Six

"Who are they from?" Mrs. Edna Smith asked with girlish enthusiasm. "Oh, you can set them over here." She directed me toward a well-polished table of solid dark wood.

"There's a card," I indicated. I pulled the card from its envelope and handed it to her. She strained for a moment to read the inscription. "It's hard for me to see," she said handing the card back.

"It says: To Mrs. Edna Smith, from The Pembertons."

"The Pembertons!" she said gleefully. "They're my neighbors."

"They must be very nice neighbors," I suggested. "Do they check in on you?"

"Oh, yes," she exclaimed, "sometimes. She does. He's always busy. He's very successful, you know!"

"They seem like a really nice family," I assured her. "Do their children ever come to visit?"

"The boys," she said. "They're away now. College." 

"Well, I'm sure that they're nice kids."

"Oh, yes!" Mrs. Smith confirmed.

"No trouble at all."

"Oh, well," she thought for a moment. "They used to have fast cars. I think that one of the boys lost his license. Racing on the street, that sort of thing."

"Oh, I'm so sorry! I hope that the police didn't have to come."

"A couple of times," she recalled.

"Mrs. Smith, I can ask my dispatcher to send a thank you note to the Pembertons on your behalf. Or will you be seeing Mrs. Pemberton soon?"

"Oh, that would be nice!" Mrs. Smith exclaimed. "I didn't see her today. Her car was gone this morning."

"That's okay, Mrs. Smith. We'll take care of everything for you."

"Thank you so much for the flowers," she repeated. "I'm so excited."

"You're welcome, Mrs. Smith," I said. "Is there anything else that you need? Do people check in on you from time to time?"

"Oh yes, from the church," she confirmed.

"And you're able to get to the church okay?" I wasn't sure why I was asking. My conscience seemed to be getting the better of me.

"Yes, Sundays and Wednesdays," she clarified. "The church is my family now, I suppose."

"That's wonderful, Mrs. Smith!" I felt a sense of relief that she was being looked after.  

I remembered the dickheads waiting on the street. "Mrs. Smith, I'm parked out back. Could I go out that way?"

Copyright © 2014 Daniel South
www.damesandscoundrels.com
All Rights Reserved

Five

I jolted awake from a deep sleep hoping that I hadn't been out for too long. It was 11:45 AM. There was still plenty of daylight. 

I pulled the laptop over onto the bed. The battery was running low, so I plugged the A/C adapter into the power strip on the floor and got to work. 

Ross Pemberton owns several small businesses - a chain of drugstores and three health clubs, two here in the city and one out in Kingsburg. If he has a mistress, he probably meets her out there. 

I pulled up a map of the Pembertons' neighborhood and made some notes. Most of the houses were on two-and-half acre lots. The house next door was owned by Mrs. Edna Smith, 86. She probably lived alone or cared for an even older husband. I was betting that Mrs. Smith had a lot of time on her hands.

To carry or not to carry...

Guns are heavy and bulky; having one on your person can be an invitation for trouble. I was tempted to go without, but I'd be covering a lot of territory today. I don't know anyone in Kingsburg, so I thought that it might be wise to take along a little backup.

The gun locker holds my holy trinity: .38, .22, and .45, the Father, the Son, the one that's most likely to introduce some stupid bastard to the Holy Ghost. 

The .38 is my favorite, balanced, smooth trigger, reliable revolver action. I love the roar that comes out of that barrel. The sound alone will scare an intruder into the second half of next week. It's bulky, though, so I don't like to carry it. 

For today's excursion, I decided to go light and take the .22, a compact handgun that's absolutely devastating up close. I doubt if I'll need it, but you never know when you might run into some aggressive testosterone head for whom reason is a foreign language.

I stopped first at Ming's Flowers and purchased a colorful arrangement complete with a dainty little white vase - the perfect gift for a respectable lady. I grabbed a couple of extra cards. On one I wrote: Edna Smith, 267 Hazel Lane.

Once in Brownewood, I parked one street over and two blocks down from the Pembertons. There was no point in announcing my arrival. I put the .22 in the trunk - the glove box isn't secure - strapped on a small camera bag, and carried the vase of flowers toward the Pembertons' street.

Sure enough, trouble was waiting. Two dickheads in a blue Chevy were watching the house and everything that went past. I noted the license plate: P75-23J. I took a deep breath. I was going to have to sell this next performance.

I walked directly and speedily toward the Pembertons' front door and rang the bell. I didn't know what to expect. If I saw Mrs. Pemberton, I'd at least know that she was okay. If I didn't, I might figure out some way to ask when she might be back. My nerves were on edge. I was rethinking my decision to leave the .22 in the car, but there was no turning back. 

There was no answer. I rang again and waited and then knocked vigorously. No one was home.

It was show time. I walked back to the sidewalk with a confused look on my face as I pulled the phone out of my pocket. One of the dickheads, a portly, middle aged white guy, was standing by the passenger door, smoking. He watched me closely as I pretended to dial the phone.

"Yeah, this is Steve on delivery in Brownewood. I got an arrangement for Mrs. Edna Smith, but nobody's home," I announced loudly and clearly.

I held up a piece of paper and pretended to examine it. "Yeah, it's 267 Hazel in Brownewood," I told my imaginary dispatcher. "267 Hazel Lane... Yeah, I'll wait."

I pretended to pace nervously. "What?" I asked. "Yeah, 267... Two-sixty-FIVE? Are you sure?"

I continued the ruse. Hopefully, the gorillas in the Chevy were buying it.

"265 Hazel Lane," I clarified. "Because I don't want to knock on every house in the neighborhood. ... Okay...Okay, I got it."

I walked toward the house next door while carefully slipping a new card into the envelope. I rang the bell; an elderly lady opened the door.

"Mrs. Edna Smith?" I asked.

"Oh, they're beautiful!" she exclaimed. "Won't you come in?"

Copyright © 2014 Daniel South

www.damesandscoundrels.com

All Rights Reserved

Four

I checked the gun locker. The last thing I need is to have some punk or gang banger running around town with my .45. That would require an immediate call to the cops, and I'm not particularly fond of cops. The locker was secure as was the dame's money.

The floor was covered with files. Paper and photos were everywhere. I started picking things up and sorting them to see what might be missing.

It looked as though nothing of real value was taken - cameras, lights, computer. They took a backup hard drive, but since I password protect my files, it won't be of any use unless the scumbag thieves work for the NSA and have years to spend cracking a 256-bit encryption code. All of the files are backed up elsewhere, so I'm not out anything.

Something nagged me as I looked around the room. The drawers had been pulled out of the desk. The powder blue folder - where was it? 

I spent the next twenty minutes searching through the mess. The folder was gone. That's what they were after. It was sitting right on top of my desk. The mess was for show. Or to throw me off, which didn't work. Or maybe it was their cute little way of giving me the finger.

Mrs. Pemberton was probably right. She was being followed, and the creeps had the audacity to break into my place and snatch her file. Douche bags!

I was pissed. I should have locked the folder up with the cash. That was stupid, but I was in a rush to see Manny. 

I was beginning to see Mrs. Pemberton's situation in a different light. If her husband got his hands on that folder, she could be in trouble. I dialed her number. A man's voice answered, so I hung up immediately. Mrs. P claimed that her phone was with her at all times. Why did a man pick it up unless she couldn't get to it?

Okay, so the dame pays me and gives me a folder full of information, which then gets swiped before I can research any of it. Not good. I have to find out as much as I can about this Pemberton character, where he drinks, where he fools around, what kind of dealings he's into.

I grabbed my laptop and looked up the home address. 267 Hazel Lane, Brownewood.

I struggled with what to do next, but I feared that it might be necessary to give the bulls a heads up.

"Detective Jimmy Mazzano, please... Hey, Jimmy, this is Mike Daniel."

"Daniel! How'd you know I'd be working today?"

"Lucky guess, and I didn't really want to talk to Harris."

"Yeah, he probably wouldn't be happy taking your call," Mazzano advised.

"Hey, Jimmy, I won't waste your time..."

"Too late!"

"Okay, I got a client, a dame who claims that her husband is cheating on her and knocking her around."

"Oh, your bread and butter! Have you fucked this one yet?"

"Uh, no, Detective. Are you still screwing that waitress out on 138? Did Cindy ever find out about that?"

"You listen to me, you little fuck! You keep your mouth shut, or I'll break every goddamned bone in your body."

"Relax." I'd forgotten what a hot head this guy could be. "I'm just concerned about my client, and I thought maybe you could keep your ears open in case you hear of a domestic disturbance or something."

"What's the dame's name?"

"Pemberton. From out in Brownewood somewhere."

"Brownewood?" Detective Mazzano sounded irritated. "We don't patrol farmland here, Michael. Call the Brownwood P.D. They're probably busy securing a bake sale or something."

"I don't know anybody in Brownewood."

"Not my problem, Mike."

"Look, just keep your eyes open..."

"And you keep your mouth shut."

Everybody cheats and everybody lies. In every human soul lives a desire that's repugnant to wives and husbands, parents, neighbors, colleagues, and in extreme cases, to all of civilized society. We repress those desires, but they fight back. They bite and kick and howl all night long. Eventually, the pressure eats away at our health and our sanity. If we give in and let the dog run free, we have to do it in the deepest dark spaces lest it destroy everything that we've fought for in a lifetime. We live on the down low. And then the fear of discovery becomes our albatross.

It's a no-win situation. Everybody has a secret, a secret that lurks and schemes and plots to destroy us in one grim way or another. Unless we've already been destroyed.

I was beyond exhaustion, and I had a lot of work ahead of me. I might have to pull this dame out of a sticky situation, and if that happens I'll need to be sharp. The cops have been notified. That's the best I can do for now.

I bolted the broken door, pulled the shades, and stretched out on the mattress. The mess would have to wait, and for the next two hours, Mrs. Pemberton would have to take care of herself.

Copyright © 2014 Daniel South
www.damesandscoundrels.com
All Rights Reserved

Three

One more stop, and then I can get some stinking rest! Unfortunately, it isn't going to be pleasant.

I pressed the buzzer for Mrs. McCullough's flat. "Yeah?" the voice screeched from the speaker.

"It's Mike Daniel, I'm here with the..."

"Why are you buzzing me, Daniels? You live in the goddamned building."

Such a pleasant woman! Mrs. Gladys McCullough, the landlady from hell. Short, stout, freckled, and perpetually complaining about some ache or malady. Her face is frozen in an unbreakable grimace.

I walked up a flight. She was waiting at the door. "What do you want, Daniels?" 

I don't even bother to correct her anymore. "I'm here with the rent."

"Good God Almighty! Four days early! What'd you hit it big at the track?"

"I don't have any luck at the track."

"You don't have any luck, period," she inferred. I wasn't sure that I disagreed. "And what's with that broad runnin' outta here at seven in the morning? Didn't I tell you about having women upstairs?"

"That was a client."

"Not at seven in the morning," Mrs. Wonderful argued.

"Can you just give me a receipt?" I asked. I felt sorry for the old cow, but I wasn't in the mood to put up with her senseless abuse.

"Yeah, wait a minute. I gotta find my glasses. My back is killing me."

She counted the money - twice - and handed me a receipt. Her memory isn't reliable, and I don't want to get into an argument when she forgets that I've paid her already.

"I thought you was moving out with all that banging upstairs," she said cryptically.

"Banging?" I asked. I was puzzled. I'm careful not to make too much noise given that I prefer to work at night.

"Yeah, a little while after your chickie left, there. I was gonna call the cops, but the banging stopped before I could get to the phone."

"I apologize, Mrs. McCullough." I was biting my tongue. "I know how much noise bothers you, and I won't let it happen again."

"Well, we're square here, Daniels. You paid early this month. Oh my God, I have to sit down."

"Thank you, Mrs. McCullough."

I dashed upstairs. The door was open. The place had been ransacked.

Copyright © 2014 Daniel South
www.damesandscoundrels.com
All Rights Reserved

Two

The Rainbow was always packed, but they still greeted customers eagerly. It was part of their charm.

"Just one today, hon?" A matronly blonde waitress approached with a cheery smile and an oversized menu in her hand.

"Uh, I'm meeting a friend. I think he might be here already."

"Sure, hon! Just let me know if you need anything."

"Thanks!"

Manny was seated at a window booth. Sunlight poured in over the table making it difficult for him to read his phone.

"How ya doin', boss?"

"Hey, Mikey!" Manny replied enthusiastically while sliding the phone into his pocket. "I thought maybe you weren't gonna show."

"Sorry! It took a little longer than I thought."

"You been up all night?" Manny asked.

"How'd you guess?" 

Manny shook his head. "You gotta take better care o' yourself, man!"

"Yeah, and I gotta deliver on a job when it comes along, too."

"You always deliver, Mikey. I never had any doubts."

"How's Maria?" I asked, diverting the topic.

"She's doin' well!"

"Your son still playing baseball?"

"Yeah, both boys," Manny said proudly. "I think the young one's gonna be better than his brother."

"Are you ready?" The waitress was fresh faced and fit, about nineteen. She sported a blonde bob cut and a rack that pushed her blouse to its limits.

"Yeah, I'll take the pancakes," Manny said, glancing at her nervously.

"Steak and eggs, well done," I said. "And a grapefruit juice, please. No ice."

"K," was all she said as she dashed off.

"Well," Manny exclaimed, "that was impressive!"

"I felt bad for that middle button," I added.

"I thought it was gonna pop there for a minute," Manny said, chuckling.

"Definitely working harder than its neighbors," I observed.

"Yeah," Manny continued. "I think it needs to renegotiate it's contract."

I grinned. It was good to joke around with Manny. It reminded me of old times, better times.

"So, Mikey, ya got something for me." Manny blurted it out as more of a statement than a question.

I passed him a large plain envelope. He opened it and inspected the contents carefully. "Yeah, this'll work," he said after a long minute.

"Think Ed will like it?" I explored. I was curious. Who at the paper was involved in Manny's questionably creative endeavors, and who was left out of the loop. Were these pictures sanctioned by the editors, or did they just show up anonymously at the desk?

"Hey, listen," he explained. "I'm sorry that we can't exactly credit your for this. I hope the money makes up for that."

"I understand." His position was reasonable, and I needed the work.

"It's just, with everything you've been through, with the way that you left things..."

"That's not why I was asking, Manny," I assured him. "I want to make sure you get what you need. I want you to keep doing well over there."

"Yeah, thanks."

Manny and I were dinosaurs, newspaper men of a different era about to be rendered extinct by bloggers and a hundred million phone cameras. So much information was collected by the masses now - the ranks of professionals were dwindling. 

I'm walking the path now that Manny still faces. He doesn't know it yet, but I give him two years. I don't know what he's going to do to support his kids. This is the only business he knows. 

I survive as a freelancer. Need photos of someone getting into trouble? Or a reenactment of a dirty deed that will hold up under expert scrutiny? I'm your man. But Manny's not wired that way. He's a decent fellow, and the world's about to run him over like a truck.

"Pancakes..." the waitress confirmed as she set the plate in front of Manny.

"...and steak and eggs. I'll be back with your juice."

"Whoa, steak and eggs!" Manny exclaimed. "What'd you come into some dough?"

"Just yours, Manny," I said. "That is, if you still plan to pay me."

"Oh, yeah!" he exclaimed reaching into his satchel.

I noticed, the waitress' nametag as she placed the juice on the table. "Justine, my name is Mike." I extended a hand.

"Hi," she said tentatively. She shook my hand more as a reflex than a conscious gesture.

"I own a photography business. You look very nice. I wanted to know if you've done any modeling."

"Not the kind of modeling you're talking about." Justine dashed away.

"Whoa! Mikey! Mikey! Mikey!" Manny exclaimed laughing. "She pulled the perv card on you there, buddy!"

"Yeah, it's okay. I'm sure she gets hit on a lot."

"That doesn't usually happen to you, bud," Manny rubbed it in. "You must be losing your edge."

"Or maybe I just look like a scarecrow after staying up all night working on a certain re-enactment project."

"Yeah, that's right, Mikey! Blame me!"

"Just give me the money." Manny handed me the envelope. Five hundred, as promised. This was looking like a decent day from a revenue perspective. I was wondering how much more dough I could get my hands on.

"What're you gonna do?" Manny asked glancing in the direction of the waitress.

"Let it go, for now," I explained. "I'll stop back in a few days with some head shots, let her know that I'm serious. Tell her that she looks amazing, offer free prints...and hope she doesn't still think I'm a perv."

"But you are a perv, Mikey!"

"Hey, for a baby-faced doll with giant hooters, who isn't?"

"Oh, yeah!" Manny agreed. "But you're in a predicament now."

"What do you mean?"

"If you tip her, she'll think you want to get into her pants. If you don't tip her, she'll think you're an asshole."

"Well, you know how it is with women," I said. 

"Yeah," Manny knew what I was thinking. "It's always better to err on the side of being an asshole."

"And I just saved myself a few bucks."

We laughed. It was nice to enjoy that fleeting moment of connection.

"Or I could give her a really big tip," I mused. 

"How big?" Manny asked.

"I don't know," I said. "But I think I'm in a generous mood today."

"What do you think your chances are?" Manny asked.

"We are talking about photographing her, right?"

"Whatever you want to do, Mikey, it's fine with me."

"I don't mess with the young ones, Manny. Even if you get there, they don't appreciate it. Everybody and his brother wants to screw 'em. It's nothing special."

Manny nodded. His lips were closed tight as he thought over what I'd said.

"Let 'em get knocked around by life for a while," I continued. "Experience the fear of getting old, losing their looks. The appreciation factor goes way up."

"Shut up, you slick bastard!" Manny was scolding me playfully. "And you keep that poetic crap away from my daughter, you hear me?" 

"I hear ya," I said with a smile.

"I can still kick your ass," Manny continued. "You know that."

"Nothing to worry about, my friend," I assured him. "Family's off limits."




Copyright © 2014 Daniel South
www.damesandscoundrels.com
All Rights Reserved

One

I didn't expect to spend the whole night in the studio, but the project took longer than I thought. My camera was down to its last battery, and the lights were overheating, but I kept at it. I had to nail the shot - there'd be money in it if I could deliver the pictures to the paper by morning. Rent was coming due, and I needed cash.

I kept a bottle of whiskey as closely as I dared. I told myself that a double would calm my nerves. It wasn't true, but it sounded good. I had to keep going, but I pondered finishing that bottle and falling asleep to the sounds of the waking city below.

She walked in looking as though her last chance at happiness had caught the express train to anywhere but here. She had been somebody once, the trophy of a man with a temper and the wrong type of friends, perhaps. Now she needed MY help, which meant that her luck had run seriously dry. She was hopeless, a desperate dame looking up from the bottom of a cold well, wondering if there was still a way out. She didn't have a prayer, but she had me, and I had the one thing that she needed.

"You Mike Daniels?" the dame asked.

"Depends who's lookin'," I shot back. Visitors at 6:45 in the morning usually come bearing a summons, but she definitely wasn't a marshal. An attorney, perhaps.

"Why is it that men have to be fresh whenever a woman asks for their help?" There was an edge to her tone, and I liked it.

"Sorry, Ma'am," I offered. "Not every lady who walks through that door is happy to see me."

She wasn't phased. Here blue eyes stared right through me. 

"Please have a seat," I suggested.

"Thank you, Mr. Daniels. Emily Pemberton." She reached a delicate hand across the desk. I gave it a quick, no nonsense shake.

"Charmed," I offered. "And it's Daniel. No 's' at the end."

"Well, Mr. Daniel, I have a job for you," the dame announced confidently.

"Are you a divorce lawyer, or are you just looking to get divorced?" I didn't give a crap if my tone seemed blunt. The lady was about to ask me to do something unconscionable and probably illegal. I didn't mind making her feel unladylike for suggesting it.

"No, Mr. Daniel. I want you to frame my husband."

"Frame him for what?" I demanded with mock incredulity. Unfortunately, this wasn't an unusual request.

"For something that he's done, I suppose," she said. "Or something that he's about to do."

"What's your husband into, ma'am?"

"Everything," the dame replied. "Women. Gambling. Rackets. He's having me followed everywhere I go, and I think he's planning to divorce me and leave me with nothing."

She wasn't the type to live on nothing. She had nothing when she snagged this unlucky son of a bitch, and she wasn't going back. She wasn't an Emily, either. Maybe that was her grandmother's name. She was probably Brenda or Trisha or one of those low class stripper names. She was trash dressed up to look like class, and it bothered her that I could see it.

She was too old now to land a new sugar daddy, even though she still had her looks and her legs. The motivation was clear. The dame wanted to stick it to her husband before he ditched her - or worse.

But framing the man? That seemed a little extreme. Maybe he wasn't the type to take the suggestion of divorce lightly. I didn't see bruises, but that doesn't mean that they weren't there.

"It sounds like you need a lawyer, Ma'am," I suggested.

"You don't understand, Mr. Daniels - uh, Daniel. My husband can be rough, short-tempered. Beyond that, I signed a prenuptial agreement. If I don't come up with some dirt, something embarrassing enough to use as leverage in a divorce, I'll walk away with nothing, and that's if I can walk at all."

"I understand, Ma'am. You said that your husband has women. Do you know where he likes to hang out?"

She pulled a powder blue folder from an oversized leopard handbag. I flipped through it quickly. It was receipts, mostly, for dinners and entertainment, along with some hand written names and telephone numbers. Not much to go on. She needed me to find the smoking gun and get it on film, so to speak. 

"Alright, Ma'am, I'll look into it..."

Smack! She tossed an envelop onto the desk. "What's this?" I asked.

"It's four-thousand dollars."

"Wait!" I objected. "I didn't say that I was going to take the job."

"It's not payment, Mr. Daniel. Think of it as a retainer. Use it to bribe the busboy if you have to. You can use it to get laid, for all I care, as long as you get some information in the process."

I opened my mouth to respond, but my mind was slowing down from lack of sleep.

"But, if you do as I ask," Mrs. Pemberton continued, "I'll pay you a lot more, a hell of a lot more. You'll be able to take a long, relaxing vacation in whatever kind of bottle you choose."

Condescending broad! But she was right. That's probably how I'd end up spending a windfall. Security money makes me lazy, and laziness makes me drink. And when I drink, I don't do much else.

"I'll see what I can find out, Ma'am."

"Call me on my mobile," she instructed. "It's always with me."

I stood as she stood and walked her to the door. She glanced at me as she left, but there was nothing more to say. There were only things to do.

I had just under an hour to meet Manny at the Rainbow Diner, not much time to complete the shoot, process the files, and burn them to a disk. But I would finish the job. Manny was solid, and I wasn't gonna let him down. 

I looked at the envelope that Mrs. Trisha "Emily" Pemberton had left as an incentive to spy on her abusive husband. Money like that came with strings. Something was bound to happen. I pocketed six-hundred and put the rest in the ammunition drawer of the gun locker. 



Copyright © 2014 Daniel South
www.damesandscoundrels.com
All Rights Reserved