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THE SENIOR SHOWCASE, the end-of-the year event where Mahina State’s Friends in the Business Community came to admire our best student work, was as scandal-free as I (and Victor Santiago) could have hoped. The business plans on display were an uninspired assortment of sports bars, party planners, and online clothing stores. The miscreants who had purchased their assignments from OutsourceMyHomework were not represented at the Senior Showcase. I had already assigned them failing grades for the course and reported them to the Office of Student Conduct. There they suffered severe consequences for their intellectual larceny, if by “severe” you mean “gently guided into an independent-studies program and allowed to complete their degrees by sleight of paperwork.”
Despite my class’s unremarkable showing, Victor Santiago, Vice-President for Student Outreach and Community Relations, was in a cheerful mood. The reason? He had just received news of an anonymous and shockingly generous donation to the university. During the closing remarks of the Senior Showcase, Santiago called me up to stand next to him as he made the announcement.
Please accept this gift to the Mahina State University College of Commerce, given in appreciation for the Department of Management and its department head, Dr. Molly Barda. Her tireless devotion to academic integrity has inspired this donation. In short, she’s bloody marvelous.
As I watched Victor Santiago read those words, I thought I saw him smile.
Pat Flanagan took out his notebook and wrote, Opening night at the Effigy. Exposed ducting, flat black paint, blacklight. Underneath he added, DJ looks like Marilyn Monroe in mourning.
Trusty was supposed to be taking pictures but (unsurprisingly) hadn’t shown up yet. Betty Benitez, Trusty’s girlfriend, hoisted herself onto the barstool next to Pat and signaled to the bartender.
“You’re looking extra yuppie tonight,” Pat shouted into her ear. “You’re probably the only one in here with a day job.”
She glanced down at her broad-shouldered taupe pant suit and leaned over to yell, “Working late. These guys can’t get it through their shiny bald heads it’s 1984, not 1954. You can’t have official company functions at the strip club. You can’t show topless training videos to the interns. You can’t bring in birthday cakes shaped like...I mean you can, if you don’t care about getting sued.”
The bartender returned with two highball glasses filled with pale golden liquid on ice.
“Perfect timing.” Betty clicked her glass against Pat’s. “Congratulations on your first real reporting assignment.”
Upon graduating from San Diego State with his engineering degree, Pat had interviewed at one of the local tech companies. He hadn’t gotten the job, but he had hit it off with Betty Benitez from the legal department. Through Betty’s connections, Pat had landed a position at Voltaire’s Quill, a free weekly chronicling San Diego nightlife and culture.
Pat took a sip and raised his eyebrows. “Not bad. What is it?”
“Cinzano Bianco,” Betty replied. “Speaking of idiot men, where’s—oh hiya Babe!”
“Hey, Boops.” Trusty’s white-blond hair and puka shell necklace shone in the blacklight as he leaned forward to nuzzle Betty’s neck.
“You know how to work that thing?” Pat asked.
“Eh brah, no worries.” Trusty patted the expensive Leica hanging around his neck. “I’ll start with the DJ. Star’s looking sexy tonight. Looks like she lost some weight. Betty, how come you’re dressed for work?
Betty stood abruptly.
“Need a break,” she mouthed to Pat, and strode toward the back of the club. Trusty, unbothered, ambled over to the DJ booth.
Pat swiveled his barstool around to watch the dance floor and take notes: Black walls, black clothes, white faces. He immediately crossed it out. He meant to refer to the dancers’ pale makeup, but Harriet, his editor, might think he was implying the club was racist.
Trendy new drink chintzano (chk spelling). “Normal Heights comes to Pacific Beach?” Music so loud I feel my organs vibrating. Hope nothing ruptures.
Pat was considering a line about lint glowing under blacklight when he noticed the dance floor energy ebbing. One by one, the dancers paused. Betty strolled out from the back, holding a half-smoked cigarette.
“Party over already?” Betty checked her watch. “It’s only—” She stopped midsentence when she saw what everyone was staring at.
Trusty lay crumpled on the dance floor, flecks of light from the rotating disco ball playing over his still form.
HARRIET MONTGOMERY, whose living room doubled as the Voltaire’s Quill newsroom, peered over Pat’s shoulder. Her tar-black hair showed mousy roots. “Still wrestling with writer’s block, Sullivan?”
“Flanagan,” Pat Flanagan said. I took notes, but—”
The front door banged open, cutting Pat off midsentence. Betty Benitez stepped into the room. Star Billings, the blonde DJ, trailed after her.
“You two look like a dog’s breakfast,” Harriet observed.
“We haven’t slept.” Betty handed Harriet a small cardboard box. “We got your camera back though. What’s left of it.”
“Any usable photos?” Harriet put the box on Pat’s desk without opening it.
“Might have been,” Betty said. “If Trusty had remembered to load the film.”
“Ah. And how is young Trusty this morning?”
Betty and Star exchanged a look.
“Dead,” Star squeaked. “He hit his head and got a dramatic brain injury.”
“Oh dear. How unpleasant,” Harriet said. “Drinks?”
As the group followed Harriet into the kitchen, Pat caught up to Betty. “Sorry about Trusty,” he said. Betty gave his hand a quick squeeze.
They sat around the kitchen table, a tumbler of Harriet’s good whiskey in front of each of them. From somewhere within her layers of clothing, Harriet pulled out a pipe and a pouch of tobacco.
“Well?” Harriet asked Betty.
“Trusty fell off the catwalk,” Betty said. “Technically it’s a lighting truss. Injuries were consistent with the 35-foot drop.”
Harriet pulled at her pipe and frowned.
“Why was he up there?”
“He wanted overhead photos of the dance floor.” Star picked up a cocktail napkin and blew her nose. “I never thought—”
Betty threw her arm around Star’s thin shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “Hey, it’s not your fault. Trusty chose to take the risk.”
When Betty and Star left, Harriet motioned to Pat to stay seated.
“Congratulations, Sullivan.”
“Flanagan,” he countered.
Harriet blew a wobbly ring of pipe smoke.
“I’ve assigned you to investigate Trusty’s death.”
“What about Effigy’s—”
“We’ll get the advertising contract in hand before we publish anything.”
“What’s there to investigate?” Pat objected. “Sounds like it was an accident.”
Harriet contemplated the white-on-turquoise interlocking boomerang pattern on the kitchen table.
“There’s loads to investigate. What was he looking for up there? A camera angle? Or something else? Second, surfers have superb balance. Unless someone drugged him? Write it down.”
“Harriet, Trusty was perfectly capable of drugging hims—”
“Suicide? Unlikely. He’d just had a pay rise. He was chuffed about it.”
“You gave Trusty Spivey a raise?”
“To keep him from defecting to that poseur rag Revolt in Style.”
“Why not let him go?”
“I couldn’t let Trevor snatch him up. Not much of a worker, our Trusty, but lovely to look at, and eager to please. Who do you think might’ve wanted Trusty dead?”
Pat threw up his hands. “I dunno. Me? Harriet, Trusty was supposed to be taking pictures for our story. Instead, he forgot to load the film, and wrecked your camera. It’s not the first time he’s left other people to clean up his mess. Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Who else was there?” Harriet pointed her pipe at Pat Flanagan. “Think, Flannery!”
“Star and Betty. The bartender. The usual night crawlers. Some guy on the dance floor doing this snake dance with a pair of silver fans.”
“Brilliant. You interview him?”
“Nah. Those types are always more interesting to look at than to talk to. Anyway, Star didn’t leave the DJ booth. Betty took a smoke break, but I don’t think Betty—”
“Betty could’ve knocked him down with a blow gun. Blow gun! Write it down.”
“Harriet, I—”
“No, you’re right. Betty would be more subtle. Antifreeze in his Midori Sour, that sort of thing. I could almost believe it was an accident.”
“Except?” Pat asked.
Harriet reached into a pocket, drew out a folded yellow Post-It, and handed it to Pat. “Found this in my desk yesterday.”
Something fishy at VQ. Effigy next? Signed, anonimus.
Pat sighed. “Looks like Trusty’s writing. And spelling. Any idea what he’s talking about?”
“None whatsoever. Buck up, Finnegan. We’ve got work to do.”
IT TOOK PAT AN HOUR to motor up Highway 101. His Honda Civic had one window that wouldn’t shut, which made his car shudder at freeway speeds. By the time he arrived at Betty’s condo in Encinitas, both he and the takeout dinner sitting on the passenger seat were cold.
Betty answered the door holding a tumbler full of pink liquid. She took the food container from him with her free hand. As she headed to the kitchen she called back affectionately, “Hey, you stringy old chicken hawk, what’re you drinking?”
“No jacuzzi wine for me please. You got any beer?”
Pat shut the door and followed Betty inside. The monochrome decor coordinated with Betty’s black stirrup leggings and gray sweatshirt. Indoors was warm and smelled like menthol Virginia Slims and vanilla. (Betty was convinced vanilla air freshener disguised the cigarette smell).
“Let’s eat at the coffee table,” Betty said. “The kitchen table’s piled with work stuff. Our top salesman’s been taking prospects south of the border for a boys’ night out. Then threatening to show the Polaroids to the wives. Don’t worry, I will quit. As soon as I pay back my law school loans. What’s the occasion?” Hey, this looks great. Lemme zap it in the microwave.”
“Italian Flag Special from Stefano’s in Hillcrest.” Pat tried to get comfortable on Betty’s black leather sofa. “It has red marinara, white alfredo sauce, and that green poseur stuff you like.”
“It’s called pesto and I do like it.” Betty set the two heated plates on the coffee table and sat next to Pat.
“Harriet wants me to investigate Trusty’s death,” Pat said.
“Trusty was an idiot.” Betty twirled a forkful of pesto linguine and popped it into her mouth.
“Not the reaction I expected from the grieving girlfriend.”
“His parents coddled him his whole life, and now they’re mystified he can’t take care of himself like a normal adult. They couldn’t wait for me to marry him and take him off their hands. So, what’s to investigate? Wasn’t it an accident?”
While Betty sipped her white zinfandel, Pat told her about the note.
“How does Harriet know it was from Trusty?” she asked.
“He misspelled Anonymous. And she recognized his handwriting.”
“Why didn’t Trusty say something to Harriet in private? I’m pretty sure he had plenty of opportunities to do that.”
“He wanted to remain—”
“Anonymous. I get it. So, Trusty sees something funny going on, he leaves Harriet a note, cause he doesn’t completely trust her. Next thing you know, he’s dead. Is that it?”
“You summed it up.”
“Glad I could help. Hey, you tell your parents yet you’re not an engineer?”
“Still putting it off.”
“Know who else has an engineering degree? Star Billings.”
“The airhead DJ?” Pat immediately regretted saying it.
“You are such a pig!” Betty socked Pat’s shoulder. To change the subject, Pat picked up the San Diego Reader from the side table and read, “The Incision Decision: Why people undergo cosmetic surgery. This is why I hate San Diego. It’s like a bunch of insecure people decided to construct an entire culture based on ads from airline magazines.”
“You think that’s bad? Dare you to check out the personals.”
Pat turned to the back pages. “ATTRACT GIRLS!” he read. “Attractant 10 Pheromone Spray. Maybe that’s what Trusty was using on you.”
“As good an explanation as any.”
“Seeking a woman who can keep up with me. Own my own tux. People say I think too much.”
“Imagine the poor guy with his tux, never knowing why everyone finds him so annoying.”
“SINGLES BIG DANCE PARTY Saturday at the Viscount Hotel (formerly the Travelodge) 1960 Harbor Island Drive. 21 and over. Open-minded nonsmokers only. Reading these makes me sad.” Pat folded the Reader and set it aside.
“Before you start feeling too superior, remember those ads pay your salary. Not those ads specifically, but VQ has ones exactly like it. Mind if I smoke?”
“Go ahead. I’m heading out. Thanks for making me depressed.”
PAT STAYED ON NORTH Torrey Pines Road instead of following Genesee. The ocean breeze blasting through the open window ensured he was wide awake by the time he parked and entered Effigy.
Effigy wasn’t the kind of club where you asked someone to dance. You claimed a space on the floor amidst the Siouxsie Sioux and Robert Smith clones, and you performed solo. This suited Pat; being alone raised no suspicions. Pat strolled around looking for a way to climb up to the lighting truss. He found an access door, but it was locked.
Between the beer and the bladder-thumping music, Pat needed to make a pit stop. Exiting the bathroom, he passed a large man talking on the pay phone in the narrow hallway.
“And I’m saying the price went up,” the man said. “No, but after last Saturday...yeah. I’ll see you there.”
Last Saturday was when Trusty had died.
Pat decided to follow the man. He managed to keep the Harley-Davidson in view, through a winding stretch on the 5 freeway and down Harbor Drive. They passed the naval base, turned left on 8th street, and entered a lonely stretch of industrial buildings. Pat pulled over when the biker stopped at a white building with a single light out front. Five minutes later the man came out, jumped onto his bike, and roared off in the direction they’d come from. Pat noted the building address and name: Harbor Chemical Supply.
Before Pat could shift back into drive, a white F-150 emerged from the back of the building, sending up a spray of gravel and momentarily blinding Pat with its headlights. Pat followed.
He spotted the truck ahead of him, approaching a red light. The truck didn’t slow down. It accelerated straight into the intersection, backed up, pulled a U-turn, and sped off. A late-model Mercedes sat at an angle in the intersection, its front bumper dented. Beside it lay the crumpled Harley. A man stepped out of the car holding something to his ear. One of those cellular phones. It was a good thing too, as there didn’t seem to be a pay phone nearby. Pat waited in his car until the SDPD black-and-white pulled up.
A young officer approached Pat’s Honda and rapped on the window. His brass name bade read Kitagawa. Pat stepped out of the car and followed Kitagawa to where the driver of the Mercedes, a middle-aged man in a brown suit, was standing.
“Tell him I had the light,” the driver implored Pat. “You saw it. Tell him!”
Officer Kitagawa took notes as Pat told what he’d witnessed.
“Where’s the rider?” Kitagawa asked. Pat and the driver looked at each other. The intersection was poorly lit, surrounded by vacant lots overgrown with weeds.
“I can help you look for him.” Pat didn’t expect the police to let him poke around a murder scene, but it was worth a try.
“Fine,” Kitagawa said. “Yell if you see something. And don’t touch anything.”
PAT GOT TO WORK AROUND noon the next day. He didn’t see Harriet, but he found DJ Star at the kitchen table, drinking from a pilfered Perry’s Café mug. Harriet was still asleep, Star told him, but Pat could go wake her up if he wanted.
Pat waited until Star left. He marched to the back of the house and pounded on Harriet’s door.
“Is it noon already?” Harriet sounded hoarse.
“I think you’ll want to hear this,” Pat shouted through the door. “Kitchen. I’ll make tea.”
Harriet minced into the kitchen wearing a satin leopard-print dressing gown, a Rosie the Riveter head scarf, and blackout glasses. She patted the table as she sat down, as if she were blind. Pat set a mug of strong black tea in front of her and related the events of the previous night.
Harriet perked up a bit. “Did you find the body?”
“Not me personally. The cop found it.”
“And there’s a notebook?”
“Yeah. It was stuck under a chain link fence. It has all these bars and clubs listed, with dates. I’ll turn it over to the police, but I wanted us to read it first.”
Harriet waved away the notebook and stood up slowly. “Let’s talk when you’ve done pasteup. Well done, Finnegan.”
Pat tuned the radio to 91X. Pasteup had been the one job Trusty was good at, probably because it wasn’t that difficult. Pat checked the Lectro-Stik’s temperature and was arranging the three-inch-wide strips of text on the board when he read: SINGLES BIG DANCE PARTY Saturday at Moose McGillycuddy’s 1165 Garnet Ave 21 and over. Open-minded nonsmokers only.
It was the ad he’d seen at Betty’s house, in the San Diego Reader. Only with a different date and location. Pat checked the notebook he’d found at the accident scene. Good thing Harriet hadn’t taken it after all.
Moose McGillycuddy’s was listed in the notebook.
Pat went to the shelf and pulled down the most recent issues of Voltaire’s Quill.
Each issue had a SINGLES BIG DANCE PARTY advertised in the back pages. The location changed each time. Confetti’s in Mission Valley. The Zebra Club downtown. The Bacchanal on Clairemont Mesa Boulevard. The Belly-Up Tavern in Solana Beach. The same clubs appeared in the notebook, along with a date, a dollar amount, and another number Pat couldn’t decipher.
Pat ran back to Harriet’s bedroom and hammered on her door. Hangover or no, she’d want to hear about this.
#
PAT SHOWED UP AT THE VQ office early Sunday morning to get his disappointing report over with. Star Billings was at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. “Harriet told me you’re working on something interesting,” she said.
Pat sat down. “Probably a dead end. I went to Moose McGillycuddy’s last night for the ‘open minded singles’ party. Nothing that I could see. Except a bunch of drunk idiots in stonewashed jeans and dumb bi-level haircuts.”
“What made you think of going to Moose’s? Stay there, I’ll make a fresh pot.” Star rose and rummaged in the cupboard behind Pat. He was about to respond to her question when his skull exploded with white fireworks.
PAT DIDN’T KNOW WHERE he was, but he smelled booze. And menthol Virginia Slims. Slowly he realized Betty and Harriet were helping him up off the kitchen floor and into a chair.
“Bloody cow was going to burn my house down,” Harriet fumed.
“And murder Pat,” Betty added pointedly.
“Is that what she was doing with my Wild Turkey 151?” Harriet was indignant. “She wouldn’t tell me. Buggered right off when she saw me.”
Pat closed his eyes and rubbed the rising lump on the back of his head.
“How well do you know her?” Betty asked Harriet. “I mean, I’ve hung out with her, but ...I don’t even know her real name.”
“Star’s a bit mysterious,” Harriet said, “Seems a right plank, but she’s got an engineering degree.”
“Those are overrated,” Pat muttered.
THAT EVENING OFFICER Warren Kitagawa stopped by Harriet’s. He sat at the kitchen table with a glass of water in front of him. Harriet and Betty had wine coolers. Pat, still feeling woozy, drank ginger ale.
Kitagawa was not surprised by the attack. He told them Star Billings, aka Stella Baker, was part of a crystal meth distribution network. The drug, manufactured at Harbor Chemical Supply, was sold at “singles parties” advertised in San Diego’s free weeklies. Star gained access to the clubs as a DJ.
“Trusty Spivey pasted up the ads at VQ,” Pat told Kitagawa. “He must’ve noticed the pattern.”
“If he figured it out, ‘Star’ had a motive to kill him,” Kitagawa said. “But witnesses have her in the DJ booth the whole time.”
“She tried to kill Pat,” Betty pointed out. “Can’t you get her for attempted murder, at least?”
“If we find her. And Mr. Flanagan is brave enough to testify.”
Why brave?” Betty asked.
“These people are ruthless,” Kitagawa said. “Pat saw what they’re capable of.”
“Are we going into witness protection?” Harriet asked hopefully.
“We don’t have the resources. But unofficially...”
PAT STEPPED OFF THE jetway and inhaled the thick, humid air. Mahina, on the lush windward side of a sparsely populated Hawaiian island, offered the ideal combination of opportunity and obscurity. Officer Warren Kitagawa had called in favors from relatives and gotten Pat the next best thing to official witness protection.
Pat was the new crime reporter at the County Courier, Mahina’s premier (in fact only) newspaper.
Inside Mahina Airport Pat stopped to watch a performance of kahiko hula—the ancient style accompanied by percussion. He stood transfixed, feeling the vibrations as the women stomped, whirled, and chanted in perfect synchrony.
He knew how Star had killed Trusty.
Pat grabbed his duffel bag and sprinted to the airport’s lone pay phone.
“Resonant frequency,” he told Officer Kitagawa. “When soldiers march across a bridge they break stride, so the resonance of their steps doesn’t destabilize it. Star studied engineering. She’d know that. The song she put on right before Trusty fell had a marching beat and the volume was turned way up. If Trusty was up on the catwalk taking pictures, it wouldn’t take much to shake him loose.”
PAT CLIMBED INTO THE taxi and directed the driver to the Hanohano Hotel. He would miss Betty, and Voltaire’s Quill, and even Harriet. But his new life was in Mahina. He’d call his parents after he settled in. His engineering degree had come in handy after all.