by Tony Bulmer
As the explosion resounded, figures moved in from the smoke, they moved out in a reverse order, the rear guard first, then Barrington and the kid, followed by the wingmen. They moved quickly through the smoke, but it was already starting to dissipate, wisps of reality melting back in to view at a worrying rate. I gunned the engine, building revs for a racing grid start. No sign of Inez. The smoke clearing wider now, black shapes of buildings rising into view. I peered in to the rear-view. Dark figures were advancing down the alley towards us. They didn’t look friendly. I saw one handgun, maybe two, though it was hard to tell in the fast rising smoke. Finally Inez appeared at the passenger side door and popped it open.
‘You say your goodbyes to the nice people?’ I asked.
Inez pulled herself inside the car, gave me a dark look. But I was already burning rubber, unleashing the full power of the V8 engine in a single burst of acceleration. A masked figure popped out of a doorway to our right. The figure wore baggy gangster pants, with a dark bandanna tied over his face. He was holding a chrome plated semi-auto show gun; looked like a 45 but it could have been a 40. I didn’t have time to make the ID for sure because Inez swung the armor plated passenger door open, and hit him hard in the upper body. The gunman went down, disappearing in our wake like he had been trampled by a charging rhinoceros.
The Escalade careered down the alley, speed building with every second. Soon we would be clear, spinning a turn onto the Boulevard. Behind us, the faint pop of gunshots, two or three at first, then a fusillade, most of the bullets sang wide—but a couple of impacts hammered into the tailgate, another popped into the rear window, creating a frosted white spider web top left.
Heads bobbed down in the backseat.
‘Bullet proof,’ I said, with satisfaction.
‘Anyone asks, this shit never happened,’ said Barrington from out the darkness.
I turned, saw Inez sitting in the passenger seat beside me. She had her Glock Seventeen in the ready position. She looked beautiful. She blew a wisp of straggling hair away from her eyes, then ran it into place with her fingers.
I smiled. ‘Busy night?’
‘Nightclubs’ she said with a shrug, ‘Love them or loathe them.’
Dead Famous 25
Forest Lawns Cemetery in the Hollywood Hills is the final resting place of the rich and famous from the worlds of stage and screen. The joint has an impressive client list including old school celebrities like Liberace, Michael Chekov, and Dorothy Lamour. No surprise that Sly Barrington chose the Lawns as the ideal venue for the burial of his most revered star. Her family got no say. Why would they? Poor people from Baton Rouge Louisiana hardly ever get any say, and Saquina Johnson’s family, were no exception. Her hard drinking mother had died years ago, so the story went. As for her father, no one knew who he was for sure. But there were several contenders, most of whom had lawyers. One ambitious candidate even had his own press agent, who disseminated sound bytes to the world’s media from his front porch headquarters in the Laplace Bayou.
Meanwhile, back in Los Angeles Sly Barrington said he wanted me to organize security for Saquina Johnson’s funeral. That meant liaising with The Los Angeles Police Department. Maybe he was impressed at the way my timely arrival at Club Zoo had saved him from a gunfight with his enemies in the Southside crew. Perhaps there was no one else in his esteemed organization who was up to the task, or maybe he just figured running liaison with pen pushing bureaucrats at LAPD was my idea of a dream job. Perhaps we will never know, because when you are dealing with a million dollar client, expectation runs high, and I am not a man who disappoints. What harm anyway? Compared to running point on the presidential day, organizing security operations for a dead pop star would be a walk in the park, least that’s what I figured.
How wrong I was.
Los Angeles is the kind of town where you need a permit for just about anything. I understand you can still walk down the street in the morning without paperwork, but it is a close run thing, and given time City Hall will be charging for that too. I blame the budget deficit.
On a good day, with a following wind, you will only need to speak to three or four City Departments, to acquire the required permits for whatever activity you have in mind. Once you have completed the heavily detailed paperwork and paid the required fees, permits are then forwarded at the City’s Leisure. You don’t get them in time, then too bad—your plans are in a whole mess of trouble jack. So it was with the Saquina Johnson funeral
Soon as I got the go on the Forest Lawns security job, I put my office team into over drive. The bureaucracy hawks at CCP are more than a match for anything any government department can throw out, least that’s what I figured, until I got a close up and personal invite from Los Angeles Police Commissioner Charles Jardine. Now Jardine is a guy I have had dealings with on more than a few occasions—and I was hoping to avoid involving him this time out, because I like to live my life simple; fat chance of that. Jardine is a saw toothed bureaucrat and big noise politico pretender. A man who the troops on the street refer to as The Emperor, after his more than passing resemblance to Star Wars villain Emperor Palpatine. No doubt he saw my name plastered over the funeral applications and figured his Empire was at threat. So he called me in for a sit down. Told me my presence was required in the big office at PAB, quick as I liked if not sooner.
I like to oblige, especially when the threat of not obliging could mean a horrible punitive fate and more paperwork than a whole firm of lawyers can throw billable hours at, so I headed down to the Police Administration Building on West 1st Street,
PAB, is described by some, as a modern architectural miracle, by others, as a concrete card trick gone wrong. To me the place doesn’t have much character. You could stick a neon sign on top and turn it into a department store. A city that is always wishing to have a heritage turned the iconic Parker Centre over for this? I mean really. The Parker Centre might have been a dump, that wasn’t fit for purpose, but it is a cultural icon. No mistaking it for a department store.
When I walked in to reception and told them I had an appointment with the Chief, the smartly turned out young receptionist couldn’t be nicer. I barely had time to warm the leatherette reception chair, before a high echelon facilitator from the corporate level swooped down to greet me. I replaced a well-thumbed copy of Police Beat Magazine onto the post-modern coffee table in reception, and rose to meet my guide, a uniform cop with a Marine Corps hair cut and an austere expression to match.
I was delivered upstairs with courteous efficiency. Perhaps they assumed I was either too stupid or untrustworthy to find the Chief’s office myself, but I am only guessing there; the cop with the austere face didn’t tell me, and I thought it best not to ask, as LA’s finest are not known for their comedic abilities.
As my guide showed me into the Chief’s Office, Charles Jardine was lounging back in his sumptuous chair, holding a fine print document up to the light. Seated on his left, a dusky beauty I recognized at once, as City Attorney Cheyenne Wallis. I hadn’t met her before, but wished I had. She was triple hot photogenic, with a twist of spice to go. When she made speeches on the evening news, I could barely concentrate on my TV Dinner. If anything, she was hotter in the flesh, but smaller than I suspected. She looked at me over the top of her black-rimmed spectacles, as I walked in the door and flashed the briefest of smiles. I threw her a cheery salute. Courtesy costs nothing.
I turned to the Commissioner. ‘How’s it going Charles, you looking over my file again?’
‘Very droll Costello, take a seat would you, Ms Wallis and myself would like to have a word with you.’
I walked over to Cheyenne Wallis and offered my hand, ‘Danny Costello,’ I said.
Cheyenne Wallis half rose, offered up her hand to be held, but made no attempt to clasp—the papal greeting. Her tiny hands were cold and clammy. I examined her manicured nails for as long as politeness allowed, they were super clean and no sign of a wedding ring on those slender fingers, promisin
g. I gave her the famous Costello smile. She smiled back—more genuine than the first time—like she was appalled and intrigued in equal measure. I figured that Jardine had given her the ugly rundown of my life history, and chequered association with the Los Angeles Police Department, before my arrival. No doubt the shocking revelations would have all but nixed my chances of asking the lovely lady out, which was too bad, because as she twisted back into her seat, I noticed she had particularly nice legs.
Jardine snapped the fine print document away from his face, and gave me a look to chill the blood. The guy had the air of a particularly ruthless high school principal; the kind of upper-echelon power-jockey, who loves to balance the futures of entire ecosystems on the tip of a single ruthless finger.
‘I thought I told you to take a seat Costello?’
‘Don’t mind if I do Charles, so tell me, how have you been?’
‘Cut the bullshit Costello. Sly Barrington—what do you know?’
‘I know that Mr. Barrington has made an outstanding contribution to the life and culture of the city of Los Angeles, and in addition he is a highly revered figure in entertainment and business communities, on not only a national, but an International level and he lives next door to Rod Stewart.’
Jardine shot a look at Cheyenne Wallis, gesticulated in my general direction with a twitching thumb and said, ‘You believe this fucking guy?’
Cheyenne Wallis smiled patiently, said, ‘Commissioner Jardine would like to know the specifics of your relationship with Mr. Barrington. I am sure you will have heard certain rumors…’
‘I can confirm that Mr. Barrington and his family are clients of mine.’
‘Don’t give me that client bullshit Costello. Barrington is a shit stink criminal and you know it, But here’s the thing, my sources tell me you are running protection on this prick and his cluster-fuck empire.’
‘Where’s the crime in that Charles?’
Elbow on his desk now, the Commissioner directed the tip of his ruthless ecosystem balancing finger directly at me and said, ‘I don’t fucking like you Costello, just so we are clear.’
‘I am sorry to hear that Charles, I really am.’
Jardine grimaced, and continued, ‘So you can imagine my concern when I was presented with a giant pile of permit applications naming your personal Wild-West show as a security option for the Saquina Johnson funeral.’
Cheyenne Wallis broke into the conversation diplomatically. ‘The death of Ms Johnson has been the cause of considerable embarrassment to the City Mr. Costello. We, the City, cannot allow a private security firm to run such an event, as the repercussions would be far reaching, should, god-forbid, any unfortunate scenarios occur.’
‘My hope was we could organize this together—I have substantial experience running inner-cordon security operations.’ I offered, pleasantly.
‘Forget it Costello,’ snapped the Commissioner. ‘Your part in this thing will be limited to close protection duties as per your license—you don’t like that, I will have my people review your license, a process that could take weeks, months or years, depending on how cooperative you are.’
Cheyenne Wallis leaned forward. She had a red blouse underneath her pinstriped lawyer outfit. I tried not to stare, but couldn’t help myself. She looked good, real good ‘Mr. Barrington is a very generous supporter of the City of Los Angeles Mr. Costello, very generous. We have been liaising closely with the Mayor on this matter, and he is of the opinion that we should ensure that the level of security offered to the funeral proceedings is in keeping with Saquina Johnson’s standing as the nations sweetheart.’
‘You are sidelining me?’
The commissioner gave me a saw-toothed grin. ‘Smart work Costello, you got it in one, and you better make sure those Special Forces goof-offs you like to give sanctuary to leave their weapons at home. My people have orders to arrest on sight anyone carrying firearms at this event.’
‘As you may know, I never carry a weapon myself Charles.’
‘Let me guess bigmouth, you are bullet proof as well as stupid?’
I yucked it up of course, the Commissioner likes to josh, it is part of his lounge act charm. I said, ‘You know me Charles, I am simply too charming to die.’
Commissioner Jardine threw me a poisonous look. ‘I will be watching you Costello. Any rumor of malfeasance in the Barrington camp, I expect to hear it from you first. And I warn you, none of your famous histrionics. Any action that portrays the city in a negative way, or jeopardizes Mr. Barrington’s very generous support for our mayor will be viewed in a very poor light from this office, am I clear Costello?’
‘You threatening me Commissioner?’
City Attorney Wallis, leaned in, said, ‘The City needs to know you are on side Mr. Costello—are you on side?’
Of course I would be on whatever side City Attorney Wallis wanted me to be on, and I told her so without hesitation. But I doubt they believed a word. Even a fossilized old fruit-bat like Jardine could figure the truth. He had me pinned as a loose cannon threat to law enforcement and the political integrity of the City of Los Angeles. I have to confess I was flattered, but it also meant I had to be careful—even more careful than usual.
Dead Famous 26
Walking out on city plaza concourse, I figured I would risk my chances and buy a street vendor Popsicle, from a thoroughly charming Puerto Rican dude, with bug eyes and a dirty apron. I figured working this close to the Puzzle Palace he had to be health code permitted, but you never can tell. After a brief how ya doin’ conversation in pidgin Spanish, I got myself a slow-melt Fantastic Fruity and headed for my car. As the hot sun filtered in through the downtown smog, two figures fell into step beside me. Kozak and Ramirez, looking hot in their corporate jackets. Naturally I offered them a cheery greeting.
They weren’t impressed.
‘I just had a meet with the Emperor,’ I said.
‘We know,’ said Ramirez archly.
‘Smooth work detective, you are obviously the Commissioner’s brightest and most valued employees. No doubt he will be fast-tracking you both to a higher pay grade in the very near future.’
‘You ever quit with the bullshit Costello?’ asked Kozak with a hard look.
‘Just brightening days is all,’ I said. ‘You two geniuses been following me or something?’ I slurped my Popsicle, gave Ramirez an enquiring look.
‘We got word on the wire you were going to see the big man Costello, figured as you were co-operating with the department on the Johnson killing, you would be ready to divulge your findings thus far.’
‘Well, the first thing I would mention is that the Popsicles are surprisingly good in this neighborhood, I am only sorry you gentleman didn’t get here sooner, I would have treated.’
‘What the fuck did Jardine want?’ snapped Ramirez.
‘A new personality?’ I offered.
‘Ain’t going to happen any time soon, so you better get used to it.’
‘He mention our investigation?’ asked Kozak.
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Wish he had detective, I would have been sure to sing your praises. Unfortunately the subject of our discussion was somewhat tangential to your enquiries.’ It struck me as strange that Jardine wasn’t sharing with his team. I put it down as a political thing.
‘What the fuck are you talking about tangential,’ growled Kozak.
‘We had a talk about the Johnson funeral. The big man couldn’t have been more pleasant, which was something of a surprise. The exact details are somewhat hazy, as City Attorney Wallis was in attendance.’
Ramirez looked deadpan, like he had never even seen Cheyenne Wallis, ‘So the big man warned you off funeral duties did he?’
‘Open to interpretation Detective, I would interpret the Commissioners comments as friendly advice, and I will treat them accordingly.’
‘Sounds dangerous Costello, the Emperor warned you off, you better stay warned off, or you are liable to get a taste of his unfriendly side.’
‘Thanks for the concern Ramirez, but there is no need to go worrying yourself. Me and Chuck Jardine go wayyyy back. We are as close to best friends as it is possible for two people to be. So I can confirm, without doubt, he doesn’t have a friendly side, no matter what angle you check him from.’
Ramirez chuckled. ‘Real funny Costello, you better keep that gag in mind when the Commissioner locks your ass in the County Jail. My guessing is he will lose the key, the paper work and all interest in your long lasting friendship too.’
I shrugged. ‘That’s a price I am prepared to pay for doing my job Ramirez.’
‘Real tough guy huh?’ said Kozak.
I ignored him. My Popsicle dripped on the hot sidewalk, creating a puddle of chemically colored ooze. I licked my fingers, and dumped the remnants of my Fantastic Fruity in the nearest trashcan. ‘You find the drug dealer?’ I asked.
Kozak and Ramirez switched glances, an unconscious reaction, that told me immediately that yes, they had found the drug dealer, who gave Saquina Johnson the Thiopental that killed her, but they were damned if they were going to tell me about it; too late—they already had. I smiled, raised my hand, like I was Mr. Understanding and said, ‘No need to tell me a name fellahs, I know you got your secrets.’