It was three weeks since I last had a client. Been in the news three months earlier; now it’s as distant an infamy as the beggar who found a winning lottery ticket. Money just doesn’t enjoy lousy pockets. It moves out like a girl who just woke up with a local barroom rummy. The case could have been my best, if only for the small fortune it made for me. Now the bulk is invested and rest squandered; though in Brimestone city the reverse could easily be my financial status.
Going back to the peppermint-whiskey kiss, she need not have done that, though after chewing peppermint gum it’s favourable. I am not one to be swept off by emotions; though that may not have been its purpose. A strong loving woman is hard to keep. Their passion drives them apart. Satisfaction is not just an issue of virility; it’s the desire to possess the individual. If only the dough she kneads could replace her lover, molding, mending, forming, a shape that is perfect to her eyes; only it isn’t the same as before.
The 1955 Ford Thunderbird’s hardtop dazzled with the remaining light. An old gift from an old friend; the friend buried and the gift bearing down heavily on my shoulders, like a casket too expensive for its occupant. It got me around town though, a master key that dealt with private clubs; opening doors where they would normally slam shut on my face. The face without feelings, even when a glamorous doll puckers up – enough to work as coffee with too much sugar on others; I am a living dead. Self-loathing is a hobby of the elite. I have work to do.
My car eased up to my office driveway in the central suburbs with the cognizance of a cat brushing itself against an old lady’s calf. I nurtured it with a soft close of the driver’s door. Back at the desk – the empty desktop except for an old telephone. The lonely phone sat at the left corner. The window-blinds fluttered occasionally. The place of my business had the characteristics of an un-farmed barren land. I looked through my card-cabinet for someone who could help get me the bio-data on a biker from Miami.
“Hello! This is Harry Sprent. Could I speak to Mr. Brydell?”
“Hi Harry. How can I help you?”
“Need a background check on a biker in your city.”
“You know I can’t always work pro bono for you, forever.”
“I will mail you a Scotch.”
“More like half-a-dozen; I already know whom you are talking about.”
“Done. He is…” and Brydell interrupted;“James Mayhem, the latter of course a nickname.”
“Okay, so you know what I need, wire it to me, I will accept the charges.” I sighed.
“When will you start using a computer or e-mail? I did his bio lookup on a search engine. He is in the news every other week.”
“I am just getting used to plastic money Brydell. Ciao.”
A couple of hours strolled as snails in a snowstorm. I passed time reading Hollywood gossip on the tabloid from three weeks ago. It’s like going to the zoo and the zookeeper telling you when the monkeys take a shit. The door rang; the data arrived.
Going through the cheap paper of the telegram, my fingers soaked the ink as I absorbed the basic information I required.
James Mayhem employed bouncer, drug dealer, tattooed, wanted for arson, smuggling, assault, last-seen Brimestone.
I removed a folder from my desk drawer and filed the data. He was here in the city but that proves nothing. The successful husband of a popular dancer is dead. The husband – a hotshot accountant with a major financial trading company. Employed by a wife suspected to be an accomplice, if not the guilty, by the local police, I am supposed to resolve this before the month-end hearing. I walk out the office for a drink to drown the evening.
The lady danced as if she had been waiting to do this all day. The faint lights cast shadows throughout the club restaurant and I stayed away within them. No paramours or hangers-on. Just a dance and she is done for the night. Someone sent me whiskey with a note on a napkin. I walked out of the club to meet the dancer by her car.
“Anything?”
“Just that he could have been mixed up in drugs.”
She slid inside the car and it drove off.
Having gone through the police files as the authorized private investigator. I knew that traces of cocaine were found in the victim’s personage. The dead accountant – Mr. Bradley had never been known to be intoxicated or in company of dopers. What the police missed out was the personal papers of Mr. Bradley. At Mrs. Bradley’s home I came across her husband’s credit card statement, which I pocketed while she grieved her loss. The statement credited Mr. Bradley’s account for a brass ring sold at a tattoo shop. Mr. Bradley, the white-collar urban professional of course didn’t care for a tattoo or a brass ring. These people, if they wished, would use a silk scarf in place of toilet paper.I had spent the previous day chatting up locals at the tattoo shop. There weren’t too many brass rings sold there daily and the only one the salesman could remember selling in the past week was to a biker with a ‘Miami Mayhem’ tattoo. I recalled the tattoo from a brawl in Miami where I was thrown out for asking for one drink too many; probably a month ago, or more. I wondered if that was a biker club, if it was then my search would be just a scratch towards digging a huge sand pit. The troubles with sand-pits are that they get washed away and you are left wet and worn. Anyways, I knew where I could find the most infamous ‘Miami Mayhem’ blokes in Brimestone; a booze bar downtown. ‘Jack-Hammered’ was a great place for getting laid. Pretty young things dressed up, waiting for macho bikers to pick them up. Not many fights as you would expect here, what with a regular police patrol car parked outside the bar 24×7.
Driving there would attract too much curiosity. I took a cab and ventured into the bar with the demeanour of a stray dog finding a comfortable shed. Dimly lit, the place was fairly decent. A couple of guys played pool. I took a bottle of chilled beer from the bar and walked up to them.
“Hi! I am looking for James Mayhem.”
“You came to the right place”, replied a tall burly biker.
“I needed to check on some of the Miami Mayhem MC members.”
“If you are not in, you are out of it,” he stretched out on the table to pocket a ball. I noticed the tattoo.
I left the place to avoid any undesired results. I loitered around the alleys, a rat at home with the filth. The whole deal seemed too easy to be a crime; like herding submissive sheep. Another group of bikers were gathered outside a café. I took a seat at the outdoor chair and asked for a cappuccino. A friendly biker came up to my table and dropped as smoothly in a chair as an autumn leaf on mown grass. He was lean and tall.
“Aloha! Nice night to be out isn’t it?” he asked as if we knew each other. I nodded.
“I bet you are one of those travel agents. I try to guess professions. I am no good at it but its fun.”
“Well, I will play along.” I nodded again. “So you seem new to this biker club.”
“Yes, I am. I will be taking a road-trip with these guys next week. Mayhem all the way!” he laughed as if accepted into an elite clique.
“You must meet my brother; he wants to add new members. You have a motor-scooter?”
“I would love to meet your brother”, I answered.
“HEY JAMES, come over here,” a rugged biker with long flowing hair and bronzed skin walked over to my table. He looked like Tarzan wearing Levis.
“Hello there!” he greeted.
I shook his hands and noticed the unusual skull rings he wore; “Hi!”
“You will have to excuse me; I have some business uptown; nice meeting you.” James Mayhem smiled as he excused himself.
“Best of luck!” offered the brother as he shook hands with James as well and off he went on his green chopper.
“Another coffee; to go”, the man ordered, “My name is Jeremy but they call me Jay around here.” He continued.
“I am Harry. So how’s life on the road”
“Oh! I am just getting used to it. I had a regular job earlier.”
“Yeah, me too”, I acknowledged.
“I have a lot of stuff lined up, many things to do. I am sorry but we will talk again later sometime.” Jay got up and walked off, no bike for him. I dropped a few dollar bills on the table and hailed a cab.
I reached the club, rode home in my car and walked to the door. It welcomed me with a dusty mat and creaking hinges. Like an old wife, the home whined but kept me warm. I slouched on the couch and wondered about the silly case. It was so simple to me, the accountant teams up with a thug to fake his death. He obviously pulled a scam at his employer company. The dead body matched dental records since the face was burnt on an electric iron. The wife accepts it as a murder, hires a private investigator and shows no grief, at least in public. They are operating like kids playing a board game.
The damn cable channels were fuzzy. The news reader looked as if he was exchanging his face along with words to his co-host. I changed channels to find something clearer on screen. The business news reported on the fall in stocks of Mr. Bradley’s employer company named ‘Brigg Finance & Leasing Pvt. Ltd.’. Everything was on schedule. It would take only a few calls to get the silly pretender named Jay and his ‘brother’ arrested and incarcerated. But somehow I felt there was more to it; like cheap fudge it stuck in my teeth. I couldn’t swallow the fact that it was a lame crime, nor could I spit out an alternate solution from the available information.
I looked at the credit card bill that I had tucked away in my shirt pocket. I studied the dates, the numbers, the fine print as well.
Date(2006)TransactionAmount
—————————————–
02/08Drake Wines35
05/08Auto-debit(358)
08/08Do-Donut9.95
09/08B&N books55
13/08Shell Gas296
15/08Cheese Corner49
Clearly he didn’t use the credit card for refueling regularly, only one charge for plenty of petrol, perhaps for his new two-wheeled pals. His dead body was found on 16th morning. The TV played images of match fixing in baseball. The player they blamed had no qualifications or finances to prove him guilty. The other suspects were ‘out of form’. The match was clearly thrown away in the opponent’s favor. Their game play was akin to watching drunkards falling in gutters while still balancing their drink.
Come to think of it, Mr. Bradley a.k.a. Jay would also need a patsy. He was smart enough to realize that the paper trail would set his ass on fire. The market news would create panic in Brigg Ltd. And I had to get the information before it is in shreds. But, the patsy would not be visible unless the panic was set. Moonlight dulled as clouds moved to offer their services. The TV emitted images and light with the constant pace of an irritant firefly. I switched off the idiot box in favour of swift sleep, using the couch as a bed and curtainless east-facing window as an alarm.
Morning came with the regularity of the ebb & flow of the city sea-shore’s tide. I picked the morning newspaper from the door and as if by reflex, turned to the business section.
A Brigg ship sinking
By our business correspondent
BRIMESTONE: The local financial investment major – ‘Brigg Finance & Leasing Pvt. Ltd.’, has come under investigation for fraud and irregularities. An influential client has been reported to have lost his/her(?) interests due to an internal scam. A key executive is reportedly to be blamed for the loss of revenue and/or investment. Local media has been denied access to information and the company itself claims that the ‘rumors’ are baseless. However, this newspaper has come to know that an Account Manager has been suspended without pay for an unknown period of time while the company tries to save face and face-value. (Continued…)
I stepped into the shower and shaved as I washed. The water stuck to my skin with the competence of a tick on a dog. I scrubbed my chest while my military tags jingled. The warm water soothed and trickled as it soaked me. It felt like wearing a new skin. I dried up and wore my fresh shirt and a better tie. Time to get educated on finance and illegitimate business. I drove off to Brigg Ltd. downtown.
The tall structure looked elegant, and I walked into the reception with the unwelcome desire to meet Mr. Bradley’s manager. After much delay he agreed to meet me, only after I revealed my professional interest.
“Good Morning Harry! My name is Kent.” he greeted as he juggled with documents.
“Good Morning! Sorry to come by unannounced but I had to know about Mr. Bradley’s affairs here.”
“Well, you caught us in the middle of a mess. I really can’t say much. We are all unsure of the goings on these past few days.” He finally looked up and gestured to me to take a seat.
“I believe Mr. Bradley’s work may have something to do with his death. And now we hear someone caused a financial mess.”
“Stuart? No he couldn’t mess up but the documents were fudged to look like he did it. We had little choice but to throw him out.” Kent looked grim.
“Anything you can share that would help me in my investigation towards Mr. Bradley’s death?” I asked.
“He was handling the accounts of a rich ‘businessman’ who is said to be involved in racketeering and such. Have a good day Mr. Harry Sprent!” He busied himself with his computer.
With an end to the conversation and a new clue, I walked out of Kent’s office and asked a mail delivery boy the directions to Mr. Bradley’s office and to that of Mr. Stuart. Just a few steps apart, Stuart’s cabin was locked up and Bradley’s bore a look of dereliction. I walked in while the zombies in the office worked around me as if they couldn’t see beyond their arm’s length. The office could well be a brainwashing cult with the dollar as an evil slave-driver.
Inside the small office of Mr. Bradley, the papers were neatly piled and dusty. The last call, as the digital display read, was to a bar I knew and been to yesterday. His personal belongings were already removed, probably sent off to his residence. The desktop calendar was of a trading firm from California named ‘R.R. Inc.’, most unusually plain but with mentions about the owner of the firm. He was a real estate magnate with a reputation for land-grabbing, money-laundering and assaults. It didn’t say that on the calendar; that’s just my personal knowledge about the underworld.
I walked out of the building, driving with the intention of chatting up Jay again. Hopefully, he would spill something. I noticed the green chopper from yesterday following me. James Mayhem had probably recognised me as the P.I. while Jay’s bulb was fused with drinks last evening. I wondered what Mrs. Bradley was to gain from hiring me. I drove towards the beach and sped as the traffic thinned on the weekday. James’s throttle kept him at visible distance. After we were on the highway I noticed his impatience as he grew closer. He then actually honked and waved. He overtook me and stopped to the right side of the road. I parked a few feet behind.
“We didn’t get to chat yesterday, Harry isn’t it?” he lit up a cigarette.
“You know I understand why you would shelter your brother for his scam but who did the actual killing?” I shared his match for my cigarette.
“Mrs. Bradley is such a pain. She would flirt with my brother’s business associates. He finally vented his anger and then tried to get even.”
“You already had a reputation for crime, so you agreed to ‘fix’ things while he shared his wealth with your new legal MC business.”
“Yeah! Only thing is, the R.R. Inc. boss is more influential than I had presumed. The dead body was of his nephew. What Bradley stole was also that of the big Boss and not of his nephew. I wanted to make a deal that would please you and help my brother as well.”
“A killer doesn’t please me Mr. James”, I gently tipped at the ash.
“We didn’t plant the cocaine, he was dead by overdose, the rest we did to a dead scum.” James Mayhem dropped his cigarette and crushed it as he straightened to stand at his full height.
“So you steal from a thief and claim it as righteous.”
“Here’s the deal – My brother will get you enough financial pages to book the R.R. Boss for money laundering; you get your fee by proving that Mr. Bradley died protecting his employer’s integrity; whether you want credit for bringing down an underworld hood or not is your prerogative.” His ‘Miami Mayhem’ tattoo twitched as his muscles flexed in tension. It had the hawk and talons symbolizing his time with an elite marine crew.
“I will let the D.A. deal with the hood; I will pass him the papers.” I dropped and crushed my cigarette.
James Mayhem unbuckled his saddlebag and handed me the documents. It was enough to put away the R.R. Inc. ‘businessmen’ for a long trip to post-graduation. The police would get the drift that good old Bradley was drugged and killed by the mafia for being upright. The only loser apparently was Mrs. Bradley, who as I understood, really believed that her husband was dead.
I drove to her residence and waited to be shown in to the living room. I couldn’t lie to Mrs. Bradley. She came in with a delightful smile and what seemed to be an expensive new dress. Apparently, Mr. Bradley’s insurance was more cheerful than his presence.
“Mr. Bradley is no longer with us. I have submitted certain financial documents to the District Attorney and they’ll deal with Mr. Bradley’s work. An underworld hood will be under arrest soon.” I carefully phrased all the sentences.
“Oh! Thanks. My lawyer will remunerate you by the weekend.” Mrs. Bradley seemed little interested in any outcome to my investigation.
My car went past the café where the choppers looked as if they took a break from binge drinking to sober up. I recalled my days in the Marines as I saw these ex-officers, now laid off due to some fitness issue or other. They were a brotherhood that would work, play, fight and die together. The D.A. was pleased with my efforts and used the data as his own. I couldn’t care less as I saw off the ‘Miami Mayhem’ troupe to their ride across 10 states to raise awareness towards Military service. A small victory against hardened criminals with concessions for a closet patriot. This has been an off-week.
Copyright Ujjwal Dey 2006
