No Man's Land

No Man's Land

Ian Fraser

Published by Ian Fraser, 2015.

Table of Contents

Title Page

NO MAN’S LAND | By Ian Fraser

NO MAN’S LAND

By Ian Fraser

1.

I like museums. They’re full of dead things. My therapist reckoned it’s an affectation; simply me being snobbish about my own neurosis, he said if I were truly attracted to death, I would be an inveterate list maker. I watched as it dawned on him that I am a maker of lists. He frowned, reddened, and scribbled in my folder in his lap.

Rule number seventeen for therapy, don’t correct your shrink’s mistakes – they don’t appreciate it, and you’re left sitting wondering what exactly they’re doing. It’s just one of those things I’ve learned along the way.

When I first saw Catherine she was sitting beneath a tall jet-black statue of Set, his ears upright and snout extended. Did I mention I live in LA? I do, which means that aside from the museum at the La Brea tar pits, most museums are desolate places. Beyond cinema, LA is not known for its citizen’s hunger for culture. Oddly enough, it was seeing her seated before the statue that gave me a sense of déjà vu. It took a moment to work out. Then it came to me: Kim Novak in a fugue state, seated in a museum in Hitchcock’s Vertigo. Of course, in the movie it was a painting, here it was a fifteen foot high ebony jackal-headed Egyptian god.

When I’m not working on a case, I have a lot of free time. This simple thing can drive some people nuts, but I found it soothing to wake up without schedules hanging over my head or appointments to keep. Besides, back at the office, Judy was always holding the fort for me. Being a private investigator in LA is a cliché, almost embarrassing – like admitting to being an actor or actress. Here, usually, the people who tell you they’re a writer or an actor are the ones bringing you food in a restaurant. I tried not to tell people what I did, the words just never seemed to come out with anything approaching grace or agility. Too much baggage and too many bad movies.

I scare myself sometimes.

He’s beautiful, isn’t he? the woman murmured after a moment. I’d sat down beside her to enjoy the full effect of the statue. My heart was pounding and at first all I could do was nod, wary of my voice quavering. I wasn’t entirely sure how I’d made it across the wide high ceilinged room to brazenly sit beside the blonde-haired woman, but I had. It was most unlike me to be so intrusive.

God of darkness and chaos, I said.

That came later, the woman said. Initially he was god of storms and foreigners.

Foreigners? I said, grinning, in spite of myself.

The woman smiled. I suppose every nation had its own way of dealing with illegal immigrants.

Invent a god for them.

Yup.

I introduced myself, wondering what had given me the courage to walk my feet across the room to sit beside her. She told me her name was Catherine. Beauty in LA is dime a dozen. One gets used to a level of aesthetic beauty, given that pretty women, no pun intended, come to LA by the truckload. Catherine was attractive, somewhere in her late twenties, I guessed.

I found myself talking easily, at least up until the obligatory question came about what I did. I deflected it by asking her what she did.

As little as possible.

Really, I said. In this town that takes money.

She looked around at the empty room we sat in. Hence me being here.

Catherine had a cute nose, it wasn’t too big or too small, I’ve always disliked the little snub-noses of what passes for attractive in US women. Give me someone whose nose looks like it’ll withstand a punch any day.

I wouldn’t say I’m shy, but as we chatted, I found myself increasingly puzzled by how smoothly my words came out. Normally, I keep to myself. Especially when it comes to the opposite sex. I’ve just never, and – I hate myself for using the cliché – never seemed to run across the right woman. The few dates I’d been on were awkward affairs. Yet I sat listening to this woman as she expounded on the history of Set, and found myself entranced, even enthralled. My interjections and input to the conversation seemed to make our interaction seamless. We chattered without thought. She volunteered that she was on the far side of a divorce-in-progress.

Isn’t everyone? I said. She laughed. I liked her laugh. It made me want to cause more of it.

So what exactly do you do? she said. I told her, feeling her eyes on me as I sighed, then answered. I waited for the jokes but none came. Do you have a gun? she said.

Yes.

Ever used it?

I smiled. Not as a private investigator.

She cocked her head as if to say there’s a story here. I suppose there was. I gave her a brief précis of my transition from cop to private investigator and this seemed to satisfy her. The conversation meandered from topic to topic: the latest films, naturally; the ongoing tabloid furor over missing people; the ever-present war on terror. When I asked for her number, she pulled out a little notebook and scribbled it down.

Now give me yours, she said. I stammered a little as she entered it into her cell phone. She seemed not to notice, for which I was grateful. I called her that evening and invited her out. She accepted. When I hung up, it felt like I’d been holding my breath for years. 

And that was how Catherine entered my life.

We’d been seeing each other for a month. I learned that she’d run a small designer clothing store, mostly paid for by her ex-husband. That had naturally gone away with the divorce. Thereafter she’d branched out into being a design consultant for events, often in-house corporate jobs, but occasionally for larger institutions – such as the museum where we’d met. It had just been pure luck that she’d dallied before the jackal god statue that day. I kept a house in Venice Beach. We’d meet there a few times a week. Sometimes we went out to eat or see a movie, but mostly we stayed in, enjoying each other’s company. 

There was a lot that Catherine didn’t know about me, just as, I assumed, there was a lot I didn’t know about her. I didn’t volunteer and she didn’t ask. On the other hand, from the questions my shrink threw at me, you’d think he was my mother.

You say she makes you happy? he said. How exactly?

Sometimes therapy is not a good thing. I’d debated long and hard about mentioning Catherine to my shrink. Once the cat was out of the bag, the questions came fast and furious. No, I hadn’t said anything about her to my mother. No, I hadn’t told Catherine that I had a parent, and no, I had no intention of doing that.

Why not? my shrink demanded.

I have learned to be inscrutable. Just as, I’m sure, my shrink has probably learned to be patient. In the early days we would sit like two statues: him waiting for me to volunteer something, and me waiting for the hour to be up. 

I kept my therapy sessions a secret from Catherine, yet another thing for my shrink to worry at, like a dog with a bone. At least Judy, my makeshift secretary, knew enough to say nothing as it became apparent I was seeing someone. But there again, she knew me better than anyone.

Private investigation is not glamorous, despite the TV shows and movies. It is often paranoid, suspicious people wanting to find the truth about their lives: their partners, business associates. There’s that old saying – I forget where it comes from – about being careful when listening at keyholes for fear of what you might discover. Most customers of private investigators hurtle blindly toward their individual keyholes. It’s up to me to be the one to break the news.

It’s not a pleasant experience to have one’s worst fears confirmed. I have a little speech that I almost know by rote, about how clarity brings cleansing, and those who learn the truth about their situations should see it as a blessing in disguise. It’s bullshit, of course – but when facing the cheated, deceived, or cuckolded clients, it’s best to have something ready to fill in the silence as the shock hits them.

#

2. 

There was a gasp behind me. I couldn’t see who it came from. Even if I could, the ball-gag in my mouth would have prevented me from saying anything sensible, like: Help. There was a continuing silence. I wondered if it was a motel employee or the police. Given my present position, naked and strapped on a steel X-frame, an ocean view through the window, I could only sigh. At least, I tried to. It came out as something halfway between a snort and a nasal whistle. The unknown object inserted into me probably added to the eye candy I was presenting to whoever was in the doorway.

The voice spoke, Madre de dios!

I sighed inwardly. Housekeeping? Law enforcement officers wouldn’t gawk for this length of time. I had no idea how the not-entirely uncomfortable dildo was being held in position. I suspected duct tape but who knew, the manufacturers of this structure might well have built in something for this very purpose. I’d already tried rocking the steel frame sideways but its center of gravity was set low to the ground.

Just my luck. I’m tied into the only sex machine in the world built by someone who took care with their craftsmanship. My backside had gone from uselessly contracting in an attempt to push out the invading object to a suspiciously pain-free numbness. I tried telling myself I’d been in worse situations. There was that time I’d given a hooker money for coke and stupidly handed her my cell phone as she left. In my defense I’d been distracted by the foursome unfolding on the bed beside me, and my synapses were firing like a NASA rocket fuel stage.

The silence behind me was broken by beeps. It was a number being dialed on a cell phone. Listening to a hurried conversation in Spanish I was able to determine the caller was an elderly woman, and she was telling someone called Juan to get his brother Carlo and come upstairs to this room number. Not a good sign.

I told myself at least now I knew I was in some sort of motel. What the hell had happened to get me here – and more importantly, in this position? I was a fan of light bondage as much as the next guy, but unless someone had a meeting while I was out cold and changed the rules, being strapped to a frame and having things inserted while unconscious didn’t classify as light anything. From the bleary way I’d been regarding the sun rise above the ocean like a spotlight on my futile struggles, I was pretty sure I’d been fed some kind of date rape drug.

But by who and when? My mind was a blank.

I wondered where my gun was and whether I’d be able to shoot my way free before the reinforcements arrived. The caller hung up. I continued staring at the view of the ocean through the windows. The hangover told me I’d been drinking. I controlled the churning in my stomach. I knew enough about anatomy to understand that now was probably the least useful time to vomit violently. There was a limit to how much vomit could make it out through my nostrils, seeing as my mouth was blocked—

There was movement at the periphery of my vision. The wrinkled face that greeted me, moving further and further into view, wore an expression I was generally familiar with: outrage and shock, interspersed with utter indignation. The old woman’s face told me everything I needed to know about what was likely heading in my direction. My mouth was filled so I couldn’t explain that I was almost as horrified as she was and that this wasn’t anything personal directed at her.

You filthy boy! the old woman said. You faggot filthy fucker!

Wherever the maid originally hailed from, her accent split the final word into two: fah-kah. In normal circumstances I’d correct her pronunciation. I’m one of those people.

I tried grunting. There was a hinge up near my ear which held the leather straps in place. If it was loosened, I could spit the damn ball out and try to explain. I realized that only happened in movies. In real life, when conservative (I’d seen the cross around her neck) aged housekeepers stumbled upon naked men tied up in motel rooms, they became agents of the Lord. The fact she’d called the as-yet unknown Juan and Carlo rather than the local 911 dispatcher or even the reception desk downstairs, didn’t bode well.

I tried struggling and grunting again, just to see whether this might get the old woman to help.

Juan and Carlo will fix you, she said. That’s for sure.

To the grunting and struggling, I added shaking my head. The old woman stepped back, clutching her cross and mumbling. There was nothing to do but wait.

In the hours since I’d woken up, I’d examined as much as I could see of the bedroom from my position. A watercolor painting on the wall, a worn armchair, a bedside table with a lamp and some takeout container with a spoon stuck vertically in the Styrofoam. I could see what looked like my clothing slung over one arm of the chair. It had been shortly after sunrise that I’d entertained some MacGyver idea of combining all these elements into a means of getting free. But in order to play Houdini, I’d have to be at least partially free. I was trapped as firmly as—

I sort of remembered something. A bar. Was it downstairs? I didn’t know.

I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. I’m not your typical private investigator. I’m no hard-boiled character with a wry turn of phrase for every occasion.

My job deals in fear. Everyone’s frightened. People want stability, they want the calmness of knowing things for certain – usually about their spouses, although sometimes it’s about their friends. On one or two occasions I’ve had to tell myself to look the other way when handing over information to obvious stalkers. Shit talks and money walks. Google only goes so far. There’re times when people want camera footage of secret liaisons or audiotapes of phone calls, even printouts of internet messages. It’s here, in that icky Cheaters TV territory that you’ll often find me, at the base of the pyramid.

I operate where the syrup trickles through the cracks to the plate itself. I manage by and large to avoid thinking of myself as a bottom-feeder. My shrink would call that a breakthrough. I’d call it successful self-delusion.

There were noises out in the corridor.

Hijo de Puta! a male voice exclaimed. Son of a bitch!