Link to previous Chapter 8a
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Chapter 8b - 1,537 words
Wilson sat in his favorite chair with a large glass of whisky. Harry’s money lay on the table before him, as did the envelope with the details of the person he was to look for.
He hadn’t opened it yet.
He knew he would, knew that his P.I. career was on the ropes before it began because of Harry Albarn and he’d love to blame Harry for it all, but he knew his own pride was the issue. He’d been warned to stay away from (Consuela) and hadn’t. When he lost his scholarship that should have been enough to make sure he stayed far away from Harry Albarn. Instead, he decided joining the LAPD and obsessing about him had been the route to take. And, finally, he’d had to take the frustration of his pride not being up to the task of taking down Albarn on one of his minions.
Almost as bad, or worse, he couldn’t decide on a position between the things, was knowing Albarn had been watching him for as long as he’d been tracking Albarn. That hurt his pride as well, but it wasn’t the same as his issues being down to pride. That the man had stood in his secret space and inspected every detail of everything Wilson knew or thought he knew about the Albarn operation was humiliating. What made it worse was he had no way of knowing how the surveillance proceeded. Did Harry or his people drop in occasionally to have a look, or was there remote surveillance installed? Who was tasked with watching that?
If they monitored the unit, did they also keep a tab on his home? Was there someone even now observing him sitting here, sipping whisky, while staring at the money and documents which would put him in Harry’s thrall?
And there was no doubt that on doing what he’d been asked, Harry would hold this over him. There was also no doubt in Wilson’s mind that not doing it would lead to consequences as bad or worse than the beating he’d received as a teenager. The idea of leaving the money and envelope on the table, getting in his car, and driving away, was massively appealing. But the suspicion that, even if there wasn’t a camera watching him in the room, there was probably someone sitting in a car out on the street to make sure that if he tried such a move, he’d not get beyond the limits of the city.
He poured another whisky and picked up the envelope. Even then he couldn’t open it. Holding it was the next step, opening was one further. He was in the middle of the river, standing on a stepping stone which was large enough to be useful, but slippy enough to be treacherous. But more treacherous than continuing to the other side because it was a false sense of security which would plunge him into the swiftly flowing waters surrounding him.
Wilson looked at the glass of whisky, at the slowly melting ice cubes and the remains of a second large measure of the drink. He put the glass down, reached into the envelope, and pulled out the sheafs of paper.
For some reason he’d expected a typed report, something like he intended to provide to clients, maybe something like the LAPD expected from its officers. Instead there were a jumble of photographs, reports printed from credit files, hand-written notes on legal pads, and a jumble of receipts, expense claims, and loose material he couldn’t readily identify.
This wasn’t something to tackle sat in a comfortable chair. Wilson stood and went to the folding dining table which only got used for the now ended poker evenings. He lifted the leaves and pulled the supporting legs out, opening it to its full extension. Going back to his chair he collected his glass and poured more whisky. Damn it if he was being watched and damn it if he missed something obvious tonight. He’d get a start on sorting things and tomorrow he could try to make sense of it.
He began putting the material into piles. Ones which identified who the target was, ones that showed where he’d been and with whom, ones which were unidentifiable, others.
When the documents were in an order which felt suitable he looked at the pictures. There were head shots like used for passports, and he surmised they had been taken for security passes. There were pictures from security cameras showing the target entering and exiting office buildings, but with no indication of where they were – though there were taxis in one of the pictures which definitely weren’t Los Angeles licenced, he’d have to look up what city they belonged to.
There was something about the face of the target which tickled Wilson’s brain. He didn’t know him, couldn’t name him, but there was something about the mans face which triggered a memory. He looked at the name, Earl (name). That didn’t register anything. But there was something about the slightly receding hairline, the small ears which were almost round and tight to the head, and vaguely defiant demeanour which tickled a memory.
He guessed this wouldn’t be the first time in his life as a P.I. that he’d wish for there to be a couple of desks-full of other folks who might know where he’d seen someone.
There were pictures of the man, Earl, with two different women. One of them was obviously the place which wasn’t LA, the buildings were like nothing that had been built in the city, or if they had then redevelopment had lost them to history in the same way the cities tram system had gone.
The second woman though rang similar bells to Earl. Her hair was a reddy-brown which probably had a more proper descriptor, but which Wilson thought of as auburn. She had a round face with a haircut that even he remembered from the late nineties as a ‘Rachel’ cut. In one of the pictures, they were entering a room which could have been a restaurant or club and she looked pensive, nervous even. In another they were in a car, a Mustang by the look of it, and she was laughing, they both were, some shared joke that resonated between them.
Wilson shuffled through the papers trying to find a name for the women, finding one in something that looked like an extract of an employee file because it listed as ‘Next of Kin’ Allison (name). Like the face, the name was tickling a memory which refused to surface. He dug further, looking for the other woman, hoping that concentrating on the task may allow the back-office part of his brain to dig around in its files and send the details up to the fore-brain.
On one of the yellow legal pads he ran up against the name Lucy, and a description of her and Earl going for dinner at (Cleveland restaurant). There was even a list of what they ordered, and where they went to afterward - the hotel Earl was staying at. The restaurant name wasn’t familiar, but then Wilson wasn’t big on eating out and couldn’t have named more than three or four and one of them was a chain of steakhouses that could be found around the south-west.
There was still nothing about Earl or Allison breaking loose, so he looked for an address. It was an apartment in (WeHo location) and now there was more than a faint itch in his memory. He grabbed his laptop and pulled up a city map. He put the address in and pulled up street view. The memory finally shook free.
He remembered responding to a call about a street altercation; he remembered being stopped behind a car and watching Harry Albarn and a couple of his henchmen get in; he remembered Xavier denying having any idea who Harry was.
The recollection flowed out. Screams from an upper apartment; someone with an afro who clearly didn’t think answering questions from a cop, even if he was also black, was righteous. He remembered Earl, and he remembered Allison with a bruised cheek who cautiously took his card and slipped it into her shirt, but never called for help.
Wilson topped up his glass and went back to his favorite seat.
A pang of hunger surged through him and he realised that he’d eaten breakfast and a muffin in the lawyers office but nothing since and, looking at his phone, saw that had been nearly eight hours ago.
It was time to stop for the day. Get something to eat and pick up again tomorrow. It was obvious that Earl wasn’t at the apartment, Allison neither. If they were Earl wouldn’t be missing. And Harry had already proven he was capable of having someone investigated and followed.
He wondered why the normal crew weren’t being used for this task and couldn’t shift from the uncomfortable explanation that it was to have a hold over him.
Wilson finished his drink and decided to go out and eat. There was a Mexican place a block away, or he would take a cab to the steakhouse he like. Either would be good right now.
Chapter Break
I wrote this post about a story where I had a first chapter written. I'm trying to push on and finish a first draft in 2024.
If you'd like to be tagged in for future chapters, let me know.
Thanks
Stuart
Link to collated chapters HERE
Link to the short story which is the seed for this is HERE
Any LA based or knowledgable folks who want to pitch in on local things I get wrong, please do. I've never been and there's only so much I can learn on the internet.
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words by stuartcturnbull pic by igorelick on Pixabay
