by L. J. Martin
We agree to meet at the Malibu Farm Pier Café, located at the foot of the pier. I can't imagine it's an easy spot to park near, but he picked it.
I'm a little surprised that for a mere ten bucks I can park in a lot just south of the pier. Who ever heard of an ocean front parking lot?
The place is a ramshackle old Spanish motif like a good part of Malibu, but what a location overlooking the pier and a nice stretch of white sand beach with enough bikini—even at mid-morning—to keep me interested. While I'm sipping my coffee and waiting, I get a text from Sol. Coogan borrowed a cool mil from Sammy Castiano, a contractor and road builder who also has a place on Dume Point, and gives me the address on Birdview. The plot thickens.
My coffee is cold and it's a little tough to get a warm up in a place that prides itself on the view, not the service, when Adamson finally wanders in.
He's looking a little better this mid-morning. No stains on the tie.
He plops across the table from me. "You buying, Reardon?"
"You bet, if you’re candid about what you know."
"You're buying ’cause I can talk for the rest of the day and not tell you much."
I wave the waitress over. "Order up."
And he does, a full breakfast with a large orange juice.
I've worked up some appetite with my roll in the hay so I follow suit, and finally get my coffee warmed.
"So, any leads on who snatched our girl?" I ask.
"Not much. Our APB didn't pay off. The van obviously didn't stay on the Pacific Highway but there are a half-dozen ways to duck into the mountains and once you're over into Thousand Oaks or Agoura…or who knows, they could have holed up in the hills."
"No ransom note, no demands?"
"We've got two guys at the house with this Coogan guy, but nothing yet or I'd have heard."
"What do you know about a guy named Sammy Castiano?"
He eyes me for a moment, sipping his coffee, seeming to weigh his words. "You know Sammy Castiano from Vegas?"
"Never heard of the guy until this problem."
"He's got nothing to do with this."
"So, you know the guy?"
"Everybody around here knows, or knows of, Mr. Castiano. Big name in Malibu. Hell, big name in California. Road builder, heavy Democrat contributor. Had a fund raiser for the president last year with fifty of the biggest names in Hollywood in his backyard. I took time off to work security for him. He pays big and in cash. What's Castiano have to do with this?"
"Probably nothing…but I have reason to believe Coogan borrowed some major dough from him a year or so ago."
"Hell, that doesn't mean a thing—"
"Unless this Castiano is mobbed up."
Adamson laughs out loud. Then shakes his head. "Just because his name ends in a vowel."
I don't break a smile, in fact I bore in. "Is he mobbed up?"
He sobers a little, and glares at me, but he has a twitch in one eye. Were we playing poker I'd think that a tell.
"How the hell would I know?" he snaps a little too energetically. "We've got an organized crime unit but they work out of Monterey Park. As far as I know Mr. Castiano is a solid citizen."
We're cordial enough as we finish our breakfast, but after the tab comes and the girl takes my card, he lays one on me.
"Reardon. You don't have the best rep, and you don't have any brass worth flashing here in California…nothing that means squat. I pulled a sheet on you and you got no wants or warrants, however, you know that concealed carry permit you have from Wyoming is good for anything but butt wipe here in California. You carrying now?"
"If I were, and since I have no right to do so, do you think I'd mention it?"
"No, you wouldn't mention it, but I just asked."
"I guess it's your right to ask."
"How about I shake you down right now?"
"You ever hear of probable cause, Detective?"
"Yeah. And I think just you being you is probable cause."
It's my turn to laugh. "Maybe I should be complimented?"
"Maybe you should stand up and put your hands on the table, feet back."
"Maybe you should go fuck yourself."
We stare at each other for a moment, then he shrugs, then adds, "Don't get in the way of my investigation."
"Detective, we were doing fine until I mentioned Castiano. He your brother-in-law or what?"
He stammers a little, "He's an upstanding citizen who supports lots of good causes. You stay away from Sammy."
"Sammy?"
"Yes, Sammy Castiano. Or I won't worry about any probable cause."
I rise and head for the door, waving over my shoulder. "I'll let you know if I turn anything up."
He shouts after me. "You stay the fuck out of my case."
“You’re welcome for the breakfast.”
He gives me the middle finger.
There are only a half-dozen other patrons, but all stare at Adamson, who's getting red in the face as I stop at the register and sign my ticket. I give the waitress a wink. "Don't mind my friend. He's a cop and thinks he can talk that way in front of anyone." She glares at him then looks at the tip and smiles as I head for the parking lot.
Now to get in Coogan's face.
6
A new player.
This guy is even bigger than Butch Horrigan and looks to be about five percent body fat. However, he's a gym rat with biceps, triceps, traps and lats so big he probably has to call for help to wipe his butt. If muscle bound were in the dictionary his picture would be the example. I park the Vette at the end of the walk as if I pulled in the driveway he might, just might, be able to turn it over and that would piss me off.
He places his book down and wanders off the covered porch where he's parked in a swinging love seat. All that beef and reading a book.
I move around the car to meet him.
"Quantum theory or what?" I ask.
"Uhh…" he mumbles.
"That's what I thought. Comic book?"
"You mean what was I reading?"
"You win."
"Nothing."
He's carrying the book so I reach down and turn his wrist so I can see the cover. It's a gay novel by the picture on the cover.
"Hey," he grumbles, and jerks back.
"I'll bet you’re Lance or Bruce?"
"I'm Harry."
I can't pass that up. "Bullshit, I bet you shave every square inch of that well-oiled bod of yours."
"Who are you, Mr. Curious, and what's your business?"
"Is Mr. Coogan home? I'm here to reset the thermostats." I'm wishing I had my van with one of the many magnetic signs I carry, Thompson Heating and Ventilating, but I don't. He'd probably buy it if I did.
"Bullshit. You in that old Corvette."
"That happens to be a cherry ’57 with the original paint and upholstery."
"Still old."
"Okay, you're pissing me off now. Get Coogan for me before I shove that paperback up your butt…come to think of it you're wishing I would, aren't you, Handsome Harry?"
He drops the book on the flagstone walkway and takes a hint of a defensive posture. He's probably got a belt in karate and thinks he's indestructible. False security. He growls. "Coogan is busy. Leave your card in the mailbox and I'll tell him you stopped by."
"Against the law."
"What?" he asks, looking a little perplexed.
"A federal crime."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"You can't put anything but mail in a mail box. Any imbecile knows that."
He's beginning to turn a little red. But I comply and pull a Mike Reardon Repairman card out of my wallet. I fold it in half longways and step forward, acting as if I'm going to hand it to him. "We don't want to go to the federal slammer, now do we?"
I keep the card six inches from my chest until I'm within arm's length of him, then lash out and poke him in the eye with it.
"Yeooow," he yells, and grabs his eye and does a lit
tle two step, which gives me the opportunity to do a sweep with my left foot, knocking his out from under him. He goes down hard, as a guy over two-forty would, and hits hard enough on his right shoulder that I'm surprised the flagstone doesn't crack. He oofs, grabs his right shoulder with his left hand and rolls away, then rocks back and forth like his shoulder is separated. I doubt it. But he has an automatic in a hard-plastic holster on his right hip and I reach down and pop it free, pop and pocket the clip, and eject the chamber shell into the flowers. Then I drop it on the flagstone.
I move away and over to a driveway, which is fenced from the rear, and to a four-car garage by a swinging car width gate. But there's a lower human pass-through gate on the side next to the house. The swinging car gate is at least six feet high, the pass-through is only five. I guess the great security mind that designed the place thinks a car can jump higher than a person? I give them a lesson and vault the pass through person gate. Circling to the back, with the beautiful view of the Pacific beyond, a bevy of gulls circling overhead, and a beached whale on a double-wide chaise lounge next to the pool—Emory Coogan, obscene in a speedo lost in the cracks of fat.
"What the fuck?" he manages as I walk over and plop my butt down on the adjoining chaise.
"I need a little information."
He's trying to rise up but I push him back down, making him spill some drink with an umbrella in it.
"Coogan, is that how you get your juice in the morning?"
"It's damn near noon. Not that it's any of your business. What information?"
"I'm working on the case of the missing country singer, you know, Tammy Houston."
"Not on our dollar you ain't." He again tries to sit up and I again shove him down. He continues, "You prick, you let me up and I'll stomp your butt."
"I'm tempted, but I don't have time. What's your deal with Sammy Castiano?"
He eyes me carefully. "Never heard of the fucker."
"I think I will let you up," and I push the chaise I'm on back and rise. "Can I give you a hand, fat man?"
I extend my left to his right and help pull him to his feet and he comes up with a round house left that I slough off, then slap him hard with my right palm. Then backhand him, then give him the palm again and I know his ears are ringing and his eyes spinning. Just as I finish the last slap, I see Harry the Hairless round the corner at a run, his automatic in hand.
I can see he hasn't bothered to check to see if the clip's in place and it's not, so I'm not too concerned. I shove the fat man and he windmills his arms and lands flat on his back in the deep end of the pool with a splash to rival a broaching whale.
Harry charges to within three feet of me—the dumb shit—and lays down on me with the auto. "I'm gonna fuck you up," he says, as I step into him.
I turn the auto into him, inside, then over with the wrist as he's compressing the trigger and getting no bang for his buck. He goes to his back and I continue to twist the wrist and step over as he goes over to his stomach, yelling loud enough that the gulls seem a lullaby. Then, just for the hell of it, I kick him hard on the twisted arm just above the shoulder joint, and now I know his shoulder is, this time, truly separated. He's out of the game for about six weeks. I pick up the weapon and toss it into the deep end of the pool so as not to give him any more false security.
Emory is trying to lift himself out of the pool without benefit of the ladder and I move over and put a foot on his shoulder and shove him back down, and under. He comes up spitting.
I stand beside the pool until he tries to get out again, and again shove him under. He comes up again, this time a little red in the face and spitting even more.
"I should just drown both of your dumb asses, but I'll settle for an answer to my question."
Emory spits and chokes, then manages, "What question?"
"What's your deal with Sammy Castiano?"
"He's kind of a neighbor, lives around the point. I got no deal with him."
"Who has Tammy?"
"I wish I knew." He glances over at Harry, who's now sitting up rubbing his shoulder and looking like he might break out in tears any second. "Did you break his arm?" Then when I don't answer, he yells at Harry. "Hey, you worthless fuck. I thought you were a bodyguard."
"Yeah," I answer, "he trained at the same school Butch Horrigan did."
I start to move away, then turn back to Coogan. "Hey, fat man, I'm gonna do the job Tammy hired me to do, and it looks to me like you are right in the middle of this deal and part of the problem, not the solution. If she comes home in anything but one piece, I'm gonna rip you apart a pound of suet at a time. You got that?"
"Get the fuck off this property."
So I do, this time I don't have to vault the pass though gate as there's a latch low on the inside. I'm not surprised to see Detective Howard Adamson's car pulling up behind mine. He is out of it by the time I'm there.
"I thought you were told to stay away from here?" he snaps.
"No, no, you got it all wrong. I was invited to the pool party. Didn't I mention it at breakfast?"
"I told you to stay away from my case."
"Purely a social visit, Detective. Wanted to see how Tammy's grieving associates were getting along."
As I'm getting behind the wheel of the Vette, he's shouting after me, "Stay out of my case, Reardon."
I wave over my shoulder as I peel out.
I'm not going far, as it's only a half-mile around the point to Sammy Castiano's place.
7
Ah, anyone who may end up creeping a place has got to love Google Earth.
I park a block away and pull up the aerial of the Castiano compound, and I say compound as there's more than one house. Probably the smaller is a guesthouse, then a garage to contain at least six vehicles, one door large enough for one of those million-dollar motor homes. There's a greenhouse that's at least forty by one hundred feet beyond the garage and what must be a gardener’s shack attached thereto. A small cottage and gatehouse is only thirty feet back from the road and the driveway makes a wide circle from the gatehouse to a porte cochere in front of the main house that would cover four limos, then on to the garages, then a slight stubby driveway leads off to the side to a two-car garage attached to the guest house. The whole thing is a sort of Greco Italian Renaissance with a little Mediterranean thrown in. Arches, red tile roofs, but lots of glass. It's two stories tall over most of the main house. It must be a hundred yards from the rear of the house to the ocean with a cliff of forty or fifty feet. Google Earth shows me a small structure cliff side with a fair size deck cantilevered out over crashing surf below.
Between house and cliff house is a pool large enough to float a fair size yacht and two short golf holes with their own greens, plus a putting green. I can make out what must be pads for driving balls out into the sea, a rich man's version of a driving range.
The landscaping is mostly old eucalypti with a few wind-blown Monterey pines rising out of enough shrubs to make a real fire hazard. However the place is far enough from the Malibu Hills to not have to worry much. Some gardener has a full time job as there's color everywhere.
It's a hell of a place. But not for the sake of security. Unless there are a couple of Rottweilers, I can get window side on the main house without ever being spotted.
But I decide to try the direct route first.
I pull into the driveway and stop at the gatehouse. I expected a no-neck goomba who looked to be right out of Detroit, and am a little surprised to see a pencil neck who sounds like he's right out of a Donald Duck cartoon. And he's got the tight lips and no chin. He fully fills the bill, so to speak.
"Hi, I'm Richard Strong, here to see Mr. Castiano."
"You have an appointment?" he quacks.
"This is April 4th?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then I have an appointment."
"I don't have you on the calendar and I'm afraid Mr. Castiano is in town. Are you sure it wasn't with Mrs. Castiano?"
I do a quic
k brain search and remember Sol's report. "Margo…well, he said maybe he and Margo. But just Margo would be fine."
"Your name again?"
"Strong. Richard Strong…friends call me Dick."
He doesn't bat an eye but rather picks up the phone and hits a button or two.
"Yes, ma'am." He says, and I can see he's working a device like a game console and a small video camera on the edge of the building pans the car then stops, aimed directly at my face. I can see Donald Duck eying a monitor, and see my own smiling mug increasing in size thereon as he zooms in. He still has the receiver to his ear.
"Yes, ma'am," he says, with a nod of the head, then turns to me.
"Someone will meet you at the door and show you in."
I smile and drive away, resisting the urge to say "Thanks, Daffy."
As I park under the porte cochere, a door befitting the Halls of Congress opens and a guy in black pants and coat but sans tie and with the top three buttons of the shirt undone, strolls out and walks around the Vette to where I’m climbing out. He's got a bit of an early Frank Sinatra look about him, not over five-foot-eight and a buck fifty. He doesn't extend a hand, but nods.
"I'm Tony, I take care of the house and grounds. You're Mr. Strong."
"That's me, Tony. Nice job on the house and grounds, pardner."
"Thanks. I have a little help with it all."
"I imagine."
"Mrs. Castiano is out by the pool if you'll follow me, please."
He starts to lead the way, then we're both stopped by a loud, "Wow!" and I glance to the doorway where a tall, and I imagine formerly gorgeous blonde, is standing in a pool wrap, high heels, a sun hat as big as an umbrella, and quite a bit of skin showing around a way too itty bitty yellow polka dot bikini. She charges forward and spreads her arms wide, not at me, but at the Vette.
"Do you have the provenance on this beauty? I had one brand new in ’57 when I was just sixteen."
As she nears I can see she's had one too many facelifts and has the telltale frog mouth, her eyes beginning to look a little Oriental.
"No, ma'am. I bought her in Vegas less than ten years ago, from some guy who rolled the bones one time too often."