Kill the Mother!

by Michael Mallory

  “I’m kind of surprised you quit, frankly,” I said.

  “Trying to be nice to them, you mean?”

  “No, acting. You look like someone the camera would adore.”

  I meant to say like…someone the camera would like…but it was too late now to do anything about it. If Marcella DeBanzi thought it was an untoward comment, though, she did not show it.

  She smiled. “At the risk of sounding immodest, I’ve been told that a time or two. But that whole environment simply isn’t for me. It’s boring, really, and a lot of the people are crazy. I’m happier in dermatology.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  She regarded me with a strange, semi-dimpled expression. “What’s wrong with dermatology?”

  “Well, nothing, of course, it’s just that, uh––

  (It’s just that you’re too gorgeous to do something so mundane)

  “––I guess I should be addressing you as Dr. DeBanzi, then,” I said, trying to make it sound planned.

  “I’m not a doctor. I’m a licensed dermatological physician’s assistant. As for addressing me, just call me Marcy.”

  “All right, and please call me Dave.” She smiled, which I took to be an indicator that maybe I had flunked my Who Wants to Be a Real Jerk? audition after all. The next moment, though, I heard myself asking: “So, Marcy, you mentioned you were single, but have you ever been married?”

  Her face took on a subtle expression of disapproval. “Why are you asking that?” she said.

  “I don’t want to appear to be prying,” I stammered, "but—”

  “But it’s what you do for a living.”

  She had me there. “I guess so.”

  “For what it’s worth, I was married once, but both of us were too young. Or maybe I was too young and he was too immature. Or maybe he was just a horse’s ass. Anyway, that ended about fifteen years ago.”

  “So you’re living here alone?”

  Her eyes narrowed once more and she leaned forward. “Are you sure you’re here about Nora, or is there some other reason you’re asking these questions?”

  “There’s a very good reason I’m asking these questions,” I said.

  Okay, kid, what is it? Bogie wanted to know. So did I. Then it came to me.

  “Your personal status might be of relevance to the court if it turns out that you have to take in Burton and Taylor, now that both of their parents are dead,” I told her.

  That appeared to startle her. “Oh, good god,” Marcy said, “I hadn’t even stopped to consider that.” She got up and started to pace back and forth. “I still think of myself as kind of an outsider as far as Nora is concerned, but I probably am the only relation the boys have now.” She laughed grimly and without humor. “I’ve heard of women becoming first-time moms at thirty-seven, but usually they start with babies.”

  She did not look thirty-seven, or even thirty, but I kept that to myself.

  “Well,” she went on, “there’s not much use stressing about it right now. Whatever happens will happen.” She settled back into her chair. "Anything else?”

  “Yes, and I apologize for asking, but do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm Nora?”

  “Dave, I know you’re trying to be thoughtful and considerate,” she said, "but I’m sure you know as well as I do that the Dalai Lama would try to harm Nora if forced to spend time with her. Her philosophy of life was 'Walk a mile on the toes of others.’”

  At that moment a thought occurred to me, and it must have shown on my face, because Marcy said, “What? Did I say something?”

  “You said that you speculate Nora started the search for you because her husband died, but her mother, her adoptive mother, also died a few years before that.”

  “I think that’s right.”

  “Nora’s mother was an actress, and so were you.”

  “I was not an actress. Dave, I was somebody who did a few parts to earn money for college.”

  “The point is,” I said, "you were in the business. What if Nora somehow found that you had done some acting work and that’s why she tracked you down, because she thought you could help the boys’ careers? Sort of a replacement for their grandmother.”

  “I could clear up their zits,” she said, with a light laugh. "Honestly, that’s the only help I can offer.”

  But maybe Nora realized that only after she had found Marcy. And once she had realized it, maybe she dropped her sister from her life like unwanted poundage. I was about to explain into this theory, for whatever it was worth (and chiefly what it was worth was the chance to keep me here around her a little while longer), when Marcy’s head suddenly bobbed up, as though alerted to a sound. “Did you hear that?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “I think someone’s on my porch.”

  “It might be the police,” I cautioned. “A detective named Colfax is probably to show up at some point to talk to you.”

  "Did you send him?”

  "No, he got your address from Elena Cates, too.”

  "I’m glad Elena doesn’t know my social security number,” she muttered.

  As though on cue, the doorbell rang. She walked to it and as she had done with me called out: “Who is it?”

  "It’s us,” a voice called back. "Your nephews.”

  Marcy and I exchanged looks and then she opened the door. Burton and Taylor Frost were standing on the small porch, facing the street behind them, each clutching a small duffel bag with one hand, while waving at someone with the other. Then in unison they turned and took a step in. When they saw me standing behind Marcy, they both registered an expression of surprise. “Crap, you’re here, too?” Taylor said.

  “Good to see you again, as well,” I deadpanned.

  "Boys, what are you doing here?” Marcy asked.

  “Elena just dropped us off,” Taylor said.

  "She couldn’t come in,” Burton added. "She had to go somewhere.”

  Probably celebrating the felicitous riddance of Charlie and Mortimer, the voice of W. C. Fields drawled inside my head.

  “I need to speak with Ms. Cates,” Marcy said. "To say I wasn’t expecting you two is a bit of an understatement.”

  The boys shuffled in and dumped their duffels on the floor. “We’re just here for the night,” Taylor said. "Elena’s going to pick us up on the morning.”

  "She’s kinda freaking out,” Burton asked.

  “And she’s got this boyfriend,” Taylor went on.

  “Who’s a real dick,” Burton finished.

  “I see,” Marcy said. "Well, I guess I’d better go make sure I have enough bedding.” She disappeared into the hallway of the house.

  Once she was out of sight, Taylor turned to me and said, “So, are you gonna stay here all night, too?”

  “Of course not,” I told the little brat. "I came to talk to your aunt, but I was just about to leave.”

  “Door’s right there,” Burton said.

  "Smell ya later,” Taylor added.

  I was still hashing over in my mind whether any jury would convict me for giving these two a Three Stooges head bonk when Marcy re-emerged from the bedroom.

  “Okay, I think we’re set,” she said. “Have you guys eaten?”

  “We stopped for a hamburger with Elena on the way over,” Taylor answered.

  "It was really crappy, too,” Burton said. "Some place called Burger Heaven.”

  Okay, that was it. One can insult me, but you better not tread on my favorite fast food joint. "Look, junior,” I started to say, but Marcy cut me off.

  “I’d better check to see if I have anything on hand for breakfast,” she said, dashing into the kitchen.

  Now that I was alone with Frick and Frack, I thought about telling them exactly what I thought of them, but then figured it would be wasted energy. Instead I called into the kitchen: “Marcy, I’m going to take off. You have my card if you need me.”

  “All right, Dave, thanks,” she called back.

  “If she
needs him,” Burton muttered, snickering. Taylor jabbed him in the side, but he was snickering too.

  “You know, fellas,” I said, forcing myself to smile, “you really need to be nice to your aunt while you’re here.”

  “Yeah? Why?” Taylor asked.

  “Because if she gets sick of you, the only place left for you to go is an orphanage, and I don’t think they computer games there.”

  I did not get the reaction I was expecting. Instead of showing alarm, the turned to look at each other, and then back at me. Now Burton’s face was wearing a smug, knowing grin. It was the most expression I had ever seen him display.

  “Man, you are such a loser,” he said. “You don’t even know what you’re—”

  A sudden sharp elbow jab from his brother silenced him. “We will be nice to her, Mr. Beauchamp,” Taylor said. “Goodbye.”

  I left Marcy DeBanzi’s house wondering what that had been all about, but even at that, happy to know that the Brothers Alpha were not going to be my immediate problem from now on.

  NINE

  It was dark by the time I got home. I was hungry, but not sure I had anything in the fridge to eat. But I could always order a pizza (Burger Heaven didn’t deliver).

  It was almost impossible to get Marcella DeBanzi out of my mind. Even as I examined the mail for the day—more bills and grocery store fliers, to which I should probably pay attention now that I could afford food again—all I could think of was Marcy walking out of my bedroom in black-and-white, a cigarette dangling from her lips, her hair in a 1940s flip, asking me if I knew how to whistle. For her, I’d play a kazoo.

  I closed my eyes and tried to shake her out of my head, wondering…not for the first time…whether Bonnie at my old law firm had been right, and that I needed to seek out some professional help.

  Bullshit, Robert Mitchum told me. Anybody who wants to go to a shrink should have his head examined.

  “I’ll try to remember that,” I said aloud, then went to the phone and ordered a pizza from Domino’s. While waiting for it to arrive, I went to my stash of comfort film DVDs and grabbed Armored Car Robbery, a tight little heist picture starring three of the four horsemen of postwar crime dramas, Charles McGraw, William Tallman and Steve Brodie (the fourth was Raymond Burr), and popped it into the player. It was about, well, an armored car robbery. That’s one of the things I loved about film noir movies: you knew what you were going to get from the title. Had Citizen Kane been made as a classic noir it would have been called I’ll Never Forget My Sled.

  Of course, when the doorbell finally rang, announcing the arrival of the Domino’s guy, I was taking a bathroom break. As quickly as I could I finished up and ran to the door. “Domino’s,” the kid said, a bit redundantly, given that he was wearing a Domino’s shirt and held a pizza box in his hands. I settled up, leaving him a decent tip, and then sat back down in front of the television. Were I the introspective type, I probably would worry that sitting at home at night in front of the television, eating a pizza by myself, earned me a solid 9.5 on the Dork Scale. But I had just slightly over twelve-grand in the bank, most of which came from Nora Frost, so I could cut myself some slack. I was sitting here eating a delivery pizza, watching an old movie, because I wanted to. Sure, it would have been nice if Marcella DeBanzi were snuggled next to me, munching on a slice of sausage and green pepper, but one can’t have everything.

  When my cell phone rang I figured it would be a wrong number, or Detective Dane Colfax calling to harass me about something else. I was wrong on both counts. “Dave, it’s Marcy DeBanzi,” I heard on the other end. “Sorry to bother you.”

  “Oh, it’s no bother,” I said, tossing down the crust in my hand in order to grab the remote and freeze the film.

  “Is this a good time to talk?”

  “Yes, fine, what’s up?”

  “I didn’t know who else to call,” she said. “There’s someone hanging around outside my house.”

  “Who?”

  “If I knew, I wouldn’t be frightened and calling you.”

  “Is it a man or a woman?”

  “Man, I think. I saw him earlier.”

  “Have you called the police?”

  “No, I wanted to talk to you first.”

  “The police might be better equipped to handle this.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, but I don’t want the frighten the boys.”

  “All right, take a deep breath.” I imagined her breasts rising and falling with it, which did not help my focus. "Were you able to see anything about the person, anything identifiable?”

  “No, I only saw a shape. But he appeared to be casing the house.”

  “Lock all your doors and windows. You have a cell phone, right?

  “Yes.”

  “Keep it with you. Try not to spook the twins, just go about your business, but if anything funny happens, dial 911. Don’t be afraid to. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she said. “Thanks. I feel better just talking to you.”

  I didn’t need anyone here with me, or even the evidence of a mirror, to let me know that I was grinning like an idiot. I could feel it. “Call me again later if you want.”

  After she said goodbye and hung up, I had a hard time concentrating on anything else but Marcy, and the thought that someone was snooping around her house. Maybe I should call Colfax myself. No, that would be interference in the name of protection, or overprotection. Worst case scenario: if Marcy knew I had called him and no longer trusted me.

  Not quite, my friend, an oddly formal voice said in my head. The real worst case scenario would be to have harm…or even death…come to the lovely young woman. It took me a minute to figure out who was taunting me now. At first I thought it might be Bela Lugosi, but the accent was wrong. Finally I got it: Ricardo Montalban.

  When had Ricardo Montalban joined my mental Friars Club?

  “I’ll trust you know what you’re doing, Marcy,” I whispered to the empty, quiet room. “And Ricardo, go back to the island.”

  After polishing off another slice of the pizza (leaving two slices for breakfast), I watched the rest of Armored Car Robbery, and then got ready for bed and stretched out, wondering if I was really going to be able to get to sleep.

  Apparently I did, because I awoke the next morning at the usual time, with vague memories of a dream in which I was being chased through the streets at night by somebody who wanted to kill me. I like chase dreams, since those I remember after awakening give me the feeling of having exercised, when I know I haven’t. Today was Thursday, and in just about any other given week, Thursday promised to be a lot like Wednesday. But I had every expectation of breaking that rule since I was not planning on stumbling across another murder victim today.

  After shaving and showering, I set out for the office a little before ten. Traffic was light, for some reason, so I made in a bit earlier than usual. I was there for only five minutes when my cell rang. “This is Dave,” I said into it.

  “Hi, Dave, it’s Marcy again.”

  “Oh, hi,” I said, trying to sound casual, when the truth of the matter was I had spent the entire drive in trying to come up with a reason to call her. “Is there another problem?”

  “Well, sort of. It’s the boys.”

  “What did they do?”

  “Nothing, they didn’t do anything.” She was still speaking in hushed tones. “It’s just that they’re still here. Elena hasn’t come to pick them up.”

  “Did you try calling her?”

  “Yes, but there was no answer.”

  “She must be on her way, then.”

  “I’ve been trying her for almost two hours. Taylor said she’d be here by eight-thirty. I even tried her cell phone.”

  Maybe Elena had gotten the flip side of the light traffic I had enjoyed earlier, but even if that were the case, a couple hours to get from Hollywood to San Pedro was pretty excessive, unless there was a major accident on the 110 South. And given what I knew about Elena Cates, if she were truly tied up
in traffic, she would have called on her cell to let Marcy know.

  “I was supposed to be at work ninety minutes ago,” Marcy was saying, “and I can’t leave the boys on their own. I’ve managed to reschedule my morning appointments, but there are a few this afternoon that I don’t think I could cancel.”

  “Do you want me to come down and babysit until she arrives?” I asked her.

  “Could you get here by noon?”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I could.”

  “You’re a lifesaver, thanks.”

  “How are the boys doing?”

  “They playing with those gizmos of theirs,” Marcy said in hushed tones. “They were up half the night playing them, too. Honestly, I’m not sure that the reality of their mother’s death has fully hit them yet.”

  Either that or they haven’t figured out how to distinguish the fun, exciting death that is everywhere in the gaming world with the real thing.

  “Maybe I’m overreacting, Dave, but I’m thinking of calling social services to see if they need a psychiatric test. They simply aren’t acting normal.”

  “Do what you think is best,” I advised, “but let me ask this: how many twelve-year-old boys do you know?”

  “None, other than Taylor and Burton. Why, do you think I’m that far out of touch with the younger generation?”

  “I think the universe in general is that far out of touch with the younger generation.” I also had a feeling that people have been saying that for five-thousand years or so. “Right now, Marcy, your primary job is to keep them safe, which you are doing. I’ll be down as soon as I’m able.”

  “I love you,” she said, and my heart stopped. Then she hung up. But I sat there, holding the phone against my ear until the unnamed, ubiquitous female voice chimed in to tell me that if I wished to make a call, please dial again. Marcy was expressing her appreciation, that’s all, I told myself. She didn’t mean I love you in the literal sense; I’m not so dumb or naïve as to believe that.