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Fish by SF Johnston
(Installment ONE of THREE)
This one is so confidential that I really shouldn't tell you. But I will.
I will, because it's a diverting tale, and one that bears repeating. But for God's sake, don't repeat it, because then Mr. Raoul will come looking for me.
It all started when the old phone in my tiny apartment jangled, sending my cat Cairo up the kitchen curtains. Cairo is crazy, and my upstairs neighbor Mrs. Dobbs says it's because he needs to get fixed. Somehow, I keep putting that off.
Anyway, he hung there, wild-eyed, as I stammered through a one-minute conversation with Ms. Carolyn Walsh. Yes, that Carolyn Walsh, who's at the top of her class at Harvard, drives a Porsche Carrera GT to Martha's Vineyard every summer and whose father is Mr. Sutherland Walsh. She said she'd heard of me from somebody who knew somebody who knew my friend Rainbow. Really. Her parents named her Rainbow.
The conversation was short. Carolyn's father needed somebody in a hurry and had already sent a ride. Sure enough, I could see an idling silver Town Car outside my kitchen window. It took longer than usual to extract my psychotic pet's claws from the curtains so I didn't have time to change, and had to make do with jeans and a happy face T-shirt. I poured some Kitty Kibble in Cairo's tray and five minutes later the driver and I were closing in on the Walsh mansion over on Creighton Street. You know, the one with all the turrets.
An ambulance was screaming down the long, curved drive as we arrived, and our obvious instructions to get to the Walsh's in a hurry could have made it a dangerously tricky situation. As luck would have it, however, the driver was extremely sure of himself. Instead of waiting until the emergency vehicle had safely passed, he slammed the accelerator to the floor and we barreled through the gated entrance at exactly the same time that the emergency vehicle was exiting. We avoided a head-on collision by a fraction of an inch. I don't know why I became so excitable, because we got to the house many seconds before we would otherwise have arrived.
I got out of the car, took a quick look in the side mirror to make sure that my hair wasn't still standing on end, and walked up the steps. Carolyn herself met me at the door. I'll tell you right now, she looks even better in person than she does in the magazines.
Everything was shining末her coal black hair was glinting in the sun, her perfect skin was glowing, her crystal blue eyes were alive with light. And then there was that 5-foot-8-inch body that some jealous columnists may say is a little too curvy for the model's catwalk, but which I say should set the damn standard. She was wearing pleated black slacks and the whitest blouse I had ever seen.
I gave quick consideration to my current state of dress, extrapolated that to my lifestyle in general, and compared it with the vision I saw before me. Ever wish you hadn't been brought up following the Grateful Dead around on tour?
Carolyn introduced herself, like that was necessary, and brought me inside. The place was huge. As we made our way across an expansive foyer dotted with statues and vases, it dawned on me that this was her childhood home. It was a far cry from the Volkswagen camper that I grew up in, not to mention the station wagon Rainbow and her mother called home. It's amazing how many different ways there are to live.
We walked up a wide, sweeping staircase, her slingbacks filling the space with echoes and my hightops squeaking on the marble, and then down a short, railed landing and into a hallway that took us into a massive library that extended left.
Mr. Sutherland Walsh was standing in the middle of the room glaring into a large pile of papers scattered across a long, wooden table. He didn't look up when we entered.
"One second!" he barked. It was a bark obviously accustomed to being adhered to, and both Carolyn and I adhered. I took a quick look around.
The book-lined walls were interspersed with a wide variety of artwork. Warhols and Hockneys were displayed side by side with pieces from the Renaissance (and earlier, if some of those flattened medieval faces were any indication), and I think I even recognized a Picasso and a Gauguin. Now, I'm no art dealer, but even I could tell that I was looking at originals.
Down at the far end of the room was a collection of street scenes that had been hung on the wall above a recessed bar. These paintings showed people living very European lives, adding even more of what I supposed was deliberate old-world charm.
The dominant theme in the room, however, was the female torso, in all its curvaceous glory. It seemed a strange theme for a library, but I didn't say anything. Who was I to judge the artistic inclinations of the rich and hiring?
Mr. Sutherland slammed his fist on the table. "Damn!" He walked towards us quickly, and Carolyn moved to his side.
"Mr. Riley," she said. "I'd like to introduce my daddy, Mr. Sutherland Walsh. Daddy, this is the man I was telling you about. Stock Riley."
Carolyn's perfect teeth gleamed in a sudden generous smile that would have knocked most mortals out of their shoes. I remained in my shoes, however, and tried to keep calm.
Daddy was in his late fifties, and surprisingly short given his daughter's stature. He had dark red hair that was going to gray and a mustache to match, all overseen by thick, bushy eyebrows that lent his craggy face and steely eyes more authority than anybody had a right to possess. Even if he was one of the country's richest financial muck-a-mucks. Which I believe is the correct business terminology.
His dark Armani suit and expensive cologne immediately made me feel even more underdressed, not to mention under-scented. He looked me over silently for a moment, and I knew this was my one chance to make a good impression. I extended my hand.
"Mr. Walsh. You have an exquisite collec末"
"Shut up," he snapped. "You're too young, what are you, eighteen? And you dress like a slob. Get out."
Yikes.
"And what the hell kind of name is Stock?"
Double yikes. I debated going into my standard spiel about how my parents had missed Woodstock by a generation and that being missed-the-boat hippies they were pretty bitter about it, and so had tried to make amends by naming me after the love-fest. Then I decided that Mr. Sutherland's glare made him a highly suspect audience for that particular tale of woe. I went with the age-and-clothes angle.
"I'm older than I look," I said. "I'm twenty-seven. And I'm sorry I'm not better dressed. But this was kind of last minute, and I have a crazy cat and末"
I stopped as Mr. Sutherland's eyes widened, and I realized he wasn't used to being contradicted. "Sir," I added, with what I hoped wasn't desperation.
"Daddy," said Carolyn, coming to my rescue. "He comes very well recommended." She flashed her eyes at me, and I might have felt my knees grow weak at that point. "He has a reputation for末"
"Thinking outside the box, yes, yes, so you told me."
"You give me a box and I'll think outside of it," I said, feeling like I was interrupting.
Mr. Walsh ignored me, grunting in Carolyn's direction and waving disgustedly in mine. "But...but...just look at him."
They both looked at me. Oddly, I didn't know what to do with my hands.
"Well, I don't like it," he said. Then he jabbed a stubby finger at me. "And I don't like you. But we don't have much time, so I guess this is what it is."
He slipped a plain white envelope out of his suit jacket pocket and waved it in the air. "Ten thousand dollars. If you solve my problem, it's yours. If you don't, it's not. And if it's not enough, then we can forget the whole thing." He put the envelope back into his jacket pocket. "Decide right now."
Okay, now when somebody says they're in a hurry to give me ten thousand clams, I usually don't argue with them. But in this case, I had to get some ground rules straight. Besides, I tend to get all business-like when I'm flustered. It's part of my charm.
"That's very generous offer, Mr. Walsh, and I'm prepared to waive my usual retainer. But I have to know a few basic things before agreeing to any kind of contract."
"Retainer?" he yelled, and began to choke. "Contract? For the love of末!" Carolyn put a hand on his arm. He sputtered, stopped, and then looked at his watch. "You have ten seconds," he growled, giving me a mean, mean look.
Criminy Jicket.
"One," I said quickly, "how long will you be needing my services?"
Yes, ten thousand dollars was a lot of money, but what if he wanted me to go halfway around the world on some creaky steamship? Which led me to number two.
"Two, will there be any travel or expenses involved?"
The last time I accepted a job without asking that question I got burned for the price of two New Zealand sheep shearers and a shipment of pink umbrellas. Don't ask.
"Three," I continued as Mr. Walsh looked at his watch again, "what exactly do you want me to do?"
I mean, I'll detect and sleuth and stuff, but I have my moral standards to uphold. And as we all know, you have to keep an eye on your moral standards around the very rich.
"Four, are there perks? Like making sweet, sweet love to your beautiful daughter?"
Okay, I didn't actually say that fourth question out loud,which I figure saved me at least three seconds. And a severe beating.
Mr. Walsh looked at me as if I was a particularly stupid gnat, and then glanced at Carolyn. "You didn't tell him?" he asked.
"No, Daddy, I thought you were g末"
Mr. Walsh silenced her with a stern I-don't-have-time-for-this index finger and focused his iron eyes on me.
"One, you have to be out of here in twenty minutes. Two, we gave you a ride here, we'll give you one back and you won't have to spend a cent. Three, you have to follow a clue to some vitally important information. That's what you people do, right? Follow clues? To vitally important information?"
"Absolutely," I said.
"Was there a fourth question?"
"Absolutely not."
"Good. There will be no contract, Mr. Riley. You will do what I say, when I say it, and you will be very, very sorry if you don't."
"Sounds reasonable," I said.
He squinted at me, then closed the library door. "I'll make this quick. Somebody tried to末"
The door crashed open again as his other daughter末yes, that daughter末burst into the library.
"Oh! Daddy! Carolyn! Whoever you are! I was just...."
Maisy was a bundle of energy. She was taller than Carolyn, and almost as good looking, but her eyes were missing the refined intelligence of her sister, and the differences didn't stop there. Maisy didn't attend Harvard. Maisy attended parties. And where Carolyn went for classic style, Maisy went for dubious fashion. Her black leather skirt barely covered the upper half of her thighs, and her low-cut stretch top was a shade of bright pastel pink that even the 80's had passed over.
Now, I've never seen her scandalous internet movie. No, really, I haven't. But now I understood why it caused such a stir.
She glanced quickly across the room towards the bar and then back at us.
"Okay, I'll come back! Who are you? Never mind, I'll come back! Daddy, I have to use this room later! Carolyn, are you going to the Industrial Zone? Tonight I mean? It's DJ Electric Joe! We're all going tonight and末"
Mr. Walsh held up his hand.
"My dearest Maisy."
Maisy sniffed, looked at him with two wide eyes and started bouncing a little on the balls of her feet like she had to visit the ladies' room.
"We are conducting business, my sweet. Please withdraw to whatever activity you were engaged in before you came charging in here like Tigger."
Maisy swallowed, sniffed again, and seemed to be working something out in her still tilted head. Then, seemingly satisfied, she immediately tilted her head the other way.
"Okay! Bye-bye Daddy! Bye-bye Carolyn! Bye-bye whoever you are!"
She turned and flew out of the room. Mr. Walsh sighed and turned to Carolyn.
"Has she always been that wound up?" he asked. "Or am I just getting old?"
"Oh, Daddy," said Carolyn.
Which doesn't really mean anything, when you think about it. But when she said it, it seemed to mean something. You ever notice that about beautiful women?
Mr. Walsh wiped a hand over his face.
"Right. Now we really have to hurry. Stock, somebody tried to steal something from this house today, in an attempt to blackmail me. The attempt was foiled, but just barely. Our security people caught him inside the house."
"I'm with you so far, sir," I said. I occasionally interject statements like that to appear on the ball. It impresses the hell out of clients.
Mr. Walsh ignored me and flicked a switch on the wall beside the door. A panel in the ceiling slid back and six TV screens descended. Each screen was divided into four sections showing a different view of the house and its surroundings. At least half of the sections were showing static.
"Security system's on the fritz," he said. "We're still trying to get to the bottom of it. My trusted friend and accountant was in this room and he saw the intruder on that screen." He pointed to one of the working screens that showed the hallway right outside the door.
"The individual was known to us, Mr. Riley, and the sight of him caused our dear Mr. Pliny to have a heart attack."
"Mr. Pliny?" I said, noting the unusual name.
"Like the philosopher," said Carolyn.
"And he's dead?" I asked.
"No," said Mr. Walsh.
"Unlike the philosopher," said Carolyn.
"Carolyn!" said Mr. Walsh, furrowing his impressive brow.
"Now, Mr. Pliny and I had an arrangement," he continued, "and he was well aware of what this individual was after. We have a CD containing...how shall I phrase it...information of a somewhat...delicate nature. Mr. Pliny had it on his person because we use the information often." He paused. "Quite regularly, in fact."
He cleared his throat, and I swear he looked embarrassed. "So if anything like this were to happen he knew that he was to secrete the CD in our vault, the location of which you need not know."
This was getting curiouser and curiouser. What was on the CD?
"And he didn't leave it in the vault?" I added helpfully.
"No," said Mr. Walsh. "We believe he was staggering around the room at the time, and was in all likelihood clutching at his chest. You just missed the ambulance."
He had no idea.
"Did he say anything at all before they took him away?" I asked.
"No. It seems he hit his head on the table when he fell." He pointed to the long wooden table covered with papers. "He's unconscious, and we have no idea where the CD is."
"However," he continued, reaching into his lapel pocket and pulling out a piece of plain white notepaper, "he did manage to write this before he fell."
TO BE CONTINUED... (Installment TWO appearing in Summer 2007 Issue) SF Johnston ｩ 2007 |
