The Assignment
“The moment I saw her I knew she would be trouble. Trouble with a capital T as in Tease, Trepidation and Turmoil. Standing in front of me in a skimpy red dress and a pair of fuck me heels, she beckoned me to put my life in jeopardy and I was only too willing to oblige…”
“Cut the crap, Cantrell. We haven’t even seen her yet”, I said. “I’m sick and tired of your channeling… who is it again? Philippa Marlowe?” Genevieve opened the car window to throw away her cigarette. “Now, you’ll have to admit it sounds kind of lame – ‘Philippa’???” she protested, but I was having none of it. “I don’t particularly enjoy stalking anyone, let alone a complete stranger, and you adding a voice over to my utter boredom won’t make it any easier.”
My name is Therese Belivet. Yeah, it’s lovely. And this is my voice over.
It all began a week ago when I happened to visit my friend’s detective agency one late afternoon. Genevieve Cantrell, the black sheep in the long line of NYPD Cantrells, was having a meeting with a dark haired man in his forties. This guy oozed money in his well-tailored suit and shiny lacquered shoes throwing bills off his money clip as if it were confetti. He wanted his soon to be ex-wife tailed and properly. Photos, videos, the works – whatever dirt my friend could dig up before the divorce hearings.
She was a looker, he said and he was reluctant to let her go. But if the shit was going to hit the fan, he would make damn sure not to part with his money or his daughter, Nerinda. “Nerinda…” my friend complained when he'd left, “what kind of name is that anyway? Sounds like something out of a 40’s film noir… ‘Nerinda Aird’, the femme fatale.” Cantrell was drumming the desk with her fingers. She’s a drama queen, I know.
“She’s six so she hardly qualifies as one,” I quipped back. “You’re really thinking about following this poor woman around?” It sounded like a sordid business. “Well, it’s not like I’ve been getting any high profile cases lately, now is it?” she replied sounding positively discouraged. No, she wasn’t. Sunrise Detective Agency was struggling to make ends meet though it was doing slightly better now when the unfortunate typo on the office door had finally been fixed. ‘Sunrice’ had brought about clients looking for oriental foodstuff. It’s also true what they say about the contemporary private dick business – it’s almost exclusively about husbands and wives trying to catch their unfaithful spouses in the act. “And I need you to help me with this, to go on a stakeout with me. Bring your camera etc.”
I knew she would ask me so I had my answer ready. I needed all the money I could get and this one seemed to offer a steady flow. Not that I particularly looked forward to it, quite the contrary, in fact, but it wasn’t like I was rolling in dough. I was practically an orphan with nothing to show for. My father had died when I was still a kid and my mother… oh she was something else… she had remarried and pretty much forgotten all about me. Well, I was better off without her.
If I wanted to experience family life I was always welcome to visit the Cantrells and fill up my share of domestic chaos in no time. Genevieve has like six brothers, each of them a cop and each one cockier than any guy I have ever dated. Don’t get me wrong, they’re a joyous bunch and I love them to death but when she suggested I go out with one of them, I said no in no uncertain terms. Actually, I think she was relieved. It was probably not her idea to begin with, anyway. This much I gathered from the way her brother Jeff was ogling at me every time I showed up.
Jeff. All of the siblings have these really pompous names like Genevieve, Alexander and Leopold and then – Jeff. As if their parents had suddenly run out of imagination of how to call the youngest one in the lot. When I pointed it out to Genevieve she thought it had to do with simple exhaustion. They’d been busy procreating and with the latest edition they’d just ran out of steam.
So there I was sitting in Cantrell’s shitty Toyota with my Nikon and a tele lens ready to snap away pics of some damsel in distress. It was getting dark and the car had cooled down considerably. I was getting cold and cranky. The lukewarm take away coffee tasted like crap in my mouth fitting my mood perfectly. To add to the misery, I kept thinking about my set designs which had once again been rejected as too ambitious for an off off-Broadway production. “We can’t simply afford this.” How many times had I heard the same sorry line over the past year and a half? I guess I could have stuck with simple cardboard backdrops with some blurry savanna scenery painted on them, but it wasn’t a Lion King on a shoestring I was aiming at, now was it?
I noticed my friend freeze for a moment before leaning over the steering wheel. Following her lead I made out a shadowy figure stepping out of an apartment building and heading towards the elm covered street. A woman in her forties was approaching us quickly and for a second I thought of ducking my head under the dashboard. She passed by not paying any attention to us.
But I did pay attention. She was gorgeous. I mean abso-fucking-lutely stunning in her red cape-like overcoat complimenting her perfectly lined ruby red lips. I caught only a glimpse of her face framed by platinum blonde curls peeking out of a loose scarf. She was lighting a cigarette and in its glow I saw a pair of gray eyes more beautiful than any set of peepers I’d ever gazed at. I wanted to run after her just to stare at those exquisite features for one more minute. Oh god how I wanted to do it.
“You forgot to take photos!?” Cantrell was not a happy camper. “I give you one, let me say it again, ONE thing to do and you manage to fuck it up royally.” I felt really uncomfortable. “Well, it’s not like I’m a seasoned pro in this business of yours”, I objected. “But I'm going to make it up to you, I promise.” Boy, was I ever. If it were up to me I’d stalk this woman till the end of my days.