Chapter 1
I had him dead.
I adjusted the lens on the antiquated video camera, so excited I forgot to hold still. The image went all jiggley. I steadied the camera against the lowered car window, slowing the borrowed Volvo to a halt. This necessary maneuver annoyed the driver of a yellow Tercel who screeched impatiently around me, further spoiling my view of the side walk across the street, and the man who was striding down it.
Son of a Bitch, I thought to myself, he is actually going to the gym!
Mr. Steven Randolf Button, file clerk and workers compensation claimant (temporary total disability due to a back injury allegedly suffered while lifting a box load of toys the office do-gooders had collected for needy families last Christmas) was going to the gym to work out and I had a clear shot of him from across the street. He was heading toward the Lifetime Fitness Center. His employer, the Chinatown law firm of Chu, Wong, & Wu, the client who had hired me to conduct this sub rosa surveillance, was going to be delighted.
I re-focused the camera just as Button bent down to tie his New Balance cross trainers. At the same moment, a tall, shapely red head, walking north, stepped into the frame. She fell into the arms of a broadly built guy with helmet hair walking south. Their enthusiastic embrace completely obscured my shot of Button. I silently urged the amorous pair to just get a room already, but they began talking, earnestly, heads together, using lots of hand gestures.
Button straightened up and gave a start. I ducked down. Had he seen me? I lifted my head a fraction but his gaze seemed to be directed to Helmet Hair and the Redhead. Whew, I thought, Button didn't see me after all. He's just offended by Public Displays of Affection. And really, who isn't?
I sat back up, but by the time I could get into position, Button had disappeared into the building. I had missed my opportunity.
Fuming, I waited a few minutes before moving the wagon down Fair Oaks to find legal parking. I found a metered space within two blocks, and deposited the twenty five cents required by the City of Pasadena for 30 minutes automotive respite, and made a note in my log. Tuesday morning, 10:13 am.
I hustled back along the sidewalk, cramming my camera into my brand new, bright pink, brushed suede Mandarina Duck bag. Not a great fit.
The plate glass windows of this particular work-out world show cased three buff specimens stationary bicycling, stair stepping and tread milling. I tried not to stare as I sashayed through the front door, and presented myself to the front desk.
Gyms all smell bad, and this one was no exception. Why can't people sweat in the privacy of their own home? I wondered. Come on now, nobody really needs a $1,200 treadmill, do they? Can't you just jog in one spot in your own kitchen? And time yourself with the little clock on the oven? You wouldn't even have to buy a $270 matching spandex outfit. You could wear your faded Bermuda shorts and old college sweat shirt. And I'd never have to see you.
I didn't, however, say this to the matching-spandex-suited, pony-tailed blond at the front desk.
"Membership card please."
"I don't actually have a card," I began, raising my voice over the clanking, whirring, squeaking din.
The blonde looked momentarily less perky until I added "I'm thinking of joining though." That cheered her right up.
"Oh, do allow me to show you around and demonstrate our state-of-the-art body awareness facilities. Ricardo, take over for me here, I have a prospect," she announced to the unnaturally cut Hispanic man who would have been so handsome but for the steroid acne.
"No, no, I don't want to bother you, it's okay," I protested. "Maybe I can just spend a few minutes looking around by myself, you know just to get an idea..."
"I'm happy to be of assistance. I take it you're not presently a member of any other gym, are you?" She asked, but she wasn't really asking. She could tell by my tooth pick arms sticking out of the white tee shirt, and the even more tooth pick legs sticking out of my black denim mini skirt.
"By the way, I'm Mindy. Tell me your name. I'll fill out an application for you," Mindy chirped as she fixed me with bright blue eyes, pen poised over clipboard. I realized with dismay that Mindy must get a commission on any new sign ups and there was no way she was going to let me get away.
"Fifi Cutter," I reluctantly replied.
"What a cute name!"
I smiled tightly. "Yeah, adorable."
"Age?"
"Twenty-seven."
"Oh, that's so cool, that's the same as me." Mindy beamed. "And where do you live?"
"Mt. Washington," I dutifully replied, adding, "It's one hill over from Dodger Stadium," since nobody ever knew where Mt. Washington was, even though it is one of the oldest neighborhoods in Los Angeles, and not fifteen minutes from where we were standing.
"And what do you do?"
"Uh, I'm in insurance," I prevaricated. No reason to explain to her what an independent insurance adjustor was, much less that it involved tailing sleazy insurance cheats who worked out at her gym. Usually telling people you were in insurance cuts off all further inquiry. It worked this time too, as Mindy began extolling the benefits of Lifetime Membership, for only $34.99 a month.
"So here we have our aroma therapy and skin care products, we carry only organically based formulas, with the very purest of ingredients. And we have a resident masseuse, shiatsu, Swedish, deep tissue. Here is the room where we do step and spinning, that's Rita in there now, and she is like the best step leader ever. And she has a beginner class that's not too challenging," she said as if doubting my ability to step quickly and repeatedly in place.
"Now here we have a free weight station, just for women. Sometimes woman feel they shouldn't work with free weights, but that's so wrong," Mindy gestured toward a rack of bar bells with apricot, peach and mauve colored weights on either end.
"Very dainty," I said with as much seriousness as I could muster, while I surreptitiously scanned the room looking for Button.
Mindy bent over and picked up a bar bell demonstrating how easily she could hold it over her head.
God dam it, where was he? There! Settling down for some bench presses. I squinted at him, and missed what Mindy was saying.
"Huh?"
"Here, you try, let me take your bag," she said, replacing the barbell on the floor and lifting my bulging purse off my shoulder. The bag gapped open and that's when things got ugly.
"Ohmigod! A video camera!" Mindy's pretty little face wrinkled up. "Who brings a video camera into a gym? Oh gross, you were going to film other women in the locker room? What are you, queer or something?"
"No, no, shhshhshh," I begged her in a fierce whisper, grabbing the handles of the purse and engaging in a very one-sided tug of war. Wonder Woman pulled me off balance without even trying. We were starting to attract attention. Even the narcissistic wad of flesh on the Universal machine looked over.
"I'm not queer. This is just my equipment for my job. Can you please keep your voice down and let go of my wrist?"
"Eewwww," Mindy squealed as she pinned my arms without mussing her hair. "Your job? What do you do? Porno?"
"No, I'm not doing porno!" I shouted, instantly freezing the room. The slowly diminishing whir of the wheels on the stationary bikes was the only noise, as all eyes turned to me. Holy crap. If he hadn't seen me before, Button was sure looking at me now.
Before I could even begin to think of anything to say, Mindy was yelling for Ricardo and some other guy, even bigger than Ricardo whose name I didn't catch. Ricardo gripped my right arm, Bigger-Than-Ricardo gripped my left, and they whisked me toward the entrance, my toes tapping on the floor. At the door, they hoisted my 5'2" frame up another few inches, and without any unnecessary motion, tossed me out onto the pavement. I landed as gently as could be expected. A few seconds later, Ricardo came out with my purse and the video camera, and silently handed them to me.
Humiliated, and deeply worried about how I was going to put a positive spin on this when I reported to Reginald Wong, I headed for home.