This time I shake my head. “I don’t know. They didn’t say.”
Mrs. Hildegard fans herself with a cocktail napkin. “That’s the bad news.”
“No, that’s the mediocre news.”
Mrs. Heinz sets down her tea cup and crosses her arms. “Mediocre? You didn’t say anything about mediocre. You said there’s good news and there’s bad news. I don’t think there should be mediocre news. Let’s vote on it.” She looks at the other ladies and says, “Everybody who thinks we shouldn’t have mediocre news, raise your hand.”
Mrs. Friedman comes to my rescue. “Voting won’t make the news go away. Now buck up and listen.” Mrs. Friedman looks at me. “Go ahead, Jamie. Shoot. We can handle it.”
I snag a macadamia nut cookie and take a big bite. It catches in my throat and I erupt in a coughing fit. Mrs. Pittman hurriedly pours a cup of tea and hands it to me. I gulp the hot tea and end up burning my tongue. I put the cookie back down on the edge of the plate and clear my throat.
The ladies are staring at me, waiting. “Ahem… the bad news is… Lenny is going to kill your dogs tonight.”
There is a stunned silence.
I pick the cookie back up. I nibble it.
Finally, Mrs. Pittman stands, put her hands on her big hips and says, “They don’t know who they’re messing with. My ancestors didn’t live through slavery just to have their pets slaughtered.”
Mrs. Friedman stands also, shakes a bony finger and joins in, “You preach it, sister. My grandmother didn’t live through the horrors of the Holocaust to have me witness mass murder all over again.”
Mrs. Myers stands, “Not to mention the Armenian genocide.”
Everyone stares at Mrs. Myers. Mrs. Heinz asks, “You’re Armenian?”
“No, but Cher is,” Mrs. Myers says. “Did you know that? I heard about it on that show Celebrity Bio. This whole time I thought Cher was Native American. Probably from that song she did. Half-Breed. Turns out she’s Armenian. Threw me for a loop, I’ll tell you that much. She’s Armenian and her only daughter is now a son and her ugly little husband hit a tree head first and died. She’s had some hardships in her life. It’s at times like these that you have to ask yourself, “What would Cher do?” Would she sit around and let some mobster kill her doggie? I don’t think so. Are you all with me? Let’s go Cher all over their asses.”
That was some speech. In another life, Mrs. Myers might have had a job as a life coach. “Mrs. Myers is right. I’m not going to let your dogs come to any harm. I am here to promise you that not one hair on your dogs’ chinny-chin-chins will be disturbed.”
“How are you going to do that?” Mrs. Pittman asks.
I have a plan. Don’t you worry. I have a big plan.” I stick my hand into the circle of women and say, “Put it right there.”
Each woman lays her hand on top of mine and we do our rendition of a basketball huddle. “One. Two. Three. Let’s go!”
I’m halfway out the door when I hear Lebowitz squawk from his cage, “Gay and Jews! Let’s Go! Gay and Jews!”
I don’t really have much of a plan. I acted like I had one to keep the ladies from worrying so much. All I have done so far is sit in my car in front of Lenny Russo’s house. If he leaves his house I’ll tail him. After that I don’t know what I’ll do. Shoot him? He’ll have a gun for sure. All I have is a banana. I haven’t resolved my issue with packing a real gun. Can I shoot a dognapper and not be jailed myself? I should’ve checked with London first. Meanwhile there’s my banana pretending to be a gun. People have robbed banks with their finger pointing in their pocket so anything is possible.
I could punch his lights out but being a mobster he’s probably a better boxer than I’ll ever be even with Holden’s tips. He might hesitate getting into a boxing match though if it meant messing up his manicure.
I don’t even have any friends who could beat him up. Wait a minute. Yes, I do. I have a friend who would love to beat Lenny Russo to a pulp.
I chuckle as I think through my newly hatched plan. This could actually work. I pull out my cell phone and dial Zelda’s number.
She answers on the second ring.
“Zelda, this is Jamie Bravo.”
“Yeah?”
She sounds like I woke her up. “You sleeping?”
“Yeah, I was.”
“Alone?”
“Yeah, I’m alone. Is this a booty call, Jamie?”
“No,” I say. “I was wondering if you’d like to kick a little ass.”
“Who’s ass?”
“How about the guy who’s been boffing your girlfriend, Tiffany?”
There’s a short pause then she says, “I can be ready in ten minutes.”
“Bring ski masks and duct tape,” I say before giving her Lenny’s address.
Forty-Five
I’m not really a bad person. Zelda deserves anything I can dish out. She’s done horrible things to me in the past (see previous dildo on the dashboard story.) This is Karma doing her thing. That’s what I keep telling myself as Zelda and I slip on our black ski masks. We slink up to Lenny’s door and knock.
“Maybe we shouldn’t have knocked,” she says.
“Why?”
“Because that’s giving him a warning. He could make a run for it,” she says.
Before I can respond, the door opens. Lenny stands before us in silk pajamas. That’s not the weirdest part. The weirdest part is that he’s wearing women’s silk pajamas. Like one of those slinky Teddy things I see in Victoria’s Secret catalogs. His matching high heels have feathers on the toes.
I don’t know who he was expecting, but it sure wasn’t us. When he sees us standing there on his porch, dressed in black from head to toe, he goes into panic mode and clasps his hands over his silk-clad genitals. “Holy shit!” He tries to slam the door but Zelda sticks her foot in its path, throws the door open all the way and pushes Lenny up against the inside wall.
I follow her into the house and shut the door behind us.
She has Lenny by the throat. “Where is she?”
“Who?” he manages to squeak.
“I don’t have time for your innocent act, Russo. Where’s my girlfriend?”
“I dunno,” he gasps.
“Wrong answer, dick head,” Zelda barks, “Try again.”
“Do I look like I’m into women?” he says. His face is turning purple.
Zelda looks over her shoulder at me and orders, “Don’t just stand there. Search the place. Tiffany’s got to be here somewhere.”
“Okay, boss,” I say, throwing up a mock salute. I head down a hallway, throwing open each door as I pass by. I don’t know what I’m expecting to find. Maybe a room with four dogs in it and they’re all happy to see me. But that scenario doesn’t pan out. The last door I throw open is Lenny’s boudoir.
Sidebar: I call it a boudoir because the room is decorated in red velvet, black lace, way too much furniture and lots of trinkets and fluff. Furry handcuffs dangle from the headboard. I check out the bottles on the nightstand. There’s several quart size pump bottles of a warming lube called Sliquid. He must buy the stuff by the case.
I walk back out into the hallway, tightly closing the door behind me. I wish I could bleach and scrub the last two minutes out of my mind. Unfortunately for me, some things can’t be unseen.
I walk into the main bathroom. No dogs. I even pull back the shower curtain and look in the tub. Nothing in there but enough toiletries to stock a drug store. How many shampoos, conditioners, face scrubs, perfumed body washes and soap does one guy need?
Next stop is the kitchen. I look everywhere. In the cabinets, under the table. No dogs. No signs of even having a dog once upon a time. No food, no water bowl, no dog biscuits in the cupboard.
Deduction: Lenny isn’t keeping the dogs here. My job just got a hundred times harder. Wait a minute. I see an outline of what looks like a door. It’s wallpapered over so that it blends in with the rest of the wall. There’s no doorknob, but when I push
on it, it springs open. I reach into the darkness until I find a light switch. I flick on the light. There’s wooden stairs leading down to a dirt floor.
Crap. I hate basements. Nothing good ever comes out of basements. Especially basements with dirt floors.
“Did you find her yet?!” Zelda calls out from the living room.
“Not yet!” I yell back. “There’s a basement though. I’m going to check it out!”
I descend the steps slowly. Crap, crap. crap. I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all. I wish I had my gun now. I hate guns but I hate spooky basements even worse.
I get to the bottom of the stairs. Cold sweat drips down my back and into my butt crack. I turn in a tight circle, looking around. Besides a few cobwebs, a rusty water heater and the house’s central heat and air system, I don’t see anything.
Except… I walk over to a corner of the basement and pick up a dog collar. It’s purple with cubic zirconians glued all over it. It has tags, too. I hold the tags under the dangling yellow light bulb. Lady Sybil.
Oh, man. Mrs. Heinz’s German Shepherd was definitely here.
But where is she now?
That’s the 64,000 dollar question.
By the time I get back upstairs, Zelda has Lenny duct taped to a kitchen chair and there’s a dishrag stuffed into his mouth.
“I found this,” I say, holding it in front of Lenny’s face.
Zelda wrinkles her nose. “What’s that, a dog collar?”
I ignore her and pull the dishrag out of Lenny’s mouth, “Where is Lady Sybil?”
Lenny clamps his mouth shut and turns his face away. Zelda puts her hands on her hips and snarls at me, “Who’s Sybil? Is she your girlfriend?”
“She’s a dog," I say.
“All your girlfriend’s are dogs,” she says.
“Ha! Good one,” Lenny adds.
“That’s not true! Veronica is hot.”
“If you say so,” Zelda says, rolling her eyes. “She’s more like frozen if you ask me.”
“You’re the one who’s going out with a Tiffany. What kind of name is Tiffany anyway?”
“It just so happens that Tiffany is a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader,” Zelda boasts.
“Oh yeah? Then what’s she doing here? Shouldn’t she be in Dallas?”
“Off season.”
“Hmmmph, likely story,” I shake the collar in her face. “Besides, Lady Sybil is a real dog. Of the four-legged variety.”
Zelda pokes me in the sternum with her finger, accusing, “You didn’t come here to help me find Tiffany, did you?”
I don’t say anything.
She narrows her eyes and pokes me again. “You came here looking for a dog.”
“So?”
“So? You made me think he was having an affair with my girlfriend just so I could help you break in here and find a dog?”
“It’s not just any dog! It’s a German Shepherd who can open doors and flush toilets!” I made up that last part, but Zelda doesn’t know that.
Lenny pipes up, “Listen, I’d love to sit here and listen to your lover’s spat, but can somebody un-duct tape me?”
“Shut up!” we both say at the same time.
I bend down into Lenny’s face and spit, “Tell me where you stashed the dogs, Lenny. Or else.”
He smiles. And not because he’s happy. This smile is more like a snake showing its fangs. He says, “The cops are on their way. You might want to leave now while the getting is still good.”
“You didn’t call the cops, Lenny. You’re bluffing,” I say.
“Am I? Am I really?”
I look at Zelda. “Did you leave him alone?”
“I had to pee. He was taped up.”
Lenny scoots over on the chair and his cell phone drops on the floor. I don’t even want to know where he was keeping it. Or what he used to dial it with.
“What?” Panic colors my voice. “You left him alone with a phone and went to the bathroom?”
“Whenever I get nervous I have to pee. How’d I know he had a phone tucked in his Teddy?”
We all hear the sirens wailing in the distance. Zelda and I run out the front door, tumble over each other getting off the porch, dash into the street and jump into our separate cars.
I swear I can hear Lenny’s laughter all the way down block.
I circle back round fifteen minutes later and park on Lenny’s street two houses down from his. I watch as two cops leave Lenny’s and head out to their cruiser. I roll down my window a crack so I can hear what they’re saying.
“That guy was a total freak,” one of them says.
“Nice set of legs,” the other one says and they laugh.
“One hell of a duct tape job,” the first one says. "Thought we'd never get him out of it."
Great. Lenny is loose. Now he knows that I know about the dogs. What will he do now? A better question would be what am I going to do now? Then it comes to me. All I have to do is keep him from leaving the house until morning. Killing the dogs isn’t high on his list anymore since with my evidence he’s looking at jail time if he does. He’s got them hidden and I still don’t know where so why not just leave them be for the time being. I need a distraction and then I get an another idea. I dig my phone out of my pocket and dial.
“Who’s this?” a gruff voice answers.
“Burt, it’s me, Jamie. I kinda sorta need your help.” Burt had so much fun posing as a mobster before I’m hoping he’ll help me out again.
“More Mafia business?”
“This is a little more… shall we say touchy feely than that.”
“How much touching and feeling?” he asks.
“That’s completely up to you. Do you know a guy named Lenny Russo?”
“Sure. He comes in the club sometimes,” Burt says. “Not a bad looking guy except for the mole.”
“Well, I need to make sure he doesn’t leave his house until he goes to the dog show tomorrow.”
“So, you want me to keep him busy, that it?”
“That about sums it up. The really interesting part is that he’s all dressed up in women’s lingerie.”
Burt chuckles. “Count me in.”
Forty-Six
After Burt goes into Lenny’s house I wait thirty minutes. When he doesn’t come back out, I know he’s sweet-talked his way into… Well, that’s all I really want to know.
All this breaking and entering and spying has me all worked up. I know I’ll never be able to sleep now. I decide to cruise by Gloria’s house. I’m thinking if I see a light on maybe I’ll stop. Maybe she’ll invite me in. Maybe we’ll watch an old Bogart movie. Maybe we’ll play Parcheesi. Maybe we’ll find other things to do.
My fantasy deflates when I drive by Gloria’s house and see something beyond disturbing. Veronica’s car is parked in driveway. Not only that, but all the lights are out. And I don’t think they’re playing Parcheesi in the dark.
The thought of Veronica touching my Gloria is enough to make me… I can’t even think about it.
I decide foul play is fair. I pull out the scrap of paper London tucked in my back pocket. It has her home address and phone number scribbled on it. I don’t think. I drive to London’s apartment. I park my car. I enter the building. I take the stairs to the ninth floor. By the time I reach her floor I’m sweating, out of breath and madder than hell at both Veronica and Gloria.
I knock timidly on London’s door. When she doesn’t immediately answer, I turn to leave. I’m halfway down the hall when I hear her door open. I turn back around. London is leaning against the open door. Boxers hang off her hips. A tank top leaving nothing to the imagination. My first thought is pretty x-rated. I’ll be keeping that to myself.
She says, “Hey, Jamie. Want to come in?”
I nod.
She gestures for me to come inside so I do.
Her place is small but the view more than makes up for it. I walk over to the far wall. It’s all glass. You can see the entire city spread out at
your feet. It’s breathtaking.
“You want something to drink? A beer?” she asks.
“I don’t drink.”
“Oh. You’re one of those.”
“No. I’m not an alcoholic. I just never acquired a taste for it.” I say all this without looking at her. I’m afraid if I look at her, I’ll lose all self-control and throw myself at her gorgeous body and beg her to ravish me.
“This is a bad idea,” I mumble. “I don’t even know why I came here.”
She walks up behind me. I can feel the length of her body press into my back. “I do. I know why you’re here,” she breathes into my ear.
I melt. I can’t help it. It’s the whole ear thing. It’s one of my erogenous zones. The tingle starts at the back of my neck and trickles all the way down to my toes. She places her lips on my neck and that’s like waving a red flag in front of a bull.
I turn and pull her to me. Our lips find each other. Our bodies meld together. She takes me by the hand and walks me to her bed. She slowly undresses me and pushes me back onto the bed. I pull her down on top of me and I lose all sense of time.
The sun wakes me up. London is still sleeping. I quietly dress and leave. We’re going to see each at the dog show and I don’t know how I feel about that.
A part of me wishes the sex had been really bad. That way I could forget it ever happened. Unfortunately, it wasn’t bad. It was the opposite of bad.
Last night, Gloria was obviously fooling around with Veronica. Why do I feel so guilty?
Forty-Seven
I speed all the way home, praying that I don’t get stopped for a ticket. I’m also praying Travis isn’t freaking because I stayed out all night. Only one of those prayers comes true.
Travis has worked himself into a human freak ball. He meets me at the door and starts screaming, “Where have you been? I’ve called all the hospitals! I’ve called the jail. I called the police. Right now there’s an amber alert out for you!”
“Aren’t amber alerts just for kids?”
Worst In Show: A Jamie Bravo Mystery Page 20