Cash Lowe, Cheap Detective
By Tom Nadeau
Copyright 2003
Part II: Funny Girls
Part I
After washing and drying the soup pan and beer glass, Cash Lowe retreated to his bedroom-slash-office in the back of the Airstream. Home, sweet work.
Yes, quarters were tight in the circumscribed world of the "little cheaper detective," but Lowe made the most of the situation through diligent tidiness.
Lowe kept his trailer as he had his berths on the ships he sailed. There was place for everything, and everything was in its place.
He lived frugally, but had still accumulated too much -- although his "too much" was far shy of the too much most people acquired.
The few personal possessions he couldn't fit into the Airstream he stashed in Snug Harbor's mini-storage facility. The confidential case documents he was required by law to keep were held under lock and key at a law office.
From a drawer under his bed, Lowe got a manila folder. He labeled it: BAYNES, Ida. Lying in bed, he read the eight-page will, jotting down noes.
It was a simple and straightforward document. Everything went to Ida. The only odd bit was a reference directing the attorney and Ida to a sealed envelope that was to be opened only on he occasion of the testator's death. One or more family secrets would at last be revealed, Lowe guessed.
When Lowe finished reading he placed the folder containing the will and his note in a compartment above the bed.
He looked at his watch. Still time to make a few basic calls and email contacts to start the case.
First he fired up his laptop and went to the state motor vehicles department web site where he entered his account password and typed in a licensed private investigator's privileged request for information regarding a Fiat Spyder bearing the license plate he had memorized. He also asked for the driving records of Ida Baynes and Bernard Baynes. Then he logged off.
"There goes $48," he said aloud, as he calculated the expenses he had so far run up.
Lowe did not expect to find anything surprising in driving records, but they would give him hard, factual birth dates and addresses to use in further searches. And, of course, there was always the possibility of the tidbit, or two, popping up.
He next logged on to a pay-per-page public records Internet search service he subscribed to request background information on Wanda Marie Baynes, nee Klingman, in the state of Wisconsin.
It was a stroke of luck Wanda was from Wisconsin. That state maintains many of its records online at no charge, and Lowe could do some searching on his own for free.
Some of the Baynes information was immediately returned. Some answers on Wanda wouldn’t come back until the next day.
Finally, Lowe called the office of Preston Scripps, the probate lawyer who helped Baynes with his will. Lowe had worked for Scripps a few times, mostly serving subpoenas and the like and was vaguely familiar with the layout of his office.
Scripps' calendar was crowded, the secretary said, but they might be able to fit Lowe in if he came in the early afternoon, and didn't mind waiting.
That done, Lowe shut down for the day.
While washing his face and hands and brushing his teeth, Lowe studied his own face in the mirror. He had seen better times. His hair was still dark, but was beginning to thin. His skin was showing the mileage. The teeth? Well, they were still all his, but who knew for how long? He had heard on Jeopardy that men over 40 most fear losing their hair, and second-most fear losing their teeth. He believed it. Lowe still had most of both, but without health or dental care, he did worry about how he was going to deal with his teeth in the next several years.
With a clink and a rattle, Lowe dropped the toothbrush into the water glass in the tiny bathroom and swished water through his mouth and spat.
It was time to head down to the Slopchest for his evening frankfurter feast, and then to drop by the Chain Locker, Snug Harbor's only nightspot, for a drink.
Lowe teased his old Honda Civic to action and drove the shortest route through the trailer subdivision and down to the Slopchest complex.
The Slopchest complex was a short strip mall that wandered from shore to sea. It was anchored on land by the Slopchest grocery store and baited at the far end of the yacht basin pier with the Chain Locker Lounge. The Slopchest itself was a combination general store, snack bar, gift shop and post office. Those, plus the few small businesses nestled between comprised the commercial and social heart of Snug Harbor, reputedly the largest trailer park on the West Coast, if not in the nation, if not in the world.
Conceived as a secluded ocean side retirement enclave for middle management retirees -- a Sea Ranch, with wheels -- Snug Harbor opened its gates in 1993. After a few utopian years, it exploded with the dot.com boom into a permanent community of some 7,000 theoretically temporary, pert-time residences separated from the nearest major city by 80 miles of curvy road.
The dwellings cane in all possible sizes, styles and purposes. There were double-wides, travel trailers, motorhomes (from mini to mammoth), recreational vehicles, vans, and whatever.
It ranged along the edge of a high bluff overlooking a small natural bay where a similarly diverse collection of yachts and watercraft tied up.
The development managers stopped keeping a formal census of the place; having figured out that the rising numbers only discouraged more lot and pad sales. The last best guess at how many people lived in Snug Harbor was around 13,000 people, mostly seniors, or close to.
Lowe parked at the Slopchest and went into the snack bar and ordered a Polish sausage with onions and potatoes. He followed it with a knockwurst and onions and more chips. Stuffed, he walked outside to see the darkness gather and the dock, buoy and navigation lights on the boats flick on.
He strolled out the pier to the Chain Locker to watch Ezee Morales at work.
A chain locker is a specific nautical term. It refers to the room in the ship's bow where the anchor chains are stored when not in use. In the lore and usage of the merchant marine, "the chain locker" also means "a place to sneak a drink."
Ezee Morales was a warm and handsome latina divorcee who earned a living running a karaoke show. Bar owners contracted with her to provide all the sound equipment, music, lights and emcee services needed to develop and hold a regular karaoke crowd. She was also a capable singer, who could fill in for he crowd when there wasn't one.
She had plied her trade in the big cities for several years, but a year earlier had somehow fetched up in Snug Harbor and the Chain Locker. She was wildly popular with local patrons and on weekends singers would drive in from miles away just to perform in Ezee's karaoke show.
Ezee's secret was simple. She moderated the volume so the singers felt they were performing with an invisible band, not competing in a shouting match with the speakers.
Ezee was organizing he disks and selection binders when Cash Lowe entered the Chain Locker. She looked up, saw him and grinned.
"Hi, Lowe." she said, winking at him.
"Ezee does it," he replied. Following suit with a play on her name. He once read that men and women had different senses of humor, with women favoring jokes that involved word play. He'd also read that women found humorous men sexy.
"How's business, you lowdown gringo?"
"Got a client today."
"Ready cash?"
"Hey, Cash is always ready," he joked.
Lowe went to the bar and ordered a beer.
"Anything for you?
"I'll have my one Manhattan for the night."
He passed the order to Jerry the bartender, a retired fireman, overweight and red-faced.
Ezee slid onto the stool beside Lowe. She wore a classic little black cocktail dress with her jet-black hair drawn up in what they call a "messy bun." Spare makeup. Very sexy.
She knew Lowe did not talk about his clients, but he did sometimes describe the problem in a general way, without mentioning names.
"What kind of case is it, shamus? Is it interesting."
"Probate, and no, not really. Looks like it's going to be a lot of paper-chasing and advising the client."
"Over?"
"It's a daddy-daughter dispute. I don't want to go into it, right now. I'd rather sit here, have a beer with you, and maybe here you sing something romantic. Right here, right now, here in the twilight hour and before the crowd comes in and ruins the mood.
"Awww, that's sweet. Isn't that sweet, Jerry? Lowe has a high opinion of my singing. He's my biggest fan in Snug Harbor."
Jerry only grunted.
"You like to hear any special song?"
"Nah. Make it easy on yourself," he quipped.
She riffled through her disks and mounted the karaoke stage where she was surrounded with speakers, monitors and players. She slipped a disk in, and punched some buttons. The music came up, and with the volume perfectly modulated, she sang to Lowe and Jerry in her strong, sultry Mediterranean contralto, not needing a microphone.
A game of golf
I may make a play for the caddie
But if I do
I don't follow through
Cause my heart
Belongs to Daddy"
Lowe looked longingly at Ezee as her hips swayed with the samba-like step she did to the music -- a movement she knew very well drove the boys wild.
To dine on my fine
Finnan haddie
I just adore his
Asking for more
But my heart belongs to Daddy"
Maybe, Lowe thought, maybe he remembered it wrong. Maybe it was humorous women that men found sexy, not the other way around.
So I simply couldn't be bad
Yes my heart belongs to Daddy
da-da-da, da-da-da, da-da-da*
Well, it might not always be true that men found funny girls sexy, but it was true that night, Lowe decided.
*Music and lyrics by Cole Porter
TO BE CONTINUED
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