Gordita Conspiracy

by Lyle Christie

  I took another sip of coffee and felt that familiar pressure in my lower abdomen and realized that my favorite morning beverage was doing its job. Ah—to be home and alone with my porcelain mistress. I missed her simple lines, comfortable white plastic seat, and I longed for her gentle embrace. I refilled my cup, grabbed my book from my bag, and entered the greatest, though least appreciated, sanctuary of humankind. There, I sat upon the porcelain throne, put my cup on the sink beside me, and opened my book to the folded piece of toilet paper that served as my bookmark—an item that told the story of where I obviously did most of my reading. I took another sip of coffee and was about to initiate the release sequence when I remembered that my iPhone was in my pants pocket. Shit. With my luck, every friend, relative, telemarketer, and scam artist would start calling in the next five seconds. I reached down, dug my iPhone out of my pants pocket, then set it on the sink next to my coffee and gave it a stern warning.

  “OK, fucker, right now I need some alone time, and you are my filter to keep out the world. Do me this little favor, and I’ll get you that new ballistic glass screen protector we’ve been talking about,” I said, aloud.

  I took another sip, opened my book, then felt the gentle release of my bowels. It was almost bittersweet as I said goodbye to my most recent meal of pork chops, broccoli, and scalloped potatoes. It had been delicious and served me well, so now, I sincerely hoped it would enjoy its new existence at the waste processing plant at the other end of Sausalito. Parting was such sweet sorrow yet a necessary evil of the cycle of life. I took another sip of coffee then turned my attention back to my book and skimmed the pages until finding the spot where I had left off. I started reading, but only made it to the next page when my phone rang.

  “Goddammit! You promised!”

  Who the hell would be calling now? I looked at the number and saw that it was from the 510 area code. That was the East Bay, and I only knew a couple people over there, and none of their names had popped up on the screen.

  “Oh shit!” I said, just before hitting the answer button.

  “Hello, Tag Finn Investigations.”

  “Yeah hello, it’s me—Estelle. Is it a good time to talk? You’re not taking a shit or anything are you?”

  Estelle. Wow. I hadn’t seen or talked to her since our time together on Soft Taco Island three weeks ago. She was the chief purser on a mega yacht that I’d traveled on in the Caribbean, and we’d had a short though amazing relationship. Unfortunately, we parted ways when I flew off to Europe to chase down the French arms dealer Babineux, and she had left for a visit home and apparently hooked up with her ex-fiancée and was re-engaged.

  “Of course not.”

  “You sure? Because I thought I heard an echo.”

  “I’m in the kitchen.”

  “You don’t have to lie. Remember, we talked about all this. Going to the bathroom is a completely natural part of life. I really thought you had made some progress.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She laughed.

  “I imagine you didn’t call just to talk about my bathroom issues.”

  “No, I wanted to tell you what I’m up to.”

  “I heard about you and the ex. I guess I should say congratulations.”

  “Thanks, but I was hoping we could get together for coffee and talk in person.”

  “Sure, but I leave tomorrow on a new job.”

  “With Lux?”

  She was of course referring to Lux Vonde, the woman I had rescued back on Soft Taco Island. I had also cheated on Estelle by engaging in some amazing nostalgic beach sex with Lux. It wasn’t exactly textbook adultery, however, because Estelle and I had only been together a couple days, and Lux and I had been past lovers who were never actually able to make love and, therefore, felt that we needed to do so in order to have proper closure.

  “No, I’m a lone wolf on this one. When do you want to meet?”

  “How about right now? I’m outside your place.”

  Not again! She had to be fucking with me. The last time I took a call on the crapper, it had been from the woman who hired me for the Soft Taco Island job. She too had been outside on my front porch, and unfortunately for me, I had told Estelle about that little incident, so it appeared she was doing her own cruel reenactment.

  “You’re not serious are you?”

  “Yep, I’m here on the South Forty Pier. You gave me your address—remember?”

  “OK fine, I’m taking a shit. I’ll let you in when I’m finished Goddammit.”

  “No hurry, take your time. It’s a beautiful morning.”

  I finished up, washed my hands, gave a little spritz of air freshener, then nervously walked to the door. It seemed as though a lifetime had passed since I’d last seen Estelle, and I was feeling this reunion might be a little—awkward. When we had first met, I’d had sex with two women in two days, and she had called me a man-whore. In the week since parting ways, that number had more than doubled, so I suppose I really was a bit of a man-whore now, though I hadn’t been before the entire Soft Taco Island adventure began. I could only imagine that the gods of sexual intercourse had decided to reward me with dubious amounts of female companionship because my cheating ex-girlfriend had inadvertently ushered in several months of abstinence.

  I opened the door, and there stood Estelle looking even more beautiful than I remembered, and it was a little painful to think that she was officially off the market. She smiled and hugged me, and, with her lovely breasts pressing against my chest and the scent of her hair tugging at my olfactory receptors, blood was starting to flood into my gentleman region. She brought her head around and kissed me, and, while she didn’t throw in any tongue action, it was still very friendly and not doing much to deter my emerging semi.

  “Goddammit. You’re just as beautiful as I remembered.”

  “Were you hoping I had gotten uglier?”

  “Kind of—when I heard you were engaged.”

  She laughed.

  “Are you going to invite me in?”

  “Yeah, sorry, come on in to chez man-whore.”

  She stepped inside, and I closed the door and motioned for her to head towards the kitchen, which was on the other side of the house. She was a few steps ahead, and I noticed that she was wearing some rather lovely black stretch pants. They were extremely flattering to her figure, but then she probably could have made a brown paper bag look good. Interestingly, I had only ever seen her in four outfits: a white sailor uniform, exercise clothes, a bikini, and a stunning red dress. Apparently, she looked amazing in everything—though I wish I could add my bed to the top of that list.

  “Coffee?”

  “Love some,” she said.

  I poured her a cup and added some almond milk, and we sat at the counter.

  “So, what’s your new and exciting case?” she asked.

  “Sorry can’t give out any details, but I can say it’s a big deal.”

  “Are you working for the CIA again?”

  “Not exactly. It’s almost worse if you can believe it.”

  “Ah, the exciting life of a private investigator.”

  “If only. Do you know that up until a month ago, my cases were all adultery and lost pets.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Well, I suppose there’s nothing wrong with finding someone’s lost pet. It’s actually kind of sweet.”

  “Yeah—but adultery is definitely not.”

  “How ironic. Coming from a man-whore that is.”

  “I see being engaged hasn’t killed your sense of humor.”

  “Or my hunger. Do you want to get a late breakfast?”

  “Sure.”

  We decided to go to my local diner, so I took a quick shower, and we left my houseboat and headed up to the parking lot, where I hit the unlock button on my key fob. The lights of my beloved Subaru WRX STi flashed twice, and Estelle paused in mid stride and appeared to be a little taken aback, for she ga
ve me a questioning smile.

  “What? You’re not impressed by the Silver Hornet?” I asked.

  “Did you add the spoiler and hood scoop?”

  “Fuck no, this motherfucker came that way!”

  “So, what’s with the nickname?”

  It’s an homage to Inspector Clouseau’s car in the movie The Revenge of the Pink Panther, but, unlike his car, which was a pice of shit, this is a fucking sweet ass ride!”

  “It looks like something out of the Fast and Furious franchise.”

  “Yeah, because it is, though sadly it goes rather unappreciated by my smug fellow Marin residents, who prefer name brand cars such as Audi, Porsche, Mercedes, and BMW. Unlike their overpriced fancy pants rides, this beast is Japanese and has a whopping three hundred and five horsepower and two hundred and ninety pounds of torque.”

  “I think I could live with the enormous spoiler and hood scoop with those numbers.”

  “Indeed you could, now climb aboard m’lady.”

  We reached the restaurant to find it was fairly crowded, but we soon got a booth along the side wall, and Nancy, the owner, who was also my favorite waitress, stopped by to take our order. She was a lovely thirty something who I’d helped out with an ugly divorce a few years back, and we’d been good friends ever since. I introduced Estelle then ordered a Denver omelet with cheese. Estelle ordered some girly vegetable omelet with a side of fruit instead of hash browns, which was a typical chick maneuver, but it was probably decisions like that which accounted for the fact that women generally outlived men. Nancy returned with our coffee and a couple of waters and looked a little uncomfortable.

  “What’s up? Difficult customers? Do you need me to kill them?”

  “Not exactly. It’s your ex, Melanie. She’s out on the patio with Yacht Club Guy.”

  “No way.”

  “Way.”

  Melanie had dumped me for a wealthy yacht club guy—right after getting together with him on his yacht, and sadly, the following months had been particularly devoid of female companionship. Then, three weeks ago, I was hired for the Soft Taco Island job by a stunningly beautiful woman named Bridgette Vandenberg, and we had the incredible luck of running into Melanie while we were out shopping in Sausalito. Needless to say, Melanie was not thrilled to meet Bridgette, and today she would see me with Estelle! That’s two beautiful women in less than a month—awesome! While it might seem petty to revel over such trivial matters, anyone who has ever been dumped knows the effect it has on your self-esteem, and why any subsequent revenge brings so much joy. Now, three weeks and five incredible women later, my life was finally on a dramatic upswing.

  “What’s the big deal with your ex?” Estelle asked.

  “She’s a fucking bitch,” Nancy said.

  “Fucking being the operative word. She had sex with the new guy on his yacht then called me right afterward to break up.”

  “That’s cold, and I can only imagine that event precipitated you turning into a man-whore.”

  “Man-whore? Tag? No way,” Nancy said, looking a little surprised.

  “I’m not really a man-whore—I’ve just had a sudden run of good luck with the ladies.”

  “More than luck,” Estelle said.

  Nancy eyed me suspiciously before leaving and returning a few minutes later with our food. She mumbled man-whore and laughed to herself as she left to check on one of her other tables.

  “Thanks for sharing my nickname. Now, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “You reap what you sew.”

  “And apparently sew all I see.”

  She frowned and grumbled as she finished the last strawberry in her fruit bowl. Soon thereafter, Nancy dropped off the check, and, just as I put down my card, Melanie and Yacht Club Guy came walking by on their way out of the restaurant. She froze when she saw me with Estelle, and the shocked look on her face brought me more joy than any night of lovemaking I had endured with the cheating bitch.

  “Hello, Melanie.”

  “Um, hello, Tag.”

  “I’m Estelle, Tag’s fiancé,” Estelle said, holding up her hand with the engagement ring clearly visible in front of Melanie's face.

  Melanie shook her hand timidly, as though she were touching a leper.

  “Nice to meet you, and might I say that’s a beautiful ring,” Melanie said, in a surprised tone.

  “Thanks, it’s Tiffany!” Estelle said.

  “Yeah—I noticed.”

  Even I knew about the significance of having a Tiffany ring. It was expensive and an obvious measure of how much a man cared for a woman—or at least how much he was willing to spend. Melanie, therefore, was officially in abject shock as she pondered how in the hell I may have purchased something so expensive and, better still, believed that I was engaged. Fucking awesome. Life could be so good at times. Yacht Club Guy cleared his throat and dug into the front pocket of his Dockers for his key fob, which was obviously his signal to Melanie that he was ready to leave. She gave a halfhearted smile then said goodbye as she followed her smug paramour out the door.

  “Thanks! That was awesome!” I said.

  “It’s the least I could do considering she turned you into a man-whore.”

  We left the restaurant, and Estelle asked for a little tour of Marin County, as she had inexplicably rarely travelled here in her time growing up across the bay. I decided to start with coffee in Mill Valley, a quaint little town which was nestled in a redwood forest at the base of nearby Mount Tamalpais. It was once the fabled home of musicians, artists, and writers, but now was populated by accountants, attorneys, and doctors, all of whom were there for its scenic tree-lined streets, lack of crime, and top tier public school system. We arrived in the little downtown to find it bustling with locals and tourists, and we had to head off onto a little side street to find a parking space.

  “Where to?” Estelle asked, as we exited the car and stepped onto the sidewalk.

  “Corporate coffee chain, local coffee chain, or local coffee shop totally unassociated with any kind of chain?” I asked.

  “Which is the best?”

  “They’re all good.”

  “OK, let’s go with the middle.”

  “Equator it is!”

  We walked downtown and entered Equator to find a fairly long line, but it went quickly, and soon we were out enjoying our java and walking around town. We did a loop of the square then walked up past the theater before circling the block and heading back down to the car.

  “This place is beautiful. I can’t believe I never came over here,” she said.

  “Yeah, but our next stop is going to be the top of Mount Tamalpais, and you’re going to shit your pants when you see the view.”

  “Is it as good as the view we had from the parasailing rig?”

  Estelle and I had made a dramatic exit from Soft Taco Island in a parasailing rig and ended up having the best airborne makeout session of all time.

  “Yeah, but I doubt it’ll be as much fun.”

  “You never know.”

  Hearing Estelle utter those words now felt as though she were shooting an arrow straight up my ass and right through my heart, so I tried to ignore them for the moment. Instead, I focused on navigating the winding road that took us up past a bevy of spectacular homes and to the official beginning of the Mount Tamalpais State Park. From there on out, our journey was even more treacherous, as we had an endless parade of extreme curves populated by bicyclists, tourists, and the occasional bus.

  We finally reached the west peak parking lot and found a space and began the short trek to the very top of the majestic mountain. It was one of the tallest peaks in Marin County and afforded a spectacular three hundred and sixty degree view of the bay area that included everything from Point Reyes and Sonoma to the Farallon Islands and hills of the East Bay and Santa Cruz. We arrived at the fire watch station then ventured down a small path to the southernmost patch of rock and sat arm in arm—the experience making me feel unusually sentimental fo
r the time we had spent together in the Caribbean. It also made me think about her fiancé, who I imagined was, in all likelihood, better marriage material than me considering the crazy and rapidly evolving state of my love life at the moment. Still, I secretly hoped the fucker was boring as all hell and had a beer belly and bad facial hair. Was that petty? Absolutely, but a coping mechanism was for coping after all.

  We continued to sit and enjoy the view and each other’s company until the sound of footsteps somewhere off behind us interrupted the usual quiet that existed around sunset on the mountain. I looked west over my shoulder towards the setting sun and spied a blond man using his phone to take pictures from the other side of the peak. We were between him and a pretty spectacular view, so it made sense we happened to be in his foreground. I turned back around and continued to enjoy the view with Estelle, when, on a whim, I decided to turn back around to take another look, but the man had apparently disappeared. Strange. People usually stayed up here until sunset, but perhaps he was German and had to keep to an especially efficient pre-planned travel itinerary. Vacation for me was about not having a schedule, so I could never understand people who spent hours planning how they were going to relax. Maybe they should have spent that time relaxing so that they would have enough energy left over for their busy vacation.

  Soon, the sun dipped down behind the other side of the mountain, and the temperature dropped dramatically. Estelle said she was cold, so we got up and started walking towards the car. The path wound around the mountain and back into the warm rays of the remaining sunlight, and it gave us a spectacular view of the ridgeline to the north. The fog was rolling in from the ocean, but it could go no further than the mountain, and it made it look as though we were standing at the edge of the world. It was at times like this that I really appreciated how lucky I was to live in Northern California.