Changes -- A Randall Lee Mystery Page 19

  For once it worked. Howard Stern was playing Lord of the Anal Ring Toss, and it’s hard to think of much when that’s going on.

  Maybe I should blow money more often.

  72

  I was in the bath, waiting for my knotted muscles to work themselves loose, when the call came. Knox requested my presence at a meeting; he did not sound happy. I finished getting cleaned up and threw on a pair of jeans and a heavy grey sweatshirt. After kissing Tracy goodbye, I hopped in my new car and headed to the station. I found myself bobbing my head along to some freaky dance CD Tracy had left in the car.

  At the station, Knox met me outside and mumbled a long trail of incoherent grumbles as he led me inside. We went to a large conference room. The enormous table was shaped like an oval with the ends chopped off square; as I sat, I wondered what the name of that shape was.

  "Hey, pal," a voice said. I looked up to see a man of medium build leaning across the table, extending his hand toward me. I shook his hand and took the opportunity to check him out a little.

  Blond crew cut; ugly scar above the left ear. Cold blue eyes. A nose that had been broken a few times. Efficient but cheap black suit. Shoulder holster bulge. Either that, or he was one of Knox’s Abnormal Chest Tumor boys.

  "Agent Mulder, I presume," I said.

  He laughed and pointed a manicured finger at me in a ‘you-got-me’ gesture. "It’s Janik, actually. Agent Janik. FBI Organized Crime Unit."

  I sat and folded my hands on the table. Agent Janik sat across from me. Knox slouched in his chair at the head of the table. A bald dude with a prominently throbbing vein in his forehead sat at the other end. It just had to be the chief; he had the look of someone who yelled a lot.

  Janik kept looking at me expectantly. I realized I hadn’t introduced myself.

  "Lee. Randall Lee," I said.

  "Ah, Randall Lee the civilian," Janik said.

  "That’s exactly what it says on my business cards," I said.

  "Shut the fuck up, smart ass," Baldy said. His forehead vein said, "Throb, Throb."

  I stood. Janik stood with me. "Going somewhere?"

  "Yeah. I’m gonna go shut the fuck up back home, with my very hot girlfriend. Thanks for the invite, though, I appreciate it."

  Janik looked at Knox. Knox shrugged. "He does have a very hot girlfriend," he said.

  Nice to know he had my back.

  "Dr. Lee, your presence here today is needed. Please have a seat," Janik said. I watched the agent. He glanced away to shoot a look at Baldy. When he looked back at me, he said, "Please."

  I sat.

  "This is bullshit," Baldy mumbled.

  "Do we need another time out, chief?" Janik said softly.

  Baldy said nothing. He just sat there a-throbbin,’ his arms crossed so tight you’d think he was trying to give himself the Heimlich. Agent Janik sat, adjusted the pleats on his pants and said, "Dr. Lee, it’s my understanding that you’ve been quite helpful with this case."

  I shrugged. "Quite helpful" seemed a gross exaggeration.

  "Circumstances have dictated a federal interest, and I’m now the agent in charge here. I’d appreciate it if you would continue to lend your assistance to this investigation. I think we’d all like to see this matter wrapped up quickly and satisfactorily, yes?"

  He looked from Knox to me to Baldy. I could’ve sworn that he even looked to The Vein, which I’d now nicknamed Throbby Von Grumpenstein. Stress, I’ve learned, makes me a little weird.

  "I’m all about doing my civic duty," I said, "How can I help?"

  "To start out, I’d like to hear – from you – more of what you and Detective Knox have uncovered," Janik said.

  I nodded. "You mentioned that circumstances dictated an FBI investigation… what circumstances would those be?" I said.

  "Privileged information," Baldy said, "You don’t need to know that shit."

  "I think I do," I said.

  "I agree," Knox said. "He needs to know what’s up."

  "He doesn’t need dick," Baldy said.

  I said, "Now that’s where you’re right, chief, but I keep getting those spam emails anyway. You ever get those? ‘Supersize your wang,’ that sort of thing?"

  From the look of him, Baldy was either going to shoot frothy milk out of the top of his head, or the Vein from Planet Eros was about to make its escape. He barked out short explosive bursts of verbal diarrhea until Janik silenced him by whispering, "Inside voices, children."

  I leaned back in my chair. Who says murder investigations can’t be fun? Once the chief was back under control of himself again, Agent Janik said, "I don’t have a problem sharing this information, so long as I know I can expect complete confidentiality from you, Dr. Lee."

  "Who am I gonna tell? Honestly."

  "The press, perhaps?"

  "Last time I talked to the press, they lumped me into an article on alternative healing next to an ‘urban shaman’ named Reggie Jenkins and some fat cat-lady who channeled fairies. You have nothing to worry about."

  "Fair enough," Janik said. He turned on an overhead projector on the conference table and asked Knox to turn off the lights. The image projected onto the white wall was a photo of a crime scene in a restaurant. A fat guy in a brown suit was face down in marinara sauce. The back of his head was not in attendance. A yellow paper, tacked to his back by what appeared to be an ice pick, was inscribed with Chinese characters and a few hexagrams.

  "Who’s this?" I said.

  "Giovanni Frichetti."

  I gave my finest blank-eyed stare.

  "One of the top dogs in the Candini crew out of New York," he said for clarification.

  "Ah," I said.

  "Can you read the note?"

  "Yeah. Eight Tigers. They get around, apparently."

  "Indeed they do," Janik said, clicking to the next photo, a man in white lying in the street. His eyes were vacant sockets. Same yellow paper tacked to his chest.

  "This gentleman was Jimmy Antoneli of the Chicago Antonelis."

  The third photo was a dark-skinned black man. A raw red crescent split his neck; his tongue had been pulled through the open wound. Another advertisement for Eight Tigers was pinned through the tip of the tongue.

  "Vin ‘Jooky’ Williams, heavy hitter for the Crips in L.A."

  "So…" I said, "We’re looking at some sort of gang war?"

  "Seems that way. Except the unusual thing about this war is that it seems to have started from within the Tigers, starting with the death of Jimmy Lau."

  "…And the new Eight Tigers seem to think they can take on everybody. They’re trying to absorb the smaller Triads, they’re hitting the mafia, the gangs… it’s like they’re on friggin’ steroids," Knox said.

  I thought of Mei Ling. What was her part in this? That made me think of Tony Lau and his speech at dinner. About "putting aside childish things."

  Tony and I were going to have to have a serious chat.

  73

  When I got back to the hotel, I found Tracy in the middle of some bizarre ritual. The stereo was on, and I recognized the song – Siouxsie and the Banshees’ Cities in Dust – I was learning, little by little. I closed the door behind me and saw a bouncing flash of tantalizing pale flesh. I leaned around the corner and saw Tracy, clad only in lacy black unmentionables and thigh-high fishnets, grooving to the music as she leaned toward the bathroom mirror and applied mascara.

  The last notes of the song faded and were soon replaced with unfamiliar, lilting strains. I walked over to the stereo and saw several open, empty CD cases littering the table. Most were Tracy’s, but a few were mine. Clearly, she needed to fill space in the six disc changer.

  Peeking over the couch, I had a perfect view of her. Her body swayed slower now, lithe and sleek. There was something to the way she moved, the roll of her shoulders, the arch of her back, the ripples of muscle in her calves, it was nearly maddening. But it sure made me happy to be a guy.

  The song ended, and I heard her mumble something
to herself. Then came the clacking of CDs changing, and the intro of Prefab Sprout’s King of Rock and Roll blasted from the speakers.

  I winced; this one was mine.

  Peering over, I saw her shrug at her reflection and bop along to the beat. At the first chorus, though, she stopped and said, "What the hell is this shit?" She strolled out of the bathroom and stopped with a gasp as she saw me sitting there. "Christ, Randall, you scared the shit out of me," she said. The chorus repeated again. She made a face as if she smelled something foul.

  "Randall."

  "Yes?"

  "What is this?"

  "Prefab Sprout," I said, ever the helpful one.

  "It may be the most irritating thing I’ve ever heard."

  "It grows on you," I said hopefully.

  "I try to stay away from things that grow on me."

  The chorus repeated again.

  "Ugh," she said, bending to reach the stereo. She turned off my CD and put in another of her own. I hadn’t realized before that she was wearing a thong. I was acutely aware now, though.

  "Hot frogs and jumping dogs… it’s fucking stupid, Randall."

  "Actually, it’s ‘Hot Dog, Jumping Frog,’" I sang.

  She turned and cast a playful glare. Her naturally big, dark eyes looked bigger and darker than usual, and it wasn’t just the make up. With those eyes alone, she could make me feel like I was someone worth sticking around. With that gaze, I felt like Superman.

  Granted, her other attributes helped too.

  "Whatever, Randall. You need help. Don’t feel bad…All men do. Usually, it’s clothes, or cooking, or manners… you just have terminally poor taste in music. You can’t help it. It’s okay."

  I raised an eyebrow.

  "I’m not allowed to like what I like?" I said.

  "No. Not when it’s shit," she said.

  "De gustibus non est disputandum," I said.

  "Huh?"

  "’In matters of taste, there can be no debate.’ Or something like that."

  Tracy’s CD clicked into place, and something that sounded like porno music came over the speakers. "This is good music though?" I said.

  "This, Randall, is Prince. This is Great music," she said, effortlessly slipping into dance mode. The movements of her hips were probably illegal in most countries.

  As she moved in close to me, her movements deteriorated into a simple back and forth two-step dance. She looked up at me expectantly. The two rocks I kept in my head clicked together and formed a spark; I understood what she was doing. She’d dumbed her movements down.

  For dumb old me.

  "No. No, no, no, no, no," I said, backing away.

  "Randall…you promised."

  "Yes, but… but that’s not a dance."

  "Oh?" She slipped back into her previous routine. Somewhere Salome was taking notes.

  Tracy spun around and leaned her shoulders against my chest; the rest of her body rolled backward fluidly, crashing against me like a wave. Something somewhere below my waist short circuited.

  "This isn’t dancing?" She said, craning up to kiss the cut on my chin.

  "Yes…very nice… dance. But me. I mean… I can’t."

  Get a hold of yourself, man.

  "What I mean is that it’s lovely for you. I can’t do anything like that. I’d be fine with the standard old boring slow dance. I’m king of the standard old boring slow dance."

  "You’re a poo."

  She walked back to the stereo and slapped the off switch.

  "Trace--" I said.

  She walked away and closed the bathroom door. After a few minutes, I went and knocked.

  "What," she said.

  "I do know one dance…" I said.

  She opened the door a crack and leveled one lovely eye. I gave my most charming cheesy grin and said, "The Horizontal Hula."

  Her lips rose ever so slightly.

  "Until further notice, that’s a solo number," she said just before slamming the door.

  74

  When she emerged, at last, from the bathroom, it was as though our exchange had never happened. She gave me a sly smile and wink and told me I should change.

  "What, you don’t love me just the way I am?" I said.

  "Your clothes, dorkus."

  My central nervous system finally finished processing her new dress and I nodded dumbly.

  It was a pseudo-translucent, shimmery blue thing – gossamer in the extreme, and nearly indecent.

  I said, "Guh," or some such thing.

  She narrowed her eyes playfully and said, "It’s not like it’s anything you haven’t seen before…"

  "But the presentation is lovely," I said, "What’s the occasion?"

  "I’m going dancing," she said.

  My heart sank. "Oh," I said.

  There were two ways this could play out, and neither of them looked good. Either she’d had enough of Grampa Lee, or she expected me to go with her. For the first time in my life, I prayed for a night of dancing.

  "Mm-hm," she said, "Me and Daniel and Tony. You coming?"

  The effects of the dress were still short-circuiting portions of my brain.

  I said, "Wait, what? Daniel and Tony? My Daniel and Tony?"

  She giggled and said, "I didn’t know you guys were an item."

  "You know what I mean… Tony Lau. That’s the Tony you’re talking about."

  "Mm-hm," she said, cocking her head and putting her hands on her hips.

  "And how did this come about?"

  "I called them. They’re still in the hotel," Tracy said.

  "Why would you do that?"

  "Because something’s been gnawing at my brain stem and I wanted a chance to… more fully test my hypothesis."

  "What?" I said, "What?" Because I’m a genius.

  "You just sit back and watch. Women’s intuition," was all she said.

  75

  We met Tony and Daniel just outside of the club on Washington. Both men were dressed immaculately in tailored silk suits – Tony’s white, Daniel’s a dark plum; I was, according to Tracy, "kickin’ it old skool" in jeans and a pullover. I’m pretty sure ‘old skool’ was actually some kind of code for "homeless person."

  "Hey guys," Tracy said with a wide grin as she ran up and hugged each of them.

  "I see your plan worked," Daniel said.

  "Like a charm, baby," Tracy said glancing over to me.

  Tony laughed and headed for the doors.

  "Plan?" I said.

  "She say you have a jealous heart, Doctor," Daniel said, the vaguest hint of a smile at the corners of his lips. I raised my eyebrows and leveled a look at Tracy. She winked and blew me a kiss. Looking to the club entrance, with its aneurysm inducing bass and its flashing lights and fog, my mind imagined the world’s trendiest and most obnoxious UFO. I sighed and took a step toward my fate.

  Right into a massive globule of regurgitated chewing gum on the sidewalk. "Aw, shit." I said, lifting my shoe to inspect the gooey damage. I heard Tracy giggle. Looking up, I saw that the others had already gone inside; she’d waited for me, which was nice.

  "Well, Randall, it’s official. You’re an honest-to-God gumshoe now," she smirked and turned to go inside.

  I sighed again.

  76

  There are many reasons to dislike dance clubs. Each person is an individual, and their reasons are as unique as the patterns of snowflakes.

  Here, however, are some of mine:

  For one thing, I tend to like songs that have a clear-cut beginning, middle, and end.

  If I wanted to hear four hours of the same thing, I’d go home and throw on my Iron Butterfly album. I’m not big on smoke. Tobacco smoke, pot smoke, that wet-dog’s-ass-on-fire fog that fills the dance floor, or the inevitable wisps produced by the friction of having 250 people rubbing together in a ten foot by ten foot square.

  That brings me to another peeve.

  Sweat.

  I don’t like my own, why would I voluntarily bathe in the fluids
of a room full of Ritalin-addicted twenty-something ravers?

  The answer is that I wouldn’t.

  Except that whenever I’d look over and see her eyes again they’d make me stupid.

  Luckily for me, I was still about eight shots of vodka from donning a light stick and white-man’s-overbite-ing my way into the Embarrassing Old Bastard’s Hall of Fame.

  After handling the gum incident in a very me fashion, I went in the club, got carded, got the typical double take I usually got when people saw my age, and found my party at a round table in a far corner overlooking the dance floor. I slid my way up to them and made it to the table in time to catch the waitress as she took our drink orders.

  I sat next to Tracy in the booth and smoothly dragged my heels over the carpeted steps.

  "For you?" the waitress mouthed over the thump and whir of the shit on the speakers.

  "Jack and coke," I shouted.

  She gave me a thumbs up and started to walk away.

  "Agh!" she shouted loud enough to be heard over the music. She lifted her shoe and glared at the gum trailing from it to the carpeted step.

  "God-fucking-dammit."

  I played it cool.

  Looking around our table, I said, "Man. I sure am glad I didn’t step in it."

  77

  "You want the first dance?" Tracy said, batting her eyes at me.

  "Sorry," I said, "not nearly drunk enough."

  She sighed and turned to Daniel. "I’d be honored," he said, taking her hand and whisking her away to the orgy of sweaty, bouncy stupidity below.

  That left just me and Tony. He stared out at the floor. I decided to try it. I caught more than a few dudes checking out the highly visible parts of Tracy’s figure. I fantasized about leaping over the railing and viciously chopping each of them in the forehead; it made me smile.

  Tracy and Daniel went to town, quickly becoming quite the dance floor sensation. I half expected the crowd to part like it was Saturday Night Fever or something, but it didn’t really happen that way. Thinly veiled beneath their movements, one could clearly see her pure sexuality and his lethal nature. Sex and death, the perennial twins of fascination.