antique German clocks. The kind of stuff you’d expect to
find in a museum. He’d hidden the items and wouldn’t give them up. The wife had
hired Monica to find them. She had tracked down the items. They were in a high
priced storage unit in Beverly Hills. But in the process of finding them, she
had encountered the angry ex-husband who had made threats in an attempt to warn
her off. If she went near his property, he’d told her, she’d regret it. Monica
wasn’t afraid, but she was prudent. She didn’t want to be opening a storage
unit and be attacked from behind. So she had asked me to watch her back. PIs
sometimes do those kinds of favors for each other. I was happy to do it.
Monica had rented a truck and
we were loading the items in question into it when the ex-husband showed up. I
was carrying a large Ming vase; Monica had an antique clock. He’d been waiting
in an interior hallway, around the corner from his storage unit. We walked past
the corner, lost in conversation, paying attention to each other instead of our
surroundings, and he ended up behind us with a gun. It was the kind of mistake
a couple of rookies would have made. But neither of us were rookies. We were
distracted. At least, I had been distracted. I hadn’t been interested in women
since Elaine had died. But Monica had distracted me. I’m not sure I realized it
at the time, but now, looking back on it, I was very distracted.
The ex-husband had said we
should continue to load the truck. Then he would drive off with his stuff. He’d
stash it in a new location and then abandon the truck. If we cooperated, he
wouldn’t shoot either of us.
We put the vase and the clock
in the truck and as we went back toward the storage unit, we had to walk past
the ex-husband. Having the gun made him overconfident. He let me pass by too
close to him, within arms reach. As I walked past, I shot a quick jab into his
nose. He staggered back into the wall. I stepped in and took the gun. Monica
cuffed him and called the police.
Later, we went to a Marie
Calendar’s for pie. We sat and talked and laughed for an hour and a half and
became good friends. I enjoyed being with her.
The landing gear coming down
brought me back to the present and I realized I was smiling.
It was nearly eleven before I
found the Peek-A-Boo club. It was about ten miles outside of town on a lonely,
dark road. The blinking neon sign on the old building was of a girl lifting her
skirt and winking her eye. There were fourteen vehicles in the lot. Nine of
them were pickups. I parked and went in with my new .357 snug under my left
arm.
The Peek-A-Boo club was like
a thousand other strip clubs across the country. A naked girl dancing on the
stage, and nearly naked girls on the club floor, serving drinks and giving lap
dances. I’d seen too much of it lately. It was getting boring, annoying even.
It was just a distraction for men who had nothing important in their lives. The
music was too loud. I wondered why that was. Was anyone there to listen to the
music? Maybe the girls liked it loud. Maybe it helped distract them from the
pointlessness of it all. But maybe it wasn’t pointless for them. Maybe it was
how they put food on the table. I didn’t really know and I didn’t really care.
All that mattered was finding Monica.
The bar was on the far right
side of the club. You could walk around the edge of the club and get to the bar
without negotiating the tables. Despite being tired, I managed to reach the bar
without tripping over anything.
The bartender was a friendly
looking woman in her late thirties. She had a pretty face and a firm body. Her
brown hair was cut short. Could be Petersen. She wore a pair of tight shorts
and a tank top.
She came over to me. “What
can I get you?” she asked.
“Diet Coke.”
She nodded, went to get it
and brought it back. I paid and tipped her. “You can also give me a piece of
information if you have it.”
She waited for me to explain.
“I'm looking
find in a museum. He’d hidden the items and wouldn’t give them up. The wife had
hired Monica to find them. She had tracked down the items. They were in a high
priced storage unit in Beverly Hills. But in the process of finding them, she
had encountered the angry ex-husband who had made threats in an attempt to warn
her off. If she went near his property, he’d told her, she’d regret it. Monica
wasn’t afraid, but she was prudent. She didn’t want to be opening a storage
unit and be attacked from behind. So she had asked me to watch her back. PIs
sometimes do those kinds of favors for each other. I was happy to do it.
Monica had rented a truck and
we were loading the items in question into it when the ex-husband showed up. I
was carrying a large Ming vase; Monica had an antique clock. He’d been waiting
in an interior hallway, around the corner from his storage unit. We walked past
the corner, lost in conversation, paying attention to each other instead of our
surroundings, and he ended up behind us with a gun. It was the kind of mistake
a couple of rookies would have made. But neither of us were rookies. We were
distracted. At least, I had been distracted. I hadn’t been interested in women
since Elaine had died. But Monica had distracted me. I’m not sure I realized it
at the time, but now, looking back on it, I was very distracted.
The ex-husband had said we
should continue to load the truck. Then he would drive off with his stuff. He’d
stash it in a new location and then abandon the truck. If we cooperated, he
wouldn’t shoot either of us.
We put the vase and the clock
in the truck and as we went back toward the storage unit, we had to walk past
the ex-husband. Having the gun made him overconfident. He let me pass by too
close to him, within arms reach. As I walked past, I shot a quick jab into his
nose. He staggered back into the wall. I stepped in and took the gun. Monica
cuffed him and called the police.
Later, we went to a Marie
Calendar’s for pie. We sat and talked and laughed for an hour and a half and
became good friends. I enjoyed being with her.
The landing gear coming down
brought me back to the present and I realized I was smiling.
It was nearly eleven before I
found the Peek-A-Boo club. It was about ten miles outside of town on a lonely,
dark road. The blinking neon sign on the old building was of a girl lifting her
skirt and winking her eye. There were fourteen vehicles in the lot. Nine of
them were pickups. I parked and went in with my new .357 snug under my left
arm.
The Peek-A-Boo club was like
a thousand other strip clubs across the country. A naked girl dancing on the
stage, and nearly naked girls on the club floor, serving drinks and giving lap
dances. I’d seen too much of it lately. It was getting boring, annoying even.
It was just a distraction for men who had nothing important in their lives. The
music was too loud. I wondered why that was. Was anyone there to listen to the
music? Maybe the girls liked it loud. Maybe it helped distract them from the
pointlessness of it all. But maybe it wasn’t pointless for them. Maybe it was
how they put food on the table. I didn’t really know and I didn’t really care.
All that mattered was finding Monica.
The bar was on the far right
side of the club. You could walk around the edge of the club and get to the bar
without negotiating the tables. Despite being tired, I managed to reach the bar
without tripping over anything.
The bartender was a friendly
looking woman in her late thirties. She had a pretty face and a firm body. Her
brown hair was cut short. Could be Petersen. She wore a pair of tight shorts
and a tank top.
She came over to me. “What
can I get you?” she asked.
“Diet Coke.”
She nodded, went to get it
and brought it back. I paid and tipped her. “You can also give me a piece of
information if you have it.”
She waited for me to explain.
“I'm looking
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