Revenge of the Chick in the White Shirt – Episode #6

December 14, 2009 on 4:04 pm | In Mountain Biking | 1 Comment

Okay, so we’d made a minor mistake. Patterson had been innocent of the crime. Yet who among us can truly claim to be innocent? 

Patterson was dead. Lipton and I could feel bad about it, or we could learn from this error in judgment and move on.

The photo of the woman in the white shirt holding Dave and Muldoon’s cups was bad news indeed. We’d run into her on the Alpine Trail at Mountain Bike Oregon in 2008. She was ahead of several members of Growlers Gulch Racing on a short interval climb and refused to let us pass. Much to the dismay of the rest of our  group, Dave began referring to her as “the bitch in the white shirt.” Evidently, she hadn’t gotten over it.  

I found a 22-ounce Moylan’s IPA in Lipton’s fridge, popped it for him, and told him to rest on the couch. The sun was coming up, and I had work to do.

While Lipton pacified himself with the Moylan’s, I went into the kitchen and dialed my tech-savvy web guy. He answered on the eleventh ring.

“Do you know what time it is?” he said. “I believe I’ve mentioned that I don’t get out of bed until noon.”

“This is an emergency.”

“It’s going to cost you.”

“We’ll talk about your ridiculous fee once I get some results.”

“Tell me what you need so I can deal with it and get back to bed.

“I’ve gotten several messages on my phone from an anonymous number. Can you track it?”

“It’s most likely from a pre-paid cell, so you’re probably looking at a dead-end. What else have you got?”

“I don’t know much about the source. Female. Late 20s or early 30s. Very surly. She attended the July session of Mountain Bike Oregon in 2008. She was riding a Trek WSD 8000 with Bontrager wheels.”

“I’ll get back to you,” he said.

I went to the livingroom to check on Lipton. The Moylan’s was gone.

“I’m starting to feel guilty,” he said.

“That’s because you’re looking at it the wrong way,” I said. “How many times have you told me that Patterson led a pathetic existence?”

“That’s true. A dog at the pound has more to look forward to.”

“Exactly,” I said. “No one should be made to suffer. This was clearly a mercy killing.”

“FOX News would call us a ‘death panel.’”

“There you go again, looking at it like the glass is half full. We did him a favor. In fact, if he was here right now, he’d owe us.”

“Your logic seems a little twisted.”

“I used to listen to the Michael Savage show,” I said. “I think it sounds perfectly rational.”

My cell rang. 

“That was quick,” I said.

“You need to give me something more challenging next time,” he said. “But if you want to waste your money on child’s play, that is your prerogative.”

“The bottom line.”

“Her name is Nancy Lou Cozysweet. She lives in Vancouver. Address is #74, Washington Street. It’s a condo near Esther Short Park. She works as a closer at an animal shelter in Portland.”

“What’s a closer do?”

“The closer euthanizes things, you dumb shit. According to her employment record, she volunteered for this duty. She enjoys it immensely, and she’s the best closer they’ve ever had. Probably has one of those happy face stickers on her car. Her supervisor calls her ‘Dr. Mengele.’”

He hung up. My cell buzzed immediately. New message – “Open wide, suckers.”