Some Like it Hot

by K. J. Larsen

  After a while he said, “I contacted the studio and the insurance company this morning. I informed them the Some Like It Hot earrings have been found.”

  Cristina sniffed. “They were happy?”

  Cleo snorted. “As happy as you were the thirty seconds you held them in your back-stabbing hand.”

  Cristina stomped off in a huff. I suspected she wanted distance from Cleo and her zap-happy taser.

  Joey looked as if he was going to ask what that was about and then decided he didn’t care. He brought the earrings to his face again and smelled the ghost of Marilyn. He set them down gently.

  He said, “They cudda kissed me through the phone. The studio is sending a courier out tomorrow. The reward from the studio and the check from the insurance company will be issued once the earrings are authenticated.”

  Cleo looked giddy. “You’re rich, Cat.”

  “Not exactly. The check from the insurance company will go to Mrs. Bonham. Billy would like that.”

  “Dammit, Cat,” Cleo said. “You’re giving it all away? What’s wrong with you?”

  Uncle Joey groaned. “You’re tough on the outside. But inside you’re all soft and gooey like this crostata.”

  “There are worse things to be,” I smiled over my coffee cup.

  Uncle Joey said, “There’s still the reward from the studios. A hundred thousand smackaroos.”

  I caught my breath. “That’s a lot of roo.”

  Cleo said, “So whatcha gonna do with it?”

  “I dunno. I might take a road trip. I’m thinking of going to Kansas. And I might buy a new car.”

  Joey said, “You love the Silver Bullet.”

  “Yeah. But Cristina’s Subaru will never make it to California. If I don’t give her my car, she’ll never leave. If she stays, one day I’ll flip out and choke the life out of her. I’ll have to stuff her body in the trunk and push my car off a pier. Then, I’ll have to go to confession. I’ll lose my car either way. At least the Silver Bullet has a future in California.”

  “The winters are nice there,” Cleo said.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Uncle Joey winked. “You may want to hold off on the Silver Bullet a while. I might have a car for her.”

  “Oh?”

  “Let’s just say I know a guy.”

  I smiled. “You always do.”

  ***

  Cleo parked down the street from the house where Billy had lost his last game of strip poker. We were in her Camry. I had questions, and I needed some answers soon. I was running out of cars they wouldn’t recognize.

  “You think it’s a good idea to leave Cristina alone at your house?” Cleo asked.

  “Nope. But her Subaru is out of gas and on its last cylinder. Whatever she takes, she’ll have to hide under her coat. I hid Marilyn’s earrings, my jewelry, my Chihuly vase, my pair of Gucci pumps, and my fav pair of jeans behind the pantry. Anything else I can live without.”

  “What about that half angel-half devil statuette your sister gave you last Christmas.”

  I made a face. “It’s hideous, isn’t it? I taped a $20 dollar bill to it and left it by the door. If Cristina has any compassion, she’ll take it.”

  Cleo lowered the visor and checked her make-up. “You got the St. Christopher. What are we doing here?”

  “I think the three of them were spying on Billy.”

  “Spying on Billy?” Cleo laughed. She stopped when she saw my face. “You’re serious.”

  “Rocco didn’t believe me either.”

  “Because it’s a dumb idea.”

  “Call it a hunch.”

  “I call it dumb.” She freshened her lipstick and closed the visor. “So, what are we looking for.”

  “I need their names.”

  “There are easier ways to find out who lives here.”

  I flashed a smile. “But they’re not as much fun. Take the camera. Photograph anything that’ll help Joey Jr. with background and financials.”

  My cousin Joey Jr. is a computer genius. He’s also my personal hacker. Joey’s in his first year at Harvard. My Uncle Joey is almost done pouting. He could be the only parent in history who’s disappointed his son has a full scholarship to Harvard.

  I tell him to get over himself.

  “Harvard can’t beat Notre Dame,” Uncle Joey says. “They play in the Ivy league.”

  “Shut up,” I tell him.

  He snorts. “There’s only two good reasons to go to college. Football and spring break in Cabo.”

  Cleo pulled her .454 Casull, checked it, and stuffed it back in her shoulder holster.

  “You brought a freakishly large gun,” I said.

  She opened her door. “Yeah, I had this shoulder holster made especially for this big boy. The other one was a bitch on my back. Come on, girlfriend. It’s a good day to blast somebody.”

  ***

  The living room was different. The oil painting above the fireplace was a Charles Russell. The scene was an Indian buffalo hunt. Thundering horses, flying arrows, and buffalo stampeding the hell out of Dodge. You don’t often see a Charles Russell east of the Mississippi. It was a curious choice for a guy with a Chicago accent and a stack of Judas Priest CDs in his room. Maybe he won it in a poker game. I suspected he wouldn’t know buffalo dung if he was standing in it.

  Cleo put on her gloves and began to search through cupboards and drawers. She got the names of the women who pushed Billy out a window. Linda Daily and Tasha Blume. They appeared to work for separate insurance companies. Jay Pruitt was the guy who played the husband. There was a picture of him at a White Sox game with friends. Cleo said he looked like Shrek.

  I looked for anything that would give more information about the three roommates. The computer files were password protected. I downloaded them all and sent a copy to my email. There was a bag by the door I didn’t remember seeing the other day. It was packed for a workout at the gym with one extra feature. A fully loaded .32 magnum tucked in an inside pocket.

  I found Cleo in the kitchen drinking chocolate milk. She wiped her lipstick from the carton and offered me a spoon.

  “Try the chicken almond casserole. It’s amazing.”

  “Nope, I’m good.”

  She opened the freezer and poked around. “Cool, dude. This guy has a box of Choco Frozen Puffs. They were the best ever.”

  “You gonna have one?”

  She was eating everything else anyway.

  “Nah. They’re old. Choco Frozen Puffs went out of business last year. Maybe he’s gonna sell that box on eBay.”

  “Or he never cleans his refrigerator.”

  The answering machine flashed the number three. I pushed play.

  The first message was for Linda. She’d neglected to pick up her dry cleaning.

  The next voice was Jay’s mother, wondering what time to expect him Saturday.

  The last message was a puzzle. A man’s voice, and he didn’t waste words. “Got your message. Let’s see what you got. One-thirty.” Click.

  I replayed the message.

  “What is it?”

  I gnawed a lip. “That voice.”

  Her brow tilted. “Friend or foe?”

  “I dunno. But I recognize it. I’ve heard it recently.”

  “Think.”

  I wrinkled my nose and tapped my forehead. “I got nothing.” I said, “I wonder what he meant, ‘I want to see what you got.’”

  “It’s a code. Jay Pruitt is a dirty rotten drug dealer.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “I know codes,” she said wisely.

  “You don’t know codes.”

  Drug dealer? Actually, it made perfect, twisted sense. The spendy furniture, oil paintings, spanking new stainless steel appliances. And the guarded, paranoid
behavior when I knocked on their door.

  “I almost forgot.” Cleo pulled a picture from her pocket and slapped it on the table.

  Bill Bonham in his private dick coat, scrunched behind a red maple tree. It was a picture of Billy photographing Coochie, and Will Peterson, and the gold-toothed ogre in the park. My throat went dry.

  “Where did you find this?”

  “In the closet. In the inside coat pocket.”

  “They were watching him.”

  Cleo said, “Here’s what happened. The women pick up Billy for a game of strip poker. They steal his wallet. When they discover he’s a regular Philip Marlowe, they get worried. Like maybe he’s investigating them.” She took another spoonful of casserole. “Poor ol’ Billy just wanted to get laid.”

  “So they follow him?”

  “I agree they’d have to have some big freakin’ secrets.”

  “Well, Phyllis Marlowe. There’s a problem with your theory.”

  I scooted the photo across the table. She brought it close to her face and scrunched her nose. When the light bulb went on, she got bug-eyed.

  “The St. Christopher. He’s wearing it.”

  “Excellent, Watson. The photograph was taken before they played strip poker.”

  “So the women didn’t randomly pick him up at the bar.”

  “No. They followed him there.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know yet. But it has something to do with a nasty divorce, two men in a park, and a little white dog.”

  Cleo stared hard at the photo. “And you’re getting all that from this photograph?”

  A key rattled the lock, and Cleo whipped out her alarmingly large gun. I shook my head and pointed toward the back door. She dropped the spoon on the counter. I snagged Billy’s picture off the table and escaped behind her.

  A few minutes later we were back in the Camry staring down Jay Pruitt’s front door.

  “They’re drug dealers.” Cleo checked her gun. “Pruitt’s going down.”

  “This is recon, chica. We observe from a distance. If he’s a dealer, we pass it on. I have a cousin in the drug unit.”

  “Of course you do. So, what’s your point?”

  “No blazing guns, girlfriend.”

  “Yeah, right. Hold your breath on that one.” She glanced at her watch. “You know, we’re missing lunch. You’re gonna wish you would have had some of that chicken casserole.”

  “I think I will be okay with missing out on that.”

  At 12:15 Jay Pruitt exited his house and drove off in a cream-colored Audi. He cut across Bridgeport and pulled to the curb smack in front of The Bridgeport Café.

  “Holy crap,” I squeaked.

  Cleo parked across the street. I hunched low in my seat, peering over the dash. If my ex saw me, he’d be convinced I was stalking him. Again. He couldn’t comprehend I could possibly get over his lying, cheating ass before the ink dried on the divorce papers.

  Pruitt took a call on his cell before climbing out of the Audi and walking south on Morgan. He ducked into a building down the block.

  “He’s in,” Cleo said smugly. “Drug deal going down.”

  I rolled my eyes. “That’s the dry cleaners. He’s picking up Linda’s clothes.”

  “Uhm….you’d better sit up, Cat.”

  “I’m hiding from Johnnie Rizzo.”

  “Tall, dark, and oozing hotness?”

  “That’s Johnnie, dammit.”

  “Could he be wearing a shirt that says, Here’s Johnnie!”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think he’s coming this way.”

  I groaned and sank deeper. I cudda kissed the floor board.

  Knuckles rapped on my window.

  “He’s here, isn’t he?”

  “Uh huh.”

  I jerked my head up, clonking my head on the dash.

  Johnnie made a twirly motion with his hand. I unrolled the window.

  “Ouch,” I said holding my head.

  Cleo flashed a tin badge. I’d swear she got it from cereal box.

  “I’m Cleo Jones with Pants On Fire, narcotics division. Step back from the car, Mr. Rizzo. You’re blowing our cover.”

  He made a little derisive scoff. “Right.”

  I jabbed an eye. “Another contact bites the dust.”

  “You have twenty-twenty vision. You don’t wear contacts,” he said.

  “You don’t know what I wear.”

  He searched my eyes and grunted, satisfied there wasn’t a lone contact in there.

  “You got to get over me, babe. Counseling, medication, something. You’re pathetic.”

  Johnnie stomped off back to the café as I dropped my forehead on the dash.

  “Argggh!”

  “Damn girl, he’s way hotter before he talks,” Cleo said patting my back. “But then, men usually are.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Jay Pruitt strolled toward us with a hefty armload of dry cleaning. We buried our faces in a map of Disney World. When he started up the Audi and merged into traffic, we did the same.

  He drove north on Halsted and turned on Archer toward China Town. Traffic was moderate and we hung back, allowing a couple cars to bumper between us.

  This stretch of Bridgeport has a long row of businesses and industrial buildings. The Audi slowed and swung left into a parking lot where two one-story gray buildings had been converted to storage units. The outside units were fitted with large garage-type doors. Pruitt drove to the gate and punched in a code. The gate opened, and the Audi drove inside.

  Cleo drove past the entrance and pulled into the lot next door. The building appeared to be between tenants and showed signs of spotty, short term use. Cleo backed the car out of sight against the building.

  We slipped out of the car and ran to the chain-link fence that surrounded the storage building.

  “Wait here while I check it out,” I whispered.

  “Wow. Really? You know that’s never gonna happen,” Cleo said.

  “Alright, fine. Just keep up and keep quiet,” I snapped.

  We walked along the chain fence, and found a spot under the security cameras that we could climb over without that whole pesky breaking and entering evidence caught on tape. I took off my jacket, threw it over the barbed wire. I hoisted a leg and climbed the chain fence, careful to not rattle the metal. I jumped down the other side and turned around. Cleo was gone. A moment later she trotted back with a pair of bolt cutters.

  She waited for a noisy semi to come by. She clipped half a dozen links in the fence, stooped low, and scooted through.

  “You know, you could have told me you had those before I ruined my jacket.” I whispered over my shoulder as we zigzagged our way through the storage area.

  “It’s okay.” Cleo whispered back. “I never liked that jacket anyway.”

  Pruitt was parked at a storage unit on the farthest side of the first gray building. The location offered maximum privacy. I wondered if that unit came by request or assigned by chance.

  We moved swiftly and quietly across the lot, hugging the shadows when we could. When we reached the first building, we kept close to the front of the building. A dozen steps from the far corner we picked up muddled voices. A stench of cigarettes wafted through the air.

  Pruitt’s voice was easy to distinguish. Loud, heavily laced with testosterone. His companion was quieter, more thoughtful. It was the voice on the phone I couldn’t place. I still couldn’t.

  I motioned for Cleo to stand back. Her ever-evolving hair was platinum blond that day with bold rainbow streaks that made a child in Jewel cry. Slowly, carefully, I craned my neck and poked an eye around the corner.

  Pruitt leaned his back against his car, pinching a cigarette in one hand. He held a small object in the other hand.
I couldn’t make it out. But when he turned it a certain way, the sun flashed a glint of silver and blue. And when he smiled, a gold streak shot from his tooth.

  His companion’s back was turned to me. Head lowered. Jacket hood pulled over his head. No view of his face from that angle.

  “When you comin’ back?” the guy asked Pruitt.

  “Four weeks, maybe five. Gonna let things cool.”

  The guy in the hat grunted. “My ear on the force tells me they got nothin’.”

  “That’s good news.”

  “Gonna see your folks?”

  “For a few days. Dad’s birthday, ya know.”

  “Get him something from me. And you better check in on my mom.”

  “Dude, I always do. Besides, she’d kick my ass if I didn’t.”

  Cleo whispered shrilly in my ear. “They’re brothers.”

  I shook my head. “Cousins.”

  The ogre-guy dropped the shiny object into the other guy’s hand. “See what you can do with this.”

  He nodded. “I’ll get in touch with you when the coach thing blows over. Go on a trip to Hawaii or somethin’.”

  Coach thing? I couldn’t breathe.

  Pruitt said, “Why don’t you head out too? The guys can look after things here.”

  He dropped his smoke and smothered it with his shoe. “Like grandpa used to say. ‘Ain’t no rest for the wicked.’”

  They snuffed their smokes and stepped inside the storage unit. I had no view from my angle. I motioned to Cleo and we zipped back to the Camry, too stunned to speak.

  “They killed Billy,” Cleo said finally.

  “We don’t know that. The “coach” reference could be anything.”

  “I’m going with the big fat “Coach” sign on Rocco’s uniform. Only Billy’s killer would call him that.”

  I didn’t argue. “We should talk to Captain Bob. He might have enough for a warrant.”

  “I’m hangin’ with the car. The last time I walked in that precinct, Bob arrested me.”

  “Hate to break it to you, but he’s not exactly crazy about me either.”

  “Of course he is. You’re a DeLuca. He named his son after your dad. The ninth would shut down if the DeLucas went on strike. He was at your baptism for Godsake.”