Quintic

by V. P. Trick

  And now, Friday night, there she was, sitting between Charles and Hamilton at the cop bar Hamilton liked. He had picked her up at the coffee shop without telling his partner.

  “Just one drink, Hamilton. Some place neutral.”

  They met up with the unsuspecting Charles at the bar. Hamilton had not told Christopher either; the Big guy was stuck in some meeting.

  This is the talk, she thought, not quite sure if she was up to it. Probably not ready yet, probably never. Big sigh. If Christopher had been here, she might have picked a fight or shoved her hand in his pants, anything to avoid what was coming. She couldn’t do the same with Hamilton and Charles now, could she? At least not the pants invasion trick. Not that Hamilton would stop her.

  This cop bar wasn’t such a good place now that she thought about it. The fight might come later for Christopher was going to hear about her being here no later than two minutes after they walked in. Although, if she decided she had enough, she could just pick up and leave; Hamilton wouldn’t dare stop her.

  For now, she was not exceedingly happy, but, curiosity getting the best of her, she asked first, “So. Hum. How’s the case going?” She had missed the week’s meeting and wasn’t up to the latest development.

  “Nothing new.” And on that, the duo started to bitch.

  Apparently going to strip clubs was beginning to get old even for Hamilton. He was running in circles and taking some of it out on Charles. Some but not all, Patricia was glad to note they were coming to terms with each other. She had a feeling that, if they didn’t catch a break soon, Christopher was going to send Charles back to the suburbs. Hence, since she genuinely liked the young officer, she kept her butt on her stool and coyly listened as they went over the case for the nth time and pestered her about Lemieux.

  She kept her cool at first. Smiled, nodded, even retold the Sunday afternoon discovery, going as far as discussing some of Lemieux’s tastes. Well, she not so much discussed as touched the subject lightly. His voyeurism. His ambivalent bisexuality. She breathed in and out slowly to mask her distress and got annoyed. Then mad. Strangely nauseated.

  It was Friday night, she had gone out all week, and she was tired. After two glasses, she had enough.

  “Gentlemen, it’s getting late, so I think that’s it for me. Good night, Hamilton. Charles, do you mind giving me a lift to the taxi station?”

  “No need for a cab, I’ll take you to your hotel.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d appreciate it. Thank you.”

  They didn’t talk much on the way over. Charles’s driving left room for improvement, but sensing the young detective was somewhat nervous, she made no suggestions.

  “You look kind of bummed-out, Charles. Is everything OK? Would you like someone to talk to? You know I’m a good listener.”

  “I’m a bit worried about the job.” The job. Charles was shy but not stupid; he knew this was his chance with the team. “I don’t think I’m measuring up. Like Ham says. Too darn green.” Darn?

  She encouraged without mothering, offered friendly and attentive support without being flirty and smothering. As she listened to Charles, she came to realise just how fed up of Lemieux she was. Angry mad. And scared.

  “How can I help?”

  “Simply listening to me rambled on and on helps, Patricia. The shrink says venting’s good.”

  The shrink was a mandatory monthly activity for the team, but no one really talked to the good doctor, well, except Charles apparently.

  While Charles droned on about the team, the case, Hamilton, his dream of being a homicide detective in the big city, she had a silent conversation with the rookie in her head.

  “I’m sure I can do more. Let me see. What you need is a big break on your case. Christopher and Hamilton like results. You give them something; you stay on the team.” And I won’t have to think about it anymore. The it included both Lemieux and the bastard she had seen. “So what lead do you need? The killer, obviously, but maybe that’s a bit much for us. Something regarding the victims? How about that guy Lemieux was seen fighting with? How hard can that be?”

  So what if Hamilton and Charles had asked around and came up empty. Men in those places all looked in the same direction, centre stage (or in Charles’s case, the walls). She was going to survey the clientele. “We’ll need to go back to the clubs around the same time the fight happened.”

  Based on what Lemieux had told her back in the days, strip club patrons didn’t move around during an evening. They sat and drank and stared, often staying put entire nights. When such services were offered, if one had money to invest, one might buy a lap dance. Not right away, though. Most men waited until later in the evening. Lemieux didn’t go for lap dances, not in the clubs at least; he hired the dancers for more complete workouts at the end of the night. According to the stripper, the guy they were looking for was not a lap dance enthusiast. Might be he was too cheap even for strip clubs.

  “Did the stripper say your mystery fighter was a regular? In any case, him knowing Lemieux points to it. Except with Jo− Hum. Ah. From what you guys found out, the victim didn’t have any friends. Hence, the possibility of Lemieux and the fighter’s relationship turning from bromance to archenemies is negligible.” Non-existant. Impossible. A heresy.

  “Chances are they met at some clubs, maybe fought over a woman.” Although she had trouble imagining Lemieux fighting over a woman as he had once fought for her. Was it jealousy? “So what do you think, Charles? Worth a try?” A good plan? Heck no. Moving on with the plan.

  “I’m not sure we−” The Charles in her head tried to cut in while the Charles in the car droned on about Hamilton’s lack of class.

  “All we have to do is sit and watch.” Like her book character, they would do surveillance of the potential crime scenes, the scenes being in this instance the strip clubs where the fighter could show up. Potentially, all of the city’s strip clubs. Impossible odds indeed. It had taken her character three years for ten diners. But then again, her fictional woman had to wait for rain; she and imaginary Charles didn’t. If she timed it right, she could cover six or seven clubs per evening. Go in, sit, look around, wait for a little and move on. “How hard can it be?” She mused again.

  “Patricia, remember last time.”

  “Last time, we went unprepared. You’re more at ease now. And you need to do something. Think of the team!” She didn’t wait for either of the Charles’s approval. “I’ll borrow a car.” A car and an identity. Male or female?

  Clearly, she couldn’t go as a woman, not if she wanted to go unnoticed. Yet, going as a guy was risky if a fight broke out. Unless she borrowed a car and a bodyguard? Hum. Christopher was out of the question; no way was she going to tell him. Ever.

  If I’m so sure the plan will work, why not tell him? Hum. Moving on with the plan.

  Hamilton wouldn’t go for it. Besides, the idea was to help Charles. If Hamilton came along, part of the credit might go to him. Not helpful. None of the others would go for it either, she was pretty sure of it, except for Frankke maybe. Although, if she asked him, and he didn’t like her proposal, he would tell Christopher. She couldn’t risk that. Reid was out as per her gender; she was tough enough, but her breasts would be difficult to hide.

  Solo with Charles then. After all, she was doing the plan for him, was she not? Hum. Charles was green, but he was far from dumb. The only time they had gone to a stripper club together had been a disaster; he would never agree to take her to another club. Unless...

  She studied him as he vented his frustrations. He looked like a damn cop. He’d need a change of haircut, clothes, shoes. Maybe if he grew a beard, or, at least, a light five o’clock shadow? First things first. Could she convince him of the plan?

  “Charles, I need a favour. I need your help with something.” She blushed. Lying did not make her blush; thinking of going to strip clubs did. Charles blushed in return.

  “I, ah, I’d appreciate if, well. Please don’t tell
Christopher about this, but I’m in a bit of a jam.” Indeed, she was. Christopher was going to be so mad if he found out. The words ‘Crazy idea’ flashed in her mind. Jane did it, hence, so can I. “I need to meet with someone, but I can’t go alone and well, I can’t ask Christopher, it’s a surprise for him.” Damn right it was a surprise. Big surprise.

  Charles was listening intently.

  “I need someone I can trust, so, naturally, I thought of you.” She bit her lower lip and went for the kill. “Of course, I’d understand if you don’t want to, or if you can’t. I really shouldn’t ask you; you have enough trouble with the job and the team and your case and, well, everything.” She lowered her eyes and sighed. Damn, she was good. Why couldn’t Christopher be that naïve and easy? Of course then, he wouldn’t be who he was. But he’d still be damn sexy, though.

  “You don’t have to explain, Patricia. Anything I can do to help, I’ll do it.”

  Do what, he didn’t know yet, for no way was she going to tell him before they were parked in the club’s parking lot. “Thank you. You’re so kind! You don’t have plans for Sunday evening, do you? I’ll pick you up around seven, OK?”

  For their first night, she planned to drive. Hence, she would borrow Christopher’s truck; the Big guy wouldn’t mind, not if she told him Ingrid had booked a meeting with some out-of-the-country publisher. Technically true-ish, but the publisher was only due to arrive in three weeks.

  “Perhaps you can take a break from shaving this weekend, Charles sweetie?” She had a hard time keeping a straight face for that request. How could she convince him without divulging the plan? “Think of it as an undercover assignment. Detectives do plenty of those you know.” Hopefully, the new clothes would be enough to hide Charles’s rookieness.

  Her idea ended up keeping her busy all weekend. She shopped for men’s clothing, for both Charles and her, low key and cheap-looking to blend right in amongst the unsavoury club crowd. She printed a list of all the city’s strip clubs and sorted them by boroughs. Then, she drew up routes to said clubs, optimised by districts.

  She intended to kick off the plan on Sunday with visits, first, to the club where the fight had taken place; the three where Hamilton and Charles had received maybes would follow. If they had time, they’d go to the place Lemieux had taken her and the other two that were close by, and back again to the first one.

  Seven on the first night, with two-three stops at each. Seven out of a potential forty-seven. If all went well, they would cover an eighth of the city’s strip joints per night. She was damn relieved her guess of over a hundred clubs had been overestimated; not that forty-seven wasn’t still too much. Where the heck did the sleazebag owners find all their strippers?

  The plan’s flaw? The fighter dude could be in any of the other thirty-nine or one of her first eighths while she was in another. The chap could be at home enjoying a tranquil evening with the wife. The fellow could be a drunk who had nothing to do with Lemieux’s death. Was it statistically worth it? Only one way to find out.

  She made a deal with herself to try the clubs at least once. If they toured every night, she was going to waste seven to eight days of her life on the plan. A reasonable time investment if it saved Charles’s job with the team. She would take note of all the wavy brunettes they came across, a repertoire of sort. Could she afford to hire them all a bodyguard for a while? How much did a bodyguard cost nowadays? Maybe she should ask the A-team, Christopher’s buddies, for references; after all, MacCarmick and Lonzo were in the muscle trade.

  Did she know her plan didn’t make any sense? Deep down, yes, she did, but she was not about to admit it. Just to be safe, she avoided being alone with Christopher. That should have told her something. Bad idea.

  It should have told him something. The badest of bad ideas.

  She’s Not Scared Anymore

  As intended, she avoided Christopher all weekend. She dodged him on Monday also. She and Charles had returned from the plan’s first night at three-twenty-five. With the team meeting at ten, she barely slept four hours and, needless to say, wasn’t at the top of her form. Thankfully, she didn’t look as tired as she felt, but she would try to squeeze in a nap before they went out again tonight.

  That morning, she drove Christopher’s truck to the station and handed him the keys back. Unfortunately, she couldn’t burrow Christopher’s vehicle another evening without eliciting if not suspicion, at least curiosity. Christopher was not a patient man when curious. Hence, Charles would be driving his car the next nights. Unless she could convince him to let her drive?

  She made it to the meeting just in time. Charles had not shaved all weekend and looked, nor mean or ruggedly sexy but just plain beaten and unkept. His haircut, her creation, did not improve his look. He smelled clean, though. Probably he too had showered for over half an hour; that damn club stink was nauseating.

  Charles had reluctantly embraced the plan. Although they had not seen the Lemieux’s opponent, since they had not stumbled into trouble, all in all, they had had a profitable first night (at least regarding Charles’s stripper observation skills). They planned to go again tonight. And the nights after that if need be.

  They did seven on Monday and eight on Tuesday. By Wednesday afternoon, sitting in front of her computer, she had trouble keeping her eyes open. She hadn’t worked at Vitto’s yet that week. Not good. She hadn’t written a single line. Not good.

  She had told Christopher, “I’m working very hard these days. I can’t make it tonight,” at the end of each day. She had not told him she had been writing, had she? Hence not a lie since indeed, she was working intensively. Yes, she knew damn well he had assumed she was slaving on her book. Never make assumptions, Big guy.

  It was a case of ‘what he doesn’t know can’t hurt (or anger) him’ with a touch of ‘what he doesn’t know can’t have me arrest’. Preventive incarceration the infuriating man had called it once or twice.

  Tonight, Charles and she might be able to do nine; in that area, the clubs clustered together. That would leave them with sixteen to explore between Thursday and Friday. Unless they got lucky. Even if the dude never showed up, the plan was already worth their time. Charles now managed to speak to her while watching the dance floor; his face barely flamed red at that. She couldn’t ascertain at what he was looking exactly, though. The woman’s face perhaps? An improvement nonetheless since at times, the stripper’s face hung between her legs.

  Saturday, I’m going to sleep late, so very late; then I’ll go shopping. Women’s clothes. Long sleeves, turtlenecks, baggy pants. The female form, even her own, now officially disgusted her. She was sick of watching men stare at naked female flesh. Who were the worse, the jerks making rude comments or those staring with utter indifference?

  She had agreed to let Charles drive tonight; it was his car after all. Although, frankly, the young officer drove like an old granny.

  “You’re jittery tonight, Patricia. Is everything all right?”

  “Don’t worry, it has nothing to do with you. Your driving’s fine.” If you were eighty years old. “I’m just tired I guess.” And nervous. They had done five clubs already, and next up on the list was the club where she had seen the scarred guy.

  Please let him not be there, she prayed silently.

  As luck would have it, he was there. Maudit!

  If Charles hadn’t been walking right behind her, she might have run out. As it was, he pushed her forward and, probably thinking she was fatigued, sat her down at the first free table he saw. She was indeed tired. Exhausted as heck. Fed up of the whole thing. Her idea. Damn it, she had terrible ideas. What was she expecting anyway?

  One in a million odds for Charles to spot the guy. Forty-seven clubs, one guy, Lemieux’s fighter could be anywhere at any time. He could have moved out of town, to another country, another universe. How the heck had she convinced Charles of such a ludicrous plan? The rookie officer must be totally desperate or just plain dumb. He should have her arrested. Heck
, she should have herself committed. Have Christopher handcuffed her to his bed until she got some sanity back.

  A chance in a million for Charles to spot the guy. Shouldn’t her odds amount to the same? But here she was again, scared of the scar. She felt the anger bubbling, building inside her. Again! Hasn’t once been enough? Even if she had settled the score. Sort of. Even if she had moved on. Or so she had thought. Yet here he was, and here she was, petrified once more. Even if the bastard couldn’t do anything right now, could he? A ghost from the past, that was all he was. That was all she was. Breathe.

  Her eyes thin slits, she slumped low on her seat, partly hidden by Charles’s torso, and studied him. He was uglier than she remembered. She had forgotten all about the fighter dude; she had eyes only for the scarred salopard.

  The other time with Not-so-dumb and Ape, she had not taken a good look at him. He had become fatter in the last years. His already balding head was now completely bare except for a ridiculous comb-over that didn’t fill the fleshy void. His beady gaze lingered casually on the nude woman on the stage but turned to the room from time to time for a quick survey. He had a buddy at his table, another jerk no doubt. Dirty cops and cops positioned themselves the same; the disfigured bastard occupied a table strategically located between the stage, the bar and the door.

  With her ball cap on and her collar pulled up, neither the shortest nor the smallest in the place, she looked like most of the guys enjoying the show (aside from the enjoyment part, obviously). Thus, she didn’t stand out. So did Charles after four days of beard growing and intensive exercises on how-to-blend-in-look-casual-and-go-unnoticed-in-a-stripper-club-one-oh-one.