It Was a Dark Night, On a Dark Side of Town…

Author’s note:

In Part Two, our two daring gumshoes just learned what their mission was to be: to track down a Diana Ross-imitating cross-dresser by the name of Shannequa Montage. Join us now as we see how well they fare on their first night of surveillance.

And yes, this part carries a food, beverage, bladder, and work warning. Trust me on this one, ‘kay? *VEG*

Late Friday night…

“Admit it, Jim. We’re lost.”

“We are not lost.” Jim turned his head slightly to look at Brian, who was sitting in the passenger seat of the Mercedes. “I’m just not sure where I’m going. I’ll get my bearings any minute now.”

“Face it. We’re not in the woods, so that means that you’re out of your element.” Brian paused dramatically, and then added in an ominous tone, “We’re lost.”

“Fraynes never get lost,” Jim argued. “We have inborn compasses.”

Brian rolled his eyes as he looked out his window. “That’s the third time we’ve passed this tattoo shop.”

“No, it’s not.” Jim snorted, preferring to remain ignorant rather than face the truth. “There must be hundreds of tattoo shops around here.”

“All named ‘Stuck You’?” Brian questioned, his dark brows quirked in disbelief.

“Here it is!” Jim cried triumphantly. He turned down a side street. However, his triumph quickly returned to confusion as the street led to a dead-end. “Wait a minute. How’d this brick wall get here?” he mumbled to himself as he studied the obstacle in their path. “Sixth Street has to be around here someplace…”

He switched on the Mercedes’ overhead light and pulled out the map that Jack had given them earlier that day. “We found Burlington and Seventieth,” he muttered, tracing the path with his finger. “Sixth should be right—”

“Jim,” Brian interrupted as he looked in the side view mirror.

“Just a minute,” his friend murmured, still studying the map.

Brian frantically whacked him on the arm. “We don’t have a minute, Jim! Big, scary-looking guys with baseball bats are heading this way, and I don’t think they’re going to challenge us to a game.”

“What big, scary-looking guys with bas—? Holy crap!”

Jim hurriedly flung his map in the backseat, shifted the car into reverse, and slammed his foot on the gas pedal. At warp speed, he drove backwards down the street.

Brian clutched the armrest with one hand and covered his eyes with the other. He yelled in fright one second, and then the next he desperately pleaded for supernatural assistance. After completing his frantic prayer, he resumed screaming as he waited for the Mercedes to run over one of the men or crash into an oncoming vehicle. Finally, several loud THUNKS ceased his yelling. “Did you hit somebody?” he asked nervously, afraid to remove his hand from over his eyes.

“Nah,” Jim gasped as he shook his head, his trembling fingers gripping the steering wheel. He took several deep breaths, and then shifted the car into drive. He carefully pulled back onto Royceton Boulevard, eager to move on to a new street.

“Then what was that thumping noise?” Brian inquired curiously.

“That was the sound of aluminum bats hitting the Benz as we drove by,” Jim replied, his voice a monotone.

“Did they do any damage to the vehicle?”

Jim removed one freckled hand from the steering wheel and began waving it around in frustration. “Gee, Brian, for some reason I was too preoccupied with getting us to safety to stop and check for dents! How about we go back, and I’ll throw you out of the car so you can survey the damage?”

Brian exhaled in exasperation. “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d asked for directions.”

“I don’t need directions,” Jim answered curtly. “We were just here earlier this afternoon.”

“Then why don’t you know where you’re going?”

“Because all these streets look the same at night in this stupid town,” Jim growled.

“So why don’t you stop and ask somebody how to get there?”

“Because I don’t need to!” Jim’s teeth were tightly clenched together and his green eyes were blazing in fury.

Brian merely smirked and shook his head slightly in consternation. “For the first time in my life, I understand Honey’s frustration when I refuse to stop and ask for directions.”

Jim glanced over at his friend, then quickly returned his eyes to the road ahead of him. He muttered some indiscernible phrases under his breath.

Ignoring Jim’s mumbling, Brian continued, “Why are we men like this? What is it about that single Y-chromosome that makes us think we’ll be castrated if we admit we’re lost? How does that challenge our manhood?”

“Are you finished with your little lecture?” Jim snapped.

“It’s not a lecture,” Brian disagreed, his tone sounding quite annoyed. “I just don’t understand what’s so difficult about stopping at a gas station and asking someone how to find our destination.”

“You want me to get directions?!” Jim thundered, the tips of his ears turning bright red. “FINE!!! I’ll get directions!”

Without removing his foot from the gas pedal, Jim turned the steering wheel sharply to the left to make an illegal U-turn. The tires of the Mercedes squealed as Jim directed the car to the other side of the divided highway. Without so much as a glance in his rearview mirror, he sped into the left lane with the westbound traffic.

Using maneuvers that would have made Jeff Gordon proud, he weaved through the speeding traffic until he was in the right lane. Spying a convenience store on the right-hand side of the road, he lurched the steering wheel sharply in that direction and slammed sideways into an empty parking space, his brakes squalling the entire way.

Brian sat in the passenger seat, mouth agape, eyes wide, hands braced against the glove compartment, and skin white as a sheet.

“I… can’t… believe… *gasp*… you… did… that…” he sputtered breathlessly. “I saw… my whole life… *gasp* …passing before my… eyes, and it was… really… *gasp* …really… boring.”

Jim cast him a steely glance before he got out of the car. Not even acknowledging his friend with a parting comment, Jim stood, stepped onto the pavement, and slammed the car door. He strode into the entrance of the small Quick Pick convenience store and stood at the counter, waiting for the attendant to acknowledge his presence. However, the Pakistani man sitting behind the register kept his nose in a magazine and did not look up.

Jim exhaled loudly, impatiently drumming his fingers on the counter. A minute later, he looked at his watch and discreetly cleared his throat. When that didn’t garner the cashier’s attention, he gritted his teeth, and then politely addressed him, “Excuse me, sir.”

The man behind the counter looked up inquisitively at Jim, who was thinking what an uncanny resemblance the attendant bore to Babu Bhatt, the character from the Seinfeld television show.

“Yes?” the attendant inquired solicitously, his Middle Eastern accent thick. “Are we needing help finding something? I am helping you to find some Bubblicious Bubble Gum or some Fruit Loops.”

Instantly, Jim realized that he’d made a horrible mistake by stopping at this particular store. “No, I just need some directions,” he choked out.

“After you are making your purchases, I am happy to assist,” the clerk answered cheerfully. After he finished speaking, he reopened his magazine and continued reading.

“Actually, I hadn’t planned on buying anything,” Jim informed him, trying his best to keep his temper in check. “I just need some directions and then I’ll be on my way.”

“Not buying anything?” the cashier repeated incredulously. “Surely you are joking, my friend.”

“No, I’m not joking. I just want to know how to get to Sixth Street.”

“Perhaps you would be liking some Tic Tacs? They are cool and refreshing, and only two calories per serving.”

“I don’t want Tic Tacs,” Jim sighed. “I just need some dir—”

“How about some leather cow strips?” the Babu Bhatt-look-alike suggested, holding out a stick of beef jerky. “Everyone in America is liking leather cow. I do not eat them myself, of course, but I have heard they are very good. Very good.”

Jim wearily massaged his temples. “No, thank you. I don’t want beef jerky. I just need to know how to get from here to Sixth Street.”

The cashier’s joyful countenance immediately clouded over. “This is a convenience store, my good man. We are selling potato chips, soda pop, candy bars, and other unhealthy fares restricted in my native country. Good day, sir.”

“So you can’t tell me which way I go to find Sixth Street?”

“Am I looking like your tour guide?” The clerk angrily slammed his magazine down on the counter.

“No, but…” Jim exhaled, and silently counted to ten.

“If you are not pleased to purchase something, then please to be getting out of my Quick Pick.”

“Please, sir, I’m in a hurry, I have a headache, and I n—”

“We have Tylenol,” the cashier offered with a smile, holding up a small package of acetaminophen.

“Fine.” Jim hastily snatched the pain relievers out of “Babu’s” hand.

“And will you be needing a carbonated beverage to wash down your headache medication?” The clerk helpfully pointed to the small refrigerator by the door.

Jim muttered a few choice words under his breath as he stomped over to where the attendant pointed and grabbed a Pepsi out of the cooler. He noisily set it on the counter and waited for the cashier to ring up his bill.

“And will you be needing anything else?”

“No,” Jim answered through clenched teeth.

“That will be $6.29.” He smiled congenially at Jim as he took the ten-dollar bill from his hand. He slowly counted out $3.71 and handed it back. “Have a good day, sir. Please be coming again.”

Jim stood and looked at the man expectantly.

“Would you be liking a bag for your purchases?” the cashier questioned in his thick accent.

“No, but I’d like those directions now,” Jim said, a fake smile plastered on his face.

“Certainly, certainly! Always a pleasure to assist a paying customer. Where would you be needing to go, my friend?”

“Sixth Street,” Jim repeated impatiently as he ripped open the package of acetaminophen.

The attendant’s dark eyes grew wide with wonder. “What are you going to be doing on Sixth Street?”

“Nothing.” Jim busied himself by lining up the arrows on the Tylenol’s childproof lid.

“Then why are you going there?” the Babu-look-alike asked congenially. “You look like a very nice man. Take it from me; you do not want to be going to Sixth Street.”

Jim muttered a sigh of relief as he finally managed to open the bottle of pain relievers. After poking a hole in the silver protective seal and pulling out the large wad of cotton inside the bottle, he dug out two capsules and washed them down with a swig of Pepsi.

“Look,” he sighed in exasperation, “I appreciate your concern, but I really need to find Sixth Street, and I’m in a hurry. Can you just tell me how to get there?”

“You do not look like the type of citizen who frequents those kinds of establishments, my good man. Perhaps you would enjoy some of the entertainment you would find on Devon Street or Browning Boulevard…”

“I need to go to Sixth Street.” Jim clenched his fists tightly as if that might keep the rest of his patience from draining out of him.

“In what sort of activity do you wish to be indulging, my friend?” the clerk inquired, unwittingly making Jim angrier with each passing second. He watched silently as his customer reopened the bottle of Tylenol, poured out two more capsules and quickly ingested them.

“There is a limit of eight capsules in a 24-hour period, good sir,” Babu informed him helpfully. “I would not want you to be suffering liver dama—”

“Sixth Street?” Jim reminded him, through clenched teeth.

“And please be careful not to consume alcoholic beverages while taking Tylenol. If you partake of three or mor—”

“I don’t drink,” Jim interrupted curtly. “I promise not to take any more acetaminophen, if you’ll just tell me how to get to Sixth Street.”

“If you do not imbibe, you will have nothing to do on Sixth Street,” the clerk chortled. “Unless of course, you wish to visit that section of town for its tawdry club performances, and seeing as how conservatively you are dressed, my friend, I do not think you would be finding those particular clubs entertaining.”

“If I don’t like those clubs, I’ll go someplace else,” Jim assured him impatiently.

“I would hate for you to be wasting your time,” the cashier commented. “As previously stated, you are in a hurry. Perhaps I could rec—”

Although he had not wanted to admit he was going to a drag queen hangout, Jim finally buckled. “I need to go to the Purple Oyster.”

“The Purp—” The cashier’s eyes grew as round as saucers. After a moment or so, he nervously shook his head. “Pardon me, sir. I did not mean to appear surprised. It is only that you do not look like you would enjoy that particular kind of entertainment.”

“I’m not—”

The Pakistani man shook his finger in Jim’s face. “No need to explain, good sir,” he interjected. “What you do is your own business. The Quick Pick will not be refusing service based on race, religion, or sexual preference.”

“I’m not going there for the show,” Jim clarified defensively. “I’m going on…” he glanced around the room suspiciously, and with a lowered voice continued, “official business.”

Babu gasped and clutched his hands by his heart. “What sort of…” He also glanced around the room suspiciously, then whispered, “…official business? Are you the police? FBI? CIA? Mafia?”

“I’m not at liberty to give out that information.”

“I have papers!” the cashier anxiously exclaimed. “I am not having them with me, but they are in my apartment. I can go get them…”

“As long as you answer my questions, that won’t be necessary,” Jim replied in an authoritative tone. “Just tell me how to get to Sixth Street, and I’ll be on my way.”

“Of course, of course!” the attendant nervously babbled. “First, you must carefully reenter the westbound traffic. Then you must be taking a left at the first light, and get in the eastbound traffic. Then take a right at Mercer Street, go three blocks and take a right at Winston Drive, then at the second light, take a left on Milton Avenue.”

Jim hurriedly fished a pen out of his pocket and scribbled the directions down on his Tylenol box. “Is that it?”

“Yes,” the man affirmed with a nod. “Keep going down Milton and you will be coming to Sixth Street. But if you are pleased to leave your vehicle unattended, be sure to be locking it and taking all valuables with you.”

“Thanks.” Jim put the pen back into his pocket. “I’ll be sure and tell the boys at headquarters how helpful you’ve been.”

“Oh, I am appreciating that, my friend,” Babu gushed. “You be careful in that neighborhood. Many bad things happen there. Very, very bad things.”

Jim gave a good Barney Fife sniff while he adjusted his belt. “Danger’s my job. It’s what I live for. In fact, Danger’s my last name.”

“You’re a very brave man. A very brave man! Good luck on your mission, Mr. Danger.”

Jim nodded, and congenially clapped the cashier on the shoulder. He walked to the exit, then looked up at the man and stated, “And remember… You didn’t talk to me. I was never here…” Without another word, he opened the door and left the Quick Pick.

When he was seated again in the driver’s seat of the Mercedes, Brian asked, “Did you get directions?”

“Sure did,” Jim answered, handing him the Tylenol box.

“Have any trouble?”

“Not a bit.” With another sniff of importance, Jim pulled out of the parking lot and carefully merged with the westbound traffic.

Three hours later…

Jim and Brian had walked up and down Sixth, Wellington, and West Streets several times the past two-and-a-half hours. They had even glanced at the corner of Franko… from a distance. Their informant was nowhere to be found.

Brian sighed wearily as he removed his fedora from his head and raked his long fingers through his dark, wavy hair. “This is impossible, Jim. So far we haven’t talked to anyone who recognizes Shannequa Montage. I hope Jack gave us the correct street names.”

Jim nodded as he watched the faces of the pedestrians they passed on West Street. “We’re in the right place,” he murmured, deep in thought. “The people we’ve met just don’t want to give us any information.”

“What do you mean?”

“They don’t trust us,” Jim explained. “If we’re going to find out anything, we need to change our style.”

“Our style?” Brian’s forehead furrowed in confusion.

“This neighborhood is used to seeing undercover cops. I’m sure that’s what they think we are. In these fancy suits of ours, we stick out like sore thumbs.”

“The suits were your idea,” Brian pointed out. “And hey, suits are all we brought with us. Do we need to go buy something else to wear tomorrow?”

Jim shook his head. “Let’s face it, Bri. Nobody’s gonna believe that we’re anything other than law-abiding citizens, no matter what we’re wearing. We’d only look stupid if we pretended to be criminals.”

Brian sighed in disappointment and kicked a piece of gravel with the toe of his polished wingtip shoe. “And I thought I was gonna get to be in the mob. I really wanted to threaten someone to talk or I’d make them sleep with the fishes.”

“If we’re going to track down this drag queen, we’re going to have to change our tactics,” Jim thought out loud.

“Track down the cross-dresser,” Brian muttered in disbelief. “I hate to tell you this, Jim, but our chances of doing that are slim to none. We suck as detectives.”

“We’ve only been investigating for a few hours,” Jim told him.

Brian snorted and rolled his eyes. “By now, Trixie would’ve tracked down the drag queen AND repossessed the painting.”

“Well, we’re never going to make any progress if we don’t keep looking.”

“Face it, Jim: this is hopeless.” Brian threw his arms up in disgust. “We’d be better off calling Jack and admitting that we have no idea what we’re doing. That way Mr. Hughes cou—”

“That way Mr. Hughes could fire Keenan Investigations?” Jim supplied in a cross tone. “Bad mouth them all over Southern California? Soil the reputation that Ralph has worked for years to earn?”

“It might not—”

“Take away Ralph’s source of income and force him to live on food stamps?” Jim went on. He looked out of the corner of his eye to see if Brian was buying it. Discerning his friend was straddling the fence, he laid it on a bit thicker. “Kick him out of his house and make him live on the streets? Strip him of all that he’s worked for, for over thirty years? Why don’t we just tell him his wife is dead and that his daughter went into prostitution?”

“He has a daughter?”

“I don’t know, but would you want your daughter to become a hooker?” Jim looked at Brian, a serious expression clouding his handsome features. “It seems to be a popular career choice around here…”

“Okay, okay,” Brian agreed half-heartedly. “Even though it’s hopeless, we’ll keep looking.”

“It’s not hopeless,” Jim argued. “Like I said earlier, we just need to change our tactics.”

Brian raised a skeptical brow. “To what?”

“I have some ideas,” Jim murmured quietly, as they approached a young lady. “Follow my lead and try not to give me away.”

“You mean like I did with Jack?” Brian asked in a low voice, an angelic expression belying his devilish insinuation.

Jim merely responded with an irritated smirk.

“Okay, I’ll be good,” Brian whispered as they approached the woman who hustled towards them.

The lady, who appeared to be in her early twenties, seemed to be in her own little world as she made her way down West Street. The bangs of her long, curly, bleached blonde hair were teased into a tall wall. Enormous gold hoops hung from her earlobes, almost grazing the tips of her shoulders. Her makeup was carefully applied, although it was an understatement to say that it was a bit on the flashy side. Her electric blue mascara and dark purple eye shadow were interesting, to say the least.

She was clad in a lime green baggy sweater. The sleeves were pushed up around her elbows, revealing several variously-colored jelly bracelets. Her fuchsia fingernails were complemented by the Madonna-esque fingerless gloves she was wearing.

A large, oversized, white belt hung haphazardly over the sweater, and was positioned below her waist, the buckle slightly askew from the center. Her well-worn jeans had several strategically-placed rips in the pastel-striped fabric. The cuffs of her pants were completely covered by a pair of outrageous rainbow-colored legwarmers, which flopped over the tops of her scuffed sneakers.

To sum it up, she looked like a “Footloose” extra reject.

“Excuse me,” Jim said, flashing the woman a friendly smile. “I was wondering if you could help me find someone.”

Eighties-Girl stopped on the sidewalk and warily eyeballed Jim and Brian from head to toe. After thoughtfully chomping on the chewing gum in her mouth, she replied, “Sorry, can’t help you.” She hitched her large badge-covered denim purse back on her shoulder and turned to leave.

“Wait a second,” Jim pleaded. “Can you just tell us if you’ve seen this person? It’ll only take a moment.” He paused, then added as earnestly as possible, “Please? It’s really important.”

Eighties-Girl snapped her gum, and then whisked the photograph out of Jim’s hand. After barely glancing at it, she handed it back to him and said, “Don’t know her.”

“You didn’t even look at it,” Brian pointed out, his voice not hiding his annoyance.

Eighties-Girl merely turned her attention to Brian and blew a big bubble with her gum. After the bubble popped, she pulled the gum out in a long strand, twisted it around it her finger, then popped it back into her mouth and resumed her chomping. Narrowing her electric blue-accented gaze, she squared her shoulders and replied, “Sorry, but I’m too busy to talk to narks. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have lines to memorize.” She turned on her heel and began walking towards a tumbledown apartment building.

“Yeah, that plan reeeeally worked,” Brian muttered sarcastically under his breath. “Is it time to call Jack yet?”

Ignoring his friend’s taunts, Jim called out to the girl, “Well, if you happen to see the person in the picture, tell her some executives from New Line Cinema were looking for her.”

Eighties-Girl stopped in her tracks. After waiting an entire minute, she turned around and practically skipped to where Jim and Brian were standing.

“Where did you say you were from?” she asked, her carefully plucked brown eyebrows lowered inquisitively.

Jim nervously cleared his throat, and then answered, “New Line Cinema.”

“The New Line Cinema that makes movies?” Eighties-Girl clarified, pursing her magenta-tinted lips.

“Yes,” Jim nodded, trying his best to look like an executive for a production studio, although he didn’t know exactly how an executive for a movie studio should look.

Brian stepped back. He’d never admit it in a million years, but he was impressed with these new tactics. Very impressed.

Jim offered the blonde his hand to shake. “I’m Brock. Brock Ridgetop, Assistant Vice-President of Prospective Features for New Line.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Ridgetop,” the blonde gushed as she shook Jim’s hand.

Brian then shook her hand. “Reed Riverton,” he told her, a big smile plastered on his face. “Secondary Executive Best Boy, also with New Line.”

Eighties-Girl giggled in delight and flirtatiously batted her electric blue eyelashes. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Riverton.”

“Oh, no,” Jim murmured with a lopsided grin, “the pleasure is all ours.”

“Wow, real executives with New Line,” the young woman exclaimed, her cheeks flushed and stars in her eyes.

“Are you familiar with our work?” Brian questioned.

“Uh, ye-ah,” Eighties-Girl drawled in an exasperated voice. Realizing how rude she sounded, she quickly assumed a contrite expression. “I mean, of course I’ve heard of New Line Cinema. I mean, Lord of the Rings. Hello?”

Jim merely crossed his arms, smirked at the young woman and nodded in response.

“Uh… can I… like… see that picture again?” Eighties-Girl requested, trying not to chomp on her bubble gum. “Maybe I can help you, after all.”

“I thought you said you hadn’t seen the person in the photograph?” Jim reminded her. His expression seemed to project the feeling that he could care less if this woman accepted his plea for assistance.

“Well, I can’t be sure unless I study it carefully,” she stammered as she nervously twisted a bleached blonde curl.

“What about those lines you had to memorize?” Brian asked.

Eighties-Girl scowled at him as she anxiously stuck a fingerless-gloved hand into the pocket of her ripped jeans. “Well, I might have time to help you out, since you aren’t narks or anything…”

Stifling a satisfied smile, Jim held out the photo of Shannequa Montage. Eighties-Girl took the picture and carefully studied it.

“Have you seen her?” Brian questioned. “She goes by the stage name Shannequa Montage.”

Eighties-Girl scrunched her face as she stared at the picture. “I may have seen her around. She does look kind of familiar. Why do you need to find her?”

Jim and Brian looked at each other. Brian discreetly nodded to his friend, urging him to say something.

“We’re… uhhh… doing a remake of ‘The Wiz’,” he explained. “Our sources told us that this performer would be perfect in the Diana Ross role.”

Eighties-Girl shrugged as she looked at the photo. “I guess so.” She worried her bottom lip, as she appeared to ponder something. “So uhhh… Shannequa’s gonna play Dorothy?”

“Dorothy?” Jim repeated in confusion.

“Yeah, the Dorothy character.” Eighties-Girl laughed, apparently thinking that Jim was evading her question. “You know, the one who… like… gets taken to Oz in the tornado… The role Diana Ross played?”

“Right, right,” Jim nodded. “We’re uhhh… looking for Shannequa to offer her that role. But we’re uhhh…”

“Looking for someone to play Glenda,” Brian supplied helpfully, noticing Eighties-Girl’s disappointment. “We’re out looking for fresh young faces to audition for the role.” He narrowed his deep brown eyes and studied the young woman thoughtfully. “You wouldn’t happen to know any struggling, talented actresses who’d like to try out for a role in a major movie, would you?”

“Oh…my…gawd!” Eighties-Girl exclaimed in delight. “Are you serious? It’s my dream to star in a remake of ‘The Wizard of Oz’! And I’d be just perfect for the part. I sing, I dance, I act—”

“Great,” Jim interrupted with a big smile. “How about we give you our number, and if you find Shannequa, we’ll set up an audition for you both?”

Eighties-Girl shrieked and hopped around in a circle. After her excitement waned, she bounded to Jim’s side and clutched his arm. “I can sing for you now, if you’d like.”

Jim quirked his ginger brows, as he tried to think of a clever way to discourage her from bursting out in song. “No need to do that, miss. I mean, I’m sure you don’t have anything prepared, and I wouldn’t want—”

“It’s no problem at all!” She cleared her throat, and then proceeded to sing a slightly flat, as well as extremely annoying, rendition of the “Annie” show tune, “Tomorrow”.

“The sun’ll come out *pause* tomorrow… Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, *bobbing head* there’ll be *labored pause* suuun…”

“Okay,” Jim interrupted, clapping his hands in feigned approval, “that was… fabulous, but I wouldn’t want for you to lose your voi—”

Eighties-Girl shook her head excitedly, her teased curls surprisingly not budging an inch. “Oh, I won’t lose my voice. I could…like…sing all day!” She cleared her throat, then belted out, “The hiiiiills are aliiiive *gasp* with the sound of mmmyooo-ziiiic—”

Cringing slightly at her mildly-flat, yet slightly-sharp, version of the song, Brian interrupted, “That is some voice you have there. I have a feeling that we’ll be ca—”

“If you don’t like show tunes, I can do popular songs, too,” the girl offered hopefully. “Like a virgin… hey! *flipping hands in the air* Touched for the very first time… *sultry wiggle* Like a vir-ir-ir-ir-gin… with your heartbe—”

“Okay, we really have to go now, but we’ll keep in touch,” Jim promised, his headache quickly returning after the impromptu concert. He grabbed the sleeve of Brian’s jacket and discreetly jerked it as a signal to make their getaway.

“Wait!” Eighties-Girl squealed. “You didn’t give me your number! How can I… like…call you? Or would it be better for you to call me?”

Jim nervously chuckled, and jokingly slapped his forehead. “I can’t believe I forgot that.” He pulled a notepad and a pen out of the pocket of his jacket and hastily scribbled down his cell phone number. “If somebody named Jim answers, just ask for me. Jim’s my… uhhh… assistant, and answers my cell phone sometimes.”

Suddenly a thought came to him, and he withdrew the piece of paper out of her reach. “On second thought, my phone’s been acting kind of freaky lately, so maybe I should phone you instead. I wouldn’t want to miss your call.” He stuffed his cell phone number into his pocket, safely out of her reach.

“OK,” the girl said with a shrug. “Whatever.”

After exchanging some eye wiggles, Jim and Brian tried to make a quick exit.

“And don’t you need my name?” the young woman asked helpfully, ceasing their progress.

After exchanging an exasperated sigh, the “gumshoes” resigned themselves to extending this conversation. Before turning back to Eighties-Girl, Jim whispered, “If she starts singing again, I’m outta here…”

“You can’t leave without getting my number,” she laughed. “How would you call me?”

Brian’s dark brows creased, and he commented, “You’re right. How could we make a mistake like that?” He nodded to Jim. “You’d better write this down, Brick.”

“Brock,” Jim muttered as he positioned his pen for writing.

Thankfully, Eighties-Girl didn’t seem to notice. “My name’s Starla. Starla Gaucherié.”

Brian’s brows went from furrowed to slightly raised. “Is that really your name?”

Starla giggled and flipped back a solid mass of hair, which was matted together with an excessive amount of styling spritz. “No, my real name is Karen Greathouse, but my agent told me to change it. So since I want to become a star, I picked ‘Starla’.”

“And did you say your last name was ‘Gaucherié’?” Brian questioned incredulously.

Starla nodded, her electric blue-accented eyes wide. “At an audition, a director said I possessed ‘gaucherie’. I thought it sounded so cool that I picked it as my last name.”

“He said your acting was ‘gaucherie’?” Brian bit his lip in an effort to stifle a chortle. One couldn’t have Mart as a brother without becoming familiar with several normally unused words. “And did you like it when he called you that?”

“Oh, yes!” Starla gushed, her cheeks flushed with pleasure. “I thought it sounded so French. I knew it had to mean something wonderful.”

Brian’s lips twitched. “Did you get the part you were auditioning for?”

Starla shook her head sadly. “No, I waited and waited, but the director never called me. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering,” he commented wryly. Not intending to sound uncaring, he smiled sympathetically and added, “It’s a shame that you didn’t get the role.”

“Yeah,” Starla answered in a resigned voice. After a moment, a proud smirk parted her thin magenta-colored lips. “I am in an off-off-Broadway musical, though. It’s called ‘The Jack-in-the-Box Massacres’ and is really good.”

“ ‘The Jack-in-the-Box Massacres’?” Jim repeated carefully, the words not seeming to jibe in his mind. “And it’s a musical?”

Starla nodded enthusiastically. “The writer’s supposed to be the next Neil Simon. I can get you a copy of it, if you’re interes—”

“No, no!” Jim interrupted hastily. He plastered a smile on his face, and then added, “I mean, we can’t take on more than one big project at a time. Perhaps someday down the road…”

“Uh, Brock, don’t we have a meeting to go to?” Brian cleared his throat and waggled his eyebrows to make sure Jim picked up on the hint.

“Right, right,” Jim murmured, feigning disappointment that this conversation was forced to come to an end. “It’s been a pleasure talking to you, Miss Gaucherié, but we really ne—”

“You forgot to get my number again, silly,” Starla said with a titter, as she pushed her sweater’s sleeves back up past her elbows.

Jim nervously laughed and threw up his hands in disbelief. “I can’t believe that I keep forgetting that.” He readied the pen and notebook that he’d been holding. “Okay, what is it?”

“My phone number’s 213-555-5839,” she carefully recited, watching Jim as he scribbled it down in his notepad. “And my first name’s Starla, sort of like starlet but with a ‘la’ instead of a ‘let,’ and my last name’s G-A-U-C-H-E-R-I-and an E with one of those funny do-dads on it to make it look French.”

Jim nodded and carefully wrote down her name and telephone number. He made a mental note to immediately place said name and number in the nearest trash receptacle he could find after Starla’s exit.

“I’ve got it,” he assured her, tucking the pen and the small tablet ever so carefully into his pocket. “Now, you’d better go practice those lines, Miss Gaucherié. Reed and I wouldn’t want to be responsible for ruining your musical. After all, the show must go on!”

“Thank you ever so much,” Starla gushed, almost bowing in front of them. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you!” After a final airy giggle, she turned and practically skipped to her apartment building, turning around every few leaps to wave exuberantly to Jim and Brian.

Once she was safely inside her building, Brian exhaled loudly. “Whew! That was exhausting!”

“You have no idea,” Jim muttered, pulling his fedora off and raking a freckled hand through his dark red hair. “All that trouble and we still don’t have any leads.”

“Ready to give up?”

“Are you kidding?” Jim snorted. “Go back to Palmer and admit that I can’t do his job? The only way I’m going back to that office without the information we came for is in a body bag.”

Brian shook his head despondently. “I sure hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Jim cast his friend a withering glance as he walked over to the large trash receptacle by the side of the road. He tossed Starla’s number in it, allowing the slip of paper to flutter down and rest upon an old, moldy peach that someone had discarded.

“That was a complete waste of time,” he mumbled to himself. Jim was seriously considering phoning Dan and begging for advice when suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, something caught his attention. Or rather, someone.

“Psst! Brian!” He looked over at his friend who was busy gawking at some tourists who were posing for photos by a rather risqué shop window. “Brian!”

Brian looked up and drew his eyebrows close together. “What’s up?”

Jim motioned him to his side. “Hey, look over there, walking towards the Funky Monkey. Who does that look like?”

Brian grinned in response. “An ugly Diana Ross.”

Jim nodded, his green eyes twinkling in delight. He solemnly placed his fedora back on his head and carefully adjusted it over one eye. “Let’s go.”

Jim and Brian tried not to look too conspicuous as they muddled through the crowd at the Funky Monkey. Several men danced to the beat of the music, as a sparkly rainbow-colored disco ball cast its beams sporadically around the room, creating a chaotic atmosphere.

The males in the club were clad in varying degrees of costume. A few appeared to have the same executive look as Jim and Brian, and a couple even had a biker appearance. However, the majority of the crowd was dressed in effeminate apparel, several going all out in drag.

It was the understatement of the year to say that Mr. Responsible and Mr. Honorable were out of their element.

Jim stuck his hands in his pockets to avoid the temptation to slug the patrons who “accidentally” brushed up against him. Brian made a mental note to thoroughly wash his hands after leaving and placed his hands in his pockets to avoid touching anything unnecessarily.

“I wonder if they disinfect your suit when they dry-clean it,” he wondered aloud.

“Huh?” Jim questioned, motioning to the all “girl” band playing a rather noisy version of the old song “Tequila” on the stage. “I couldn’t hear you!”

“I wonder if the drycleaner can disinfect my suit!” Brian repeated a bit louder.

Jim shook his head, a wry grin on his face. “I think these clothes should be burned after this experience. Might help in the cleansing ritual.”

The two men tried to squelch their uneasiness as they studied the activity in the room. Both looked around for a glimpse of Shannequa Montage.

“Do you see her?” Brian asked loudly.

Jim merely shook his head. “Maybe she’s in the back getting ready for her performance.”

“We can only hope,” Brian chortled sarcastically.

“We could ask someone,” Jim suggested.

“Go ahead,” Brian snickered, pointing to a man-like creature who was wearing a pink leather ensemble, complete with a glittery rhinestone tiara and violet feather boa. “I dare you to ask him.” He paused as an impish grin took up half his face. “In fact, I double dog dare you.”

“Dude, you skipped the double dare and went straight to the double dog. You can’t breech the dare etiquette like that.”

“You scared?” Brian asked with a smirk. “All right, I quadruple dog dare you!”

“Now, that’s just wrong,” Jim sputtered nervously. “You skipped the triple dog dare entirely, and for that matter, I’ve never heard of a quadruple dog dare.”

“It’s never been necessary before. So are you gonna do it, or are you yella’?” Brian challenged, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“I’m not yellow,” Jim snapped, ramming his index finger into Brian’s chest. “But I’m not pink, either. You ask him.”

“This mission was your idea,” Brian reminded him. “I don’t really care if we look like failures in front of Palmer or not. As far as I’m concerned, we can call him up now and admit defeat.”

Jim gave his fellow gumshoe a nasty look, and after muttering some choice words under his breath, he strode in a manly manner over to the pink-clad patron.

“Excuse me,” Jim replied, easily gaining Pinkie’s attention, “but I’m looking for a tall, thin man who looks like Diana Ross.”

“Aren’t we all, Woody,” Pinkie murmured huskily as he playfully swatted Jim’s broad chest with his purple feather boa.

“W-w-woody?” Jim choked, backing a bit farther away from Pinkie.

“Woody Woodpecker,” the man drawled with a lisp. “I see your red hair peeking out from under that hat. Tell me, Woody, if I tickle you with my feather boa, will you…” Pinkie threw his head back and imitated the rascally cartoon bird’s unmistakable laugh. After he finished, he tickled Jim’s cheek with the tip of his boa, and asked, “Will you laugh like that, Woody?”

Balling up his fists, Jim growled, “No.”

“Ooh, you’re testy,” Pinkie exclaimed, throwing up his acrylic nail-tipped fingers. “Sounds like you need a massage to help calm you down, big boy. But don’t you worry, Woody. I like my men with a little bit of spice in them.”

Resisting the urge to punch Pinkie in the mouth, Jim turned around and strode silently back to Brian who was hooting with laughter.

“Not one word,” Jim threatened through clenched teeth.

“Anything you say… Woody.” Brian gasped for air as he howled in mirth. After several minutes of hearty chuckling, he wheezed, “Oh, I can’t breathe.”

“If you need mouth-to-mouth, I’m gonna ask Pinkie over there to give it to you,” Jim grumbled, still not recovered from the blow to his manhood.

“Hey, except for all the tattoos and the mean, scary expression, the bartender looks kind of normal,” Brian commented as he pointed to the large man behind the counter. “Let’s ask him.”

“Fine,” Jim agreed reluctantly, after a long pause. He followed his friend to the bar. They both sat down on stools and waited for the bartender to notice them.

It didn’t take long for the bearded, tattooed man on the other side of the counter to cast a wary glance in their direction. “What do you need?” he barked. “To drink, that is,” he gruffly added a second later, as if his previous question had usually received an answer other than a drink order.

“I’ll take a Pepsi or a Coke, whatever you got,” Jim answered.

The burly man grunted and quickly set a Coke down on the counter in front of Jim. Turning to Brian, he questioned, “And what about you?”

“I’m not really thirsty,” Brian answered, wondering how sanitary the glasses were in this establishment. At Jim’s nudge, he asked, “Do you have any juice?”

“I think we got some OJ,” the bartender replied without any excitement.

“I’ll take that.”

As the man behind the bar poured Brian’s orange juice, the two “gumshoes” scanned the club for any sign of Shannequa Montage.

“Are you sure she came in here?” Brian inquired quietly.

“Pretty sure,” Jim answered, taking a drink of his Coke. “Should we ask him?” He nodded toward the burly man getting Brian’s drink.

Brian shrugged. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt. Go ahead.”

“It’s your turn,” Jim said, pausing to take another drink of his pop. “I talked to Pinkie, so you start the convo with Burly.”

“Okay,” Brian agreed halfheartedly. After the bartender set the glass of orange juice in front of him, Brian tried to start a conversation.

“So, you like working here?” he questioned in a casual tone.

“No,” the brawny man grunted.

“Why don’t you find another job?”

“Because the parole board said I had to work here,” the bartender growled as he cracked his knuckles loudly. “With my record, nobody else wanted to hire me.”

“Bummer,” Brian mumbled as he looked around at the flamboyantly-dressed crowd.

That got a rueful grin from Burly. “No kiddin’. Of all the bars in La-la land, I get stuck servin’ strawberry daiquiris to a bunch of drag queens.” He grabbed a rag and began wiping down the counter, preparing for more customers.

Jim discreetly nudged Brian’s arm. “Keep going,” he urged quietly. “You’re doing good.”

Brian snorted. “Good?”

“Well, he hasn’t threatened to kill you, so that’s a good sign.” Jim motioned towards the hulk of a bartender.

Brian nervously cleared his throat. “So uhhh… Has it been busy tonight?”

Burly glanced up from his work. “Guess so.”

“Ummm… What acts are lined up for the evening?”

The beardy man squinted his eyes and studied Brian suspiciously. “Why do you keep talkin’ to me?”

Brian threw his hands up in surprise at the question, then snorted, “Just trying to be friendly.”

The bartender threw the rag he was holding in the sink behind the counter and assumed a menacing stance. “Listen buddy, I may work in a gay bar, but I’m not funny. So if you and your boyfriend are lookin’ for a date, then yo—”

“Date?” Brian gasped, jumping up from his bar stool in horrified surprise. “I’m not looking for a date! I’ve got a girlfriend, and she’s a woman!”

“And I’m engaged to his sister!” Jim pointed out loudly. “And she’s a girl, too!”

Burly leaned over the counter in front of his customers. The stance made him look quite large and, if possible, even more intimidating. “So whattaya want?” He quickly sized them up, and then asked, “Are you two narks?”

“Narks?” Brian repeated incredulously. “Are you kidding? We’re not narks.”

“I don’t serve narks,” the man said in a threatening tone. “So if you’re a frickin’ stool pigeon, then you can just pay your bill and get outta here.”

Brian and Jim exchanged an anxious glance. With a shrug, Jim stood and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket to pay their tab. As he fished out a thick wad of bills, he couldn’t help but notice the gleam in the bartender’s steel-gray eyes.

“We didn’t mean to cause any trouble, buddy,” Jim casually said. “We just thought you might be able to help us locate someone. We were planning to reimburse you for any helpful information you could offer, but since you aren’t interested…”

Staring longingly at the bills in Jim’s freckled hands, Burly managed to choke out, “So you ain’t narks?”

Jim shook his head. “I promise that we aren’t with the police, CIA, FBI or anything. We’re just trying to find the person in this picture so we can ask her some questions. She won’t get into trouble.”

The bartender stood upright and rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “Well, since you ain’t narks, I might be able to help you out.” He cast a pointed glance at the wad of money Jim held in his hands.

Jim smiled slyly and plunked a twenty-dollar bill down in front of Burly. “Do you want to help now?”

“Maybe.” The man quickly deposited the money in the pocket of his leather vest. “Whattaya wanna know?”

“Have you seen this person?” Brian laid the photograph of Shannequa Montage down in front of the bartender.

The bearded man behind the counter merely crossed his arms and stared at Jim.

Receiving the hint, Jim singled out another twenty and pushed it towards Burly. “Have you seen this person?”

The bartender grinned and picked up the picture and the money. “I dunno know. I’m tryin’ to remember…”

Jim placed another Andrew Jackson on the counter. “Do you remember now?”

Burly pocketed the bill. “It’s slowly comin’ back to me.” He looked again at the wad of cash Jim held.

Jim peeled off another twenty and waved it in front of the bartender. “Does this ring any bells?”

Burly snatched it out of Jim’s hand. “It might.” After stashing the money in his pocket, he carefully studied the photo.

Brian rolled his eyes impatiently. “So, does she look familiar?”

The bartender pretended not to hear, until Jim handed him another bill. “Does she look familiar?” Jim repeated.

“Never seen her,” Burly answered, sticking the money in his pocket.

“Oh, really?” Jim smiled in disbelief and placed another twenty on the counter. “Are you positive you don’t recognize this person?”

The man picked up the money and placed it in his pocket. “I’m positive that I ain’t never seen her.”

“Come on,” Jim snorted, selecting another Andrew Jackson from his quickly dwindling stack. “Tell us what you know.”

Burly added that bill to his quickly growing collection, and then shrugged. “I dunno nothin’. If I remembered seein’ that ugly dame, I woulda told you. And believe me, a broad that ugly woulda been hard to forget.”

Growing weary of this game, Jim angrily peeled off another crisp bill and once again laid it in front of the bartender. “Does this bring back any memories?”

Burly’s expression was almost guilty as he deposited the money in his leather vest’s pocket. “Save your lettuce, buddy. I’m tellin’ the truth. I ain’t never seen her. Believe me, I’d remember a face that scary, even if I was totally plastered when I seen her. That’s the kinda face only a guy in the slammer fifty years could love.”

“Don’t quit now, Jim. We’re wearing him down,” Brian whispered to his partner.

“What’s this ‘we’ business?” Jim snickered. “It’s my money that’s doing the wearing.”

“Don’t get cheap now, Jim. A couple more twenties and he’ll sing like a bird.”

“A couple more twenties and I’ll be busted,” Jim muttered. However, he was determined to acquire this information at any cost, so he plunked down another twenty-dollar bill.

The bartender looked longingly at the money, but then pushed it closer to Jim. “I told you, mister, I don’t recognize the chick in the picture, and that’s on the level. I honestly can’t make her.”

“Take it,” Brian prodded, pushing it closer to Burly. “And there’s more where that came from.”

“Not many more,” Jim mumbled, wondering where the nearest ATM was in this town, and if he dared go to it.

The man’s bulky shoulders sagged as he reluctantly picked up the money and put it in his pocket. “Do yourself a favor, fellas. Don’t offer me no more, ‘cuz I do—”

“Al!” a high-pitched voice suddenly exclaimed, startling the three men. “No patronizing with the customers. No matter how yummy they look.”

A slender man sashayed over to where the bartender stood. The newcomer was clad in a turquoise kimono, had his face painted white, and was wearing bright red lipstick. His spiked, black hair had the tips frosted and was complemented by a large magnolia blossom, which he had tucked behind his ear. Kimono-Boy cast an appreciative glance at Brian and Jim, then turned his attention back to the bartender, who was apparently named Al.

“I don’t care how enticing our customers are, you need to get back to work, Al,” Kimono-Boy scolded the bartender impatiently. “This is your first day on the job, and I’d really hate to tell your parole officer that you’re spending all your time flirting with the clientele.”

“First day on the job?” Jim grimly repeated, realizing Al wouldn’t have had a chance to become familiar with the customers or performers in the club since this was his first night at the Funky Monkey. He looked at Kimono-Boy weakly. “Are you serious?”

Kimono-Boy blew a kiss to Jim. “I can be anything you want me to be, Sugarcane.”

After making a face at the bartender’s boss, Jim turned his attention back to Al. “Why didn’t you tell us this was your first day on the job?”

“You didn’t ask,” Al answered with a shrug. He picked up Jim and Brian’s empty glasses and carried them over to the sink. Feeling remorseful, he turned to his boss. “Hey, Dominique. These dudes gotta picture of someone they’re tryin’ to find. Could you take a quick peek and see if you recognize the person in the photo?”

Dominique pursed his red-painted lips thoughtfully as he considered Al’s request. With a shrug of his slender shoulders, he reached for the 8 by 10. “I just love looking at photographs.”

Brian handed it to him. “Anybody you know?”

“Sure,” Dominique replied, handing the picture back. “That’s Shannequa Montage, one of the biggest talents we have here at the Funky Monkey.”

Jim and Brian exchanged smug glances.

“She’s gotta great act,” Dominique added enthusiastically. “You should just hear her version of ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough’! Girlfriend, that Shannequa can wail!”

“Really?” Jim nodded thoughtfully. “Sounds like something me and my friend would be interested in seeing. What time’s she on?”

“I’m sorry, Sugarcane, but you just missed her,” Dominique said with a pout. “But she’ll be here tomorrow night around nine, if you want to see her then. She requested the early show.”

Jim shifted around on his stool, quite uncomfortable with the fond glances Dominique was giving him. “Uh… sure…” he mumbled.

“I’ll even save a seat for you and your boyfriend,” Dominique cooed. He turned and winked at Brian.

Ignoring Dominique’s flirting, Jim stood up and adjusted his fedora. “Shannequa. Tomorrow night. Nine o’clock.”

Brian followed Jim’s lead and rose to his feet. “So how much do we owe you for the drinks?”

“They’re on the house, Panther,” Dominique purred in a husky tone. “See you boys tomorrow night.”

With a curt nod to Dominique, and a look of pity to Al, Jim and Brian tucked their newly-acquired information away and bolted for the sanctuary of the crime-ridden streets.

Wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead, Brian gasped, “I never want to go back there again, for as long as I live!”

Jim loosened the brown and olive tie that complemented his suit. “As scary as it will be, we have to go back there. Tomorrow night. To see Shannequa.”

“Please don’t make me go in there again!” Brian cried desperately. “They look at me… like they like me.” Brian’s shiver had nothing to do with the slightly chilly weather. “I feel so cheap and tawdry.”

“I know, but tomorrow won’t be as bad. We’ll get there right at nine, wait for Shannequa, and as soon as we get the information, we leave.”

Several furtive glances in the shadows told Jim and Brian that many unsavory characters lurked in doorways. Remembering Trixie and Honey’s advice, they confidently, yet quickly, strode down the street, eager to reach the safety of the Mercedes. They passed from West Street to Wellington, and then on to 50^th. Just as they were nearing Sixth, Jim’s cell phone chirped. Startled by its ringing, he jumped, and then quickly fished it out of his pocket.

“Hello?”

“Jib?”

Jim thought he recognized the voice in spite of its weak, sickly state, but he wasn’t positive. “Trixie?”

“Yeah, it’s be.”

Jim almost chuckled at her misspeak. “Hey, Shamus. How are you feeling?”

“Biserable,” she answered, her nose obviously clogged up.

“What?”

“Biserable,” Trixie repeated impatiently.

“Biserable?” Jim’s brows furrowed in confusion.

“Bis-er-a-ble!” Trixie exhaled loudly to show her exasperation. “According to Bart, who cabe by to drop off sobe of Bobs’ beef broth, by ‘ebb’s’ sound like ‘b’s’.”

“Mart said your ‘m’s’ sound like ‘b’s’?” Jim clarified with a slight smile.

“Exactly. But that’s okay. I breathed on hib and gave hib by gerbs.”

Jim chuckled. “Well, sweetie, your cold does sound a lot worse.”

“How’s the case going?” Trixie paused for a moment to blow her nose loudly. Jim grimaced and held the phone away from his ear as he waited for her to come back on the line. “Have you found Shannequa Bontage?”

“Not yet, but we just got a great lead,” Jim told her proudly. “I think we’ll easily be able to wrap this up tomorrow night and come home.”

“Really?” Trixie exclaimed in surprise. “I bean, that’s wonderful. Honey and I knew you’d bake good detectives.” She paused, then added with a giggle, “After all, you did study with the best— Schoolgirl Shabuses, Inc.”

“We sure did,” Jim agreed with a grin.

“Has Brian broken out in hives yet?” Trixie’s sentence concluded with a noisy yawn. “He seebed nervous when you left.”

“He’s doing fine, sweetheart,” Jim assured her. “You and Honey would be quite proud of him. Now, why don’t you go back to bed? You sound tired.”

“I ab tired,” Trixie agreed. “I just took sobe Nyquil, which is why I’b up. I just wanted to check on by ban to see how he was doing.”

Jim’s lips twitched in amusement. “Your ban… er, man is doing fine. In fact, I’m doing so good that I’m thinking about joining the Belden-Wheeler Detective Agency when I get home.”

“That’s nice, Jibby,” Trixie murmured, obviously half-asleep.

“Go to bed, baby,” Jim laughed.

“Okay,” Trixie murmured with a yawn. “I love you, Jib.”

“I love you, too, Shamus.” Jim hit the end button on his cell phone. He had a silly grin on his face as he placed the phone back in his pocket.

“I assume that was my sister?” Brian prompted.

“Yeah,” Jim replied, his dopey smile still in place.

“Jim, it’s great you’re so smitten and all, but can we pick up the pace?” Brian asked nervously. “We’re not exactly in the safest of neighborhoods here…”

“Right,” Jim agreed, as he noticed several rough-looking characters studying them.

Thankfully, they passed from 50^th to Sixth where they had parked the Benz. The two men walked to the space beside the Purple Oyster where they had left the car. They looked around, but no Mercedes.

“Where’s the car?” Brian questioned, a sinking feeling in his gut.

“I dunno. Isn’t this where we left it?”

“Yep.” Brian covered his eyes with his hand, a sad realization slowly sinking in.

“So where is it?”

“That, my friend, is the $100,000 question,” Brian mumbled. “I told you we shouldn’t have gotten a Benz. This wouldn’t have happened if you would’ve gotten something normal. But noooo… Jim had to have a Mercedes.”

Jim ignored his friend’s taunts, and instead looked around the street. He spied a group of young men sitting in the doorway of the liquor store beside the Oyster. “Hey, maybe they saw who towed it.”

“Maybe.”

“Should we ask them?” Jim asked.

Brian carefully studied the group. He wasn’t sure, but if MTV was an accurate reflection of society, these young people appeared to be in a gang of some sort.

“I don’t think I’d do that, Jim,” Brian advised nervously. “They look like gang members to me.”

“Come on, Bri,” Jim chuckled. “One of our best friends used to be in a gang. Don’t be so judgmental.”

Brian studied Jim through narrowed eyes. “Dan was in the Cowhands, Jim. The Cowhands. They wore cowboy boots and had their names painted on the backs of their jackets with white paint. I don’t think they’re in the same category as the Bloods and the Cryps.”

Jim looked at the group and then back at Brian. “They’re a bunch of teenagers with their boxer shorts sticking out of the waistbands of their pants. They look harmless.”

“Harmless?” Brian repeated skeptically. “Haven’t you seen ‘Boyz in the Hood’? They probably have Lugers stuffed someplace in those ridiculous-looking jeans.”

“But they might know where our car went!”

“Oh, I’m sure they do,” Brian snickered. “But seeing as how I left my ‘nine’ at home, I’d rather avoid a confrontation which might prove to be fatal.”

“I’ll just ask them where the tow truck took the Benz, and then we’ll go,” Jim suggested.

“Most likely, a tow truck didn’t take the car; it was stolen,” Brian informed him with a roll of his eyes. “And I’d be willing to wager that they are the ones who stole it, or that they are associates of those who did.”

Jim practically twitched with pent-up frustration. “So what do we do?”

“We get in that cab across the street, and leave while we’re still alive,” Brian muttered.

“We leave the car?” Jim questioned incredulously.

Brian nodded. “We leave the car.”

“I don’t know.” Jim crossed his arms defiantly as he stared at the gang of young men. “I think we can take them.” Suddenly, his attention fell upon a silvery glint shining from one of the teens’ waistbands. Further inspection proved his suspicions; the young man had a handgun tucked in the top of his boxer shorts, which were peeking out of his low-riding jeans.

“Okay,” Jim agreed hastily. “You win. Last one to that cab is a rotten egg.”

“I hope they didn’t hear you say that,” Brian grinned as he raced his friend to the taxi parked across the street.

It was a tie as they clambered into the waiting cab at the same time. After giving the driver the name of their hotel, Jim breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Safe at last.”

He noticed his dark-haired friend was silent as they rode down the LA streets. He looked over at him and saw that Brian’s head was leaning against the window of the taxi.

“You okay, Brian?” Jim whispered.

“This isn’t going well,” Brian snorted, wondering what disaster the next day would bring.

Jim huffed indignantly. “It’s not going that bad.”

“Are we even working on the same case?” Brian shook his head and laughed in disbelief.

“We’ve got it all under control,” Jim stated firmly.

Brian rolled his eyes, and then muttered under his breath, “We are so screwed.”

Credits:

This is Jixemitri CWP #3. Required elements used here were: a snack food (pick one! We’ve got beef jerky and an assortment of food mentioned in the scene with “Babu,” the song “Tequila” (sung by the “all girl” band at the Funky Monkey), moldy fruit (the moldy peach inside the trash can into which Starla’s number is thrown {a peach was chosen because those are particularly nasty when moldy, IMCO}), and a picture taking tourist (outside the risqué shop near the Funky Monkey). Stay tuned for the vibrator, slinky, and someone losing keys.

A huge thank you to my diligent editors, Steph and the inKredible ‘K’s: Kaye and Kathy. You ladies ROCK!

Thank you to Kaye for all her Pakistani dialect instructions. Hopefully, taking those suggestions will make up for my refusal to change “squalling” and “narks”. In WV, tires “squall” when going around a sharp curve, and it’s in the dictionary as such, so I’m guessing they “squall” in other places, too. *G* And according to my slang dictionary, a “nark” is a tattletale, so I kept that spelling.

“Stuck You” is my own little evil name for a tattoo shop. If you’re opening one and would like to use that name, feel free. I’m not planning on opening one myself, so I won’t be needing that name. *snort*

To my knowledge, all street and business names are my own creation. Any resemblance to real places is totally coincidental.

For all you NASCAR-challenged people out there, Jeff Gordon is a four-time Winston Cup Champion. Give him a year or so, and he’ll be a Nextel Cup Champion, too. And yes, he’s my favorite racer. Sorry, Steph. As much as I ‘dore you, I couldn’t bring myself to replace Jeffy-poo with Junior. *wink*

Quick Pick is actually a convenience store in our area. I was desperate for a name, and that one sounded perfect.

The Pakistani cashier is based on the Babu Bhatt character on the Seinfeld television show. He’s one of my favorite guest characters on there, and I decided to give him a cameo at The Cameo. Not that there’s anything wrong with that…

Too many products were mentioned to name them all. But let the record show that although I’m a Pepsi fanatic, I mentioned both Pepsi and Coke in my story. Aren’t I fair?

Ahhh… the eighties. I’m glad they’re gone. *G* I had a bunch of fun making fun of my most unfavorite era in this story. The legwarmers, the slouchy belt, the ripped jeans, the jelly bracelets… Lord, please don’t let the eighties come back!

Footloose was one of my very favorite movies during that era, so that was why that was chosen.

New Line Cinema did in fact make the Lord of the Rings trilogy, which are my favorite movies ever, so that was a tip of my hat to them. However, I don’t think Brock Ridgetop and Reed Riverton actually work there.

“The Wiz” is supposedly one of the worst movies ever made, and as far as I know, there are no plans for a remake.

“Tomorrow” is one of Damon’s most unfavorite songs in the entire world. If I want to annoy him, I just have to sing five little words. *tee hee* And my children adore my rendition of “The Sound of Music”. That song works quite well when your children refuse to get out of bed but you really need them to get up. Sing a few bars of that, as loudly as off-key as possible, and I promise you that they WILL get out of bed. Mwah-ha-ha!!!

Yes, I was a Madonna fan back in the 80’s, hence the fingerless gloves and “Like a Virgin” reference. Please forgive my bad taste. I was only ten-years old.

“The Jack-in-the-Box Massacres” is not an actual off-Broadway musical. Once again that is a name my sick mind came up with. For some reason, I found that name funny for a musical, and yes, I have a warped sense of humor.

Woody Woodpecker is a beloved children’s cartoon character, who unfortunately has a suggestive-sounding name. He is known for his distinctive laugh, as well as his red head.

Starla, Al the bartender, Pinkie, and Dominique the kimono-wearing club owner are my own creations to torture as I see fit.