by Sean Lynch
“Kathy,” he said over his shoulder without looking. “Go upstairs and get Scotty.”
“You’re not going to go along with this asshole, are you?” Kathy exclaimed.
“It’s business,” Demaris growled. “Stay out of it.” I gave him a reassuring nod and my used car salesman grin. Kathy fired bullets at me with her eyes. I flashed her my grin. She offered one of her middle fingers in return. Then she turned on her heels and stomped towards the stairwell, her combat boots resonating on the floor.
“He’s rooming on the third floor with Eddie and Ray,” Demaris yelled after her. “Tell him to bring all his stuff. He ain’t coming back.”
“Thank you,” I said to Demaris. My first field training officer taught me saying thanks doesn’t cost anything, even if you don’t mean it, and sometimes makes people feel better. Besides, I got what I came for and there was no point in making enemies needlessly.
“I still don’t like you, Chauncey Means,” Demaris said. “What the hell kind of private detective are you, anyway?”
“One who gets results.”
“That I can see. You want a drink?”
“Sure. A beer would be nice.”
We walked to the bar. Demaris opened a bottle of Anchor Steam for me, and poured himself three fingers of something murky from a bottle with no label he recovered from somewhere under the bar. I didn’t ask.
“To your very good health,” I said as I raised my beer.
“That’s ironic,” Demaris said, as he sipped his whatever-it-was. “A couple of minutes ago you threatened to shoot a hole in my skull and pee into it.”
“Only business,” I said dismissively, as if that explained everything.
“Some fucking business,” Demaris said, assuring me it didn’t. It’s not every day you get an ethics lecture from a pimp.
I was halfway through drinking a beer with a porn-peddling dope dealer, and feeling like the dapper man-about-town I knew I wasn’t, when Kathy emerged from the stairwell. She had one arm on the bicep of a pale, sickly-looking kid who could only be Scott Fleischer, and her other arm carried a duffel bag stuffed with what I presumed were Fleischer’s personal belongings. Kathy stood almost a full head taller than Fleischer. I recognized him from the photo my client had given me. I also happened to know the kid was eighteen, but with his small stature, jaundiced pallor, and sunken chest he looked no more than fifteen, which was probably the source of his popularity with Club Rialto’s clientele.
I couldn’t tell if the expression of disgust Kathy wore as she approached was reserved for Fleischer, Demaris, or me. To assuage my delicate ego, I chose the answer I knew was wrong. Kathy shoved Fleischer onto a stool at the bar and tossed his bag of clothing at my feet.
“There’s your package, delivery boy. Take him and get the fuck out.”
Demaris shook his head but said nothing. I took a last sip of beer and wiped my mouth on the back of my sleeve. “C’mon, Kid,” I said to Fleischer, picking up his duffel. “Time to go. Seems we’ve worn out our welcome.”
Fleischer was in a stupor, and clearly had been awakened by Kathy. He was wearing a dirty T-shirt adorned with the image of Che Guevara, skin-tight jeans, and flip flops. He reeked of marijuana and unwashed body, and had mascara smeared across his nose to match the lipstick smears on his cheeks. He also had pillow-head, and I could see a couple of fresh injection sites on the inside of his left elbow. He looked like a paparazzi photo of Lindsay Lohan on a Saturday night.
Fleischer squinted at me when I took his arm, his glazed eyes struggling to focus.
“What the fuck?” he protested in a raspy voice. He tried to jerk his arm out of my hand. My thumb and middle finger completely encircled his upper arm, and when I squeezed he cringed, but got the message and stopped resisting. I suspect Kathy got him out of bed and downstairs in a similar fashion.
“Donnie,” Fleischer whined, “What the fuck, man? Where is this Spartacus-looking motherfucker taking me?”
Demaris walked over to Fleischer and grabbed his chin, forcing the youth to meet his eyes.
“I don’t know, Scotty, and I don’t care. But if you come back I’ll call him. And he’ll come and get you. Do you understand?”
“Donnie, I thought-”
“Don’t think,” Demaris said. “That’s not what you’re for. And don’t come back. Ever.” Demaris looked at me. “Good enough?”
“Good enough,” I echoed. Demaris dismissed me with a wave of his hand.
“It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mister Demaris,” I said. “You have my card. Most of my customers come from referrals.”
“Fuck you, Chauncey Means,” Demaris said without venom into his empty glass. I wasn’t offended. I’d been hearing that phrase most of my life.
I led Fleischer out of Club Rialto, this time through the front door. Demaris stayed at the bar. Kathy stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes burning holes in me. In that pose her jacket parted and I could see her pistol hanging inverted from a Jackass shoulder rig. It was a Heckler and Koch P7; a professional’s gun. I could also see more of her physique. What I saw, I liked. A lot.
“Hey Hard Guy,” Kathy called out as I reached the door. I turned around to face her. “I didn’t forget you pointed a gun at me today. Next time you do it, I’ll kill you.”
I didn’t know how to reply to that, so I didn’t. I walked out with the glum Scott Fleischer in tow. In truth, I found the prospect of a ‘next time’ with her rather arousing.
I’m stupid like that.
Chapter 2
Scott Fleischer sat in the passenger seat next to me and stared at his knees. He didn’t speak until we merged onto 101 South from Cesar Chavez Street.
“You’re taking me home aren’t you?” he finally asked. “To my parents?”
“I don’t usually divulge the identities of my clients. But in your case, since you know them, you might as well know. Yes, I’m taking you to your parents.”
Rush hour was winding down and the traffic through South San Francisco was easing. Rain was forecast, and whenever it starts to sprinkle, even a little, Bay Area drivers start crashing into each other and clog up the freeway. I was hoping to beat the traffic because in the confines of the car the scent of Fleischer’s unwashed body was overpowering. It was at least a forty-five-minute drive to Milpitas, where I was meeting his parents, and the prospect of breathing his funk for that length of time wasn’t appealing. I nudged the accelerator as far as I dared.
“I’m eighteen,” Fleischer announced without looking up. “I’m legal.”
“I know.”
“That means you got no right taking me anywhere I don’t want to go. I know my rights.”
“Good for you.”
“It’s kidnapping; that’s what it is.” Fleischer’s head popped up. “Stop the car. I want to get out.”
“I’m not going to stop the car,” I said evenly. “If you try anything I’ll beat you unconscious.”
Fleischer looked at me with what I think he believed was a hard stare. I was able to repel it. “So you’re going to assault me, is that it? Kidnapping isn’t enough?”
I kept my eyes on the road. “I’m going to do whatever it takes to deliver you to my client. What that is depends on you. Be civil, and you ride in the front seat like a big boy. Start giving me shit, you ride in the trunk. Either way, you get delivered and I get paid. Choice is yours.”
“Shut up and be a good little queer, right?”
I ignored that quip. Fleischer took out a battered pack of Newports and stuck one in his mouth. “You don’t like queers, do you?” he asked around the cigarette.
“How do you know I’m not gay myself?”
“Pul-ease. You’re practically brimming with hetero. You’re straighter than a number two pencil.”
He had me there. “Don’t even think about lighting that,” I admonished him.
“Is it queers you don’t like, or is it just me?” he taunted, putting the unlit smoke behind
his ear and folding his arms across his chest.
I really wanted Fleischer to shut up. Listening to him prattle on was becoming the most difficult part of this job.
“It’s not your sexual orientation,” I answered, despite myself. “Telling me you’re gay is like telling me you’re a Sagittarius; it’s your business and I don’t care.”
“So it’s me?”
“Yeah, it’s you. I don’t like stupid. You’re stupid.”
Fleischer’s lips pursed. “Not satisfied with abducting and threatening me? You have to call me names, too?”
“Stating fact is not name-calling,” I shrugged.
“It’s a fact I’m stupid?” he asked in his snarky voice.
“It’s a fact. Stupid is being turned out by a low-life like Donnie Demaris.”
“Donnie’s my friend. Haven’t you got friends, Mister Thug?”
“Let me guess,” I said. “Donnie’s your friend because he gives you free dope, lets you live upstairs rent-free in one of his rooms, and it’s always one big party at Club Rialto?”
“Yeah, we party together,” Fleischer conceded. “He likes to hang out with young guys. Lot of old gay dudes do. Donnie happens to have money. It ain’t a crime.”
“Not yet,” I said. “Do you think friendly-old-Donnie is giving up free rent and dope because he has a generous heart?”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m making my point,” I answered him. “You’re so stupid you can’t see that one day, sooner than you think, the ‘free’ part ends. Usually about the time you become hooked on whatever your drug-of-choice is. Then it’s no more hanging out downstairs at Club Rialto’s bar drinking champagne and doing free dope and fucking who you want. Suddenly it’s working in a room upstairs and getting fucked by who Donnie wants, when he wants, and how he wants. With friendly-old-Donnie collecting a fee.”
“That isn’t going to happen to me,” Fleischer scoffed. “That only happens to-”
“-stupid people,” I finished for him. “Those tracks on your arm say otherwise.”
He unconsciously looked down at his needle-marked arm, caught me looking at him doing it, and looked away.
“It’s not like that,” he said. “I could leave the club anytime I wanted.”
“Now you’re really stupid,” I told him. “What do you think Demaris pays Kathy for?”
“Kathy?” he asked. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Donnie doesn’t pay her. She hangs out at the club. She’s one of his friends, that’s all.”
“Bullshit,” I corrected him. “She’s an enforcer. She collects when Johns don’t pay up. Keeps Donnie’s ‘friends’ in line.”
“You’re wrong,” he insisted. “Gary’s the bouncer. Not Kathy.”
“There’s no end to your stupidity, is there? Gary’s nothing but a hood ornament. He’s for the rummies and rubes at the bar. Kathy’s the business’s real muscle.”
“How come you know so much about it?”
“It’s my job.”
Fleischer harrumphed. “How much are my parents paying you?” he demanded, changing the subject.
“None of your business,” I answered.
“A lot, I’ll bet,” he blurted. “She and the Old Man have already spent a ton of money on counseling, and two trips to rehab in Napa. They even sprung for one of those nut-job Christian shrinks who think they can de-program ‘gay.’ They’ve spent a fucking fortune trying to turn me into the straight little boy next door. Now they’ve hired a thug to abduct me and drag me home like I was still in junior high school.”
I said nothing.
“I’ll just leave again,” Fleischer declared, unwilling to accept my silence. “It’s not like you can make me stay at home.”
“I don’t care,” I told him. “I was paid to find you and take you home. That’s all. What you do after that, and who you do it with, is none of my concern.”
“It’s like Kathy said,” Fleischer sneered. “You’re nothing but a delivery boy.”
“That’s about the size of it,” I conceded.
We rode in silence through San Mateo, Redwood City, and Mountain View. Fleischer didn’t speak again until we picked up Highway 237 at Moffett Field.
“You’re not taking me home,” he realized. “You’re taking me to Dad’s store.”
“That’s right.”
Irving Fleischer and his wife Madeline owned a successful chain of jewelry stores on the Peninsula. The meet was scheduled to take place at his store in Milpitas. I got off the freeway and took West Calaveras to the Abel Shopping Center. It was after 7:00 PM, and the parking lot was beginning to thin out. I found a spot across from the front door of FLEISCHER’S JEWELRY and shut off the engine. Scott Fleisher stared vacantly out the window.
“Here’s how this is going to go down,” I said. “We’re going to get out of the car and walk together into your parent’s store. We’re going to meet your father. He’s going to pay me. I’m going to leave. If you throw a tantrum, or try to run, or do anything else to further prove how stupid you are, you’ll physically regret it. Do we understand each other?”
Fleischer didn’t look at me, or nod, or give any sign he’d heard me. He simply stared out the window of my car. Tears began to form at the corners of his eyes.
“Look kid,” I said, softening my voice. “This isn’t personal; it’s only business. Walk in the store with me, be cool for a few minutes, and I’m out of your life forever.”
“What do you know about my life?” he finally said, still looking out the window. Raindrops began to appear on the windshield.
“Nothing,” I admitted, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice. “Not a damned thing.” Fleischer’s tears were falling freely now. “But I do know this,” I went on. “Your parents are paying me a lot of money to bring you home. That must mean something.”
“It means they can’t stand me the way I am,” Fleischer said.
“Maybe. Or maybe they don’t want you see you living on the street and turning tricks at the bus station to feed a dope habit. You ever think of that?”
“You don’t know my parents.”
“You’re right. I don’t. But I know the color of their money, and this conversation is giving me a headache. Doctor Phil, I ain’t. If you don’t mind, can we please go inside now?”
Fleischer nodded slightly and wiped his eyes, transferring what was left of his already smeared mascara onto his forearm. He wordlessly opened the passenger door and got out. I grabbed his duffel from the back seat and followed him into the store.
There were no other customers in the showroom. A young man in a double-breasted jacket and a handkerchief which matched his tie was behind a glass display case staring into his cellular device through dull eyes. He didn’t look up when we came in.
“Is Mister Fleischer in?” I asked. The man neither looked up nor responded. I tried again.
“Mister Fleischer? Is he available?” I dropped Scott Fleischer’s bag on the counter.
“Store closes in twenty minutes,” said the young man, who couldn’t have been much older than Scott. He still didn’t look up from his phone. I reached across the counter and snatched it from his hand.
“Hey, that’s mine!” he exclaimed, finally looking up. When he did, he saw Fleischer first and forgot his phone.
“Scott! What’re you doing here?”
“Hi Jarrod,” said Scott sullenly. “Is Dad or Mom in?”
Jarrod looked from Scott to me, and then back to Scott. “Who’s he?” he asked Scott.
“I’m the guy who’s going to feed you this phone if you don’t tell me where Mister Fleischer is.”
Jarrod’s eyes got wide and his mouth opened. He stared at me like I was a turd in the punch bowl.
“Jarrod,” Scott said, snapping his fingers. “Where’s Dad?”
“Uh…in back,” he stammered. “In the office. Your mom isn’t here.”
“Go get him,” I said. “Now.”
“He’s my cousin,” Scott explained. “He’s kind of slow.”
“I got that. Why does your father employ him?”
“My mom makes him. Also, because Dad can pay him next to nothing. He gets away with it because he’s family.”
Jarrod and Irving Fleischer emerged from the back room. Fleischer’s resemblance to his son was stark. Father was no taller than son, and had a receding hairline and spare tire, but the genealogy was clear. Irving wore a button-front sweater over a shirt and tie, and had reading glasses resting on his nose. The right lens of his glasses had one of those magnifying doo-hickeys on it.
“Hello, Scott,” he said. He walked around the counter and gave his son an awkward hug. “I’m glad to see you.” Scott didn’t react. Irving stepped back and looked at his son from arm’s length. “You look like hell, Scott.” His nose wrinkled. “You smell, too.”
“Nice to see you, too,” Scott said sulkily. “By the way, Daddy Dear, thanks for kidnapping me.”
Irving Fleischer’s brow furrowed. “Close up shop,” he said abruptly to Jarrod. “Then leave.” Jerrod nodded and went to the front door. He began to pull down the metal gate over the display window. Irving looked up at me.
“I wasn’t expecting you tonight, Mister Means. My wife wanted to be present when Scott returned. Why didn’t you call and let me know you were coming?”
“I wanted to avoid witnessing a family spat,” I answered. “Also, I don’t carry a cell phone.” I placed Jarrod’s phone on the counter. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to settle up and be on my way. It’s been a long day.”
“Yes,” said Irving, taking off his glasses. “It has. Now about your fee.”
“What about it?”
“I think your unexpected arrival tonight warrants discussing it.”
“There’s nothing to discuss,” I told him.
“There certainly is,” Irving Fleischer said indignantly. He obviously fancied himself a skilled barterer, and was accustomed to aggressively negotiating during transactions. He seemed well within his comfort zone inside his own store.