Her legs went all the way up to the fringe of her babydoll dress. Presumably further than that, but that’s where the bright polka dots distracted me from theorizing. They clashed with her fuchsia parasol, still open indoors, and her bottle-tangerine hair, which cascaded from her scalp like a Muppet in a blender. She made my eyes hurt. But it was the good kind of hurt, like you’d get from fourteen fingers of Scotch, or a giraffe stepping on your testicles.
“Mr. Mallet, I need a detective. And I also need you to listen to this mixtape I made for you. It’ll change your life.” She handed me a plastic cartridge, and—like the fool I am—I took it.
I muttered back. “I don’t have a cassette player.”
“Good, because that’s not a cassette. I use 8-Track for all my mixes. It’s a quirky little format. You never know when it’s going to jam. Every listen’s an adventure. Like life.”
“What kind of screwy dame comes to a shamus to extoll the virtues of obsolete media?”
She smiled. “Aren’t you the detective?”
“Mikey Mallet, bonded and certified, like it says on the door.”
She glanced back at the frosted glass. “Looks more like Tallam Yekim.” She sat on the desk, her hem pulling up to reveal more of her vintage tights. “You gonna help me, or what, Mr. Yekim?”
“Call me Tallam,” I said. “What’s the skinny?”
Her name was Parker, and she had a husband. Isn’t that the way with dames? Dazzle you with an offbeat zest for life, then light the “No Vacancy” sign.
Then again, she and the mister were on the skids. In my personal experience, that was also the way with dames, but that might be a vocational hazard. I’d imagine if I rented venues for wedding anniversaries, I’d have a sunnier outlook on matrimony.
Hers had started storybook. She’d met Whitford at a low ebb—he’d gotten fired from his job as Vice President of Development for a new breakfast cereal that permanently turned kids’ tongues blue, and had flown home for his dad’s funeral. Cause of death: “acute paternal disappointment.”
That’s when Parker ran into him—literally. She rear-ended his car as he left the wake. She didn’t have insurance because “’Preparing’ is just another word for closing off possibilities,” but she paid him back with a coupon book, good for a hundred New Experiences. Somewhere between “skinny dip in your old high school principal’s pool” and “pretend to be a mohel at a bris to steal hors d’oeuvres,” the dumb mug realized he was in love.
Only now, apparently, a life of constant magic had lost its magic. “I know he’s cheating on me, Mikey,” she exhaled, flouncing into a chair, as waves of tulle floated upward. “And after I rescued him, with absolutely no thought to my own inner life.” She scrunched her face adorably. “I don’t know if I even have one. I’m not even sure what my job is. Though,” she gave herself a once-over, “judging by my clothes, I’m gonna guess… sexy kindergarten teacher?” She frowned, thoughtful. “I hope the kids are okay. If that is my job, I haven’t seen them in a while.”
“Don’t worry, doll,” I said, taking her in my arms. “I’m sure they have robust after-school programs.”
The following weeks were a whirlwind.
I’d confessed to Parker that I felt “a little sad” since the death of my partner. He’d been shot seventeen times while doing me a favor: tailing a mobster who had a grudge against me, while wearing my hat, coat, and an old T-shirt of mine reading MALLET FAMILY REUNION. I couldn’t help but feel partially responsible.
After that, I’d crawled inside a bottle for the better part of a year and only moved out when I got a deal on a bigger bottle across town. Parker somehow knew how to bring me back to life.
She suggested we visit every diner in the city that claimed to have “The World’s Best Cup of Coffee” and try them all, then we spent a few blissfully caffeinated hours chasing squirrels up trees. She started an impromptu conga line of unhoused people on the A train, while I sang nonsense lyrics and strummed a borrowed mariachi guitar. At the Coney Island aquarium, she convinced me that she’d slipped the guards a fin to let us swim with the manta rays. Fifteen minutes later, we ran down the boardwalk, laughing and dripping, because she’d done no such thing. Later on, I looked up “fin” in my copy of The Flatfoot’s Dictionary. Turns out it’s five dollars. Should’ve known that was cheap for endangering fish.
“Happiness is like a butterfly,” she said. “Cling to it, and it crumples, so just be happy if it chooses to visit.” She was always saying beautiful, stupid shit like that. We spent so much time together I barely had a chance to tail her husband; but (on a break from kidnapping residents of an old folks’ home to take a field trip to a candy store) I did manage to get a few snapshots of Brad and his new twist. And I only lost two seniors while multitasking.
I held off on breaking the bad news. Hell, we were having fun, and the poor adorkable soul deserved a soft landing. And if that landing happened to be on the Murphy bed in my office? No need to call me a hero for caring.
Turns out, I did get up close and personal with a body. Just not hers. Brad was found curled in my trunk—his neck broken, from what the coroner deemed “vigorous frolicking on a particularly fast children’s carousel.” No prizes for guessing what free-spirited gal loved playing the (wooden) ponies.
It was a frame job as perfect as the oversized cat’s eye lenses around her big doe eyes. The cops figured me for a jealous side piece, and who would you believe? The cheap dick with a corpse in his car, or the effervescent pixie that rekindled the 9th precinct’s zest for life? Law enforcement is lousy with sad sacks waiting to be rescued. A girl calls in a bomb threat that’s actually a suitcase full of gumdrops one time, and who swings for murder? Me. Your friendly neighborhood sap.
Prison wasn’t all bad. Parker even visited me once. We spoke freely while the guards were busy on an impromptu scavenger hunt she’d arranged by hiding all their sidearms.
Even then, Parker could light up a room. Maybe lighting up a jail is a low bar to clear, I dunno. But she looked good. I picked up the receiver and managed to rasp, “How could you do this, doll?”
“Sorry, Mikey. I’ve spent so much energy fixing other people, I figured it was time to prioritize myself. Nothing personal.”
“So I was a means to an end? Just a palooka to take the fall?” I searched her eyes. “Or did you love me at all?”
Parker smiled. “Oh, Mikey. I love everyone.”
Aw hell. I can’t be mad at her. She once said all her mixtapes tell a story, and the one she gave me ended with “I’m Framing You For Murder,” by The Beatles. One of Lennon’s lesser-known B-sides. I thought she was just trying to impress me with a deep cut.
Besides, I truly am a changed man. She once told me I should live every day like it’s my last. Now, about a week from the chair, I’m finally starting to get it.
