The speedometer showed 80 as I shifted into 4th. I carefully calculated the space and angles and then quickly crossed three lanes to the right and back to the left again. As I suspected would happen, the red car got stuck behind the minivan and the two big rigs. Shifting into 5th, I suddenly realized that I was doing a 100 and the California Highway Patrol might not understand the reasoning behind wanting to get the hell away from the red car.

The off-ramp to old Highway 111 was coming quickly so I waited until I could see the red car behind the minivan and then crossed the three lanes again to exit the 10. I waved a sarcastic goodbye to the red car wondering if he saw me. No matter, I had bigger fish to fry. Which is ironic because I don’t like fried fish.

As I slowed down to a more respectable 75, I started thinking about what led me to come to Palm Springs on a random Tuesday to a gay hotel to meet with a guy named Rölf. To be fair, The umlauts were a big reason why. I’m a sucker for a good umlaut.

The thing was, the story he told me over the phone had been good. It had all the right elements. Weird people? Check. Weird circumstances? Check. An alarming lack of information? Check.

I mean, that’s why I got into this business. It sure isn’t the money. Don’t get me wrong, I do alright, but I’ve got nothing compared to my clients. They are RICH.

Luckily, I speak rich.

I don’t consider myself so much of a Private Detective (I will one day open a gigolo service called Private Dicks) as I consider myself a Professional Problem Solver. My brain has always worked well with puzzles. And human behaviour is the most puzzling of all.

Rölf had told me 10. It was 9:30. I was getting hungry but this was supposed to be a “pool-side brunch” kinda meeting so I figured there would at least be scrambled eggs? But if that shit costs $25 a plate, I’m making Rölf pick up the tab. With the cost of gas these days, I spent that much just evading the red car.

And I swear to God if Rölf orders avocado toast, the meeting is over and he can get fucked. A man has to have principles and one of my non-negotiables is to never do business with someone that throws away good money on something they can either do better themselves or get someone else to do better cheaper.

Thinking about the avocado toast got me worked up and I noticed I was back up to 85. Shit, I need to control that! You don’t want to get a ticket in the Springs. The last time I got a ticket in the Springs, they still had Spring Break there and it wasn’t all gay.

I ask you, if a hot chick wants to stand up, stick her head (okay, half her torso) out of the sunroof, and yell WOOO at the punters on the street, who am I to say no? And how the fuck am I responsible for that as the driver?

Bullshit fucking Springs laws.

That left a bad taste in my mouth and ever since then I’ve been real careful about driving in the city. Well, that and I know a bunch of San Bernardino cops and they’re a bunch of assholes. Or is that a murder of assholes? A coven?

At 9:45, I arrived at the hotel and parked the car. The engine was still ticking as I walked away like she was asking to get ridden hard again and soon. I wasn’t planning on staying overnight, so, traffic willing, she’d get another chance in a few hours.

The hotel was one of those old classic mid-20th century post-modern architecture types that had been snapped up by the Gay Mafia and converted into a playground for the rich and queer. I’m sure you’ve heard the stories. They’re all true. Every one of them. Hell, there’s some you don’t even know about. Alls I know is that I could smell the chlorine in the pool from the parking lot.

He said he’d be wearing a beret and not much more. He wasn’t lying. It was a black leather beret covering up a balding (alopecia-ing?) round head on which a perfectly German face sat, complete with moustache (no, not THAT one!) He had on a matching black leather Speedo and about a quart of tanning oil.

“Rölf?”

“Ya! Thank you for coming. Please have a seet.”

I didn’t know if he was ESL or if that was just how he pronounced the word, so I decided to let it go. I took a seat across from him on the cushioned metal chair.

“What can I do for you?”, I asked politely.

“My friend, I’ve got a big problem and I need your help.”

“Well, it’s what I do for a living, so you picked the right guy. Say, you did mention something about food, right? I’m a little hungry from the drive. “

“Sure sure! Let me get the waiter.” With a snap of his fingers, George came over and handed us two menus. Frankly, I hadn’t seen anyone snap fingers at a food service worker since my grandfather was alive so I was equally shocked and impressed with how quickly George came over. Something told me George responded to snaps A LOT.

“Get anything you want, but if you order avocado toast, I’m going to kick your ass Berlin-style.”

I didn’t know what that meant, but I was starting to like Rölf.

I ordered the scrambled eggs with vegetables and asked George to bring out the Tapatío, Cholula, and Tabasco. Daddy likes his huevos spicy.

As we were eating, Rölf started telling me the reason he brought me to Palm Springs. As it always does, it had to do with a girl. And another girl. And a guy. And a donkey and a midget and a horrible stage accident in Tijuana.

And a death.