by L. J. Martin
"How can you make even that sound so sexy?" I ask.
And she giggles, as I knew she would, then answers, "Hey, big boy, when are you bringing me some more of those wonderful chocolate truffles?"
"Sorry, I'm on the coast. Why are you answering the boss’s cell phone?"
"He went to the gym and accidently left his cell on my desk."
"Old age is hell. Sol around?"
"He is, but you'd rather talk to me."
"No doubt, but there's a damsel in distress and I need him badly."
"Okay, you're no fun. Except for the damsel maybe."
"Work is hell, and one must sacrifice. Sol, please."
"Sol, the hack man," he answers as I normally address him.
"Hey, somebody snatched my almost client. The L.A. sheriff has an APB out on a van. Find out what you can, financial, etcetera, on all the players. Tammy Houston; Emory Coogan, her manager; Tyler Thompson, her travel and booking person, a lady person…and a lug named Butch Horrigan, supposedly her security."
"You got it. You want me to hack into L.A. County?"
"Not yet. Let's not risk it until it's imperative. I've got a contact there."
"Go get 'em, Mike."
As soon as he's off, I dial the number Tyler Thompson gave me. She answers.
"Tyler."
"Hi, kid. It's Mike Reardon."
"Oh…oh, hi Genny."
"Can't talk?"
"Not even a little."
"Where'd they take Horrigan?"
"Oh, yeah, we've had a hell of a day. Somebody kidnapped Tammy…but you've got to keep it quiet. And Butch was taken to U.C.L.A. med center with a busted head."
"Thanks, I'll call you later."
"Cool."
I hear a gruff voice in the background as she's hanging up. "Shut that up…"
So, I'm off to the university hospital in Westwood. Not too far from Dan Tana's in Beverly Hills, and some high class Italian.
Before I turn off onto the far west end of the infamous Sunset Boulevard, my phone vibrates and I see it's from Sol, and his first report on the folks inquired about. I pull into a small Brentwood strip center with a Starbucks, dig my laptop out and open the attachments. I go straight to the Butch Horrigan file. Born Benjamin Horrigan, first nickname Benny, took on Butch after serving a three-year term in Tehachapi State Prison for assault on a police officer. He served the full three as it appears there was no good behavior. In fact he was tried again for assault while in prison due to a prison riot, but was found innocent for lack of proof. Born in Fresno, California, he did three years at Fresno State, a college not a prison, and played tackle on a winning football team until he was thrown out of school for breaking some kid’s arm and using a beer bottle on another at a fraternity party he'd crashed. He obviously thinks of himself a tough guy. Well, the tough guy wasn't as tough as the mace and whoever hauled off his client.
It's not a very interesting story, maybe it'll be more interesting from the horse's mouth.
I park in a multi-story parking garage near the hospital and go to the desk to discover he's still in the emergency room...typical of today's hospitals. There are probably forty illegal aliens in the queue in front of him. That, too, is typical of today's southwest U.S. hospitals. I have nothing against folks trying to better themselves; I just wish they wouldn't climb on the backs of those of us here legally just after swimming the Rio Grande or jumping the very porous fence. And that wish includes stopping them from voting illegally for those who'll continue to buy their votes with giveaways.
The girl at the ER desk asks my interest in Mr. Horrigan, and I tell her I'm his half-brother, and as he's in a cubicle awaiting a doc I am pointed to number eight. At least he got as far as a bed. I'm no stranger to hospitals, have had more than my share of wounds; but I never get used to the Lysol or bleach smell, the groans and moans, and the painted directional stripes on the floor...knowing one—probably the black one—leads to the morgue.
I hate the places.
I push my way through the curtains and see our boy flat on his back, and his stomach stands as high or maybe a little higher than his chest...this boy is no five percent body fat as a good scrapper might be. More than likely he's good at cleaning up the scraps from the table.
His eyes are closed, but snap open when I address him.
"How you doin' Benny boy?"
He begins to raise his head, but then collapses back to his pillow. "Who the hell is that, calling me Benny?"
"You haven't been Benny since Tehachapi, or when?"
This time he manages to hold his head up and focus on me. "Who the hell are you? You a cop?"
"Nope. I'm the bodyguard Tammy should have had."
"Fuck you, they maced me."
"When you opened the door and stood there like a gob of suet. How about taking a peek through the peep hole first? It's hard to get mace to penetrate oak and glass."
"Fuck you, I'm her bodyguard."
"And you may be guarding a dead body by the time you get out of this meat processing plant."
He's silent for a moment, then speaks with his head down flat on the pillow, his eyes at the ceiling. "So, you're gonna look for her?"
"No, I'm gonna find her, alive I hope. Why'd they take her?"
"You gotta ask Coogan."
"I'm asking you."
"Coogan."
"You have any idea who they were?"
"Fuck no."
So I reach over and put the flat of my hand on the knot on the side of his head. "Do you suppose if I press hard on this lump I'll push the mush you call brains out of your nose?"
He grabs my wrist, but I pry his thumb away with my other hand, and not gently.
He winces. "I'm yelling for the doc."
"Too late by the time he gets here, not that he could do anything about it nonetheless. I guess he'll get here in time to clean up the mess. So, why'd they take Tammy?"
I reach again for the knot. "Oh, fuck, don't push."
"Why'd they take Tammy?"
"I'm gonna kick your ass when I get out of here...ooww. Fuck!"
"Why'd they take Tammy, tough guy?"
"They said they wanted their money. Now stop pushing."
"What money?"
"Fuck, I don't know. I don't owe them no money."
"And Tammy does?"
"Tammy don't handle the money...her money...Coogan does."
"So Coogan owes them?"
"Ask Coogan. Doc!" he yells.
"We'll talk again when you get out of here, if the docs don't kill you."
"Doc!" he yells, then, "nurse!"
I have to laugh. He sounds a little like a six year old yelling for his mama.
"See you around, killer," I say, as I exit, passing a nurse running his way.
As soon as I get back to the parking garage, I have to hack the flavor of beach and hospital out of my throat.
On my way back to the Vette, I dial Coogan and it goes to answering. So I again dial Tyler, and this time she sounds a little more relaxed.
"So, pretty lady, how about you and I getting together and talking?" I ask.
"Can't, I'm headed back to the apartment in Westwood."
"It's taped up."
"They said I could get back in this evening."
"How about some great Italian at Dan Tana's?"
"Oh, I love Dan Tana's. What time?"
"How about eight. I'll get us a reservation."
"Eight it is."
4
She wanders in slowly, seductively, eyeing the room.
I'm in a booth in a far corner and jump up to meet her. The place is red leather and dark wood, quiet waiters who move like specters but are always close at hand and great food and drinks.
It all reminds me of film noir, Humphrey Bogart from the late thirties or forties. And she fits right in, even looks a little like Lauren Bacall. Basic black cocktail dress, nice black high-heels sans the platforms many girls wear—she's tall enough—with a small buckle on each
crusted with faux diamonds, rhinestones I presume. Her legs are bare...Bacall would have worn nylons. The one-faux-diamond-rhinestone-thick belt she wears drapes on slim hips like an oversized tennis bracelet, but there's enough flare there to say she's lady shaped, and it's obvious she's braless and they stand up nicely without the shoulder-slings. A very, very nice package and the plethora of men in the place seem to agree as all eyes follow as she winds between tables to meet me halfway.
"You clean up nice," she offers, and I put a hand on the small of her back and escort her to our corner booth. She slips in and rather than take the side of the curved booth facing her, I slip in beside her.
"Thanks," I reply, "but I'm surprised I can answer and you look so good I'm tongue-tied."
She smiles, and with a sexy tone says, "Thanks," then laughs, "Don’t say tongue unless you mean it," then adds as my mouth goes dry, "Cozy."
"You bet." I say, but I'm thinking about the tongue remark. Who wouldn't? But I add, "No telling how intimate the conversation might get so we don't want to be overheard."
She laughs. "You don't waste any time."
"It wasn't me made the tongue crack, to risk a pun."
"Like I said, you don't waste time."
"Dilly-dally has never been my strong suit."
"And I bet long-term relationships have never been your strong suit either."
I feign being hurt. "Wow, the lady judges me before we've had our first drink together."
"Speaking of drinks, what's that you’re having?"
"Jack rocks, I usually have it neat but want my wits about me on a first date."
"Date? I thought this was business."
Now it's my turn to laugh. "Yeah, it would have been until you showed up in that luscious-fitting black piece. That doesn't say biz to me."
"Just so I know."
"Speaking of business, let's get a little biz out of the way."
"How about I get a Manhattan first."
The waiter is already on his way, so I put in her order, "Manhattan up, two cherries." Then I turn back to her. "So who do you think has run off with your boss?”
She's quiet for a second and I think she's going to break into tears. Then offers, "I have no idea. All celebs have stalkers but they usually operate alone. Three guys hit the front door and dragged her away from a poolside chaise lounge in a bikini."
"After they dropped the bodyguard."
"Yes."
"Where was Coogan?"
"In the John. He came out and seemed a little surprised to see Butch on the floor rolling around."
"Seemed?"
Again she's quiet for a moment. Then she sighs deeply before continuing. "He's been under a lot of pressure lately."
"Horrigan?"
"No, Emory."
"Why?"
"He doesn't talk much."
"I caught a little electricity between you two. You and he have a...a thing going?"
She's given to thinking before she speaks, and does again. She bats her dark lids at me as if she's about to be intimate. The she sighs and says in a very low tone, "When I wanted the job, we did some stuff, but I got the job and got to be really good friends with Tammy, and I was able to break it off with Emory."
"Sounds like Mr. Coogan is a pure asshole."
She laughs. "Not so pure."
Her drink arrives so she's quiet for a moment. "So, business is over? What's good here? I was flying high the last time I was here and can't remember."
"Classic Italian, even though Dan Tana was a...a Serb, I think."
She laughs. "So long as the food is good. If my geography is good that's just across the pond from Italy."
"You a meat-eater?"
"You bet, a real carnivore."'
"I know it's not the way things work nowadays, women's lib and all that stuff, but do you mind if I order?"
"Go for it, big boy."
I can't help but eye her up and down, but don't say that's exactly what I'm doing...going for it. We'll work that part out later.
I wave the waiter over. "A bottle of your best Malbec," I've already checked the menu and see I'm only risking seventy bucks, "A caprese salad to start, two fillets medium rare slathered in those great mushrooms, pasta putanesca on the side, and some asparagus."
And he's gone.
"How'd you know," she says, batting her eyes again, "that Malbec is my favorite?"
"You said you were a carnivore, so you gotta love the ultimate carnivore's red."
"I hope you're half as good at other things as you are at ordering." More eyelid bats.
"Ma'am, I aim to please."
"Then I'm going to skip dessert."
"You have an apartment nearby?"
"Yes, on the second floor of the same building I just came from. The company pays for it...but we can't go there." She cuts her eyes away and stares at the wall.
"Ah, because what's-his-face will be there. So you haven’t exactly broken it off.”
“Not totally,” she says, and blushes a little, caught in a white lie.
“Where does he think you are?"
"Now you're embarrassing me."
"Where does he think you are?"
"Visiting my sister up in Valencia."
"Works for me. I'll bet the London up near Sunset has a room."
I don't normally get involved with involved women. But this one knows way more than she's telling, and if I'm going to find Tammy, I need to know everything. Every little intimate thing.
What a sacrifice a dutiful bodyguard has to make.
5
When we're halfway through our perfect steaks, she asks, "Tell me about Mike Reardon."
"Not much to tell. Born on the slopes of the Rockies, military for ten years or so, then out into the cold world."
"You're saving it? The world I mean. One of those guys?"
"Yeah, one miscreant at a time."
"You do more than bodyguard then?"
"I actually do very little in the bodyguard biz. I mostly do recovery work."
"So, like a car repossess guy?"
I have to laugh at that. "Yeah, if your car is worth a mil or so, otherwise I'll leave repo work to the real tough guys."
"So, you're not a tough guy?"
"Na, I'm a wuss. I only get angry with bullies, or wife beaters, or folks who steal their boss's yacht or airplane or retirement. And to be truthful, I hate dope dealers. But I normally call a cop."
"Why don't I believe that?"
"When you need a cop in seconds, he's only minutes away."
She laughs, then asks, "So, what's been your most exciting gig?"
"Can't tell, I'm sworn to silence. To be truthful, most of what I do folks don't want to talk about, or have their affairs talked about. I wouldn't have any new clients if I kiss and tell."
"You're not much of a conversationalist?"
"Now that hurts my feelings. Can't talk about work, but try me on literature, stage plays, movies, or the normal conversational clap trap."
"Okay, what's your favorite rock group?"
"The Eagles."
"You're older than you look."
"Again, you've hurt my feelings. I love classic rock. Who doesn't love living it up at the Hotel California?"
"Okay, you're classic, not old."
"Why does that sound like the same thing?"
She laughs. "If the shoe fits..." Then she adds, "You haven't asked about me."
"When I take on a job, I know more about all the players than they know about themselves."
"Oh, yeah. So, where did I go to college?"
"U.T., Austin, majored in Business, minored in music, got your B.A. but didn't finish your master's program as you got pregnant and daddy stopped with the funding. The boyfriend took a hike and you visited a clinic."
Her eyes widen and she glares at me, then her eyes soften. "Enough. Maybe I don't want to know what you know."
"I think you're a nice lady. We've all had our ups and downs. What I know about you is n
inety-five percent good, and there's not many of us can say that."
We finish our cocktails, a bottle of wine, and a couple of after dinner drinks and I ask, "Did you drive or cab it here?"
"I cabbed it. I figured I might have a few drinks to drown my sorrows over my friend getting absconded with. So I cabbed it."
"You got a scarf?"
"Is the wind blowing? We gonna walk?"
"No, ma'am, you're gonna ride in style with the wind in your face."
"Then, let's go. I checked my jacket and can hold my hair down with it."
The Vette keeps my promise and she doesn't bother covering the hair. The windblown look is just fine on her. The London Hotel is a little high class for my normal overnight stays, but so's the lady, so I don't mind a bit.
The lady has a lovely body, makes all the right moves, but seems a little detached. She is no kicker, yeller or screamer. Nice, for recreational sex, but nothing to write home about, not that one writes home about such a thing. Of course, maybe there’s some reticence on her part and I’m judging her unfairly. I do work up a sweat, so it's at least as good as a quick workout at the gym.
Even so the interlude was worth the bottle of good wine and great steak, and I did learn an interesting tidbit. It seems Emory Coogan was on the verge of bankruptcy a few months ago and he tried to borrow money from Tammy Houston, and she told him no. Still, a month later, his fortunes must have turned, as he didn’t file.
She leaves at midnight, saying that's how long it would have taken to visit her sister and drive back from Valencia.
I get a good night's sleep alone in a big king size bed, a light breakfast of juice and a bagel, then head out for Malibu. It's obvious Emory Coogan is not picking up my phone calls as all are going to the answering device. So it's time to get in his face.
As I'm going down the elevator I call Sol in Vegas and advise him of Coogan's former financial problems and get him on the prod.
And I presume the cop, Detective Howard Adamson, is at some regional sheriff's office. So I call him as soon as I get back on Sunset heading west. It turns out his office is in Agoura Hills, over the mountain near the Ventura Freeway. But he's heading for Malibu and we agree to meet for coffee.