Brett
From Omnictionary
Brett didn't like humans. He didn't much like other animals either, but he kept them around for normalcy. There was an air about him - a certain nonchalance - and as he sat on his sofa he gazed through the eighth floor protective glass barrier wondering: could he cut a hole through it by staring long enough? No such luck, or at least, the bad kind. If Brett believed in luck – he would be unlucky. It was as if the universe was telling him that he was to implode at any moment out of apathy.
The birds were active in the morning. As the curb-cleaners motored up and down the streets, waking the neighborhood, they chirped below his balcony, in the shade of the office blocks, as if they were responsible for the suns' rising. Brett lived on the edge of Central Miami – downtown, in an apartment building. No one knew it existed. He felt safe there; a haven in a building anything but. If they didn't need replacing, the lights flickered. The rugs were dirty and it smelled of citrus, as if the walls were washed with a truck load of rotting lemons.
It was a noisy neighborhood by the noisiest standards. Brett didn't mind. He owned an estate on Charles Avenue, he just liked to escape from his life for a while, to sleep. He could live anywhere he wanted: the boulevard, SoBe, the key, but it was the 'entrepreneurs' that put him to sleep at night – the clicking high heels, the clanging of empties and the hollers of the street patrol. He could never sleep anywhere else. Brett liked the life, the music. Brett lived for the music and it is hard to imagine. Apathy only goes so far.
The phone rang, jolting Brett from his chair. He walked over to it, ripped it out of the wall and threw it against the bathroom door. He slumped back down on his smelly sofa, took a sip of his stale coffee and lit his last cigarette. He knew they were coming; the first meeting hadn't gone well. He stared at the smoke creeping up the glass and wondered. Why had Margo come to him? They had been friends a long time, but that didn't make sense. Nothing made sense to Brett except the music.
He met Margo at the beginning of his high school career but his memory was clouded with distortion. He and Jimmy would get together in his basement and fiddle with sounds, rhythm, tempo, attempting the feat of garage rock. They never came close. They came up with bad garage rock, but people liked it anyway. In eleventh grade, they met Taylor and it started coming together. He now managed Kissy Boots, a band he was sure might be lucky. And they were. It afforded him his lifestyle – the drugs, the men, the rock and the roll. He loved it all, too much and he did what most people wouldn't. He rented a shitty apartment in a shitty neighborhood and disappeared for days at a time.
He was surprised when Margo found him, but if anyone could it was she. Margo knew more about things than others gave her credit for, and now she was gone. Even better, he was pretty sure it was his fault. How couldn't he have done it? He gave Margo the money. He said no at first, but she figured out a way to get the money. Her preferred method was blackmail.
Twenty-five thousand dollars was a lot of money for a girl like Margo. She was going far, but now Margo had gone far enough and Brett was too unconcerned for the police. After the first detective questioned him at his Charles Avenue home, he knew he was in trouble. Why should he care what happened, where she went, why she went? Twenty-five thousand dollars was not important to Brett, but apparently not everyone was level-headed.
There was a knock at the door and Brett ashed on himself.
"This is the Miami Police!"
"How long have you known Ms.Spiegelman?"
The mirror to Brett's left showed more than his reflection. The room was glistening. Was it the florescent lighting or its' refraction on the white desk he found himself behind? Brett knew that Detective Snyder was not going to be this nice in about ten minutes but chose to amuse, "We were close friends, we went to high school together, a long time ago."
"Can't be too long ago now can it?"
"No, I guess not." Brett waited for a change in questioning and received it.
"Did you see Ms.Spiegelman on the day of her disappearance?"
Should he lie? Brett knew they were going to try to pin it on him anyway, why not have some fun, "I dunno, when'd she go missing?"
Snyder was not impressed but decided to play along, for now, "Oh, I don't know exactly Mr.Bretterson, why don't you tell me."
This was going to be a tricky game, one that he didn't have time for so he just let them have what they wanted, "Yeah, I saw her. She came to see me. For like an hour. Surprised the hell outta me."
"Why would her friendly visit surprise you?"
"I hadn't seen her in a while, and it's not like Margo to just, you know...show up." Brett looked at his watch - two minutes.
"Is that right?...But you were still in touch you said?"
"Well, through email and parties and stuff, yeah. I never expected her at my house though."
"MMmmhmmmm. Real close friends." Snyder didn't seem convinced.
What was he playing at? Brett wondered. What did he know?
"As you know, we found Ms.Spiegelman's black 2006 Volkswagen Phaeton in the third garage of your Miami estate."
"...that's because she called a cab from my house."
"There are no records of a phone call being made..." Snyder trailed off.
"She used her cell," the ping pong game of an inquisition continued, "and she had had a little bit to drink, I didn't want her to drive."
"Okay, Mr.Bretterson, let's ignore the fact that she is underage; say she made the call from her cell, why did she call a taxi? She had a perfectly good car to drive."
"If we are ignoring the obvious reason, she told me there was something wrong with it. Something about a procata...precali..." Brett struggled, "Pre-catalytic something."
"So you put it in your garage?"
"No, well yes. I mean I offered up my mechanic to look at it for her and you can't just leave it in the driveway. Well, I mean you could, but that would be poor manners for other guests."
"A man with good manners there Brett? Your mother raise you proper?" This was the first time Snyder had called him Brett. And he was personifying the root of his name.
"I try." Next question.
"So, let me get this straight." Snyder tried to look confused, "She drove all the way from Jefferson Park, Orlando, to you, in Miami, because of some.....car trouble?"
How did this happen? Snyder was better than Brett gave him credit for, "Well, not exactly." And Snyder waited. "She came to ask me for money."
This was interesting to Snyder, whose ears perked up. Money was good motive. "How much money?" He inquired eagerly and then sarcastically added, "If you don't mind me asking."
Could he lie? Probably not, they probably had some kind of bank statement for evidence. Brett leaned back in his chair and steadily said, "Twenty-five thousand dollars." There came a whistle from the back corner of the room and this is when Brett noticed that there was someone else in there. Must be the good cop, Brett smiled.
"What do you think about that Detective?" Asked Snyder to the man behind Brett who slowly walked out in front and stood beside his partner.
"I think that that's a chunk o' change Dave." The man said. Dave, now that Brett didn't expect.
"Me too Bruce," smirked Snyder, "but what I'm wondering is what a pretty little thing like Margo needs twenty-five thousand dollars for? You have any idea Mr.Bretterson?"
"Nope."
"Come now son, you expect me to believe that you just gave Ms.Speigelman twenty-five thousand dollars without asking what it was for?"
"She wouldn't tell me." Brett said a little too frankly for Snyder. Brett had no intention of telling the police he denied Margo the money and that she had extorted her way out, "When someone looks the way she did, you don't ask questions."
"Is that right? Well, how did Ms.Speigelman look?" Asked Bruce. Now THAT was a cop name, thought Brett.
"You could tell she was pretty agitated," Brett said and then, selling the ice-cream-sundae of a story, added the cherry and smothered it with cliche, "That girl's going to make it big someday." Snyder seemed satisfied. Brett looked at his watch, it had almost been 6 minutes.
"So you knew when Ms.Speigelman was agitated?" Asked Bruce.
"Well, yes. I mean I had known her for a while. Are we done yet?"
"Humor us. How long?" asked Bruce again and Snyder folded his hands on the table, atop a stack of folders Brett thought he brought to look intimidating. Brett watched Law & Order back when it was good and wasn't having any of it.
"Well, I'm 23 and was held back a year, and I graduated when I was 19, so....4 years or so.....?"
Bruce turned to Snyder and sighed, "Ahh...Dave...Listen to this! He was held back a year and can still do math! I don't think that Mr.Bretterson understands the gravity of the situation, partner." Brett wasn't sure if Bruce seemed like a fan of old westerns and wasn't sure the smug, 'partner' was directed to him or not; but figured he'd best keep up, "Bretterson's twenty-three, and if Margo's still alive," he continued with a watchful eye, "she'd be eighteen...Is that right?...Hmmmmm...That's four years? No, five! Look at that Dave! His math must be better than mine because that means that when Bretterson was in twelfth grade, Ms.Spiegelman would've been beginning ninth grade, which isn't high school is it Bretterson?"
If this was the way that Bruce expected Brett to talk, he was more than wrong. It had been almost nine minutes. Brett wanted to end these shenanigans. If he was going to tell the police anything more he would do it with a lawyer present. He waited seven seconds and calmly replied, "I was held back two years then, and I don't appreciate being talked to like I'm an idiot. I've made quite a life for myself with the music business here in Miami and you should treat my kind of genius with a little respect."
Bruce hadn't been expecting quite a response from Brett, and it showed. There was a slip of character, Bruce was undeterred, but Brett caught it for a second. Bruce rose from the table and looked into the two way mirror. He walked towards the door, opened it, looked back at Brett and said, "You cocky son of a bitch." He looked at Dave, "This is why I hate dealing with punks who think they're the hottest shit in town." He closed the door behind him but not irefully. (<-- made up word.. good/bad? you know what it means right? Or what it should mean rather.)
"I'm sorry about my partner Brett, he's just really torn up about Ms.Spiegelmans' disappearance." Role-reversal huh? thought Brett. That was the second time Snyder called him by his first name, and Brett wasn't going to play.
"I'm sure he is. I want my lawyer."
