Caper Read online

  “Just between you and me, I think the guy in the car is a dead end.”

  “So you didn’t trace it?”

  “I traced it.”

  I gave her the name and address.

  “Is that all?”

  “That’s the only guy I traced.”

  “Surely you found out something about him.”

  “I did. He’s got a wife and kid. He ought to be ashamed of himself.”

  “What’s he do?”

  “He’s a congressman.”

  Her eyes widened. “That’s perfect. That’s just the type of leverage we need to put the screws on.”

  “For what? Odds are he’s never gonna see your daughter again.”

  “I know. But …”

  “But what?”

  “I just wanna to be doing something.”

  “I don’t know what you can do. Aside from sitting the girl down and having a good old-fashioned talk with her.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “So I gathered. And hubby mustn’t know.”

  Jennifer took a breath. “Okay, here’s the deal. Sharon’s having a sleepover tonight. At a girlfriend’s house. Or so she says. It could be true, it could be just a useful excuse. I want to find out which.”

  “How about calling the other girl’s mother.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Because it would be too simple and direct?”

  “I don’t want her to think I’m checking up on her.”

  “You think the mother would tattle?”

  “I don’t know what the mother would do. I don’t want to put myself in someone else’s hands. I want to do this myself.”

  “By which you mean you want me to do it.”

  “You don’t want the job?”

  I wanted the job. Despise me if you will, but I needed the money. I live in New York City, and rents aren’t cheap, recession or no recession.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “If she goes home with the girlfriend, fine. You can call it a day. I don’t expect you to sit through another movie. But if she goes somewhere else, in particular if she goes somewhere with an older man …”

  “Yes?”

  “I want you to bring her home.”

  “How do you expect me to do that?”

  “You’re the detective.”

  “I’m the private eye,” I corrected. “I’m not the police detective. I have no authority. If she doesn’t wanna come, I got no right to force her. And she isn’t gonna wanna come.”

  “I don’t care how you do it, just do it.”

  “The only way to do it is call you and have you come get her.”

  “I told you. That’s not an option.”

  “Why not?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “There’s more at stake here than you know. If you’re not happy about it, I’m sorry. But I didn’t hire you to make you happy. I’ve outlined the job. It’s pretty straightforward. I want you to keep my daughter from getting hurt. How you do it is entirely up to you. Just leave us out of it.”

  She broke off, looked me right in the eye. “Now, you want the job?”

  I should have just said no. Where was Nancy Reagan when I needed her? But there I was, the knight on his white horse, the stalwart protector of all young girls, and how was I going to refuse to help this one?

  “Yes.”

  12

  YOU EVER CARRY AN UMBRELLA SO IT WON’T RAIN? I’VE done it. Not enough, clearly, for all the times I’ve come home drenched. In point of fact, I hate umbrellas, and would rather sprint up the block dodging raindrops than be caught with one. Just the way I would never wear my rubbers, which I considered using as an example, but rejected because of the double entendre—I’m having enough problems with sex as it is. But if there was something that really mattered, something I really cared about, some occasion when I just didn’t want it to rain, like my softball game, or Tommy’s Little League game (Christ, is it only ball games?), I would bring along an umbrella on the theory that if I had it, it would forestall the event.

  And more often than not it would work. Or maybe I just remember those times, having to carry the damn thing. Or was it Alice? There’s a thought—maybe it was Alice, ridiculing me for taking an umbrella in the bright sunshine, which only Alice can imbue with the right amount of bemused tolerance or sympathetic condescension. Or maybe I’m just projecting.

  Anyway, for the number of times it worked, as well as the times it didn’t, the reassuring feel of the clumsy instrument clutched in my hesitant hand always eased the burden. At least until Alice did her thing.

  Today, Alice wasn’t there. Alice wouldn’t notice if I took an umbrella. She wouldn’t know unless I told her. Neither would MacAullif. Or Richard.

  The minute I had those thoughts I wanted to tell Alice, MacAullif, and Richard. Wanted to ask their advice. Get their opinions on the weather. Did they think it would rain?

  Of course, in all instances, I knew what that advice would be: You cannot let a client dictate terms. You are dealing with a cuckoo person. If you follow her instructions, you are a cuckoo person. No good can come of this. You need an intervention. A private eye sponsor. A twelve-step withdrawal from surveillance. The moment you get your first urge to do something not quite legal that a private eye on television might attempt, you need to activate your PI alarm. “Help. I’ve fallen for an investigative technique and I can’t get up.”

  That doesn’t quite work either as an example or as a comedy bit. Which is not surprising. My comedy routines never worked either. Yeah, I did stand-up. Only one of a number of failed careers, which included acting, writing, screenwriting, and songwriting, my stand-up career was perhaps the most abortive. My routines never went anywhere.

  For instance, I once wrote a series of Man Most Likely jokes. Yeah, I know, you never heard of the Man Most Likely jokes. That’s because there is no such thing. That’s because I wrote it. The premise was the names of the people most likely to be associated with certain actions. For example: “The man climbing into the lion’s cage is most likely to be Claude.”

  Doesn’t that seem like a wonderful premise for a series of jokes? Short, clean, excellent setup, perfect payoff. The reason the routine never got anywhere was “The man climbing into the lion’s cage is most likely to be Claude” was the only one I was ever able to come up with.

  I know, I’m digressing horribly. The problem is, I didn’t want to face the situation. Because, once again, my do-good, white knight nature, coupled with my horny as hell raging hormones, had allowed my client to seduce me, without the benefit of actual sex, but to lure me coquettishly into something that in my heart of hearts I knew I shouldn’t be doing.

  I would be following little Lolita on her journey from school. Which was kind of like a trip to Vegas. If she went home with her girlfriend, buzzers and bells would go off, lights would flash, gold bars would line up, and the slot machine would spit out two hundred dollars.

  If she hopped into a car with somebody else, I would be mugged and dumped in the gutter.

  Unlike Vegas, I wasn’t betting a long shot. Surely, the odds favored her going home with a friend. However, there was a chance, albeit a small chance, that she wouldn’t.

  I needed an umbrella.

  13

  “I NEED A MICKEY FINN.”

  Fred Lazar looked at me like a total stranger, like he’d never seen me before. “I don’t think I heard you right. In fact, I’m sure I didn’t. Why don’t you come in and try again.”

  “You got to help me, Fred. I’m in trouble.”

  “And misery loves company, so you’d like me in trouble too.”

  Fred was a stocky guy with a broken nose and a bulge under his arm. As much as I didn’t look like a private eye, Fred did. Fred was the guy who got me into the private eye business way back when. I hadn’t seen him much since then, for which he was grateful. Fred always regarded me as colossal fu
ckup for whom negligence work would be just about the limit of my expertise. At the time, he had been happy to steer me into a job that he didn’t want.

  “I don’t know what you’re up to, but slippin’ someone a mickey is what happens in films. You always get in trouble when you work from films.”

  “This is a little different.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m already in trouble. I’m trying to get out.”

  Fred tried to keep from asking, but it was too damn hard. “Why are you in trouble?”

  I told him the story. He didn’t look pleased. “You want to drug a teenage girl?”

  “I don’t want to drug her, no.”

  “Then why are you even considering this?”

  “I’m not going to let some pervert on Viagra use her body for target practice.”

  “A noble sentiment.”

  “Which means I gotta get her away. The problem is, she won’t want to come.”

  “Poor choice of words.”

  “Get your mind out of the gutter. She won’t wanna go, so how can I bring her home?”

  “That is a problem.”

  “Unless you wanna come with me. I bet you could take her.”

  “Sorry. Not my style.”

  “So I need a mickey.”

  “You know what a mickey is?”

  “Yeah. Chloral hydrate. I had it once for an EEG.”

  “You had an EEG?”

  “Yeah. They give you chloral hydrate to make you sleep.”

  “Why’d you have an EEG?”

  “See if anything was going on.”

  “What did it show?”

  “Unremarkable brain.”

  “I could have told you that without an EEG.”

  “Yeah, I know. Can you get it?”

  “Chloral hydrate?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This is a bad idea.”

  “I know that. You got a better one?”

  “Not off the top of my head.”

  “So, it’s either chloral hydrate, or you come with me.” I shrugged, spread my arms. “Your choice.”

  14

  HE SLIPPED ME A MICKEY. I DON’T MEAN HE PUT IT IN MY drink. I mean he put it in my pocket. And not then and there. It’s not like he had it on him. But my phone rang two hours later and he hooked me up.

  It wasn’t cheap.

  “Two hundred dollars? I don’t want an EEG, just the drug.”

  “It might be cheaper at your local pharmacy. Why don’t you give it a try.”

  “Yeah, but two hundred dollars.”

  “That’s mostly bribe money. Want me to break it down?”

  “No. Thanks, man.”

  So he slipped me a mickey. It was in a little tube with a stopper. The tube was hand-labeled BI.

  “BI?”

  “Bad idea.”

  Which is how I came to be hanging around outside a public school with a tube of chloral hydrate in my pocket. It occurred to me if the cops picked me up and shook me down, I’d be hard-pressed to explain what I was doing there without betraying the confidence of a client. Even with betraying the confidence of a client I’d be on rather shaky ground.

  I hung out down the block, tried to look inconspicuous. Try it sometime. I can give you a hint. Don’t whistle nonchalantly. That’s how the movies portray someone trying to look innocent. In other words, someone looking guilty. Just a hint, in case you ever find yourself outside a public school with tube of chloral hydrate in your pocket.

  Today I got lucky. At 3:45 Sharon was out the door chatting happily with a girlfriend.

  Great. God bless the umbrella. All my preparations were for naught. It’s a jackpot. Or at least a wash. I’d earn my two hundred bucks for watching TV. On the other hand, I wouldn’t charge ’em for the chloral hydrate. I’d break even and love it. After all, how often do you get out of Vegas breaking even?

  Only they didn’t go home. Go on kids. I gotta tail you to the sleepover. I got the address. You go there, I’m done. I haven’t been enjoying this particular case. I’d like to hang it up.

  Only they’re not doing it. They’re setting down their book bags and giggling to each other. What are they giggling about? Please tell me the other girl isn’t a hooker too.

  You wouldn’t think so. Sharon’s friend didn’t look any more like a hooker than Sharon did. Straw-colored curly hair, itty-bitty button nose. Hell, she was chewing bubble gum. Say it ain’t so, Joe.

  Come on, kids. Pick up your book bags and go home.

  They didn’t do that. Instead they lined up shoulder to shoulder, and, on a given count, proceeded to perform synchronized movements.

  They were cheerleaders. Practicing some god-awful routine with which to encourage testosterone-filled teenage boys to pummel each other on some playing field or other. Most likely football or soccer. Whatever the venue, that’s what they were about.

  I hate to be a mine’s better, but mine was clearly better. Sharon had all the moves. Style, grace, she beat the other girl hands down.

  I tried not to think whence such athleticism might have sprung.

  The girls ran through three or four routines, stopping occasionally to clean up some move. I wondered what the cheerleading outfits were like. Cute, surely, in a sterile, nonsexy way.

  A car horn honked.

  Sharon grabbed her book bag, dashed to the curb.

  My jaw tightened.

  It was the Lexus I’d followed before. Congressman Jason Blake’s car.

  He wouldn’t get away. This time I wasn’t dependent on a passing cab. I had my own car double-parked up the block, screw the parking tickets. I’d either pass them on to the client or take the loss. The scumbag was mine.

  I hurried down the block to my car. Amazingly, I hadn’t gotten a ticket. I hopped in, fired her up, and by the time the Lexus had maneuvered around the buses I was ready to go. When he hit the corner, I was right on his tail.

  The congressman hung a left, headed for home. Of course, that presented a problem. What did I do when he went into the underground garage? Here I was winging it. The only thing I could think of was to drive right in after him. I’d follow him to his parking space, block his car with mine, hop out, and say, “Okay, sleazebag, let’s have a little talk.”

  It was an intriguing idea. What would he do then? Call the cops on me? I didn’t think so. He wouldn’t want to call the cops. Following him through the garage door was a rather attractive scenario. Unless it cut my car in half.

  Only he didn’t turn into his garage. That was pretty disappointing, once I had it worked out. But he went right on by his apartment house and on down Fifth Avenue.

  The traffic got heavy in the Fifties due to the Broadway mall. Don’t get me started. The city closed Broadway in the theater district to create a permanent pedestrian mall. The spillover traffic onto the nearest downtown avenues was enough to piss off even George M. Cohan, the man the mall honored.

  We inched our way south of 42nd Street, hung a right on 37th, wove our way through the trucks in the garment district over to Seventh Avenue. I was still trying to figure out what the congressman was up to, when he hung a left into a garage. It wasn’t a private garage. A huge sign flashed PARK. Below it proclaimed some astronomical daily rate in glowing block capitols as if it were the deal of the century.

  I must admit, up until that point I had been working out other scenarios in my mind, charitable scenarios, ones that cast the congressman in a less odious light. Not the least of which was this: MacAullif said the congressman had a kid. Maybe that kid was a teenage son. Maybe that teenage son was old enough to drive. Maybe he was Sharon’s friend, and maybe this was a perfectly innocent teenage date.

  That pipe dream vanished when the sleazeball himself emerged from the car and handed the keys to the attendant. The garage was the valet parking type, where you left your car at the curb instead of driving it in yourself. The attendant handed Congressman Blake a parking ticket stub, and he and Sharon headed down the street. />
  Before the attendant could climb into the congressman’s car, I pulled up behind it and hopped out.

  “I’m in a hurry. Can you give me a ticket?”

  He looked at me like, how big a hurry?

  I whipped a twenty-dollar bill out of my pocket. “Please.”

  He grinned a snaggle-tooth at me, tore out the ticket, traded it for the bill.

  I grabbed the ticket stub, headed down the block. I caught up with them at the next corner. They were waiting for the light. When it changed, they crossed Seventh Avenue.

  They were heading for Madison Square Garden.

  I frowned. What was at the Garden? It wasn’t basketball or hockey season. They had rock concerts, yes, but there wasn’t one on the marquee. So where were they going?

  The mystery was solved when they went through the front door and headed downstairs. Madison Square Garden was above Penn Station.

  They were taking a train.

  I bought a ticket on the 5:00 P.M. Acela, which appeared to be the train they were taking. If it wasn’t I was going to feel like a fool. But they bought their tickets at one of those automated Amtrak kiosks, and as near as I could tell that was what the congressman punched in.

  In case you’ve never ridden Amtrak, the Acela is the faster, more expensive train. That figured.

  In Penn Station there are two Amtrak waiting areas, the Acela waiting area, and the non-Acela waiting area. As near as I could tell, they are absolutely alike. But you have to show your ticket to get into them, and if you don’t have an Acela ticket you can’t get into the ritzy, Acela waiting area, and you have to sit with the unwashed masses in the other one, for all the difference it made.

  Today, the segregated waiting areas actually served a purpose. If Congressman Blake got into the Acela waiting room, it would confirm the fact he had bought Acela tickets.

  Just my luck, the son of a bitch didn’t do it. Instead, he and Sharon stood in the middle of the station looking up at the huge departure board, where every ten or fifteen seconds the train names and departure times would whirl with a clack, clack, clack, and reappear in different positions, or sometimes the same position, it was not always clear which, unless you really cared about that particular train. The 5:00 Acela to Washington was the one I wanted to see clacking. My ticket was to Philadelphia, as I presumed their tickets were, but Philadelphia was one of a few stops on the line. Once the gate was posted, there would be a mad dash to the escalator to take you down to the track.