A Slight Case of Death

Chapter 2

I left the office after counting my fee and ambled south toward Market Street. Lunch hour was just finishing up, which meant the folks I wanted to talk to were beginning their day. A short bus ride got me over to Jones and Eddy, and I stopped to grab a dog and a bit of street gossip from Bill Bunty. Billy had one of those mobile hot dog stands you see around various corners of the city. Most of those hucksters sold mummified lengths of possible protein with all the flavor and texture of masticated cardboard, but without cardboard's fine pedigree. Billy, on the other hand, figured he'd do better by selling more dogs for a bit less profit. His dogs started as real sausage and finished up as real food. The only thing keeping Billy from becoming a real entrepreneur was his love of his own cooking. Billy didn't just run to fat. For him, it was a full-fledged joyous race into obesity. But, for every pound the guy put on, the big man upstairs added a couple more of character. Billy loved people, and they loved him in return. He made the fat man at the North Pole look like Scrooge.

"Tony! How ya been, paisan? Long time no see. Care for a Polish? I got a nice batch in this morning." Billy held up a sausage with his tongs.

The smell washed over me like a dietary wave from heaven. "You bet, Billy. I'll take mine with some mustard and a beard." One of Billy's dogs with a little kraut and a lager added up to my idea of nature's most perfect food. He sold the beer out of a locked cooler set into the left-hand side of his cart. Those, he didn't discount.

Billy regarded me as I ate. "So, Tony, what's with you these days? Got anything going on?"

I washed down my last bite and fished out the photo. Billy's eyes widened and he whistled. "Who's she?"

"Someone out of both our leagues. She went missing last night. You see anything like her today?"

Billy scratched at the stubble covering all of his chins. "No, can't say I have, but I'll keep an eye out. You ask Frank about her?"

"No, I was hoping to put that off for a while, if possible."

Billy smiled, his eyes disappearing into the fat. "Aw, c'mon, Tony. Frank's an all right guy; he just likes to play around a bit."

That's what I was afraid of. Of course, to Billy, Hannibal Lechter would have had redeeming qualities, like his choice of wine and veg, perhaps. I nodded, pocketed the photo and headed up Eddy Street.

Typical of that part of the city, Eddy near Market was a close-in conglomeration of brownstone-style shops and rentals. A few of the walkups showed windows bearing old gold-leafed signs advertising various services, from insurance sales to bookkeeping. I even saw a couple of competitor's offices.

Since the sun was out, so were the people. A mix of couples, gay, straight, and other, jostled for passage with assorted singles. A few decades ago, most of them would have been longhairs wandering about in a patchouli haze. Now it was normal to see Brooks Brother's suits rubbing shoulders with dreadlocks. I shook my head as I crossed Hyde; only in the city.

On the north side of the street, nestled between a head shop and a tattoo parlor, stood The Bumblebee Café. According to local talk, the Bee mixed one of the better hangover remedies around. I figured that if Randi spent a good portion of the hours before dawn downing shots, there was a chance she showed her lovely face at the Bumblebee's counter.

A long-haired guy leaning against the counter looked over his shoulder as the door chime sounded. I got a disinterested glance just before he returned to his sandwich. At the other end of the counter, a dishwater blonde's ample behind covered two stools. Her nose was buried into a paperback advertising new wealth to its readers. Her free hand dipped into a bag of chips with the regularity of a timepiece.

Behind the counter, a skinny kid wearing a Grateful Dead t-shirt watched as I approached the bar. I got the once over a couple of times. Perhaps I looked familiar.

"Nice coat." He nodded at said piece of tweed.

"Thanks," I said, pulling out the photo and placing it onto the counter. "I'm trying to find out if this girl's been seen around here. Her family hasn't seen her since last night." A little stretching wouldn't hurt the truth, not with this crowd.

"You a cop?"

"No," I sighed, reaching for my wallet, "I'm not a cop." I held up the plastic card with my ID. "I'm a Private Investigator hired by this girl's family to find her. Can you help me?"

"A PI? Like Magnum?"

Great, another late night TV addict. "Not exactly. I'm told the girl was last seen at the Summersault. She may have come in here for a pick-me-up."

"Hey, man, you got a gun an' Ferrari, too?" The guy with the long hair had decided to join in. He sounded like he'd left most of his brain cells behind back in the 60's. Like Tommy Chong without the IQ.

"It wasn't a Ferrari, it was a Maserati." The blonde added her two cents. Her voice could have been used to remove paint.

"I thought it was a Lambo." The kid poured himself an ice tea.

"Naw. Ferrari. I seen it last night. You know, the one where Magnum..."

I hit the street before I started shooting people.

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