The Irresistible Muse of Jack Kidd

by Chris D. Dodson

  I could tell Mick had a ready arsenal of prick bombs to lob my way, in which I was ready to keep tally. After number three insult, no, make that two, I decided I’d slam the toad’s fat head onto the cocktail table. I mean, okay, throwing it down with a cop, off duty or not, is grounds for an arrest. But what did I have to lose?

  The fat man kept on, “Drinking before 5 pm, Jacky boy? Are things getting to you?”

  Number one. “It’s funny you should mention that, Mick. Things have been getting to me. In fact, just a few minutes ago a three-man show over in that corridor really got to me.”

  “Come again?”

  “You and Supervisor Turner and a two-faced choir boy. I saw you three gruff it up over there next to the restrooms, as though you were all in a hot debate about something important.”

  Chewing on a mouth full of peanuts, Frank shifted his attention toward Mick.

  “We were discussing security,” Mick said.

  “Security? I thought you were off duty,?” I said.

  “Another murder happened last night, Jack,” Frank said with the timing of a sly arbitrator.

  “That does seem the trend around lately.”

  After pulling a long drink of his draft, Frank laid a newspaper article on the table. The picture of a homicide victim glared up at me. I knew the man, Tommy Barton, the one who had met Lena at the pub in the harbor, and the one I had put on alert on the beach a couple weeks ago; so much for being the Good Samaritan. Sorry, Tommy.

  “It happened in Newport Beach again,” Frank said. “This time in the middle of a high school football field early this morning, the same high school the victim attended just a few years ago. Same M. O., sliced and diced. I got to hand it to these cats, they’re creative.”

  “So why does this cat bait always lie down to get butchered, Jacky boy?" Mick asked me. I glanced at the toad's pale-grey eyes, then stared back toward the newsprint.

  “They’re drugged first,” Frank said. “A heavy dose of muscle relaxant slipped into some wine, beer, whatever their pleasure. The coroner says it’s just enough for the poor soul to be awake and experience it all.” Frank directed his sight on the newspaper. “The kid was a Heisman trophy winner at UCLA. He was even on the pros roster until he blew out his arm during the Rose Bowl.”

  “So I heard.”

  Mick said, “I bet you’ve been in that same spot, huh, Jacky? On your back with a juicy piece-of-ass man killer riding your saddle.”

  “Fuck you,” I moaned. Number two. Keep it up, fat man.

  “Jack.” Frank said calmly.

  “It’s all right to insult an officer who’s off duty, isn’t it?” I then said, “How about another round boys?”

  Frank downed his mug and said, “Sounds good.”

  Mick shook his head, which was telling; if that lush refused a drink, then the jig I had up his ass was nice and deep. The adept maître d' approached with more cold drafts.

  I lifted my glass and said, “Let’s say we drink to the good old days, huh, boys? When nary a murder took place in this conceited little harbor town and a local gigolo such as I could own his own orange-tree ranch without the worry of harassment or being run off a highway.” I planted a cold stare on Mick.

  “Was she with you last night, Jack?” Frank asked. He retrieved some brew from his fresh mug. I had a sound feeling Frank knew exactly what Mick was up to and had well-placed surveillance around his rogue partner. I decided to help him out.

  “Was who with me, Frank?”

  “Stop fucking around, Jack,” Mick snapped. He began counting off his fingers. “We know you’re doing her, we know you’re doing her little protégé, we know she’s living with you, and we know you know!” Mick’s voice became loud and edgy.

  It was fun watching the toad squirm. It then occurred to me that entering a dance contest with mussed hair and torn and tattered attire, not to mention more bruised knuckles, wouldn’t be too stylish. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but... I then mumbled, “Number two and a half.”

  “Two and a half, Jack?” Frank queried.

  “Just counting off all the drinks I’ve had since waiting here on deck.” I turned toward my oppressor. “What’s the matter, Mick, did Turner’s news make you jumpy? Hopefully that’ll teach him to keep his overrated dick in his pants and not snaking inside a conniving blonde with nothing to lose.”

  Mick’s face reddened, his eyes swelled. I now knew for certain he was privy to Catherine’s entrapment of Turner. I put my sticks and stones away.

  Unaffected by the pissing match taking place in front of him, Frank pulled a small stack of photographs from his pocket and spread them on the table. He lifted his mug, seemingly enjoying all this. The images showed a group of women. I recognized three of them.

  “It’s outside a boutique in London,” Frank said. “It’s the blonde, and the two brunettes; your instructors at the dance studio.”

  I stared at the photograph, like a coward, wondering why I got in bed with all this.

  Frank continued with another photo. “This one’s inside the boutique, the one I told you about, knives and blades and all sorts of strange paraphernalia. It’s where they concoct the drugs they use. They call it the apothecary.” A tinge of pride showed in Frank’s face. He said, “I dug a little deeper into these cat’s backgrounds. It appears they’re not senseless killers after all. In fact, their impetus may be born out of social revenge.”

  The good detective had my attention.

  He went on, “Whenever dealing with a serial killer, both the killer and the killer’s victims need to be examined for any possible connections. And wouldn’t you know it, all three of those shredded corpses had a bit of a sordid past. I checked for priors on these last three victims and found what I believe connects the killer to them.”

  “What are you talking about, Frank?” Actually, I knew what the sharp detective was talking about from Brenda’s prior diagnosis. Two of Newport Beach’s finest, I concluded.

  “The first victim, the Proctologist from New York, was arrested for molesting and raping one of his male patients, a fourteen year old boy. The boy’s parents set up the hit. That would also explain the dildo found up the doctor’s rectum. Vic number two, the recent immigrant from New Zealand, was accused of using a date-rape drug, Spanish fly, as we used to call them. He said it was consensual, she said not so. Our most recent victim”—Frank nodded toward the newspaper—“was accused of raping several women, including one incident six years ago where he instigated a gang rape after a high school party. Another theme pertinent to these three is that none of them were ever convicted.”

  Two conflicting sensations coursed through me as I viewed the prologue to Tommy Barton’s obituary. One was the delight in knowing that a serial rapist had been served justice, the other was relief in knowing that neither Roger nor Victor held the latest front-page celebrity spot. I was fairly certain my quirky amigos had never raped or killed anyone.

  Frank added, “It seems we’re dealing with a psychotic killer with a social conscience. If a person has post traumatic memories of the sexual kind, then one calls Catherine the equalizer. Have claws, will travel.” Frank popped more peanuts into his mouth, then went after his beer.

  I looked toward the ballroom where I was scheduled for my foolish impersonations of graceful dance. I wondered if Catherine the equalizer, the killer with a social conscience, heard the alarm next to the bed and had transported her beautiful bum here yet.

  “Was she with you last night, Jack?” Frank asked.

  I kept my eyes on the doors. He laid another photograph on the table. My face froze as I examined the image.

  “Do you know this man?” he asked. “It’s a morgue shot. Another victim, this time in London.” Frank had lost his grin.

  I zeroed in on the savaged face and body.

  “Does the name Sam Ivy ring a bell, Jacky boy?” Mick’s words had the blunt feel of a pointy-toed shoe while being kicked on the way down.

  �
��He’s done undercover work for you before,” Frank added.

  I swallowed hard and tried to breathe. “When did this happen?” My voice had no wind in it.

  “Three days ago,” Frank said. “The man had quite an exposé on your lady friends. I guess he got too close.”

  I downed my drink and looked away from the print, realizing now why Ivy’s email was three days late. But who forwarded it to me?

  Frank said, “We had reports from witnesses stating they saw a woman swimming in the channel around the island last night. It would’ve been a perfect way for her to slip out of sight. Were you with her all night?”

  I nodded. My eyes crept back to Sam’s face...you put him in harm’s way, Jack, goddamn it, you put him there... “She was in my bed all night,” I muttered. “And we had sex like deranged lovers.” Anger began inside me, the kind born out of shock, then channeled into rage. Rage against whom, though? My eyes landed on the perfect target. “Did you hear me, Mick? The same way you wish you could dip your wick, but you couldn’t even keep your wife happy.”

  I resisted spilling Mick’s seduction by an Internal Affairs agent on the table. The last thing this harbor needed was more mysterious dead bodies. I continued, “But then again, Mickey, with friends in high places you may get laid yet and even score on a few acres of prime real estate. By the way, been on any helicopter rides lately?”

  Mick glared his familiar fuck you at me, except now there was a life-or-death vex in the toad’s eyes.

  Frank stood and released a heavy sigh. He dropped two twenty spots on the table. “That should cover the drinks,” he said.

  “You don’t have to cover mine, Frank,” I said. “I’m a big whale here in town, a guy with a hundred-and-sixty acre bulls-eye on his ass.” I tipped my glass toward Mick.

  “I don’t have to do a lot of things, but I do anyway.” Frank’s indelible face was beginning to show wear. “The Feds have moved in on the case now, Jack. They’re swooping in tonight.”

  I glanced behind me at two of America’s finest wooden indians still stationed at their table.

  Frank added, “Enough evidence has been collected to finally make a bust. The local P.D. is pretty much out of the loop now.”

  “Then why are you both at my table?”

  “Like I said, I do a lot of things I don’t have to.”

  “I’m just here for the laugh,” Mick said as he stood.

  I savored the vexed look in the fat man’s face. He and Conrad and their fellow banditos didn’t count on Lady Catherine shitting inside their tour the force. The laughs on you, butt fucker.

  Frank said, “Enjoy the ball, Jack. Step gracefully and do watch your back.”

  “Story of my life.”

  I watched the two irregular suits walk away. The image of Ivy’s butchered face seared in my mind. He was a good man, a fine investigator and one hell of a soldier.

  The stink of brackish water on beautiful skin touched my nose.

  45

  The ballroom was lit elegantly by the overhead chandeliers that hung from the dome shaped ceilings, casting a golden ambiance throughout the large room. Round tables covered in choice linens and settings of fine dinnerware and silverware spotted the perimeter of the dance floor. The itinerary was for each studio to compete at specific levels of expertise in various dances. The dances were outlined as heats for each participant in specified time slots.

  Being early and well soused, I lingered in the ballroom foyer for a few moments trying to limber up my bones and steady my equilibrium. Everyone was dressed stylishly and formally, and no matter his or her age—the women especially—they all had a graceful charm about them.

  The dance studios and their personnel stood ready in an outside corridor and were then announced in alphabetical order to enter the ballroom to commence the parade.

  First in line was my alma matter, Dr. Murphy’s Dance Studio. Brenda pranced proudly at point with Catherine, Lena, and Angela, the studio’s star attractions, trailing close behind. Others on Brenda’s payroll swept across the floor, led by none other than sweet Willie himself, dressed impressively, too, for a rat, that is, in a distinguishing trouser-suit combination. I was a little disheartened to see that Gertrude couldn’t make it today.

  Anyway, bringing up the majority of the procession were other studios and their staff and assistants. Each studio lined up at the head of the ballroom for a rounding applause. Makeshift encampments stood in a corridor outside the ballroom. Long racks of assorted wardrobes were stacked, draped, and hung on the ready for the various performances.

  All the teams dispersed and approached their designated tables. I held back at the wall. Brenda continued marching in front, her clever eyes, like her smile, were touched in a bit of folly. She looked at me and offered me a wink of her eye. I winked back, letting her know that I forgave her for both her wisdom and her wicked right cross.

  The staff began to sit at the large table. Even though Catherine was surrounded by others, she sat alone, the way a prima-donna sits alone, brazenly beautiful, cunningly alluring. Even with the lavish necklace I’d given her still draped around her neck, she ignored me. Angela’s attention lofted across the table and room like a small bird searching for a place to land. A vengeful gaze had possession of Lena’s eyes, eyes that were still blackened from the blows I’d delivered to her at the nightclub a few nights back. I tried not to grin. The pain was obvious, antagonizing even more the time bomb that ticked in her head. My, my, what a dysfunctional family we have here at the dinner table this afternoon.

  Angela gestured for me to practice some routines. After we centered ourselves on the dance floor, I led the dance in well-trained position. A forced indifference masked her lovely face as we eased into a waltz, gliding across the floor.

  “Why are you looking at my hair that way, Jay? Is something wrong with it?” she asked.

  “Just looking for the bright halo that used to be there.”

  “Please don’t patronize me.”

  “Did you get enough sleep last night?” I asked. “You look tired.”

  “I’m fine. Just going over some steps last night, that’s all. And why do you look and smell as though you’re hung-over, Jay? You’re not your usual suave self; you seem to be not here?”

  “I’m playing the invisible man today.”

  “That won’t be hard for you. Perhaps you’ll then dance as if nothing matters except what really matters.”

  “You mean the matter of one princess and her bodyguard and one soiled dove hunting prey here in Newport Beach?” I studied her eyes and saw the usual culpability masked in intelligence, except now there was a tinge of fear behind the mask.

  “It doesn’t surprise me that you see it that way. You can’t settle your own guilt of committing statutory rape, so you’re trying to lay it all on me.”

  “Oh, shut up, Angela. It was mutual and you know it. For such an anti-establishment, bourgeoisie hater you plugged in pretty well the other night at the Shark Club.”

  “To infiltrate their ranks we have to disguise ourselves.”

  I shook my head, restraining my reaction. “And I suppose you’d go to hell for them, too?”

  “Oh, shut up, Jaywalk—and stop slowing our pace—it’s a three-step beat and you keep veering into a four beat.”

  We picked up our tempo and turned smoothly across the floor. “Tell me, Angel, did you enjoy murdering all those people the last five years?”

  “You have a bloody cheek to talk to me that way.”

  I chuckled and said, “Bloody cheek, all right. You are an accessory. Don’t get me wrong; I understand the moral bearing in wanting to snuff out a rapist. But rape warrants a long, hard prison sentence, not execution.”

  “Tell that to the victims. There’s a lot you don’t know, Jaywalk.”

  “That makes two of us, Angel.”

  The music stopped. We stood outside the dance floor, away from the crowd.

  She said, “I must say, though, your invo
lvement in all this is intriguing. At first I thought you were to be slain like all the rest, but now you’re an accomplice, a real double agent. We’ve never had one of our targets become one of us. What exactly are you trying to do, corrupt our purpose? I assure you, Mr. Kidd, that would be a deadly mistake on your part.”

  I laughed quietly, making it appear that my dance partner and I were actually happy together. “You really do need to grow the fuck up, Angela.”

  “Oh, shut up. I’m brilliant, and you know it.”

  “Well, Einstein, do you see those two men over there next to the doorway?”

  She cocked her sight across the floor toward the two men-in-black who now stood in the wings, ridiculously trying to appear like spectators.

  “They and a host of others have been like shadows the last few days, following you agents of doom and this double agent all around. I know they’re not cops, so they’re Feds most likely, but they’re sly bastards and good at tailing people. But you know about tailing people, don’t you, Angel?”

  “I do, actually. Had you in my crosshairs several times. I should have put a bullet through your head instead of snapping your picture.”

  “You could no more put a bullet through my head than you could anyone else’s.”

  She looked at the detectives across the room again. “Then why should I care about those men over there?” To anyone else the tremble in her voice would have been unnoticeable, but to me it was a plea for help.

  “That’s a good question, Angela.” I squared myself in front of her and said, “I have a place for you to go after all this is over.”

  “It’ll never be over—”

  “Listen to me, damn it.” I clutched her arms. “I’ve arranged an escape for you after the dance tournament. You won’t be arrested but only safely escorted to the airport with a one-way ticket to London waiting for you.”

  “I’ll never return to London—and get your hands off me.” She swept my hands from her arms. “You’re such a pathetic, stoic of a man, you know that? There’s no answer to your dilemma, and therefore no reason, and so you chase after Catherine as if she were some prized catch to notch up on your scoreboard only to appease some missing element in your life—and yes—I’d go to hell for her. She’s a crusader, a phenomenon to adore and you adore her, as well. Catherine serves my purpose—our purpose—to rid the world of selfish, arrogant elitists, albeit one by one, but all revolutions begin somewhere.”