Mortal Crimes 2

by Various Authors

  “Gotcha good, ya littl’ bastard.”

  The Monk sat in a patch of shade on the gritty desert soil, his legs drawn up, knees bent, his back against a large, smooth boulder, the holster snug over his shoulder. The sun was behind him. He examined the gun, a powerful Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum, Dirty Harry’s monster choice. The pistol was heavy, solid, ominous-looking. Though not as accurate as some of the longer-barrel handguns, he liked the size, the feel, the way it fit his hand, the way it recoiled, ejaculating close to 1,000 foot-pounds of energy.

  At seven o’clock, the hottest part of the day long gone, when desert animals crawled out of burrows and from under rocks and brush to eat, drink, or catch the sun’s last warming rays, the Monk chose this time to get in a little target practice. He relished the heat. The hotter the better. He craved the outdoors, which was why he picked the swing shift to work. His favorite rambling times were in the heat of the afternoon and the hours after midnight. He worked and slept the rest of the time.

  When working as a cop, he always put in for swing or graveyard. The hours when crime and criminals flourished. When junkies, drunks and whores came alive, claiming the streets, dives, and back alleys for themselves. The hours when the Monk of Mayhem prowled, targeting the predator as well as the prey. He wasn’t all that picky. If they were on his streets, they answered to him.

  He rubbed the long barrel caressingly along the side of his jaw. He hadn’t had the Magnum when he was on the force. Law enforcement agencies in big cities frowned on such massive, unwieldy firepower. This particular piece he’d taken off a dead pimp in LA. It was virtually untraceable, the serial number and manufacture marks obliterated long ago. Macho metal was cool, but only as an extension of his own capabilities.

  The Monk reached under his arm and pulled a pint of tequila from the holster there. Leaning his head back on the boulder, he took a long swig, used his tongue to cut off the flow of burning liquor, swallowed hard, and in this same manner drank until the bottle was empty. Then, like a sharpshooter in a cheap western, he tossed the bottle high into the air, whipped the pistol upward, and fired. The bottle shattered, raining booze and thick shards of glass over him. He shook his head, laughed. He reached into the pocket of his pants, drew out the silky flesh-colored panties, and used them to wipe the droplets of tequila from his face and hair.

  With one finger he twirled the panties round and round and thought about the woman. Not the one who owned the panties, but the other one. The brunette. The one who wasn’t what she pretended to be.

  She was beginning to catch on. He’d come face to face with her twice now—if he counted the brief encounter in the downstairs bar yesterday. She was no dummy. He counted on that. Fed on it, actually. He had no use for stupid women. This one, the brunette, Ms. Kasey Atwood, new host for the club—he chuckled at that—was already catching on.

  “Let the games begin,” he muttered.

  It was getting late. Time for him to check out the action. Time to plan his next move. Earlier that afternoon, parked in his car on the ridge above the King house, he had watched the two women load the Jag with suitcases. He could guess where they were going; but just to be sure, he followed them anyway, straight to King’s Club.

  A ground squirrel popped its head up over the top of the rock pile, then quickly retreated. The Monk rested his wrist on the top of his knee, sighted the .44 at the point where the squirrel had first appeared. He waited.

  When the squirrel popped up again, the Monk carefully squeezed off a round. Chunks of splintered rock exploded. The squirrel ducked out of sight.

  “Next time, amigo,”

  He holstered his gun, pushed himself away from the boulder, and came to his feet. He stretched. Took one last look around.

  For as far as the eye could see, small rock piles dotted the landscape. Scattered about the first dozen or so mounds, those within range of the mighty .44, lay pieces of fur, tissue, and bone, bloody remnants of the creatures, curious by nature, who inhabited the area. A shooting arena with countless prey. No one could say he didn’t give them a sporting chance. He could have used the Winchester .243 with its high-power scope or even the .12-gauge shotgun. But he was a sporting man. Yes, sir, popping squirrels with a handgun was indeed a practiced art.

  *

  “How well do you know yourself?” Jay asked. He leaned back in the chair, the row of monitors glowing, and studied Kasey.

  It was after eight o’clock. Up until now, conversation between them had been merely small talk. Shop talk.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, you seem so good at judging others, I just wondered how well you know yourself.”

  She shrugged, tucked hair behind one ear. “It’s not something I’ve put a lot of thought into.”

  “Who is Kasey Atwood?”

  “You’re serious.”

  “Very. Kasey Atwood, do you know her?”

  She glanced at him, her smile timid. “Not as well as I should. I guess, like a lot of people, I’m afraid to really look inside.”

  “Why?”

  “Afraid of what I’ll find.”

  “Such as?”

  This time she laughed softly. Looked away.

  “You mentioned your father was an alcoholic. Do you worry that you might follow in his footsteps?”

  “My mother does my worrying for me in that department. Every time I have a drink, she develops another worry wrinkle.” She scratched at an imaginary speck on the monitor. “Do I worry? No. I’ve come to the conclusion that most families are dysfunctional. Either you follow in your parents’ footsteps or you don’t. What about you? Did you have a so-called normal family life?”

  He seemed to ponder her question. It was his turn to laugh softly. “I never thought of my family as being dysfunctional, but I suppose it was. My father was a workaholic and my mother was a hypochondriac. It started with headaches, then heart palpitations and dizziness. From there it held no bounds. She could come up with the most incredible diseases. All in her head, of course. She only had to read about something and she had full-blown symptoms the next day.”

  “Was she always that way? A hypochondriac?”

  Jay reflected. “No. It wasn’t until after my father became really involved in the club that she started to—Jesus,” Jay said, laughing again. “Jesus, why wasn’t I able to see this before? She became—she used her illnesses to get his attention, and he worked longer hours to get away from her and her constant ailments. That’s it. That had to be it. I always thought I was the reason he stayed away.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t kids always blame themselves for their parents’ shortcomings?”

  Kasey thought of her relationship with her father. Maybe she didn’t blame herself for his weaknesses, but she certainly felt responsible for his well-being.

  A silence fell over them. She pretended to be engrossed in the monitors before her. She felt his eyes on her, and the air surrounding them grew heavy, charged. She found it difficult to breathe.

  “What now?” Jay asked quietly.

  Kasey stood and stretched, breaking whatever confidential web they had spun. “It’s time for me to call it a night. Either it’s his day off or we missed him,” she said. “I go on to another job and you go upstairs to your wife. Tomorrow is another day.”

  He sighed, shook his head ruefully. “My wife. I’m not a very good husband to her, am I? She has every right to be fed up with me. Tonight of all nights I should have spent with her. I meant to leave hours ago. I—”

  “Jay, don’t be so hard on yourself. What you’re doing is for her, too. She should understand.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Besides, the night’s still young.”

  On her way out of the club she played three quarters in the triple 7 machine at the back door that she had come to regard as “her machine.” It paid her even money. She pocketed the quarters and left to meet Sherry across town.

 
Chapter Twenty-Three

  Kasey and Sherry arrived at Clemetine’s at the same time.

  Waiting for Sherry at the entrance of the restaurant, Kasey watched her jockey her ‘74 GMC pickup into a tight space alongside a new, bright-red Porsche. The Porsche’s driver, in an attempt to avoid a door ding, had taken up two parking spaces. There were other parking places in the lot, but Sherry had ignored them and squeezed in.

  The old battered truck, with the two right wheels on a planter curb, sat askew like a drunken, armored warrior begging for a kiss from the shiny lady in red. It evoked quite a picture, one the Porsche’s owner was not likely to appreciate, which was exactly the point.

  Sherry waved at Kasey through the rear window, hopped across the seat, and exited on the passenger side. She ran across the parking lot, her enormous suede handbag slung over her shoulder and bouncing against her back, fully stocked with at least one change of clothes, condoms, corkscrew, Mace and siren alarm, umbrella, cosmetics, reading material, bottled water, and an assortment of snacks. If trapped or abandoned anywhere, Sherry could live out of that bag for days.

  Tonight she looked older, more mature. At home, with her hair in a ponytail and no makeup, she could easily pass for a teenager. Her reddish-blonde hair had been twisted into a loose chignon at the back of her neck. Under a shapeless beige tunic she wore a black miniskirt. Her long, thin legs were stockingless, ending with a pair of unadorned leather sandals on pale, tiny feet. Sherry’s choice of dress seemed in contrast to the girl herself. Classy, yet slightly tacky. Sexy, yet chaste. Looking at her now, no one would guess that she made a living hustling in the better hotels in town. Or that she used the money to put herself through school.

  They entered the still-crowded restaurant and made a beeline for the lounge. The bar was full. Two-deep in several places. They slid into an empty booth at the back of the room.

  “Keep your eye open for a couple places at the bar,” Kasey said over the loud jukebox music. “We’re out of the loop back here.”

  “Does the owner know you’re coming tonight?” Sherry asked.

  “No. He doesn’t even know who I am. We’ve only spoken on the phone.”

  Kasey took in the action. There were two bartenders and two cocktail waitresses. People ate at the bar, on cocktail tables, and in the booths—overflow from the restaurant. “Business is certainly good. The man should be making money.”

  “A manager?”

  “Nope. This guy owns and operates. He’s here nearly every night. Either he’s a lousy businessman or he has some pretty brazen employees. Can you see the registers?” When Sherry nodded, Kasey said, “I’ll take the right. You get the left.”

  Sherry had worked with Kasey enough to know the routine by heart. Bartenders were always scrutinized first. Managers and relatives tied for second.

  A cocktail waitress wearing jeans and a tank top with Clemetine’s printed on it placed napkins on the table. Before she could take their order, a large man with curly black hair, glasses in thick black frames, and a grin that looked plastered on, approached them. “I’ll take care of these ladies, Abby. Tell Hank to throw a steak on the grill for me. I’ll eat it at the bar.”

  He placed both palms flat on the table and leaned forward, exposing a chest as hairy as a shag mat. “First timers, am I right?”

  They nodded.

  “Welcome. I own the joint. Name’s Leroy Tate. We have a policy here. For pretty ladies, the first drink is on the house.”

  “What if the lady is not pretty?” Kasey asked.

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” he said, winking. “Anything you want. What’ll it be?”

  “Champagne?” Sherry asked.

  He squinted at Sherry. “Say, are you old enough to drink?”

  She unflinchingly stared him down. “Yeah. I’m old enough.”

  “Yeah. Okay.” He straightened. “Well, sorry to disappoint you, honey, but we only sell champagne by the bottle. House wine’s real good, though.”

  “You said anything I want. I want champagne. The bottle. On the house, naturally.”

  Kasey was about to nudge Sherry under the table. A low-profile was essential in this line of business. Sherry nudged her instead. Kasey sat back, waited.

  The owner laughed. “You got me there. Pretty clever. Okay, little lady, you’ll get your champagne. Only because I like you. And what’s your friend going to have? A kegger?”

  “Thanks, I’ll just share her champagne.”

  “Now I’m only doing this for you two this one time, so don’t go blabbing it around. At this rate I’d be broke in no time.”

  When he was gone, Kasey turned to her companion. “What was that all about?”

  “I know his type. Relax, you’ll see.”

  The waitress brought an ice bucket, champagne, and three glasses. A moment later, Tate popped the cork and filled the glasses, taking one for himself He nudged his way in beside Sherry, told a couple raunchy jokes to break the ice, gulped down the champagne, then excused himself, telling them to save his place, he’d be back soon.

  They watched him return to the bar, to a heaping plate of food and a bottle of red wine

  In the course of two hours, he comped every woman in the lounge with drinks and appetizers, some more than once. He took change from the till to feed the jukebox and four slot machines, put away two sixteen-ounce steaks, and drank nonstop until he could no longer sit a stool at the bar. Mr. Leroy Tate was having a good time.

  “This jackass doesn’t need crooked help. He’s his own worst enemy,” Kasey said, loading a chip with guacamole. “How’d you know?”

  “I knew the minute I laid eyes on him he was an ‘impress the ladies’ sort of guy and a really good sport. That’s always expensive. He’s a boozer. That gets expensive, too.”

  “And the help are right there, filling their pockets, going along for the ride. I bet plenty of those nice juicy steaks, like the ones he had for dinner, are going out the back door every night.”

  “Sssh, here he comes,” Sherry said, lighting a cigarette. She only smoked when she drank, and she neither drank nor smoked at home—Atwood house rules.

  Tate flopped down in the booth, practically sitting on Kasey. “How’re my two little bubble gals doing?” he asked thickly. “Got everything you need? Want you to come back, have a good time.”

  He squeezed Kasey’s thigh, tried to kiss her. When she pulled away, he whined, “Hey, don’t start getting righteous. You two been suckin’ up freebies all night. Y’know, I can still charge you for the champagne and those finger foods.”

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Tate, my name is Kasey Atwood. You called me on Monday. Hired me to check out Clemetine’s”

  His brow furrowed. When it finally sank in, his frown deepened. “Well, hell, why didn’t you say so before?”

  “Could we talk in private?”

  “Yeah, sure. My office.”

  They left Sherry in the booth. His office was a cluttered room filled with cases of liquor, pamphlets, extra furniture, and odds and ends. He leaned back on the desk, both hands bracing him, head bobbing drunkenly.

  “First question,” Kasey said. “How are the day receipts?”

  “They seem okay.”

  “You have a manager?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Mr. Tate, this is my first time in the place. Because it’s my first time, what I have to say may not be a fair evaluation. But since I don’t intend to return, I’ll just have to go by what I saw here tonight.”

  “How could you see anything sitting in a back booth?”

  “I saw plenty. I could have sat anywhere in the bar. If your employees are stealing from you—and I’m sure they are—it’s because they can get away with it. This is a business, Mr. Tate, not your own personal playground.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “If tonight is an example of every other night, it means that much of your profits are going into your own gullet. My advice to you is to stay out of th
e place until you can get yourself dried up. Hire a good night manager.”

  “Who the hell do you think you are, telling me my business?”

  “You hired me to find out where the profits are going. I told you what I thought.” She opened the door. “I’ll send you the report and my bill.”

  “Dock the price of the champagne,” he said sourly.

  “Sorry, that falls under the heading of expenses.”

  Kasey went back to the booth to find Sherry gone. Her cigarettes and lighter were on the table. The waitress informed Kasey that her friend was in the ladies’ room.

  The champagne was gone, the bottle upended in the bucket of melting ice. She dropped several bills on the table for the waitress, picked up Sherry’s cigarettes and lighter, and went to the bar to wait.

  She ordered a plain tonic and lime and laid several singles and change on the bar. The bartender served her. He took the exact change. The money never made it into the register, but went directly into his pocket. She watched him work the bar. In a short time, his pocket had fattened considerably. He wasn’t even trying to be discreet. Open stealing. A proprietor, even one not on the premises every night, would have figured out what was going on in no time. Any sober proprietor, that is.

  She sipped her tonic, scanned the faces along the crowded bar. On the end stool, facing her, a man with a dark baseball cap stared at her. He looked familiar. Where had she seen him before? It was difficult to make him out in the dim, smoky room, and with that cap—

  It was him.

  Kasey quickly lowered her eyes. What was he doing here? Was it just a coincidence or had he followed her from the club?

  By the way he was watching her, his gaze intense, she could tell it was no coincidence.

  She and Jay hadn’t spotted him coming or going through the club’s employee station because he wasn’t on duty today. Would he be there tomorrow? Who was he? How long had he been sitting there watching her?

  She picked up her change along with Sherry’s things and hurried to the rest room. She found Sherry at the vanity freshening her makeup.