The Angel and Me
The stifling heat had finally broken, and a storm was descending on New York City. I shook the water from my hat, dropped it on the table, and looked around. It was the usual, sad, 3 a.m. Friday fraternity. "Hey, Joe! Daniels with a twist of lemon." I reserved bourbon for the bad weeks. Three paternity investigations, a pyramid scam, and a suicide -- it had been a very bad week. The eel juice spread across the back of my throat and fizzed.
Three more slugs and I became philosophical. So what if I had no idea, no leads, no suspects, and no money? This was normal in this crazy, fucked-up city. There was always next week.
"You're a dying breed, T.T." Joe lent across the bar, a cigarette pirouetting in the corner of his mouth, and stubbed a finger at the evening paper. "That makes six in six weeks!"
I pulled the Post from the bar, and read the headlines. "P.I. drinks his last case."
Joe was laughing and shaking his head, "That bastard was lucky, at least he drowned in a whiskey vat!" And I thought luck was winning tickets to the World Series.
"Mr. Tarakan?" I spun around. Only Cops and the IRS called me by my surname.
"Mr. Tarakan, I was told I would find you here, especially at this time." If angels were leggy ash blondes who wore leather and spoke with heavy Russian accents, I was in heaven. I offered her the barstool next to me. She sauntered over, flashing a dark stocking welt. Large, wet eyes looked me over. I lived by two golden rules: first, never get involved with a client, and second, rules are there to be broken. She definitely came under the latter.
"We need to talk, it's my husband." It always was. "He's disappeared." She paused and drew a black lace handkerchief from her pocket. "I need you to find him." Her baby blues flooded, and I dived in, headlong. Dabbing gently, and careful not to disturb the rich black mascara, she fluttered her long eyelashes at me. My blood rushed south.
"Care for a drink?" I asked. They always liked to drink and tell.
"Thanks. Bacardi and coke, large." I smiled. She was class - a walking billboard for 50's retro haute couture - sophisticated, and from the money side of town. I gave Joe the order. Two barflies started taking an interest in the angel next to me, so we moved to a corner of the bar. She slid gracefully from the stool and I stole another look at paradise.
She spoke about her husband, but I wasn't listening. Clients were usually tediously boring, either corporate reps or middle aged losers living beyond their means. This client however, was a mid-twenties bombshell with high cheekbones, and legs that finished somewhere north of Jersey. She paused for a second, and I took control.
"Two hundred a day, plus expenses." She didn't flinch. "Cash, up front." A smile broke across her face.
"Mr. Tarakan, you come highly recommended." She oozed insincerity.
"Let's speak again in a week." She drained her glass and from within her coat produced an envelope.
"Five thousand dollars cash, as a down payment, and this is a packet found in my husband's car the night he disappeared."
I was still opening the envelope as she liberated her leather coat and spun on a stiletto, sashaying out the bar. French heels with thin black seams on flesh coloured nylons - I was hooked.
The sun was crawling across the sky when I got to my apartment. I poured a tonic and sat down with the envelope. I needed to think. I felt for reassurance and found it in my pocket. I smiled as I took out the silver snuffbox - a gift from an appreciative client - its contents helped me focus. I popped the lid. One hundred grams of these tiny creatures contained 7 milligrams of iron. Compared to beefsteak these were dynamite. To the reassuring crack of a husk, I settled down with my Pastel Babies, and opened the envelope. Inside was a wad of black and white photographs of an old man somewhere between ninety and death getting in and out of a black Mercedes. A further handful of photographs showed him with a fat man in a garden. Hidden among the pictures were a post card of a strange painting, and four film rental stubs. I looked again at the photographs. I had a nagging feeling I knew the fat man. Tiredness overcame me, and I slept, dreaming of my angel.
The next morning I followed up on the fat man - he looked like a gumshoe from the East side found plugged with lead in his apartment some weeks ago. I called Lieutenant Stalker, my ex-partner.
We exchanged pleasantries and I popped the question. "I need information about the gumshoe from the East side." Stalker went quiet.
"Which one?"
"How many have you got?"
"How many do you want?"
"The fat one"
"Ate too much."
"Natural death then?"
"Nope. " It was like pulling teeth. Stalker was clamming, and I knew why.
"Feds interested?"
"Yep."
"O' Malley's, at three."
"No problem."
The Feds only got interested for a reason. My hunch was the fat man had found something, and my angle's husband was important.
The heat was rising as I walked into O'Malley's on fifty third. Stalker had his back to the exit sitting crouched at table thirty-three. A man of annoying ritual, he had sat at table thirty-three for the five years I had partnered him. I sat opposite and he nodded, nervously checking out the three mid afternoon diners.
The waitress threw menus on the table and waited, chewing her gum like a cow ruminates cud.
"Black coffee, eggs easy over, hash browns and two blueberry waffles?" I looked at Stalker, waiting on his reply.
"You remembered!" Each day for five yearÕs he had eaten O'Malley's artery choking shit. It wasn't rocket science to assume nothing had changed.
"Why the nervousness?" I looked at the sweaty, overweight, fidgeting mess opposite me.
"The Feds are all over the fat man case."
"Why you so bothered?" His scanning of the room was beginning to irritate.
"He was working on a case for a New York Congressman. The Congressman disappeared, and we may have....well, killed him?"
I felt for reassurance. I popped the lid and sat back. "So, New York's finest killed a Congressman!" Stalker saw me smirk and frowned.
