Changes -- A Randall Lee Mystery Page 7

  All she said was, "What happened?"

  "We were bad parents," I said.

  And it was true. Neither of us knew how to relate to the new, innocent, utterly helpless life we'd brought into the world. We loved her, of course, but that's not the point. I loved the goldfish that I had as a kid, the one I starved by forgetting to feed it.

  No, we loved her more than anything, and we wanted to do what was best for her. We tried. I read all the books; I bought all the recommended toys and books and mobiles and cds. Miranda nursed, even though it hurt her every time she did it. And Grace grew, in spite of her inept parents.

  She was really something.

  But my practice was taking off so I was almost never home. I tucked her in at night. That was our time together. A story, a kiss, and that was that: my obligation fulfilled for one more day. I had other things, more important things, to worry about.

  And Miranda, she would start mixing a little vodka in with her iced tea around noon, mourning her lost career, her lost life, and end up napping the afternoon away while Grace was at daycare.

  When it happened, Grace was four. Miranda "had a headache," and I was at the office. I was supposed to take her to the zoo that day, just the two of us, but I forgot and booked patients by mistake. So Grace played outside, alone, because her parents couldn't be bothered with her.

  She'd been gone for hours before either of us even knew. The police did their best, but none of the neighbors saw anything. She could've runaway, and neither Miranda nor I would've blamed her.

  A week later a patrolman found something, wrapped in plastic sheeting and wedged between some rocks, down by the harbor. They called me, and I had to identify her body.

  The police caught him a few days later. Steven Allan Hayes. A registered sex offender. A monster. He was afraid of being caught again, of going to prison. He said that's why he did what he did.

  But he was caught, and he did go to prison. He was there for a week before another inmate beat him to death. After everything he did, the time he spent planning, the execution of his actions, the destruction of something so pure and innocent; it only took a fist hammering his temple, and he was dead in minutes.

  He got off so easy.

  Tracy had started to cry, and I hated to see it. I hated to have caused it.

  But she had to understand this: that on that day in June, Hayes didn't just take Grace's life. Miranda and I went to counseling, but we couldn't ever forgive each other; we couldn't forgive ourselves.

  "So I left," I said. And it really had been that simple. I packed my things as Miranda watched. I left her some money. We never said goodbye. I drove, stopping wherever I ended up at night, sleeping in cars or motels, and, each morning, driving again. When I ended up in St. Louis, I hadn't planned to stay. It was to be just another stopping point, until I woke up one morning realizing that I was tired of trying to escape myself. It hadn't worked anyway.

  That’s why I stayed. And even though I wanted to die, I couldn’t even do that right.

  So I did the only thing I knew. Found a storefront, opened a practice, and started to live again, moment by moment, hour by hour, and, eventually, day by day.

  Tracy had scooted her chair closer to mine; somehow our hands were intertwined.

  I wanted to tell her that I would understand if she didn't want to see me anymore, now that she knew the kind of man I really was. I wanted to tell her that she deserved better, that she deserved a real future with someone. I wanted to tell her so many things, but then her arms were around me, holding me, forgiving me, and the only thing I wanted was to be the man she thought I was.

  She took me home that night to her apartment, and, in her arms, I pretended to sleep.

  19

  The next morning, I got an idea. It was so simple, and I don’t know why it hadn’t occurred to me before.

  I hit the east side first, that pervert’s oasis in a desert of blight. The surrounding buildings were blasted, abandoned, and overgrown. I spent some time and money going from club to club, drinking nine dollar beers and asking questions. Everyone was helpful, as long as you greased their palms first.

  At ‘The Sapphire Room’, my fifth club of the morning, I met Jade. When I walked in, she was on stage working the pole over like it owed her money. She was small and petite, but muscled like a cat. Her jet black hair was streaked with scarlet and gold. Even in the dim, reddish light of the club, I knew why she chose her stage name – her eyes were an unnatural pale green. Some of the men in the club were so intimidated by her presence that they didn’t even sit at the stage… they just wadded their dollar bills into balls and threw them at the stage.

  After her set, she gathered her cash from the stage and came down to the bar. She got an ice water from the bartender and leaned in close to me. She smelled like Jasmine.

  "Interested in a private dance?" she said.

  "Sure." I said.

  She smiled, took my hand, and led me to the back of the club. The hallway was lined with doors. The floor was sticky. She opened one of the doors and closed it again quickly; I saw a brief flash of flesh writhing in the darkness.

  "Whoops," she said with a singsong quality, "occupado."

  We went to another booth, and she gestured for me to enter. It was small, maybe five by five, with black walls and floor and a single metal chair. She closed the door behind her and slid the cheap lock into place. The DJ introduced a Prince song and Jade started to move to the music.

  "Gotta pay before you play, baby." she said, extending her open palm.

  "How much for the dance?" I said.

  "For you, twenty. Or thirty-five for two songs."

  I gave her a fifty dollar bill and said, "I’m not actually interested in a dance."

  She pocketed the money, but said, "Dancing’s all you’ll get from me, baby. I ain’t a ho."

  "I just want to talk."

  She slid up next to me and ran her knee up my thigh.

  "Dirty talk?"

  "No. Information. That’s all."

  She narrowed her eyes and said, "’bout what?"

  "I want to know about the massage place across the street."

  "Taste of Asia?" she laughed. "Yeah, you get more than talking or dancing for fifty bucks there…"

  "What else do you know about it?"

  She shrugged. "Used to work there, back when it was Siamese Ally’s. Awhile after, ah, ownership changed… I quit."

  "Why?"

  "Ally was cool. She let the girls do their own thing. You give a guy a massage…if he’s cute or you like him, whatever, you maybe give him a little extra. Y’know, only if you want to. No big thing. When it turned into Taste of Asia, well, it was expected. The bosses wanted freebies, too."

  I frowned. "Madame Chong?"

  She giggled. "That old bat was just a washed up ho. She kept the girls in line. The bosses came in every now and then to check stuff out, make sure things were going how they wanted it. They always came with the new girls, too. Wanted first pick, I guess."

  "So you just…quit?" I said.

  "Yeah. One of the guys asked me to do some really nasty shit, so I walked. Since they bring in their own girls, they didn’t care if I stayed or went. I was old news, so to speak. Plus they’re just used to getting their own way… so many of the newbies will do anything, thinking they can fuck their way into the family or something…" she stopped and blushed.

  I had a strange feeling that she wasn’t one to blush easily. She stood up and smoothed her hands down the front of her short skirt.

  "Okay. Song’s over. Thanks." she said, moving to unlock the door.

  "What family?" I said.

  "Nobody. I didn’t say nothin’."

  "Wu-Jing? The Huang-Feng clan? Eight Tigers..?"

  Her eyes widened and she slapped her hand across my mouth. "Quiet!"

  "You didn’t want to work for the Eight Tigers, so you quit."

  She hissed, "Shut up, goddammit. Word gets back that you’re asking aro
und about them, we’re both fucked."

  "Did you know Mei Ling?" I said.

  "No. I don’t know who you’re talking about. I don’t know anything." She squirmed to get away, but I held her by the shoulders and kept her still.

  "The dead girl. I’m sure everybody’s been talking about it." I said. She looked away, so I asked her again. "Did you know her?"

  She looked at the floor. "No. But I knew of her." she was whispering now, her voice shaky. "She came in a couple weeks ago, with a batch of newbies. I saw her a few times…always seemed real shy."

  I had a thought. Such an uncommon occurrence, and yet here it was, twice in one day. It shocked me.

  "The bosses keep a close eye on the girls, right?"

  She nodded.

  "Do they set up the girls with places to stay?" I asked.

  She nodded hesitantly.

  Cha-Ching.

  20

  I met Knox in the lot across from the apartment building. The building was a brown, boxy brick structure built during that phase in the 70’s when all the buildings were made to look ultra "modern." Much like the women it housed, it looked far older than it truly was. Various graffiti adorned the walls, and litter and weeds collected along the ground.

  "No point in putting up whores in a palace, right?" Knox muttered, pausing to light a cigarette. Then, "You realize we’re not gonna find shit here, right?"

  "Why do you say that, detective?" I said.

  "Whoever offed her, you really think he’s gonna leave evidence in her fucking apartment? I mean, that‘s bad guy 101, for chrissake: ransack the apartment."

  I shrugged. He was probably right, of course, but neither of us had any better leads. So we crossed the street and went inside.

  The hall was dim and smelled like mildew and piss and god knows what else. We had no idea which apartment had belonged to Mei Ling, so we did what any team of high-powered crime-fighters would do.

  But after checking and finding that there were no names listed on the mail boxes, only apartment numbers, we went door to door and knocked. Many of the girls wouldn’t speak to us, presumably because Knox looks very much like The Man. Once I got him to back off and let me do the talking (in Mandarin), things started going a little bit smoother. I took Mei Ling’s photo from my jacket and started showing it around and before long we were pointed in the right direction. Toward Apartment 4B.

  We trudged up the steps and to her door. It occurred to the detective then that he didn’t know how we planned to gain entry. I pointed out a particularly interesting display of urban artwork outside the window at the end of the hall and suggested that he study it closely, for clues.

  Then I picked the lock. Ah, sweet youth. You never know what sort of degenerate skills will become handy in life. Hanging with the gangs back in Hong Kong had so far proven a better investment in time than, say, algebra had.

  Knox and I both just pretended that Mei Ling had been careless with her locking habits.

  The apartment was small and bare, but clean. Knox looked through her bedroom while I stood by. Her closet had a few outfits in it, nothing particularly sleazy, and shoes. Knox knelt and pushed aside a few pairs of expensive-looking shoes; in the back of the closet, wedged into a tight corner, was a black leather case.

  He set it on the bed and tried to open the golden clasps. With a sigh, he said, "Too bad her lock carelessness didn’t apply to this briefcase…"

  I wondered aloud if any clues might be hiding out in the refrigerator. Knox decided to check.

  I found a paper clip and used it on the briefcase.

  When he came back, he had a small purse. From the kitchen table, he said. He held onto the purse and opened the briefcase.

  We both just stared. Any snappy line I might’ve said was promptly erased by the four-inch deep stacks of twenty dollar bills lining the case.

  When we finished staring, Knox carefully unzipped the purse, and emptied it on the bed. There were a few wadded bills, a bit of lint, and a California driver’s license for a Mei Ling Zhao from San Francisco.

  Age 19.

  21

  We went to an early dinner, Knox and I, at a steak restaurant just across the river in Illinois. I was not impressed. I’m not a hard-sell, either, but it just honestly wasn’t very good. The beer, however, was good and made every thing else better.

  Knox stuffed a bite of sirloin into his mouth and, chewing, said, "’Kay, so what’s a nice young girl like our Mei Ling doing here, a thousand miles away from home, in a massage parlor… with a bun in the oven and a suitcase full of cash? Besides getting whacked by some kind of evil Taoist martial arts expert, who ensures that she, and presumably her child, is damned to one or more of the many confusing Chinese hells…"

  "Here’s something to ponder," I said, "did she bring the cash with her, or did she somehow make the money here?"

  He thought about it as he chewed. "Brought it," he grunted.

  That was the likely answer, of course, unless she’d stolen it. I offered that up as an option.

  "Stolen from who?" he asked, sipping his Bud Lite.

  "The more I learn, the more I know that I know nothing." I said.

  "You and me both."

  A cloud of cigar smoke billowed over my shoulder. I glared at it and tried not to breathe. When it dissipated, I said, "And if she didn’t bring it with her, and it‘s not stolen… how does a nineteen year old girl make that kind of cash?"

  Knox grimaced at the pungent smoke and said, "I can tell you how that girl could make that kind of cash… blackmail, maybe, or selling inside information about the Eight Tigers…"

  "To whom?"

  He shrugged.

  I rubbed my fingers along my temples and rolled my shoulders to shrug off some of the tension that had settled there. We switched to other topics, things we knew a bit more about. He asked how I got into acupuncture, and I gave him a brief version of the same story I’d told Tracy, minus the bits about my family.

  I learned that he had a first name – John – and that he was married to his high school sweetheart, Marta. Aside from that, I didn’t learn much more than what I already knew: Knox was alright. When we ran out of things to say and cigar smoke to breathe, I picked up the tab and we split.

  It was quarter to seven. He wanted to poke at a few leads before heading home, and I had my own things to do. Before he left, John Knox said, "Just so you know, I appreciate everything you’ve done... but, uh, the department wouldn’t. Keep your nose clean, eh?"

  I told him I’d try.

  22

  I went home in the morning and checked my appointments for the week. It didn’t take long to call and cancel them all. Afterwards, I made my travel arrangements. My flight left at eleven thirty-five p.m. I went upstairs and threw some clothes into a duffle bag. The ease and speed with which I packed left me sad. Too few entanglements, too little to anchor to. On the other hand, the ease and speed with which I’d attached myself to Tracy was troubling, too. Was I really so desperate for human contact? Or was she the x-factor? Was it something inherent in who she was that was so irreplaceable to me?

  All I knew was that when I was with her, I wasn’t wishing I was anywhere else. I didn’t wish it was tomorrow, or next week, or next month; I wasn’t pissing away the moments of my life.

  I was alive, and happy. Actually happy.

  And yet, here I was… sitting with a stuffed gym bag, planning to go away. And for what?

  I didn’t know what I thought I’d find, I just knew I had to look.

  I showed up at the club at nine-thirty. I hadn’t really looked around the place before, but The Outer Limit sort of reminded me of Tracy’s place. Not in décor, maybe, but in its feel. It was a weird amalgam of brick, hardwood, velvet, and neon. Panels of stained glass hung over the bar and the bottles of liquor were illuminated from beneath by an eerie green light.

  I saw Tracy the minute I walked in. She was serving a purple foo-foo drink to a preppie-looking kid who had the honor of
bearing the shittiest looking $200 haircut I’d ever seen.

  Tracy, of course, was luminous.

  I could tell just by body language that the kid was laying it on thick with her. She watched him with a kind of detached amusement and smiled. I headed over and leaned on the bar.

  Her eyes lit up.

  "Hi there. What can I get you?" she said, clearly in professional mode.

  "A beer," I said, "and maybe your phone number?"

  "Comin’ right up, sir."

  She grabbed a Heineken from the cooler and set it down. Then she took a pen and scribbled her home and cell phone numbers on a cocktail napkin. This was helpful, considering we’d exchanged bodily fluids but not contact information.

  "Son of a bitch." the kid next to me said.

  I turned and grinned. The preppie kid sneered.

  Tracy leaned over the bar and said, "I know I’m not supposed to do this, but I can’t resist," before kissing me.

  The kid got up and walked off, cursing.

  If Tracy noticed, it didn’t show.

  She said, "This is a nice surprise. I know it sounds really dumb and girly, but I’ve missed you."

  "Doesn’t sound dumb at all." I said.

  She grinned and said, "Did you miss me?"

  I nodded.

  "Say the words then, tough guy."

  I smiled and said, "I missed you. Very much."

  "Yay! That makes me happy."

  I drank some beer and said, "Unfortunately, I have another surprise that’s maybe not so happy."

  Her smile faded. "Is everything alright?"

  "Yeah. It’s just…well, something came up, and I’m going to be out of town for a few days."

  She cocked her head and said, "Oh."