3 The Case of Tiffany's Epiphany (26 page)

Although I’m sitting at a table in a very nice restaurant, I feel like I’m in the front row at a taping of a bad
Doctor Phil
episode.

“No-No” says, “No, no, Jack, can’t you give me another chance?”

“I might not be able to because a blood clot might break loose, go all the way to my head, and leave me brain dead.”

“Neula,” Tiffany says instructing her pupil, “tell Jack you’d be more than happy to stay at his side if he falls into a coma.”

“I’ll be there for you.”

“Jack, your turn—”

I interrupt Tiffany. “Can we order?” I flag the waiter over to our table.

“She and I will have a salad with no dressing, a broiled chicken breast with no sauce or butter, and iced tea, lemon, no sugar,” Tiffany announces.

“Really?” “No-No” questions. “Couldn’t I get mine with fries at least?”

“No,” Tiffany lays down the dieting law.

“I might be the one in a coma, if I don’t get some real food into me,” “No-No” laments.

“And you, sir?”

“Fettuccini Alfredo, cream of whatever you got soup, and lots of bread slathered with butter and garlic.” Evidently, Jack is playing hard to get via the menu.

Tiffany glares at Jack. “Ordering the Heart Attack Special, that’s totally rude.”

“Okay, forget the butter,” Jack says.

“I’ll have the turkey sandwich,” I tell the waiter. He exits quickly. I can’t blame him. “I need a favor,” I tell the detectives.

“What?”

“I need you to pull some guy over tonight, get him out, and search his car.”

“No, no, we can’t do that,” “No-No” says without hesitation.

“Sure we can,” Jack says.

“No no, we can’t. We need a search warrant.”

“Oh, come on,” Jack says.

“A warrant or at least a good reason,” “No-No” tells Jack.

“How about a briefcase full of dirty money?” I ask.

“Sounds reason enough for me,” Jack says. “Who is it, Sherlock?”

“I’ll point him out to you tonight.”

---

I’m not wild about gyms and I’ve never liked health clubs. They don’t make any sense to me. Why would anyone consider a place healthy when all the members leave their sweat on the equipment for the next guy, spit on the floor, and leave their dirty towels all over the place? The shower stalls always have the latest species of athlete’s foot bacteria, plus the sinks and vanities all sport a full assortment of hair follicles, used razor blades, dried toothpaste spittle, and dirty Q-Tips. Most confusing to me is why so many of the people working out wear ear buds to either listen to music or talk on the phone while they grunt and groan on torture devices with overly impressive monikers like the Hip Abductor and Thigh Eradicator?

Monroe’s health club is no exception, except for the fact that here all the work-outers aren’t only just filthy and sweaty, but filthy, sweaty, and filthy rich.

As Tiffany and I enter the workout area, it’s a bit difficult not to raise eyebrows. I’m in my usual pair of slacks and a polo shirt. Tiffany is dressed ready to pose for an
Elle
photo shoot in a racy little blue tube top and black yoga pants combination.

“Do you see what I see, Mr. Sherlock?”

“Bacteria multiplying?”

“No. It’s that no good, self-centered, egotistical, conceited, bitch, Alix Fromound.” Tiffany has locked her eyes on her nemesis like a pointer rigidly aiming at a soon-to-be-dead duck.

“She’s here working out, Tiffany.”

“She’s working
it
out alright,” she says. “And
right
in front of Monroe.”

“From what you’ve told me, it’s not like you and Monroe are becoming Antony and Cleopatra.”

“Who?”

What would be the point of a history lesson here? She wouldn’t listen.

“Just because I don’t want him,” Tiffany says, “doesn’t mean I want her to have him.”

“That doesn’t sound like the new ‘Nice’ Tiffany to me.”

“When it comes to Alix Fromound, the ‘Nice’ Tiffany is history.”

Tiffany marches right up to where Alix pumps iron on a machine designed to tighten and tone the areas underneath surgically enhanced breasts, of which Alix has two.

“What are you doing here?” Tiffany barks at Alix, who wears a black spandex body suit so tight it looks like it was sprayed on.

“Exercising.”

“What, your libido?”

“Mine doesn’t need any exercise,” Alix snaps back. “But I hear yours does.”

I can see Tiffany’s brain go into overdrive, wondering what Alix knows or doesn’t know. “Who’d you hear that from?”

“I have my sources.”

Tiffany stares her down.

Alix stares right back.

“You’re here because Monroe’s here,” Tiffany accuses.

“Maybe he’s here because I’m here.”

“No way.”

“Yes, way.”

Tiffany digs in. “You don’t belong here.”

“I’m a member. Are you?” Alix responds with a question.

“I wouldn’t be a member of any club that has you as a member,” Tiffany states emphatically.

“That doesn’t leave you many choices then, does it? Because I’m a member just about everywhere.”

“Eastbank?” Tiffany throws out a club just west of Michigan Avenue.

“Of course.” Alix says tossing her nose into the air.

“Oh, where the more
mature
woman goes and
pretends
to exercise?”

In seconds they each may run off searching for a pair of designer boxing gloves. “I’d love to hang around and referee, ladies,” I tell them, “but I’ve got work to do. Enjoy your time together.”

Neither hears a word I say. I leave the two, hoping there’s no blood on the floor when I return.

To my left is a boxing ring where Monroe and his workout partner are semi-sparring. I make my way in that direction until I reach the edge of the ring. Monroe wears a pair of half-gloves, and is punching away at what looks like over-sized oven mitts worn by Oscar Odie, his much ballyhooed and newly-indicted trainer. I have to admit that shirtless Monroe is quite the physical specimen with his rippling pecs, dancing deltoids, and six pack abs. As he throws his jabs, hooks, and haymakers, his entire body glistens as a mass of coordinated muscles. I’m impressed.

I read somewhere, probably at my favorite Barnes & Noble, that boxing is the latest workout craze. I don’t understand how boxing could be good for you, since it would seem getting hit in the head repeatedly would be the antithesis of improving your health and well-being. The only exercise I can imagine being any worse for your body is Mixed Martial Arts where you add kicking, gouging, and head butting to the aforementioned boxing punishments. Gee, I feel healthier just thinking about it.

The buzzer sounds and Monroe ceases his onslaught. They probably save the bell for the real fights. He comes over and stands well above me, his whole body dripping beads of sweat. “What are you doing here?”

“I was in the neighborhood, thought I’d drop by and see what it would cost to get my own locker.”

Monroe squats down, now he’s only twice my level. “What do you want?”

I give Oscar, who’s standing in the opposite corner, a half-hearted glance. “I heard your trainer got caught dealing steroids,” I say.

“It’s a bullshit charge.”

“You the one who put up his bail?” I ask.

“It’s tough to find a good trainer,” Monroe says.

“I can only imagine.”

I change tactics. “The night Tiffany went down in the Zanadu, could you describe the guy who came between you and Alix?”

“I already told the cops. Ask them.”

Monroe has a point. I concede and move on. “What were you drinking?”

“What difference would that make?” He asks a question to my question—which I hate.

“Humor me,” I plead.

“What I always drink. Stoli on the rocks, two olives.”

“No Gatorade?”

“It’s a bar, not a gym.”

“You never saw the guy before?”

“What guy?” I’m pretty sure right now Monroe wouldn’t mind giving me a punch or two.

“The guy who stepped between you and Alix.”

“No,” he says. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

I see out of the corner of my eye that Oscar shifts closer to us, listening to our conversation. “I just thought I’d ask again,” I say to Monroe. “Sometimes your memory kicks in after you give it time to work on its own electrical impulses.”

This is one of my theories concerning the power of the brain. You think real hard on a problem or a remembrance and then you totally put it out of your mind for a while. This allows your brain’s electrical synapses to go to work and figure it out for you.

“That’s bullshit.”

Evidently, Monroe doesn’t adhere to my theory.

“Was there anything else about that night that seemed odd or out of place?” I ask.

“Listen, buddy,” he says firmly, “I didn’t have anything to do with anything that night. I’ve told you. I’ve told the cops. That’s enough. Get out of here. I’ve got work to do.”

I back up a couple of paces, signaling the end of my questioning. All I can think is what he’s said is bullshit too.

Oscar comes over to Monroe. The buzzer sounds. The punching begins. I wonder if Oscar ever gets to punch Monroe.

I retreat to Alix and Tiffany, now at the Gluteus Maximizer machine. No blood on the floor. Whew.

“I’ll tell you something else, Alix,” Tiffany says.

“What?”

“What I want, I get,” Tiffany tells her in no uncertain terms.

“And what you want, I already have,” Alix returns.

“I trust you two ladies had a nice visit,” I say in closing.

---

“Idiot.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

Jack, “No-No” and I are back at the IRS. Lloyd Holler Mr. “two L’s and two L’s” is snorting snot like Ferdinand the Bull. “I busted my butt to crack that D’Wayne DeWitt.”

“And?” I ask.

“From what you told me, I thought I could put this s.o.b. on a skewer, slow roast him over hot coals, and eat him for lunch,” Lloyd says. “And all I discover is that he’s as clean as a Chicago blizzard.”

“He’s a drug dealer,” I tell Lloyd.

“Not according to his financials.”

“I watched him pay a call on his retail outlets.”

“Properties that he owns or rents, with all property taxes paid up to date.”

“How about the money he’s getting from the Zanadu?”

“He’s a paid consultant,” Holler hollers at me. “They paid him sixty grand last year. Perfectly legal.”

“He rides around in a big ass limo and lives in a penthouse.”

“All inherited.”

“Inherited? From who? The guy grew up in the ghetto.”

“All perfectly legal, you bonehead.”

“I’m telling you,” I plead my case. “I can’t be wrong about this guy.”

“Yes, you can, because you’re an idiot. Don’t bother me again, unless you got a guy I can fry at high heat.” Lloyd makes one last swipe at his dripping nose with his well-soaked handkerchief and leaves the room.

“Way to go, Sherlock,” “No-No” says.

“Yeah,” Jack adds, “now we’re all going to get audited next year.”

---

“If you think we’re letting your friends in,” Sterno tells me, “you’re smokin’ some really nasty weed.”

We’re at the Zanadu. I’m at the head of the line. Thankfully, Jack and “No-No” are out of earshot.

“Those two look like bookends at a fat farm reading group,” Arson adds, seeing my detective buddies standing by their car.

“Don’t get your Calvins in a bunch, boys,” I tell them. “Has the guy with the ponytail arrived yet?”

“Yeah, ten minutes ago.”

I walk over to my detective friends. “He’s here.”

Jack gets into the driver’s seat, “No-No” rides shotgun, and I slip in the back of a standard-issue black Chevy Impala. I’ve always wondered why police departments all buy the same cars for undercover work; same make, same model, same color. Do they actually consider that “good” cover?

“I was wondering if you’d like to stop by on Sunday for dinner, Jack?” “No-No” asks as we sit and wait.

“You’re not having that rabbit food that Tiffany’s been making you eat?”

“No, I’m taking Sunday off. No diets on the Sabbath.”

“Well, I’ll have to see how I’m feeling,” Jack tells her. “Last Sunday, I came down with what I thought was the beginning of a brain tumor.”

“How would you know something like that?” I ask.

“I was feeling an odd growth on my cerebellum.”

“Jeesh,” I can’t help myself and say from the back seat.

I look up and see Mr. Ponytail coming out of the Zanadu with his metal briefcase in hand. “That’s our boy. He’s going to get into that limo, so get ready.”

“No, no,” “No-No” says. “I still don’t think this is a good idea.”

Jack ignores her advice and puts the Chevy in gear. He carefully follows Mr. Ponytail until he gets off the expressway at Harlem and turns north. The flashers go on, and the limo pulls over. Jack and “No-No” get out. Jack goes to the driver’s side window. “No-No” stands to the right with her hand on the butt of her gun.

From where I sit, I can’t hear what Jack has to say at the window, but when Mr. Ponytail exits the car, it’s obvious he’s not a happy camper. Jack motions to “No-No” to start searching the car from the passenger’s side as he and the victim watch.

The entire process takes about fifteen minutes.

“No-No” climbs into the Chevy first, followed by Jack. There is a pause before both doors slam shut simultaneously.

Jack makes the first comment. “You IDIOT!”

“I told you this was a bad idea,” “No-No” adds.

“He says he’s going to press charges, Sherlock,” Jack tells me, his voice echoing in the closed car.

“No, no, I said. This is a dumb idea,” “No-No” says.

“If the Chief finds out about this one,” Jack says. “He’ll have us both back walking a beat.”

No cop walks a beat anymore, but this is probably not a good time to correct my friends.

“No-No” adds, “There was even a decal on limo’s front window that said he ‘supports our brave police and firemen.’”

“You didn’t find anything?” I ask, incredulous at the results.

“No, we didn’t, Sherlock.” Jack slams his fists onto the steering wheel. “I can feel my heart starting to palpitate. If I drop dead, Sherlock, it’s your fault.”