P.J. Morse - Clancy Parker 01 - Heavy Mental (21 page)

I could get behind exposing Dr. Redburn. “Okay,” I said. “But that takes time.”

At that point, Mr. Buckner looked me in the eye. “I need those pictures!”

“Done,” I said. “She sees him every other day, right?”

Mr. Buckner rolled his eyes. “He likes to get the women on a daily regimen. You can imagine what those bills are like!”

I could also imagine what Mr. Buckner’s alcohol bills were like, if Jamal’s information from Voltaire’s was correct. But everyone has a vice. “I’ll start staking out the office, then. You’ll have pictures soon enough.” That night, in fact, I thought.

Mr. Buckner calmed down slightly. “She said Dr. Redburn changed her life. She was close to her father, and when he died she had trouble getting over it. She cried all the time. Then she had that riding accident and started taking pills. She was a wreck. She could barely function. At least she got off the pills when she started seeing Dr. Redburn.”

That was one of the few things he said that actually matched what his wife had to tell me, even though Sabrina suggested that her husband didn’t care that she was on all those pills.

“Tell me,” I asked. “How often do you see Dr. Redburn?”

Mr. Buckner replied, “I see him around. The gallery event was the first time I’d seen him in months. That was the first time I’d seen my wife happy in months.”

Suddenly, Mr. Buckner broke down crying. He used his hankie, he exhausted all the napkins in the dispenser on the table, and he wiped his face with a pile of napkins that an annoyed Muriel slapped down on the table. When his nose ran, he blew it so loudly that people at the nearest table jumped. “I just want my life back the way it was,” he moaned through his snuffles. “We used to be happy. Then Redburn came along. Then those damn reporters came along.”

I reached across the table and patted him on the back. He started bawling louder. “She sees him more than me!” he wailed. He reached for my hand, almost knocking over my coffee. I pulled the cup back and caught sight of Muriel, who was making elaborate hand gestures indicating that Mr. Buckner was disturbing the customers and needed to be removed immediately.

Shifting to Mr. Buckner’s side of the table, I put my arm around him. “Listen, I think you need some fresh air.” I stood and began tugging him outside. He turned toward the other Cozy Corner patrons and flapped his arms, some snot flying from his nose. “Look at me! I’m a mess!”

“You aren’t kidding, honey,” one woman pinching off a piece of pastry told him. “You need a dollar?”

“Oh, God!” he yelled, storming through the door. “Now people think I’m a bum!”

Given this sudden meltdown, I began to think Mr. Buckner needed the services of a legitimate psychiatrist, too, just as long as it wasn’t Dr. Redburn. As I followed him outside, I said, “Mr. Buckner, you need to calm down. We’re not going to fix anything with you like this.”

He used his sleeve to give his nose one last wipe and started walking toward his blue BMW, which was parked down the block. “Just get me the pictures. I want the world to know what he’s done to her.”

I prepared to walk back toward my own car, but I paused. “Would you like some free advice, Mr. Buckner?”

He didn’t say anything in response, but he exuded abundant self-pity.

“I think you could help your wife a whole bunch by spending less time in Sacramento and more time with her. Who knows? She might appreciate it.” I turned and walked off, and I could feel him boring two holes in my back with an angry glare.

CHAPTER 28

STAKEOUT

M
URIEL LET ME USE THE
Cozy Corner bathroom to change from my fancy duds into stakeout clothes. To make myself inconspicuous, I donned dark jeans and a black turtleneck, and I hid my hair under a black cap.

Then I took Cherry 2000 to Dr. Redburn’s block. I found a decent space behind an Escalade across the street. Since Cherry 2000 was comfortably hidden by the larger car, I could watch the front door. I relished the idea of tailing Jorge the Receptionist that night. Even if he gave me the slip, I thought I could try to break in the office and go necklace-hunting.

The second after I thought of breaking and entering, I remembered Larry’s words:

“Most of the shit you do is illegal.”

That may have been true, but I felt a little law-breaking was justified.

I still couldn’t believe that I let Dr. Redburn manipulate me like that. Most of his ongoing clients, like Sabrina, probably just wanted some love and attention, but I should have been a professional. Instead, I was star-struck and gullible.

Not to mention freshly dumped. When Dr. Redburn first saw me, he smelled vulnerability, not to mention desperation. I was furious that he caught a whiff of either one from me.

Night fell completely, and lights flickered on in all the street-facing windows of Dr. Redburn’s office. I turned on the radio and listened to local sports talk. Even though Clayton Crespo was talking about “that crazy [BEEP] with the ice cream and the [BEEPIN’] donuts,” I focused my eyes on the lights in the upstairs waiting room.

Eventually, the waiting room light shut off, and, just a few minutes later, Jorge the Receptionist walked out of the front door. He’d ditched the tie, but he was wearing a blazer over it, in the style of
Miami Vice
. But Jorge was no Don Johnson. He was better suited to working as a pimp in the Tenderloin than as a receptionist. I giggled at the idea of Jorge serving as Dr. Redburn’s procurer, drawing in all the socialites who couldn’t resist the handsome doctor’s services.

Jorge dug into his blazer pockets and lit himself a cigarette. He stretched his body, rotating his hips like he’d been sitting too long. When a female jogger chugged past, he craned his neck to follow her butt as she moved down the street.

I hummed and sipped on my water bottle while Jorge lingered over his cigarette. I was all ready to fire up Cherry 2000 and follow him. I wondered what kind of car he might drive and if it was older than mine.

Jorge flicked his cigarette away and fluffed his greasy hair. Instead of leaving the house, he surprised me and headed right back inside. I waited a moment in case he returned. The minutes grew on Cherry 2000’s digital display. I entertained the idea that maybe Jorge was keeping the office open for a late client, but the light never switched on again in the waiting room.

I tried to be patient by listening to the radio show, in which callers dialed up and made predictions about the upcoming Giants vs. Cardinals game. Most of the predictions involved Clayton Crespo kicking someone’s ass, in both the literal and figurative senses. I got bored quickly.

I decided it was time to see what was going on in Dr. Redburn’s office. It wasn’t breaking and entering if I didn’t actually go into the building.

So I pulled my pistol out of the glove compartment and shoved it into the waistband of my jeans. After hanging my binoculars around my neck, I locked everything else up in the trunk. I got out of the car and crept across the street in case anyone might see me.

The chilly wind blew in off the water and darted around the houses. I ducked in between two cars and trained my binoculars on the right side of the house, where I spotted a thin sliver of light escaping one of the windows. I realized I was getting a side view of Dr. Redburn’s office. I was probably in the same place Peggy was when she saw Dr. Redburn kiss me.

The curtains were open just enough for me to see Jorge’s profile. He was shrugging and shaking his head.

Then I heard Dr. Redburn yell, “You’re fired!”

That surprised me. Dr. Redburn said he’d hired Jorge as a bodyguard, but Jorge must have been even worse at protection than he was at taking phone calls. Dr. Redburn never seemed to like Jorge, but I wondered what Jorge had done to piss him off so much.

“I want my money!” I saw Jorge hold out his hand in a “gimme” gesture. He glowered and spewed out a torrent of words.

“You know damn well why you don’t deserve my money,” the doctor shouted. I couldn’t see him through the window, but the anger in his voice was rising.

“I don’t know nothing!” Jorge yelled back. “I sit at this stupid desk with these stupid bitches and I work hard for you, and all you give me is —”

Jorge’s voice cut off.

A washcloth smothered my face.

The wind went dead.

CHAPTER 29

A LONG, STRANGE TRIP

I
AWAKENED ON A COLD, HARD
slab of a table. Pain radiated from a fault line that ran from the top of my head to the nape of my neck. My legs hurt, too, as if I’d been dragged around like a sack of potatoes. All I could think about was pain, and Clayton Crespo, and, for some reason, Chinese food. I couldn’t quite remember who Clayton Crespo was. I tried to create a mental map. Clayton Crespo pointed to Harold, who pointed to an ice-cream truck, who pointed to a little man, who pointed to Pacific Heights, who pointed to—

A jolt of pain shot down my leg suddenly, and I moaned. My mental fog lifted only slightly when I detected streaks of moonlight flooding the room through a set of blinders. Despite my pain, I smelled some divine Chinese food, and my stomach growled at the thought of beef with broccoli. I tried to sit up to see where it was coming from.

Then I realized I couldn’t sit up. All I could manage was a brief shudder. I attempted to twist my hips slightly to give myself leverage. My rear end dug into a hard bed, and I could tell my bones were loosening based on the crackling noises they made, but my arms and legs still felt heavy. I tried to concentrate on my hands, but they were oddly spongy. When I wiggled my fingers and they rubbed against each other, I was reminded of a childhood backyard football game, when I threw around a Nerf ball. With the exception of the pain enveloping my skull, I felt my whole body was made of Nerf—squishy and light.

And I had another problem. It was completely silent. San Francisco was never completely silent, or at least not the parts I was familiar with. I knew it was night, and I knew I should be hearing drunks, partygoers, the crazy guy who wore flip-flops in winter and who sang show tunes by the Shell station, sirens, the tamale lady whose cart clacked down the street, anything. Even Pacific Heights had the occasional noises of dogs being taken on walks or cars heading to late-night parties.

Then I heard a strange rustle in my ears. I immediately recognized the sound since I always stuffed cotton in my ears before hitting the stage. Someone had plugged up my ears with cotton balls. I then felt a terrible, sharp pain in my arm where I’d been shot up with something and realized I had to get moving before I got shot up again.

Since I could wiggle my fingers, I imagined that motion moving up my arm. I was able to lift my arm about an inch, and I realized the only things binding me were the drugs coursing through my veins. I was covered with a heavy blanket, but I managed to work my arm up toward my left ear. I wondered if anyone was in the room with me, but I realized that I’d find that out soon enough. The first priority was to hear again. Seeing, moving and eating would come next.

After what seemed to be an hour’s worth of fumbling with my numb arm, I managed to dig the cotton out of my left ear, and sweet cool air tickled my eardrum. And then the sounds flooded in. My own breathing. A car passing by. I wondered if I was still in Pacific Heights. I felt a gap in my waistband. My pistol was gone. I wondered about the time. Then I heard voices in the next room.

“Think it’s about time we juice her again?” someone asked. I detected a squeaky tone and immediately recognized Jorge the Receptionist. I wondered how he laid me out while I was watching Dr. Redburn fire him.

I realized Jorge wasn’t working alone when a deeper voice replied, “I dunno. Looked like she was out cold.”

Jorge asked, “What are we supposed to do with her?”

His buddy replied, “It’s not our problem.”

Jorge’s voice grew nervous. “Oh, yeah? It will be our problem in a few hours. Somebody’s gonna be lookin’ for a girl like that.”

I heard Jorge’s buddy burp and slurp down a noodle before he said anything. “Maybe we shoulda wiped her out. Bitches like that can’t keep their mouths shut.” He then adopted a high-pitched female voice. “
I’m a girl, no one hurts a girl!
Aw, hell, let’s tie the bitch up.”

“
Let’s not!”
I thought to myself. Obviously Jorge and his friend weren’t smart enough to tie me up in the first place. I heard footsteps coming toward the door. I knew I could take Jorge, but I didn’t even know how big his companion was. And one of them had to have my pistol. Obviously they were close enough for me to hear them and smell them, so I’d have to think of something. I dragged my arm back down to my side and rolled my head to the left so they couldn’t see I’d lost the cotton from it.

Then the door opened with a slow creak, and they didn’t turn on the light. They must have been worried about waking me. If they thought they could tie me up quickly, they wouldn’t have cared. Jorge’s friend may have talked tough, but he didn’t want to be face to face with Clancy Parker, rock ‘n’ roll private eye, who was not about to go gentle into that good night. I decided to fake falling asleep. My eyelids were still heavy, and I breathed slowly and deeply. Given my drugged circumstances, my main concern was that I might actually fall back asleep.

I barely heard two sets of footsteps—one set short and quick and the other long, loping, and clearly belonging to someone tall. The footsteps also lasted a while. I counted twenty steps, which meant I was in a big room and far from the door. Jorge and his friend started talking in whispers.

Jorge said, “C’mon, Travis. Let’s just give her more chloroform and get out of here.”

So Jorge’s friend with a deep voice had a name. Travis paused a moment. Apparently no one was going to keep him from his beef with broccoli. “I forgot where I put it. I’m hungry. We got the gun. No big thing.”

Jorge started whining. “Aw, come on, man.”

Travis cut him off, “Shut up, dumbass, you’re getting too loud.”