Modern Girls

by Gary S. Griffin

  “Wow, I’m only five days older than you. My birthday was Friday, the day after I got out of jail. It was the worst one of my life.”

  “Oh, Andi, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I just realized why we get along so well. We’re both Virgos and they always like each other.”

  I smiled at Andi as she knew and believed these kinds of things.

  Andi then said, “We’ve got to celebrate your birthday tomorrow, OK?”

  “Sure, whatever you like.”

  Andi replied, “No, silly, it’s your birthday, so, we’ll do what you like.”

  something’s up

  I woke Tuesday to the sound of Bobo purring. She was curled into Andi’s tummy. We were naked. I was looking up at the ceiling. I quietly went through my mental to-do list. Around seven I gently woke Andi.

  “Hey, good morning, beautiful.”

  “Happy Birthday, Stevie!”

  “Thank you. When do you need to get up, Andi?”

  “Around nine.”

  “Really? What time do you start work?”

  “I need to be there at 10:30.”

  That surprised me. “Do you only work part-time?”

  “Yes, six hours a day. I leave around 4:30.”

  “I thought your job was full-time.”

  “Oh, well, it’s a permanent job, I guess. It’s just that things don’t get started for me at the office until 11. I get up at nine, and leave at 9:45. It takes about 45 minutes to get there as I miss rush hour traffic. I hit some of that on the way home, though.”

  “So, how much are you making?” Before she answered, I blurted out, “Oh, I don’t mean to intrude so much. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s OK. Oh, I make around $40,000. It’s not a lot but I’m doing OK. The work is boring - answering phones and typing letters, directing people to the bosses, but the people are friendly.”

  “Hmmm…”

  Andi then said, “So, we have time to celebrate some more. Come here birthday boy.”

  ***

  Andi did leave at 9:45. An odd moment happened before she left. Andi first got dressed in a sweat suit and flip flops. I asked her if that was OK to wear to the office, and she said, “Sure, it’s what all the girls wear to work before they change.”

  I answered, “All the women change at the office?”

  She stopped short. Then, stammered a moment, and said that some of her friends worked in the mail room and the cafeteria and had uniforms they wore.

  I answered, “OK, but you’re the receptionist. Shouldn’t you be better dressed?”

  “Oh, Stevie, I guess you’re right, I’ll change, but the office is pretty casual.”

  She then pulled off her sweat suit and stripped down to her thong panty. She changed into a white blouse, a snug blue mini-skirt and black heels. I noticed she didn’t put on a bra, and the tight top barely held in her D-cup breasts.

  I came up close to her, pointed to her chest and said, “People will sure notice these today. You should be very popular.”

  “Oh, Stevie, this is L.A. Lot’s of girls go braless. Plus, I really don’t need one because my breasts are so firm now.”

  “Yes, they are firm, but, still, I don’t want my girlfriend, umm… I mean, do you want everyone to see them?”

  Andi smiled and hugged me. “Oh, you are so conservative, Stevie. But, I love it and love you.”

  She then gave me a big kiss, and whispered. “I love that you are protecting me. You know I need it.”

  “Oh, Andi…”

  “Now, don’t say another word. Go find a bra in my top drawer that you think is proper for me to wear.”

  As I walked towards the bedroom, Andi began to unbutton her blouse. I opened her top drawer. There weren’t any bras inside. I hadn’t seen Andi wear a bra since I’d been in L.A., but she just told me she had some. I came back to the living room.

  Andi asked, “Why didn’t you pick one?”

  I answered, “There aren’t any in your bureau.”

  “What? Where are they?”

  I answered, “I don’t know. I was about to ask you that.”

  Andi walked to her bedroom and opened her top right bureau drawer. She saw it was empty. She pulled open the top left drawer and saw her clean panties, but looking closer, she noticed there weren’t any full-sized briefs, only thongs and g-strings were still there.

  “Stevie, this is crazy. Who would take all my cute bras and big panties?”

  I said, “I don’t know, but someone is trying to tell you something. I’m not sure what. But, it scares me that someone has been in your apartment.”

  We spent the next two minutes looking in all the bureau drawers and her closet. Andi spotted other things missing. First, her one business suit was gone, and some casual slacks and shirts. Looking closer, she realized any thing that could be considered modest or conservative attire was gone. Finally, she noticed that her four handcuffs were missing (yes, she told me, she liked to be tied down on her bed, occasionally).

  “I’m scared, Stevie. Someone’s been in here since you arrived.”

  I asked, “How do you know?”

  “I looked at my bras on Saturday, and almost wore one to the airport, but decided to wear my sports bra instead.”

  “Wow, OK.”

  Andi asked, “Who would do this?”

  “Some one who wants you to look sexy all the time?”

  “That’s weird.”

  “It is. I’ll tell the police detective this. Now, you better get to work.”

  Andi answered, “OK, Stevie, I’ll get some new bras I like tonight. But, I got to run.”

  “OK, but I wish that skirt was longer too!”

  She replied, “Oh no, I’m getting out of here before you say another word.”

  She gave me a quick kiss and was gone.

  I was about to leave the apartment when I remembered I needed to talk to Dee Dee back in Philadelphia. I reached her at work. She only had a moment as she had a customer in her chair. She was happy to hear from me and gave me a quick summary of her weekend. She bought a new dress that she thought I’d like because it was sexy and she wanted to wear it to our next date. I found myself being comfortably vague about my Los Angeles activities. She seemed too busy to notice. I did say I planned to be back in Philadelphia by next Tuesday.

  She said, “Oh, Stevie, that’s so long. Are you sure? You’ll miss the whole holiday. I miss you.”

  I said, “I miss you too, Dee. I’ll see you soon” and she said, “Hurry home, Stevie.”

  Then, I was ready to go see Detective Lomita. Around ten I grabbed my rental keys, sunglasses and wallet, and locked up the apartment. It was a warmer day and of course, very sunny.

  I was about thirty feet from my Mustang when I saw it. My left rear tire was flat. As I got closer I noticed it wasn’t just flat, it was destroyed. This was no accident. Someone had cut it creating a three inch gash in the tire’s side wall.

  “Oh, man!”

  I wasn’t going anywhere soon. I looked around and then walked around my car for any other signs of the perpetrator. I saw a scrape mark on the concrete near the tire. It could have been made by the knife or tool that pierced the tire. Perhaps, it was from the perpetrator’s shoe. I couldn’t tell.

  There was no one down there in the garage and nothing unusual visible. Again, I thought, clearly this was no accident. I, or my car as a proxy, had been singled out for attack. Someone sure liked to do their dirty work around cars.

  Back in Andi’s apartment I called the rental car company and they promised a repair would happen before 2pm, which was over three hours away. So, I was stranded in south Los Angeles.

  I realized I didn’t have a work phone number for Andi so I couldn’t call her. I then called Peter Lomita to report this newest crime. To my surprise he answered on the second ring. He was professional but fairly friendly and had the attributes of a good detective; he listened well, asked good questions, and got me talking. I also gave
him an update on my other activities.

  I learned that his investigation was nearing completion. The police didn’t believe Andi’s story. He and the department believed Andi did the crime. Lomita concluded that Sid and Andi led wild sex lives, but so did a lot of people in L.A. That didn’t change the facts as shown by the evidence. But, he did hedge a little by saying he would be interested in knowing anything I found out that supported Andi’s story.

  Lomita asked about the slashed tire and said I should call the Torrance police department to report the crime, saying, “It’s their jurisdiction.”

  I got off the phone with Lomita and called the Torrance police. I was transferred to a detective once I mentioned the tire incidence involved a murder case. The detective, John Savage, listened to the details of my story. He then said he would send a crime technician over to fingerprint the tire and take possession of it once the rental repair service changed it. I told him I had no idea of the slasher’s identity.

  Plus, Savage wanted me to show the technician where the bras and other clothes were stolen. The Torrance detective also suggested that I report the incident to the apartment manager.

  After I hung up it hit me. There was someone nearby who was mad, and now they were after me too. Why? Maybe they thought I was on to them. I wish I was. I didn’t have a clue and I still didn’t know the whole story.

  My next stop was at the apartment manager’s office. The office was across the court yard, connected to the main lobby, at the front of the complex. I entered the ceramic tiled lobby and noticed right away that it looked like the manager was in. The sign said his name was Rob Nealy.

  There was a counter with an opening. The plywood cover was pulled up and in and held by a latch. The opening revealed an office with a desk, computer, keys and metal filing cabinets. The sound of ‘70’s rock music filled the air – loud enough to understand the lyrics and to recognize the tune – Bruce Springsteen’s Backstreets, but soft enough to allow conversation. There was a doorway in the office that led to an apartment beyond.

  I could see several boxes filled with possessions. I was about to ring the counter bell when I saw a 50-something-year-old man. He saw me and walked towards the office. He was white, stood about five foot nine inches tall, and had black hair and a lean build. He was dressed in a long-sleeved, western-style shirt, jeans and cowboy boots.

  “Sorry for the mess, I’m moving and the packing is endless.”

  He had a strong, no-nonsense air about him. He moved around boxes and put his hands on the counter. Then, he re-made eye contact.

  “I’m Rob Nealy, the manager. You’re new. Looking for an apartment?”

  “No, I’m visiting a friend.”

  “Oh, who?”

  “Andi Anderson in 105.”

  I saw him flinch. “Oh, sure, bad thing that happened.”

  “Yes it was.”

  “Well, that was the last straw. This city is getting too dangerous. I’m moving on.”

  I said, “Oh, really, where you headed?”

  “Arizona, this state is too crazy - the people, the traffic, the taxes, the riots, OJ and this murder - that’s it.” He was looking just past my head and talking to the lobby. Then, he paused a second, and re-focused on my face. “So, what’s your story?”

  “The murder last Thursday - it’s why I’m here.”

  He didn’t respond, so I continued, “My name is Stevie Garrett. I’m an investigator from Philadelphia and Andi asked me to come out and help.”

  “You must think she’s innocent.”

  I said, “Yes, I do.”

  Nealy returned to being silent, so I kept talking, “But, I wanted to tell you about a problem I have.”

  “What problem?”

  “It’s with my rental car. Someone slashed the left rear tire. It happened down in the garage either last night or this morning. I called the rental car company and reported it to the Torrance police. The police officer is sending a lab technician over here to take the tire for investigation.”

  Rob asked, “Why are they doing that?”

  “I thought this could be connected to the murder case.”

  “I doubt that. Why did you say that? It’s probably a local kid.”

  “Who knows? Look, Rob, a crime’s been committed. I reported it. We don’t know who did it. And, the police technician will be here to take my tire to see if he can find anything. Plus, my rental company will be here before 2 to put on a new tire.”

  “OK, OK, got it, Garrett.”

  With that, he turned and walked back inside his apartment. Our brief talk was over. I let the cranky man go. I turned and walked back to the apartment.

  I missed my home in Delaware. I wanted to drive my new Miata. I wondered how the Phillies were doing. They were way behind the Braves in the National League’s East Division. I also wondered about Dee Dee, her new dress and our next date.

  I was lying on Andi’s couch watching the OJ Simpson trial. His dream team of lawyers were being their usual smooth selves; shamelessly complimenting Judge Ito, outwitting the prosecution while getting them mad and frustrated, and playing to both the jury and the camera.

  Johnnie Cochrane was objecting to some blood evidence and claiming that their experts weren’t getting adequate samples to do their own tests. He was calm and smooth. Cochrane looked happy because he knew he was winning. Barry Scheck began his examination, questioning the integrity and accuracy of the LA police lab technicians. Ever since OJ couldn’t fit into that black glove found at his home - it looked better and better for the defense.

  As the endless haggling continued on TV, a knock came to Andi’s door. I got up off the couch and answered it.

  A bright looking young Asian man said, “Hello, I’m Jason Kim from the Torrance Police Department. You called us about a clothing theft and some vandalism to your car?”

  “Yes, I did Jason. My name is Stevie Garrett.”

  I invited him in and asked him to sit down.

  “So, Mr. Garrett, what happened to your car?”

  “It’s not my car. It’s a rental. It looks like someone slashed the tire and it’s ruined.”

  Kim said, “I see. Well, this will be the first time I’ve done prints on a tire. But, I spoke to John Savage, and he, or you, think this could be linked to the murder last week.”

  “It could, Jason. I don’t know. What I do know is that we don’t know who did it.”

  He asked, “So, tell me, what you do know?”

  I gave Kim a brief overview and then said, “Let me show you.”

  I first showed him to the bedroom. He took prints and a list of those things missing. I recited everything Andi mentioned that morning. He took my prints to eliminate tracing them. We exited the apartment and walked down to the garage.

  Kim stopped at some distance from the car - about the same point I did when I first saw the deflated tire. He then slowly approached the car looking for any other signs or evidence. He worked methodically and slowly, yet welcomed my presence. He was happy to explain his work and what he found. I guessed he worked alone a lot and liked company.

  Kim showed me that whoever destroyed the tire did so with a knife. He believed the knife was fairly strong, like a Bowie or hunting knife. But, the perpetrator wasn’t terribly strong as it required five or six blows to break through the side wall. When the final blow came it likely made a popping noise and the air pressure pushed the knife back out of the hole. He also found a fresh black mark on the concrete. He took a sample with clear tape and put it in a small white envelope.

  Kim stood and said, “Someone sure doesn’t like you guys, do they?”

  I replied, “True.”

  We looked around the garage some more, walking up and down the aisles. Kim looked inside the large metal trash container for more evidence, and found a steak knife with a serrated edge, sitting on the top of the trash. He lifted it carefully with a gloved hand, showed me, slipped it in a large clear plastic bag, and said, “This could be the one, S
tevie. It’s strange that it was here or not hidden better. Like the perpetrator wanted it to be found.”

  “Yeah, it is odd.”

  Kim said, “I’ll take it to the office and print it.”

  “OK.”

  Kim then said he had to go to another site for a while, but gave me his number and asked me to call him when the rental repair truck arrived as he needed to take the tire back to the station. He walked away, up the garage ramp to the street.

  ***

  It was noon. God, I had two hours to kill before the rental car repair truck would arrive. So, I changed into my swimsuit and swam laps in the pool. I guess I did about 25 before I hopped out and lay flat out on the reclining pool lounge chair. I would let the sun dry me. I dozed, longer than I expected.

  shooting pain

  I woke with a start, with a very loud sound, with a shot of pain. A tan brick brushed roughly against the muscle of my upper right shoulder, slammed through the opening at the top of the chaise lounge, and pounded on the concrete pad. The brick had been tossed from a height, from above, from the roof four stories up. My shoulder hurt like hell and several layers of skin had been rubbed off. Blood started to seep through the wound.

  I looked up and didn’t see anyone. I got up and slowly moved my arm. I knew I had been lucky, very lucky. Other than the small cut and the likely bruise, I didn’t have any broken bones. Another five inches to the left and I could have been killed or seriously injured.

  Once I knew I was in one piece, I raced out of the pool area to the lobby fifty feet away. Inside I saw the elevator and the fire escape staircase and decided to take the steps. Racing up two steps at a time, I made it to the fourth floor in under a minute. The door opened right in the laundry room, the only enclosed room on the roof.

  At the opposite end of the room were sliding doors leading to an outdoor deck. I sprinted across the linoleum to them. The doors were open and I slid the screen door to the side. The wooden deck had a three-foot wooden railing around three sides. The fourth side was the laundry building. The deck was 20 feet square. The deck ended about five feet from the edge of the third floor apartment roof. I scaled the railing and stepped on to the flat, stone-covered roof. I moved to the edge and looked down at the reclining lounge chair I’d occupied at the side of the pool. The lounge was directly in front of me and about eight feet out from the building. I guessed that my assailant tossed the brick in a smooth underhand movement.