De Poores smiled. “Mr. Holiday, you look as if I am asking you to make a Faustian bargain. But you are an educated man. A man who knows I am not Satan. But even if I were, it wouldn’t be the first time you shook hands with the devil. Would it?”
He sat back down and I tried to gauge my next move. Before I could speak there was a knock at the door, and Nestor came in. He and de Poores communicated in sign language.
“Mr. Holiday, I am informed that we have a hurricane warning that will delay your departure for a few hours. I have pressing business to attend to, but Carlotta here will entertain you.”
A beautiful copper-skinned Latina in her early twenties stood in the doorway. Her jet black hair matched the blackest eyes I had even seen on a woman. The way her body seemed to pour out of her summer dress made me wonder how one said “voluptuous” en español. De Poores said something to her in Spanish, but he spoke too rapidly for me to comprehend.
“Sí, Coronel,” she said, standing almost at attention.
“Sir, do not mistake Carlotta’s youth for inexperience,” he said, turning to me. “Whatever your heart’s desire, you will find her skilled in delivering it.” De Poores extended his hand. “Please forgive me, but I must be off. I expect to be in touch with you in the near future. It has indeed been a pleasure, Mr. Holiday.”
He extended his hand again, and this time I shook it and told him we had a bargain, although I wasn’t certain how and if I could deliver my end. He smiled and nodded as Henri brought him a telephone. Carlotta walked over to where I sat, took my hand, leaned in close and smiled.
“Guapo americano,” she said.
“Perdón?”
“You are a handsome American,” she said as I noticed her firm nipples tear at her cotton dress. She smelled of mangos and musk as she took my hands and placed them on her taut round hips. No more ugly American, I thought. Perhaps I was starting a trend.
“All you must do is tell Carlotta what you want,” she said. Her wet, watery lips were on mine, and I felt her hot breath on my neck. As she took my arm and escorted me down the stairs, I decided that the jury was still out on whether the colonel was either The Antichrist or a Renaissance man. But as Carlotta’s fingers began to caress my inner thighs, I came to the firm conclusion that whatever else Ramon de Poores was, he was a world-class host.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
After the Latino and the Samoan delivered me back to my motel, I slept for ten hours, and awoke a full twenty-four hours late for my meeting with Dumpy Doyle. If you have watched much in the way of feature films, network, or cable television in the past fifteen years you’ve seen Dumpy. With a stature barely more than four feet four inches high, the squeaky voice of an eleven-year-old girl, freckles, and carrot-colored hair, he almost always plays either a demented or sociopathic heavy. A film reviewer once called him “the little person’s Peter Lorre.” Although I hadn’t seen him in three or four years, Dumpy Doyle has been my best friend since I was five.
“You’re a day late, asshole,” Dumpy said when he answered his phone. “Today is Tuesday on my calendar.”
“I got abducted by an international arms dealer and flown to the Caribbean. Then I spent the afternoon fucking this gorgeous twenty-two-year-old Latina.”
“Fuck, Doc,” Dumpy said, “if you’re going to lie, put some imagination into it.”
“So when can we meet?”
“We can’t now. Just got a call and I’m packing. Need to fly out this afternoon for New York. I’m about to call a cab.”
“Don’t call a cab. I’ll give you a ride. I want to see you and I need to ask you about someone. Do you know an actress named Muriel Lichtman?”
Dumpy laughed. “Muriel? Oh, yeah!” Then he gave me directions to his condo in Beverly Hills.
I followed his directions and my MapQuest to an address on Doheny. Dr. Dumpy was waiting at the curb, and as I pulled up, he waved goodbye to a very pretty and very small woman hanging out a second story window. I bent over to hug him and then I helped him put his two suitcases in the trunk.
“Looking good, Doc. How you doing? Like, last time I saw you, you looked like the Ghost of Christmas Past.”
“I almost was the Ghost of Christmas Past. That’s not Michelle?” I asked as I pulled away from the curb and followed Dumpy’s directions.
“That’s Donna. My trophy dwarf,” he said.
“Still a sentimental and romantic fool, Dump,” I said. “She’s gorgeous, but what happened to Michelle?”
“I got tired of her bitching and threw her ass out of the house. Locked the door. By the way, she was buck naked at the time. Police came. Bottom line: ninety days of anger management and no more Michelle. By the way, didn’t you and Canned Ice get a divorce? May I ask what was the reason?”
“Take your pick.”
“Take your pick?”
“One day I came home, and this is when it’s just raining shit in my life. I’m out on bond, everything is going to hell, and here is Candice, or as you call her, Canned Ice, with two suitcases in her hand, telling me she is divorcing me. So I ask if is it the coke, the booze, the other women, the fact that we are bankrupt, the fact that our house is in foreclosure, or the fact that I just got indicted by a federal grand jury. So she says, ‘Take your pick,’ and she walks out the door and doesn’t look back.”
Dumpy laughed, and said, “Take your pick. I love it. You know, Doc, you’re a Freudian fruitcake. Your true love is a half-breed Indian old enough to be your mother. Angelina. A beautiful half-breed, but twenty years older than you. You’ve been with all these exotic women—black, Latina, Asian, et cetera. Wild and hot girls. And who do you marry? Some straight, tight-assed blonde who looks and acts like a latter day Doris Day. Come on, Freudian Fruitcake, what were you thinking?”
“I wanted a shot at a home and a wife and a normal life.” It sounded silly even as I said it.
“You?” Dumpy said and then snorted. “A normal life for a guy like you, Doc? Sweet jumping Jesus! A normal life. Didn’t quite work out, but why? Was it antiseptic suburbia? Or the schizoid-sane white Republican guys who were too bigoted to have ever known the joy of going down on a black girl? Or was it the dipshit soccer moms gossiping about the non-WASPs in the neighborhood? Was it being married to a woman who never smoked a joint in her life, and who I know would never let you snort a line of coke off her little white titties?” Dumpy shook his head and then leaned close to my face. “Or did you finally see that the American Dream is the greatest fraud ever perpetrated on humanity? What made you blow it all up?”
I was driving down La Cienega Blvd and I stopped for a light. I turned to speak to my passenger. “Take your pick, Dumpy,” I said. “Take your pick.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Somebody cut us off and I honked and Dumpy gave the driver the finger. As I passed the offending car, Dumpy pulled down his pants and mooned the driver. He put his pants back on and turning to me said, “Like old times, Doc. Here is La Tigera Boulevard. Take a right.”
As I followed instructions, he said, “You asked me about Muriel Lichtman?”
“You know an actress by that name?”
“Of course. She’s from Portland. Worked with her once. Excellent actress. We did Midsummer Night’s Dream in Ashland. She is also a playwright. I brought you a copy of one of her plays. You can keep it.” He pulled a small paperback out of his man purse and tossed it on my back seat.
“I need to find her. The last known addresses I have for her are Milan and Paris. I couldn’t get any info from the Screen Actors Guild.”
“She’s not a member. She wouldn’t condescend to film or TV. She’s a stage actress, and like I say, an excellent one. She works only in the so-called legitimate theater. Legitimate, my ass. But what do you want her for?”
“You heard about the priest? My friend that was killed?”
“Yes, I watch CNN. I was going to ask you about that.”
“Well, this is off the record. Way off, but it see
ms that Muriel was having an affair with that priest. Three years ago.”
I honked as someone cut me off and Dumpy leaned out the window and gave the driver the finger with both hands.
“No shit,” he said as he put his seatbelt back on. “Word around the campfire is that Muriel is a kinky and freaky girl. But a Catholic priest? Jesus Christ, now that is kinky. I can make a phone call now and locate her.”
It took Dumpy three minutes and two phone calls.
After he put his phone away, Dumpy said, “She had a bad breakup with some guy here in California a few years ago and went to Europe. She came back a few months ago and started her own theater up in Eugene. I didn’t quite get the name of the theater, ‘Simone de Bolivar or Boluva,’ something like that.”
“Simone de Beauvoir?”
“Yeah, that sounds right. Who’s she?”
“One of the most important feminist writers of the twentieth century.”
“That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“Why I never heard of the bitch.” I was laughing as he said, “Do me a favor, Doc. Muriel has these most perfect tits. When you meet her find out if they’re real.”
“How will I do that?”
“You’ll know if you fuck her.”
“I’m just looking to talk to her.”
“Trust me, Doc. When you see Muriel Lichtman, you’ll be looking to fuck her.”
I took another right and we were at the airport, keeping an eye out for the United terminal.
“Doc, all that shit you got into with the bank and the mortgages. You were guilty as sin, weren’t you?”
“If there was any real malfeasance on my part, don’t you think I’d have been indicted more than just one hundred and eleven times?” I replied.
“You sly, sneaky slippery motherfucker, Doc,” Dumpy said as he exited my car. He got his suitcases out of the trunk and started to walk toward the terminal. With a backward glance he said, “You’re my hero. Always been—always will be.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
When I walked into the Boy’s Town boutique, Rough Trade, I began to wonder just what circle of hell I had entered. The shop seemed to have every accessory that any sadomasochist might need. From spanking horses, restraints, whips, paddles, prison straps, dildos, cock rings to chastity belts, it appeared to be a Home Depot for the bondage and discipline enthusiast.
A slender young man approached me and asked if he could be of help. I asked if Butchie was in and was directed to the back of the store.
Butchie did everything he could to hide the fact that he was somewhere in his mid-seventies. His expensive hairpiece, too white teeth, wrinkled and yet still lean and muscular physique seemed to cry out that he was still vital. His polo shirt and jeans looked tailored.
He ushered me to a quiet corner in his shop. We both took chairs next to a large leather table that was labeled “authentic British boys’ school punishment bench.”
“Budd told me to expect you,” he said in an effeminate, nasal, measured voice. “Said I might be able to help with the murder of that priest in Berkeley.” He smacked his lips and tsk-tsked. “Last thing I saw they still didn’t have his killer. Killing a priest! So young. So handsome. Monstrous thing.”
“No, the killer hasn’t been caught,” I said. “It’s something of a long shot, but if you have some info on Jackie Polo it might help.”
Butchie offered me a glass of iced tea. I declined, and he poured one for himself.
“We’re going back maybe eight or ten years, not sure,” he began, “but for a few years Jackie was the hottest transvestite in town. Mediocre singer and dancer, and while he started doing the usual stuff—you know, Judy Garland, Marilyn Monroe—he soon just starred as himself. He was a master of makeup. Story was he had been a makeup artist for TV and films. And oh my goodness, he was beautiful. Flawless. Absolutely flawless. Blonde, brunette, redhead. It didn’t matter. He was flawless.”
“What ended his career?”
“Age was one thing. He was thirty or so, and that’s getting old in our community. And he never was one of the boys. Maybe he hustled when he was younger, I don’t know. But he never was one of the boys. He made good money, but I heard he got tired of getting hit on. He would have his girlfriends pick him up after shows. Good looking girls, all of them, but none quite as pretty as Jackie. The boys would hit on his girlfriends, thinking they were in drag. It was funny.”
“Who was he close to? Who would he know?”
“No one. Like I said, he wasn’t part of the community. I don’t think he had any friends in Boys Town. And I saw, but never met, any of his girlfriends. One day Jackie was just gone. Replaced by a new flavor of the month. His fifteen minutes were up.”
I pulled out a picture of Grace Lowell. “Does this look like one of his girlfriends, back in the day?”
Butchie studied the photo. “No,” he said. As I started to put it away he asked to see it again. “She’s a bit older. And the glasses threw me. But my goodness, she looks like Jackie Polo. When Jackie was a blonde.”
“Have you got a minute to look at something?” I asked.
He said he did and I went to my car to get my laptop. When I got back, I booted up the computer and went to Jantzen’s history of swimsuit models. I found Grace in a photo from about twelve years ago and showed it to Butchie.
“Jesus Christ! It’s Jackie Polo in a swimsuit.”
Now I had another reason to find Jack Polozola.
“I wish I could be of more help,” said Butchie.
“I believe you may have helped me greatly,” I said, as I shook his hand and started to leave.
“You and the priest?” asked Butchie.
“Good friend. Drinking buddy.”
“And …?”
“He wasn’t what you refer to as ‘one of the boys.’ And neither am I.”
“Pity,” said Butchie as I left his shop and went looking for another circle of hell.
Chapter Thirty
The next day was Wednesday, one week since Jesus had been murdered, and I took a morning flight back into Oakland. In the airport lounge I saw that the media was still showing great interest in the death of beloved Father Cortez, and that the amount of the reward had grown. I still was getting calls from CNN and FOX networks, as well as the Oakland Tribune and San Francisco Chronicle. I had managed to avoid any and all contact with cable news and the newspapers.
After my trip to Southern California and my encounters with Smitty, Pete the Pineapple, the former Father Macdonald, the Hollow Voiced Man, Ramon de Poores, and Butchie and his little shop of horrors, I welcomed the relative normalcy of my favorite bar. It was refreshing to be back with a group of slackers, stoners, and drunks who mainly ignored me as they went in and out the swinging doors of John and Mary’s Saloon, and around and around through the revolving doors of various governmental agencies and community outreach programs.
I sat at the bar nursing my first Steinlager of the evening as Mary approached me, looking even older and thinner than usual, and so pale she was almost translucent. “This whole murder of Jesus sure is getting a lot of attention in the papers and on TV,” she said. “A lot of stuff on the checkered past of that dickhead, Hobbs, and a lot about you. They say you were a real scallywag, Jackson. They say you blew hundreds of millions of dollars, and that you have millions stashed away. Is that right?”
“The ‘scallywag’ part is correct,” I answered, looking up from my beer.
“And you apparently are just as big a fucker as you appear to be, Captain Has-Been Hobbs,” she announced as I turned to find him pulling up a barstool next to mine.
“Why are you so cranky, Mary?” he asked. “Did you get up on the wrong side of your casket today?”
She tapped her sawed-off Louisville slugger on the bar. “I’m going to shove this up the wrong side of your ass if you start any of your shit. Speaking of your shit, there was that article about you in the Sunday Tribune. So tell me, did
anyone die in your custody today?”
“Not yet. But I’m curious, Mary. Who read the article to you?”
Mary snorted and gave Hobbs a dismissive gesture. I just sipped my beer.
“I need a double rye straight up,” he said and then nodded to an empty booth. “Holiday, you and I have some official police business to discuss.”
“Would you like your whiskey in an ‘official police business’ jar?” she asked as she walked away to get his drink.
We took a corner booth near where a regular named Rain Man was leaning on a foosball table, trying to renegotiate the terms of his divorce on his cellphone. It didn’t seem to be going too well, as he kept punctuating every sentence with “fucking bitch.”
“So where are we?” I asked.
“I’ll tell you where you are, Holiday. You are about one millimeter away from being arrested for obstruction of justice. And about two millimeters away from being held as a material witness.”
“Since you’re measuring distances, Captain, just how far away do you think I am from telling you to go fuck yourself?”
“Fuck me?”
“Yes, fuck you.”
Mary brought his drink and leaned close to Hobbs’ face. “Watch your language and your volume. This is a respectable place!”
“As five-star dives go, yeah, it’s not bad.”
“Senator Teddy Kennedy once had a drink here.”
“What a comeuppance. The Honorable Ted Kennedy drank here and I called your establishment a dive and a last chance saloon shithouse,” he fired back, his voice thick with sarcasm.
“Let me show you something, Hobbs,” Mary said and then walked to the bar, where she fumbled through a drawer and returned with a framed black and white photograph.
“The same year I opened this place, and that was what—yeah, twenty-five years ago in October—Senator Kennedy was giving a speech in Berkeley. He came in here afterwards and had a double Jameson neat. He wasn’t a douche bag like you, Hobbs; he was a gentleman. Very nice man. Told me he felt at home here.”
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