MIA

Wasn't ambiguous enough about the truth, and it turns out that people are watching a little more closely than I'd assumed. More ... soon?

Still among the living

Contrary to popular belief, I am still alive and have not become one of the walking dead at the Oneida. In fact, I'm long since done with that case, and I'll write all the details up soon. But let me apologize for my absence, and try to offer an explanation. When I started writing about my cases, it was during a lull in work and I was able to provide somewhat consistent updates. These days, things have gotten much more busy, and I've found myself with much less personal time to devote to this blog. Also, the more days I miss writing about, the longer the entries must invariably be. I realized the implications of this as I started to continue the next entry in the Oneida case, and realized that it would probably come out upwards of ten pages or longer. Ten page blog entries aren't fun for me or you (well, maybe for you, but not for me!).

I'm not going anywhere, not to worry. But I'm going to slow down just a bit and only post those day-to-day cases I know I can keep on a day-to-day update status. This will also mean a few more posts from my past than usual. For example, I saw someone asked me to relate a case in which I thought I was right and turned out to be wrong. While I'd like to believe I'm perfect, the truth of the matter is I fuck up like the rest of us, and am not adverse to letting you in on the details. Also, very shortly I'll post a summary of what happened at the Oneida and who was behind it all. Then on to (hopefully!) some day to day stuff.

More soon.

Haunting at the Oneida - Part 2 - On Vacation

I was supposed to go to the Oneida on Friday night, but due to a last minute family emergency, my entire weekend was spent at Beth Israel hospital (all is OK, thanks for asking). I gave Reginald a call from the hospital and asked if I could do his thing early the next week, and he said fine. Nice of him, given that he had no choice in the matter and all.

I showed up at the Oneida on Monday (yesterday) afternoon looking like a tourist who’d just stepped off the plane. Reginald told me that no one knew I was coming, and I didn’t intend to blow my cover by looking like a New Yorker.

The front of the Oneida, located in Midtown, is heavily ornamented and loomingly high. A line of taxis were streaming up and down the block, loading and unloading travelers. A few towncars and a Maybach (look it up if you’re unfamiliar with ludicrously overpriced automobiles) were parked out front. I pushed my way through the crowd on the sidewalk and went inside.

The lobby is a huge, lofty affair, with high ceilings and painted in a creamy white color. The walls are decorated with paintings of former hotel owners, most of whom tended to have a hand in areas outside of the hotel business (oil, for example). A grand staircase glamorously rises up to the next floor in one corner, while four gold elevators are situated on the opposite wall. Tourists reading newspapers and guidebooks were seated on the several antique sofas that dotted the room. Dominating it all was a large oak reception desk, which I went up to.

Sign-in wasn’t any trouble. Reginald had booked me for the 13th floor. Most of the disturbing activity had occurred at higher levels, which I assume is because the responsible party (or parties) want to have some time to escape before management gets complaints and sends someone up to check it all out. I got my keycard and road the elevator up to my floor and got out.

The hallways were as stylized as the lobby, with intricately designed wallpaper and paintings. There must have been around 20 rooms on my wing of the floor. As I approached my door, I noticed a large grandfather clock stationed at the end of the hall near the exit to the stairwell. It began to dong the hour and I swore that if it continued doing that throughout the night, I’d have to excuse the smashed clock to Reginald as yet another occurrence of the Oneida ghost.

Given the grandness of the hotel I had thus seen, I have to say I am a little disappointed in the room they gave me. It looks only slightly above the grade that comes with what one would consider a normal hotel, and I wonder if Reginald is in fact sparing expenses when it comes to my stay. Queen-sized bed, television, desk, normal bathroom, and a fridge. I looked over the room, then grabbed a few things and headed out. I wanted to have a look around the place to see if I noticed anything or anyone before it got busy.

I stepped out into the hall and immediately heard a high-pitched whining noise coming from around the corner. It sounded like a cat screeching at the highest pitch possible, and kept fluctuating in tone. And it was getting louder – whatever it was, it was coming towards me.

A moment passed, then a thin, bookish-looking guy with wiry blond hair and thin glasses came around the corner. He was holding a gray rectangular box, which I saw had a button or two and a meter on the front. I asked him what he was doing, and he told me he was Richard, a parapsychologist hunting ghosts. The box he was holding is known, apparently, as an electro-magnetic frequency meter (picture found online):

He explained to me (with the seriousness of someone explaining the fundamental laws of the universe) that ghosts give off strong electromagnetic frequencies, which in turn make the needle on the meter jump and the whining noise raise in pitch.

Richard the Ghosthunter told me that strange stories about the hotel have always been well known, but rumors about the sudden jump in activity have everyone in his “society” (whatever the hell that is) excited. He also said I’d probably see a few more people like him over the week. I asked him if he’d found anything yet, and he told me no, but that he was confidant something would come along. He showed me a few other tools – one looked really high-tech but ultimately turned out to be just a fancy thermometer, while another was only a tape recorder. I feigned some interest and asked if he thought any earthly causes were behind it. He said no, but I subtly pressed him to tell me if he had seen anyone out of the ordinary. He said that in the evenings, there generally seemed to be quite a bit of traffic in the hallways after hours, but no one stood out specifically. I thanked Richard and continued on my way.

I noticed a few faces on various floors that I committed to memory – a redhead on 10, a tall man in a striped suit on 14. But no one was coming out of their rooms shrieking about a ghost, nor were there any guys in sheets running up and down the hallway. I used the opportunity to see the rest of the hotel – the dining room, the ballroom, the workout room, the pool – but didn’t notice anything peculiar.

I went back to my room at around midnight and still hadn’t seen anything that struck me as strange. I had passed a few more people walking around with gadgets in their hand, then later noticed a hotel employee talking to them angrily. After that, they disappeared.

I snaked a camera through the crack at the bottom of the door and gave myself a good view of the hall. I connected the receiving end to my hotel television and turned it on. Then, I got into bed fully dressed and shut off the lights. The hotel was pretty quiet, despite its location, and for a while there, I got the feeling someone was watching me. I got up and shut the closet door to hide the full-length mirror that had been staring at me. Maybe the ghost stories have sort of started to eek past my tough front. Nah.

At around 1, I was awoken by the incredibly loud sound of pounding. It sounded like four or five fists were slamming on the door to my room. I jumped up and looked at the television.

Onscreen, there was no one at the door. And yet if I looked at the door itself, it was clearly being slammed by someone on the other side. As I got out of bed, the banging immediately stopped. I ran to the door and opened it, but the hallway was empty. A few other guests were sleepily looking out of their rooms. There were two escape options for whoever it was – toward the elevators or down the stairwell, and I took the stairwell route because it was closer.

For a moment, I could hear echoing footsteps a few floors down, then they vanished. It could have been the culprit, it could have been someone going down to their room. Otherwise, it was silent. I went back to my room and noticed I had left the door open. Inside, I found the faucets and shower running cold water at full blast. Crushed ice was in both the bathtub and sink. I started to laugh. This was too much fun. Then I saw that my snake camera was gone, and I stopped laughing. That thing cost a little too much to be funny.

I grabbed a notepad and camera, then barged into the hallway – and smacked directly into a short thin man with a long face and gangly arms. He jolted back in shock.

“I’m sorry!” he said, voice quivering. “I didn’t see you!”

“My fault,” I said. “Didn’t think anyone would be up this late.”

“I have to be,” he said. “I’m an employee here. My name is Anthony Engles. We had more complaints, and I was checking it out.”

“I heard some noise. Seen anyone?” I asked.

“No, sir. As usual, no one around.”

“Listen,” I said, handing him a $20. “Let me know if you do see anyone. Something of mine got nabbed, and I’d like to get it back personally.”

He took the money with shaking hands. “Will do, sir.” We said goodbye, and walked in opposite directions. At the last moment, I turned to ask him something, but he had already gone.

I spent the next hour camped out in the different hallways around the top-most floors of the hotel but didn’t find anything. Annoyed, I went down to the hotel bar for a drink.

There was another man there, dressed in a doorman’s uniform, who was being consoled by the bartender. The guy, named Tom, had apparently just been fired by Reginald, and was in a shitty state. I got that he owed rent that he couldn’t afford and that his girl was going to leave him. He finished his last shot, then stood up to go.

“I know how I can get back at him, though,” he said.

“Reginald?” I asked.

He nodded. “Didn’t understand at first, but they were right all along. Funny how getting fired can make you get it.” Then he vomited. This created a bit of commotion, as the bartender sprung to life and began hollering for some clean-up help – which, of course, at this hour of the morning there was little of. Meanwhile, Tom the Doorman looked like he was about to pass out in his own puke, and I led him to a chair. I tried to get him to talk, but he was out for the night.

I headed off to bed, and nothing more happened.

I woke up this morning and ran into Richard again in the hall. I asked him if anything had happened around his room last night, but he said no. I also asked if he had talked to the hotel employee Anthony Engles, and at that Richard went silent.

As it turns out, Anthony Engles died about forty years ago in a fire in the hotel kitchen. Meaning that the guy I ran into last night is either a ghost or one of the perpetrators of the stuff that’s been going on, and I let him go with $20 and a smile.

I’ve got a meeting in fifteen minutes with Reginald, and I’m going to try to stay another night. As I said, I don’t believe in ghosts, and it bugs me when someone tries to suggest I’m wrong.

Haunting at the Oneida - Part 1 - Ghost Stories

I don’t believe in ghosts, nor do I believe in anything that falls under the heading of either the paranormal or the supernatural. Let’s get that out upfront. But that’s not to say I’m not intrigued by the case a new client brought to my office on Thursday.

The client is named Reginald, and he works for a five-star hotel located in midtown, which we’ll call the Hotel Oneida. The is one of those historical New York institutions that everyone is familiar with. The Oneida has been in business since the 1800’s, and thus has a great amount of history and romanticism attached to it. During prohibition, for example, the hotel secretly operated the most elegant “speak-easy” in New York for its rather wealthy clientele. Every U.S. president has stayed in the hotel at least once since 1860. The roof has an enormous pool which has an unrivaled view of the New York cityscape. Its reputation is among the highest in the city.

And, like almost every major hotel in any major city, the Hotel Oneida supposedly has a ghost. Or several ghosts, depending on which legend you choose to believe. In 1942, a daughter shot both her parents in their room after they prevented her from marrying a boy who didn’t live up to their financial standards. In 1875, a man drowned his wife in the bathroom tub, then threw her body out the window to try to pass it off as a suicide. In 1950, a man hung himself from a chandelier in the grand ballroom. None of this is very unusual, of course. If you imagine owning a hotel that houses countless guests per year, it’s only mathematically logical to expect some amount of tragedy to occur over time.

These stories, of course, give rise to legends of ghosts that supposedly continue to walk the hallways. And again, this is to be expected in any major hotel. Strange occurrences like showers turning on without warning or flushing toilets often go unexplained by the management and ultimately wind up as part of the mythology of these buildings. And to some extent, I think any good manager would encourage it. Because at the end of the day, there are no ghosts, and everyone knows that (i.e. they’re not losing business). But a nice romantic or spooky ghost story to talk about before you go to sleep gives a certain amount of character and intrigue to any hotel.

But things have changed. The hotel recently switched hands, and a new manager, Reginald, was brought on board. Reginald is a tall, skinny man in his 50’s. He is almost completely bald, and his brow hangs far out over his nose. He’s originally from England, and has clearly adopted an accent of the highest class. He’s not outwardly snooty, but then again, it’d be almost impossible to say that he’s not snooty either.

His transition into his new position was not an easy one. Many resented the new ownership of the hotel, and resented it even more when a series of firings left a number of long-standing employees without a job. Reginald claims he was not fully behind the lay-offs, but was merely acting for people higher up. Of course, as manager, he takes all the blame, and he’s already detecting a cold attitude from almost all his staff. That, he says he can deal with.

But something else is going on, and guests seem to be pointing fingers at the supernatural. He has received numerous complaints over the past two weeks of various unexplained phenomena. Incredibly loud banging will be heard on bedroom doors in the middle of the night, yet when the guests open them, the hallway will be completely empty. Sink taps will start running without warning, then stop just as suddenly. Footsteps and laughter are heard in adjoining rooms that are supposedly empty. And last week, a woman claims to have opened her closet door to see a man hanged from a rope staring back at her. The man vanished, she claims, but it was too much for her. She checked out immediately.

I’m much more likely to believe in whacko guests than I am to believe in ghosts, and so is Reginald. Regardless, the disturbances are clearly real at this point, and Reginald considers them to be harassment of his customers, most likely by former employees who still have access to the building. He wants it to stop right now, which is why he’s hiring me. The house dick they originally had on staff was one of the many laid off recently, and despite Reginald’s begging, he wouldn’t come on to help with the problem. I know the guy very well, and will probably still be able to get some help out of him on my own.

In the meantime, Reginald has asked that I stay in the hotel for the weekend and keep a constant eye on exactly what’s going on. All expenses paid, of course, and on top of my regular salary. And in the end, ghosts or no ghosts, you always say yes to a free vacation.

If the hotel has internet, I’ll see if I can post sometime this weekend. If not, I’ll try to have something on Monday. I’ve gotta pack a bag now.

Chinatown - Part 7 - Dirt On Tanaka

I apologize for the delay in updating, but getting dirt on someone that can be used for blackmail purposes can take weeks, or even months if the person is cautious enough. I needed something on Tanaka that could be effectively used by Saito to keep him from hurting Natalie, but it quickly became apparent that he keeps whatever hidden secret side he has very hidden and very secret.

The weekend didn’t yield anything. On Saturday, Tanaka and his wife went out together, spent the day walking around Central Park, had dinner downtown, and returned home early. On Sunday, Tanaka went out to lunch with a few respectable-looking guys in suits, then walked around alone for a while. He got back to his building in the evening and didn’t come out again.

Monday – Tanaka went to work early in the morning. He didn’t leave his office until around 7pm at night, after which he went straight home and didn’t come out.

Tuesday – same as Monday. I called Tanaka to let him know I had uncovered some leads on the case, and that I’d have the tape to him in no time. I also called Ruby to give her the same bullshit.

Today (Wednesday) – Paydirt. After going to work, Tanaka left the office at the uncharacteristic time of 4:00PM. He got in a taxi, and I followed after him in my car. The taxi took him to a small but elegant hotel in the Village. He went inside. I grabbed my suitcase of goodies and followed after, though made sure to keep my distance.

The deal with getting around in hotels is that you have to look like you’re staying there without any hesitation. If you walk in and stare around nervously, you look like you don’t belong and they’ll ask you your business. If you stride in like a tourist whose left his subway map in his room (preferably with a key dangling in hand) and go right up the elevator, no one will get in your way. This is exactly what I did.

Tanaka had taken the elevator to the third floor, and I did the same. The hallway was quiet. I took out my sound amplifier and quickly walked up the hall listening for the sounds of humans mating. None doing. Clearly, the girl wasn’t here yet. I readied a very small digital video camera that fits in the palm of my hand for her big arrival, then pretended like I was trying to decide which candy to buy from the vending machine. There was a hotel security camera above me in the corner, and I made sure to stay as far outside of its reach as possible.

About ten minutes later, the elevator binged its arrival, and the doors opened. I continued to inspect the candy options as if the cure for cancer was hidden somewhere between the Butterfingers and bags of Doritos. The person exited, and I slowly looked to the side, then looked away as fast as humanly possible.

It was Ruby.

In retrospect, I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of it. Sure, she had an ad in the Adult Bodywork section of the Voice, but that could have been planted. Then again, it looks like Tanaka was going for authenticity. And what better way to get it than with a whore you've worked with before?

She walked down the hall towards me, and if she had suddenly gotten the urge for M&M’s, it would’ve all been over. She didn’t though, and went to the door behind me to the left. She knocked a few times and said “housekeeping” in a voice that suggested she was a hotel cleaning lady who worked overtime as a phone sex operator. The door opened, Tanaka appeared, and the two did a whole bunch of tongue wrestling while I got it all down on video.

Suddenly she slapped him across the face. “Naughty boy,” she said. “I didn’t tell you you could touch me yet.” I expected him to kill her for this, but he went all apologetic.

“I’m sorry!” he said like a little kid who knows he’s been bad and is trying to get out of the worst spanking of his life. “I’m so sorry!”

“Not half as sorry as you’re going to be,” she said in that same sultry voice, and pushed Tanaka into the hotel room. The door slammed shut.

What I had on video at this point was good but not enough. I had to get into the room beside them. Problem was, the hotel security camera was staring down at me. Lock-picking was clearly out. I turned on my cell-phone and put in a call to the desk. I told them I was in a random room on 3, and that I needed an extra pillow. They assured me that someone would be up promptly. While I waited, I wadded up a few pages from my notepad into a tight ball.

Soon after, a maid arrived and went to the closet to get a pillow. I stood in front of the door of the room next to Tanaka’s and called to her.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I just checked out, and I think I left my watch in the room.”

“We already cleaned there,” she told me.

“I think it dropped behind the bed.”

She looked at me skeptically. “Fine then,” she said. She opened the door and went inside. As I followed after, I jammed the wadded up ball of paper into the lock cavity. She didn’t notice. Then I did a little acting routine, pretended to find my watch under the bed, thanked her for her time, let her exit first, then shut the door behind me. She went to deliver the pillow, and I hid in the stairwell. After a few moments of knocking and getting no reply, she took the elevator down. I went back up and simply pushed the door open to the room beside Tanaka’s, went inside, and locked it behind me.

I didn’t need any sound amplification to know that Tanaka and Ruby were going at it hard. I started a tape recorder to pick up the delightfully naughty reprimands Ruby was yelling (“You’re a bad boy! Now I’m punishing you!”), while Tanaka just moaned.

I went to the window, opened it, and saw that theirs was open as well. Finally a break. I put together my snake camera (a very small video camera head mounted on a long wire) and carefully looped it around the corner and in through their window, letting it rest on the sill. No way in hell they’d notice in the middle of what they were doing. I plugged it into the IN on my video camera and began recording.

Tanaka was on all fours on the bed. Ruby was behind him wearing a strap-on dildo and giving it to him up the ass, with an occasional spanking or two.

This was like striking oil.

I got about five minutes of this down on video, then packed up shop and split. I returned to my office, made a few copies of the tape, then dropped one off with a friend I trust and another in my bank deposit box. There are certain pieces of evidence that should be duplicated and distributed for understandable safety measures. I dropped off my last copy to Saito, who was most pleased to get it. He paid me my standard fee, plus a large bonus for successful completion of the job, plus something extra for loyalty and the fact that I was going against my initial clients. Very generous guy, Saito.

I finished off the day by calling Tanaka and reporting that I would no longer be able to help him in his particular case. I said that it had become clear that Natalie was long gone, and that I doubted if she – or the video – would ever be found. He was clearly upset, but gave me his credit card number and authorized me to bill him for the services we agreed on. I did, though I wouldn’t be surprised if he tries to cancel it later. I did the same for Ruby, and she said she would get back to me regarding the payment. Yeah, right.

As you might be able to tell, I’m a big fan of using blackmail against blackmailers. I find it solves problems a lot better than simply outing the initial blackmailer. It puts everyone on an equal playing field and forces them to follow the flawless Do Unto Others maxim (though let’s all be a little careful about this; I’d be out of a job if everyone took the Golden Rule to heart).

I’m waiting for an angry call from Tanaka or Ruby (hell, maybe she’ll try to spank me) but it hasn’t come yet. Otherwise, it’s time to deal with other cases. I’ve been putting off new client appointments until Thursday, so maybe something new and intriguing will come along. My secretary keeps telling me she thinks it would be cute if I said that Sammy says “meow” to you all, or something. I, on the other hand, don’t think it would be cute at all, and am thinking of lowering her hourly wages. Now that would be cute.

Chinatown - Part 6 - Another Client

Two Asian men and a black limo were waiting outside my apartment this morning when I stepped out. One of them opened the door to the limo, and the other motioned for me to get in. Neat. I pulled back my coat revealing my holstered gun.

"This a problem for anyone?" I asked.

They shook their heads. I climbed into the limo and realized that the woman who'd attacked me in Natalie's apartment was seated across from me. We stared at each other for a bit, then I took the throwing star I'd been carrying around out of my jacket pocket.

"I think you lost this," I said. "In my arm." Her face remained absolutely motionless as she stared at me. I put it away. "Where are we going?"

"Our employer would like to have a word with you."

"Tanaka?"

She shook her head. The limo started and we took off heading towards the Battery. Any talking during the ride came exclusively from me. I tried to get her to answer a few questions, but she remained quiet. We finally arrived at a large skyscraper at the southern tip of Manhattan. The woman and one of the two men escorted me into the building. We brushed past the security guard with a nod and took the elevator to the 45th floor. There, we walked out into a reception area. The name of the business was something very generic, along the lines of "Venture" or "Endeavor."

We walked past the receptionist down a long hallway to a pair of double doors at the end. They knocked, and at the sound of a gravelly voice saying "enter" they opened the doors and motioned me inside. They didn't come with me, and closed the doors behind me.

The office was positioned in a corner of the building and had a beautiful view of the harbor and the Lady Liberty in the distance. It was the typical office of someone important: huge mahogany desk dominating the room, a large leather executive chair, numerous officious looking books on the wall, and a few framed pictures of wifey and the kids.

The man in the exec chair looked to be Japanese, tall and chubby, with carefully combed hair and manicured fingernails. He was wearing a very nice black suit, and I immediately became conscious of the scruffy, wrinkled clothing I had put on without much thought this morning. He stood up and extended his hand. We shook.

"My name is Saito," he said. "Do you know who I am?"

"I think so," I replied. "You're trying to blackmail Tanaka with a certain videotape."

He nodded, but the nod was slow, and didn't seem to imply a "yes" answer.

"You've met with Mr. Tanaka then." I kept quiet. "And you're working for him, either looking for the girl, or trying to recover the videotape." Still quiet. "I wish I had found out about you first. It could have saved a lot of trouble."

"Could've saved you a lot of trouble if you hadn't tried to blackmail Tanaka," I remarked.

"I didn't do anything to Tanaka," he replied slowly. "Tanaka is trying to blackmail me."

"Bullshit. Prove it."

"Very well." He pressed a button on the intercom system. "Nancy, will you send in my guest?" The receptionist said yes, and several moments of silence followed as Saito and I eyed each other.

Then the door opened, and Natalie came in.

She looked absolutely gorgeous, as good as she had in the Village Voice ad. As I said before, a total knock-out, even without the airbrushing. She came up, shook my hand, and introduced herself. I smiled and nodded, then dropped the smile and turned back to Saito.

"So this girl brought you a tape of Tanaka to blackmail him with."

"So you have spoken with Tanaka," he continued. "Have a seat, my dear," he said to Natalie, who was being quiet. "Let me try to clear a few things up. First of all, Tanaka told you the correct story, but with the names reversed. I have been the one meeting with Natalie for some time now. It is I, and not Tanaka, who rented the apartment in Chinatown for us to meet. We had this arrangement for a number of months. Natalie?"

"I got a call to go to the apartment one night," she said. Her voice soft, but at the time suggested a lifetime of experience that had completely vanquished any hint of innocence. "I got there, and Tanaka was waiting. He had found out about the apartment, called as Mr. Saito, and met me. They strapped me to the wall and...tortured me." My mind thought back to the star I'd found in the wall. "They told me they'd kill me unless I helped them get a video of Mr. Saito and myself, and I believed them. I'm not in a position to protect myself. I can't go to the police, and Tanaka made it clear that he could kill me at any time and no one would know. I was given a camera to make the video and met Mr. Saito. And like an idiot I went through with it. I made the video. I called Tanaka the next day to confirm that I had a copy, as well as several duplicates. But then I got scared, and came to Mr. Saito and told him everything.."

"I have a special affection for Natalie," Saito continued, "and understand the position she is in. I know my colleague very well, and am sure that he will make good on his threats out of sheer spite. It's not like anyone will miss a Chinatown whore for more than week." I thought Natalie would hit him for that, but she only smiled and he smiled back, as if it was some sort of inside joke. "She's been with me ever since, keeping a low profile both from Tanaka and my wife." He chuckled at this last line. I kept a straight face.

"I had sent my employee, Kameko, to gather a few of Natalie's belongings. I knew that Tanaka would try to hunt down both Natalie and a copy of the video tape, and made sure Kameko had taken the necessary precautions. And this is where we first encountered you. I must apologize for what happened to your arm, and will gladly pay any medical expenses you incurred." I shook my head.

"Just a paper cut."

"Very tough front you put forth," he said. "Kameko is trained in numerous fighting styles, and I am glad she didn't feel more threatened by your presence. You could have been killed." If that wasn't a blow to my manhood, I don't know what is. "She left, but followed you after. She reported back to me, and I've since had you followed to try and learn who you were working for. We were worried you had been employed by Tanaka to find the tape, but then again, we knew you weren't the first to visit the apartment. Tanaka's men arrived before Kameko and yourself, and ransacked the place. Also, to be frank, you don't look the part."

"I'm not working for Tanaka," I confirmed. "At least, I wasn't. I was working for your friend Ruby." Natalie looked at me with a big question mark across her face. "You don't have a friend Ruby who works in the business with you?"

She shook her head. "I don't know any of the other girls. I've kept my distance." "My guess is that Tanaka hired her to put forth a believable story in trying to locate you," said Saito.

"He also hired me directly a couple days ago," I said.

"Probably to steer you in the direction he wanted you to go in. Let's put it this way: when you came in this office, Saito was the bad guy in your mind, right? Hopefully, I've cleared this up."

This was the overstatement of the year. I'd been told all the details, but at this early in the morning and without a cup of coffee, my mind was spinning faster than a Turkish Twist.

"So you've been seeing Natalie," I said to Saito. "Your rival Tanaka learns this. He threatens Natalie and forces her to film you. She does, contacts him, then goes to you for help. You hide her. He hires me through Ruby to find her. I'm moving too slow, so he hires me directly to push me in the right direction. And he tells me a bullshit story that makes him sound like the victim and you the enemy."

"Probably so that if the name Saito came up, which it inevitably would, you would have negative preconceptions."

"And the one who attacked me - "

"Kameko."

"Kameko, she was just at the apartment to collect some of Natalie's thing?"

"Precisely." It all seemed to check out.

"So what do we do now?"

"I'd like to hire you." Wow. Three different clients on one case is a bit unusual for me.

"What for?"

"I will pay you the money that is owed, and most likely will not be paid, by Tanaka and Ruby, for your services. I would like you to come up with something on Tanaka, something we can use to even the score and make it safe for Natalie to walk the streets again."

"Any leads? Does Tanaka go to a prostitute of some kind?"

"Almost definitely, but I do not have specifics. That is why I'd like to hire you."

I took the case. It's clear at this point that I won't be able to deliver to either Tanaka or Ruby, and it's equally unlikely that they'll pay me for the work I've done so far. And in the end, I hate being taken for a ride, so there's a bit of revenge in here too.

I'm back in my office now, and I've been trying to figure out what plan of action I can take against Tanaka. But I've got nothing as of yet, other than to follow him and hope to dig something up. Any easier suggestions? Otherwise, my weekend looks shot.

Followed

Two guys definitely followed me to the deli on the corner when I went for lunch.

Update - 9:42PM.

They followed me home. For those who suggested I follow the followers - It's hard to follow people that are following you, because you end up bumping into each other. Either that, or you wind up in a big confrontation that gets you a black eye or a lot of lies, and neither is beneficial. At the moment, I'm going to let it continue, because they're certainly not going to learn anything by following me. And something might just pan out from it.

Chinatown - Part 5 - A Dangerous Man

There is a Chinese restaurant in the heart of Chinatown that probably hasn’t been visited by the Board of Health in decades. Cockroaches and rats run freely in the alley beside it, and you’d have to be an idiot not to think they all make their way into the kitchen shortly after closing. The two front windows are yellowed from age and slimy with grease, and the food inside doesn’t look any more appealing.

This was the address I had been given for the weapons store. No other details had been provided. I stood around outside for a while debating whether to go inside or wait for a contact. As I was standing there, a truck pulled up and parked, and two men began unloading boxes of food supplies. Those who know New York are aware that most buildings have their own basement entrance through two metal doors in on the sidewalk. The sidewalk doors in front of the Chinese restaurant opened, and a small busboy stepped out. He walked over to the truck, signed for the order, then picked up one of the many boxes.

As he walked by me, he said “Carry one and follow.” I quickly grabbed a box filled with beer cans and proceeded down the steep concrete steps into the basement. The basement was filled with boxes and refrigerators containing various foodstuffs, and reeked of that smell all cheap Chinese restaurants have. The busboy indicated where to set down the beer, then nodded at a door in the corner. Then he left.

The door was large, wooden, and locked. I knocked on it loudly, and after a moment, someone asked my name. I gave it, and I heard the click of a lock being opened. The door swung in.

The room on the other side was completely empty save for a desk which was stationed in the exact middle. The desktop was similarly bare, with only a telephone and a composition notebook on top. Two chairs were in front. The only source of light was a hanging bulb; there were no windows. An elderly man was seated behind it reading a book and twirling a small throwing knife in his fingers absentmindedly. He didn’t look up when I came in.

“Do you want me to shut this?” I asked. No answer from him. I shrugged and started to close the door.

Suddenly, I heard a whoosh of air, followed by a thwack, and I realized I was caught. I looked down to see the knife stuck through my jacket into the door. I turned quickly to see the old man still engrossed in his book while twirling another knife in his hand.

I pulled the knife out of the door and finished closing it.

“Neat trick,” I said. “But make sure I don’t catch you in the act next time, or you might find a bullet in your skull.” I dropped the knife on the table, and he looked up. He looked to be in his late 60’s, with long white hair and a moustache that vaguely brought to mind the facial hair of Fu Manchu, though to say there was a resemblance would be an exaggeration.

“A bullet? You wouldn’t have the time, young man,” he said, smiling. “You’d be dead before you pulled the trigger.”

“I’m pretty fast.”

“I’m faster.”

For a moment, I thought we were going to have a face-off – him with his knives and me with my gun. And in all honesty, I’m not sure who would have won. Luckily, our duel never came about. He broke into a hoarse laugh and motioned for me to sit down. I did.

“What can I do for you?”

“You make weapons?”

“Yes.”

I took out the throwing star and the broken prong I had found embedded in the wall of Tanaka’s apartment and let them drop on the desk.

“Who did you make these for?”

He picked them both up and studied them for a moment. “They are different. I made this one,” he said, indicating the one that had been thrown at my arm. “This one, however, was not of my handiwork.”

“How do you know? They look exactly the same to me.”

“They follow a well-known design,” he continued, “but there is a difference. Whereas this one is perfectly weighted, expertly sharpened, and bears the mark of genius craftsmanship, this broken blade is of much cheaper quality.”

“They still look the same to me,” I said. “And I have reason to believe they came from the same person.”

“They didn’t. The person I made this star for would never stoop to using such trash.”

“Who did you make the one star for then?”

He turned it over in his fingers. “There are flakes of blood on it. Yours?”

“Yep.” He laughed. “You find that funny, huh?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” he said. “Very amusing. I will make you a deal. I normally would never divulge a customer’s name, but will make an exception if you can prove yourself. See that mark on the wall?”

He pointed at the far wall, on which a small red X was painted. “Hit that with a bullet before I do so with a knife and I will tell you.”

Without thinking, I ripped out my gun and sent a bullet flying toward the X. I turned to look at the old man, and saw he hadn’t moved.

“So will you tell me now?” I asked.

He nodded at the mark. I turned to look and realized that something was sticking out of the middle of the X. I got up close and realized the truth. The end of a knife was sticking straight out of the center of the mark. My bullet had shattered the handle, but it was clear that he had reached it first.

“That is all I can do for you,” he said, and resumed reading. I trained my gun on him.

“Maybe you can do a little more.”

He yawned. “I have already surprised you twice today. Would really like me to surprise you a third time by killing you?”

He had a point. I waited for a moment, but it was clear our conversation was over. I kept my gun trained on him and backed out of the room.

“Thank you for coming,” he said without looking up. I closed the door.

Back on the street, I was kicking myself. Not that I know of anything I could have done differently, but I had just met someone who knows the woman who attacked me at Natalie’s apartment, and I hadn’t learned a thing. Well, that’s not entirely true. If what the old guy had told me was accurate, there was a big difference in the star that had been pulled from the wall in Tanaka’s apartment and the star that had been thrown at me in Natalie’s apartment. One was more amateurish, the other a master. Maybe two different employees, and maybe hired by two different employers? Not sure if that means anything yet, but it might.

I started to walk home. The last thing I wanted at this point was the roar of the subway making my headache even worse. As I walked into Soho, my sixth sense started twitching. I glanced over my shoulder but didn’t see anyone. I continued walking, but I was still getting that crowding sensation, as if someone was getting too close too often. I still didn’t notice anyone in particular, but it was really bugging me. I saw a subway stop and went down into it. The train was arriving, and I swiped through the turnstile and darted into the car. No one followed me, as far as I can tell. But I’ve been on my guard ever since.

I’m totally lost here. My field trip to the weapons dealer clearly failed, bringing me back to square one. This Saito guy might be involved somehow, but I have no clue how I’m going to get in touch with him now. Maybe I’ll get in touch with Tanaka again, though I don’t know what good that would do.

To top it off, my arm is aching more than ever, which is just pissing me off. Ugh.

Chinatown - Part 4 - Mr. X

Ruby called me on Monday and told me to stay by the phone. It rang again a few hours later. The man on the line was Mr. X himself, who asked me to meet him at his apartment down near Gramercy Park. He knew I was looking for him, he said, and had as much desire to speak with me as I to him. I tried to get him to meet in an open area, but he was absolutely resistant. He assured me that no harm would come to me and that he just wanted to talk, but that it had to be absolutely secure and private.

I suited up with a concealed gun and a few conveniently placed knives, then called a couple of friends to let them know where to find my corpse in case they didn’t hear from me over the next few weeks. I took a cab down to the address he had given me near Gramercy Park. Mr. X – who we will now call Mr. Tanaka, as per the alias he gave to the escort service – lives in a very large high-rise building that clearly costs a fortune.

A million thoughts were racing through my mind as the elevator ascended to the 32nd floor. Would I be greeted with a team of women similar to the one who had decided to remove a chunk of my arm the other night? Was I about to step into a situation straight out of a Hong Kong kung fu flick? I had a sneaking suspicion that Tanaka’s wife would turn out to be the attacker from Natalie’s apartment.

I was wrong on all accounts. The door was indeed opened by Tanaka’s wife, but she was the complete opposite of the woman that had attacked me. She was probably in her 50’s, short, with a rounded body and face, and graying black hair pulled tightly back into a bun.

“I’m here to see Mr. Tanaka,” I told her.

“We’ve been expecting you,” she said with a grandmotherly expression of kindness covering her face. “Come in!” Huh. No ninja assassins just yet, but perhaps it was all a ruse to lower my guard. I kept my hand within gun-grabbing reach.

The apartment was enormous and modern in design. We entered the living room, which centered around a small rectangular pool in which brilliantly colored goldfish were swimming. Several expensive-looking black leather couches surrounded it. The walls were white and lined with antique bookshelves filled with books that looked centuries old. A pleasing combination of old and new.

Tanaka was seated on one couch reading a book, and he stood up to greet me. He was an older man, also in his 50’s, with graying hair slicked backwards. His face was a map of wrinkles, but his body looked quite fit and strong. He was dressed in a perfectly-pressed business suit.

“Welcome,” he said, shaking my hand. “Please sit down.”

I was still on edge, which was probably very obvious to him. “Do not be afraid,” he continued. He called to his wife, and asked if I wanted tea or coffee, both of which I turned down. He then asked his wife to leave, and closed the doors. He took a seat across from me.

“I think I know your type,” he said without any animosity. “You won’t tell me anything. You expect me to tell you everything, but every attempt I make to get answers from you will result in failure.”

I shrugged. “That’s the nature of my profession.”

“Save your questions then. Let me do some talking, and if you have any questions after, feel free to ask them. I wish to hire you.” Suddenly, my brain desperately wanted to ask a million question, but my mouth stayed shut.

“I will be perfectly honest with you, Mr. Dick. I have been hiring women to perform sexual services for about as long as I have been a businessman. I’ve been married for just as long. It’s very common in my world, and I would be hard-pressed to think of a single colleague who has not engaged in this type of behavior at one time or other.

“I met Natalie sometime ago and fell in love with her instantly. Not in the serious sense, but in the carefree, casual way. She was beautiful, was comfortable with what I liked in bed, and had a great personality for those awkward conversations before and after. I requested her again and again, and we became familiar with each other. She was my favorite, and I rented out an apartment in Chinatown for us to meet at – which I am told you also know about.

“Then I made the mistake of divulging factual information about myself and my livelihood. It was a stupid error that should have never happened, but I thought nothing of it at the time. I described to her my business, the history of my life, my financial status and power. I thought there was an unsaid agreement between the two of us, but apparently, there was not. She announced to me last Friday that she had secretly filmed one of our sessions together, and wanted a substantial amount of money to keep it quiet and not tell my wife. A substantial amount, Mr. Dick. The tape was quite explicit.

“Her intention was to blackmail me without end. I know where that road leads, and I sized her threat up in my mind. Ultimately, it seemed baseless. If I refused to pay, she would gain nothing personally from telling my wife, and would most likely lose her job and any trustworthy reputation. I offered her a single payment in return for the tape, but she turned it down. She wanted monthly payments, and would settle on no less. I tested her. I blew up in her face. Screamed threats at her, and threw her out of the apartment. All was without substance, but it seemed to work. She left, and I have not heard from her since, nor has my wife. I also terminated my lease on the apartment and had it cleaned out.

“It perhaps hadn’t occurred to Natalie or myself at the time, but she had far more bargaining power than she realized. I began remembering the conversations we’d had, in which I had gone into detail about competitors – and I suspect she has by now remembered them as well. I am now aware that it is in my interest to retrieve that video at any cost. The revelation could very much harm my reputation.

“I realize that you are already searching for Natalie under the employment of another client. I would like to employ you for a related task – to find the video for me. Now – do you have any questions”

Two paychecks for the same case. Not too shabby, but then again, I wasn’t about to work for a guy whose hired goon tried to kill me.

“Have you been to Natalie’s apartment since Friday?” I asked.

“No. I do not even know where she lives,” he replied calmly.

“But you could find out.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You already seem to know some information I didn’t think anyone had access to.”

“Yes, I could easily learn where Natalie lives, but I have no desire to – wait.” He paused, then: “Has someone been to her apartment?”

“Remember that rule about trying to get information out of me,” I said. “Let’s just say that if I learn you had any connection to what happened to me this weekend, I have no qualms in making many, many different parties aware of it.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, and his voice sounded innocent enough.

“Who do you suspect she might have gone to with the video?”

“It is possible that she may have gone to a man who not only works at a rival company, but whom I would consider to be a rival to me personally. This man and I have met in the past in some bad clashes. His name is Saito.”

“Address? Phone?”

Tanaka laughed. “If I told you any such identifying information, he would be aware of your attempts to use it to get to him immediately. He is a very powerful man, perhaps moreso than myself, and I’m going to have to leave it to you to devise a backdoor method of learning more about him.”

“You could really save me a lot of trouble.”

“Sorry. It’s for your own protection. Simply continue in your investigation, and see if his name comes up. If not, ignore it. His is the only name I mentioned personally. I may have mentioned businesses, but Natalie would have to literally walk into the reception desk to get anywhere with the video. And such business do not typically deal with whores.”

I took the case. Hell, I’m working the case to begin with – why not get another paycheck off of it? And if it turns out Tanaka was behind Natalie’s disappearance or the attack at her apartment, I’ll make good on my threat. When people take swings at me, I like to return the favor.

I got back to my office in the evening to find a brief voicemail message from the man from the martial arts supply store. It was simply a date, time, and location. The location I’ll have to keep quiet, but the date is Wednesday, September 22nd, and the time is 1:00PM.

Apparently, that’s my appointment with a man who makes very, very dangerous weapons.

Chinatown - Part 3 - Throwing Stars, Feeling Pain

I spent much of Thursday night watching the webcam feed from Natalie’s apartment on my computer. I was in the middle of writing an update to this site to say that the idea hadn’t turned in any results when I saw movement on the screen. The door in Natalie’s apartment opened, and a figure came in. Someone of Asian descent, though I couldn’t see his face clearly. The person was rummaging through the mess of Natalie’s apartment, apparently looking for something.

I rushed out to my car and gunned it down to Natalie’s apartment, running a whole slew of reds and nearly killing a bum that refused to get out of the street, even when the light was green. I pulled up, parked in front of a fire hydrant, and ran up the stairs to her apartment. The door to her apartment was open slightly, and a dim light was streaming through into the hallway. I took out my gun and pushed my way through.

At first glance, the room was empty and everything was silent save for the hum of the computer running in the corner. Then I was staring at the bottom of a Nike running shoe as it made its way through the air toward my face. The kick met its mark, smacking into my nose and sending me backwards. I still held the gun, but before I could get balanced, the assailant had an arm wrapped around my throat and what felt like a very sharp knife pressed against my jugular. The person wasn’t going out of their way to be gentle, and I could feel the blade break the skin. A person can bleed to death in about 10 to 20 seconds from a wound to the jugular.

“Why are you here?” the person asked from behind me. Raspy, but definitely a female voice. Her body felt small yet very powerful.

“I’m just the neighbor. Natalie asked me to watch her cat while she was gone.”

“One more time, then you bleed. Why are you here?”

I stayed silent for a moment, then I felt her draw up her arm. “I came here to find what you’re looking for.”

“What am I looking for?”

“What Natalie stole.”

The attacker eased up momentarily on the knife, maybe in surprise, and I used this to my advantage. I sent an elbow into her gut, and as she doubled over, I smacked the knife hand away and trained my gun on her. She had a long face with thin lips and dyed-blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. No one I had seen before. She stared at me with contempt, but dropped the knife knowingly.

“My turn for questions,” I said, rubbing my bleeding nose and keeping the gun trained on her. “Who are you, sweetie?”

The eyebrows lowered further than I thought possible. She said something that I imagine is very derogatory in Japanese.

“One more time, then you bleed, sweetie,” I said, and cocked my gun for effect. “Who do you work for?”

She was fast, and in my memory, her movement is a total blur. Suddenly, her hand was down by her waist, then there was a burning pain in my arm and she was out the window onto the fire escape. I looked down and saw what looked to be a throwing star sunk deep into my arm. Without thinking, I yanked it out, pulling along some strands of flesh I would have much preferred to keep apart of me. I ran to the window, but she was on the street level. In the time it’d take me to get out there, she’d be long gone.

I stared down at the bloody star in my hand, and realized immediately that the broken blade I had removed from Mr. X’s wall was an exact match (this roughly resembles it, from an online weapons store):



I found some rags under the kitchen sink and tied up my wound, which was bleeding pretty bad. From my brief conversation with the woman, it sounded like she still hadn’t recovered what was lost. Maybe she works for Mr. X. Maybe she’s another Voice girl. No clue. She definitely wasn’t either Ruby or Natalie, for anyone who was wondering.

I sat down on the couch and called Ruby. The next necessary step to take would be to find Mr. X, and I wanted to know whether it would make more sense for me to go to the escort service myself or for her. She said she had an idea, and would get back to me.

On Friday, I took both the throwing star and the broke throwing star blade down to a martial arts supply shop in Chinatown. The walls were hung with swords, though the $15-$100 price tags suggested that they weren’t anything more than for show. A few foam nunchucks were lying around, but nothing looked too dangerous. In fact, it almost seemed like a costume shop.

I showed the clerk the stars and asked where I could buy them in New York. He immediately began pointing at a sign, which detailed what was illegal in NY, and thus what they didn’t carry. There’s a whole array of weapons that cannot be sold legally in Massachusetts, New York, and California, including (among many, many others) throwing stars.

Then again, we’re in New York, the city where everything can be bought if the price is right. Just last year, for example, a Queens business was busted by the cops for selling tons of illegal weapons, from butterfly knives to canes with concealed blades. It only took a few minutes of hounding and bribery before the guy wrote down the address of a place a few blocks over that could give me more info on what I was looking for. He also gave me a line to say in Chinese to get in, and I wrote it down in my notebook phonetically.

I left and walked over through the bustle of countless pedestrians and arrived at what looked like a trinket shop. This type of store riddles Chinatown, and they usually all sell the same crap: faux-antique vases, cheap furniture, small statuary, and many other goods that can all be classified under junk. I made my way into the store to the back counter. A young man was there, and I tried to pronounce the line. He looked at me suspiciously for a second, probably trying to determine if I was a cop, then nodded over his shoulder. I realized he was directing me, and I walked around the counter through a pair of curtains into the backroom.

The backroom was not what you’d imagine. There were no knives, swords, nunchucks, throwing stars, bos, or sais decorating the walls. Just boxes. Countless non-descript brown boxes carefully arranged on shelves. An older man was back there, and I held out the stars.

“Where can I get these?” I asked.

He took a quick glance at them and seemed to size them up immediately. “These are custom made. Hard to find. Well-balanced. These cost much.”

“Do you have them?”

He shook his head. “These are unique, not mass-produced. Only one person I know of in Manhattan, and he won’t see you unless you are the type of person he will see.”

Nothing beats circular logic. “Am I the type of person he will see?”

“Depends on whether he will see you.”

Goddammit. “Where can I meet him?”

“Give me your name and phone number. I see if he’s taking orders now. If you don't hear back, answer is no.”

I wrote it down for him, and he put it in a pile of papers, then stopped paying attention to me. Our meeting was over, I took it, and left.

Saturday has been an ugly day, and I’ve been sitting around at Natalie’s apartment waiting to hear back from Ruby regarding Mr. X, or from the weapons guy about the stars. No one has shown up to wreck this place any further, though I don’t think that’s possible. Sounds like her neighbors just came home, so I’m going to go ask them a few questions.

This case has become a pain in the ass. Or arm, to be accurate.