Lemons 02 A Touch of Danger

by Grant Fieldgrove

  Elise came out of the bathroom, fully dressed and drying her hair with a towel right as our breakfast arrived. I tipped the waiter, or bellhop, or whatever the hell you call them, a five spot and set out our breakfast.

  When I was finished, it was my turn to shower and get ready. I had fresh underwear from our previous shopping trip at the Gap, and my shorts would be fine for the third straight day of wear, but the only clean shirt I had was a red Something Corporate t-shirt that was left in Elise’s car from a while ago. I had given her the shirt after she had dirtied up her own shirt a few months back. Apparently, it has been in the back of her car, clean and folded ever since. I didn’t much care about it because I had packed on a few pounds since that shirt fit comfortably. Now I had no choice but to try to squeeze into it. I wasn’t looking forward to it.

  I showered and got fully dressed in the bathroom, and just as I feared, the shirt was disgustingly tight. You could see my bellybutton shadow and my nipple bumps. We would be needing a store trip before we went anywhere. I stepped out of the bathroom, ready for my ridicule. Right on cue…

  “OH YEAHHHH!” Elise says, doing her best Kool-Aid man impression.

  I tried to keep a straight face. I failed. “I get it, I get it. It’s a wee-bit snug.”

  “A wee bit? You look like ten pounds of Jell-O in a five pound bag.”

  “Laugh it up, Skinny. One day this is coming for you, too, ya know.”

  “Me? Never!”

  “Hey, you ever wonder how many enemies the Kool Aid Guy had?”

  “Um, no.” Elise says curiously. “What do you mean?”

  “Well I mean, how many houses do you think that fat bastard wrecked? Like, I bet a lot of those houses were like the projects and shit. Like, some bored little poor kid is like, Yo ma, where da Kool-Aid at? And then here comes Kool-Aid Man smashing through the fucking wall. The mom comes running out and is like Damnnnn Kool-Aid Man! We be likin” yo” product and all, but we just rentin” this goddamn place, fool! And dis some cheap ass construction, this whole fuckin” buildin” gon” be fallin” now.

  “Ya know. Shit like that. He had to have made some enemies.”

  Elise was trying to act offended but she couldn’t hide her smile. “Wow,” she said. “Way to racial profile people.”

  “I wasn’t racially profiling anyone. Simply saying that poor people like Kool-Aid. If they weren’t poor, they could drink something better…”

  Elise rolled her eyes and shook her head. Oh well, I thought it was funny at least. I need to stop wasting my jokes on people who don’t even get them.

  I decided to switch gears.

  “Elise?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I didn’t bring my pills with me.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s okay. It’s just one day. Hopefully you can make it through. Yeah?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking. I think I want to stop taking them.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. They don’t make me feel right. I mean, it’s nice always not having to worry about a breakdown, and it’s nice being able to ride in elevators and stuff, but lately I just don’t feel like myself.”

  “Well, Chubs, that is your decision to make.”

  “I know. And I think I want to stop. It’s just not me. Like, this case for example. I know I am missing something. Something that probably would have been so obvious to me eight months ago. But now, there is just nothing there. Maybe my behavioral problems are an advantage to our line of work, instead of a disability. That’s what my dad always told me. Does that make sense?”

  “Yeah,” Elise says sympathetically. “It makes perfect sense.”

  “I just want to go back to being normal. And, I know I have a lot of problems and I have some serious issues, but I like myself. Temper tantrums, the potty mouth, everything. I know I’m far from perfect, but…I like how I am…how I used to be. I need to go back to the previous Archie.”

  “I totally understand.”

  “You’re not mad at me?”

  “Archie, why would I be mad? You are an amazing person. You’ve only been on the pills for less than a year, but all the time I knew you before that you weren’t on them, and I still loved you. You are an incredible person and you have a gift. Stop taking the pills”

  I let out a sigh. “You know this means we won’t be able to keep our office.”

  “Who cares about a silly office? I’m sure someone on the bottom floor would love to switch us.”

  “You sure you’re not mad?”

  “I am one-hundred-percent positive. I’m actually quite excited. I love the old Archie. He was exciting. Sometimes he went a little over the line, but I still enjoyed his company.”

  “Well, good…because he is coming back.”

  “Great! So what do you say we stop this mushy crap and go find us a murderer?”

  “Now you’re talkin’, soul sista! We need to make a quick stop at a clothing store though. I can’t breathe in this goddamn thing.”

  “Yeah, and it’s pretty hard for me to concentrate with your nipples following me around and that equator shadow line running across your gut.”

  “Funny girl.”

  ***

  After a quick stop at the Hot Topic at Hollywood and Highland, I was ready to go with my size LARGE Autobots shirt. It felt good to peel that medium off of me and return some circulation to the top half of my body. We hopped back in the car and left the parking structure once more. I was excited about beginning my new pill-free life…again. At the first stop light when came to I already got frustrated and began cussing out the inanimate object that was currently holding us up. Fucking piece of shit light! MOVE!!! TURN GREEN!!! GAAAHHHHHD DAMNIT!”

  Yep. The old Archie had finally returned.

  It’s good to be back, folks!

  24.

  We showed up at Daniel Mayweather’s address a little after two in the afternoon. Like I said, it was a slow starting day. The address consisted of a small grouping of little apartments. There looked to be about four, I could see the lettering on the buildings labeled A through D. Unfortunately, we had no idea which is the one we were looking for. We looked around the small parking area and on the street. The New-Bug was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps my hunches have been a little off lately. We decided to knock on apartment A. An old lady answered.

  “Hi ma’am,” I said. “My name is Mr. Pairatestees. First name Harry. This is my friend Anita Goodlay. We’re from Mandalay Pictures, ya know, the movie company? We were sent to this address to deliver some pretty exciting news for a Mr. Daniel Mayweather about a script he recently submitted to our studio. We don’t have the apartment number though. Does he happen to live here by any chance?”

  “Oh my, no he doesn’t live here. He lives behind me in C,” the old lady tells us. “He’s a great neighbor though, always quiet, never any problems. You say it’s good news you have for him?”

  “Yes ma’am, good news indeed. Thank you for your help. Next time you see Mr. Mayweather I am sure he will tell you all about it. Thank you for your time.”

  “Oh, before you go. You look like such a strong young man. Would you mind taking this trash to the dumpster for me? I’m old.”

  Before I could answer “fuck yeah I mind, that’s gross,” she shoved a trash bag towards me and I had no choice but to grab it. “Um, thanks?”

  “You’re welcome,” she says to me, totally ignoring poor Elise, and then closes the door on us.

  Elise shoots me a look. “Anita Goodlay and Harry Pairatestees? Really Archie?” We leave the old lady’s front porch and head towards the dumpster, trash bag in hand.

  “Hey,” I said, “they’re as good of names as any. Sorry I couldn’t think of any more names from Adventures in Babysitting like you used the other day.”

  Elise cracked a little smile.

  “Yeah,” I continue, “I knew what the name was, Ms. Chris Parker!”

  “At least that is a real name. Harry Pairatestees, give
me a break.”

  “Oh she was old anyway, who cares. She didn’t know what was going on.” I give the little trash bag a shake and hear glass bottles clanking around. “She doesn’t even recycle her bottles.”

  “Well, like you said, she’s old.”

  “Yeah, but I bet she doesn’t realize that she could score ten cents for each of those.”

  “Oh well, she’s old, remember, what does she need money for?”

  “Well, she needs to start saving up for her funeral next week.”

  “Archie!”

  “Just sayin’.”

  We reach the dumpster and I chuck the trash bag in, hearing a few bottles break as they hit the metal bottom. We turned and headed towards apartment C.

  We quickly realized that with all the time we spent driving, relaxing and eating, we never really formed a plan on what we would say to this guy if he were home. Elise decided that she would take the lead on this one. Apparently, she was none-too-thrilled with how I handled the last house.

  We reached the apartment and Elise knocked. No answer.

  “Okay, well now what, Miss. Lead?”

  She knocked again and said she didn’t know.

  “Well,” I said, “we didn’t drive down here for nothin’.” I reached into my back pocked and pulled out my wallet. That’s where I keep my small lock picking kit.

  “Oh no,” Elise said. “We’re not going to break into his house! No way!”

  “We have no other choice, unless you want to just drive back to Shell Beach, get our shit and go back home?”

  “God, don’t you remember what happened the last time we broke and entered?”

  “I do. We escaped and got the license number that lead us here. The choice is yours though. Make the call.”

  Elise let out another one of her little sighs and closed her eyes to think for a moment. After about twenty seconds of total silence, she finally told me to go for it.

  I pulled out my pick and had the door open in less than a minute. I was getting good at this illegal breakin stuff, I must admit.

  “Broke and entered?” I ask her. Was that the right terminology? Didn’t sound right.

  We entered the apartment and took a quick look around. The place was a shoebox. The entire apartment appeared to be about the same size as my living room back home. It was furnished quite sparingly, too. At first glance, it appeared that someone without a lot of money lived here, but expensive touches around the apartment seemed to contradict that, like his amazing home theater set-up, all his video game systems and the sweet movie memorabilia on the walls.

  “If you had the money to buy all this expensive shit, wouldn’t you move into a bigger place? This place is tiny yet it’s filled with ridiculous shit like this TV that is goddamn bigger than mine! What the hell?!”

  “Well, some people like small places. They’re cozy. And maybe he would rather spend his money on stuff like this than a higher rent. This is Hollywood, remember.”

  “Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Let’s hurry up and take a look around. I don’t want to be here long.”

  Elise starts riffling through her drawers and I went through a small stack of papers on his coffee table. I came across two pay stubs, each for under twenty-five dollars from a place called the Husky Bar. I took a picture of the checks with my phone and continued looking.

  “Hey Arch,” Elise called out to me. “Come here.”

  I walked over and joined her by the kitchen where she had discovered several bound scripts, all claiming to be written by Daniel Mayweather. None of the titles sounded familiar at all. They were probably all rejects. I took pictures of all the title sheets then Elise returned the scripts to their drawer and we continued our search for any clues.

  I walked in to the bathroom where there was nothing of interest then peaked in to the bedroom. It was cluttered with clothes and shit (not literal shit) and I really had no desire to go digging through that mess. I noticed several women’s clothing items amongst the mess on his floor, which means he probably has a girlfriend. We would need to track her down if we came up empty with him.

  I went back into the bathroom to check for typical girlfriend items…cotton balls, curling iron, the dreaded tampons, shit like that. I opened the medicine cabinets and the drawers and came up empty handed, save for a few things of cheap make-up. I figured, with the lack of such important items, it was safe to assume he didn’t have a steady girlfriend, but that didn’t really jive with the clothes on the floor. This bothered me. I let it go, though.

  “Come on, E, I think we’ve got everything we’re going to get from here. We should go.”

  “Yeah, I agree.”

  “I found a pay stub for a bar. I’m guessing that’s his real job. We need to go there.”

  “Is it close?”

  “Actually, it’s kind of near our hotel. Off of Vine.”

  I did a quick check in his kitchen then joined Elise back in the small living room. We did one more look around then turned to walk towards the door. On our way out I noticed something hanging near the entryway. It was a framed article from Variety.

  In Development:

  Brad Jackson and his production company Striped Panther just purchased the rights to a script written by Daniel Mayweather. The movie is said to be about a pair of women who were wrongly convicted of killing a man who attempted to rape them, and their struggles adjusting to prison life. No word yet on when production will actually begin.

  “Okay,” I said, “well this is interesting. There is our connection between the two people, and really, the movie is about women falsely convicted and in prison? What?!”

  “We already had the connection though. This guy’s car is in Brad Jackson’s garage. What we really need to find out is if this guy is the same guy that Emma Ricks saw at the Hollywood house and in court. We need to find a picture of this guy and take it to Emma.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t see a single goddamn picture in this place. Did you?”

  “No, not a one. Damn it.”

  “You know what would make this a whole shit-ton easier for us?”

  “What?”

  “If we actually had Annette Jackson’s murder book!”

  A murder book is a binder that police put together for every single murder reported. They’re usually quite thorough and include pretty much the entire paper trail of the murder from the moment it was reported until the very end. There are crime scene photos, witness testimonies and statements, autopsy reports, anything and everything related to the crime is usually in the books. The only problem is, they are usually well guarded. Only people directly related to the case usually get to look at them and civilians, private eye or not, usually never to get to get a peak. And that sucks. The murder book on Annette Jackson would come in very handy right now in identifying Daniel Mayweather. We would have to figure out some other way to get a picture of him and verify him with Emma Ricks.

  I cleaned the top of my Redbull can with my shirt, then popped the tab and took a big, refreshing sip. Ahhhh.

  “Where the hell did you get that?” Elise asks me.

  “I stole it.”

  “From the apartment?!”

  “Yeah. Fuck him, I earned this. Let’s go.”

  Our next stop was the Husky Bar on Vine St.

  25.

  We arrived at the Husky Bar about two hours later. We got caught in some crazy Los Angeles traffic. It was not a good day for me to decide to stop taking my pills. I was so frustrated I was yelling at other cars. Not the people driving the other cars, mind you, I was literally yelling at the actual automobiles. Sigh. My life is not very easy.

  Anyway, the bar was a blink-and-you-miss-it place on Vine Street, probably less than three miles from the hotel at which we were currently staying. We drove by it three times before Elise finally spotted it. We parked two blocks away and walked.

  The bar was loud, especially for so early in the night. The sun had barely gone down and this place was a-hippin” and a-hoppin
”! It was a nice looking place though, much nicer than the outside suggested. There was a fair share of people there, too. The music seemed like an odd choice for such a modern bar, but who am I to complain about a little C&C Music Factory?! I could feel a smile forming on my face, like two strings were tied to the corners of my mouth and some giant was tugging them upward. I looked at Elise so she could share in my enjoyment but her face didn’t have a smile…Nope, no smile at all. Her mouth was slightly open and her brow was furrowed.

  “What’s the matter, Butthole?,” I ask her.

  “This place doesn’t seem a little strange to you?”

  “Kinda. I thought bars played that awful techno, dance music horseshit. This place is A-Okay to me.”

  “Ooooookay then,” she says and rolls her eyes at me. Again. She’s been doing that a lot lately. Am I missing something? “Let’s go talk to the bartender, then. You sure nothing seems fishy to you here, Archie?”

  “No. Quit being weird. I mean, that guy’s mesh shirt with his nipples pouring out of the little holes like a squished tube of raw cookie dough is a little ridiculous, but come on, we are in Hollywood. That kind of shit is totally normal here.”

  We headed for the door while Robert Clivilles, David Cole and their Music Factory rapped about the things that make you go hmmm.

  Yeah, that’s right; I know the names of both of the main people in C&C Music Factory. What of it? I even know that David Cole is dead now. So is Vanilli. Or maybe it’s Milli. Not like it matters, anyway, I guess. Blame it on the rain. Yeah yeah. Do you remember when Milli Vanilli got busted on their lip-syncing and then they tried to prove that they really could sing on like, some news show or something, but it was terrible and they had accents and when they sang it was like “BLAME…IT ON…RAIN. YAHHHH. YAHHHHH!” Maybe I am remembering it wrong, but it sounded like a parody of Arnold Schwarzenegger trying to sing a shitty pop song. I’m pretty sure I’m remembering it correctly though. No wonder Milli…or Vanilli killed themselves. I would have, too. Thanks for doing the world a favor. Wow, I’m getting off track.

  We took a seat at the bar and waited for the bartender to help us. It must get hot as shit working back there because he had taken off his shirt.