by Josh Cook
Everybody watched Trike and Lola circling to that stupid song for a full minute before anyone joined them on the dance floor. Janice dragged Dave out first. Others followed their lead. It was maybe ten couples, but it released some of the congestion of the crowd.
The song limped to a close. Rather than putting on something that encouraged people to stay on the floor, the DJ put on instrumental smooth jazz. The Clapton survivors milled around on the dance floor. They were joined by their less demonstrably sympathetic friends and relations.
“Wait here a moment,” Dave said to Trike and Lola. “I want to introduce you to someone.”
“This makes me nervous,” Trike said when Dave left.
“This makes you nervous? You are the nervous one? You, the one with no sense of social decorum and limited-access politeness? I’m the one who always has to clean up things when you’re a dick. So, no, you don’t get to be nervous. I’m going to be nervous,” Lola responded.
“I thought Dave handled himself very well. Came out looking better than if I hadn’t said anything. They’ll probably ask me to give the toast at their wedding. And I don’t have no sense of social decorum. Sometimes I’m just using too much of the rest of my brain to access that part.”
“Well, access that part. Dave’s coming back.”
“No promises.”
Dave pushed his way through the crowd talking to someone they couldn’t see. Dave and his companion broke through the crowd. Dave’s companion was a thin man as far into his fifties as Trike was into his twenties, wearing a no-nonsense brown suit over a plain white shirt with a spouse-selected maroon tie, horn-rimmed glasses, and a haircut that matched it all.
“Mr. Augustine, this is Horn-Rims, the other person my dad teaches at the university.”
“This is who you dragged me away from the buffet to meet,” Horn-Rims said with disgust.
“It’s a long while since I burst out crying because a policeman didn’t like me,” Trike said.
Horn-Rims’s cobalt-blue eyes looked tired right to the void of his pupils. He was one of those old cops who always took more than he dished out but was too tough to either fall or drop the falcon.
His wife Claire stood next to him, wearing a belted crêpe silk dress and holding a matching purse. Her mouth was firmly pressed into a polite smile. Her hazel eyes practically shouted, “Oh, Dave, you foolish boy.”
“We’ve met, Dave,” Horn-Rims said. “And keep off that knee. It’s gonna kill when you’re forty.”
He turned on his heel and pulled Claire with him.
Trike opened his mouth to say something, but Lola stopped him with a hand on his elbow. Lola’s hand on Trike’s elbow.
Then Trike told a story. He talked in a steady matter-of-fact tone devoid of emphasis or pauses. At first, they were more surprised by his telling the story than interested in it and their curiosity more engaged with his purpose in telling than with the story he told.
“About fifteen years ago, in the parlance of those without perfect recall and internal calendars, San Francisco was hit with a rash of burglaries that lasted most of the decade. Hundreds, perhaps even thousands of places were hit, some several times over the years. But the burglar only took little things: reading glasses, spare car keys, junk mail, that kind of stuff. Cans of diced tomatoes. Bookmarks. Lightbulbs. Things most people wouldn’t notice were missing right away and when they did, they would assume were lost, or perhaps even that they never had them to begin with. Wine keys and bottle openers. Magazines. Coupons. Chinese takeout menus. Who knows how many spouses fought over vanished remotes or how many kids were grounded because a favorite coffee mug was missing?”
Trike paused to liberate and eat a mini-quiche from an inattentively held plate.
“Throughout this period, the police were called in fifteen times in response to these crimes. Two of the times were because objects that appeared meaningless were actually quite valuable to the rightful owners. One was a souvenir keychain of the Eiffel Tower, a commemoration of where the owners’ decision to be married was formalized. The other was a pen, nice gold-plated Cross number, that was just like every other pen of its type, but happened to be passed down by a mentor to a protégé and so was as important to its owner as anything locked in a deposit box or fireproof safe.
“The other thirteen were all calls made by individuals suffering from obsessive-compulsive disorder, people psychologically incapable of losing things. You can just imagine how those investigations went. Just because someone is obsessive-compulsive doesn’t mean they’re totally disconnected from the more generally agreed upon value of things. So when they reported a stolen cat toy, most did their best to emphasize that they didn’t want the police to find their stolen cat toy, but to find whoever broke into their home.
“It was just enough to send a couple of PIs on the case, and let’s just say it didn’t turn out well for them.”
A young man walked by with a handful of cups of punch. “Let me help you with that, kid,” Trike said, grabbing one of the cups.
“Thanks, mister,” the kid said.
Trike drank it in a gulp. Lola whispered an explanation and apology to the kid. He found it satisfying enough to go on his way.
“So for over a decade in San Francisco, things in people’s homes could just disappear, like a fist when you open your hand. Most of the time, people didn’t even notice, and when they did, they assumed something typical had happened. Who could blame them? Something becomes typical by happening all the time, and, in the absence of definitive data to the contrary, typical is typically a safe bet. The police did their best when they were called in, but the break-ins were clean. It’s not like you could keep an eye out on the hot market for an unopened box of tissues.
“The whole thing reached its conclusion when a mail-carrier called the police because the man who lived in a particular house hadn’t picked up his mail for a week. The mail-carrier didn’t know the guy who lived there, just that there was a single male name attached to whatever was delivered. A little preliminary investigating turned up that Charles Pierce was a retiree living off Social Security and his pension from the insurance agency he’d worked at for decades. No relations or friends could be found to confirm a vacation or some other reason for the pileup of mail.
“The cops let themselves in two days later and found Mr. Pierce dead of a heart attack in his kitchen. And a house filled with all those missing objects. At first, they assumed the guy was a hoarder, but one of them recognized the Eiffel Tower keychain from when he had to respond to that call. It clicked. For years, Charles Pierce broke into people’s houses all over San Francisco with the perfection of a master art thief and stole negligible items.
“Now, this digression is going to come with a lesson in detecting. Obviously, this story raises a lot of questions. If you think about it, everything does. The key to detecting is asking the right question, finding the one question out of all the possible questions that leads to the important truth of the matter. I’ll give you a moment to see if you can spot it.”
Trike’s fingers and hands twitched in the moment. You could watch a cigarette being taken from a pack and twirled around.
“Why hasn’t Dave heard of this story?” Lola said.
“Bingo, Angel.”
“Oh yeah,” Dave said. “This is exactly the kind of thing my father would teach. Actually, this is exactly the kind of thing he would write a book about.”
“Exactly. So the natural follow-up question is …?”
“Why didn’t Dave’s father hear about this?” Janice finished.
“Well done, class,” Trike said. “Dave’s professor-of-criminology father did not hear about this because the police at the scene never told anybody. The official report was that Charles Pierce was a lonely old hoarder who died of a heart attack in his kitchen. Nothing was ever told to the press, and if it wasn’t for the coincidence of the officer and the Eiffel Tower keychain, all those objects over all those years would have just di
sappeared. The lie about Charles Pierce being a negligible hoarder would have been the truth. I heard about this because the story made its way around law enforcement agencies the way these stories do, conferences, parties, that kind of thing, but always with an understood level of discretion. No matter how many times it’s been told around poker tables, it’s never been told to someone who would get it in their head to blab about it to the press, and even if they did, it would be impossible to substantiate now.”
“But why didn’t they tell people about this?” Dave asked. “I mean, it’s a fascinating story. You know, who is Charles Pierce really? And it would have answered a lot of questions people had over the decades.”
Trike bent his mouth and nodded. “Remember this story the next time you lock your door. You’ll think of Charles Pierce and you’ll know why it’s far better that most of the world can’t.”
Another smooth-jazz-soaked awkward moment.
Then Trike said, “That mini-quiche was a tease. Anybody else care to join me at the buffet?”
“Now that you mention it, I’m starving,” Lola said.
Dave shrugged.
“We ate earlier, but we’ll go over with you,” Janice said.
“Then it’s settled,” Trike concluded.
They turned around to face the table. Then The Mayor started talking into a microphone set up onstage.
“Excuse me, everyone, your attention, please,” he said.
Whether or not the group cared about the announcement, a surge in the crowd pushed them toward the stage.
The Mayor paused in front of the microphone while the crowd adjusted itself into an acceptable version of attention.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the city’s Annual Municipal Fancy-Dress Ball. Every year for over forty years, the city council, in conjunction with The Mayor’s office, has organized this celebration, to, uh, celebrate another year in our fair city and to honor those who have contributed to the success of the city and the well-being of all of its citizens. Before we continue with our honors, I’d like to acknowledge some of those who have made this event possible.”
The Mayor thanked the volunteers, sponsors, and businesses involved, finding ways to mention campaign contributors whether they’d done anything noticeable for the Ball or not. The next half hour was filled with awards, citations, and other honors. The high school essay-contest winner. The food drive organizer. The teacher of the year. The investment banker who put his name on the city’s recreational fields by paying to have them reseeded (tax-deductible donation, of course). The high school football coach who’d retired after twenty-five years. A representative in Congress who’d tacked a rider on a bill about imported food that funneled $275,000 in infrastructure maintenance funds to the city. Applause was perfunctorily given to all.
When those were done, The Mayor transitioned, “I’d like to conclude this evening’s presentations with what has been for decades the most reported presentation at the Annual Municipal Fancy-Dress Ball, which is, of course, I’m speaking of the presentation of the King and Queen of the Ball.”
In the choreographed pause, a bolt of terror shot through Lola’s brain. The color drained from her face. She whispered to Trike, “Did you and The Mayor plan anything else for this?”
“Lola, I already told you—” Trike whispered back until that bolt hit him too. He cursed The Mayor under his breath, cursed him obscenely, blasphemously, repetitiously, while The Mayor continued speechifying.
“Along with these other honors and recognitions,” The Mayor looked up when his notes told him to, “every year, the city council, in conjunction with The Mayor’s office, selects two individuals who we believe not only contribute to the success of the city and to the well-being of its citizens, but who also embody the nobility of spirit, the energy of enterprise, and the core of kindness and decency that make this city such a great place to live.”
The notes said, “Look up for APPLAUSE,” so he did. Then, as if anyone ever added further ado, he continued, “And so, without further ado, this year’s King and Queen of the Annual Municipal Fancy-Dress Ball are … Trident Augustine and Lola Lenore.”
The crowd applauded. During his handshake with The Mayor, Trike leaned in and said through a smile, “I don’t know if this is your idea of helping or your idea of revenge, but I’m going to find out. Either way, the results of my investigation will be very unpleasant.”
The Mayor looked like he didn’t know it was test day. He regained enough of himself to smile blankly.
Trike and Lola were crowned and sashed and led offstage by gowned attendants rented from an in-state modeling agency. Then The Mayor stepped back to the microphone and said, “And now for the traditional first dance of the King and Queen.”
Trike and Lola took their awkward position on the dance floor. And stood there. The silence stretched until nervous laughter made its way through the crowd like a yawn. Eventually, music struggled to the surface, but it was the opening bars to “Wonderful Tonight.” There wasn’t a single person on the planet who liked Clapton that much. The music stopped like it hit a wall. Then “Lady in Red” whined into the air. Trike and Lola had no choice but to dance to it.
The plan had been simple enough. Show up at the Ball together. Be a little careless. See if someone tried to kidnap Lola while no one else was looking. The King and Queen thing threw it off. They needed to reassess. Without verbal communication, they decided to “get some air” so they’d have a chance to hash out their next step without anyone involved eavesdropping.
Getting some air turned out to be more difficult than getting through “Lady in Red” without grimacing. Everybody had to shake their hands and say congratulations and don’t you look beautiful and great work for the city and a dozen other phrases and gestures. They finally got outside a half hour after the end of the dance.
They sat down at the bottom of the front steps, far enough out of earshot that no one could understand what they were saying, but not so far as to arouse suspicion.
Lola started the strategy session. “What the fuck was that with the King and Queen shit?”
“How do I know? I was out in the kitchen mixing an omelet when it all happened, wasn’t I?”
“What?”
“Never mind. Never mind.” Trike rubbed his hands together. “This makes the whole grab-you-when-no-one-else-is-paying-attention scenario quite a bit less likely. From now to the end of this thing we’ll be kicked around like a football in the gutters of Paris.”
A moment later, Lola said, “How would you know it wasn’t an ordinary piece of detective work?”
The line made Trike jump.
Lola continued, “So it’s the women’s bathroom back by the stage. Down the little hallway. Around the corner. With the nearby fire exit.”
“Guess so. Just have to keep an eye on it. Go when nobody else has in a while. Easy enough for someone else to walk in on the proceedings, though.”
“Which is why it wasn’t the original plan.”
“Indeed.”
“But the original plan is fucked now anyway.”
“Indeed.”
“So that’s it.”
“That’s it.” Trike gave a swift nod. “Let’s see if these pocket-edition desperadoes do what they’re supposed to.”
They reentered the Ball arm-in-arm like a Queen and King are supposed to. Trike texted Max the amendment as they strolled through the foyer.
The crowd had thinned considerably. Gone were those who needed to relieve babysitters. Gone were the cops and firefighters whose shifts were imminent or imminently imminent. Gone were the people who had a drive. Gone were the people who always left early for reasons never specified.
All that remained of the buffet was the punch bowl of sugary red fluid abomination. They found Dave and Janice there. Re-greetings and informal congratulations. Dave saw his father across the room and decided that, despite previous events, it would be a good idea to introduce him to Trike.
/>
On another day, Trike might have told Dave that his father had been having an affair for fifteen years, just to get out of the introduction, but he noticed that no one had been to the women’s bathroom for a few minutes. Lola noticed that too. It was the opportunity. Lola excused herself and Trike let himself be walked into an awkward moment. Sure, Dave’s father taught his work at the university, but he didn’t understand a damn thing about it.
One woman left the bathroom as Lola entered. A brief congratulation was offered and accepted. It occurred to Lola this might be the last opportunity she had to actually use the bathroom. She didn’t waste it.
On her way out, she shoulder-threw a swart greasy man in notable clothes before her conscious brain caught up to her instinct and told her to cool it. There were two other thugs involved: a tall thin one with a bowler too small for his head and a plump one with an ascot. The thin man looked stupid. The plump man looked more doubtful.
Having never been kidnapped before, and not familiar with kidnapping as a category of crime, Lola would not say for certain that she was involved in humanity’s worst kidnapping, but she would have laid even odds on it.
It took long enough that Lola began to worry someone would accidentally come to her rescue. Eventually, the man she’d shoulder-thrown, who was shaped like a spoiled pear, shoved a handkerchief in her face. It took her an instant to realize he was trying to anesthetize her.
She let her body relax and crumpled to the floor like marble dust brushed off David. The thugs gathered her up and carried her out the fire exit into the alley. They put her, with no small amount of difficulty, into the backseat of a large black sedan.
The man in the passenger seat said, “You forgot to pull the fire alarm.”
Spoiled Pear shook his head with healthy helping of “Awww, shucks.” He trotted back to the door, but it was locked. The man in the passenger seat got out. On long legs he strode to the door, unlocked it, and opened it in the same economical motion. Spoiled Pear walked back in.