by Tony Bulmer
‘Yeah, I saw it. Saw the eight ball of coke too. Saw the empty pill bottles and enough liquor for a teamsters convention. The chick was so hammered it’s a miracle she made it as far as the bathroom. Least this way housekeeping doesn’t have to hose down the whole room.
‘You are a real sweetheart Kozak anyone ever tell you that?’
‘Coupla folks,’ said Kozak, throwing the towel over his shoulder while he perused a cut glass tumbler, holding it up to the bathroom light now, examining it thoughtfully, before tweezing it into a plastic evidence bag.
‘The television,’ said Ramirez. ‘She was watching the television.’
‘She’s watching her girlfriend at the awards. Figures she isn’t invited to the ceremony, so she sits back and gets smashed in the bath. So, there she is, getting cranked in the tub, when she sees her ‘special friend’ take the fall on stage—with nothing but a three second delay to ease the shock. She tries to stand, gets a steamy-hot head-rush—tries to steady herself, but is so full of booze and dope her head spins out of control and she slips in the bath, cracks her head—then sinks beneath the water into the world of eternal sleep.
Ramirez raised an eyebrow, ‘Very poetic.’
‘Y’ think?’
Ramirez pulled a face.
Kozak looked at him—a two second delay, then, ‘Oh, I get it—you were been ironical.’ He sniffed, threw the towel in the sink. ‘I got to ask the manager where they get these towels—that is some primo towel let me tell you. Kozak scratched his drooping horseshoe moustache thoughtfully. ‘Assuming your supposition is right Ramirez, just say for the sake of argument that the injury on the girls foot is caused by an impact with the faucet, result of death-throe convulsions—we are looking at a ‘known associates case.’ Kozak crossed his arms, watched as the girl was gurneyed out of the bathroom, turned back to Ramirez, said, ‘So we are looking for a dope dealer, jealous lover, aggrieved employee, or perhaps on the very outside, a psychopathic fan with an obsessional/devotional complex—maybe they took umbrage at the Sapphic set up the deceased had going with Mrs. Johnson.
‘Dyke action? What about the husband?’
‘Shaquil Johnson? That putz is a classic beard.’
Ramirez frowned, ‘A beard?’
‘Lotta stars use them, a hired hand who helps create the impression of heterosexuality—helps preserve a clean cut myth for the adoring public—you think the punters who buy into Saquina Johnson’s brand of corporate elevator muzak wanna know she is sixty-nineing some crack-whore booze hound every night?’
‘Trouble with you Kozak, is you are a down the line Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous junkie.’
‘A fellah has got to have some interests outside of riding West Hollywood all day in your stinking presence Ramirez. Fact remains, we are looking for associates, and dime to a dollar, if sweet little Georgia was pushed under the water, then the person who did it, knew her. There will be a trail and we will find them.’
Ramirez nodded, ‘Ideas?’
‘I say we start at the top, the booking for the room was taken out by Slycorp.’
Ramirez frowned, ‘Slycorp? What kind of phony assed name is that?’
Kozak smiled, ‘Ain’t so up with the “hit parade” are you big guy? Slycorp is a billion dollar entertainment company owned by Sly Barrington—the guy used to play football for the Raiders back in the day, had a pretty mean throw for a three-hundred pound gorilla.’
A deep frown furrowed Ramirez’s brow, ‘That Sly Barrington, word is they kicked him off the team on a doping violation. I hate punks like that.’
‘They never proved nothing. I remember right, they said he was leaving so he could study a business major at Harvard.’
Ramirez popped another Pepsid, rattled it around his mouth thoughtfully. ‘So we go visit this Barrington punk—and the so-called husband too, find out what they know—say, where are you going Kozak—’
Kozak turned in the doorway, ‘They done zipped away the stiff—its cocktail time, but first we need to stop by the lobby, so I can score me some of those righteous towels that ain’t covered in corpse stink.’
Dead Famous 07
Roxy Barrington sat primly in the orange plastic stacko-chair, the picture of Westside Elegance. Hector Blandell regarded her closely, from behind his maple veneered desk and shuffled through her file. He looked at her over the top of his glasses. ‘I will not tolerate lateness Ms Barrington, according to my records this is a third time violation, you must realize I am here to work with you, but the terms of your probation, as defined by the court, are very clear.’
A disarming smile, Roxy Barrington stroked her manicured fingers across her skirt almost shyly, as if she was brushing dust from her lap; she let her fingers linger almost imperceptibly where her skirt met her thigh and said, ‘I am sorry Hector, I have been trying, you know I have been trying. But recent events have been most upsetting for me, I am sure you understand—all the speculation in the press—it has been very difficult.’
‘Please Ms. Barrington, we must keep these meetings on a formal basis—you must call me Mr. Blandell if you would.’ Blandell paused, his eyes drawn to the shapely thigh of his attractive young client. He cleared his throat, tore his eyes away, saw her looking at him smiling, just like in the magazines—like the Playboy centre spread—but here in his office. Blandell averted his eyes quickly, turned them downwards towards her file. ‘There have been a number of reports Ms Barrington—of a very unsavory nature, you realize during the term of your probation you must confine yourself to your father’s property between the hours of eleven pm and eight am. You must eschew all establishments that serve intoxicating beverages and abide closely to all State and Federal laws; I would remind you that failure to do so will result in a violation of your probation. Blandell rose up in his seat now, looked at the girl over the top of his glasses, knowing he had the upper hand—confident in the knowledge that the full power of the law was on his side—that he could crush this sleazy little whore if he wanted, mess her life up good. Throw her back in jail where she belonged and see how she liked it. Blandell shuffled papers, leaned back in his chair and said, ‘So tell me, Ms Barrington are the rumors true?’
‘I imagine you are referring to the events at the art gallery last week Hector—Mr. Blandell. Roxy Barrington corrected herself. Re-crossed her legs, and examined her perfectly manicured nails, like she gave a damn about the justice system or anything else.
Blandell imagined he detected a flash of defiance in those dark, centre-spread eyes, but as he looked closer, the defiance melted into a voluptuous honey-roasted warmth, that beckoned suggestively. He cleared his throat; clicked his pen button in agitation. ‘The Art Gallery Ms. Barrington, that is indeed the event to which I am referring, and I have to say I have received a number of very disturbing reports regarding your conduct at that event.’ Blandell twisted his lips with displeasure, ‘I understand that alcohol was served at this event and your attendance at such a gathering is a clear violation of your probation.’
The opening was a work commitment Mr. Blandell. I can assure you that I consumed no alcohol—or anything else.
Blandell released a bitter smirk, then choked it off quickly, thinking about department guidelines, thinking how a pretty young twenty-something slut with a billionaire father and a team of slick uptown lawyers could really jerk around with him at a professional ethics committee. ‘Naturally we will determine your compliance with urinalysis in the usual manner,’ said Blandell, allowing his tongue to linger salaciously on the word urine, feeling awkward, yet paradoxically elated, that he had been empowered by the Federal Government to supervise the administration of such an intrusive and sexually demeaning test—on such a gorgeous young celebrity. Blandell smiled, feeling happy in his job, knowing with pleasure he was doing the laws work—getting paid for it too. He felt the girl’s eyes upon him. The fact that a girl such as this would never look at, let alone talk to him under normal circumstances rankled Blandell. He touche
d down the brilliantined hair that crowned his bulbous head, with a whetted index finger and adjusted his spectacles. Glancing up briefly, he swore he could see a look of distaste on the girls face.
‘What really concerns me Ms Barrington, were the events afterwards, I understand that you had a collision with a pedestrian out side this…this…
‘The One Gallery—in West Hollywood.’ Interjected Roxy Barrington helpfully.
Blandell frowned, not liking to be interrupted, even if the clarification had moved the meeting forward. All he could think of was the television pictures: Roxy Barrington in a high heels and a see through hooker dress, that left no facet of her voluptuous young body to the imagination. Again Blandell frowned.
Roxy Barrington said, ‘The pedestrian was a paparazzi—he stepped right out in front of the car to create an incident, so his buddies could sell pictures. He sent a letter to my legal people asking for damages before the ambulance arrived—probably had it all planned out from the get go.’ Her voice was even, unconcerned, acting like this kind of thing happened every single day.
Blandell regarded her over the top of his spectacles. ‘My advice to you Ms Barrington is stay away from West Hollywood—in fact stay out of the public eye as much as possible, I realize such behavior is accepted amongst young people these days, but you must realize these attention grabbing antics of yours are doing nothing to help your case. On the contrary, further automotive violations to your already long list of automotive infractions could well lead to a parole violation that will result in further incarceration at a county—facility.’
‘You are going to slam me in jail, because some money grubbing photographer throws himself in front of my fucking Mercedes?’
The expletive hung in the air like an ugly threat. Blandell whetted his lips nervously, knowing that such a transgression should be punished, luxuriating in the discomfort of the pregnant silence and the uncertainty it caused, knowing that further infractions of Roxy Barrington’s Parole would take her out of his control—maybe forever. He paused and thought deep. No more weekly meetings. No more slutty little outfits and whorehouse heels trip-trapping across his office floor. Blandell’s heart hammered in his chest. Gone too the teasing waft of expensive perfume teasing his afternoons. Blandell smiled, looked nervously at the manicured fingers caressing the couture hemline and said sweetly, ‘There is no need for language Ms Barrington, I more than most know of the delicacy of your situation. Let us please maintain a sense of decorum at our meetings.’
Roxy Barrington smiled back, a billion-dollar smile, full of glittering promise. ‘Decorum Mr. Blandell, you are quite right of course,’ She uncrossed her legs, slowly re-crossed them, the hot sunlight shimmering against the smoothness of her skin. She dipped her toes, let her spiked heel swing in the closeness of the office, ‘Is it hot in here Mr. Blandell or is it just me?’
Dead Famous 08
As I walked back to the truck, Inez gave me hell. And I cannot say I blame her. As a PhD partner in Cobra Close Protection, she is a premiership player, but big-league moneymen like Barrington often see her as a window dressing accoutrement. Inez is a the sort of woman who takes particular offense to that kind of insinuation, a stance that led to broken limbs, and a series of disciplinary red flags in her service history case file at the US Marshalls Service. Me, I like ballsy. That’s the reason I hired her, the reason I made her a partner in the business. As I listened to her piss and moan about the Barrington job, I knew there was going to be conflict, but for a million plus expenses, Inez was going to have to toe the company line—make nice with the client, no matter how much of a condescending prick he wanted to be. When I told her, she didn’t like it. In fact she was still fuming when we arrived out front. The corpulent valet was waiting to pop the doors to our truck and from the look on his face a second c-note wouldn’t have gone amiss either. I gave him my happy camper smile instead. Disappointment bulged his eyes. I asked him how he liked to live next to Rod Stewart. The response was monosyllabic. As we exchanged pleasantries, a slate grey Crown Vic, pulled into the driveway. Behind the wheel, a face I recognized: detective Javier Ramirez from Los Angeles Police Department’s Robbery Homicide division.
Ramirez I had met before—an investigation concerning stolen diamonds. Not that I know anything about diamonds you understand. Turns out I don’t know much about women either—especially not the airhostesses my dumb as paint partner Joe hooked us up with. Double date? More like double trouble, and Ramirez, well he was looking into the matter. Him and his partner Cullen—real card. You had to be a special kind of person to like that guy. Last time I heard, Cullen was doing twenty to life at the State Prison in Tehachapi. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy you ask me, a crooked cop with a penchant for murder, they didn’t come much lower than that.
Course Ramirez eyeballed me from the get go. He didn’t look pleased, far from it. Worse, he had some ugly new sidekick, riding shotgun. The dude had a walrus moustache, and a special-forces haircut that had gone to seed. As they crunched up the driveway in first gear, it was a raise your eyes to the heavens moment. But I figured it would be plain churlish to burn out of the lot without saying hello. I stood by the Escalade, Inez by my side, watching as the cops pulled up. The valet rushed out, anxious to open the driver’s side door, but Ramirez waved him away.
‘What the hell you doing here Costello?’ barked Ramirez testily.
‘Sightseeing—visiting a sick relative—delivering pizza, take-your-pick detective.’
Ramirez kept his eyes on me, spoke to the partner out the side of his mouth, ‘This guy right here, is a real smart mouth—kind of hombre who likes to stick his nose into police business.’
‘He called you hombre,’ interjected Inez. Helpful girl.
‘What kind of business does Robbery Homicide have with Sly Barrington?’ I asked.
The partner stepped forward now, ‘Private business Mr. Costello.’
‘Hi there detective, don’t think we’ve been introduced—I am Danny Costello of Cobra Close Protection, this is my senior partner Inez Santos.’ I held out my hand.
‘Kozak. Detective, Frank Kozak. So you are the famous Danny Costello. I heard a lot about you tough guy—heard you got a reputation as a smart mouthed punk.’ Kozak stood there. Left me hanging. Looked at my hand like it had toilet handle cooties.
‘Hey Frank, how are you doing?’ I threw him a military salute. ‘I can see you and Javier here are a the new Martin and Lewis of Robbery Homicide, so I figure you are here to question Barrington about the untimely demise of his most prestigious client?’
Frank Kozak moved up close. ‘That information is on a need to know basis tough guy.’ So close now I could get the waft of lavender wash detergent from his button down shirt, see the nose trim above his ridiculous moustache. The guy vibed-ex military: a pocket-sized tough guy, with a penchant for public service.
‘Let me guess, Army Rangers…’
‘Real smart Costello, proud veteran of the 75th. But that doesn’t concern you does it?’
‘I got a professional interest in these matters Kozak, you get sick of schlepping around the seamier side of town with Javier here, you give me a call. CCP is always looking for team players from the regiment.’
The blue eyes looked into me. ‘I will mull that one over Costello.’ His tone was smooth—unflinching.
I stared right back. He was a stocky guy, looked like he could bench three hundred without too much sweat. Looked like he could take punishment too, by the looks of his face. I gave a slow smile, ‘Nice meeting you detective, anytime you want me to show you around the dojo give me a call.’
Kozak smiled right back, ‘Might just take you up on that Costello, where do you train?’
‘I work out mornings by the breakwater on Via Marina with Yong Su Yin.’
Kozak nodded, ‘Hapkido, huh? I hear the old guy is quite a teacher,’ The respect in his voice almost tangible now.
‘The best.’ I confirmed. ‘Still, nice as it is
to shoot the breeze with you gentlemen, we got a busy work schedule ahead of us.’ The corpulent valet took this as a cue, flung open the door to the Escalade and scurried quickly around the passenger side for Inez.
She shooed him away, a sour look twisting across here face.
I felt sorry for him, tipped him another hundred, because I knew sure as hell the cops weren’t going to. I flipped Ramirez and Kozak the wink, told them that Mr. Barrington was in a real party mood, so they better prepare themselves. They exchanged glances. Stared back at me with impassive faces—so much for my attempts to brighten people’s day. Being the life and soul of the party really is a thankless task sometimes.
Dead Famous 09
West Hollywood. Junction of Crescent Heights and Beverly, not far from TV City and Remi Martin was in a spin. He had sworn he would never go in the closet again, a cruel irony in itself, but here he was, sitting at the very back, in the darkest recesses of his walk in, clutching the Sig-Sauer he had bought off Third Street Ronnie for three Franklins and a balloon of China White. Sure it was hot, but who cares about that. Three bills and baggie ain’t bad for a 220 compact. A real sexy gun you can scare the natives with.
Not many natives needed scaring in West Hollywood though. Maybe if you were a street dealer, catering to the Boulevard set. Gross, unthinkable. The very idea gave Remi the shudders. He was a TV producer for fuck’s sake—a name in the game. All he had to do was call, and assistants came running. There hadn’t been much running recently. They had said it was the economy at first. Shows get canceled all the time, but five in three years? Remi had his suspicions of course. That preening little swooner in corporate had gacked himself unconscious on New Year’s—even thinking about it made Remi burn with frustration, couldn’t even remember his lame ass name for Christ’s sake—Graham Francis—Francis Graham—Who knew, who frankly cared? The little prick made like quite the sophisticate when he was making the buy. Acted so blasé he was almost flat-lining. très ironique then, that five hours later, the little prick was flat-lining for real. Remi couldn’t bear the drama—it was just too vulgar. Graham, or Francis, or whatever the creature was called was a regular little booze an coke whore, that much was clear from the outset: burning out in the privacy of the corporate washroom, I mean really. Thankfully the paramedics had brought him back, but that was the turning point.