5. Smokes & Such

FIVE

SMOKES & SUCH

T hat night, Harlow came by the Oasis, and we all met up at Luna’s to head to the storage units to switch out our car and roll.

When I arrived at Luna’s and Raye was already there, I saw immediately that we were all getting with the program, this trumped when Harlow showed.

Last time we hit the town on Angels’ business, we looked like four girls having a girls’ night.

That was part of our ruse to case a strip joint.

But it didn’t say, We mean business!

And tonight, we needed to mean business.

So, now, I was in my outfit for the day, since it fit our activities of the night, but I switched out to some black Old Skool Vans and threw on a black bomber jacket.

The bomber jacket was satin, but what could I say? I was an Angel. We swung it out there in style.

Further making my case, Luna was wearing a black, slim-fitting, merino wool turtleneck, black chinos and black suede Pumas. Raye was in dark-wash jeans with a black tee covered in a cropped black cardigan, black leather, white-soled Alexander McQueen kicks (Raye was a designer whore, even on a budget, and the woman worked it).

And when Harlow showed, she wore black crop pants, a puff-sleeved black sweater and black Nikes.

Okay, so my satin bomber and the puff-sleeved sweater were pushing it, but at least, if any of us had to run, we were wearing the appropriate footgear.

We didn’t say much as we got into Luna’s Prius and headed to the units.

But once on our way, Raye filled us in.

“Okay, Cap shared that he and Eric talked to Homer and General Grant?—”

“The General,” I corrected.

“I thought he referred to himself as?—”

“Girl, no,” I said low.

“Right. Gotcha,” she replied. “So, Homer and the General, precisely the General, said that your brother told him where you worked.”

My chest tightened.

That meant the General actually talked to Jeff.

That meant, at least for now, my brother was okay.

“Why would he do that?” Luna asked.

This was a good question.

“Maybe he thought they’d get word to her,” Harlow suggested. “And they did.”

“Any news on the Street Warriors thing?” I inquired.

Raye shook her head as she twisted to peer at me from the front seat. “Not yet. They’re sniffing around, though.”

“I hope we beat them in figuring it out,” Luna muttered.

Luna could be competitive.

I didn’t care who figured it out first.

My brother was a handyman savant. He could fix anything going. He had some schooling and experience as an apprentice pipefitter, but for unsurprising reasons, he was never able to complete his training.

That said, Mom and Dad both worked to live, then they lived as large as their meagre wages would allow, in other words, making sure faucets didn’t leak, thermostats continued to work and ice makers made ice were not priorities to them.

This necessitated Jeff figuring shit out.

And honest to God, he started doing that when he was around eleven.

Necessity for sure was the mother of invention.

Nevertheless, my brother was no warrior.

He was about three inches taller than me, which put him at five eleven. He had Dad’s body, which was bulky, and for Dad, soft and came with a beer gut. For Jeff, it was solid because he found regular workouts helped him deal with stress, so when he was himself, he didn’t miss one.

This meant he was fit. And could probably take care of himself in, say, a bar fight.

But beating “darkness” back (whatever that meant), I was thinking…no.

“That said, I got an email into Arthur,” Luna went on. “We’ll see if he’s heard anything about these Street Warrior people.”

That was a good idea.

I forgot all about Arthur.

“I’ve been pondering this all afternoon,” I told them. “And if you’re in, maybe tomorrow we could do the rounds to all of Jeff’s buds. I’ve done that already, checking in frequently, and no word. Also, none of them would keep something from me. They’re as worried about Jeff as I am. But maybe, if he’s getting word to me through the General, he’s also started communicating to them.”

“I’m in,” Raye said.

“Me too,” Luna added.

“Totally.” Harlow rounded it out.

This felt weird, and I wasn’t sure if it was a good weird, or bad.

Of course, having my girls with me was good.

But having anyone help felt alien. Like a new outfit that didn’t fit.

Maybe I’d get used to it.

Maybe it would chafe.

Time would tell.

We hit the storage units and Luna parked in front of numbers eleven and twelve, the units that held the Accord and the Mercedes.

Raye opened number thirteen, where the Sportage sat.

She flipped on the lights and went to the back of the unit where she nabbed a dry erase marker at the base of the whiteboard that Arthur had mounted there to aid in our investigations (all the units had them, we also had a laser pointer, which, according to Raye, made us official).

We all stood around and watched as she wrote on one side of the whiteboard, Jeff Wylde , and under that, Street Warrior , then under that, ??? . And on the other, she listed in a column, Mr. Shithead, Jinx, Jeff’s Friends, Other?

This reminded me.

“Did you hear from Jinx?” I asked Luna.

“She didn’t answer or return my voicemails,” Luna told me. No worries on that. There was nothing unusual about it. She worked nights, so she slept days. “Hopefully, she’s in her office tonight.”

Considering Jinx’s occupation, her office was a patch of sidewalk across the street from the Sun Valley Motor Lodge, where Mr. Shithead, a recalcitrant informant, worked nights in reception.

Hopefully a double bang for our buck that night.

“Did someone buy some dirty magazines?” Harlow asked.

We all looked at each other.

No one piped up.

Shit.

“I don’t actually know where to buy dirty magazines,” Raye admitted.

“Me neither,” Luna said.

“Maybe they have them at one of those racy lingerie and sex toy places?” Harlow suggested.

“Maybe we just forget the pornos, whip out our Tasers and ask him questions, like Raye did when he spilled the last time,” Luna said.

“I think we need to develop him as a willing informant,” Raye put in. “You catch more bees with honey.”

“Gross,” Harlow mumbled.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Give me the keys. I’m driving,” I declared.

“But—” Harlow began.

“I’m driving,” I stated firmly.

She stuck her lower lip out in a pout.

Raye handed me a set of keys.

We climbed in the Sportage. I backed out. Raye jumped out to turn out the lights, pull down the door and lock it.

And we rolled.

I then drove us directly to a seedy strip mall on Indian School, angled in a spot and parked.

The girls stared at the store in front of us.

“You vape?” Raye asked.

“No,” I answered.

“You smoke?” Luna queried, her voice pitched high with surprise.

“No,” I repeated.

“Um….” Harlow hummed.

I got out.

My chicks got out with me.

And with them following, I pushed into a business that was named “Smokes & Such” but its better title was “The Place to Maybe Get Murdered & Smokes & Such.”

It was a long, narrow space stuffed full of wares. Concrete floors. Cinderblock walls. Dark lighting.

The back section was replete with a dizzying variety of bongs on display, but it was so dark back there, it seemed like a cavern, and I couldn’t imagine how anyone could see the bongs. More, I fancied it’d be the perfect place to stab someone since nobody would see you do it, and the victim might not be discovered for weeks.

The front space was only slightly more illuminated. It had a glass cabinet filled with one-hitters, rolling papers, vapes, vape cartridges and vape liquid. Behind it there was a long display on the wall of disposable vaping devices and a cornucopia of tobacco products from cigarettes and cigars to chew.

There were also racks and racks of pornographic magazines and DVDs.

There was a guy standing in the deep shadows at the back staring at the bongs, his face blank, his upper body swaying, stating plainly he’d already overly imbibed.

There was also a couple at the cash register: the very petite, waif-like girl flicking at some cheap keychains exhibited on a stand, the equally short, waif-like guy with her paying for something.

Their size told me they were around thirteen, when they were not.

Their faces and affects told me they were addicted to meth.

The clerk was female, probably in her early twenties, but with an expression on her face that was of a much older person. One who survived the Depression, the Dust Bowl, three wars and various other military skirmishes, a bankruptcy or two, and around four cheating husbands.

She was new. I’d never seen her when I’d been there.

Then again, Smokes & Such had a massive turnover as far as I could tell.

My chicks huddled around me about five feet in from the door, like we’d just entered a haunted house and they’d nonverbally elected me the leader to get them through unscathed.

“How did you know this place existed?” Raye whispered.

At this juncture, I had to add a caveat to an earlier assertion.

I didn’t read.

But I read porn comic books.

“I read porn comics,” I told them.

Harlow reared back.

Luna smirked.

Raye’s eyes bugged out.

The door opened, the bell ringing, and all of them jumped, but not me.

They did this before we watched a woman who had to be in her mid-seventies strut in like she owned the joint.

She was wearing white skinny jeans on her stick-like legs, and a supple, beautifully constructed caffe latte leather jacket over a smooth white shell.

At her neck, ears, fingers and wrists were what I’d approximate as tens of thousands of dollars in gold and diamonds.

Her hair was a perfection of blonde swooped into a dramatic updo.

She wore fancy, gold-rimmed sunglasses like Tito, meaning even if it was night.

Her clinically-filled lips were perfectly lined and swiped with a nude combo that looked made for her.

And her face was Botoxed to the max, and so tan, I wished I had a leaflet on the causes of melanoma to hand to her.

Last, she was carrying a handbag I knew cost over seven thousand dollars.

It appeared Scottsdale Mama was out for her smokes before a martini-soaked evening with her girls.

With varying awestruck expressions on our faces, our heads moved with her as she clickity-clacked on her gold high heels to the cash register.

The girl was still flicking at the keychains as the guy with her seemed to be having trouble shoving his change into his jeans pocket.

Scottsdale Mama allowed this to go on for approximately point two five seconds before she cleared her throat imperiously.

The guy’s head shot up in surprise that anyone else was in his vicinity (or maybe that anyone else existed on the planet). He tagged the sleeve of his girl and they shunted out.

Scottsdale Mama stepped up to the register and husked, “Marlboro Lights.”

Without a word, the clerk turned, grabbed the smokes and plopped them in front of Scottsdale Mama.

With delicate movements, the better to show off her exquisite manicure of long, rounded, blush nails, she pulled a Prada wallet out of her bag and handed over some money. Even if she could afford it, she didn’t drop the change in the tip jar. She meticulously put it back in her wallet and tucked billfold and smokes into her bag. Then, no mention of thanks, or anything else, she lifted her nose, clickety-clacked back through the store and pushed open the door.

It was at this juncture we saw a white Mercedes coupe with a tan soft top double parked behind the cars at the front of the store, not only blocking them in, but also blocking the thoroughfare. We witnessed this before the door swung closed.

She matched her clothes to her car.

Impressive.

“I’m not sure whether to claim her as goals, or rant on social media about the behavior of the privileged,” Luna declared.

“Goals,” Harlow stated.

“Rant,” Raye said.

“Let’s get this done,” I said.

We moved to the clerk.

“Um…is he okay?” Harlow asked her, jerking her head toward the man among the bongs who still hadn’t moved.

The clerk looked to the man.

She then looked back to Harlow and demanded in a bored tone, “What can I get you?”

Harlow squared her shoulders, psyching herself up.

Ah, there was my girl.

“We need porn,” Harlow announced.

I smiled.

I was so proud.

The clerk made no move and said no words, just stared at Harlow.

Harlow turned to me. “You do this. What do we ask for?”

“What are our choices?” I asked the clerk.

“DVD or print?” she intoned.

“Print,” I said.

“Comics or pictures?” she asked.

“Pictures,” I answered.

“Generic? BDSM? Role-play? And then what type of role-play? Like secretary or school girl? Or school marm or bad bitch boss? Spanking, him or her—?” the clerk recited.

“Spanking,” Luna cut in. “Him by a her.”

“You think?” Raye asked her.

Luna shot her a look.

“I see that,” Raye mumbled.

The clerk meandered to the porn display.

“All you have, uh…in the spanking genre,” Raye called to her. “And throw in something else, just for shits and grins.”

She grabbed five magazines, walked back to us and plopped them on the counter.

She rang us up. We had a five-minute, highly irritating conversation about who was going to pay, seeing as we all knew Arthur would eventually reimburse the expense. I ended this by shouldering them out of the way and handing over some cash. I dropped the change in the tip jar. The clerk stared into the distance, dismissing us.

Luna grabbed the mags and we walked out.

We were in the Sportage, Luna and Raye in the back, Harlow beside me in the front, when Harlow remarked, “I feel like I need a shower.”

“I’m at odds about porn,” Luna put in. “I mean, I think there’s some that’s empowering. It’s consensual. The women do it because they want to. But I also think there’s an element that’s very bad. How do you know which is which?”

“My guess is, that’s why you buy comics,” Raye drawled.

I didn’t bite.

“Well?” Harlow pressed me.

What the hell.

“The dudes have massive cocks, they fuck each other, the positions are wild, it’s not real, so even if it gets rough, which it almost always does, no one gets hurt. Oh, and it’s totally hot ,” I said.

“You read gay porn comics?” Luna asked.

“I’ll lend you one. You can thank me later,” I told her.

“You’re on,” Luna said.

The cab lapsed into silence, all of us considering my gay comic porn fetish, I was sure, as we drove the rest of the way to Sun Valley Lodge.

The bad news: Jinx wasn’t on her patch.

The good-ish news: Mr. Shithead was behind the reception desk.

The ish part of that was, when he saw us fold out of the Sportage, even from across the parking lot, we could see him roll his eyes.

He then stood and pretended to shoot himself under his chin. He did a dramatic flourish with his hands behind his head to mimic his brains blowing out and collapsed to the floor.

“He’s upped the ante on drama,” Luna noted.

“I think I might be starting to like him,” Raye replied.

We pushed in.

“Get up, my man,” Luna called, leaning way over the counter to get eyes on the guy still on the floor. “We’re not going away and we bring gifts.”

I peered over too and saw he’d pried one eye open.

“Spank porn,” I supplied, then took the mags from Luna and sifted through them before I added, “And school marm, naughty boy shit.”

He popped up to his feet, saying, “She’s in room twenty-one.”

“Who?” Raye asked.

“You lookin’ for Jinx?” he asked back.

Well then.

Part two of our night was set. We just had to wait until her service was completed.

“Actually, we had some questions,” Raye told him.

He snatched the mags out of my hands, flitted through them, then looked at Raye. “This buys you one question.”

“Oh, please. Five mags, five questions,” Raye bartered.

“Two,” he returned.

“Five.” Raye didn’t back down.

“Three,” he tried.

“Five,” Raye repeated.

“FFS,” I grunted. “Have you heard of the Street Warriors?”

“What?” he asked me.

“Street Warriors,” I reiterated.

“Is that a porn movie?” he asked.

The dude had a one-track mind.

I sighed.

“No. We believe they protect homeless people,” Luna informed him.

“What do I know about homeless people?” he asked, hugging the magazines to his chest protectively, like we’d take them away if he didn’t have anything good to give us.

“So you haven’t heard of them,” Harlow murmured, disheartened.

“No,” Mr. Shithead said to her tits.

I sighed again, which was what I needed to do instead of slapping his gaze into another dimension.

“If you hear of them, would you call us?” Raye asked, slipping a business card across the counter to him.

He stared at it like it would grow a hundred legs and start crawling.

“Yo!” I called.

His eyes shot to me.

“She asked, if you hear of them, will you call us?” I restated.

“What do I get if I do?” he retorted.

“More dirty magazines?” Harlow offered shyly.

“I want you all to show me your tits,” he returned.

Harlow gasped as she drew back.

I grabbed Harlow’s sleeve and said, “Byeeeee,” as I dragged her toward the door, Raye and Luna following.

“No! Wait!” he called. We all stopped, turned and looked back. “Mags are good. Films are better.”

“Spanking?” I queried.

He didn’t quite meet my eyes. “Whatever.”

It was spanking.

“You got it,” I agreed.

We then walked out the door.

We’d taken positions, leaning in a line on one side of the Sportage, to wait for Jinx, when Luna decreed, “I’ve decided. Only comic porn for me. Because he’s just… gross .”

“Word on that, sister,” Raye replied.

“Ulk,” Harlow gagged.

I didn’t know if her gag was about porn in general, or the clear evidence we’d just witnessed from Mr. Shithead about how it felt skeevy he got off on it, no matter how consensual it was, and women got paid (hopefully) a fair wage to do it.

I also didn’t ask.

I put the sole of one of my Vans up to the side of the SUV, crossed my arms and aimed my eyes at the top deck of the motel, at room twenty-one.

There was general chitchat that I didn’t participate in, mostly because I had my mind on other things.

Primarily the fact that Eric had said, “Tonight.”

However, it was Raye who told me Homer had shared how he and the General knew where I worked. And as with the rest of the day, outside of him rolling up to The Surf Club to give Homer and the General a ride back to the camp, I’d heard not a thing from him.

Was he playing games?

Or was he busy?

“Heads up,” Raye said low.

I focused and saw a white guy, maybe mid-forties, dressed in nice jeans and still tucking in a button down that he wore under a sweater into his jeans, hustling out of room twenty-one.

He wore glasses and looked like a mild-mannered accountant, and he wasn’t unattractive, so he could totally score and not pay for it.

Unless he was married and getting his kicks elsewhere, but he wasn’t wearing a wedding band.

The world always surprised me, and usually it wasn’t in awesome ways.

By the time he made it to the ground level, he had eyes on us, and he didn’t take them away.

Maybe because we were all staring at him.

He pulled out in a well-maintained BMW (totally an accountant) and was idling at the entrance, his left turn signal on, when Jinx sashayed out in platform heels, a leather jacket she had tugged closed at the front, and a stretch micro-mini covering her ass.

Also, she had sex hair.

Then again, Jinx always had sex hair, both by design…and by profession.

She did a massive eye roll they could probably see from space when she spotted us before she took her time strolling down the walkway, the steps, and across the parking lot to where we’d pushed away from the Sportage to gather and wait for her arrival.

“You gringas are bad for business,” she griped in greeting.

“Was he a regular?” Raye asked.

“Not yet. But I hope he will be since he’s gotta be new, ’cause I charged him ten bucks more than the usual and he didn’t blink.” She paused before she finished, “And he gave me a big tip and he has a big dick.”

“ Nice ,” Luna drawled.

“What you bitches doin’ here?” Jinx asked.

“I called,” Luna told her.

“I know. The night’s been busy. This is good. I can get done before it gets too cold,” Jinx replied.

“Right then, we won’t take a lot of your time,” I said.

“ Excelente ,” Jinx muttered.

“Have you heard of the Street Warriors?” I asked.

She tipped her head to the side. “Is that a gang?”

God, I hoped my brother didn’t join a gang.

“I don’t think so,” I told her.

“Why you askin’?” she queried.

“My brother is missing. I’m worried he’s sleeping rough. He has mental health issues,” I shared.

Jinx tried to hide it, but the flash of compassion showed in her face before she nodded curtly.

“And I got some information he’s a Street Warrior,” I went on.

“Never heard of them, linda ,” she said quietly.

That was a gift. Right on display.

Jinx was a tough nut.

But still.

She liked us.

And there was the evidence.

No matter the stereotype of women in her profession, the truth of it was, under that street smart exterior, lay a heart of gold.

Alternately, the Rolex Raye scored for her on our last case bought a shit ton of loyalty.

“Can you ask around?” Luna requested.

“My ass on the line if I do?” Jinx returned.

“We honestly have no idea,” Raye admitted. “We think maybe they look after homeless people.”

Jinx nodded. “I’ll be careful, and I’ll ask. I find something, you buy me a burger.”

“Deal,” I agreed.

She did a finger wave, clutched her jacket back around her bosoms, and strutted off.

We climbed into the Sportage.

I pulled out as Raye announced, “Okay, we have feelers out. What time do you want to head out tomorrow?”

It was college football season, so unless my brother’s friends went to a bar to watch the games, our audience was captive.

“Say, ten o’clock brunch at Brunch Snob, then we roll out?” I suggested.

“In,” Raye said.

“In,” Luna parroted.

Harlow reached out and gave my thigh a reassuring squeeze, because we had feelers, but the night was a bust.

And then she said, “In.”

There it was.

I put it on and it didn’t feel like it fit.

But I was wrong.

Rolling with my girls.

It fit like a dream.