The Irresistible Muse of Jack Kidd

by Chris D. Dodson

  I looked away, pondering the absurdity of all this.

  “That’s the same thing that you do—fuck women—don’t you, Jack? Jack, Jack the gigolo.” Roger pulled another drink.

  “Let it go.”

  “Well, it is. You are a professional. I want to be one, too. And since I’m such a fairy of a man, I’d be insanely busy in the vocation.” Roger walked out of the kitchen carrying the whiskey. He stopped in the middle of the living room and heaved the bottle against the large window, shattering the windowpane into large shards.

  He laughed. “I just broke my window. I’m not a man of violence, but I did just that.” Roger walked to the broken window and looked outside. “Hmmm, the sea breeze feels nice coming through the broken glass. Perhaps I’ll just leave my window open from now on...what do you think, Jack, should I leave my window open?”

  “Let me help you to bed, Rog. You need sleep.”

  “No. I need to go and kill the black son of a bitch.”

  “That’s the last thing you need to do. Come on, you need to sober up.”

  “Will you help me kill him, Jack? I’m sure you know people, shit, I know people.” He looked at me with a hell of a face, a face I really didn’t want to see. He laughed again, shaking his head. “You and your fruit trees...it was the only way, Jack, and so so easy, as if you put a bull’s eye on yourself and said, ‘Here I am, come and kill me!’ You had no heirs, and so the land would have gone to probate and eminent domain would have been a certainty. I was involved in it all until I found out that they had no intention of developing the land, but to simply flip it to a Chinese billionaire.”

  Chalk one up for summa cud laude Quinn.

  “And then I realized just how far they were willing to go...how far I was willing to go. But it’s not that I didn’t want you dead—fuck, Jack—sometimes I really, really want you dead.”

  There’s no better truth serum than alcohol sloshing inside the sexually frustrated. “Come on, Rog, I’m going to lay you down so you can sleep.”

  “Not until I tell you something more.”

  “I don’t need to hear anymore.”

  “Yes, you do. You’re bad at business and a lousy real estate agent. You know why?”

  “Why, Rog?”

  “Because you don’t keep enough in your pipeline. You constantly have to be out there selling, but you don’t. You know why?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Because you don’t believe in anything, Jack, yourself—a goal! You pussyfoot around, and please don’t pardon the pun. You’re too goddamn stoic to make real money. It’s forever that fucking question you have stirring in your head—what, where, why, and how! Instead of desiring the sweet payoff like any normal person, you instead dwell on such shit and hide your dick in women’s pussies.”

  “I keep it simple, Rog.”

  “Like orange juice, Jack? Like that fucking orange juice you squeeze from your pretty trees for pennies? The only thing you do well is boning women and living lazily off your inheritance.”

  I wanted to leave, but I had to put him down so he could pass out and wake up sober.

  “I hope your beautiful orange trees burn up and there’ll be no more need for that garden. Then I’ll take the land and develop it and produce an economy upon it, and I’ll own everything.” He staggered, almost falling, then sidestepped to the sofa and fell on it. I lifted his feet onto the sofa and straightened his body. I loosened his shirt, then took off his shoes and positioned him for sleep.

  “I’m sorry, my friend,” Roger said. “I only said those things because you and I are both foolish souls and we understand each other. Will you forgive me?”

  “I already did, Rog.”

  “We’re good friends still, right?”

  “The best.”

  “I love you, Jack.”

  “I know, Rog.”

  “Be careful. They’re trying to kill you.”

  “I know that too.”

  “If I’d known what they tried to do that day on the highway, I...I would have...” I watched him go under, stretched out in black slacks and whiskey-stained white shirt and sadly broken hearted.

  Before exiting through the front door, I turned to make sure he was sleeping comfortably. A breeze then swept in through the broken window, filling the room, it seemed, with whispering, prescient voices.

  43

  A luxury hotel in Costa Mesa, a town just north of Newport Beach, hosted the dance tournament. I had stood in this chic lobby before, dickering, just for the hell of it, with envoys employed by billionaires regarding sizable offers for my land. But none of it mattered, then or now.

  If it’s true what Rebecca Quinn suspects and this fabricated bait-and-switch economy does collapse, then touché to the mega rich and tough luck to the other not so mega-rich left holding the bag. And as long as a well-affected gentleman such as I simply languished in his plush environs, shunning the very plutonomic assholes he was meant to suck up to, well then, a scab must be picked off.

  After leaving Roger’s house, I made a brief stop at the Post Office to check my P.O. Box. As Ivy promised, the mail contained pertinent and incriminating evidence against my sweet Catherine. It appeared her journey west to Newport Beach, CA. had three reasons, and reason number three was either me, Tommy Barton, or maybe Victor Knight, all of us marked and put on order.

  Ivy had followed enough leads and plugged enough holes to conclude that my near miss with Gertrude’s Lugar last week was a definite Plan-B reshuffled. It was clear that Mr. Malcolm Brigham had grown impatient with Lady Catherine’s procrastination and sent in the Iron Maiden to pull in the slack. I wished I could’ve seen the look on the old boy’s face when he learned that his Plan-B got eighty-sixed.

  I noticed through a distant open doorway a ballroom and its soon-to-be event. Since I was early for my at-bat on the dance floor, I decided for a cocktail before the spectacle. I slipped into the hotel pub and sat on deck at a table.

  I was dressed in black slacks and shirt, all tapered smartly to my lean frame. My unbuttoned collar revealed a peek of tanned skinned and chest hair. Because of the summer heat, I draped my sable blazer on the back of my chair. My only fashion faux pas was the black and blue battle scars on my face. I assessed my injuries: scabbed over claw marks rutted along my forearm, my knuckles still ached, and so did my black eye and the knot on my forehead, and not to forget the welt from Brenda’s handprint on my face. I suppose I could just say I mixed it up with a few ocelots during spring training, which wouldn’t be too far from the truth.

  I felt antsy this morning, and so I had my heebie-jeebies turned on, and for good reason. Two men-in-black types had tailed me to Roger’s house, the post office, and then here. Speaking of which, I spotted the two tailgaters swaggering through the hotel lobby, heading my way. I pretended I didn’t see them as they strode by my table. They struck me as G-men who got off on matters of global importance. I had a strong feeling, however, that today their targets were a local band of feline slashers, and I was just a messenger leading them to their catch.

  The dynamic duo situated themselves at a table in the back. I watched them through the corner of my eye to see if they were going to order just coffee, or, because they were in a cocktail lounge, and, because they were undercover, perhaps a pair of Long Island Iced Teas. My lip-reading skills detected the word Coffee as they placed their order with a waiter. Proud to see that I was in the company of two tea-toddling government agents, I directed my attention back to my own agenda.

  After all the Irish whiskey I’d already consumed today, the prudent thing for me to do would be to detox before presenting myself on the dance floor. But hell, where’s the fun in that? Besides, it can’t hurt, might even make me stumble better; nerves kill performance. I gestured for the waiter and ordered a drink, a damn stiff one.

  From my table I had a good eyeshot into the nearby lobby, surrounding corridors, and adjacent ballrooms. My sight landed on three men in the distance. A s
quat-heavy man in a monkey suit, Mick Balosky, a taller man in business garb, Conrad Turner, and a prissy beanpole of a man in dance clothes, William Cooper, all stood in a darkened corridor having a heated powwow.

  “Quite a convenient cat-bird seat you have here,” announced a nearby voice.

  I turned, noticing a nice-smelling woman standing at my table, donning a summery-white Chanel pantsuit with matching handbag. Carmella Falsetto aimed her attention at Turner, Balosky, and Willie the mole. She laughed to herself and said, “Odd partners in crime, Shifty Turner and butter ball Balosky...” Her eyes narrowed. “Who’s the skinny guy?”

  “Just one more fool for the slaughter,” I replied.

  Carmella’s short locks of hair and painted eyes punctuated a pleasant complement to her attire. My Kewpie Doll lover was in top fashionable form, yet her face was urgent, conciliatory. “Hello, darling,” she said.

  “And what brings you here, Mrs. Falsetto?”

  “Oh, the usual—business.”

  “Have a seat,” I said.

  “I’ll stand. I know what you’re up to, Jack.”

  “I’m having a drink. In fact, here it is.” The waiter brought the drink to my table. “Would you care for a cocktail?” I asked her.

  “No thanks.”

  The waiter walked away.

  Carmella said, “I know about Catherine Fleming, who and what she is, and I also know she’s the one you’ve chosen to be that Goddamn muse. She’ll kill you, Jack; that’s what she does for a living.”

  “A lot of people want to kill me. Where’s your husband, by the way?” I pulled a sizable drink of the cocktail.

  “He’s at home. You knew all along when you made that bet with me that you had your target muse picked out already, didn’t you?”

  “Of course. I don’t do anything without a sporting advantage. But like any moving target, they’re hard to nail.”

  “You’re an insufferable narcissist who deserves to be killed, Jack, but you’re still a sweetheart of a man worth protecting.”

  “Aw shucks.” I pulled another swig of the cocktail. “So what can I do for you, Mrs. Falsetto?” I checked my watch.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot lately about our wager and how serious you seemed. At first I thought it quaint and fun, but now I think you’re up to something beyond control.”

  “It’s nothing that should concern you.”

  “I had to really dig to find out, but I know now what happened in that house when you were fifteen years old. I had no idea before; otherwise I would have never made that bet with you.”

  “I made the bet, not you, and my past is none of your business.” I check my watch again, then eyed the level of contents in my glass. I signaled for the waiter.

  “I don’t want your land, Jack, not this way.”

  “I know you don’t. I’ll be fine.”

  “No you won’t. This whole deal, all the deals I’ve done before have made me realize things, the lies, the petty sex, and for what—the thrill, negotiation, more money? Life’s short, Jack, and what happened in the past doesn’t matter. You don’t have to do this.”

  “I don’t have to do anything, Carmella, except asphyxiate.”

  “Asphyxiate?”

  “Never mind.”

  The waiter came and I ordered another Tom Collins, a double. I asked Mrs. Falsetto, “Sure you won’t join me at the well? Might take off some of that edginess you have regarding my state of being.”

  She ignored me. I gestured for the waiter to go.

  “What do you really want, Jack?”

  “I know what I don’t want at the moment and that’s to be harangued anymore by James Falsetto’s trophy wife.”

  “That’s not nice.”

  “The gloves are off, Carmella. It’s down to the mat.” I downed another jigger of my cocktail, savoring its mellow burn down my craw.

  “I’ll publish one of those unreadable manuscripts you’ve sent me in the past; will that make you happy, get your mind off all this?”

  “Oh, shove it, Carmella.”

  I looked at Turner, Balosky, and sweet William, enjoying how their pointed fingers made scornful stabs at each other. I was hoping for a Three Stooges slapstick routine to commence, but instead the three clowns parted ways. I glanced up at my Kewpie-doll lover, noticing her eyes on the Stooges. “Once we got a whiff of their grand scheme and how they planned to steal your land, James and I bolted.”

  “And I’m sure my exposé of you in my office stealing my files put some oomph into that bolt, huh, Ms Pirate?” The waiter brought over another Tom Collins and a customary basket of peanuts. “You sure you won’t have a drink?” I asked.

  She shook her head, staring at me like a mother seeing her son off to war. Turner entered one of the ballrooms; Mick walked through the distant corridor like a man covering his tracks, and William wormed his way into the same dance hall I was scheduled for.

  Carmella said, “From all my digging into your history, an epiphany finally came to me about what’s really driving you. You’ve been stuck in melancholic rage about the shame of your father and the tragedy of your mother. You’re living the life of Hamlet, if I may use a literary reference, trying to avenge something brutal, but you don’t know what to avenge. ‘To be or not to be,’ Jack. Which is it?”

  I shook my head and laughed in a low, grinding tone, then took a heavy belt of the cocktail. The bartender did a good job of doubling the gin.

  Carmella went on, “And just like Hamlet, you’re pathetically indecisive, and I’m afraid, darling, you’ll end up dueling for your life and be impaled with a poisoned sword in some apocalyptic showdown if you don’t come to your senses.”

  I could feel the gin burn down my esophagus, doing battle now with the impish spirit in my gut, or was it Hamlet doing battle with Laertes?

  “I didn’t drug your nightcap that night, Jack. I did steal your files, but only because you made me so angry. You were lying there in bed in a dead of sleep. I just wanted to talk about things, but you were out, I mean, really out. I don’t work that way.”

  I considered Carmella’s trademark veneer of deceit and how it really did seem to be dissolving in front of me.

  She continued, “I’m leaving in an hour for San Francisco. I just want you to be safe, dear. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate.”

  “The only thing I’ll need from you, Carmella, is my side of the wager when I’m done with this.”

  “Jesus, Jack...” Tears welled up in her eyes. She handed me a small device the size of a key fob. “It’s a beacon,” she said. “It has a signal radius of fifty miles.”

  “Why the hell do I need this?” I juggled the small device in my hand.

  “Because inside your demise, I’m sure both the sea and your yacht play some concluding roll. I can have a rescue chopper out to you in less than an hour.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” I offered her back the devise.

  “Keep it anyway.” She pushed my hand away. “Do me a favor. When and if you arrive at your destination, give me a courtesy call. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll send help.” She leaned down and kissed me softly on my lips, and said, “Running away like this will never work, Jack. You don’t know how to love or hate. You’ll only end up in the same place you’ve always been.” My new and improved Carmella Falsetto detached from my table, striding elegantly and munificently across the room.

  44

  My senses returned slowly to other events. I thought again about the registered mail Ivy had sent me. Inside were candid photos of me here in the harbor. That ballsy son of a bitch jimmied the right locks and found enough talking heads to incriminate my sweet little cat. She had indeed been stalking me, and for quite some time. It appeared that Emily had nothing directly to do with Catherine’s visit to this jumping off point. Damn cancer.

  Just before I pushed my chair out to stand, two shadows cast against my table, hovering cagily. I turned to see a toad in a monkey suit, Mick Balosky, a
nd someone more congenial, also in monkey suit, Frank Sullivan.

  “Jack,” Frank said with a nod.

  “Frank,” I replied in kind.

  Mick offered no decorum of courtesy; only his amphibian gaze.

  “Can we sit for while, Jack?” Frank said.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  Both men sat at my table. The waiter came and took two beer orders.

  “You both look stylish today in formal attire,” I said. “Unlike your usual cut-of-the-mill detective clothes.”

  “Got the wedding today,” Frank said. “A couple of detectives on the force are tying the knot. The reception is here in this hotel. Mick and I are heading over there soon.”

  “Should be a nice wedding,” Mick said. “In fact, I’m one of the groomsmen. What is it you’re all dressed up for, Jacky boy?”

  “I’m going to a ball today, Mickey boy. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

  Mick let loose a croaky laugh. “You always were good at balling.”

  The waiter brought two draft beers and set them on the table.

  “I thought you were going fishing this weekend, Mick,” I said. I tossed a handful of shelled peanuts into my mouth.

  “Trip was canceled on account of a storm.”

  “Point Magoo to the Mexican border is clear as a bell,” I replied. “What storm?”

  “The one taking place in Newport Beach this weekend. A big catfight is forecast to break out here soon with one pretty-boy tomcat smack dab in the middle of it. I’m sure the hell not going to miss that.” The toady fathead cocked his usual spite; he continued croaking, “What’s the matter with your mug, Jacky boy? You look like you had the hell beat out of you. Cat fight, maybe?” More croaky laughter.

  Frank eyed my face and said, “You do look like you’ve clocked a few rounds in the ring, Jack.”

  I took another pain-killing dose of the gin and said, “I’ve been working.”