by Blackie Noir
“Really,” doubt and disappointment in Citrone’s voice, “sounds like a brush off to me.”
Friendly now, Nadine says, “Uh-uh. I don’t do brush offs. I’d have just said ‘no thanks’ and hung up. Seriously, let’s do something, something casual. Give me a number.”
“Cool, just use the one I left on your messages. It’s my very private cell number.”
“Very private?”
Citron laughs, “Yeah, personal friends only. No obnoxious industry insiders trying to track me down. This phone rings, I answer it.”
“OK, I’ll get back to you. Do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“When you hang up, please don’t say ‘ciao.’”
“Wouldn’t think of it, too passé.”
Placing the phone in it’s cradle, breathing rapidly, Nadine can’t believe it. Nothing, well hardly nothing, to do with the fact that Citron has been a top five box-office draw for years. The big deal being, she’s finally taking a step out of the rut she’s been in since the Medina encounter. The self imposed social semi-isolation coming to an end, exciting, yet daunting. Shit, a little shaky now, she could use some moral support, a little advice wouldn’t hurt either. She’d been meaning to call Carol, what better time?
Three rings, and Carol’s cool self-assured voice greets Nadine. Nadine says, “Carol, Nadine. Honey, you have a few minutes to spare?”
“For you, hours.”
“Just so you’re not billing me for it.”
“Wouldn’t think of it, you’re family. Speaking of which, want to say hi to your wonderful brother?”
“Uh-uh, but if he’s ‘wonderful’ you two must be getting along. That’s good news. You can give him a kiss for me. Listen, I need some advice.”
“What about?”
“Todd Citron.”
“Todd Citron. I don’t get it. What kind of advice could I give you about Todd Citron?”
“He’s been calling me, wants to go out. A date. Should I go?”
After a pause, Carol laughs, says, “Sugar, if the milkman, or the mailman, the dogcatcher, asked you out, I’d say go. Just to get out. But Todd Citron? You have to ask? Go for it. You’ve been a recluse for far too long, join the living.”
“I get out, I just haven’t been seeing anybody, you know, guys.”
“I know. Nothing like jumping back into the fray, and starting right at the top. My sister-in-law, overnight, the envy of millions of women around the globe.”
“Truth is, I’m nervous. Maybe even a little intimidated.”
“Oh, c’mon. Nadine, who the hell wouldn’t be? But, try to remember, underneath all the movie star hoo-hah he’s just a guy. He’s the one called you . . . right?”
“True. Still, I was thinking, first time out, maybe we could, you know, double date? You and Bill could act as buffers, take some of the pressure off me.”
“Double date?” Carol laughs, “Where would we be going, the malt shop?”
“Yeah, yeah. Funny. C’mon help me out here. I’m supposed to call him back, make a date. I know it shouldn’t be a big deal, but I really don’t feel up to facing this type of thing alone, not just yet. Be a pal.”
“Look, I understand. Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll get Todd-baby off balance, give you the home field advantage. Meet him on your turf, play the game in your arena.”
“Carol, stop with the fucking sports analogies. You expect me to entertain this guy at my rinky-dink little cottage?”
“No. But even if I were, so? Rule number one, remember, he’s just a guy. Now, this Sunday, Bill and I were going to bar-b-que, have Vassily and Roy over. Why don’t you and Citron join us?”
“See? That’s why I called you. It’s perfect. I’ll call him back, invite him for Sunday, and see what develops. You sure Bill won’t mind?”
“You kidding? He’ll be happy to see you, he worries about you. Sometimes he’s like an old man, he dotes, worse than Vassily. This’ll be great, how about two o’clock?”
“Two’s fine. I really appreciate this, thanks.”
“My pleasure. See you Sunday.”
Relieved, Nadine quickly dials Citron, keeping it friendly, but short, she runs Sunday’s arrangement by him. His enthusiasm obvious, Citron agrees to pick her up at 1:30. It’s a date, her first in far too long.
Going back to the table to finish her sandwich, Nadine finds she’s too late. Two slices of bread, still there, scattered across the table, but she can forget about the turkey. Gone, along with the prime suspect, Puddin. Shaking her head, Nadine resigns herself to making another sandwich. No sooner does she take her first bite, than the phone rings. Learning from her earlier mistake, she puts her sandwich in the fridge before answering.
“Vance here. Damn, don’t you ever get off the phone?”
“Don’t start,” Nadine laughs, “it’s your fault I got stuck like I did.”
“My fault.”
“Yeah, you were gonna call me soon as you wrapped things up with Logan. I just grabbed the phone on the first ring, ended up taking a call I didn’t expect. I guess I’m kind of anxious to know what we’ve got over there at JuicyTown.”
“As well you should be.”
“C’mon Vance, don’t get cryptic on me. What’ve we got?”
“It’s him.”
“Him. The Widowmaker?”
“Damn straight. Logan’s one hell of an expeditor, had the coroner digging those .22 slugs out of Wolf and Ray Bob’s brain-pans, before the wheels on the gurneys stopped rolling. Had a guy run em up to ballistics, where Logan is owed a favor or two, and presto, we have our result.”
“They match.”
Nadine can feel Vance’s excitement, crackling, riding his words through the phone, “Hell yeah, they match. No doubt about it. Those slugs match the others we have from the Widowmaker’s .22. Whatever went down last night, our boy was there, he was a player.”
“Probably the major player. What about the mystery woman?”
“No longer a total mystery, but still an enigma.”
“Vance . . .”
Vance laughs, “Hey, let me have my fun. I told you this thing had Widowmaker written all over it, and I was right. OK, the woman is a dancer, goes by a stage name, Satana. She’s an older gal, close to being too old. She’s struggling to hold on to her gig, has to do a lot of the shit work around the club after closing time. Stuff like sweeping up, helping Vito stack chairs, she’s even responsible for cleaning up the dancer’s dressing room, right down to mopping up their bathroom.”
“So much for glamour.”
“Right. Point is, Satana is always the last employee to leave. She’s got to be the one was there, in the lot, last night.”
“Where’d you get this all from?”
“Vito’s ‘go-to’ guy, Mike. He’s manager, bartender, bouncer, whatever. Does everything but dance himself, though he probably could fill in at Chippendales-extra large. Dude’s 300 pounds, easy, and if he’s got any fat on him he’s hiding it in his ass-crack.”
“Cute Vance, you put that in your report?”
“What report? It’s Logan’s case remember? Of course, now that it’s definitely a Widowmaker kill, it’ll be going straight to Sheba Johnstone. Monday, when we report, officially, Sheba will drop it in our lap.”
“Has Logan picked up this Satana yet”
Loosing some of his enthusiasm, Vance says, “Uh-uh. What makes her an enigma, we don’t have a name for her. Satana, that’s it.”
“How the hell do they pay her? What name goes on her W-2’s?”
“Get real. She wasn’t on the books. She’d show up, do two or three turns a night, usually relieving the headliners, Vito or Mike would hand her a few twenties, that was it.”
“So she’s dancing, working as a janitor, all for chump change? Doesn’t make sense.”
“She also got to keep all her tips.”
“She was hooking?”
“Not according to Mike. No, she got tips while she was
dancing. You know, bills slipped into her G-string, that kind of thing. Did OK.”
“She was so over the hill, that she had to double as a cleaning lady to keep her gig, yet she did OK? Hard to believe.”
“Well, she had a specialty. She was unique.”
“A specialty. Unique. Care to elaborate?”
Vance clears his throat, says, “Definitely not.”
“Got it. If you don’t want to tell it, then I sure as shit don’t want to hear it. But, if you had a guy for a partner I’ll bet you wouldn’t have the same reservations.”
“Don’t push it. I’m old school when it comes to manners toward women, not to the point where I’m gonna bite my tongue every time I say ‘fuck’ in front of you, but I have my own guidelines I try to follow. Don’t get me wrong, if I thought Satana’s little specialty was germane, you’d get all the sordid details.”
“Don’t sweat it Vance. I’ll ask her about it, once we pick her up. Assuming that you’ve got something that will point us in the right direction.”
“Anybody picks Satana up before Monday it’ll be Logan. Remember, we’re not official till Sheba hands it over to us. There are a couple of leads, courtesy of Mike the manager. Vito kept a small steel strong-box behind the bar, ready cash along with the day’s take. It’s gone. Mike figures, and some blood drops behind the bar may bear him out, Satana got it. If so, she’s got running money. Mike’s estimate, around three or four grand. Also, our girl drives an old Camero, and she was good friends with another dancer, Betty ‘Bo-Peep’ Sheppard. That’s the gal’s real name.”
“Bo-Peep?”
Ignoring Nadine, Vance continues, “Betty Sheppard no longer works at JuicyTown, she got a better job at the ‘Double-D’ over in San Pedro. Apparently, JuicyTown’s the bottom of the barrel, far as titty-bars go. We do have a valid drivers license on Sheppard, with what I hope is her currant address. Logan’s on his way over there to check it out. We get lucky, Sheppard can tell us Satana’s real name, maybe even where we can find her.”
“Be nice, having a witness, someone who could ID the Widowmaker.”
“Don’t get your hopes up.”
“If you think he killed her, you’re wrong.” Damn, she’s doing it again, playing advocate. Still, she goes on, “What I mean is, this guy doesn’t kill women, he rescues them. He’d be destroying his self image if he did.”
Not unkindly, Vance says, “This guy is as twisted as they come. But, trust me, the Widowmaker thinks someone can finger him, bring him down, that person is history. Doesn’t matter, man, woman, or child, they’re dead. He’ll snuff em first, rationalize it later, he’ll still be the fucking hero of his own demented movie.”
“Before, you yourself, said you didn’t think he killed her.”
“I still don’t. Not cause he’s a good guy, it just didn’t happen to shake out that way. Satana got lucky.”
“So, if you’re right we will have a witness.”
Vance laughs, “If Satana was a willing witness, she’d be coming to us. We’d already be talking to her.”
“Good point. You’ll keep me posted?”
“Sure thing, kiddo.”
On impulse, Nadine says, “Hey, this Sunday, you busy?”
“If you’re asking me out, you’re too old for me.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet. Don’t worry, I’ve got a date. Barbeque, at my brother Bill’s place, you up for it?”
“Sure, why not? What should I bring?”
“Yourself.” After giving Vance the time and address, Nadine hangs up, vowing not to answer the phone until she completes her meal.
Getting back to her sandwich, Nadine figures it’s time to give the whole Widowmaker thing a rest, at least until tomorrow. Finishing her meal she’s feeling better, maybe some music, a soak in the tub. Ease the tension building up in her neck. Stripping down, while running the tub, putting some Mazzy Star on the CD player, turning the water off, testing the water’s temperature with her toe, Nadine was already halfway to her quiet zone. Then, the phone.
Had to be Vance, again. Could they have found Satana already? Turning the music down, she says, “Yeah?”
“Nadine?”
Definitely a day for strange male voices over the phone. “Who’s calling?”
“Nadine, this is chief Ritter.”
Ritter? Shit. Did she and Vance fuck-up, with their unauthorized participation at the JuicyTown crime scene? Best be cool. Noncommittal. “Yes sir?”
Awkward, Ritter says, “Nadine, I’m calling you, well, I’ve got some news. I just, I figured, well, perhaps you should hear it from me first.”
Oh, my God. No. “My family? My dad, brothers?”
“Ah, shit. No, no. Not your family. Nothing like that. I’m sorry. Far as I know, they’re fine. Relax. This is just a heads up from me to you. Give you an advance warning so you can duck the coming media-storm.”
Giving in to the strain, Nadine says, “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“It’s Medina. Chuey Medina.”
“What? He came out of his coma?”
“No. Half an hour ago, he flatlined. Chuey Medina’s dead.”
Chapter Twenty One
Cuchillo Medina was a piece of work. Five foot five, tops. Maybe one-twenty-five, soaking wet, Cuchillo was living proof that size was only part of the equation when it came to lethal mayhem. His psychosis, his total willingness to maim or kill at the slightest provocation, real or imaginary, set him apart, even in the violent world that was Corcoran.
Cuchillo didn’t belong in the joint. He belonged in some nut-farm; trussed-up in a straight jacket, pumped full of Thorazine, buried somewhere in a padded unit, deep in a sub-basement, accessible only by navigating a labyrinth of tunnels. That’s where he belonged. Where he was though, was sharing a 6x9 cell with Rolly Brigand. Not that Rolly gave a fuck. When it came to devastating aggression, Rolly took a back seat to no one.
The two pariah cons had developed an unspoken understanding right from the get-go. Rolly figured if he pissed the little spic off, Cuchillo would open up Rolly’s throat with a shank, some night while he slept. As for Rolly, if ever he felt he’d had enough of Cuchillo’s bullshit and bad attitude, he’d just toss him off the tier. Three tiers down, to the concrete below, it had worked well for Rolly before, it would work again.
Their cautious detente, over the past two years, had forged a tight alliance based more on need than actual friendship. Still, they were as close as two paranoids could be. They had each other’s back, two against the joint and every swinging dick trapped within. Now Cuchillo’s release date loomed. Two weeks and Cuchillo Medina would be loosed upon the world. Not some aimless shitbag, destined to be recycled back into the system, but a man on fire. A man with a mission.
Cuchillo’s mission; therein had lay Rolly’s dilemma. One short declaration, one harsh statement of fact by Cuchillo, and Rolly had found himself conflicted. Internally at odds, but not for long.
Being Rolly was a lifer, with no chance of parole, he didn’t pay much attention to time. He’d be doing it till the day he died. Consequently, he couldn’t say if it had been four weeks, or five, eight weeks or ten, didn’t matter. Point was, awhile back, Cuchillo had changed. For the worse.
They’d been watching TV, fuck could remember what was on? Same old shit and then, breaking news, action! Wild cops and robbers shit. Hi-speed car chase, morphing into a bizarre foot race, culminating in gun shots and desperately vicious hand to hand combat. A combat in which, to the chagrin of the inmates, the cop had prevailed. Compounding the con’s communal humiliation was the fact that the cop had been a woman.
Moans, shouts, curses, and laughter. Then, one stupid fuck, with an oak-tree for a body, and an acorn for a brain, got up. Took the floor and launched a ragged rap-rhythm rant. Really stupid shit. Endless repetition of a theme, “dudes weak enough, get taken down by bitches, when they git to Lompoc, I be takin down their britches. Bitch beats yo ass, yo ass is a bitch-ass, an yo bitch ass is
mine.” Blah, blah, blah.
Tired of it, ready to leave, Rolly looked over at Cuchillo. Some bad shit there, he didn’t know what was up, but his partner looked freaked. His cordovan skin, now ice-white, stretched drum tight against his prominent cheekbones, eyes bugging out of their sockets, the little psycho looked like the Grim Reaper. Springing to his feet, Cuchillo made his way out of the room. Figuring he needed some space, Rolly gave it to him, avoiding their cell till lockdown. When he went back Cuchillo was already asleep, or faking it. Rolly didn’t get much sleep himself.
Next day, Cuchillo seemed OK. When he headed to the yard, Rolly kept to the cell. Caught up on his missed sleep. Cuchillo came back smiling, cool, blood on his right hand. Went to the sink, started washing. Looked over at Rolly, said, “Hey bro, your nail brush, mind if I use it?”
Sitting up, Rolly said, “Go for it. You OK?”
“Never better. Hey, a favor?”
“What?”
“Man comes around, I been here, all day.”
“All day?”
“All day.”
Standing, Rolly walked out of the cell, checked the tier, said, “All day. You got it.”
“Hey, the man might get a little nasty bout this. I’m tellin you up front.”
“Don’t matter. You were here all day. Nasty don’t change that.”
What had happened, the rapper, the oak tree with the loud mouth in the TV room, had been shanked while watching a hotly contested basketball game on the yard. Multiple stab wounds to the kidney. The guy had survived, but he’d left his kidney in the operating room. Soon as he was fit to travel, he’d been transferred out.
There had been a lackluster attempt to pin the attack on Cuchillo, but nobody, including the victim, was talking. It had taken less than a week for the smoke to clear. It had taken Cuchillo two days to bring up the attack. They had been on the yard, walking the perimeter, when Cuchillo said, “Know why I went after that asshole?”
Rolly looked at him, said, “Don’t really give a fuck.”