Death By The Riverside Part 1

DEATH.

BY THE.

RIVERSIDE.

by J.M. Redmann.

CHAPTER 1.

The stairs had gotten steeper, or maybe I was just getting older.

Or maybe I just hated the prospect of using my good Nikon to take pictures of graying middle-management businessmen in hotel rooms with cheap blond floozies. The kind with bad dye jobs. M.

Knight, Private Investigator, said the door at the end of the third floor landing. I'm M. Knight. The "M" stands for Michele-this racket is tough enough as it is. My close friends call me Micky.

Hepplewhite meowed as I opened the door. Not a name I would have chosen for anything, dead or alive. I got her as payment for a job.

Best mouser east of the Mississippi, they said. I can see the Mississippi out of my bathroom window, if I stand on the toilet. Best shedder, if you ask me. White hair on anything dark, black hair on anything white, well, gray.

Maybe what I really hated was that I wasn't going to be able to turn down the next divorce case. I tried to keep away from the real sleazy ones. But rent had to be paid. Right now I wasn't working. I could go tend bar at Gertrude's Stein if I got desperate. Real desperate.

I get into enough trouble in bars as it is.

January was a slow time in the Crescent City. The Sugar Bowl was over, the Super Bowl was being played elsewhere, and Mardi Gras wasn't close enough to get excited about. Gertie's might not even need any bartenders.

Hepplewhite meowed again.

"Go catch a rat. I haven't gotten paid for that divorce case yet,"

I said. They were divorced and remarried, and I still hadn't been paid.

* 3 *

Heppy shut up. She had been around long enough to know my tones of voice. But I poured her some dry food anyway.

The phone rang. It took me a while to figure out which pile of junk it was under. It kept ringing. Bill collectors are persistent.

"h.e.l.lo, this is the M. Knight Detective Agency," I said, trying to sound like the secretary I couldn't afford.

"h.e.l.lo," came the reply. A woman's voice. All my bill collectors are men. Big, burly men. "I need to see Mr. Knight as soon as I can.

It's urgent."

I told her to come on down, that we could fit her in this afternoon.

I didn't tell her there was no Mr. Knight. She would know that soon enough. Besides, once she made the trip all the way down to this section of town, she would be less likely to dance off to some all-male d.i.c.k shop. I needed the business.

I straightened up a little bit, trying to make the piles look like important cases in progress rather than things I was too lazy to move to their rightful home, the junkyard.

Half an hour later she knocked. A brief knock that I barely heard because I was blasting trumpet concertos by Vivaldi.

I let her in. She was a blond with pearls. She had on a tastefully conservative gray suit. Her hair was tastefully done. Her shoes and purse matched, tastefully, of course. I was getting a bad taste in my stomach. I don't run a detective agency patronized by tasteful ladies.

"I'm here to see Mr. Knight," she said. One point for guts. I'd half-expected her to take one look around the joint and disappear back down the stairs as fast as her high heels could clickety-clack.

"I'm Mr. Knight," I answered. "My real name's Michele, but not in this business. Why don't you tell me what your problem is and I'll see what I can do for you." I wanted to know why she was here. I wanted her to talk to me. She looked like the type who would talk more to a Ms. than a Mr. And talk she did. Maybe she liked the idea of spilling her story to another woman. Made it seem more like girl-talk.

Her name was Karen Wentworth. She wanted me to find her fiance, Harold Faber. He had disappeared three days before the wedding, leaving a note that said only, "Goodbye-it's for the best."

That was over a month ago. His friends didn't seem to be worried, but they wouldn't answer her questions. Just told her to not worry and to get on with her life.

* 4 *

Why had she come to me, I asked. That was the big question in my mind. Tasteful ladies, as a rule, do not come to me for help with their marital difficulties.

She had been to several other agencies, she said, but they had all said that I was the best for the job. Then she handed me a picture of Harold Faber, and I knew why they had thrown this one to me. Add a mustache, remove some clothes, and that picture was a dead ringer for Hot and Hard Harry, the latest crotch throb of all the boys I knew down at the Spread Eagle Bar. This was a bad news case. And I was to be the bad news bearer. This lady wasn't the type you easily told, "Hey, honey, your guy dumped you for another guy. Probably lots of them." That didn't happen in her tasteful world.

I took the case. Somebody had to do it and I'm too poor to keep my hands clean.

We agreed on expenses and fees. She didn't even blink at the figure I named. Too bad I felt so rotten about this one, or I could have strung it out for several days and let the money pile up.

She said goodbye, tastefully, of course. I told her I'd call her as soon as anything developed. After she left, I checked on the level of Friskier Mix in Hepplewhite's bowl-starving cats are not a pretty sight to come home to-then headed off for the Spread Eagle.

As usual, I was the only woman in the bar, but that was the way I wanted it. Scotch, with no distractions. Ralph, the barkeep, is a friend.

I spot weirdoes for him and he lets me hang out as long as I want. And he keeps a bottle of Walker Black with my name on it. I showed him the picture that Karen had given me. As I expected, Ralph confirmed that Harry was performing in the O.K. Corral at the Cowpoke Bar.

I asked him for a couple of promo shots of Harry. Ralph shrugged, but didn't ask why. Good old Ralph. He handed me some pictures. I took the one that was a solo shot of Harry. The most tasteful of the bunch. I almost told Ralph that he could cut off the bottom half, but then I figured it might be easier if Karen saw just where Harry had gone, rather than my trying to explain it. A couple more Scotches and I was on my way. So was tomorrow.

I didn't call her until late afternoon. Partly because I wanted her to think it took a little time for me to track this one down and partly because Hepplewhite finally caught a mouse and left it for me as a present. Thanks, Hep. I never did find all four legs.

* 5 *

She answered my call by saying she'd come right down. Which she did. She was at my door fifteen minutes later. I didn't say anything, just handed her the picture.

She looked at it for a long minute, then said, "No, that can't be Harold." I still didn't say anything, just let the picture sink in. "I don't believe it. This must be some monstrous joke."

"Sorry, Ms. Wentworth. It's common knowledge in the gay bars."

She didn't ask how common.

"Could you take me to Harold?" she said.

I lifted an eyebrow.

"I would like to talk to him, that's all." Her baby blues were pleading.

Well, if you ask me, it was pretty c.r.a.ppy the way he had dumped her. She at least deserved to yell at him for that. Okay, I'm also a sucker for damsels in distress. Particularly ones with big blue eyes. Or green.

Brown, too. But these are my only weak points. I agreed to take her to Harry. But only if she did what I told her to do. We were heading for no-woman's land. I told her how to dress: blue jeans, boots, preferably cowboy, some kind of baggy sweater to hide her t.i.ts (to her I said, "disguise your b.r.e.a.s.t.s"), and a blue jean or bomber jacket. No makeup and her hair under a hat. Then I said be back here at ten o'clock. She agreed.

This could be a problem. I figured the best thing would be for Tasteful Karen to wait outside for me while I tried to catch Harry between acts, public and private. Now that those blue eyes were out of sight, I was beginning to get worried about this caper. Live and learn, as they say. I stretched out on the couch to take a nap until ten o'clock arrived.

* 6 *

CHAPTER 2.

She was on time. I almost didn't recognize her. She looked like a pretty boy, not a tasteful lady. She had even gone to the expense of a wig. I, on the other hand, had pulled out the relics of my hard-core butch days. Black leather jacket (bought for fifteen bucks on Ca.n.a.l Street-the one in New York City, not the one here), black cowboy boots, hair slicked back, and, courtesy of Richard, a theatrical makeup artist, a perfectly convincing mustache. I began to think we could pull it off. I gave Karen a good look over. There was one problem.

Even the heavy sweater and bomber jacket didn't hide her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"They show, don't they," she said, catching the line of my gaze.

"Ace bandage time," I answered. I rummaged around to find my supply as she took off her jacket. When I turned back to her with the bandage, she had also taken off her s.h.i.+rt. No bra. Two shapely b.r.e.a.s.t.s were within three feet of me. Some say t.i.ts, some say a.s.s, I go for whatever's pointed in my direction. And they were pointed. The cool air made her nipples stand up.

"Here's the bandage," was all I allowed out.

"I'll need help," she replied.

d.a.m.n straight women, can't even put on an Ace bandage by themselves. I helped her. I had to get those pink nipples wrapped quickly. So there I stood, my fingers pa.s.sing just millimeters away from her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, our bodies close together because I had to reach around her with the Ace. Maybe after we got finished at the Cowpoke, I'd head over to Gertrude's Stein and see if there were any cute girls left.

Or maybe Karen would need some consolation once the truth about * 7 *

Harry sank in. For a cynic I can get ridiculously optimistic. I finished wrapping her, and she put her sweater and jacket back on. Just in time.

We left. It was still a little early, but we didn't really need crowds for what we wanted. We got into her car, a sporty little red BMW.

Somehow, somewhere this woman had money. I usually immediately dislike rich types who drive prestige cars, but the older I get, the more tolerant I become.

We arrived at the Cowpoke. Even this early there were things going b.u.mp in the night. And that was just in the parking lot. I told Karen to stay in the car while I looked things over. She wasn't happy with that suggestion, but after a little haggling we worked it out.

I went into the bar. It was an old warehouse over by the docks.

I'd never been here before. It had kind of a rough reputation, more for what went on outside than inside, though. The door people took my money and handed me a condom and a safe s.e.x pamphlet. I just smiled at the bouncer and said no way was I going to have unsafe s.e.x with any man. The top floor was a bunch of little rooms and maze-like corridors.

I didn't need to explore there. The main floor was the dance floor and the bas.e.m.e.nt was the showroom, where Hot and Hard Harry and the Humpettes would be performing. I headed in that direction.

I took my time and checked out the joint. I got a drink and caught the end of a drag show. I had to figure out how to get backstage. I decided that I was a reporter for the Gay Commodity News and that we wanted to do a feature on Harry's spread sheets. I had just convinced the stage manager that I was legit and that Harry would be very upset to miss the opportunity when a familiar figure appeared at my elbow.

Karen. d.a.m.n, I had told her to wait in the car. She must have been listening to my whole story, because she said, "I'm the photographer,"

and marched in with me. I was p.i.s.sed, but I didn't say anything. After all, she was paying the bill.

And there was Harry in his dressing room, wearing only very tight, very lavender briefs and surrounded by stills of himself wearing nothing at all.

Then Karen surprised me by pulling a real camera out of her canvas satchel and taking real pictures.

"Hi, Harry," she said. "It's nice to see you again."

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, taken aback at seeing her.

* 8 *

I stayed at the door, figuring my job was to keep other people out, make sure things didn't get out of hand, keep my mouth shut, and in my spare time, wonder why Karen was taking pictures.

"Surprised?" she asked. She seemed mean about it. Maybe she had finally gotten angry at him. "You shouldn't be. You knew I'd find you."

"Get out," he ordered angrily.

"All right," she said and turned to leave.

"No, wait. Give me the film." He lunged after her, grabbing at the camera. She tried to push him off and run away. I put out a foot and tripped him. It was time for us to get out. But Harry didn't want to say goodbye.

"Stop them," he yelled after us. "Get that camera!"

The stage manger tried to grab me. A mistake. Eight years of karate and three of aikido. I flipped him over my shoulder without breaking stride. As we exited the backstage area, I caught a glimpse of him reaching for a phone.

"Don't head for the main door," I said, "unless you can move faster than the speed of sound. Let's find a back way out." I grabbed Karen's arm and pulled her up the stairs to the dance floor. Something queer (so to speak) was going on here, but I didn't have time to figure it out just then. There had to be a fire exit around somewhere and we had to find it. And not get caught.

"We've got to get out of here," she whispered in my ear.

"No. That's what they're expecting us to do. The best place to hide is where no one expects you to be. Let's go upstairs."

"What's up there?" she asked.

"The real thing." And we headed up another flight of stairs.

Halfway up, I stopped for a second, pulled off my jacket, handed it to her, and motioned her to do the same. A little disguise might not hurt.

Then she found out what I meant by the real thing. The floor was dimly lit by dark red and blue lights and there were animal groans and moans over the music.

"Come on. Act friendly," I said as I put my arm around her shoulder, partly to fit in and partly to keep from losing her in the dark.

"This way."