What’s a Dame Like You Doin’ in a Joint Like This?

Author’s notes:

In Part Four, our brave gumshoes had an unpleasant run-in with the car rental agency employee, found out that Shannequa Montage missed her set at the Funky Monkey, and had their wallets stolen by two hookers named Mona and Peaches. Join us now for the conclusion of The Gumshoes, and be sure and tune into the Blooper Reel.

Later Saturday night…

Jim buried his face in his hands and groaned in total disbelief. His broad shoulders sagged in defeat as he rose up and leaned against the railing of the steps where he had been sitting.

With an exasperated roll of his green eyes, he despondently muttered, “We are sooo screwed.”

“What did you say?” Brian inquired, just wanting to hear Jim to reiterate that fact, although he’d heard it perfectly well the first time.

After a labored and lengthy exhale, Jim glumly repeated, “We’re screwed. Skuuuuh-roooohed.”

In spite of the dark circumstances, Brian could not stifle a bitter chuckle. “You’re just now coming to this conclusion?” he asked with a snort. “I could’ve told you that yesterday. In fact, I think I did tell you that yesterday.”

Once again, Jim rested his face in his freckled hands. “So, what do we do now?”

Brian shrugged his muscular shoulders. “I don’t know. What do you suggest we do?”

Jim looked up and rubbed his temples while he thought. “I guess we could start walking to the hotel. It’s only ten or fifteen miles from here.”

“Only?” Brian’s eyebrows rose in sarcastic query.

“Maybe Al would give us a lift when he gets off work,” Jim suggested.

“Maybe,” Brian answered, his voice flat from the lack of hope.

Jim stood and dusted off his backside. “We could case the block again, just in case.”

“Sure, why not,” Brian agreed halfheartedly. “We don’t have anything better to do.”

The two men trudged down Franko Street. As they passed a dark alley, they noticed a group of women standing outside a doorway. Jim nodded in that general direction. “Do you wanna go investigate?”

“We might as well.” Brian shot him a rueful grin. “We’ve already been threatened by men with baseball bats, hit on by drag queens, victims of grand theft auto, and mugged, so sure. Let’s go see what those women will do to us. Maybe they have a machete or two hidden behind their backs and will hack us to death.”

The two men nervously walked down the dark, narrow alleyway. As they approached the women, Jim cleared this throat, and then called out, “Excuse me, ladies, b—”

“We’re done for the night,” one of them yelled as she opened the door in front of which she was standing.

“Come back tomorrow evening,” the other added wearily.

Jim and Brian halted in their tracks. “I guess we can’t talk to them,” Brian murmured. “I was hoping one of them was Shawanda Monét.”

“We’re not looking for ‘Shawanda Monét’ anyway,” Jim corrected with a snicker. “Besides, I got a good look at them, and they were both females. Real females.”

Brian groaned and, after pushing away some stray garbage, sat down on the concrete. “So, what is this dude’s… er… chick’s name again that we’re looking for? I’m so tired that I’m having difficulty remembering.”

Jim sank down beside him on the concrete, and pulled off his hat. He sighed wearily and ran a freckled hand through his red hair. “Shannequa Montage. How on earth could you forget that moniker?”

“Well, how are we supposed to find him… er, her…uhhh… it now?” Brian asked in frustration. “We have no car, no money, no credit cards, no phone, and no ID.”

“We’ll just pray that we’re lucky enough to run into ‘shim’.”

Brian rolled his eyes skyward. “Luck,” he repeated. “What’s that? We certainly haven’t had any of it during this trip.”

“We might as well get up and start walking someplace,” Jim advised as he stood. “We can’t sit in this alleyway forever.”

“Oh, and I was so comfortable,” Brian said sarcastically as he plucked a stray gum wrapper off of his pants leg. “Hey, I have an idea. How about you just buy this Hughes guy another La Crappy, since it’s going to be impossible for us to find Shannequa now?”

“That’s La Quapé,” Jim corrected with a smirk.

“It looked like crap to me,” Brian responded grumpily.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Hughes was the proud owner of one-of-a-kind crap,” Jim replied with an amused grin on his face. “The stolen painting was the only one that existed.”

“Thank God,” Brian mumbled as he remembered the hideous piece of artwork.

They exited the alleyway, relieved to be on the main street. As seedy as Franko Street was, at least it was well lit and not nearly as confining.

With an excited gasp, Jim gripped Brian’s arm, halting his progress. “Look!” he whispered loudly, pointing with his free hand. “Over there by that trashcan.”

Brian’s gaze followed Jim’s outstretched finger. “What are you—” His voice trailed off as he studied the figure at whom Jim pointed. “Hey, is that…”

“I’m not positive, but it sure looks like her,” Jim answered excitedly. He whipped out the folded picture of Shannequa Montage that he had placed inside his jacket pocket. “Looks like a match to me. What do you think?”

Brian stared at the tall, dark-skinned female who was standing about ten feet away from them. “I’m not sure, Jim.” He pulled out his own photo of Shannequa and studied it under the streetlight.

“Are you kidding?” Jim exclaimed eagerly. “That person’s a dead ringer for Diana Ross. Look at the poofy hair! We found her, Brian!”

Brian shook his head slowly. “It sort of does look like Diana Ross, although this woman isn’t nearly as pretty as she.”

“Sort of?” Jim repeated. “C’mon! It could be a Diana Ross clone!”

Brian’s forehead creased as he studied the female critically. “I don’t know, Jim. I think it’s really a woman.”

“With those legs?” Jim snorted. “Are you crazy?! Those are ‘man legs’, sure as I’m standing here.”

“Well, she’s got ugly legs, no doubt about that,” Brian agreed with a nod. “But that’s a woman. An unattractive woman, but a woman none the less.”

“You can’t be serious!” Jim guffawed. “I’m willing to bet my last dollar that that’s a transvestite.”

“Well, since your last dollar has already been stolen, I’d say it’s a safe bet for you to make either way,” Brian joked. “Bet or no bet, that’s a woman.”

“Are you blind?” Jim asked in disbelief. “Look at her, or him, or whatever you want to call it!”

Once again he pointed to the person by the trashcan. The human in question was wearing a short leopard-print miniskirt and a skimpy, black-sequined halter-top.

“I’m looking,” Brian said with a doubtful shrug. “It’s a woman.”

“How can you be so sure?” Jim demanded.

“Jim, I have had eight years of medical training,” Brian lectured in a superior tone. “I think I’m qualified to judge if a person is a male or a female.”

“Oh, puh-leaze,” Jim groaned. “I did my student teaching in an alternative school where half the kids were cross-dressers. I think I’m just as qualified as you to discern between the sexes.”

“Oh, really?” Brian challenged, his arms crossed and a captivated smile on his face.

“Really,” Jim stated firmly. “So why are you so sure that that’s a woman?”

“I can just tell.”

“ ‘I can just tell’,” Jim repeated in mocking tone. “And it took a degree in medicine for you to be able to reach that highly-educated conclusion?”

“I don’t need to study her DNA to know that that’s a female,” Brian snapped.

“What makes you think that’s she’s not a man?” Jim crossed his arms and waited for Brian’s answer. “Please, Dr. Belden; enlighten me.”

“She’s got boobs,” Brian smugly informed his friend.

Jim chuckled in a patronizing manner. “Haven’t you ever heard of estrogen pills? Some of these guys who dress up like women take them to grow breasts.”

Brian quirked a dark brow and appraised the form. “I dunno, Jim. They’re pretty big. She’s at least a C-cup, and I don’t think those pills let you get that endowed.”

“Maybe he had implants!” Jim suggested.

“Maybe,” Brian agreed, his excitement nowhere near Jim’s.

“Let’s go over and talk to… er, her.”

“You’re starting to sound like Trixie,” Brian informed him. “Next you’ll be accusing Ned Shultz’s dad of being Shannequa Montage.”

Jim loudly exhaled to express his impatience. “Why won’t you just go over there, Brian? It won’t hurt to investigate.”

Brian merely shook his head. “I don’t think we should do that, Jim. How about we watch her for a few moments first?”

“It might leave,” Jim pointed out. “This could be our last chance.”

Brian grimaced and shook his head again. “I think it’s a bad idea. We’ll just stand here and study her, and once we make sure it’s Shannequa, we’ll approach her.”

“C’mon, Bri!” Jim prodded. “What are you afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid; I’m cautious,” Brian corrected. “There’s a big difference.” He stood back and watched his friend sulk, and then finally dismissed him with a wave. “Hey, if you’re so sure that’s Shannequa Montage, why don’t you go over by yourself?” he offered, his tone quite skeptical. “I’ll be here to bail you out if you get into trouble.”

“All right, I will,” Jim declared with an arrogant sniff. “And after I’ve found out where the painting is, I want all the credit.”

Brian grinned as he motioned for his friend to proceed. “No problem, Jim. I’ll be only too happy to give you all the credit for this entire adventure.”

After lightly smacking Brian in the head, Jim straightened the lapels of his brown jacket, slightly tilted his fedora, and adjusted his belt. That finished, he confidently approached the “woman”.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he called out to her, a pleasant smile on his handsome face.

The person looked at Jim, her wary glance soon becoming appreciative as her brown eyes raked over Jim’s muscular form. “Anything I can do for you, sweetheart?” she asked in a husky voice.

“I hope so. You see, I’m looking for a prostitute.”

The female’s dark eyebrows rose in surprise. “What’s a handsome guy like you doing looking for a hooker?”

“W-well, my fiancée’s sick, and I-I…” Jim stammered nervously as he fumbled for the right words. “Ummm… so are you a… you know… prostitute?”

The female smiled at Jim in a sultry manner. “I’m standing where the call girls stand to solicit business. I’m dressed in a provocative manner. And I’m trying my best to be enticing. So just tell me what you want, sweetheart.”

Jim cleared his throat and anxiously looked around. “I’m… uhhh… kind of nervous.” He cast the “woman” one of his heart melting lopsided grins. “I’ve never done this before.”

“No need to be nervous, handsome,” the hooker said. “See, I’m a sure thing. You just tell me what you want. You got the money; I got the time.”

“Well, see… uhhh… I’m looking for a prostitute because I need something from her,” Jim stammered, wringing his hands in uncertainty. “I… ummm… She has something I… uhhh.. want…”

The call girl smiled and smoothed back her frizzy black hair. She wiggled closer to Jim and ran a hand up her stocking clad leg and under her short skirt in a provocative manner. Suddenly, she pulled out a badge that had been hidden under the garter on her upper thigh.

“Freeze, scumbag!” she yelled. “LAPD! You’re under arrest for solicitation of a prostitute!”

“What?” Jim yelled in disbelief. “Aren’t you Shannequa Montage?”

“No, sir, I am not,” the “hooker” informed him with authority. “I’m Undercover Detective Christina Redding, and you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain—”

“I wasn’t soliciting a prostitute!” Jim argued, looking around for Brian. “I just needed to ask a prostitute a question.”

“Yeah, right, jerk! Tell it to the judge!”

“No, I’m serious!” Jim frantically insisted, his usually deep voice sounding rather high-pitched and squeaky. “I’m doing some detective work for my girlfriend. You can check me out. I’m James Winthrop Frayne the Second from Sleepyside, New York.”

The policewoman studied him through narrowed eyes. “Let me see some ID.”

Jim sighed wearily. “I don’t have it on me. It was stolen.”

“Oh, really? What a coincidence.” Detective Redding’s eyebrows shot up in speculation. “By whom was your wallet stolen?”

“Some hooker named Mona picked my pocket about an hour ago,” Jim admitted.

“Ah, so I wasn’t the first call girl you tried to pick up tonight, scumbag!” the undercover police officer exclaimed angrily. “Well, I’ve got news for you, pretty boy! I’m the last one you’ll pick up for three-to-five. Now spread ‘em so I can search you.”

“You don’t understand!” Jim bellowed as he turned his back and allowed Detective Redding to frisk him. “If you’d just call the detective agency that I’m working for, you’d see that this is a huge mistake!”

“Spread ‘em, phlegm-wad,” she barked. “Don’t make me pull out my pepper spray. It wouldn’t bother me a bit to temporarily blind those pretty green eyes of yours.”

Remembering Jack’s claim that he was friends with several of the officers on the force, Jim pleaded, “Call Detective Palmer! He can straighten all this out!”

The policewoman ceased her search. “Jack Palmer? From Keenan Investigations?”

“Yes.” Jim nodded his head eagerly, hopeful that his problems were solved. “That’s him.”

“Good-looking guy?” the officer clarified. “Auburn hair? Hazel eyes? Body like Ryan Reynold’s? Drop-dead gorgeous smile?”

“According to some people,” Jim answered, only to be whacked on the back of the head by the undercover cop.

Detective Redding not-so-gently pushed Jim back to the search position and resumed her frisking, this time her patting becoming much rougher. “Oh, I know Jack Palmer!” she growled, each “pat” resembling a “whack”. “That jerk didn’t call me! We met at a police banquet, and I gave him my number. He said he’d call, but didn’t even try to phone me once. Jerk!”

“That’s not my fault!” Jim howled, cringing as the powerful policewoman slapped him as she vigorously “searched”.

“You good-looking guys are all alike,” she screeched. “You just think you’re God’s gift to women all over the globe, and I have news for you: YOU’RE NOT!”

“I’m not God’s gift to women! I’m not!” Jim agreed, grimacing as the policewoman’s slaps intensified.

“That stupid prick!” the undercover officer screamed as she pulled some handcuffs out of her tote bag and snapped them on Jim’s wrists. “If I ever see his pompous face again, I have half a notion to slap it!”

“Be my guest! I’m not overly fond of him myself!”

“Arrogant, charming, bas—”

“Whoa!” Brian, who had obviously not been paying attention, quickly approached the policewoman who had just finished cuffing his friend. “What’s going on, ma’am?”

“This man’s under arrest for soliciting a prostitute,” Detective Redding informed him curtly. “Have a problem with that, or do I need to call for backup, buddy?”

“There’s been a mistake, ma’am,” Brian told her politely.

“The only mistake is that I’m not allowed to club him without being provoked,” the policewoman hissed angrily. “You’re friend will be at the police station if you want to bail him out later.”

“I know you’re just trying to do your job, ma’am, but he didn’t mean to solicit you,” Brian assured her. “See, we’re looking for a male prostitute, and Jim thought you were a man dressed up as a woman…”

“You’re not helping, Brian,” Jim muttered in a sing-song voice.

The lady police officer kept one firm hand on her suspect, but still managed to lean closer to Brian in a menacing fashion.

“He thought I was a man?” she repeated with a growl.

“I tried to tell him that you weren’t, but he was positive you were really a guy,” Brian told her, naively unaware of the hole he was digging.

“Well, that’s not exa—” Jim began, only to be interrupted by another whack to the back of his head by the cop.

“And were you looking for a hooker, too?” the detective snarled at Brian, her tone as far from amused as a tone could get.

“Well, yeah, but—”

“Spread ‘em, phlegm-wad!” the undercover cop barked, instantly pulling out another set of cuffs from her bag. “You have the right to remain silent…”

“Now you tell him…” Jim murmured, rolling his emerald green eyes in exasperation.

“W-what are you doing?” Brian sputtered as the woman pushed him into the search position. “I’m innocent!”

“Sure you are, scumbag!” the policewoman sneered. “I’ve been an undercover cop for eight years, and I recognize a sex maniac when I see one. A handsome guy like you, looking for a boy toy…”

“I’m not a sex maniac!” Brian insisted. “I’m a doctor!”

“Yeah right, douche bag!” The policewoman snapped the handcuffs on Brian’s wrists, not caring if they bit into soft tissue or not.

“Yow!” Brian howled in pain as the cuffs clamped into the tender flesh of his wrist. “Can’t we all just get along?”

“Shut up!” she ordered harshly. “A few months in the clink with Bubba will straighten you boys out!”

“We are soooo screwed!” Brian and Jim chimed simultaneously.

“Not yet, but you’re gonna be,” Detective Redding threatened with a smug smirk.

An hour later…

“Let me get this straight,” Brian stated from the holding cell where he and Jim were sitting. “You want all the credit for this?”

Jim wearily looked up at his fellow gumshoe and considered making an obscene hand gesture. However, he found himself too tired to exert that much effort.

Brian glumly appraised the cinderblock cell in which he and Jim were waiting. Soon they would be moved to a more permanent cell. “Well, at least they’ll give us a phone call. They do give you one, don’t they? I’ve never been arrested before, so I don’t know if they really do that or not. Do they care if you call long-distance, or does it have to be a local number?”

Jim was too busy banging his forehead on the block wall to answer.

“The fingerprinting wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be,” Brian commented. “I hope they use nontoxic ink for that procedure.”

Jim looked up at his friend briefly, and then resumed his banging.

“I hate to admit it, but the picture-thing was kind of cool,” Brian continued with a slight grin. “I kind of liked getting photographed from all angles. I wonder what the number under my mug shot is?”

Brian paused momentarily, politely giving Jim an opportunity to add input. Since his friend seemed occupied with inducing a concussion, he went on with his rambling.

“I didn’t know if we were supposed to smile for the mug shot or not. But I was afraid it might end up on Court TV or something, since your dad’s kind of famous, so I decided to give sort of a Mona Lisa expression. Like this.” He demonstrated his expression and paused for a second, curious if Jim would voice an opinion. However, his friend remained silent, except for the dull thuds his head was making against the wall.

“Did you smile, Jim?”

Jim halted the beating he was purposely inflicting upon himself and glanced at his fellow gumshoe, an expression of exaggerated despair on his face.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Brian deduced, smirking as Jim resumed his self-torment. Suddenly, a new thought came to his mind, and he scratched his chin as he pondered it. “I wonder when they make us change clothes.”

Brian peeked at Jim to see if he could offer any insight, but decided that Jim was otherwise busy.

“Do they make you wear those ugly orange jumpsuits?” Brian wondered out loud. “I guess they don’t hand out those black-and white-striped get-ups that they used to make prisoners wear.”

Jim merely moaned as he increased the force with which he banged his head.

“Those orange jumpsuits look itchy,” Brian continued thoughtfully. “And don’t even get me started about prison-issue underwear. I don’t want my boys where a thousand boys have already been. I hope we get to keep our own underwear.”

Jim stopped banging momentarily and rubbed the red mark that had formed just under his hairline. A minute later, he was back to pounding his head against the gray cinderblock cell wall.

“You know, you really shouldn’t do that,” Brian rebuked. “You’re gonna need all the brain cells you can muster to get us out of this mess. I wouldn’t squander them on self-mutilation. Besides, if you wait until Trixie picks us up after we serve three-to-five, I’m sure she’ll be happy to bash your head against that brick wall for you.” A mischievous grin parted his lips as he added, “I’m sure she’ll throw in a lecture or two, as well.”

Jim ceased his repetitive head-banging and staggered over to a bench by the wall. After plopping down wearily, he leaned back and asked, “What are we gonna do?”

“We’re going to call Jack and have him bail us out ASAP,” Brian said firmly.

“Do we have to call Jack?” Jim’s green eyes begged for Brian to suggest some alternative, any alternative. Suddenly, he began digging through his pockets. “Hey, maybe I have Punky Brewster’s number! What was her real name again… Starlet Gauge… Stella Gate…?”

“Starla Gaucherié,” Brian corrected, without much enthusiasm. “And sure, Jim. Why don’t you get some additional charges on our record, like impersonation of an executive, or whatever they call it?” After a pause, he added, “Besides, you threw away her number.”

“Do you think Al would come bail us out?” Jim suggested hopefully.

“Oh, yeah,” Brian snorted, “they’re going to release us to a person who served time for grand theft auto. He’d be a stellar reference for us.”

“So, what do we do?” Jim’s crestfallen expression showed that he had clearly reached the end of his rope.

“We call Jack Palmer and beg and plead with him to bail us out.”

“You know, jail wouldn’t really be that bad,” Jim began. “Just think of what a learning experience it wou—”

Brian crossed his arms and glared at Jim.

“OK, we’ll call Palmer,” Jim agreed in a voice barely above a mumble. “I’ll yell for the guard and ask if I can make my one call now, since it’s my fault we’re here.”

Jim slowly rose from the bench and walked to the corner of the cell closest to the door. However, before he could call for the guard, a noisy commotion caught his attention.

“Hey, didn’t you hear me, shortcake?” a high-pitched voice exclaimed from down the hall. “Use them Dumbo-ears for something other than holdin’ up your hat. I said that you’re takin’ me the wrong way!”

Jim moved away from the cell opening and listened closely to the conversation echoing down the hallway.

“Awww, shut up!” a deep voice commanded. “Now move!”

Jim turned to Brian with a quizzical look on his face. Brian merely shrugged and returned the equally-confused expression, as his friend sat down beside him.

“Yow!” the first person howled, as if in pain. “Haven’t you ever heard of moisturizer, sugar love? A woman likes to be caressed with soft hands, not those callousy things you’ve got.”

“How do you know what a woman wants?” the deeper voice inquired with a hearty chuckle. “Now move it or lose it, mister!”

“Mister?!” the prisoner squawked huffily. “Who you callin’ ‘mister’, you big hairy ape?”

Jim and Brian strained to hear the guard’s response, but only heard a muffled “whack”.

“OW!” the prisoner howled. “Prisoner abuse! Prisoner abuse! Get Johnnie Cochran on the phone!”

“He’s dead, you old bag!” the officer snickered. “Now get a move on!”

“But you’re takin’ me the wrong way!” the feminine-esque voice complained loudly. “I need to go down the other hall…”

“I said to shut up!”

A large police officer emerged through the doorway leading to the holding cell. He forcefully yanked on the prisoner he was escorting, urging the unwilling person to follow him. The reluctant soon-to-be inmate hurled several creatively-used epithets at the jailor. As soon as the prisoner came into view, both Jim and Brian stared at each other in disbelief.

Though the jailbird was being led to the men’s holding cell, it appeared to be a “she”. Her right arm was being firmly grasped by the officer to lead her to her new quarters, but with her left hand, she patted her frizzy dark hair, trying to keep it in place. In spite of her long legs, she had difficulty keeping up with the guard’s shorter strides, most likely due to the tightness of the thigh-length purple leather dress she was wearing. The prisoner took tiny, dainty steps since any other kind would most certainly be prohibited by the black faux-alligator skin stilettos in which her large feet were encased.

“Shannequa Montage,” Jim and Brian silently mouthed to each other, practically wiggling on the bench in joy as they watched the officer unlock the door of the holding cell in which they sat.

“Oooh!” Shannequa squealed as the guard pushed her inside. “You wicked, wicked boy! Tryin’ to feel me up while puttin’ me in this cell!”

“Like there’s anything you got that I wanna feel,” barked the officer, as he unlocked her handcuffs and removed them.

“Don’t lie to Shannequa Montage, baby,” the drag queen murmured in a sultry voice. “I’ve got it all goin’ on! Besides, if I’m not mistaken, you already got a handful when you frisked me earlier, baby.” Shannequa moved her hand in a Z-formation, while snapping her fingers.

The police officer merely snorted in disbelief and shook his head. “Trust me, we had to draw straws to see who got that job.”

Shannequa pursed her lips together and fluttered her false eyelashes flirtatiously at the guard. “So you were the winner, big boy?”

“No, the loser,” the policeman snickered as he shoved her inside the cell. “Now sit there and keep your trap shut.”

“You know you want me,” Shannequa called out in a husky voice as the guard walked back down the hall. After she heard the clatter of the door to the main lobby, she turned on her heel with a flourish, dramatically fluffed her hair, sashayed over the bench farthest from Jim and Brian, and demurely sat down. She crossed her fishnet stocking-clad legs and dangled one of her stilettos from the tip of her toes.

Jim elbowed his companion in the gut. “Pssst!” he whispered, leaning his red head close to Brian’s dark one. “Go over and talk to her.”

Brian’s brown eyes grew wide with alarm. “Are you kidding? I don’t want to talk to her.”

“Well, I don’t either,” Jim admitted crossly. “Hey, I’ll flip you for it.”

Brian snorted. “What’re you going to flip? Mona and Peaches took all our money.”

“Maybe we could draw straws…” Jim muttered, looking around the cell for anything to use.

“I think you should talk to her,” Brian announced, looking pointedly at his friend. “You’re the one who tried to solicit an undercover cop.”

“Well, you’re the one who told the undercover cop that I thought she was a man,” Jim argued. “We might’ve been able to talk her out of arresting us, if she thought I was hitting on her.”

“She was going to arrest you anyway,” Brian insisted.

“Telling her that I thought she looked like a man sure didn’t help.” Jim sighed loudly, expressing his frustration. “Okay, since neither of us want to talk to her, how ‘bout we settle this like men?”

Brian quirked a dark brow. “What do you suggest?” he asked in a deep-pitched voice.

“Eeney meeney miney moe,” Jim proposed, a serious expression on his face. “Whoever’s ‘it’ talks to ‘it’.” He concluded the statement by nodding towards Shannequa Montage.

Brian rubbed his forehead as he mentally debated the odds. Finally, he set his jaw stubbornly and stuck out his hand to Jim. “I accept.”

Jim shook Brian’s hand. “Do you want to call it, or should I?”

Brian motioned to his fellow gumshoe. “Go ahead.”

As the gunslingers of yore, Jim narrowed his eyes and squared his shoulders as he began the challenge. “Eeney meeney miney moe,” he chanted, alternately pointing to Brian and himself. “Catch a tiger by the toe. If he hollers, let him go. Eeney meeney miney moe.”

He paused as he pointed to himself, then continued, “My mother told me to pick the very best one and you… are… not… it!”

Jim grinned triumphantly as his finger pointed towards Brian. “You’re it! So you get to talk to her.”

Brian shook his head, a smug grin on his face. “Nuh-uh. I’m NOT it. You’re it. Remember— you are NOT it.”

Jim’s ginger brows furrowed as he pondered Brian’s claim. He repeated the phrase to himself and rehearsed the rules of grammar over in his mind, trying to find a loophole of some sort. Finally, with a belligerent huff, he angrily crossed his arms and said, “Fine!”

He stood and cautiously approached Shannequa Montage, who was busy examining her fingernails. As he neared the drag queen, he heard her muttering over how she had broken a nail. He nervously cleared his throat and gulped as she looked up at him.

“Why, hel-lo there,” Shannequa purred, studying Jim with great admiration. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Brawny comin’ to pay me a visit. You have some paper towels for me, stud muffin?”

Jim shifted from one foot to the other, fumbling for some sort of response.

“Want my autograph, darlin’, or were you, perhaps, wantin’ something else?” she purred provocatively.

Jim turned beet red as he choked back his automatic response. “Actually… uhhh… my friend and I were just… uhhh…”

“Is that handsome man over there your friend?” Shannequa cooed, coyly waving at Brian, who was pretending not to notice. “Ooh… I like my men dark. Not that you aren’t quite the handsome stallion, Mr. Brawny.”

“Uhhh… thanks,” Jim stammered. “To be honest… errr…. We had tried to find you earlier this evening but you were… uhhh… otherwise engaged.”

“You can bet your cute butt I was,” she giggled. “Now, go on, you cutie-patootie you.”

“Yeah, we… ehhh… were trying to find you so we could… uhhh… ask you a question…”

“My life’s an open book, darlin’.” Shannequa pursed her lips and cast a smoldering glance to Jim. “Come peruse my pages…”

“Ummm… well, sir…”

“Sir?” Shannequa uncrossed her legs and sat upright, and then repeated in a stiff voice, “Sir?”

Jim gulped noisily. “A-a-aren’t you a sir?”

Shannequa bobbled her head and held up her index finger. “Do I look like a sir?”

“Uhh… no… errr… yes… ummm… I guess not… ahhh… sort of…”

“Can you speak English?” Shannequa shrieked. “Do I look like a sir?”

“Well, you are in the men’s holding cell,” Jim pointed out, taking the cop-out route.

“Only because those guards wanted to strip search me,” Shannequa argued with an indignant huff. “They’re nothin’ but hungry wolves back there, tryin’ to corrupt this poor little lamb.”

“If you could just answer…”

Shannequa cackled in disbelief, and then held her hand up to Jim, her palm facing him like a wall. “Talk to the hand, baby. You done insulted Shannequa Montage, and I don’t talk to nobody who insults me.”

“It’ll only take a min—”

“Talk to the hand, ‘cause the face ain’t listenin’,” Shannequa interrupted, keeping her wall in tact. “Mr. Brawny, you done lost your chance to get with me.”

“Please,” begged Jim as contritely as he could. “I’m sorry that I offended you, but if you could just talk to me for a moment—”

Shannequa looked around the cell in an exaggerated manner, cupping her hand around her ear. “Hmmm… Is that a voice I hear? Surely not. I know that big meanie who called me a sir isn’t tryin’ to start a conversation with me.”

Jim exhaled loudly. “Please. If you’d jus—”

Shannequa merely crossed her arms, re-crossed her legs and turned her back to Jim. With a hopeless sigh, he began to walk back over to the bench where Brian was sitting.

“Of course,” Shannequa said before Jim walked away, “I’d be only too happy to talk to tall, dark and handsome over there.”

“You’d talk to my friend?” Jim asked hopefully.

“If I was talkin’ to Mr. Brawny, which I am not, I’d ask him to send his delicious friend over my way,” Shannequa nonchalantly commented. “I’d tell tall, dark and handsome anything he wanted to know.”

“Anything?” Jim repeated gleefully.

“Anything.”

Jim turned to Brian, a solicitous smile upon his face. He reverently approached his comrade and, with an air of humility, earnestly began his pleading. “Brian, my friend, by any chance could you—”

“No,” Brian interrupted firmly. “Forget it.”

“I haven’t even asked you yet,” Jim argued. “Let me finish my request before you cut me off. Brian could you please, please talk—”

“No,” Brian curtly repeated. “The devil will need to invest in snowshoes before I would even consider talking to… ‘it’.”

“C’mon, Brian!” Jim pleaded desperately. “If you just do this one favor, I’ll never ask you to do anything ever again.”

“No way.” Brian shook his head. “I’m not ‘it’. I don’t have to go over there.”

“But if you don’t talk to her, we won’t find out what she knows about the painting,” urged Jim. “She got mad at me and won’t say anything else.”

“Is that my fault?”

“No,” admitted Jim.

“Why’d you call her ‘sir’?” Brian asked with a groan of frustration. “It’s obvious that he’s under the impression that he’s a her.”

“I don’t know,” mumbled Jim forlornly. “I meant to say ‘ma’am’, but ‘sir’ just popped out. I was focusing on the whiskers on her chin, and ‘sir’ slipped out before I could think.”

“Well, then you’d better quit talking to me and try and make up with her,” Brian informed him.

“She’s not going to talk to me,” Jim declared. “It’s up to you now.”

“Then Reginald Hughes is in trouble.” Brian leaned back against the holding cell wall and closed his eyes to take a nap.

“If you don’t get this information, we won’t solve the case,” Jim persisted, a desperate quality in his voice. “This is our last chance, and you’re our only hope.”

A slight grin parted Brian’s face. “It’s killing you to admit that, isn’t it?”

“Slowly and painfully,” Jim replied through clenched teeth.

“Okay,” Brian murmured, much to Jim’s delight. “But you’re gonna owe me big.”

“Thanks, buddy,” Jim said, slapping his friend on the back in an encouraging manner. “I know you can do it. Just use that bedside manner you’re famous for.”

“You know, I thought you were kidding when you said you were going to be a pimp during this trip,” Brian mumbled, casting a leery glance in Shannequa’s direction, “but here you go, pimping out your best friend just so you don’t look like a loser in front of Palmer.”

“You’re still gonna talk to her, right?” Jim questioned, a lopsided grin on his face and an impish twinkle in his eyes.

Brian looked at him menacingly, and then stood and straightened the lapels of his now-rumpled suit. Without another word he purposefully strode over to bench across the cell where Shannequa Montage was sitting.

The drag queen, although expecting Brian’s “visit”, had her head tilted slightly in the opposite direction, pretending to study a spider web in the corner of the room. Her face had a careful expression upon it, almost as if she was posing for a Revlon advertisement.

If she wasn’t so ugly, I’d expect her to whip around and say, ‘Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful,’ he thought with a smirk.

Pretending he was volunteering at the mental hospital, he assumed his best “physician” tone and in a deep-pitched voice inquired, “Are you Shannequa Montage?”

Feigning shock that someone had spoken to her, Shannequa whipped her head around, her frizzy hair flying almost like she was in a Pantene commercial.

“I certainly am, sugar bear,” Shannequa answered, her voice low and sexy. “And just lookie what we have here.” She lazily, and unabashedly, examined Brian from head to toe. After she finished, she shook her head approvingly and murmured, “Mmm-mmm-mmm! Nothin’ like a tall, dark, and handsome man.”

Brian nervously removed his hat and smoothed down his hair. “Well… uhhh… thanks.”

“No, no! Thank you, Reese Cup, for comin’ over to see me,” Shannequa purred. “I was gettin’ lonely over here by myself. In my line of work, I’ve grown accustomed to male company.”

“R-r-reese Cup?” Brian weakly repeated, feeling a bit sick to his stomach.

“That’s going to be my pet name for you,” Shannequa told him with a sultry smile. “That’s my favorite candy bar. Milk chocolate on the outside and peanut buttery goodness in the middle.”

Brian’s stomach lurched as he made a decision to never eat another Reese Cup for as long as he lived.

“Now, Reese Cup, you c’mon and sit down here beside Shannequa and visit a while.” The drag queen looked up at Brian and patted the spot on the bench next to her.

Brian’s face froze in terror. He cast Jim an inquisitive glance, silently asking his friend about what he should do. Much to his chagrin, Jim nodded towards the bench and motioned for Brian to sit down. Against his better judgment, Brian hesitatingly claimed the spot several inches away from Shannequa.

“Surely you can sit closer than that!” Shannequa exclaimed as she reached out to grab Brian’s arm to drag him closer.

“I’m fine,” Brian insisted, scooting away another couple inches.

“What’re you in here for, Reese Cup?” Shannequa asked, batting her brown eyes at Brian.

“Soliciting a prostitute,” Brian answered, then hastily added, “but I’m innocent.”

“Aren’t we all, Reese Cup?” Shannequa tittered. “Actually, I’m in here for prostitution.” She cast Brian a sultry glance. “And I’m not innocent at all. I’m as naughty as they come, baby!”

Brian tried to choke out a chuckle, and while Shannequa was cackling over her own joke, he nonchalantly moved away a few more inches from her.

Shannequa turned back to Brian and arched a carefully-plucked eyebrow at him. “It’s kind of ironic, isn’t it, handsome? I’m in here for prostitution, and you’re in here for soliciting a prostitute…” She not-so-nonchalantly moved several inches closer to Brian.

A loud “glunking” noise sounded from the general direction of Brian’s throat. “Yeah, b-b-but I’m innocent,” he stuttered in a high-pitched squeak. “I d-d-don’t want a pr-pr… *gulp*… prostitute.”

“You nervous, Reese Cup?” Shannequa reached towards Brian’s neck. “You just relax and let my hands work their magic on you…”

“No!” Brian scooted farther down the bench at warp speed. However, in his haste to put distance between himself and Shannequa, he scooted beyond the confines of the bench and plopped onto the concrete floor with a loud umph.

“You okay, darlin’?” Shannequa asked as she peered down at Brian, who was sprawled out on the floor of the cell.

“Fine,” Brian assured her as he stood and dusted off the seat of his wrinkled gray suit. He shot a warning glance at his redheaded friend across the cell, who was convulsing with silent laughter. He ceremoniously walked to the opposite end of the bench and sat down a good foot or two away from Shannequa.

Thankfully, the drag queen found Brian’s “shyness” attractive, rather than insulting. “Ooh, I just love a man who plays hard-to-get,” she cooed, coyly fluttering her eyelashes at him.

“I’m not playing hard-to-get,” corrected Brian. He cast a glance at Jim, who was shaking his head in admonition.

Don’t make her mad! Jim silently mouthed to him from across the cell.

“Well, I like a challenge, Reese Cup,” Shannequa tittered flirtatiously. “Some people like climbin’ mountains. Others like sailin’ seas. Me? My hobby’s chasin’ tall, dark, and handsome men.”

Suddenly, an idea came to Brian’s mind and his apprehensive expression changed into a thoughtful one. “What’re your other hobbies?” he asked nonchalantly.

“Hobbies?” Shannequa repeated. “Oh, I like doin’ lots of stuff… Dancin’, singin’, takin’ walks on the beaches, goin’ out…”

“I’ve heard you’re a good singer,” Brian told her, with a dashing smile.

“Thank you, sweetie!” Shannequa beamed with pleasure at Brian’s compliment. She winked at Brian, much to his chagrin, and blew him a kiss. “Are you one of my fans, Reese Cup?”

Jim, from his seat across the cell, held his breath and listened to Brian’s flattering conversation. His green eyes bugged out, a little afraid that their brief time in “the big house” had convinced Brian to “explore his options”.

“I sure am,” Brian answered. “Dominique at the Funky Monkey told us you could really wail ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough’. I wish I could’ve heard you sing.”

“Did he now?” Shannequa snapped her fingers and bobbled her head, her body moving in a sultry wiggle. “Remind me to thank Dom properly next time I see him.”

“I bet with that bright smile of yours, you’ve done a little modeling, too,” Brian added discreetly.

“Look who’s being charmin’!” Shannequa exclaimed, a wide grin on her face. “You flirtin’ with me, Reese Cup?”

Jim gasped as he wondered the same thing. This might be a good time to call Jack, he thought to himself. And Honey…

“Awww, c’mon and tell me the truth,” Brian prodded. “I bet you’ve modeled before, at least a time or two.”

“We-ell,” Shannequa drawled out dramatically, “actually I have posed several times for various ar-teests.”

“I knew it!” Brian exclaimed triumphantly. “I had a feeling that you’d modeled before.” He paused a moment, and then casually asked, “So uhhh, what did you pose for?”

“I was photographed for some bondage magazine, but they didn’t use the pictures,” Shannequa told him a bit glumly. “But I was featured in a rather alternative periodical a month or two ago…”

“Really?” Brian furrowed his brow, feigning interest. “You know, with your great beauty, it’s a tragedy that someone hasn’t painted your portrait.”

“They have, Reese Cup!” Shannequa told him excitedly. “Some rich guy met me on Franko Street and asked if he could paint my picture. I bet I could have him make a copy of it, if you’re interested…”

“Some rich guy?” Brian repeated. “A wealthy artist, I assume?”

She shook her head. “Nah, just some loaded dude who had too much time on his hands. Too much time and too little talent, might I add.” She chuckled ruefully. “Reggie’s a nice guy, though.”

Brian nodded knowingly. “I know the type. He probably painted as a hobby.”

“He did,” Shannequa agreed.

Brian kept his voice as controlled and uncaring as possible. “And did Reggie collect artwork as well?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied. “Reggie has this huge house on the ritzy side of town and one whole room is filled with expensive paintings.”

Suddenly his confusion ceased, and Jim nodded in admiration at his friend’s skillful interrogation. Bri must have a Johnson gene or two in there someplace, he thought to himself with a grin.

“You’ve seen Reggie’s art gallery?” Brian questioned.

“At a big party,” Shannequa answered with a nod. “He was debutin’ the pictures he’d painted.”

“ ‘Pictures,’ plural?” Brian scratched his chin thoughtfully. “So he’d painted other paintings, besides the one of you?”

“Yeah, Reggie did a whole series of paintings,” Shannequa explained. “He found lotsa different people from my neighborhood and painted us all.” She paused, as a sad expression came on her face. “Some of those characters weren’t exactly the most reputable rascals around.”

“Were they all at the party?”

“Every one of them,” she told him. “Poor Reggie didn’t even think twice about invitin’ those criminals into his house. He’s so good-hearted…” She broke off the sentence and made a “tsk, tsk” sound with her tongue.

“That wasn’t smart,” Brian commented. After assuming his most concerned face, he asked, “Was anything stolen?”

“Unfortunately for Reggie, yes,” Shannequa admitted. “I just hate it that his big heart got him into trouble. As I said before, he was a really nice guy.”

“What was stolen?” Brian nonchalantly questioned, his heart beating loudly.

“Some ugly painting,” she informed him. After looking over at Jim, she leaned a bit closer to Brian and whispered, “And I know who took it.”

Brian gasped. “You do?”

“It was a dude named Tyrone. Tyrone Duvall.”

“How do you know this Tyrone took it?”

Shannequa motioned Brian closer. “I saw the painting in his house a week or two later,” she confided in a low voice. “Tyrone was one of the other models that Reggie painted. At the party, Ty got my phone number and invited me to his house.”

“Go on,” Brian urged.

“When he was showing me ‘round his crib, I saw Reggie’s painting in his bedroom,” she whispered, her brown eyes wide.

“Are you sure it was the same painting?” Brian asked, hoping Shannequa’s claim was legitimate.

She nodded in emphatic affirmation. “I’m sure. That picture was real distinctive. It had some sort of weird name and featured an ugly woman with three arms and six eyes.”

Bingo! Brian thought to himself with a sigh of relief. “So does Tyrone still have the painting?”

“I’m not sure,” Shannequa admitted. “While I was there, Ty got a phone call. I overheard him arguin’ with some dude named Evan McConnell about how much the painting was worth.”

“Did Evan buy the painting?” Brian inquired, trying his best to appear like he was making casual conversation.

“I don’t think so,” she answered. “Ty was askin’ a couple million for it. As bad as Evan wanted it, from what I could tell, he couldn’t go that high. I’d say Tyrone will have a mighty hard time sellin’ that ugly thing for as much as he’s askin’.”

“So it’s probably still at Ty’s house,” Brian deduced.

“I’d say,” Shannequa replied. “He needed a fix pretty bad, but he’s a greedy one. He’ll hold out for as much money as he can get.”

Brian cleared his throat loudly. “Hmmm… So, Tyrone Duvall has Reggie’s painting,” he repeated clearly and distinctly so that Jim would be sure and commit the name to memory.

He discreetly glanced over at his friend and saw that Jim nodded. Brian breathed a sigh of relief.

As he continued making small talk with Shannequa Montage, Jim casually stood and walked over to the cell door. He called loudly for one of the guards. After several moments, a bored-looking officer came into the large room that housed the holding cell.

“Whadaya want?” the policeman asked impatiently.

“I want to make my phone call now, if it’s not too much trouble,” Jim politely told him.

“You only get one,” the guard told him.

“I know,” Jim said. “I’ve been saving it, but I’m ready to make it now.”

The officer sighed loudly, as if unlocking the holding cell and leading Jim to a phone would kill him. “All right,” he reluctantly agreed. “C’mon, but you’d better make it quick.”

After the cell door was opened, the policeman handcuffed Jim and led him to the phones. Jim said a silent prayer as he placed the call, desperately hoping that someone would answer.

Two hours later…

“No, I’m not that kind of doctor,” Brian informed Shannequa Montage with a shake of his head. “You’d have to go to a specialist, if you’d want to have that done.”

“But surely you studied it in med school, Reese Cup,” the drag queen crossed her arms and pursed her lips. “You must know something about it.”

“I know a little,” Brian admitted. “But it’s more complicated than people think. You’d have to go to a specialist, if you want to have that done.”

“Think you could hook me up with the right kinda doctor?”

Across the cell, Jim closed his eyes and prayed for deliverance. He was about to give up all hope when a familiar voice made him sit upright and open his eyes.

“You two jailbirds ready to go home?” Jack Palmer asked as a guard placed a key into the lock and opened the cell door.

“Are you kidding?” Jim snorted, leaping up from the bench on which he had been laying. “C’mon, Bri!”

However, his dark-haired friend had already beaten him to the door in his haste to escape Shannequa Montage.

“You leavin’ already, Reese Cup?” Shannequa pouted sadly. “You come back to visit me. Bring a cake with a file!”

Jack winked at Brian who was hastily clambering to exit the confining cell. “Sure you don’t want to say good-bye to your friend, Doc?”

Brian shot a warning glance at the detective, his brown eyes stormy. “Don’t mess with me, Palmer. I’m a man with a record. I’ve been in prison once, and killing you might be worth a second sentence.”

Jack scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Hmmm… I think this one needs a little bit more time in the clink. He’s not rehabilitated yet.”

As the group walked down the hallway, Jim turned to Jack. “Are we really going to have a record?” he asked worriedly. “That might cause me trouble with the school.”

“Don’t worry,” Jack assured him, “I took care of it, Professor. Your record is clean as a whistle, even as we speak.”

“How’d you do that?” Jim inquired curiously.

“We-ell, let’s just say that you owe me big time,” Jack answered with a wry grin.

“And did you check out Tyrone Duvall?” Brian questioned, desperately hoping that the shame he had endured would not come to naught.

Jack nodded in affirmation. “I sure did. He’s a drug dealer with a record a mile long. I also called Reginald Hughes and he agreed to talk to the police and give them the information. After the police get a search warrant, they’re going to go to Mr. Duvall’s house and see what they find.”

The three men stopped at the main desk of the police station in order for Jim and Brian to fill out the necessary paperwork.

“Any word on that search warrant for Duvall?” Jack asked the officer stationed at the desk.

“Not yet, Jack, but we’ll let you know as soon as it comes in,” the policeman told him. “Shouldn’t be too much longer.”

“Great,” Jack said with a friendly nod. “And you’ll snag the painting, if it’s in his house?”

“Considering the circumstances, we’ll take care of it,” the officer promised. “Reggie Hughes is a big supporter of the force. We’ll make sure to get that painting back if we can.”

“Are we free to go?” Jim questioned after signing the final document before him.

“Yeah,” the cop murmured, studying the name Jim had scrawled. “You James Winthrop Frayne the Second?”

“Yes,” Jim answered, worried that something was wrong. “Why do you ask?”

The officer ignored him and instead turned to Brian. “And are you Dr. Brian Peter Belden?”

Brian nervously glanced at Jack, and then replied, “Yeah. Is there a problem?”

The policeman shook his head and pulled out an envelope from a deep drawer in his desk. “You men familiar with a Mona Humphrey and a Bertha Lynn Hammond?”

“Bertha? No wonder she went by ‘Peaches’,” Brian whispered with a snicker.

“Yeah, officer, unfortunately we’ve met them,” Jim said to the cop. “They stole our wallets. We’re not in trouble, are we? I thought Jack took care of everything.”

“Oh, believe me, Jack worked it all out,” the cop said, his brown eyes dancing in amusement. Ignoring Jack’s irritated “humph”, the officer explained. “One of our boys picked those two hookers up a little bit ago. When they were searched, we found your wallets on their persons.”

“You found our wallets!” Brian repeated with a sigh of relief. He grabbed the black leather wallet that the policeman held out to him and hastily searched it. “My money’s still here! And my credit cards and my ID and my library card an—”

“Thank God!” Jim interrupted as he looked through the contents of his own brown wallet. “Everything’s here.”

The policeman studied Jim incredulously. “You sure, Mr. Frayne? There wasn’t any money inside…”

Jim’s cheeks turned slightly red. “Well… I… uhhh… needed to go to an ATM.”

The officer nodded. “That takes care of everything. You men are free to go.”

Both Jim and Brian thanked him as they walked to the exit. Just as the group neared the main door, an office door opened and Detective Christina Redding stood in front of them. The undercover officer shot a nasty glance to Jim and Brian, but flashed a winning smile to Jack.

“See you next Friday, Jack?” she asked with a flutter of her eyelashes.

“Uhh… yeah, sure,” Jack answered without much enthusiasm before they exited the police station. He led the gumshoes to his new silver Mustang Boss 302 convertible, which was parked nearby.

“You’re going out with Detective Redding?” Jim asked in disbelief. “Are you crazy? Why’d you ask her out? She’s psychotic.”

“To get you and Brian out of jail,” Jack replied as he unlocked the passenger door of his car.

“That’s how you got our records cleared?” Brian inquired.

Jack nodded glumly. “Chris made it clear that the only way she’d drop the charges is if I’d take her out on a date.”

Brian clapped the detective on the shoulder. “Thanks, man. You really took a bullet for us.”

Jim appeared a bit choked up. “I don’t know what to say, Jack. Willingly inflicting that kind of torture on yourself, just to get us out of jail…” He cleared his throat, his voice emotional just thinking about Jack’s sacrifice.

“Well, like I said, you owe me BIG!” Jack told them as he walked to the driver’s side of the vehicle.

Jim and Brian both stared at the cramped backseat of the Mustang Boss. Magnanimously, Jim pushed the lever to release the passenger seat and pushed it over. “Since you got the info from Shannequa, I’ll sit in the back.”

Once Jim was packed sardine-like in the back, Brian pushed up the passenger seat to its usual position and climbed inside the car. Jim’s previous discomfort did not compare to his current pain, as the tall redhead’s knees were now shoved up to his ears.

“Suuu-weet,” Brian murmured, as he appraised the interior of the sports car.

Jack turned his head and looked at Jim. “You OK back there, Professor?”

“Just dandy,” Jim answered dryly.

“Move your feet as far apart as you can and you’ll survive,” Jack commanded with a grin as he shifted the car into overdrive, before adding with an impish grin, “Maybe.”

With that word of warning, he gave the car much more gas than was needed to pull out of the parking space, making Brian whoop in delight as Mustang Boss’s low profile tires squealed in protest.