Sapphic Voices Mystery

The Black Triangle

Chapter 1

I'd been working with GARCIA BROS. INVESTIGATIONS for a little over two years before they finally let me do any more than answer the sluggish phone queries. Not that I'm the receptionist type, you know -- just that as far as they were concerned, my job was much too dangerous already, "for a woman." So, okay, maybe the only reason I stick around is to show 'em up. I did grow up with four brothers. Anyway, it sure as hell ain't the pay. Even though it is just me and Tacha these days, for a two-year old black lab, she's kept me on a fairly successful, albeit unintentional, diet.

Luckily, I learned early in the game just how much leverage I had over these two fellas, though purely by accident. One day Johnny, the younger of the Garcias, was showing me a picture of his latest, to which I made the casual remark, "Gimme six hours -- including dinner and a movie, and she'll have MY name tatooed across her breast." Well, I thought it was cute.

Come Monday morning there's a case file perched atop my Mac with a yellow sticky:

I COULD USE YOUR HELP, FRANKIE.
CHARLIE'S BAR -- 2:30 PM
J.G.

Well, just imagine my surprise. What a sweet gesture. Still uncertain of Johnny's intentions, however, I hesitated ... for all of two seconds, and then jumped at the opportunity and gave myself a pat on the back. My foot was in the door. So it wasn't the greatest case we've ever had, but it was my first, and I still get a little sentimental about those kinda things. Within fifteen minutes we'd gotten all the sleazy snapshots we needed of the Mayor's wife and their exquisitely-tanned high-school dropout-turned gardner in as many compromising positions as I could possibly stand. Johnny's favorite, as I recall, was a great little number with a lot of rhythm and an interesting beat -- the "horizontal mambo," I believe is how he so eloquently referred to it -- in the mayor's backyard spa.

I shoulda packed it in right then. Was this what my life had come to? And then my determination, my persistence, my outright refusal to push carts at our neighborhood H.E.B. snapped me right back into reality. So here I am today -- an unofficial partner, but more importantly, an official P.I. with ...

GARCIA BROS. & MEDINA, PRIVATE INVESTIGATORS

Chapter 2

The knock was feather-light. He wanted something.

"Frankie, hon?"

Badly. I kept writing at my desk. Correction, my two-stools-with-a-slab-of-really-thick-paneling spread across 'em. He slowly pushed open the door.

"Francesca? Sorry to interrupt ..."

Desperation rang sweetly in my ears. This must be big. I tried to contain the grin. Looking at Arnie, though, was like looking at a puppy in the pound. He had those pitiful hounddog eyes ... by far his best feature -- or rather, the feature that worked best for him. He was a fairly heavy-set man, and ever since Marta and Doc Roland conspired to get him off cigarettes three months ago, he'd had that same ratty, mangled cigar hanging out the side of his mouth, unlit and in decay. He's a classic old-world P.I. always on the verge of retirement. His barely visible neck dripping with day-old sweat even in the dead of winter. The permanent yellowing around the armpits and chest line. And worst of all, in my opinion, for a man who quite possibly could've balded gracefully, he chose instead to brill-cream the bluff from the left over to the right, across an ever-widening plateau. Tsk tsk. Such a sorrowful sight. But a great guy most times, and not a bad suck-up when he needs something.

"So, how bad do you want me, Arn?"

"So bad, Frankie, that I might even consider inviting you over for Sunday dinner."

"You're kiddin'!"

Oh, yeah, this was big.

"Uh ... no offense to Marta's fabulous fried chicken, but ... is she gonna be there?"

Contain the grin. Contain the grin.

"Yeah, yeah," he concedes. "She's flying home for the weekend from UCLA. She'll be in tomorrow night."

This job is looking better every day.

"But she's got a fella, Frankie. They're kinda tight. Don't you get no ideas, you hear?" He says in that paternal tone, wagging his finger and everything.

"Oh, absolutely not, Mr. Garcia, sir. I wouldn't think of it." And my mind's eye scans the wardrobe for just the right outfit.

"Francesca, I'm desperate here."

"Hey Arn, don't get your boxers in a bunch. Don't worry, okay. I'll leave the whips and chains at home. Girl scout's honor," I promise, crossing my fingers in a half-assed salute to the organization that both traumatized me and got me my first lay.

"You pull off this job for me, Ms. Medina and, well, I'll THINK about introducing you to my Amanda." He thrusts out a sweaty palm. "Deal?" Don't you just hate it when a man knows your weakness?

"Hot damn! You just got yourself a deal, you poor straight bastard, you!" I cross over to the front of the desk and take his hand.

"So, whatcha got for me?"

He throws three bulging manila folders on my desk. MISSING CHILDREN -- downtown. KIDNAPPINGS -- downtown. And ILLIANA MONTEGRA -- subject case file #2011.

"Geez Louise, Arn, Johnny too busy?" with just a hint of sarcasm.

"She's one of your kind, kiddo. Not ours."

I could hear his smirk as he walked away.

"Six-thirty okay?" I chided.

SLAM!!! And from the other side of the door I swear I could almost hear it melt off his face.

"EIGHT. WE EAT LATE!"

Chapter 3

Another dark alley. You think I'd know by now the kinda trouble I get into in these situations. Iliana Montega was known to frequent The Black Triangle -- two years ago, but it was all I had to go on and so, by default, seemed the best place to start.

It looked different than I remembered. Dirtier. Darker. Or maybe it always had been, only I was flying so high once upon a time that I must've overlooked it. Geez, has it been six years? Always seems you end up right where you started from. A bitch, ain't it?

I had to feel my way through the smoke-infested room, and had earned a helluva shiner on my right shin by the time I found the bar railing.

"Well, if it ain't little Franny Medina," said a faint voice through the fog. I felt like I'd walked right into a really bad B-movie. My eyes frantically tried to adjust; I couldn't make out where it was coming from, much less from whom.

"Hold it," she said. "Lemme see if I remember: whiskey -- straight up -- and as much lemon as I can squeeze outta this little crescent." Her scratchy laugh was coming from behind the bar. Oh, yeah --

"Mandy?"

It couldn't be. She left the hometown, the job at The Chronicle, the pillow beside me for this!!

"In the flesh," she cooed.

"Mandy. Wow. What a ... surprise." I was stunned. "Heard you were sunning your buns down Mexico way."

Did I just say that? I can't believe I just said that. The whiskey screamed all the way down.

"A double." I slid the empty shot across the bar.

"Sure thing, hon." She took my glass. "Yeah, I spent nearly two years down there, but a girl can only take so many UV rays in one lifetime, don't ya think?" She said with a wink and slid the shot back over to me.

She was starting to crinkle a little around the eyes, I thought in consolation.

"Besides," she taunted, "I got these awful little sunspots all over my tummy."

"Yeah, okay, I see, Mandy. I see."

Whew! Flashbacks. You're fine. You're in control of the situation. You've moved beyond this. We've healed this part already. And my throat welcomed the double shot and the three thereafter. By the hour I wasn't even sure where I was any more.

"What in all hell am I doin' here?!?" I looked around in utter disbelief and was startled to find her sitting right beside me.

"You came to see me, silly," she said almost inaudibly as her tongue lightly brushed past my earlobe. She proceeded to inform me of her conversion to heterosexualism, her recent divorce, her three children thereof, and her new phone number.

Oh man, something's not right here. Me! I'm not friggin' right here! I gotta get outta here. Where's the goddamned door? I can't see shit in here. How the hell am I gonna get home? Can't even find the floor, much less my damn truck. Why do I let her do this to me? I hate it when she calls me Franny. I think I'm feeling kinda dizzy here. Not a good sign. I should really get some sleep. Mornings don't agree with nights like this, and I'll never hear the end of it from Arnie. I think I'm gonna ...

"I think I'm gonna be sick!"

"Oh shit, Franny. No, no go to the john. It's over there. Shit, Fran. Hurry!"

Hurry. I stumbled out of the stool, and quickly realizing my legs would not be cooperating any time soon, I did what any other drunken fool would do in this situation, I just swayed there. Oh, like your inebriated reflexes respond any quicker. Anyway, attempting to regain my balance seemed futile, and the floor began to look not only more comfortable but much closer than the bar railing.

THUD!!! What, in Picasso's name, goddamned color is this?! Mauve?! Is this mauve carpeting in a sleazy dyke joint with a name like the BLACK Triangle, for crissakes? Ah shit, I'm gonna be sick!

And then it happened --- like right out of an '80s music video -- hot pink pumps sacheting my way; black fish-net stockings clinging to stems only Tina Turner could insure. I scrambled to my knees. A black suede mini hugging 36-inch hips; a shocking pink halter of some sort struggling to contain her beneath that commercial quality coppertone tan accented by tiger's eyes and thick black tresses. Lots and lots of 'em. And then she smiled. Centerfoldingly unbelievable!

"Franny? Franny, darlin', you okay?"

"Huh?"

You're blocking my view, dammit! I nodded.

"Oh, hon, I thought you were gonna lose it for sure that time, and all over the brand new carpet I just had installed."

She was pulling me up into a stool now, and I figured I should probably start paying attention before she stuck her tongue in my ear again.

"She was alone," I slurred.

"What's that, hon? Oh, no, I think we've had quite enough for one night. Here. Have some coffee. It's black. Sit a spell and try and sober up, and Mandy'll drive you home at closing."

She was tucking my hair behind my ears and for a fleeting moment the butterflies returned. No, no, Frankie. Get a grip. Come on. I looked back towards the door to make sure I hadn't been hallucinating or something. Why weren't there dykes flocked all over her? She smiled again. Maybe they can't see her. Maybe no one can. Maybe she's my guardian angel sent to rescue my drowning soul. Maybe I'm just really wasted.

I scanned the room for her insignificant other. Probably some bull-dyke with too much testosterone holding up a corner and adding tracks to her arm. They always end up with pretty ones. Go figure.

Instead, I caught the eye of the resident Mother Butch, decked to the nines in double-link chains (sterling silver, no doubt) and your finest Italian black leather who, apparently, was on the prowl and now on her way towards me. I twirled back around, remarkably hoping Mandy might be there to save me, but she'd already refilled my coffee and was now bending over pulling something from a box behind the bar. Oh, yeah, now I remember. Too late, anyway -- Mama's thick fingers and newlycured nails traced the hairline at the nape of my neck as she slammed a Coors Light down in front of me. The beer cooled my throat, made warm from the coffee, but before I could get it all down, her hand slid down my shoulder and onto my thigh. Too bad, I thought, a couple more and just may have followed you home. Instead, I caught her hand in mine, looked her in the eye, and took my chances.

"I'm with her," I nodded towards my goddess now nursing an umbrella drink at the other end of the bar.

What ensued I can honestly say I have never to this day heard even an approximation. She took an inch of my cheek between the index finger and thumb of her right hand while sliding down her left claw to clutch my crotch. She then proceeded to belt out the most atrocious cackle I have ever heard in all of my 29 years. She kept throwing her head back and laughing, again and again, and I seriously thought she had gone over the edge. I must've looked like a terrified kitten, all balled up between her arms, shirking from the sight of her and covering my ears. But the heinous sound continued, and it wasn't until every dyke in that bar turned in our direction and all conversation came to a screeching halt that she finally spoke.

"Miss Montega ain't with nobody but Royale, sugar puss."

And no one looked more surprised than me when she pried her paws loose and thudded out the door. Almost Mama's prey tonight, Frankie. Would've just rounded out the perfect end to a perfect evening.

I felt faint and thrust my head between my legs and prayed I wouldn't give up the $30 worth of liquor I'd consumed. The eyes slowly eased off me, and the feeling subsided. The music I couldn't remember hearing 10 minutes ago was blaring Melissa Etheridge, and that's when I heard it. Like a voice from heaven.

"You okay there?"

"Huh?" This was becoming too common a response.

"You look kinda...green."

"Uh..." I slowly turned my head towards the calves, knees, thighs beside me.

"My name's Iliana -- with an I. And yours is..."

"Huh? Uh...Franny FRANKIE! It's Frankie with an F," I said to the mauve carpet not 12 inches from my face.

"Well, Frankie with an F, why don't we see about getting you another cup of that coffee, hm?"

And as I raised my head I could see she'd offered her hand to help me up, but the inevitable sickness I'd been warding off all night finally hit me like a tidal wave, and in the seconds before I passed out, with the fluorescent lights filtering through her hair, I could've sworn she had a pair of wings.

When I woke up the following afternoon, I could hardly lift my head. God, five whiskeys and three years later, and Mandy was still knocking me out.

There was music coming from somewhere in the next room. I tried to pull myself up only to find my wrists bound to a brass bed frame with a strap of leather.

"Holy hell," I thought, "Mother Butch came in for the kill."

And bits and pieces of the night before stormed in like a hurricane.

To Be Continued...

If you have enjoyed Jo Anna Guerra's "The Black Triangle", then please be certain to e-mail her at  Jo_Anna_Guerra[at]excite.com  and thank her for posting this Story.

Click here for a list of all of Jo Anna Guerra's  Stories and Poetry at  Sapphic Voices Authoresses.