Down and Dirty (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 9)

by A W Hartoin

“Hey Uncle Moe,” said Fats. “I lost him. He didn’t go on 44.”

  “You gotta plate? We can run the plate.”

  “No plate.”

  “Hmm. I don’t like that, but he missed you. Must be an amateur,” said Moe.

  “Actually, he missed Mercy. She’s the target.”

  He shuffled in his seat. “Miss Watts, it’s nice to finally meet you.”

  Hi was all I could muster up. I was getting barfy again.

  “She’s not feeling so hot,” said Fats.

  “Take her to Cal’s,” he said. “We don’t want her on the street.”

  “I have to get my dog.”

  “When did you get a freakin’ dog?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “I’ll get the dog. Where is it?”

  Fats gave him the address and her name. I thought he might be put out that she named her female mutt after him, but he found it amusing.

  “Cal’s?” I asked when I started to think clearer.

  “Calpurnia’s,” said Fats. “Best place to be if you’ve got a target on your back.”

  “Oh, my God, no. I’ll owe her again.”

  “You’ll owe her more to be accurate. Would you rather lead that douchebag home to your mother, Aunt Miriam, or Chuck?”

  I brushed the glass off my lap and realized I had no options. I texted Mom that I was okay and said, “Never mind.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  We arrived at Calpurnia Fibonacci’s compound twenty minutes later, a place I had been and hoped to never return to. Fats stopped at the closed gate and did nothing.

  “What are we waiting for?” I asked.

  “For it to open,” said Fats.

  Then a red light blinked at the top just under the name Fibonacci done in curving wrought iron and the gate swung slowly open. We drove past the manicured lawns and her favorite nephew, Oz’s, golf course to see the house all dolled up for fall with painted pumpkins on the slate stairs and a wreath done in maple leaves on the door. It was very homey for an ultra-modern house with clean lines and plenty of glass.

  “I have to warn you,” said Fats.

  I groaned. “Why? What’s going to happen?”

  “Nothing. That’s the point. You remember Lorenzo?” Fats parked on the circle drive, but she didn’t get out.

  “Not even a little.”

  “He’s the meatball nephew I get stuck with now and then.”

  “Oh, yeah. What about him?”

  “He’s here. Fresh out of rehab and on the prowl,” said Fats. “You might want to carry my Python.”

  I’m going to spew on Calpurnia Fibonacci’s driveway. That’s not good.

  “You think he’s going to attack me?”

  “It would be easier if he did. He’s gorgeous, an idiot, but gorgeous.”

  I would’ve laughed, but I was too barfy. “No problem.”

  “With Lorenzo, it’s always a problem,” she said.

  I unclipped my seatbelt. “Look at me. I’m beat up, and I’ve got barf in my hair. It’s not going to be an issue.”

  “Lorenzo’s the reason I’d been to the Majestic Motel before,” said Fats. “Give that some thought before you say you’re off the table.”

  “Ew.”

  “It was beyond that. Trust me.”

  We got out and the front door was unlocked the same as last time. And like last time there were no knuckle-draggers guarding the place, but a honeyed male voice called out, “Is that you, Fats?”

  “Yeah, it’s me. Where are you?”

  “I’m coming.”

  Fats elbowed me. She was so tall it was in my breast, which wasn’t great. “Brace yourself.”

  “Give me a…oh my God.”

  Lorenzo the meatball nephew walked in and all the blood rushed out of my head and down to my nether regions. I think I may have blacked out for a minute. When my eyesight returned, I was looking at what had to be the best-looking man alive. The best-looking man that had ever been alive.

  He was six foot, so well-muscled that his polo sleeves looked ready to burst, lightly tanned with bedroom eyes, large and somehow emotional. Did I mention the long wavy dark brown hair curling back from his perfect bone structure? He could’ve stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad, except he wasn’t realistically human.

  “Breathe,” said Fats.

  “Hi,” said Lorenzo.

  The voice. Oh, my God. He sounds like Ricardo Montalbán. I’m on Fantasy Island.

  “Where are you…”

  “I’m American, but I was raised in Argentina,” he said in a purr. “You are as beautiful as your photographs.”

  I stammered and blushed. I’d never been less cool in my life and there’s some serious competition for that honor.

  “Where’s Calpurnia?” asked Fats.

  “In the kitchen. She thought you might need some restorative food so she’s making scaloppini.” He turned around, showing his fabulous butt in perfectly fitted jeans. I followed him way too quickly and Fats held me back. “Get ahold of yourself.”

  “You found him in the Majestic? How is that possible?”

  “He’s an idiot that likes crack and sex during crack.”

  “But he looks so clean and crisp.”

  “If it helps, he’s rubbish in bed,” she said.

  I stopped and craned my neck looking up at her. “You know what he is and you did it anyway?”

  “I like to try things,” she said. “Once was enough. Don’t go there, Mercy. It takes a long time to wash off no matter how many condoms you use.”

  “I’m not going to sleep with him,” I said. “Who do you think I am?”

  She turned me toward a mirror. “Take a look. Lorenzo knows a low ebb when he sees one.”

  I didn’t know how low I was until she said that. I looked like crap. I felt like crap. Chuck was more interested in my truck than me. He was probably doing Julia or would be soon. And—and it was a big and—somebody was trying to kill me. Again. My life was not working out and the urge to punish myself with a little Lorenzo was blooming inside me.

  “I won’t do it.”

  She looked down at me and crossed her arms over her chest, biceps bulging.

  “Just don’t leave me alone with him,” I said.

  “Done.”

  We walked through the house over blond wood past Danish Modern furniture that was dressed for fall with plump orange and red pillows and heavy silk rugs with leaves woven into the pattern. Calpurnia’s house was like no other. She might’ve been mafia, but her home spoke of an inner calm and elegance. I bet she never once looked like I looked or felt how I felt.

  Lorenzo came out of the kitchen, smiling his smile that made me feel as warm and melty as Aaron’s hot chocolate and wearing a flowered apron. It managed to make him adorable.

  “Watch yourself,” said Fats.

  I chirped that I would, but sense was rapidly draining out of my brain.

  “There you are,” he said.

  Super melt.

  “I was wondering where you’d gone.” Lorenzo welcomed us into the kitchen with its creamy browns and blues. Music echoed off the glass wall and the enormous swirled granite island where Calpurnia stood with her back to us wielding a metal mallet and swaying to the old school So Far Away. She sang along in that throaty deep voice that could almost be mistaken for a man’s and her glossy dark brown hair hung loose and danced around her waist with the words of longing and regret.

  The song ended and she began pounding the crap out of piece of meat on her cutting board. “Miss Mercy Watts,” she said, each word getting its own whack. “It’s been a while.”

  “Yes, it has.” I surprised myself by not being nervous. Half of me was tingling because Lorenzo had come up behind me to stand at my elbow and the other half was too flipping exhausted to care.

  Calpurnia flipped the wafer-thin pork onto a plate already piled high and started in on another piece. “Moe tells me you need a refuge.”

  “I don’t know a
bout that.”

  “Was someone just shooting at you?”

  “They could’ve been aiming for Fats,” I said and they laughed, bouncing the amusement off the walls and pummeling me with it. “Why is that funny? Fats has to have enemies.”

  She finished her pounding, put the last piece on the plate, and turned to me, her amused dark eyes running over my dilapidated form. “If someone had unwisely chosen to shoot Fats, they would not miss. This is someone from your world, Miss Watts.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Besides, I’ve already asked the question and no one has heard anything about a hit on either you or Fats. My contacts were surprised that I even inquired. It’s well-known that the both of you are under my protection.”

  Well-known to mafia. Swell.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “I can see that you aren’t thankful, but I’ll ignore that seeing that you’re young and having a bad time. How’s your mother?”

  “Better. Thanks.”

  “And the great Tommy Watts?”

  “On the edge of better.”

  She nodded thoughtfully and unhooked a large Le Creuset skillet from the silver pot rack over her head. “You might be surprised, but your father is missed on many quarters.”

  Missed by the mafia. That couldn’t be a good thing.

  “Really?”

  “Your father doesn’t get involved in things that don’t concern him, but he does get involved in things that concern me. Understand?”

  “Not at all,” I admitted.

  “His work on the Brain Trust was excellent as was your boyfriend’s on that kiddie porn operation. Those things concern me.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “And what you’re doing concerns me,” said Calpurnia, firing up the skillet and pouring in a generous amount of olive oil.

  “Why? I’m just trying to find out who shot some people.”

  “Because Catherine Cabot’s father is about to be a judge.”

  Oh shit.

  “Er…so,” I said.

  Calpurnia salt and peppered a piece of pork and smiled indulgently at me. “And Catherine Cabot has a habit. Habits can be very useful.”

  Now I’m barfy again.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She slid the pork into the skillet and a heavenly aroma filled the kitchen. “Lorenzo, take over for me and remember not to overcook the pork. I don’t want shoe leather.”

  “Yes, Aunt Cal.” Lorenzo ran a finger across my rear as he passed, leaving a sizzle behind.

  He took over frying and Calpurnia made coffee in a Moka pot, put a shawl over her shoulders, and waved Fats and me out to the deck where a fire was already lit in the fire pit. We sat down on the Adirondack chairs surrounding it and spread the double-thick fleece blankets on our laps.

  “Catherine Cabot has been on our radar for a while now,” said Calpurnia. “You didn’t bring her to our attention.”

  “How then?” I asked, feeling colder by the minute.

  She listed the porn sites as well as the deep fakes site. Her people kept an eye on what was happening in that world as a precautionary measure. Calpurnia wouldn’t work with anyone with ties to the industry. Catherine was tagged as someone who might be useful and she was recognized and kept track of ever since.

  “Then you know she didn’t put herself on those sites,” I said.

  “That hardly matters. Her pictures are genuine. Why she took them doesn’t interest me.”

  “Do you know anyone who is interested in a business sense?”

  “She’s a good seller, if that’s what you mean,” said Calpurnia.

  “Someone’s basically blackmailing her with them and they took the trouble to hack her phone when they didn’t have to.”

  She nodded. “They’re thorough and not lazy.”

  I ended up telling her the whole story. Lorenzo brought out coffee in little espresso cups and was summarily dismissed. He wasn’t part of the business, which spoke in his favor. Maybe Fats wasn’t telling the truth about him. He looked so healthy.

  “Do you intend to look inside that laptop?” she asked when I was done.

  “I’m going to have my hacker do it.”

  “And that is…”

  “He prefers to remain anonymous.”

  She reached back and pulled a small stack of manila files off a table behind her, shuffled through them and handed me a slender one. I looked inside and felt like banging my head on the wooden arm rest.

  “Fats, you suck,” I said, looking down at a photo of Spidermonkey and Loretta.

  She shrugged and sipped her coffee. “He’s involved with you. He had to have a file.”

  “This is good news,” said Calpurnia. “You could be using your Uncle Morty. He’s difficult at best. Spidermonkey is a more amiable man. Call him. He can come here to you.”

  “He’s not going to do that,” I said.

  “I think you’re wrong,” she said.

  Why does this keep getting worse?

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Not a thing. He’s a hacker, Miss Watts, but some things can’t be learned on a computer screen. He’ll want to see me for himself.”

  “I doubt it. He’s a normal guy,” I said. “Not a risk taker.”

  Fats chuckled. “If he’s involved with you, he’s a risk taker. Exhibit One: my truck.”

  “I’ll call him, but I’m telling you he won’t do it.”

  And I was wrong. No, not just wrong, super wrong. Spidermonkey was in his car and driving before we got off the phone. He arrived fifteen minutes later with two of his own laptops and some thin files. After the introductions and a chat between Spidermonkey and Calpurnia that was a lot like watching a pingpong match, she gave us a spectacular lunch, pork scaloppini with a briny white wine sauce filled with lemon slices and capers, roasted potatoes and zucchini on the side.

  Then Calpurnia and Spidermonkey set up shop on the kitchen table, laptops back to back. Soon they were absorbed and I wandered off to check my messages. There were about three hundred from everyone from horrid Julia to my mom. I called Mom.

  “How was your therapy?” I asked.

  “Did someone shoot at you?” she almost screeched into the phone. Then the parents scuffled over the phone and Mom won, saying, “Tommy, back off or I’m going to smack you into next week.”

  I could hear Dad pitching a fit, but he didn’t try to get the phone again.

  “All I get is a ridiculous message that you’re okay,” said Mom. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Well, I was okay,” I said.

  “Where are you?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Mercy, tell me where you are this minute.”

  Lorenzo came up behind me and ran a warm hand up my side and my mind went blank. He smelled like pork and expensive cologne with just a hint of laundry detergent. Clean and yummy.

  “Mercy?” asked Mom. “Are you okay? What happened? Oh, my God!”

  I snapped out of it a second before Mom went batshit crazy. “Sorry. Er…lunch came.”

  “You’re at lunch?”

  “Yeah. Down on The Hill.”

  “You’re out to lunch after getting shot at?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Well, I figured no one would shoot at me here. It’s The Hill.”

  “There’ve been mass murders in restaurants there.”

  “Not very often.”

  Lorenzo got in close behind me, his scent washing over my senses like a warm sea breeze, and I said, “Have to go now.”

  Fats came in, whipped Lorenzo off me and had him against a wall before I could hang up. She held him against the wall by the throat with one hand and said to me, “No, you don’t. Ask about Morty.”

  Oh, yeah. Morty.

  “Have you found Morty yet?” I asked.

  “No, I thought Spidermonkey was going to do that.”

  Get it together, woman.

  I quickly gave
her what little we had.

  “So she left him. Is that it?” asked Mom.

  “Maybe.”

  Mom told Dad and there was a discussion, but Mom must’ve had the receiver pressed to her chest. I couldn’t hear it.

  She came back and said, “Your father has an idea.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. We’ll find Morty—”

  “You won’t,” interjected Dad. “You’re taking a nap.”

  “Quiet, Tommy” said Mom. “Mercy, you should get over to Midwest and see about that dead CFO. Dad has a feeling. But don’t go in Fats’ truck. It’s all over the news. That new detective, Jones, has been calling us every ten minutes asking if we’ve heard from you.”

  “I bet.”

  “I don’t like her.”

  “Join the club.”

  I promised to be safe and hung up. Mom was comforted by Fats being with me, which didn’t make a whole lot of sense. She was with me when I got shot at, too. Parents. They have a logic all their own.

  “I think you should take a nap,” said Lorenzo, undeterred by the hand squeezing his throat.

  “Not with you I’m not,” I said.

  “You’ll change your mind. They always do.” If anybody else said that, including Chuck, especially Chuck, it would’ve come out sleazy or at least entitled. But Lorenzo said it and it was like a puppy asking for a pet.

  Fats dropped him and literally booted him out of the room. “What did I tell you?”

  “Are you sure about him?” I asked.

  “It doesn’t matter. You have Chuck.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  She frowned. “Do I need to snap his neck?”

  “Maybe a little. Maybe a lot.”

  Spidermonkey appeared in the doorway. “I’ve got it. Come here.”

  We returned to the kitchen to find Calpurnia sitting at the table with her legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. Her long skirt had a high slit and it pooled on the floor, revealing a good deal of her thigh. That contrasted sharply with the look of consternation on her face. Her hooked nose seemed more pronounced and her lips were pressed into a thin line of dark mauve. Manet would’ve loved her as a subject.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “They have nothing,” she said, not bothering to look at me.

  “Who?”

  “Our police force.” Calpurnia waved me over and I saw what she had on the screen, security cam footage of the shooter and it was lousy, grainy and from the side.