Death of a Gigolo

by Laura Levine

  That last zinger directed at moi.

  Before I could call her out on her politically incorrect term of address, I was approached by the same gum-chewing honey who’d led me to my seat.

  “So what’ll it be?” she asked.

  “Diet Coke.”

  “We got a three-drink minimum. Cokes are twelve bucks apiece.”

  Yikes. It was expensive being a sexist pig.

  I told her to bring on the Cokes and turned my attention back to the stage, where Arlene was now within whispering distance.

  “Excuse me, Arlene,” I said.

  She looked down at me, peeved.

  “My name isn’t Arlene in here. It’s Misty. Misty Harbor.”

  “Sorry, Ms. Harbor. We met a while back at Daisy Kincaid’s home.”

  She squinted at me through a thick fringe of false eyelashes.

  “Oh, yeah. You were the one stuffing your face with a Ding Dong.”

  I decided to take the high road and let that crack slide.

  “I was wondering if I could talk to you after the show about Tommy LaSalle’s murder.”

  A calculating look flashed in her eyes.

  “That depends. You wanna talk, you gotta tip.”

  She thrust out her G-string, where some of the degenerates in the audience had already planted dollar bills.

  I grabbed a dollar from my wallet and gingerly hung it from her hip.

  “Go for it, Cocoa Puffs!” one of the college idiots called out as I gave her the money.

  (Note to self: CUCKOO FOR COCOA PUFFS T-shirt inappropriate attire for strip clubs.)

  “A buck?” Arlene snorted in disgust. “For that kinda money, all you’re getting is ‘No comment.’ ”

  Reluctantly I parted with a twenty.

  Ca-ching.

  “Meet you in the parking lot on my break,” she said.

  “Take it off! Take it off!” the USC scholars were now chanting at the dancers.

  When I got up to go, one of them shouted at me, “Put it on!”

  Which got a hearty round of guffaws from his buddies.

  I hoped the little twerp got mono.

  “Buzz off, bozo!” I sputtered. “Go back to school and read a book! I’m thoroughly disgusted by the objectification and denigration of women in this dive, not to mention the absurd three-drink minimum and thirty-dollar cover charge. I will be writing a letter to Gloria Steinem to protest this sorrowful state of affairs. In the meanwhile, I urge you clowns to grow up and get a life.”

  Actually, that’s what I intended to say. Alas, I didn’t get past, “Buzz off, bozo!” when the two goons I’d seen earlier magically appeared at my side, lifting me up and whisking me out of the room.

  “Wait!” I protested. “I’m not finished.”

  “Yes, you are,” one of the goons said as they shoved me out into the parking lot.

  “Bye-bye, Cocoa Puffs,” said the other, with a most irritating snicker.

  * * *

  I waited in my Corolla for what seemed like ages until Arlene finally emerged from The Body Shop in her trench coat, tottering toward me on her mile-high stilettos.

  “My dogs are killing me!” she said, kicking off her shoes as she settled into the passenger seat, her battleship boobs practically grazing the dashboard.

  Then she took a jar of Mineral Ice from the pocket of her trench coat and began rubbing a glob of the blue goo onto her instep.

  “So what are you, anyway? Some kind of private eye?”

  “Part-time, semi-professional. A friend of mine is a suspect in the case, and I’m trying to clear her name.”

  “I’m afraid you’re wasting your time,” she said, rubbing the blue goo on her other foot.

  By now the Corolla smelled like a eucalyptus grove.

  “I don’t know a thing about Tommy’s murder. All I know is he’s dead. And I can’t say I’m surprised. The guy screwed over so many people, it was bound to catch up with him sooner or later.”

  “Any idea who might have killed him?”

  “Not a clue,” she shrugged. “Well, if that’s all,” she added, putting the lid back on her Mineral Ice, “I’ve got to get back to the pervs.”

  But I couldn’t let her go. Not yet. Time to spring my little trap.

  “One more thing. I happen to have a witness who saw you leaving La Belle Vie at the time of the murder.”

  A monumental whopper, but she didn’t know that.

  “That’s a lie!” she said, eyes blazing. “I was out of the house by six AM that morning.”

  Bingo! My trap door had just slammed shut.

  She clamped her hand over her mouth, realizing what a boo boo she’d just made.

  “So you were at La Belle Vie the day of the murder?”

  “Yeah, I was there,” she confessed. “After the old lady paid me off, Tommy came down to the club and sweet-talked his way back into my life. He swore he didn’t love Daisy, that he planned to marry her and cash out big time in a divorce. After that, he promised, we’d be together for good. And like the patsy I am, I fell for it. He gave me a key to the mansion, along with the alarm code, and soon I was sneaking over in the middle of the night. But I swear I’m not the one who bumped him off. I was out of the house that morning by six.”

  She sounded sincere, but I wasn’t quite convinced.

  Once again, I remembered how furious she’d been the day she’d stormed into La Belle Vie, going straight for Tommy’s jugular. Maybe that last night with Tommy she’d found out he’d been making the moves on Solange—or one of the many other women he’d probably been pursuing. After all, he’d even come on to me.

  Maybe she’d been humiliated one time too often and—armed with the key he’d given her—had returned to La Belle Vie to put an end to Tommy’s cheating ways forever.

  Chapter 35

  A nasty surprise was waiting for me when I got home from The Body Shop.

  The minute I walked in the door, I saw the place had been trashed—books knocked down from my bookshelf, philodendron overturned, sofa cushions upended. In the kitchen, the garbage can was on its side, the floor littered with old pizza crusts.

  A bolt of fear shot through me.

  The killer had returned! The showerhead incident was no accident. It was the killer who’d loosened it. And whoever it was had come back to put another scare in me.

  But, wait. That couldn’t be. I’d had my locks changed. And there was no key under the flowerpot anymore. What’s more, when I checked my windows, I found no signs of forced entry.

  Then it hit me. I knew who the culprit was: my fractious furball, who was lounging on my armchair, a piece of philodendron leaf lodged in her fur.

  “You did this, didn’t you, Pro?”

  She gazed up at me through slitted eyes.

  I refuse to answer on the grounds that it may incriminate me.

  “This is about Dickie, isn’t it? You’re not going to be happy until he’s out of my life. Well, I’ve got news for you, young lady. I’m not about to give him up. You can make all the mess you want, but I’m not going to change my mind! I will not be dictated to by my cat!”

  Strong words, but alas, they had little impact.

  All I got from her was a cavernous yawn.

  Yeah, right. Whatever. When you’re through cleaning up, I’d like a snack.

  I spent the next hour or so cursing like a sailor while I put my apartment back in order.

  I’d just swept the last of the garbage back into the trash can when Lance came knocking at my door.

  “You’re not going to believe what happened!” he said, rushing in and plopping down on my sofa. “I had dinner with a certified Looney Tunes Internet date at an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet. Not only did the guy pick every single piece of shrimp from the tray of shrimp lo mein, but before we left, he filled three plastic containers with wonton soup to go!”

  “You poor thing,” I said, wrapping a sympathetic arm around his shoulder. “That really is unbelievable.”
<
br />   “No, no. That’s not the unbelievable part. I have to tell you what happened when I was driving home. I passed Porta Via, that fancy restaurant in Beverly Hills, and you’ll never guess who I saw parking cars!”

  “Who?”

  “Dickie! The guy works as a valet parker!”

  I whipped back my arm from his shoulder, furious.

  “You really don’t know how to be happy for me, do you? You’re just like Prozac. You’d do anything to break up me and Dickie.”

  “That’s not true! I could swear it was Dickie parking that car.”

  “Really? Dickie is a valet parker? The man who drives a BMW and lives in a condo with a view of the Pacific? I don’t think so.”

  By now I was seething.

  Lance had pulled a lot of annoying stunts during the course of our friendship, but this time he’d gone too far.

  “I think you’d better leave,” I said, holding open the door. “Until you can be happy for me, I’m not sure we can still be friends.”

  “Please, Jaine. Don’t do this.”

  He shot me a sad, doe-eyed look, much like Prozac on the rare occasions she’s trying to make amends.

  But it wasn’t going to work.

  “Just go.”

  He walked down the path to his apartment, blond curls wilted, shoulders slumped.

  Thoroughly aggravated, I headed for the tub with my reliable buddy, Mr. Chardonnay. I tried to relax, but I couldn’t. I was too upset.

  Later I was lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, Prozac belching hearty halibut fumes at my side, when I heard Lance tapping on the paper-thin wall between us.

  “Jaine, are you asleep?”

  “Yes. Leave me alone.”

  “I’m so sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to upset you. Please forgive me. Maybe it wasn’t Dickie I saw parking that car. Maybe it was somebody else.”

  He sounded so miserable, I melted.

  “That’s okay, Lance. Forget it.”

  “So we’re good?”

  “We’re good.”

  But deep in my heart, I wasn’t so sure we were.

  Chapter 36

  “Any news?”

  I sat at my desk at La Belle Vie and groaned. It was Kate, calling for a progress report. Or, in my case, lack of progress report.

  “I’ve got a few more leads,” I said, “but still no solid evidence.”

  “Why don’t you come to my place for dinner so we can talk? I’m going stir crazy here without a job.”

  “Great. But let me buy dinner.” The last thing Kate needed was to spend money on me now that she was unemployed. “How about I pick up something from KFC?”

  “That would be wonderful!”

  And so at seven that night I was tooling over to Kate’s apartment in Mar Vista, armed with a bucket of the Colonel’s chicken, biscuits, coleslaw, and mashed potatoes. Not to mention a bottle of Trader Joe’s finest bargain chardonnay.

  Kate lived in a modest section of Mar Vista, several blocks away from the crest of land that actually offered a vista of the sea. But it was a pretty street, lined with jacaranda trees and 1970s-era apartments.

  I parked in front of Kate’s place—Vista Gardens—a three-story stucco building with patio units on the first floor. Heading up to the entrance, I saw several people out on one of the patios enjoying wine and cheese.

  After Kate buzzed me in, I took the elevator to her apartment on the second floor, where she greeted me in shabby sweats, her curly hair gone wild in Mad Scientist mode. Like Daisy, she had bags under her eyes the size of carry-ons.

  “Jaine!” she cried. “I’m so happy you came. And look at all the goodies you brought! Let’s set them down on the coffee table. I thought we could eat in the living room. The dining room’s so cramped.”

  She led me past a tiny kitchen/dining area and into her living room, the coffee table already set with plates, silverware, and wine glasses.

  Although her apartment was small, it was tastefully decorated—very West Coast Hamptons, with lots of white wicker, pine, and coordinating stripes and florals.

  “What a cute place,” I said, looking around.

  “I only hope I can afford to stay here,” Kate sighed. “I’m already behind on my rent.”

  Once again, I felt a stab of guilt for having made so little progress tracking down Tommy’s killer.

  “Thanks so much for bringing the chicken!”

  “I got Extra-Crispy.”

  “Just the way I like it,” she said. “Want to relax first with a glass of wine, or should we dig right in?”

  “How about we dig right in with a glass of wine?”

  “A girl after my own heart,” she grinned, opening the screw top on my Chateau Joe.

  Ensconced on her white wicker sofa, we chowed down on our chicken with gusto. For a while, the only sounds in the room were those of fingers being licked.

  Finally, I managed to tear myself away from a chicken thigh long enough to give Kate an update on my investigation. I told her how Tommy had been blackmailing Solange into having sex with him, and how he’d slashed Daisy’s contributions to Esme’s fake charity. How Clayton had lied about being out of town on the day of the murder. About Raymond’s history of violence at Christophe. And finally, about Arlene Zimmer’s handy dandy key to La Belle Vie.

  “So there you have it,” I said, reaching for a biscuit. “Plenty of suspects, but no viable evidence linking any of them to the crime.”

  “My money’s on Esme. She’s the one who threw me under the bus, telling the cops she’d seen me going to the gym.”

  “You could be right. With Tommy out of the picture, Daisy’s funding Esme’s charity again, and the two of them are heading off on a Tahitian cruise with Clayton.”

  “It’s ironic, isn’t it?” Kate said. “I’m the cops’ number one suspect, and yet I’m the only person who’s miserable now that Tommy’s gone.”

  We were sitting there musing on this unhappy state of affairs when we heard a blast of rock music coming from the patio below. Probably the wine-and-cheese gang I’d seen earlier.

  Without missing a beat, Kate leaped up and raced to her front window, yanking it open.

  “Turn down your stereo!” she hollered at the top of her lungs. “Damn neighbors are impossible!” she grunted, stomping back to the sofa.

  A few seconds later, the music was muted. But this wasn’t enough for Kate. Chicken wing in hand, she stormed back to the window.

  “I can still hear it, you idiots!”

  I must confess I was more than a tad taken aback. She’d asked the people downstairs to turn down their music, and they did. Why was she so angry?

  Now they turned it down even more, so that it was barely audible.

  When she came back to the sofa, I tried to engage her in conversation, telling her about my miniscule meal at Christophe. But I could see she wasn’t listening, grinding her teeth at every faint beat of the music below.

  “I practically needed a GPS system to find the food on my plate,” I was saying when she exploded:

  “One of these days, I’m going to take a hammer and smash that stereo to smithereens!”

  With that, she jumped up and grabbed her plate of chicken bones.

  “Let’s see how well these go with their music.”

  “What’re you doing?” I asked, wide-eyed.

  “I’m going to throw my chicken bones on their stupid party. Yours, too,” she said, grabbing my plate.

  She started for the window with the plates in her hands.

  “Kate, you can’t go dumping chicken bones on somebody’s patio!” I said, racing to her side and whisking the plates away from her. “We can barely hear the music. And besides, what if they call the police? That’s the last thing you need.”

  “Oh, God, you’re right.”

  Just as quickly as it had appeared, the anger drained from her face, Dr. Jekyll turning back to Mr. Hyde. (Or the other way around; I can never remember who the crazy one is.)

&n
bsp; “Excuse the outburst.” She sank back down on the sofa. “I know I overreacted. I’ve been off my meds for a while.”

  “Meds?” I asked, putting the chicken bones on her kitchen counter, safely out of reach.

  “Antidepressants. They calm me down, but I hate the damn things. They give me raging insomnia.”

  “That’s too bad. When did you stop taking them?”

  “I’m not sure. I think it was a couple of days before Tommy got killed.”

  Suddenly a sick feeling began roiling around my stomach along with all that extra crispy chicken.

  This woman with major anger management issues had gone off her meds right before Tommy’s murder. Which meant she could have been perfectly capable of marching over to the gym and knifing him to death.

  Had I been wrong all along? Had Kate conned me into investigating Tommy’s murder—not to clear her name, but to cast suspicion on somebody else?

  I tried to act as if everything was fine as I helped her do the dishes and plowed through a pint of fudge ripple for dessert. But all the camaraderie I’d felt for her had vanished, replaced by a wellspring of doubt.

  “I guess I’d better get going,” I said, once the dishes were done, eager to vamoose.

  “But you can’t go yet. You haven’t seen my collection!”

  “Collection? Of what?”

  “C’mon, I’ll show you.”

  She took me by the hand and led me to her bedroom, done up in the same beachy motif as her living room. With one jarring exception: a wooden étagère crammed with voodoo dolls—all riddled with pins.

  And perched among them was an alarming little opus called Hexes for All Occasions: How to Cast Spells for Vengeance and Harm.

  Holy mackerel. I thought Voodoo Tommy was just a joke. But it looked like Kate took this stuff seriously.

  “My enemies list,” she said, gesturing to the dolls. “Meet everyone who’s ever pissed me off. I’ve got a whole shelf devoted to my downstairs neighbors. So far, my hexes haven’t worked. But I keep trying.”

  Talk about misreading someone! Underneath her mop of curls and elastic waist pants, Kate was seriously wack-adoodle.