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Garbage in, Garbage OutConclusion: A Night in Paradise by Rachael Robbins © Transgender Forum & Rachael Robbins |
Last month, our hero(ine) was seen primping in the hair salon of a very rich, very gay hairdresser of her acquaintance. By a coincidence only to be found in bad detective fiction (and Homer's Odyssey), a kidnapper called to report that the friend's lover (one Barry Sutherland) had been abducted, and the asking price for his return was a cool quarter of a mil. The kidnappers instructed that the money be delivered to a dumpster in back of the Shop Rite in Kirkland, a bucolic suburb of Seattle. The usual stipulations applied -- delivered alone, no cops or the loved-one would die. Yadda, yadda. Anyway, when last seen, our intrepid detective was calling her old partner, Bernie Peterson, to have him run a computer check on some suspects, including the ne'er do well lover.
Conclusion: A Night in Paradise
The hours after my call to Peterson were spent in a hurried canvass of my contacts at public agencies: the Department of Motor Vehicles, the City Clerk and the King County Tax Assessor. By four o'clock, I'd heard from everyone, but was no closer to figuring out the culprit than when I got up that morning. Only the DMV came up with anything, and then it was only a smattering of parking tickets. I was sitting at my desk, dispiritedly doing my nails, when the phone rang.
"Benedict Investigations," I answered.
"What? No sexy voice? No breathy sighs?" It was Peterson.
"Hi, Bern . . . any luck?"
"Well, no luck with the first three, but Barry Sutherland has been a naughty boy -- got a sheet as long as your arm. Mostly minor beefs -- dope peddling, joyriding, stuff like that. The last thing was embezzlement, but the charges were dropped -- seems like his boss wanted to hush the whole thing up. Rumor was, Sutherland was his lover."
"Thanks, Bernie. You've been a big help."
"No problem, buddy." He hesitated. "Donnie? You aren't . . . involved somehow with this guy, are you?"
"Are you kidding?" I replied in my best tough-guy growl. "He's not my type -- wrong kind of plumbing, you know."
That evening I drove across the floating bridge and into Kirkland. The downtown is touristy-quaint and located right on Lake Washington, but the Shop-Rite store is in a strip mall about a mile away. It backs up against a hillside thick with cedar and Douglas Fir; between the store and the hill is a narrow concrete alley just wide enough for deliveries. Although it was dark when I got there, I drove the Opel into the alley far enough for the lights to pick up the dumpster about 200 feet away. The redolent odor of garbage filled the evening air, and a fitfully blinking streetlight fritzed away overhead. All in all, a lovely scene.
The Shop-Rite was sort of a cut-rate Wal-Mart which sold everything from clothing to gardening supplies, so it was sure to have everything I needed. At about eight o'clock I parked the Opel and entered the store, grabbing a shopping cart along the way. A half hour later, I had what I needed: snacks, a small flashlight, and a cute little denim skirt that was only fifteen dollars. Ok, so I didn't strictly need the skirt, but what can I say -- it was on sale.
I didn't really think the kidnappers would be around until the morning, but there was no use taking any chances, so I placed my purchases in a knapsack (alongside a thermos of coffee and my 9mm automatic) and walked around the back of the store and up to the dumpster. Now came the fun part of the evening. I tossed the knapsack into its open maw and clambered up after it. A sickening stench slapped me in the face as I peered down into the darkness. Taking a deep breath, I gingerly lowered myself into the dumpster, hoping it had been emptied recently, and fumbled for my knapsack in the dark. Finding it, I scrunched over into the corner furthest from the opening and covered myself with boxes and rotting, half-eaten hot dogs. Who said the life of a private eye wasn't glamorous?
Before long, the strip mall got quiet, as the smaller stores closed down and the night crew of shelvers and inventory workers came on at the Shop-Rite. From time to time, I would hear a door open at the back of the store, and a bag full of trash would come sailing into the dumpster, bursting and showering me with used tampons and paper towels. How many bathrooms did they have in that damned store anyway?. I'd spent more disgusting nights on stakeouts, pawing through suspects' garbage for clues, but not within recent memory.
By 4:30, a grey light was filtering into the dumpster, and I could begin to make out my surroundings. I hunkered down further into the garbage, and hoped fervently that today wasn't trash pickup day. I'd like to think that the kidnappers were smart enough to have avoided that, but my knowledge of criminals didn't reassure me. They tended to represent the less intelligent segment of society, who were too stupid to make it in honest work.
Along about ten minutes before the hour, I heard a car pull slowly into the mouth of the alleyway, and footsteps approaching the dumpster. That would be Doug bringing the loot, I thought; sure enough, a few seconds later a large dufflebag flew in through the doorway, missing me by inches. I waited until I heard his car leave and cautiously unzipped the bag. There, stacked in neat rows, was the most cash I'd ever seen in my life. If I'd been dishonest, I could have had a hell of a time in Vegas.
The kidnappers must have been watching, because not five minutes later I heard another car. I eased my pistol out of the knapsack, flicked off the safety, and racked a round into the chamber, taking care to make as little noise as possible. I burrowed further into the trash and waited. The dufflebag was in plain view, but on my side of the dumpster, about three feet from the hatch. Unless the approaching crook had the arms of an ape, he (or she) would have to come all the way in to retrieve the money. A muffled curse sounded from outside, and then I heard scraping sounds as someone scrambled up the side, followed by more curses as the kidnapper dropped into the dumpster and onto my right leg. At that moment, I surged up out of the garbage and jammed the gun into the his spine.
"This is a nine millimeter semi-automatic pistol," I told him in a whisper. "With it, I can pump seven rounds into you faster than you can say `Ru Paul'. If I were you, I'd get real still, real fast." Most people would've called it quits then and there, but this guy was either very good, or just plain stupid, because he planted his feet on the metal wall and straightened his legs, ramming me into the opposite side. The breath went out of me with an unladylike grunt, and I fought for air. The pistol was jammed between us, essentially useless -- if I were to use it, I'd as likely shoot myself as the kidnapper. We sat like that -- me pinned to the wall, my attacker with his legs locked -- for what seemed an eternity. The only sound was our labored, ragged breathing.
I brought my left hand around and raked my fingernails across his face. That got a screech out of him, but didn't make him relax -- about the only thing it did was embed one of my brand new porcelain nails in his face. I heard a car door slam somewhere outside. Shit, I thought, he's got an accomplice. I'll have to end this quickly.
His bare neck gleamed in the dim light directly in front of my face, and I saw my chance -- I reached down and sank my teeth onto it and held on for dear life. With a grunt of pain, he relaxed his legs and reached around behind him, grabbing at my head in a frantic attempt to break my hold. All he got for his trouble was my wig. With my left hand, I brought the gun up and struck him behind the ear. He went limp.
Outside the dumpster, very close, I heard a plaintive voice: "Joe? You all right?" I shoved Joe aside and rose swiftly to my feet, to find myself face to face with Barry Sutherland.
"Why, hello there, sweetie -- what a surprise," I said, leveling my pistol at his face. "You mean you weren't really kidnapped after all?"
I met Doug Brill that afternoon in "The Queen's Arms," a gay bar at First and Pine. I was wearing my dark green Anne Klein suit, matching pumps and the auburn wig I'd bought at his shop. He had on jeans and a white t-shirt, and wore several days stubble and dark rings under his eyes. On the floor between us was the duffle bag containing the two hundred and fifty thousand. It still smelled faintly of garbage.
"I'm sorry it turned out the way it did," I said.
"Me too," he said with a grimace. "You know, I really thought we had something, Barry and me. He was so . . . so young and full of energy. I feel like a moron. Like some silly old queen, taken in by a little gold digger."
"It's true, I've never thought your choices of lovers were particularly intelligent," I said. "But, don't give up -- there's bound to be somebody out there somewhere . . ."
"Christ, Dawn, you're beginning to sound like `Dear Abby.' Pretty soon you'll tell me to join a church, and start going to socials." He took my hand. "You know, if you just looked more like a man, at least part of the time, maybe we could get together."
I laughed. "Hey -- I don't dress like this all the time, you know. But seriously, sweetie, if I were gay, you'd be the first one I'd call."
The End