Gumshoe Rock

by Rob Leininger

  Ma fell back and Lucy and I took over, keeping a hundred yards or more back. Finally, Volker made it home. He pulled into his driveway next to the beater Honda, hit the remote, raised the garage door, and drove in. The garage door rolled down.

  Lucy got Russ on the burner. “Phone him in two minutes. You know what to say.” She ended the call.

  Three minutes later, Russ called back. “Done. And I wish I knew why I did that.”

  “No you don’t,” Lucy said, then hung up.

  We waited. To save time, if it became necessary, I had Ma active on a different burner system. I could see her Caddy at a curb a hundred fifty yards north of us. No chatter on our burners. We let our phones chew up a few silent minutes.

  One minute.

  Three. Five. Eight.

  Nothing.

  Then Kimmi came out, got into her junker Honda, backed out and took off, fast.

  “Follow her?” Lucy asked.

  Tough call. But Ma was still on Volker and Kimmi was in a hurry, so why not see what the brat was up to? If anything. It might be a true emergency; she might’ve run out of meth. Okay, now I know I’ll have to talk fast at the Pearly Gates.

  We gave Ma a heads-up, then split. Lucy and I stayed well back, keeping Kimmi in sight. We went north on surface streets, which made it harder due to traffic lights. I had to move up on her so she couldn’t leave me at a red light.

  Which she did anyway as she blew through a yellow light. Perfect timing.

  “Well, poop,” Lucy said as Kimmi’s car dwindled off in the distance. “Now what?”

  Quick decision. We were on Virginia Street. Lots of lights that might slow Kimmi down. I thought I knew where she was going, so I went left on Plumb Lane and raced up to Arlington. Arlington was free of traffic lights as far as California Avenue. I went through that light on green, crossed the river to First Street, turned right, east on First, and there was Kimmi’s Honda, coming in our direction. We’d beaten her there by no more than ten seconds.

  “Wow,” Lucy said. “You rock.”

  “Me boulder.”

  She whipped a smile on me, then said, “Hey, look, there’s a place at the curb.”

  I just made it. Parked before Kimmi found a place around the corner on Ralston. She returned a minute later and went in the front door of the Truckee River Apartments.

  “Room 307,” I said.

  “Interesting,” Lucy said. “You know this how?”

  “Did I not mention that Mira is occasionally in 304? Thought I did.”

  “Yeah, I guess. But you left out Kimmi’s place.”

  “I doubt it’s hers since she lives with Daddy. It’s probably Dooley’s. And the number wasn’t important until now. Also, his name might not be Dooley. It might be George Orwell.”

  “Who, sadly, is deceased. Why might this guy be Georgie, and how’d he end up here?”

  I told her about the name on the mailbox.

  Lucy said, “Maybe he’s into English Lit.”

  “Which is even less likely than Orwell still living there. Or maybe George used to live there when he was writing 1984, and no one’s gotten around to changing the name yet because people are always busy as little bees, no time for minor tasks.”

  “You’re so logical. Now what?”

  Good question. We were back in hazardous territory. Not good. Dooley or Ramon could be around, though I’d never seen Ramon in or around the place, didn’t know if he lived there or in a penthouse somewhere paid for with drug money. It had been almost two weeks since I’d knocked him out in Wildcat the night Ma was there. Two weeks. It was likely he was up and around again, though his right arm wouldn’t be good in a knife fight for another year or so, if that. If ever, I hoped.

  And Mira could be in the building. I still didn’t have much of a handle on her.

  But we couldn’t see anything sitting out there in the car so this gumshoe thing was stalled on the tracks.

  “Sit tight,” I told Lucy. I got the driver’s door open an inch before she said, “Why? Where’re you going?”

  “Gonna have a look or a listen at 307.”

  “Without me? No way.”

  “Way.” I used teen-speak since she looked eighteen. I gave her a hard look then got out of the car.

  She opened her door, popped out, and glared at me over the roof of the car.

  I returned the glare. “Back inside, kiddo.”

  “See,” she said, “that’s where you’re wrong, because you and I are in this together and I’m not about to let you go into that building and traipse around by yourself.”

  “See,” I said. “That’s where you’re wrong, because you are not going into that building and I am going to traipse around in that building by myself, so get back in the car.”

  “Time’s wasting, Cowboy. Kimmi could read Tolstoy’s War and Peace and write a term paper by the time you get me back in this car if you try to set one foot inside that place without me.”

  “Kimmi couldn’t read the first chapter of War and Peace in six years on a desert island. And a term paper? Hah.”

  Lucy just glared at me.

  Well, shit. We’d come this far. I wanted to know if it was just coincidence that Kimmi had taken off minutes after Russ’s cryptic call to Volker. So, one more try.

  “How about I tie you up, Sugar Plum?”

  “Don’t you ‘Sugar Plum’ me, bozo.”

  Bozo? This had gotten serious.

  So, disguises. We didn’t have much, but we’d tossed wigs in the back seat before leaving to stake out Volker’s office. Mine was over-the-ears and gray. Hers was shoulder-length, curly, and blond. And we had guns in the trunk.

  “Wig up, girl,” I said. “And arm up.”

  “Groovy. We’re going in? Check out Orwell? Maybe hear an old typewriter clacking away?”

  “If I had rope to tie you up, no. But I don’t, so yeah, we’ll go in. Armed to the teeth. Put your gun in your purse. Keep it ready. And that’s last, last, last resort—but if we happen to run into Ramon …”

  “Blast away, since we’ll be armed to the teeth.”

  I gave her an IRS stare.

  “Kidding,” she said. “Unless he pulls out a shotgun.”

  Wigged and armed, we crossed the street. Rufus’s voice whispered in my ear that this wasn’t the all-time smartest move I’d ever made as a private eye. But it wasn’t the worst, either. I’d done a lot of really dumb things since I left the IRS. Worst move was when I climbed moose-like through a window with Jeri into an old mansion on Virginia Street around midnight and ended up in a cold basement with two psycho women hell-bent on killing us.

  The front door was locked. Glass. I cupped my hands to cut the glare and looked inside.

  Empty lobby, no one in sight. “Maybe we’ll cancel this,” I said.

  “Excuse me,” came a voice from behind me. A young girl, no more than fifteen, eased past me, trying not to touch the old guy who probably had cooties, and opened the door with a key.

  Fifteen’s a good age. Old enough to have a key, not enough life experience to have much of a clue or to challenge an adult. I caught the door before it shut, and Lucy and I were in. The girl glanced at a mailbox as she went by, then trotted up the stairs.

  We waited a minute, checked out Orwell’s mailbox, didn’t see royalty checks piling up through the narrow viewing slot, then we hiked up the stairwell to the third floor.

  “Ever read Animal Farm?” Lucy asked.

  “Hush.”

  I peeked through the window in the fire door. No one in the hallway, so we went in, walked cautiously down to room 307. I listened at the door. No television murmur. No voices. Nothing. Lucy shrugged her lips and shook her head at me.

  Now what?

  Knock on the door? What for? What would I say? “Howdy there, kiddo. We were just in the neighborhood”? Not an option. In fact, I didn’t see much of anything we could do. So, stymied. But in fact, I’d been stymied from the time Kimmi had gone into the apartments. I’
d hoped to hear voices, and even then, I didn’t know what I would do. This gumshoe shtick wasn’t always what it was cracked up to be.

  At the end of the hallway, I heard Spade chuckle. Yeah, right. As if he could do better.

  Six ten p.m. Here we were in the hallway, looking lost, or like we were casing the joint. People who got off work at six would be arriving soon. Those who actually had jobs.

  Lucy tilted her head, gave me a “now what” look.

  I wondered if Mira was around. If so, maybe we could hide out at her place and keep tabs on 307 for a while.

  I backtracked to 304, rapped quietly on the door as Lucy stood off to one side. The peephole went dark. Seconds later the door opened wide and there was Robin, all four foot ten of her, barefoot, topless, nipples the size of Binkies—which made sense considering their function. All she had on was a scarlet thong the size of a MasterCard.

  “Oops,” I said. “Didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

  “Hey, you.” She smiled like we were old buds. “I don’t like to wear a bunch of clothing when I’m here alone.”

  “And you whip the door open for strangers, too.”

  “Which you’re not. We’ve already met.” She stood hipshot, one hand on the door frame, inviting, an attitude that suggested we were buds with benefits and that she’d been expecting me. “Wow, you’re still really big,” she said. “C’mon in.”

  She hadn’t seen Lucy, out of sight to my left. By the look on Robin’s face when Lucy appeared and stood beside me, Lucy was that three’s-a-crowd, fifth wheel you hear so much about when people go around mixing metaphors.

  “Who the hell are you?” Robin said.

  “Mata Hari,” Lucy replied.

  “That’s a weird name, and you need to leave. Right now.”

  “Bye,” I said.

  “Not you.” Robin grabbed my wrist, then shot a daggered look at Lucy. “You.”

  “More giant tits,” Lucy said to me. “Naked, too. Isn’t that special?”

  “I told you, Sugar Plum, this particular career attracts them like nobody’s business. I’ve got no control over it.”

  Robin’s gaze bounced between us. “What career?”

  “How about you deal with it?” Lucy said. “I would just say the wrong thing. Well, things—plural. I’ll be outside.” She took a step into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind her.

  Robin stared at the door. “Sugar Plum? Where’d you get that? She’s like boiled turnips.” She still had a grip on my wrist. Then she smiled at me. “You came back. Cool.” Another glance at the door. “What’d you bring her for? Like for a three-way? I guess I might go for that.”

  I got control of my wrist again. I would have to tell Lucy about that turnips comment. Boiled, too. She would like that. I might mention the three-way, too, see how that went over. “Mira been around lately?” I asked.

  “Mira?” Robin made a face. “Don’t tell me you like ’em skinny as a rail?” She shot another look at the door. “Like her. All bones and gristly.”

  I would have to tell Lucy about that, too. I’d never noticed that she was like gristly boiled turnips.

  “Well, gotta run,” I said. I got the door open a few inches, then said, “It’s been nice. Seeing you, I mean.”

  I had to say it, couldn’t help it.

  I got out of there. Lucy was in the hallway, grinning, trying to smother a laugh.

  “Ohmigod,” she breathed. “Been nice seein’ you?”

  “Guffaw later. Now’s not a good time.”

  Another giggle, then: “You weren’t in there very long. Did your eyes fill up that fast?”

  “We’ll talk outside.”

  “Okay, then. Now what?”

  The fire door at the end of the hallway opened, and in came Dooley. Still six-one. Still a hundred fifty-five pounds. Still had long greasy hair, looking like he’d been paroled a few days ago.

  I spun Lucy around and we headed for the fire door at the other end of the hallway at a fast walk.

  “Hey, you,” Dooley called out. “You two.”

  We kept going.

  Footsteps behind us, coming at a medium jog. Shit. Might have to pull a gun here.

  I turned around. “Yeah? What can I do for you?”

  “Haven’t seen you around here before, dude. Or you.” He tried to look behind me at Lucy. “You lookin’ for someone?”

  He didn’t recognize me. I hoped. Only time he might have seen me was in Wildcat the first night I was there. I’d worn a blond wig then, glasses with black rims. No glasses now, and the wig was gray. I’d tried to stay behind him that night, didn’t think he’d noticed me since he was intent on buying drugs to further enhance a towering intellect. But here he was, hassling me and Lucy, so what did I know?

  “I don’t see a badge,” I said. “You are the hall monitor, aren’t you? I thought that went out in the fifties.”

  He stared at me. “Huh?” Then: “Who’re you, man?”

  “Lord Greystoke.”

  “Me Mata Hari,” Lucy said, syntax jumping all over that Greystoke-Tarzan reference. What a girl. “What’s yours?” she asked.

  He stared at her, surprised me when he said, “Mike.”

  “Mike Hammer?” I said. “Wow. It’s nice to meet you after all this time. I saw Spade a couple of weeks ago, but it looked as if he was tailing someone, couldn’t stop to chat.”

  “Hammer? Spade? Who’re they?”

  Lucy giggled. I pushed her farther behind me, then pointed at Dooley’s ears. “Hey, nice gauges, Mike.”

  That threw him. Probably the first time anyone told him his gauged ears were nice. He could’ve taken out the black onyx rings and stuck a banana through the holes in his earlobes, kept them there for lunch. Sarcasm was probably lost on this guy, but worth a try, so I added, “Makes you look quite dashing.”

  “Dashing?” he said. “What the fuck? Like running?”

  I smiled. “A person whose literary ability is challenged by Incredible Hulk comics might think so. Hundred-yard dash and all that. So what’s your mom think about your gauges?”

  His eyes narrowed. “What the fuck’s it to you, dude?”

  “Limited vocab,” Lucy said. “You’re not getting through.” I put a hand behind my back and waved her off.

  “Not a thing,” I said. “Holes in your lobes you could drive a Harley through give you an enchanting look.” A faint snicker came from behind me. “But I think gauging is the kind of self-mutilation fad that will run its course and die, like that Middle-Ages thing where you pluck out your own eyes if you happen to see something disagreeable. Which, if you think about it, was pretty cool and really got the point across. Darwin might explain it like this: What will you do when your gauges give would-be employers the impression you have the intelligence of a bucket of sand crabs?” As if they didn’t now.

  He looked like he wanted to jump me. Maybe I was going to get more use out of my judo lessons. But Rufus had warned me that you can’t tell how dangerous a person is by the way they look. Skinny whipcord guy might come at me like a chainsaw so it was time to leave to keep Lucy from shooting him. I knew she would have her hand on that gun in her purse.

  “Anyway, we’ve gotta run, but it was nice meeting you.” I stuck out my hand.

  That took him by surprise. He stared at my hand.

  I shrugged. “Men shake hands. Of course, if you’d rather curtsy, go ahead. I won’t tell.”

  “Hey, screw you, dude.”

  “If you’re not up to it, that’s okay. I understand.” I kept my hand out, kept my eyes locked on his.

  He went for it. Took my hand and gave it his all. Which, I have to say, wasn’t much.

  So it was testosterone time. I gave his hand a four-second Borroloola squeeze. I’d lifted a sixteen-pound iron bar up three feet about half a million times down under in Australia between November and March last year. I hadn’t let my grip get weaker since then. Four seconds is a long time. Dooley’s hand folded up like
an aluminum can. His face went white and a little squeal of pain chirped out of his throat. His eyes rolled up in his head and he sank almost to his knees.

  “Oops,” I said. “Sorry ’bout that. Got a little carried away.”

  I pushed Lucy toward the end of the hallway as I backed away from Dooley. Lucy and I went through the fire door and down the stairs, quickly. I made a lot of noise as we went.

  At the second-floor landing I held her up, listened for a moment, then motioned for us to go back up, quietly. I peered through the window in the third-floor fire door. Dooley was just opening the door to room 307. He went in and was gone.

  “Stay back,” I said to Lucy. I opened the fire door and went soundlessly down the hallway. Lucy, of course, was right behind me. What a great assistant.

  I listened at the door to 307, heard voices, couldn’t make out any words. Lucy looked at me, shook her head.

  Well, shit. Gumshoes-in-training strike out.

  We listened another half minute, then gave up, went back down the stairs.

  “I take it that was Dooley?” Lucy said as we reached the second-floor landing and started down to the ground floor. First chance she’d had to ask.

  “Uh-huh. Or George Orwell. Take your pick.”

  “I’m not thinking Orwell. Where do you think he’s from? Carson State Prison? Folsom? Maybe Lovelock?”

  Lovelock Correctional Center. Where O.J. had hung out for years after that ill-considered robbery and kidnapping deal down in Vegas. Some people get a Hail Mary second chance and still run their Lamborghini off a cliff. Not much you can do about it if it’s in your DNA.

  We hurried across the street toward her Mustang, then I put an arm around her waist and got us walking east along the river toward Virginia Street.

  “Where’re we going?” Lucy asked.

  “Their window faces the street. Dooley might be watching. I don’t want him to see us get into a car, get any sort of a handle on us. He buys drugs from Ramon and Ramon likes knife fights. Or used to. These are not nice people.”

  “We should go to the firing range, blast away. I want to get that concealed carry permit for the gun Dad gave me.”

  “Which gun is currently and illegally in your purse?”