Part 1/?
Mike sat in his truck, staring at the house as he had done many times before.
He had been called over there so many times, and he came each time. Mike wasn't a stupid person, he was just a man of his word. Many years ago he had made the mistake of telling a friend “anytime you need me”.
As it turns out “any time” was now, and it had also been last week. The week before had also been “anytime,” as well. He shouldn't have made it so open ended; it just led to more trouble.
Mike had money, so some might say he was doing well. There were others that would say he was rich.
He tried to hide his money by driving a shit truck and wearing old, baggy clothing. Neither of these would help. In fact, this only accomplished in making him look like a rich boy rapper wannabe.
Mike stepped from his vehicle and walked to the front door. He barely had his hand raised to knock when the door swung open.
“Come in, I...” Stan's voice wavered, and his sentence was left unfinished.
Mike stepped in, and instantly wanted to leave. The first thing he noticed was the large stack of papers on a coffee table.
When Stan simply asked for a couple thousand he could "borrow," Mike gave it to him and walked away. He didn't like when he was invited in.
Then there was Stan himself. He wore the same old ratty, torn up gray pin stripped suit he always wore. Mike was sure he had found it in a dumpster. He never stayed around long enough to find out, but he was sure that Stan slept in it.
“What do you need, Stan?” he shifted his glance from Stan to the puddle of liquid pooled in the middle of his living room.
“I need one of those guys, with the towels.”
“Okay.”
“I mean, the ones that wear the towels,” Stan said as he paced and clapped repeatedly.
“A turban,” Mike sighed. What the hell was Stan on this time?
“Yeah. Okay, I need a guy wearing a turban, like a Hundi or something. I got-”
Mike held up his hand, and Stan stopped and froze where he was standing.
“So you want me to make somebody wear a turban. What are you high on this time?”
“No, nothing like that. Wait, something like that. I need somebody to wear a turban and meet with some guys. He doesn't have to do anything. He just has to stand there...”
“And wear a turban. Okay.”
Stan made his way to his coffee table, weaving and bobbing as if going through an obstacle course that only he could see. He grabbed a sheet of paper from the center of the pile and pulled. The top half of the stack slid to the floor, but Stan didn't seem to mind, or notice.
“Take this.”
He shoved the crumbled piece of paper into Mike's chest and stood there. They stood, still and silent for a moment before Mike took it.
Seven words sloppily scribbled across the top: “Harper mall you and Dean seven nobody else.” He read it a couple more times.
“What the hell does this mean? Dean seven nobody else?”
“No, see. Harper mall, that's where the meeting is. You and Dean. That's who he said could come. He said nobody else.”
“Me and Dean. Who's Dean?” He shoved the noted into his pocket.
“No. When I said you I meant me. I'm you.”
“Okay, then who's Dean?”
“Nobody. I made him up. I need a dude to wear a turban and say he's 'Dean'.”
Mike knew the only proper answer to this. He left.
Before he could start his truck Stan was clawing at the window.
“No, please,” Stan gasped, “I need your help!”
Mike let his hand fall from the ignition.
“Okay, get in.”
“Good, good!”
The disheveled idiot quickly made his way around the truck and into the passenger seat.
“So, you said something about a turban?”
Stan replied with a blank stare.
“Hello? You alive over there?”
“Oh. I.”
He jumped from the truck and disappeared inside his home. When he returned he was holding a tattered white sheet.
Once inside the truck he handed it to Mike.
“No. This is stupid. Nobody is going to be fooled into thinking this shit stained sheet is a turban. People makes jokes, you know, about turbans, but they are completely different from sheets. This is not a turban.”
“Okay.”
“What? That's not a proper response. That adds nothing. Who are these people anyway? When we show up wearing sheets on our heads, are they just going to shoot us? Drugs, I knew it, drugs again. It's always god damn drugs with you.”
“No, this is something else. This is a job. So calm down, and by the way, I won't be wearing a turban. I changed my mind. I'm going to explain what happened. So please, calm down.”
Mike made an audible sigh, “see how damn calm I am?”
He started the car and began driving to the mall.
“So, why the turban?”
Stan answered by shrugging.
“Man, I need to know.”
“Do you even know what I do?”
Mike smiled, “lots of drugs.”
“No man, I mean, like my job.”
“You have a job?”
“Okay, funny.”
Mike winced at the sudden pain to his stomach. The sadness in Stan's voice had been completely unexpected.
“Dude, I'm sorry. What do you do?”
Stan turned his gaze to the passenger window, “do you really care? If I died tomorrow, would you be sad? How long have we know each other, man? What does any of it mean to you? Are we really friends, or am I just an annoyance?”
“I...” the words seemed to stick in Mikes through as he tried to find the right way to say, “...no.”
“Thought so.”
“I'm sorry man, but who are you, really? I have known you for a long time, but I don't know you. You only call if you need help getting out of some jam. We've never hung out. You've never said 'Hey come over and we'll have some beers'. It's always 'Hey, I stole $20,000 in drugs, come help me not be dead!'”
“Sorry.”
“Maybe... Maybe after we're done with this, we go grab some beers?”
Stan glanced at Mike, a smile on his face, “OK, sounds good.”
“So, why the turban.”
“Oh, the turban...”
“Yeah?”
“I work as a P.I.”
“Really? What do you investigate?”
“Marital disputes.”
“Sounds, interesting. I guess I'll keep asking, because it seems I'm getting closer to the answer ever time I do. What's with the turban?”
“The guy who hired me said I had to wear a turban while following his wife. He thinks she's been cheating on him. I followed her, and recorded what she did. I didn't find anything damning. I don't think she's cheating on him. She doesn't really do much; I think he's just jealous.
“He said I had to wear the turban because it was his religious belief that people he hire have to wear turbans or something.”
“What? Somethings not right with this whole thing, man.”
Stan shrugged, “nothing feels off to me.”
“You'd better look harder. Does he wear a turban?”
After a moment of silence, “no.”
“Then why would he want you to wear one?”
“He said-”
“I know. His religion or something. If he did believe in that stuff, don't you think he would wear a turban too? I say something's wrong with this whole thing.”
“We'll find out soon I guess,” Stan said, “we’re here.”
Harper mall.
They parked and entered, but neither dared to speak. A sudden air of danger was stifling their words.
Mike followed Stan to the meeting place: Hungry Monster, a small family restaurant.
A man in a fine suit sat at one of the back tables. Without the suit he wouldn't have stood out at all: he was the epitome of the “average Joe”. That is, if he hadn't been wearing a one-thousand dollar suit. And the warm, colorful decor contrasted his fine suit so much as to make him stand out even more than if he had been dressed as a clown.
It seemed a strange place to hold a meeting with a private investigator.
They sat and shook hands.
“I assumed the job is finished,” the man slid an envelope onto the table.
Stan reach for it, but pulled his hand back, “not fully.”
The man's dead stare shifted for a second to Mike, then back to Stan.
“What do you mean?”
“I followed your wife, but she's not cheating on you, man. I also didn't wear a turban.”
The man stood, and withdrew a large handgun from his jacket.
“We're going to take a little trip to my limo, and we'll talk more there.”
He placed the gun back into his jacket.
Together they walked to his limo. As they approached, an elderly man in a tuxedo jumped from the driver's seat and opened the door for them.
Once inside, the man pressed a button on the armrest of his seat, “take us to my place.”
The limo started and they were off.
Stan begin to rock back and forth, “hey man, I don't know why you're mad. If you're mad, are you mad?”
A grin, then a soft chuckle.
Mike asked, “so, any chance you can let me go? I'm not really part of this.”
“Not part of this, you say? Then why are you here?”
“Not sure, really. I was told I was needed.”
Stan seemed to be more interested in the floor of the limo than the conversation taking place.
“If you just let me out here, I'll walk away and you'll never hear from me again.”
The grin seemed to grow.
“Do you want to hear my plan?”
“Plan? There was a plan?” Mike asked.
“You see, I needed Stan here to wear the turban and be seen following my wife.”
Mike shrugged, “OK.”
“No!” His grin was gone, “None of this is 'OK'. It appears that my character judgment on him was wrong. I didn't hire him because I believed he would be good at his job, no. I hired him because he's a mess. I was expecting no less than a horrible job to be done. He stumbles out of a bush, falls out of a tree, nearly gets hit by a motorist or something. He accomplished the job flawlessly because he ruined everything.”
Stan nodded.
“Okay. Now what? Are you going to bring us to your place and make Stan wear a turban? Do you and your wife have to be stalked by a man in a turban to get it on?”
The vehicle stopped, and the elderly man exited and opened their door.
Once again, he produced the gun and motioned for them to exit the limo.
This wasn't anybody's residence. This was nowhere.
“Wait!” Mike made a grab for the man, but was quickly struck.
“I can't have you two around.”
It was a cold quiet night momentarily interrupted by gun fire.
Mike wasn't a stupid person, he was just a man of his word. All those years ago he had told a friend “anytime”. It just turned out that this time he shouldn't have answered the phone. He should have stayed home.
Now, he would lay bleeding in the middle of nowhere with a possibly dead junky lying next to him.
He felt tired, was it normal for a bullet to make you tired?
If he did fall asleep, he didn't know if he would wake.
He wasn't too worried about that right now, so he could worry about being alive later. There were many reasons to continue living. One of the many reasons he couldn't die now was that Stan owed him a beer.
Mike is a man who pays his debts, and will fight tooth and nail to make sure others do the same.
He closed his eyes as the soundless night lulled him to sleep.
Tune in next week to find out what happens next...
Discord
Light Style