Kim Possible. Liberty Lost
Authors note:
This is a fairly dark story—you have been warned. It's also written in a different style from my other stories, trying for the whole Noir ambiance, that you got from some of the detective stories of the 1950's. Note that I haven't stopped on Senior Year, but some fairly difficult writing parts are coming up, so I've decided to do a few others. This will be updated…infrequently, as the mood takes me to write it.
I hope you like it, and let me know if the writing style works.
Thanks!
Jack
When you're a reporter, you get to go to some damned strange places… if you're lucky. More often then not, you end up going to depressing, miserable, and boring places.
Like here. Booty Barn the sign said—well actually the sign says: Bot Bar, since nobody's bothered to fix the lights since they were installed. The clientele knows what's in here, and that's what counts.
So, right now, here I am, Jack Carstairs, tracking a story down. It involves a city councilman who just got up that morning to declare "women's liberation day" and is right now trying to stuff 20 dollar bills in the cleavage of the lap dancer while drunkenly telling his friends how if you give 'em a special day, the bitches will do anything you want.
Sigh. And people wonder why my profession ends up cynical. Well, I'm certain that when he's sober, he'll be able to think of lots of ways to explain away this story…and probably stay in office too. Like I said, cynical.
So now the main dancers for the evening are coming out. This ain't no high class joint, and it's not a place where college girls looking to supplement their income go either. This is mainly for over the hill dancers who never made the big time, underage dancers feeding habits, and girls who are wondering how the hell their life turned out like this. As long as you don't look at the eyes, you can miss the weariness, and the despair. Most of the guys here aren't bothering with the eyes. They'll get their fill, go home and then if they see them on the street, snub them.
Yep, there they are, doing the pole dance, trying to get money…one in particular. Hell. She's good. Pretty too, even under all that obvious make up. What is she doing in a place like this?
I always look at the eyes. I'm a reporter, and the eyes say a lot. So I'm sitting there, while everyone else is hooting, or making jokes about how the best dancer is the skinniest one, or wondering aloud if she offers other services…and then I look into a pair of green eyes. They're tired, hopeless. But I've seen them before. And that brings up a question.
What the hell is a missing girl doing dancing here? OK, that's not the question, lots of missing persons end up in places like this.
The real question is what the hell is Kim Possible doing dancing here?
Kim:
God I hate this. There are times when I wonder if it would be such a bad thing, to go back and take the gun I have in my room, put it to my mouth, and blow my brains out. It would be fast, wouldn't it? I mean, God would cut me a break… even if nobody else does.
Shut up, Kim. Don't think. Remember that you're not even Kim anymore—you're Klara Prentice. Kim's dead. Kim would turn red at the thought of being seen naked like this, to say nothing of dancing for these sick bastards. Klara does what she needs to do to make money. You don't have a high school diploma, and you can never let yourself get listed in any database, so it has to be cash, and this beats prostitution.
I wonder if any of my fans believe I'm still a virgin?
Finish the number, and leave out the back door. Let the other girls do the lap dances. I have enough money for the day. I'll only have to shower for an hour tonight.
If I do a lap dance I'm in the showerfor hours trying to forget the feel of their hands all over me.
In the "dressing room," which is really a closet that got remodeled in this fire trap, I throw a pair of shorts and a t-shirt on, and over that my old coat. I'm sweaty from the lights so I'm not going to bother putting on anything else until I get home.
Home. There's a joke.
At least the rest of the dancers are keeping the crowd busy. No idiots trying to stop me, so I'm on the ten-speed and out of the parking lot, leaving this dump behind me. Until tomorrow night, that is.
Jack
I'm out of the bar, and there she goes, like a bat out of hell. The more I look, the more I'm convinced. Kim Possible, former Teen Age hero who took a fall, big time. I call up my mental rolodex, and remember, one year ago, when her partner was arrested for drug smuggling, and she was implicated for that bombing down south that took out 40 people. I wonder if she was surprised how fast everyone turned on her? I didn't do the story, but I remember Tom telling me just before he retired that you couldn't find a single person in the U.S. who had a nice thing to say about her. He always figured she'd taken off to Japan, or England, or some place like that where they were at least giving her the benefit of a doubt. So did, I—I mean, she didn't even show up for her parents divorce and what went down there, and I know that Tom had spent a few months haunting the Supermax Prison… figuring that she might visit her friend, but no joy there either. His second thought was that one day someone would find a body in the wilderness, and we'd write a follow up explaining how Kim Possible took a .38 express to the afterlife.
Looks like we were all wrong.
I don't follow her. Nope, that's for amateurs. I go talk to the bars owner. He's a fat, miserable excuse for a human being, because I know that some of those dancers can't be over 16, to say nothing of the 17 year old I'm interested in. He's probably paying some money to the cops, and in any case, that's not my story.
"Sorry buddy." He says, "the dancers homes are off limits." I slide him a C note. He frowns, and I add two more to it. Those vanish into a pocket on a shirt that is stretched over a body that's had too many beers and not enough exercise…or showers. Then I get an apartment address, after hinting that there might be more in it for him.
Like a dump truck when he's crossing the street, if there's a god.
I take the slow route. She's on a bike, and I'm in a car. I want to give her time to stop and eat, because if there's one thing a fugitive doesn' t like to see, it's someone lounging around their front door when they do get back. An hour should do it.
And there it is. An apartment building that saw its last good day around the time that the first Cro-Magnon was looking for a classier place than the cave with those noisy bears next door. Room 23 he said, and I walk up, ignoring the busted intercom, and the smell of urine and the junkie talking to himself on the stairs. I don't ignore the hole in the middle of the walkway, and I find myself at room 23, where I see a door with the charming patch in the middle that tells me, that yes, this complex has hosted visits from the Local SWAT team more than once, and they had to use the universal method of opening a door someone wants to keep closed.
I walk up to the door, and knock on it. I wait, and knock again.
"I don't want it!" An annoyed voice shouts through the door.
"I'm not here to sell anything." There's a pause.
"That asshole sold you my address, didn't he?" I pause, and decide on truth.
"Yeah, he did."
"Well, I think you should understand something—the names Klara Prentice, not "cheap slut." I dance, I don't turn tricks, for you, or anyone else, so why don't you just go away."
"OK." I say, "After you tell me one thing."
"What?" the voice is tired, angry.
"Why Kim Possible is doing dirty dances in a place like this."
There's a silence…for a long time. The sound of a sliding bolt. The door opens and a pair of green eyes are looking at me. But you know, for once I'm not looking at the eyes.
I'm looking at the 9mm automatic in her hand. The one pointed right at my torso.
Oh Crap.
Kim:
Who is this? Who is this? A police officer? No…he can't be. I'm dangerous, remember? If they knew who I was they'd be coming in the windows with a SWAT team. More likely, they'd just arrange a little auto "accident" when I was bycicling to work one day.
He's at least 60, a little overweight, African American. Snow white hair, and he isn't leering at me.
Of course that might have something to do with the gun I'm holding on him. Kim Possible would do the karate thing—Klara will blow your damned head off and don't think I won't.
"Get in here." I say, and back off from the door, as he walks in. If he moves to attack, I'm putting five in that gut, and when he falls down, another two in his head for good measure. He walks in and sits down on my couch—the one with the busted springs, which explains why it sags so alarmingly.
"Nice couch." He says, "Got anything to drink?"
"Shut up." I tell him, making a gesture with the gun for good measure. "Who the hell are you?"
"Jack Carstairs," He says, "I'm a reporter with the State Times."
A reporter. Oh God no. I look around at the room, asking how fast can I be packed and do I have enough money to leave…maybe finally make the decision, take a bus down to California or New Mexico and make it across the border to Mexico. If I tie him up I'll have at least a few hours head start and then-
"I haven't told anyone." He said, "I wasn't even there looking for you…but well, I have a pretty good memory for people."
"Then maybe I should just shut you up now." I tell him, holding the gun on him.
Jack:
I got her just out of the shower, I can see… she's wearing one of those fluffy robes, hair up in a towel, and has a pair of bunny slippers on. They don't go with the gun. The room is… well, clean, I'll grant her that. Sagging roof, stains on the wall—but it's swept and neat…almost like a hotel room. Sterile—a place where you sleep, not live. I can see behind her into the bedroom, which is just as sterile, except for some stuffed animal on the pillow. One of those ridiculous cuddle buddies. Hers?
She's scrubbed her face clean of all the makeup and I realize why she wore it in the first place—no way could anyone mistake her for anything but a teenager right now.
"You know, " I say, "Most women wear make up to make them look younger."
She doesn't flinch, but I see her scrubbed face redden slightly.
"Well, I like the old look." She says, "Maybe you should think about convincing me not to shoot you."
"I don't think you would. Kim Possible didn't kill people."
"Forty people might disagree with you."
"Maybe. Did you kill them?" That gun is wavering…but I'm a fat sixty year old who smokes and doesn't exercise. I don't think I'm going to try my luck at taking a gun away from someone who used to spar with ninjas. No way.
"That's what the news says." Kim says. "That's what everyone on the street believes, that Ron had a side business smuggling drugs and I set half of my jobs up for publicity's sake." She pauses, "They even have money transfers, remember?"
I nod, finding out that Kim Possible had a cool 4 million in a bank account, of money last traced to the biggest cocaine smuggling ring in Columbia…hadn't gone over well.
"You haven't answered my question." I say, "did you do it?" Fury touches her eyes, and I realize that I may be saying hi to my wife in the next few seconds. She always did say I didn't know when to stop. Kim's fingers on the gun have gone white, she's clenching it so tightly.
"No." She snarls and falls back in the only chair in the room, next to a table that looks to be about ready to give up the ghost. "No. So go off and write your story about the unrepentant criminal who still won't own up to her crime. I won't be here when you get back." She tries for pissed, but it doesn't work. Her voice only sounds defeated.
"What if I'm more interested in finding out why you didn't do it…and why everyone thinks you did do it?" I say. "could be a Pulitzer in that."
"Or a grave." Kim says, "I already talked to a reporter, before Ron pled guilty…he ended up getting hit by a car. Dead, so sad." She leans back. "Of course, that was right before Ron got all those pictures of his house and parents…all times of the day and night."
"And he didn't?"
"Didn't what? Go yell to the guard that was the only person who could have delivered them? His lawyer? Ask to see mom and dad and let them know they might be dead in the next few weeks?" The guns' wavering in her hands, but I could care less. I'm a reporter, and I know truth and this is the truth. "He took the deal, pled out, told everyone that I had known about the bomb, and the money… and then went to jail. Not life, I have to give 'em that. Just 50 years, assuming good behavior. Ron'll be able to say hi to a room without bars in 2056."
"And he sol-" The gun's back up in my face.
"Don't you dare…" Kim's voice is trembling, "Say that. He didn't sell me out. He saved his family. He saved his family and went to jail…if anything, I sold him out."
To be continued.