Two Crazy: Fickle Finger of Fate (A Val Fremden Mystery Book 2)

by Margaret Lashley

  Capone eyed Goober, then looked at his paper plate.

  “You gonna eat that crust?”

  Capone reached for it. Goober swatted his hand away. Capone sneered and got up off his stool. He stuck a finger in the coin return of the pin-ball machine next to his chair. It was empty. His face soured again and he plopped back down on his stool and sighed.

  “Yes, Mickie, it looks like I did find your finger. I’m curious – how did you lose it?”

  Mickie eyed me warily.

  “I didn’t. Somebody took it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Somebody cut it off.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “I dunno. Maybe I owed ‘em money. I got a few debts outstanding.”

  “Like you, lady,” Capone groused. “You owe me fifty bucks.”

  Goober swatted Capone on the back of the head.

  “But why would they take your finger? It’s not worth anything – is it?”

  Mickie eyed me with curiosity, then concern.

  “It was for the ring. They couldn’t get it off…. Hey! Wait a minute. It was you!”

  “Me? What are you talking about?”

  “You did it. You and your boyfriend. You assholes rolled me when I was drunk. You put a sack over my head. I couldn’t see your face. But I’d recognize your voice anywhere. You told him to do it!”

  “Do what?”

  “To cut my damn finger off!”

  “What? You’re wrong! You’ve got the wrong person, Mickie. I’m trying to –”

  “Trying to what? Get my gold tooth next? Stay the hell away from me!”

  Mickie jerked to standing and ran out of the pizza place, his ratty ponytail trailing in the air behind him. Goober and I stared at each other, stunned. Capone held out his hand.

  “Harummm.”

  I placed two twenties and a ten in his dirty little palm.

  “Here’s your pizza,” the tattooed guy said.

  Capone shoved his money into his filthy jeans and eyed the slice.

  “You gonna eat that, lady?”

  ***

  The sky was falling. I went home and hid under my bed. No matter which guy the finger belonged to, I was totally screwed.

  Chapter Twenty

  Something crawled across my face. I shot upright and smacked my head, hard.

  “Ouch!”

  In the grey twilight, swarms of dragonflies thronged around me. My head pounded and my mouth tasted of dust. A plastic, monocle-wearing peanut grinned at me from under its black top hat. I sat up in the booth on one elbow and touched the tender bump on my forehead. I sneered at my two assailants, an overhead kitchen cabinet and an empty bottle of Tanqueray. I’d spent the night with them and Glad in her old RV.

  I vaguely recalled getting home yesterday – then the memories came flooding back like a clogged toilet. A crazy man was after me for cutting off his finger. A crazy girlfriend was after my lying boyfriend. A crazy-mean policeman was after me for murder. And I’d been crazy enough to think getting plastered would solve everything.

  I sat up and grunted as I reached down to the scuffed linoleum floor. I picked up Mr. Peanut. Hot tears sprang from my eyes and thumped onto his monocle eye, making it appear as if he were crying, too.

  “I miss you, Glad.”

  A tear rolled down Mr. Peanut’s pitted cheek. I held the bank to my chest and whispered to my dear, departed mom.

  “What would you do if you were me?”

  “I’d get off my duff and get a shower.”

  The voice came from a small window above my head. I turned around and looked up. Laverne was smiling and waving at me.

  “Rough night, Val?”

  “Kind of.”

  “One night you’re pulverizing porcelain, the next you’re camping out with a piggybank. What’s up with you?”

  I sniffled. “Same-old-same-old.”

  “Aww. Come on, sugar. Tell me about it over a cup of coffee.”

  “Have you got a bra on?”

  “Ha ha! No. But neither do you.”

  I looked down. I was wearing one of Tom’s t-shirts and a pair of his boxers. Geeze. I must have gotten way drunker than I thought. I stood up. My head thumped like a bass fiddle. I sniffed away my tears and pouted at Laverne.

  “It had better not be decaf.”

  ***

  While Laverne poured the coffee, my eyes poured over her décor. Laverne’s house was a museum of Vegas memorabilia. Her white leather couch was covered in playing-card pillows – red hearts and diamonds, black clubs and spades. Framed posters of headlining shows and entertainers lined the walls. Towering behind the sofa was a nearly life-sized vase of a white tiger. Its jug handles featured the miniature figures of Siegfried and Roy.

  The red Lucite clock in Laverne’s kitchen sported actual white dice to mark the hours, each rolled to the correct number. Two die were used for numbers higher than six. An inscription on the clock read: “In Vegas, It’s Always Pair-a-Dice.” But the real show stopper was a huge picture hanging over the kitchen table. In it, Elvis himself was crooning away at a beautiful redhead in a glittery, feathery showgirl outfit. I did a double-take.

  “Is that you, Laverne?”

  Laverne handed me a blue, turban-shaped cup filched from the Aladdin.

  “Yeah, that’s me, doll. Used to be, anyway.”

  “What happened? I mean…why did you leave Vegas?”

  “Nobody lasts forever in Vegas, honey. My time was up. It was either leave as a glamour girl or stay and work the buffet ’til I dropped dead of fallen arches. Speaking of dead, you look like death warmed over, sugar. What’s up?”

  I took a sip of coffee.

  “Man, that’s good coffee, Laverne!”

  “Learned from the best. Frankie taught me how.”

  “Frankie as in Frank Sinatra?!”

  “I didn’t get to live this long by telling secrets. I know when to keep my mouth shut. So spill it, gal. You’re safe with me.”

  I blew out a breath. What the hell.

  “I’ve been accused of murder and of cutting off someone’s finger. And I just found out Tom’s cheating on me.”

  “Damn, child! You want some Kahlua in that coffee?”

  “If I thought it would help, I’d drink the whole bottle.”

  “Ah, sugar. I’ve lived through worse and I’m still standing. Life has a way of working things out.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Sure. Who’s the stiff?”

  “Huh?”

  “The guy they say you murdered.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Any way to find out?”

  “Not that I can think of. Wait. I do know a guy who works in the morgue.”

  “Good. Call him. Now, who’s this finger guy?”

  “A guitar player. He’s missing an eye and a tooth, too.”

  Laverne looked at me sideways.

  “I didn’t take them.”

  “You talking about Mickie?”

  “What?! Yes. You know him?”

  “Sugar, when you’re as old as me, you know just about everybody. I’ve seen him playing gigs around town. Why on earth does Mickie think you took his finger?”

  “Long story short, because I had it. I gave it to the police.”

  “Hmmm. Well there you go, honey.”

  “What?”

  “Possession is nine-tenths of the law. Everybody knows that.”

  ***

  I’d just gotten back from Laverne’s house when the phone rang.

  “Is the Valiant Fremden?”

  Shit. “Yes.”

  “Yes, well, I’m Ferrol Finkerman. I’m calling…”

  “Look, whatever you’re selling, I’m not in the mood.”

  “Ms. Fremden, this is serious business. I’m calling on behalf of my client, Harden Michaels. He’s named you as the responsible party in a personal injury case.”

  “I don’t know anyone named Harden Michaels.�
�

  “Oh. You might know him by his…um…street name. Hard-on? Mickie the Guitar Man?”

  “What!?”

  “Yes. My client identified you as the assailant who removed his finger by, shall we say, force. At any rate, he’s suing you for personal injury, mental anguish and loss of lifetime career earnings.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. How much does he – do you – want?”

  “How much have you got? Tell me and I’ll settle for half. Don’t tell me and we’ll go for the whole enchilada.”

  “You’re a total piece of shit, you know that?”

  “Hey, with a name like Ferrol Finkerman, I was doomed. Save your insults for your husband. So, what’s it gonna be, your money or your life behind bars? If we settle out of court, there’s no need to get the cops involved. Mr. Michaels will drop any and all criminal charges for the right price.”

  What the hell! What was going on here? I needed time to think.

  “Mr. Finkerman, can you give me a week to sort this out? I’ll prove to you that you have the wrong person.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you called me Mr. Finkerman. You’re trying to butter me up.”

  “No. It’s not that…”

  “Listen. You had the finger, right?”

  “Uh…yes.”

  “I’ll give you two days. And some advice on the house. It doesn’t look good for you. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, you know.”

  ***

  I called Laverne as soon as I got off the phone.

  “Ferrol Finkerman? That guy is the biggest shyster outside The Strip.”

  “Why would he sue me?”

  “Honey, you don’t go digging for gold in a dumpster.”

  Crap! “I’ve gotta go, Laverne. I’ve got some errands to run.”

  “Honey, as long as you’re out and about, could you give me a ride to my nail salon? I broke a nail and I can’t drive.”

  “You can’t drive because you broke a nail?”

  “No, silly! I broke a nail trying to fix my car. You know anybody handy with old engines?”

  “Yes, I think I do.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Get in, Laverne. Where’s the nail salon?”

  Laverne opened the passenger door and plopped her skinny butt on the bucket seat, her back toward me. As she twisted her torso to face forward, she folded her long legs and carefully swung them around. Her knobby knees bumped against the glovebox. Dressed in a gold velour workout suit and a million gold chains, she looked like a hip-hop grasshopper from outer space.

  “What’s with the grand entrance?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  “The legs.”

  “Oh. Habit. These gams were my money-maker back in the day. One cut or bruise and I’d be off the cast until it healed. One bad scar and a girl’s career could go down the drain faster than a bottle of cheap wine.”

  “Wow. I had no idea.”

  I turned the ignition. “So, where’s the salon?”

  “Over off of 22nd and 34th.”

  “Okay. Pops’ place is right around the corner from there.”

  I cruised out of the driveway and headed toward Gulf Boulevard.

  “Pops’ place?”

  “Oh. Earl Popkins. Pops for short. He’s the old man I bought Maggie from when I was broke last year. I gave him $125 down and a handshake to pay another hundred every month until I paid Maggie off or he died, whichever came first.

  Laverne shot me a dubious look.

  “That’s pretty harsh, honey.”

  “Hey! It was his idea, not mine. So far I’ve been sticking to the deal, more or less. But today Mr. Methuselah’s gonna hit pay-dirt. I’ve got the rest of his cash in my back pocket.”

  “Miss Big Bucks.” Laverne winked at me. “Bet he never thought he’d live to see the day.”

  I shrugged and grinned.

  “Neither did I.”

  “So who’s this guy Winky? The one you said could fix my car?”

  “Just a guy I met at the beach last year. He fixed the air conditioning at my house last week.”

  “Oh. Did he get you one for a house instead of a train?”

  “Uh…yes. That’s what he did alright.”

  “Good. I wish that company would quit ripping people off.”

  “Right. Me too. We’ll stop by Water Loo’s on the way and see if Winky’s there.”

  “Should you call him first?”

  “He doesn’t have a phone. But he should be there. Or his girlfriend, Winnie, will be. She’ll know how to reach him.”

  I pulled out of Bahia Shores and chugged along Gulf Boulevard past 107th. The sky was blue and the air was still April fresh. It was good to get in a top-down cruise while the fair weather lasted. I pulled into Water Loo’s parking lot and hit the brakes.

  “Fair warning, Laverne. This place is a dump.”

  She shot me a wry grin.

  “I lived in Vegas, remember?”

  I opened the door and took a look inside. Water Loo’s was deserted except for the corner booth. Loo and a guy I’d never seen before were having a discussion that faded away to cautious stares when Laverne and I stepped inside.

  “Hi. I’m looking for Winky?” I asked.

  “Who the hell’s Winky?” the stranger asked.

  Loo started to say something, but the man kicked him in the shin. The man sitting with Loo sported a headful of thick, grey hair styled in an Elvis pompadour. He also had the King’s lips and his famous sneer.

  “What?” Loo asked the guy, then turned to me. “He ain’t here.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I said. “I guess I’ll be going, then.”

  I turned and saw Winnie coming out of the kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee.

  “Hi, Val!”

  “Hi Winnie. Looking for Winky. Do you know how I can get a hold of him?”

  “Not really. He ain’t got a phone. But he usually shows up here at the end of my shift. Around three?”

  “Okay. Here’s my number. Have him give me a call?”

  “Sure. Who’s your friend?”

  “Oh. This is Laverne. She needs some car rep –”

  “Hey kid with the coffee! Get your ass over here,” yelled the man sitting next to Loo.

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  Winnie shrugged, rolled her eyes and shuffled off to serve the coffee. Laverne and I stepped out of the dingy brown hovel and into the glaring sunlight.

  “What a jerk that guy was,” I said.

  “Yeah. He reminds me of some dirt-bag back in Vegas. What was his name? Buffalo Bill?”

  “Buffalo asshole?” I suggested.

  Laverne laughed.

  “Yeah. That could be it.”

  ***

  Laverne and I tooled back down Gulf and hung a left on 107th. We crossed the bridge spanning the Intracoastal and skirted through the tiny community of Treasure Island. A few blocks later we were on the mainland. We passed by Ming-Ming’s on our way to 34th street.

  “There’s the scene of the crime.” I nodded toward the restaurant as we drove by. “That’s where I saw Tom and Milly together.”

  “You know, back in Vegas, at the casino buffets I tried every food under the sun. I never could warm up to sushi.”

  “Yeah. I’m starting to lose my appetite for it as well.”

  “Now don’t you go and do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Let a man spoil something for you. Honey, if I did that, I’d be down to drive-through donuts and coffee.”

  “But Laverne, how do you separate the two – I mean, Ming-Ming’s was our place.”

  “You know for sure he’s cheating?”

  “No. But come on. Milly’s gorgeous. So is Tom. They’d make the perfect pair.”

  “There’s a lot of beauty in imperfection, sugar. It makes you real. Bing told me that.”

  “Bing Cr…? Never mind. What’s the address of th
e salon?”

  “Uh…let’s see.”

  Laverne fumbled around in her purse and finally pulled out a card. I hung a left onto 34th Street.

  “Card says it’s 2330 34th Street. Why?”

  “Well, odd numbers are on one side of the road, even on the other.”

  “Oh. I never knew that. But zero – it’s not even or odd, is it?”

  I started to answer, then my face went slack.

  “I never thought about it. I guess you’re right, Laverne. Let’s just call it even.”

  “Ooops! There it is, sugar. You just passed it.”

  “Crap. I’ll turn around.”

  “I’m not in any hurry, honey. Tell me, how old is this Pops guy, anyway?”

  “Probably older than you. But his wife is younger.”

  “Just my luck.”

  “Still want to come along for the ride?”

  “Sure.”

  I cruised past 22nd Avenue and took a right. A few blocks down, I took another right. A neighborhood of small, run-down 1950s block houses just like mine came into view. But, as Florida realtors were fond of saying, “location location location.” Without the waterfront venue, the value of these homes was about a tenth of what mine was worth.

  It was one of those neighborhoods where nobody minded a couple of extra vehicles parked up in the yard. Concrete blocks instead of tires were also acceptable, and once the weeds had half-covered them, abandoned appliances were considered garden sculptures. Despite the obvious signs of neglect, the little community tugged at my heartstrings. It reminded me of my mom’s place up in Greenville – minus the bass boats, ATVs and chickens running loose.

  I pulled up on the street in front of Pops’ house. Painted seafoam green with teal trim, it was easy to spot. Pops was out in the yard polishing the chrome on a 1970s-era gold-colored Cadillac. His black arms glistened in the sun, and looked surprisingly muscular for a man pushing eighty. If his hair hadn’t been pure white, I’d have placed him in his late fifties.

  “Well now, there she is!”

  Pops waved his dirty polish rag at me.

  “How’s the old girl running?”

  “Not bad, thanks for asking,” Laverne yelled across my lap.

  “Ha ha! Who’s the looker with you, Val?”

  “Laverne. Straight from Vegas,” I answered.

  “Well, is she now?”