From Riches to Rags (3 page)

Chapter Two

The Haunting ‒ Melinda
aka
Blackie Blackstone

“Leave me alone!” I heard myself scream, and then realized I had been dreaming.

“What is it, Blackie?”

I looked at the stranger in my arms, asking me something I couldn’t answer, even to myself. “I think you’d better go now. There’s some cash on the nightstand, take what you need.”

“I’m not a prostitute. Did you think I was?”

“No, don’t be silly” I said, as I sat up and waited for my head to stop pounding, “I’ve got a bitch of a hangover and just want to be alone now. The money is to make sure you get home all right.”

“Oh, well, um, thanks.”

She got up and dressed, then grabbed up the wad of bills I had lying on the nightstand and left.
She’s going to piss in her pants when she counts it
, I thought. But even thinking made my hurt head, so I laid back down and pull the blankets over my burning eyes. “I’m not having any fun,” I said out loud to my empty hotel room. I must be doing something wrong, because it use to be all about the fun. I didn’t have fun getting drunk and I didn’t have fun screwing that girl, not even when she brought me to climax. “What is wrong with me?”

I closed my eyes, adding to the darkness under the blanket, and instantly that waitress came to mind. It was her that I had been dreaming about, and she haunts me still in my consciousness.
Ah, there’s the problem, I’m conscious.
I tried to empty my mind, so that I could sleep, but she wouldn’t let me.
Why did you let her get to you like that?
George had asked me, but I couldn’t answer him. Why
did I
let her get to me? Was it her sad celadon green eyes that pierced my very soul with their depth, or the way her eyes sparkled a deep forest green when she got angry at me? Perhaps it was her prideful indignation that was an equal match to my own? Probably it was, because I couldn’t let her have the last say. No one dresses down Melinda Blackstone, no one. I heard the little voice in my head laughing at me. This time my little voice was right. How asinine of me to talk about myself in the third person, as if the first one wasn’t good enough. The little voice laughed even harder. No, wait, that wasn’t what I meant either.
Shit!
I’m having an argument with myself and I’m losing.

Okay, so how do I purge the skinny wench from my mind? What would make me feel better? What would get me out of this funk and back on track to the fun times?
“And Christine Dolores Livingston does not appreciate having your snot thrown on her apron.”
That’s it! Her name is Christine Livingston. Find her, screw her, or give her some money and I’ll feel a whole lot better about things.

***

The Haunting ‒ Chris Livingston

I woke up exhausted. I worked at that restaurant all day until I thought I would fall asleep on my feet, and then I came home and had to exhaust myself again, in order to fall asleep. My demons followed me into the darkness of sleep, and I would wake feeling exhausted… again Somehow I must find a way to end this cycle, prove to my parents that I am worthy of their love again, and make amends to a man I almost killed. That’s a tall order for a short order waitress, without a job, chased by an enormous guilt.

I rolled over on my back and stared at the cracked, dingy ceiling.
I can’t believe I got myself fired already.
Not a good way to start out my
make amends
mission.

My thoughts were interrupted by a sudden banging in the hallway, and then someone turning the door knob to my apartment. I reached under my pillow for the baseball bat that I kept there. It was my most expensive purchase since I sobered up, but it was well worth skipping a meal for. I pulled it out and sat up, gripping it in both hands, ready to swing. Thank God I played softball in junior high school and knew how to swing a bat to connect with a ball, or in this case, someone’s head. But the noise finally moved further down the hallway, and I knew it must have been a drunk, looking for a place to pass out. Been there, done that, wish I could forget it.

I left the bat on the bed, just to make me feel more secure, as I got up and slipped my cold feet into my slippers. As I do every morning, I shuffled over to look out the tiny window, look past the diagonal security bar bracing the window shut, past the fire escape, to the rising sun on the horizon. Seeing the sun come up every day gave me beauty where there was none, warmth for my cold soul, and hope that there would indeed be a future for me.

My attention was diverted when I heard a soft mew, coming from under my window. I looked down and saw a small ball of fur, with the tiniest face and largest eyes I’d ever seen on a kitten.

“Aw, you poor thing. Where did you come from?” I asked, knowing there would be no answer.

There was no collar on the kitten, no way of telling if it belonged to someone. There were no other cats around, so it must be weaned from its mother, though it looked like it had just been born. For some reason that I will never understand, I opened the window, reached my arm through and scooped up the kitten, bringing t it and all its fleas inside.

“How did you come to be on my fire escape, little one?” I held it up and saw it was a girl.

I had a half a can of tuna left over in the tiny box that served as a refrigerator, so I brought it out and set the kitten and the can of tuna on the floor, and set crossed legged in front of them. I watched as she devoured whole chunks of tuna at once, until the can was empty, and her belly was full. She was content, and began purring, rubbing her tiny cheek across my slipper.

“I’m not keeping you, you know.” The kitten had begun to bathe when it looked up at me with those huge yellow eyes.

“No, I can’t keep you. Don’t you understand? I can barely afford food for myself. You’ll starve living here.”

Her soft brow curved up and her eyes grew large and I swear, she looked like she was pleading with me. She crawled up in my lap and nudged me with her head, and that was it, I was in love. It’s hard to admit, even to myself, and ludicrous to think, but that kitten was my only friend now.

The kitten had mostly black fur, with a fluff of white on its chest, a patch of white on its nose and paws. I’m not sure exactly why, because I didn’t want to be mean to the cat, but I named her Blackie.

Reporting in Person — Meg Bumgartner

“Is she warm enough? Does she have enough food to eat?”

Mrs. Livingston inundated me with questions the minute I was shown through the heavy oak doors to their mansion. It was the same questions she always asked me, and I gave her the same answers.

“She’s thin, but eating regularly, and yes, she’s warm enough.”

What I didn’t divulge was that Chris ate like a bird on purpose, to stretch her money, and she wore layered clothes while in the apartment, because it was colder inside than out. I feared that she might not have enough heat this winter, as thin as those walls were. I couldn’t tell Mrs. Livingston these things because she would insist on taking blankets and food to her, and as soon as that happened, Chris would know who the benefactor was. Mr. Livingston had warned me of this ahead of time, and though he didn’t ask me to lie, which I have not, he did ask me to ensure that Chris stand on her own two feet, without handouts from Mrs. Livingston or her staff.

“She’s found herself a roommate,” I said, then quickly explained that it was a stray kitten, not a human who could help with expenses.

“A pet? She never wanted a pet before.” Mrs. Livingston declared, as if this was some kind of miracle.

“Yes, the stray had apparently been born in the apartment above Chris’s floor, and fell out the window onto Chris’s fire escape stoop.”

That was the best assumption I could make up. In fact I had put the kitten there myself. I didn’t want to tell Mrs. Livingston that Chris was lonely, so lonely that she cried herself to sleep every night. I thought she just needed something to love, and something that could love her back, and in a moment of weakness that I don’t regret, I went to the pet store and bought a kitten for her.

Admittedly I had never done anything like that before on one of my cases, but I also had never watched a subject’s every move for nine months either. I had come to know and admire Chris, and didn’t want to see her fail.

“Is it diseased? Does it have the mange, or worms, or something horrible like that?” Mrs. Livingston asked, as she shivered at the thought.

And now we know why Chris never wanted pets.
“No, ma’am, it seemed healthy to me.” The kitten had had all its shots at the pet store.

“How is it you know these things, Ms. Bumgartner?” She asked me curiously.

I answered her honestly, “After Chris moved into her apartment, I secured a similar apartment across the street from her, and up one floor so that I could see into her apartment.”

What I didn’t tell her was that I had a pair of binoculars with a camera monitor, mounted on a tripod, aimed into Chris’s apartment. With the two buildings separated only by a back ally, I really didn’t need the binoculars, but it could be programmed to snap infrared pictures at night, so that I could check how she fared while I slept. I had long since lost any awkward feelings when it came to spying on a person like that, it was simply my job, and I am very good at my job.

But the quizzical look on her face made me want to explain to Mrs. Livingston that I was very discreet about a person’s privacy, and would not divulge, even to the mother, what her child might be doing in her own apartment. I wanted to assure her of that, but I did not. Instead I handed her a stack of photos of Chris with the kitten, thinking that would alleviate her concerns.

“Oh my…, and so you can see everything? Tell me about her apartment. Is it clean? Does she have furniture, clean sheets and blankets?”

“Yes, ma’am, her apartment has no rooms, except for the bathroom, so her kitchen, living room and bedroom are all in the same room.”

“Oh my.” She said again.

Finally Mr. Livingston asked for the rest of my report, and that’s when I told him about Chris feeding the beggar and of her being fired. When I asked him, he said he had heard of the Blackstone’s, but not of their daughter, Melinda. He was angry. I assured him that Chris got in the last word, much to the displeasure of Ms. Blackstone. And then I assuaged his anger by telling him of how, after she was fired, Chris had walked by a liquor store, looked at it momentarily, and then kept walking. I believed that was the tipping point for her.

“Tomorrow is her birthday. Could you… I have presents for her.”

My heart melted in spite of its self when Mrs. Livingston showed me the stacks of presents she had personally picked out for her daughter’s birthday. She followed my eyes as I looked at Mr. Livingston for the answer.

“Please, Carl, it’s her birthday and she’s doing so well. What can one present hurt?”

I heard myself taking up Mrs. Livingston’s cause, “I can sneak it over to her door and‒”

He interrupted me, “And who shall we say it’s from, hmm? Listen, I want to do this as much as you two do, but isn’t it more cruel to get her hopes up like that? She only has three more months to go, and then we’ll celebrate everything we’ve missed when she comes home.”

His reasoning was sound, although I don’t think Mrs. Livingston thought as much. I couldn’t help but wonder what Chris would do when she returned home to all those presents, all that wealth, and all that liquor.

***

Something Interesting Evolving — George Kirk

Melinda called me just now and asked for my help in locating the girl who had told her off at the restaurant. She said it was just to set things right, but Melinda has never, in her entire life, sought to right a wrong she had caused. Could there be something evolving that even Melinda is not aware of? Could it be that she was truly sorry for getting that young woman fired?

I try not to be a pessimist, but knowing Melinda like I do, it is more than likely she just didn’t like losing an argument to a waitress. But how will finding her now help? It’s not like Melinda will have an audience to see her prove a point. The woman is unemployed now.

However, and this is what gives me cause for hope, Melinda tried to get the woman’s job reinstated. I listened to her, gaping in shock, as she told me over the phone how she had gone back to the restaurant and talked privately with the owner. He finally admitted to Melinda that he had paid Chris in cash and food, and did not have her address, nor did he have her telephone number. He had asked for that in case he needed her to cover a shift and she had told him she didn’t have a phone. Though I didn’t say anything, I found that hard to believe in this day and age.

So now it’s up to me to locate a waif of a girl who could be anywhere in the big city of Memphis. This is so far removed from my prevue, that I suggested she hire a private investigator to locate the girl. Melinda blew me off, telling me to do whatever I thought best and to send her the bill, just leave her name out of it.

So first I did an Angie’s List search and learned that there are sixty-nine private investigators in Memphis. Most of them were large firms so I narrowed the list down to eight private individuals. Then I chose the highest rated person, based on customer satisfaction. There were three rated the same, so decided to pick the prettiest one.

I copied the address and phone number down, now I just need to book a flight to Memphis, reserve a hotel room and pack my bags.

I seldom get out of Los Angeles, and even rarer is a trip outside of California for an extended period of time, except to accept an award or secure a customer. On those occasions, it usually only took a day or two, and even then, it was always New York or Chicago. Never have I been in the south before, or to such a small city like Memphis. I wonder if it’s true that all southerners eat pork rinds and guzzle beer, like my cousin Jake does. Pork rinds? That would certainly add some synthetic flavor to my book.