as it were. A few years past my thirtieth birthday, I attempt to keep my five-ten, one-hundred-seventy pound frame in a shape other than round. Although not vain enough to call myself handsome, I have no problem when the ladies do. I’m clean-shaven with collar-length brown hair and dark brown eyes, to which my armed appraiser continued to gravitate.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she stated, standing her ground.
“You see, the truth is, the lovely and I’m sure talented, Ms. Divine gave you up for $20. And before you ask, no bodily fluids were exchanged during our brief encounter.” A flash of annoyance returned to my not-quite-friend’s face. “If it makes you feel better, she would’ve taken $5 if that was all I had. Unfortunately, banking machines no longer spit those out.”
Charm is a funny thing. Too much, too soon and you look like a creep. Too little, too late, you look desperate and go home by yourself. However, my slow and steady approach usually pays dividends. Behind her tough exterior and the cannon she was now gripping with both hands, I felt my first impression was correct: a young girl paying her way through school the hard way.
“Can we talk without the gun being part of our conversation? I promise this won’t take long and I’ll remain way over here by the railing,” I offered as I took several steps back, coming to rest against the wall at the top of stairs. “Is your name really Mary?”
“It’s Terri,” she relented, lowering the gun to her side. “I don’t know anyone here named Mary, although I only arrived in town on Monday.”
“What about a guy named Ryan? Do you have one of those on your speed-dial?”
“Nope.”
I reached into my pocket and retrieved a snapshot of my client’s husband. “Does this face ring any bells?”
Terri looked intently at the photo and shrugged her shoulders. “He might have been in the audience for my show but in the dark they all sorta look the same. I know I didn’t give him a private dance or anything like that.”
This was going nowhere fast. “Do you wear any necklaces?”
“We’re back to that again?” she asked exasperated. “The answer is no. I don’t have your stupid necklace.”
“A gold charm in the shape of a heart, maybe?”
“And we’re done. Can I go back to freshening up? I have a big spender coming to pick me up in 20 minutes.”
I cocked my head in response. “A date, huh? And what would his name be?”
“If his name were Brian, not Ryan, would that be of any interest?”
“Maybe. Deviants often use a new name that sounds like their own, so they don’t get confused if things go sideways.”
“To be honest, I have no idea what his name is. All I know is he paid the owners up front. Maybe his last name is Money. Brian Money. That would be kinda funny, right?”
“Hilarious,” I stated without emotion, putting the picture away and heading down to street level. “It was a pleasure to meet the three of you, Terri. Take care of yourself and that new boyfriend of yours.”
At the base of the stairs, I heard rushed footfalls coming up the alley. Poor bastard is probably paying by the minute and is worried he’s late, I thought. I stepped around the corner and figured I’d have a little fun to end my night. “She’s all primed and ready for you, sailor,” I said to the startled man who was now blocking my path.
Wearing a dark overcoat with the collar up and his hands in his pockets, he reminded me of a superhero looking for a place to change into his tights and cape. Yet on closer inspection, I knew this wasn’t the case. Ryan Hartford was a mild-mannered accountant, with no visible abnormal super powers.
“What did you say?” Ryan asked nervously, not knowing if he should stop to chat or keep quiet and proceed to the second floor.
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to amateur night at The Cougar Trap.
I ignored his question and asked one of my own. “Do you know you talk in your sleep? You’d make a really poor spy.”
“W-w-w-hat?”
“And you’re aware that necklace you are clutching in your pocket is ultimately going to contribute to your social, personal and professional failure, right?”
“Who are you and how do you know–”
“Everything? How do I know everything, Ryan Hartford? It’s a gift. It’s a curse. It’s who I am, I suppose.” My prey appeared to weeble then wobble but refused to fall down.
“Is this a robbery? I’ll give you everything I have. Money. Credit cards.”
“He wants the necklace and a heart of gold,” a heavenly female voice from above shouted. “Just give him the damn thing and get up here now! I don’t have all night.”
Oh, how he wanted to run. To the untrained eye, this had all the earmarks of a classic set-up. Lure the naïve target into a dark alley with the promise of sex and then rob him blind. Ryan’s eyes were wide with fear and his face turned a ghastly shade of oatmeal.
“Take it! Here!” he cried out, removing his left hand from his pocket and tossing something shiny over my head. As I involuntarily followed its trajectory, Ryan busted a move in the opposite direction, rounding the side of the building, out of view.
“Are you kidding me?” Terri screamed down over the fire escape railing. “You’re going to be sorry you did that,” she continued. “That’s him. That’s the guy who wanted to beat me up for a lousy $20!” she lied. “Well I’m not that kind of girl, Sicko Steve!”
Within seconds, a small army of very large bouncer-types were careening down the steps, racing to see which one could land the first deadly blow to my tender solar plexus.
Note to self: Comparison shop for nunchucks at the mall.
I snagged my prized booty off the ground and hightailed it out of the area with the sole aim of not becoming another unsolved murder statistic. My would-be welcoming committee were huge, muscular men, the kind who strike fear into the hearts of unruly club patrons. They weren’t, however, very scary or athletic when challenged to a sprint. As I easily outdistanced them block by block, one by one, they ran out of stamina and were left gasping for precious air in the middle of Drake Road.
I found my van still intact in the well-lit lot of an all-night pizzeria where I’d left it earlier, knowing it might be useful to have some witnesses to relate exactly how I was killed. I believe it’s easier on those left behind to know how their loved one’s last breath was taken, regardless how grotesque the crime scene might be.
“A dead body is always better than no body,” a homicide detective once told me.
Pulling off the lot, I checked my mirrors and blind spots for any incoming winded gorillas. None had survived the mini marathon. With this all-clear sign, I draped my client’s necklace over the rearview mirror and admired the attached heart of gold charm. As it gently swung to and fro, streetlights and oncoming headlights illuminated it as if it were somehow alive.
“Another
