Upon A Pale Horse

TWENTY-ONE Boys’ Night Out

The next day at lunch he looked up several private detectives and spoke with two, outlining in general terms what he was looking for — a discreet background check and possibly some surveillance. The first couldn’t take a job for a week and wanted him to come into the office, but the second was hungrier and agreed to meet him that evening at seven at the British pub.

Monica had already told him that she needed the evening to run errands she’d been putting off and do laundry again, so he was in the clear, a bachelor for the night. He left his phone at home and walked briskly down the empty street, glad there were no other pedestrians out because it would be easier to spot anyone following him. When he entered the bar, he looked around and saw his investigator — heavyset and ruddy-complexioned, wearing a tweed jacket, sitting at one of the booths in the back, as agreed. Jeffrey walked to the bar and ordered a black and tan, watching the entrance as he waited, and when he was confident that nobody had followed him in, he took the seat opposite the man, one eye on the door.

“Owen Jakes. Please to meet you,” the investigator said, holding out a hand the size of a bear paw. Jeffrey shook it and introduced himself, then took a sip of his beer, marveling at how good it tasted.

“I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just going to spill it and you can figure out whether it’s something you can do. I met a woman a few weeks ago, and we’ve become inseparable. But I don’t really know anything about her. And I want to. I’m thinking a check on her work and living situation, and maybe a little light surveillance. Shouldn’t take much,” Jeffrey explained.

Jakes’ face was impassive, unreadable. “Hundred and fifty an hour, plus expenses, minimum ten hours. If we find a rat, then figure another twenty-four to forty-eight.”

The numbers hung in the air like a curse, and Jeffrey did a quick mental calculation. It could get expensive quickly. Then again, he was earning a fortune, so what was a few grand if it assured him that Monica was the genuine article?

“When can you start?”

“I can run the trace tomorrow, and any surveillance after that — maybe Thursday. What do you have on her?”

“I… I have a business card, and a photo I printed out.”

“What about home address?”

“She lives with a couple of roommates somewhere around Foggy Bottom. I’ve never been up to her apartment, just outside her building. But frankly, I wasn’t paying attention, and it was night, and I didn’t know anything about the town…”

“I see. And home phone?”

“Just a cell and her office. Oh, and her car’s license number.” He’d memorized it — part of the mixed blessing of a photographic memory.

“If she had a home phone it would be easy to skip trace her.”

“I know. She doesn’t.”

“I’ll need a grand downstroke as a retainer.”

“Do you accept cash?”

Jakes smiled for the first time. “I like you already. Where’s the card and the photo?”

Jeffrey extracted Monica’s card from his wallet and handed it to him, then unfolded a piece of paper he’d printed that afternoon at the copy center. It was a photo from a few days before of Monica wearing shorts and a T-shirt at his house, beaming mega-wattage at the camera while pouring them wine. He pushed it across the table.

The big man whistled. “Wow. Congratulations. What do you do for a living, Jeffrey?” he asked as he studied the printout.

“Lawyer. But don’t hold that against me.”

Jeffrey took another pull on his drink and then took out a wad of hundred dollar bills — part of the money he’d gotten out of the bank in San Francisco to cover surprises once in Washington. With a thousand to Jakes, he was left with five, which was more than enough to cover anything except a protracted surveillance he hoped wouldn’t be necessary. If it was, he would hit his new bank and pull whatever else he needed under the guise of wanting cash for the trip. He carefully counted out the thousand dollars and slipped it to the detective, who was drinking what looked like a soda. Jakes counted it again and grunted.

“How do I get hold of you when I know something?” he asked.

“I’ll call you. How long for the background check?”

“We’ll run the plate and check on the company she works for first. That will take a day or so. I’d say give me a call day after tomorrow — Thursday — and I should have something for you.”

A man wearing a windbreaker entered and looked around, causing Jeffrey’s heart to flutter. The newcomer spotted his friend and walked over, then pulled out a stool and sat down at the bar, his back to Jeffrey. Jakes’ eyes watched Jeffrey’s reaction without comment, although his eyes narrowed slightly.

“Anything else I should know, Jeffrey? Any pieces of information you might have left out?”

“No. That’s it.”

“You sure? You look pretty spooked right now.”

“It’s nothing. I thought I knew that guy. Turns out I don’t.”

Jakes finished his drink and stood. “If you say so. Call me in a couple days. I’m always in the office during business hours, and if not, my girl can patch the call through to wherever I am.”

Jeffrey nodded, and Jakes eyed him one final time before he rose, leaving Jeffrey to pay for the drinks. The bartender came over and took Jeffrey’s burger order and asked him if he wanted another beer, to which Jeffrey gave a thumbs up. It would help him sleep, he reasoned, and was completely consistent with what he now thought of as his cover.

Jakes seemed crusty but competent, and hadn’t batted an eye over Jeffrey wanting to contact him instead of giving the PI a phone number to reach him. His burger arrived a few minutes later as he was watching yet more soccer, or maybe it was rugby, on the television, and as he bit into the mouthwatering sandwich he congratulated himself for having done as well as he had so far with the whole clandestine thing. The second beer was relaxing him and he was just starting to feel decent when he reminded himself that this wasn’t a game, and that the consequence for a slip was a trip to the morgue.

The beer tasted rancid and metallic from that point on, and he declined a third, preferring to make his way back home and spend another night wondering how the hell all this would end, a vision of Monica seared into his retinas from the photo, her smile as innocent and loving as a baby’s.