I handed her the light, pen, and paper and said, “This Oasis is nothing more than a planned coup, and we both know it’s not meant to be bloodless. What you’ve dug up so far has proved your brilliance, Ms Quinn. But keep digging.” I turned for my car. As I opened the door I heard the whine of a mosquito. I then felt its pesky proboscis pierce my skin. I slapped the back of my neck.
I dropped in the seat and faced my newfound pride and joy—God, how I love intellect. “If you break this case, Ms Quinn, I promise you’ll be a reporter at any top newspaper in the country—guaranteed.” As I drove away, I used the bimbo’s handkerchief to wipe the squashed skeeter from my neck.
40
I headed north along PCH toward Newport Beach. My intent was to cruise the usual nightclubs that Victor Knight frequented and to go in and call him out. Maybe there was a connection, a payoff with Turner and company that would send Victor into such a daring state of mind that not even a dogfight on the open road with a good friend would deter. But other more probable suspicions boiled in my head. Fortunately, I knew a couple spots where Mandingo perched his handsome Mulatto tail.
The Shark Pool, a nightclub located in Newport Beach, was where I found Victor’s Ferrari. Music pounded inside the club with fashionably dressed people crowding the large room. Barmaids marched across the floor with trays of food and drinks above their heads. Positioned high and in the middle of the club sat a huge aquarium with a large Blue Shark held captive inside, like a lurking predator, adding menace to the carousing of the room.
I stood for a moment and scanned the packed floor. I greeted a few people, more or less, depending on how well I knew them. Both sadly and entertainingly, I recognized a few local citizens. They were movers and shakers, prominent businessmen, college professors, politicians, judges, and even clergy, all nestled inside their demurring booths with cocktails and slutty barflies. There seemed to be a run on high-status meltdowns this evening.
Some women cast flirtatious interludes my way, while others, those with the most wanton desires, strolled past me, bristling their intentions against my back and shoulders, all vying to be noticed, then banged. They were trophy-wife wannabes, menially intelligent girls blessed with clock-stopping looks who were out for Mr. Loaded, in which I was. Except tonight I was dangerously locked and loaded.
Even men with gratuitous intentions made themselves known, daring me to maneuver over into their gay world where I had absolutely no desire of ever dancing. But it was the other men, straight men, husbands and boyfriends who made me the most uneasy. Fortunately I recognized no victims of my gigolo undertakings. Most were just guys with thick necks and hard heads, keeping a tight perimeter around their women just in case a guy like me pissed a musky scent inside their territory. To wit, I have a dubious distinction that neither friend nor foe can trust.
I plowed my way through the swarms of revelers and into the back rooms where these types of clubs become joints; where blows of cocaine string along tabletops and clouds of mary jane hover aloft, and also where hedonists perform eye-catching, often humorous, sexual tricks in bathroom stalls and in darkened corners.
Victor Knight slouched on a large chaise in a darkened corner. He was surrounded by two women, and, to no surprise, Lena McGuire was one of them. Her black hair was coiffed tightly along her serpentine neck and head. She then saw me and sneered, quite aptly. She stood and crossed the floor, holding her sights on me as she slithered into another lounge.
“Jackson!” Victor blurted out. He stood, then staggered over to me with the other woman clinging to him. “My friend, what brings you here? I rarely see you in these clubs.” His voice slurred.
“What the hell’s going on, Victor? On the highway today—I was almost killed.”
Victor leaned back, swaying his drunken body. He belched out a laugh and placed his hand on my shoulder. “Just what is it that you’re you telling me, Jackson—what highway?”
“This afternoon, the side road off Newport Coast road, then PCH where you swerved in front of me and caused a truck to dive off a cliff.”
Victor’s face morphed to sober. “What the hell, mon—are you mad?”
“Mad, no, but very, very pissed!”
“I slept in late this mornin’, and I had an all night with—where’d she go?” Victor looked around the room. “Lena, my Irish bitch. We fucked all night and I have been sleeping most of the day. I woke up only hours ago. Do not look at me in such a way, Jackson, you are worrying me and causing me to become angry—I know nothing of this.”
“It was your Ferrari, Vic.”
“My red stallion, Jackson? Is this the car you are talking about?”
“The one outside in the parking lot with silver paint from my car on its front fender.”
His eyes took a turn toward panic. “I must go see about my machine!” He pushed the girl off his shoulder and rammed his way through the crowded room. There were only two things Victor knight was obsessed about: gratuitous sex and his 220k red stallion.
I trudged back out to the packed dance floor and scanned the club. In the middle were three women dancing together, Catherine, the golden hair wonder, and the other one, Lena, the pale Irish serpentine bitch. Next to them was Angela, the ardent protégé, the baby sister with the dark raven hair and astounding, pure expression, forever tainted now by my cherry-popping warrior. All three were dressed in short, tight skirts, swimming in bejeweled hues of pulsating light and shadows, causing my heart to thump and my eyes to glaze.
Lena held her hands in front of her, gesturing the act of driving a car. She then blew me a kiss, confirming a not-so surprising conclusion to my harrowing day on the road.
Catherine danced toward me, bewitching me even more. Her eyes were set like jewels, and her face and body were lush and hot. She laid her arms on my shoulders and began kissing me with deep, tongue-plunging kisses. I couldn’t resist. I mean, hell, when in Rome, and so we pushed our way through the shadowy corridors and lounges like two toga-clad nymphs searching for a place to sway, play, and lay.
She finally led me to a large chaise lounge, a filthy implement of dirty dancing, and began to undress me. Angela came in and reclined with us. Even though my play button was pushed and every libidinous impulse inside me was humming at nuclear intensity, it was still first things first. I peeled up Catherine’s skirt, probing my fingers along those tiny welts of raised skin—a Christian cross branded onto the small of her little-girl back. I then held Angela down on the couch so she couldn’t face me and slid my hand on her buttocks and back, feeling for any scars. But I knew there wouldn’t be any.
Catherine’s hand grasped my arm—Ouch! Shit, more fingernails!—telling me to steer clear of Angela’s tender skin that may or may not render blemishes of priestly abuse.
I leaned heavier onto Angela and pulled her dress completely off. I bent close to her ear so that only she could hear, “Aren’t you disgusted, Angel, by the bourgeoisie here, the rich and powerful who want to rape the meek—who want to rape you?” She cringed, cowering on the lounge. “Where’s your scar, Angel?” I asked in a loud enough voice for Catherine to hear. “Where’s your rape cross, Angel?”
Catherine bore her fingers into my skin, ripping five scratch marks down my arm. I reared back and yelped as discreetly as any half-naked man in a nightclub could yelp. I riveted my attention on the four bloodlines that ran down my forearm.
“What’s the matter, Cat, can’t I play, too?” I gasped out a laugh. Catherine rose from the couch and marched away.
Standing nearby the chaise lounge was Lena. Her fists were on her hips and her pale face aimed that all too familiar fuck you my way. Angela clutched her dress and curled childlike on the couch, covering her nakedness.
I stood and faced Lena. “So, Lenny, a little manic are we? First you play dueling coups with me today, then swoop in just in time to rescue me from a head-on collision.”
“It wasn’t by design, I assure you,” she said. “You had another cat life in your quiv
er, it seemed, Jack. But you do drive the same way you fuck, you impotent son of a bitch.”
I drove my fist hard against her jaw, causing her to stagger only a step or two. This surprised me because I trained regularly at the gym on a dummy bag and the right cross I just landed on her would’ve knocked most men on their asses.
She then lunged toward me, ramming a head butt against my forehead and right eye socket. Pulses of light exploded through my skull, making me vulnerable to her knee that plunged into my groin. I doubled over, then landed hard on the floor. I couldn’t move or breathe.
Images of the dogfight earlier on the highway with Lena flashed through my mind, fueling my vengeance, the piss that ran through my veins. I climbed to my feet and bolted toward butch, body slamming her against the floor. I swung wildly, connecting squarely into her jaw, her nose, her eye sockets. This time the queen of Amazonia wasn’t getting up.
I was aloft suddenly in mid air as two bouncers snatched me from my slugfest and threw me against the wall. Lena lay motionless. One side of her face shined crimson red from blood streaming from her nose. She jackknifed her torso erect, scanned the room calmly, then stood and pushed her way through the crowded room.
The two gorilla bouncers dragged me through the packed nightclub and out the front door where they dropped me to the sidewalk.
“You best be on your way, Mr. Kidd,” one of the gorillas said. I knew his parents who were in charge of a local philanthropic group that I donated gobs of money to.
“Thanks, Bobby,” I said, straightening out my clothes. “I got what I came for. Say hello to your mom and pop for me.”
“Will do, Mr. Kidd.”
I got into my car and drove away. My jewels ached; the scratches on my arm burned like hell, and my head felt as if it had been rolled down a bowling alley. I touched my brow, noticing a hard knot beginning to swell up. I knew my eye would be nothing more than a sirloin steak by early morning, black-and-blue, hideously bruised, matching appropriately my hideously bruised heart.
41
I awoke and placed my hand on her side of my bed, feeling only a cool, empty space. I massaged my face and torso with my fingers and took a deep, glad-to-alive breath. A few days had passed since my barroom brawl with Lena, and since that time I’ve had the musing pleasure of having Catherine Fleming as my houseguest.
I agreed to her request to stay with me only because I missed her, hell, I was crazy in love with her, and I knew it would be easier to keep track of my psycho muse if she were within my immediate orbit.
We made love each night, then planned our escape each day until we had decided on how to do it: slip out of Newport Beach, the country, this meaningless existence, to where nights turned into days, and where the stink of Giorgio Armani would hopefully vacate the olfactory membranes of my nostrils.
I had broken up Catherine’s den of lionesses, and her evil sister’s nose, I think, and for the time being Catherine’s tag team of fatale femmes seemed without any bearing.
I listened for any signs of her milling about in the house. Only silence. I rose from bed, slipped on a pair of dungarees, and walked into the kitchen. It was Saturday, causing the small island of Balboa to be touristy and alive.
On my breakfast-nook table lay my laptop computer. I opened the computer and scrolled through my e-mail and found an eye opening, grammatically butchered message from Sam Ivy. Ivy had dated his message, which was a no-no when it came to our agreement of clandestine of correspondence. The date on the message was three-days old, which was peculiar. There’ve been no technical difficulties with my Internet connection the last few days. An added peculiarity was the fact that the message had not been sent through a virtual private network that I use for secrecy but had been forwarded to me from another unknown email address just this morning.
Mr. Kidd:
Been in London a week now and I got some damn weird things. Been like cloaks and daggers over here. I jimmied a few locks and found some talking heads. Just what you and I suspected. Those pretty canaries are hitting contracts. That’s not all. My hunch is right. Your marked. Your guess about the granny was dead on. Gertrude Hamner aka Iron Maiden was sent to Newport Beach to shadow these birds in case they screwed up knocking you off. Kind of a plan B. Without going into more online I sent some info to you overnight delivery. All hard copy. Damn hard to be a pedestrian over here. Been almost run over twice. Everything’s on the wrong side of the road which is hell of a lot like this case. Nothing more really to find out. Jesus. Not sure I want to neither. But I will say this. I see cat tracks Mr. Kidd and they head straight for you.
Ivy.
Near my laptop lay a DVD with a handwritten label: Please Watch. I unsheathed the disc and inserted the it into my computer…
Several moments later Catherine entered the French doors that led from my private dock. Wet, slicked-back hair crowned her head; her face appeared predisposed. Reddened scratch marks were on each of her knees with a pale shade of watercolor-green mixed in with the abrasions. Without speaking, she walked through the kitchen and into the house.
I shuffled to the table in the breakfast nook, lifted a bottle and took a swig of Bushmills. Catherine came back into the kitchen, wearing my bathrobe. I closed my computer, stood, and began to make coffee.
“Will you please make me some toasted bread with strawberry jam, John?” Her voice was purebred British. “Whenever I burn a joint, it makes me hungry. Does it do that to you?”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Not even cannabis?”
“You know I don’t.”
Her eyes focused on the whiskey on the table.
As I prepared her toast, stinging recollections reamed through my head regarding the pornographic scenes I’d just viewed on that DVD. The scenes were of Catherine and Lena copulating with some local men of prominence at different times and at different places, namely one horn-dog/good friend in particular, Victor Knight. In one scene I learned quite dramatically of the size of Victor’s lower appendage. Although there were rumors of Victor’s legendary member, I did have to admit after viewing my friend’s python in action that the urban legend was indeed spot on.
I walked to the French doors and noticed the door ajar with wet footprints tracking across my kitchen. The gears in my brain began spinning... I closed the door and moved back to the breakfast nook. “Where were you, devil?” I asked her.
“You were sleeping deeply and I was bored, so I went out to sit on your yacht. I heard an amusing sound down the canal, a gathering of some sort, a barbeque luncheon, it seemed, and so I dove in and swam over to the soiree and had a lovely time chatting and listening to all the urbane stories. They reminded me of New Englanders, straight up and polished, yet not sure of who they are.”
The bread popped out of the toaster, unburned, which was odd. I spread jam on the toast. “How do you want your eggs, overcooked or underdone?”
“I’ve had enough protein, thank you. The men over there gave me a nice fillet of fish, tuna, I think it was, but delicious, nonetheless. The women there wanted nothing to do with me.”
“You climbed their dock, devil, unannounced.”
“I think it was this bikini. The men thought it looked wonderful on me.”
“I’m sure they did.”
“You know how curious I can get, don’t you, John?”
“You know what they say, curiosity killed the cat.” I reached for the whiskey and downed a swig.
She ate the toast and drank the coffee, glancing at the Bushmills. “I see you have your favorite malt in place. Are things getting to you, love?”
“What happened to your knees?”
She opened the bathrobe and looked at her knees. “Yes…well, I fell on the dock after I climbed the ladder. Slippery, you know.”
“Those abrasions should be treated with some antiseptic. Nasty microbes thrive in that shithole water that you seem to enjoy dipping in.” My head began to spin from the last three stiff drinks and also the images o
n that damn DVD.
“I’m fine, really. But thank you for your concern.”
“Green paint, also?” I said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“There’s a green stain on your knees around those scratches.”
“Perhaps the dock was painted green—oh, and afterward I swam over to the delightful chap across the other side of the canal. He had a more pleasing, candid disposition; we felt like cousins with one another.”
“You mean Desmond?”
“Yes. He told me that you should swim across instead of sculling that impotent-looking skiff of yours. The water would do you good.”
“You’re lucky you weren’t hit by a boat. I still think we should treat those abrasions with some antiseptic.” I began across the kitchen toward a cabinet where I kept first aid supplies.
“I’m fine, love, really. Desi and I smoked some wonderful cannabis, so I don’t feel a thing. We got high and talked about you.”
“I bet.” I paused, realizing what a stupid bastard I was for even considering dressing her wounds.
“He has such lovely girls lounging about in his home. I truly adore him. He’s such a rogue.”
Images of Catherine, Lena, and Angela in that DVD fucking other men, along with a revealing conversation, dredged through my mind. And now those damn scratch marks on her knees goosed my interest even more. I returned to the table and poured another quaff of whiskey. I was beginning to catch a serious buzz; the kitchen began to twirl. “What else did you and Desi talk about?” I said.
“The way it will have to work.” Her eyes followed me as I paced, almost staggered, around the room.
“What will work?”
“Stop being coy, John. You know what.”
“You do know we’re both killers, right?” I sucked in another mouthful of Bushmills.
The Irresistible Muse of Jack Kidd Page 25