Blues in the Night

by Dick Lochte

  ‘What was the gig before this one?’

  ‘Gettin’ the goods on one of the dudes in accounting. Found out he was ass-deep into online poker and “borrowed” thirty thou – transferring it from Olympus’ slush account – until he got even. The jag-off.’

  ‘Do much surveillance work?’

  ‘Some. A while ago, me and this other guy, Jamey Scalise, was keepin’ tabs on cars comin’ and goin’ at a place up near Frisco. Big fucking joint. Commingore.’

  ‘Commingore Industries?’ Mace asked.

  ‘That’s the one. They make weapons. Guns, missiles and shit.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘The way things are going these days, not a bad business to be in,’ Wylie said. ‘I figure Mr Lacotta’s interested because he and the big boss, Mr Montdrago, got some deal cookin’ with ’em.’

  Mace didn’t bother asking what the deal might be. Paulie sure as hell wouldn’t have given Wylie that information. ‘See anything interesting while you were clocking the place?’

  Wylie shrugged. ‘All we did was copy license plate numbers and turn ’em in. After a couple weeks, we got the word to come back home. My next surveillance job is this one.’

  Mace wondered if there might not be a connection between the two gigs.

  Wylie poured another shot into Mace’s tumbler, then his own. ‘Anyway. I really need this job. I mean, if you told Mr Lacotta about the hooker . . .’

  ‘Forget about it,’ Mace said. He downed the whiskey, cleared his throat and said, ‘Get some sleep. I’ll roust you at four.’

  Wylie nodded and moved to the bed. He dropped his pants, giving Mace another look at the ridiculous mosquito boxers. He sat on the bed, winced, and pulled a used rubber from under his thigh.

  Mace leaned forward. ‘Oh, lemme get rid of that for you,’ he said.

  Wylie held out the contraceptive.

  Mace turned away from him, shaking his head sadly.

  SEVEN

  Angela Lowell was asleep, her blonde hair fanned out on the pillow. The thick art book she’d been reading lay nearly submerged in the bed’s thick down duvet. Mace stood beside the bed, watching her. She was only partially covered by the duvet. He found her, in peaceful slumber, to be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Achingly beautiful.

  Her right arm was raised high on the pillow. Her full right breast had freed itself from the beribboned neckline of her sheer nightgown.

  Something – an intake of his breath, a slight shifting of air current – caused her to stir.

  She opened her eyes. And looked directly at him.

  She smiled at him. For some reason this did not surprise him in the least.

  He bent toward her and she lifted her arms to welcome him, to enfold him. Playfully, she pulled him down on top of her.

  The mere touching of their lips ignited her. Her fingers tightened on his back. She breathed heavily, drawing him toward her with an urgency he, too, was feeling. Her tongue, hot and hard and pointy-tipped, slipped into his mouth.

  She began tearing the clothes from his body. First the white shirt, then the belt. Fingers fumbling.

  He tried to help, but, almost angrily, she insisted on doing the job herself.

  He lay down on the bed and watched her remove his clothes.

  She seemed fascinated by his erection. Lovingly, she began to caress it.

  He moaned. He had not been with a woman in such a long time . . .

  He heard his name being called.

  ‘No,’ Angela shouted, her lovely brow wrinkled in anger. ‘Not now.’

  She rose up and straddled him, working frantically to place him inside her. He arched his pelvis, feeling the velvety softness yield—

  ‘Mace,’ Wylie hissed in his ear. ‘You gotta get up.’

  Mace awoke from the dream to a room filled with sunlight. Just a few seconds more . . .

  ‘What the hell’s so fucking important?’ he asked.

  ‘Mr Lacotta just crossed the courtyard,’ Wylie said.

  Mace swung his legs around. The nub of the carpet scratched his bare feet. He was still groggy from sleep. And the goddamned dream. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Almost ten,’ Wylie said, the statement punctuated by a knock at the door.

  ‘Why didn’t you wake me earlier?’

  ‘No reason to. She . . . the subject don’t look like she’s goin’ anywhere,’ Wylie said on his way to the door.

  Paulie Lacotta entered, giving Wylie a manly punch on the arm. ‘How’s the boy?’

  ‘Fine, Mr Lacotta.’

  Lacotta turned to Mace, who was still sitting on the edge of the bed, yawning. ‘You keeping banker’s hours, Mace?’

  ‘Mace had the late watch, Mr Lacotta,’ Wylie said. ‘Just hit the sheets a couple hours ago.’

  ‘Drop by for breakfast, Paulie?’ Mace asked. ‘We’re running a special on cigarettes and booze.’

  Lacotta said to Wylie, ‘He always this funny in the morning?’

  Wylie didn’t know what to say. ‘He just woke up. He’s—’

  ‘What’s on your mind, Paulie?’ Mace asked.

  ‘Why don’t you wash your face and comb your hair, Mace. We’ll go for a little sunshine.’

  ‘Considering it’s you,’ Mace said, ‘I’ll even brush my teeth.’

  EIGHT

  ‘Now this is beauty,’ Lacotta said as he and Mace strolled through Griffith Park. It was green and tranquil, bathed in midday sunlight. ‘Nothing like your friggin’ hurricane-crazy Louisiana.’

  ‘Nothing like.’

  As they passed a field, a softball landed at Lacotta’s oddly tiny feet. He picked it up and tossed it back into the game. Immediately, he began rubbing his shoulder. ‘What do you do with yourself back there?’

  ‘Rebuild. Hunt. Fish. Read books. Listen to the news, mainly the weather. Every now and then I wrestle an alligator, just to keep fit.’

  ‘No jobs?’ Lacotta asked.

  ‘Not the way you mean it.’

  ‘Guess you’re doing OK since you sold your old man’s cannery.’

  ‘Cost of living’s a little lower in Bayou Royal than here.’

  ‘Those seven years at Pel Bay – guys go bad in there,’ Lacotta said.

  ‘Guys go bad out here in your sunshine,’ Mace said, annoyed. ‘What’s on your mind, Paulie?’

  Lacotta looked at him, squinting, maybe from the sun. ‘You’ve changed. Maybe it was Pel Bay. Maybe fighting Mother Nature in the bayou. You’re not the Mace I knew.’

  ‘I’m older.’

  ‘Thirties turned you curious, huh?’

  ‘I get it. You’ve been talking to Abe. Honest Abe.’

  ‘Since when did you get so chummy with pimps?’ Lacotta asked, continuing his stroll.

  ‘He owns a coffeehouse now,’ Mace said. ‘Makes movies.’

  Lacotta snorted. ‘Maybe. But he’s still a pimp. And you put my friggin’ business on the street.’

  ‘Not much I could tell him, considering I don’t know anything,’ Mace said.

  ‘Why can’t you just do like I ask and not worry about it?’

  ‘You know goddamn well I’ve never done business in the dark,’ Mace said. ‘Secrets make me nervous. There’s enough going on in this city to confuse me as it is. I feel like fucking Rip Van Winkle without his glasses.’

  ‘Culture shock,’ Lacotta said. ‘I read an article about it once, in Vanity Fair.’ He gestured toward an empty park bench. ‘One of the old Bush Must Go issues.’

  When they were seated, looking out at the softball game, he said, ‘I suppose I been playin’ it a little too close. When I told you this was a personal matter between me and Angie, I wasn’t being straight up. I guess you figured that, huh?’

  ‘It did occur to me that you might not be paying me a couple grand a day to eyeball Angela Lowell just because she dumped you.’

  ‘I guess I never was the jealous type,’ Lacotta said. ‘Not that I’m Joe-Don’t-Care, exactly. Remember the Irish broad
who worked at On the Rox? All that red hair and a body that—’

  ‘Let’s take it one romance at a time,’ Mace said.

  Lacotta smiled at him. ‘You know what used to piss me off about you, Mace? You always knew what I was thinking before I did.’

  ‘Not always,’ Mace said.

  ‘Yeah, well, spilled milk. Look, the deal with me and Angie, some of it’s personal and some of it isn’t.’

  ‘Tell me about the “isn’t,”’ Mace said.

  Lacotta shifted on the bench as if the subject matter was adding to his physical discomfort. ‘Angie and me, we were getting along just fine until right around the time the trouble started.’

  ‘You want me to ask what trouble?’ Mace said. ‘OK. What trouble?’

  ‘I had this deal in place. A little out of my league, but with the potential of moving me into the bigs. I swear, the payday was gonna impress even my prick uncle, Sal.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It turned to shit and the next I know, Angie is suddenly unavailable. About the third “sorry, but I’m busy that night”, I went a little nuts, like I do. Getting her back in my bed was the only thing on my mind. I even asked her to marry . . . Hell, I tried everything short of kidnapping her ass.’

  ‘Why stop there?’

  ‘It’s too much like rape, which is sick. Oh, I get it. That was a joke.’

  ‘Not much of one, I guess,’ Mace said.

  ‘Anyway, I gave it my best shot, but she was no longer interested. Once I finally calmed down and accepted defeat, I went back to being my usual cynical rat-bastard self. I mean, nobody with an ounce of smarts believes in coincidence where money is concerned.’

  ‘You figure she helped the deal go south,’ Mace said. ‘Only you don’t have any proof. Is there anything particular that you hope we catch her doing?’

  ‘Remember Tiny Daniels?’ Lacotta said.

  ‘Hard to forget anything that big that wasn’t floating in some parade. He still angling for your job?’

  ‘Not any more. He’s been on his own for a while.’

  ‘And here I thought I was special, getting out with my head still attached.’

  ‘Even more amazing, the fat fuck was cutting all these deals on the side while he was still working for us. With the Russkies. The Colombians. The Chinese. For all I know, the terrorist crowd. No morality whatsoever. Sal nearly had a fucking coronary when he found out. But he just let Tiny stroll.’

  ‘Sal Montdrago suddenly get religion? Mace asked.

  ‘The Mighty M gets religion about the time the Holy Ghost gets his own talk show. What happens, Tiny says he has some heavy insurance in place that can bring down the corporation and make Uncle Sal do the Gotti. Maybe it’s a bluff, but it’s keepin’ the fat man alive and wheezing in his own little six-mill tear-down out by Point Dume.’

  ‘And how does this relate to Angela Lowell?’

  Lacotta squirmed again on the rough bench. ‘I get word Angie’s keeping company with Tiny. So you see my position?’

  ‘Starting to.’

  ‘Did she have anything to do with the deal fuck-up? Has Tiny taken over the project? I got to know the answers before my uncle gets back in town and starts asking me the questions. That’s why I need you, Mace. Somebody I can trust.’

  ‘What’s the project?’

  Lacotta frowned. ‘You’re better off not knowing.’

  ‘How much does Wylie know?’

  ‘Bupkis. He doesn’t even think about what he doesn’t know, ’cause he’s my man. He reports to me. We got a rigid line of communications at Mount Olympus now. Very streamlined. Very smooth.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound that way,’ Mace said. Feeling suddenly restless, he rose from the bench. Reluctantly, Lacotta followed. ‘Suppose Angela Lowell is cozying up to the fat man, what happens then?’

  ‘Whadyamean?’

  ‘Is it the last we see of Angela?’

  ‘No way,’ Lacotta said. ‘This is just an information thing. Once I know what’s what, I’ll know how to get my tit out of the wringer.’

  That didn’t make sense to Mace. There was more to the story. He was about to press for it when a tall black man in a long black coat, apparently one of the homeless army, staggered toward them.

  ‘You gen’mens got a dollah you kin spare?’ he asked.

  Lacotta gave the man a hard, get-the-fuck-away glare.

  Mace put his hand in his pocket and Lacotta said ‘Don’t do that.’

  Mace got out his wallet and removed a dollar. He handed it to the black man who accepted it with a grin. ‘Thank you, suh.’

  He held the bill out to Lacotta. ‘Heah. This fo’ you.’

  ‘I don’t want your friggin’ money,’ Lacotta said.

  ‘It’s fo’ you. A dolla’ to blow me.’

  ‘What?’ Lacotta couldn’t believe his ears.

  ‘Man say you a dollah blow job. Heah’s the dollah.’ He tucked the bill into Lacotta’s coat pocket, crushing the white display handkerchief.

  Furious, Lacotta grabbed the black man’s coat collar. ‘What man said that?’ he yelled.

  Grinning, the black man slipped a hand into the pocket of his long coat and brought hand and coat and maybe something else up near Lacotta’s mid-section. ‘The fat man. He say, “Bye-bye, asshole”.’

  With amazing speed, Mace kicked the black man’s ankle causing him to stumble away from Lacotta just as the gun in his pocket went off.

  Lacotta yelled and stepped back. Mace moved closer to the black man, his hand controlling the gun in the pocket, holding it aside as he head-butted the man.

  Blood gushed from the black man’s broken nose. He tried to pull free, but Mace held the hand trapped in the coat. ‘Lemme . . . LEMME,’ the man wailed as Mace spun him around, forcing the trapped hand into a position where the wrist could do nothing but break.

  When it did, Mace yanked the freed weapon from the overcoat pocket.

  He swatted the man’s head with it, sending him to ground. There, it was easier to use his shoe. He was kicking the man in the head when he felt someone grab his arm.

  He spun around, fist cocked for the punch, and saw it was Lacotta. Even then, he almost let loose.

  Lacotta backed away, a bit unnerved. ‘Let’s get outta here,’ he said.

  Mace blinked.

  The park was in silence. The ballplayers, the dog walkers, the strollers were all frozen in place, staring at them. The only thing in motion, as far as Mace could see, was the black man staggering away, cradling his broken wrist and spitting and snorting to clear the blood from his nose and mouth.

  Lacotta approached warily to take the gun and slip it into his pocket. He led Mace by the arm to the parked car. He said, ‘Still got your temper, I see.’

  ‘Seems like,’ Mace said, though it had not manifested itself in years. There’d been one time, during his first week at Pelican Bay. But not in the next seven years on the yard there. And not in flare-ups in the meanest bars a man could find in Cajun Louisiana. Just two days back in LA and he’d gone off. What did that tell him?

  Mace got into the car.

  As they drove away, he asked Lacotta. ‘You hurt?’

  ‘Naw. Maybe some burns on the suit, which is goin’ direct to Goodwill.’ Lacotta grinned, then started laughing. Soon he was laughing so hard tears appeared at the corner of his eyes. ‘I told you not to give that fuck the dollar, didn’t I?’ he said between bursts of nervous laughter.

  NINE

  Standing in front of The Florian, Mace watched Lacotta’s Mercedes glide away heading for the Strip. After the encounter with the gunman in the park, he realized he was operating at about eighty percent of normal, but his reflexes were off enough to make him feel uncomfortable. The midday warmth had his clothes sticking to his body. If he were home, he could strip and dive into the bayou to cool off and clear his head. He thought about the Florian pool. Swimming trunks hadn’t been at the top of his packing list. He supposed it wouldn’t be that hard to
find a pair for sale in LA.

  His mind was on the therapeutic effect of a mile-long swim as he passed the entrance to the Florian’s parking garage. Which may be why he didn’t hear the clicks right from the jump. He was almost to the iron gate leading to the pool when he noticed the sound.

  He did an about-face, scanning the area.

  Nothing. No motion. No sound.

  He took another couple of steps toward the pool gate.

  This time, he was waiting for the click and was able to get a directional fix on it. There were only three vehicles parked in that section of the garage. The Jag sedan and the Lexus RX were sealed up tight. The grape-colored Cherokee with a bashed in front right fender had its windows rolled down.

  Mace double-timed it into the garage and the Cherokee to find a panicked man stretched out across its front seats on his back, clutching a camera to his chest. The car was a mess of fast food containers, plastic pop bottles, rumpled clothes. The man was in his forties. Bald. His nervous eyes were tiny and slightly slanted. They, his off-white color, roman nose and high cheekbones suggested an ethnic mix too complex for Mace to sort out, even if it mattered. He was wearing faded brown cargo shorts and a yellow T-shirt emblazoned with the question: ‘Who Directed WILD SEX IN THE COUNTRY?’

  Seeing Mace at the passenger window, he tried to slide under the steering wheel.

  Mace yanked the door open, grabbed one sandaled foot and dragged the man out of the vehicle. The man’s head hit the side of the car and the garage’s cement floor, but he held the camera protectively.

  Mace pried it from his fingers.

  ‘Th-that’s my property,’ he whined. ‘Shit, I think I chipped a tooth. And my fucking head . . . I’m gonna sue your fucking ass.’

  Mace ignored him. He was trying to make some sense of the camera.

  ‘Be careful, goddamnit,’ the man said as he got to his feet, using the car to steady himself. ‘That’s eight grand you’re holding.’

  ‘How do I get the film out?’ Mace asked.

  ‘The . . . film?’ The man looked like he didn’t know if he should laugh or cry. ‘There’s no film.’

  ‘What’d you do with it?’ Mace asked, stepping toward him.