The mechanical sounding voice on the other end of the phone call, was dull with a slight accent that I couldn't place, "Mr. Pearce, we need to come to an agreement on how you intend to make the balance on your account current."
I'd heard it before, goddamn it, I hear it almost every month these days. Shit, it's getting hard for a semi honest detective to find work around this shitty little town. If I didn't need it so bad, I'd let 'em have that crappy car I drive. But you can't make a living as a P.I. on roller skates.
With as much enthusiasm as I could muster at the time, "I'll tell you what, if you give me a week, I'm positive that we can straighten this out. I should have money in the bank by then, ok?" I lied through my teeth.
You could bet your ass, that this guy hears the same line of shit ten times a day. Hell, I've said it so many times, that I'm starting to believe it myself. I feel bad for the guy, but I have my own fucking problems to deal with. He'll just have to take a spot in line with the rest of the people I owe money to.
It wasn't always like this, I did my job, I risked my life, and after fifteen years on the force, my job as Detective Lieutenant was kicked out from under me. The shooting team knew I wasn't lying, but when you cross that line between the real world and politics somebody is going to go down.
If I had shot some poor kid, they probably would have pinned a medal on my chest. When you deal with the rich and famous it's going to be swept under the table. The mayor's friends wanted me gone, wanted this all kept quiet, so I was fired.
My report contained the facts and the truth. I had stopped at a little mom and pops on my way home. A fucking pack of cigarettes, that's all I wanted. I'd walked in on an armed robbery in progress, I pulled my weapon and he ran out the back. I pursued the perp, he fired two rounds at me. I took a stance, and identified myself as a police officer. He fired two more rounds at me, so I returned fire. One shot to the chest, and he went down for good.
The dead punk was identified as the son of the richest man in town, the son of Richard Mast. The investigation team conveniently lost the one piece of evidence to would have cleared me. They all swore that there was no gun, did I see a muzzle flash coming out of his finger? I don't think so. The little prick didn't need the money, daddy was loaded. He lost his life for a thrill, and I lost mine doing my job.
I was called to the chief's office, and given the choice of my job or my freedom. If I fought the firing, I'd be in jail today. I said a minute ago that I had lost my life that night. I lost my career, a job that paid me eighty some odd thousand a year. I lost my pension and benefits, but to top it all off I lost my family. That all added up to my life.
My wife couldn't take the shame she felt, and within a month, she packed up, and left with our six-year-old daughter in tow. I guess she wasn't listening to the preacher, when he said for better or for worse. She pretty much cleaned me out in the divorce, and now she lived halfway across the country. I think you get the picture now. Paul Pearce the loser P. I., wrongly accused whipping boy of the elite.
My work now, is mainly following errant spouses. I dig up the dirt on cheaters, and provide evidence for my clients. It's dull boring work, I hate it, but there aren't a lot of opportunities for someone with my past. Right now, I'm so broke that I would take a case finding an old lady's missing cat. "Achoo, sniff," fucking cold!
I was almost afraid to answer my phone when it rang, probably another dun for money that I don't have. "Pearce here," I answered.
"Paul, it's Jack, I've got a gig for you."
Jack was a divorce lawyer that threw me a bone now and then, "Any money in it?"
"Probably the usual five hundred."
"I'll see you in five minutes, hack, sniff," fucking cold.
I picked up the folder at Jack's, the usual shit, another dumb fuck husband that couldn't keep his dick tucked in. The asshole stays and works late twice a week, Wednesdays and Fridays, yeah right. I might be able to wrap this shit up tonight.
I pulled into the parking lot of his office at quarter to five, nobody works late on Friday. There was Mr. Wonderful's black caddy sedan, at least he didn't leave early. Just as if I had planned it, he walked out the door at one minute after five. I followed him tight enough not to lose him, but not too tight. This shit is child's play, cheaters always think they are being smart.
He pulled in to Louie's bar on Twelfth Street, and parked near the back door. While the asshole was inside, I noted the make, model, color and license plate number of all the other cars in the lot. I pulled out my Wal-Mart digital camera, and checked the batteries. "Hack, hack," a long pull on the cough syrup, and I waited for him to come out.
Ten minutes later, a woman dressed way too nice for Louie's, came out and got into a little Beemer. I shot a couple of pictures of her, then loverboy exited the premises. They didn't even look to see if they were being watched, stupid fuckers.
I followed them to a little No-tell motel about two miles away. She pulled in like she knew where she was going, he stopped at the office to check in. "Sniff," I might even be in time for happy hour at the Mill Bar and Grill at this rate. I snapped off a few jpegs, you can never have too many pictures.
Fifty bucks will get you a lot of information at a dive like this. The clerk was happy to provide me with photocopies of the happy couple's past rendezvous. The statements were complete with credit card receipts, take note here, you should always pay cash.
They were in a corner room, yep; the curtains were separated enough to get some good shots of the two of them doing the horizontal mambo. I went back to my piece of shit car, and took another slug of cough juice. All I had to do now, was wait and get some photos of them coming out of the same room. This was too easy, two hours work for five hundred smackers. "Sniff," fucking cold.
Man, this cough syrup must be getting to me, I could swear my ex-wife just walked out of the room next to my target's. Fuck, it was Pam, I shot a few pictures. It couldn't be, she was with Richard Mast, the cocksucker that ruined my life. What the fuck was she doing back in town, and more to the point, what was she doing at this fleabag motel with him? Shit, I almost missed the pictures I had been waiting for.
This shit with my ex-wife didn't add up, I mean, I didn't care so much about what she was doing, but who she was doing. Hell, we were divorced, I had no claim on her anymore. But Christ, he ruined her life too, or maybe not, it would seem. I needed something a whole lot stronger than Vicks 44 at the moment, maybe a little Jack Daniels cold remedy.
I woke up the next morning with a nose full of snot, and a hangover worth committing suicide over. Fucking cold, fucking booze. I couldn't shake the feeling, that Pam had another reason to be in town besides a hard dick. But why should I give a shit, she wasn't my problem anymore.
Later on in the day when my head quit pounding, the reality of what I saw finally hit me. No, I still didn't have any idea why Pam was fucking Mast, but there was money to be made here. Mast was a married man, his wife just might pay a hefty price to find out what Dickey boy is doing in his spare time. I might just satisfy my curiosity about Pam along the way.
I was taking a huge risk by talking to Mask's wife, after all I had killed her son. Well, stepson to be more precise, Viviana Mask, was Richard Mask's second wife, a trophy wife if there ever was. I would need more than I had to convince Viv that Richard was cheating on her. Was this a smart move? Nobody ever accused me of that, but I had balls, and I wasn't afraid to use them.
I started my tail on Mask, it's not hard to follow a Mercedes limo. What was I looking for? Nothing and everything, what I found was exactly nothing. I couldn't even get a line on Pam, she seemed to have vanished. She didn't have any contact with any of her friends while she was in town.
I decided to go back to square one, the No-tell motel. The clerk was the same guy as before, fifty bucks later I found out that the room was rented in Pam's name. This was the first time she had been there, but it wouldn't be the last. She had made a reservation for the next week, another fifty bucks and the clerk guaranteed that she'd have the same room. He even gave me a key to look at the room, in five minutes the bugging devices were installed.
"Hack! Hack! Achoo, sniff," fucking cold. I continued to shadow Mask, after a couple of boring days and nights, I hit pay dirt. He met a little blonde honey at the Marriott lounge downtown, I got some really great shots of the two of them kissing like long lost lovers. They were almost fucking in the booth they were in. It was secluded, but not from my prying eyes.
