Loose Ends (22 page)

No wonder I have a hard time with religion.

This time I approached my office from the front, climbing the steps to a door not so different from the house where Mother and I lived, though this had less gingerbread and sported a front balcony overlooking the street.

CALIFORNIA INVESTIGATIONS read the first line of engraving on the brass plaque and beneath it,
Cal Corwin, Licensed and Bonded.
It looked impressive. In this business, reputation and image can be important.

Slamming the door with my foot to make sure it locked bestowed the side benefit of waking my research assistant Mickey up – if he was here. He often gamed all weekend on the computer gear I’d bought for his work as it was better than anything he had at home and usually fell asleep in the wee hours of the morning. The loud bang gave him fair warning and sometimes saved me the trouble of investigating noises in the lower level, weapon drawn.

The Wizard is
IN
read the sign at the top of the stairs, so I extracted my turnovers from the bag and set them gingerly on my desk along with my latte before taking the rest to the basement door. “You down there, Mickey? I got coffee and pastries, but you better not be working naked again.”

“Just a minute, boss,” came the muffled reply, and I heard water run in the bathroom and the toilet flush.

Once I was sure I wasn’t going to walk in on something no rational human being should ever see, I descended the stairs and set the nectar of life and the baked goods on the table next to the setup’s big monitors and retreated. No point in trying to deal with Mickey before he woke up unless something urgent was in the offing. As far as I knew, nothing qualified.

That was the trouble, actually. I hadn’t had a real case in two months, not since I’d earned ten thousand dollars for recovering a kidnapped girl. I supported Mom, and Mickey couldn’t seem to keep any other job. With the cost of living so high in San Francisco – not to mention California’s sky-high taxes – if I’d had mortgages to pay we’d all be eating instant ramen three meals a day by now.

Fortunately the lawsuit against the City for the fiasco with the bomb, the blast that had cost me an eardrum, a bunch of skin on the right side of my head and some feeling in my right hand, had paid for the house and bought the office, all free and clear. Unfortunately there were still taxes, utilities, groceries, insurance, gas…and did I mention taxes? I love California, but I detest its dysfunctional bureaucracy.

To keep busy I’d done some skip tracing of bail jumpers, but that barely kept me and my unofficial employees – Mickey and the freelance muscle team that called themselves M&M – in coffee and pastries. I needed real work even if I had to scare it up somehow. I still had a few friends on the force that would throw me a bone now and again. If I didn’t get something soon, I’d reach out even if I had to eat some humble pie.

Back on the main level of my office I scooped up the contents of the drop box, which was also my mail slot, and then punched the button on my desktop computer. While it booted I browsed the mail. Sometimes a case showed up there, sometimes in email. Most common, though, was a phone call. In my experience, people bringing cases often had things to hide and were leery of committing details to paper, virtual or real.

This time, though, the case walked in the door. Knocked first, of course. Two sharp sounds,
rap – rap
. Maybe I need to put a
Come On In
sign on the door, but if I did, I couldn’t leave it locked.

Okay, I’m a woman of contradictions.

I buzzed the release and settled for yelling. “Come on in!” My hand rested on the weapon on my hidden hip. I’d made a few enemies and it paid to be careful.

The green painted door opened and I stood, but I needn’t have. I mean, when a dwarf walks through your door…or do we call them little people now? In any case, this person was undertall by quite a bit. I’m only five-six but I towered over her. Or him?

Trying to see past his stature, I sized him up. Pretty sure it was a him, despite the gold lamé dress, heels, wig and makeup. You’d think with my own scars I could look beneath the surface, but I admit I hadn’t had much experience with little people.

Anyway he was black, African-American if you prefer, which was neither here nor there, though it did add to the oddity of the whole picture for me. The entire presentation was definitely outré, at least outside of Castro. Especially for broad daylight. Most of the drag queens came out at night.

“What can I do for you, sir?” I asked, dropping my hand and putting on my best customer-service face. That was difficult, as I still hadn’t had my coffee or even a bite of the sugar bomb on my desk.

He stared.

I stared.

He looked tired, as if he’d been up all night.

“What…” we both started in unison.

I sat down, waving him forward. “Close the door please. Have a seat.” Solving two problems at once, I shoved the corner of a turnover into my watering mouth. Damn, that pastry chef was good. Chewing created time and opportunity to break out of the awkward little spell that had seized us.

The small man shut the door and clomped across my floor in his heels to sit in a chair. I masticated a moment more, sipped my coffee and waited.

“Is Cal Corwin in?” he finally said in a clear falsetto.

“That’s me. California Corwin, California Investigations,” I said brightly.

“I thought you’d be…”

“A man?”

He smiled and winked. “I was going to say
taller
.”

Oh, a charmer. I decided to like him for the moment. “Buddy, there are so many ripostes to that I can’t even count.”

Lamé guy shrugged and took off his wig, dropping it on the corner of my desk. When he spoke he had let go of the falsetto in favor of a deep Barry White voice. “When you’re unusual, you need a sense of humor. You got one about
that
?” He pointed at the damaged side right of my face.

Surprised he had noticed. My straight dark hair usually hid the scars and makeup did the rest. I turned away slightly and then cursed myself for doing so.

“On my better days, I guess. Now,” I took out a pad and pen, “you are?”

“Biggie Smallie.”

“You’re kidding.”

“It’s a performance name. Franklin Jackson.”

“Two presidents at once.”

“Franklin wasn’t a President.”

I scrunched up my nose. “Franklin Delano Roosevelt?”

Franklin laughed. “Got me there.”

“And what kind of performance?” I asked.

“Song and dance. Drag revue. Duh?” He pointed with both hands at his outfit.

“That’s it? Nothing more, like stripping or turning tricks? Better to lay it out now if I’m going to help you with whatever you want.”

A hint of anger flickered across his face. “Lay it out. Funny. But no, that’s all. When I hook up I don’t take money. I just like dressing up and performing – and before you ask, I’m straight as the Golden Gate.”

Skepticism must have showed on my face. “Look, Frank, I used to be a cop, which played hell with my sense of patience. Can we get to whatever brought you in here?”

“Yeah, let me tell it.” He ran his hand over his close-cropped hair. “Anyway, that’s what I do in the evenings at the shows around town. Aunt Charlies’s, Divas, Esta Noche, the Cinch, places like that. It’s a blast and pays a little, though putting up with the short jokes is a pain in the ass. The sex is good.”

I raised my better eyebrow.

“I mean, I meet a lot of women and some of them are open-minded. Even ti-curious.”

“Ti?”

“Yeah, like, tiny. Height-wise, anyway. You know, not everything on us little people is small.” He sent me a flirtatious smile.

“TMI, Frank. Let’s stick to the case. If there is one?” I stared at him over my coffee cup.

 “Sorry. Bad habit of letting my mouth run away with me. These shows and the parties after, you know…I can say almost anything and they think it’s funny instead of rude. It’s one of the perks of being in character. They expect it.”

“Speaking of parties…why are you dressed for one early on a Monday morning?”

He stage-coughed as if embarrassed and showing it. “Had a gig last night, at Lookout. Things got late, a little out of hand, and one of the ladies…you know.”

“She was
open-minded
.”

“Yeah. I didn’t make it home yet. My car got stolen.”

“And you like to shock people so you put that outfit back on.”

 “Just a little, sure. It’s the showman in me.” He chuckled.

 “So why are you here, Frank? Why didn’t you report the car to the cops?”

“Because of this.” Sighing, he took out his phone and punched up something, and then laid it on the desk in front of me. It was one of those new ones with a full-color screen that could display digital pictures.

“Ew. Is there actually a case here or do you get your jollies walking into random P.I. offices and showing people your porn?” I couldn’t call the photo anything else.

“So you get the picture? Okay, okay,” he said, holding up his hands as I stood with mounting irritation to throw him out. “It’s blackmail, all right? Here’s the text that came with it.”

Send $1000 in cash every week or the pictures go viral
, it read, and listed a box address in Chicago.

“So…pardon me,” I said, “but with the lifestyle you’re living anyway, how can this hurt you? Might even get you more business. They say all publicity is good publicity.”

“Look, Cal…can I call you Cal?” His dimples appeared and I saw how a certain segment of the female nighttime drag-queen-show-viewing populace would find him attractive. “I have to keep my day job and my side job separate.”

“I should think so. I can’t figure out why you’re engaging in all this risky behavior.”

“What, you’ve never taken risks for fun?”

He had me there. I guess I could understand his thrillseeking, even if his kinds of thrills weren’t mine. I nodded in sympathy. “All right. I get it. Go on.”

 “This picture was taken last night and when I left the hotel around five a.m. my car was gone. When I went back to her room the woman in the picture had checked out. I killed time with breakfast at the hotel, looked you up and here I am.”

“Okay, Frank,” I said around another bite of pastry, “what’s your day job that this would be worth fifty Gs a year to keep quiet? You a priest or something?”

“No, special education teacher out in Granger’s Ford.”

That stopped me in my tracks. I mean, technically he hadn’t done anything wrong, or at least not illegal, though there might be come kind of morals or community standard clause in his contract, but I got it. Perfectly rational, live-and-let-live adults turn into slavering, out-for-blood Puritans when they sense a risk to their kids. “That’s in the Sierra foothills across the valley, right? Small town?”

“Very small, at least in mind. I’d lose my job and probably never work again this side of the Mississippi, but I love my kids. I really make a difference. Even if I found the guy who has these pics and got a lawyer and an injunction, he could ruin me overnight. It would take years suing him to recoup the costs.”

“Look, Frank…my best advice to you is to get out ahead of the story. Go to the school board and come clean right now. Make it perfectly clear everything you do is consensual and doesn’t involve underage girls or anything illegal.”

“The drugs?”

“I wouldn’t mention that. It’s the only real weak spot in your defense. But the drag and the sex…if you’re up front and explain it to them, and maybe do a similar, less detailed
mea culpa
at a town meeting, you’ll get through this. Especially if you get a lawyer and show you’ll fight.”

“No way. My job is everything.”

“Should have thought about that before you got in too deep.”

“I didn’t come here for you to judge me,” Frank said angrily.

“Sorry. I still think you should fight through it.”

“No. This all has to go away.”

I sighed, my best advice defeated. “Okay. Why do you think it is a he? I mean, that is a
woman’s
derriere, right? She had to be complicit.”

“You’re right. Could easily be a woman, though the one I was with didn’t seem the type.”

“The smart ones never do. Are there more pictures? No, don’t show me.”

“Yeah,” Frank replied. “A couple more of the, uh, encounter, and some of me on stage that night.”

“Are the bedroom shots all from the same angle? Like it was an automatic camera rather than someone taking them?”

Frank flipped through the pictures on the screen. “Yeah, looks like it.”

“Hmm. Still no confirmed accomplice.”

“What about the car?”

I scratched my head with both hands, trying to stimulate my brain through the hair follicles. “Yeah, that would argue for someone else. What kind of car?”

“Two-year-old Camry.”

“Ugh. The most stolen car in America. Could it be a coincidence?”

“I dunno. There aren’t that many choices for little people. It was modified for my size and there are affordable kits for only a limited number of models.”

“You sure it wasn’t towed?”

Frank shook his head wearily. “Don’t think so. It was on a side street in front of a meter, but the sign on it said you can park there free on weekends. I called a few of the nearest towing yards anyway, but no dice.”

I pushed over a pad of paper and a pen. “Write down everything about it – tag number, year, make, model, details of the short people kit, exact location you left it, anything else. And your phone number. Take my card. I’ll need two thousand up front as a retainer and it’s fifty an hour plus expenses.” My rates were flexible, depending on what I thought clients could afford. For a schoolteacher I’d charge less.

Distressed, he replied, “I can get five hundred from an ATM today. My bank is local to Granger’s Ford. No branches in the City.”

“Okay, get me the rest when you can. One more thing…why Chicago?”

He shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“None at all? Seems like an odd place to have the money sent. Are you from there? Got contacts there?”

“Nope.” Frank shook his head. “Born and raised in San Jose, got my degree from State…maybe it’s just a long way away and they don’t figure I’ll go there to check it out.”