Chapter 3
The ocean in the South Pacific shimmered like a new sheet of wet glass. Clear and warm, like a sandy bottom bathtub. I could feel the cool breeze and the hotness of the sun as it radiated off the white sand of the beach. The type of sunshine that could bronze the skin in a few minutes.
I lay on a beach towel. If I opened my eyes, I could see the perfect blue sky. White puffy clouds moved hurriedly as the Tradewinds blew them. Each breath fills my senses with the aromas of clean sea salt, seaweed, tropical fruit, and sandalwood.
Shuffling, sandy footsteps behind me. I look up to see a beautiful woman. Her wavy black hair frames her perfectly tanned face. She’s wearing red-framed sunglasses. A pink, fluorescent sarong around her waist wraps her yellow and tan patterned bikini. She has two cocktails in frosty glasses melting in her hands. I smile. She says…
“Brak, brak, brak, brak!”
The alarm clock blasted me awake. Damn, forgot to kill that thing yesterday. A hangover splitting my skull. My eyes burned as they cracked open. Squinting against the light, I sucked in a breath full of dust and stale gym shoes. The air reeked of sweat and old beer.
I pulled myself up, elbows digging in for support. My head pounded. Bile crawled up my throat. That and a mouth like a wool blanket weren't doing me any favors.
Looking at the table in my room. I cuss at the half-drunk bottles of rotgut bourbon and empty cans. That’s when I catch a whiff of cheap cigarette ash.
“Oh, no.” I thought to myself.
That’s a sign that Gail has been here. She’s a regular at the crappy dive bar I seem to frequent. I hear a snorting sound. I look to my left, and there she is in all her tattooed glory.
“We need to stop meeting like this.”
She opens one eye and looks at me.
“You know you like it. Good morning. Now, get me a coffee and something to eat as you promised. I don’t do this for my health. I deserve some kind of payoff.”
The throbbing in my head gets louder. I lean forward, turn, and put my feet on the floor. The room is swirling and dancing like a boat bouncing in a wake.
I get up and reach over with my right hand to steady myself, chewing on the dryness of my mouth. A bit of something escapes my belly. A remnant vapor escapes through my nose and melts my eyes.
The room was still doing the hula as I staggered toward the john. I sway like a drunk sailor on shore leave with each step. Before I could croak out a word, Gail starts yapping about a shower. I can’t quite make out what she’s saying. Her voice was a buzz in my ears. The pounding in my skull was like a jackhammer gone rogue. I can’t concentrate. It’s a cacophony of misery.
“Why are you smiling? Do you like to see me miserable?” I ask, squinting at Gail.
“Yeah, kinda. Why are you miserable? I thought we had a great time last night. You were the opposite of miserable when we got here.”
I put my head in my hands as reality was battering it like a boxer who knows he has his opponent in trouble.
“What you need is the hair of the dog. After I get out of the shower, let’s go get breakfast.” Gail said.
I ambled out of the bathroom. As the shower was running, I walked over to the small kitchenette portion of my studio apartment, where I had some old instant coffee packets in a drawer. I turn the hot water on and pour the coffee into a mug that says, “Have a great day!” on one side.’ and the picture of a raised middle finger on the bottom. I add a shot of bourbon, grab a spoon, and stir it. I drink the whole thing in two gulps.
Whenever I go to a motel, I always swipe something. The bottles of shampoo and conditioner. The occasional towel or washcloth. But always a bathmat. I can’t seem to just use a towel for a bathmat. I’ve got six or seven of them stacked up underneath the sink in the bathroom. Whenever the one on the floor gets old and grimy, I throw it in the garbage and get another.
I hear the squeaks of the shower being turned off.
“Do you have any clean towels?” Gail asks.
“Oh yeah. I guess I forgot to do laundry.” I said.
Gail lets out a big sigh.
“I have an idea. Why don’t you have a couple of clean towels for guests?”
I look toward Gail out of the corner of my eye.
“I don’t want to encourage them,” I say with a slight smile.
Gail looks at me from around the bathroom door frame.
“You’re right. Why would you want to make your guests feel welcome?”
“I don’t have any guests. You’re the only one who spends time here besides me. I don’t consider you a guest.”
“Well, what do you consider me to be?”
Now, this is where it gets tricky. I had to think of something that doesn’t appear to be serious. I also don’t want to upset a sure thing. My relationship with Gail, so far, has been an unspoken mutual agreement.
Quickly saying something that addresses our arrangement without sounding like a commitment would take some creative effort. Oh, screw it.
“I consider you more of a transient.”
A tiny motel bottle of shampoo flies out of the bathroom.
“Well, at least you promised me breakfast. I’m going to hold you to it.”
“Yes, I did. Where would you like to go? I don’t feel like driving anywhere. Jack’s is the only place within walking distance.”
Jack's Trotters Lounge is a total dive, but in a good way. It's been across the street from the horse track since the late 1940s, so the place has seen a few things.
If you wander into the back room, there's this unpainted spot on the wall that's like a time capsule where you can see the different layers of wallpaper fashion. It’s like a history exhibit. You've got your black background with bright flowers from the 40s, a red background with gold leaf that screams 50s, a way-out colorful psychedelic explosion from the 60s, and then a dark brown and burnt orange number from the 70s. After that, it seems like someone ran out of ideas and slapped the whole place with a battleship gray paint job.
To fill the demand of horse bettors and average everyday miscreants, Jack’s opens at 7:30 a.m. You can get a gin and tonic with the beer chaser to go with your bacon and eggs. It attracts hipster wannabes and the people the hipsters wanna be.
Old men in fedoras filling out the racing form. Women who may, or may not, have been or are prostitutes. Off-duty cops who’ve been coming here so long that they know it’s too much trouble to investigate and then have to do all the paperwork.
“Are you here again, Gent?” Tony, the bartender, asks me.
He’s been here as long as anybody could remember.
“I can ask you the same question, Tony.”
He smiles and shrugs his shoulders. “I keep showing up.”
Years ago, I asked him how long he’s worked here. He told me he couldn’t remember.
I slid onto a stool and signaled the bartender. "Steak and eggs, scrambled. And a beer." Gail was deep in conversation with a couple of ladies down the bar. I ordered the same for her, figuring there was no point in interrupting. Once she got going, you could fire a cannon next to her ear and she wouldn't flinch.
I looked at my phone when someone’s hand touched my left shoulder.
“Is that you, Gent? If it is, you need a haircut.”
I turned to look. Police Inspector Tom Barber and I went through the Academy together. We were close once. I know things about him, and he knows things about me. We know just enough about each other to get the other one in trouble.
Tom looked as though he was straight out of Central Casting. Tall, without being too tall, and big, without being too big. His jaw is square, and his nose is straight. That’s the exact opposite of me.
“Say, ain't this a surprise. Tom the copper, gracing us with his presence before the rooster's even finished his morning crow. You got a warrant for someone's arrest? Who's the unlucky stiff on your list today? Only hope it's not me, I haven't even had my morning shot of hooch yet.”
The right side of Tom’s mouth curls upwards.
“Yeah. A washed-up old cop I used to know. What have you been doing? Looking for a damsel in distress? Helping some kid get his lunch money back?”
Tom doesn’t think too highly of private detectives. He believes they often do more harm than good. He also believes that criminals use them to cover up their tracks. When I left the force and became one, Tom was very disappointed. He felt I was throwing away my career and that I would be involved in some shady dealings. He tried to talk me out of it. Now, he just hopes that I don’t get in trouble.
“You know me. There’s always someone who needs help after the cops give up on them. Buy you a drink? A shot of something strong enough to wash away the taste of stale donuts, or are you gonna stick to chasing jaywalkers and parking meter delinquents sober?”
“It’s a bit too early for me. I got seven hours to the end of my shift. Something tells me you’ll still be here. You can buy one for me then.”
“If I’m still sitting here this afternoon, we’ll both have problems.”
As the food arrives, I look to see that Gail’s conversation has ended. As she’s heading over to me, I tell her, “I ordered the same thing for you I ordered for me. You’re going to love it.”
I gulp down the beer and order another one. I’m fighting this hangover with everything I got.
“I had a conversation just now that you’re going to be interested in. It’ll take your mind off your self-inflicted malady. It started as the usual chit-chat, but a friend of mine, Darlene, you remember Darlene, right? She was married to that guy that was a biker. They called him Tick-Tock, remember? Because he had a pacemaker.”
My eyes rolled back into my head. I rarely pray, so I just threw it out there in the hope she gets to the point soon.
“Yes, I guess. So?”
“Darlene has a friend who works at a casino. A couple of weeks ago, the friend disappeared, and she hasn’t heard from her since. She said that since you’re a detective, maybe you should look into it.”
“Is she going to hire me to investigate it? Or does she think I have nothing better to do?”
I doubt some old barfly could pay me enough to make this worth it. Darlene’s friend disappeared. I bet Darlene has had a lot of friends who willingly vanished without a trace.
"What else are you doing?" Gail asked, her voice cutting through the haze of cigarette smoke.
She had a way of getting under my skin, especially when she was right. Which was more often than I cared to admit.
"This and that," I mumbled, taking a swig from my beer. It was a weak answer, and we both knew it.
Since I'd left the force, I'd been keeping busy with odd jobs. Nothing fancy, just background checks, surveillance, finding the occasional lost item. It paid the bills and kept me in cheap booze.
Gail, though, seemed to think I had a secret stash hidden somewhere. A retirement fund, maybe, or a safety net.
Hell, let her think what she wants, I figured. It was more entertaining that way.
