Pat ruger box set 2, p.17
Pat Ruger Box Set 2, page 17
part #4 of Pat Ruger Series
“You might say that.”
“Married?” I must have given him a stern look because he lifted his hands in the air and said, “Sorry, didn’t mean to pry.”
“No, it’s fine.” I said apologetically. “I’m widowed and just lost my fiancé, so romance isn’t exactly what I want to talk about.”
“Got it … how about sports. Broncos fan?”
I sighed, figuring I wasn’t going be left alone any time soon. We talked Broncos, then Rockies, then Avalanche. I didn’t usually talks sports, but for some reason I didn’t mind a little manly conversation.
Before we could get to the Nuggets, a younger woman entered the bar. Roy and I looked over at her, she saw us and walked on over to me. “Can I join you? Not too many people to talk to in here.” She set her lipstick red clutch purse on the bar next to me and pulled out the stool. “I’m Meg, by the way.”
Meg was very thin. She had light brown, shoulder-length hair that was well-kept, and just light makeup. She was of Hispanic descent but didn’t quite look Mexican — perhaps South American, but I hadn’t detected any accent as if she was visiting from Brazil or Peru. She appeared to be about 25, maybe 26 years old. Her coffee-brown jumpsuit was new. I could tell because it still had a price tag hanging from an armpit. Her top was cut low but there wasn’t much to show. She was wearing some light-red lipstick and minimal eye makeup.
“Hi, Meg. I’m not feeling like talking much today. Sorry.”
“You don’t have to talk if you don’t feel like it. I’ll just sit here and keep you company for a while.”
Roy brought her a beer, though she hadn’t ordered one. That made me think he knew her, a regular, maybe.
“Thanks, hon,” she said as she grabbed the glass and took a sip. “I love it when it’s this cold.”
“Don’t we all,” Roy replied, and he stepped back around the bar to leave us alone, I guessed.
“So, what’s your name?”
I sighed. I guess I was going to have to talk after all. “Pat.”
“I would have taken you for ‘Mike’ or ‘Joe,’ but ‘Pat’ works. Pat …“ She seemed to be looking me over. “Yeah, I can see it.”
“So glad you approve.”
She laughed. “Sorry, I just think your name can say a lot about you.” She took a big drink this time.”
I bit. “So, what does ‘Pat’ say about me?”
She stepped off her stool and turned mine so she could see me eye to eye. “You are rugged, can hold your alcohol …“ She smiled as she pointed to my beer. “Hard worker, you care about what you’re doing.” She reached out and squeezed my right upper arm, then let her hand slide down, feeling my forearm. She left it there. “Pats are good in bed — great staying power. They usually make sure their women are satisfied.”
“Is that so?”
“I’ve always thought so.” She downed the rest of her beer. “You got a wife?”
“She passed away a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry. Girlfriend?”
“I did have … listen, I don’t want to talk about this. You mind?”
“No, I guess not.” She looked around the bar and seemed to catch Roy’s eye. “I’m so bored today.”
“Yeah, long day alright.”
“Hey, I have a room a couple of blocks from here. Let’s go see if I’m right about you.”
I turned back to the bar and took a sip. “Meg, I’m not feeling it right now, like I said.”
“But you won’t have to do any talking, I promise.”
I looked up from my beer and I noticed Roy peeking at us through the hanging glasses and tall liquor bottles at the corner of the bar. His expression said a lot.
The possibilities were narrowing down. Meg could have been a hooker, but her approach wasn’t right. She didn’t seem to care if I had a good job or could afford her. She didn’t look like a junkie, so a cheap trick probably wasn’t what she wanted. She could be looking to get me in a compromising situation, perhaps blackmail. But, again, no worry about my income or wealth, and she didn’t flinch when I said I didn’t have a partner. I guess she could have actually liked me … I almost laughed out loud thinking about that. No way. The last option was that she has a boyfriend in that room of hers and they were waiting for a lonely guy to roll.
I got my phone out and pointed the camera toward Meg. “You’re so beautiful, can I take your picture?” Before she could answer I clicked one. “Roy, come on around, over here.” I waited for him to approach and I snapped his photo as well.
“What’s wrong, Pat?” he asked.
“Meg, here, was telling me about my name. Let me guess about her name.” I turned to her, and she looked uneasy. “Meg, a pretty girl with a nearby apartment and a boyfriend waiting inside to ambush an unsuspecting drunk. I’m pretty good at this, huh?”
“But …“
“Never mind. I’m sending your photos to a detective I know.” I asked Roy, “Do you have some paper?”
“Sure.” He grabbed a water-stained notepad and slid it over to me.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the pen I always carry. I wrote the name and phone number of an old friend, Detective Mel Persey, on two sheets of paper and handed one to each of them. To Meg I said, “You need to call the detective and turn yourself and your boyfriend in. If he doesn’t hear from you by the end of the day, he’ll be putting out an APB on you and they’ll pick you up before you get very far. Tell him everything and he’ll be empathetic.”
“He’ll be what?” She was caught between looking guilty and confused.
“Empathetic … he’ll care what happens to you. If you’re in trouble, he can help, but he’ll make sure you aren’t mugging anyone.” To Roy I instructed, “You call him, too.”
“Me? Why me?”
“You mean you aren’t getting a kickback for notifying these guys? C’mon, I know better.” Back to a now seriously pouting Meg, I said, “Call him. You’ll be sorry if you don’t.”
I reached into my wallet for a ten-spot to throw on the bar.
Meg exploded. “You don’t know what you’re talking about! I ain’t got no boyfriend waiting anywhere! I was just lonely, you know?”
“If that’s the case, my friend will know that you’re telling him the truth. Call him.”
She was still angry. “You’re an old man! Ain’t no one gonna have sex with you anyway. Why don’t you go buy an RV and some Bermuda shorts …”
I dropped the ten on the counter and left before she finished her tirade and could still hear her from the parking lot. I looked around and behind for any retribution until I got back in my newly-purchased Malibu. I took a deep breath and started it up. It felt good to lay scratch on the blacktop. “An RV …“ I said aloud and shook my head.
Chapter 3
“We’re really going to go hear poems?” I had never contemplated doing that. I would sooner have gone to a ballet.
“A poetry reading, yes,” Maggie answered loudly from inside my bedroom. I was waiting for her in the living room. “At the Cooke Center.”
“Can’t we go watch a chess match?” It was the most boring thing I could think of, other than a poetry recital. “How will I stay awake?”
“I’ll make sure, trust me,” she replied as she walked out of the bedroom. She was now “made up,” and I had to admit she was looking good.
Maggie Winters was a middle-aged widow I had met in the mountains when looking for a client’s daughter. She and I hit it off and the timing was right, so we had been casually seeing each other for a few weeks. She was cute, slightly shorter than me at around 5’6” and brunette, at least for now. I had seen her once or twice as a redhead. Her farm kept her in shape but made her long for some metropolitan living on occasion. I had assumed that this poetry event helped her societal longings, so I went along with it, even though I was sure to be bored stiff.
At least it wasn’t ballet or opera, I kept telling myself.
Maggie chose a little black dress with a low neckline, and though she wasn’t especially endowed, this dress showed some cleavage. Her bottom, I noticed, was also shaped nicely. Her makeup was light, including only some blush, eyeliner and a lipstick stain in an off-red.
She turned around quickly. “What do you think?”
“I’d take you home.”
She flashed a broad smile. “I didn’t need to wear this to get you to take me home.”
“Point taken.” I chuckled with her. “Just show up naked, that’s what I always say.”
“I’ve actually heard you say that.” She laughed again. It was a cute laugh. “I’ve been meaning to ask you if you’ve been losing weight. You’re looking svelte.”
“I don’t think so,” I replied as I looked down at my midsection. “I’ve been at 195 to 205 for 20 years now. My weight at Denver P.D. was always under 200.”
“It looks like you may have lost some … it looks good.”
I looked back up at her. “So, what’s the plan?”
“I told you,” she replied. “It starts at 8, but we can’t be early. We’ll leave here at about 7:45 and get there a few minutes late.”
I sighed. I had given up trying to understand these rules of high society. It was always my choice to be early. Looking at the clock on my living room wall, I said, “Fashionably late, then. Okay, we can leave soon.” A second look at the clock reminded me that it was something that Ellen, my late wife, had bought when we went on a trip to New York City. It had been a few years, but I still missed her. I wondered if she would approve of Maggie. “We’ve got about a half hour before we leave.”
“Perfect!”
That 30 minutes went by fast enough and we left in Maggie’s older Audi. It was a 12-year-old black coupe with tan leather seats and an impressive set of gauges and dials on the dashboard. Maggie often had me drive, mostly because she didn’t want to be seen driving herself. Appearances were important to her.
I was still anxious about the evening ahead and didn’t offer much small talk. It only took about 25 minutes to get to the Center, a privately-owned pavilion-slash-art center” and we valet parked. Pocketing the ticket the kid gave me, I turned to escort my date toward the main entrance. Maggie grabbed my arm and happily allowed me to lead her through the crowd near the doors. A young male usher, dressed in what only could be described as a red and gold bellboy costume, asked to see our tickets and Maggie happily complied. The loudly dressed kid handed her a program, a single folded sheet of white paper with blue and black printing, and escorted us through another set of doors into a theater. I mentally estimated that it held about 1,000 people, 60 rows of 10 seats in the middle, and four on either side. About halfway down, in row 36, we were shown seats in the center of the row. Luckily, we didn’t have to pass more than one couple already sitting.
“I guess you were right about coming later,” I told Maggie in a soft voice. “They won’t be ready for a while.”
She chuckled and replied, “See? I know these things.”
“That you do.” I didn’t know if that was a good thing.
In about 10 minutes, the seats began filling and the lights dimmed. When the audience had finally quieted enough, an announcer on the P.A. system introduced the first poet, Mary Noelle. Maggie pointed her name out in the program.
“Welcome, all,” Mary said in a loud stage voice as she entered from the right wing. Mary was dressed very casually, nearly looking like a street urchin. Her blond hair was back in a bun, though very elegant, and her baby-blue T-shirt and ripped and faded blue jeans were clean. She also wore older white tennis shoes, I noticed, without socks. Mary stopped at a stool near center stage that had a wireless microphone waiting. She picked up the mic and said, “We’re so happy you made it.”
“Not that we had any choice in the matter,” I mumbled under my breath, and Maggie’s reply was a “shhh” and a light tap on my sleeve. She reapplied her grip on my arm and looked intently toward the person on stage.
Mary sat on the stool with one foot still on the floor and one on the stool’s rung. “I’ll be the first of five poets this evening. One of us couldn’t make it tonight, but I’m sure the rest of us will be able to keep your interest.” She cleared her throat and paused, closing her eyes. “My first piece is called “Affluent.” The lights grew dim and a single soft spotlight shined on her. She cleared her throat again and started.
“Oh, to be affluent,
opulent, prosperous, flush;
wealth does not buy happiness,
but it is a great advantage.
If only I owned a mansion,
a chateau, villa, estate;
cleaning fifteen bathrooms
necessitates a loyal staff.
A Ferrari for my garage,
Lamborghini, Bentley, Porsche,
make each pleasure trip a joy,
and the world a blur.
Working in lavish comfort,
amenities, high-rise, corner office,
I'd see the downtrodden in alleys below
who can only dream of a job.
Oh, to be affluent,
patron, benefactor, philanthropist;
my unwarranted riches could help
those far more deserving than I.”
When she stopped, it took a moment for everyone to figure out that she was done, but then the audience applauded with more enthusiasm than I thought was warranted.
“Hmmph,” I chortled quietly and got another pat on my sleeve, this time with a little sting in it.
“Quiet. That was very moving.” She grabbed my arm again.
Mary moved to the left side of the stage, dragging her stool with her. She sat again, in the same position, and began a new oration.
“My muddled thoughts and dulled subconscious,
still clinging to my wit and roots,
must guide me through another borough
of shady deals and business suits.
Restrained emotions, dulled impressions,
and crowds projecting cold malaise,
I saunter through the streets of habit,
this city in a numbing haze.
In dimness of the noontime treadmill,
what little sunlight cuts through fog,
affects the creatures' minds and reason,
and reaps a saddened epilogue.
For each residing city dweller
succumbs in time to murky air,
without the will to search for brilliance,
relenting to their deep despair.
Surprisingly I reach the outskirts,
my business done and time can start
to migrate to my next appointment,
repairing soon my listless heart.”
“Brother,” I mumbled as she finished and the crowd clapped again. I leaned into Maggie and said, “Is this how these things go?”
She gave me a look that I decided meant that I should drop it. Mary recited three more pieces and thanked the audience. She bowed to the applause and left the stage. When no one appeared immediately, a nervous hush was maintained, but fortunately the next speaker finally made his way to the stool and mic.
I managed to sit through the next set and the next, and I excused myself before poet number 4 started his recital. I went to the bathroom, which was a distance away and up some stairs, and I rambled back, taking my time. By the time I got back to my seat, the audience was standing and all five poets were taking a bow.
“I wondered if I lost you,” Maggie said. “You can clap at least.”
I did so until the applause faded and people began exiting the rows. I sat down and Maggie joined me. “It’ll take a few minutes anyway,” I said as I grabbed her hand and held it.
As the audience thinned out, we finally stood and walked toward the aisle, following the crowd up the steps and through the exit doors to the oversized lobby. There were a half-dozen small groups, a few of which appeared to be fans speaking with their favorite poets who had just performed. Maggie led me to one and we edged our way into the front of the group. Mary Noelle was answering a couple of questions but paused when she saw us.
“Maggie! So glad you came!” Mary leaned over and hugged her, then stepped back to finish her answer.
Satisfied, the fans turned to leave and Mary readdressed Maggie.
“Mary, this is my new friend, Pat Ruger. He’s a private investigator.”
“You’re Pat Ruger?” she exclaimed and held her hand out to shake. “Nice to meet a hero.”
I shook her hand and replied, “That’s a bit of an overstatement. But, thanks.”
“Nonsense. You could have been killed, several times, from what I’ve read. That makes you a hero. How many did you save at the baseball game? Maybe thousands.”
“Okay, okay. How did you get into … this?” I waved my hand around to point out the theater’s surroundings.
“Poetry? I’ve always written poetry.”
“Mary got a contract with a literary magazine a couple of years ago,” Maggie explained. “She and I were in college around the same time — that’s where we met — and she was the star of the creative writing class. C.U. even asked her to teach poetry while she was still a student.”
“Like I said, all my life.”
“So,” I said with a wink, “I’m not the only one playing down his career.”
“Touché,” Mary said with a laugh. She turned back to Maggie and said, “We need to have lunch … soon!”
Maggie took the hint. She hugged Mary again and I shook her hand.
“And bring your hunk with you.”
“We’ll see,” I replied as I led Maggie out of the group. “Can we go?”
“One more to see,” she said as she led me to another group of fans around a poet.
She nudged into the gathering and the poet noticed her.
“Mags!” he exclaimed. “It’s been forever! So nice of you to come.”
“Let me introduce you to my friend, Pat Ruger.” She turned toward me. “Pat, this is Chris Choo. He is a marvelous writer.”
“You’re too kind, Mags. Pat, glad to meet you.”
The gentleman held out his hand and I shook it. Choo was my height, just under six feet, and Asian in appearance. Choo sounded Korean to me, but there wasn’t a hint of accent. Clearly he had been doing well, wearing a high-end a wool-blend black suit and a white silk collarless shirt beneath it. His shoes looked expensive as well. Choo’s jet black hair was slicked back with some salon product.
