Hancock P.I. (Jake Hancock Private Investigator series Book 1) Read online

  “This is a nice place, don’t you think?” she says, then doesn’t wait for me to answer. Just laughs.

  “It is. Classy people.”

  “Aren’t they?”

  We’re silent a moment, and then the waiter comes over and takes our drinks order. She wants to order White Zinfadel, I Pinot Noir, so she suggests a compromise: Sauvignon Blanc. I think about the logic of that.

  The waiter walks away, and let’s just say that out of me and Jane, he only considers me an attractive option from the dessert trolley.

  “You know,” she begins, then takes a sip of wine. “I thought you were kind of funny looking when you asked me out. But you look different under soft lighting.”

  She’s right. I am kind of funny looking. I’m an eight or nine: I have nice wavy hair, non-patchy stubble, full lips for a man, and a hairline that’s neither too close to my eyebrows nor receded back. No thinning at the temples, either. But I have squinty eyes. They’ve shaved one or two points off. I can live with that.

  Although she’s taken only two sips of wine, it seems as though it’s taking effect already. “In fact, now that you’re not under the harsh glow of makeup lights, I think you’re rather good looking,” she says.

  “Thanks.” Knowing that one compliment deserves another, I look to the place that I usually compliment about a woman, but one is fixed on the maitre d’, the other on some old couple due south-east. I look south, find the part that I don’t usually compliment till later. “You have nice breasts.”

  She throws her head back and laughs. “I like honesty in a man. Not a big fan of the eyes, right? Neither am I. I’m booked in to get them fixed Tuesday.” She leans in closer, and I can smell the wine on her breath. She whispers breathily, “Then I’ll be the whole package.”

  I have no idea why she whispered that.

  She brings her shoulders in, enhancing her cleavage.

  When she’s back to a regular sitting position, I say, “I think your eyes are captivating the way they are. Though if I’d have said that, it would’ve sounded like a backhanded compliment. Worse, a token compliment. I knew you’d believe the breasts one.”

  She laughs again. I haven’t tried, but I think she thinks I’m trying to be charming. “Thanks, but I’m still going Tuesday. Perfection is better than captivating.”

  It may strike you as strange that we’ve been talking about each other’s looks the last couple minutes, but you need to remember, we’re in Hollywood. This is as deep as it usually gets.

  The waiter comes back, looking at me in a sexually aggressive manner—his high, sculpted eyebrows the perfect accompaniment for the intense look in his eyes. I try to avoid eye contact with him by looking into Jane’s eyes, but both stares are equally disconcerting.

  I order the basil gnudi and the seabass, she the duck liver pâté and the surf and turf. He fixes Jane with a strange stare, his eyebrows rising yet higher up his forehead. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to choose fish to go with the white wine you’re drinking, darling? Or would you like to order a different wine for that course?”

  Jane looks momentarily confused, then this morphs into outright self-consciousness.

  I say, “Look, guy, she can drink soda pop with her meal for all I care.”

  He looks shocked at my aggression. The patrons at this place are probably usually so high on Xanax they put up with his bullshit, and with a dopey smile on their faces. In front of him is a living, breathing customer, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it.

  By the way I just attacked this guy, you have every right to think I’m a homophobe. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. I like the way gay guys look at me, especially my ass, which is the closest I’ll get to feeling like a beautiful woman. I usually like their company, too: most I’ve met have been sharp-witted and have had great comedic timing. I love gay guys. But not this one.

  He puts his hand to his chest, as though to check he isn’t having a heart attack, then struts off. He shoots me a look that says “You just blew it.”

  When I turn back to Jane, she’s smiling. She claps her hands together lightly, in that way women do, impersonating a seal, her hands right under her chin. “You’re my hero.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “That guy was a real jerk, don’t you think?”

  “Don’t be too hard on him; he just has a crush on me, despite my being ‘funny looking,’ which made him jealous.”

  We’re silent a moment, then her gaze moves down to my hands, focuses on my ring finger. “Oh, you’re married.” She sighs, then continues, “That’s just my luck.”

  I feign confusion, then follow her gaze. “What? No…Oh this? Sometimes I put it on accidentally when I wake up in the morning. I’m still legally married, but my soon-to-be ex-wife and I have been separated over a year.”

  She looks skeptical. “Are you sure?”

  “Scout’s honor.”

  I go to take it off.

  Her eyes come over all dreamy, and she puts her hand over mine, stops me. “No, keep it on. I like the way it looks.”

  I know what you thought when I put it on: that it was a stupid move. But you don’t understand women the way I do. That ring just told this woman that I’m a man who doesn’t shy away from commitment. Also, she won’t have believed the “put-it-on-accidentally” line, so will assume that I still hold a candle for my wife, which shows her I’m not a fickle lover. She likes me so much that she’s told herself that it’s only a little, and that if she’s magic in bed, it’s a negligible amount of love. More importantly, she believes that it was my wife who split from me.

  She leans closer again, and this time she has obvious cause for the breathy whisper: “You know, even though you gave a crappy compliment about my eyes, I’m pretty sure you’re going to get lucky tonight.”

  She enhances her cleavage again, then sits back.

  I look over at waiter—who’s noticed Jane’s move, and is fixing her with a catty stare—wanting the food to hurry up, so that she doesn’t have time to change her mind. But at the rate she’s now drinking the wine—probably trying to make herself so drunk she’ll forget about my squinty eyes—I think I’m safe.

  4.

  HOME IS A one-thousand-five-hundred-square-feet condo on and overlooking Hollywood Boulevard. Imagine a picture from a Sears catalogue, but with all the furniture replaced with designer stuff. The street-facing wall is entirely glass, affording me and my guests a view you can only google.

  When I walk in with Jane, she reacts the way most guests do. And when I say ‘guests,’ I mean drunk, impressionable women.

  “Oh. My. Fucking. God!”

  I drank wine at dinner, to highlight my sensitive and refined side, but I’m actually more a beer man. Belgian beer is my favorite. I keep a fridge stocked with triples, abbeys, saisons, and wits. Belgian beer is deceptively strong. The wheat flavor present in many styles and the strong phenolic, spicy flavors produced by Belgian ale yeast during fermentation really help to mask the flavor of the high alcohol content. It’s great for tipping tipsy women over the edge. Plus, when people know they’re drinking beer, they automatically increase their drinking rate.

  I ignore her reaction to my condo, and ask, “Would you like a beer?”

  She nods slowly, her hands clasped to her cheeks, her mouth a fixed O. Jane slowed her drinking as the conversation improved, and I fear she isn’t nearly as drunk as I hoped. I go to the fridge and take out a triple, which has nine-point-two-percent ABV. Beer-drinking etiquette dictates that someone drinking a Belgian shouldn’t have their beer poured for them, but should have the chance to decide whether they want the yeast sediment swirled into suspension before decanting. Jane doesn’t seem like the type of person that knows such things. Besides, I want to toss the bottle away before she can see how strong it is, so I decant it for her.

  For myself, I choose a wit, which is as mild as Belgian beers get.

  We sit and drink, and she barely says a word, is mesmerized by my amazing home. I imagine her naked as I have a stupid, creepy smile on my face.

  While we fuck, she calls me her hero many times, screeching it the last time in a glass-shattering falsetto. Not literally, thankfully, as finding a glazier who can cut glass that large is a bitch.

  I call her a cab and she makes me promise to phone her as I escort her off the premises.

  We had monkey sex, and it’s woken me right up. Needing to sleep, I phone Drew, my drug dealer. It’s too late for ecstasy, so I go for cocaine.

  Drew delivers the cocaine in his usual manner, by not saying a word.

  It’s a wild hour or two, listening to slow jazz music and watching bums and hookers walk up and down Hollywood Boulevard, seeing if anything interesting happens. It doesn’t, but that sickly-sweet cocaine buzz makes it wild nonetheless.

  Despite my beautiful, luxurious curtains, Hollywood light acts as my wake-up alarm every morning. The reason why Hollywood is the movie industry hub is because of the weather here. It’s always sunny, which during the fledgling movie industry years allowed movie makers to make movies more time efficiently than in any other place in America—and it provides quick access to various settings. I’m reminded of that little story every morning. Especially so this morning, what with the cocaine and alcohol hangover I have to battle.

  Before heading out, I check my answering machine for messages, and I’m surprised to find that Jane hasn’t left one.

  I have a couple hours to kill before meeting Gerry Smoulderwell, so I go to a cafe. I try to order a quadruple espresso, as I need to at least look awake when I meet Gerry, but I am refused by the young neo-punk female barista. It’s cafe policy that espressos can only come as triples as the maximum size.

  I am looking at her now, with what must be a pretty vacant look on my face, if the condescending look on hers is anything to go by.

  “So, can I order a triple and a single and just add one to the other?” I ask.

  As I wait for her to answer, I focus on the stud through her nose, wonder what kind of parents could look at that thing for more than five seconds, let alone see it every morning at breakfast.

  She looks around, checking to see if her boss is near. “I think we could just about get away with that, dude.”

  I don’t know whether she’s fucking with me. I merely asked to highlight how easily I could bypass their quadruple-espresso rule, but she seemed to be genuinely regarding the question.

  “Let’s,” I say.

  When I receive the triple and the single, I look around before adding one to the other. She laughs, cups her mouth. I think I made her day, at least her morning, so it puts a smile on my face.

  I flick through a magazine called Lifestyle Wellbeing. As far as I can tell, it’s a magazine whose demographic is house-proud women who haven’t eaten carbs since junior high, and whose only jobs are to fuck their husbands and hurl abuse at their Mexican housekeepers when they over-water the houseplants. After attempting to read a few articles, I settle on a crossword.

  I don’t complete it, and I find out why the cafe doesn’t serve their espressos as larger than triples. The coffee has caused me to have the same blood concentration of caffeine as a suicidal Japanese businessman hours before a big merger is finalized. I almost bound from my seat when realizing the effects, tripping up over a well-dressed African-American guy on my way out. With my heart beating through my chest, I decide I need a beer to even the keel before I meet with Gerry, so I head to the restaurant early.

  Gerry arrives on time. Let me tell you about her: she’s six-three with dress heels on; has calves that female Olympic weight lifters would be proud of; has well-toned shoulder muscles, which sounds like it might be her worst feature, but is strangely attractive; and, unlike my date last night, both her eyes point in the direction in which she’s intending to look.

  As she sits down, she raises her eyebrow.

  Did I forget to mention? She’s brilliant. Just by looking at my demeanor she’s able to interpret what I got up to last night. Whether I fucked a hooker or a regular lady. Whether I took cocaine, ecstasy, or both— and whether I paid for the cab or got the pour sap who let me enter her foot the bill.

  “You look like shit,” she says.

  “I feel like it, though not for the reasons you think. You ever tried the coffee at—”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  My brow creases. “How do you know?”

  “Because I don’t drink coffee.”

  So perceptive and not a hazelnut latte in sight!

  She’s booked a booth in a corner, and it’s midday on a Thursday, so there isn’t a soul in sight. She takes out a glossy headshot and slides it over.

  I lean over and look at the picture. I recognize the person on it vaguely, like seeing an old school buddy on Facebook.

  “This is Megan Books, Mega for short,” Gerry says. “You may have seen her on a few commercials.”

  “Oh yeah,” I say. “She’s the young, pretty lady who recommends you brush three times a day with Brighter White, before being pulled into a wardrobe by her panicked lover.”

  “That’s the one.”

  I look at my empty beer glass.

  “Should we get a bottle of wine?” I ask.

  Gerry ignores me, takes out another picture. It’s of a man in his fifties, cowboy type. He’s leaning up against a horse pen at some ranch, a stupid grin on his face. I get that Facebook feeling again.

  A waiter comes over with a bottle of wine, takes off the foil and says madam as he pours us a glass each.

  After he’s gone, Gerry says, “I took the opportunity to order us a bottle on my way in.”

  “When did you start reading people’s minds?”

  “I attended a three-day seminar on ESP in Kentucky.”

  “No shit?”

  “A big stinking pile of it.”

  We’re talking quickly, and I’m a bit lost. I don’t know whether the seminar is a big pile of it or whether the idea of attending one is.

  I take another look at the photo, and then we make a silent toast, chink glasses and sip the wine.

  “Al Montagne. Homeward Boulevard, 1998,” Gerry says.

  I examine the wine in the glass, hold it up to the light. “I’ve never heard of it, but it’s a nice tipple.”

  “Not the wine. The man in front of you. That’s his most famous role.”

  I’ve never heard of it or him. But I’m beginning to get my bearings. “This is Megan Books’s father, right?”

  “Give the man a medal.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Ever heard of Wilson disease?”

  “Are we just making conversation?”

  “No.”

  “Then I haven’t, no.”

  “It’s a hereditary disorder that prevents the sufferer’s body from getting rid of extra copper. It’s easily treated with medication, but if left untreated it can damage eyesight, the liver, and kidneys. Charles Books has it.”

  “That’s this guy, right? Megan’s father.”

  “Again, give the man a medal.”

  “Charles Books had kept his disease from Megan for many years. One night when Megan brought a date back to the family home when they were away for the weekend, things started getting hot, but the idiot had forgotten a condom. Megan went to her parents’ bathroom, looked in the medicine cabinet for one. A bottle of medicine fell down. Megan got worried, researched it, found out which diseases it’s used for. Worried that she may have inherited the gene to develop Wilson disease, she wanted to confirm that it is in fact what her father is suffering from. She pulled a syringe of his blood when he was sleeping—”

  “What kind of guy goes on a date with a hot actress and doesn’t bring a condom?”

  “Try and keep up.”

  “I will.”

  “Megan sent his blood off to a laboratory, along with her own, and the geneticist phoned back with a startling revelation—”

  “That he doesn’t have Wilson disease?”

  “What? No. That Charles Books isn’t her father.”

  “Where do I come into all this?”

  “This is a disaster for Megan. She’s using her father’s name to get her foot in the door for many acting jobs. Have you noticed that casting agents tend to pick family members of famous movie stars for roles?”

  I think it’s a rhetorical question, so I wait for her to continue. Turns out it isn’t: she waits for me to answer. She doesn’t think that much of me.

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “She wants to find her father, her real one, and to find out who Charles Books is. But she wants to do so delicately. Megan’s conscious of upsetting her mom and whoever has been posing as her biological dad all her life. That’s where you come in.”

  “Why doesn’t she just ask the grandparents?”

  “Three are dead, one has dementia. We need you.”

  “You said delicately, right?”

  “Ha ha,” she says, mocking me. “Your self-deprecating humor may work on dumb makeup artists, but not on me.”

  Told you. She’s brilliant.

  She continues, “Press get wind of this, Megan’s fledgling star turns into a red dwarf much sooner than anyone anticipated.”

  I have no idea what a red dwarf is, but I nod, having understood the gist.

  “You’re to travel down to Rodeo, Texas, to carry out your investigation.”

  “Why?” I take another look at Megan’s picture, noting the boob job, nose job and, if I’m not mistaken, chin job.

  “Because that’s where Megan’s from, and more importantly, where her family’s from. She lives in Massachusetts.”

  “What kind of actress lives there? Are you sure she doesn’t live in Hollywood?” I say as I look at Megan’s augmented cleavage.

  “No, she doesn’t”

  “She should move here. She’d fit right in.”

  Gerry raises an eyebrow. I don’t know whether this is her only job, acting as an associate for Andre. What she does doesn’t seem like a real job. But then again, neither does mine. What I do know about her is that she doesn’t like people being cute. She has a bizarre, logical mind, with little to no sense of humor. And I took her out on a date once, and she didn’t come back to my place and remove her panties. She’s a real pro.