What does this company do?”

  “Mergers and acquisitions.”

  “What does Monroe Chevelier do?” I figure I have nothing to lose by asking what could be considered a very unprofessional question.

  “Anything and anybody he wants,” she states, nonchalantly.

  ---

  It’s late in the afternoon. Tiffany leaves me to go off to some yoga class where they heat up the room to a hundred and fifty degrees, the instructor bends you into different pretzel shapes, and your entire body sweats like a busted faucet. I do enough sweating over my financial situation, and decline Tiffany’s offer to join in the yoga fun.

  Instead, I walk over to Bruno’s condo to wait and hope for another sighting. While I'm leaning against the concrete railing over the Chicago River, I ask myself a number of questions. The first being: Why am I doing this? As far as I know, I’m not even getting paid. Tiffany isn’t hurt and is no longer in any danger. I could chalk the whole incident up to her bad choice of a cocktail. Secondly, why did the Thug in the fedora kidnap me? To scare me, to warn me, to keep me away from something or someone? Thir
dly, what was that whoosh/plop sound that I can’t get out of my head? Fourthly, why does this whole thing intrigue the heck out of me? And, last but not least, will Morrie’s Bail Bonds Bailouts team ever win a game?

  I stay lost in thought for about an hour, never seeing Bruno. I make my first call on my new phone to my girls, then grab dinner at the first cheap place to eat that I can find. While I devour a turkey sandwich, I read the latest edition of the Sun Times that some thoughtful person left on the seat. By the time I leave the restaurant, it’s close to 8:30. I decide it would be a good time to go stand in line.

  ---

  It’s not even 9 o'clock, and I’m about the fortieth person in a line that stretches down the block. I can’t figure out why anyone would stand in line to get into one specific bar or club, especially if you can walk a block to another one which plays the same music and serves the same watered down drinks. I turn to a pack of female, twenty-somethings in front of me, “Excuse me, but what’s so special about this place?”

  A girl in a frilly, metallic mini-dress answers, “The people, dude. You gotta party with the right people.”

  “I can see that,” I respond. “But who wants to stand in line to do it?”

  “Nobody.”

  “So, why doesn’t this whole line just pick up and move to the club around the corner? Then you’d be partying with the right people and you wouldn’t be wasting any time standing here?”

  “Doesn’t work that way,” she tells me.

  Her friend, who also is dressed in a metallic mini-dress, points at my outerwear. “Is that one of those Member’s Only jackets?” She asks me.

  “No.”

  “I thought you were going for some weird retro look,” she says.

  “No,” I tell her.

  “What is it then?”

  “Personal flair,” I tell her proudly with a smile.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see a guy walk by us carrying one of those metallic briefcases. Is this a special “Heavy Metal Night” at Zanadu? When the guy is about twenty feet shy of the velvet rope, I notice the back of his head.

  A small queue of braided hair hangs over his shirt collar.

  “Girls, save my place in line, would you?” I ask my fashion-conscious new friends and take off without waiting for an answer to catch up with my last limo driver.

  I’m about ten steps behind him when Arson unlatches the velvet rope and allows the guy entrance into the inner sanctum. By the time I get there, Arson and his partner, Sterno, form a hip-to-hip impenetrable wall of flesh in front of the rope.

  “I’ve got to get in there,” I tell them in no uncertain terms.

  “You again,” Sterno says.

  “Mr. 2-in-1 shampoo,” Arson adds sarcastically.

  “You’ve got to let me through,” I plead. “That guy you just let in kidnapped me the other day and dropped me off in an alley where I was shot at and almost killed.”

  “Like we haven’t heard that excuse before,” Arson says.

  “Come on, please?”

  “You gotta stand in line,” Sterno says.

  “I already stood in line.”

  “That’s good,” Arson says. “Now you can go back and get some more practice at it.”

  I’m watching Mr. Ponytail pass through the huge doors into the club, as I ask, “How about if I go in, talk to the kidnapper, and come right back out?”

  “No, you gotta wait in line with the rest of the losers.” Sterno really knows his job.

  “If I wait in line, and finally get up here, are you going to let me in?”

  “Not unless you change your clothes in the meantime,” Arson tells me.

  “Is that one of those Members Only jackets?” Sterno asks.

  “No, my ex-wife bought me this jacket only a couple of years ago.”

  “She probably knew then she was going to dump you,” Sterno says.

  He might be right about that.

  Arson must be hearing instructions through his earpiece, because he pulls the rope back and allows a group of four to enter. I give up. I move to the side and consider my next move. One doesn’t immediately come to mind. I turn around and walk away in the opposite direction. I wave when I reach the girls saving my place. They pretend not to notice me. They’re too busy chatting away with the two guys who were behind me in line. I’m a matchmaker by default.

  I walk the streets in the immediate vicinity of the club, searching for parked limos. I find three on Kinzie Street. One has a driver waiting inside. I rule that one out. Two are parked on opposite sides of the street about one hundred yards apart. I write down their license plate numbers and wait about fifty yards away from each.

  Twenty minutes go by. Nothing. I’m getting impatient. I’m standing against a sign advertising Nightclub Parking when the limo, which had the guy sitting inside, drives right past me. Riding shotgun is Mr. Ponytail. They go by so fast I can only pick up the first three digits of their plate. This should teach me never to rule anything out based on occupancy.

  CHAPTER 7

  About a week ago, before Tiffany downed her unfortunate libation, I was wasting my time in the Barnes & Noble on Clybourne Avenue. I love that store. It’s huge, has couches, tables, and a Starbucks; all there to enhance my reading pleasure. When I don’t have a lot of money, a lot to do, or both, this is one of my favorite stomping grounds. I’m here a lot.

  There have been innumerable news stories concerning the demise of the brick and mortar retail bookstores. And in each of these articles, the writer gives umpteen reasons for the collapse of what once was a thriving business. It seems to me the only reason these stores are going out of business is because they let people like me in, allow them to hang around for hours reading whatever they want, and then walk out without spending a dime. If I owned B & N, I’d have floor monitors wander around with stopwatches in hand, relegating each reader to only a couple of pages per book.

  One time I was in the Homeopathic Health section and came across Oh, My Aching Back. In this heavy on the pictures and light on the words manual, I found a number of ways to improve my bad back. There were exercises, diets, food supplements, vitamins, hot and cold compress solutions, even a chapter on inversions. I read almost half the book, memorized the exercises, replaced the book, not where I found it, but a few shelves away, and went home to try out my new regimen.

  It worked! My back hasn’t felt this good since Care was crawling. Now, each morning I start my day on the floor, twisting and turning, stretching and straining, curling and coiling. As soon as I have the time, I’m going back to B & N and read the rest that miracle worker.

  ---

  I’m in the middle of the Flounder Fetal Position when the phone rings. It’s Jamison Wentworth Richmond the Third. Well, actually not him, he never speaks to me; it’s only one of his assistants. She informs me that there has been a serious blip on their Paid Out computer screen and I have to investigate a certain pharmacy in Evanston, which is suddenly doing a land-office business on some of the most pricey pain killers on the market. Ritalin, Oxycontin and Plavix are moving off the shelves faster than anything at Walmart on Black Friday. The bulk of the cost of these little magic bullets is being billed to Medicare, but since it pains Mr. Richmond to pay out even the measly amount the government doesn’t cover, he calls me. Unfortunately, since I borrowed money from him to pay off my divorce, I have to drop everything and get on the case.

  Is it any wonder I hate my job?

  ---

  The drug store is located on the north side of Howard Street, which is the southern border of Evanston, and the northern border of Chicago. Pretty much a lower-middle-class workers’ neighborhood--which most workers would like to move out of. It used to be the territory of the Insane Unknowns street gang, but with the shifting population trends it’s now ruled by the Latin Kings. I sincerely doubt if the change in street gang affiliation has changed the property values in the area. The large sign across the front
of the store reads Evanscago Drugs. Beneath Evanscago it lists drugs, liquor, and sundries as its main stock in trade. I’ve often wondered what sundries are. I never hear people say, “I have to go to the store to pick up some sundries,” or “Honey, we’re all out of sundries,” or “There’s a sale on sundries this week at Osco.” Maybe I’ll investigate sundries while I’m investigating the store.

  I find a parking spot about a half block away; no parking karma today. I sit and watch. Between nine and ten a.m. only two customers enter the store. By their attire, their demeanor, and their inability to walk a straight line, it’s a good bet they’re buying the second item listed on the Evanscago sign.

  There's a very small parking lot adjacent to the store, room for maybe six cars. Two of the spots are filled, one by a Lexus and one by a Mercedes. Each was there before I arrived. At a few minutes before eleven, a third Lexus enters the lot and parks. The customer gets out and enters the store. I can’t believe it. What the heck is Tiffany doing, shopping here?

  I get out of my Toyota, walk up Howard Street and wait two doors down. When she emerges, I call out, “Tiffany…”

  “Oh, Mr. Sherlock,” she says and hurries over.

  “What are you doing here, buying some sundries?”

  “What are sundries?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell her.

  “Then why’d you ask me?” She pulls me aside. “I had to see you,” she tells me.

  “How’d you know I was here?”

  “Daddy told me.”

  “You were in his office this morning bothering him?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I’m a detective.”

  “Mr. Sherlock, there’s something we have to talk about,” she tells me.

  I look up the block and see four or five customers enter the drug store. “Tiffany, I can’t talk right now, I’m working.”