A is for Amnesia, B is for Bullet: Alex Cheradon, #2

CHAPTER 1

SO SORRY, THANKS FOR PLAYING, HERE ARE SOME LOVELY PARTING GIFTS PT. 1

THERE WAS A huge laser pointed between my legs.

No, really, there was.

It hung from the ceiling (the laser, not my legs) and extended down to about two feet above me, pointing directly at my crotch.

To say I was a little nervous was a phenomenal understatement.

I was bolted to a table, hands strapped above my head, legs bolted down in a similar fashion (only, you know, not over my head). The table was slightly tilted down giving me a view of the wall in front of me, which really wasn’t a wall. It was some kind of machine. A huge machine. It stretched from the ceiling to the floor. It probably even extended past the floor. It was a mishmash of bending cables and winding tubes and irregularly shaped monitors and those little blinking lights that big machines always seem to have but nobody knows what they’re there for. It was like Jack Kirby had gotten all wound up on caffeine and designed it. Whatever it was.

And it was quiet.

Really quiet.

Verrry quiet.

A machine this size should have been making some kind of noise. Some kind of loud noise. (Of course, I know machines like I know quantum physics, which I don’t know at all. So, really, I have no idea what I’m talking about.) But here, now, no noise.

And then there was a laser that was pointing between my legs.

I was trapped in some kind of twisted David Lynch film and a bad one at that. What other explanation could there be?

Brennen’s head popped into my field of vision. Ah, good, you’re awake.

Or I could be caught in an elaborate death trap most likely designed by this psycho.

I suppose it could go either way.

My name’s Alex Cheradon. I’m a private investigator and this is my life. It’s okay to cry. I do it myself sometimes.

CHAPTER 2

FORTY CHAPTERS EARLIER, A BOY AND HIS BELOVED MOMMY

The gears were turning. Lightning bolts were flashing across the mindscape. It was a virtual cacophony of musical harmony within my head!

Which prompted the question, why the heck was it so loud in there?

You, I said, with my best accusatory tone, which was a notch lower then my best seductive tone, pointing to the little kid. (And by kid I mean the man-child with the baby-faced looks of a twelve year old, even though he’s eighteen. Half of Hollywood would kill for looks like that.) He was dressed in a suit that probably cost more than all of my prized possessions put together, including an ultra-rare edition of Fight-Man #1, the world’s greatest superhero, valued at five thousand dollars. I keep it locked away in a safety deposit box that’s always a good town or two away from my office. Oh, how I despise the rich, they make me sick. Spending their money like it grows on trees. Lavishing themselves with extravagant clothes and toys. They think they’re above everything and, really, I suppose they are.

Sigh. I wish I was rich.

Then I remembered I was in the middle of an accusation. I seem to have drifted off in my own thoughts. How embarrassing.

I finished with, You, sir, are a scoundrel!

I let the statement hang there in the air for a moment, allowing it sink into their finely exfoliated pores.

The kid looked at me as though I was slightly more interesting than lint. (He should be careful. There are a great many people who find lint very fascinating. Like my uncle. The man loves lint. If he could construct a shrine to it he would.)

I beg your pardon? the kid asked.

You can beg all you want, I replied, now using my best dramatic voice, but it doesn’t change the facts.

We were standing in a lavishly decorated living room, or was it a sitting room? With the rich you can never tell. Like their utensils, they’ve got a room for every occasion. I wonder if they had a shoe shining room? I counted at least two Picassos on the walls and multiple statues of little naked babies all over the place. And by multiple, I mean, like a gazillion. There were four of them in the main hallway alone. At what point does it become an obsession? Strangely, though, all the babies were headless. I wonder what the artist was trying to say. Perhaps, that a baby unclothed was a baby beheaded?

Yes, sometimes my own depth astounded even me.

Lint Boy and I were not alone in the room. We were joined by my faithful and trusty sidekick (or maybe Administrative Assistant would be more appropriate, although, he really doesn’t assist with much anymore), Nicky Brendon, as well as a real, live, breathing wax statue (was that an oxymoron?). She was an older woman, probably much older than she looked, considering that what she looked like was a strained thirty year old. I don’t think it was possible for her face to be pulled back any tighter. Wasn’t there a point when plastic surgeons just said no?

Don’t play coy with me, boy, I clasped my hands behind my back and started pacing the length of the room. I know all about what you two illicit delinquents have been up to. And soon, I paused, Nick was in my way, munching happily on some chocolate balls he had picked up at the gas station before coming here. I gave him a look Do you mind?

Sorry, he stepped to the side and I finished my pacing.

And soon, I continued, whirling around, narrowing my eyes accusingly towards the woman, so will your husband, Mrs. Van Buren!

Mrs. Emily Van Buren stood there glaring daggers at me. I could feel them pricking away at my skin like a thousand little things that prick away at one’s skin. It hurt a bit.

I don’t know what she was upset about; I hadn’t even gotten to the good stuff yet.

Mrs. Van Buren straightened her back (The wax statue moved! Run for the hills!) and slowly parted her lips, strands of saliva sticking delicately between them. I shuddered. This was a whole definition of horror here. If I was any less of a man I might have even wet my pants. But I wasn’t, so I didn’t, which was good ‘cause I didn’t have an extra pair in the car.

Mr. Cheradon, is it? she said, the saliva strands snapping apart sharply, like they were spring loaded. What in the world are you talking about?

Oh, I think everyone here is very aware, almost painfully aware of what I’m talking about, I replied, giving her my most enigmatic look. I hoped it was enigmatic enough, I had spent the last week working on it. Many an hour was spent in front of the mirror staring enigmatically into my ruggedly handsome face.

And no, I do not have too much time on my hands. Thank you very much.

Actually, Nicky cut in, shoving a handful of chocolate snacks into his mouth, I don’t have a clue what’s going on.

I glared at him. Do you mind?

He shook his head, munching loudly on his chocolate Scooby snacks. No, not at all. Anyone want some chocolate? He held the bag out to the room.

This is why I didn’t bring him along on these things.

I turned back around to Mrs. Van Buren and her Lint Boy. "I think explanations can wait until your husband, and I dropped plenty of emphasis on the word, gets here."

I think not, Lint Boy said, walking up to me, like he intended to engage me in some kind of Neanderthal display of brute violence.

I almost laughed. The punk looked like he would have a hard time fighting a fly.

You will explain yourself now, sir and then you will go to jail.

Wow. Up this close I could see that he used an awful lot of hair gel. I wondered if using that much hair product could have an adverse effect on one’s hair. Maybe he could get hair cancer?

Well? Lint Boy prompted.

I blinked. I’m sorry. What did you say? I was totally engrossed with the amount of gel you have in your hair right now. What would happen if I lit a match this close to you?

Lint Boy’s forehead got all furrowed. He should be careful. That’s how wrinkles happen. A wrinkle here, a wrinkle there and then, before you know it, you’re descending down the slippery slope of plastic surgery. I’m pretty sure that if his eyes could glow red they would have lit up like a neon sign saying, ‘I’m mad.’

Oooh, I’m so scared.

I wondered if it was something I said.

It’s pretty obvious, I said, resuming my pacing. A blind man could have seen it. Mr. Van Buren obviously suspected when he came into my office two weeks ago, on the verge tears, I might add, I shot a look at Mrs. Van Buren, checking if any of the guilt trip was working. It wasn’t. She still looked like an escapee from the still life display at Ripley’s. I wondered if it physically hurt her to move? He came into my office that Monday morning, Actually, it had been Monday night and I had met him at his office, after sitting in the waiting room for almost an hour. But, really, it sounded more dramatic my way, and he told me that he suspected his wife, that would be you, I added, pointing to Mrs. Van Buren in case there was any confusion. With the rich you can never be too sure, that she was cheating on him and possibly embezzling millions of dollars from one of their Swiss accounts. He wanted me to follow you. I reluctantly agreed as I take no pleasure in cases like these, actually I loved cases like these! Cheating spouses are the best! There’s always so much drama and so little shooting at me! And so I followed you, Mrs. Van Buren. I followed you to the Benvades Golf Club, the Esquire Hotel, and the French restaurant on twelfth with the concierge that always looks constipated, and even to the exclusive Vala Spa in Brenton. Oh yes, I followed you there, too. And at every one of these places, you met him, I pointed my thumb over my shoulder at Lint Boy. And most of the time it wasn’t to talk, if you catch my meaning.

I looked back at Lint Boy. Although, I have to confess, you could have done better than this. Wasn’t there a personal trainer somewhere that you could have taken a ‘personal’ interest in? I love air quotes.

There was a moment of strained silence while everybody stared at me, obviously in awe of my brilliant deductive skills. Yes, I know, it’s only a cheating wife, but give me a break, I haven’t had a case almost all month.

And then Lint Boy said (well, more like shouted, the guy looked like a tea kettle ready to explode), This is my mother, you infantile buffoon!

I looked back and forth between them. There was a whole new kind of strained silence now.

Really? That’s gross.

Alex, you’re killing me here, Peter Falken dropped his head into his hands. Pete looked a lot like Michael Douglas, had Michael Douglas started losing his hair at twenty-five and tried the Atkins Diet.

What? What did I do? I asked, playing with the silver slinky Pete kept on his desk. I was amazed that I had even found it, considering that the desk looked like it was populated by rabbits, had the rabbits been papers.

On the other side of the office windows, the squad room was abuzz with activity. Apparently, we were in the middle of an honest to God crime spree.

I didn’t even know we had crime sprees in this town. I wonder how many crimes need to be committed before it’s considered a spree. And what comes before a spree? Is there a chart somewhere? Perhaps a color-coded one? Those are always fun.

Pete lifted his head from his hands. You accused Mrs. Emily Van Buren of having, he paused, probably searching for a tactful word, relations with her own son.

Sometimes the truth hurts.

Do you know how much the Van Buren family donates every year to various causes and campaigns in this city?

I let the slinky drop on the desk. Its slinkiness could cheer me no more.

Quite a lot, I’d imagine, considering it’s all a tax write-off. Or so I’m told, I’ve never actually had that much money before so I can’t be a hundred percent sure.

Pete looked at me. Let me repeat, you accused Mrs. Van Buren of incest.

Well, I didn’t know it was her son at the time, I replied. Pete just stared at me. What? We live in enlightened times. Look at what celebrities name their children. I think the public will accept Mrs. Van Buren and her son’s special relationship.

Okay, see that’s not the point, Pete said slowly. The point is, she wasn’t having an affair with her son!

I put my hands up. I could handle a lot of things, but people questioning my integrity as a private investigator? No, I don’t think so. I paid good money for that correspondence course to become the P.I. I am today. Did you follow her around for two weeks? I asked.

What? What does that have to do with anything?

It has everything to do with anything!

You’re the one that got arrested.

I waved my hands around and made shushing noises. Just answer the question! Now!

Pete made a face and folded his arms, sitting back in his chair. No, I did not follow her around for two weeks.

Well, I did. And in those two weeks I saw her doing a lot of stuff, some of it normal, some of it weird and some of it just plain twisted, I paused and then added, The plain twisted was the affair with her son.

Yeah, I figured that, Pete replied.

Okay, so, seeing that I happened to be more slightly informed on this matter than you, what say we let bygones be bygones and go catch the Humphrey Bogart marathon they’re playing down at the twenty multiplex on Anderson? I got up and started for the door.

Alex, Pete said, catching me just before I walked out.

So close…

I turned around. Yes?

There was a pause.

The owner got busted for drug trafficking. We closed down the multiplex on Anderson yesterday afternoon. No Bogart marathon.

Great. Another night watching public access television.

CHAPTER 3

YES, WE HAVE NO BANANAS

It had been almost eight months since the thing with the senator’s daughter. You would think people would have forgotten about it by now. After all, I’ve done and destroyed so many other things since then.

I held the newspaper in my hands and frowned, reading the second page headline:

SENATOR’S DAUGHTER STILL UNDERGOING THERAPY AFTER BEING HEADLOCKED BY LOCAL P.I.

By Jordan Protos

I would have this Jordan Protos shot and strung by his tiny toesies in the middle of town square.

Do we even have a town square? If not, I’ll have one built. I’m sure I could get enough signatures. It would be one of those things that could bring the whole city together. We could even have a musical number. Everyone would love it. There would be tears of joy.

Oh, look, they were even kind enough to include a photo. One, of course, where I look about a hundred pounds overweight. If the camera only adds ten pounds how many did they have on me? And, hey, they managed to spell my name right this time, too. Wasn’t that nice of them?

I felt the sudden urge to cause mass destruction.

Why the sour face? Nicky asked, setting the tray of food down.

I showed him the article wordlessly.

Oh, hey, they spelled your name right. I remember this, this was the time you body slammed the senator’s daughter and put her in a headlock because you thought she was one of the Olsen Twins detailing their plans for world domination, Nicky recounted with a touch more glee than was really appropriate.

I set the paper down and glared at him.

What? he started munching on his fries. Oh, right. That was supposed to be one of those things we never speak of again?

I grabbed my burger and soda from the tray. What took you so long?

I was networking.

I looked past Nicky at the counter. There were only three people up there. The first one was an old lady who looked like she’d been around since the beginning of time. She was staring at the menu on the wall from behind glasses that were thick enough to stop a bullet and she had purple hair. Not hair that kind of looked purple, but actual purple hair. I would not lie to you.

Then there was the Mexican who looked to be about four feet tall and had a look of perpetual stupor. He was probably thinking that he took a wrong turn somewhere, this wasn’t a tomato field.

Then there was the pimply-faced boy who stood behind the pale granite counter dressed in Happy Burger’s hideously designed uniform. (It consisted of the colors green and purple. They had a very high turnover rate here.) He was taking people’s orders with the gusto of a man walking to his own execution. In addition, he also had a really nasty bowl cut. It looked like somebody had put a strainer on his head instead of the more universally accepted bowl. I wondered how stupid you had to be to get a haircut like that.

Then I wondered if anyone would mind if I unleashed my rage about the article on him. It’d be like community service, only less work and more therapeutic for me.

Networking? Them’s pretty slim pickings.

I bit into my burger. I don’t know if Happy Burger is the place for you, I said. They like primary colors.

Nicky looked at me, part of a fry sticking out between his lips. What?

I nodded towards Happy Burger Boy.

Nick looked over his shoulder and actually grimaced. Oh, ew, I think I’m going to be sick, he turned back around and made some vague gagging gestures.

Okay, well, then are you planning on courting Grandmother Time up there? I asked. I’ll bet she makes great chocolate chip cookies. Grannies always do.

Okay, now I really am going to be sick, Nick said. Not them. Him, he directed his gaze to the other side of the Happy Burger restaurant.

I followed his eyes and found myself staring at the prettiest man I had ever seen. I think he was even wearing lip gloss, but at this distance it was hard to tell and I really didn’t want to get close enough to find out.

He’s a talent agent, Nick explained between bites. His name’s George.

George? I repeated, still looking at the man. I couldn’t recall the last time I saw a guy who was that man-pretty.

George.

I looked back at Nicky. A talent agent? What happened to the beauty salon?

There’s no money in that, Nick said. George thinks I have fabulous hands, he held up his hands before me.

You’re going to be a hand model? I asked dubiously.

Nicky nodded enthusiastically. Yes! I think we’re going to have a long career together, George and I. I may even become internationally famous. Possibly, I’ll move to Malibu and get a Labradoodle.

I stopped eating. A what?

A labradoodle. You know, a cross between a Labrador and a poodle.

I stared at him. You’re not serious.

Hello? Where have you been? This isn’t anything new. Everybody has one. They’re like the new Chihuahua.

Okay, I’m not discussing this anymore.

Why not?

Because we’re talking about a fictitious dog. Even I have my limits. New topic.

Such as…?

Oh, I don’t know. Maybe work?

Nicky took a loud sip from his soda. What work? The Van Buren case is the only thing we’ve had all month and we’re probably not going to get paid on that one.

We’re going to get paid.

Mr. Van Buren may have a different opinion.

We’re going to get paid, I repeated. Just because people don’t like what I find out doesn’t mean they don’t have to pay me.

Us.

It isn’t Cheradon and Brendon Investigations.

Which is something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you, Nick began.

No, I said, cutting him off.

But I didn’t even plead my case!

Life’s full of disappointments.

I just think that for the amount of work I do around here I should be compensated.

I finished my burger. What work?

Just yesterday, I filed something, he replied with a certain amount of pride.

You filed something?

Yes.

And for that you want me to make you a partner?

At the very least I think I’m entitled some extra benefits.

Such as?

An extra week of vacation.

How about I just fire you and then you can have all the time off you want?

He thought about it for a moment and then said, No. I’ll take the extra week of vacation.

My cellphone rang, saving me the trouble of having to come up with a cutting wittism. These things weren’t easy to come up with. In fact, I’ve been known to write up several pages of one-liners the night before a big case, just on the off chance I couldn’t think of anything on the spot. You’d be surprised how handy they come in.

Cheradon Investigations, your problems are our pleasure, I answered.

Mr. Cheradon? It was a female voice on the other end. A very sexy female voice.

This is he, I said.

My name’s Alice Ruxpin and I was wondering if you might grant me the opportunity to talk to you about a problem I have.

Oooh, a sexy sounding woman with a problem? My day was starting to look up. All I needed now was for her to be a blonde, have a great credit rating and I was in business.

Well, Ms. Ruxpin, I’m in the middle of something right now, I had to give the impression that I was busy, lots of cases. Play hard to get. Classic business strategy. Works every time. Or so I’m told, But I have some free time later this afternoon, if you’d like to come into my office.

No! She said it pretty quickly, almost snapping it out.

Excuse me?

What I mean to say is, Mr. Cheradon, her voice became all silky-smooth and I forgot about the snapping, that it might be best if you came to my apartment,

Not a problem, I replied. Nothing wrong with a woman trying to use her womanly charms on an unsuspecting man. It’s part of nature. It’s how things are done in the urban jungle.

I reside at the Summerton Complex, unit 1402. Shall we say, two o’clock?

I glanced at my