The Things We Do for Love

by Benjamin M. Schutz

  “You ever heard their stuff?”

  “No, can’t say that I have.”

  “Hold on a minute.” He rummaged around in the dresser drawers. “Here, this is a tape of the latest album. I’ve got a copy of the new video here too. You own a VCR?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That …” he said, pointing to the videotape, “is what got us this offer. It cost a bundle to produce, but wait’ll you see it. Their performance is a scorcher.” Frowning at the empty doorway, he yelled “Margo.”

  Margo appeared in the doorway, a glossy folder in her hands. She’d thrown a bored look over her face to cover her anger, but she smoldered like a fire under a blanket. Nicky-baby might get a little singed tonight.

  I sidled by Margo and took the folder from her. “Thank you, Margo. Ballantine, I’ll see myself out. I’ll call you Wednesday to nail down the final details.” As I passed Margo, she gave me a spine-tingling smile. I didn’t mind her using me to set Nicky on fire.

  CHAPTER 3

  After stopping to deposit Ballantine’s check I drove home. There I went through the mail, picked up messages from my answering service and opened up a file under the name of Ballantine/Jane Doe. That done, I called Rocky Franklin to thank him for the referral.

  Rocky’s voice boomed in my ear. “Leo, how are you?”

  “Fine, Rocky. Just fine. I just called to thank you for the referral.”

  “Oh, yeah. That Ballantine guy. Sure. Are you going to take it?”

  “Yeah. Me and Davey Isaacs.”

  “Good. Should be interesting. You ever seen this Jane Doe?”

  “No.”

  “Ballantine sent me a video of her, trying to close the deal, I guess. What a jerk. You don’t want your security hot and bothered, you want ’em stone cold. I figured you’d be immune to all that nonsense, what with Samantha around full-time. How is she?”

  “She’s fine. She’s holed up in her apartment revising her novel, so I haven’t seen much of her recently, but everything’s going well.”

  “Good. Glad to hear it. That brings me to something I want you to think about. I’m in the process of buying out Richardson & Bass and taking over their investigative business. I want to branch out beyond security and I need a director to run the shop. Someone who knows investigative work, someone I can trust. What do you say? You aren’t a kid anymore. Why not get off the streets and leave it to the next generation?”

  “I don’t know, Rocky. Let me think about it, okay? When do you have to know?”

  “Not right away. We’re still dickering over this buyout. How about a week? Otherwise I’ll have to look elsewhere. If you’re interested then we can talk terms.”

  I told Rocky I’d give it some thought.

  His offer was disturbing. Samantha had recently been working up to saying the “C” word. I’d seen her mouthing it in front of the mirror. Children. Her biological clock was ticking away and she was running out of time for a low-risk pregnancy. When she was ready to raise the issue would I shrug my shoulders and claim that my work made being a father impossible? Would I slip the handsome cloak of necessity over what was probably simple greed? “Can’t” sounds so much better than “won’t.” I’d have to start practicing in front of the mirror too. “Can’t.”

  I found myself calling Randi Benson, my sixteen-year-old foster daughter. Three years ago her father and I reached an agreement. I got Randi to raise and he didn’t get jail for molesting her. Her dorm receptionist went to get her.

  “Hi, Leo. What’s up?” she chirped into the phone.

  “Nothing much. Listen, I have a question for you. Have you ever heard of a group called Jane Doe and the Pleasure Principle?”

  “Sure. They’re outrageous. I love The Axeman.”

  “The what?”

  “The Axeman, Axel Andersson, the lead guitarist. He’s incredible.”

  “Have you ever seen them?”

  “No, I haven’t,” she said pointedly. “You nixed that Halloween concert last year. Don’t you remember?” I could see her, in my mind, her hands on her hips and her face scrunched up like a skunk had just farted.

  “No, I don’t, but I’m sure I had a good reason. What was it?”

  “You grounded me because I’d broken curfew.”

  “There you go. Do they get much airplay?”

  “WHFS plays them a lot. They’re getting onto 107 and DC101 now that their album is out. I’ve heard they’re going to make a deal with a big record company, so bye-bye D.C. Next time they’re in town it’ll probably be at the Capitol Center and tickets will be twenty dollars.” She sniffled theatrically.

  “Don’t cry, you’re breaking my heart. I may be able to make it up to you, though. What do you think of Jane Doe?”

  “She’s great. I love her songs. I’d like her a lot better if the Axeman would dump her.”

  “So they’re an item, eh?”

  “That’s what I’ve heard, but then I wouldn’t know since I’ve never actually seen them.”

  “Amazingly, though, life goes on.” I picked up the album Ballantine had given me. “Nudity, Profanity and Adult Situations” was the title. The label was Owl Records: A Fly-By-Night Company. I asked Randi if that was their first album. She said no, last year they had released an EP called “Maps for an Uncharted Sea.” I wrote the name down with a note to look for it at Tysons Corner.

  “I’ve got to go now. I’ve got a meeting of the literary magazine,” Randi said.

  I thanked her and promised her one of those twenty-dollar tickets.

  “You do that and I just might let you out of my doghouse.”

  “Will wonders never cease. Get going or you’ll be late.”

  My last call was to Danny Freeman, a college buddy, freelance music writer, and part-owner of the Launching Pad, a showcase club for local talent. There was no answer.

  I went over the itinerary Ballantine had given me and called Davey Isaacs. Fortunately, Donna was out. Davey said he’d lined up a car. I told him I would put a bank check in the mail to him tomorrow morning for his time and the car. I read the itinerary to Davey and he promised to drive it and pick out his routes and alternatives.

  I had put off reading the letters as long as I could but there was no avoiding them any longer. I got out a scratch pad and a glass of Irish whiskey, and sat in my recliner with the notes in my lap. I closed my eyes and imagined tying my worries and stray thoughts onto the tail of a kite, then slowly, evenly letting out the string so that the kite rose, dipped and rose again. I watched it soar overhead, rising until it was only a speck in the sky. Then I let go of the string and it was gone. I opened my eyes and began to read the first note. It was dated a month before.

  Jane Doe,

  That’s cute, but you can’t hide behind that name, I know who you are. I can see right through you. Your time will come. The truth will be told.

  I jotted down a couple of questions and picked up the second note, dated two weeks after the first:

  Jane Doe–

  You greedy slut. You never have enough, do you? Better be careful. You could choke on it.

  The last note was one day old.

  The Bitch Jane Doe–

  I’ve seen what you’ve done, you slut. You ruin everything with your lies. You will be stopped. You must die.

  I wrote a few more notes and put the letters away. I’d finally found something to distract me from Samantha’s absence. Three little words. So much hatred.

  CHAPTER 4

  At eight o’clock the next morning I was standing outside the fan club’s headquarters. That put me in the stairwell of a basement apartment in Takoma Park waiting for the president, Mitzi Philbrick, to let me in. She pulled open the door and looked at me over a chain Pee-wee Herman could have snapped.

  “Yes?”

  “Ms. Philbrick. My name is Leo Haggerty. I’ve been hired by Nick Ballantine to look into some letters that were sent to Jane Doe.” I took out my wallet, flipped it open to my license and hand
ed it to her.

  She glanced at it and handed it back. “Boy, am I glad that Nicky decided to take this seriously.” She undid the chain.

  “Would you like some coffee? I have to warn you it’s instant.”

  “Sure. Thanks.” I sat down on her sofa. “How did Ballantine react when you first showed him the letters?”

  She spoke around the wall that divided us. “He didn’t react at all. Not to the first two letters. I told him we didn’t get things like that, that he should pay attention to them.” Mitzi came back into the living room with two mugs, cream and sugar on a tray.

  “What kind of things do you usually get?”

  Mitzi looked up from lacing her sneakers. Her round glasses slid down her ski-jump nose. She pushed them back up. Her black hair hung limply around her face like a licorice string mop. “Requests for information, concert tickets, autographed pictures, T-shirts, and then the usual love letters.”

  “To Jane Doe?”

  “Yeah, but more of them are for Axel. We get all sorts of things with them. Pictures you wouldn’t believe, underpants, you name it.”

  “Do any of these fans, the ones who write the love letters, ever turn nasty?”

  “No. I send out the standard fan club letter. Axel and Jane never reply to them, they don’t like to encourage that stuff. Especially Jane, she’s a fanatic about her privacy.”

  “Any idea what changed Ballantine’s mind?”

  “No doubt about it.” Mitzi ran her fingers through her hair. To what end I had no idea. It lay there just as limply as ever. “About a week before that last letter we made the hit list.”

  “The what?”

  “Morality In Music’s list of forbidden acts. You know, acts that promote feminism, humanism, sexual anarchy and disrespect …”

  “They’re based in D.C., aren’t they?”

  “Yeah, down on K Street, somewhere. Anyway, Nick heard about that, looked at the letters again and I guess he decided to do something about it. You’re here, aren’t you?” She stood up, smoothed her skirt, tucked in her blouse and went into her bedroom.

  “Do you think there’s a connection?”

  “Could be. I doubt that they’ve hired people to threaten artists but then those anti-abortion bozos were pretty loose with their explosives.”

  “I understand that the letters were slipped through your mail slot. Were there any envelopes?”

  “No, they were just folded over, typed but unsigned. Nothing else.”

  “Are you listed in the phone book? I mean how would someone know to drop a letter here?”

  “The address is printed on the album covers. The album’s been out, I guess, four months. I mean, we may be small, but we’re no secret.”

  “Does anyone else know about the threats?” I sipped my coffee. It was awful.

  “No. Just Nicky. I called him right away. He made it real clear he didn’t want anyone to know about it.”

  “You said you send out concert information. Was Jane or the group in town in the last month?

  “Not for any concerts. They might have come back to see friends, but they’ve been out in L. A. for a while now.”

  Score one for Nicky and Walt keeping this under wraps.

  “I’d like you to do something for me.”

  “What? It has to be quick though. I have to get to work.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “Falsetto Sound Studios. I’m a secretary there.”

  “Is it on the way downtown?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll give you a ride, okay?”

  She shrugged. “Okay. Thanks. What do you want me to do?”

  I slipped the microcassette recorder out of my pocket. “Two things. First. Tape all your phone calls, the fan club’s, I mean. Whoever wrote the letters may also call, and I want to hear them. Secondly, if anything else is sent to you here that looks at all suspicious, call me immediately, day or night.” I gave her my card with my phone and beeper numbers. “Don’t touch anything, and don’t call the police. I’ll call them myself. I just want to see it first.”

  “Is that all?” she said, anxious to get going.

  “One other thing. Call me, not Ballantine. He hired me but it’s my responsibility to handle this.”

  “Whatever you say. I’m glad somebody’s handling it. That last letter gave me the creeps.”

  Mitzi put my recorder and card by her phone and locked up behind us.

  After I dropped her off at work, I dialed Information and got the address for Morality In Music’s office and made my way over. As I crept along Washington’s clogged rush-hour roadways I dictated more notes into my recorder. That done, I dialed Danny Freeman’s number again.

  “Lo?” It was painful hearing the effort that greeting required.

  “Jesus, Danny, have you been to bed yet?”

  “What day is it?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “Nope, Who’s this?”

  “Leo Haggerty. Can I pick your brain, Danny?”

  “Not now. Nobody’s home. What about?”

  “Jane Doe and the Pleasure Principle.”

  “I have seen the future and they are it.”

  “When will you be available for consultation?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Nine.”

  “A.m.?”

  “You got it.” The line went dead. I redialed the number.

  “Okay. How about tonight, say eight o’clock?”

  “Fine. Where?”

  “You working, Leo?”

  “Yeah.”

  “La Colline.”

  “Okay. At eight.” My deal with Danny is dinner out in exchange for his information. It’s a compromise between our friendship and his professionalism.

  CHAPTER 5

  Morality In Music had its office on the corner of Eighteenth and K Streets, in the heart of Washington’s business district. Nearby was Mel Krupin’s, home of the world-class power lunch. The deals consummated there over the matzoh-ball soup and the prime ribs with horseradish have bottom lines of war and peace, not profit and loss.

  The lobby directory told me that the office was on the ninth floor. Moments later, I stepped out of the elevator and followed the signs to Morality In Music’s front door. The secretary launched a preemptive smile as soon as I set foot inside the door. Deep-dimpled, wide-eyed, a bit of tooth showing. Swish, perfect. Automatic. I wondered if she practiced it like Larry Bird. Three hundred a day in front of a mirror until you can do it in your sleep. Her long brown hair was swept back tight to her skull, and held in place by a tortoise-shell pin. She clasped her pink-nailed hands together as if in prayer.

  “May I help you?”

  “Yes. I’d like to speak with your director.”

  “Do you have an appointment?” she asked apprehensively. She didn’t even glance at her day-book. She knew that she hadn’t scheduled one. She’d either screwed up or her boss wasn’t telling her what she needed to know in order to do her job. Could the pink slip be far behind?

  “No, but it’s rather an urgent matter.”

  “If you could tell me your name and who you represent, I’ll see if the director can see you for a moment.”

  I slipped out my wallet and showed her my license. “I’m sorry, but my client’s name is confidential.”

  “Have a seat and I’ll see if she’s available.” I looked around and saw an L-shaped bench to my right. The coffee table had a variety of magazines I never read. I hoped it would be a short stay. Every time I stray over onto the other side of the tracks I get a rash.

  Two minutes later she returned and told me I could go right in. The lettering on the door read “Mavis Wrightman, Director.” The woman behind the large blond wood desk did not rise to greet me. The bright red slash under her nose was set in place but the muscle under her ear contracted rhythmically. Her eyes were caulked in charcoal and when she blinked, I heard her bayonet eyelashes snick. A reddish mane of hair, lacquered in perpetuity, fr
amed her face. Her skin had a glossy sheen to it. I’d always thought that people came in a matte finish. Perhaps it was the glow of righteousness I’d heard about. The billowing gray smock she wore hid her bulk as well as anything would.

  “Please sit down, Mr. Haggerty. What exactly is this urgent business you have?”

  I took the chair opposite her and snuck a glance out her window at K Street and the top of the White House beyond that.

  “I’m looking into some death threats that have been made against a rock group.”

  “And you suspect us?” she said in amazement, pressing her fingers into her chest.

  “No, but I have reason to believe there may be a connection and I’m here seeking your help.”

  “What possible connection could there be?”

  “The group in question has just made your list of so-called ‘forbidden acts.’”

  “Might I ask who the group is?”

  I didn’t see any harm in telling her, if it would loosen her tongue. If they were involved, there was nothing lost and they were on notice that steps were being taken. “Jane Doe and the Pleasure Principle.”

  Mavis Wrightman shook her head. “Absolute filth. Pornography of the worst order. I’m not the least bit surprised. They pander to everything that is deviant and sick.”

  “What exactly is that?”

  “Have you ever seen or heard this group?”

  “No.”

  She ticked off their offenses on her pudgy fingers. “Their lyrics are sexually explicit. They advocate ideas destructive to family life, to the American way of life. They mock authority of all sorts, and encourage their listeners to mindless rebellion. Their live shows are a scandal.”

  Nothing new there. Sounds like good old rock ’n’ roll.

  “How did they get on your list?”

  “We review all questionable albums and videos and if in our minds what we are seeing is offensive, it goes on our list. That list goes out to parents all across the country. We’re trying to keep them armed with information to protect their children.”

  “From what?”

  “From what?” Her eyelashes banged together twice. “From the seduction and corruption of these filth peddlers. There’s a war going on out there.” Mavis’ color was rising. “A war for the very souls of our children. Unless this filth is stopped, and stopped now, we are in danger of losing our way into a chaos of rampant feminism, godlessness and lust, that is anti-family and anti-Christian.” Mavis’ chest stopped heaving. And now a word from our sponsors.