Authors: Mick James
Chapter Three
I had a nap,
cleaned up a little, and actually changed the sheets. I stole some flowers from the neighbor’s after I remembered I was supposed to water the garden while they were out of town. Showered, shaved, found a clean shirt, and some fairly clean black jeans. I topped it off with my black leather jacket that a former girlfriend once described as making me look ‘incredibly sleazy’.
I was at Malone’s five minutes early and then waited twenty minutes nursing a Coke before Kerri arrived. Malone’s is one of those restaurants with passable side dishes, great steaks, a nice bar, and no surprises. It was about half full, which seemed rather good for a Wednesday night in the midst of the Great Recession. As far as I was concerned, it was a good steak place with a limited wine list and cheap drinks. Ambience was not its strong suit. The placemat was white paper sporting purple script that spelled out Malone’s and looked like it was designed by a fourteen-year-old girl serving detention after class.
I was seated in the back, close to the kitchen door, which pushed in or out, depending, thumping loudly every time it swung closed. So much for reservations.
Even the women sitting at tables cast an appraising eye for a brief moment when Kerri sauntered through the front door, stopped, and scanned the room. She was wearing some sort of black stretch pants which, were indeed stretched, wonderfully. Sling back heels, dangerously high, clicked across the oak floor. Conversation halted as she strutted past.
She wore a black strappy T-shirt, emblazoned with stretched, bouncing white letters that proclaimed ‘St. Paul Girls Are Hot!’ I could only imagine the thing must have shrunk in the wash. She smiled and nodded in my direction as she made her way to my table. Two waiters fought to pull her chair out, then lingered over her, fawning and leering down her top as she sat.
“Oh, thank you. Nothing for the moment,” she said, dismissing them before turning her attention to me.
I waited until the two were in full back pedal. Her perfume began to waft around the table before I spoke.
“Do you always have that effect?” I chuckled.
“Effect?” She seemed genuinely unaware.
“Nothing, nice to have the service I guess.” I’d never seen a waiter pull a chair out for someone at Malone’s before.
“I guess you did not need a reservation?” she said, looking at the handful of empty tables then stared past my shoulder as the kitchen door thumped closed.
“That won’t do. Excuse me.” She smiled at the waiter hovering in the shallows of her perfume. “Is there another table we could have, please? This door banging will drive me cuckoo.” She smiled, her accent suddenly stronger. I thought she set her shoulders back ever so slightly, batted her eyes, and maybe added a slight bounce or two to her request.
“I can take care of that for you. Is there a table you’d prefer?” He smiled down at her, then quickly stepped to the side to pull out her chair, hovering again to catch a glimpse as she bent forward. That was twice in the same night with the chair pulls.
“How about that one in the corner?” she said, crinkling her eyes and grabbing his forearm.
“Not a problem, ma’am. Please, allow me,” he said, leaping across the room.
“I don’t believe it,” I said once we were reseated and he’d danced off, attending to a table that had been attempting to get his attention for the past few minutes.
“What? I would have lost my mind with that door.”
“No, I mean the chairs pulled out for you, the waiter fawning all over.”
“Is it not what they are supposed to do?”
“Yeah I get that, but here? At Malone’s?”
“At anywhere, Dev, there’s nothing wrong with a little manners once in a while. Oh here, a picture of Nikki,” she said handing a folded manila envelope across the table to me. “I placed a house key in there along with her telephone bill and a credit-card bill. That man, Brad the Cad, his phone number is in there, too.”
I unfolded the envelope, reached in, and began to pull out what felt like a photo.
“It may be wise to wait,” she said nonchalantly.
I glanced down at the photo and focused on two naked women standing on a beach. One of the women was Asian. I attempted to focus on the other. I registered red hair, boobs, and tan lines before I shoved the photo back into the envelope.
“Thanks for the warning, I’ll study it later.”
“Ma’am, sorry for the inconvenience.” Our hovering waiter placed a glass of wine in front of Kerri. “Compliments of the house,” he smiled.
“Oh, that is so sweet. Is that not sweet, Dev?” Again with the hand to his forearm, only this time rubbing up and down.
“Really sweet, Kerri. Could we see some menus, please?”
“A very nice wine. Perhaps you should try a glass. Did you have to send him off like that? He was only being nice.”
“He can be nice to someone else’s client.”
“Jealous?” she asked looking evil for just half a second.
“I thought we weren’t going to have anything to drink until after we discussed business?”
“Yes, that was your idea, no? But I think everything you need, at least to start, is already in the envelope.” She took another sip and set the glass aside.
“What’s with the naked photo?” I asked.
“The envelope has her address. A key to her front door. It is a duplex, she has the top one. Her name is on the mailbox. Her last name is Mathias.”
“Kerri. The photo?”
“Ma’am.” The waiter suddenly hovered from out of nowhere, carefully presented Kerri with her menu, then quickly discarded another in my general direction.
“I can get you something not on the menu tonight. We have a wonderful steak, stuffed with smoked oysters and served with a special red wine sauce. Comes with whatever else you’d like.”
Kerri giggled, shrugged her shoulders, smiled sexily and said, “I’m sorry, the smoked oysters, they give me the shits. I think maybe just a salad, oil and vinegar. Does that come with maybe a cracker?”
“If you want it to.”
“I do.”
“Very well, ma’am,” not even blinking.
“I might try that steak, what was it again?”
“Actually I think there was only one left. I can check and see if someone hasn’t already taken it,” implying it was no longer available.
I stared for a long moment.
“Give me the rib-eye, rare, hash brown potatoes, French dressing with blue cheese on my salad. I’ll take a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. A double.” Then gave him a nod that suggested ‘
Got it?
’
“Very good, sir. More wine, ma’am?”
“That sounds very good, thank you.”
I watched him saunter away, then took a deep breath to put him behind me. I didn’t mind him hovering, for a bit, but he was close to becoming a pest, and I was the schmuck who was going to get stuck with the bill in the end.
“Are we not happy after last night?” Kerri’s eyes flashed over her wine glass.
“No, I mean yes, yes, I’m happy. And by the way, thanks. That was very nice,” wishing I could remember more of what had happened as I thanked her.
“Nice had nothing to do with it.” Her eyes flashed.
Over the course of dinner and more wine, Kerri effectively dodged my question of the naked photo at least half a dozen times. Nikki didn’t seem to have had any full-time employment. A couple of vague cleaning jobs, some house-painting gigs. She’d been a waitress, a bartender, done childcare.
“Did she file taxes?” I asked.
“Taxes?”
That spoke volumes, about both women, actually. As enjoyable to look and leer at as Kerri was, I felt there was something, or maybe, just something missing.
Chapter Four
Eventually we finished up
the small talk. Even optimistic old me caught on that nothing was going to happen tonight beyond dinner. The bill dutifully washed up on my shore, five glasses of wine for Kerri at twelve bucks each.
“You like the wine?”
“It was just okay.”
“Okay?” I tried to maintain my composure at sixty bucks worth of okay. My steak was a bare two dollars more than one of her glasses of wine.
“Well, he was so sweet and I didn’t wish to hurt his feelings,” she said, then drained her glass. The waiter was nowhere to be seen so I signed the tab and pulled Kerri’s chair out all by myself.
“Thank you, Dev. Shall we talk again, maybe in two days time? You should find her by then, no?” She was walking toward the door at this point, half talking to me over her shoulder.
A waiter nodded, then smiled at her from across the room, called out what sounded like genuine thanks. The bartender waved good night to her like Oliver Hardy, a large paw up at shoulder height, fingers wiggling next to his idiotic grin. Other heads turned to appraise her from the rear then nodded approval as she strutted past, heels clicking, hips inviting.
“I’ll see what I can learn. Who knows, maybe she just went to Disney World or something.”
“Do you think, maybe?” she asked, sounding serious, as if she might actually be entertaining the suggestion.
“Well, maybe, but I doubt it. Let’s see what I can come up with.”
Once outside I asked,
“Where are you parked? I’ll walk you to your car.”
A little dark blue sports car, a BMW actually, suddenly pulled to the curb. I had no idea what model it was, other than out of my price range.
“Oh, no need, here is my car.” She nodded at the BMW and walked around the front to the far side just as the driver’s door opened and the hovering waiter jumped out. The car came up to just above his knees.
“All set to go for you, ma’am. I left my card on the console,” he added half under his breath, glanced at me, then said, “In case you need anything or forgot something, ya know.”
“Oh, you are so kind.” She smiled and continued to stand just a little too close. He had to brush against her, heavily, to get out of the way so she could crawl behind the wheel.
“I’ll call you later, Kerri,” I said to her tail lights as she drove off, signaled, and took a quick left around the corner. I repeated her license plate number over and over in my head until I reached my car and wrote it down on the back of a dry-cleaning receipt. I toyed with going down to the Spot, thought better of it, and went home. The last vestige of Kerri’s lingering perfume hit me as I opened the front door.
Chapter Five
The duplex where Nikki
lived was located on the East Side in a corner of town dominated by the stark, imposing edifice of St. Simpert’s Catholic Church. Simpert was an eighth-century Benedictine abbot, nephew of Charlemagne and patron saint of Augsburg, Germany. I’m sure he was unaware of the embarrassment his name would bring to generations of American grade-school kids playing on his teams.
A solid blue-collar neighborhood up through Lyndon Johnson’s presidency, the East Side had been in a gradual downward spiral for the past fifty plus years. Drafty, old, two, and three-story wood-frame homes had been cut up and sectioned into rental units on block after block. A number of the old neighborhood bars still catered to the locals, but the locals had changed and now the bars sported metal detectors, hip hop, and bouncers. In the ecumenical spirit of the times women of all races hustled themselves on street corners. Child thugs in hooded sweatshirts offered a pharmacy of escape options. The police cars traveled in pairs.
Nikki’s duplex was second from the corner and sported shabby, brown asphalt siding that was supposed to look like brick. Eighty years on and in the afternoon drizzle it just looked like shabby asphalt siding. The floor on the wraparound porch had apparently been painted gray years back, but the paint had pretty much peeled off exposing bare wood, which accounted for the buckled floor. A post supporting the leaky roof stood dangerously close to a rotted two-foot hole in the porch floor. A rutted, muddy driveway turned to weeds toward the rear of the house then just disappeared altogether beneath the rusting remains of a green Bonneville. The car, or what was left of it, sat on cinder blocks. The hood and the engine were missing, and five year’s worth of dead leaves rotted beneath the thing. Kerri had mentioned that her sister’s car had been parked in the driveway. I hoped she wasn’t referring to the Bonneville.
The front door had probably been elegant at one time. The glass, long gone, was replaced with weathered plywood. A jagged hole had been drilled through the plywood, slightly off center, presumably to look from the inside out. Although closed, the door was unlocked. Two black metal mailboxes were mounted just to the left of the front door. The top one had a faded, handwritten piece of cardboard taped to the front. #2 Nikki. No last name.
I pushed the door open and followed the squeak inside. There was a small hallway that led to a grimy door beneath a staircase. The number ‘one’ had been drawn on the door in black marker. The staircase, sporting a railing of 2x4’s painted flat gray ran up the right hand wall to a landing where it turned left and went up another half dozen steps. The wall was stained and dingy from years of grimy hands running up and down. The 2x4 railing wiggled dangerously as I began to climb the stairs. The air held just the slightest hint of mouse.
Nikki’s grimy apartment door sported four panels that had been painted an icy flat white a very long time ago. You’d have to look hard to find an uglier color. On the door a haphazard 2 had been drawn in black marker. The door was locked, although by the look of the frame and the panel next to the doorknob, the door had been kicked in more than once.
Surprisingly the key turned the lock, and I pushed the door open then stood on the small landing with my ears perked. I heard nothing. Eventually I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. The place was soulless, nothing on the walls. A single recliner looked orphaned in what served as a living room. No carpet or rugs, just dull, worn wooden flooring. No end tables, no lamps, no television, not so much as a radio or a clock. The kitchen was much the same, an old refrigerator, bare. Empty cabinets, one plate, a coffee mug, no silverware. No pots, no pans, no food, no soap.
Amazingly, the bedroom sported a bed and a dresser. The dresser drawers, more empty than not, held a pair of jeans, and a T-shirt. In the small closet a cheap, dark blue rayon robe hung alone on a nail. I could still detect faint perfume from the robe.
What looked to be a full roll of toilet paper hung in the bathroom. A white plastic shower curtain was draped across the shower entry. A full container of Soft Soap sat on a corner ledge in the fiberglass shower. No toothbrush, no toothpaste, no makeup. No shampoo or conditioner for a redhead with hair down to her shoulders.
There was no wastebasket to go through. No computer with files to copy. No stacks of mail to sort. No phone with a message light blinking. Nothing. So had Nikki lived here and moved everything out? Recently? I couldn’t imagine someone living like this for very long, say more than an afternoon, and then only if she had a good book and at least a six-pack.
I did a brief walk through twice more and came up with even less. There was nothing there. It was like the place was a sleazy hotel room and somebody forgot a couple of things in their haste to just get out. I thought maybe Brad the Cad, the ex-boyfriend/lawyer, might be able to shed some light on things.