The Case of The Golden Heart

I leaned back in my rickety leather chair. It had been a long day...long week...long life. The days are always long in the private eye business. Long with boredom, long with the dregs of humanity. Long with seeing how low people can stoop to scratch out a petty gain.

I poured two fingers of my only luxury. Scotch from the western coast...harsh, bitter, salty because they use sea water in the distilling. Just like me.

I lit a cigarette and took another drink. My office was as cliché as the booze. Spartan, dreary. Through the window behind me a neon sign dropped "Eat at" then "J-O-E-s" with a final arrow running top to bottom pointing below my third story window. The neon came in through partially drawn shutters, leaving a striped pattern of light on the opposite wall. I watched the light-show as it appeared, then repeated over and over.

It's a metaphor for life...I took another drag from my cigarette.

Coat rack, wooden filing cabinet, an old leather sofa that was my home away from home and two chairs opposite the battered wooden desk. Two legs on that desk had been broken and patched...one in a fight, one from being put to a use the maker never intended. If you don't get it wait around a bit...I'm certain it'll become clear.

I took another drink.

The only real oddball in the room was a small picture opposite the desk. It was not much bigger than a postcard, but framed and bolted to the wall. A tropical bay with sand and palm trees. A leftover from the last occupant. The blue sky and blue water faded to indistinguishable white, and the palm tree looked old and tired. The glass is cracked where I'd bashed it with a chair once after trying to tear it down with my bare hands. Maggie's the only reason it's still there.

I guess there's another metaphor for you...I stared at the tumbler and the smoke, not remembering whose turn it was. Even clichés forget sometimes.

A shadow moved across the door. Maggie stuck her head in.

"A client to see you. Her name is Angie. She doesn't have an appointment."

Of course she doesn't. Nobody makes appointments to see me. Nobody ever knows that they are going to end up at my door. By the time you need me, you're beyond appointments and courtesies. 'She doesn't have an appointment' meant the client had been crying. 'She's without an appointment' meant something else. It was code...Maggie and I'd worked it out.

"Bring her in." I got up and drew the shades, then pulled the chain on my desklamp and leaned back in my chair. Put my hands behind my head and adopted a casual-but-competent aire. I'm all about atmosphere.

She stepped in and stopped a moment, comparing our clichés. Me in a wrinkled shirt loosened tie and 5 o'clock shadow. Her dressed to the nines as the Femme Fatale. High heels, black stockings on legs that went all the way up. Black skirt, white silk blouse unbuttoned down to there. She looked damn good.

She walked in quickly and sat down before I was more then half way up. "Have a seat" I said belatedly.

She started blubbering immediately, launching straight into her story. Between breathy statements she dabbed her eyes and moved her gaze all around the room, stopping to meet my eyes only in passing.

I didn't listen to a word. I took a deep drag on my smoke, belatedly realizing that I should have taken a drink...damn.

She wasn't as society as she was putting on. Her perfume was a cheap knockoff, so were her shoes. The hem of her skirt was worn enough that no woman who had a choice would be caught dead in it, and two buttons on her blouse had been sewn back on with different weight thread.

She spun her tail of a kidnapped brother. A ransom demand...can't involve the cops. It was all so much fairy dust and moonbeams. Clients never tell the truth.

Never.

"Would you like a drink?" I offered, pretending some sympathy while running the angles through my head. I needed some more information.

"If it's no trouble...please?"

I fetched another glass out of the desk. That left only three other things kept in those drawers. A pencil, a book of matches and my pistol. The pencil was a gift, the matches were useful and the gun...well, let's just say it's a friend.

"Work like this is likely to get nasty. That means expensive."

"I don't have much...only $50." She produces said 50 from her purse. It was a lot of dough, and people who 'don't have much' produce two tens, four fives and ten singles...or maybe nine and some change. Dropping a Grant on the table is fishy.

See how easy it is to see through people who think they're being clever?

I walked over to the door and told Maggie to 'hold my calls'. "Are you sure?" she replied, barely hiding the disappointment in her voice. It was code too, nobody ever called.

I walked back and parted the horizontal wooden slats to see the street outside. There was a thug across the street who stared too pointedly at my window and turned away too fast when I looked out. He'd have done better to pretend he was looking at the Joe's sign and cross to the diner. Amateur.

"Are you aware you're being followed?" I asked as I opened first the shade, then the window a third of the way. The neon sign made a buzz that altered pitch as each new light joined in. Maggie would be well on her way out by now.

She paused before answering, but had composed herself by the time I'd turned around.

"No...I'd never dreamed..." and then oddly disconnected "...don't you own a gun? I thought men like you...". She let the sentence trail off, momentarily embarrassed. My heart thumped and my groin tightened...she did embarrassed well.

Still driving for facts, I played up the thug. "This is serious miss, if you're being followed, then I'm going to need a lot more than $50." If my guess was right, I'd get a lot more.

"Please, I'm desperate. I don't have any more." She turned on the water works again.

I took a deep drag on the cigarette...right on schedule.

"I'm sorry miss, I can't help you. Maybe Sig Cooper over on 15th and Jackson?" I rose, and stepped around the desk as if to escort her out the door.

"Wait" she said in a quiet voice. She slowly stood and for the first time caught and held my gaze. She leaned in and whispered "there has to be something..."

Damn, I hate being right, but it does have its advantages. They say if you're going to hell, you may as well commit the sin. I figured it might come to this...that's why I'd asked Maggie to leave. She's got delicate sensibilities.

I grabbed the $50 off the desk and stared right back. "You can let me take those curves of yours for a spin." She didn't bat an eye. We in the business call that a clue.

Her mouth said "I can't do that" but here eyes were gleeful, as if to shout "Gotcha!". We harangued a bit more to preserve the image of her coquettishness, then we got started.

She was quick, efficient and a damn good actress. She kept her noises ardent, but relatively quiet. Had it been for real I might have been convinced, but from the moment I took the cash this was A Case and while she might be the pro at sex, I'm the pro at detecting.

She meant me to believe that I'd seen the depths of her desperation in a frame of demi-cut brassiere, silk stocking and smeared lipstick. She'd shown me the act and I'd played along. I'd have taken a drink, if my scotch was near.

As she was nuzzling up to me and cooing in her 'afterglow' I lifted her to standing and got up myself. I turned her around and held both her arms behind her in one of mine. With the other I leaned her forward onto my desk. She started struggling, but by the time she thought to resist I'd taken her leverage away. I answered her "what are you doing?" by sliding back into her from behind.

Her willingness vanished. This was no longer on her terms. She struggled and cursed and fought and I'm embarrassed to say the bastard in me enjoyed it.

About halfway through, the oft-repaired desk legs broke...again. The far side of the desk was now four inches lower than this side. It always breaks about halfway through. The desk lamp shattered plunging the room into the surreal neon semi-light. The phone clattered to the floor with the glass shattering right after. What a waste of good scotch.

With her body leaning that much more forward, I was able to take her deeply. Her curses never stopped but she rose up onto her toes and changed the angle even more. Before we were done she was orgasming for real and not quietly.

At least I knew her Truth. I'd tell you now but it would spoil the surprise.

Heavy breathing and the buzzing of the neon were the only sounds for a full minute. Then I stood straight and helped her up. She straightened her skirt as I put myself away.

"The exchange of the ransom for your brother's return is 8pm tomorrow?"

"Yes"

"And the address..."

"17 Walker Street, apartment 302. In the West End."

"Call me here at 7. I'll come pick you up. Here's my card, call my service if you need to reach me before then."

"OK." Then belatedly "Thanks for helping me." But her tone held no real gratitude...She was worried she'd gotten more than she asked for.

She was right. I showed her out the door then picked up Maggie's extension to place a call to an old cop buddy of mine who works the Vice Squad in the West End. He gave me a straight answer to a straight question about one Angie Evergold and it was all over. Cue the fat lady.

The smoke and the scotch were both casualties of the desk. On the more interesting cases, this is where I would finish both of them. Instead, I grabbed my coat and hat and headed downstairs.

I stuck my head into the diner long enough to let Joe know the desk upstairs needed repair again. He gave me a nod and a knowing smile.

I stepped out onto 8th Street and started toward my apartment. Not surprisingly, the thug across the street followed. He had his hands stuffed in his pockets and walked with the quick, stiff steps of an angry man. I suppose I would too if I were him.

I didn't like him following me. It doesn't pay to encourage that kind of behavior, even if there wasn't a chance in the world he could change how things unfolded. I turned down the next alleyway and ducked behind a dumpster.

He wasn't a complete dummy. He peeked around the corner first, then reached into his coat to pull out a revolver before making his way. He was careful, but there were just too many places to hide in the darkness and I'd picked a spot directly opposite an empty doorway. As he gave the gaping black hole its proper respect, he turned his back to me for a moment too long.

He was holding the gun far out in front of him, not in close to his body like I would have. I cracked him on the wrist forcing him to drop the gun, then punched him hard in the stomach. He fell gasping tot he ground. I told him to stay down but his rage boiled up. He started to rise up again and the cool steel circle of the gun barrel against his cheek should have convinced him that this was not his time for revenge. He growled and started to take a swing at me and I had to ring his bell with the pistol grip to let him know I was serious.

He was off his game...and why not, through the open window of my office he'd had to listen to me with his girlfriend. I'll bet that was rough. I absently wondered who she'd prefer.

I backed up a step and stared at him while I methodically emptied the bullets from the gun. Then, holding it in my curled fingers with the cylinder pressed against my palm I waited for the inevitable. As soon as the gun was fully emptied, he charged me with an animal yell.

I was supposed to take the gun away from him and stick it in my pocket, but I wasn't supposed to empty the chamber. That wasn't part of The Plan. He should have run and tried to stop everything that was in motion already, but I guess he figured if he could knock me out it would work just as well. Fool.

I rapped him on the skull with the empty pistol and left him unconscious. If he was lucky he wouldn't wake up until morning when all this was over.

I'm not a completely heartless bastard.

I got back to my place just as the phone rang. I'd probably been ringing every five minutes for the last 15...trying to get me "just as I walked in".

"I'm desperate" she sobbed. "They want to make the exchange tonight."

Oh, kell supris. Sure. I'm on my way. I stayed long enough to make one more phone call...then I caught a cab over to her apartment.

When I got there, she answered the door in filmy lingerie. It was long and flowing and sheer in all the wrong places. It loosely bound her breasts but they wove their enchanting motions anyway. It was such an improbable outfit for her current "state of distress" that I thought about quitting the entire scene if she'd looked one damn bit less spectacular than she did. The effect was stunning, and without a doubt she was counting on the blood rushing out of my skull.

She threw herself into my arms...I could feel the heat radiating off her body. Traitorous bitch. I grabbed a handful of hair and forced her head back and her lips up to mine. I thought about the likely timing and decided that I had enough to have another go at her right there on the vestibule floor. I slid the strap off her shoulder and kissed her neck.

I guess I am a heartless bastard after all.

There was a bang at the door. Damn.

She recoiled in terror...fleeing my arms for the middle of the room, strap still dangling seductively against her arm.

"Open up Angie!"

Yeah, I know. Kidnappers don't say stuff like that.

Her face was ashen. Her arms folded protectively under her breasts as she braced against a buffet table. She had the terrified-helpless-but-still-fantastically-sensual look down pat.

"You have to help me...he's going to kill me."

I doubted it. Pimps don't kill their best girls. I leveled a skeptical look at her, but she didn't crack.

More banging. "Open this door Angie, or you know what will happen."

This time she blanched for real. Apparently, she'd tasted the punishment for disobedience before. I'd heard stories and figured she'd had good reason.

"You have to protect me. Did you bring your gun? He's crazy!"

"I have one that I took off the guy who was following you...before I put him down." The concern and triumph warred in her face for a brief moment. To her credit, she didn't ask what happened to him, even thought it must be eating her up.

It was an outright lie...the kid's rod had been loaded with blanks and I'd ditched it in the storm drain. I wanted her to think that The Plan was working right up to the moment I took the wheels off the track.

"Last chance Angie. On the count of three I'm breaking this door down. Then I'm gonna enjoy what happens after that."

Now she left the buffet and stood behind me. Cheek against my neck. Breath soft in my ear. Hips pressing hard against my ass. Using her physical presence to try and override my sense and reason in a way women have employed since the dawn of time. I suspect Eve held Adam in just such an embrace as she whispered of the unending sweetness of the apple. This temptress whispered only one empassioned syllable.

"Please".

I did nothing but realize that I knew we would arrive at this point and I couldn't change what was going to happen.

The door burst open.

I did nothing but remember that clients didn't always get the resulted the wanted, yet I gave them the result they asked for.

The kidnapper/noise polluter/generally threatening/actually her pimp/villain stormed in with his rage fully in tow. He was already half through the act of removing his leather belt.

I did nothing but suffered a Zen-like realization that sometimes "the most potent action is inaction". I didn't know who Zen was, but I'd read that quote on the back of matchbook I got from a Chinese restaurant.

"Who the fuck is you?"

I did nothing but waited for the dame to realize that she wasn't as clever as she thought, and take matters into her own hand.

She did. I don't know where she'd kept it in that slinky silken slip of a gown, but she produced a gun and shot him.

Fuck Zen, whoever he was. The moment I saw her start to move, I did too. She'd expected a moment's confusion to kill the pimp and refocus the gun on me. A normal dick would've reached for his gun...or the gun he'd taken from a street tough earlier. She'd have the drop on a guy she knew was shooting blanks.

That might be another metaphor for life.

I wasn't surprised. I didn't hesitate. I simply turned around, locked up on her eyes that simmered cool and calm. Her breath was short, her nipples pressed hard against her gown with the thrill of moment. The Plan...Her Plan was falling off without a hitch. She was triumphant, and fantastically alluring in her triumph.

I could almost have gone along, if The Plan didn't involve killing yours truly. I nudged the train off the tracks.

"I didn't bring the gun, babe."

The dummy gun. Same manufacture and caliber as the one in her hand. Say what you want about matching bullets to guns, but identical guns would raise just enough doubt to make her story possible. I watched her elation crumble as she realized the implication.

Her deflation was both exciting, and crushing. It was 7:15, and there were sirens in the distance. Right on schedule.

"Sorry Sunshine. Three people, two dead and two guns could be a one-shoots-two-shoots-one. Three people, two dead and ONE gun means someone committed a double homicide. You're going over for killing your pimp."

"But..."

"I know. You love the kid, but your pimp wouldn't let you out. The kid was going to kill him, but you didn't want to live on the lam for the rest of you life so you had to come up with a patsy. Me."

"It was self defense! Can't you tell the cops it was self defense?" Then she comes closer "Darling" she purrs "can you tell them?"

"Sorry doll. The bible says if you've got to go over, you've got to go over. Look me up when you get out, maybe we can have a drink."

"The bible doesn't say that."

"My bible does." Enter the cops, dim the lights. Role the credits.

*

Epilogue

I presented myself in County Circuit Courtroom 103 as requested to present evidence in the case of the State versus Angela Everest aka Angie Evergold. The defendant was accused of Murder in the First Degree, and Conspiracy to Implicate an Innocent Party. As the aforementioned Innocent Party, I was the key witness for the prosecution.

As I sat in the gallery, I thought about Angela Everest aka Angie Evergold.

I'm not a philosopher...I leave the heavy thinking to folks like that guy Zen, but I do understand what makes people tick. I'd taken Angie/Angela roughly in my office the day I'd first met her to find out if she was a hooker in her heart. She'd resisted my dominance in a way that was beyond someone who had allowed her prostitution to settle into her soul. She might have chosen flawed means, but she did love that kid and she did want out of the business, she just didn't know how.

Who was going to help a hooker not be a hooker anymore? No one she knew would benefit. Not her pimp, not her hooker friends, not her johns. She needed someone she could trust and she had no one to turn to but a complete stranger.

Her circumstances required her to trust me...and I'm sending her up the river.

You want me to repent? You want me to tell the DA it was self defense after all because she was just trying to get out? You want the End to justify the Means?

"There is no king, be his cause never so spotless, can try it out with all unspotted soldiers". I read that on the back of a sugar packet once.

The only victim in this case is the dead pimp. Everyone has choices, and granted one bad choice might limit your ability to make a good choice the next time, and granted that eventually the bad choices get an inertia that is increased with the addition of each bad decision so that it gets hard and harder to do the right thing each time until finally you end up shooting your pimp and trying to frame an innocent stranger.