A Passion for Prying

The sweat that spilled off Horace’s face was enough to fill a coffee mug. The frisky gleam in his eyes highlighted his noisy clap of approval—a jackhammer eating asphalt would blast a more subdued melody. He cocked his head to the left as his floppy cheek sagged near his shoulder. His baritone, rowdy wolf whistles kept beat with the piped-in music blaring through the club’s murky air.

The buxom brunette, dressed in only a leopard-print thong and platform stilettos, who seconds ago teased the entire audience, now gyrated her fleshy hips for Horace’s solo pleasure. She shimmied to the end of the stage, inches from the Honorable Judge’s lustful gaze, rotated her pelvis in seductive circular motions, and surprised him with a blunt forward thrust. His hungry, beady eyes ballooned to the size of quarters.

Natalie grasped her opportunity and pressed four consecutive times on the shutter button of her compact camera. She reveled in her accomplishment as she captured the lewd, gleeful expressions plastered across Horace’s pudgy face. She then focused the camera on the obscene tart now draped around the stripper pole, who tossed a flirtatious wink at Horace. The same woman had been caught on a previous role of film in a strong lip lock with Horace Grewall.

Natalie snapped her final picture: the longneck beer bottle clock that said 2:15 pm. She empathized with the heartbreak Zola Grewall would undoubtedly endure because of her husband’s playboy shenanigans.

“Well, if you aren’t the classiest little tramp I’ve ever seen in this dive,” a drunk man slurred. He tried to stand but swooned in wonderment at her, his eyes bloodshot as his stare settled on her perky bosom.

Natalie responded with a killer look.

“Today’s my birthday,” he belched. “Give Papa a present. C’mon—gimme a shot at whatcha’ got under there.”

Oh, I’ll shoot you all right.

Natalie tucked her camera into her carrying bag and slipped her elegant fingers around her .38 caliber revolver. Nervous tingles electrocuted her spine. She never wanted to have to utilize her deadly protective partner, but when conducting field work, her daddy insisted she keep the lethal gun close.

“Takes my place,” her daddy would profess, “since I can’t always be there to protect my itty-bitty baby girl. It’s a perilous business after all.”

Natalie analyzed the situation, sensed that it was under control, and calmed down some. There was no need for her fatal guardian angel to rear its devilish head. Not this time.

The inebriated fool inched his acne-pitted face close to Natalie’s smooth skin, puckered his hopeful lips, and lost his balance. The ground shook as it was pummeled with two hundred and eighty-five pounds of perverted dead weight. Natalie smirked, the intoxicated fool the source of her glee, and attempted to step over the heap of booze-perfumed flesh.

“Happy birthday,” she said as her spiked heel pierced his flaccid family jewels.

His yelp was of an unmistakable origin.

Anxious for fresh air and a clear head, she exited the disreputable club and sprinted through the parking lot, the shelter of her luxury car her destination. She ran the sleaze-infested obstacle course with extreme precision, stepping over numerous cigarette butts, a hypodermic syringe, and two used condoms. She attempted to leap over a scurrying cockroach but instead felt a squish as the bottom of her shoe smashed the crawly critter to smithereens.

As she stepped into her black BMW 325i, she made a mental note to ask her daddy for hazard pay and to wash the soles of her shoes with chloride.

“It’s my life…it’s now or never…”

Natalie North sang along with the lyrics filtering from her radio as she inched through the endless Los Angeles traffic, grills and bumpers her main scenery.

Yeah, this is my life. How did I ever end up twenty-nine years old, still single, with no one to call me Mommy, and trailing rotten, cheating, no-good partners to make some fast cash?

Her open window invited in a whoosh of L.A. smog and a thick, odorous swarm of exhaust. She inhaled with a mighty fervor. It was like breathing in the unsullied air of the Alps compared to the stink she had been surrounded by minutes earlier, which was, to Natalie, just another day on the job.

* * *

Relieved to be wrapped in the secure atmosphere of her Santa Monica office, Natalie removed the film she was certain would end Horace and Zola’s fifteen-year marriage and packed it away to be processed. A constant menu of sniffing out deceitful partners and breaking blameless hearts was losing its immoral flavor.

“So, any luck finding the Honorable Judge Horace Grewall?” Amy asked. “If you call following him to some seedy strip club lucky.”

“Why, that pathetic hound! So you caught him barking at all those big breasts?” Amy snickered. “What club?”

“It’s called The Yearning Den. Nothing but a bunch of drunk lowlifes."

"That strip joint in South Central?”

“You know that loser lounge?” Natalie asked with amazement. “Don’t ask!”

Amy Cobb’s plump fingers pouffed her bouffant hairdo to perfection.

“I don’t know why I’m shocked, but I thought I’d seen it all. Then Horace spends his afternoon at the nudey bar instead of at the Los Angeles Superior Courthouse,” Natalie said. “During work hours even!”

“Sweet deliverance, on tax payer dollars? Men! That Horace sounds like a damn dumb one!”

“Yes, he does! That simpleton is taking some big chances. Someone could recognize him from his position on the bench.”

“Well, now someone’s going to identify him from his position on the floozy.” Amy reached into the open bag of corn chips perched on her desktop and plopped three into her mouth. “What in the good Lord’s name happened to that man’s brain?”

“It obviously went berserk,” Natalie said. “I sure hope his rendezvous with Strippy Poo was worth it. When Mrs. Grewall views the evidence...”

Three years as a private investigator, swallowing a continual dosage of adulterous monkey business, had taught Natalie that lust and passion adhered to their own decadent policies.

“Have you scheduled Zola Grewall’s next appointment?” Natalie asked.

“All taken care of. It’s one week from today. I’ve ordered the extra tissues, like you asked me to.”

“Glad to hear it! We’re going to need them with our little Zola.”

“You think she’ll gush the tears of a temper-tantruming toddler?”

“Worse! Her eyes will spill so much liquid we’ll be bobbing for our lives, and that’s with life jackets!”

“That bad, huh?”

Amy plopped a corn chip into her mouth as if tossing a basketball into a hoop.

“That well-respected, prominent official of a husband of hers used his smutty hands to fondle every inch of that stripper’s va-va-voom bust,” Natalie said.

Amy’s eyes remained glued to Natalie’s fingers as they ricocheted through the lobby, demonstrating Horace’s touchy-feely hand motions. Natalie stayed authentic to Horace’s actions and plastered the judge’s filthy facial expressions across her own appealing face. Amy’s features were bathed in disgust.

“Well, I sure hope His Honor is willing to pay a hefty price for his flagrant dishonor, because I have a suspicious hunch that the next thing to go bust will be his marriage,” Amy said.

The two women broke into boisterous laughter.

Zero to sixty. That’s what his mama said and she was right. He was zero to sixty when he was born—she delivered him in forty-five minutes. He got through grade school a year early, and high school was even easier, but he hung around for the girls and later, the drugs.

Victor Jurado sat inside his car and laughed to himself, then let go an audible snicker, then said, “Zero to sixty. Not tonight.”

His car smelled of stale beer and pine. The interior was in shambles as he hadn’t touched it in weeks; he’d been too busy plotting her murder, and cleaning the car, cleaning anything, was damn woman’s work. His wrinkled clothes stunk with a musty hamper odor.

He scanned the neighborhood to guarantee no maggot neighbors were in sight, waiting to trip him up. He flicked on the dome light and ran a comb through his hair; it looked steely to him tonight, an odd black sheen. He checked his look in the rearview mirror, familiar eyes with a hint of something new thrown in, and only he knew what it was.

But she’ll know soon.

She told him he had a distinctive face; he could pass for an accountant or a banker. He didn’t think he was handsome at all, but when Gretchen Carlson told him he was good-looking, nothing could match that moment; she was shining to him, as if he looked up after raking leaves to see an angel set down, only to hear her say “hello.” As he got closer to her, he could see she wasn’t ethereal at all, cinnamon freckles sprinkled over her almost childlike nose. Her eye color held him next, a hard but warm green offset by full red lips. She must have dyed her hair more than once, he remembered thinking that day to himself. Using bleach was a pity; a true auburn color struggled beneath a rusty blonde.

Nerves would not overhaul his usual confidence, but adrenalin knows no gate, and he started to sweat just a little. Not for himself, but for the rush. He was getting excited. He reached down, rubbed his groin and within the same instant told himself to wait.

Better to wait.

He chugged one last swig of whiskey straight from his flask and shoved the small container beneath the seat. He removed his car keys from the ignition and got out of his vehicle; the darkness in the air poured into his head.

No zero to sixty, he told himself.

He was edgy but denied it as he walked to his trunk and he took advantage of the quiet peace of the moonlight to visualize his plan. It was a perfect scheme, he reminded himself. Faultless.

He popped open the trunk and looked inside—his first slip-up glared back at him. He cursed as he realized he should have put the knife inside his jacket pocket before he left the house. Cautiously, he removed a seven-inch butcher knife from beneath a few oil rags and sheathed the blade with a less grimy one. He carefully tucked the weapon down the front of his jeans and held it in place by tightening his snakeskin belt. He closed the trunk, as if he were no more than a businessman recalling he left a box of snacks in the trunk of his car.

The thought of treats forced the image of a skinny punk he knew.

Scumbag Timmy. Who calls a grown man Timmy?

Victor half expected to see Timmy’s mommy tagging close behind him any time he saw the man, who had to be in his late thirties. He was a punk, for sure—body odor and no money—punk-ass.

He pictured Timmy’s scrawny white butt parked in the manager’s office, kissing ass by staying late, and forging through the end of the day’s paperwork.

Victor also remembered catching Timmy leering at Gretchen, and zero to sixty became zero to ninety, the freakin’ lightweight. Then Victor stopped for a moment: maybe Timmy’s gay?

No time for thoughts about Timmy the Tulip. He smiled at his own wit, and rounded the corner, heading straight for Buddy’s Burgers. He entered through the back; the employee’s entrance would suit his needs and give him the element of surprise he’d need.

Timmy would have to wait.

Victor turned in from the short hallway, restrooms on one side, the wall between the kitchen and the main dining area on the other. He could now see Gretchen as she scoured the grill. Next she’d head into the dining room and refill the table condiments on each table in the eating area.

The hired cleaning crew wouldn’t make their grand entrance until 4:30 am. Gretchen was right on schedule, and so was Victor.

Before she’d hit the ground dead this night, she would have to be reckoned with.

* * *

The Los Angeles diner lay silent without customers. The air smelled thick with rancid, sedentary cooking oil. The starlight peeking in through a side window accentuated Gretchen’s feminine silhouette, like a sultry lounge singer illuminated in the spotlight before the sheer curtain has lifted. For an unguarded moment Victor startled himself and softened.

The contour of the knife, tucked in his jeans, rubbed hard against his skin and the power from the lethal object oozed hatred back into his veins. Victor would carry out Gretchen’s demise, but the damn whore was the one truly responsible for her own death.

He walked up quietly behind her, wrapped his arms around her dainty waist and planted a light kiss on her soft cheek.

She jumped and turned, and then released a hard gasp, her eyes wide. “Victor, you scared me!”

She was almost angry.

“Sorry baby, it’s good to know seeing me still takes your breath away.”

He shook his head to shift a section of hair that had sunk over his right eye and he stepped back.

“What are you doing here?”

“You smell great, what is that—something new?”

He watched her move away and walk towards the back of the restaurant and grab bags of napkins. She started to pop the black and silver containers, filling each one, and then pulled out the first napkin for the breakfast crowd.

“Well?” he urged.

“No, it’s not new. Stuck in the back of my cabinet somewhere and I was cleaning the house is all.”

She was visibly nervous now, but not to anyone who didn’t know her. Victor could tell, he smelled more than gardenias and roses. Then he remembered that was the same bottle of perfume he purchased for her a few months ago when they’d spent her eighteenth birthday together. That was before she dropped the ax on him and tossed him away like he was last week’s trash.

With the next whiff of gardenia, the breakup brought back a gut-wrenching humiliation. He considered having his way with her as his mind stirred up the scent of her fleshy, silk skin hidden beneath her cotton uniform. A physical reminder of who held the control.

Victor’s mind drifted back to his mom: zero to sixty.

Not tonight, Mom.

“I came by to see you. To convince you of what a mistake you’re making.”

“Vic, don’t start now.”

“You know I’m your man, Gretchen. We met for a reason, don’t you think, ya’ dumb bitch?”

He shot her a half-crooked smile.

“Vic! You have a filthy mind and a…”

“Easy now, I just wanted to stir up a little passion out of that predictable nature of yours.”

She troubled him when she suddenly stopped working and parked her eyes directly into his. She looked lifeless to him now, and he thought it a bit like a premonition: she’d be gorgeous alive, or dead.

“We’ve already had this discussion.” She lowered her voice. “You know I love you, but we’re so young. And I’m going away to college in the fall.”

He conveyed his distrust in her words by his silence.

Zero to ...

“Look,” she pleaded, “you know it may not be forever. Who knows the future?

You can stay in touch, I wouldn’t mind that. In fact, now that I think about it…”

Her abrupt change in tune wouldn’t change his mind but it did get him thinking. When she brushed up beside him, she may have felt the knife, so the game was truly on.

“Where’s Timmy the Tulip? Hiding in his office?"

"He had to leave.”

“Who in their right mind would leave a lamb like you all alone in some burger joint? Hell, it’s after midnight.”

“He’s due back any minute. He had to pick up his son from a school dance."

"You know, I don’t get you. No girl of your class should be doing this grunt work.” or both.

“I don’t mind it,” she said.

Victor caught the way her throat was drying—she was either thirsty, or frightened.

“How come he never helps you?”

“Sometimes he does. He’ll probably pitch in when he gets back, so I can take a short break. Let’s sit down and we can talk.”

“Now you wanna talk? Now? You kicked my ass out, I did nothing but love you, care for you. Did he buy you things? Did he take care of you?”

“You know, this stuff can all wait until tomorrow. Let me lock up and let’s get out of here.”

Victor gave it one final shot. “Want to find an all-night diner and grab something to eat? Talk about you being my girl again? Don’t you get it—it’s why I’m here.”

“C’mon Vic. Don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”

“Me? Look in the mirror, sweetface, you’re the one complicating things."

"I just need to get home.”

Victor detected panic in her voice and he applauded at being the catalyst to her terror.

Gretchen’s walk was halted by a fierce tug of her hair. As Victor spun her around, on her heels, he watched her eyes meet with the brutal butcher knife clutched in his wobbly, clenched fist, and in one split second, the blade was pressed soft against her neck.

The loathsome anger searing in his expression distorted his features.

“You think you can play me for a fool?” Victor’s speech was fast and bit deep into Gretchen’s core. “What’s the real reason you’re ending it with me? Just a few weeks ago you were all over me. Now I’m not man enough for you? You and that puke Timmy got something going on?”

Timmy’s lustful stares, his hungry eyes captivated by her youthful radiance, pounced into Victor’s tormented mind.

“What? Vic, that’s ridiculous.”

Victor listened to the tone of her melodic voice, each syllable emphasized. He caught the way she steadied her neck so as not to cause any slip of the weapon that could dissolve her life, with one swift slice.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Princess, but you leave me no choice. Hell, you’re begging for it.”

He was sweating, but could not take his eyes from Gretchen; she was crying, silently.

“Get down!” he demanded.

Gretchen did as ordered. Victor was energized by the rush of domination transfusing from the knife. He bent to his knees and leaned into her, tucked the blade beneath his forearm, and pressed on her.

“Let me go! I still want to be your girlfriend. Come on darling, put the knife down.”

“You’re a lying, worthless tramp. You were my angel. You were sent here for me. For me!”

“Vic, I am your angel.”

Gretchen started to wheeze, slowly at first and with each intake of breath, a course sandy exhale followed.

“You prayin’ there, baby? Like prayer’s your savior. Oh, you naïve little beauty.

There ain’t no prayer in hell gonna save you now.”

The aroma of stale alcohol lingered in the air, and he bent in closer to her and buried his head in her long hair.

“Stay down!”

She quivered, as if wrapped in a blanket of ice. He stayed on top of her, now fully straddled over her sides, and he lifted the weapon. He flailed the butcher knife in the air with a lunatic’s delight. Gretchen followed the lethal object through the corner of her eye.

“Zero to sixty…Zero to sixty…Zero to…”

He was celebrating, and he was proud. He had taken his time and gotten his pay-off. She’d be dead and he’d dump the Tulip Man right beside her, maybe have them hold hands into hell, together. He grinned.

“Vic, are you listening baby?”

She alternated between begging and whimpering, but he lingered because it was his reward; her cry was his music, and he was addicted to the tune.

“Hey Gretchen,” he said easily. “Remember when you told me I’m not romantic enough for you?”

“I…I…didn’t mean that…and you have to believe me…”

He leaned in once more, planted a kiss on her sensual lips and stuck her in the side first. The look of shock on her face satisfied him and he let out a laugh, which in turn narrowed her eyes to his.

He stabbed her again, only this time from above and just as he entered her gut, she said “Why?”

By the count of five, he knew she was dead, and he would not need to count to sixty full gashes. As the blood pooled around her, he positioned the blood-soaked blade above his chest.

“Sixty!”

He plunged the knife into his torso.

He leaned on to her and began to choke, and then tasted it, blood gurgled inside his mouth. The self-inflicted knife wound wasn’t fatal, not yet, but within sixty seconds he would drown.