Silent Conspiracy – A
Chapter I
Erotica wasn't a common name, but then she was far from a common
woman. That would prove to be one of my better insights.
I'd almost made it to the final dregs of self abuse when, like a
Dickens apparition, she materialized through the gray hanging smoke that
floated about the boisterous crowd at Artie's Bar & Grill. I, along with
every other healthy male among the early evening crowd took immediate notice of
her as she moved fluidly and with purpose, headed in the direction of my booth.
I was sitting there playing a drinker's concerto with a gin and tonic and had just
crushed my third toothpick into the chipped marble ashtray when she granted me
a most pleasant surprise by sliding gracefully up to my table and stopping next
to the leatherback seat across from mine. There were many things about her
worth a second look. And by the time she was standing next to my booth, I was
working on my fifth or sixth. Her body was a marriage of strength and beauty.
Sometime during this delightful visual overload I took note of the word
'Erotica'. It was an exquisite piece of jewelry, formatted in diamonds and
shaped like Catholic trained handwriting. She was wearing it on a silver
boy-link chain where it came to rest just inches shy of her equally exquisite
cleavage. A slow pan up to her copper toned eyes pierced the carnal layer of my
soul.
I'm a private eye. I'm supposed to notice those things. She hadn't
said a word yet, but trouble often accompanies the unspoken. In a situation
where curiosity and lust fought for equal observation time of this tall slim
desire, I knew that somewhere beyond the physical world, someone anxiously
chiseled out an eleventh commandment.
Up until this moment a good part of the month had been spent
looking into things only tabloid journalists, gossip columnists and talk show
hosts would find orgasmic. Plenty of activity. Endless hours staking out a
motel, pictures of rendezvous, illegally recorded conversations and peeping
through keyholes for that one conclusive fact. I don't complain. Most of what I
do sends me down the darker, seduced side of the human experience. But, hell -
it's all billable. Lately I had the evidence on two philandering husbands, an
abusive mother and a promiscuous wife who needed satisfaction from two partners
... at once. I didn't see hanging out in the slimiest gutters of individual
preferences as the next step on my career ladder, but for an ex Oakland Raiders
defensive back turned PI, it kept me doing what I do best ... hiding in the
shadows waiting to make a hit.
I had spent the latter hours of that muggy afternoon in my office
pulling together the final pieces of my discoveries while drinking the cool
water from the ice cubes melting like rivulets of sweat into my silver and
black water mug. The uncirculating dead air in my back office was as thick as
an Irish brogue. My small bladed fan was a poor substitute for air
conditioning, but then I valued simplicity. Wet circles formed under my arms,
adding another ring to the already stained surroundings. Outside, traffic began
its congestive ritual of hurry home before the natives came out. Bumper to
bumper, like preschool children tied together so they won't get lost, they
moved slowly through the late summer heat to the sanctity of their manicured
lawns and strip malls.
I made the last call of the day and left another message on
another answering machine. I crumbled my last set of scribbled notes and double
banked off the wall into the half full trash basket in the comer. I swiveled
away from the desk and caught sight of the four framed pictures occupying space
on the wall behind me; my BA in Criminal Justice from Prairie State, a small
black college in Texas, a picture of me and my brothers taken during the last
known time the four of us were sitting in the same spot, a certificate of
appreciation from the City of Oakland, California Police Department where I
worked for twelve years and a picture of me with the entire roster of the 1980
Oakland Raiders. I'm the smiling defensive back in the left comer of the front
row: Lincoln Keller, Number 44.
"It's been a long run back from the Oakland Alameda County
Coliseum number 44, but you could've been doing something useful ... like dog
grooming." That prevailing mood dogged my view of people and things well
into the early evening when I decided to nurse my thirst here at Artie's. I
figured it was a better way to write off the day and the people in it.
Artie's is the last of the great dumps. An unwavering parthenon of
vice and virtue. The final testament to civilization pulled inside out. A
timeless work of nostalgia, complete with a double U-shaped bar, red vinyl
barstools, a stained green carpet that looked like the work of a 19th century
expressionist and an eclectic blend of foxes, wolves, crows, dogs, peacocks and
other lesser known members of the animal kingdom ... birdbrains
notwithstanding.
I love the place.
But not everyone in it. When I got here I eased past the many
faces that have long become familiar, trying to keep myself oblivious to their
scattered, self-proclaimed, inflated reputations in need of an audience. Rather
than offer them solace in my customary booth, I decided to sit alone and
ordered my usual thick, well-done burger on a wheat bun with fries ...
chased down with a gin and tonic. A cholesterol diet only a hardened artery
could love. It was too early for the regular four-piece jazz band so the
musical interlude was filled by a raspy voiced songstress who strained through
'Night And Day' with a voice that was Dead and Gone ... and whose long sweat
tipped red hair had seen better days. She was accompanied by a bandy legged
porker masquerading as a piano player.
"If you fuck the same way you order, you can't be getting
very much," she said. Her contemptuous smile highlighted a face that had
too much eye shadow. She was a top heavy, bottom up sausage with too much
sexual need and not enough tact.
I was hungry for Artie's food, not
"Mr. Keller?" she asked, apparently already confident of
the answer.
"My father owns the 'Mister'. I'm
"
"No. Like the Towncar," I answered as I nodded for her
to please sit down.
She unhooked the frog closures of her black side split tunic,
revealing her bare shoulders. Her aerobically carved figure and peaked breasts
were covered by a black form-fitting strapless evening dress that revealed just
enough of her chestnut flesh to invite speculative inquiry. Her unruffled skin
could have easily disguised her true age ... which I guessed to be early
thirties. She had the kind of features that male fantasies enhance and
embellish over strong drinks and weak conversation. Carved from thousands of
years of African mythology, she could have commanded a nation of warriors to
die a thousand times for one more chance to see her smile. She had almond
shaped eyes with deep arched eyebrows. A small rounded nose complemented a high
cheek-boned face and jet black hair trimmed neatly just above her shoulders.
She was a curvaceous cathedral where every brickhouse came to take
notes.
As she completed her slow descent into the booth I assessed her
height at about five seven with full lips that should grace magazine covers.
The dress served as a background to the blue, green and pink
stripe that began at the top comer of her left breast and did a diagonal wrap
around her body and ended at the split that exposed her tightly muscled right
leg. In a place where truth is shielded by darkness and lies brighten the
boredom, she was all class and style. So what was she doing meeting with me in
a dump like Artie's? I decided not to ask how she knew to find me here. I had a
feeling she wasn't going to tell me.
Instead, I pointed with my eyes at her necklace. "Erotica?
That an introduction or a warning?"
There was just the slightest moment of hesitation as she
unconsciously touched her necklace, suddenly realizing how I'd performed my
marvelous feat of recognition.
She smiled. "An introductory warning. For a moment I thought
we'd met before, but you were just reading the merchandise."
Her voice had that suggestive tone. Subtle and daring in its
invitation.
"Only the fine print. We've never met."
It was the truth stretched sideways. We had met before, not that
she would remember or know. Somewhere in the farthest comer of my mind, in the
deepest crevice where secrets are hidden, 'Erotica' was a distant memory,
fantasized out of the centerfolds, advertisements and adolescent lusts that
shaped my perceptions of the woman I'd most like to ravage. She was a statement
to the ultimate physical ideal only discussed by the voices of the conscious
and subconscious, locked away for hours of imaginative amorous consumption.
Chocolate decadence with a saucy smile and a body that would have qualified as
the eighth wonder of the world ... or the eighth deadly sin. Made no difference
to me at the time.
"Rumor has it that you're a pretty good detective," she
said as she removed a Virginia Slim from the packet in her black velvet purse.
"Rumors tend to understate or exaggerate," I remarked. I
flipped open the water stained match book cover and ignited the flame on the
first strike. She leaned forward and drew softly through the filter until the
tobacco tip crackled. She exhaled the first line of smoke toward the already
smoke plagued ceiling. "You here to check out the rumor?"
"I'm here to hire a detective. Someone I know says you're
pretty good. True or not?"
"If I was only pretty good I couldn't stay employed.
Actually, I'm very good ... when motivated."
She blew another line of smoke in the air, leaned back against the
booth, creaking the overused leather, and gave me a half smile. "Then I'd
like to hire you."
"Why?"
"It concerns my husband."
"Usually does most husbands."
"Most husbands don't concern me. Just the one I'm married
to."
"Then shouldn't he be here doing the hiring?"
"Male pride prevents him from asking for help." She
blinked. Not long enough to be considered a short nap, not short enough to be
considered a long irritation eyelash. It was hesitant. Something behind the
statement.
Our banter was interrupted by
I nodded. Erotica ordered a perfect
"Have I unknowingly wandered onto sacred territory?"
"
"I see." She was only slightly amused. And then getting
down to business, she asked, "Ever hear of The Sentiments?"
I shrugged the truth. No, it didn't ring a bell.
"Here, let me show you something." She opened her black
velvet purse, took out a medium sized manila envelope and slid it across the
table. "Have a look. These are from about forty years ago. This, is all I
have of them."
I opened the envelope and removed its contents. The first thing I
noticed was a black and white picture of five very twentyish looking men
dressed in similar one-button suits, ruffle lapel shirts and wavy hair styles
that we used to refer to as 'heavily conked'. They were posed according to
height so that the group would V up from the center. In the center of the group
was the shortest facing straight into the camera with his arms folded and one
leg crossing the other. He looked familiar ... like someone I'd seen but hadn't
noticed. The four other members of the group were divided two on one side and
two on the other with the two tallest on the ends. They posed like bookends.
The picture was taken in a room with only a large curtain serving as a
backdrop. The caption underneath was written in bold letters: The Sentiments.
There were also included in the envelope several flyers and small posters
written specifically about the group. The references included the dates and
locations of where they were performing. I recognized the names of some of the
various night clubs and lounges, many of which were famous during my parents'
youthful heydays. There was a noticeable consistency among the different
performing dates.
"Five guys from the 1950s who sing. There's a nostalgia craze
right now. They shouldn't have trouble finding an agent," I mentioned as I
took the last swallow of my drink, hoping to have it empty by the time
Her eyes widened for just a moment. "About forty years ago
this group just disappeared. Individually ... as a group. All of them just
vanished. I don't know how else to put it. And I don't know that much about
them myself except for what I've just given you. And this is what I got from my
husband. I haven't been able to find anything they've done in any of the record
stores. But it's very important for my husband to know whatever happened to
them."
"Why?"
She hesitated, and then said, "Mr. Keller, my name is Erotica
Tremaine."
She said it as if that explained everything. Tremaine. I knew that
name. And all the silly rhymes that came with it from low budget, home made
television commercials. You know the name, so call Tremaine. If it ain't
Tremaine, it ain't the same. Tremaine Home Improvement. One of the more
successful black-owned businesses in the lucrative and fiercely competitive
home improvement business in southeast
He was also sixty-plus years. Had to be. But what better opiate
than money to draw the fountain of youth to your living room ... or bed?
Off in one of the various comers of Artie's I heard the usual
taunts that follow when someone has run the pool table. A lot of hand slapping and
dissing. Despite the loud laughter, verbal jaunts and background noises that
customarily echo throughout most dumps, Erotica's voice seemed to skip across
the surface of those interruptions on an effortless path to where I sat coolly
attentive.
"And I'm going to have to ask you to please take my word for
it," she continued. "It's something that has bothered my husband for
so long. I was told you're good at finding truths and keeping those truths
secret. I'm here because I need your help." She wasn't pleading, but
that's where it was headed.
While she took a slow sip of her drink I used the moment to stick
another toothpick in the comer of my mouth. Given the strength of her allure,
it seemed an unsatisfying substitute for oral gratification. My former psych
prof would have been pleased.
"You've tried contacting relatives, friends and such?"
She nodded. "I've tried. I've talked to a lot of them. I keep
running into dead ends. That's why I'm talking to you."
"I don't come cheap."
"I look like I'm on welfare?" She opened her purse and
took out a black leather covered checkbook. She wrote out a check and slid it
across the table. "I trust that's enough to get you started."
A thousand dollars was a good retainer. The check was from her own
personal account. Her husband's name wasn't on it.
"There's some background things I'll need to know.
Plus, I'll need you to sign a standard contract for services. I don't have one
on me right now."
She sighed. There was a hint of relief in her voice. "So, we
can start right now?"
"Yes, Mrs. Tremaine, but on one condition."
"And that is ...?"
"The name is Lincoln ... or Linc."
"I know," she sighed. "Like the Towncar."
"No. Like in Mod Squad."
"In what?"
I shook my head to say never mind for now. "Just remember to
call me Linc."
She smiled her okay.