The Infinite Mistress

By D. Scott Apel

"Fans of Donald E. Westlake's comic crime novels will love The Infinite Mistress." --ComiCaper. When a bubble-headed North Beach topless dancer hires a young Silicon Valley private eye to investigate the authenticity of her "past life memories," little does he suspect that he's about to become entangled in a plot that has repeated itself through several lifetimes--and always ends tragically for the dancer. Or is it all just coincidence? The real question is, can he piece together the past-life clues he uncovers in time to dodge the juggernaut of karma and avoid the fated fatal finale? It's taken several lifetimes, but this time around, time is running out. A fast, funny, and original twist on the mystery novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. Scott Apel
• Release date: May 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781886404069

Book preview

I was working the Day Watch out of Boredom Division, counting the pencil on my desk, when she walked through my door.

That’s how I might start this story if I was Dragnet’s Sgt. Joe Friday. And if I was Raymond Chandler’s tough guy private eye Philip Marlowe, I might continue like this:

At first glance I thought she was a kewpie doll. I was close. She was real enough. But she was a real prize, too. Just by entering my cramped office, she reset the thermostat from shabby to shabbier.

But I’m far from Friday, and miles from Marlowe. All I am is Alec Smart, small town P.I. So I’ll just have to continue this tale in my own Alec Smart way.

What gave me the kewpie doll impression was the size of her head. It was far too large for her tiny body. The same went double for her breasts.

She was lovely, though, with delicate, perfectly sculptured cheekbones and nose, big blue eyes with fanlike lashes, straw blonde hair, and lips with pointed peaks, like little red devil horns. We’ll get Debbie Harry to play her in the movie.

She was wearing a pink halter top which was working overtime to halt her, a pair of pink hot pants half a decade out of date, and was standing on a pair of tiny, pink-nailed feet strapped into six-inch cork-soled platform shoes. And she still looked small. Except for those parts that made her look top-heavy. If President Carter ever met her, he’d definitely lust in his heart.

She stood there clutching a pink handbag, looking for all the world like a blonde Betty Boop while we gave each other the wide-eyed once-over. I had the nagging feeling I’d seen her somewhere before. Maybe I was just remembering one of those dreams. I’d find out soon enough.

Boy, would I find out.

Do you have the time? she squeaked in a voice too small for her head.

Yeah, but not the energy, I quipped.

Huh?

It’s two-fifteen.

No, no... I mean, do you have the time to talk, or are you on a case or something?

I’ve been in the P.I. business a couple of years now, and one thing I’ve developed is a sort of sixth sense about trouble cases. You know—a sense for cases that are real trials, more trouble than they’re worth.

Too bad it wasn’t working that day.

Take a chair, I said, gesturing to the single bare chair in the corner of my claustrophobic office.

Where? she asked.

Over in the corner.

She turned around, looked at it, and frowned.

I can’t, she said.

Why not?

Because somebody’s already taken it.

It’s empty, I said.

But somebody’s already taken it, she explained, exasperated at my failure to grasp the obvious, over in the corner.

Then why, I said, don’t you bring it very slowly, over here, so she’d catch on, in front of the desk?

No... she said slowly, nibbling a nail. Then, brightly, "But I could bring it over there, in front of the desk!"

I suppose I should have helped her. Moved it for her. But I couldn’t resist watching how she’d manage both the chair and that top-heavy torso. The latter looked difficult enough to maneuver alone, especially on those stilts. But she scooted the wooden chair across the scarred linoleum like a toddler pushing a baby carriage, then jiggled herself down onto it. She sat primly on the edge of the chair, knees together, back straight, hands folded across her purse.

Well, I said. What can I do for you, Ms...?

Buns, she said.

Beg pardon?

"Buns, she repeated. Honey Buns. I’m a dancer at the Phoenix Club in San Francisco."

Oh, sure! I realized. "I thought you looked familiar. But that’s sort of an understatement to call yourself just ‘a dancer’ at the Phoenix Club, isn’t it? I mean, you are the Phoenix Club."

Her eyes grew as wide as silver dollars and she smiled between a set of designer dimples. You know the Club?

"Doesn’t everybody? I mean, you’re a celebrity, right? A household word. One of the first topless dancers in the sixties. You made history. The topless craze, the North Beach scene, go-go dancing... You were the symbol of it all. The Queen. I can remember seeing pictures in Playboy of your…act…long before I ever saw you perform. Back when I still had to hide my Playboy collection under the bed."

You’ve seen the show? she gasped.

Sure. I made a pilgrimage to the Club when I was almost old enough. I even saw your road show. The stage show. When it was in San Jose a couple years ago.

She made a big O of her mouth to match the double O’s of her eyes. "You were there?"

I nodded. Right in the front row, with a dozen friends.

Oh, you were crazy, eh? she nodded slyly. Wait—Were you wearing a tee shirt?

Tell you the truth, I don’t remember.

You were drunk.

My past comes back to haunt me.

So... What can I do for you, Hon—uh, Miss...Buns?

Oh, she giggled, that’s not my real name.

OK, I bit. What’s your real name?

She made a lemon-sucking face. Priscilla, she said painfully. Priscilla Baile.

All right, Miss Baile. May I call you Priscilla?

Call me Honey.

I sighed. All right...Honey. What can I do for you?

Well, I have a problem.

Animal, mineral, or vegetable?

She furrowed her brow to ponder this. No, she finally concluded.

Uh...what’s left?

Spiritual!

Come again?

Well, I really wasn’t ready to leave yet…

No, no... I mean, just repeat— What do you mean, ‘spiritual’?

She looked at me with sad puppy dog eyes. I don’t know who I am.

Well. That kind of thing has more to do with a psychologist, or a priest, than a detective, don’t you think?

No, no, that’s not what I mean.

What, then? Amnesia?

Well, kind of.

Have you ever had amnesia before?

How would I know? she replied innocently.

Uhhh... No. No, I guess you wouldn’t. Anyway, that’s more for a medical doctor, or a psychiatrist.

No, no, she protested. "You don’t get it. I know who I am— she fumbled around in her handbag and brought out a loose handful of business cards. Here. I have these little calling cards from the Club, see? With my name on them? And I know some of who I was. But I want to find out everybody I was. And if I really was them or if I’m cuckoo-nutzo."

It, uh, still sounds like a job for a psychiatrist.

Oh, she pouted, closing her purse and pursing her lips, you don’t get it at all.

Well, then, why don’t you start at the beginning?

I haven’t been back that far yet, she whined in exasperation.

I ran a hand through my prematurely thinning hair and prepared to jump in for another round, when the phone rang.

It must be the telephone, she said.

It rang again.

You’d better answer it, she said. It might be the phone.

It’s just a tool, Honey, not an order.

What?

The answering service will get it.

They did, on the next ring. The momentary break allowed me to gather my wits. And hope that Honey’d had enough time to gather more than the half she came in with.

Now, I said calmly, "what the hell are you talking about?"

OK, she said, holding up a hand. OK. So I’m going to this woman, see? She spoke slowly, as if telling a preschooler a fairy tale. "And this woman is like a hypnotist? I mean, she is a hypnotist, but like since I don’t need to quit smoking or eating or something, she does this special thing on me. She hypnotizes people back, back, back, to when they were kids and babies and stuff?"

I could see it coming. Little adopted or orphan girl hypnotically regressed begins to wonder what happened to her real parents…

So then, she continued, "so then, she sends you back, back, back, she gestured hypnotically, not unlike Lugosi’s Dracula, till you’re a little squishy teeny baby in your mommy’s tummy—"

Yeah, a real snap—a little record searching, a little legwork. Easy stuff.

"—then back, back, back, and you’re lost in space somewhere. And the next thing you know, poof!, you’re in history!"

What?

History! You’re living in history! Costumes and everything, you know? Only you’re still you and alive, and thinking the same and stuff, even if you talk weird. Past lifetimes. She sends you into past lifetimes.

"What?" This I hadn’t seen coming.

She looked at me as if this was too simple not to grasp, and tsk’ed. "Past lifetimes. Who you used to be before you were born you."

Reincarnation, I said.

Yeah, that too.

Reincarnation?

She nodded. Past lives.

What, ah... What’s that got to do with hiring a private detective?

She just shook her head and tsk’ed me again.

I want you to find out if they’re real.

Now it was my turn to smile. That’s a pretty metaphysical assignment, don’t you think?

Oh, no, there’s no heavy lifting involved.

No, no, I mean... How am I supposed to check out the reality of past lives? I’d have to die and come back. That could take years.

She rolled her eyes.

"No, silly, you’ve got it all wrong. I just want you to check out my past lives. Look. She fished around in her handbag and hooked a couple rumpled pieces of notepaper. Here, she said, smoothing them out on my desk and handing them to me. These are notes I took about the two past lives she got out of my mind."

Out of your mind, I echoed. I took the papers and looked over the swirly girlish scrawl that covered them.

She pointed at the sheets. Those are like the main details, she told me. Times, names, dates, places, years, things like that. Stuff you could maybe check on for facts and stuff.

Very clever, I had to admit, staring at the pages. Clever indeed. If there are any physical artifacts of these people remaining—graves, historical references, photos, birth records, death certificates—we just might be able to piece something together. Hm. ‘Detective Uncovers Hard Evidence of Past Lives.’ Hm.

So you’ll do it?

Well, I don’t know...

Oh, come on. Don’t be a poop.

Well, I’ll have to have more to go on than just this, I said, waving the papers. I sat back in my squeaky chair and laced my hands behind my head. Why don’t you tell me a little more about these ‘past lives’ you’ve experienced. I might get some inspiration, or pick up something that you might have overlooked. Which probably wouldn’t be too difficult.

OK, she agreed brightly. But mostly it’s hard to explain...just pictures and feelings and stuff. Like, you don’t go around all day saying to yourself, ‘My name is so-and-so, and I live in Los Gatos’—this is Los Gatos, right?—‘and it’s 1978.’ Or ‘79. Whatever it is. You just know that stuff in your bones, and pay attention to what’s happening, right? So it’s like that.

Yeah, I understand. I guess. But just go ahead. Tell me the same pictures you saw under hypnosis, in as much detail as you can.

Alright. She closed her eyes and pointed her face toward the ceiling. Then she opened one eye and looked at me. Helps me get into it, she shrugged, and resumed her hypnotized position.

OK, she said. "So I’m like a belly dancer, OK? I can feel these veils and baggy pants and finger cymbals and a belt made out of coins, and I’m barefoot and I’ve got something stuck in my bellybutton. So in one picture I’m dancing in a club, and a lot of grubby dark guys wearing robes and towels for hats are sitting around on pillows drinking. And the doors are round at the top with little points on them, like a Foster’s Freeze cone, and around the top are these funny curvy squiggles, only I could read them, if I could read, ‘cause they’re some kinda writing, see? And there’s smoke, like hash, and I’m real stoned and happy.

That one I like, she said, and continued.

Then I’m standing on a stage outdoors at like the Renaissance Faire, only hotter, and with camels. A big fat guy in a dirty robe has got me by the arm and he’s jabbering numbers and guys in the audience are all wearing robes and towels on their heads and cheering and holding up fingers and I’m real, real sad and very stoned.

She stopped talking but kept her eyes shut. Switching to the next mental slide, I imagined.

Then in another one, she continued, "I’m dancing my little bare feet off for just these two guys in a big palace and I’m real stoned and this other guy comes to me and whispers in my ear, ‘If they like you, they’ll invite us back to Alamut.’ And then the two main guys come up to me and it’s just as clear as if I’m seeing them and they’re wearing baggy silk pants and silk vests and one says to me, I’ll never forget, ‘I wouldn’t wanna reshape you, doll. You are my heart’s desire. Right, Hassan?’ And the other guy says, ‘Yeah, sure, Omar, she’s a real babe, now let’s smoke some more of that hash.’

So I don’t know what it all means, she said, breaking her concentration to address me again, but the hypnotist got all excited when I saw this and when I wrote down that date that I heard those guys say on that piece of paper, so maybe you can find out.

I had a hunch I knew who those guys were, and what they meant. But my memory’s foggy about the college lit courses I took, even if they were less than a decade ago. So I didn’t want to venture an opinion until I could get some reference books. Maybe not then, either.

That’s it for the belly dancer? I asked.

She nodded. Now you want me to do the saloon hall girl?

I shrugged. It’s your life.

"Lives," she corrected. OK, so here goes. Once again, she assumed her trance attitude, head back; eyes closed. So I’m up on a wood stage in this Old West bar, see, and the sign says ‘Metropolitan Saloon, Deadwood City.’ That one I can read. And I’m prancing around in high-button boots and a frilly skirt and petticoats, and a low-cut blouse and a push-up bra. Feathers in my hair. And there’s all kinds of sweaty grubby cowboys sitting at the tables whoopin’ it up, clapping and drinking and gambling. And I’m loving it. It’s a big, big celebration: the Fourth of July, 1876, the Centennial. She lowered her head to address me directly. So there’s a real date, and maybe they got some photos, too, I’ll bet.

Worth a try.

She aimed her face at the dingy ceiling once again.

Then there’s another picture from that life, but it’s all sort of jumbled. Like a nightmare, except not. There’s a gunfight going on in the bar, and I’m real scared. Guns going off everywhere. I’m shooting one myself, ‘cause they’re shooting at me. And I shoot the bar mirror by accident and it busts up into a kajillion pieces and behind it are guns. Rifles. Lots of ‘em. Weird. But it doesn’t feel like, ‘weird.’ It feels like, ‘I knew it!’. And then there’s a BANG! and I fall over and I don’t feel anything anymore. And then... she whispered seriously, "and then, I see Death. She dropped her head and opened her eyes. He looks a little like Darth Vader."

I sat forward in my chair. Show’s over.

This was all very intriguing.

This is all very intriguing, I said. Very interesting stuff.

So you’ll do it?

Well, I don’t want to commit myself just yet. But you’ve got some good hard data here. Seems like a simple enough research job.

See! You got it figured out already! I just don’t know how to deal with this stuff. To check it out. But it’s not like I’m a dim bulb or something.

Oh, no.

Yeah, I think a lot of the time I’m way ahead of my time.

Really.

Yeah! Take air pollution.

Please.

Right! I know how to cure it.

How’s that?

I said, ‘I know how to c—

No, no, I mean, How do you do that? How do you cure air pollution?

Oh. Well, I’m glad you asked, because I have a plan. I notice the smog thing all the time when I come down here to Silicone Valley.

"Silicon Valley, I corrected. Silicone is what they use to make breast implants."

Like I’d need those, she said, rolling her eyes. Anyway, you ever notice how squeaky clean the air is after it rains?

Yeah.

That’s because when it rains, the rain washes the smog out of the air. So, OK, so why don’t they just take airplanes and spray water on the smog and wash it out of the air? You know, those big planes, with big tanks of water?

Guess they’d rather spray Malathion, I said.

Well, they should spray California first.

Or Paraquat.

They spray birds?

What?

Paraquats. You know, ‘Polly want a cracker?’

No, no—that’s parrots. Or parakeets.

See? You don’t know either.

I’m talking, I explained slowly, "about Paraquat. It’s a chemical. A deadly poison. The State of California sends airplanes over fields of marijuana and sprays them with it. To ruin the pot, so no one can sell it or smoke it."

Well, then, they shouldn’t have any trouble spraying water, now should they?

She’s got such a one-track mind she probably can’t even listen to eight-track tapes.

Well, that’s a...unique idea, I conceded.

Darn tootin’! But it’s just too simple, that’s probably why they don’t do it. Can’t see the forest for the trees. How’s that saying go?

Uh...

About time, too.

What’s about time?

"No, what about time. I’ll tell you what about time. It’s man-made, and I can prove it."

What are you ta—

If it’s not man-made, how come we can shift around whole hours on Daylight Savings Time? Or change holidays? Do you think cave people had digital watches? I don’t. All I think I know is day and night and moon and sun and stars. ‘Course I’ve lived around here all my life.

Next thing you’ll be telling me you were a leader of the women’s movement.

I was! You saw my show. No woman around can move like me.

No, no... I mean Women’s Lib.

Oh, them. Yeah, I was ahead of my time on that one, too. I’ve been liberating women for years.

How’s th— I mean, how have you been liberating women for years?

Well, before, women never used to be able to get up and dance nude or anything.

And that’s progress.

See? You understand. I think we’ll get it on real good. I mean, get along, she giggled and blushed.

Well, I said, there’s the little matter of my fee. Little matter is right. I’ve got to raise my rates. Any more clients like this and I’ll work up a big mental health bill at the liquor store.

OK, she said. She stuffed a tiny pink hand into her tiny pink handbag, pulled out a fistful of wadded bills, and dumped them on my desk. That enough for now?

They were Franklins, every one of them. Suddenly we were speaking the same language. Fluently.

Uh, well, I don’t want your cash right now, I sighed, trading Ben for ethics once again. I’ll have to do a little more research before I even decide to take the case. Why don’t I call you in a couple of days, and I’ll let you know for sure.

OK. What’s today?

Friday.

She strained to think, mumbling to herself. Friday. Friday...couple days...Sunday. Oh, Sunday, she said to me. Sunday I’ll be at a special fair down near Monterey. I’ll be dancing. Why don’t you come down and see me there? After Sunday I’ll be real busy at the Club, but if you come down Sunday I’ll get you in free and we can talk, and you can watch me dance. I’d really like to see you there. You think you can make it?

Well...we’ll see. I’ll have to do some preliminary research. If I find out anything, I’ll let you know.

Thanks. OK. Well, I guess that’s it, then.

Guess so.

She stood up to leave. I stood up to be polite. I had to stifle the urge to rasp, Say good night, Gracie. She tugged at her tight tube top and stretched out her right hand, gracefully but forcefully. I took it—my hand nearly encompassing hers—and shook it. Every other part of her shook, too.

Just one more question, I said. Why me? Why did you come to me? There must be dozens of P.I.’s in San Francisco. You came an awfully long way for an awfully small fish.

Oh, that’s an easy one. I got a good feeling about you when I saw you on that TV show last week. ‘Watching the Detective.’

You were watching PBS? I asked skeptically.

"I think I was waiting for Sesame Street or something and it was on before."

Last week? I didn’t know they were going to rerun it.

Well, maybe it was last year. But you looked familiar, maybe ‘cause I saw you at my show or something. Anyway, I got a good feeling about you. Like you could help, or were smart or something. Say...what’s your sign?

I’ll give you twelve guesses.

OK. Pisces?

See you in a couple days, Miss B— Honey.

She turned and tiptoed mincingly toward the door.

Bye, lover, she winked over her shoulder. With a flip of the hip, she was gone.

And I knew how she’d gotten her name.

2

Why me? Why do I draw nut cases like Honey draws barflies?

Well. No use pondering imponderables. Especially when I could apply my mind to making money. Too long have I lived with Dom Perignon tastes and a Diet Pepsi budget.

But there were still a few questions I wanted answered before I’d even decide to take this case. Like: Am I crazy, or what?

That was one of the easy ones.

The first thing I’d need to research was the reality of this past life jazz. Not that I’d never heard of it before. I do live in California. It’s just that everyone I ever met who claimed to remember a past life also remembered being someone famous in that past life. None of them ever had an explanation for why they were nobody in this life. Maybe they just needed a rest. I suppose it would be nice to take a vacation life every once in a while. As a dolphin, maybe. Better yet, a lion: sleep twenty hours a day; screw four; let the women do most of the hunting and raise the cubs. A life like that has got to be a reward for something.

And it’s not like I couldn’t believe in the idea, either. No, in