Bitter Retribution

by Rachel Sharpe

  “Hey! What—”

  He didn’t wait for me to finish. Instead, he blasted through the narrow aisle between two rows of tables with the ferocity of an enraged bull targeting a taunting matador. He grabbed a tall, muscular man with cropped, chestnut-brown hair by the shoulders and spun him around. Even in the darkness, I could make out the man’s terrified expression at the sight of Tox.

  “What’d ya do this time, you little worm?” Tox growled, slamming the man against the bar, which caused his drink to slosh around in the glass.

  I realized instantly that Tox was again putting both my case and me in a bad position with his strong arm tactics. While the bartender’s eyes remained trained on Tox, his right hand was reaching beneath the bar. There were only two things that he could have been reaching for – one would land us in jail and the other in the morgue. I had no intention of finding out which.

  “Tox!” I screamed as I ran the length of the room. Grudgingly, he glanced down at me. “What’s your deal? You seriously need to consider anger management.”

  His grip tightened around the man’s collar to the point the man began to gasp for breath as his face reddened.

  “Back off!”

  “What’re you gonna do? Interview him?” he scoffed. “Listen, girlie, I’ve seen you work. All you do is talk. If you want answers, sometimes you gotta let your fists do the talking.”

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” the man stammered, his nervous gray eyes darting between Tox and me. “I haven’t done anything!”

  “Are you Perry Holcombe?” I asked. Swallowing hard, he nodded. “I need to talk to you.”

  “F-fine. I’ll talk to you.” Glancing at Tox, he coughed, “But . . . only if he’s gone.”

  “You don’t call the shots around here!” Tox slammed him back against the bar. At this, the bartender raised a black cell phone to his left ear. Tox didn’t notice. “So help me, if you had anything to do with this—”

  “Wait,” I pleaded with the bartender, holding up my hands. Turning to Tox, I hardened my expression. “You have exactly five seconds to let him go and get out of here or I’ll personally see to it you not only lose your job, but that this man files a personal injury claim against you.”

  “Right,” Tox snorted.

  “You think I’m joking?” I crossed my arms. “Try me. My dad’s a lawyer.”

  “Lawyers don’t scare me, girlie,” Tox declared as a petrified Perry Holcombe dangled five inches above the ground. Suffering from an obvious lack of oxygen, I could tell Perry was beginning to pass out. When I reached out in an attempt to reason with Tox one last time, he shoved me back with his left hand. I tripped over a chair and fell to the ground. Looking up, the first person I saw was Jon, a furious glint clouding his eyes.

  “Hey!” He rushed at Tox with his fists balled. “If you ever touch her again—”

  “What’re you gonna do, Romeo? If lawyers don’t scare me, what makes you think you could?”

  “What about this?” the bartender challenged, holding a .38 revolver inches from Tox’s right temple. “Get the hell out of my bar and don’t ever come back.”

  Tox stood there, his cold gaze shifting between the bartender, Jon, and finally, me. I could tell by his silence he was weighing his options. He may have been big and strong, but one bullet could move a lot faster than him and cause a lot worse, and definitely more permanent, damage. After what seemed like an eternity but, in reality, was probably a few seconds, he dropped Perry, turned, and walked out of the restaurant. Perry crumpled to the floor, coughing.

  “Are you okay?” Jon asked, helping me to my feet.

  “Fine.” I rushed over to Perry. He lay in the same spot he fell, gasping for air. “Are you all right?”

  “What . . . was . . . that,” he wheezed, rolling onto his back and massaging his throat.

  “I think he blames you for what happened to Alson Andrews.” I helped him sit up.

  “Alson’s dead?” Perry gasped, his eyes widening.

  “No,” I frowned. “Why would that be your first guess?”

  “I – I don’t know,” he coughed. “Maybe the fact the brute squad just tried to kill me?”

  “Someone drugged him,” Jon interrupted. Glaring at Perry, he pressed, “Know anything about that?”

  “No.” Grabbing hold of a leather-cushioned bar stool, Perry climbed to his feet, only to have them give out again. As we stared at him, he clung to the stool to avoid another fall. “I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

  “Is this gonna take long?” the bartender interrupted, tapping the revolver’s muzzle against the bar’s polished wood in agitation. Nodding at the three patrons who had walked out during the standoff, he growled, “You’re killing my business.”

  “We’ll go over there, okay?” I replied, nodding to a dark booth in the far left corner of the restaurant.

  “You gonna buy anything?” he barked. “We don’t allow loiterers.”

  “Fine,” I said, reminding myself this jerk was armed. “Three waters.”

  “Fine,” he retorted, placing the revolver behind the bar and grabbing three bottles from a mini-fridge. “Three bottles of Perrier. That’ll be $16.50.”

  “For water?”

  “Paix du Rockies provides only the best for its patrons,” he recited, failing to hide his contemptuous smirk as I grudgingly shelled out a twenty. I grabbed my change and the bottles from him and hurried across the deserted restaurant to the table Jon and Perry had chosen. I put the bottles on the table before sitting down next to Jon and across from Perry. Perry reached for a bottle without hesitation and opening it, took a long swig.

  “All right,” I nodded, frowning at the $5.50 bottle he finished within seconds. “Now I need some answers.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he repeated, “but go ahead.”

  “You were fired,” I started, to which he winced. “So what are you doing here?”

  “I,” he hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. “You see—”

  “We know you sent death threats to Alson,” Jon interrupted, leaning in and glaring at him. “You blame him for getting fired, right? You here to follow through with those threats?”

  “What? No, I—”

  “Jon!”

  “Someone died this morning on the set,” Jon continued, displaying his natural tendency towards theatrics. “Those skis . . . was that your handiwork, too? How could you have known Alson would’ve missed his call and a stand-in would take his place?”

  “Someone died?” Perry covered his mouth. “Oh my God! Who? What happened? Oh, God!”

  “Can I have a word with you?” I grabbed Jon’s arm and yanked him out of the booth. Glancing back at Perry, added, “Give us a minute, okay?”

  As soon as we were out of Perry’s earshot, I punched Jon’s arm. “Ow!” he wailed, rubbing it and frowning at me. “What’s your problem? We’re playing good cop, bad cop, right?”

  “We’re not playing anything,” I hissed. “I’m trying to interrogate a potential suspect and you’re screwing it up! I’m sure the insurance claim cover is blown thanks to the stupid gossip sites, but we still need to find out what he knows, not tell him what we know.”

  “Sorry.” Jon rolled his eyes, frowning. “I’m just trying to help.”

  “Then offer moral support on this one, okay?” I begged. “I can’t risk messing this up. I could cost Heather her job.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I know you are.” He scowled at me, crossing his arms.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing! Are we doing this or not?”

  “Yes! Just follow my lead.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I apol
ogize, sir,” I offered, taking a seat in the booth. Jon slumped onto the seat beside me, displaying his annoyance by both his expression and his attitude.

  “Who died?” Perry demanded.

  “I’m not at liberty to—”

  “I’m not saying another word until you tell me what’s going on.” Perry glared at me. “Who are you? Why are you asking me all these questions? What’s going on here?”

  “I . . . we have been contracted by Nancy Billings to look into an accident which occurred on-set this morning,” I began, trying to sound as professional as possible. “All that you need to know is that it resulted in the death of a crewmember.”

  “Who died?”

  “That isn’t relevant.”

  “Oh, I think it definitely is relevant,” he countered. “Someone I’ve worked with for the past three years is dead. It could be someone I’m really close to and I don’t know because I was fired for the stupidest reason in the world! Who died?”

  I thought for a moment. Clearly, I was getting nowhere. “A stunt man named Trip.”

  “Trip?” he repeated, his face dropping. “Oh, God. What happened?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss this,” I repeated. “You can direct your questions to Ms. Billings. Now I have a question for you. Why did you, a former employee, travel eight hundred miles the day before Thanksgiving to the set of a show from which you were fired? I hope you realize how suspicious that looks considering—”

  Even in the dark room, I could tell his cheeks were flushed. Running his hand across his face, he mumbled, “I just—”

  “Where were you at seven this morning?” Jon demanded, slamming his fists on the table.

  “Driving,” Perry replied without hesitation.

  “Driving where?”

  “On the interstate. On my way here,” he answered, opening a second bottle of Perrier. Jon slapped it out of his hands. “Hey!”

  “Can you prove it?” Jon pressed, narrowing his eyes with alarming intensity. I felt as if he were auditioning for an episode of the crime drama, True Justice. “Can you prove you weren’t already at the resort?”

  “I don’t know.” Suddenly, Perry’s eyes lit up and he reached into his back pocket. “Wait! Yes, I can! Here.”

  He pulled a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. He handed it to me. I glanced over at Jon as I accepted it. Unfolding it, I realized I was staring at a time stamped speeding ticket.

  “I got that around seven thirty this morning outside someplace called Kingman, Arizona.” Leaning forward on his forearms, he added, “It’s somewhere off I-40, just past the Mojave Nature Preserve.”

  “You were in Arizona this morning?”

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “I didn’t leave my place in Lynwood ‘til, like, three this morning.”

  “When did you get here?” I asked, shaking my head at the thought of such a drive.

  “About an hour ago.” He took the ticket back and shoved it in his jeans pocket. “It was a really long drive. I wouldn’t have come at all except . . . I don’t know . . . I figured . . . this was my only chance.”

  “Only chance for what?” Jon pressed. “Revenge?”

  “What? No. For a second chance.” After a long pause, he opened his eyes and continued. “I really need this job. I can’t afford to start over. You have no idea what a hard business this is to break into. It took me eight years to get where I am and I owe that to Roch. If anyone found out why I was fired . . . I may as well move back to Omaha.”

  “Why were you fired?”

  “And why did you threaten Alson?” Jon added, crossing his arm.

  “Because it was all his fault!” Perry snapped, his smooth features contorting with rage. “I came to L.A. right out of high school. All my friends went to college, but I didn’t see the point because I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to work in show biz.”

  “Then why settle for stunts?” Jon frowned, wrinkling his nose in sheer disgust.

  “Because that’s what I’m good at! All those people that come out to Hollywood and think they’re gonna be movie stars . . . nine out of ten will go home or be waiters the rest of their lives.” Perry shook his head. “I knew I had what it took to be an action star, but I wasn’t gonna waste my life waiting for a pipe dream. So . . . I took a job working on a stunt show at the Ultimate Studios theme park.”

  “And that’s where you met Roch Turner?” I deduced.

  “Yeah. His last action thriller, American Strangers, came out about five years ago. To promote the film, Ultimate Studios created a stage show based on some of the stunts from the movie. I was hired to shadow Roch for the stage show.”

  “And when he signed on for Schooling Dad—”

  “He told Ultimate he wanted me to be the stunt coordinator for the show,” Perry grinned. “Biggest break of my entire career. I know what people say about the guy, but I owe him everything. He helped me out when no one else would . . . that is, until Alson screwed it all up.”

  “What happened exactly?” I asked, trying to keep him focused. “Why were you fired?”

  “Last week was probably the worst week in the history of the show. Several people got laid off and it all started with Alson.”

  “So there was a conspiracy to have Alson Andrews murdered?” We both stared at Jon. He shrugged. “Made sense to me. I’ve lived with the guy for a day. I’d gladly off him.”

  “Alson never listened to the rules,” Perry continued, ignoring Jon as he rubbed his nose. “He’s cost the studio thousands of dollars by forgetting lines, missing call times, and messing around with studio equipment when he shouldn’t. He’s probably broken more equipment than he’s used. Problem is, no one ever held him accountable. The studio sees the dollar signs attached to him. They won’t take a stand. They always blame someone else. Last week, I was one of the scapegoats.”

  “Could you tell us what happened before we miss the ball drop on New Year’s Eve?” Jon groaned. When I shot him a dirty look, he protested, “You were thinking it, too. This guy’s big on build-up. Get to the point!”

  “Point is,” Perry snapped, “when I was setting up a scene for this week’s episode, I had a harness secured to a pulley system because Roch is supposed to fall off a ladder when he’s putting these Christmas lights on the roof for the girls. Before Roch used it, we had a stunt man try it and he ended up falling two stories because the harness had been tampered with.”

  “Alson?” I guessed.

  “Yeah. Kid was taking stupid selfies on the harness for Instagram. Carlos almost broke his back because Alson wanted to pretend he was flying!”

  “Why were you fired?” I asked. “If there was photographic evidence it was Alson—”

  “Nancy’s not gonna tick off the studio heads by punishing Alson. She said it was my responsibility to check the equipment. I did! Twice! How was I to know the kid would come in there and mess with it right before we used it? We’re supposed to be professionals!”

  “Wait,” I stared down at the table, thinking. “You said this week’s episode? But this week’s episode is here, not on some sound stage.”

  “That was also Alson’s doing,” Perry smiled sarcastically. “He got into an argument with the head writer about a scene he didn’t like. The head writer was sick of making concessions so he took his complaints to Nancy. Three guesses who Nancy sided with.”

  “Sounds like Alson doesn’t have many fans on the show.”

  “No one likes him! Not even that brute of a bodyguard. Those two are always going at it on the set.”

  “Hold on. But Tox . . . I mean, there’s no reason for him to want to . . . if Alson’s gone, so is his paycheck.”

  “His paycheck’s on its way out anyway.” Leaning in, he whispered, “Word around the set is Alson found out his bodyguard
and his mom hooked up.”

  “Ugh, way too much info,” Jon shuddered. “The bodyguard and his mommy?”

  “Hey, Alson’s mom is in her thirties,” Perry grinned. “And she’s not bad to look at if you know what I mean. She’s got these—”

  “Moving on!” I interrupted, cringing. “Look, before we go any further, I want your opinion of Zeke Rivers, the production assistant. He was the last person known to have handled the props that led to the accident.”

  “Zeke? You’re kidding, right?” Perry snorted. “That guy couldn’t care less about anyone but himself. He barely even does his own job. Do you know who his father is? He’s got it made. There’s no way he would have it out for Alson Andrews. If you’re looking for a motive, look at the jerk that just tried to kill me.”

  “Tox does have a temper,” I admitted. “But that doesn’t explain why he would try to kill Alson.”

  “Listen, I don’t know what happened today,” Perry shrugged. “All you said was there was an accident. Now one of the greatest stunt-men I’ve ever met is dead. I’m just saying . . . not all accidents end in death. Maybe Tox was trying to, I don’t know, get in good with the kid by saving him from an accident, but something went wrong. It figures . . . Alson gets me fired, almost kills Carlos, and now he’s the reason Trip is,” he trailed off. “I wouldn’t bother with Zeke. This isn’t his style. Besides, he’s not the one with serious anger issues and a rap sheet as long as my arm.”

  “Tox?”

  “Yep. Looked him up myself one day after he and Alson nearly tore down the set during one of their fights. His real name is Tarquin Jones. Look him up if you don’t believe me. You’ll find all kinds of fun charges.” He smiled with disgust. “Makes sense . . . I get fired for someone else’s mistake but the felon keeps his job. That’s it. I need another drink. If you need me, I’ll be over there, trying to build up the courage to beg Nancy for my job back.”