by Wolf Wootan
Sam had experienced a successful day. He had finally caught the husband of one of his clients with his mistress going into her apartment together. His state-of-the-art zoom lens got several good pictures of them in his car in the parking lot as they kissed with passion and he groped her breasts. These pictures should ensure his client’s lawyer of a favorable divorce settlement. Sam was smiling as he thought of the conversation he had recorded using his long range directional microphone. Hubby’s girl friend sure liked to talk dirty!
“. . . and then I said, who cares?” Sparky was saying. Sam came out of his reverie and laughed. He hadn’t heard what Sparky had said, but he assumed it was one of his endless jokes.
“That’s a good one, Sparky,” Sam chuckled as he took a sip of his drink, the first of the day, but probably not the last.
“So how did the shamus work go today?” Sparky asked, knowing he wouldn’t get any juicy details. Sam never discussed the details of his work with anyone. Client confidentiality. And mostly boring—to Sam.
“Oh, just a long day of shoe leather and surveillance stuff,” Sam responded with a shrug. “You know how dull and boring private eye work is.”
Sparky ran a cloth over the surface of the bar. Sam used a swizzle stick to stir his drink, then took another swig.
“That’s not the way I hear it from you and your associates when you’re talking about the feats of your boss, the great Mickey Malone,” winked Sparky with a grin on his face. “I’ve also heard some near unbelievable things about him from guys here in the bar. Is it true he’s really a special hit man for the CIA? For their hardest cases?”
Sam smiled inwardly. The myths that were attached to Mickey Malone had grown and grown. Sam and the other detectives that worked in the Malone office liked to tell small stories about Mickey and then wait and see how the bar crowd passed the story around, embellishing it. Not unlike the game of Rumor Sam had played as a kid. The CIA thing got started a few months ago when Sparky had asked Sam why he never saw Mickey around the bar like he did all the others from the office.
Sam had answered, “He’s out of town a lot. Does a lot of work in other states and countries. I think he’s in Virginia this week.”
Later that day, Sparky told one of his patrons, Bob Henley, “I hear that that Mickey Malone guy is in Virginia this week. Always somewhere else than here. I wonder what a P.I. from California is doing in Virginia.”
Bob Henley replied, “Isn’t that where the CIA headquarters is? Langley? Quantico? Something like that?”
“I think so.”
Later, Bob Henley was having a beer with his buddy, John Black, and during the conversation said, “You know that guy Mickey Malone that Sam works for? Sparky said he works for the CIA sometimes.”
John Black asked, “Wonder what a P.I. does for them? Probably does some undercover work, eh?”
“Maybe they use him for assassinations the spooks can’t handle,” laughed Bob Henley, tongue in cheek.
The next day, John Black was in Sparky’s drinking after work with his friend Bill Weder. They saw Sam Crown walk in and go to the bar.
“Seeing Sam come in reminds me. I heard it as gospel from Bob Henley that Sam’s boss, Mickey Malone, is a special hit man for the CIA. Handles all the jobs the regular spooks are afraid to handle. He must be one mean, cool son-of-a-bitch!”
And so the legend spread. It was so out of control now that Sam couldn’t end it if he tried. They wouldn’t believe him. They would think he was covering up some international conspiracy. So he let it feed on itself. No harm done, right?
Sam was half listening to Sparky and half remembering his last night with Sue when his cell phone rang. He looked at the Caller ID: Pearl. He looked at his watch: 5:10.
Shit! She should have locked up and left by now! he thought, fuming, but curious.
He took the call.
“Yes, Pearl.”
“You already on the road, or on a stool at Sparky’s?” asked Pearl.
“It depends. What’s up? It’s after closing time,” he replied.
“I was just walking out the door and this woman shows up looking for Mickey. Someone left an envelope for her here yesterday—paid us $100 to hold it. Now she wants to hire Mickey to find her missing brother. I’m in your office right now. I have her stashed out front. What do you want me to do?”
“Tell her to come back tomorrow during office hours. Not too early. Maybe the brother will show up by then.”
“Sam! She’s very distraught! I hate to turn her away!”
“Distraught?”
“Crying, and such.”
“Oh. What’s her name?” asked Sam.
“Let me see. I had her fill out the standard form, just in case. Her name’s Cheryl Wright,” replied Pearl.
“Does she have a picture of the missing brother?”
“Yes. One about two years old.”
“What does she look like?” chortled Sam.
“Sam! What difference should that make?”
“Humor me.”
Pearl had a great ability for sizing up people. “She’s 5' 7", about 130 pounds, black hair to the shoulders, hazel eyes. Pretty face, nose a little too sharp,” replied Pearl.
“And . . . ?” asked Sam.
“Thirty-six, D-cup,” replied Pearl, knowing what his interest was. “Jerk!” she added.
“OK, tell her to drive down to Sparky’s. I’m not coming back in. If that doesn’t suit her, she can make an appointment,” grumbled Sam.
“Sparky’s! You must be kidding! You can’t talk to a nice lady client in that place! Especially a new client!” snapped Pearl.
“I gave you the options.”
“You’re more than a jerk! Let me talk to her—see what she wants to do. Be right back.”
She put Sam on hold.
Two minutes later, Pearl came back on the line.
“She doesn’t want to wait until tomorrow. She’ll meet you there.”
“OK. What’s she dressed like—so I’ll recognize her,” said Sam.
“Chic persimmon suit, matching shoes and lipstick. Ivory blouse,” replied Pearl. “Skirt a little too short, but just your style.”
“Cut the sarcasm, Mother Teresa. Send her on down.”
***
Ten minutes later, the persimmon apparition appeared in the front entrance to Sparky’s. She stood there while her eyes became accustomed to the dim interior. Sam could see her quite well. So could everyone else in the club. The room grew silent, all eyes on the woman. She was mostly legs. Her skirt was short!
Sam jumped off his bar stool and approached her. He was wearing his usual Aloha shirt and he could see her focus on it, trying to get her vision back.
“Ms. Wright?” he asked.
“Yes. Mr. Crown?”
“In the flesh. Here, let me take your hand till your eyes adjust.”
He led her toward a booth where they could have some privacy. Two heavyset bikers were sitting there nursing long-neck beers. Sam gave a flick of his hand and they nodded, got up, took their beers and moved to the bar. Sparky was there in a flash, wiping the table and bench seats.
“There you are, folks,” grinned Sparky, ready to watch Sam make his moves. He waved Maile the waitress away as she approached the booth.
Sam guided Ms. Wright into the booth and sat down opposite her. He could see her eyes were red and her mascara was smeared from crying.
“Could I buy you a drink, Ms. Wright?” asked Sam as he checked out her cleavage.
“Yes, that would be great! Thank you. Something very cold,” she replied. Sam loved her voice.
“How about a frothy margarita? They’re great here,” offered Sam.
“That’s fine,” she smiled with a shrug.
Sparky nodded and headed back to the bar.
“So, you’re having a problem, Ms. Wright?” asked Sam.
“Please call me Cheryl. Yes, I am. Thank you for seeing me so late. I was looking for Mr. Malone, but your secret
ary told me he was out of town,” she said.
“How did you choose Mickey?” Sam asked.
“I didn’t. My brother did. He left an envelope for me there and told me he’d call me by this morning. If he didn’t, I was to pick up the envelope and hold it for him. But now I’m scared. He should have called! I want Mr. Malone to find him for me!”
“Mickey is out of town for awhile as Ms. Cooper probably told you. Mickey has several associates, all trained by him personally. I’m his most trusted one,” bull-shitted Sam.
Sparky arrived with the triple margarita and a fresh Cutty and water for Sam.
She said, “My! What a large glass!”
Sparky said, “Happy Hour special,” as he winked at Sam.
She took the heavy glass in both hands and lifted it to her lips. Her tongue flicked out and moved some salt from the rim, then she took a large gulp.
“Ah, I needed that!” she murmured. “I’ve been so upset!”
Her tongue flick made Sam tingle. He sipped his drink. The woman looked around—her eyes adjusted now—and saw several people smoking.
“May one smoke in here?” she asked.
“One may. Light up and relax, then you can tell me about your problem,” leered Sam.
***
According to Cheryl Wright, her brother, William Winston, aged 38, was missing. He had called her two days ago—Sunday—and told her about the envelope he was leaving for her at Mickey Malone’s office. He was going to a business meeting and wanted the information in the envelope safe until after the meeting. If everything went smoothly, he would retrieve the envelope and call her today. He never called and now Cheryl was worried. Besides that, their mother, though only 61 years old, was dying of cancer and she, the mother, wanted to see her son before she died. William Winston was never around much, but he always left a number with Cheryl where he could be contacted. When Cheryl called the number she found that it had been disconnected and he wasn’t answering his cell phone either. He never stayed at one job very long. He moved from job to job, often changing his name. Cheryl had no idea why her brother was so restless, but she had to find him quickly. He had promised to meet her and go see their mother. Her mother was fading fast. Cheryl was on her second large margarita when she finished her story. Sam could tell that she was feeling the alcohol.
Sparky had carefully preserved the first glass for Sam. Sam would lift fingerprints later and verify his client’s identity. It was standard procedure for him, and he had a signal between him and Sparky for occasions such as this. Sam trusted no one, especially people seeking the services of a P.I. Many gave false names, hindering his investigation.
“So,” Sam summarized, “you don’t know where your brother is, what his last job was, or what name he’s using? All you have is this two-year-old picture of the two of you at the beach?”
In the picture, she was in a red bikini and Sam was salivating.
“That’s correct. Do you think you can help me?” she wailed, tears forming again. She sniffled and gulped some more of her drink.
“Is there any newspaper he reads all the time? Maybe we could place an ad. ‘William, call home,’” smiled Sam.
“Not that I know of. I’ve got the envelope he left me, but I don’t dare open it,” she replied.
“That’s good. Can I see it?” asked Sam, perking up.
“Yes. It’s here in my purse. Do you think that it will help?”
“Maybe. I’ll check it for prints. If his are on it, I can find out if he’s in the slammer somewhere,” said Sam.
She handed it to him. He took it by the edge and motioned to Sparky. Sparky appeared, and after a quick discussion, Sparky left and returned with a plastic baggie for the envelope. This would also have Cheryl’s prints on it—maybe even Pearl’s. He could check them against the ones he would get from the glass, eliminate Pearl’s and Cheryl’s, and then try and find a strange print.
“That would be great if this helps,” she said, beginning to slur her words. “I’d like to hire you. I can’t wait for Mr. Malone. I’ll sign the papers tomorrow.”
“No rush on that. The problem now is to get you home. You’re in no condition to drive. Where do you live?” said Sam.
“Newport Beach,” she said, the “Beach” coming out as “Beesh.”
“Good. That’s not far. I’ll drive you home.”
“What about my car? I can’t leave it here!”
“You’re right about that. I’ll get someone to follow us, bring your car. Sit tight a sec.”
He got up and went to one of the pool tables and chatted with some bikers. One nodded. Sam came back to the booth.
“OK, all arranged. Give me your car keys and address. We’ll get you safely home,” said Sam.
“Thank you, Mr. Crown.”
“Call me Sam, Cheryl. Everyone does except my mother. She calls me Samuel.”
Sam got her to his Camaro, and one of the bikers got into her white Toyota Corolla. Another biker fired up his Harley and the parade headed for Newport Beach. She lived in a four-plex not far from Lido Isle. Cheryl was passed out in the passenger seat of his Camaro. He rifled her purse, found her house keys and a garage door opener that opened one of the four single garages. The biker stashed her car in it, closed the door.
“Thanks, Boomer. I owe you guys,” said Sam.
“No prob, Sam. We still owe you. Need help with the chick?”
“No, I’ll take it from here.”
“I’ll bet you will,” Boomer laughed. He climbed on the Harley behind the other biker and they roared away into the night.
Sam managed to carry her to her bedroom and deposit her on her bed. Her short skirt rode up, exposing persimmon panties.
“Where do you buy persimmon panties? Maybe that’s Victoria’s secret,” he mused.
He took off her shoes and suit jacket, laid them on a chair. She still looked uncomfortable, but he didn’t think he should take off any more of her clothes—as tempting as it was. He put a pillow under her head, pulled her skirt down, turned off her bedroom lights, and left. He would have a slice of that persimmon pie under more honorable circumstances.
Chapter 14
Wednesday, May 2, 2001
Mickey Malone Office, Santa Ana, CA
Sam was in the Mickey Malone office by 8:00 A.M. on Wednesday, shocking Pearl. He was never in that early.
“What about the new client?” she asked him. “Or is she a client? Did you completely disgust her?”
“She’s a client. I didn’t disgust her. I just got her drunk, took her home, and put her to bed,” teased Sam.
“You are a pig, Sam Crown!” muttered Pearl.
“Calm down for Chrissakes! I’ve got some work for you. Her prints should be on this glass. See if you can lift them.”
After he had left Ms. Persimmon Panties’ apartment the night before, he had swung by Sparky’s and picked up the glass. He had spent the night in his Tustin pad so he could be in early.
“She gave me that envelope you gave her. See what you can find on it. You know the drill.”
He went on to tell her what little he knew about the shifty Mr. Winston. Pearl went to the tech room and got to work. The phone rang.
“Get that, will you, Sam?” yelled Pearl.
Sam went into his office and grabbed the phone. “Mickey Malone Investigations. Crown speaking.”
“Oh!” said her throaty voice on the phone. He recognized it. “Er . . . I’m too embarrassed to say your name . . . Sam.”
Sam laughed. “I recommend a Bloody Mary and a couple of aspirins. Good morning, Cheryl.”
“I’ve taken the aspirins. I hadn’t thought of the Bloody Mary. I want to thank you for getting me home, and . . . not taking advantage of the situation,” she murmured. “I don’t know why the alcohol hit me so hard. My anxiety, I suppose.”
More likely because you chug-a-lugged a pint of Tequila! thought Sam.
“That’s probably it,” he chortled. “I’ll drop tha
t contract in the mail today.”
“Oh. OK,” she said hesitantly. “Or . . . if it isn’t too much out of your way, you could drop by with it. I could buy you a dinner. That’s the least I could do after last night and the trouble I caused you.”
Hmm, thought Sam. She’s making this too easy!
“Are you sure you feel up to it?” asked Sam, giving her an easy out if she wanted it.
“Oh, I’ll be fine by then. How about 5 o’clock?” she cooed.
“I can do that. I have a question, though, Cheryl. Is William Winston your brother’s real name?”
“Yes.”
“But your last name is Wright. Are you married?”
“Er . . . no,” she stammered. “Divorced years ago. I should have gone back to my maiden name, but never got around to it. Too much trouble.”
“I see,” replied Sam. “Do you know any of the aliases your brother has used in the past?”
“Not really. He never used them around me. He was—is—just ‘Billy’ to me,” she answered.
“OK. Thanks, Cheryl. If you think of anything else, we can discuss it at 5 o’clock.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing you again, Sam. Maybe you can tell me about that horrible place we were in last night,” she giggled.
“See you at five,” said Sam, hanging up.
***
By noon, Pearl had lifted the prints off the margarita glass and the envelope and had eliminated Cheryl’s prints and her own prints from those on the envelope. That left a thumb print and partial index finger from the envelope. She had scanned them into the computer and sent them to the company’s ID Unit in L.A. She had just received a printout back from them to go over with Sam.