Coffee and a Caper

Coffee and a Caper

Saturday, July 13 th , 2024

As I woke and stretched, I decided I wanted to be prettier than I'd ever been in my entire life—a bar I estimated so low, given how homely I thought I was, that it should be trivial to clear.

I showered—and conditioned (for the first time in 9 months; I had to unclog the 6-year-old bottle's nozzle with a floss pick)—I brushed and detangled my hair; I put on what I estimated to be a reasonable amount of makeup, including a bit of low-coverage foundation, rose eyeshadow, rouge, and my blood-red lipstick; I blasted myself with the (miraculously still-potent) perfume my mother bought me for my 21st birthday; I moisturized... I never moisturized, as evidenced by the hitherto factory-sealed container. There I was, incapable of working, yet preening myself like I was getting ready for the job interview of a lifetime, aiming to give my best possible impression. Because every impression I gave that woman mattered more than all its predecessors put together.

As ready as I was in body and in mind, my wardrobe was not. I hadn't done my laundry in a month because I'd been in the midst of a moderate (verging-on-severe) depressive episode during which I worked, played Martian Marine, occasionally ate, and jerked myself off to sleep—and not a damn thing else.

Now that there was someone in my life whose opinion of my outward presentation I actually cared about, depression was no longer a valid excuse for skipping laundry. I needed all of my clothes to be freshly laundered from there on out. I smelled everything in my closet, and nearly all of it had a... let's just say it had a detectable hint of sweat—except for the dress my mother had given me for my 21st birthday, the one I had worn only twice: first, on said birthday, when we both went to a bar and got plastered and remained plastered from noon to noon; and last, to her funeral a month later, because even back then it was the closest thing to a 'formal' outfit I had in my wardrobe. (In hindsight, I really ought to have bought something more appropriate for such a solemn occasion, but in my defense I was mentally disabled by my grief.) And since I hadn't worn it since I last had it dry-cleaned a week after the funeral, it still smelled more-or-less freshly laundered. It was an off-the-shoulder knee-length black satin dress with a slit down the side that exposed my plus-size left thigh, and a plunging lace-up neckline that brought further unwanted attention to my already excessive cleavage. I dreaded all the eyes that would be wandering over my body, ogling all the fat stubbornly clinging to my skeleton, but I had no other options. I either wore the dress, or I wore my natural perfume.

What I did not anticipate was the opinion that it might have... somehow... actually... looked... good on me?

"Look at you! Ready for the show, Elvira!" Judith expressed her approval as she approached the booth I'd claimed for us, loudly enough for the entire café to hear.

"Um... 'the show'?"

She sustained the unmasked part of her grin in the corner of her eyes as she took her seat on the opposing bench. "That's a pretty fancy dress you got on, and it's awfully flattering to your cleavage."

I grimaced severely enough that it likely escaped my own mask. "I'm overdressed, aren't I?"

She ignored her phone as it sounded a notification. "I'm wearing my 1979 CaliFFornia World Music Festival tee, riddled with holes..."

Her shirt was so worn out and patched up that it was hard to tell that it had once upon a time been a concert tee—I was able to make out a crinkled blue orb covered in illegible cursive surrounded by four blobs of color that had once, long ago, been images of I-knew-not-what.

"... and the pants that I was wearing when I caught a mild case of bicycle-induced road rash 20 years ago..."

The knees of her subtly-flaring brown corduroy bell-bottoms had seen better days.

"... and a pair of Chucks held together by Shoe Goo and embroidery floss."

Last of all, her faded red canvas high-top All-Stars looked cobbled together from multiple donor shoes.

(Her floral deodorant caught my nose, overpowering but pleasant—though I could still smell that espresso musk beneath it—and I would much rather sniff a big cup of Latin American blend medium roast than some sissy flowers.)

She looked and smelled magnificent in spite of how incredibly casual and beat-up her outfit was.

"So, with these duds, would you say I'm underdressed?"

"If you'd known today was Band T-shirt Day," suggested Shash, "you could've worn your Mötley Crüe tee, too." I glanced over and saw that she was indeed wearing her own 2005 tour shirt.

I sighed. "I would have liked something a little more casual..."

Judith chuckled. "I can't imagine being any more casual than I already am!"

"I suppose I can't either. Me, on the other hand... I wish casual was an option, but all my T-shirts are dirty. This was the only clean thing in my closet. Everything else... smells like..." I finished the sentence with a shamed whisper: "B. O."

"Did you forget to do your laundry?" asked Judith.

"Neglected to. Depression. Laziness."

"Sounds about right." Her phone dinged again. "Except the so-called laziness—don't insult yourself."

Our waiter arrived wearing jeans with gently torn knees and a T-shirt depicting a cartoonish (yet, nevertheless, revolting) The Human Centipede-inspired take on The Very Hungry Caterpillar, captioned 'The Very Human Caterpillar'—further highlighting how overdressed I was. "Good morning, ladies, can I start you off with anything to drink?"

"Four shots of espresso in a coffee mug," said my new 'fuckbuddy' who had fucked me but whom I had yet to fuck, "and... the senior biscuits and gravy."

Christ, she's a senior. I'm hanging out with an older woman. Most people would probably think I'm weird. But why should I agree? She's pretty, she's nice, I like her, and knowing that she's over two decades my senior doesn't make me uncomfortable. I'm happy to spend time with her. Her age, if anything, means she probably has a personality that has aged like a bottle of The Last Drop No. 29 scotch, and lots of experience to share. Including sex experience. Sexperience.

Shash caught me admiring my new friend, then asked, "Is she your... type?"

I nodded. "An appetizing and satisfying dish."

Our waiter examined Judith skeptically. "You're 57?"

"She could be your age," I couldn't help quipping to Shash.

The server raised an eyebrow.

"Ha! Nice compliment," replied Judith in amusement. She showed our server her driver's license.

"She's youthful, yeah," replied Shash, "but I dunno about looking 40. Maybe halfway between that and her actual age."

He looked at her license, nodded, and smiled politely. "A belated 'happy birthday' to you, Ma'am. And you, Miss?" He waited for me.

"Um..."

"Bring me one-a everything," joked Shash.

I rolled my eyes. "Good luck eating all that. Hmm... Just a sec, almost there..."

"Nah, I'm kidding, I ain't paying for that. I'll take the gouda omelet, French toast with strawberry sauce, maple sausage links and... I'm watching my carbs, so I'll take a fruit bowl instead of the home fries."

"Their gouda omelet actually sounds pretty good, but I'm... thinking... a flat white, and... a short stack of pancakes. That's all."

Shash quickly injected, "I changed my mind, I'll have what she's having."

"You got it, boss." He took our menus and left, and Judith's phone tried again, futilely, to get her attention.

"What's a flat white?" asked Shash.

"Espresso with steamed milk."

"Which I'm sure is delectable," said Judith, "but I prefer my espresso unadulterated."

My grin escaped my mask through my eyes. "I suppose avoiding adulteration is a safe policy. Though I'm not one to tell people what kinds of forbidden mixtures they may partake of when nobody's looking."

She nodded and her eyes grinned back. "Yes, very safe. But... I will admit to indulging in forbidden mixtures from time to time."

I giggled. Shash rolled her eyes.

Even though I was okay—if not pleased—with Judith being so much older, the age gap still seemed a little... novel is a gentle word to describe it, albeit a misleading choice given the frequency with which the word 'mature' appeared in my search history and my browser homepage being set to . I leaned towards her and smiled playfully. "Judith... I'm kind of reeling from the fact that I'm... special friends with someone mature enough to order off the senior menu."

"I've had the right to order old people food for 2 years, now. I thought that wouldn't bother you. Is the age difference suddenly a deal-breaker?" Her eyes and tone of voice were not playful, as mine had been—rather, they made it clear that I was welcome to say 'yes', and in that case, she would rectify the inconvenience of her presence by leaving me with the bill and the displeasure of never seeing her again.

I chuckled just a little nervously. "No, absolutely not! I was just saying that I find the age difference amusing. I've been around the sun enough times to be with someone old enough to be my mother. I like you. You're sexy. And you've done a lot for me in the few hours we've known each other." I wonder if she realizes just how alive she makes me feel, if she realizes that she's cured my depression, that she's brought out something that I never thought I had inside me. She probably has no idea. And I'm not sure I should tell her.

"And I can do even more. I can help you with your laundry, if you'd like." Another ding from her phone, quickly followed by another.

My insides tied themselves into one big knot. "You'd do that?"

"Sure."

"I don't want to inconvenience you."

"We're friends."

"Yes, we are indeed friends..." I wonder if things might be even better if we were more than friends...

"Friends help each other out. And I'm guessing you're feeling overwhelmed by how much needs to be washed." 'Look at me!' cried her phone.

I nodded. "On the bright side, I don't need to clean my uniforms, I can just burn 'em."

'Ding!' "No way! I'll punk 'em up and wear 'em. Or buy a badge—or steal one—and impersonate a cop."

Shash cackled.

"The first idea sounds fun, the second sounds very, very poorly advised."

"It isn't 'poorly advised', it's fucking hilarious!" opined Shash.

"I could put on lots of makeup to hide my identity," suggested Judith. "Who doesn't find a clown dressed like a jackboot amusing?"

"It isn't 'hilarious', it's dangerous."

"I'm joking," said Judith.

I rolled my eyes. "Please promise me you won't do it."

'Ding! Ding! Ding-ding!' "Seriously?"

"Yes. Promise me."

"Alright, I promise." 'Ding! Very urgent!' "Okay, my phone is driving me nuts." She glanced at the lock screen. "I've gotten 67 hoots since last night. Gonna silence it."

"I don't mind you checking them."

"We're having a conversation."

"About what?"

"Impersonating cops."

"Which you've promised not to do, so the discussion is over. What else do you want to talk about?"

"Uhm... Well, everything that's coming to mind is NC-17 or higher, but we're in public."

"I'd be delighted to talk about naughty things when we have some privacy, so hold onto them for later. If you're getting bombarded with so many hoots, it could be something important."

She shrugged and checked Hootr. "Buncha quote hoots tagging me." Her eyes grew. "Christ. Andy, listen to this!"

I really liked her calling me 'Andy'. "I'm listening."

"This is coming from your ex-employer's Public Information account. 'Missing person, Santa Virginia: Alexander Brookvale was reported missing Wednesday when he failed to return home that evening.' Holy cow! Can ya believe it?"

"Oh. Him."

"So you've heard of him."

"My coworkers never shut up about how much they hate his guts."

She eyed me with what felt like an unfair amount of suspicion. "Do you feel the same way?"

"Nah, I hope he turns up alive and unscathed. I'm just sick of overhearing them badmouthing him. They think he's the spawn of Satan, but to me his ideas seem perfectly reasonable, and his leadership and charisma is sort of... inspiring. I even follow him on Hootr."

"Really? Would you consider yourself an antifascist?"

"I... guess... if I was allowed to call myself one? I've been thinking about going to rallies or marches, but I either don't have the energy—or 'the spoons', I could say—or I'm anxious about the crowds. And when neither of those things is a problem, I remember that I'm a cop, and that if I'm found out I'll be excluded from society the way anti-vaxxers ought to be."

She shook her head. "How the hell does a decent woman like you become a pig?"

"Don't call her a 'pig'," demanded Shash. "Yeah, there are a few bad cops, but you know she was one of the good ones."

We paused our conversation while the server doled out our coffee and food, then took off our masks once he was gone.

I blew on my flat white as he left, then explained, "We all know there are no good cops. I simply had delusions of heroism." I took a sip...

... just as Judith put her espresso down. "And that's your story?"

"The same as every other would-be good cop. Some of us want to do good, but we don't know how. Or when we do realize we're in the wrong profession to be doing good, we're afraid to sacrifice something even more important than our incomes."

"And what's that?"

"The one thing more important than anything else, more than love or money or sex or drugs or sleep." I nodded at her phone. "Is there anything else after the hoot?"

"Is there something you're hiding, Andy?"

"Yes, but it's nothing you shouldn't have figured out by now. Let's hear more about this disappearance."

"Na-na-na, finish explaining yourself. What's this thing that's 'more important than anything else' you're not talking about?"

"Our capital-I Identity."

"Ego?"

I nodded.

"It's that ingrained?"

"I wanted, more than anything, to be a real-life hero. Validation of our heroism is what we 'good cops' all crave. And even a lot of the rotten ones see themselves as heroes."

"'Wanted', past tense—you don't want it anymore?"

"I'm trying to change my Identity so that it doesn't rely on being a cop." She nodded. "That said, yes, my identity will be 'cop' for a while, until I've fully come to accept that I no longer have a badge, and accept that I will never wear one again. As for wanting to be a hero... I don't know if I'll ever be able to let go of that, even if moving on is the only way to keep my sanity."

"You have a rough road ahead of you—but you don't have to give up being a hero. The fact that cops can't actually be heroes doesn't mean that heroes don't exist at all. You just need to tweak your definition of 'hero' to include other possible careers."

"She's right," said Shash with a sigh. "Just because you don't wanna be a police officer anymore doesn't mean you can't do great things."

I shrugged dismissively. "Maybe y'all're right. Judith, what else does the rest of the thread say?"

She hmmed with a hint of dissatisfaction, but continued, "'Brookvale was last seen Wednesday morning by his wife, Geraldine Pasteur, as he left their apartment in Sunnyvale to meet with an unidentified social justice group.' Here 'social justice' is in skepticism quotes, of course. Today's Saturday. The report was filed 3 days ago, and it's just coming to the public's attention this morning? That's negligent."

"That is extremely unusual. The first 72 hours of a disappearance are the most critical in finding a missing person alive and unharmed. SOP for these cases is to get the word out ASAP, in the news and on social media within minutes of the report being filed. Maybe the timestamp on the post is wrong, or there could've been some kind of computer glitch or human error to explain the delay. Let's check for updates."

We ate and drank as we scrolled through the SVPD's news feed and social media accounts, looking for updates on Brookvale's disappearance, but in the crucial 60 or so hours since the report was originally filed with the department, nothing else had been shared with the public.

"Alex hasn't been seen for two-and-a-half days," I pointed out. "His disappearance was announced as the survival window is hours away from closing, and there haven't been any updates since then... This situation is very strange."

Judith stroked her chin curiously as she hummed. "Hmm... Hey, Andrea..."

"Yes?"

"You like solving mysteries, don't you?" she asked with a knowing glimmer in her eye.

"I've never had the opportunity to solve a real one, but I like to think I do."

"Well, Sherlock... here's your 'real one'."

An invisible tail, puffed up like a bottle brush, sprouted from my ass and swished side-to-side; my ears, like a sheep hound's, swiveled the better to hear her; my pupils dilated in anticipation of the words that would give me an opportunity to earn me a bone—as I replied, not the least bit convincingly, "This? Oh, no, definitely not, I don't want to interfere with an official investigation..." I sipped my flat white to force myself not to grin.

"What investigation?"

"Yeah, alright, that's true, the cops aren't doing jack squat." I caught myself falling for the temptation. "But that doesn't mean his disappearance will go unnoticed. SVPD probably just... hasn't had a chance to... do anything... about it. Too busy with other cases. Inundated." Alexander Brookvale was the very last person any law enforcement agency was going to put any effort into saving.

"Do you really believe that?" Obviously, to you, and probably to her, I didn't, but I manufactured a naïve shrug anyway. "You are aware that Alex wants to defund the SVPD," she informed the ex-cop who had an intimate familiarity with the culture of that very agency including its passionate and absolutely thorough loathing for our missing man because of his efforts to curb the department's power and resources. "They do not want to save him from danger—we both know that they would actually prefer the opposite."

Should I be delicate? I leaned forwards and explained in a low voice (with bated giddiness), "You may be right. There are a few who might make the best of an opportunity to harm him... and they have made their presence known before. Last time I was doing my pistol quals, someone replaced all the paper targets with Brookvale's mug shot. I had to schedule a make-up exam because—not only was I unable to pull the trigger, I couldn't even point my gun in his general direction."

"Christ, they really did that?"

With a Girl Scout salute, I assured her, "I would never say anything about the SVPD that I didn't know for certain to be true."

She rolled her eyes. "Cops are fucking insane. Did anyone get in trouble?"

"Everyone except my old captain—Peter Hobarth—found it hilarious. I was the one who snitched to him, told him that it was disrespectful and unprofessional and that if the public caught wind of it, we'd have a PR nightmare. The targets were incinerated in 5 minutes flat, but the whole incident was swept under the rug."

"The bastard didn't get anybody in trouble."

"Ehh... If he tried to get anybody in trouble, he probably would have faced retaliation. As for being a 'bastard', he was... kind to me. I struggled to meet expectations for 9 years, and doing my best for the next 2 burned me out for the last leg of my career. But he tried his damnedest to accommodate me the whole time."

"Correction: considerate bastard."

I shrugged. "I think he cares. If Hobarth was captain of the Crimes Against Persons Squad—they're the ones who handle missing person cases, as well as criminal threats, assaults, sex crimes, homicides, harassment, stalking, and DV—I think our man would have been found by now. There aren't any good cops, but there are a few with good intentions."

Her eyebrows questioned my assertion momentarily, but she quickly shrugged her doubt away. "So he's a good little piggy... Maybe they should fire him so he can stop being a bastard."

I rolled my eyes. "If only he weren't so damn good at his job, they might. He's the reason I was able to hang from the department's leg like a leech for so long."

"Hmm. I'm loath to suggest that you continue associating with any cops, but this one shiny apple in the spoiled bunch... might be helpful. But back to Alex's case; whadaya say? Our gone guy is hopeless without a citizen detective coming to his rescue."

"Citizen detective..." I whispered, and the possibilities flashed through my mind:

Andrea Bachman, Citizen Detective—

Andrea Bachman, Investigative Journalist—

Andrea Bachman, Private Investigator—

Ah... Maybe something a little shorter, a little snappier... Even if it's obvious:

Bachman, P. I.

My diaphragm shuddered. "I dunno..."

If I take this path, my ego will inflate to outclass the Hindenburg.

But I want it. And if I want it, I must do it.

Yet... I want it for the same reasons I became a cop. "I'd be doing it for myself," I muttered.

Shash nudged my shoulder and asked, "If you aren't for yourself, who is for you?"

"Judith..."

"She's a big help, but she isn't gonna do everything for you. Who is for you?"

"It must be me."

"Correct. When you are for yourself, what are you?"

"I don't know."

"What do you feel you must do?"

"Someone needs to find him. But..."

"If not now, when?"

"I don't know..."

"His life could be in danger. If not now, when?"

"Shit..."

"How much time does he have, Esti? A lot, a little?"

"Probably... days, hours, none. Every second counts in a missing person case."

"I'll ask you again: If not now, when?"

The answers to her questions crystallized, and I could see the path I must follow. Unless somebody else has already put in the effort to organize an investigation, I'm his only hope. My heart is telling me that finding him is what I was placed on God's Earth to do. I cannot continue denying what I must become—what I am.

I'm a God-damn detective.

I feigned reluctance as I replied, "Oh, fine. I'll do it, Judith. I'm really not qualified, and I'm still recovering emotionally from being fired. I'll get started after I finish my pancakes." I stifled my giddiness as I forced myself to take a bite—not too greedily, not too hastily, though a little too tremulously—and resolved to wait until the meal was over to get started on my new job.

"You're not fooling me," said Judith. "I know you want to do this more than anything else."

"No, this mystery is really inconvenient. My detective days were over before they could even begin." My heart vibrated in anticipation.

She shook her head and smiled. "Bullshit."

"I'm supposed to be retiring, not chasing dreams. I'm not a hero."

The subject proves elusive as I tail them, taking circuitous routes and unexpected turns on the way to wherever it is they're going—they lose me. But all is not hopeless. I skulk down a damp and dark alley to meet a self-proclaimed friend of the subject to find out where they go after work. They earn themselves a Benjamin for their trouble—a business expense the client will be covering when it's time to pay the bill. I venture into the Blind Owl—a seedy dive bar on the East Side—where the subject orders a Boilermaker with a maraschino cherry on top. A 'stranger', already seated a couple stools over, abandons their drink and joins the subject and orders the same bizarre cocktail—then almost at once departs for the back of the bar. Exactly 30 seconds later, the subject follows. I tiptoe towards the back door and crack it. It's dark outside, and I don't hear any people sounds. As I sneak around the corner, the subject and drinking buddy are quietly discussing prices. Once the deal has been settled, the subject hands over an envelope in exchange for a stack of hundreds. The two begin to go their separate ways. "Not so fast," I tell them. They stop dead in their tracks. "I have some questions—for both of you."

The IP trace brings me to a Garlic router endpoint, which would normally be the end of the road for me—but one of my underground contacts owes me a favor, and I'm willing to spend it for the sake of such a lucrative case. Once they've cracked the entry point and given me the IP address of the client who tunneled through it, I'm able to trace it to an Internet service provider on the Eastside. A little 'gentle persuasion' with the ISP—they wouldn't enjoy a bunch of feds rifling through their records if I had to ask the FBI to investigate a breach of the CFAA—yields the physical address of the customer to whom they assigned the IP. I knock on the perp's door and introduce myself: "Good evening, I'm a representative of one of your 'customers'. My employers are willing to refrain from pressing charges against you if you hand over all your blackmail material."

"I'm afraid they don't love me anymore. They spend all their time on business trips, they decline dates, we haven't had a vacation together since our honeymoon. I'm afraid... I'm afraid they might be cheating on me." "You just relax while I get to the bottom of this," I tell them. I tail one half of the pair of suspected adulterers to their rendezvous place in a hotel. A Benny slid across the front desk earns me their room number. From a building across the street I snap lurid photographs of the lovers in media res through a telephoto lens, capturing every square millimeter of their passion. Careless, I think to myself, making love with the drapes open. I follow the other lover home, where I convince them to divulge their name with my census-taker impersonation. "I'm sorry," I tell my client as I hand over the dossier. I rest one comforting hand on the shoulder of the crying spouse as the other hand greedily accepts my pay...

I was ready to go off like fireworks dropped in a bonfire.

"Retirement is when people chase their dreams," she pointed out.

I couldn't keep up the façade any longer. "Good point we need to get to it right away work and eat at the same time we need to trace his footsteps from the moment he was last seen do we have any idea where he was going that morning?" My eagerness tumbled out as one long word.

She blinked. "Can you repeat that?"

"We... need... to... retrace... his steps," I explained at as moderate a pace as I could. "Do we have any specific idea where he was going that morning?"

"Ah. All we know is he went to a 'social justice group' meeting."

"And the hoot said 'unidentified'. Which group could it be?"

"No clue, there are like a million with a presence in this city."

"And from what I've seen of his hoots over the years... our man has his finger in damn near everyone's pie." Yes... This tangled tale is gonna take street smarts and elbow grease to unravel. Of which I must admit I don't have much, but I can get some real quick if I put my nose to the grindstone.

"He sure does, and people listen to him. He is, without a doubt, the most influential man living in this city."

I spoke through a bite of syrup-drenched pancake. "Now I'm wondering about the fact that he has so many friends—and still nobody's spotted him the whole time he's been missing. Hmm."

"Could have something to do with the fact he has just as many enemies."

I shoulda thought of that. "With a résumé like his... I shouldn't be surprised. We're looking for a man who has a lot of anti-antifa anti-fans—I should just say 'reactionary haters'—a man who said goodbye to his family then simply vanished without a trace. It smells like a kidnapping to me." Best case scenario. Worst case... we don't think about worst cases until they're staring us straight in the eye without blinking... even if those are more exciting and dramatic.

"Crap. That's what I was afraid of."

"But we won't know what happened until we dig a little bit deeper. And the most obvious place to dig is the spouse. 99 percent of the time, the spouse knows something that'll change the rules of the game—if you can persuade them to cough it up." I'm willing to bet it'll be easy enough to find and get some kind of story out of them, but getting them to give up the real gems can often be a challenge. "I imagine doing that might take a little bit of effort, though."

She checked her watch. "10:40. Come on." She got up. "Let's get to it."

I stood, plenty eager to get started, but before we departed, I needed to know, "Where are we going?"

"To see Geraldine Pasteur."

"We don't know their address, yet."

"Sunnyvale."

"There are thousands of houses in Sunnyvale, though."

"She doesn't live in 'a house'."

"Right, the PIU hoot mentioned an apartment. Good catch. Well, there still hafta be at least... Actually, I don't think I've ever seen any apartment complexes in Sunnyvale."

"There's exactly one: Ingram Suites."

"That narrows it down. I suppose if it's small enough, we'll be able to canvass the entire building in a few hours."

"Exactly."

"No time to waste." I dropped a few twenties on the table to cover the meal and tip.

"I can pay for my own food."

"You can pay for lunch," I suggested.

"That works. You take the bus?" she asked me as we exited the cafe.

"No, I have a car."

"Great! That'll be way faster." We made our way to Matteo's parking structure and then my car. "What... is that?"

"She's my car."

"It's ancient."

"Older than me. Younger than you—by over two decades."

Shash bursted into laughter and I grinned as I unlocked Judith's door.

Judith narrowed her eyes. "Ha. Ha. It's obviously from the 80s. I see from the trunk ornament that it's a BMW... but what kind of BMW is it?" She appraised the immaculate cream interior as she took her seat.

"She's a 1988 M6 with all factory parts—except the banana-yellow paint job..." I got behind the wheel and took a moment to appreciate her luxurious hand-stitched Nappa leather upholstery. "... for which she was dubbed 'Banana Shark'."

"How can you afford the payments for the massive loan you needed to buy this monstrosity—on a meter maid's salary? You couldn'a been making very much."

"She was my mother's." I twisted the key in her ignition and her Bavarian Mountain Hound 3.5 liter inline-6—as quietly, nimbly, gayly as a butterfly—growled to life. "She likes older cars. She saw the M6 in someone's driveway one day, wanted to buy her, asked the owner, and he decided he didn't want her anymore. He sold her to my mother at half the market value—which was way less than what these very rare beauties are worth nowadays—and hooked her up with a paint shop who gave her a deal on the... questionable coat of yellow."

"'Questionable'? What color would you have painted it?" asked an offended Shash.

"I'd've left it black."

"Black always looks good," opined Judith.

"Black is boring," insisted Shash.

"Black is classy," I insisted back.

"Exactly," said Judith.

"It looks better in yellow."

"The yellow is just fine, but I prefer black."

"Yeah, it isn't ugly, but it wouldn't be my first choice," said Judith.

"I'll admit the particular shade of yellow your old lady went with wasn't the best choice," said Shash.

"I never mentioned my feelings on the banana yellow in the past, that it might not be the most stylish shade, because I do think it has character, and while I would've preferred to keep the color the way it was, I've never given any thought to repainting her."

"You promise not to?"

"I assure you, if the paint gets scratched, the new job will match what it is now as closely as the shop can get it. Anyways, Judith, back to her history... All of this happened a few weeks before I graduated high school, by which time the car was already 20 years old. My mother claimed that if she took good enough care of her, Banana Shark would outlive her."

"And she... gave you the car as a graduation gift?" asked Judith.

"I inherited Banana Shark when she passed. 2011."

With appropriate solemnity, she observed, "You were young. So was she."

I backed out of my spot. "August 12th, precisely 2 months shy of the big four-oh. I remember receiving the news like it was yesterday." I noticed Shash sitting in the back seat in discomforted silence, doing her best to keep her mouth shut to avoid saying anything that might upset me. I was in a surprisingly good mood, so I smiled at her through my rearview mirror and told her, "It was a long time ago, you don't need to be so serious about it. We can even joke about it, to lighten the mood. There's no reason for you to be carrying my grief on your back."

"Um. I don't know if I'm comfortable..." replied Judith.

"Okay," Shash ventured cautiously. "Why did your ma cross the road?"

It took a little bit of thought for the punchline to burst from my mouth amid laughter. "To get to the other side!"

"Are you alright, Andy?" asked Judith, her voice thick with a mixture of confusion and concern.

"I'm just fine. She was killed crossing the street, so... 'Why did my mother cross the road?'

"I'll bite. Why did she cross the road?"

"'To get to the other side!'" I grinned.

"I don't get it."

"Here 'the other side' is referring either to the other side of the street, literally, or to the afterlife, metaphorically."

"O—kay... The punchline is there, but my laughter isn't."

"Yeah—I—it's a tough subject for me and I don't want to be a downer about it, so—we're trying to lighten the mood for once." I shifted into first gear and departed the parking structure for a new topic before I could return to feeling morose about the death that had completely obliterated the remaining shards of my already recently shattered life, or guilty for laughing at Shash's joke about the most soul-crushing loss a human being had ever survived (or so it was in my opinion). "Let's stop—‍" Two words into switching gears, I was already feeling like an asshole. "—let's stop talking about it, let's move onto something... not... something that isn't making light of losing her. I got it. What do you do for work?" At that precise moment, we just happened to pass a Kismet Kush dispensary. "Oh! Lemme guess: a dispensary."

"In a manner of speaking."

"In what 'manner of speaking'?"

"I'm an 'independent' dealer."

"So... unlicensed."

"'Breakin' the law, breakin' the law!'" she growled rhythmically.

"Having someone next door I can buy stuff from should be handy. Discount?"

"For you... free." Quickly, while raising a finger with a caveat wrapped around it, she added, "Within reason."

"Nice! I won't be greedy. Just flower, or do you have pre-rolls and edibles? I've always wanted to get into edibles, but I want to try homemade brownies, not the factory-made candy crap they sell at dispensaries. They all taste like shit and I want the classic 'special brownie' experience."

"A cop who starts smoking pot as soon as she loses her badge? I shouldn't be surprised." I had started as soon as I lost the last of my self-respect, the day I was reassigned to Parking Enforcement, having flunked out of Patrol and Reconnaissance after 6 months of underperformance. "Well, you're in luck. My supplier gives me exclusive access to strains stronger than anything on the market—some of them make Godfather OG taste like parsley—I roll joints and blunts to order, I make my own bubble hash and cannabutter, and I bake brownies from scratch—not from a box—and mix them to order, so if you like blondies—my favorite—or chocolate chips or butterscotch or walnuts or M&Ms or espresso powder or anything else added in, or if you have a specific strain in mind, just ask."

"Would you cook with LSD?"

"Are you asking about using the cannabis strain named after LSD in your baked goods, or are you asking whether I would bake while becoming one with alien gods, or are you saying you want to meet the alien gods yourself?"

"Well, I was thinking of the strain, but now that you ask..."

She huffed in amusement. "I can procure a sheet for you—if you're feeling super adventurous—but you don't strike me as the hallucinogen type."

We passed a Jack for the fourth time that ride, reassuring me I had not unintentionally left Southern California. I leaned towards her and loudly whispered, "For the past month, I've been microdosing shrooms."

"Really? While you were still a cop?"

"Yep. I read they can help with depression."

"Are they working?"

I shrugged. "I really can't tell whether they're making a difference. But, ever since my cubensis fruited, I've been tempted to... eat a whole mushroom, just to see where it takes me."

"I'll be damned. You're full of surprises, Andy. If you ever need a trip sitter for your psychonautical voyages, I'll gladly keep you entertained and safe from bad trips."

"I appreciate that, and I do plan on taking you up on your offer, once I finally work up the courage to completely and irreversibly fuck up my central nervous system."

"You're welcome, and take your time. I suggest you wait until you're at least my age to rearrange your brain cells. Keep driving past Orange, take a left onto Olive."

I followed her directions, passing the third Del Taco of our journey, and we arrived at a five-story building that 'towered' above the surrounding one- and two-story homes. "How come I've never seen this place before?" I asked as we got out of the car.

"Maybe you don't explore the city enough."

"Hm. Maybe. That'll have to change if I'm gonna be a P. I." The front door was sturdy enough to withstand the scratched and painted vandalism consisting of the usual racist, queerphobic, anti-Arab, and anti-Jewish symbols and remarks. "Based on all the colorful swastikas decorating the entrance, I believe we have found the residence of the city's leading antifascist."

"And this mess is fresh," she observed.

"How would you know that?"

"I was here Wednesday morning, and the door was spotless then."

"Delivery?"

"An astute deduction, Miss Bachman," she said in a semi-convincing old boy English accent.

"Thanks! Well, from the looks of it, we aren't the first to figure out where they live." I checked the tenant call panel for either 'Brookvale' or 'Pasteur' and found both on the same label, next to a number. "Room 302."

"Good work," she complimented me.

"Not really, just looking in the obvious places first."

"You're on your first case. When you're learning to walk, you need to give yourself credit every time you take a step, no matter how short the stride, no matter how easy it was, whether forwards or even backwards—you'll keep yourself motivated that way. When you're learning to run, then you stop rewarding yourself for the little things. Hmm..." She pondered the vandalism. "Based on the horrid abuse this door has suffered, I'm guessing Geraldine isn't gonna be answering the door for strangers." She selected one of the other call buttons instead... "So we'll need somebody else's help." ... and pressed it. "Hopefully my inside man is home."

It rang 11 times before a sleepy voice answered. "Hullo?"

"Hey, Chance, it's Lola. I have another client in the building, but he isn't answering his intercom. Let me in?"

The door clicked and buzzed, and we made our way in and up to the 3rd floor. Judith rang the doorbell to 302, and a minute later we heard the sounds of locks clacking and clicking before the door slowly swung inwards, stopping before the chain protecting the apartment's inhabitant could be pulled taut.

"I'm not interested in joining your cult," said a very shaky feminine tenor. "The sign says, 'No solicitors'..." Indeed, it did. "... and that includes Mormons, Jehovah's Witnesses, Scientologists, Amway, and Hare Krishnas."

Could this be my femme fatale? I tried to find the right words to introduce myself, strong words that would establish that I was serious and wouldn't accept dishonesty or intentional omission or attempts to seduce or betray me or any other funny business, unless it was narratively compelling or the product of a deliciously devious intellect willing to engage me in a battle of the minds, clever fox against persistent hound... but I was too excited to think straight.

I choked.