Jon Talton - The Night Detectives

It was a boy.

Pleased with himself, he kicked and flung his arms. Back to it, I used wipes to clean off his front, between his legs, and under his scrotum, wadding them up and putting them on the soiled diaper. Feeling pretty good about myself now, I folded the diaper in on itself to provide a clean surface, lifted his legs, and cleaned off his backside. That took another four wipes. Then I slid out the bad diaper, rolled it up, and, voila, he was safe and sanitary on the new one. I hooked the tabs and lifted him into my arms, which did nothing to stop his wiggling and crying.

“Better?” I smiled. The big baby head stopped crying for a moment, then started squealing again as if I were torturing him with hot pokers.

Instantly, the silent-but-deadly cloud of odor hit me. The new diaper was heavy again and I felt something oozing out onto my hands.

“Well, hell.”

I know a few things: the socio-economic issues of the Progressive Era, the revisionist arguments regarding the causes of World War I, how to prepare a class syllabus. I have some skills, including reloading the Python under pressure, properly tying a necktie with a dimple in the center, and effectively swinging a hammer. I know how to make a dry martini and make love to a woman. Here, I was over my head.

Muttering a lesson in profane oaths for the young master’s linguistic instruction, I carried him into the bathroom and deposited him in the sink. The din of his crying was magnified by a power of ten.

So much for my clever first attempt, filled with hubris and baby-shit.

It took another fifteen minutes, a facecloth protectively placed over his dangerous little penis, much clumsiness on my part, and two diapers, but the baby was finally clean, powdered, and back in his crib. I put a rattle in his hand and shook it. He looked at me with a surprisingly grown-up expression, dropped the rattle, and conked out. After what we’d both been through, it seemed like a good idea to me, too.

I wished that Lindsey’s face would stop flashing across my vision.

After I washed up and cleaned my tie, I retrieved Tim Lewis, who had slumped against the bedroom wall, silently watching my learning curve.

“Get up. We need to talk.”

“Have you been crying, dude?”

“No.”

“Thanks for the help.”

I said nothing.

A few minutes later, he was back on the sofa and I was sitting across from him on a dining chair.

He stared at me over an icepack that I had improvised for his traumatized nose. A nasty black left eye was also materializing. He started shaking.

“Are you going to kill me?”

That’s me: the diaper-changing, first-aid-giving hit man. I said, “I will kill you if you abuse that baby.”

“I take good care of him! I love him! AFP wouldn’t let me go back and change him. Since Grace left…”

He blinked and I knew he was hoping I hadn’t noticed his slip.

I said, “So who was this Scarlett?”

He cursed at himself. “That was Grace’s business name. Her brand.”

I pulled out the photo again, turned it toward him, and tapped my finger on the pretty face.

“Her name is Grace Hunter,” he said.

“Is that her baby?”

“It’s our baby.” Somewhere under the icepack, I heard a long sigh. “This has gone so wrong.”

“What, that you’re living with a prostitute?” I was careful to keep Grace in the present tense.

“She’s not a prostitute.” His face flushed with anger.

“Then what do you call it when a woman works for a pimp?”

I waited and he told it. It wasn’t easy telling.

They had started dating as freshmen at San Diego State. He was studying theater and she was a business major. She had wanted to be in theater, too, but her father demanded that she declare a more practical major. Specifically, business. If she wanted money, he said, she could start her own business the same way he had done. Grace moved in with Tim. They were poor and not happy, working part-time at restaurants, already facing big student loans. They broke up. It was a big campus, so he didn’t see her often. He dated some other girls but kept wishing he could get back with Grace.

Three years later, he saw her at Comic Con, the huge comic-book gathering at the convention center downtown. But she wasn’t dressed like a nerd. She was in a tight but very expensive-looking mini-dress and on the arm of a guy in a suit who was old enough to be her father. He later learned that the man was a producer in Hollywood. She smiled and waved at Tim, and a week later she emailed him to get together.

Tim learned how much had changed in the time they had been apart.

Grace Hunter’s entrepreneurial inspiration had come soon after their breakup. One night she went out and got drunk. An older man hit on her, she went back to his hotel room with him, and spent the night. When she woke up, he was gone but on the bedside table was a thousand dollars cash. Whatever weeks or hours of moral wrestling she did with herself, she realized that San Diego was full of male tourists and businessmen, almost all of them dreaming of a night with a California girl. And they would pay quite well.

She drew up a formal business plan on her laptop: her market was affluent, older married men, the startup costs consisted of the right clothes-bikini for the strand, nice dress or suit for a hotel-and her competitive advantage was that she didn’t look like a call girl. The tax exposure was zero. Her brand was Scarlett.

For more than two years, she succeeded brilliantly. The men were usually nice, often terribly lonely, some wanted only to talk, and all were willing to use protection. Not one beat her up or even made her feel creepy. Once a month, she had herself tested for STDs and was always clean. That checkup report would ensure top dollar. She gathered regular clients and her discretion gained referrals. Thanks to her patrons, she stayed at the best hotels and resorts in the area. A few times, men paid her to be with them on more lavish adventures.

“Did she do kink?” I interrupted. “Bondage?”

“No,” he said. “That doesn’t sound like her at all.”

I wondered how much he really knew her, but shut up and let him continue.

The money she earned was awesome. The Great Recession didn’t hurt her profits. This sure beat taking on more student debt. She set up small accounts at banks around town, depositing cash as if it were her tips as a waitress. Over time, she consolidated them into a smaller number of bigger accounts. She took out loans from her father and paid them back, telling him that she had a job helping a woman stage condos and houses for sale. Her father’s checks were clean to deposit. It was a crude way to launder money, but it was good enough.

The only thing Grace Hunter hadn’t assessed for her business plan was the competition. And one night she was kidnapped, beaten, and raped by America’s Finest Pimp. He told her that he ran the hotel girls in America’s Finest City. He would control her liaisons and take seventy percent of her gross earnings. If she held out on him, he promised, he would beat her to death and take her body out on his boat, feeding her remains to the sharks. For the next three months, she lived in constant fear.

Then she saw Tim again.

He took off the icepack and shook his head. “We thought we’d be safe in O.B. She had money saved. Then she got pregnant and the baby came along. We were happy. She just got a job at Qualcomm and I was going to be a stay-at-home dad when I graduated. I guess she decided to leave me. But I can’t understand how she could leave our baby.”

Lindsey’s face again, whose eyes were such a deep blue that in certain light and certain mood they appeared violet. I thought about the new life I had held in my hands, minutes after gripping the potential death of the Colt Python in the same hands. It was a corny thought, to be sure. But Lindsey’s voice burned like acid on my face: You did this!