My curse preceded me into the squad room. I hate it. A dozen faces swiveled, work ceased, sound stopped. A dozen mouths gaped in slack-jawed awe. It’s a reaction I get all the time. I hate it, but it’s the albatross I bear.

Polite people say I’m buxom. My breasts are huge. I didn’t ask to be built like an unmilked Guernsey. The weight and strain can leave me in tears. I keep promising myself I’ll get them cut down to a modest C-cup. Or better yet, a B. That would be heaven. Meanwhile, they’re a pain I live with; especially when they don’t get me the kind of respect I feel I deserve.

I walked over to the first occupied desk. The nameplate read “DET. JABLOWSKI.” I didn’t wait for the fat slob sitting there to force his eyes up to my face.

“Is Captain Rodecker in?”

“Who wants to know?”

“I do.” I handed him my card.

“Hey, Carson,” he said turning to his neighbor. “Check this out. We got us a dickless dick.”

Jabba the Hutt thought he was cute, but I’d heard it before. That and other tasteless comments. That’s one of the things I mean about no respect.

“Better than being a useless one.”

I let him cogitate about which one I meant—in his case it could be either. I don’t take crap from anyone, especially men.

Before the slob thought of a comeback, Carson got up, took my card, and read it as he came around the desk. It’s a nice card. Crisp, white, high-quality cardstock. Black lettering. Engraved, not raised. It has my name, Rachel Cord, Confidential Investigations, an address and a phone number. Very professional. Just like me despite my affliction. Oh, yes, one more thing—my agency motto: “Life’s a bitch. So am I.”

I don’t claim originality for the phrase, but the motto fits my attitude. When I chose this business, the detective who taught me said I’d need an attitude to survive. Life’s difficult at best, and at times it’s downright nasty. When things get tough, I try to be tougher.

Carson’s eyes went directly from my card to my eyes without a pause along the way. I raised him a rung on the evolutionary ladder.

“Is Captain Rodecker expecting you, Miss Cord?”

There was a bit of questioning emphasis on the "Miss." I didn’t see a wedding ring so maybe he was wondering if I were available. Not my type, but let him wonder.

“No, but I think he’ll see me if he’s in. We used to know each other.”

“I’ll check if he has time to see you.”

Carson headed for a glass-walled office with its blinds closed. Jabba gave a last glare before pecking at his computer keyboard. Everyone else went back to doing whatever it was they were doing before I walked in. Two “ladies” handcuffed to a bench seemed to be comparing my attributes to theirs and probably discussing the business pluses of getting implants. I wanted to tell them it wasn’t worth it, but, hey, who was I to judge.

Captain of Detectives Rodney Roderick “Hot Rod” Rodecker III came out of the office with a big grin on his face. He hadn’t changed a whole lot since our Army days during Desert Storm: hair thinning, maturer maybe, but all in all the same rock-hard force of nature I remembered.

“Rachel Cord, it’s great to see you. Come on in.”

I noticed several interested stares as we went into his office, which was half the size it needed to be and overflowed with paperwork. He closed the door and offered me coffee. Then he sat behind his desk and I took one of the chairs facing it.

“God, you bring back memories. Your card says you’re just across the river. What took you so long to look me up?”

“Serendipity. I didn’t know where you were until I read about your recent promotion. How many Rodney R. Rodeckers can there be?” Besides your father and grandfather, that is. “I don’t usually work outside the city, but I needed to come over here. It seemed pleasantly fated that you were here too.”

“What, you don’t think we’re a city? We’re thirty thousand strong and shrinking. ”  Rod flashed his grin again. “Anyway, how long’s it been?”

“Twelve years. Not since you shipped out for OCS.”

“Right. I remember hoping you were my going away gift.”

“It wasn’t in the cards, ‘Hot Rod’.”

He blushed and raised his hands. “Please, easy with the ‘Hot Rod’ stuff. I hope I’ve left that reputation behind. But I may have trouble with the rumor mill I think you just started.”

“Okay, Rod. But first, settle one question I’ve always had. Was I the only female on base you didn’t bed?”

“You and the African Queen.” He tried to be glib, then turned redder.  “Seriously, Rachel, there must have been two hundred women there. I couldn’t possibly have slept with them all.”

True, but not from lack of trying. Rod was wild and carefree back then—a nineteen-year-old, long-horned, Oklahoman stud fresh off the range—sniffing at anything that showed an interest. How he avoided court-martial or paternity was anyone’s guess. “Hot Rod” did not refer to Rodney, Roderick or Rodecker. Not that I was any less randy—truth to tell—just more discreet. Many of those women he failed to entice were curled in with me.

Oh, and the African Queen. There’s a sweet memory. Captain Helen Abernathy, the toughest, stracist MP commander any soldier would wish to follow. And I would have followed her to bed if she’d been bent the right way. She encouraged Rodecker to apply to OCS. She also convinced me, in a motherly and subtle way, that no matter how good a soldier and cop I wanted to be, the Army was not the best career choice at that time for someone of my persuasion.

There were a lot of us in uniform then, men and women, who were gay. I’m sure there are even more now. We were proud to serve, “to protect and defend the Constitution of the United States of America against all enemies.” But Captain Abernathy was right. Even after “Don’t Ask/Don’t Tell” went into effect, it was too hard, at least for me, to live a lie and pretend I wasn’t what I was—or too scared of getting caught.

Funny, I hadn't seen Abernathy or Rodecker in more than 10 years and they were both, now, successful civilian cops. Yet within the last six months, I had spoken with Helen looking for someone and here I was with Rod looking for another.

“The reason I’m here, Rod, I’m looking for a girl. No wise-ass remarks are necessary. She’s a fourteen-year-old runaway her family wants found.” I gave him two photographs from my shoulder bag.”

“Missing Persons is down the hall.”

“I know. I filed a report with them before coming in here. I’m hoping to spread the interest. The portrait is this year’s school photo. The other was taken last summer. She’s been missing three weeks.”

Rod stared at the photos: a close-up of a blonde freckled serious-faced teenager and another full-length of the same girl in a bathing suit.

“Did you look like this at her age?”

“Same hair, same eyes, same bosom. Which is partly why I want to find her. I think she’s ripe for exploitation. You know what I mean. The longer she’s out there, the more dangerous life can be. Her family’s worried and wants her home. I’ve been working it nearly a week but haven’t found her yet on my side of the river, so I’m trying over here.” 

“What’s her story?”

“Her name is Linda Miller; small town farm girl. Again, a lot like me. She started blooming in sixth grade. Her father had a hard time resisting what he saw and started sexually abusing her when she turned thirteen. I’m surprised he waited that long. It went on for months before anyone found out. The bastard’s in prison now. The girl was in therapy and living with her mother and grandmother when she ran away. She thinks it’s her fault that 'Her Daddy' went to jail. Last week she called a friend from the bus station. That’s when the family hired me to find her and get her home. I’m hoping she’s still somewhere in the area.”

Rod focused on a picture on his desk. It was of a nice looking woman and three young children. Two girls and a boy. Was there another Triple-R out there? Rod’s expression said he’d like to kill someone. I would too, but I could only wish.

“Is this just a job or a personal quest?”

“The grandmother’s ill. There are three younger daughters. The mother’s hanging on the best she can. With 'Daddy' in prison, the farm’s suffering. I may charge them expenses, but I’ll probably waive my fee. You saw her picture—she has the face of a young kid but is built like a brick you-know-what. What you don’t understand is what she’s endured: the teasing at school, the come-ons from older boys and men, the trauma of being a pedophile’s victim. Yes, it’s personal. I could easily have been her.”

I left it there. I’d never been sexually abused, luckily, but I knew all about runaway. My last time was the day I turned 18 and ran off to join the Army.

“I’ll put the word out. See if we can get a lead on her. Can I keep these?”

“Sure, but I had these made to pass out.”

I pulled a packet of 4x6 photos from my bag and put them on the table. Her school portrait was inset in one corner. The swimsuit shot filled the frame. On the back were personal details and contact numbers.

Rod looked at my card again. “Is your license any good here?”

What license? Another reason for lack of respect. My state doesn’t require one and Rod wouldn’t be overly impressed with my city-issued business license or my SAPI membership card. The State Association of Private Investigators has been lobbying for licensure for years to no avail. Maybe someday.

“No, but there’s no law against a private citizen looking for someone or asking questions. I won’t misrepresent myself on your turf, Rod. That’s not how I do business. That’s why I came to you. If I can find her, I will. If I need legal back-up, I’ll call you. I’m no Lone Ranger.”

“Okay, Rachel. We’ll help as long as you know the rules. I can’t cut corners for old friends. I’ll call as soon as I find out anything.”

Chapter Two

Margo Lane was a statuesque silhouette at the end of the aisle. Hand on hip, Margo spoke to several people on the lighted stage in the background.

“Ladies, please.  We can do this. Let’s try it again. Single line. Number three and number six please step forward. On toe. Pirouette. Again. Thank you. Step back.”

“Excuse me,” I said as I approached.

Margo turned. “The club is closed. We’re conducting an audi... Whoa, Elsie! I think you have the wrong audition place, Honey. The Cadillac Club is twenty blocks west on Cutter.”

The Cadillac Club was a T&A strip joint. The bigger the T the better was their business plan.

“I don’t work with rubber women.” I hate my breasts, but I can’t let them be insulted.

“Are you implying that those are the natural you, Honey?”

“More natural than anything you’ve got swinging, Sweetheart!” As I’ve said, I don’t take crap from men; not even transvestites. I held out my card. “Phil sent me.”

Margo Lane was long and sinuous. Great muscle tone without bulk and no fat. Not my type, but I bet the boys loved him. He wore a black silk teddy, skin-tight black jeans and heels. The heels made him longer and leaner. I stand five-nine in flats and it was a long reach to meet his eyes. The eyes were deep brown. The creases around them and at the edge of his lightly rouged lips were happy lines. Margo Lane either laughed a lot or was constantly amused by life.

He studied my card in the low light and apparently read my motto. His eyes crinkled and his lips curled. Constantly amused had my vote.

“Ooooh, I’ll just bet you are.”

It started with that drawn-out “ooooh.” His voice dropped several registers to the basement—every word resonated—sending vibrations that plucked a string deep within me. The string must have been attached to my clit because I was suddenly wet. I couldn’t breathe, my cheeks burned.

I was shocked and awed. I hadn’t felt anything that intensely since… What the hell was going on? This was beyond my experience. Nothing—no one—had ever hit me quite like this. Not even… Certainly never a voice. Shit! Definitely never a man. My expressions must have said everything, because Margo seemed equally wide-eyed shocked by my overreaction.

Margo recovered first. "You said that Phil sent you?" Thank God he said it in a normal tone.

"Yes…ahem. About the beatings." I squeaked out trying to find my voice.

* * *

Two hours before meeting Margo Lane, I rushed into Phil’s Tearoom. Traffic was slower than expected coming back from seeing Rodecker. The Big Ben mantel clock over the hearth chimed the half-hour as I walked up to the hostess. I’m rarely so exactly on time for an appointment. I prefer to arrive early. I hate being late. It’s part of the discipline the Army drilled into me.

Philadelphia’s Tavern & English Tearoom are two establishments that fill the entire first floor of a four-story brick building on Cutter Avenue six blocks from the river in the heart of the South Ferry district. The Tavern is an English-style pub that fills the larger space.

The Tearoom is cozy with 12 lace-covered tables for four plus three sitting areas by the windows, at the back, and near the hearth. The east wall is filled with tall French windows and two sets of French doors that lead onto a garden patio where more tables are set up. A large portrait of Queen Elizabeth II sits above the hearth. English landscapes and cottage paintings decorate the cool blue-green walls.

Philadelphia Long, the owner, is an Anglophile. Every spring she makes a trip to London and comes back with a ton of stuff as well as many English, college-aged women she hires on one-year contracts. They get a year in America, and Phil gets real English atmosphere.

The hostess must have been one of this year’s acquisitions. I hadn’t seen her before. She had long chestnut colored hair done up in a French braid and was wearing tuxedo pants, a black vest, a frilly white blouse, and a cameo on a black ribbon choker. I liked what I saw.

“I’m Rachel Cord. Miss Long is expecting me.”

“Yes, she said to show you right in.”

The hostess’ gaze lingered on my bosom a moment longer than necessary. I thought I caught a slight gleam in her hazel eyes, but that may have been wishful thinking. Some people I don’t mind taking an interest in my breasts. If that seems a contradiction, then it’s a contradiction. I’m still going to get them fixed.

She looked at my bare hands. “Do you wear a size six?”

I liked the sound of her accent but wasn’t sure if it was from Chelsea or Devonshire.

“Eight, actually.”

The hostess gave me a pair of fawn colored, two-button shortie gloves she took from the cabinet beside her. I didn’t tell her that I had my own pair in my bag. I was touched that she made the effort to pick a pair that complemented my outfit: a rather sporty and lightweight set of alpaca trousers and jacket and a cream blouse. Think Kate Hepburn in Pat and Mike. At Phil’s, ladies wear gloves.

I followed her through the room to the first set of French doors. It was too early for high tea, but nearly all of the tables were occupied, as were two of the sitting areas. There were very few men, probably tourists placating their wives, all looking uncomfortable and wishing they were in the tavern next door. They wore the ugly ties that Phil’s supplies.

At the far end of the room a violinist and cellist played something by Chopin. At least I think it was Chopin. Behind them on the wall was a large black-draped oil portrait of the late Princess Diana. We went out onto the garden patio. It was a perfect spring day, the first we’d had in weeks, but only one table was occupied.

“Dahling,” said Philadelphia as we approached. “Thank you so much for coming. Sarah, we will start with tea, please. I will ring when lunch should be served. Otherwise, no disturbances, please. Thank you.”

I watched Sarah walk away.

“Luscious, isn’t she? She isn’t dating anyone, if someone wanted to ask her out.”

I tore my eyes from Sarah. “A ‘right tasty bit of crumpet’ I think is the expression. I saw the choker. Where is she from?”

“East Suffolk.”

So much for my ear for English accents. The women Phil hires may be straight or gay. It doesn’t matter to Phil. But she makes sure that they understand the clientele that Phil’s attracts. The cameo choker prevents embarrassing incidents. It identifies those with a like bent and who wouldn’t mind being asked out. Otherwise, hands off; no exceptions. The lack of a choker didn’t mean that the woman wasn’t gay. It simply meant she wasn’t available for the asking. The Tearoom is a femme haven; a great place to meet someone or to bring a date. It was always my favorite place, but I hadn’t been there in a long time. Sarah could make me wish to come back more often.

“Phil, you didn’t ask me to lunch to discuss my love life, did you?”

“Of course not, Dahling. But you could use one, you know. How long has it been?”

I didn’t like where her question was headed. “Why did you need to see me?”

Phil smiled at my evasion but didn’t pursue it. “We can discuss that after the tea is served.”

A waitress wheeled over a cart with teapot and cups and left. No choker.

“Shall I be Mother?” The question was rhetorical as Phil began pouring.

Phil speaks with an ersatz “veddy British” accent. She’s from North Carolina where her parents had owned a high-end furniture manufacturing plant and she was their only heir. You’d have to go back to before the Revolution to find the English in her family tree. She’s a handsome woman. She looks 50, but is really somewhere between 60 and 75. No one knows for sure, and she doesn’t tell. No one knows for sure which way she’s bent, either. That’s another secret she keeps to herself.

After sipping tea and exchanging pleasantries on the wonderfulness of the weather and the flowers blooming in her garden, Philadelphia finally came to the point.

“Rachel, I need to hire you. The police have been no help at all.”

I waited for her to tell me the problem. She rarely called me Rachel. “Dahling” was her preferred usage.

“As you may or may not know, I own the Kathouse on River Drive. Over the past two months several of the girls who perform there have been beaten after leaving the premises. The police say it’s a rash of gay bashing that will run its course.  The police 'claim' they have no leads. I can’t believe that. I don’t think that they are trying all that hard.”

The Kathouse is Miss Kitty’s Kathouse Kabaret, a song, dance, and comedy revue heavy on sexual innuendo and political satire. The “girls” are drag queens and transsexuals. They put on a popular show that brings in audiences, straight as well as gay, from all over the region. It’s the type of place you expect to find in San Francisco or maybe New York, but not here in the Heartland. I try to catch the act every couple of months or so, but it’s another place I haven’t been in awhile. I knew that Phil owned a lot of property, but hadn’t known she owned the Kathouse. I hadn’t heard about the beatings and I couldn’t recall the last time there had been “a rash of gay bashing.” Most of the relevant news of late was about same-sex marriages and its pending legalization in Massachusetts. Had that stirred things up?

“What do you want me to do?”

“Find out who’s doing this. These attacks are frightening. The last girl is in the hospital. He may die.”

“Who is he?”

“Oral Roberts. He was new at the club.”

“Oral Roberts?” I felt my eyebrows lifting.

Philadelphia smiled. “I know. Isn’t that name simply marvelous? Rachel, please, will you help us?”

“Phil, the police are better equipped to handle this kind of thing, and they don’t like interference.”

“But they aren’t doing anything.”

“I’ll just be stumbling over the same information they already have. I don’t want to waste your money.”

“It’s mine to waste.”

Phil freshened our tea as she awaited my answer. I try to avoid butting in on police business and knew from past experience that my efforts weren’t always appreciated. Still, the only thing I had going was trying to find Linda Miller. I had done everything on that that I could and was waiting for feedback, and it was unlikely the case would pay for itself.

I average three full-pay clients a month. This isn’t exactly a get rich line of work. Many of my clients are families looking for runaways like Linda Miller—though I don’t always have such a personal interest—or they’re wives trying to get trash on their husbands for a larger divorce settlement. Occasionally a defense lawyer hires me to check out an alibi or witness. Once in awhile, someone will want me to investigate a scam or embezzlement, or something more serious. It’s a mixed bag: an hour here, an hour there, then a lot of time in-between waiting for information to flow back in. Nothing continuous, so when I can, I work several cases letting progress determine what I do when. Eventually the hours add up. And the in-between I try to fill with process serving, skip tracing and routine background checks. Anything to keep the income flowing. After taxes, office lease, secretary service and expenses, I manage to cover everything else—like my condo mortgage, food, clothing, etc. Anything left over—if there is anything left over—goes into my “boob” fund. One of these days I’ll unload my albatross.

“Phil, I charge $100 an hour with a ten hour minimum, no refunds, no guarantees.  If I haven’t found a solution, I’ll give you a report and you can decide if you want me to continue or not. If I find out anything useful, it goes to the police. If that’s acceptable, we have a deal.”

Phil reached into a straw bag lying beside her. She pulled out three slim bundles of cash and laid them on the table.

“Here is $3,000. I don’t expect refunds. Find these miscreants, Rachel, as soon as you can. Please. I don’t want anyone else hurt.”

I put the money in my jacket. “Will any of them talk to me?”

“Speak with Margo Lane, my manager at the Kathouse. Margo was the first one beaten. He will know with whom else you should speak.”

* * *

Margo turned the auditions over to his assistant while he and I retreated to the end of the bar. He drew each of us a pint of beer, and we sat there not speaking for several minutes. Neither of us seemed anxious to explore what just happened. I still tingled from whatever it was his voice did to me. I had no idea what he was thinking. He refilled our glasses. I took out a notepad and pen.

“Tell me about the beatings.”

My voice was back to normal and, fortunately, he kept his voice that way also. The first beating happened the Saturday night after Philadelphia left for London. It was 2:45 a.m., and Margo was the last to leave. The only vehicles in the lot were Margo’s car and a refrigerator truck used to store extra beer for the weekends.

“I started across the lot to my car when four men appeared. They looked like college jocks dressed in warm-up suits. Maybe football players. Big. One came out of the shadows from across the lot. Another came from around the front of the club. The other two appeared from the shadows behind the reefer, surrounding me.”  Margo paused and took a deep breath before continuing.

“Someone yelled, ‘Hey, faggot! We don’t want your kind in our town.’ Then they started hitting me. They only used their fists, but they hit hard.” Margo paused again. “I broke loose and dove under the reefer. They couldn’t get at me without crawling under the truck. A few kicks at their faces and they stopped trying. They shouted obscenities and more warnings, and then they left.”

Margo didn’t report the attack to the police.

“I didn’t think it would do any good. It could have been worse. I had a swollen ear and some scrapes and bruises. A couple blows hit me hard in the kidneys. I peed pink part of the next day. I stayed home. I didn’t go to the hospital or come back here until we needed to open on Tuesday.”

Margo took a deep drink of his beer. “I didn’t want to come back, you know. These guys scared me. I’ve heard nasty comments before. That’s nothing. It’s part of life. Even nasty things thrown at you, you can usually handle. This was different. I didn’t know what to do.”

They called the police after the second attack. The attacks were pretty similar: at or after closing, when few people were around; a single victim within three blocks of the club; and, at first, on a Friday or Saturday night. The assailants were four, white, college-age men with short hair wearing dark colored warm-up suits. They were big and muscular like bodybuilders or football linemen. They seemed to come from nowhere and then disappear. After the second attack, they began wearing ski masks. Whether or not they were the same men each time, no one was sure, but it was probable according to the police. The descriptions were too generalized for a positive ID.

The police investigated each attack. They found no witnesses—except for the victims—nor did they find any evidence worth using, or so they said. After the third attack, increased police patrols made random passes of the area, especially around closing time. There were even a couple of stakeouts.

Then the attacks happened on other nights of the week. The ferocity increased also. The assailants began using sticks and bricks. Bones were broken. One performer was sodomized with a stick. The last attack, the one on Oral Roberts, happened last Thursday while the club was still open. Roberts had just walked out of the front door when he was hit up side the head with probably a baseball bat and then thrown through the front window. It happened very quickly. Somehow, no one saw who did it. There was only the sound of a vehicle speeding away. Roberts was in a coma.

The club didn’t open Friday or Saturday. Everyone was too upset. Too scared. No one went anywhere alone. Several performers quit. Some left town. Others found work at other clubs.

Margo was having a difficult time getting new performers, but he wanted to open a new revue. “We can’t close down. I can’t let these attacks beat us.”

“What are the other clubs doing?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think they’ve had any trouble.”