XXX Shamus (3 page)

He changed into fresh khakis, fresh Polo, fresh sport coat. On his way out the door, the phone ran again. He waited. Two rings. Three. He almost let the machine get it, but something pulled him to the receiver, in his hand before he could stop himself. He held it to his ear, didn’t even have to speak.

“I’ve been worried,” Sister told him.

“We have a new case. I have people to interview.”

“Can’t they wait a little while?”

“Every minute counts.”

One of her hums. Sister had filled out over the years, but her body was still erection-inspiring. Something about the wide hips, full saggy breasts, and her long hair, almost black. She had soul-piercing eyes. They drained you.

“It’s a full day, and I’m not sure when I’ll be done,” Hopper said.

“Surely before midnight, right? Ten?”

He closed his eyes, let the words out and stopped trying to stop them. “Yeah, by ten. I can be over by ten.”

“What will I do until then?”

“Take a shower.”

“Not until after. You’ll wash me, won’t you?”

Stomach cramp. “Yeah. Clean as your heart, Sis.”

While the parents of Janice and Layla were more than happy to let Hopper have some time alone with them to help track down poor Yasmin (“And give her mother some peace, the dear…”), the girls looked annoyed and bored. Most teenage girls looked that way to adults, but these two made a show like this was school.

The parents ceded the front sitting room to them, a narrow corridor with the nice new-but-antique furniture no one sat on much. A table to pile mail on in the afternoon, an uncomfortably small couch where the girls sat, and a high back chair and ottoman. Hopper took the ottoman, his knees too high to take notes on his lap. He’d need to remember and jot it down after in the car. The parents said they would be in the kitchen, out of sight, probably out of earshot if he could keep it down, but he knew they’d try to catch some of the conversation.

Janice was one of those rail-thin girls too short for her age. Maybe by her senior year she’d bloom, but now the only thing going for her was clear skin, no braces, a fairy tale cuteness to her face. Layla, on the other hand, was already chesty but also overweight, enough to make her look cramped in the tight low-rise jeans and stomach-baring tiny T-shirt. Her hair was straight, oily, and her lips took a natural downturn.

“I’m not saying anything different than what I said to the cops, so why do I have to keep doing it?” Layla said.

“It’s only twice, right?”

“The cops asked everything, like, four times. It was stupid.”

Hopper nodded, grinned, hoped to make them feel at ease. “I’m not a cop, and I’m not looking to uncover an elaborate illegal scheme. I’m not going to take you to jail or turn you in. All I want is to find Yasmin.”

The girls didn’t turn to each other, both staring at the hardwood floor instead. It was a move they must have practiced exactly so they wouldn’t turn to each other, give the game away. They knew something, Hopper was certain.

“Anything?” he said.

Janice shrugged. Layla started to, then said, “We saw her at school, she was fine. We had stuff to do or we would’ve called her that night.”

“Both of you?”

“Extracurricular activities,” Janice said.

Legitimate ones
, Hopper thought.

He tapped his pencil on his knee. When the metal band around the eraser struck, it stung. “Hard to believe with cell phones and instant messages and texting that she didn’t even try to contact you.”

“The cops already checked us on that. We’re clean,” Layla said, causing Janice to bite her lip, giggle.

Layla nudged her. “Quit it.”

Janice giggled louder, and Layla grinned. “Shut up!”

“You!”

Hopper sighed. The girls stopped the horseplay and watched him, lips slightly parted as if they’d never seen a man so troubled before, not even a substitute teacher—there’s always one, young and new and all the kids asked him, all day every day, if he was gay. Hopper knew what was ahead of him the rest of the day, into the night, and he was already tired. The girls caught it. They seemed…sympathetic.

“If she’s alive, I can help her. Whatever it was that made her run, I promise to help her and not give her up if that’s what she wants.” Memories of Cynthia surged as he said it.

Janice was quiet for a while, then mumbled something like, “She was a hot mommy.”

Layla’s eyes went wide and she hissed through her teeth. Hopper was about to follow-up when a knock sounded on the wall by the archway leading to the rest of the house. Janice’s dad stuck a grinning face into the room. He was late-thirties but dressed for fifty, golf clothes as casual wear. Must have been success that led to that. Not a working class trait.

“Everything going well in here?” the dad said.

Hopper nodded, thought about getting up, but he didn’t want to invite conversation with him. Useless, just when the girls seem to be giving way a little.

“We’ll be finished soon.” Hopper winked. “They’re telling me exactly what I need. Can’t thank them enough. Five more minutes.”

The dad shot him a thumb’s up, said, “I’ll be right over in the kitchen when you’re done.”

“Got it.”

He disappeared. Hopper had no idea what sort of Morse Code these girls had passed between them in that thirty seconds, probably sealed the lid tighter than…never mind. They sat with palms together between their knees, Layla the only one willing to make eye contact.

“What did you say, Janice?”

She rolled her eyes.

Layla’s eye contact turned into an examination, all over Hopper’s body. She was getting past the thick glasses and bad haircut and seeing the muscles, the strength, maybe the outline of his cock resting against his thigh. To the girls, most thirty-year-olds were too old to be attractive, but they knew their favorite actors were getting up there in age, so maybe cute was cute and the times had changed. Hopper hoped not. He hoped they saw him as a crummy authority figure without a glint of sexuality.

Layla said, “We’ll tell you what you want to know if you do something for me.”

Shit.

“What would I have to do?”

The girl blinked and leaned her head in Janice’s direction. “Kiss my friend.”

Hopper put on his best fatherly disapproval grin (maybe he could pass for an uncle at best) and said, “Yasmin’s life is at stake here. There’s no time for this.”

“Just a quick kiss. She’s never had one before.”

Janice yelped. “I have too!”

“That guy didn’t count. He bit your lip. This man can show you how it’s supposed to feel.”

Sweat dripped from Hopper’s armpits down his sides, pooling at his waist. “This is really inappropriate. I thought we were making progress here—”

Layla lowered her voice to a whisper. “One kiss. Hurry. Then we give you a clue.”

He glanced towards the archway, wondering how much time he had before the next parent came to check on him. He heard voices faintly, discussing politics or something they saw on A&E. He stood, hoping that the slightest appearance of doing it would be enough to satisfy the girls. Janice was perfectly willing, head tilted back just a little and her eyes bright like a couple of raindrops reflecting sun. Hopper leaned over and aimed for her cheek, his dry lips bouncing off, a tiny
smack
for effect, but he lingered a moment, Janice’s wet glossy lips moving, searching for his, starting to open. He backed off, rose to full height.

“That okay?”

Layla reached over and slapped his leg. “No, that wasn’t right. You’ve got to tongue kiss her. French her.”

Another glance at the archway. Thoughts of jail. Thoughts of rape at the hands of the more moral criminals—murderers, dealers, gangbangers—who didn’t take kindly to “short eyes.” “
It was only a kiss
.”
“That’s what they
caught
you doing. God knows what you’d’ve gotten away with. Bend over.”

Hopper worked it out: She’s sixteen. She’s older than Lolita. She’ll tell you what you need to know. You’ll never see her again.

He eased down to his knees, tried to make it fast and not meet her eyes. He didn’t shut his, but she did. Lips, together. Moist, a faint watermelon taste from the gloss. Her tongue like a dart. The boys she had kissed treated it like an attack. He pushed her tongue away, teaching her rhythm, patience, tenderness. It was about stimulation, not strangulation. He forgot time for a second, Janice finally getting it, her lips and teeth and tongue reminding him of how it could be when the kiss was the thing.

He broke it off and wiped his lips and got up fast as he could, his knee banging the floor. Janice covered her heart with her hands and sank into the back of the couch. She ran her tongue over her lips and it seemed to be a
Thank you
.

Hopper coughed. “Please tell me what you know. I’ve got to go.”

Layla’s earlier sympathy was replaced with smugness. She could buy and sell Hopper’s ass after this. She had his number. Why the fuck did he kiss Janice? Wasn’t he a good enough detective to sleuth it all out on his own? For a moment, he thought the girls were messing with him, that they really didn’t know diddly squat.

Layla said, “She was a hottie mommy.”

“What the hell’s that?”

The girl shook her head. “Remember it. I can’t just
tell
you because it’s not fair. I made a promise.”

“If she’s dead, what good is the promise?” Hopper couldn’t help but raise his voice. “Are you protecting your own ass here?”

Footsteps in the hall. The parents coming to the rescue.

“Hottie mommy. Remember, okay?” Layla hissed it, and that’s when Hopper knew she wasn’t yanking his chain. If she spilled the story, Hopper would
of course
tell the parents, break the case, and then Layla herself would be under the gun.

The parents stood in the archway taking in Hopper as he stood over the girls, Layla sad and Janice dazed.

The dad in golf clothes said, “I think you had better leave or I’ll call my attorney.”

Hopper nodded. He was scared of attorneys.

Hopper left Janice’s home, stepped out into the bacon-sizzling heat, and was surprised as always by the quiet of New Orleans’ Garden District. The subdivision of stately homes for the city’s rich and powerful felt like an island because it was isolated from any of the hustling traffic noise and radios with the hip-hop on the streets, the zydeco and jazz in the souvenir shops run by Indians and Pakis, the WWL talk radio almost like Big Brother for the city—wherever you went, there it was. The Garden District absorbed sound like insulation, even three blocks off St. Charles and the streetcar line. He wasn’t exactly in the District proper. Janice’s parents lived on a fringe street, the opulence giving way to practicality. One thing Hopper always noticed here, though, was that the old trees and root systems had raised and broken the sidewalks, destroying the façade of perfection. But no one lived in New Orleans for perfection anyway.

He had parked a few blocks over, the only legal spot he could find. His fear of the girls telling on him began to dissipate by that false comforter called distance as he began his swim through the humidity, the sweat glaze on his face and back almost instantaneous.
Hottie Mommy?
Some club, some slang? The girl wasn’t joking, though. He’d see if the boyfriends knew about this.

When he turned the corner, his crappy Pontiac Firebird in sight, there was some guy attached to it. At least the shimmering heat made it look that way in the distance. The guy was wearing a suit the same gray/silver of the car, growing out of the driver’s side door he leaned against. Seeing Hopper, the man peeled himself off and buttoned his coat, waited with his hands behind his back until Hopper was a car length away. It was times like this he wished he carried a gun.

“Hopper Garland?” The man said it like he was Bob Barker. He was young, though, and the suit seemed too expensive and too old for him. He was built like a defensive lineman, not really a match for Hopper unless the kid had a gun or a wrench, and he smiled like a car salesman.

Hopper slowed. The kid crossed the distance, middle of the road, and held out his hand for a shake. Hopper took it on reflex. The kid said, “I’m Ernie Depp.”

“Depp?”

“Like Johnny. He’s a distant cousin or something.”

Hopper wondered if Depp was Johnny’s real name in the first place. He said, “Can we get off the street, Ernie?”

Still holding the shake, Ernie tugged at Hopper and they tracked over to the sidewalk as a huge SUV passed by. Ernie squeezed. Hopper flexed his knuckles a little, easily broke the grip. Still friendly like. The kid’s car was a BMW roadster, pulled tight in front of Hopper’s ride, nearly touching.

“How the hell are you doing, Hopper?”

“Do I know you?”

“Sorry, just my personality. I get overly familiar. Everybody’s friend, they call me.”

Hopper worried that Janice’s dad had already gotten the lawyers on him that quickly and Ernie was here to serve him papers.
So sue me. She can have the car.

“Mr. Depp—”

“
Please
. Friends here. Call me Ernie.”

Hopper stared at the kid a long time.

Ernie finally kept on. “I’m being rude. Really. I’m here to talk with you, maybe come to an understanding.”

“About what? You seem to think I’m in on what you’re talking about, nudge and a wink.”

“You’re a smart guy.”

“Not psychic, though.”

Ernie let out a staged laugh and clapped his new buddy on the shoulder a couple times. “That’s true, true. I’ll cut the tape. You have a new case involving a missing girl. Her sister hired you. You just came from talking to a couple of her friends. Stop me if I get any of this wrong.”

“How about I stop you period and leave now? I don’t discuss my cases with strangers.”

Hopper started for the driver’s side of his car. Ernie stepped in his path. They bumped chests.

“That’s not true. You talk about your cases with girls in bars all the time. You talk about the intimate details with your whore of a secretary.”

“Excuse me,” Hopper said.

“Not that I blame you. Jesus, she’s fucking hot and I’d tell her my PIN code for a slice.”

Let it go
, Hopper thought. It was too late for that. Ernie had made quick work of things, considering Hopper had only been on the case for less than a handful of hours. He could handle someone telling him to ease up. He’d even take a payoff and lie to Kristen if it was the better option. But Ernie talking shit about Divinity?

Hopper got in Ernie’s face. “You listen to me. You will not speak about her like that, understand. One more word, and I lay you out—”

Then Hopper was on the ground. His face hurt. He’d lost a few seconds, rewound and played them back—the fucker had karate kicked him! One of those spin moves. Faster than Hopper’s eyes could take in. He looked up. Ernie was doing his Bruce Lee, bouncing in place, shaking his fists.

“Black belt,” Ernie said. “You really deserve a few more. Or we can talk like men.”

Hopper remembered what his mentors told him to do when facing a black belt.

Shoot him
, the old man had said.

We don’t have guns
, Hopper had answered.

The younger man had said,
Then hit him in the balls with a bat.

Hopper didn’t have his bat. He gritted his teeth and put a hand on his back, groaned. “Fine, we’ll talk. Help me up.”

Ernie, arrogant little puke, took Hopper’s offered hand and pulled. Right in the middle of the momentum, nothing Ernie could do to switch gears, Hopper landed a knee in the kid’s crotch. And he made it count, too, grinding away, thumping it a few more times.

Ernie couldn’t breathe. He coughed and sputtered, saliva drooling from his mouth. Hopper helped the kid to the pavement on his stomach, then yanked his arm behind his back, held it in place near the breaking point, then scanned the area for witnesses. No one on the sidewalk. Their cars hid them from traffic. It wouldn’t last long. Hopper leaned close to Ernie’s ear.

“What was it you wanted to talk about?”

Ernie was still gagging, the cough dry and painful. He finally whispered, “You need to lay off the case. Things are under control. Yasmin will be fine as long as you stop looking for her.”

“You know where she is?”

“No, I didn’t say that.” Wheeze. “You should forget the whole thing. Your track record should tell you the same thing.”

“It tells me I’m good at this. Your nuts should agree, right?”

Ernie tried to laugh. He sounded like a sick puppy. “Bravo. Yeah, you find the girls that don’t want to be found, and that makes their lives even worse. Here’s a chance to put it right again. Walking away can clean your conscience.”

Hopper glanced over his shoulder and saw a woman with a dog a few blocks off, closing fast. Hopefully she would veer left instead of blundering into a street fight. Then again, she might dial the cops on a cell first. Hopper pressed Ernie’s face to the sidewalk.

“That’s a nice car you’ve got. Always wanted one.” Hopper spun through possibilities of who this guy might be. Best guess: a goon for the kid who knocked up Yasmin. Or his father’s goon. A professional glitzy goon.

Ernie said, “Thanks,” as best he could.

“And this suit. You guys are in the money. I want to know where she is. I want to know who the hell you are.”

“No deal.”

“You think I won’t snap this arm?”

Ernie closed his eyes. “I hear the dog barking. You’re not going to go that far in front of a witness.”

Yeah, the dog was straining at the leash, the barks hard like a jackhammer in Hopper’s ears. The woman had moved closer, maybe five yards away. She made a show of dialing her cell and speaking loudly, “Yes, I’m calling to report an assault. No, I’m watching it right now.”

Hopper put pressure on Ernie’s arm. “You think you can handle her if I let you up?”

“Kick her?”

“No, you dildo. Talk her down. Use that charming voice. And when you’re done with that, tell your people that your boy is next on my list.”

“I thought you didn’t know who I was.”

He didn’t. How do you answer that? “A private eye has to play dumb sometimes. Don’t fool yourself, Ernie. I’m going to get up now and head for my car. No karate, got it?”

“Clear as a bell.”

Hopper was up and three steps away in a snap. He was shivering nervousness, trying to hide it. It had been a while since he’d won a fight, let alone with someone who, had he not landed the groin shot, could’ve eaten him for lunch. Ernie brushed himself off, started for the woman immediately. “No, no, it’s fine. He’s a friend, pissed over me dating his girl.”

Fine, whatever it takes.
Hopper unlocked his door and plopped into the seat, blistering to the touch. After a few seconds of letting the AC cool his steering wheel, he was off. Ernie tossed a quick glance and a wave as he kept talking to the woman, a nice looker maybe in her forties, tanned and still hard except for the tits drooping a little. Ernie petted the dog’s head like he was trying to get a date or something. Smooth kid.