No working title?

There was a knock at the door. It was more like someone was trying to kick it down, otherwise it never would have shaken Beverly out of his semi-conscious stupor. Beverly groaned, "who in the hell is banging on my door at this ungodly hour?" he managed to pry open one eye and fumble for his watch on the night table. Two o'clock…that would be… P.M, he wondered?

”Tom Beverly, I know you’re in there. This is the Police and we need to talk to you. We will break this door down if we have to.”

“You can huff and puff all you want, but you’re not going to blow this house down. Trailer really, not just any trailer, this one was completely gutted and reinforced by a paranoid drug dealer. Steel doors, bullet proof glass, a reinforced steel floor and a sweet little hidden trap door to a three foot high keep, wired to monitor everything happening upstairs. There was enough food and water stored down there to sustain a person for days if needed and if the careful little meth lord had not been arrested at his lab in the suburbs, the police never would have found him here. There was one other thing that made the little hiding spot extra special, that was an escape route into the tool shed at the back of the trailer. Beverly took possession of the trailer after the little pill pusher took a runner on his dime.

Beverly decided that it would be best to get the hell out of there and try to find out what the police wanted with him. The main reason he decided to flee was that he thought he recognized the voice of the shouting cop. It sounded like Jim Lassiter. If it was Lassiter, he must be in big trouble, because Lassiter was a homicide detective. It was no secret that there was no love lost between the two of them. In fact Lassiter hated Tom Beverly to the nth degree.

Tom quickly got dressed and packed extra socks, underwear and a change of clothes into a Duffel bag. He figured he might not be coming back to the trailer for a few days. He opened the safe in the corner and withdrew all his emergency cash, which was about five thousand dollars. His hand entered the safe once more and hovered over a handgun. It was a38 Smith and Wesson 642 Air-weight special. Would he need a gun? He hated carrying, because he had already killed all he cared to remember in Iraq and if you carried a gun you just might think it’s necessary to use it. That was more trouble then he needed right now. Then again he had no idea what kind of trouble he was in already. Better to take the gun than leave it for the police to discover he thought, he grabbed the gun along with the ankle glove and strapped it on. He stepped into his Snakeskin boots and pulled his pant leg over. He removed his leather jacket and helmet from the closet, opened the trap door to the hidden KEEP and jumped through.

He turned on the low density lights, closed and latched the door so no one could open it from the other side, and crab-walked over to the secret panel at the far side. He opened the panel and peered into the shed. When he was satisfied no one was there, he rolled out of the Keep and under the workbench in the shed. Tom exited the shed and ran for the cover of the neighbor’s trailer, which was where he stored his motorcycle. He put his gear into the aluminum saddlebags, pushed the bike out of the open carport, put on his full-face helmet and started the Beemer. It awoke immediately with its big cat purr. Tom turned out of the driveway in the opposite direction of his trailer and left Wildwood Trailer Park through the back entrance.

He rode across town on West Georgia and pulled into the White-spot diner. He needed coffee, black, strong, and lots of it. He also needed an Advil or two or three to numb the pain in his head. He entered and sat in a booth at the back, close to the washroom. He had not washed up or even looked at himself in the mirror. He imagined he must look a bit rough after a night of God only knows what, but first he needed to order some food and figure out why the hell Robo cop was pounding on his door.

A middle-aged waitress who looked every bit as old and tired as he felt approached his table and took his order. The full English with plenty of black coffee was the order of the day. Bacon, sausage, three eggs sunnyside, beans, fried potatoes, toast and plenty of grease. The breakfast of Champions, overweight champions with high cholesterol.

“ He dug into his jacket pocket and retrieved his Blackberry. He had to find out why the police were wanted to question him. He texted the one person that he knew would likely have the information he needed. Beaker knew everything that happened on the street, most of the time even before the cops knew.

Beaker, Why are 5-O looking for me?

Beverly put the phone back in his jacket pocket and decided to go and wash up before the waitress returned with his coffee. He was headed towards the washroom when he happened to glance at the front page of The Sun, on the service station table. There was no need to wait for a response from Beaker.

Crown Prosecutor murdered???
Crown prosecutor, Patricia Connelly found dead in her exclusive condo. Police are not releasing any information into the death of Ms. Connelly, other then they are treating it as a possible homicide.

Beverly went ashen then weak in the knees. He hurried into the washroom as best as he could and applied cold water to his face and neck. He dried his face, ran his fingers through his disheveled hair and returned to the table just as his waitress returned with a thermos of coffee.

“Are you ok mister? You look like you seen a Ghost.”
.
“I’m fine as soon as I have some of this coffee. I just found out that a friend has died.”

He knew Patricia intimately; in fact they had been carrying on a friends with benefits relationship for the past year. Patricia was a tall leggy redhead with green eyes and tiny freckles across her nose and shoulders. She was mom’s apple pie. The girl next door. The brilliant up and coming Crown Prosecutor. Criminal lawyers dreaded coming up against her because her beauty swayed male jurors and her girlish charm and wit moved the females. Her work ethic and airtight case preparation sent many a villain to prison, thus diminishing many a trial lawyers box scores.

Patricia Connelly was also as kinky as a cheap garden hose. She liked to be tied up or tied down, treated rough and thrown around. All within certain limits of course, It was sexual play and it was important to have a partner that knew the boundaries. It was a role playing game to Patricia and Beverly played the dominant partner in this game, mostly as a sadistic cop. He never asked Patricia why she preferred this scenario and she never volunteered an explanation.

Was he with Patricia last night? That’s the big question. There’s a security desk and video surveillance in the lobby of her condo. Do the police have evidence of his being there last night? Did he have anything to do with her death? Too many questions with no answers.

Beverly’s meal arrived but he had lost all interest in food. He ate out of necessity. He needed to regain some of his strength and figure out what he had to do next. What did the police have on him? His cell phone beeped and gave him a start. It was a message from Beaker.

Video of you and a redhead, lobby of dead Prosecutor.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, trying his damnedest to remember anything from the night before. His head was pounding like a Keith Moon drum solo. He couldn’t remember anything from the night before, but he found it hard to believe that he could ever get drunk enough to kill someone. In fact he can’t even remember drinking that much last night. He had sworn off all-night benders since the time he woke up in the same bed, next to Charlene. Which reminds him he needed to talk to Addison.

Addison was the night security guard at Patricia’s condo. Addison was his secretary’s stepbrother. Beverly had helped him get a part time job at the condo to supplement his income. He was a wannabe Dj that had yet to make the kind of fame, that would guarantee him a steady cash flow. Charlene Garcia, aka Cherry Garcia was his personal assistant, as she liked to refer to herself. She didn’t like the word secretary. Cherry Garcia was also the name she used when she worked as an exotic dancer, before she gained thirty pounds from indulging in too much Ben and Jerry’s of the same name.

“Tom Beverly, Where the hell are you?”

“I won’t be in today Cher, not feeling too good at the moment.”

“No shit Sherlock, it’s 4 o’clock. Is this anyway to run a business? Do you expect me to go out there and arrest the perps myself!”

Beverly ran a reasonably successful bale bonds business. He knew they were busy. He also knew that there was enough staff to handle everything without him. Cherry must be pissed about something else. “Cher, I need to talk to Addison, I’m in a bit of a pickle.”

“I figured as much because your favorite dance partner has been around looking for you. That guy really creeps me out. Tell me that you didn’t have anything to do with Patricia’s murder.”

“I’m on my way to the border, should be there for happy hour. I need to find a place to hide out for a few days; maybe we can get together and talk later. I’ll explain everything then.”

“You're on your way to the border?”

“Just what I said Cher, I’ll be thinking about you when I’m drinking my Bloody Maria’s with a beer chaser.” Beverly had no idea whether the police had got around to tapping the phone yet so he didn’t want to give too much away. He wanted Cherry to meet him at the South of the Border Bar on Burrard. This is the place that Cherry and he got blasted on Bloody Maria’s with Dos Equis chasers and found themselves in the same bed the next morning. Each of them swore that they would never get that drunk again.

Cherry walked into the Border around 6 o’clock wearing her signature red boots. A short black skirt over black nylons and a black silk blouse with large red peonies tucked inside the high waisted skirt. Bright red lipstick and long red nails finished the look. She was a bodacious, bawdacious broad that held nothing in reserve. You always knew what Cherry thought the moment she thought it.

“You look like shit”

“Gee thanks, I’m glad I look how I feel. I wouldn’t want to mislead anyone. Have any trouble figuring out my message?”

“It didn’t take a genius. Just the mention of that damn drink gives me flashbacks. Is this mine, pointing at a glass of red sitting on her side of the Table.” Beverly was nursing his forth beer. “What happened? How much shit did you get yourself into this time?”

“I can’t remember anything about last night. The last thing I remember was saying goodbye to you at around six. I remember getting into the Nova and leaving the parking lot, but that’s all. After that… nothing, zip, nada. The next thing I knew is I woke up this morning with a bitch of a headache and the cops kicking in my door.”

“Addison phoned the office, he say’s that he has to talk to you. He says that he was the one that found the body.”

“What else did he say? Was I there last night with Patricia?”

“He didn’t answer any of my questions. He was being very cagy, the ungrateful little shit. He wants you to meet him at this address tonight. He’s working a Rave. He said to come around 2 o’clock and to tell the doorman; Cool Ade needs some sugar.”

“Tell him what/”

“I don’t know. You know Addi. His DJ name is Cool Ade. He sounds scared and secretive, like you. Anyway back to business, I found you a place to stay. It’s a rooming house on Paradise road, right at the edge of Chinatown. The rooms are above the Double Happiness Massage Parlor. Go to room 215 and someone will meet you there with the keys. Her name’s Lillian and you can trust her. She has arranged everything. This is just a suggestion Boss but I think that you should finish that beer and get yourself the hell out of sight as soon as possible.

Beverly knocked on the door. A tall Asian woman answered the door. Her long dark hair was parted in the middle and combed into two pig talis at the side of her head and tied up with two cherry like plastic balls. She was wearing tight fitting jean cutoffs over long shapely legs and she had on a Pink Floyd, ‘ Dark side of the moon’ t-shirt stretched over a not so prodigious chest. She looked and dressed like someone in their teens but Beverly guessed her to be late twenty's

“Hi my name is Lillian. Lillian Nguyen. You must be Beverly. Why do they call you Beverly? Isn’t that a girls name?”

“My name’ is Tom Beverly. There are some that think it’s witty to put a girls name on this homely mug. I have to admit that I prefer it; in fact, I refer to myself as Beverly most of the time. Tom is a name for male cats.”

“Your not homely. Your actually kind of cute, in a Bogart sort of Way.”

“What the hell does that mean?’

“You know, big ears, large nose, sad eyes.”

“I think you just described a Basset Hound”

Lillian laughed and invited him in. “I bought you some supplies; coffee, tea, milk and bread. There are six beers in the fridge…. Five actually.” She held up the empty bottle in her hand. She handed him a cell phone from her pocket. “It’s a throw away, can’t be traced to you. I have entered my number in case you need anything. I purchased a phone for myself so they can’t trace you to me. I have you on speed dial.”

Beverly pulled the roll of bills from his jacket pocket and peeled off ten Brownies and handed it over to her. “I have no idea how long I will need this place. Let me know when this runs out.”

“Ok, I have to get back downstairs. I've been gone to long as it is and the place is probably full of jerks by now.' She laughed at her own joke and said' "Call me if you need anything."

Beverly looked at his watch. He didn’t have to meet Addison for six hours. He decided it would be smart to lay down and have a nap. There’s no telling when he will be able get back to the room. His new cell rang. It was Cherry.

“Wow, you didn’t waste anytime getting my new number”

“Is everything OK?”

“ Everything is great, your friend is ubber efficient She thought of everything and then some. what up with her She works in the massage parlor… does she, you know, give happy endings?”

“You didn’t say anything like that to her, did you? I’ll slap you upside your big head, if you insulted her. She works for her mother; she handles the deposits and does the books. She also does any conflict resolution that needs to be done. Any incidents that happen between the girls and the customers, she steps in and resolves the issues.”

“She’s only about A hundred and ten soaking wet what can she do?”

“Most men will back off when approached in a non aggressive way, especially, if it’s by a pretty woman.”

“What happens, when they are too drunk or too high to care and become combative themselves?”

“The last time I talked to her about that very same subject, there were ten broken thumbs and four dislocated shoulders. Those were the one’s that merely tried to grab her. The one’s that tried to hit her suffered broken collar bones and legs.”

“Holy shit! She did all that?”

“Boss stay away from her. She's a nice girl and dangerous as hell."

'"yeah you already told me. She's a regular Bruce Lee."

" Not that so much as her father is Sam Nguyen. Nothing happens in Chinatown without his consent."

"Christ I know who Sam Nguyen is but I never made the connection. How come she works in a massage Parlor?"

"She lives with her mother, who split from Sam years ago, but make no mistake, she's daddy's little girl. People who makeher cry generally die."

"Don't worry about me Cher, I'm through with dames besides she's not my type."

You haven't got a type even the librarians are in danger, besides I'm not worriedabout you. I just happen to like my Job and would hate to lose it becauseof tour misguided testosterone.

“ Next time I see you rimnd me again why I need a secretary but now I need to get some sleep before I meet up with Addison."

"Im a personal assistant!"

Beverly awoke in a cold sweat; he dreamt that Patricia’s hands and feet were tied to the corners of her ornate brass bed, with thick red nylon cord. There was a red ball gag between her white teeth. She was wearing an emerald green negligee that was hiked up past her hips. Her alabaster skin and red pubic hair lay exposed to Beverly who was sitting at the foot of the bed, repeatedly trailing a long ostrich feather up her thighs and over her moist vagina. Patricia had a wild look in her eyes and was shaking her head back and forth in ecstasy, screaming in pleasure. That was the last thing he remembered before waking. Was it a dream or did it really happen?

Beverly took a quick shower, shaved and put on a change of clothes, before heading out to meet Addison. He knew the address was in an industrial park on Surrey road. There wasn’t much else around there but warehouses and strip malls filled with sales offices. He didn’t have to look too hard for the right warehouse because of all the cars parked around the Yellow Quill cold storage, in an otherwise deserted complex. Beverly idled the bike up and down the rows of cars looking for anyone staking out the building. When satisfied that there were no cops, he parked the Beemer behind a recycle container and walked towards the loading dock door. He pushed the buzzer and waited until an ape-man with greasy hair answered the door. The man just stared at him, not saying a word.

“Cool Ade needs some sugar.”

The ape-man stepped aside and allowed Beverly to enter. The throbbing music rattled off the sheet metal walls; Pulsating neon bodies bounced and bobbed, to the techno music, between the flashing strobes. Beverly skirted the throng of sweaty bodies and headed towards the makeshift stage at the back. He spotted Addison behind the banks of speakers, turntables, and laptops. Monster headphones askew, dressed in white pants and vest over his naked chest. Addison’s clothes changed colors with the lights; lemon yellow, vibrant pink, lime green, Kool Aid colors. Addison spotted him and pointed towards the back. Beverly went past him and slipped behind a large black curtain into a spacious empty warehouse.

Addison joined him. “I’ve got fifteen minutes before the loop ends.”

“Addi was I there last night with Patricia?”

“Yeah man, you came in around 11 o’clock, gave me a wave and entered the elevator arm and arm. Around 1:30, I got a flashing red light from Ms. Connelly’s phone. When I went up to see what was the matter, the door was open and she was lying on the bed exposed, with a black nylon stocking tied around her throat. She was purple and her tongue was hanging out of her mouth. I can’t get that picture of her tongue out of my fucking mind, man.

The blood drained from Beverly’s face. This was Patricia’s new fantasy, erotic asphyxiation, the intentional restriction of oxygen to the brain to heighten sexual arousal. Beverly tried to do it once with her but could not go through with it. Did he finally get drunk enough to satisfy her fantasy and kill her? When you came into the room was I there? Did you see me?”

“That’s what I wanted to tell you. When I approached the bed, I could see that someone was lying behind the bed out of view. I just got a glimpse when someone sapped me from behind. The man behind the bed was you man, I recognized the snakeskin boots.”

“Someone else was in the room? Did you tell the police?”

“I was going to but before I got knocked out I detected an odor. A strong smelling licorice mint, like those things we used to take to disguise the smell of alcohol and Tobacco? What was it called again? Sen Sen! That’s it, anyway, I smelled it on the detective’s breath that came to question me. It freaked me out so much, I forgot to mention it to him.”

“Lassiter!”

“That’s him, Detective Lassiter.”