by Tony Bulmer
‘Sorry Sly, I don’t like to disturb you, but it’s those cops, same creeps as the other day, I told ’em no, but they weren’t hearing, it. Said they got important business to discuss, like they’re bringing cards to the table or something.’
Barrington breathed smoke, smiled—‘Show the police officers in Dolla. Let’s hear what they have to say.’ The kid held back by the door, a confused expression on his face—looking like he was going to say something then, changing his mind. Barrington turned back to the city, heard a soft click as the door closed. He smiled. Cops were like politician’s, they had dirty bottomless pockets. You gave them a taste they were hungry forever. The only thing that could satisfy a cops pockets was concrete, a whole barrel full. Barrington moved over to the desk, opened up the top draw and pulled out a Sig-Sauer automatic and cocked it, checking there was a live nine chambered, he placed the gun on the desk, covered it over with a copy of Fortune magazine, that had a picture of him on the cover.
When Dolla showed the cops in, Barrington was sitting in his big fat office chair. The chair had belonged to Alfred Hitchcock. Barrington had his people buy the chair from a high end auctioneers in Beverly Hills, it cost a million plus. He had bought President Richard Nixon’s desk and chair at the same auction, but it didn’t make him feel as powerful, so he sold it on to the ambassador from some oil rich African hell-hole, made a tidy profit.
The cops looked worn down, even more worn down than the previous day. The big Latino cop called Ramirez, was sweating like he had just stepped off a stair-master, the other cop—Kozick or Kozack or some darn thing, was looking pale and over-caffeinated like he had anemia—or worse.
Ramirez, said, ‘Mr. Barrington, we are sorry to disturb you at this time of great loss, but we have more questions that we thought you might be able to help us with.’
‘You surprise me detective. Here I was, thinking you would be hunting down the degenerates who ruined young Saquina’s funeral, but again you come to my door, impinging upon my private time of grief.’
Ramirez looked uncomfortable, patted down his face with a damp looking handkerchief and said, ‘I completely understand your concerns Mr. Barrington, and I can assure you that the Los Angeles Police Department is doing everything within it’s power to root out those responsible for the unconscionable attack at the cemetery earlier today. Rest assured we are doing everything within our power to bring these criminals to justice.’
‘So you don’t think it was a car back firing, as Commissioner Jardine announced on the news? That is a real step forward detective.’
Ramirez looked uncomfortable, ‘Sometimes certain steps are needed in an investigation. The City, as you know, is indebted to you for your continued support in these very difficult financial times, and we wouldn’t wish to arouse unwholesome speculation that might inconvenience either you or the sensitive nature of your current business dealings.’
‘Let me guess, Jardine sent you two clowns here to kiss my ass?’
‘No, far from it Mr. Barrington, both the Mayor and Commissioner Jardine are highly concerned about this senseless attempt on your life, in fact the Commissioner is taking a deep, personal interest in this case, and I can assure you, that we will inform you just as soon as there are any developments.’
‘Very reassuring,’ snapped Barrington, ‘How much is that going to cost me.’
Ramirez and Kozak exchanged glances.
Kozak said, ‘There is no charge sir, the Los Angeles Police Department is here to serve and protect all of our citizens, it is your right as a law abiding tax payer.’
Ramirez said, ‘There are however a number of things we wanted to ask you, if you could spare us the time, things that might shed light on both the death of Ms. Johnson and the subsequent attack on her funeral.’
‘It’s no big thing officer, people have been trying to kill me for years—many of my former associates—I am sad to say, have low morals, such people think nothing of using unscrupulous business practices. Unfortunately, they do not realize that in order to achieve as much as my company has, you must adhere to the very highest standards of business practice.’ Barrington held his hands wide, the palms weighing the heavy metaphorical burden of his runaway success.
Ramirez took a second to scan the platinum records that lined the walls, they glittered a golden verdict, bearing witness to the veracity of their master’s words. Ramirez sniffed, squeezed the tight approximation of a smile across his face, said, ‘These competitors Mr. Barrington —enemies if you will. Have you had any recent dealings that might have caused this unprecedented level of—unpleasantness?’
‘If you are looking for a run down of persons who want to take a shot at me, that is a long motherfucking list detective, and I ain’t about to sit here into the early hours chitty-chat-chatting the night away, about every lame assed loser who got his snout turned out of joint because I beat them down on a business deal. You understand me? You are looking for likely candidates who want me hurt, why don’t you get down to Long Beach have a chat with Chubby Chimola, that piece of shit has been dogging me for years.’
Ramirez half closed his eyes, pumped his cheeks with effort, so his teeth showed through his lips. ‘Glad you mentioned that sir, because that leads me on to the next question, were you aware that Danny Costello drove down to Long Beach to speak with Myron Chimola?’
A pregnant pause, as the news hit home.
‘Costello has been speaking with Chimola?’
Kozak said, ‘We know Costello is working for you. Did you send him down there?
Again the pause, only longer this time.
Ramirez shot Kozak a look.
Sly Barrington said quietly, ‘I don’t know where you two were when that jerk off with the sniper rifle started pounding fifty-caliber rounds into my girls funeral, but Danny Costello was standing right next to me. Matter of fact, it hadn’t been for him and his quick thinking moves, I might not be sat here talking to you.’ Barrington paused, ‘Now I ain’t the kind of guy to bandy the word hero around, but far as I am concerned that guy is as close as it gets.’
Kozak frowned, ‘You heard the name Remi Martin?’
‘The name sounds familiar—a fine cognac I believe—.’
Kozak sucked breath, ‘This creep Martin is a punk drug dealer. He sold drugs to people like Saquina Johnson—and your daughter. This man had organized crime connections.’ Kozak paused, let the implications hit home, then said, ‘Where is your daughter Mr. Barrington?’
‘Costello’s people are guarding her, or more accurately keeping her out of trouble.’
Ramirez leaned forwards thoughtfully, ‘Ms Barrington has been in a lot of trouble recently, hasn’t she?’
‘I may be her father, but my daughter is a grown woman, and very independent minded. Sadly she is very like her mother in that respect. If she keeps living in the manner she has chosen, she will likely meet a very similar same fate.’
Ramirez nodded, ‘She had a probation officer right?’
‘Are you referring to Ms. Johnson, or my daughter?’
Ramirez, mulled the comment over, ‘I was referring to your daughter naturally—I apologize for the confusion, Ms Johnson was on probation too, was she not?’
‘A small matter, she crashed her car in Malibu—I told her a thousand times not to drive, we have people to do that kind of thing. But she didn’t listen. Saquina had no need to drive anywhere—ever, but she was willful, independent, very like my daughter in many respects.’
Ramirez nodded, ‘Do you know the name of your daughter’s probation officer?’
‘That is a question best addressed to my Lawyer Al Weinman. He deals with all such matters,’ said Barrington, his voice amping up with impatience.
Ramirez nodded, ‘Thank you for your time Mr. Barrington, you have been very helpful—oh, I almost forgot, Shaquil Johnson, is he around?’
Sly Barrington frowned, ‘I ain’t the brothers keeper.’
‘He lives here though, doesn’t
he?’
Sly Barrington scowled, ‘He has his own crib. He lives in the gatehouse.’
‘The gate house?’
‘Yeah, it’s a European thing. Back in the day, when they designed homes like this, they had quarters for the help. Now Shaqui won’t thank you for calling him the help, but that’s what he is. He also happens to be a friend, a real good friend, so he lives in the gatehouse, over on the edge of the woods,’ Barrington gesticulated lazily, cigar in hand. Ramirez followed the movement, his eyes switching to the floodlit garden and the dark woods beyond.
‘Is Mr. Johnson home?’ asked Kozak.
Sly Barrington smiled, ‘Why don’t you boys run over and see? But make sure you knock good and loud with your ID held high. That boy likes his privacy, and he don’t take kindly to visitors, especially members of the law enforcement community.’
Dead Famous 42
Afterwards. There is always an afterwards. The kind of come down that never stops, never bottoms out until the next time—would there, could there, ever be a next time? Laying in the darkness of the Naja’s master suite, Joe could feel the pulse of the ocean swell rising against the hull; hear the slap-slap of waves as they broke past the bow. Laying naked on the tangled sheets, he watched the Barrington girl. She looked sleek, dark and beautiful in the shadowed cabin. As she rolled over, and looked into his eyes, Joe couldn’t imagine a more perfect scene. The girl smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile, it was a troubled strife-torn approximation of a smile, from a woman who could know no happiness, not even happiness of the moment.
‘What is it with you?’ asked Joe, ‘You got to be some place or something.’
Again the smile, this time more contemptuous.
‘What would you know about my world, the demands it imposes.’
‘I can only guess sweetheart, you are a living breathing enigma. I figured you liked it that way. So don’t feel you got to run through your life story, because I am not sure I even want to hear it.’
‘How refreshingly honest of you Joe Russell, most men want to acquire me, possess me, show me off like a hunting trophy, and yet you take pleasure in your rudeness. Are you playing hard to get?’
‘There is no “get” with me sweetheart. I got nothing to offer you, but a roll in the hay. I don’t care a damn about how complicated your over-privileged life is, or how many bullshit issues you have, because I got a real empathy problem when it comes to poor little rich girls who don’t know how lucky they are.’
The girl stared, said, ‘You’ve got issues yourself. I have seen enough high-priced shrinks, to figure a simple case of relationship fear when I see one. You are a sybarite, an aimless collector of self-indulgent pleasures. You will never be able to have a relationship and you hate yourself for it don’t you?’
‘I live my life by my rules sweetheart, I ain’t hurting no one, least of all myself.’
‘You got any booze, or weed?’
‘I am going to have to rule two you there, sweetheart.’
‘Because Danny Costello says so? Where is he now? I don’t see him, do you? So who gives a fuck about him and his stupid rules.’
‘I care.’
‘Are you queer for him or something?’
‘You got yourself a real dirty mouth on you Roxy.’
‘What you going to do, give me a slap? What would Danny Costello say if he knew you were fucking me, and slapping me around? I bet he would come over all self-righteous wouldn’t he? Then he would go home and jack off, wishing he was fucking me too—you ever done that with him, the two of you and a girl together?’
‘That ain’t my kind of scene sweetheart, so if you are done with your questions, you might want to get some clothes on, because as soon as the tide changes, we are heading out to sea. Maybe the ocean breeze will clean out that filthy mouth of yours.’
Roxy Barrington snorted derisively, then turned away, displaying her perfect back. The way the light caught her from behind she looked like a goddess, thought Joe as he lay in bed watching. The girl reached down beside the bed for her handbag. She rose, headed for the bathroom rummaging in the bag as she went.
Women.
Joe smiled, rolled over on his stomach, listening to the distant clatter of his young lover at work in the bathroom. Costello didn’t need to know. He would find out eventually of course, that was his way, but weeks, maybe months from now, Roxy Barrington and her screwball connections would be nothing more than a vaguely distracting memory. Joe stretched, smiled, watched as reflections from the rippling waters outside filtered through the porthole, into the darkened cabin. The dancing ripples accented Joe’s feeling of happiness. Living on the ocean, you became part of it, The Ocean was an elemental force; it inspired emotions—all encompassing feelings that lifted the spirit. Joe didn’t try to rationalize. He absorbed the feel of the ocean. It was a good feeling, a safe feeling. A feeling as close to absolute happiness as he had ever felt. He heard the girl return from the bathroom. He felt her roll onto the bed next to him, felt the soft caress of her fingers on his back, the gentle bite of her nails as they racked the muscles close to his spine. A gentle perfumed kiss on the side of his face, then something else—something sharp, and pointed, sticking into his flesh. Stabbing deep, deep, deeper into his neck…
He tried to lift his head to see what was happening.
The soft fingers held him down.
He tried to find words. No words came.
Just a soft fading gasp, as his breath rushed free.
The girl stood, examined the empty syringe. She capped it off, replaced it in her handbag next to the vial of Thiopental.
No need to rush. She dressed. Checked her reflection in the mirror and applied make up. She snapped on surgical gloves, and began the wipe down. She was thorough, and when she was through, she rolled the gloves in the bed sheets and took them with her. At the doorway she turned, surveyed the room, then left, walking ashore with calm graceful steps. She fired up her Mercedes and headed down the quay. As she made Washington Boulevard, a heavy Samoan with a back pack paused, watched her pass, like he’d seen her somewhere before. Roxy Barrington smiled, poor sap, probably read People magazine, like everybody else.
Dead Famous 43
Pacific Avenue isn’t the most salubrious street in the world, but it is a block from the beach, Venice beach that is, and Venice is some kind of happening place. I moved here after my divorce. Kimberly, my ex, hates the beach. She thinks it is déclassé, whatever the hell that means. Me, I love the beach. I live real close to it, in a palm fringed three story low-rise that has seen better days. The place suits my needs: friendly, anonymous, a little rough around the edges, kind of like me.
When I got home early evening, my neighbor Mrs. Grisham, the retired Lawyer from 213 was walking her Chihuahua Lady Coco. As I pulled up out front of the building, the dog was taking a sloppy dump on the verge next to the sidewalk. Lady Coco turned to look at me with giant chocolate eyes.
‘Naughty, naughty,’ I admonished.
‘Mr. Costello! Hooted Mrs. Grisham delightedly, I was beginning to worry about you. I haven’t seen you for days my dear. Where on earth have you been?’
I flipped her the wink, ‘Secret business Mrs. G. You know how it is.’
Mrs. Grisham tittered musically, confirming that, yes indeed, she knew exactly how it was. She looked a little peaky, same as usual, but I asked her about her health anyway, and when fifteen, maybe sixteen minutes later she had completed a rather too graphic description of her legion ailments, I politely begged my leave. ‘Max needs his dinner,’ I explained. Mrs. Grisham was a sweetheart. She understood what being single meant. She had been single close to twenty years herself, ever since that louse of a third husband ran off with the thirty-five year old cocktail waitress from Reno Nevada.
Heading up to my apartment on the second floor, the corridor smelled of stale cigarettes and cleaning fluid. Max knew I was coming. The excited patter of claws gave him away, as he scampered from his favorite positi
on on the couch, and headed towards the door at full throttle. A heavy impact revealed that he was now standing behind the door on his hind legs, attempting to peer through the peephole, with all his doggy senses working on overtime. Soon as I opened the door, the big grey Weimaraner was upon me, his paws on my shoulders, his wet whiskered face, pressing in on mine with unmitigated delight. I walked through to the kitchen, fixed him a tin of dog chow and some kibble. I mixed it real good in his dish, sprinkling a little grated mozzarella on top, to make him extra happy.
I placed his dish on the tiles next to the balcony, and filled his water bowl with Evian, then I slipped a hand full of ice cubes in, to make it good and cold. By the time I had got him his water, most of his dinner was gone, in a noisy, hoovering flurry. Max ate so fast he almost inhaled his food. Any one would think I never fed him. Far from it.
My dog is a world champion greedy-guts, he eats anything that isn’t tied down. From car seat headrests, to trashcan detritus, Max eats it all. The vet said he was bored, said he needed more exercise. In my line of work, that isn’t always possible. Two or three walks isn’t enough for a high-energy beast like Max Costello, he needs more, much more. Luckily for me, the building super, the sexy but irascible Audrey Wong, is a major league dog lover. She has the keys to my apartment and takes Max walkies whenever she sees fit. Max has that kind of effect on women. The hound is a four-legged Joe Russell, high energy, charismatic, and endlessly priapic. As I watched Max, I stood in the Kitchen fixing myself a Spanish omelet, with onions, bell peppers, egg whites and pieces of grilled chicken, that had been languishing in the refrigerator for rather longer than they should have been.