Splendiferous!

NANOWRIMO Day 3: 1870 Words (3607 Total)

I grew up in the suburbs, living in the shadows of this great and wonderful city I call hell, I mean home. Well, not REALLY in the shadows. In the shadows in the sense that it was only about an hour’s drive from the city. And not really in the suburbs. Yeah, it was only about an hour’s drive from the city, but it was more like a little town that happened to be in the fringes of the suburbs. That sounds about right.

So anyway, my boyhood home. Small place. The kind of place where everybody knows everybody else. Great place for gossiping. My ma was a big fan of gossiping and took part in it at every chance she could. She had sources all across town, in every household. Maybe growing up with that is what led me to my current profession. It’s basically doing the same thing. Snooping around, looking in other people’s closets, digging through their trash cans, and finding their dirty laundry. Only I was paid to do it for my clients. Mostly to find out if a spouse is cheating. Though I do the occasional job for a missing person (mostly teenage daughters that ran away with their boyfriends), a stolen item (I got a great relationship with the pawnshop owners. They’ve helped me find plenty a hot item. And took a few off my hands, too.), even the occasional extra bit of help for the cops. That’s always interesting. It’s usually in exchange for not bringing me in on bogus charges. Extortion, breaking and entering, things like that. Sometimes you have to break the law to do my job, what can I say? I’ve even done some dirt digging for politicians. A month or two before the election, they invariably look for something to spring as the “October Surprise”. I hate god damn politicians more than I hate anything else. That’s my usual gig. Digging up dirt, looking for some brat who thinks she’s “in love”, (Don’t get me started on love. It’s full of shit) finding something that should have been thrown away anyway, and tracking down guys who avoid the law so I can avoid the law.

But once in a while, I get something different. Something that breaks the monotony and leads me chasing down a whisper of something big, something dangerous. Only happened twice before, and they account for two of the three times I’ve been shot. Both were hushed up by somebody. I never did get to the bottom of those. Just close enough to make me look like a tennis racket. I hate it when those damn things come around. I’m happy in my misery, and damned if I want to spend any more time in a hospital bed being fed jello by some toothless nurse. Fortunately, it’s been several years since I got in over my head. They’ve been nice, quiet years full of the same old shit.

I should have known it was too good to be true.




I opened the door to my office, and hung my coat and hat up. Water poured onto the rug, as usual. It was raining, as usual. It’s always raining in this city. I don’t remember the last time I saw the sun. It’s been at least a month. God damn rain. I sat down and pulled out my glass and my bottle of bourbon from my lower left drawer. Time for my eleven thirty morning drink. I spent the night at Lacie’s enjoying her company and got kicked out so she could get ready for her clients. She starts early and works late. Ten clients is a “slow day” for her. Damn, I don’t get ten clients in half a year! I collected the tapes as I left, I’d find time to enjoy them later, and told her to expect an envelope with her cut (thirty percent) in a week or so. We’ve got a sweet deal going. She gets more clients, a cut of my pay, and some companionship during the night (It’s funny. A woman like her doing what she does and she wants companionship at night. Most of her clients come to her for “companionship”.). I get the evidence I need to facilitate my income, a reliable source of information, and the same companionship.

I’ve wondered about what exactly our “relationship” is. It started out as a business relationship, pure and simple. But she needed company one night after getting the shit beat out of her by one of the clients I provided her. Who was I to deny her anything, with her sobbing, bruised, and bloody on the floor. I gave her a bath, made her a couple drinks (Always vodka sour. In her broken state, she said it made her feel less of a whore and more like a sophisticated woman. Staring at me between sobs and coughs, her eyes expected the mockery, the revulsion she feels for herself. I didn’t laugh. She’s more of a woman than almost any I know.), made her laugh a bit and put her to bed. She asked me to stay, that she’d even be with me for nothing, but I refused. I just stayed up all night and watched over her. I felt bad, because I had caused this. Well, I took care of that bastard through his wife in court (she got everything), and a couple weeks later, personally, in a bar. That was a time the cops did me a favor instead of the other way around. They looked the other way, and some even helped out a little. Lacie’s real popular with the cops. The next time I was over, she thanked me, kissed me, and things went from there. I’d say we were friends, but friends don’t exactly do what we do. But we could never be dating, considering what she does as a profession. And it’s not like I’ve been faithful to her anyway, if there was really anything to be faithful to. I still had my flings and occasional real relationships that always ended in disaster. Our relationship is the only one I’ve never screwed up. Maybe because it’s not anything. Who the hell knows.

Then something pulled me out of day dreaming. A flashing something. The light on my answering machine. I had a message? What the hell?

No.

I had several messages.

I never got any messages, let alone more than one. I poured myself a third drink (I had another during that contemplation crap) and pushed play.

“Message one. Today, 8:32 A.M. ‘Mister Spillane, this is Margeret Daniels. I want to know what happened last night. Please return my call at work, today. That is all.’” That’s the broad. She’s always so prim and proper. “Mister Spillane” my ass. I told her to call me Mickey, that everyone calls me Mickey. But it’s still “Mister Spillane”. Bitch. Maybe that’s why he’s been cheating. She’d be a cold one in bed. I revised my original desire to be with her. Be like being with a dead fish. Well, she’d be happy with the results of last night, I’m sure. I’ll call her later this afternoon after I developed the pictures.

“Message deleted. Message two. Today, 8:47 A.M. ‘Hey Mickey! It’s Karl. Listen, you still owe three g’s, and we don’t want to make this messy. Give me a buzz back and we’ll talk.’” My bookie, Karl Banks. I owed him some from a couple bad bets, and they’d start going up soon. Maybe I’ll have enough after getting the broad her pictures. Maybe I’ll just make a couple more bets to try and even things out. He’d definitely be getting a call back, but after I spoke with Margie (she didn’t take too kindly to that name).

“Message deleted.”

I had no idea how much these next two messages would change my life.

“Message three. Today, 10:13 A.M. ‘Good morning, Mickey. I know you are not in right now. You are no doubt still earning your next payment to Mister Banks from the soon to be Miss Daniels. As this will not be enough to settle all of your other expenses, we have a proposition for you. The work is of a sensitive nature, so I will contact you at a later date. As a show of our good faith, contact Mister Banks. Tell him about this phone call, and that you wish to accept my advice. He will know what this means and make the appropriate notation in his book. Do this immediately. Give Miss Boudreau my regards.’”

I sat still for a few moments taking it all in. Then I replayed the message. Woman. Late twenties, early thirties. Italian. And she knew a lot about me. She knew Margie, Karl, my state of affairs with Karl, the state of all my other affairs, and somebody named Boudreau. Boudreau, Boudreau…I can’t think of any Boudreaus. Hmm. Well, perhaps Boudreau is Lacie’s last name? “Lacie Boudreau.” Hmmm. Flows well. Sounds sophisticated too, like she always wanted. Hell, I can’t think of anyone else it could be. I made a mental note to ask her about that next time I spoke with her. Though she wouldn’t like it. I trust her as much as I could trust anybody, which is not a lot. I don’t have much capacity for trust anymore. I get along with trust as well as I do with marriage. Hell, it’s because of marriage that I don’t get along with trust. Work of a sensitive nature, eh? I wonder if this is something to do with a politician. Sounds like this mystery woman has a hand in some sort of shady dealing with Karl to fix my affairs. Well, just because it’s dirty doesn’t mean it’s not a politician. Hell, it’s more likely to be. Work of a sensitive nature…hmmm. The message was very well crafted to avoid any thing incriminating. Interesting! Well, I might as well call Karl. This is something to examine a few more times, though.

“Message saved. Message four. Today, 11:00 A.M. ‘Mickey, pick up the phone. Christ, you’re not there, are you? Damn it, pick up the phone! … Jesus. Mickey, I need to talk to you. It’s important. Sue asked me to call you and gave me your numbers. You weren’t at home, so I thought, maybe you were here, but. Damn. Call me. It’s Joe.’” What in the hell? Joe is one of my best friends from high school. I haven’t spoken to him in about three years. About the last time I was back home. What the hell has him so upset? Wait, Sue asked him to call me? Why couldn’t she call me if it was so bloody important? Sue was my baby sister. Still living at home. Jesus. I’m going to have to call him. I just need to find Joe’s damn phone number.

“Message deleted. There are no more new messages remaining. You have one saved message.”

I stopped rummaging through my drawers at that. One saved message. The mysterious woman told me to call Karl immediately. Who should I call first?

I found my book of numbers and reached for the phone.