by M. Ravenel
Even now, that shiny silver badge still came in handy, especially when I needed to trip up a suspect. But having it around could get me in big trouble. Chief Lewis pulled the strings to make sure that didn’t happen. As a private dick, I solved smaller cases and did the dirty work so the rookie cops could swoop in like vultures and take all the credit. But I didn’t mind. I was getting paid, and Chief Lewis had a good eye on me and knew that I was a-okay. In a way, I still had one foot in the force, having a great contact like him only a phone call away.
I turned off the radiator under the window and went to the coatrack by the front door. I shrugged on my brown leather trench coat over my black turtleneck and denim bell-bottoms. After putting on my gloves and placing the rest of the items in their respective pockets, I plucked my dark-green fedora from the rack and slipped it on. My thick, curly hair spilled out from it like a lion’s mane.
Leaving the office, I jiggled my key into a set of three locks that secured the door from the outside. It wouldn’t take much for a determined robber to break them, but the locks were enough to add a bit of annoyance, at least. Not like they would find anything they would consider valuable in my office, anyway, unless they had a particular penchant for Dick Tracy comics. But I pitied the fool who laid their grubby hands on my coveted reading material, because no god would save them from the wrath of an angry Tootsie Carter.
Chapter 2
The ride to Marlene’s Diner took almost an hour by bus, as it stopped at practically every stop along the way to pick up or drop off passengers. I was lucky to find an empty space on the bench seat tucked safely into one of the back corners of the bus. I’d always preferred having my back to the wall, where I could get a good look at everyone coming and going, a leftover habit from my old days on the force.
The bus was beginning to empty, and I was one stop away from my destination, when the bus pulled over to the corner of East 168th Street and Third Avenue. I halted reviewing my case notes and looked up from my notebook. Two men wearing Wall Street–wannabe suits and carrying black briefcases boarded and made their way to the back. I pegged them as either salesmen or insurance agents of the sleazy variety, from the way they strutted along like they carried gold in their pockets. But I’d dealt with their types enough times to know that it was all a façade, and they almost never had a pot to piss in.
They both looked like they’d had another long day of poor sales or they were inundated with insurance claims—most likely theft or arson—that were probably stacked higher than the Empire State Building. These days, it was bad news all around for businesses, especially when the country was barely surviving last year’s stock market crash. Wall Street was a zoo right now. And here I thought being a private dick was stressful.
One of them, an older Hispanic man, eyed an empty space beside me on the bench, gave me a curious once-over with his calculating hazel eyes, and quietly sat. I looked sideways at him, noting the briefcase he had in his lap. It bore an emblem of a lightning bolt on the front and “Insta-surance—Insurance in a Flash!” beneath it. Wow, I’m good, I thought.
Faint wrinkles traced the man’s ruddy, weathered face and around his neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper facial hair. The pungent odor of tobacco wafted from him.
His companion, a clean-shaven Black gentleman, wore thick glasses. When he looked my way, his eyebrows rose. He nodded, smiling crookedly. “Hey, sweet thing. Whatcha doing back here all by yourself? Want some company?”
I simply gave him a brief, expressionless stare then returned to my case notes. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He seemed like a smart one to take my quiet, yet obvious hint, as he cleared his throat and lowered himself in the seat next to his older companion. I was no stranger to the looks, catcalls, and whistles from desperate turkeys looking for a quick shag. And I knew they were desperate, because I was worlds apart from looking like a Playboy model. At least, I thought so. I owned only a handful of skirts, heels, and dresses, a few of them Christmas gifts from my mother, and all of them worn only on those ultra-rare occasions that required me to “be a lady.” Dresses and heels tended to get in the way of my work, especially when I had to chase a suspect. Or fight for my life.
I was in no hurry to settle down, not when there was so much more excitement to be had in this detective life. Navigating in a man’s world was only half the fun.
The older man looked sideways at me and let out an airy chuckle. He murmured to his friend, “You’re losing your touch, Joe.”
As the bus sputtered off again, Joe blew a raspberry. “Man, that chick don’t know what she’s missin’.”
I held my tongue, refraining from letting out some choice words. I decided to “be a lady” tonight.
“Ella parece tiene sus cosas en orden,” the older man muttered to himself. He reached into the inner breast pocket of his suit and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He slid one out and rolled it around in his fingers a moment. “In any event,” he said to Joe, “I’m putting my neck on the line tonight. Two hundred on Wesson.” He stuck the cigarette in his mouth, pulled out a silver Insta-surance-engraved lighter from his other pocket, and lit it.
Joe snorted. “I’m tellin’ you, man, Wesson’s gonna have his hands full.”
“Doubtful. His opponent is a washed-up has-been.”
Sighing, I slipped on my gloves, then I reached up with two fingers and tugged on the yellow pull-cord draped across the window to request my next stop. Most sports talk tended to go right out my other ear, unless it pertained to baseball, and even then, my mind was always elsewhere with cases. I barely found time to keep up with the latest news.
Around eight thirty, the bus pulled up to the East 168th Street and Park Avenue stop. I got off, along with a few other passengers, and walked a quarter mile the rest of the way to Webster Avenue. A light gust of gritty, chilly air stung my cheeks and the tip of my nose. Lousy springtime weather, this was. It had to be close to thirty degrees, and the forecast promised steadily falling temperatures as the night drew on. I tipped my hat down farther and stuffed my hands into my trench coat pockets.
Marlene’s Diner sat midway down the wide street, across from one of the towering Webster projects. First opened in ’61, the diner was primarily frequented by off-duty cops and legal suits en route to Grand Concourse. I’d come here once or twice with my parents for a quick lunch, way back in my youth. The diner’s fish-and-chips house special was out of this world, and they were the only ones around who made those killer Tootsie Roll milkshakes. I didn’t know why I hadn’t come here more often, then or now. Then, I guessed, my parents—especially my dad—had been the frugal types, and eating out was a rare, luxurious treat. Nowadays, my stomach would probably eat itself by the time I braved the cross-town traffic to make my way all the way over here.
It was 8:45 p.m. when I reached the diner’s entrance. A welcoming warmth from the hot stoves, coffee pots, and the nearby radiator soothed my face, thawing out the bitter chill from my skin. I inhaled the familiar mouth-watering aroma of the house special, and I had to remind myself why I needed to make this stop brief. I raised the brim of my hat slightly and observed the diner’s patrons. Long-faced blue-collar workers occupied the booths. Chatty college kids had claimed most of the chrome-trimmed swivel stools at the lunch counter. A lone busboy traversed the opposite end of the diner, sweeping the grimy, green-and-white checkered floor, while a waitress zipped to and from each of the booths like an excited, sugar-infused ant. Another waitress stood behind a register at the lunch counter, cashing out a waiting patron. A plate of piping-hot fish-and-chips appeared at the small serving window beneath a metal order wheel clipped with food orders written on white, notecard-sized slips. Beyond the window, I also caught a glimpse of two busy cooks scrambling about the kitchen. Propped up on a shelf next to the lunch counter was an old radio, hissing out the staticky sounds of Motown’s latest hit.
Tugging off my gloves, I approached the lunch counter. The cashier sorted a stack of bills in the cash
drawer then speared a handwritten guest check through a metal paper spindle with a stack of others. Despite her appearing much older, I pegged the woman to be somewhere in her late forties. Permanent frown lines marred her sweat-slicked forehead and around her mouth. Tiny white strands of hair streaked the edges of her thick, puffy bun. As she looked at me, the lines in her forehead became more prominent, and a score of crow’s feet appeared around her narrowing dark-brown eyes. “Yeah? What can I do for you, sweetie?”
I leaned against the counter, giving the nearby unsuspecting college kids another quick once-over before turning back to the cashier. A white nametag that read “Nat” hung crookedly over the left breast of her teal food-stained uniform. “Evening. I’m looking for the manager.”
She scanned me up and down with an arched eyebrow. “That’d be me. Can I help you?”
“My name is Detective Carter. Does a woman by the name of Luanda Miles work here?”
Nat’s eyes widened, and the crow’s feet disappeared. “D-Detective? As in the police? You got a badge?”
“Yup.” I flashed my old police badge just long enough for her to see that it was the real deal but not long enough for her to read the fine print.
She swallowed once then leaned in closer, and her voice became a low mutter. “Yeah, Lu works here. What’s going on? Is… Is she all right?”
I matched her volume. “Not sure. I need to find her first. She’s apparently been missing since Monday.”
Her shoulders slumped, and a look of pain washed over her sienna-toned face. “I haven’t seen Lu since Friday. I only work here two days a week, usually the first shift, but sometimes the second—like today.”
I fished through one of the inner pockets of my trench coat and pulled out my notebook. After unhooking the pen from the spirals, I turned to a fresh page and jotted some notes. “Noticed anything different about her last Friday?”
Nat shrugged and shook her head. “Nah, she’s usually hanging around those other girls, Cheryl and Theresa, gossiping. Lu’s a sweet little thing, though. Has a way with the customers—the men, especially—and gets the most tips.”
I arched an eyebrow. “What kind of ‘way’ are we talking here?”
“Have you seen her? I don’t know why she ain’t on the cover of Vogue.”
“That fine, huh?”
Nat chuckled. “Honey, you just don’t know.”
Maybe Lu is related to Pam Grier. Distant cousin, perhaps? “Well, I do know her husband is worried sick at home.”
“I would be, too, if I were him. He married himself one foxy mama, I’ll tell you what.” She retrieved a cleaning rag and an unmarked spray bottle from beneath the register, then she spritzed the top of the counter. The lemon-scented cleaner wafted through the air as she wiped the harvest-gold laminate in slow circles.
“You get a lot of male customers here looking for her?” I asked.
“Well, you know. We get the regulars—the few who’ve come here enough times to learn her schedule.” She didn’t look up from her cleaning.
I scanned the diner, trying to pick out some potential admirers. “Any of them here now?”
“Don’t look like it. Lu ain’t on the schedule today.”
“You know the names of any of her admirers?”
Nat chuckled. “Harris, Trey, and Jack are three I know for sure, because they give the biggest tips. Don’t know their last names, though.”
I wrote down the names, though I wasn’t sure how much good this would do me. “Do you know if any of the other employees have seen her lately?”
“Maybe one of the cooks, but…” Nat nodded toward the waitress serving coffee to two men in a booth. “Theresa over there, probably. She and Lu often work the same shift.”
“Swell. I’ll have a little talk with her.”
“We’re closing in thirty minutes. Mind hanging out till then before you start grilling her with questions? We’ve been short-staffed tonight. She and I are the only ones working the floor.”
I really did mind staying longer than I should, because my stomach was growling after I’d spotted a plate of a piping-hot, juicy steak being slid into the serving window. And it took every ounce of my willpower to refrain from ordering a Tootsie Roll milkshake. No. Work first. Then food.
“Fine,” I conceded, then an idea suddenly came to me, which graciously hauled away my spur-of-the-moment appetite. “Say, is there a place where the employees keep their things?”
“Yeah, there are a couple of filing cabinets in the back.” Nat thumbed toward a nearby steel swinging door marked Employees Only. “Lu uses the drawer marked B.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
“Well, I guess I ain’t really have a choice now, huh? I mean, that poor girl’s missing and all. Go on, check it out, Detective.”
“Appreciate your cooperation.”
“I just hope you find her soon.”
I headed for the Employees Only door as another patron approached the counter. I slipped through the door, which opened up to a tiny, narrow passage. The powerful, mouthwatering aroma of seasoned fried perch wafted from another swinging door to the right, which led to the kitchen. Through the door’s circular window, I noticed the two cooks continuing to work the stove and prep area tirelessly. At the end of the hallway, I reached a room lit by a single low-hanging lightbulb attached to the popcorn ceiling. The room appeared slightly bigger than my sardine-can-sized bedroom. Two metal folding chairs and a card table were arranged against one wall, a couple of magazines stacked under one of the table’s uneven legs. Two filing cabinets stood up against the opposite wall.
I tugged open Drawer B. It was fairly clean inside, save for a wadded gum wrapper and a neatly folded black half-apron. I checked the apron and discovered a blank guest check pad in one of its pockets. Nothing unusual here…
Frowning, I thumbed idly through the blank pages of the pad from cover to cover like a flipbook. I was about to return the pad, then my fingers rubbed over something on the back cover. I turned it over. Some indented writing was barely visible. I held it up closer to the hanging lightbulb and tilted it slightly. The writing appeared to be an address to someplace in Queens. Beneath the address also read: W - 10:30p.
‘W…’ Wednesday? I wondered. Tonight was Wednesday. I had no idea which Wednesday the note meant, but it might be worth checking out. Lu hadn’t been seen since Monday, so she could’ve written it much earlier. I transcribed the info into my notebook and slid the pad back into the apron’s pocket. Wherever the address led, it was the only clue I had for now.
The caged wall clock over the doorway read a quarter after nine. If I could squeeze a few answers out of Miss Theresa, I would have enough time to grab a taxi and book it to Queens in under an hour.
I returned to the main dining area. The place had emptied out, with only a couple of the college students lingering at the lunch counter. But even they appeared to be wrapping up their conversation and preparing to leave. The neon Open sign was shut off, as was the radio. The hiss of running water and clinking dishes echoed from the kitchen. Nat was going through the stack of guest checks, seemingly unaware of my presence, while Theresa went around to the booths, wiping them down and clearing away stray dishes. The busboy brushed past me, wheeling his steel bucket behind him, and disappeared through the swinging door. I approached Theresa and stood in her path before she could work on the next booth. She halted and looked up at me with a start.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Theresa, was it?”
She swallowed and gave a small nod. “Y-Yeah? Who are—”
“Detective Carter.” I flashed my badge. “I’m investigating Luanda Miles’s disappearance.”
Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened slightly. “Lu’s gone? You… You sure?”
I looked at her curiously, taking a mental picture of her smooth chestnut face, noting the nervousness in her dark-brown eyes and the subtle twitch of her left eyelid. “Well, she’s apparently been missing since Monday. You h
ave time to answer a few questions?” I gestured to the empty booth.
She swallowed again and nodded. “Yeah, I guess…”
We plunked down in the stiff booth seats, and I watched her from across the table. If she had something to share, I intended to pull it out of her. “First of all, chill out. You’re not in trouble. I just need some answers.”
“Sorry, I-I just can’t believe Lu’s missing.”
“I can get to the bottom of this if you cooperate. Can you dig it?”
She nodded again and moistened her lips.
I opened my notebook. “So, you and Luanda are friends?”
“We’re just coworkers. We talk here and there but nothing really more than that.” Her eyelids fluttered downward, and she drew small circles on the laminate with her finger.
I reached over, placed my hand over her fidgety one, and held it firmly in place. “Mind looking at me and saying that again?”
Her jaw clenched, and she lifted her gaze. “We’re coworkers. We talk sometimes. That’s all.”
I removed my hand. “What do you guys talk about?”
She gave a light shrug. “Shopping, television shows, music, weekend plans, latest gossip…”
“Men?” I suggested with raised eyebrows.
Theresa snorted. “No, Cheryl’s the one who talks about men. She’s the only one of us who’s still single, after all.”
“Does Luanda ever talk to Cheryl?”
“Sometimes, yeah. And wouldn’t you know, Cheryl was supposed to work tonight, but she called in sick.” She frowned and averted her gaze again. “I called her today before I came in to work, but she didn’t pick up. I dunno. Something’s not right. Cheryl seemed fine when I saw her yesterday.”
“You talked to Cheryl yesterday?”
She nodded. “We went shopping.”
“So, what do you suspect is up with her?”
Theresa sighed and looked back at me. “Don’t get me wrong. I love Cheryl like a sister, but she’s such an instigator. She knows damned well Lu’s a married woman, but Cheryl’s playing around, trying to get her in trouble with the way Lu turns heads. Maybe she’s just using Lu in order to snag herself a man. I dunno.”