Authors: Victor McGlothin

Sleep Don't Come Easy (15 page)

BOOK: Sleep Don't Come Easy

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One

T
he night before lightning struck, Vera Miles witnessed one thing she never thought possible. When she came up empty after trailing a client's husband over a week, it appeared out of nowhere like a flash. It had to be the first time in history a black woman became fighting mad because her man was
not
sneaking around. Most of them, still in the market for a good man, would never have considered the thought of dismissing a good man, so Vera knew right off that something about Sylvia Everhart didn't fit. The hired snoop stood in her client's plush office, which was excessively decorated with fine furniture and extravagant original artwork, wondering why the woman glared at her with clenched teeth after hearing that her husband Devin had not cheated nor displayed any evidence to suggest he was the philandering type. Even after Devin Everhart babysat a few drinks at an upscale, happy hour mix-and-mingle joint, he kept to himself, despite several women offering a menu of after-hours innuendo they assumed he was there to get.

For seven days, Vera followed Devin from his office building to a residential hotel a few blocks away, where he rented a room on the first floor. During that week, he ordered fast food and stepped out for quick bites, then returned to his single room with double beds, but always alone. Having been a private investigator for more than three years, Vera found it easy to make rational assumptions when shadowing a person for any length of time. She rarely had to guess whether there was a weakness for gambling, a predilection for sexual deviance or struggles with the bottle, because habits, especially bad ones, always had a way of showing themselves, like a stubborn pimple dabbled over with several layers of makeup. Before too long, it was bound to rear its ugly head.

During the previous week, Vera grew to appreciate the kind of man Mrs. Everhart's husband was, probably more than she'd care to admit. Not only was he nice to look at, he had proven to be a conscientious worker who believed in being on time for the nine-to-five grind and back on the clock after lunch at exactly an hour on the dot, with no deviations. Most women would have been smart enough to admire his dependable and responsible work ethic. While contemplating the drastic measures other women would have gone through to snag a quality mate like Devin, Vera found herself staring at a family of college degrees on her client's wall. Coincidentally, she tried to figure out how a woman with so much book sense suffered miserably when it came down to the good old fashion common sense necessary to cherish a fine man like hers.

Maybe Vera had tipped her hand by allowing myriad unprofessional thoughts to slow dance around that notion in her head too long. Perhaps Mrs. Everhart read those thoughts clearly enough to recognize Vera's lustful deliberations with her husband in mind. Whichever the case, Mrs. Everhart was mad as hell and didn't have any qualms about letting Vera know it when she finally switched her gaze from the client's accomplishments to the client's strained expression. That was the first time the private eye noticed how the woman's head seemed too big for her frail body. It had a lot to do with her outdated Mary-Tyler-Moore-flipped-up hairdo nesting above her shoulders and the fact that Sylvia Everhart was swelling with a rising tide of contempt. Seeing as how being hit with contemptible behavior from clients typically came with the territory, Vera shrugged off Mrs. Everhart's evil eye like water down a duck's back. After all, her client wasn't necessarily a bad person despite her soured disposition. Actually, under other circumstances, she might have even been tolerable. The woman's complexion was a shade lighter than Vera's, more of a toffee-brown hue. However, her spindly legs and slight build packaged into a perfect size four was enough to make Vera dislike her from the beginning. In fact, Vera considered all skinny women to be evil until proven otherwise. So far, not a single one of them had been given the benefit of the doubt. Not one.

After another long bout of silence, which was attached to that lingering glare Mrs. Everhart had propped up with a healthy dose of attitude, she decided to work her strategy from another angle. “I see,” she said, looking Vera over as if she wasn't close to being satisfied with her abilities as a PI and just as displeased with the snug fit of the navy colored corduroy slacks hugging her curvy hips. Vera, whose figure floated between sizes ten and twelve depending on the cut, was partly to blame. At the time, she was an everyday twelve, hoping to get by with half a wardrobe that should have been given up, let out or traded in. And Vera should have given it a great deal more thought before leaving the house with that particular pair of dress slacks wrangled over all her womanly goodness. True, it was an error in judgment to think that no one would have noticed, but that was beside the point. Mrs. Everhart's disapproving sneer overshadowed Vera's first mistake of the day. She'd graded Vera with her narrowed, condescending eyes, which pushed Vera farther away from observing professional courtesy and much closer to opening her mouth with something she had been dying to say.

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Everhart continued, after a pinch of silence skirted by, “perhaps you didn't adequately apply yourself on my behalf, Ms. Miles.”

“Vera,” the PI whispered uncomfortably, after having been chastised.

“Excuse me?”

“I said Vera. Call me Vera.”

“Like I was saying,
Ms. Miles
, I've paid you good money and I expect good results.” That inflated head of hers begun to bobble slightly from side to side as she pressed hard with an ink pen against her checkbook. “Why don't I sweeten the pot? Some people need more inspiration than others to try harder.” Mrs. Sylvia Everhart reached out her hand, accessorized with a host of diamond trinkets. “Here is a check for two thousand dollars. Perhaps doubling your weekly fee will entice you to get out there and bring me something I can use,” she spat irritably.

A prideful disposition kept Vera from taking the check which dangled from the tips of the rich woman's skinny fingers like a doggie treat offered from a doting master. The only thing missing was the customary pat on the head that generally followed such an gift. Pride that Vera's grandparents instilled during her upbringing wouldn't allow her to bow and shuffle. It made her feel like a pooch presented with scraps from the eccentric woman's table, one with far more money than couth. That's when Vera sized her up for another reason. She figured Sylvia to be about five-five, a few inches shorter than herself, and guessed that she was at least thirty pounds lighter. Before Vera realized it, she'd imagined how silly Mrs. Everhart would look face down on the mean streets of Dallas after tossing insults then immediately being introduced to the concrete on the heels of it. But, they weren't on the mean streets and there was no real reason for Vera to get all worked up behind some stuck-up rich chick, black woman or not. Besides, no one would have known about the stack of situational ethics Vera kept tucked deep down in the bottom corner of her purse had she taken the money, added two-thousand digits to her bank register and then sat at home on her butt watching Tru TV for a week. There were a number of ways to get even with the stick figure of a woman whom she couldn't stand but violence was the first one that came to mind. No one would have been the wiser, except Vera and that stubborn pride of hers. The same pride that made her strong some times played her like a fool. This was one of those foolish times.

“On second thought, Mrs. Everhart,” Vera said, declining the money, “why don't you keep that money to buy yourself a clue? And if you happened to smarten up, you'd use it on a gang of marriage counselors to help you keep that good man of yours. I've had the pleasure of watching him for a solid week and he was a model husband, even when presented with some pretty nice can't-miss opportunities, if you know what I mean. Now here's something else you probably didn't know. Most men are generally as honest as their options but not Devinâhe appeared to be a man who was missing his wife and wishing he was home.” Sylvia put Vera in the mind of a toy poodle when she marched her child-like frame toward her in an angered rant.

“That shows just how little you do know, Ms. Miles.
Mr. Everhart
left home on his own accord, so I know he's out there running behind some tramp willing to degrade herself by doing the things men fascinate themselves with. I'm not into greasing his ego or anything else for that matter. I don't have to and I won't.”

Vera couldn't believe her ears or her reaction. “Well, maybe you should have. Then your man might've stayed home.” Those eleven little dirty words just slipped right out of her mouth before she could tell them to go sit down and mind their own business.

“How dare you!” Mrs. Everhart yelled, from somewhere above the top of her lungs. “Get out!”

Vera swore that all three of the wall mirrors in that office were going to shatter against the woman's loud screeching pitch. Laughing in her client's face behind a teenaged-style tantrum was Vera's next thought commingled with one that served the situation a tad bit better, so she went with the latter. “OK, I'll leave, but not before I tell you what I think the problem with you really is. Uh-huh, it seems to me that you were hoping your breakup was brought on by what some other woman was doing, but then you looked at me like I had on two different colored shoes when I showed up and informed you that Devin had not taken up with anyone else. That's disturbing, because it forces you to look at yourself and open to other folks' questions as to why your man ran off. I might be wrong but I doubt it. The way I see it,
Sylvia
, this is a big mess you've gotten yourself into and there isn't anyone else around to blame it on.”

Suddenly, Mrs. Everhart's top lip began to quiver. She was so mad that Vera nearly giggled at the mere thought of that swollen head of Sylvia's popping off at the neck.

“Are . . . you . . . finished now or should I call the police to have you removed from my building?” Sylvia threatened.

“Yeah, I'm through but don't think about stopping payment on the check for the work I've already put in, or I'll be back and not as pleasant as I've been today.”

Vera was well aware that people didn't like paying for bad news, unless it was wrapped around some want ads and grocery store coupons, so she raced to the nearest Wells Fargo branch to tender the check that was burning a hole in her pocket. She might have played a fool for the occasion, but she'd never once been mistaken for stupid.

It was just Vera's luck that the windows at the in-store branch were closed, so she cussed the bank's employees under her breath for closing down on time as she headed up the aisles to shop for a few female necessities. Getting over her last client's upsetting idea of what a marriage was supposed to be still troubled Vera, so she cussed Sylvia Everhart's silly ideologies altogether. Several shoppers threw strange glances her way and each of them was extremely close to getting cussed out too. That's what usually happened when CRUMBS (Clients, Reasonably Upset and Meaning to Bust Somebody) didn't get what they wanted via Vera's investigation services. They'd smart off to her face and she'd cuss them out later, behind their backs.

That night, Vera applied all five of her bedtime beauty secrets then slid beneath the covers to rest her troubled mind. She closed her eyes, repeating her personal PI Anthem while trying to feel good about the money she had made, until the sandman climbed into bed right along with her.
Once the case is closed and the money is made, don't matter win or lose. Some bills have been paid.

Two

T
uesday morning found Vera hiding beneath the covers and dreading the cool air hawking from the other side of her handmade quilt. Whispers of fall had just rolled in and cast their mesmerizing spell over the city after another long blistering hot Texas summer. That crisp morning air reminded Vera of the first time she nestled herself in 450-count linens, on sale from Neiman's, when 270-count standard hotel type sheets had been good enough before then. She had grown accustomed to the way quality bedding made her feel pleasantly pampered, so she wasn't ready to give up her hiding place just yet. Instead, she lay there with the covers pulled up to her neck, while frowning back at the slender rays of sun peeking through the slits of the Venetian blinds. They didn't mean any harm and generally didn't cause any, so Vera said her hellos to the early coolness of the day and the sunshine's grandeur. Then, she smiled and gave thanks to the Almighty for providing her an avenue to keep the lights on the little extras of life, like 450-count linen sheets.

Vera made some money doing what she loved, some money, although it wasn't enough to multiply on its own. She spent most of her time figuring out ways to catch up on overdue notices while trying to keep her small investigation company afloat. Other than uncovering other people's dirty deeds, Vera came across an occasional insurance fraud case to make the ends meet. Before she hung her own shingle, it was a ten-year hitch as a parole officer for the state. It was safe, too safe. What she truly missed was a job she'd signed on to do with a crew of bounty hunters. Albeit a very brief stint tracking dangerous bail jumpers, it almost got her killed, more than once.

With a few regrets and a lot of bad boys to fret, Vera decided to try her luck at becoming a first rate snoop. Being a private eye put food on the table and presented her with a slice of life that most folks could have only imagined. Because danger and uncertainty often traveled the same paths she walked along, Vera trained herself to be Everywoman in order to survive. She'd learned to play the cold-fish and the queen-bitch, wearing attitude on her sleeve like it was part of a uniform. Mastering her piercing stare coupled with a certain amount of gruffness in her voice, Vera managed to maneuver her way into some very important back rooms, when batting her big brown eyes didn't get her past the front door.

While working cases for former CRUMBS, Vera learned a lot about people and their various bad habits; some of them made television crime shows play out like
Mother Goose
tales. Catching miscreants doing God knows what was always toughest when Vera had to settle in and videotape their indiscretions. She'd filmed men with men, women with women, men with children and too many deviants with animals to remember. Sickness had taken on a whole new meaning since Vera started working for herself at Miles Above Investigations. The hardest part was doing the job without becoming the job. Unfortunately, the thin line narrowed each time she had to hold the camera steady in order to film an entire reprehensible act in wide focus while collecting the evidence. Having to play it back later, to be dissected on a conference room big screen monitor in a room filled with clients and high-priced lawyers, disturbed Vera down to her core. Private investigating was a dirty line of work to get caught in, one that rarely allowed her to walk away unsullied.

It was 8:30 that morning when Vera snatched her hair back in a ponytail just before leaving her comfortable three-bedroom home to meet the day. It was a red-brick fixer-upper, a money pit that she felt the need to rescue, like taking in a stray dog then later discovering it needed shots and a battery of other expensive veterinary treatments. The house at 9904 Newhaven belonged to Vera and it was well worth the ten grand of remodeling she had poured into it. After springing for a new roof and replacing the light fixtures in every room, Vera had something to be proud of. More than that, it was the first real thing she ever owned. At first sight, she knew that it was something that needed saving and she needed something to save. That's what the Realtor called a match made in real estate heaven.

The Silver Streak, Vera's metallic-colored '97 Ford Explorer, was another story altogether. Her grandfather always said, “Buy American and keep our jobs at home.” So, Vera purchased an American automobile and learned something right away. Her grandfather's advice about waiting around until a good man found her wasn't the only thing he was wrong about. It seemed that Vera should have kept her pocketbook at home instead. It was a fact that The Streak got her from point A to B, but then so did walking.

Vera came by her SUV one Saturday afternoon after answering an advertisement for a traveling automobile auction which took place on the other side of town. The man who ran the event sold out of his entire inventory of thirteen vehicles by slashing prices. Twelve of the vehicles he unloaded were stolen property. The only one that hadn't been boosted had been pulled out of a flash flood in Houston. Based on the hill of maintenance bills Vera had accumulated over the past two years, she guessed that The Streak couldn't swim. The thought of passing it on to another chump crossed her mind all the time, but she figured on keeping it around as an, albeit costly, constant reminder that anyone could be a sucker if the odds were right.

Almost laughing at herself, Vera wondered when someone else would try and sucker her as she sneered at the cashier standing on the other side of the teller window. Seven-hundred dollars minus the five-buck non-account holder fee tacked on for cashing Mrs. Everhart's check suggested the bank was first in line. At least she saw that one coming. Vera climbed back into her vehicle wearing a crooked grin. She felt good about having a few extra dollars in her pocket, just a few. She knew all too well that a little money was a whole lot better than none.

Driving up to the oatmeal-hued brick covering the small building Vera leased on lower Greenville Avenue reminded her that she hadn't eaten breakfast. Since there weren't any potential clients on the schedule, or money coming in, she let the sinking feeling pass right on by when pulling into her personal parking space on the tiny back lot. Vera frequently parked behind the building, making it easier to duck out on bill collectors or unhappy persistent clients. Parking on the street out front was another option when her financial situation improved. Had she accepted that additional check from silly Sylvia Everhart, The Streak would have been lounging curbside for at least a week.

At the back door, sounds of Ms. Minneola Roosevelt's transistor radio tickled Vera's ears. At seventy-two, the receptionist motored along rather well for a woman with her mileage. Outliving three husbands was proof that she more than adequately handled her own back in the day and more than likely still could.

“Ms. Vera, that you?” was her first salutation of the day. “Good mornin'. I thought I heard you coming in through the back.” Although it was uncomfortable having a senior citizen addressing her with immense respect, Vera understood her assistant was reared in another time where the boss was treated with a manner of reverence despite the age difference.

The older woman closed the door just after stepping inside Vera's small office that was separated from the rest of the building by a thin layer of sheetrock. The doorknob brushed across Ms. Minnie's wide behind. Vera pretended not to notice when the woman lunged forward because of it. “There's one of them CRUMBS of yours out there in the waitin' area,” she announced sharply. Her top lip turned up as if she'd smelled something rank. “But I can't find him on the calendar nowhere.” The receptionist parked her thick fist on her broad hips awaiting directions on how she should proceed.

Vera smiled, greeting one of her favorite people. “Good morning, Ms. Minnie,” she offered, studying the woman's soft round face and dark brown worried eyes. “Is everything fine out there?” Vera placed her purse on the floor near her feet where it would be concealed by the office desk. When Ms. Minnie didn't utter a single sound, Vera questioned with her eyes what was bothering her receptionist.

“Ms. Vera, this man's been here since I opened up this mornin',” Ms. Minnie answered, with an uneasy glance behind her.

“Yes, and?”

She swallowed hard before continuing. “And, he's white.” It was then Vera considered the sort of tragedies that warned Ms. Minnie to be cautious of strange white people, especially white men. A change of the millennium had nothing to do with her changing her mind about that. “Ma daddy always told me that a white man showin' up unannounced can't do you nothin' but harm, even if he was to be sellin' somethin',” the elderly woman added for Vera's sake.

“Yes, ma'am, I understand,” Vera responded, keeping in mind what Ms. Minnie had likely witnessed at the hands of white racists. “Please send him back and I'll deal with him.”

Slowly rocking her sturdy frame on the soles of her black orthopedic shoes, Ms. Minnie stalled. She contemplated sharing numerous apprehensions, in hauntingly grave detail, but Vera stopped her short of a lengthy history lesson.

“Go on now, Ms. Minnie,” Vera hastened. Then, she glanced down at the top drawer, which cradled Vera's chrome-plated .38-caliber pistol. “Go on now,” she insisted.

Ms. Minnie's past had called out to her, beckoning her to heed the cautions. The old woman listened.

Vera should have, too.

BOOK: Sleep Don't Come Easy

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