The Girl in the Red Velvet Bra

The Girl in the Red Velvet Bra  

By: Mickey Finn

                  The shiny black Mercedes limo with the leather gloved, taciturn driver glided the car to a stop adjacent to the stairs leading to the large French chateaux style mansion. “Thanks for the ride,” I said as I climbed out.
        “That’s what I do,” he replied. I was getting excited about the chances for a new case. I bounded up the stairs and tapped the door knocker. I glanced back at the limo. The driver got out of the car and fired up a cigarette then proceeded to wipe down the windshield.       
        “Hello, Mr. White. Welcome to Hayden House,” the neat, redheaded pixie said as she closed the front door behind me.
        “Thank you, call me Cameron,” I replied. She gave me a quick look-over, and I did the same to her. She was in her mid-twenties had a plain face with serious, blue eyes behind oversized eyeglasses; my eyes drifted back to her long, wavy red mane.
        “I’m Julie Vaughn, personal assistant to Mrs. Wolfe-Hayden. Please follow me. She’s waiting for you in her office,” Julie said. I was led through the spacious, gilded, and marbled lobby of Hayden House which more resembled a grand hotel from the Age of Robber Barons than a private residence. The place was too stuffy for my taste, but I liked Julie Vaughn’s perfume, her shapely bottom and the prissy way she walked in her tight pencil skirt.
        Priscilla Wolfe-Hayden greeted me with a forced hostess smile as she stood board-straight behind a massive wood desk. She beckoned me to the leather visitor’s chair. I remained standing until she was seated. “I appreciate you coming here on such a short notice,” she said. Priscilla was forty-something, tall, and lean with an almost boyish figure. She was dressed in a conservative, plum hued, linen shirt dress with a thick croc belt around her waist. She has natural good looks with glowing skin and perfect teeth. She wore her dark brunette hair in a slicked back, no-nonsense bun. The railroad/real estate heiress wore no makeup. She strikes me as an outdoorsy, athletic gal, in a captain-of-the-lady’s-golf-team sort of way.  Despite the politeness, I sensed that she was not particularly happy to meet me. Clearly there was unexpected trouble brewing. Why else would a P.I. like me be invited into the Lap of Luxury?
        “Something to drink? A cigarette?” The heiress’s hand casually pushed a sleek, gold case across the mahogany desk. I could not help but notice her diamond wrist watch. The gleaming desktop was sparsely furnished with a telephone, a jade green ashtray, and a silver-framed photo of her golfer-husband, Dale Wolfe. He was looking handsome and sporty on the cover of a golf magazine. An oddly out-of-place brown, grocery sack occupied one corner of the desk.   
          “No thank you. I’m fine,” I replied. Priscilla snapped open her monogrammed lighter with practiced ease and started one burning.
          “Thank you, Julie. You may go now,” Priscilla said with a nod toward the door. Julie closed the office door without a sound. My hostess smoked in glum silence, and glared at the rows of family portraits hanging on the back wall arranged in sort of ancestor-worship shrine. Her dark eyes would drift back to the paper sack then return to the paintings on the wall. I sat quietly with hands folded in my lap, enjoying the view of the garden. “I don’t know where to begin. I’ve never hired a private investigator,” she finally said.
            My instincts told me that something in the paper bag bothered her. “What’s in the bag, Mrs. Wolfe-Hayden? I came all the way here from the city, and I think you have something to tell me,” I said.
           “You get to the point, Mr. White. I like that.” Mrs. Wolfe-Hayden crushed the cigarette out, reached into the paper bag and removed a scarlet red brassier decorated with bright red sequins. She laid the flashy undergarment on the center of the desk. I’ve had over one hundred cases in my P.I. career, but none have started with a more interesting, or provocative piece of evidence.
           “After I returned from visiting my mother in Seattle, I stayed two nights at my city apartment on Nob Hill while I attended to some downtown meeting at the office. While I was in the apartment, I found this rather gaudy undergarment hidden under my bed, where I usually store my suitcase. This is obviously not my bra.” I resisted the reflex to glance at her chest, as she had locked eyes with me. “I want you to find the girl who owns this bra, and return it to her,” she said with her voice dripping acid. After a pregnant silence, she added, “I also want you to find out how she got into my apartment and what she was doing there.”
          “May I ask a few simple questions?” I said. She shrugged. “How many people have access to the apartment?” 
          “Only my husband, Dale, and I have keys. Julie keeps the key box with the spare keys. And there is the building cleaning staff, of course.”
          “Any sign of forced entry?”
          “None. The door was locked and undamaged.”
          “Windows?”
          “Same. Besides we are on the sixth floor.”
          “Did you notice anything missing?”
          “No. Nothing much valuable there except a couple of expensive sets of my husband’s golf clubs.”  
         “Did you ask your husband about this? Perhaps there’s a reasonable explanation, and you don’t need a P.I. poking around,” I said as I examined exhibit one. It was obviously a first-class, custom-made garment. The tag was marked DD size, other than that there were no trademark or markings.
         Her thin eyebrows arched upward with a reaction of amusement tinged with disgust. “All you men stick together. He doesn’t need any help in the Excuses Department. He absolutely denies everything.”
         I continued, “Crazy things happen sometimes. What if this is somebody’s practical joke or just a one-time fling that doesn’t mean anything to your husband. I could talk to him about his whereabouts, and he…”
         She cut me off, “Dale is to be kept out of this investigation. Is that clear?”
         I had half expected to end up tailing the husband, but the case took a different direction. “Yes, perfectly clear.”
        Mrs. Wolfe-Hayden continued, “My son is getting married next month, and we absolutely CAN NOT have a family scandal explode in the press.” She grabbed her cigarette case then quickly pushed it away.
        “I understand.” I had the odd feeling that she was not telling me everything.
        “Mr. White, can you start today?”
        I nodded and reached inside my jacket. I handed her two copies of my standard contract; one to sign and one for her. “I don’t work without a contract and a $200 retainer.”
        She grabbed a pen and quickly glanced at the contract before signing then snatched a checkbook and an envelope from the desk top drawer. She quickly wrote out a check then dropped the red velvet bra into the bag. She handed over the check and envelope, “Here’s a check for one week’s pay, in advance. And some cash to cover your other expenses. I’ll trust you to use the cash to buy information, and not play the big shot buying drinks for the house at your favorite bar.”
I sighed. I had heard that comment before from clients trying to act tough. I did not like Priscilla Wolfe-Hayden’s tone of voice, or the jaded way the rich lady expected me to jump like her trained lap dog. I hesitated then accepted the brown bag. After all, I prided myself on not being prideful, and I needed a paycheck. I folded the signed contract and pocketed it along with the cash and check.  
       In a less hostile tone said added, “Please, keep me informed.” We exchanged business cards then she pressed the intercom button and said, “Julie, Mr. White is leaving now. Please call for his driver.”  
 
       The car dropped me off at the Sausalito ferry building. While waiting for the next ferry to Frisco, I made a phone call to the Chronicle newspaper. Most of the sports reporters were out of the office, but I managed to get a couple names for writers who cover the professional golfing world. I was passed back to the operator and asked for Herb Coen, the well-known society column writer. Our paths had crossed a few times during my work on the Patty Hearst kidnapping case. I gave him a big scoop on Patty, and he owed me. He answered on the first ring. I briefly told him my interest in Dale and Priscilla Wolf-Hayden and arranged to meet that evening for dinner. Herb said, “Tadich Grill seven o’clock,” and clicked off. I heard the far away ferryboat whistle and had just enough time to book the reservation.  
        The ferry was on time. I made my way to the top deck and soaked in the glorious fall day. I stood awhile at the handrails admiring the striking city skyline against the bluebird sky, and drinking in the crisp, cool air. I mulled over a few ideas about the owner of the red velvet bra. It was a flashy number, not unlike the garb worn by exotic dancers and strippers.
        During my most well-known case, the one I call the Sophomore Jinx, I met several owners and managers of the various gentlemen’s clubs in the heart of the city. The popular notion that they are sleezeballs is incorrect. At the upper scale joints, I found them to be honest, serious business people with a sharp eye for the bottom line and female talent.
        When I got back to my office, I made a few phone calls to my acquaintances in the adult entertainment business. The managers of the first six clubs were no help, but I had a few more names on my list to call tomorrow. At six o’clock I locked up my office/apartment and left for my dinner appointment. I took a cable car up the hill and walked the rest of the way to the restaurant on California Street to meet with the reporter, Herb Coen.
 
                                                                    *    *    *    *
 
        The next morning I slept in late and started my coffee brewing about eight o’clock. After a shave and shower I enjoyed my first cup of coffee while I flipped thru the file of newspaper clips that Herb Coen gave me the night before. I mused about the dinner with Herb. We dined on a feast of shrimp cocktails and a platter of Dungeness crab in various guises and a memorable bottle of Champaign. Herb talked nonstop about the Wolfe-Hayden family; he was at his best and most talkative when gossiping and drinking fine Champaign. Being entertained on my tab was another bonus for Herb.
        The long and the short of it was that my client, Mrs. Priscilla Wolfe-Hayden, was a respected business woman who recently had a streak of bad luck with men. Her first marriage to attorney Victor Adams was a happy one. Priscilla gave birth to their only child, Mike, about one year after saying her marriage vows. Unfortunately Victor Adams died suddenly of a heart attack while still in his prime. After a short mourning period, Priscilla remarried her second husband only to annul the marriage after six months. The marital misfire was well known and widely reported in the society rags. The current husband, an ex-golf pro named Dale Wolfe, was number three in less than two years after the first husband died. Dale had developed a reputation as a playboy during his stint on the pro golf tour. He failed to make the cut in 1968, and continued his sports career as a resident golf pro at a private club. Dale also had partnered with investors on some golf related business ventures. Herb remarked that rumors had it that at least one of Dale’s business start-ups was soon to declare bankruptcy.   
      The wedding of Priscilla’s son, Mike Adams, was the talk of the town. Mike was engaged to marry a senator’s daughter. Mike had also made a name for himself as a winning college quarterback. Herb pointed out the newspaper clipping with the happy couple’s engagement announcement. They were living the All-American dream.
       The Champaign bottle was floating, so I called for the waiter and ordered a round of brandies. He cleared the table, set up the brandy snifters and showed me a bottle of Courvoisier. I nodded approval and he poured with a flourish and heavy hand. Herb leaned forward and lowered his strong voice, “I know why you are so inquisitive about the Wolf-Haydens.” He dunked his nose into his brandy glass and I looked away with a knowing smile.
        “Don’t say anything,” Herb continued. “Of course, it is the wedding. Senator Walker wants to know more about his future in-laws before he walks his only daughter down the aisle.”
        I sipped my brandy and gave a noncommittal reply, “I’m sure both families want the wedding to go off without a hitch.”
        Herb continued, “I’ve met the Wolf-Haydens at a few galas and charity balls. Dale Hayden offered to give me golf lessons. I jumped at the chance and joined him at his club. Dale is an excellent golf coach. In his own words, he is the best in the business. Later at the Nineteenth Hole we had cocktails. We chatted about his years on the pro tour and I asked him, “What was the toughest course you ever played?” His response was telling. Dale said, “I fear no golf courses, nor husbands.”
         Herb sipped his brandy. I stated rather than asked, “So Dale fancies the married ladies.”
Herb nodded and replied, “Make no mistake; Dale Wolfe is a man of enormous vanity. He also tried his hand at hustling some money out of me for his business ventures. I declined, of course.”   
        “How well do you know Priscilla?” I asked.
        Herb lowered his voice to a whisper, “Priscilla is golden. She could have done much better than Dale.”    
        With that exchange, I closed out the tab and bid Mr. Coen a good evening. Herb was just getting started for the night and wandered over to the bar to join up with his drinking buddies.
I decided to take the long way home by foot and cruise around the party section of town. I hiked north along Battery Street toward Broadway and soon found myself in the warren of alleys that blanket North Beach. During the day the area affords great views, but in the dead of night I get a what’s-around-the-corner nervousness. I kept walking until I saw a street adorned with the neon lights of topless dance joints. I was able to get in to see a few of the managers and pass around my business cards with the words “red velvet bra” written on the back.
       Before walking home, I decided to try one more club. I saw a group of men in Shriner hats outside the Bunny Room and I trailed along behind them into the club. The place was busy for a week night, but that is the norm with convention season in full swing. I sat at a small table and ordered a ginger ale. I finally recognized someone; Stevie Hayes, wearing his thick glasses, was directing waiters and helping the Shiner group get seated. He was a likeable, big boy from Canada with a passion for collecting pro hockey souvenirs.
        I flagged down Stevie as he passed by my table. We exchanged greeting and I told him about my case and the red velvet bra. “A red velvet bra, eh?” 
        “Yeah, red velvet. Candy apple red,” I replied.
        Stevie stared at me behind coke bottle glasses. “How did you end up with a red bra?” He asked.
        “Long story. It doesn’t matter,” I replied.
       “Hey, I remember a dancer with big boobs that had a thing for red velvet outfits. She was hot, too. When she danced to Alice Cooper, the joint really got hopping. She set a club record for tips one night dancing to “Killer”. I think that record is still stands,” he said with a touch of professional admiration.
       “Name?”
        “Let me think. She’s a Cajun gal from the Louisiana bayou country and came to Frisco after dancing in the New Orleans clubs. She had a funny stage name or nickname she went by. What was it? I don’t recall her nickname or her real name, but I can check my records.”
        “What happened to her?”
        “She quit dancing here over a year ago.”
        “Did she leave town?”
        “No, she got hooked up with a local guy. A photographer, I think. The lucky prick.”
        “I need to find her.”
        “Why?”
        “I have something of hers that I need to give back to her.”
        “Cool. Like an inheritance?”
        “Well, not exactly, but something like that. It’s very personal and confidential.”
        “Is there a reward for finding the girl?” he asked.
        “Yes, of course.”
        “Sounds important. I’ll make a few calls. Maybe I can trace her down. Some of her girlfriends are still dancing in the clubs around town,” he said.
        “Great. Call me anytime. Day or night.” Stevie tucked my card in his pocket. I made it home well after midnight and my head hit the pillow at two o’clock. I fell asleep in a few minutes.  

 
        The strong coffee snapped me out of my reverie. I tidied up the kitchen and washed my empty coffee cup then dressed and went around the corner to the local café for breakfast. I planned my day over a plate of ham and eggs. I was beginning to get the sinking feeling that I was running out of ideas on finding the girl in the red velvet bra.  
       I spent the day in my office doing background checks of new employee prospects for my corporate clients. It was boring work, but paid the rent. I kept hoping for Stevie to call me with the name of the dancer. Around seven o’clock in the evening I was about to close shop and head out for supper when I heard a knock at my office door.
       It was a courier with a delivery from my client, Priscilla Wolfe-Hayden. I signed my name on his clipboard and off he went. I opened the package marked Urgent, and dumped the contents on my desk. I was not terribly surprised by the nature of the contents.
       I laid the two eight-by-ten color glossies on my desk. Both photos were taken of a boy-girl couple in the back seat of a car. I recognized the man. It was Dale Wolfe. He had silly grin on his handsome face, and his hands were cupping the bosom of a well-endowed, bare chested girl sitting on his lap. The girl’s face had been cropped off. The other picture was even racier. The girl’s face was in profile view and obscured by her long, blonde hair. Dale Wolfe was clearly visible in both photos, and appeared to be having the time of his life. 
        I called Mrs. Wolfe, as instructed by her note. She sounded like she had been crying. “I see that the proverbial “other shoe” has dropped,” I said.
        “Yes,” she whispered.
        “Ok, the pinch is on. Blackmail city. What are you going to do, and what do you want me to do?”
        It was quiet for several seconds. I could hear her breathing, short and fast. Finally she spoke. “I paid them.”
        “How much?”
        “Five thousand.”
        “For what?”
        “That they don’t send the photos to the newspaper.”
        “Ok, but I wish you would have called me first. I could have tailed them.”
        “I called around all over town looking for Dale. This is his mess, and I wanted to make him clean it up. I never found Dale. I was running out of time and got scared I would miss the drop off time. The wedding is next month. It’s a small price to pay to buy a little time.”
         “This was a test run. The blackmailer will demand more money. Probably much more,” I said.
         “I know. You’re right. He will probably be back for more.”
         “He? Did you see a man? Tell me everything about the cash drop off.”
         “A man called and told me what to do.” She hesitated then gave me a brief account. “I took a cab to the bus station. At twelve noon, I put the cash in locker #88 then bought a cup of coffee and dropped the key in coffee cup then walked out leaving the cup on the table.”
         “They must have staked out the locker. Did you spot anything suspicious?”
          “No, the place was crowded and busy. I was warned not to hang around. I took a cab back to the ferry station.”
          “Anything else?”  
          She sighed and said, “I’ve had a horrible day.” Then she hung up the phone.

 
                                                                *    *    *    *
 
        Two painfully long days later I finally caught a break. I got a call from Stevie, the owner of the Bunny Room. “I got the scoop on the dancer we discussed. Boo Boo is her nickname. Her real name is Bridgette Fontenot. I tracked her down, and talked to her. She agreed to meet you,” Stevie said.
        “Got a number or address?” I wrote her work phone number on my desk pad. It was a local area code. I had the rare thrill that comes when I get a lucky break on a puzzling case. “I’ll drop by the Bunny Room next week and give you the reward money.”
         I immediately dialed Boo Boo’s work number. Miss Fontenot had a new gig as a trainer at a ladies health club. The intercom pager echoed into my phone. She answered after two or three minutes. She had a soft, but husky, Southern accent with a New Orleans twang. She said that she had talked to Stevie, and it was okay for me to meet her at the coffee shop across the street from the health club. “Great. I’m wearing a tan blazer and black pants,” I said.
         She told me the address of the club and added, “I take a thirty minute break at three o’clock.” I scribbled the club address on a scrap of paper, grabbed my keys and the paper sack with the red velvet bra. It seemed like the valet took a week to bring my car from the parking plaza. I jumped behind the wheel of my 1972 two door, ragtop white Lincoln, with a gas guzzling 460cid V8 under the hood. I made the short trip with the top down and the radio playing “Hotel California”. The October weather was perfect and reminded me of my first fall in the city a few years ago when everything was new and fun. The best thing being it was a long way from Vietnam. I was early for the appointment so I cruised around the upscale Pacific Heights hood looking at homes I could probably never afford. A few minutes before three o’clock, I glided my Lincoln into the parking lot of the Cleopatra Hills Health Club.   
          The club was located in a strip mall adjacent to a fashionable shopping area. Late model sporty cars lined the parking lot. I walked across the street to the coffee shop, and found a secluded, outdoor table. The teeny bopper waiter took my order and hustled away. 
I sipped on a cup of coffee, and waited for Boo Boo. The sun was sinking low, and I began to feel a refreshing autumn chill in the air. I sipped my coffee, and noticed a young lady wearing a loose fitting jogging outfit and sneakers approach the café. She looked the place over, and headed toward my table.
            “Are you Cameron White?”
            I handed her a business card, and offered her a chair. She paused to read the card then sat down and stuffed my card into her pocket. “Do you have some ID?” she asked.
I flashed my PI license and gave her my best smile.   
           “I’m Bridget, but everyone calls me Boo Boo,” she said. Miss Fontenot was mid-twenties, average height. She was not a pretty girl, but not bad to look at. She had a milky white complexion, and short, jet black hair styled in an uneven shag cut. She had thick, dark eyebrows, free of any make-up, and flashing, green eyes with butternut flecks. She sized me up with a confident, half-flirty gaze. Boo Boo ordered a decaf latte and we got down to business.
          “So you’re the mysterious private eye. The lost-and-found guy that has something of mine to return,” she said as she folded her hands on the table and glanced at her wristwatch. There was something about her; an edge in her voice and a toughness in her eyes.
          “I don’t know for sure if you’re the right person. I’m looking for the owner of the item in this bag.” I placed the bag on the ground next to her chair. “Please check inside the bag, Boo Boo.”
She looked in the bag and one eyebrow shot skyward. “Is that your brassier?” I asked.
        “Maybe. Why the big deal?” She hastily added. “And don’t expect me to try it on. Like a Cinderella story.”
        “Don’t get defensive, Boo Boo. I’m only doing my job. I’m hired to protect my client. I’m not here to harass you. I promise.” I asked again, “Is it yours?”
        She shrugged and repeated, “Maybe?”  Boo Boo pulled the bra out of the paper bag and gave it a quick inspection. “I wore this type of stuff during another life,” she said matter of fact.
        “Is it yours?”
        She double checked the tag. “Yep, that’s my size. Ok, yeah, it’s my bra,” she said as she dropped the bra in the bag, and pushed the sack toward me with her foot.
“Boo, you can have the bra. I don’t need it.” I deadpanned.
She smiled and asked, “How did you get my red velvet bra?”
        The waitress arrived with the latte and I paid for the coffees. I told Boo most of the story; leaving out my client’s name. I sipped the coffee and said, “One more question; are you involved in blackmail?” I laid the blackmail photos on the table before her.    
        Boo Boo Fontenot’s face darkened with anger when she looked at the racy photos. Her lips pinched tight into a deep frown, and her eyes narrowed into a killer look that was genuinely scary. “That fucking jerk,” she mumbled with her head shaking side to side.
        “Boo, do you know anything about this?” I asked.
        “I am not involved in blackmail, but I can tell you who took these photos” she said as she pushed the photos across the table toward me.
        “Who? I need to know.”
        “He’s a photographer named Eddie Goldberg. He is also known as Fast Eddie,” she said.
        “Do you think Fast Eddie would try a blackmail racket?”
        “Oh yes. Fast Eddie Goldberg would do anything for a buck.”
        “Do you remember this? Is that you in one of the photos?”
         She shrugged her shoulders and pointed to one of the glossies. “Yeah, that’s me giving a customer a lap dance in Eddie’s limo. His business was going broke so he came up with this idea to charge more money. I never knew the bastard had a hidden camera.”
         “Either did my client until these photos showed up. Tell me about Fast Eddie.” She looked me in the eyes. I’ve seen the look many, many times. The expression asks the big universal question: What’s in it for ME? Why should I risk getting involved?
          I reached inside my jacket and offered her an envelope containing two Ben Franklins. She glanced inside and laid the envelope on the table. She gave me a softer, kinder look. We were beginning to understand each other.
          Boo sighed. “Well, we all make mistakes. Eddie was a big mistake for me. I had a crush on him. I was a fool. I lived with him for about three months before he dumped me for a Russian fashion model named Lena Peplinka. She claims to be a super-model in Russia, and dreams of hitting the big time in the States. Eddie’s got the dumb blonde convinced that he can make her famous with his contacts and photography skills.”
         “You obviously don’t think much of Eddie Goldberg.”
         “Eddie’s just a fucking con artist.”
         “I need to find Mr. Goldberg and recover all the photos and negatives. Would you help me out, Boo Boo?”
         She paused and said lowly, “I’ll think about it. But I need to go back to work now, and later tonight I’m going to a party.”
        “Tell me where he lives.”
        “Across the bay in Oakland.”
        “Do you know the address?”
        “No, but I think I can find it.”
        “Will you take me there tonight?”
        “Not tonight,” she said. “I have plans.”
        “Listen, Boo, I know from experience that we need to move on Eddie now. Once he got the cash, he’ll be on the move.”
        Boo’s eyes widened. “What cash?”
        I told her about the blackmail money, and saw a gleam of greed in her eyes. “He still owes me two grand for a loan to help him buy the limo service. He signed a note.”
        “OK, when I get the photos and negatives, I’ll help you collect on the bad debt.”
She thought it over and accepted. We were partners.
        “Can you go to Eddie’s place now?  I asked.
        Boo glanced at her watch. “No, I’m booked with aerobic classes at the gym until 5:30. I’ll skip the party tonight, and go with you to Eddie’s place after my class. Pick me up here at six.”
       “Thanks. I’ll be waiting in a white Lincoln convertible by the gym.”
        “See you later. I gotta go,” she said and headed back to gym carrying the paper bad with the red velvet bra.   
 
        I found a quiet bar with a pay phone and gave my client a phone call. Julie Vaughn answered and put me through to her boss. “We finally caught a break. I found the girl who owns the red velvet bra.”
       “Who is she?”
       “Her name is Boo Boo Fontenot.”
       “Boo Boo! What kind of name is that?”
       “It’s a nickname. Her real name is Bridgett. Does the name ring a bell?”
       “No. Never heard of her.” The answer did not surprise me.
       “Boo Boo had to go back to work. I will see her after work and question her more. I will give you a phone call later this evening.” I thought it was too early to mention the lead about Eddie Goldberg.
       “I’m going out tonight to a charity fund raiser. I will leave the number where to reach me with Julie.” She clicked off. My client was not the talkative sort of lady. I liked that. I strolled to the bar and ordered a vodka tonic and BLT sandwich on sourdough bread.
 
 
      As we had planned, at six o’clock I saw Boo Boo leave the gym and walk to my car. She was tricked out in her va-va-voom party outfit. She was all cleavage and bare, flat belly in an ivory tube top and hip-hugger, black cigarette pants that fit just right. She removed a fur lined bolero jacket from her gym bag then tossed the bag into the back seat and settled into the leather passenger seat. Boo Boo flipped down the visor mirror and said, “Nice car; drive to the Bay Bridge.” She fastened a triple strand, pink pearl choker around her neck then donned her jacket.
      “You never told me how your bra ended up under a bed in Nob Hill,” I said.
      “What about it?” Boo fished cosmetics from her purse. She applied her war paint with a quiet intensity.
       “Tell me everything.”       
        I drove the Lincoln while Boo related her story. “Dale, the guy who owned the apartment, was throwing a casino night for his business associates and hired Fast Eddie to set it up. He set up blackjack and poker tables and a bar and hired a few pretty girls to deal blackjack, tend bar and wait on tables. It was one of Eddie’s many side businesses. Back then I had a popular exotic dance act dressed like a cowgirl complete with a holster, fake pistols, a White cowboy hat, western boots and not much else - just the red bra and a G-string. I danced during the break in the gambling.”
        “Did Dale pay you? How much?”
        “No, he paid Eddie. Eddie gave me a hundred bucks to work the party. I also made a killing on the tips.”
        “Tell me more about Dale. Did you meet him in private” I asked.
        “You mean did I fuck him?” She snapped.
        “Your bra was found under his bed. It is not that much of a leap.”
        “I was getting to that. After my act, I went into the bedroom to change. I was standing there naked when I heard some loud, angry shouting then the door burst open with two men fist fighting. I grabbed my dress and ran into bathroom. I got my dress on then went into the bedroom – the fighting had turning into a big free-for-all wrestling match. I stuffed my outfit into my bag. My hat and guns got knocked off the bed onto the floor. As quick as I could, I packed up and took off. I guess I missed the bra. It must have been kicked under the bed during ruckus.”
        I was satisfied with the story. It made sense. “Who was in the fight?”
        “Dale and some big guy that was drunk.”
        “Did you ever hear why the fight broke out?”
        “The drunk guy was yelling about Dale being a cheat on the golf course and with his wife.”
        “Do you know the name of the drunk guy, or any other of the poker players?
        “No, only Dale.”
        “Who would know, besides Eddie?”
        “Does it matter?”
        “Probably not.”
        “Slow down. The exit is coming up next.”
        We cruised into Oakland with Boo giving directions to Fast Eddie’s place. Along the way, I stopped for gas. Boo said the gas station was her landmark, and she knew the way to Eddie’s place from there. It was a chilly evening, so I put the top up. It was near sunset when we found a run-down neighborhood near the huge rail yard. We passed a row of modest, single-story, frame houses. “The one on the end of the street is Eddie’s place. He lives in the garage apartment in the back,” she said.  
        The house was pitch dark, but dim lights glowed from the windows of the garage apartment. I turned my car around for a fast exit, and parked a couple doors down from Eddie’s apartment. Feeling the need for a weapon, I fished my favorite sap from the glovebox, and dropped it into the side pocket of my sport coat.
        “I thought you P.I. guys carried a gun,” Boo said.
        “I won’t need a gun. Eddie is a blackmailer not a killer,” I replied.
        Boo looked me in the eye and said, “Eddie has a gun.”
        The risk calculus of the job changed. “Does he carry?” I asked.
        “Only when on a photo shoot in a dodgy part of town. He got mugged on Castro Street. They beat him up and stole his cameras, so he went out an’ bought a pistol,” she said.
        Boo and I walked down the dark, deserted street. I spotted a beat up, blue van parked in the driveway. “Is that Eddie’s ride?” I asked.
        “Yeah, he’s home,” she replied.
        My heart was beating fast. I knew I was approaching a potentially dangerous showdown. At times like that, I know that my rates are too cheap. I watched a stray, calico cat pussyfoot cross the street toward the rail yard. The cat was probably hunting rats, just like I was doing. 
        Boo and I stayed in the shadows as we slipped past the empty, unloved old house to the back yard. I paused at the foot of the stairs leading to the garage apartment. In the dim light, I counted seventeen steps to the porch landing. “I’ll go up first. Wait two minutes then follow me up. Stay here if you hear some commotion,” I whispered. She nodded in agreement. “You do not have to do this,” I said softly.
        She turned a steely gaze toward me and hissed, “I want to see that bastard squirm.”
        Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, I thought as I turned and started up the steps. I glanced to the left to see a stunning orange and golden sunset. I creeped up the stairs soft and slow; my eyes focused on the screen door at the top. The light coming thru the screen door meant the solid door was wide open. If Eddie was standing guard with a gun, he would wait for me to climb the stairs halfway then jump out and drop a bead on me. My pulse was racing as I reached the small landing at the top of the stairway. Staying out of the light, I eased toward the screen door handle. I peered inside the apartment and saw a man with his back toward me, sitting on a stool and leaning over what appeared to be a light table. I relaxed a bit. I had Eddie by complete surprise. I took a deep breath and tried the screen door. It was unlocked. I walked in, like I owned the place. I made sure the screen door closed silently behind me.
 
        Eddie was hunched over a light table examining 35 mm slides with his magnifying glass. The efficiency apartment was small and sparsely furnished. To my left I saw a small kitchen with dull yellow appliances, and a Formica table flanked with two tired, vinyl chairs that were some odd shade of orange. A bottle of vodka and two empty glassed sat on the kitchen table. The place smelled of stale cigarette smoke. The kitchen spilled into the large bedroom. I admired Eddie’s handiwork. He had set up shop in the bedroom with a light table, developing equipment, and shelves crammed with various types of cameras. There were several framed artsy photos lining the cracked plaster walls.  
         The only pleasant feature in the drab apartment was the stark naked lady sitting cross legged on the queen size bed. She had long blonde hair and a thin frame. This must be the Eddie’s new fashion model protégé, Lena Peplina, I thought. She paused from painting her dragon lady finger nails, and looked me in the eyes. Her sky-blue eyes locked on me without expression – the most beautiful poker face I had ever seen. She was drop dead gorgeous.
          “Hello, Eddie,” I said casually. Eddie whirled around on his stool and gaped at me. Fast Eddie was tall and lanky, with a thin mustache; his dishwater blonde hair was thinning and streaked with grey. He wore his hair long and tied off in a ponytail. He wore white polyester slacks and a shiny, purple pimp shirt with oversized French cuffs. He had a wrinkled, weather-beaten face that some people might consider to be rugged good looks. I thought he looked like a broken down old fisherman rather than a hot shot photographer. But then again I may be overly critical as I was jealous of Eddie’s fine looking girlfriend, setting naked on the bed.  
          He had the gravelly, hoarse voice of a heavy smoker. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he rasped.
         “Special delivery,” I replied as I waved the manila envelope. The naked blonde casually screwed the top on the nail polish bottle, and glared at me. “Throw it on the bed and beat it,” she snapped in a heavy Russian accent. It was jarring to hear a hard, insolent voice from such a pretty face. She was without modesty or fear. She brushed back her long hair to reveal her small bust with dark, proud, puffy nipples.  
         I tossed the envelope on the bed. Lena snatched it up and looked inside. “I don’t know this guy, but he’s no mailman. I smell a cop,” Eddie growled.  
        “My name is Cameron White. I’m a private investigator,” I said with a polite smile and nod toward Lena. I had the drop on Fast Eddie and Supermodel Lena, so I pressed home my advantage.
“Pardon the intrusion, but I have important business that can’t wait. I work for the Wolfe family, and we need to settle accounts. Today,” I said. I emphasized “today”. I reached my right hand into my coat pocket and took a firm grip on the sap.  
        “Fuck off. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Get the hell outta here.” Eddie tried to sound tough, but his voice cracked and his right hand quivered. He stayed glued on the stool, and glanced out the corner of eye at the nearby single drawer nightstand. I figured he probably had something important in the top drawer. Was it his pistol? 
        “You’re a liar, Eddie. The game is over. My client wants the prints and negatives. ALL the negatives, buddy,” I said firmly.
        Eddie coughed and glared at me. “Photos, huh. Bring’em here, Lena.” Supermodel Lena, whose cuffs and collars were a perfect match, found a pair of leopard print, bikini panties under the crumpled bed covers, and threw them on as well as a semi-diaphanous white silk blouse. She made up a couple of buttons then pulled herself off the bed. She was almost as tall as me, making her an inch under six feet - in bare feet. The statuesque blonde walked past me with a sexy, graceful catwalk stroll, but her eyes had the warmth of a Siberian winter. She handed the envelope to Eddie.
        Eddie emptied the envelope on the light table and pretended to examine the photos. “Nice work, I must admit, but I ain’t ever seen these before. You got the wrong guy, so get lost, fella,” Eddie barked.  
        Right on cue, Boo Boo strolled into the bedroom and stood beside me. “Hi, Eddie. You got memory problems?” Boo Boo purred with false sweetness and a beguiling smile. Lena’s hard eyes shot ice bullets at Boo Boo. Eddie turned pale, like he had seen a ghost.
        With a snort of disgust, Eddie threw the notorious photos on the light table. “Boo, I never figured you’d rat on me,” Eddie whined.
        “It was real easy, Eddie. You forgot to deal-me-in on the loot, so I’m here to collect the money you owe me,” Boo said.  
        Eddie scowled at Boo Boo. “I need a cigarette. Lena, get my pack from the kitchen,” Eddie ordered. Lena instantly slinked toward the kitchen, sidestepped around Boo’s tits, and cast a murderous look at the Cajun girl. The room vibrated with intense hatred between the two girls.
Boo Boo stood her ground, with hands on hips. 
        Lena smiled a menacing smile, and said in a grating voice, “You took a big chance coming here tonight. You better hit the road before you get hurt.” The tall Russian girl towered several inches over Boo. Lena took a step forward, crowding Boo.
       Boo Boo yanked off her Bolero jacket, tossed it on the floor, and put up her dukes. “I’m not afraid of you.”
       Eddie, the eloquent one, barked from his stool. “You bitches shut-the-fuck-up. Lena, gimme my cigarettes.”  
        Lena did as she was told, and fetched up an empty ashtray also. She was straight backed, sophisticated and cool as she held the lighter for Eddie. She may have been half-naked, but she had the hauteur of a refined lady. I admit that I admired her style.
        Eddie blew a smoke cloud toward the ceiling. He sighed and his shoulders shrank. “What do you two want to get off my case?” he groaned.
        “I want all your pictures and negatives of Mr. Wolfe. You can keep the money. Let’s just say that you are due some hush money, and the secret stays in this room.”
        “What if I don’t play ball?”
        “Then I call the cops. You go directly to jail, the Wolfe’s are embarrassed and I get paid either way it goes. So make up your mind, NOW.” 
        The scared rabbit look swept across Fast Eddie’s eyes. “Ok, calm down about the cops, man. You got a deal,” Eddie said. 
        “I’ll take them now,” I said.
        “No can do,” Eddie replied. “I don’t keep them here. Give me a day to round them up. Come back here this time tomorrow.”
        “No. It’s like this, Eddie; I don’t leave without the negatives, so find them.”
        “Back off, I said tomorrow,” Eddie shouted.
        “I think I know where he keeps them,” Boo volunteered. “He has a secret hiding place in the closet.”
        Eddie’s eyes popped open wide as Boo Boo opened the closet door by the bed and yanked the clothes rod off the holder. The shapely Cajun lady gave the hollow tube a quick shake. I heard an interesting rattling noise. You could have heard a pin drop as Boo yanked out the end plug, and dumped the contents on the bed, and exclaimed, “Voila”. Twin packets of negatives wrapped in wax paper landed on the white sheets. My heart leaped. But was it the Wolfe negatives?  
        Fast Eddie sprang off the stool and lunged toward the nightstand. I grabbed his pony tail and stopped him in his tracks. Eddie spun round on his heels and threw a wild right hook at my face. In one motion, I ducked the punch and popped the side of his left knee with my sap. He cried out in pain and collapsed to the floor. He still had some fight left in him, so I gave him a pop on the elbow, and a tap on the back of the head. That fixed him. Eddie lay stunned and moaning on the floor.  
        “I was hoping this business would not get messy,” I said as I reached behind my back for the bracelets. I had no trouble handcuffing his right wrist to the metal frame of the bed.
You may think I’m cruel, but I’m not. I could have taken out his knee cap and crippled him for life, or crushed his skull with the edge of my sap. In my most prominent case, the one I named the Sophomore Jinx, I took on a nasty pimp and two bodyguards with nothing but a sap. I knocked the three toughies unconscious with my handy sap, and escaped with only a minor knife wound.
       “Mind if I look around this dump, Eddie?” I asked politely.
       “Where’s your warrant, asshole?” he said as he rubbed his knee.
       I pushed my sap under his nose. “Is this good enough for a shitbird blackmailer?”
I hurried to the nightstand and opened the top drawer. I found a book and a few pencils. No gun. I flipped thru pages of the book. A negative strip dropped on the bed. I shook the book by the binding and three more negative strips tumbled out. I scooped the negatives off the bed and took them to the light table. I laid them out on the light table, and studied the frames. I quickly found the frames that matched the blackmail photos. Bingo. We have a winner. I bore down on the next pack of negatives, and then the trouble began.
       BooBoo threw a hissy fit about “her share” of the five grand. I was so absorbed with the negatives that I had forgotten about the blackmail cash. I looked behind me and saw Boo Boo and Lena in a standoff. Lena’s fists were clenched in a tight ball, “You stupid slut,” she hissed.
Boo side-stepped Lena and stood over Eddie, shackled at the foot of the bed. “Eddie, you’re a double-crossing worm. Where did you hide the money? Gimme my the two grand that I loaned you, Eddie,” BooBoo demanded. 
        “We already spent it,” Lena snarled.
        “Yeah, we fucked it off on some blow,” Eddie said.
        BooBoo rushed to the shelves containing the cameras and grabbed a large one. She held it high overhead. Eddie reading her body language with horror, screamed out, “Boo Boo put that down. That’s my lucky LEICA.”
        “Where’s the money, Eddie? Tell me, or I’ll smash your fancy, fucking camera to pieces.”
        I guess every man has a weak spot, and Boo Boo knew exactly where to strike Eddie. “It’s in the coffee can in the kitchen,” he yelped. BooBoo flipped the beloved camera on the bed then wiggled her cute ass past Lena, and onward to the kitchen.
        Boo got half way to the kitchen before Lena exploded into action. “Hands off the money, bitch,” Lena shouted as she grabbed a fist full of Boo’s tube top and violently flung her backwards. Boo fell ass-over-tea-kettle, with her tube top around her waist. She quickly jumped to her feet and went after Lena. Boo Boo bitch slapped the big Russian gal in the face. Lena staggered like a drunk and rubbed her jaw. Blood trickled from Lena’s upper lip, and a crazed look came over her eyes. She hissed something in Russian and darted for the nightstand.
        I was horrified to see Lena pull a 9mm semi-auto pistol that was cleverly concealed behind the nightstand. I popped off the stool like a jack-in-the-box then froze as I looked down the gun barrel. Lena’s finger was on the trigger. Eddie bleated, “Lena, put the gun down before someone gets hurt.” Fast Eddie’s eyes darted with terror as he cowered on the floor at the foot of the bed. Before I could blink an eye, Boo Boo attacked Lena from the flank and drove her hand under Lena’s wrist, pushing the gun barrel toward the ceiling. I expected a round to go off any second as the two girls staggered in a slow motion dance. I joined in and quickly wrestled the pistol away from Lena; however, the big blonde still had plenty of fight left in her. The two girls went at each other like wildcats; rolling on the floor, slapping, titty twisting, pulling hair, throwing girly punches, and all the while cursing vehemently.  
        I took a deep breath to relax then removed the magazine from the pistol and racked back the action. The chamber was empty and the safety was in the On position. I tucked the empty pistol in my belt and pocketed the fully loaded magazine. I returned to the light table and got back to work. Only a complete fool would have jumped in and tried to stop the catfight. I have seen high spirited gals like these two gals fight, and they are truly dangerous. They are like hurricanes. They need to spend their fury and energy before it is safe to approach.
        Boo Boo gained control and pinned Lena down on the floor. But the Russian got a second wind and scrambled free. Boo instantly jumped to her feet, and clinched Lena’s neck in a choke hold with one arm and grabbed a fist full of hair with her other hand. The big blonde struggled to break free with Boo hanging around her neck. Boo’s stamina won out. Lena cried out, “I give!” and went limp. Boo released her victim and watched Lena collapse on the floor. She rolled on her back, mouth open and gasping for air.  
       Boo pulled up her tube top to make herself decent then found the coffee can full of cash in the kitchen. She retrieved the roll of cash and began counting. “I’m taking my money,” she announced with a cash roll in her fist. She left the leftover pile of cash on the kitchen counter. The exhausted Russian remained on her back with legs spread eagle. She flipped a double bird at the Cajun girl. oo Boo slipped on her jacket and stuffed the cash in the coat pocket.  
       I stashed the negatives and photos into the envelope then laid the empty pistol on the light table along with a key for the hand cuffs. “I have what I need, so we’ll be off,” I said. Eddie sighed and looked defeated. “One more thing, Eddie. You keep the remainder of the blackmail money. There should be three thousand bucks there. You have been bought off to leave my client alone, Eddie, just remember; you have better stay bought, or I will come see you again. Understand?” I said. Eddie did not reply but grunted as he slowly got to his feet. “Count to fifty before leaving the apartment.”    
       Boo and I dashed down the stairs and dropped the pistol magazine on the bottom step. We hot-footed it to the Lincoln. The engine roared as I punched it and burned rubber. It was a clean escape through the quiet, dark neighborhood.  
 
 
        We headed west on the Bay Bridge. “Fun is over, Boo, I’ll take you home.”
        “Drive to Alamo Park. I live on a side street nearby.”
        A few minutes later we drove past the Painted Ladies then turned onto Grove Street and pulled into a parking space at Boo Boo’s apartment complex. I cut the engine. She offered to split the two grand, but I declined. “No, you keep it. My client wants the photos and negatives. Returning the money is not part of my deal. Besides you more than earned it tonight.”
        She appeared puzzled for a second then looked me in the eyes. She smiled and turned on the charm. “I loved it when you whacked Fast Eddie. I’ve never seen him so meek.” 
        I returned the compliment, “You sure showed Lena who is boss. I thought you were going to wring her pretty neck off.”
        Boo laughed out loud. “She started it, but I finished it. That’s not my first fight, but I’ve never choked anyone that hard. I was mad enough to kill that rotten bitch.”
       I got out and opened her car door. “Boo, you had better watch your back for a while. Keep a sharp eye out,” I said.
      “I always do,” she replied as she fished a card out of her jacket pocket and handed it to me. It was my own business card with a phone number written on the back.  
      “Give me a call sometime,” she purred, and gave me a peck on the cheek as she walked by. I watched her walk up the steps to her apartment, and unlock the front door. She turned and gave me a friendly, two thousand dollar wave and smile.
 
       I found a pay phone and called the Wolfe residence. I heard the perky, young voice of Julie Vaugh answer the phone. She said Mrs. Wolfe’s was away at a charity event in Pacific Heights, and left a phone number to reach her. I penciled it down and dropped another dime into the slot. The phone rang and rang; finally a cheery, thick tongued man answered the phone, and promptly put Priscilla Wolfe on the line. “I apologize for interrupting your party, Mrs. Wolfe, but I have some good news for you.”
       “Not on the phone. Can you meet me at the Sutro Park entrance in an hour?” she asked.
       I glanced at my watch. “Ok, I’ll be there in a white Lincoln.”
       She laid the phone down without saying goodbye. I stopped for a deli sandwich on the way, and ordered a large coffee-to-go after the friendly waitress said it was a fresh pot. I ate the sandwich as I drove toward the coast. I parked on a well-lighted street by the park entrance, and sipped the hot coffee.
 
 
      The fog was rolling in from the ocean and it was after midnight when I saw a black Mercedes slowly pass my car then circle back, and park on the opposite side of the street. The driver got out to open the rear door.  The glow of dome light revealed one person in the back seat, a woman. Mrs. Wolf-Hayden emerged from the back seat. She was wearing a flowing, white satin cocktail gown and looked like an angel floating toward my car in the sea of fog. I opened the passenger door for her and she gracefully took the front passenger seat saying, “Sorry I’m a bit late.”
      I flipped the hem of her long dress inside the car and closed the car door. I got behind the wheel and reached for the manila envelope on the dashboard. “The blackmail job has been shut down, as of tonight. I paid a surprise visit to the blackmailer’s apartment and took what we need, Mrs. Wolf-Hayden,” I said as I handed her the envelope containing the original photos and all the copies and negatives.
      She thawed considerably and said, “Call me Priscilla,” then opened the clasp on the envelope and glanced inside. She pulled out a few photos and said, “Well, tell me the story.”
       I told her the slimmed down version of my investigation, leaving out the fights at Eddie’s place, and portraying Boo Boo as a victim and heroine rather than a wicked accomplice of the blackmailer, Eddie Goldberg. Priscilla sighed and started to look at the photographs then decided against it. A slight smile crossed her face and she had a faraway look in her eyes. I do not pretend to know what she may have been thinking. She shook my hand and held it just a little longer than normal. She had soft hands with jewels on every finger. “Thank you,” she said softly.   
      “This should conclude our business, but if you get bothered again by Eddie Goldberg, just give me a call and I will pay him another visit.” I admit to trying to sound tougher than usual.
       “I need you to do one more job for me,” she replied. Priscilla took a deep breath and looked out the windshield. “Dale is missing. I want you to find my husband. I know he’s done some dumb stunts, but I miss him. More than I realized.”
       I was a bit hesitant and stated the obvious. “I have done some missing person cases, but I have to admit that the police have far more resources and do a good job on missing person cases.”
      “No police,” she said with firmness.
      I nodded and readied my notepad. I asked some of the standard questions about the timeline, Dale’s car, his occupation and his favorite haunts and friends. He had some business interests that his wife knew little about, and they kept their finances separate. Dale did not have an office outside their Sausalito home, and his social life revolved around his love of golfing. Dale’s car was a vintage, white Mercedes sedan. She did not know the tag number.  
       “I will require several snapshots of Dale; as recent as possible. Also I will need one or two operative to help keep a watch out,” I said.
       Priscilla started to look uncomfortable. She folded her hands in her lap, and asked, “Keep a watch? Where?”
       “Give me some time to think it over, but the most obvious place to begin would be your city apartment on Nob Hill,” I replied. 
        Priscilla lowered the window to let some fresh air into the stuffy car. “I thought of that already, and on Monday I called the desk at the Germaine Courtyard. They said that Dale had not checked in. I also talked to the manager, J.F. Sebesta, and he volunteered to go up and check the place. He called back later and reported that the apartment was vacant and no sign of recent use.”  
        “Just the same, I need to check it myself and keep watch.”
        Priscilla glanced at her watch and frowned. Her hand reached for the door handle as she said, “I will send Julie over to your office in the morning to deliver keys for the car and apartment, and some photos, and hopefully Dale’s address book. Do you require any money, a retainer?”
        “No retainer; that’s for new clients only. I will draw up a new contract for you to sign.” I exited my car and opened the door for Priscilla.
        She said, “Give the new contract to Julie tomorrow. Good night, Mr. Winter.” She walked with poise to her limo, and I was left to ponder about the unexpected missing person situation. I took the long route home and my mind finally cleared by the time I reached my office/apartment on Lombard Street.
​        I went to my desk and pulled out a bottle of Kentucky Rye from the bottom drawer. I got a glass from the kitchen and gave myself a two finger pour. It was good liquor and went down very smooth. I corked up the bottle and put it away for the night. I placed the card with Boo Boo’s phone number on the desk top by the phone. I could have fallen asleep in the desk chair, but made it to the bed and kicked off my shoes.       
 
  
 
                                                                     [End of Part 1]