3 The Case of Tiffany's Epiphany Read online

  “Chicago PD?”

  “So to speak,” Tiffany answers before I have the chance.

  Mr. GQ eyes me warily, but steps forward and puts out his hand to shake. “Gibby Fearn.”

  “And what do you do here?” I give as well as I take.

  “I’m the Vice President in charge of operations.”

  I pause when I hear a faint whooshing sound behind one of the doors next to the couch before I speak the inevitable detective opening line, “Tell me what happened.”

  “We got an alert from the bar last night a little after two. Within three minutes three security men converged on the spot to find Miss Richmond passed out against the bar rail.”

  “Oh my God,” Tiffany says. “I don’t want to even imagine what position I was in.”

  “What did you do?” I ask.

  Gibby continues, “I rushed out, thought she was drunk …”

  Tiffany interrupts, “Why would you ever think that?”

  “Probably because you were unconscious on the floor next to the bar,” I answer for the VP of Operations.

  “But that’s so not me,” Tiffany says.

  “Go on, please.”

  Gibby continues, “It’s the policy of the club that when an incident like this occurs, we remove the parties in question from the main floor as soon as possible.”

  “Bad PR or you just don’t want an open spot at the bar?” I ask.

  “What do you think?” This guy likes me about as much as he likes my leather jacket.

  I hear the whoosh again, but this time the sound is accompanied by a plop. “Did you bring her in here?”

  “What else would we do?” Gibby loves to ask questions. I hate that.

  “But you didn’t call an ambulance?”

  “Why should I? Her breathing was even, her pulse steady, and her color normal.”

  “Still …” I say.

  “What? People drink, people get drunk,” he says. “This is a 3 a.m. club. You don’t think this happens all the time?”

  “Do you know if anyone took my picture while I was passed out on the floor like an un-chaperoned model at her first after-show party?” Tiffany asks.

  “I can assure you nobody from Zanadu did.”

  “If I find out someone did, this place will never see another dime of my or my daddy’s money.”

  Gibby never retreats to his desk or asks if we want to sit down. I feel about as welcome as I did at Thanksgiving at my ex-in-law’s house.

  “I let her sleep it off on the couch. She seemed fine by the next morning.” End of story.

  “You stayed with her?”

  “Who else?” Gibby asks with a sarcastic smirk. “I know when to go the extra mile in this business.”

  “I’d like to speak with Bruno the bartender,” I say.

  The Behemoth at the small desk speaks up, “Sick.”

  “Did he pass out like I did?” Tiffany asks.

  “Dun’t know.”

  “Could I get his name and phone number?” I ask.

  “Dun’t know,” the Behemoth answers.

  I turn to Gibby. “I’ll need to see the video tapes from the cameras that cover that area of the bar,” I tell him.

  “There’s a movie of what happened to me?” Tiffany shrieks.

  “At least two,” I tell her. “Enough to make a documentary called, Tiffany Gets Tipsy.”

  “Oh, my God, I want every copy destroyed.”

  “You got a card?” Gibby asks. “I’ll call you when the tapes are returned from our service.”

  I give a phony pat to my faux leather jacket pockets, “I left my cards in my other suit. Is it possible to have the tapes here for me by noon tomorrow?”

  Gibby gives me a wry smile, as if he’s decided not to call my bluff. “What else can I do for you?”

  There is one last whoosh/plop from behind the door. “I’ll let you know,” I warn him. Before leaving the office, I ask Gibby Fearn, VP of Operations, one last question, “Would you like to see Tiffany’s toxicology report when it arrives?”

  “Why would I be interested in her blood alcohol level?”

  “What if it isn’t alcohol that appears in the report?”

  “What if it is?”

  Life would be so much easier if people merely answered the questions asked of them instead of asking one of their own.

  “Thanks for your time.”

  I pull Tiffany out the office. Her first comment is “Mr. Sherlock we have to destroy those tapes or at least have my face electronically fuzzied up like they do on those reality TV shows.”

  I ignore her request. “Come on,” I say. “I want to hang out in the bar for a few minutes.”

  Tiffany says, “Out there? You want to hang out with me?” as if she needs each piece of specific information explained in detail.

  “If anybody asks, I’ll tell them I’m your driver.”

  “Well, okay, but I wish you had one of those chauffeur hats to wear,” she says as we proceed to the bar.

  I pick a spot where I can see the entire length of the bar. The place is still packed. Drinks are being poured at a record pace. Waitresses hustle. It’s almost two-thirty in the morning and girls are deciding if, and guys are deciding on who, when it comes to who's getting their tickets punched this evening. The two overly-moussed guys are doing about as well as I would in the place.

  Tiffany goes to the bar to get me a ginger ale and herself a frilly cocktail. As soon as she returns, she tells me she’s going to the ladies room. I stand alone like a wallflower at a high school dance. At exactly 2:32 a.m., Gibby and his muscle come out of their office and make their way down the bar, stopping at each cash register. Gibby inserts a key to the left of the computer pad on the machine, punches in a few numbers, waits for the cash drawer to open, and removes a hefty stack of bills. The money goes into a black canvas bag carried by the Behemoth. It takes less than five minutes to complete all six registers and return to the office.

  The moment Tiffany returns, I tell her. “Time to go home.”

  “But the night is still young.”

  “But I’m not.”

  ---

  I sleep until nine, quite late for me. Care gets up at ten and Kelly emerges from dreamland around ten-thirty.

  “What do you say we take in a class at Sunday school?” I ask as we all stand in the kitchen.

  “I go to school five days a week,” Kelly says. “That’s plenty.”

  “How about church?” I ask. “We could go as a family.”

  “I like going to the same church Tiffany goes to,” Care says. “The church of St. Mattress.”

  I give up on their spiritual upbringing and pull my one frying pan out of the cabinet to start breakfast. “Pancakes?”

  “You make terrible pancakes, Dad,” Kelly says.

  “How about bacon?” Care asks.

  “Bacon is bad for you,” I instruct my children. “It’s just a hunk of salty fat, fried up in its own grease.”

  “But it tastes good,” Care says.

  “How about French toast?” Kelly suggests.

  “French toast it is.” I pull bread and eggs out of the refrigerator. Kelly and Care sit at the small table.

  “Did ya get lucky at the club last night, Dad?” Kelly asks.

  “Kelly, you don’t ask your father those kinds of questions.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that’s none of your business, and you’re too young to be thinking about things like that.”

  “Then what should I be thinking about?”

  “Anything but that, Kelly.”

  Care cracks the eggs and Kelly whips them up with a whisk. I add the milk.

  “What fun things do you have planned for us to do today, Dad?” Care asks.

  “Why is it my job to plan everything?” I counter.

  “Because you’re the adult.”

  “You’re doing your homework at four,” I say reminding them of their usual Sunday scheduled study time.
r />   “What are we going to do until then?” Kelly asks as if this is the last day of her life and she wants to make the most of it.

  “How would you like to go to the Zanadu Club downtown?” I ask.

  “Cool!”

  ---

  “What’s that awful noise?” Kelly asks as we get on Lakeshore Drive to go downtown.

  “The muffler.”

  “Isn’t the muffler supposed to muffle the noise?”

  “Not my muffler,” I confess. “It has a hole in it.”

  “How do you know that, Dad?” Care asks, knowing I’m no car mechanic.

  “Because I tried to duct tape it shut.”

  “No wonder Tiffany won’t ride in your car,” Kelly tells me.

  It’s not that I don’t want to get the muffler fixed, it’s just that I’m currently in a major cash flow situation; actually a it’s a major lack of cash flow situation. I am so broke, I’m almost unfixable. My rent is due, my alimony is always due, and I’m living off my one credit card that is seriously close to being maxed out. I had to search couch cushions to be able to do my laundry. I’ve recycled everything that can be recycled into cash. My credit rating brings down the national average. Worst of all, I don’t know where it all goes. I get a check from Mr. Richmond and it disappears before I can get to the Jewel to buy bananas. My financial situation is on life support, with no one there to help me support it.

  We putt-putt to the Zanadu. The valet isn’t on duty today. Too bad, it would probably be the only time he’d ever have the chance to park a Toyota Tercel. I park the car and the girls follow me to the metal door. Arson, Sterno, the velvet rope, and the line of people are also absent. I pound on the door a few times, but Slimy Guy also must be off-duty. “Maybe they won't open up because we’re not cool enough to get in,” I say to my girls.

  “Speak for yourself, Dad,” Kelly says.

  I motion for the girls to follow me around to the east side of the building where I see a services truck parked. The side door is open. We go inside.

  “Where are all the people?” Kelly asks, seeing the place is empty except for a cleaning crew. “You said you were taking us to a club.”

  “I didn’t say it was going to be open.”

  “Dad, that’s not fair.”

  “Kelly, I’m going to teach you to listen to details if it kills me.”

  “I don’t care if anybody is here,” Care says. “This place is neat.”

  My youngest daughter’s eyes are as wide as pie plates. She twirls around seeing the numerous video screens, the light boards, the tables, the chairs and the DJ’s platform high above her. “Come on,” I tell her.

  I find my way back to the bar and to the small hallway leading to Gibby Fearn’s office. I knock. The spy camera flips on and in seconds the door clicks open. The girls follow me in.

  The Behemoth sits in the same chair, in the same suit, and reading the same comic book. He must be an extremely slow reader. “Is Gibby in?” I ask.

  “Dun’t know.”

  “Did he leave the tapes?”

  The Behemoth reaches over to a grab a manila envelope and hands it to me.

  “How about the address and phone number for Bruno the bartender?”

  “Dun’t know.”

  I open the envelope to check on the contents. In addition to the DVDs, there’s a slip of paper with a name and number written on it. “Thanks,” I tell him. I would like to ask if the Behemoth has been home since last night, or if he even has a home, but I don’t. I make small talk instead. “Sure is a pretty day out today.”

  “Dun’t know.”

  I guess that answers the question if he’s been home or not.

  “By the way,” I say in my best small talk voice, “Who’s Gibby’s boss?”

  “Dun’t know.”

  I pause for a few seconds and listen to the quiet. “What happened to the whoosh/plop sound?”

  “Dun’t know.”

  Enough said. This has been a fascinating conversation. This guy must have scored high on his debate team. I’ll bet he really opens up at family reunions. “Thanks,” I say.

  I turn and the girls follow me out the door. Once we are back in the hallway, I say to my pair, “Now, aren’t you glad you have a dad like me, instead of a boring guy like that?”

  “No,” Kelly says. “With him we wouldn’t have to listen to all those life lessons you’re always babbling on about.”

  “When did you ever listen to any of them?”

  “Dun’t know.”

  Kelly is cruisin’ for a bruisin’.

  The cleaning crew is now working on the dance floor. Two guys are on their hands and knees scraping off dried gum and gunk while two other guys are huffing and puffing as they maneuver large buff and polish machines over the wood. Theirs is not a fun job.

  “You know what that is girls?” I ask as we pass by the work in progress. “That’s why you go to college.”

  Before we climb back into the Toyota, and I hope it starts, I check the time. It’s almost 1 p.m., well into the allowable range to call. “Who wants to call Tiffany?”

  “I do,” Care blurts out first.

  “Ask her if we can come over and watch her TV.”

  ---

  Tiffany lives in a penthouse condo on the top floor of a building on Lakeshore Drive between Grand and Chicago Avenues. It has three bedrooms, a maid’s quarters, a gourmet kitchen, a full living room, a media room, and spectacular views in all four directions. Compared to my apartment, it’s the Taj Mahal. Tiffany considers it a nice starter home.

  “Good morning little dudettes,” Tiffany greets the girls as we enter.

  “It’s afternoon, Tiffany,” I correct her.

  It's the first time Kelly and Care have been here. It’s only my second. The best way to keep a residence building ultra-exclusive is not to let people like us inside. Care goes gaga for the second time in the day. She walks around in awe, staring at the art on the walls, the massive TV screen, the computer set-up, and the pure richness of every item in sight.

  Kelly tries her best not to be too impressed. She stops at a painting, “Who’s this Miro, guy?” she asks.

  “Some painter in Europe my designer picked out,” Tiffany answers. “I think he was a buddy of that Picasso guy. I got his stuff in the other room.”

  The art is bolted to the walls. A good idea since they’re originals.

  “I was just making myself a power shake,” Tiffany says. “Want one?”

  Kelly and Care both answer simultaneously. “Yes, please.”

  I decline. Although a shake is probably the only power I’ll ever have in this group. We follow Tiffany into the kitchen, where the floor is marble, the counters are granite, and the cabinets are teak.

  Tiffany goes to a massive blender on the counter. She adds, pours, measures, chops, blends, and serves. “Yummy,” she says, sampling her creation. “So good, and so good for you.”

  Kelly and Care take their sips. They’re not so sure, but they’ll down it just to be cool. I wish I could get them to do that with my Chicken ala Broccoli Supreme.

  I survey the counters, observing every appliance and gadget imaginable; all in a color that perfectly matches the decor. “When was the last time you cooked in here, Tiffany?”

  “You mean me cooked, or the cook cooked?” She answers my question with a question--which I hate.

  “You.”

  “Me cook, ah no,” she explains. “That’s why the caterer was invented.”

  The three women carry their libations to the media room where Kelly puts in one of the DVDs from the envelope left for me at the Zanadu Club. Care mans the remote. “Go ahead, hit Play,” I say sitting down on one of the two Barcaloungers. The massive TV screen pops on like an IMAX. The picture comes into focus. Thank God there’s no sound. I couldn’t take any more of that Hip-Hop, Rap, Ska, or whatever is considered music these days.

  The shot is from the ceiling camera from the right, with the patrons facing t
he bar. Tiffany sits dead center, two women to her left, one on her right. There are guys interspersed between the women and a few coming in and out of the picture. The bartender is pouring an expensive looking vodka into three martini glasses.

  “Why does the picture look so funny, Dad?” Care asks.

  “It’s in black and white.”

  “Yuck, I hate that,” Kelly says.

  “Did you see that, Mr. Sherlock?” Tiffany yelps out.

  “No. What?”

  “Stop the tape,” Tiffany orders. She jumps up and hurries to the freeze-frame image where she points to the top of a blonde woman’s head two barstools down from her. “Look, you can see her black roots.”

  “That’s not really what we’re looking for, Tiffany,” I say.

  “I can’t help it,” Tiffany says. “When I see a salon fox pac, I’m conditioned to point it out.”

  I would do all a favor by explaining that Tiffany’s fox pac is actually a faux pas, but nobody would listen; so why bother.

  “Watch the drinks, watch the people. We want to see if someone slips anything into your martini.”

  For the next five minutes or so, we watch the DVD intently. One guy comes up to Tiffany and tries to chat her up, but she shuts him down in seconds. He’s replaced by two other guys with the same crushing result. Tiffany sometimes giggles with the girl next to her, waves to someone off camera, and listens to a comment or two from Bruno, whose hands are quicker than a magician’s as he mixes one cocktail after another. There is one woman, sitting back-to-back with Tiffany, who gives my assistant a pretty good run for her money in the looks department. I can sense tension between the two. Otherwise, Tiffany’s having a pretty good time. The Zanadu Club is her element. Friends come up to say hello, give her an air kiss, or share a laugh. Each carries a glass of whatever, which eventually ends up on the bar. There are so many drinks coming and going, it's difficult to discern whose is whose.

  Then it happens. Tiffany shifts slightly to her left, makes a short upward oomph, then collapses onto the bar like a warm glop of Smucker’s apple jelly. Luckily, her head doesn’t bang onto the wood or take out a row of glasses. Instead her entire body turns into an unmuscled mass of doughy humanity and slowly slumps to the floor, the same way a sugary filling oozes out of a baking pie.