Case of the Very Physical Therapist

It had not only been one hell of a day, it'd been one of those days that make you think about changing careers. I wasn't sure that Jase Conrad Investigations had a long future, at least, not if I had many more days like this. Surely, somewhere in Nashville, Tennessee, there was a rich widow who needed a live-in someone to polish her pipes, so to speak. I've seen some really sexy grandmas out there, and it'd probably be interesting to say the least. I mean, after sixty, a woman knows enough to get pretty creative, and if I could get paid too.... Damn, I gotta start getting more sleep.

As Mondays go, mine didn't start out all that bad, I guess. I woke up, showered with the last little piece of the soap I had forgotten to buy, and warmed up the coffee from yesterday morning, because I forgot to buy that too. I have a good excuse; Carla had come to Barney's just as I was finishing the last of my cheeseburger, and stayed at my place for the night.

Carla owns a recording studio, and I helped her divorce her husband. My exclusive video starring him and one very young, very horny blonde got rave reviews from both Carla's attorney and the judge. The defense attorney was less than enthusiastic in his comments, but I noticed he didn't return his copy of the tape. My reward, besides the generous cash payment, was the most shattering session of sex of my life, and she has sort of selected me as her on-demand lover. She never expects anything except really great sex, and after screwing me deaf and blind, she waltzes out of my life for a week or so. Then, she'll show up at Barney's or at my office/apartment ready for a scotch or two, or three, and we retire to my bedroom for the evening. Actually, my life hasn't changed all that much because of Carla. I did buy a bed, because it seemed tacky making love on my old couch, and I kept falling off on the floor on those occasions when we tried to sleep together. I've also started drinking high protein supplements, and it only takes me half a day to recover now. Somehow, scotch and pizza don't give you much staying power. Carla says I taste better too, so I guess the occasional bout of the green-apple quickstep is a small price to pay.

As I drank my coffee, I went over my schedule for the day. This means that I read the notes I had scribbled on the desk blotter calendar in the little box for Monday. Someday, I thought, I would have to get more professional with a real date book, but so far, I was doing OK.

"Bk-Ck" reminded me that I had to go down to 1st National and deposit the check from Mr. Clarence Downwoody. Last Friday, Mr. Downwoody had graciously paid my fee after I found his missing daughter. His little princess, Jennifer, was comfortably married and living happily with a Mr. Melvin Tibbideau. This revelation, gleaned from an hour's search at the county clerk's office, might seem rather mundane, until one understands that Jennifer is nineteen and the daughter of a Southern Baptist Sunday school teacher from Gallatin, while Melvin is thirty nine, and had, some years ago, crawled out of the swamps of southern Louisiana. A couple of searches through the on-line databases to which I subscribe told me Melvin owns a Harley Davidson motorcycle, so I headed out to the bar where some of the hard-core bikers hang out. It was just a hunch, but the guys who ride the big iron are usually hooked up with a club somewhere. The place was empty at one in the afternoon, except for a forty-ish looking blonde in leather pants and top, and the bartender looked really bored. I sat down at the end of the bar and ordered a beer. As I looked around the bar, I saw the blonde motioning for me to join her. Evidently, she had something to say, so I picked up the bottle and walked back. On the way, I decided flattery would get me everywhere and mentally composed my compliments. She drained her drink, and spoke before I could turn her into a blushing, gushing font of information.

"You look kinda outta place, Honey. Nobody ever comes'n this place dressed like that. Yur lucky none o' the Satans are here; they'd stick a pool cue up yur sweet li'l butt out and throw you out the door. I figger yur lookin' fur somebody. You a cop, 'cause if you are, you can stick that beer up yur ass, compliments of me? I ain't gonna help you do nothin' to one o' my boys."

Well, so much for the blushing part, and I figured any gushing was pretty much out of the question, too. I was going to have to play this easy. Her last drink was definitely not her first, and I had a feeling that she could probably handle that pool cue trick pretty well all by herself. My asshole sucked up to about the level of my ears at the thought. I took a pull on the beer to give myself more time to think.

"Well, I'm not a cop, but I am looking for somebody. Melvin Tibbideau."

"Well then, who the hell are you and just why the fuck would you wanna find Melvin?"

I started to tell the truth, I really did, but you know, sometimes I just can't. This little wave just sweeps over me and I have to lie. I can't help myself, but at least I'm good at it.

"I'm Harry Rumford, and I need to talk to him. My cousin in D.C. met him last Memorial Day. He called me last night and asked me to find out how to get in touch with Melvin. He's riding down with his girlfriend in a couple weeks and wants to hook up."

"Just tell him to come here on Thursday. He'll find Melvin sometime after midnight."

"Well, gee, I don't really know how to put this. My cousin's girlfriend and Melvin kind of hit it off, I guess, and my cousin says Melvin's wife likes her too, so they want to meet them for..., well he wouldn't tell me what for, but I can guess. My cousin's kind of from the wild side of the family, and his wife's right there with him; she even tried to get me in bed right after they were first married, but I couldn't do that to him. Anyway, they asked me to get Melvin's phone number or get directions to his house."

"Buy me a drink, and we'll talk a while. Melvin never said anythin' about any Rumford in D.C, but maybe yur tellin' the truth. Melvin always did have a way with women, and it sounds like him. His li'l bitch is hotter'n the doors o' hell, too, so I could see that too. She took on the whole club up at Sturgis last year. And you can call me Lucy."

I paid for her rum and coke. She took a healthy swig before standing up and leading me to some pictures of the club members that hung on the wall. She pointed out one of Melvin during a rally somewhere in North Carolina. Lucy was sitting on the bike behind him, wearing boots, a black leather thong, and a slightly drunken smile. The rest of her was pretty red from the sunburn. Her drink was gone again and she seemed to have loosened up some, and I decided this was the time to stroke her a little. I asked who the woman was behind Melvin.

"Why, that's me. Can'tcha tell?"

I made a show of looking at her, then at the picture, and then back at her. "Well, I'll be, it is. You just look different now."

"Well, my hair was longer then, and I'd burned the shit out of myself riding around with no top. It was a blast, though. Melvin and I had a ball. I was really pissed when he got married, but after the first month, he came back and brought his wife with him. Yur cousin's right about Jenny. She's as good with a woman as Melvin. Last weekend, out at the lake, I thought she was gonna make me pass out."

"I can see why Melvin would come back. If I may say so, you're quite a woman."

"Shit, if you think that picture's good, you gotta see me for real." She reached behind her back, and untied the top. "Melvin says I got great tits. Whadda you think?"

They were really pretty nice, and I told her so.

"Only pretty nice?" She grabbed my hand. "Here, feel. My tits are just as good as any of them young chick's. And they don't hang down to my belly either."

Far be it from me to ignore a lady's request. I squeezed gently, and risked a touch to one of her really long nipples. Lucy smiled and shivered.

"See. You won't find 'em like that on most girls. Melvin liked my nips a lot." She smiled again. "You can do it again if you want. You got great hands."

I obliged, said they were fabulous, and then reminded her about my reason for being here. She tied the top back, and after I sat down, she slipped into the chair next to me. She and Melvin had evidently been a pretty steady thing for a while, and she enjoyed talking about him. I could see why Melvin liked her. I figured Lucy would be a handful, possibly two, if one were to really get to know her. She certainly seemed to want to know me. She kept bumping her chest against my arm while we talked.

The picture and her information were most helpful. Melvin is a about five-nine, and at almost three hundred pound, is a walking example of why incest is illegal in most of the civilized world and is a strong taboo in the in the rest. He rides a 1967 Harley Sportster with a skull mounted on the handlebars, and is a prominent, if somewhat less than dashing, member of the local chapter of The Satans motorcycle club. He has a tattoo of a snake on his forehead, and has never, at least within the ten years that Lucy had known him, remained employed for more than a week at a time. After I bought her another run and coke, she did say that Melvin had worked in a furniture factory for a couple of years. Upon further questioning, she admitted it was while incarcerated for a little misunderstanding at a convenience store. Melvin punched out the cashier and then helped himself to six cases of beer. We both agreed that it was tough luck that the security camera had recorded the whole transaction, and also agreed that since he had been forced to work, it didn't count as real employment. After another round, she was trusting enough to give me Melvin's phone number. I thanked Lucy and she asked me to drop in anytime, just to talk. The drinks probably helped her along a little, but it's good for my ego to believe she asked because she wanted my body.

On Thursday morning, about eleven o'clock, I called the number.

"Mmmmmmmm...,Hello?", answered a sleepy sounding female voice.

"Yes, is this Mrs. Tibbideau...Mrs. Melvin Tibbideau?"

"Who want's to...oh yeh, mmmmm... , who wants to know?", followed by a quick gasp.

"This is Bobby Jack Borchers, down at Borcher's Bug Busters. We're running an advertising campaign and if you agree to let us inspect your house for termites, you'll win fifty dollars. I'd like to come out today, if that's possible."

There was silence on the other end of the line for a while. Sometimes I can be a little slow on the uptake, but by now I had realized she wasn't sleepy. I heard a muffled, "Oh God, yes. Harder baby, harder", and the distinctive sound of creaking bed springs. A few seconds more of waiting and I was rewarded by an unmistakable male groan and a high, lingering squeal. After a few more seconds her breathless voice came back on the line.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry, we were...well, I kinda got busy there. Who did you say you were again?"

I repeated my line, and she yelled to someone, "Honey, were gonna get fifty bucks. Gitcher naked ass in some clothes", then back to me, "you can come over right away if you want to".

She gave me the address and directions. I put the magnetic signs with the big termite on the sides of the minivan, and drove a few miles out of Nashville to what once was a small farm house. From the outside, the house looked a little shabby, but livable. I thought the shiny, black bike in the yard gave it a special class all it's own, and did much to distract one's attention from the two old pickups and the rusting Yugo beside the rotting tobacco barn. I put on my red ballcap, picked up my big flashlight and clipboard, knocked on the door, and was greeted by Jennifer. She was wearing a thin, cropped tank top that barely covered her ample breasts and jeans cut off at the crotch seam. The seam wasn't quite wide enough to hide the fact that she wasn't wearing underwear, and the smooth, pink lip that hung over the seam made it apparent that she shaved her secret locks. I couldn't be sure, but I surmised the glint of sliver I saw when she turned was a little jewelry to replace the missing curls, and probably matched the nipple rings that showed beneath the shirt. Jennifer didn't seem like the daughter Mr. Downwoody had described, but she did look like the pretty blonde cheer leader in the picture he gave me.

She led me to the basement, and I flashed the light around the small room for a while. I didn't mention the spiders I saw hiding in the floor joists, or the rat that scurried behind the stack of empty beer cans. I'm sure there was at least a state termite convention going on there somewhere, if I had known how to find it, but I didn't see anything on the surface. I didn't say anything while I looked, and neither did Jennifer. She just sat spraddle-legged on a wobbly chair placed under the one bare bulb that lit the basement. She kept looking at me and licking her bottom lip, and her tongue stud clicked against her top teeth when she slipped it back in. Occasionally, she yawned and raised her arms over her head. This was particularly distracting, because her large, brown, pierced nipples peeked out from under the bottom of the top when she did this. She also kept rubbing her hands up and down the smooth inner parts of her thighs from the knees to the tiny strip of denim at the crotch. The girl was trying to turn me on; she obviously wanted my body, and it was becoming difficult to maintain my professional poise. I guess it's just my curse, making women feel this way. OK,OK, maybe she was just lusting for the fifty dollars, but I decided to cut my inspection short anyway. I didn't need to have Melvin find me, with her, and see her doing what she was doing. The view was nice, but not worth a trip to the hospital.

"Well, Mrs. Tibbideau, I can't find any termites here, but you still get the fifty dollars. I just have to get some information for our files. We claim these promotions as a business expense, you see, and we have to prove to the tax people that we really talked to everybody we claim. I'm sure you understand."

"Hey, sure"

The hand traveled from her thigh to slip just under the waist of the shorts, and she began gently rubbing.

"I need your name, your full name, please, and your place of employment, just in case we need to verify that I talked to you."

"Oh, I'm Jennifer, Jennifer Downwoody-Tibbideau. See, I wanted to do what the movie stars do, so I kept my other name too, when I got married to Melvin. Sounds kinda cool, too, huh, Downwoody-Tibbideau, I mean? I think it's real sophisticated soundin', like one of those models or an actress or somethin'. Maybe someday, you'll see that name and remember -"

I interrupted her.

"Hey, Jennifer, I really like that. I do. Now, where do you work?"

'Oh yeh, well, I work down at The Kitty Corner. I'm just a waitress now, but next week I get to try out as a dancer. That's where the real money is. D'you know some of those girls get a hundred a night stuck in their panties, and more if they do private dances? Melvin says I got what it takes to make big money, and he otta know. That's where we met. He was there stuffin' dollar bills in Queenie's thong. I walked up and asked if he wanted anything, and he gave me the funniest look. Then he said, "Yeh, Babe. I want you." We got married two months later, and we've been here since."

She smiled coyly, and said "Melvin don't look like much, but he has talent, if you know what I mean."

I decided that I already had more information than I wanted, and was likely to get more if I stayed around, so I smiled and handed her the fifty dollar bill.

Well, thanks a bunch for your time, Jennifer. If any of your friends think they have termites, tell 'em about us, OK?

"You got it, honey, and if you ever come in the Kitty Corner, I'll do a special dance, just for you." That sultry voice was back again.

She walked me to the door, and it was back in the sunlight that I noticed the cock and balls tattooed on her left breast. I was about to thank her again when Melvin called from somewhere inside.

"Hey Babe, the big guy's ready to play again. Shag that hot little ass in here."

Jennifer blushed, absently rubbed two fingers over her left nipple, and said, "Well, I gotta go. Thanks for the fifty", and almost slammed the door in my face.

The next note was "Continental,JS". I had gotten this call on my answering machine on Friday, and called Continental Insurance to get the details and purchase order.

For a year, Jimmy Dale Samuels had worked as a loader for Overland Express Delivery, a small trucking company that made their niche by promising overnight delivery to any destination within six hundred miles of Nashville. Two months ago, Jimmy was lifting a box of machine parts, and hurt his back, or so he claimed. Overland had sent him to three doctors, and none of them could find anything wrong with him, but Jimmy still said it hurt too much to work. Apparently, the doctors couldn't prove that he wasn't in the intense pain he claimed, and Jimmy was at home, drawing short term disability. Overland's insurance carrier, Continental, was paying for the in-home therapist one of the doctor's had prescribed, and they hired me to find out if Jimmy was faking.

The proof I needed was video of Jimmy doing something that a back injury would have made impossible, and it was for assignments such as this that I had bought the minivan. It's that popular shade of dark red, with dark tinted windows. It attracts about as much attention as a fat man on a nude beach, and most people would think it just belongs to another soccer mom doing her errands. After I took out the back seats, I had a perfect place to set up my spotting scope, video camera and a stool. I can park on any street, and voyeur to my little heart's content. Most people don't look in the back of a minivan, but I did have some black curtains made for the side and back windows, and for behind the front seats, just in case.

At ten o'clock, I loaded up a cooler of water and sodas, a couple of sandwiches, and an empty milk jug, along with scope and camera. When I arrived at the street where Jimmy lived, I knew I was in trouble.

Jimmy lived in a brand-new subdivision which meant, among other things, that there were no trees. Now, trees are usually in the way when one wishes to video unsuspecting people, but they do have one redeeming feature. They keep the sun from baking the occupant of a dark red minivan into a gasping, dehydrated husk. It was going to be a long afternoon.

I located Jimmy's house and was pleased to find it on the corner at the bottom of a small hill. The hill was high enough that, by parking at the top, I had a clear view of Jimmy's fenced yard, including all of the above-ground pool and most of the deck around it. I set up looking out through the back glass, and waited. Jimmy was evidently a late riser, because there was no activity by noon. I ate a sandwich and drank my second bottle of water. By now, the beautifully clear Tennessee sky was doing absolutely nothing to filter the sun, and the inside of the minivan was like a crematorium. I was sweating like a pig, and put on a headband to keep it out of my eyes. A red sportscar drove by and, judging by the hospital scrubs she wore, the driver looked like a nurse. The car turned at the street that Jimmy's house faced, and then I lost it. At two, Jimmy did come out of the house, and I could see why he probably didn't stir about very early in the day. He was in a wheel chair, and the driver of the red sportscar was pushing him onto the deck. I assumed the afternoon sun was supposed to be good for his condition. If I had been Jimmy, the therapist would have done more for me than the sun.