Off the Beaten Path. John Schlarbaum
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thought.
“Are there any other girls in the immediate vicinity with such a pretty name?” I inquired as I lifted $20 out of my wallet. “I see you as the unofficial Den Mother down here and I want you to know your acquaintance, if she exists, is not in any trouble.”
“Whenever a cop–”
“Ex-cop.”
“Whatever. I’m just sayin’ anytime the likes of you comes a-lookin’, someone is in trouble.” My colourful new best gal pal took the money when her taxi pulled up to the curb. “There’s a fire escape at the back of The Cougar Trap that leads to a second floor apartment. You might want to start searchin’ there.”
I followed her gaze across the boulevard and noted the fire escape bathed in blue neon from the building’s gaudy wraparound flashing sign.
“Can I use you as a reference?”
“Sure thing, babycakes. Tell the twins Truffle Divine says you’re okay.”
The taxi sped away before I could thank my helpful guide but not before I confirmed my client’s lost necklace wasn’t part of this evening’s costume drama.
Knowing that being out alone in this neighbourhood was frowned upon by the police and county coroner, I began to briskly walk to my next and possibly final destination. Unlike many of my P.I. associates, I don’t carry a gun, brass knuckles, nunchucks or pepper spray. I figure if I can’t talk my way out of a situation and am overpowered, these same weapons could easily be used on me, which would be a real shame in my humble opinion.
“What do I have to lose except my life?” I asked myself aloud as I crossed the street.
***
I cautiously approached The Cougar Trap, a recent addition to The Strip that was known for its seedy nightlife, regardless of the actual time of day. Catering to a specific clientele, it’s a unique enterprise that isn’t a peeler bar, a restaurant or a swinger’s club, yet magically combines aspects of all three.
As for its name, in the late 1960s a “cougar” was easy to spot. She was Mrs. Robinson, the horny older housewife in the classic film The Graduate, who seduced the son of her husband’s business partner. More recently, the ultimate cougar is Stifler’s divorced mom in the American Pie movie series. These days, the definition is a grab-bag term for any unattached woman over 30, usually with a kid or two in tow, who enjoys reliving her golden high school years in the company of younger men.
Climbing the fire escape, I noted two surveillance cameras mounted on the roof; one aimed at the stairs and the other trained on the upper back door. Recalling my science teacher’s assertion that for every action there’s a reaction, I flashed a big stupid grin, waved at both cameras and mouthed, “Hey dude, what’s up?” As if on cue, the stair cam slowly panned upward as its lens zoomed in on my face. Finding no wall buzzer, I gently knocked on the door and waited, knowing that Spielberg and company would eventually make contact.
“What’s your business, pal?” a woman asked in a loud, although friendly, tone.
I haven’t been called pal since my father passed away during my last few months of high school. Then again, I just called her dude, so I guess we’re even on that count.
“I’m searching for a necklace.”
“Does this look like the jewelry counter at Walmart?”
“No, it doesn’t,” I replied nonchalantly, before quietly saying, “Mary,” under my breath.
There was no immediate quip this time. Only silence for several entertaining moments, as I smiled for the cameras.
“What did you say?”
“Oh, that I agreed this didn’t appear to be a Walmart location.”
“After that.” Getting no answer, my hidden mystery woman asked the obvious. “Did you call me Mary?”
“Maybe, I guess,” I responded, playing dumb, another trick private investigators have in common with hookers. “Is she your sister?”
“Excuse me?”
“I was thinking that maybe you were Mary’s twin.”
Without warning, the heavy metal door was flung open and I was warmly greeted by the barrel of a Dirty Harry-type gun targeting my forehead and then my crotch area. My police training kicked in and I calmly stood my ground, making no sudden movements. My gaze confirmed that the gun’s hammer was cocked in the “let’s party” position, before settling on my aggressor’s beautiful eyes, which were darting around like two pinballs. Her overall features suggested a sense of impending Game Over doom.
“Hi, I’m Steve. What’s your name?” I asked, figuring the direct approach was my best bet. While she was forming a response, it allowed my eyes to pull back a bit to get a clearer picture of what I was up against.
A crazed woman with the knowledge of firearms? A look of determination that cautioned me against pouring on the old Steve magic? A cute, blonde college student wearing a t-shirt that barely covered two enormous beach balls set upon her chest? Check, check and check.
“Wow,” I managed to say, momentarily forgetting the danger I appeared to be in. “When Truffle mentioned ‘the twins‘ I was thinking, you know, twin-twins. The ones who dress the same and cause all sorts of trouble on sitcoms.” This comparison was met with a stare that conveyed, What is wrong with you? “Not that I think those aren’t identical in their own special way, mind you,” I added, not wanting her to think I was some weirdo.
“Are you done?”
Never good with rhetorical questions, I answered, “I think so.”
“How do you know Truffle? Are you one of her customers?”
I saw the anger behind her eyes slowly replaced with bewilderment.
“Again, wow,” I said shaking my head. “Even dressed in these old clothes, do I really strike you as the kind who’d pony-up cold hard cash for a whirl on that depressing carnival ride?”
It was now her turn to step back and take me all in, as it were. A few years past my thirtieth birthday, I attempt to keep my five-ten, one-hundred-seventy pound frame in a shape other than round. Although not vain enough to call myself handsome, I have no problem when the ladies do. I’m clean-shaven with collar-length brown hair and dark brown eyes, to which my armed appraiser continued to gravitate.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she stated, standing her ground.
“You see, the truth is, the lovely and I’m sure talented, Ms. Divine gave you up for $20. And before you ask, no bodily fluids were exchanged during our brief encounter.” A flash of annoyance returned to my not-quite-friend’s face. “If it makes you feel better, she would’ve taken $5 if that was all I had. Unfortunately, banking machines no longer spit those out.”
Charm is a funny thing. Too much, too soon and you look like a creep. Too little, too late, you look desperate and go home by yourself. However, my slow and steady approach usually pays dividends. Behind her tough exterior and the cannon she was now gripping with both hands, I felt my first impression was correct: a young girl paying her way through school the hard way.
“Can we talk without the gun being part of our conversation? I promise this won’t take long and I’ll remain way over here by the railing,” I offered as I took several steps back, coming to rest against the wall at the top of stairs. “Is your name really Mary?”
“It’s Terri,” she relented, lowering the gun to her side. “I don’t know anyone here named Mary, although I only arrived in town on Monday.”
“What about a guy named Ryan? Do you have one of those on your speed-dial?”
“Nope.”
I reached into my pocket and retrieved a snapshot of my client’s husband. “Does this face