Melissa Bourbon Ramirez - Lola Cruz 01 - Living the Vida Lola

by Melissa Bourbon Ramirez

  “Not going to happen.”

  That’s what he thought, but I dropped it and got to the point of my call. “What’s the name of some of those bars on the way to Sloughouse?”

  I heard a bang, the phone dropped, and Antonio cursed. “I don’t know,” he said after he recovered the phone. “Why, feel like getting sloshed with the alcohol enthusiasts?”

  “No, it’s for a case. There are a couple of bars out there in the country. They have weird names… .”

  He sighed. “Yeah, I know what you’re talking about. There’s The Office, the Why Not, Just Because.” His voice took on a Southern drawl. “Hey, baby, I’m stayin’ late at the office.” He chuckled, and I heard metal bang against metal as he worked in the restaurant kitchen. “Whoever named those places was a genius.”

  “Thanks, Tonio.” It seemed like a long shot, but sometimes long shots paid off. It was possible that when Emily wrote JUST BECAUSE, she’d been referring to the bar. “I have to go out tonight,” I said. “Want to come?”

  He was silent for a moment. “See, this is what I was talking about. You gotta go out with other people.”

  “Yeah, but I love your company so much.” I rolled my eyes again. Why’d he make everything so hard? “Come on. Papi’s working Abuelita’s tonight, right?”

  He sighed. “Maybe I have a date.”

  “You do. With me.”

  “What, to one of those bars?” he asked slowly; I heard the suspicion in his voice.

  “Yeah.”

  “Sounds like a blast. Now tell me why.”

  “I’m checking a lead on my case.” He didn’t need to know more than that. Besides, my logic was a stretch, at best. If I told him I was basing the whole trip on connecting JUST BECAUSE in Emily’s journal to a bar on the way to Sloughouse, he’d hang up on me.

  As it was, he hemmed and hawed.

  I sweetened the deal. “I’ll buy the drinks… .”

  Antonio was easy, so I knew the next pause was just to torture me. Finally he said, “What time?”

  I heaved a sigh of relief for his benefit and looked at my watch. It was 3:05 now. “Six?”

  He agreed to meet me at Abuelita’s. For all his faults, I knew I could depend on him when it counted. Family was family, after all.

  I went back to my scrutiny of Emily’s notebook and was on the verge of having a revelation—a thought tickling at the edge of my brain, just out of reach—when Manny called me into his office. He leaned back in his chair, propped his boots up on his desk, and looked at me. “What’s your hypothesis?” His MO was to form a hypothesis and then prove or disprove it. Easier said than done.

  “I’m still working on it.” I frowned and tucked my hair behind my ears. Something about this case was just off my radar… .

  Manny folded up the newspaper that he’d been reading and tapped it against his knee. Distorted newsprint faces stared back at me. ¡Dios mío! My spine stiffened. Case. “Assemblyman Case,” I murmured.

  “What about him?”

  My foot shook under the chair as excitement surged through me. “Emily wrote ‘R. Case’ in her journal. She could have been referring to the assemblyman.”

  Manny nodded, looking satisfied. “Get on it and report to me when you have something.”

  I practically skipped out of his office. Justice for Emily. I was on my way. I looked up the address of Assemblyman Case’s office and headed out.

  It took me all of ten minutes to locate the reelection headquarters for the assemblyman, a storefront office three blocks from the capitol. Just a hop, skip, and a jump from George Bonatee, I noticed, recalling the address from the lawyer’s business card. At least the guy’s office would be easy to find tomorrow.

  It took me another fifteen minutes to find parking, my adrenaline pumping with anticipation. One big break. That’s all I needed. Maybe this would be it.

  I pushed open the door of the office, expecting to see a bustle of activity like election central in any movie or TV show. This was not Taxi Driver, and a fresh-faced Cybill Shepherd was not poised primly behind a desk.

  The closest thing to a fresh face was a sporty girl pushing desks and boxes around. Light-brown hair pulled into a ponytail, running shorts, tank top, shiny watch, diamond earrings. And a dour face. Poor thing. I wouldn’t want her job either.

  “Excuse me?” I said, walking with my arm outstretched.

  She wheeled on me, startled, holding a box like she might hurl it at me and bolt. A split second later, she relaxed. “Yes?”

  I dropped my arm. “Sorry—”

  “Joan.” A woman’s sharp, tinny voice echoed in the space. “This bottle is empty. You have to keep the prescription filled—” She stopped when she saw me, dropping a small plastic container into her jacket pocket. Her voice turned harsh. “Who’s this? You know I don’t want your friends here.”

  The girl, probably in her early twenties, curled her lip up. “I don’t know her.”

  Guess I didn’t look like a big money campaign donor. Still, I was a voter. Didn’t I warrant some respect?

  I turned my attention to the older woman, a Nancy Reagan clone, right down to the powder blue suit. “My name’s Dolores Cruz. I’m looking for the assemblyman.”

  “What about, may I ask?”

  Well, she just did ask, so now I was forced to answer. I went for shock value, holding my gaze steady to gauge her response. “Emily Diggs.”

  She didn’t flinch, didn’t bat an eye. Damn, she was good. “Is that name supposed to mean something to me?” she said in full bitch mode.

  Since I didn’t know who she was, I didn’t know if the name was supposed to mean anything to her. “I’m sorry, you are—?” I prompted.

  She narrowed her already beady eyes at me. “Beverly Case,” she finally said. “The assemblyman’s wife. And I’m afraid we can’t help you.” She started toward the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

  I stood my ground. “Is the assemblyman expected anytime soon? Can I make an appointment?”

  “No,” Beverly Case said. “He doesn’t take appointments here.” She went back to her paperwork, a silent dismissal.

  Joan came up behind me, propelling me forward until I was out on the sidewalk. Next thing I knew, she’d shut the door on me. Wow. That was a record. In four years, even tailing Sadie, Neil, or Manny, I’d never been so effectively handled. Beverly Case was good. Damn good.

  What now? I put my hand back on the door handle, ready to try again, when the door suddenly pushed open. The girl, Joan, poked her head out. “Sorry about that.”

  Oh, an ally. “Joan, right?” I stretched my hand out to her, thrilled when she actually shook it.

  “Joanie. Only my mom and—” She broke off. “Joanie’s fine.”

  “Your mom’s not into chitchat?”

  Joanie rolled her dull brown eyes. “She doesn’t like people.” She darted a glance over her shoulder and then turned back to me. Mommy dearest had her on a short leash. “You want to see my dad?” she asked.

  I suspected that I had only a second before her mother ordered her back inside. “I do. Can you help me?”

  She made a face, scrunching up her lips. “He’s probably at the capitol. Are you a reporter?”

  “No, just a voter.”

  “Who’s the woman you mentioned? Emily something?”

  “She was a mutual friend. She passed on, and I thought Mr. Case would want to know.”

  Joanie nodded, darting another look over her shoulder. “I’ll tell him—” A muffled voice came from inside, and she jerked and looked behind her. She pulled back and started to close the door. “Gotta go,” she said.

  “Wait!” I jammed my foot into the opening to block her, my brain scrambling to come up with a way to get her outside. “Your mom’s prescription!”

  “What?” Joanie stared at me like I’d lost my mind.

  I nodded enthusiastically. “I could go with you while you fill it, and we could talk some more.”

 
“There’s nothing to talk about.” She glanced over her shoulder before turning back to me. “I’ll let my dad know about Emily,” she said, and then before I could stop her, she slammed the door closed. My toes barely escaped amputation.

  The lock turned, and that was that.

  I waited, silently hoping she’d change her mind and reopen the door, but after two minutes, I realized I was dreaming. Damn.

  I headed back to my car, passing business folks, moms and dads with strollers, a police officer or two, and assorted homeless people with their shopping carts of treasures piled high. Most of them had more goods than I’d seen in Emily’s room at the Bonatee rental—a sad fact, I thought. Poor Emily had died without much to her name. What had brought her to Bonatee’s, and what was it about her son that had her worked up enough to call a reporter?

  I mulled this over on the drive home. I’d succeeded in gaining lots of questions, but had very few answers. For the time being, I shifted my thinking to the evening ahead of me. The fact that I had discovered a potentially vital clue from Emily’s journal bolstered my spirits. Maybe my big break was waiting for me at Just Because.

  It was still light outside—way too early to be heading to a bar, in my opinion—when Antonio and I left Abuelita’s.

  Antonio pulled his vintage Mustang into the gravel parking lot of the bar off Jackson Road. “Remind me to watch out for drunks on the way home.”

  “Just Because,” I said, reading the red neon sign. The B was blackened, and the c flickered erratically.

  Inside, my eyes adjusted to the dimly lit bar. Round tables ran around the circumference of the room. A small stage sat in one corner, and a long shellacked counter ran the length of one wall.

  A tall, lanky man leaned his back against the mirrored backdrop behind the bar. Glass shelves held the top shelf liquor, the standard labels hidden in the well. The bartender’s cheeks were hollow, and his pumpkin-colored hair and mustache were straight out of the disco era, long and feathered.

  “Like I said,” Antonio whispered, “an alcohol enthusiast.”

  I looked at the guy more closely. Pasty skin. Bloodshot eyes. He took a long swallow from a lowball glass. “Seven and seven,” I muttered to my brother. “Maybe some speed to top it off.”

  Antonio nodded his agreement.

  I ordered a couple of Dos Equis and debated whether to try to engage the guy in conversation or play it straight. Direct, I decided. The guy didn’t look like he messed around. Drinks in hand, I slid a copy of Emily’s photograph across the tacky counter and held my breath.

  The bartender stuck his drink back in the well and reached for the picture. “What’s this?”

  “Do you recognize this woman?” I watched his face with Clint Eastwood scrutiny as he picked up the photograph.

  He squinted and held the picture up to a dusty fixture that hung from the ceiling. The light from outside couldn’t penetrate the tinted windows and the dimly lit bar.

  “I’ve seen her around here a few times.” He sounded hoarse, as if he’d just woken up and hadn’t found his voice yet. He slid the photo back to me.

  “Really?” I asked, probably sounding a little too excited. My hunch had totally paid off. God, I loved these moments.

  “Are you cops?”

  “No, no.” I shook my head emphatically to convince him. “This woman turned up dead. I’m trying to find out what happened to her.”

  He took a long drink and then leaned forward, both hands resting on the bar. “She met with Muriel once or twice.”

  I slid onto a barstool and sipped my beer as casually as I could muster. A minor in Acting should be a required degree for private investigators. Luckily I’d had several years to perfect my innocently curious expression. Muriel. The name rang a bell. Another entry in Emily’s journal, I thought. “Muriel?” I prompted.

  “She runs the place.” I pulled out my notepad and scribbled.

  “Does Muriel have a last name?”

  He squinted at me but said, “O’Brien.”

  “And, I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “ ’Cause I didn’t give it, missy.”

  I looked him square in the eyes. “Could you give it to me now? For my notes.”

  “Notes for what?”

  “Like I said, Ms. Diggs is dead. I’m looking into it.”

  The bartender’s suspicious gaze settled on Antonio.

  My brother leaned in beside me, one elbow resting on the bar. If only he had a cowboy hat, he’d fit in perfectly. As it was, with his clenched and goateed jaw, his Raiders cap pulled low over his eyes, and his pumped-up biceps, he looked like a damn menacing bodyguard.

  “You sure you’re not cops?”

  Antonio laughed. “Not even close.”

  He lifted an eyebrow, but he looked back at me and shrugged. “Tom Phillips.”

  I scribbled the name in my notebook and then glanced around at the nearly deserted bar. Just a few lonely California cowboys sipped their drinks. “Is Muriel here tonight?” I asked, turning back to Tom.

  “Nah, she runs a couple places in Sac Town.”

  So Muriel was busy. “And they are…”

  Grumpy attitude notwithstanding, Tom Phillips was more than willing to talk. “Tattoo Haven over off Del Paso and My Place.”

  “My Place. Isn’t that bar out on Bradshaw, too?”

  He nodded, and I scribbled the names of Muriel’s businesses down.

  “Do you know why Emily and Muriel met?”

  Tom’s bony shoulders moved up and down. “Nope. Muriel don’t tell me shit.” Poor guy, he was kept out of the loop. I hated that. He tilted his head back as he took a long drink. “Don’t pay me shit, neither.”

  “She doesn’t care that you do all the work, huh?” I shook my head, trying to win him over. “Bosses.”

  His bloodshot eyes brightened. “Damn straight.”

  I smiled. He was putty in my hands. “Do you remember when Emily was here last?”

  He thought for a few seconds, nodding his head at me like we were part of the same union, fighting against the man. “ ’Bout a week ago, I reckon.”

  “Do you remember the day?”

  He dumped the remains from his glass in the sink, refilling it halfway with ice. Then he took a bottle of Seagram’s from under the counter and poured the glass three-quarters full. He topped it off with Sprite, gave it a quick stir with his finger, and gulped, draining half the liquid with one mouthful. I wondered if he’d be able to stand at the end of his shift. I was getting tipsy just watching him.

  “Muriel splits her time between the places. She’s here Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, the Tattoo gig Thursday and Sunday, and My Place Monday and Saturday.”

  “Busy woman,” I said, writing her schedule down.

  Tom shrugged. “That lady, the one in your picture, she was here last week.”

  “What day, do you remember?”

  He thought for a second. Nodding, clearly satisfied that he’d figured it out, he said, “Must have been Wednesday.”

  A jolt of energy shot through me. Now I was getting somewhere. The day Emily had disappeared. “You remember what time?”

  “Round lunch, I think.”

  “Did she talk with Muriel?”

  “Yeah, they talked.” He finished his drink and dumped the ice. It seemed to be his routine. “Argued, you might say.”

  “Did you hear what about?”

  “Didn’t want to.” He shrugged again. “I tuned ’em out most times.”

  “But you know they were arguing,” Antonio said.

  My thought exactly.

  “Look,” Tom said, “I mind my own business. Life’s easier that way.”

  “But you did hear what they were saying,” I prompted.

  Reluctantly, he nodded. “A little bit. Something about her kids and some of their friends. Don’t know what Muriel had to do with it, and I don’t care neither.”

  “Have you seen Muriel today?” I asked.

 
He shook his head, giving me an I just told you her schedule a second ago look. “It’s Monday.”

  I smiled brightly and checked my notes. Sure enough, Muriel spent her Mondays at My Place.

  Tom Phillips didn’t seem to have any other information for me, but who knew when I might need him again. “You’ve been very helpful. I hope Muriel smartens up and gives you a big fat raise.” I passed him a business card.

  He stuck it in his back pocket. “I hear anything, I’ll be sure to give you a call.”

  Wow, wasn’t he accommodating. Looks and drug use could be deceiving. I smiled and thanked him. “Are you up for another stop?” I asked Antonio when we were back in the car.

  “You buying another round?”

  I nodded. “Of course.”

  He revved the engine, and we were off to My Place.

  It was clear the second we walked in that Just Because could have been lifted and dropped whole on top of its sister bar and no one would have noticed the difference. They were nearly identical inside, from the dim light and tinted windows to the shellacked bar and pasty-skinned bartender. The only difference here was that the bartender was a woman.

  “I do believe we’ve found our Muriel O’Brien, Holmes,” Antonio whispered, the H in Holmes sounding like he was hawking a loogie in an East L.A. way.

  I grinned. “Right, Watson.” Memories of childhood detective antics flashed through my mind—Jack playing the villain—God, I’d forgotten about that. I’d tied him to a tree once after I captured him. If only I’d known what to do with a restrained Jack Callaghan back then, but the opportunity had been lost on my innocent twelve-year-old self.

  I looked around at the mix of people—an older couple at the jukebox, a leather-vested man with a navy bandanna snugly wrapped around his head, a black-and-white couple that looked from the back like a May-December affair. It was an eclectic bunch.

  “What can I get you two?” the bartender rasped at us. Looking at her, I found it hard to believe she had the ability and skill to actually run three businesses. Her brittle hair was pulled back and clipped at the base of her neck, steel gray strands poking out like bits of spiraled wire. Her teeth had an awful tint to them, like the slimy coating on a peeled hard-boiled egg. I swallowed a gag.