Victor Gischler - Suicide Squeeze

Almost.

The magic and mystery wasn’t quite there in Misty; the strange playful alchemy of seductress and innocent that flicked behind Marilyn’s eyes, captured on thousands of feet of celluloid, was absent in Misty’s face. Teddy had looked hard for it, had searched her eyes, hoping. Teddy was a sap, but he wasn’t dumb. There was no reincarnation of Hollywood ’s favorite bombshell in Misty, but there were good legs and straight teeth and breasts that stood up for themselves. Her face glowed with youth and eagerness, and there was something pretty okay about that. A simpler Marilyn for more complicated times. And when she laughed-not the fake laugh so the tourists would leave a bigger tip, but a genuine laugh, head thrown back, eyes closed-Teddy could squint and almost see a starlet.

So there he’d been a month ago, slogging back Tecate with lime and waiting for the weekday crowd to thin, and he was drunk and wanted her and struck up a conversation with a pretty girl, which was maybe the bravest thing he’d ever done in his life. And they talked, and Misty told him how hard it was to be a student and that she was behind on every single one of her bills, Visa and MasterCard maxed to the limit and beyond. It was a good little sob story, made even better by the fact Teddy suspected most of it was true. Probably she’d only been fishing for a bigger tip. Teddy doubted she’d been ready for what he’d done next.

Teddy pulled a wad of cash from his front pocket, peeled off ten one-hundred-dollar bills, and spread them on the bar like he was dealing a hand of solitaire. Misty blinked at the bills, looked at Teddy. He told her she was about the greatest thing he’d laid eyes on in a long time and he knew she was a good girl and didn’t mean any insult but he’d sure be happy to help her out if only she could help him out a little bit too, and after all Teddy was a man with a man’s needs and what could be more human and kind than two people giving each other aid and comfort?

Teddy braced himself for a slap or a scream or a couple of big bouncers tossing him into the Gulf of Mexico. None of that happened. Misty looked at the cash, looked at Teddy, nibbled her lower lip, and wrung her hands.

After shelling out a thousand dollars, Teddy found it odd how much he resented the twenty-nine bucks for the shabby room at the Dixie Winds Motel. Maybe he’d half expected her to ask him back to her place. The dim, dirty, anonymous motel room had almost ruined it. But then the grunting and sweating and heaving, and Teddy groped and thrust and howled and for a split second he’d touched Heaven and it had all been worth it.

All the following month he’d thought about her nearly every minute. It wasn’t anything as good as love or as dangerous as obsession, but she lodged herself in his thoughts and he started imagining Misty at his side in the Caribbean, tanning on the deck of the Electric Jenny (he’d need to rename the vessel, he reminded himself) with an umbrella drink, cruising the bright waters under the sun, the salt breezes kissing their skin. Yes, Misty completed the picture, a picture Teddy’d been forming in his mind for a long, long time. The new Teddy Folger.

The old Teddy Folger was a dud. A pale comic-book nerd. Teddy’d never had a bad life. Nobody had picked on him in high school. He was not totally out of touch with reality as were many of his peers, the folks who frequented the comic-book and sci-fi conventions. Teddy was an adult. Most of the other people he knew who were into collectibles were also adults. Whenever Teddy told people he ran a comic book/baseball card/sci-fi store, they invariably thought of the quintessential geek with the sinus condition and the pointy Spock ears.

That wasn’t Teddy Folger. Neither was Teddy the slick, trim, beach volleyball hunk with the six-pack abs and deepwater tan. The dude who had women climbing all over him. Teddy had always, always, always hated and envied those guys.

So he’d been working on his tan, and had done about ten thousand sit-ups since leaving Jenny in the dust. He’d gotten a really cool haircut and a pair of expensive wraparound sunglasses. A bottle of Polo cologne. A shitload of Tommy Hilfiger and Abercrombie & Fitch clothing.

And a fat, juicy bankbook.

And now if Misty would just muster the courage to talk to him, Teddy could make his pitch.

Finally, she came, replacing ashtrays and wiping the bar with a rag until she was near Teddy. “Uh… hi.” She wouldn’t look at him.

“I’ve been thinking about you a lot, Misty,” Teddy said.

“Uh… okay.”

This wasn’t going to work, Teddy realized. He didn’t have a chance in hell and was going to get shot down in flames. Misty had needed the money, needed it quick. She was obviously embarrassed to see him. He decided to forgo the preliminaries and dive right in. Might as well get the rejection over with.

He put a photograph of the Electric Jenny on the bar. “This is my boat. I’m headed to the Caribbean.”

Her eyes darted briefly to the photo.

“Why don’t you quit your job and come with me?” Teddy said.

Misty’s eyes flashed from side to side like a trapped animal looking for escape.

Billy Moto spotted Joellen Becker as she crossed the restaurant toward his table. Moto had the semiuseful talent for matching faces with voices he’d heard on the phone. Joellen was almost as he’d pictured her. A little taller. Hair black and thick and cut short and round in the Prince Valiant style. Features dark and hard and Slavic. She wore a charcoal gray pantsuit, tapered to highlight her thin waist. Shoes with no heels. She didn’t need any extra height, but something in the way she moved told Moto this woman wanted to be quick on her feet if needed. No rings, necklace, or earrings. A wristwatch with a plain black band.

She arrived at the table. “Moto?”

He stood. “Yes.”

She sat, shook open the napkin, and dropped it into her lap. “Where’s the waiter?”

Moto took his chair, sat stiffly. He did not know what to expect from this woman. “I asked for a wine list. I didn’t know if you’d want white or red, but there’s a good pinot noir and-”

“Cancel the wine, sport,” Becker said. “I looked over the Folger file again, and it looks like we’re going to need to talk business.” The waiter wandered near the table, and Joellen grabbed his sleeve so he couldn’t escape. “I need a triple Bombay martini with an olive the size of a poodle’s head.”

The waiter looked at Moto.

“Water with lime, please.”

Joellen curled a lip. “Jesus, Moto, order a man’s drink.”

What was that look on her face? Contempt? Moto felt his cheeks flush. The woman was most vexing. “Johnnie Walker Black. No ice.”

Joellen set a thick file folder and a VHS tape on the table. She crossed her arms on the table, leaned in. “Let’s talk about what you want, and don’t leave out the part about my being handsomely compensated.”

“My employer is interested in the DiMaggio card. I’ll pay you a reasonable sum for your information. We’re simply hoping to ascertain Teddy Folger’s whereabouts.”

“I told you,” Joellen said. “The card burned.”

Moto nodded, a slight shrug. “My employer is interested in any other cards of similar value Folger might possess.”

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?”

The drinks arrived, and Joellen took half hers in one gulp. “Here’s what I think. I think the card didn’t burn. I think Folger collected a juicy insurance check and now wants to unload the card on the sly. One card, two payoffs. I’ve seen it a dozen times, although it’s usually jewelry or something. Folger’s gone to ground, ducking his wife probably, and you can’t find him.”