Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.
ICYMI: Arnold and Phoebe's investigation reveals that Santalov may not be quite the all-powerful figure the public believes he is. Vasquez impresses his potential new employer. Arnie's deed of heroism leads Phoebe to say more to Arnold that she maybe should have. A new player is dealt into the game.
And with that out of the way, please enjoy the new chapter.
8. Get Used To The New Normal
The story was all over the news. "Hero Detective Rescues Businessman From Violent Russian Thug" was probably the least flattering of the headlines. The common thread: Detective Vasquez acts on an anonymous tip, investigates possible murder-in-progress in Santalov's penthouse; shows up in time to prevent murder of prominent businessman; commendation forthcoming.
Shit! The news had caught even him off-guard.
Santalov: dead.
His organization: dead.
Scheck: until today, held to ransom by Santalov into providing financial support for the latter's organization.
Yeah, right! Brainy wasn't buying that last one.
Santalov's properties: to be transferred to FTI.
OK, that I can believe!
Damn, Scheck had pulled off the ultimate illusion and fooled even him.
Back then everyone in the neighborhood had considered the FTI matter resolved once Scheck was arrested, including Brainy who now – eighteen years after the fact – was digging up whatever information on the old man he could find.
The intel profiled a cunning individual with a long-game mentality. A man of vast resources, far-reaching influence and, most worryingly, patience. A deadly man to those who had wronged him.
Following his arrest after the FTI scandal, Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck was indicted for fraud and for four counts of attempted second-degree murder with aggravating circumstances (three of the intended victims being minors). The Prosecution's case rested on good evidence that included eyewitness testimony from Arnold and Helga. The case, however, never went to trial. Scheck's legal team had sensed the futility of a prolonged trial and chose instead to have their client allocute in exchange for more favorable sentencing recommendations. The attempted murder charges each carried a penalty of ten years, while for the fraud he was looking at fifteen years given its magnitude. The deal his team made saw him serve the sentences concurrently.
Despite Scheck's conviction, FTI emerged relatively unscathed from the scandal; since it was its own separate legal entity, and he'd admitted to having acted in his personal capacity, the company itself was spared any criminal investigations. An out-of-court class action settlement with the neighborhood residents didn't even dent its finances and it continued its business as usual. Even a drop in the share price was a short-term affliction, and before long FTI's balance sheet had returned to its profitable normal.
That was as far as the court records at his disposal took Brainy; he'd have to look into the BOP databases for more information on the man's incarceration. But now, a rest; it was evening, and he was starving. Before logging off from his desktop PC and stepping out of his domicile, he forwarded what he had found out to a certain Miss Heyerdahl.
His home, such as it was, was a nondescript brownstone in a nondescript part of Hillwood. He found the building's profile – and that of the neighborhood as a whole – well suited for his purposes. The neighborhood was lower-middle-class, unassuming, discreet. No nosey neighbors but also no regular visits from law enforcement.
Given the nature of the new target he was pursuing, he reckoned he'd be relying on those two qualities more than ever.
"Yes, I got your mail. Thanks so much!"
Prior to that confirmation, Phoebe had been pacing across the motel room, while Arnold lay face down again on the bed, scrutinizing the laptop for any overlooked snippets of information. Prior to that, they had rushed back to the motel room, arriving breathlessly and giving several fellow guests the wrong impression – "That's the spirit!" quoth the desk clerk. Their actual intent was to excavate as much information on Scheck as possible with what little resources they had at their immediate disposal. Forewarned is forearmed if the saying was to be believed.
Phoebe ended the call and joined Arnold on the bed: "Well, anything new?"
"Not since you asked…oh…about two minutes ago."
News coverage of Santalov's demise was confined to the local stations in and around Hillwood. Those reports unsettled Phoebe greatly. They depicted Detective Mark Vasquez as the hero cop, acting on his intuition and initiative to act on an anonymous tip, ultimately rescuing a helpless captive business leader: it made her sick to her stomach. She'd had sex with him, and now she suspected he was part of the organization she was investigating. Christ Almighty, he might even have organized the attempt on her life at Arnold's place!
"Arnold, check the mail. My BOP contact mailed us all the data on Scheck's incarceration," she requested as she slid closer beside him, the better to study the laptop together.
Brainy's mail had arrived pretty much when they reached the room, according to his email's timestamp. Phoebe had presented this as Exhibit A of Brainy's intel-gathering skills, to which Arnold had expressed relief at Brainy seeming to be on their side. Phoebe followed up by reaching out to a contact in the BOP, whom she persuaded to share whatever the bureau had on Scheck's remand.
Hence the BOP mail.
Arnold obliged: "Got it!" He opened the attachment and pored over it for the relevant facts: date and venue. Scheck's allocution and sentencing occurred roughly three months after his arrest, with the latter lasting 15 years at WSP.
"Hold it!" exclaimed Phoebe. "That's maximum security! How'd an old white-collar individual like him survive that level of incarceration?"
"Want to hear another crazy thought?" Arnold teased seriously.
Phoebe sighed back in resignation: "Go ahead. I think we're down to crazy thoughts, anyway."
"OK, you know you're going to jail for fifteen years. It scares the shit out of you, so you'll want to make sure nothing bad comes your way. Plus, you still have access to a multi-billion dollar company and its resources…"
Phoebe nodded; she could see where Arnold was heading. "Yes! Yes! You'd reach out to whoever would take you up on an offer to protect you. Maybe offer them a sizable monthly income, maybe some luxurious prison contraband! Arnold, you're brilliant! Let me check the BOP list again to see if any of Santalov's soldiers were serving time when Scheck was remanded."
Sure enough, half a dozen names were revealed whom Phoebe recognized from her prior research as lower-level Santalov associates. This, they inferred, was Scheck's foot in the door.
Phoebe postulated: "So it's his money and his friends' survival skills. No doubt he bribed their way to an easier life inside. I mean, look at this." She studied the readout once more: "Nothing whatsoever of Scheck ever getting into trouble, nor of his associates. No visits to solitary or the infirmary."
"Who in turn send word to their boss about a new moneyman," Arnold speculated further.
"Hence, the start of a beautiful friendship," concluded Phoebe. "And of a mutually beneficial arrangement. Can we go back to the bank statements, please? See if they go back fifteen or so years."
He did and they did. Soon they were back perusing Santalov's old bank statements, more thoroughly this time. "Found it!" Phoebe declared triumphantly. 'It' was Scheck's first payment to Santalov, dated the same month during which he started his sentence.
They paused, both staring vacantly at the screen.
"Do you think maybe…" Phoebe ventured, "just maybe…that the Sunset Arms was less an unfortunate accident and more a premeditated act with malicious aforethought?"
The mood turned grim suddenly. Phoebe persisted regardless: "I mean, Scheck never seemed the type to let bygones be bygones…"
"Crazy, isn't it?" responded Arnold, liking neither the sudden silence nor Phoebe's infallible logic.
The crime scene investigation was perfunctory at best, a show for the press that full protocol was being followed. Somehow even the District Attorney made it in time for the news crews, to whom he categorically proclaimed that the matter was a straightforward case of justifiable homicide to protect a civilian in immediate danger. The gathered press lapped up the story. Santalov was a feared figure in Hillwood – hated…but feared nonetheless – whose demise led to no tears being shed and no probing questions being asked.
That was two hours ago. The police had packed up and left, Santalov and his boys were chilling in the morgue and the press was off looking for the next big story. This left only Detective Vasquez with Alphonse Scheck in Santalov's penthouse, which the latter was studying in absolute revulsion.
"I swear, Detective, money certainly brings out the vulgarity in some people," he declared as he surveyed the overdone decadence of the suite. "Really, who needs a water feature in each room? And three fridges in the kitchen! Three!"
"So what happens now?" the detective asked.
"This building? It stays, of course! Apparently, Vitaly gave – gave – most of the suites to those he deemed especially loyal. The building is a loss, but it does help come tax season. So, for now, I'm honoring his arrangement."
"No, Sir! I mean what's my next job. I mean, I'm now solidified as a hero cop of Hillwood PD. I can only assume that there's a task lined up for me as payment."
"Why so impatient, Son? Enjoy the new commendation to your name! Knock yourself out in the liquor cabinets!"
"Sir, I'm still on duty," he said as if his badge and his duty still mattered to him.
"A fine asset you are," Scheck commented in earnest. "You do know the accounting definition of an asset, right?" He answered his own question: "Anything tangible or intangible that can be owned or controlled to produce value and that is held by a company to produce positive economic value."
Detective Mark Vasquez, reduced to a balance sheet entry.
Scheck continued: "Anyway if you insist on being a good little resource, your task is eliminating that do-gooder pain in the ass, Arnold Shortman!" His tone became bitter at the mere mention of Arnold's name.
"But Sir, he's ex-military. He saw off twelve of Santalov's lieutenants when they encountered him."
"Vitaly? Hah! Vitaly was all brute force and no nuance. No understanding. You at least will have an edge."
"How so?"
Alphonse Scheck snapped a finger, which summoned a bodyguard bearing a brown cardboard folder which she presented to the detective. Vasquez accepted the gift and studied the cover. Scheck interrupted, offering further commentary: "Understanding the contents of that folder may assist you in bringing the quarry to you instead. Be sure to study its contents well. Oh, and since you insist on still being on duty, I'll leave you to let yourself out."
As Vasquez exited the building, he made another attempt at studying the folder. The writing on the cover was faded, most likely the result of years of inadequate storage. He could, however, make out a Dr. Bliss. The initials had faded away, so too most of the medical credentials. What was left legible pegged Dr. Bliss as a psychologist, a child psychologist at that. He searched for the patient's name and was shocked to find written: Helga Geraldine Pataki.
Helga Pataki? He was familiar with the name, but how exactly was she the key to killing Arnold Shortman?
He was on his way back after dinner which comprised pierogi and a Yahoo when the Crown Vic pulled up alongside him with the rear window open.
"Get in." Smith was agitated, but Brainy did as told.
"OK, I admit it. I fucked up," said Brainy once inside. Smith motioned to the driver to start driving before responding: "Son, we all fucked up. We all thought that Santalov was the Alpha and Omega. Never thought that his strings were being pulled."
Brainy could only nod in regret. Smith had a question: "What does this mean for your friend Shortman?"
"Hell, he's in more danger now and he knows it! Santalov had no beef with him, but with Scheck…Fuck, a man who always got what he wanted. A man who Arnold help send to prison. A man without mercy, who lost to Arnold. You bet your ass this is personal for Scheck. He's out to get him!"
"That's what I thought." Smith's tone was dour. "For what it's worth, Son, you still have my support, even if the new guy's about a billion times worse than the old one."
"Seriously?" Brainy had never allowed himself to be taken aback by anything, but Smith's last sentence did just that. He'd expected Smith's assistance to cease with the death of Santalov but no, here was Smith offering his continued support. "Look, just forget why I'm helping you and remember that Arnold and his crazy friends were like the family I never had. You were right in the park. I owe it to them to see this matter through to the end."
With that statement, Brainy was reminded of how he roped Smith into his furtive enterprise. Following the Sunset Arms disaster, Brainy had started gathering any information he could surrounding the event. He stumbled across the list of current tenants for The Sunset Arms, where he noted a Mr. Smith who was a year behind on his rent while the Sunset Arms still stood and was not listed among the deceased.
Brainy put two and two together to get five: Smith was somehow involved in the destruction. He traced the man to a secretive government department in Hillwood. Eventually, he confronted Smith, who was able to prove his innocence after which he very politely instructed Brainy to fuck off.
Brainy did as told but continued looking into Smith. Two things post-explosion had bothered him: Arnold's quick adoption that was too readily approved by CPS and his equally speedy approval to emigrate to San Lorenzo. Using his keen listening skills together with his ability to gain access and blend in anywhere, he was able to link Smith to the fast-tracking of both events.
Brainy now saw in Smith a potential ally, so he paid the latter another visit. Only this time he was prepared; he threatened to report Smith to his department's ethics committee for misusing state resources to help Arnold. Such was Smith's luck that he happened to work in possibly the only department in which ethics and oversight still meant a damn. Brainy had Smith by the proverbial gonads and so coerced his co-operation. Smith would provide access to the department's computer and satellite network, which Brainy used to establish himself as the best damn CI along the Pacific Northwest; all before his eighteenth birthday. When Smith realized how Brainy was using the intel he was gathering – putting seemingly untouchable criminals behind bars – he started minding less and less. Brainy's activities had awakened Smith's long-dormant sense of justice and thus had earned Smith's begrudging respect.
Even so, Brainy was touched by Smith's current offer to see the Scheck matter through to the end.
"My stop's coming up," Brainy said as they approached a random intersection. Then as he disembarked: "And Smith? Thanks."
"One last thing, Brainy. Am I ever going to know your real name?" Brainy's real name had eluded even the resources of Smith's department.
"You first," replied Brainy as he disappeared into the surroundings.
"Arnold, I know you're awake. No point in pretending to be asleep."
They had decided to share the bed with Arnold as close to the one edge as possible, curled up away from Phoebe, and Phoebe likewise on the other side. It was neither's first time sharing a bed; it was their first time with each other. They'd made another agreement: No more talk of Scheck for the rest of the day, nor of any of the crazy sequence of events that started when Phoebe knocked on Arnold's door a little over twenty-four hours prior. Which left them with what, exactly?
That was two hours ago. Here they were, both showered, both clad in their morning sleepwear ensembles, both fed from takeout from the sushi bar – that Phoebe still couldn't believe had a market in such a rural town – and both unable to sleep.
"You got me," Arnold admitted. "Probably still the adrenaline from today. Hasn't subsided yet."
"Same here," Phoebe admitted. "You know, as a reporter, I have received my share of death threats. At first, I was really worried. I even took a firearms training course. But I didn't like carrying a gun around, so I switched to the taser."
"Did it help?"
"Not really. Mostly because the callers were gutless cowards who couldn't follow through on their threats. Some were stupid enough to call from their own phones instead of burners. Those I took to the police to handle matters. Never heard from them again."
"So…this morning was nothing new, right?"
"Arnold, need I remind you that you are venturing outside our agreed-upon subject parameters?"
"Overridden," was his terse reply.
Convenient, thought Phoebe, but she answered nonetheless: "This morning was different. I was actually in the thick of the action with bullets flying all over the place. I admit I was scared...like I suddenly realized I was dealing with someone who would actually follow up with his threats."
They were facing away from each other, so Arnold could not see her trembling hands as she was recalling the morning's shootout. She continued: "But then when you told me we were going to make it…well, I believed you. I trusted you. With my life. How do you do it, Arnold? How do you force yourself to believe that you'll overcome impossible odds?"
Another simple answer: "Somebody has to."
Emboldened by the direction of the conversation, Phoebe ventured: "Arnold, ever had someone profoundly betray you? I mean besides Lasombra."
"You mean like how what's-his-name…Vasquez…betrayed you? I believe that subject falls outside our agreed-upon subject parameters, air quotes."
No way, thought Phoebe. No way was he going to brush off that question, so she countered: "No way, Mister! Consider your override still in force!"
Defeated once more by her logic, Arnold answered: "Nothing as extreme as that. Nothing that put my life at risk." Some thought, then: "Wait a minute. There was a time way back when...remember Frankie G? He became friends with me then tried robbing a music store and framing me for it. Gerald saved my ass that night, otherwise, I'd have been in juvie for sure. That's about as bad as it got."
A chuckle from Phoebe: "Oh thanks! Now I'm having this mental image of you as a hardened juvenile convict."
"Yeah, ha-ha!" Arnold's voice was weary, but in reality, he was enjoying this opportunity to talk about anything with Phoebe. "While you're there, how do I look in my orange jumpsuit?"
"Featureless. That prison garb does little to highlight your wiry musculature." Did I just say that out loud? She muttered internally the instant the words left her mouth. Too late, for Arnold had caught on. "Excuse me? Care to repeat that last part?"
GREAT! Phoebe's inner grumbling continued. I just talked myself into a corner. Time to go on the offensive. "Like you haven't noticed me in that way! Don't think I didn't notice you glimpse my way during the gunfight when you entered the bedroom! Did you like what you saw, by the way?"
"I've seen better," was Arnold's dry reply, for which he was rewarded with a hard whack from Phoebe's pillow. Then another. Then a full-on goose down barrage. "Fuck you, Arnold Shortman!" her voice conveyed playfulness, not anger as she continued pelting him. Arnold was eventually able to turn towards her, trap her and her pillow and after a short frolic there they were, all smiles, Arnold flat on his back with Phoebe straddling his chest.
"You didn't let me finish," Arnold continued. "I've also seen a lot, lot worse."
"Oh?" Phoebe played along. "And where do I rank, hmm? Top fifty percent?"
"Definitely," Arnold answered, and Phoebe leaned in closer.
"Top twenty-five percent?" a huskier voice, sexier. Closer.
"Easily."
"Top decile?" no change in her tone. Closer still.
"Not exactly sure where that is, but...OK."
"Oh, why not admit it? You enjoy kissing me and will say anything to score another one!" Sexy, playfully stern, wholly irresistible.
"Guilty as charged," he conceded as he brought her lips to his.
And so there was sex.
Physical. Mechanical. Basic. Primal.
Sex.
Arnold: seated on the bed, back against the backrest.
Phoebe: straddling him in only her periwinkle sleepshirt.
Stimuli for Arnold: All from Phoebe, all Phoebe.
Phoebe: rocking to the rhythm of his thrusts.
Phoebe: face glistening from her exertion.
Phoebe: sleepshirt clinging to her upper body, teasing its contours.
Phoebe: breath quickening, becoming shallower; more urgency to her moans.
Phoebe: the pitch of her voice sharpening ever so gradually.
Phoebe: muscles tightening, spasming, head cocking back in a violent whiplash motion as he issued forth within her.
And so they remained, gazing at each other, studying each other. Arnold had his hands around Phoebe's waist; she had hers around his neck. This wasn't enough for Arnold. He'd had her, but he wanted more. To explore every square inch of her being, as he rested his right hand on her thigh before running up her flank to her breast which he cupped and gently squeezed and briefly fondled, all to more of her husky moaning. More still, as he moved his hand up along her shoulder, neck before settling on her cheek. Now they were staring deeply into each other, breathing settling, warm breaths mingling, heartbeats almost palpably running amok.
He wanted more. All of her and her beauteous self. Not just this action. Not just how she had made him feel. He wanted her. He wanted her as he moved in for a deep kiss, which she accepted with a slip of her tongue to which he reciprocated. All of her, he reminded himself as their tongues probed and twisted.
Then, it stopped. Her eyes shot open and she flinched away from him. A moment of dazed silence, uncertainty, then: "Arnold, can I be excused to the bathroom, please?"
Five or so minutes later, there she was, in the bathroom, looking in the mirror. What exactly was that looking back at her? Regret? Guilt? Certainly a sense of what the hell just happened. Mixed with a bit of did I really let things get that far?
"Everything OK in there?" called Arnold from the bedroom.
"I'm fine!" Phoebe replied. Except, she wasn't. Not quite, anyway. Phoebe had splashed her face countless times in a vain quest for clarity. She had to come clean, she had to tell him. But how? At his core, he was still the sweet, helpful boy he'd always been. How else could she explain his risking his life to help her? How could she tell him now that sex with him was her rebound from Mark's betrayal? By being honest and forthright with him, she resolved to the uncertainty staring back at her in the mirror.
OK, showtime, she steeled herself for what had to be said.
"Hey, Arnold…about what just happened," she was standing at the foot of the bed, a suddenly serious expression on her face.
Arnold reassured her: "Sorry, I was tired. Rough day."
"It's not that, Arnold. You were amazing," she wasn't lying. "It's just that…Oh, Arnold, I think I might have used you for my convenience."
Arnold sat at a loss for words. Moments later: "You're talking about that Vasquez character, right?"
"Yes," she proceeded gingerly. "More specifically, his involvement in this whole matter may have contributed to my eagerness to engage in this…activity."
Arnold quirked an eyebrow at her frankness and was about to respond when she cut him off: "Wait, let me continue. Yes, I'm glad to have met you after all these years. I mean, if a had a choice for a rebound sex partner, it would be you. I mean, I mean…" Now she was rambling, but she continued. "Remember Romeo and Juliet, you as Romeo? Well, I was one of the girls originally cast as Juliet and I remember Rhonda saying just how she wouldn't mind having to kiss you and me agreeing with her that it would be kind of…nice and…"
"Phoebe, hush," Arnold spoke, and her rambling ceased. "Listen, I don't think any less of you. And as for that fuckwit Mark or whatever his name is? Well, bless his shriveled, maggot-infested heart for driving you this way."
"Arnold, please! More than any time, I need you to be serious now!"
"I am serious! I owe the guy big time for what just happened. And please, just let me have my fantasy as the stud who made you forget all about your lifetime of hurt and emotional suffering."
Well if he puts it like that, she thought, figuring that there was no point in further argument, bargaining or rationalization. With that, her expression switched to mock sternness. With that, she slowly and deliberately undid the buttons of her sleepshirt before easing out of it. She presented herself to Arnold, wearing only her sexiest smile: "OK, hotshot. You ready for a second round?"
Arnold directed her attention to his crotch, where she found him still at rock-solid attention.
"Why not come over and find out?" his smile matched hers.
Her reply recalled her voice from P.S. 118: "Coming!"
About twenty minutes later, she was.
Detective Mark Vasquez arrived home on later that evening to a stinging slap from his wife.
"That's for your latest boneheaded stunt!" she chastised. "And this…" she didn't finish the sentence because now she was all over him, showering hugs, kisses and adulations upon him. Then, when she was done: "But don't ever do something so irresponsible again!" Followed by more displays of affection.
She had seen, heard or read the breaking news of the brave police detective who singlehandedly and against almost insurmountable odds defanged Hillwood's most feared – alleged – criminal organization, effectively ending it.
The celebration moved from the front door all the way to the bedroom where Vasquez was reminded – to his admitted pleasure – of his wife's carnal techniques. Eventually, they were lying in bed, she atop of him with a glow on her face reflecting several lifetimes' worth of bliss. Unfortunately, his own pleasure had been curtailed when his thoughts turned to Phoebe, at which point he felt…conflicted.
Here he was, Hillwood PD's latest, greatest poster boy. The culmination of a string of events starting with his involvement with Phoebe.
Here he was also, neck-deep in the organization of Alphonse Scheck, effectively contracted to kill a man he hadn't even met under threat of his life and his wife's. Also the culmination of a string of events starting with his involvement with Phoebe.
"Mark, is something wrong?" his wife asked after their copulation. "You seemed a little out of it." As perceptive as ever; how long could he keep his shitstorm a secret from her?
"Nothing, just police work is all."
She pressed a finger against his lips: "Now, Mark, no shoptalk in the boudoir!"
All he could do was touch her cheek before stroking her short blonde hair. She may have been seven years his senior but damn she was gorgeous! Santalov had been right all along; if he hadn't stuck his dick in 'that fucking reporter' he'd still be in the frying pan with which he was much better accustomed than with the raging inferno in which he currently found himself.
"What's this?" she remarked. "You still have work on your mind? Allow me to remedy that!"
With that said she slunk down on him, targeting his crotch, and began administering him orally.
"Olga Pataki-Vasquez," he declared between groans of ecstasy, "sometimes I think I don't deserve you."
Author's Note: With the sex scenes, my aim in describing then was 'vivid, but not graphic'. Hopefully, I succeeded in that goal. Note too that the Arnold/Phoebe scene is described in more detail to highlight how invested Arnold is in the moment (it is after all written from his perspective.), whereas Vasques/Wife is described more vaguely to show that he is not as invested due to his distractions.
Author's Note #2: I also had to give Brainy some more storytime and develop his character some more. He'll be featuring more prominently in the next chapter, I promise.
Author's Note #3: Another element for the next chapter that I'm carefully considering is what car an adult Arnold would drive. I've narrowed the field down to three possibilities, not one of which is a Packard.
Author's Note #4: Spotify playlist standouts for this chapter.
Keep Talking - Pink Floyd
Every Little Thing (He) Does Is Magic - Shawn Colvin
If You Asked Me To - Patti Labelle
Falling Down - Oasis
Coup D'Etat - Level 42
Author's Note #5: Thank you to everyone who's been following this tale and keeping my story stats gradually ticking upward. it's for you that I put in the effort of checking my grammar (through Word and Grammarly) as well as researching my subject matter meticulously. Yes, I want an outlet for my creative writing, but that would mean nothing without you. See you next chapter!