Pain Management

“I don’t think so. If that was it, she might’ve had one of the comics, but not the whole set. Some kids collect comics, but these were the only ones in her room, so I don’t think that was it, either.”

“Did this . . . Cuckoo person run away, too?”

“Damn! I didn’t think of that. Not in this issue, anyway. Doesn’t say anything about her writing music, either. But I just don’t think that’s it.”

“Because . . . ?”

“Because she left the comics behind, Gem. And it looked like she took along everything that was precious to her when she ran.”

“What will you do, then?”

“Everybody’s lying,” I told her. “Those people, they never showed the girl’s note to the cops. Probably just handed them a pile of bullshit. A lot of rich people, they think the cops work for them personally. Like servants.”

“Truly?”

“Sure. Say their kid wants nothing to do with them, okay? But the kid’s of age, so the parents can’t turn her in as a runaway. What they do, they call the cops, tell them the kid has been really depressed lately, they haven’t heard from her . . . and she always calls regularly, so they think she may have done something to herself.

“The cops go pound on the kid’s door, probably scare the hell out of her. Just what the parents want: they prove to the kid that they’ve got the power; the law will do what they tell it to.”

“That is disgusting.”

“Sure. Sometimes the kid doesn’t panic. She proves to the cops that she’s an adult, and that her parents were just playing them because she wants the parents out of her life and they don’t know how to take no for an answer. And sometimes the cops get angry about being used.

“But, most of the time, they just play the role—tell the kid she really should sit down and talk with her parents, all that crap. It’s none of their business, they shouldn’t be doing it; but, the way they figure, a little gratitude from people who have money never hurts.”

“Do you believe that is what these people are doing?”

“Well, aren’t they? Let’s say the note’s for real—the kid’s a runaway, then, and they know it. Why would they keep that from the cops?”

“But if the police locate—”

“The parents will just say they never saw the note, sorry to have troubled you . . . but thank God our precious baby is back home, and we’ll be sure to write a nice letter for your personnel file.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, only it’s not just the parents who are gaming. The cops might have the kid’s photo posted; she might even make a milk carton or a few Internet sites. But no way they’re bringing out any of their big guns on this.”

“Big guns?”

“Extra officers, heavy overtime authorized, squeezing informants, putting out the word that they’re offering a felony walkaway for a solid lead . . . like that.”

“Why do you believe the parents told you the truth, then?”

“They didn’t. I already said—”

“No, no. I don’t mean the truth about the . . . things you said. But why did they tell you the truth about her running away?”

“People like that, they see the cops as public servants, but not necessarily their servants. Me, they’re sure of—I’m bought and paid for.

“Besides, they know I’m not exactly comparing notes with the law. That’s what they hired me for. Most PIs are ex-cops. That’s what people pay them for; they can get information by just walking down to the precinct and spreading a little goodwill. That’s great if you’re a defendant, or even a suspect. But if you’re coming across as a victim, you don’t need all that. And the firm they hired—the ones the cops touted them on—you can bet it’s full of ex-cops, too. So they could never trust them, either. Me, I’m an outlaw. No question about my loyalty . . . at least in their minds.”

“You sound as if you despise them.”

“I don’t know what I feel about them—yet. I guess I’d have to find the girl to know for sure. But I don’t like them; that part’s true enough.”

I parked behind the strip club, in the vacant spot Gem said would be waiting for me. It was the kind of joint where every button on the speed-dial is set to 911. Gem was at a little table in the back, as far from the action as you could get and still be hit with the cover charge.

“Anything?” I asked her. Before I went out into the street,it was worth seeing if the girl had made headlines in theunderground newspaper—the one that isn’t printed. Gem had a subscription.

“Nothing. Not by her name, anyway. And the description is almost . . . meaningless. It could fit so many.”

“About what I figured,” I told her, not disappointed.

One of the house features swivel-hipped her way over to us, asked Gem if she wanted to buy a lap dance for me. Even standing still, the woman was in motion, packing enough silicone to grease a battleship through a car wash.

Gem looked a question at me. I shook my head no. The woman licked her lips at Gem. “No, thank you,” Gem told her, politely.

“What’s your problem?” I asked Gem as soon as the handjob hooker took off.

“My problem?”

“Yeah, your problem. You have to ask me if I want some fucking slot machine to sit on my lap?”

“Oh. So sorry.”

“Cut it the fuck out, all right, Gem? You’re about as Japanese as I am. And you’re too bossy to be a geisha, anyway.”

“She was just—”

“Never mind. You ready to go?”

“You didn’t like her . . . looks?” Gem asked me that night in bed.

“Who are you talking about?”

“The dancer. With the big chest.”

“I didn’t pay any attention.”

“How could you miss them?”

“What?”

“Her breasts. Do you like such big ones?”

“Ahhh . . . they’re like . . . I don’t know, red silk sheaths.”

“Because you can buy them?”

“No. Because they look good on some people, and not on others. I don’t like red silk sheaths all by themselves. If I saw one on a hanger, it wouldn’t race my motor, okay? On some women, they look perfect. Really gorgeous. On others, they look . . . ridiculous. You don’t look at the trimming, you look at the tree, understand?”

“Oh yes. Certainly. Would you like me in such big breasts, then?”

“No.”

“Why not? Do you not think I would—?”

“They’d look all out of proportion. Like they were stuck on with glue.”

“That is the way they looked on her, too.”

“Maybe.”

“Oh? You do not agree?”

“I didn’t pay any attention.”

“Huh!” is all she said. For the rest of the night.

I tried it in daylight first. Invested a lot of cigarettes and a few dollars, but I didn’t come up with anything other than a few numb attempts at shining me on. I collected some stale info, a few bad addresses, a