If Raymond Chandler had been a car guy...
10-26-2001, 11:34 AM
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If Raymond Chandler had been a car guy...
(If Raymond Chandler had been a car guy… 
It was a dark and stormy night-suddenly, an engine screamed! Or maybe it was just my head-I had hit the office bottle harder than usual last night. I had reason to-the case I just had just wrapped up had left me feeling dirtier than I had in a long time, and I felt the need to flush it out of my system. I rolled over and glanced at the clock-3:56 a.m. Wonderful.
It was an engine, after all-I could hear getting closer-and fast. Just when I though my eardrums would meet somewhere around the middle of my head from the noise, it suddenly chopped off and was replaced with the quick, short squeal of tires on pavement-then, silence. Somebody was in a hurry-and I had a feeling I was about to find who-and why.
I crossed to the window and looked down at the Speester parked crookedly at the curb below. It looked pretty fast, alright-and so did the driver. She was a blonde-or would have been, in the sunlight. The rain made it hard to tell-but the way her wet dress clung to her curves didn’t leave much else in doubt. She ran from the car to the door of my building as if the hounds of hell were after her-and maybe they were.
I turned from the window and barely had time to cross to the door when I heard her heels on the hallway floor. I reached the door first, opened it, and got an armful of wet, weeping blonde for my trouble. Some days it works that way. She gasped and struggled to stay on her feet as I quietly closed the outer office door behind her. “You’ve got to help me!” she said, breathlessly. “Why?” I asked. “I don’t know who else to turn to-where else to go! Please!” she cried.
I’ve always been a sucker for gorgeous, hysterical women who drip on my office carpet-call it a weakness. ”OK-first, sit down. I’ll get you a towel. While you’re drying you can tell me your story and I’ll decide if I can (or will, I thought) help.” I showed her to one of the chairs in front of my desk, admiring her chassis as I did so. “Drink?” I asked, as I grabbed the cleanest towel from over the bathtub and handed it to her. “Yes, please” she managed as she patted herself with it. I briefly considered suggesting a more efficient (and fun) method of drying, but stopped myself. The timing was all wrong. Instead, I pulled a clean glass from the bottom desk drawer , set it next to its mate I had been overusing just a few hours earlier and poured a few fingers in both. Her hand shook slightly when she reached for hers, and her eyes met mine as she raised to her lips and upended it. Mine suffered the same fate, and when I set it down, she started.
“My name is Carrera. I come from a very wealthy family-too wealthy, maybe. My father, Ferdinand, dealt in exotic imports until he retired Now, he spends his time trying to keep his daughters out of trouble-and out of the headlines. Yes, I said daughters-my younger sister, Porsche, is the hellion of the family- and the reason that I’m here. She’s in trouble, you see, Mr Marlowe-real trouble. My father—well, he’s old, he’s ill, and he just wants to spend whatever time he has left peacefully-but this....this may be the last straw. I’m worried what will happen to him if he discovers what she’s got herself into this time."
“Why not call the cops?” I asked. “They’re not all bad. I happen to know there’s at least one or two honest ones still on the force.” Her eyes flashed. “I don’t appreciate your flippant attitude, Mr Marlowe-I came to you thinking you of all people would appreciate the seriousness of my situation” she said, icily. I leaned back in my chair and grinned lopsidedly. “That’s right-YOU came to ME. In the middle of the night, in the pouring rain-and in one hell of a big hurry. You’ve got a problem with your sister, you’re afraid your father will find out, and you don’t want to take it to the cops. So, that leaves me-flippant attitude and all.” This did not please her. She thought furiously for a few moments, then a tired, resigned look crept over face. I continued “Now, what’s the problem? She pregnant? Eloped? Doped up somewhere? Did she get drunk, take off all her clothes, and run through the streets?” I leaned forward again, placed my arms on the desk.” What is it? My curiosity is killing me.”
She said, carefully-“She’s been kidnapped. And he says he’ll kill her if I don’t give him what he wants”.
I felt like a heel-but I didn’t show it. Instead, I asked ”Who says? What does he want? And what makes you think I can help?” She avoided my eyes as she answered. “My ex-boyfriend. He’s a boxster-well, he was.”
“What’s his name?” I asked. “Cam. Cam Weber. His ring name was “The Maestro” she said. “Why? Do you know him?” “No-but I’ve heard of him.” I said idly, my mind racing.
She was silent for a moment , then continued. “They barred him for “questionable circumstances” concerning the death of one his opponents, and since then he’s hooked up with a bad crowd. I broke it off with him a long time ago, but he never seemed to realize it. He kept calling me, coming over to the house and making a scene. The police made him leave once or twice, but earlier tonight he invited Porsche-not me-to a party given by the man he works for now-some man with a ducktail called Tony Brembo. I think he’s a mobster.”
I didn’t think-I knew. If her ex-boyfriend was working for “Big Red” Brembo, he had hooked up with a bad crowd, all right. Brembo was known for clamping down tightly on competitors-and his track record proved it. He wasn’t just another cookie-cutter mafia type-he was bad news.
“She knew he was trouble-but she went anyway. She didn’t realize just how much trouble. I got a call from Cam saying that he had her, wouldn’t let her go, and Father was going to have to pay plenty to get her back. He said not to go to the police-if I did, he’d kill her right away. I couldn’t think of what to do, so I looked in the phone book…and saw you.”
“How much does he want-and when?” I asked, my earlier cockiness fading away. “Where are you supposed to drop the ransom?” She pulled a crumbled, hasitly scrawled note out of her purse and read from it. “}550 thousand, at exactly 9:30 this morning, to be delivered to 993 Targa Street.”
“I know that address..that’s the “Cabriolet Club”” I said, thoughtfully. ”That little bastard-he knows you’ll be too scared to call the cops in on it, so he holes up where he works. Stupid of him-and lucky for us.”
“Lucky? Why do say that?” she asked, confused. “Because I know that place -it’s closed that time of day, it’s just around the corner from a coffeeshop lots of cops hang out at, and 9:30 gives me time get some sleep before we go down there.” I answered. “But I can’t pay him what he wants!” she cried, getting hysterical again-so I calmed her down by explaining what I had in mind, sent her back home with detailed instructions, then grabbed some more shut-eye. It was going to be a busy day.
The next morning, I parked down the street from the Cab Club and waited. I didn’t have to wait long. At 9:12 by my watch, Carrea’s speedster burbled down the street and pulled into the Cab’s parking lot. As it did so, I made my way to the building’s back door, where I surprised a kid taking out the trash. I slipped him a bill from my wallet and told him to go find a phone and dial 911. “Gee, 50 bucks, mister? You bet!” was all he could say as he high-tailed around the corner and down the street. While Carrera distracted Cam at the front of the building, I’d slip quietly into the back of the club make my way upstairs to the offices I was betting they’d be holding the girl in, get her free, and get out before Cam discovered the bag Carrera was carrying was full of nothing but old newspapers. That was the plan, anyway; it just didn’t quite turn out that way.
I was making my way as quietly as possible up the back stairs when I felt something cold and hard against the back of my neck. “Who are you, handsome, and where do you think you’re going?” a young woman’s slightly slurred voice asked. “Stand up, and keep your hands where I can see them”. I followed instructions. “I’m the tooth fairy” I said, everything clicking into place as I turned slowly to face a smaller, younger version of Carrera pointing a gun (and some pretty bloodshot eyes) at me. “Funny” she said. “Over there. Move.” The (9)44 in her hand waved me over to chair by the door. She picked up the phone, dialing as watched me. Whoever answered was not who she was expecting. “Who is this?” she demanded, forgetting about me. Just then, a shot rang out from downstairs. "FUCH!" she screamed, dropping the phone and the gun at the same time. I dropped, rolled, came up with the gun…but she was gone, running pell-mell down the stairs yelling “CAM” as she went.
The scene below was about what I expected. “The Maestro” lay in a heap, a pool of dark red slowly spreading from under his torso across the floor. Porsche knelt near him, wailing as only a spoiled little rich girl can. Carrera stood near a house phone a few feet away, gun in hand, watching her sick sister cry over a loser and a botched extortion attempt. “The cops should be on their way” I said.
“I know.”
“What are you going to tell them?” I asked, wondering.
“The truth.”
“And your father?”
“The same. It’ll be hard, but I think he can take it.”
“You knew, then.” It wasn’t a question.
The look in her eyes was all the answer I needed.
(The preceding is what happens when you mix a 16-hour work day, not much to do, a copy of “The Big Sleep” and the latest issue of Excellence, and wayyyy too much Mountain Dew.
Sorry).
It was a dark and stormy night-suddenly, an engine screamed! Or maybe it was just my head-I had hit the office bottle harder than usual last night. I had reason to-the case I just had just wrapped up had left me feeling dirtier than I had in a long time, and I felt the need to flush it out of my system. I rolled over and glanced at the clock-3:56 a.m. Wonderful.
It was an engine, after all-I could hear getting closer-and fast. Just when I though my eardrums would meet somewhere around the middle of my head from the noise, it suddenly chopped off and was replaced with the quick, short squeal of tires on pavement-then, silence. Somebody was in a hurry-and I had a feeling I was about to find who-and why.
I crossed to the window and looked down at the Speester parked crookedly at the curb below. It looked pretty fast, alright-and so did the driver. She was a blonde-or would have been, in the sunlight. The rain made it hard to tell-but the way her wet dress clung to her curves didn’t leave much else in doubt. She ran from the car to the door of my building as if the hounds of hell were after her-and maybe they were.
I turned from the window and barely had time to cross to the door when I heard her heels on the hallway floor. I reached the door first, opened it, and got an armful of wet, weeping blonde for my trouble. Some days it works that way. She gasped and struggled to stay on her feet as I quietly closed the outer office door behind her. “You’ve got to help me!” she said, breathlessly. “Why?” I asked. “I don’t know who else to turn to-where else to go! Please!” she cried.
I’ve always been a sucker for gorgeous, hysterical women who drip on my office carpet-call it a weakness. ”OK-first, sit down. I’ll get you a towel. While you’re drying you can tell me your story and I’ll decide if I can (or will, I thought) help.” I showed her to one of the chairs in front of my desk, admiring her chassis as I did so. “Drink?” I asked, as I grabbed the cleanest towel from over the bathtub and handed it to her. “Yes, please” she managed as she patted herself with it. I briefly considered suggesting a more efficient (and fun) method of drying, but stopped myself. The timing was all wrong. Instead, I pulled a clean glass from the bottom desk drawer , set it next to its mate I had been overusing just a few hours earlier and poured a few fingers in both. Her hand shook slightly when she reached for hers, and her eyes met mine as she raised to her lips and upended it. Mine suffered the same fate, and when I set it down, she started.
“My name is Carrera. I come from a very wealthy family-too wealthy, maybe. My father, Ferdinand, dealt in exotic imports until he retired Now, he spends his time trying to keep his daughters out of trouble-and out of the headlines. Yes, I said daughters-my younger sister, Porsche, is the hellion of the family- and the reason that I’m here. She’s in trouble, you see, Mr Marlowe-real trouble. My father—well, he’s old, he’s ill, and he just wants to spend whatever time he has left peacefully-but this....this may be the last straw. I’m worried what will happen to him if he discovers what she’s got herself into this time."
“Why not call the cops?” I asked. “They’re not all bad. I happen to know there’s at least one or two honest ones still on the force.” Her eyes flashed. “I don’t appreciate your flippant attitude, Mr Marlowe-I came to you thinking you of all people would appreciate the seriousness of my situation” she said, icily. I leaned back in my chair and grinned lopsidedly. “That’s right-YOU came to ME. In the middle of the night, in the pouring rain-and in one hell of a big hurry. You’ve got a problem with your sister, you’re afraid your father will find out, and you don’t want to take it to the cops. So, that leaves me-flippant attitude and all.” This did not please her. She thought furiously for a few moments, then a tired, resigned look crept over face. I continued “Now, what’s the problem? She pregnant? Eloped? Doped up somewhere? Did she get drunk, take off all her clothes, and run through the streets?” I leaned forward again, placed my arms on the desk.” What is it? My curiosity is killing me.”
She said, carefully-“She’s been kidnapped. And he says he’ll kill her if I don’t give him what he wants”.
I felt like a heel-but I didn’t show it. Instead, I asked ”Who says? What does he want? And what makes you think I can help?” She avoided my eyes as she answered. “My ex-boyfriend. He’s a boxster-well, he was.”
“What’s his name?” I asked. “Cam. Cam Weber. His ring name was “The Maestro” she said. “Why? Do you know him?” “No-but I’ve heard of him.” I said idly, my mind racing.
She was silent for a moment , then continued. “They barred him for “questionable circumstances” concerning the death of one his opponents, and since then he’s hooked up with a bad crowd. I broke it off with him a long time ago, but he never seemed to realize it. He kept calling me, coming over to the house and making a scene. The police made him leave once or twice, but earlier tonight he invited Porsche-not me-to a party given by the man he works for now-some man with a ducktail called Tony Brembo. I think he’s a mobster.”
I didn’t think-I knew. If her ex-boyfriend was working for “Big Red” Brembo, he had hooked up with a bad crowd, all right. Brembo was known for clamping down tightly on competitors-and his track record proved it. He wasn’t just another cookie-cutter mafia type-he was bad news.
“She knew he was trouble-but she went anyway. She didn’t realize just how much trouble. I got a call from Cam saying that he had her, wouldn’t let her go, and Father was going to have to pay plenty to get her back. He said not to go to the police-if I did, he’d kill her right away. I couldn’t think of what to do, so I looked in the phone book…and saw you.”
“How much does he want-and when?” I asked, my earlier cockiness fading away. “Where are you supposed to drop the ransom?” She pulled a crumbled, hasitly scrawled note out of her purse and read from it. “}550 thousand, at exactly 9:30 this morning, to be delivered to 993 Targa Street.”
“I know that address..that’s the “Cabriolet Club”” I said, thoughtfully. ”That little bastard-he knows you’ll be too scared to call the cops in on it, so he holes up where he works. Stupid of him-and lucky for us.”
“Lucky? Why do say that?” she asked, confused. “Because I know that place -it’s closed that time of day, it’s just around the corner from a coffeeshop lots of cops hang out at, and 9:30 gives me time get some sleep before we go down there.” I answered. “But I can’t pay him what he wants!” she cried, getting hysterical again-so I calmed her down by explaining what I had in mind, sent her back home with detailed instructions, then grabbed some more shut-eye. It was going to be a busy day.
The next morning, I parked down the street from the Cab Club and waited. I didn’t have to wait long. At 9:12 by my watch, Carrea’s speedster burbled down the street and pulled into the Cab’s parking lot. As it did so, I made my way to the building’s back door, where I surprised a kid taking out the trash. I slipped him a bill from my wallet and told him to go find a phone and dial 911. “Gee, 50 bucks, mister? You bet!” was all he could say as he high-tailed around the corner and down the street. While Carrera distracted Cam at the front of the building, I’d slip quietly into the back of the club make my way upstairs to the offices I was betting they’d be holding the girl in, get her free, and get out before Cam discovered the bag Carrera was carrying was full of nothing but old newspapers. That was the plan, anyway; it just didn’t quite turn out that way.
I was making my way as quietly as possible up the back stairs when I felt something cold and hard against the back of my neck. “Who are you, handsome, and where do you think you’re going?” a young woman’s slightly slurred voice asked. “Stand up, and keep your hands where I can see them”. I followed instructions. “I’m the tooth fairy” I said, everything clicking into place as I turned slowly to face a smaller, younger version of Carrera pointing a gun (and some pretty bloodshot eyes) at me. “Funny” she said. “Over there. Move.” The (9)44 in her hand waved me over to chair by the door. She picked up the phone, dialing as watched me. Whoever answered was not who she was expecting. “Who is this?” she demanded, forgetting about me. Just then, a shot rang out from downstairs. "FUCH!" she screamed, dropping the phone and the gun at the same time. I dropped, rolled, came up with the gun…but she was gone, running pell-mell down the stairs yelling “CAM” as she went.
The scene below was about what I expected. “The Maestro” lay in a heap, a pool of dark red slowly spreading from under his torso across the floor. Porsche knelt near him, wailing as only a spoiled little rich girl can. Carrera stood near a house phone a few feet away, gun in hand, watching her sick sister cry over a loser and a botched extortion attempt. “The cops should be on their way” I said.
“I know.”
“What are you going to tell them?” I asked, wondering.
“The truth.”
“And your father?”
“The same. It’ll be hard, but I think he can take it.”
“You knew, then.” It wasn’t a question.
The look in her eyes was all the answer I needed.
(The preceding is what happens when you mix a 16-hour work day, not much to do, a copy of “The Big Sleep” and the latest issue of Excellence, and wayyyy too much Mountain Dew.
Sorry).
