3 The Case of Tiffany's Epiphany (4 page)

“Did ya get lucky at the club last night, Dad?” Kelly asks.

“Kelly, you don’t ask your father those kinds of questions.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s none of your business, and you’re too young to be thinking about things like that.”

“Then what should I be thinking about?”

“Anything but that, Kelly.”

Care cracks the eggs and Kelly whips them up with a whisk. I add the milk.

“What fun things do you have planned for us to do today, Dad?” Care asks.

“Why is it my job to plan everything?” I counter.

“Because you’re the adult.”

“You’re doing your homework at four,” I say reminding them of their usual Sunday scheduled study time.

“What are we going to do until then?” Kelly asks as if this is the last day of her life and she wants to make the most of it.

“How would you like to go to the Zanadu Club downtown?” I ask.

“Cool!”

---

“What’s that awful noise?” Kelly asks as we get on Lakeshore Drive to go downtown.

“The muffler.”

“Isn’t the muffler supposed to muffle the noise?”

“Not my muffler,” I confess. “It has a hole in it.”

“How do you know that, Dad?” Care asks, knowing I’m no car mechanic.

“Because I tried to duct tape it shut.”

“No wonder Tiffany won’t ride in your car,” Kelly tells me.

It’s not that I don’t want to get the muffler fixed, it’s just that I’m currently in a major cash flow
situation; actually a it’s a major
lack of cash flow
situation. I am so broke, I’m almost unfixable. My rent is due, my alimony is always due, and I’m living off my one credit card that is seriously close to being maxed out. I had to search couch cushions to be able to do my laundry. I’ve recycled everything that can be recycled into cash. My credit rating brings down the national average. Worst of all, I don’t know where it all goes. I get a check from Mr. Richmond and it disappears before I can get to the Jewel to buy bananas. My financial situation is on life support, with no one there to help me support it.

We putt-putt to the Zanadu. The valet isn’t on duty today. Too bad, it would probably be the only time he’d ever have the chance to park a Toyota Tercel. I park the car and the girls follow me to the metal door. Arson, Sterno, the velvet rope, and the line of people are also absent. I pound on the door a few times, but Slimy Guy also must be off-duty. “Maybe they won't open up because we’re not cool enough to get in,” I say to my girls.

“Speak for yourself, Dad,” Kelly says.

I motion for the girls to follow me around to the east side of the building where I see a services truck parked. The side door is open. We go inside.

“Where are all the people?” Kelly asks, seeing the place is empty except for a cleaning crew. “You said you were taking us to a club.”

“I didn’t say it was going to be open.”

“Dad, that’s not fair.”

“Kelly, I’m going to teach you to listen to details if it kills me.”

“I don’t care if anybody is here,” Care says. “This place is neat.”

My youngest daughter’s eyes are as wide as pie plates. She twirls around seeing the numerous video screens, the light boards, the tables, the chairs and the DJ’s platform high above her. “Come on,” I tell her.

I find my way back to the bar and to the small hallway leading to Gibby Fearn’s office. I knock. The spy camera flips on and in seconds the door clicks open. The girls follow me in.

The Behemoth sits in the same chair, in the same suit, and reading the same comic book. He must be an extremely slow reader. “Is Gibby in?” I ask.

“Dun’t know.”

“Did he leave the tapes?”

The Behemoth reaches over to a grab a manila envelope and hands it to me.

“How about the address and phone number for Bruno the bartender?”

“Dun’t know.”

I open the envelope to check on the contents. In addition to the DVDs, there’s a slip of paper with a name and number written on it. “Thanks,” I tell him. I would like to ask if the Behemoth has been home since last night, or if he even has a home, but I don’t. I make small talk instead. “Sure is a pretty day out today.”

“Dun’t know.”

I guess that answers the question if he’s been home or not.

“By the way,” I say in my best small talk voice, “Who’s Gibby’s boss?”

“Dun’t know.”

I pause for a few seconds and listen to the quiet. “What happened to the
whoosh/plop
sound?”

“Dun’t know.”

Enough said. This has been a fascinating conversation. This guy must have scored high on his debate team. I’ll bet he really opens up at family reunions. “Thanks,” I say.

I turn and the girls follow me out the door. Once we are back in the hallway, I say to my pair, “Now, aren’t you glad you have a dad like me, instead of a boring guy like that?”

“No,” Kelly says. “With him we wouldn’t have to listen to all those life lessons you’re always babbling on about.”

“When did you ever listen to
any
of them?”

“Dun’t know.”

Kelly is cruisin’ for a bruisin’.

The cleaning crew is now working on the dance floor. Two guys are on their hands and knees scraping off dried gum and gunk while two other guys are huffing and puffing as they maneuver large buff and polish machines over the wood. Theirs is not a fun job.

“You know what that is girls?” I ask as we pass by the work in progress. “That’s why you go to college.”

Before we climb back into the Toyota, and I hope it starts, I check the time. It’s almost 1 p.m., well into the allowable range to call. “Who wants to call Tiffany?”

“I do,” Care blurts out first.

“Ask her if we can come over and watch her TV.”

---

Tiffany lives in a penthouse condo on the top floor of a building on Lakeshore Drive between Grand and Chicago Avenues. It has three bedrooms, a maid’s quarters, a gourmet kitchen, a full living room, a media room, and spectacular views in all four directions. Compared to my apartment, it’s the Taj Mahal. Tiffany considers it a nice starter home.

“Good morning little dudettes,” Tiffany greets the girls as we enter.

“It’s afternoon, Tiffany,” I correct her.

It's the first time Kelly and Care have been here. It’s only my second. The best way to keep a residence building ultra-exclusive is not to let people like us inside. Care goes gaga for the second time in the day. She walks around in awe, staring at the art on the walls, the massive TV screen, the computer set-up, and the pure richness of every item in sight.

Kelly tries her best not to be too impressed. She stops at a painting, “Who’s this Miro, guy?” she asks.

“Some painter in Europe my designer picked out,” Tiffany answers. “I think he was a buddy of that Picasso guy. I got his stuff in the other room.”

The art is bolted to the walls. A good idea since they’re originals.

“I was just making myself a power shake,” Tiffany says. “Want one?”

Kelly and Care both answer simultaneously. “Yes, please.”

I decline. Although a shake is probably the only power I’ll ever have in this group. We follow Tiffany into the kitchen, where the floor is marble, the counters are granite, and the cabinets are teak.

Tiffany goes to a massive blender on the counter. She adds, pours, measures, chops, blends, and serves. “Yummy,” she says, sampling her creation. “So good, and so good for you.”

Kelly and Care take their sips. They’re not so sure, but they’ll down it just to be cool. I wish I could get them to do that with my Chicken ala Broccoli Supreme.

I survey the counters, observing every appliance and gadget imaginable; all in a color that perfectly matches the decor. “When was the last time you cooked in here, Tiffany?”

“You mean me cooked, or the cook cooked?” She answers my question with a question--which I hate.

“You.”

“Me cook, ah no,” she explains. “That’s why the caterer was invented.”

The three women carry their libations to the media room where Kelly puts in one of the DVDs from the envelope left for me at the Zanadu Club. Care mans the remote. “Go ahead, hit
Play,
” I say sitting down on one of the two Barcaloungers. The massive TV screen pops on like an IMAX. The picture comes into focus. Thank God there’s no sound. I couldn’t take any more of that Hip-Hop, Rap, Ska, or whatever is considered music these days.

The shot is from the ceiling camera from the right, with the patrons facing the bar. Tiffany sits dead center, two women to her left, one on her right. There are guys interspersed between the women and a few coming in and out of the picture. The bartender is pouring an expensive looking vodka into three martini glasses.

“Why does the picture look so funny, Dad?” Care asks.

“It’s in black and white.”

“Yuck, I hate that,” Kelly says.

“Did you see that, Mr. Sherlock?” Tiffany yelps out.

“No. What?”

“Stop the tape,” Tiffany orders. She jumps up and hurries to the freeze-frame image where she points to the top of a blonde woman’s head two barstools down from her. “Look, you can see her black roots.”

“That’s not really what we’re looking for, Tiffany,” I say.

“I can’t help it,” Tiffany says. “When I see a salon fox pac, I’m conditioned to point it out.”

I would do all a favor by explaining that Tiffany’s
fox pac
is actually a
faux pas
, but nobody would listen; so why bother.

“Watch the drinks, watch the people. We want to see if someone slips anything into your martini.”

For the next five minutes or so, we watch the DVD intently. One guy comes up to Tiffany and tries to chat her up, but she shuts him down in seconds. He’s replaced by two other guys with the same crushing result. Tiffany sometimes giggles with the girl next to her, waves to someone off camera, and listens to a comment or two from Bruno, whose hands are quicker than a magician’s as he mixes one cocktail after another. There is one woman, sitting back-to-back with Tiffany, who gives my assistant a pretty good run for her money in the looks department. I can sense tension between the two. Otherwise, Tiffany’s having a pretty good time. The Zanadu Club is her element. Friends come up to say hello, give her an air kiss, or share a laugh. Each carries a glass of whatever, which eventually ends up on the bar. There are so many drinks coming and going, it's difficult to discern whose is whose.

Then it happens. Tiffany shifts slightly to her left, makes a short upward oomph, then collapses onto the bar like a warm glop of Smucker’s apple jelly. Luckily, her head doesn’t bang onto the wood or take out a row of glasses. Instead her entire body turns into an unmuscled mass of doughy humanity and slowly slumps to the floor, the same way a sugary filling oozes out of a baking pie.

Seeing herself on the screen, Tiffany’s entire body tightens with the tautness of a coiled rattlesnake.

“Tiffany, are you okay?” I ask.

She’s comatose. Only the pupils of her eyes are moving as she sees herself splayed out on the floor like a TKO’d prizefighter.

It takes a few seconds for the people in the scene to come to her aid, and for me to tell Care, “Turn it off.”

The screen goes black. I rush to Tiffany, grab her, and pull her to face me. Her face is ashen; her body barely moving. Clearly, she’s in shock. “Tiffany, look at me.”

Her eyes finally focus into mine. She speaks, “That was me, but it can’t be me. Things like that don’t happen to people like me.”

“Drink some more power drink,” I tell her.

“Here, she can have mine,” Care says, handing over her almost full glass.

Tiffany takes a sip, then another. The color returns to her cheeks. She starts to move. “Wow,” she says. “I’m giving that movie
no
stars.”

“Girls, pick her up and walk her around.”

Kelly and Care each take one of Tiffany’s arms and lift her out of her seat. “Can we go see your closet?” Kelly asks.

“Great idea,” I say. “Go.”

After closing the door to the room, I watch the DVD a second time, change discs and watch the same scene from the second ceiling camera twice. There is a third DVD in the envelope, which is a wide-angle, straight-on view from another camera facing the bar. Whoever owns the Zanadu doesn’t want to miss a thing. I watch the third DVD twice and remove it from the player. I put all the DVD’s back in the envelope, turn off the unit, and go out to find the girls.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I call out.

The three emerge out of the hallway. Kelly runs right up to me. She has a look in her eyes of pure wonder and amazement. “Dad,” she says, “I’ve visited heaven.”

“We’re out of here.”

I make sure Tiffany will be fine before leaving. She said her masseuse was on his way over to rub her into reality. We leave.

I get the girls back to the apartment. Talk about a residential letdown. They start their homework at four. We eat at six, or I eat while they complain that my chicken would make Colonel Sanders hurl. On Sunday, they seldom eat at home since they know their mother will take them to McDonald’s if they bellyache enough. At eight, I drop them off at my ex-home. I kiss them goodbye, tell them I’ll see them Tuesday after school, and that I love them more than life itself.

I go straight back to my apartment, and for the next three hours watch the DVDs over and over and over. And for the life of me still can’t see who slipped Tiffany a Mickey.

CHAPTER 3

Bruno Buttaras, aka Bruno the bartender, lives in an impressive looking high-rise facing the Chicago River. Not too shabby for a guy who mixes drinks for a living. Maybe I should get into that line of work. I park my Toyota in the 15 minute zone in front of the building, place an old parking ticket on the windshield, and walk quickly up the driveway. The doorman doesn’t open the door. I have to do it myself. Some doorman.

“Can I help you?” the doorman asks. He seems wider than he is tall and is dressed in a blue uniform with gold stripes.

“Does a Bruno Buttaras live here?”

“Who wants to know?” the doorman asks in a snotty tone of voice. Put a couple of epaulets on a guy’s shoulders and watch his head swell.