The cab lurched into a parking spot in front of the row of small shop fronts, one of its tires perched precariously on the curb. The cabby either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
“Wait for me here,” I said. “I won’t be long.”
“Sure, sure,” the cabby said without looking at me. “The meter’s running.”
Sometimes I think it would be nice to do a job and not have to worry about anything more troubling than bringing home a paycheck. Not that I exactly envied the cabby, but it would have been nice.
The shop was one door, and a few smoky windows, in the frontage of a strip mall. A medium-sized plastic sign proclaimed the shop’s name: Iron Art. The irony of a wrought iron art shop being fronted by a molded plastic sign caused half a grin to form at the corners of my mouth. The sign hanging on the door said the shop was open but would be closing soon.
Must be nice to have short and somewhat standard hours of operation.
There was no such standard in my operation. I summoned up all the charisma I could, which truthfully wasn’t much, and went inside.
If the scientists are correct, and there really is order to the apparent chaos of the universe, it certainly wasn’t apparent inside the shop. Rows upon cluttered rows of blackened iron posts, gates, and weathervanes clung awkwardly to beleaguered pegs on the walls. Banister posts, fence pickets, strangely twisted spikes, and pillars blossomed like a midnight garden in haphazardly scattered bins on the shop floor. The place wasn’t exactly a mess, but it was well on its way. A lanky, ginger-haired boy leaned against the counter, lost in his own world of boredom. From his posture, and the way his skin glowed under a camouflage of freckles, he couldn’t have been much older than seventeen – maybe less, if luck was on my side.
“What can I help you with?” he asked without looking up. His tone was as disinterested as humanly possible.
“Is your manager in?”
“Nope,” he said, “Gone for a bit. You need something?”
“Well, it would be good if you could look at me when you’re speaking,” I said.
I don’t know why I said it. It would not bring the kind of attention I was hoping for, but all of a sudden, I was bile-spitting sick of this kid’s attitude. This was not the charm I had been planning to use. In fact, standing there with this shaggy-haired kid giving me the "I’m too cool for school and everything else" business, I began to feel less and less charming by the second.
Well, fuck it. I was never any good at the whole charm thing.
“No need to be rude, sir,” he said, straightening up to look in my direction, although he never quite looked at me.
So, now he wants to be an adult.
My calm strained at its frayed edges.
“Let’s not get into a discussion about manners, son,” I said, stomping down on the flash of anger that sparked inside me, “And yes, you might be able to help me.”
He looked directly at me after that. He was probably trying to gauge whether or not I was a threat. I was certain a place that small didn’t have a police panic button, so I felt fairly safe.
“I’m looking to get a branding iron made,” I said. “A triangle about so big.”
I held up my fingers to the correct dimension.
“You got a picture?” he asked, still a touch standoffish.
“Nope, but if you’ve got some paper, I could do a sketch.”
“What you want it for?”
“What else does one do with a branding iron?” I asked.
He seemed at a loss for an answer.
“Listen,” I said, jumping into the gap left by his ignorance, “I have a friend, got a similar one made a while ago. But see, I’m getting it for him as a present, so I couldn’t ask where he got his made. I was wondering if you would check your records for me, so I can get one that’ll match.”
“What’s your friend’s name?”
Shit. The little details.
“Ok,” I said, fumbling for a believable lie, “He’s not really my friend. He’s my girlfriend’s friend. I’m doing her a favor, trying to get the thing while she’s out of town on business.”
“She didn’t leave his name?”
The kid was sly, or at least he thought he was, I’ll give him that.
“She did, but I got seriously wasted and lost the piece of paper,” I said. “Are you sure you can’t help me out?”
“How drunk did you get?”
“I honestly don’t remember.”
“Must’ve been something,” Said the kid, wistfully.
Finally, a hook.
“You know how it is,” I said, trying to lead him a bit. “You must’ve done it a few times yourself, working man like you.”
Flattery. Sometimes it works.
“Sure, sure,” he said, haltingly, “but it’s been a long time.”
A long time? In what, dog years?
“Say, you know, I could really use a belt about now,” I said. “A little hair of the dog that bit me. Might even help me remember where I put the damn thing. You want a belt?”
The kid practically squirmed under his freckles. I’ve not met a teenager yet that turns down free booze. Not that I’ve met many teenagers.
“Listen,” I said before he could think better of it, “There’s a liquor store a couple of shops down. How’s about I go grab us a pint of something tasty and while I’m gone you can look up that design for me.”
He looked like he was up for it. I gave him a conspiratory smile and walked out before his brain could kick in. Given his age and the possibility of free hooch, I was counting on the fact that it wouldn’t.
I gave the cabby a "just a minute" hand signal as I strode past and into the liquor store.
When I got back to the iron shop, the kid had a Rolodex out on the counter and was flipping through it.
Score.
It feels good to occasionally catch a break.
I gave the kid an "is there anybody else here" look.
“No man, not back yet,” he said.
I took out the pint of cheap bourbon and set it on the counter next to his elbow. His eyes gleamed. I unscrewed the cap as he redoubled his efforts to find the design. I slid the bottle towards him. He paused for a moment, then tipped the pint up and took a swig. It wasn’t a large gulp, by any standards, but it took the kid a noticeable effort of will not to cough as the alcohol burned its way down his throat. He set the bottle on the counter and went back to scanning cards. I took up the pint and tipped it back. I wasn’t in any condition to drink, but I couldn’t let him see that. So, I blew a series of bubbles into the neck of the bottle. Unless the kid had a photographic memory when it came to booze, he wouldn’t notice. I set the bottle next to him on the counter.
He didn’t take it right away. During the course of my fake swig, his fingers had lighted upon the exact design I was looking for. He slipped the card out of the Rolodex and pushed it across the counter before taking back up with the bottle. He closed his eyes and managed two solid swigs. His eyes still closed, standing perfectly motionless, the bourbon flushed his phosphorescent cheeks. While he was busy buzzing, I examined the card, attempting to memorize as much of it as possible.
The name read: Drake Mann.
I was pretty sure the name and the address were fakes. Under the account information, scrawled in pencil, was a notation that the customer had paid in cash. The only people who pay for expensive items in cash are people who don’t want to be traced by the money. It wasn’t much more than I had before I came in, but I stashed it away in my noggin just in case. It might not have been much, but it was better than nothing.
“That the guy?” the kid asked when he finally opened his eyes.
“No idea,” I said, “but it looks like the design. Listen, I’ve got a couple of days before I need this thing. How long do you think it will take to make?”
“Not more than a day, I think,” he said, vaguely glassy-eyed, “I don’t make the stuff, but my boss is pretty good at it.”
“You think if I come back in a couple of days, he can have it whipped up for me, you know when I’m sure this is the thing my girl needs?”
“No problem,” the kid said.
I’m not sure if it was the alcohol talking or if he was truly certain. For my purposes, it didn’t matter.
“Cool,” I said, “My girl gets back in a couple of days. I’ll bring her down here and make sure we’re ordering the right thing.”
“Ok.”
I thanked the kid for his help. It seemed like the thing to do. Actually, smacking him in the mouth seemed like the thing to do, but if his parents couldn’t teach him any manners, a beating from me wasn’t going to have an effect.
Where did I learn my manners?
“You going to have another?” the kid asked, looking pointedly at the bottle.
“Can’t,” I said. “I’ve got to be somewhere. You keep it. Just don’t tell anyone where you got it.”
“Sure thing,” he said.
The kid pocketed the bourbon. I left.
The cab was still waiting. With the meter running, and me putting his kids through college with every spinning tick, why wouldn’t he be?
I slid into the back seat and gave the cabby Whitehall’s address. The cab lurched off the curb and spun out of the parking lot. I think the driver grumbled something about, “who the hell put that curbstone there,” but I wasn’t paying close attention. He grumbled more when I asked him to pull over next to a pay phone. But the meter was running, so why not?
I called Justin and gave him the information, as near as I could remember it; which, to my credit, was pretty damn near. Two hours later I would consider myself lucky to be able to recall part of the name, let alone the address. Justin said he would run a check on the info and get back to me. I explained that the next day, perhaps, would be the best time to reach me. I think he laughed at that. It was hard to tell with the noise of the traffic rushing by.
I got back in the cab, and we continued on our way. I tried to think about all the threads hanging off this case. I tried, but all I could really think about was meeting Hannah later that night, and what might happen, and how I was going to deal with it. I had about as much clue what to do there as I had with both my present cases, which is to say, little to none.
Guess I’ll just have to improvise.
Yeah, because that’s worked so well for you in the past.