Clara (Seventeen of Twenty)

When we knocked on Lissa's door, we had about 2 hours till they'd contact with the actual drop location and time. Dara called up the Wellingtons to check in. They said they'd still pay us. They didn't expect much from us anyways. That got my goat. Problem was, if Lissa didn't pan out, they were gonna be right to not expect much.

She answered her apartment door. Shoulder-length black hair, real skinny and short, looked like a 15 year old boy. Dara made the introductions, said we were looking for info on Jacques L'faire, another one of her cons. Dara pulled the name from the cop's internets. Lissa invited us in, even when the scowl on her face said to go away. Saturday morning, anyone woulda looked the same.

We sat on folding chairs in her living room. There was a half eaten cheese sandwich, white bread, on a paper plate. Her folding card table wobbled when she picked up the sandwich and ripped off another hunk with her teeth.

Dara said we were with Leggett Shipping. Jacques applied for a job, and her dad hired us to run a background check. Soon as Dara said that, Lissa's shoulders dropped a bit, what passed for her smile crossed her face. She still wasn't guilty, but only because the law said she was innocent until proven guilty.

Lissa brought back a case folder from the back, real tattered like it'd been through a war. Lot of name stickers posted over each other. I said she has to see a lot of people. She grunted and put on thick reading glasses.

I pulled out a pad, asked some general questions about his parole. She answered, I jotted. Her voice slowed down even more, and her eyes started glazing over.

Finally, Dara asked about Deke. Like coiling a spring, she tensed. I could hear the papers rustle in her hand. She said she had those records in the back, then ran.

Me and Dara chased her, but the apartment was tiny. We kept getting in each others' way. Lissa locked her door behind her. I drew Joan, fired off the blank, told Dara to step back. Not much room to rear back, but I finally kicked the door in.

Window open, curtains fluttering, papers everywhere. I yelled at Dara to secure the room, then hopped out onto the fire escape. Looked down, alley was empty. Looked up, saw her still climbing.

Lot of cracking sounds on my way up. Part my shoes clanging off metal, part my joints snapping, telling me to get back to solid ground.

On the roof, she kicked up a lot of gravel, headed towards the edge. Joan pointed towards heaven, I tore after her. Her short legs couldn't carry her that far, but she still hit the edge and leapt. I stopped short.

She landed in a crumple on the other roof, started screaming about her ankle, grabbing it with both hands. Didn't have much time. I tried not to look down over the edge. I failed. It was a long way down.

I turned around, ran from the edge, then towards it. Lungs felt like someone started campfires in them.

Musta been the ugliest bird you ever saw. Landed in a crouch right next to her. She was rolling in the gravel, a little gravel angel.

Clara (Sixteen of Twenty)

Only way to really keep your nose clean is to keep your nose clean. Try to play cover up, you'll slip up somewhere. Then it's just a matter of if someone finds out or not. Whoever Deke's Partner was, he couldn'ta been the most up and up guy, or if he pretended to be, we'd see signs he wasn't.

I told Dara to start using the internets, try and find D.P. Especially look at slobs Deke was with in prison, slobs got out around the time he did, everyone he dealt with that didn't make much money. She didn't like not being able to really find much about Deke [Really, it's not right. In our day and age, you leave a digital trail, and we can use it to track you down. Why wouldn't that be the case? Unless you intentionally delete as much of your trail as possible, it's just wrong. -Dara].

I also told her to contact the Wellingtons, see if they heard anything, tell em we had some leads. Turned out she had a hell of a time dancing around when they asked how the case was going, and I was passed out in the next room. At least now, she could give them some hope.

Meantime, I was gonna go try and find Deke and Clara. My best bets were storage spaces, warehouses, motels. They weren't gonna let Clara out, but they had to bring her back sometime after they got the money. Plus, it was a long shot, but if anyone saw Deke, I could narrow down where he was.

It hurt even drinking my coffee. Every time I breathed, felt like my rib was gonna bust apart again.

Three days I hoofed it across the warehouse district, found a lot of blisters I didn't know I had. Wellingtons got another note, telling them to wait for a call in a couple days, told them where to make the drop. They came to the office while I was out ruining my good shoes [His only shoes. -Dara]. Probably best, I didn't look the same like the last time they saw me. Dara took the letter and the polaroid it came with. Clara was still breathing in the pic, and the bruises were light yellow and purple.

They told Dara they'd gotten the money by taking out another mortgage on their home, breaking into their savings and stocks. She told them we were doing our best. It was just that our best looked like it was gonna cost em big.

At the 11^th hour, Dara figured out who D.P. mighta been. Lissa Jones.

[Deke's efforts stonewalled our efforts to locate him, but they also made it nearly impossible to track down any of his associates. Trace hit it right on the nose. I would have had to pore through the records, determine which of the inmates might possibly work with Deke, then determine what types of behavior might crop up, revealing the man or woman helping him.

What my efforts revealed were a host of potential suspects. Even after eliminating those that were Deke's enemies, as well as those reincarcerated, it turned out Deke had a multitude of friends within the criminal fraternity.

One by one, I tracked their lives online, made phone calls to see where they went offline. One by one, I crossed them off my list. Mainly, they all remained easily accessible within the past few weeks, and their movements readily accounted for.

By the end, when I'd crossed off the last name, I was stymied. Every ex-con on that list had an alibi, insofar as I could find an alibi without tipping my hand.

A potential solution came to me while I was debugging a project. We assumed the old adage held true, that birds of a feather would flock together. We couldn't necessarily make that assumption. I spread my search to even possible casual acquaintances, locals around his halfway house, frequent bar patrons at Choppers that never got in trouble with the law. Fruitless.

Finally, I decided there may have been something in the parole reports, some hint as to what his plans were. I couldn't just ask for them, as that would reveal what we were doing to the authorities. I managed to find some copies of the parole reports through a questionably secured page on the police department's web site.

Reading through the reports, they all read as if nothing wrong had happened, which at the time was correct. There had been no reason to suspect any wrongdoing.

Then, I checked the last few records. The most recent had been filed two days ago. It stated all was well. Deke had checked in, still employed as a stocker at the local supermarket. Either Deke was checking in, which meant we might have been able to track him, or D.P.'s identity was the parole officer, Lissa Jones. -Dara]

Clara (Fifteen of Twenty)

Next morning, Dara goes full-on dame on me, starts clucking about my face. Probably the first time she'd ever seen me that bad, aside from a few days before. She wanted me to go to the hospital, but I told her it was a waste of time, and I'd heal. She asked about infections. I rubbed bourbon on my hands, slathered it like aftershave [Yet he smelled no different than normal. -Dara]. Dara sat back and sulked, but we traded notes.

Turned out Deke got out of jail a few months ago for forging. Now he'd fallen off the internets, Dara couldn't find him [The only other individual with such a nonexistant digital footprint is Trace. I have his current address, only because I put it on the website myself. Beyond that, nothing. It's like he doesn't exist. -Dara]. She did have his mugshot, and what a mug. He had all the parts made your face look human, but all 3 sizes too big for the head. No one woulda had a problem picking him out. Just find the guy makes you think there might not be a God almighty.

I found out when he got out of jail, he went to a halfway house, then disappeared. No one knew where he went, no one saw him in a couple months. Always talked about get rich quick schemes, which made sense. Forging money, ransoming a rich girl, all money for nothing.

Problem was, he was making sure no one could find him. Normally, you could get people to come out of hiding if you give em what they want, but he'd get the money and disappear.

We knew Deke had Clara somewhere, and he had to be close to the city, if not in it. He was renting some place cared more about money than checking your ID to make sure you were who you said you were. That narrowed it down to about anywhere in the city.

At the same time, Deke wasn't using any equipment that required a background check, so no cars, no legal guns. He was probably using cash for everything. Either back into forging, or he had help.

Made sense. With a partner, Deke wasn't someone could really move quiet around the city. Find another slob that wasn't as noticeable. 2 million is just as good as 1 when you got no. So, maybe we didn't need to find Deke, just his partner.

Clara (Fourteen of Twenty)

Dara had homework, but she said she'd look for H.S. after that. Meanwhile, now that we had a real lead, I couldn't sleep. Night was young, I wasn't getting younger. Time to drink my way to an answer [I swear, he uses his investigations merely to justify his alcoholism. -Dara].

Gotta figure, big guy with a scar on the back of his head, can't be too hard to find. I took a trip down to Chopper's. 4 halfway houses in walking distance. Lots of slobs and dames fresh out of jail end up in those homes, end up coming here. Don't know if there was ever a night when they didn't close Chopper's because of a good fight.

It was a biker bar's biker's bar. Heavy metal, loud music, leather jackets. Slob like me shows up in a tan trench coat, they know it's gonna be a fun night. Not even cops are stupid enough to come here. Sure, I was stupid going in, but hoped I'd get smarter before I left.

I squeezed through the crowd, smelling sweat and tears. Each step I could feel peanut shells under my feet. Couldn't hear them cause of all the rock music and yelling. Made it to the bar, grabbed a bourbon, stood by the jukebox. Wasn't anyone head and shoulders above the crowd, but I didn't figure the slob would be stupid enough to come in. Not while he had a house guest to entertain.

Not 5 minutes pass before this slob with a handlebar mustache and leather chaps over his jeans tells me I'm in his way. I ask him if he's heard of H.S. He tells me it's time to move out of his way. I tell him he can keep on moving, unless he wants to take it outside. So, we go outside. Truth is, I was still feeling like a slob over the red herring. He didn't look like he knew a thing. I just needed to do something right on this case.

Turned out he was sloppy quick, the worst kind of quick. I put him down with a couple punches to his gut, then helped him up and back inside. Bought him and his friends a round. Apologized for not moving. He told me he wasn't looking for a fight, just needed to use the can, and I was in the way to the bathroom.

Problem is, at Chopper's, you can't have just 1 fight. It's why I only had the one drink. Took me another 3 slobs to get H.S.'s name, Deke Winters. Just as my face started healing, too.

Soon after, my phone rings. I take it outside. Dara tells me H.S.'s name is Deke Winters [If Trace showed a little patience or restraint, maybe he wouldn't get himself into these situations. -Dara].

Clara (Thirteen of Twenty)

Problem was, that super wasn't gonna buy us needing back into her apartment a second time. He gets a funny feeling, calls the cops, everything goes dumb. No fire escape, so we couldn't get in that way, and I wasn't about to go rope climbing. Too old for that. Never knew how to pick locks. I just kicked in those doors if I wanted in.

Our best bet was Vera. When Dara called her, she sounded like was she was gonna pop from the stress. We told her we needed back in. Dara said she needed to pretend she mighta left a book in Clara's apartment, just needed to take a quick look. I told her to look through the apartment for anything out of the ordinary.

When Vera called back half an hour later, she told us Clara's bedsheet was gone, and her running shoes were also gone. The piles of books she hadn't touched all semester, some of them got moved, and it looked like the coffee table got moved over also. Seemed like there mighta been a struggle, which meant probably noise, which meant someone mighta heard something. We already talked to all her neighbors before, except the apartment across from her. Worth a shot.

It was late afternoon when we knocked on that apartment door. Slob in a ragged t-shirt and boxers came to the door, yawned. We made nice, then Dara told him there were noise complaints and we were asking around.

He stretched his arms up. His shirt pulled up over his hairy Santa Claus gut. Dara cringed. Slob said a few nights ago, he heard a ton of knocking and going on across the way. She was always having guys over and being real loud. When he checked, it was 2 guys that night, one right after the other. Slob got a weird sneer on his face, wondered if she was an escort.

Before I could say anything, Dara said that was it exactly, asked if he could describe the guys.

Slob said the first looked like a real hipster, whatever that was. I asked him for details, and he said thick glasses, tight jeans, real skinny. I nodded my head. The male dame I talked to.

Other guy, real different, which is what made him think she was an escort. Big hulk of a guy, didn't swing his arms when he walked. Horizontal scar across the back of his bald head. Giant pinky ring on his left hand, green stone. Old leather bomber jacket, worn and cracked and pale brown. Thick heeled boots.

We thanked him and left. Didn't know who he was, but we were gonna find Head Scar.

Clara (Twelve of Twenty)

[Imagine my thoughts, seeing Trace passed out on his bed, bruised and battered and sleeping. I'd never seen him quite that bad, though it makes sense seeing as how he didn't defend himself against that homeless person. For as long as I have known him, Trace has always found some preternatural way to recover from injury, but I wonder what will happen when it finally catches up to him. He tries to hide his shaking hands from me, but it's hard to read a newspaper when you're flapping the sheets non-stop. On the few occasions I've asked, he's blamed it on the boxing, pointing to Muhammad Ali as an example. I don't understand whether he really is exhibiting the initial symptoms of Parkinson's disease, or if it is just minor delirium tremens. And I won't be able to offer him help until he wants it. Stubborn old man. -Dara]

Woke up, and it felt like someone ran a vacuum cleaner through my mouth. Everything in there was dry, tasted like leather. Sitting up, it felt like someone had my head in a vise and was squeezing it closed. I still felt awful over the red herring. You don't always get the answers right the first time around. I know you're supposed to learn and move on, get a better answer. Doesn't change that you still went the wrong direction in the first place.

Dara was waiting with my mug when I walked into the office. I took a sip, spat it out, asked her if the coffee went bad. She said it was water, same as she'd been waking me up to drink the past couple days. I couldn't even remember that she did that. She said we only had 5 days till the deadline, and I did the math without counting too much on my fingers. I was out a good 2 days.

She'd been doing research on the internets, but she hadn't found anything really new. I told her what happened, fished the paper from my pocket, told her to take them email addresses and get me something I could work with. Ran my hand over my chin, excused myself to go shave and shower and try not to look like a complete slob.

When I came back, she had some more background, and a couple of street addresses. I chugged the water, grabbed my coat. Really wished I had some coffee, but I wasn't in the mood to drink it straight [Trace means sans bourbon, in this case. -Dara].

First guy was a teaching assistant, harmless. Couldn't hardly look me in the eye and speak at the same time. He'd spent all Monday night talking to the bartender, wondering why he couldn't find no one. I told him to lower his standards.

Second guy, Ryan, now he was interesting. Couldn't wait to tell me all about Clara. Hardly opened my mouth when he started rambling. Told me all about what she looked like, how they met, how normally he wouldn't get the time of day from a dame like that. How she took him back to their place Monday night and got intimate.

I had to stop him right there to make sure, and he said he couldn't believe it himself. Nothing special about him, just looked like any other college student. I asked him if he'd ever met Clara before. He pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up, told me he'd tutored her, helped with her communications paper. I asked him how much he'd written, and he just sorta blushed, scratched his hair in the back where it stood up.

Made sense now why she was out and partying and not worrying, if he wrote the whole thing. I asked him when he left her place. He said around 3 or 4 in the morning, snuck out while she was still asleep. Which meant that she made it home that night, and I musta missed something in there.

Clara (Eleven of Twenty)

She had a black eye, some scabs starting to peel off, and a voice light as dandelion seeds. Shook her hand, told her I was investigating a lead went bad. I also mentioned I mighta roughed up the slob what roughed her up.

Paula half-smiled through her swollen lip, but I think she woulda smiled bigger if it wouldn'ta hurt so much. She asked if she could help. I showed her Clara's picture, but it didn't ring a bell.

Metro ride back to the office couldn'ta ended soon enough. Dara locked up after she left. Soon as I got inside, I had a shot of bourbon. Tasted like failure.

Wasn't gonna sleep, so I got up and went back to Vera's. It was only 10, she was probably still working on her paper. She asked if I found anything. Kept tapping her fingers against her thigh. Even more papers scattered around their apartment, like the first set had kids. I asked if there were any other clubs they mighta gone to. She said Blue/Black and Slide were 2 places Clara loved.

I asked if she'd noticed anyone weird around Clara the last couple weeks, or if Clara mentioned anything. She said she didn't, which I expected. If they got Clara out without a struggle, they did it in about 20 minutes, too quick for drugs to knock her out. Had to be a smooth talker slob, or someone she trusted. I asked if there was anyone in there Clara had her eye on, or anyone they knew. She said a couple of guys from class were there, gave me their names and addresses. I thanked her, wished her luck with her paper.

When I looked down at the paper, I just saw some of them email addresses. Had to wait for Dara to turn em into street addresses.

Back in the office, I was kinda bored, figured I'd try to sleep a bit. 8^th or 9^th shot finally did it.

Clara (Ten of Twenty)

The clinic records said “Paula Nimitz.” Address probably fake, but I called up Dara, gave it to her to check out. Hawked a red stain on the metro floor, but it kinda blended in with the rusty brown carpet anyway.

Called up the taxi company after a couple tries, got the cabbie's information. Said he wouldn't be in until 7, worked a lot of nights. Told me I could call back then.

I called the Wellingtons, gave em a quick update. Nothing big yet, but I had my lead. Then I had some time to kill. I coulda gone back to the office, except Dara woulda gone full-on dame on me. Didn't want to have that conversation. Figured she wouldn'ta known to calm down cause it was just a little blood.

I went down to the tyrannical gardens to sit and look at flowers [Trace means botanical gardens. At least, I hope he does. -Dara] Real nice, they got some pretty cornflowers growing in a bunch. I wanted to pick one, but they weren't mine to pick. Bourbon made the time go quicker.

Around 6, I got up, left for the taxi company, met Bob the cabbie. Told Bob that the girl he picked up in the middle of the night, I was trying to find. Slipped a 20 into his crabbed hand, told him I needed to be his first fare. He smiled back, the wart under his nose twitching.

We drove a while. I knew he looped back on his tracks more than once. Tried to make it seem like he couldn't remember, but he knew exactly where he was going. I just sat there, kept my mouth shut.

He finally let me out 80 bucks later, in front of this tall apartment building. Bob said she walked in there. I left him a few bucks for a tip, even though he ripped me off bad.

Doorman asked what I was here for. I asked after Paula. He rang her all casual, and I got a sinking feeling. When she stepped off the elevator, I felt like someone kicked me in the crotch. She was brunette, sure, and she was white, but it wasn't Clara.

Clara (Nine of Twenty)

No matter how sick you get, long as your arm isn't in a sling, you can draw a gun. That's what I found out. Half the patients drew a bead on my head. One dame, every time she coughed, laser sight flashed into my eyes.

Shoulda known better than to rush in without taking a look around. I got greedy and stupid. I put Joan down, real slow, like my life depended on it. Showed my fake badge and PI license, explained I followed a bad lead, that I wasn't gonna hurt anyone.

They dropped their pieces, except the cougher. She kept giving me the evil eye, kept that barrel aimed right between my eyes. Patted her little girl's head, said the bad man wasn't gonna hurt them.

I walked to the counter. Slob couldn'ta been more bored. He'd been thumbing through a Playboy the whole time. Asked if he could help me without staring up from the mag. I tore the mag from his sweaty hands, told him that I would leave soon as he gave me what I needed.

He licked his lips. Tongue had a bar through it, and the slob kept clicking it against his teeth, so it sounded like he was grinding them. Told me to wait in line, STDs weren't more important than anyone else. Whole room clapped and cheered.

I told him I needed info on a woman came in a few days ago. He tossed a condom at me, told me not to go spreading my STDs around the city. More cheering.

Probably good Joan was still on the ground, else I woulda drawn her. I told him it was important. Slob told me it was a private record, and even if he wanted to give it to me, he couldn't.

I reached over the counter and yanked him outta his seat. Any second, I expected to feel my back explode when the woman shot me. Told him if he didn't help me, I'd rip the bar from his tongue, jam it someplace else. He was never gonna give me respect, so I had to make him fear me. Slob moved a lot quicker, found the record and made me a copy. I backed out, still watching the woman. When I picked up Joan, thought for sure she was gonna blow a hole through my head.

Outside, I asked Jimmy who took the woman. Jimmy said he helped Joan here cause she got a little scraped up when she got kicked out the car. She promised she'd be there in the morning, but when he went back, clinic said she was gone.

We went back to the metro. Told him I had a lead, but when we got off at his home stop, he asked if that meant Joan was coming back.

Figured it was time to break the news. I told him the truth, it wasn't his ex-wife, just some random dame. Told him he did a good thing, helping her when he did, but this was where he had to go.

I coulda blocked his punch, avoided the black eye and the bruised ribs and all the kicking. Coulda jabbed him in the face, followed with a gut punch, put him down. Instead, I just gritted my teeth, let him have a few hits, then balled up on the ground. I could feel the Bubble rise around me, but I had to force myself not to fight back. He went full-on dame, but I couldn't understand what he was yelling about.

Metro cops came over, pulled him off me. They wanted to take him in, but I talked them out of it, told them it was a big misunderstanding. Smiled at them real fake, told them it didn't hurt. They kicked Jimmy out of the station. I snuck some bourbon to swish the blood out of my mouth.

Clara (Eight of Twenty)

Jimmy kept picking at the bald spot near his right temple. Take out the moldy coat, the 2 weeks dirt on him, put him in a classroom, you'd think he was just another crazy professor. He kept mumbling about his ex-wife. I felt for the guy, but he had something I needed. Closer I got, more I realized the nasty ammonia smell was coming off him.

Jimmy looked up at me, asked me if I knew where Joan was. Took me a few seconds to realize it wasn't my pistol, and it definitely wasn't my Joan [I need to determine why Trace never mentioned Joan, and where she is today. -Dara] I told him I didn't know, but I might be able to help. He kept muttering, saying he shouldn'ta trusted them, taking her away, and now he was never gonna see her again.

He tried not to yell when I asked where they took her, but Jimmy came right back, screaming, pointing his bloody finger at me, some bits of hair drooping off it, saying I didn't deserve to know where Joan went. I had to keep from pounding the slob.

Sat down next to him as he started scrambling away from me. I opened a flask, handed it to him, and the slob smacked it outta my hand. Watched the bottle bleed into the dirt. What a waste.

Told him I knew a Joan once, and I lost her. It really hurt, cause she took a part of me, but I still had a part of her. Hurt every day, thinking about her, knowing that all I had left was memories. I told him I understood how he felt, and that maybe I could help if he showed me where he took Joan.

Some spark in his eyes lit up, closest he probably ever got to normal. He asked if I was serious. Pulled my fedora down over my eyes, told him I was. Mostly, I didn't wanna see his eyes when I lied to him.

He got up and said he'd take me where he took her. I told Jimmy he should wait here in case she came back, but he said they weren't gonna let her go, he had to go see her himself.

Truth is, it ain't so bad taking the metro with a homeless. Everyone gives you a lotta space, pretends neither of you is there, they walk real far around you to pretend they don't see you. You can stare down a slob for five minutes, and he'll look anywhere except into your eyes. I had more fun with that than I shoulda.

Jimmy led us to a plain building in a not so great area, what with all the used needles and broken bottles in the street. Looked around, got kinda nervous. I told him to wait outside. Drew Joan, rushed inside.

Right into the free clinic waiting area.

Clara (Seven of Twenty)

I woke up to the sun trying to drill holes through my eyelids. Felt like every last shot from the night before was trying to pound their way out through my skull.

Stepped into the office. Dara got up from her desk and shoved a chipped mug into my hands. Dark, bitter, lukewarm coffee, breakfast of champions. She reminded me there were 7 days to go.

Took me a minute to remember what happened. Mostly, I had to look down at my right fist, and each bruise and cut filled out the night. Dara shook her head, sipped at what she called coffee, six sugars, half creamer, all fancified [Triple skim mocha latte. I can't help that my tastebuds still work, and that I appreciate quality. You'd think Trace would have realized by now that since I didn't grow up boxing, my sense of smell functions correctly. -Dara]

I drank some coffee out the mug in one swig, then topped it off with bourbon. Hair of the dog, definitely felt like it was growing on my tongue. Told Dara to keep looking up Clara on the internets, see if she could find other leads. Meanwhile, I had to catch a train.

I bought a few smaller flasks of bourbon from the store. Saw a few homeless out there last night, knew that I could probably trade these for info. I should feel bad about giving them bourbon, but if I was homeless again, I'd want it [Trace was homeless? Why doesn't he tell me these things? -Dara].

People turn away from homeless cause they're afraid of seeing what mighta happened to themselves if things turned out a little different. Outta sight, outta mind. Push em under the bridge like trash, don't even gotta think about them. Easy to pretend they're dogs, except not even dogs treat each other as bad as people treat each other. People gotta train dogs first to act like that.

Lot of em were wearing trench coats, some of em nicer than what I got on. I started walking, waiting for someone to come up to me. And she did, wearing a floppy hat, dirty felt bag over her shoulder, a missing eye tooth. I asked her name, and she smiled like a five year old, called herself Mia. I asked her what she saw that Monday night, the brunette getting kicked out of the Mercedes. She said Jimmy was ranting about that, said it was his ex-wife. I gave her a flask, held her hands a second, then stepped towards the guy plucking his hair out of his head.

Clara (Six of Twenty)

After the 6^th hit, my fist starts aching. I hit him again to try to make the pain go away. When he talks, it looks like he took a bite straight off a cow. Keeps asking what's going on through mushmouth, even when I tell him to stop playing dumb and tell me where Clara is. Slob's got the gall to ask who she is. I tell him it's the brunette he picked up Monday night, smack him in the head to jog his memory.

Slob's gone full-on dame, says she called herself Paula through his blubbering tears. Of course, why would she give her real name to a slob? He's slumped over, shaking, complete mess. Spits out a tooth, then spits out that he told her she wanted to wanted to leave with a random stranger and have sex so she could look back in 50 years, say she lived.

The bourbon in me's saying there's a spot I missed near his shoulder could use some tenderizing, but I gotta find Clara. I ask him again, using my indoors voice, where he left her. He's choking on his words and all the blood. Says they drove to a secret spot, but she chickened out. He left her there, drove off.

I look him in the eyes. He's already got 2 black eyes, a broken nose, and he probably won't be speaking right for a while. I ask him real kind if he could take me to his spot. There's a funny hissing sound. We both look down, and his pants get dark at the crotch. It's spreading down his leg. Now he's begging to get let go.

I tell him he doesn't have a choice, we're going. I lift my shirt and flash Joan. He starts crying and hiccuping and blowing snot bubbles when he sees the gun handle.

We get in his Mercedes, worth more than I make in a year, sometimes 2 years. Kinda sad that he's gotta bleed all over the leather, stain it red. He drives us out to a bridge a mile out from a metro stop. Real dark, but a few homeless are half hidden in the shadows.

I ask him why he couldn't even have driven her back to the station, and he says it was cause she was a tease, that was her plan all along. Put my hand on his shoulder, tell him that I wasn't gonna sleep with him, ask if he's gonna leave me here. He drives me to the metro. Too late now, gotta wait for daylight.

Clara (Five of Twenty)

Soon as he walked in with that sneer that passes for a smile, and his long drawn out steps, I knew it was him. People are backing away soon as he comes near them, lot of em shuddering. He gets a vodka tonic, tilts his sunglasses on his head. Gotta be some joke, this late at night. He's leaning against the bar, casing the club like someone cases a bank. You can see him picking his targets.

Give him credit, he gave me the perfect open. I walk over and ask him about his sunglasses. His eyes are bloodshot, the corners creased like old paper. Pulls them down over his eyes to look at me. Sunglasses on his face make him look 10 years younger. Says it's cause the light hurts his eyes. I squint some more, trying to see if he's kidding or if he believes it.

We start talking about the dames in the bar. He's describing them like things, like I would describe different bourbon in the store. I say I saw him before work his magic, ask him what he's doing. He gives me some cocky smile, says it's a secret I ain't ready to learn yet.

Five appletinis later, he says I'm ready to learn. I ask what happens when the dames turn him down. He says he moves on. Couple days ago, he gets shot down by everyone, till this brunette finally leaves with him. I ask what happened after they left. He says that normally people pay to hear this stuff, and he's gotta keep some secrets. Then he walks away, starts weaving through the crowd.

I start knocking back a few more shots. Don't wanna keep talking to the slob, but I gotta find Clara. I watch him, and he keeps getting turned down left and right. One girl backhands him across both cheeks at the same time. I wanted to buy her a drink.

Near closing time, with all the pretty dames already left, he's still working. Finally gets some dame old enough to be his mom to leave with him. I kill my last shot, which Benny comped me cause I probably gave him more in tips than he gets in 2 nights.

They're touching in the parking lot, groping each other, their lips all tangled, when I pull him off her and pop him in the face. I apologize to the dame, tell her she might wanna leave now and spend the night alone, rather than see what's about to happen. I musta slurred my words, cause she's real confused now. I repeat what I said, pick him up by the collar and cock my fist back. She goes running fast as her heels will take her, click clack click clack.

Clara (Four of Twenty)

Zoo Club doubled as a restaurant in daytime. Bouncer up front looked like just another dumb slob, except for his sledgehammer fists. Bouncers are just overgrown slobs know they can outmuscle you. You can try fighting, but even if you stop one, another 15 are on you, ready to throw you out on the street. It's all part of the game. Doesn't meant I have to like it. Or them.

Dara fed him some stupid lines. Didn't matter what she said, slob couldn't take his eyes off her chest. Let her in with a smile, but glared at me when I followed, my hand on Dara's shoulder [Sometimes, I regret having two fathers. Then I realize that one of them employs me at the behest of the other, and I regret it even more. -Dara]

They show us to a table. She sits down, asks for a cosmo. I go to the bar, bring her back a diet coke, me a bourbon. Told her I wasn't getting any alcohol that didn't start with the letter “b” and end with me drunk. Besides, she had to drive us. I told her to drink fast.

Dara got a chicken parm. I had a rare burger. Burgers are good, but mostly it was there to coat my stomach so I could drink more. Each time I stumbled back to the bar, I left a little bigger tip, talked to the tender a little more. Turned out the bartender, his name was Benny, he was there every afternoon and night, including Mondays. I ask him what it's like being in a restaurant club. He says he likes it, except how you sometimes get a bunch of idiots at night.

I threw a few more dollars on the bar, nodded.

After 6 or 7 bourbons, I ask him what Mondays are like, say I can't see a lot of people showing up then. He says there's OK business. I ask him what kind of stuff he sees, anyone catch his eye. He says there's a lot, it's still a bar. I tell him I like brunettes, especially the wild ones. He mentions one, comes a lot with her friend. She's less drunk than she acts cause she wants to have more fun. Some guy comes up to her, complete stranger to her, whispers in her ear for 30 seconds, then they leave. Crazy, especially since the guy wasn't nothing to look at, and the girl was.

I tell him I'd like to know that guy's secret. Benny says the guy's in every Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. I slide a 20 to Benny, say it'd be great if he points out the guy when he comes in.

By this point, I give Dara a 20, tell her to catch a cab [I drove home to force Trace to take a taxi. However, I kept his money. How else would he learn? -Dara]. There might be some old fashioned fighting, and I don't like when she sees that.  

Clara (Three of Twenty)

Dara convinces Clara's slob super I'm Clara's uncle from out West, she's Clara's cousin, and we traveled so far, and we were just gonna wait for a while till she came back from class, and Clara said the super would be OK with it, and Dara just won't shut up, won't let anyone get a word in edgewise, until she turns her head down and flashes her eyes up and gives one of them innocent looks and finally stops rambling. Next thing you know, super's apologizing to us and unlocking Clara's apartment.

Buncha books around the coffee table and piled real neat on top of it. Only one open book, it looked like it fell off the piles, landed facedown. There's a half-smoked cig with red lipstick in her ashtray on the table and a few ashes, just a cig or 2 worth.

Some food in the fridge. Lettuce expires in 3 days. Skim milk smells fresh, grapes haven't gone bad. Lot of them healthy cereals in the cabinet that taste like twigs and berries [Trace really means just twigs and berries. I would say I'm surprised he knows what a berry tastes like, but I assume he's just guessing here. -Dara]. Don't know how she managed to stay alive eating all this rabbit food.

Hamper in the bathroom only got a few bits of mostly tiny clothing, like what she was wearing in them club pictures. She'd done laundry in the past few days. Her bedroom's pretty neat, no bedsheet, but the bed's rumpled, like someone just slept in it and didn't make the bed.

We get going to Vera's, few buildings down. Normal looking girl answers the door. Dark hair pulled back tight, chunky glasses 2 sizes too big, cashmere sweater, pajama pants. I tell her the truth, can't pussyfoot with her here. We need her trust to get some answers. Look on her face starts as confusion, melts into fear. Her mouth drops. I see a metal bar through her tongue.

She invites us in. Buncha textbooks open, loose notes everywhere. We sit on the faded grey couch, only place without paper. She says they went down to Zoo Club 2 nights ago, Monday. Clara wanted to take a break, wouldn't let Vera stay inside. They stick around a while. Some guy starts chatting Vera up. She looks back after 20, 30 minutes and Clara's gone.

Vera started getting woozy in the club, so the guy she's talking to calls a cab, sends her home. She wakes up the next morning, complete blank. Calls Clara a couple times, but Clara don't answer. Figured Clara was probably sleeping it off, or working on the paper, didn't think about it till now.

I asked her what she remembered about the guy. He lisped his words, sometimes clicked his teeth like he couldn't control his tongue. Ran his hand through his short blonde hair. Looked down at her, so probably about a head taller. Asked her a lot of questions, but didn't say much about himself.

Seemed like a team effort. Wingman distracts friend, Ace Pilot swoops in on the target. Vera mentioned Clara liked leaving clubs with random guys, which is why she wasn't too worried.

Kept getting better and better.

Clara (Two of Twenty)

Thing is, I gotta investigate this all backwards, make sure I don't talk to many people, only the ones need to know about this. Gotta be on my best behavior, can't go in fists swinging. Well, not starting out.

Figure they found the letter yesterday, meaning we got 9 days to play. I told the Wellingtons they might wanna start getting the payoff together, in case things didn't go so great. They say they can't get that much flush, not in 9 days. I tell em to get what they can, and we can color paper green or something for the rest.

We start with basics, where Clara lives, what she does, who she is. On the first two questions, they're answering lights out. Apartment on Fitch, just off campus, college sophomore, communications major. The third, kinda like listening to them describe their distant cousin.

Mrs. Wellington shows us a pic from a few years back. Cornflower blue eyes. Slightly crooked eye teeth, few freckles. Real big smile, the kind you saw on a person complaining about crow's feet in 30 years.

I tell em to go home, wait for more info, play along if it comes. Don't give the kidnappers any reason to get nervous, cause nervous kidnappers do stupid things, like start mailing packages you don't want to open before Christmas. The Wellingtons, they ain't so perfect looking when they leave, big frowns on their faces, kinda hunched shoulders. Dara tells em we'll find her. I'm glad she's here to lie.

Soon as they leave, Dara starts type type typing at her keyboard, then tells me to come over. Shows me a bunch of pictures of Clara in a dark club wearing a black leather miniskirt and belly shirt, taking a shot of something pink out between another dame's cleavage. That other dame keeps showing up in those pics. They're both flashing so much skin it's like they're in a strip club [He actually blushed. It's just Facebook. -Dara]. Says her name is Vera. A little more typing, and Dara finds out she also lives off of Fitch.

Clara (One of Twenty)

Last time I got shot, it stung like someone jammed lit TNT in my side. It was all cause I was rushing, couldn't take a few minutes to stop being a slob. Maybe four years back, Dara's sitting in front of her computer, telling me about some guy she just met, Billy. I'm reading the paper, nodding my head. Figured he was just gonna be another slob end up breaking her heart. She said he was a med student, so I figured he'd be a rich slob eventually breaking her heart. Shows how much I know.

There's 4 sharp raps at my door. Dara opens it. A man and woman, both in business suits, waltz in all confident, like they'd already hired me. I shake Mr. Wellington's hand first. Firm, powerful, perfect business handshake. His silver-framed glasses made him look young, but his slicked back hair makes him look even younger. The white pocket square in his coat, folded just right.

Mrs. Wellington, someone poured her into her suit. Too bad she was one of them lookers couldn't deal with getting old. Fine gams led up to real round breasts. Doc really planted them in there good. Stretched out face lift real fresh, but if she didn't go for maintenance, it'd start to wrinkle again in 10 years. I thought I could almost see the scar tracing near her jaw line where the doctor pulled it all tight. Traces of dark brown started to peek out from her platinum blonde hair. She'd be one of them dames looked good with any hair, maybe even no hair.

I ask em why they made a wrong turn, and where they need directions to. Mrs. Wellington pulled out a folded letter from her purse. I open it, and we stand around Dara's desk looking at it. It was one of em messages made of a bunch of cut out magazine letters. Says that Clara's safe, but they want a fresh 4 mill to return her safe and sound. 10 days, then they start mailing her back home, piece by piece. Also had a pic of her bruised face, tears puffing up her eyes. Got her mom's chestnut colored hair, and probably mom's original face before all that surgery.

With that much flush at stake, I wonder why they come here. Seemed like something they'd want the cops to handle. Cops skim their cut of the 4 mill, find the slobs, everyone gets a front page story, no one gets hurt. The Wellingtons tell me to flip the letter over. Says the kidnappers got a mole on the force. If he hears anything, or if Action News 6 talks about the kidnapping, they start shipping early. They came here cause I won't say nothing to nobody bout nothing. Who'd even believe me?