I walked through Center City, Philadelphia on a summer morning after a thunder storm. It was hot and the streets were crowded. A grey haze hung in the air. The heat and humidity were unbearable with the bad hangover I had. My shirt started to cling to my back. I walked fast, I was going to see a lawyer about a case. The things we do for a buck.
I found the building and went inside. I had to sign in, show my I.D. and get my picture taken at the security desk. They had me empty my pockets and all that. Good thing I left my .38 in the car. I got into the elevator and hit the button for the 22nd floor.
When I got off I was greeted by a curvy blonde. Her tight blouse left little to the imagination.
“I’m here to see Harmony Constantino,” I said.
“Your name?”
“Clyde Pike.”
“Sign in and have a seat. She’ll be up shortly.”
I signed in and sat. I looked around the place. Real swank. Granite counter tops and floors, gold trim around everything, modern art, every wall painted a different color. This was definitely a big money operation, which really made me wonder why this mouthpiece called me.
As I watched suits buzz around the lobby, a real hot number walked up to the front desk. Her and the receptionist conversed in hushed voices. She was a raven beauty. She had long, silky black hair that fell around her shoulders, her breasts bounced under her tight blouse as she walked. She had pale skin and crystal blue eyes. She was wearing black stockings and a tight skirt that was cut just below her honey pot.
“Mr. Pike,” she said. Her tone was stern, almost military like.
I stood and extended my hand. “You must be Harmony.”
She met my grip and said, “Wow, you’re some detective. Come back to my office.”
I followed her and tried to keep my eyes from wandering up and down that body of hers. The back was just as nice as the front. It was no better when we got to her office. She sat and crossed those legs. I felt trapped. The only safe place to look was outside the window–the Philly skyline from 22 floors up. Nothing special.
She got right down to business.
“My client needs some surveillance work done. He is a high profile individual in the entertainment industry. There could be a lot at stake for him depending on what comes up. Your findings could have a lot to do with whether or not he faces serious financial consequences.”
I hate to say I’ve heard this before, but I was pretty sure I knew where this was going. I have to cut through the legalese with these types sometimes. “So, you think the wife is screwing around on this famous guy? Is that what you’re saying?”
Harmony nodded and said, “That’s what he suspects.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve done this sort of thing. I need some pictures of the couple. Client’s names, wife’s maiden name, cars they drive, license plate numbers, anything you can think of that may be relevant.”
She opened a desk drawer and pulled out a large manila envelope. “Everything you need to start should be in here. I’ve included a business card with contact information. I will need you to leave your contact info as well.”
I took the envelope. “You can reach me at the number you called from my ad for right now–my friend Jeff’s bar. I’ll check my messages often. I will get you a mobile number within the next day or so.”
“The sooner the better,” she said. ” I want you to get started on this now. We need to move on it.” “Also, there’s the matter of my fee. Two hundred a day plus expenses. I’ll need–”
“There’s an advance on your fee in the envelope that should be sufficient. I expect to hear from you soon. Think you can find your way out?”
I stood up to leave. I had to ask, “Why did you choose me for this case?”
“Like I said, my client is high profile. This needs to be discreet as possible.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Look Pike, it’s as simple as this. I’ve called every contact I know in the tri-state area. The legal world has P.I.’s in their pockets by the hundreds. I did some digging and found nothing on you. No matter what you see or what you find out, nobody’s going to listen. Just do your job, okay? Anything else you’re curious about?”
“No, I just–”
“Get out and shut the door behind you.”
I have to admit, she had a point.
***
I opened the envelope and checked the contents. There was a nice chunk of lettuce in there. Enough to catch up on my rent, get a few burner phones, eat hot meals again, and not have to roll my own cancer sticks for a while. She even included an EZ Pass and a voucher for a parking garage. She was high class and meant business.
I floored it across the Ben Franklin Bridge and hit a bodega in Camden for a couple burner phones and a few packs of smokes. I called Harmony’s office and left one of the numbers with her secretary. I went to my landlord at the rooming house and took care of my rent. Then it was back to my room to examine the photos of the couple and gather whatever intel I could from the envelope. I spread the contents out on my mattress and ate a peanut butter sandwich as I did my homework.
Their names were Mark and Elizabeth Babecki. Those two wouldn’t be hard to miss. Mark is about six foot three, rail thin, tattoos covering almost every square inch of his skin, and metal spikes sticking out of his face. Looks like he stuck his face in a tackle box. His wife, Elizabeth, was the typical trophy wife. She’s a buxom blonde with a silicone chest and a UV tan.
The misses grew up in a rich family and is from the Main Line. Went to Bryn Mawr, went to L.A. to pursue an acting career, failed, came back east and tried to do stage acting in Philly. Then she met her husband, who played in a band in the Philly hipster scene and made it big time.
Her husband is from simple, working class stock. Grew up in Beverly City, New Jersey. After graduating high school, he worked odd jobs until his band took off. These two are from completely different sides of the tracks.
I put the photos and the papers away, got undressed and set my alarm. I wanted to get into the city before rush hour.
***
I set up in Rittenhouse and sat down on a bench. There were all types out that early in the morning. Young professional people, lunatics, joggers, drug addicts, hipsters . . . typical Philly scene. I had a perfect view to the entrance of their apartment building. It was a waiting game now. As the hours went by, there was no sign of them.
Things went that way for the first two days. I didn’t see hide nor hair of the Babeckis. So I decided to start showing up at night on day three. I wandered the park not worrying about standing out. The crazies and junkies left me alone, I don’t think they could tell if I was one of them.
After many hours and laps around the park, I saw a Hummer pull up. A large, well dressed black man got out followed by a statuesque blonde that looked exactly like Elizabeth Babecki. She was in a tight dress that looked painted on. I took out my camera and started to snap pictures. They started to walk away from the Hummer towards the entrance. She stopped, turned and said something to the black guy that must’ve pissed him off; because he grabbed her by the hair and slapped her in the face.
I sprinted across the street and landed a blow right to his solar plexus. On his way down, I got in some solid jabs to his face and a couple of kicks to his ribs. A guy got out of the Hummer and made a move at me. I pulled out my .38 and pointed it at him. Before he could get a word out I said, “Get back in the car and get the hell outta here.” He looked down at his friend, bloody and clenching his ribs, and quickly complied.
I looked down at Elizabeth, who was getting up off the ground. “You okay?” I asked.
She looked dazed. “I guess,” she said.
I threw her over my shoulders in a fireman’s carry and took off running towards the parking garage. About a block or so away, I could hear the black guy screaming something about killing me, you’ll be sorry, wait till I find you . . . all the typical stuff.
When we got to my car, I laid her down in the backseat. I looked down at the street to see if we’d been followed. Nothing. I opened the trunk and got my .25 semi-automatic just in case. I told Elizabeth to lay down back there and not to raise her head. “Are you a cop?” she asked.
“Not even close,” I said. “I gotta get you outta here. I’m here to help. I’m not gonna hurt you.”
I inched the car down through the winding parking garage to the exit and sped out of there when the gate went up.
I floored it to Vine Street, got onto Sixth and drove as fast as I could to get over the Ben Franklin Bridge and back into New Jersey. I knew of a few places I could lay low for a while.
I went north on Route 130, and headed south on Route 73. I knew of a little hole in the wall motel where we could hide. I parked behind the Del Air motor lodge and walked around to the front office. I kept my pistols on me and had one of my fake I.D.’s ready. I checked in as Mr. and Mrs. Evan Williams. The Hindu desk attendant didn’t ask any questions. I paid cash and he handed me the key for a single room in the back.
I went to the car to collect Elizabeth. When I opened the door, she was stretched out on the back seat, passed out cold. I pulled her out of the car, took her into the room and poured her onto the bed. I turned on the AC and went to the bar next door for some packaged goods. When I got back to the room, Elizabeth wasn’t on the bed. I could hear the fan running in the bathroom. I opened two beers and put the rest in the mini fridge. This was the part where I decided how much to tell her about why I’d been hired to follow her.
When she came out of the bathroom, I handed her a beer. “Bet you could use a drink after all that,” I said.
She took it and swallowed half of it in one gulp. “I’ll say. You sure put a beat down on Big John. He’s one mean guy. He’s got a bad reputation. I heard he killed a guy over twenty bucks.” She drained the rest of the beer and said, “Can I get another one of those?”
I handed her another. “Who is Big John?” I asked. “Is this the guy you’ve been cheating on your husband with?”
She took a swig and let out a high pitched, squeaky laugh. “Oh no, honey. I’m not the marryin’ kind. Big John’s my pimp. It took a lot of guts to do what you did. Stealin’ a lady from his stable. Hell, I guess I belong to you now.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “So you’re name isn’t Elizabeth Babecki? You’re not married to a rock star?” I pulled the picture out of my wallet. I looked at her, and then at the picture. Spitting image.
“No, honey. I’ve been with a few rock stars. Never more than a night. My real name’s Angela Francica. I go by Allura Grace. What’s your story?”
“Name’s Evan Williams,” I said. “Let’s drink for a while while we figure this out. Why don’t you kick your shoes off and stay awhile.”
“Why did you beat down Big John like that?”
“Just a concerned citizen.”
We drank and made small talk. She told me she was from Absecon, started turning tricks in Atlantic City when she was sixteen. Made some good money on her own, but fell into a stable with this Big John character in Philly. Now she is a high dollar lady of the night catering to rich folks and celebrities.
“He’s probably looking for us right now. He’s got a bunch of goons that carry guns, and they’ll kill you in a heartbeat.”
“Just a big misunderstanding,” I said. “I’ll make some calls and deal with it tomorrow.”
“If you say so.”
She put her beer on the night stand and rolled over to pass out. I took a swig from the whiskey bottle and drained a beer in one long pull. I shut off the lights and got into bed next to her.
***
Early the next morning, I slipped out while Angela was snoring. I got into my car and dialed my friend Jeff. After eight rings, he answered.
“Jeff it’s me, Clyde.”
“Clyde. What did you get into last night? You’re in some trouble my friend. Where are you?”
“Somewhere safe for the moment. What did you hear?”
“That you beat the tar outta some high level street gang pimp and stole one of his ladies. Pulled a gun on one of his guys. They want revenge. Some guys came around the bar looking for you. They probably tore up your room too.”
“How the hell did they know who I was so fast?”
“How many big crazy white guys go around these parts snooping and doing the stuff you do? My advice friend, is for you to split. And I mean far. You’re hot, man.”
“That’s the problem. I need to get to my room and get my suitcase. I’ve got cash there.”
“I don’t think I can help you there, friend. You need to stay far away from Camden and Philly for a while.”
“I thought this hooker was–”
“Be cool, Clyde. I’ll call if I hear anything else.”
I hung up and went back inside. Angela was sitting up in bed smoking a cigarette and watching the local news. “Good morning,” she said.
“Good morning,” I said.
“You know, I could probably go back to Big John and play the victim. Smooth things over. Say you were my older brother from Absecon or something. You know, trying to be a hero. I may be able to convince him to give you a pass.”
“Would you want that? Or is this an opportunity to get away? You didn’t exactly stomp your foot down and demand I take you back.”
“It’s not that I want to go back, it’s all I know. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid. What else am I gonna do? I’d have to take off really far away to get away from these people and I don’t know where to go.”
“I could get us far away from here. I’ve got cash. It’s too hot to go there right now, but there’s not much time. We need a plan.”
“So we’re stuck. I could end up dead too. Or he could end up making me do something real sick, like dog and donkey shows, cause he may think I’m in on it.”
“Look,” I said. “I’m hungry, you want something to eat?”
We walked to the bar next door and ordered food. We both had sandwiches, fries and bottles of beer. It was quiet in there. We watched TV and ate in silence.
Then, out of nowhere, a thunderous rumble rattled the windows and the bottles stacked behind the bar. I turned around to see what was going on. The entire parking lot filled with motorcycles. The guys riding them weren’t your usual weekend hobbyists either. They had leather jackets, tattoos, and million mile stares in their eyes. As they filed into the bar, I looked at the patches on the back of their jackets–a grinning skull with the words SERVANTS OF DEATH above it. With the way my luck had been going this could be bad.
They ordered beers and food and exuded disorder. Angela leaned over to me and whispered, “I’m going to use the bathroom. We should get out of here soon.”
“If anybody asks, we’re brother and sister,” I said. She walked away and I sat at the bar nursing my beer.
As soon as she got up, one of the bikers sat next to me and said, “What’s up, man? That your old lady?”
“No, that’s my sister,” I said. “My name’s Evan.” I reached out my hand and he shook it. He must’ve noticed the Army tattoo on my arm.
“You a Veteran, man? A lot of us are too. Let me buy you a beer. What are you drinking? One for your sister too?”
When Angela came back, she looked surprised by the change in atmosphere. We were talking, laughing and drinking beers. Angela ended up getting cozy with one of the biker guys. His name was Noose, and she asked him where they were going. Turned out they were a New Jersey Club heading out all over the country to patch over other clubs. Angela laid it on thick about how much she liked bikers and never went out on the road on a motorcycle. I wasn’t sure where she was going with this, but I was listening closely. Noose said,” You wanna come along? You can ride with me.”
“Oooh, I’d love that,” she said. “But can we swing by my brother’s place so I can pick up a few things?”
“You got it, baby,” he said.
I couldn’t help but wonder how this was going to pan out. This could be bad. Or this could be a great escape plan.
***
I led the way. As fast as I drive, they had no problem keeping up. Angela rode with Noose, so at least she was out of sight if trouble was waiting. I pulled up out front of the rooming house with the street full of roaring motorcycles. I left my car running, ran up the stairs and made a beeline to my room. I unlocked the dead bolt and stepped inside. The place hadn’t been tossed. I reached under my cot and found my suitcase. I opened it and everything was still there. I pulled the case off of my pillow and threw one of my burner phones inside. I also threw in some of the cash from the lawyer. I turned the key in the deadbolt and ran down the hallway.
I got outside and walked up to Angela. I gave her the pillow case and said, “Good luck, sis. Keep in touch.”
“You too bro,” she yelled, as the engines revved and the bikes began to rumble down the street.
I followed behind them. They rode at high speeds through Camden towards the Ben Franklin Bridge. It looked like they were heading south. I split off and went north–the 476 Northeast Extension towards Interstate 80. Figured I’d go somewhere quiet in the midwest and do some honest work for a change.
***
I ended up living in Cleveland, Ohio. I got a job unloading trucks and found a place to live in a trailer park. It’s peaceful. People in Ohio are nice. The pizza is horrible compared to New Jersey. Forget hoagies and cheesesteaks, you can’t get one here. I can’t get pork roll or scrapple either. Though I did find this one chain restaurant that dumps chili on top of spaghetti. They smother it with chunks of onions and mounds of bright orange cheese. It’s great drinking food.
***
I got off work one night after a double shift and went about my usual routine. I got takeout from the chili place, went to the liquor store for a six pack of tall boys, and steered my way home.
I got to my trailer and checked the mailbox. A big fat stack of envelopes and circulars. I turned the key and went in. I put the mail on the table and cracked open a beer. I dumped hot sauce all over the chili and dug in.
Towards the end of my dinner, I sifted through the mail. Bills and junk. Then I got a text message on my burner phone. It was from Jeff. It said: Clyde. My daughter took off. She’s been gone a while now. I may need your help. This is really urgent. Call me at the bar when you get this.
I cracked a beer, set fire to a coffin nail and made the call.
Matthew G. Valosen is a life-long New Jersey native. His work has appeared in Omaha Pulp, where he was a regular contributor for over a year.
