The Case of the Mistletoe Mistress - #1

The Case of the Mistletoe Mistress


EPISODE 1

The Party

I walks out the door and the cold morning air slaps me like a splash of cheap cologne after shavin’ with a dull Gillette. Kinda reminded me o’ when I was a kid … when I used to stick my kisser in the freezer down at Murphy’s General so my nose got all frosty inside. It was fun … back then.

I stops at the mailbox. It’s overflowin’. I decides I gotta empty it out seein’s how I ain’t got no more room for mail. I shuffles through the envelopes. It ain’t nothin’ but junk mail: Past Due! Final Notice! Past Due! One of ‘em was a notice to appear. Looks like one o’ my ex-wives wants her alimony. “Well, Doll, ya ain’t gettin’ blood from a turnip.” I throws ‘em on the front seat of my jalopy and heads to work. Arlene says she’s got a surprise for me. But in my line o’ work, surprises ain’t such a good thing.


I parks in the back alley and cranes my neck up at my second floor office. I sees this four-foot plastic candy cane with a red ribbon and Arlene’s workin’ on the only window facin’ the street. “Greyson Sloane,” it says in big gold letters. “Private Detective.” She’s stringin’ lights around the frame. Some surprise.

“Good morning, Greyson!” She says when I tops the steps. She might as well o’ sang it.

“Yeah yeah. Whadda you all a giggle about?”

“Just four shopping days left, Greyson,” she says with a big smile. Arlene’s got the whitest teeth I ever seen on a dame. “I love Christmas.”

“What’s so special ‘bout it? Ain’t nothin’ but a gimmick to sell stuff.”

“Oh, Greyson. That’s not true. Christmas is a special time … the time of year for people to forgive and forget their differences and spread joy and happiness ... and a sense of Good Will.”

“Oh yeah? Tell it to my creditors. Maybe they’ll forgive I don’t pay ‘em.”

“Greyson, you sound like an old Scrooge. C’mon. You can help me decorate the tree.”

I ain’t so keen on the idea. Arlene’s a looker, see? The kinda gal that turns heads when she’s all decked out—and, when she ain’t. I figure it’s that long auburn hair and those pretty green eyes that makes a man wish he was lookin’ at ‘em up close. Real close—and there was plenty o’ them at that two-bit joint she was dancin’ at. She’s too young for that kinda malarkey. Just twenty-three. She don’t know from nothin’. It was lucky I was walkin’ by that night.

I was half-a-block away an’ thinkin’ about a case when I sees her leave work. She walks ten feet by this alley and some lousy hood grabs her an’ drags her behind a dumpster. I hears her scream, then nothin’. I don’t call no cops, see? I takes care of this kinda stuff myself. The hood knocks 'er around some, but she ain’t no worse for the wear. Now she works for me. But she’s got this crush, see? Thinks I’m some kinda white knight—but I ain’t havin’ none of it. I’m almost twice her age. She’s more like my kid sister, ya know? Still, I ain’t gettin’ too close.

“How’d you drag the tree here, Arlene?”

“Oh, the guy at the tree lot brought it up for me. I tried to tip him, but he wouldn’t take it.”

“Good. You can give it to me. I need the berries.”

“The what?”

“The berries. You know—scratch … jack … mazuma.” She gets this puzzled look. “Aw fer cryin’ out loud, Arlene … money!”

“Well why didn’t you just say that in the first place?”

“I thought I did. We got any joe?”

“I just made a fresh pot. And why do you have a different word for everything?”

“What’s the big deal? So do the French.”

I pushes through the door and the hinges remind me I gotta oil ‘em. I should just get a new door. This one’s got gaps big enough to drive a truck through, but I ain’t got the dough. Steppin’ inside, I grabs a cup of joe, slides my fedora back on my head and drops down behind my desk. I don’t take my coat off. I digs out a bottle from the bottom drawer and pours two-fingers in the cup. Business ain’t been so good lately and I get reminded o’ that every time I looks around this rat-hole office: two wobbly old wooden desks, three squeaky chairs that seen better days and a scratched up hardwood floor that creaks real bad. The only modern things in here is the answerin’ gizmo and Arlene’s computer … and that’s hers.

After I solved the Wexler case, the twenty-five grand Beulah paid me was gone in a month. I got ex-wives, see? And the government took most of the dough to even the score with them. At least I paid Arlene six months in advance so she ain’t gotta struggle. I don’t want her goin’ back to dancin’, see? She’s a swell kid and I want her to stay that way. Things dry up this time o’ year, and because people ain’t marryin’ so much anymore, there ain’t so many wayward wives to tail. Puts a monkey wrench in my plans to retire to the Bahamas.

“Aren’t you going to help me, Greyson?”

Arlene’s tryin’ to string the lights ‘round the top o’ the tree and those long gams of hers don’t push her to more than 5-7. She’s still got that dancer’s chassis, see? And her standin’ on her tiptoes reachin’ up like that is more than a man can take. So I throws my feet up on the desk and puts the morning paper between me and her.

“I ain’t feelin’ too Christmasey today, Arlene.”

“But I can’t reach the top.”

“You got all the top you need. It’s a wonder you don’t fall over.”

“Grey-son….”

“Use a chair.”

She starts across the room in a huff just when somebody knocks on the door. Now, I’m glad she ain’t standin’ on the chair or I’d hafta get it myself. I hears the door creak open.

“Yes, can I help you?” she says. I drops the paper in my lap so I can see. On the stoop is a portly old egg in a flashy charcoal-gray suit that hadda set him back a grand. That tie looks silk from where I’m sittin’ and the alligator briefcase he’s carryin’ ain’t cheap either. The recedin’ silver hair puts him roundabout sixty, I figures, and he’s got sugar-daddy written all over him.

“Yes,” he says. “I’m looking for a Greyson Sloane.”

Arlene stepped back. “Yes, please come in, sir.”

I swings my feet off the desk cause I wants to look presentable. He steps inside and Arlene shuts the door. “I’m Sloane.” I says, standin’ up an’ hookin’ my thumbs in my suspenders. “What can I do for you?”

He walks over and I sees he’s nervous. He gives me a gander, then Arlene, and then me again. “Here,” I says, pullin’ over a chair. “Have a seat.”

The old gent sits down and holds his case on his lap like he’s worried somebody’s gonna steal it or somethin’. He wipes his forehead with one hand and I sees he’s sweatin’ like some nag that just ran the six furlongs at Pimlico. Ain’t a easy thing to do when you just came in from 30-degree air.

“I understand you solve problems,” he says, lookin’ around like he made some kinda mistake. “A colleague recommended you, but I’m not so….”

“I gives special rates to referrals,” I says. I ain’t gonna lose him before gettin’ started. “What kinda problem you got?”

He glances at Arlene again.

“Ya ain’t gotta worry about her,” I says. “She’s bonded.”

“She looks familiar. I know her from somewhere.” Arlene’s ears perk up.

“Her twin sister’s a dancer,” I says. Arlene shoots me a look. “So, how can I help you?”

The ol’ man takes a deep breath and hangs a sigh on the end of it. “My name is Doucette. Percy Doucette. I’m in a great deal of trouble.” He pulls out one o’ those brown envelopes with a metal clasp and gives it to me. I takes it and sits back down in my chair. It squeaks and Doucette’s eyes shoot to mine.

“I’m gettin’ new furniture delivered next week,” I says, jigglin’ the envelope. “What’s this, Mister Doucette?”

He ganders over at Arlene again and sees she’s got her nose buried in her computer. He relaxes some. “I received this in the mail yesterday. It’s self explanatory, Mister Sloane.”

I sees him cringe when I pull out the goods. In the envelope is a handful of 8x10 black & white glossies of Doucette—naked as a jaybird—grabbin’ a little nookie from some Jane. And she ain’t no cheap quiff, either. She’s a ravishin’, dark brunette and she’s built like a brick shithouse. A real bombshell. I figures her for some high-class call girl, see? I looks up at Doucette. He ain’t makin’ eye contact and has the look of a man that’s got a lot to lose.

“Blackmail?”

Doucette nods his head like he forgot how to talk.

“How much?”

Doucette digs a note from his inside pocket and slides it across the desk like he's passin' me the dinner check. I reads it without pickin’ it up, pushin' a whistle through my teeth. “Fifty grand a week?” I shuffles through the pictures and leans back in my chair. Doucette don’t notice the squeak no more. “For how long?”

“They didn’t elaborate.”

“Did ya talk to the cops?”

“No cops or the photos go to the tabloids. I’ll be ruined … to say nothing of what my wife will do to me in court.”

“You got yourself some big-time trouble here, Mister Doucette. So where do I fit in?”

“I want to negotiate a deal. A one-time payment in exchange for all the photos and the negatives. I just need a name.”

Arlene looks up from her computer and raises an eyebrow, then goes back to what she’s doin’. She wants to tell me somethin’.

“You get instructions?”

“No … said they’d contact me.”

“Did they say how? When?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Maybe you oughta tell me what happened.”

Doucette hangs his head like I’m a priest hearin’ his confession. I half expected him to sign himself with the cross. “I don’t remember everything,” he says. “I attended a Christmas party at a supplier’s mansion last week … a man to whom I pay a great deal of money through the course of doing business. As in previous years, he provided the usual amenities.”

“Amenities?”

“Professional escorts. He likes to keep his customers happy.”

“I get it. Go on.”

“In the past, I’ve partaken of one particular young lady.”

Outta the corner of my eye I sees Arlene shake her head and I glances over. She’s rollin’ her eyes.

“But this year, she wasn’t in attendance,” Doucette says. “There’s a long standing tradition at these parties. The young ladies pin a branch of mistletoe to their clothing. All an interested party needs do is remove it and place it over his head. The custom takes it from there. He nods at the pictures. “This young lady walked by me in the bar, stopped and said hello. She was very friendly. And, as you can see, very attractive. One thing led to another and I removed the mistletoe pinned to her evening gown. There was the traditional kiss, a little small talk, and then she led me to a bedroom on the second floor. She made me a drink, we kissed some, and then she began removing her clothing. That’s all I remember. I know I had too much to drink, but I haven’t blacked out like that in years.”

I pulls a pack of unfiltered Camels from my vest and flicks out a ciggy. I taps it against the Zippo, and then snaps the lighter open. I musta overfilled it cause I smells the fluid. I blows the smoke through my nose and clicks the lighter shut, tossin’ it and the Camels on the desk.

“Did you tell your supplier?”

“I haven’t told anyone other than you, and Mister Kamrowski.”

“Kamrowski.... Nick Kamrowski?”

“Yes. He’s the colleague who recommended you.”

I thinks back and remembers doin’ a job like this for Kamrowski a couple years ago. He got himself all balled up with a couple o’ small-time hoods tryin’ to shake him down with some compromisin’ snapshots. They disappeared after I broke in and lifted the goods. I didn’t ask no questions.

“Okay, Mister Doucette. I’ll take the job. Five-hundred a day plus expenses with a week in advance.” He looked relieved. I shoulda asked for more.

“There’s a bonus … if you dispose of this quietly,” he says.

“I’ll see what I can do. I need the name of your supplier. The escort too.”

“Ramey. Alex Ramey. He owns a lithographing company downtown.”

“And the dish?”

“Dish? What—dish?”

“The dish …” Shit! “The girl. What’s the name of the girl.”

“Oh…. She called herself Angel. That’s all I know.”

A Christmas angel. Figures. “Okay, Mister Doucette. You call me when you hear from them. In the meantime, I’m gonna do some askin’ around. And I need to keep these.” I nods to the pictures.

“Yes, of course. But please, be discrete.”

“Discrete’s my middle name.” Arlene clears her throat and I gives her the eye. I gets his card and he stands to leave. Arlene hands him one o’ mine as he walks by. He gives her the once over again, then walks out. I get up and watches him from the window. There’s a cab waitin’ at the curb. He gets in without lookin’ around and the cab takes off. Arlene squeezes between me and the glass. She’s wearin’ that perfume I like.

“So, Arlene.... Whadda ya wanna tell me?”

“I remember him from the club,” she says. “He’s a high-roller. Owns the Black Tie whiskey distillery outside of town.” She turns her face toward me and raises an eyebrow. “Maybe you’ve heard of it.”

I glances at the bottom drawer of my desk. “Don’t ring no bells.”

“Hmpf! Well, he used to come in and flash hundred-dollar bills around. Tried to get me a couple of times … the pervert.”

“I guess he thought his limo would draw too much attention. He says he remembers you, Arlene.”

“He don’t remember me. He was always too drunk to remember anything.”

“That don’t exactly jive with what he said, now does it? So, either he’s lying about the blackouts, or somebody slipped him a Mickey.”

“For my money, he’s lying.” Then, I sees that the wheels are turnin’ in her head. “Can I see those photos? I want to look at something.”

“Think you can handle seein’ a naked dame?”

“Very funny, Greyson.”

Arlene drops into my chair and picks up the pictures. “Damn,” she says. “He’s even fatter without clothes. Glad I didn’t bother, he’s disgusting.” She looks over the black & whites, then says, “Look here, Greyson.”

I walks up and leans over her shoulder. She leans into me till her cheek touches mine. I back off.

“See this? There’s no grain to this photo. With the little amount of light in the room, there should be if they used film. I think these are digital shots enhanced on a computer to brighten them up. If that’s true, there won’t be any negatives and there’s no telling how many copies there are.”

“Computers….” I says. “It was better in the ol’ days.”

“The old days? What ‘old days?’ You’re only forty-three!”

“Never mind.” I picks up a photo. “Where’s the scissors? I want a picture of just her.”

“For heaven’s sake, Greyson, give it to me. I’ll scan you a copy and crop it.”

Ten minutes later, I was on my way to Ramey’s joint. I Got an inklin’ who Angel works for. Knockouts like her get top dollar, and there’s only one service I know of that handles the high-class goods, but I needs Ramey to confirm it.


It’s always colder by the water, and it's just my luck Ramey’s factory was in the old industrial part of Baltimore down by the docks. There was a time when there was a lot of factories there, but they was all bought up years ago. Now, they’re fancy high-rise condos and stores and marinas; part of the city’s Renaissance. Ramey’s the last holdout.

I pulls up to a meter in front of a three-story brick building on the waterfront that’s wearin’ a hundred years o’ city grime. Most o’ the wire-reinforced windows are boarded up with plywood and the frames are either rust or chipped black paint. Some o’ the ol’ fire escapes are missin’, and the ones that are there ain’t safe; just rusted steel held together with rusted bolts that looks like they’d come crashin’ down if ya looked at ‘em cross-eyed. I gets outta my hayburner, glances at the sky and decides it looks like it’s gonna snow. I pretends to drop a coin into the meter and heads for a green metal door with a sign that says NTRANC .

I don’t bother knockin’. I walks into a knotty-pine room with gray and red tile floors, a couple ‘o torn an’ worn orange vinyl chairs, and a matching sofa with a couple o’ telephone books for a leg. There’s a black-wire magazine rack complete with ripped and dog-eared back issues of Field & Stream, and the windows to the street have air-conditioners covered with dirty sheets o’ plastic, duct-taped around the frames to keep the cold air out. Suddenly, my office ain’t lookin’ so bad. I sees a wear path in the tiles from years of use leadin’ to a “Will Call” window across the room, so I heads over.

I sticks my head through the window and sees an ol’ dame with her hair in a bun wearin’ a thick pair of cheaters and a moth-eatin’ gray sweater that damn near matched the color of her hair. I clears my throat. She ain’t in no hurry and takes her time lookin’ over.

“Yes. Can I help you?”

“The name’s Sloane. I’m here to see Mister Ramey.”

“One moment, please.”

She picks up a faded black phone that looks older than she does, leans down to read the numbers and puts a boney finger in the “8” hole o’ the rotary wheel. She has some trouble dialing.

“There’s a Mister … what’s your name again?”

“Sloane. Greyson Sloane.”

“A Mister Sloane to see you.” She listens and then looks up. “Is this about an order?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Well what then, young man?”

“I needs some information.”

“About labels? We have catalogues…”

“No ma’am. About an escort service.”

“An escort service? We don’t have an escor….” All of a sudden like, she presses the blower to her ear. “What? … Very well, Mister Ramey.” She hangs up and turns back to me. “Mister Ramey will be right out. Please have a seat in our waiting room.”

Waitin’ room.... “Yes, ma’am.” I decides to stand. A minute later Ramey walks through a door on the far side. He looks older than Doucette; a bent little man with a full head of white hair and wire-rim glasses in an oversized brown suit that shoulda been in a museum. I watches him while he shuffles his way toward me.

“Mister Sloane?” He asked it like there was other people in the room. “I’m Alex Ramey.”

“Mister Ramey. Seems my client was at your Christmas party last week and now, somebody’s blackmailin’ him.”

“SHHH! Not so LOUD!” But he was talkin’ louder than me and gettin’ all excitable. I looks around to see if somebody else came in., but it’s just me an’ him. I figures he ain’t hittin’ on all six.

“Let’s talk in my office,” he says and starts wavin’ his hand like some fat, bug-eyed Betty fannin’ herself in the summer heat—meanin’ I should follow him back through the door. I figures it’s a good idea to get a gander at what’s on his desk, just in case. We gets to an office that ain’t seen a coat o’ paint since Capone was around and he offers me a chair that musta come from the waitin’ room. I turns it down. He shrugs his shoulders, steps behind his desk and drops into the chair. It takes him a couple of gyrations to get situated, and then he looks up.

“Please tell your boss all this blackmail business is making me very nervous. He is not a man to trifle with, and considering his reputation, I’m sure you understand why. He called this morning, demanding I intervene immediately to correct the situation. I tried explaining to Mister Acosta I had no knowledge of this, but the fact you’re here proves he didn’t believe me. Please, don’t hurt me. I don’t know why he thinks I had anything to do with this. And I know he’s very angry. They were all, very angry.”

I slides my fedora back on my head.

They?

***

© Copyright 2007 Bernie Thomas (UN: scribe59 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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