Worst In Show: A Jamie Bravo Mystery

by Layce Gardner

  “Today as a matter of fact. She sends you her love.” That is a lie. Veronica never thinks of anyone other than Veronica and she never sends her love anywhere.

  “The Jew won’t be hard to find,” Pa says. “Did you check the attic?”

  “Basta!” Ma says taking the extra piece of bread off his plate. She continues her conversation with me. “I still think you and Veronica are perfect for each other.”

  She always waits until my mouth is full before saying something I might disagree with because she knows I can’t talk back.

  “The hymen will be harder to find,” Pa says, pointing his fork at me while reaching for a second helping of spaghetti. “They’re like Bigfoot. Everybody’s heard of ‘em, but nobody’s ever actually seen one.” Ma moves the spaghetti bowl away from him.

  “I already found Mr. Friedman,” I say. “He jumped the pond. Mrs. Friedman’s on her way to London to collect him right now.”

  “How will she find him? London’s a big city,” Pa says.

  I sometimes wonder if he might do the same thing one day. Just up and leave. Ever since he retired from the garbage business he’s been antsy. He spent forty years picking up trash and now he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

  “I already found him,” I say. “The travel agent he booked the flight through also booked his hotel reservation.”

  “Not too smart is he?” Pa says.

  “Don’t you be getting any ideas, Mister,” Ma says.

  “Who me?” Pa throws me a wink. “I would never.”

  Ma puts a second helping of noodles on my plate without me asking. Looks like I’ll be going to the gym later.

  “How will you find the hymen?” Ma asks.

  Pa chuckles. “I stole your mother’s hymen. Isn’t that right, Bella? In the back seat of a –“

  “Basta!” I shout, clapping my hands over my ears.

  “That’s right, Eddie. You sure did.” Ma leans across the table and lays a big smooch on Pa. He reaches around and grabs her butt. I turn away from the spectacle and continue eating.

  That’s the other thing about being Italian-American. We’re a touchy-feely group.

  Eight

  “Does he talk?” Travis asks.

  “I can’t hear you,” I say back. “The music is too loud.”

  “I can’t hear you,” he mouths back, pointing at his ear and shaking his head.

  I’m sitting on a stool in the back bar at Burt’s Burlesque. I should be at the gym, but Mom’s dinner is sitting heavy and if I went running right now I’d end up puking. Isn’t there some kind of saying that you have to wait an hour after eating to work out? Or is that just for swimming?

  Travis slides me a chocolate Yoo-Hoo. It’s my drink of choice. Travis is the bartender here and he keeps Yoo-Hoos on hand just for me.

  I gave up alcohol a long time ago. I’m not an alcoholic or anything, I just can’t stand the taste of liquor. Not after the Martini Incident. I won’t go into all the boring details about the Martini Incident, but here’s the highlights: Christmas Eve, seven martinis, no pants, cops, big mouth, black eye, bail money. If it hadn’t been for Uncle Cheech pulling in some favors I might’ve been serving some serious time.

  Hence, the chocolate Yoo-Hoos.

  The song finishes and I quickly ask, “What did you say?”

  Travis tries again, “Does your fine feathered friend have the gift of gab?”

  “Who? Lebowitz?”

  “Yes. A lot of parrots talk,” Travis says. “I once had a boyfriend that had a cockatoo that talked.”

  “By cockatoo do you mean a bird or a…” I point at my lap.

  Travis laughs. “I meant a bird. He mimicked everything Bob said.”

  “I don’t think you’ve ever told me this story.”

  “I broke up with Bob when we were in bed and the bird shouts, “Give it to me harder, Rodney.”

  “Who’s Rodney?”

  “That’s what I asked.”

  “Whoopsy.”

  “The moral of this sordid tale is: If you’re going to have an affair, don’t have it near a parrot.”

  I slurp down the rest of my drink and Travis slides me another. “This bird talks all right," I say. "In fact he never shuts up.”

  “I thought you were afraid of birds.”

  “I’m not afraid of birds so much as they scare me,” I say.

  “You’re not making sense,” Travis says. “I’m cutting you off. No more Yoo-Hoos for you.”

  The music starts in again and I swivel around to face the stage. I’m rewarded when my favorite dancer, Camilla Carson, struts out onto the stage. Camilla is a knock-out. She has red hair and pink feathers. She does this intricate fan dance with her feather fan and you can catch glimpses of skin and boobs and butt and it drives everyone in the audience crazy. Especially me. Camilla is what you’d call an artiste.

  Travis uncaps a pen with his teeth, scrawls on a napkin and pushes it over to me. “Camilla likes you,” it says.

  I shake my head, grab his pen and draw a line on the napkin. Travis understands that the line is shorthand for ‘she’s straight.’

  He shrugs, takes the pen and draws a picture of a toaster oven. It makes me laugh. I watch the rest of Camilla’s act and as she walks offstage I swear she looks right at me and blows a kiss my way. Now I’m worked into such a lather, I’m going to have to go to the gym and work off all this excess energy and take a cold shower.

  “Got any leads on the hymen case?” Travis asks during the lull in music.

  “Nope.” I had told him earlier about Veronica and the missing hymen. That was my first mistake.

  Travis leans across the bar and whispers, “We should tail this guy. Find out why he wants to break the pre-nup.”

  “You mean, I should tail the guy,” I correct. “I’m the detective here, not you.”

  “Every Sherlock has a Watson,” he says. “I could be your Watson.”

  “I don’t need a Watson.”

  “I could be Robin,” he says. “You’re Batman. I’m Robin.”

  “Me Tarzan. You Jane,” I joke.

  “I want to help,” he says, working his lower lip into a pout. “I have skills.”

  “You have interior design skills. When I need new throw pillows, I’ll ask for your help.” I down the Yoo-Hoo and stand. “Thanks for the drinks.” I head for the exit.

  “You’re going to need me, you’ll see,” Travis calls after me. “You’ll be sorry!”

  Like I’ve never heard that before. I throw Travis a goodbye wave over my shoulder. “Ciao!”

  Nine

  I hate Zelda Washington. She’s been my arch-nemesis since high school. She was Senior class secretary and voted best athlete, too. She won state in track and was all-American in basketball. She turned down an opportunity to go into the WNBA to become some kind of hotshot stockbroker. She’s smart and gorgeous and rich and she gets all the girls. And she regularly disgraces me on the track. She’s faster and can run longer than me even on a bad day, which she does not appear to ever have.

  Our rivalry goes way back. Junior year of high school, I walked out to the parking lot to find a crowd of classmates huddled around my VW bug. They were pointing and laughing at something inside my car. I pushed through the crowd and saw a huge dildo sitting on the dash. You have to know I was only seventeen and was barely coming to terms with my own sexuality. I became the laughingstock of the school. I didn’t find out until months later that Zelda was the culprit.

  Zelda’s an inch taller than me and has a close-cropped afro. She’s African-American with skin the color of honey and a butt you can bounce a quarter off of. If I didn’t hate her so much, I would want to date her.

  I lace up my seen-better-days cross trainers and do some hamstring stretches by the track as Zelda zips by. She makes four laps around the track without even breaking a sweat. I should switch gyms. But I like coming to Holden’s Gym. It’s a no frills type of place where boxers workout. It smells like s
weaty socks and testosterone. I like it here because the men leave me alone and at the same time I can feel like one of them.

  Sometimes the owner, Mr. Holden, takes me aside and teaches me a new boxing move. I owe my right uppercut to him. He also taught me that in a fight the element of surprise means more than muscle. On second thought, I’m staying right here at this gym. I’m not going to let Zelda yuck up my yum.

  I take off in a loose jog designed to warm up my muscles and get my breathing past the wheezing stage. I fully expect Zelda to roar around me, but instead she slows down to my pace and jogs alongside me. I don’t give her the pleasure of acknowledging her.

  “Looking good, Jaime,” she says.

  She’s baiting me. I don’t answer.

  “I wish I could look as good as you and not exercise,” she says. “How do you do it?”

  See what I mean? Zelda is a professional with the double-edged sword.

  She continues, “I have to run ten miles a day and work out with weights to maintain my physique.”

  I say, “You think you have it bad. I have to eat plate after plate of pasta to look like this.”

  She laughs. We jog in silence for a whole lap and then she says, “You still dating Veronica?”

  “Why do you want to know?” I ask. I figure she’s either going to ask Veronica out or she’s planning on getting her jollies by taking Veronica away from me.

  “She’s hot,” Zelda says. “I was going to ask her out. If you’re done with her, I mean.”

  If I’m done with her? Geez, does this woman have the market cornered on sexist pig or what?

  “You have my blessing,” I say. “Ask her out. You two deserve each other.” I take off running at full-speed and smoke her by a mile.

  Okay, not really. She thanks me and takes off running. I’m left choking on her exhaust and my own smoldering anger.

  I quit after two miles. Zelda is still running, looking as fresh as a daisy, of course. As I walk off the track, Zelda yells, “Leaving so soon?”

  “Not feeling too good,” I half-shout, half-mumble before I escape to the women’s locker room.

  I’m going to tell you the truth here. What I do next is not nice. On a scale of one to ten it’s maybe only a three, but if you figure in the fact that’s it premeditated that might push it as high as a five. See, I know that Zelda is a creature of habit. She has six miles left to run and then she lifts weight for an hour and then she showers. She always uses the same shower stall.

  That’s why I brought the chicken bouillon cube with me. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.

  I go into the shower stall that Zelda always uses. I unscrew the shower head and insert the bouillon. I wish I could stick around to watch the action, but I have to settle for knowing that by the time Zelda leaves the gym, she’s going to smell like hot chicken soup and be surrounded by a pack of dogs.

  Ten

  “Can I go with you?” Travis asks. He is sitting at the bar in our kitchen polishing off a bowl of Lucky Charms. It’s the first question he asks when I walk in. No hello, no good morning, just a 'can I go with you?'

  I don’t dare look at him. His puppy dog eyes melt me every time and I need to remain firm. “No. You cannot go with me, so stop asking already.”

  Travis looks crushed at my pronouncement. But I can’t give in. I’m going undercover today and I can’t risk having him tagging along with me. I need to be incognito. And if there’s one thing Travis isn’t, it’s incognito.

  I pour myself a cup of joe out of the French press and add milk. I’m feeling pretty good about my new career choice. I think I did a pretty good job yesterday on my first day. I found Leo Freidman and, thanks to Veronica, I’ve got a new case to crack.

  I sit across from Travis at the bar and say, “I could use your help on something else, though.”

  He perks up. “What kind of help?”

  “I need you at my office today. Get things organized. Maybe decorate it. Make it look, you know, all legit and professional like and keep Veronica out of my hair. That kind of stuff.”

  “You want me to be your temp secretary? No, thanks.”

  Great. Now he’s acting all huffy puffy. I try another tactic. “I could also use your help titling the cases so I can keep them straight in my mind. How about I call this one “The Case of the Missing Hymen?”

  “Sure, Nancy Drew, whatever you say.” He stalks out of the kitchen. Veronica the cat puts her tail in the air and stalks out behind him.

  I could follow Travis and try to sweet talk him, but that’s exactly what he wants me to do. So, I let him go. I don’t worry too much about Travis and his mercurial moods. I’ve lived with him long enough to know that his mood can change quicker than the weather. He might be stormy right now, but by the time I get home, he’ll be sunny again. Veronica the cat, maybe not so much.

  I throw on my detective costume—my trench coat and fedora. I grab my keys, my coffee and head for the door. Wait, I need my gun. I can’t forget that. Today may be dangerous. No telling what I’ll find when I start tailing this Milton Charles character. I pat my pockets with my one free hand and feel the lump of my gun in my coat pocket.

  All set, I head out the door.

  Milton Charles is not what he appears to be. It only takes me two hours to figure that out. I don’t know exactly what his game is, but I can smell deceit on him like a three day-old fish. I first tag him as he comes out of the Embassy Suites parking garage, driving a brand new Mercedes—it still has temporary tags. I tail him all the way to Dom’s Do-Nuts. (For the record, I don’t know why Dom put the hyphen in the word donuts.)

  Milton is a shrimpy guy. Maybe thirty years-old and already going bald. He is dressed in a nice suit and his sunglasses and watch probably cost more than my whole wardrobe. He is also nervous and fidgety. I watch him get out of his car, look this way and that, like a guilty person would, before he heads into the Do-Nut shop.

  I mosey into the Do-Nut shop like I got all the time in the world and nowhere else to be. I order a bran muffin and cup of coffee. I snag a newspaper from an empty table and set myself up at a booth in the corner. I watch over the top of my paper as Milton disappears into the back room.

  I settle in to wait.

  I wait a long time.

  Three bran muffins and four cups of coffee later, I’ve read the entire newspaper and the owner of the place starts giving me the stink eye. I go back out to my car and settle in to wait. I put a Aerosmith CD in the player and boost the sound. I love Aerosmith.

  I’m air-drumming to Dude Looks Like a Lady when Milton makes his appearance. He scans the street again before exiting the shop. He looks right past me, probably figuring somebody drumming their steering wheel and rocking out inside their car isn’t a potential threat.

  He quickly jumps back into his Mercedes and speeds toward downtown. I stick to his ass like glue the whole way.

  He parks in front of Giovanni’s World Famous Gelato. He hops out of his car, pockets his keys and walks inside. I luck out with a parking space half a block away. This is Midtown and parking is at a premium. I get out and go inside Giovanni’s.

  I spot Milton right away. He’s in a booth seated across from three goombahs. They’re dressed in silk suits with lots of gold jewelry. They have olive skin, greased back hair and flat noses from being punched once too often.

  Of course Giovanni’s would be a meeting place for the mafia. I mean, who buys gelato in the middle of winter? Giovanni would go broke unless he had another way to make income. And now I know what it is. His place is a mafia stronghold.

  I walk up to the counter. There’s an old Italian man—who I assume is Giovanni—wearing a green velour jogging suit and standing behind the glass case. He’s not wearing a shirt and the jacket is only zipped up halfway. His big belly is covered in gray hair and is poking out of the jacket. I’m pretty sure that’s a health code violation.

  I smile at him and order a raspberry gelato. Giovanni gives me the up and do
wn and says, “All out.”

  I say, “Okay, how about the strawberry?”

  “All out.”

  “Chocolate with sea salt.”

  “All out.”

  “What kind of gelato do you have?”

  “We’re all out of gelato.”

  “What are you serving?” I ask.

  “We ain’t.”

  My stomach does a weird gurgle thing. Then it spreads to my lower intestines and lets out a roar that would put the MGM lion to shame. I’m seized by cramps and I feel like there’s a live hamster trapped in my colon. I look over at the table and the goombahs and Milton are staring at me.

  Uh oh, I think my colon just blew my cover. I smile and say apologetically, “Sorry. Bran muffins.”

  They nod like they understand and go back to conversing in low tones. I whisper to Giovanni, “Please let me use your bathroom.”

  He points toward the back of the shop. I don’t waste any time heading in that direction.

  You’ll be relieved to know that I’m not going to describe the power of bran muffins. But I do want you to know that I spent fifteen minutes on that toilet. But it wasn’t totally wasted time. I took my ball point pen and scribbled on the stall door, “For a good time call Zelda.” And I scrawled her phone number right under it.

  Maybe she’ll get lucky tonight.

  She can thank me later.

  I come out of the bathroom three pounds lighter than when I went in. Milton and the goombahs are still in the booth and none of them look happy. In fact, I’d go so far as to say Milton looks scared to death.

  I grab a seat in the booth directly behind them. None of them seem to notice me because at that moment Milton hands over a creased, stained and sweaty manila envelope and their attention is riveted on that. Goombah #1 grabs the envelope, opens it and peeks inside. He scowls and looks back at Milton.

  Milton shrivels under his gaze.