The Irresistible Muse of Jack Kidd

by Chris D. Dodson

  “You’re the great one,” I said.

  “It takes two to tango.”

  I scoffed at her lame cliché.

  “Hopefully she’ll stay down this time,” Brenda said.

  “Don’t count on it.”

  Brenda lit a cigarette. The gown she danced in tonight still draped her lanky carriage. She took a hard drag, then said, “So, by the tone of your voice on the phone, and by the way you ran out of the hotel, I’d say you’re mission is almost complete. How much more can I aid and abet?”

  “I’m going away,” I said.

  “Where?”

  “South.”

  “The next block south or the next country south?”

  “Mexico first, then hopefully to a rendezvous point close to the equator. I need someone I can trust to keep my affairs and estate intact.”

  Brenda sat on a nearby sofa. She grasped the cigarette delicately between her fingers. She peered through the veil of smoke collecting around her face. She asked, “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “Arrangements have been made. I’ve chosen you as executor to handle the allocation and liquidation of my properties.”

  “You mean you’re finally going to relinquish the family nightmare?”

  I nodded.

  “Who will you give them to? You have no heirs.”

  “The ranch will go to Victor Knight.”

  She chuckled, releasing a plume of smoke from her mouth and nostrils. “From one village penis to the next, huh?”

  “He’ll take good care of the ranch. I’m also leaving partial ownership to a long-lost cousin.”

  “Oh? I thought only skeletons hung in your family armoire.”

  “So did I. It appears the bad guys went to global lengths to resurrect and bribe my last remaining DNA to claim my garden after my back-page obituary.”

  “So there really were greedy bastards in all this after all.”

  “Yup. Everything else I own, my beach house and all my assets, will go to certain charities I’ve listed. Will you help me, Brenda?”

  “Why me?”

  “Because I trust you.”

  “Gee, thanks. What about Roger? He’s your confidant, the brother you never had.”

  “I need you to handle the affairs.”

  “The affairs...hmmm. I’ve tried handling those affairs through months of loving psychotherapy, but to no avail.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do, unfortunately.” Brenda studied me, ostensibly probing for the last time any remaining haunts.

  “My lawyers will know what to do,” I said. “But I need an executor. I want you to do it.”

  “I’ll say yes, but only if you tell me what you’re up to.”

  “You’ll know when it’s all done.”

  “It’ll never be done, Jack.”

  “It’s going to have to be this way.”

  “Why?” Brenda stood and stepped close to me. “Wait, don’t tell me. Have you finally found perfection, that beautiful, unsolved muse—the woman of your dreams—or is it still a delusion?”

  “I’m not going to argue this, Brenda.”

  “My, my, and you’re going to escape with her, too.” As if realizing her fatigue, Brenda nearly collapsed onto the edge of the coffee table. She released a long, grave sigh, then said, “Can’t you see what you’re doing, Jack?” Her words were slow and heavy. “This whole final episode of yours is a hidden act of erotic asphyxiation. You’ll be throwing the dice, flirting with death out there on that boat of yours all the while second guessing what Catherine, your muse—your killer—is really all about. You’re taking this to a point life or death. The same place you took Michelle Brigham.”

  I stared feebly at my well dressed, makeup-running-down-her-face shrink. I asked, “How did you know I’d be using my boat?”

  “I must’ve interpreted it from one of those stupid dreams of yours.” She sighed and said, “So, the gig is up, and this harbor town is as far as Catherine goes. But now you have a trap door arranged, or is it an escape hatch?”

  “I told you I’m going south.”

  “Hell is a lot farther south than Mexico or the equator.”

  “I love her,” I said.

  Brenda burst out of boisterous laugh, followed by a hoarse cough. “You love Catherine the same way you loved Maria—with your fifteen-year-old dick. You’re incapable of love, at least where it counts.” She studied me for a moment, and said, “Give it up, Jack. Maria, your mother, none of it was your fault.”

  “I’ve split up marriages, destroyed families...”

  “Gee, no one really cares anymore.”

  “I killed another human being, Brenda...with my own hands—and I enjoyed doing it.”

  She studied me for long moment. Her eyes, two glistening orbs of a weary sage, spoke for her, as if to say, bon voyage, I’ve done my best—get lost. “I suppose you’re right; there is nothing else you can do. You’ve made yourself into a scapegoat, carrying the sins of your father and even this waterfront to some extent to the cross. Karma’s a bitch, huh, lover boy?”

  “Here are the keys to my house, the combination to my safe. The things you need will be easy to find.” I laid the keys and a small binder of papers on her sofa.

  “Finally, something of you that will be easy to find.”

  “Thanks, Brenda.”

  She began to cry. I could feel it coming, a tongue-prattling discourse of denouement.

  “All this means, Jack, is that you’re afraid to face it, afraid to believe in just one damn, fucking, simple thing.” Brenda pinched on her cigarette, drawing in a torturous pall of smoke.

  “There isn’t anything to believe in, Brenda. You know that.”

  She looked at me with a hell of a face; a face that was just as convinced as I that there wasn’t or will ever be anything sincere, worthy, and reasonable to believe in. “Oh, well, we gave it the old college try, huh, tomcat?”

  I suddenly realized I was going to miss my head-shrinking dance instructor, the most insightful lover I’ve ever had. She made a fine standard-bearer for the good side of humanity, albeit entertaining.

  Brenda drew in one last drag from her cigarette, holding the malignancy in her lungs. She then said, “I’ll be your patsy one last time, Jack. The last one you’ll ever have. Now get the fuck out of my house.”

  8:45 p.m.

  I continued my southbound bearing on PCH toward self-annihilation. I pressed my cell phone against my ear. A ring tone buzzed, someone picked up.

  “Ms Quinn, talk to me!”

  “Yes, Mr. Kidd, I’ve got answers.”

  “Where’s the money trail lead, my dear?”

  “The best I can figure, the payoff leads to a large contracting firm here in the county. And you were right, it’s Terra Firma Enterprises. It seems the consortium of investors was spearheaded by this firm. And, I might add, part of this deal, as we speculated before, was that all requisite construction be done only by Terra Firma Enterprises, thus barring any Chinese contractors—very lucrative.”

  “But now it’s gotten sticky with one county supervisor squirming like a spider in Vaseline.” I shifted my Porsche into high gear, maintaining a steady cruising speed.

  “Spider in Vaseline? You mean Turner?”

  “You score again, Summa Cum Laude.” I then asked, “Were the investors aware of the payoffs, and were they involved?”

  “It doesn’t appear so. Only Turner, the construction firm, and a few bad cops seem to be the shady players in this. Even Falsetto seems benign.”

  I thought about Carmella’s noble conversion; I was going to miss those mischievous, Kewpie Doll eyes. I went back to my stellar muckraker, the best telemarketer I didn’t hang up on. “Any news on Rusty?”

  “He’s on an incoming flight to John Wayne as we speak.”

  “Good. He needs his ass back home anyway, and I’ve a hundred-and-sixty acre rehab center with one hard-ass Jamaican ready to drain him clean.”

 
; “Drain him clean? Oh, yes, of course, a strong dose of cold turkey.”

  “If I had more time, Ms Quinn, I’d take you and your fiery strands of gorgeous, copper hair out on the town and lay out my board game to you in total, but situations are converging rapidly.”

  She giggled, followed by a soft sigh. “You flatter me, Mr. Kidd. So what are you going to do now?”

  “Bow out as gracefully as I can. You broke this wide open and a myriad of revelations are sure follow. Just make sure your ducks are all in a row before you print anything.”

  “Understood.” A sudden maturation was in her voice, leaving me with a feeling of parental pride.

  “How’s a reporter position sound at a major newspaper in San Francisco?”

  “Sir?”

  “We can end the formalities now, Rebecca. The name’s Jack.”

  “A paper in San Francisco...Jack?” I could tell her elation was hardly sustainable. I truly enjoyed this.

  “I’ll arrange your contact. Her name’s Carmella Falsetto. She owns half the newspaper, and she owes me a favor.”

  “Thank you.”

  “By the way, Rebecca, do let your hair down more often, and nice touch on the teal-green mascara.”

  “Thank you.” More giggles. “There’s one more thing, Jack.”

  “Shoot.”

  “The one name you gave me, a Roger Singh. He was one of the investors, all right, but he wasn’t part of the money trail that led to the hit on you on the highway. Once the scheme got too hot and dangerous, Mr. Singh pulled out. In fact...”

  “What?”

  “He may be a target now.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s the only way to figure it. He was too close to the major players, and I’m picking up buzz that would suggest some serious covering of tracks. It’s all getting desperate.”

  9:05 p.m.

  Roger’s cell phone wouldn’t pick up. I figured he was home, asleep, or still moping over Lena. But I left him an intense voicemail and text message regarding Lena’s killer tendencies, which, I’m sure, left him all the more confused about the fairer sex.

  Victor Knight’s condo was dark inside when I entered the front porch. I knocked on the door and called out his name. I nudged the unlocked front door open. In the back of the condo a dim light glowed. I paced slowly toward the light and pushed open a bedroom door.

  Victor lay naked and prostrate on his king-sized bed. His lean, muscular torso, glutes, and legs resembled a thoroughbred racehorse rather than a man. Then again, he was the most sought after stud in the county.

  Dislodged linens entwined inside a bedspread sat bunched up on the bed. The darkened room reeked of sweaty sex.

  Victor seemed asleep, except for one of his eyes that stuck open in a macabre gaze. “Victor,” I said. I nudged his shoulder and shook the bed. He grunted like a corpse belching air. I rolled him onto his back, slapped his face on both sides, trying to rouse him. My eyes gravitated below his beltline until I saw it. With dumbstruck awe, I tossed a nearby bath towel on the sleeping anaconda.

  Victor began mumbling English and Jamaican mingled with profanities. His other eye peeled open.

  “Wha...wha this abou?” he stammered. He propped himself on one elbow and stared into the shadowy room.

  “Come on, Victor, let’s get you up.”

  “Why are you in my bedroom, Jackson?”

  “I came to check on you.”

  “For wha reason?”

  “A good reason. Come on, up and at ‘em.”

  Victor began to lift himself until a convulsion shuddered through him. He fell from the bed and crawled, staggered, then crawled to the bathroom and released a torrent of vomit into the toilet. On the nightstand next to the bed sat a partially filled glass of wine. I brought the glass to my nose, turned on the lamp, and inspected the contents. Victor stumbled out of the bathroom, holding his stomach. He made his way back to the bed and nearly fell.

  “I must’ve had too much drink last night,” he said.

  “It’s still evening. It’s not morning yet,” I said.

  Victor looked at the clock. The bright red numbers showed, 9:15 p.m.

  “Was Lena here today, Victor?”

  “I think so...yes, this morning she came here, and we fucked like crazy people. Why, Jackson? Why do you forever have a concern about this woman?”

  “Your car’s gone from your garage.”

  “Which one?”

  “The Ferrari.”

  “I must call the police.”

  “Lena has it, Vic.”

  “This is the second time that crazy bitch has stolen my stallion.”

  “Is your gun inside the stallion?” I asked.

  He winced, then nodded.

  “So she has that, too.”

  “Wha the ell, mon? This time I will break her neck.” Victor rolled onto his back. “But I feel like shit.”

  “You should. Your drink was drugged. You’ve been sleeping all day. Fortunately it wasn’t a heavy dose of catatonic witches brew.”

  “What are talking about, Jackson? Wha witches brew?”

  “Never mind.”

  “The last I remember, it’s morning. Why all this, Jackson? Why does this woman play such games with me?”

  “I’m just glad you’re alive, Vic.”

  “I do not feel alive. I feel sick, and when I recover, I will have her head impaled on a stake. In fact, I’m going to call my family in Jamaica and have voodoo arranged upon her.” He reached for his cell phone on the nightstand. “I should call the police about my car.”

  “Don’t worry about the car. I’ll get it back.”

  “How, Jackson? I am coming with you.”

  “Stay and rest. I’ll get it, Vic.” I began out of the room.

  “Do not damage my stallion, Jackson. Once already your racing skills proved lacking. When you find her, bring her to me and I will have some witches brew of my own to give her.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  9:30 p.m.

  I drove north of Newport Beach to a city called Santa Ana, or, more apropos, a barrio called Santa Ana. My silver Porsche rolled to a stop along a narrow street. I got out of my car. My sleek coupe glowed like a quarter moon in the overhead street lamps. I approached a small four-plex apartment building.

  Off in the distance I could hear the chorus of stereo sub-woofers, percussion heavy and annoying; the typical ghetto sound of Banda and Hip Hop music, tribal drums blaring away at the man.

  I climbed the small flight of stairs toward my target property and found the room number. The lights were out. I knew they would be. The door opened easily with the key I had lifted from Angela’s purse and had copied. I knew the location because I’d tailed her here once. So this is your dormitory, huh, Angel? The stench of unwashed dishes and an overstuffed garbage pail hit me in the face as I entered the unit.

  I snapped on a small flashlight; a narrow beam of light swung through the room; just a studio, small with only a kitchenette and bathroom. “This was all she needed,” I murmured. The old sofa looked as though it had been a makeshift bed, a temporary flop, all of it: the décor, the half-packed bags, and the filthy unused kitchen. I found it hard believe that someone of Angela’s pedigree could live in these conditions. But then again, her heart did bleed for the poor and downtrodden.

  I slid the closet door open and searched the floor, then the shelf above the closet. I pulled open a drawer in a nightstand. I found a legal-sized folder and began fingering papers and photographs that were all sequenced. There were airline tickets and corresponding dates, passports, maps of the local nightclubs, and even a logbook for the contacts who had hired these crazy cats. They must have played one hell of a shell game to keep this stuff hidden from the police for so long.

  I thought about the bungled police search a few weeks ago regarding the murder weapons. Because of a technicality of law, all three residences were off limits, allowing all this mid-evil shit a safe hiding place. And with
a detective like Sullivan running this investigation, procedure will be above board. Then again, tonight was the night the Feds were swooping to lay siege on this slice-and-dice operation. So as of sunrise tomorrow none of this stuff will escape a federal prosecutor’s store of evidence.

  I rifled through the bags on the floor of the bedroom. In one bag was an assortment of different colored ladies’ wigs in varying lengths. A zip lock bag of the black cigarettes lay under the bed. Mixed with the wigs was a scuba containment bag, an airtight, waterproof plastic bag that divers used to keep personal belongings dry. I then realized that this was how Catherine was able to cross the canal with the decoding devise she used to unlock my backdoor. But where are the damn Freddie Krueger’s?

  I wandered into the kitchen and opened a drawer. A sudden scurry of roaches caused me to flinch. The damn things scattered everywhere, disappearing into the woodwork.

  One drawer was heavier than the rest and rattled noticeably as the long, slender blades and black leather gloves came into view. I picked up one of the gloves and examined it, verifying the unmistakable mechanisms inside each finger used for flexing the blades. And the blades were roughly six inches long, about a half-inch wide with a razor edge on both sides, tapering to a clawed point. “It’s an arsenal,” I whispered. What Catherine had stashed in my house was a mere token compared to this.

  Car headlights flashed through the windows. I turned out the flashlight. A slow moving car passed by on the street. I walked from the kitchen toward the front door and paused, scanning the street and grounds through the front window. I exited the apartment and closed the door and locked it.

  I stepped quickly down the steel-rail staircase and walked to my car. I felt nauseous now from the room’s odor and revealing contents. But I got what I came for, damn it. My cell phone rang. The caller I.D. displayed Roger’s name.

  “Roger!” I nearly shouted. No response. “Roger...hello—Rog?”

  “Hello, Jacky boy.” It wasn’t Roger’s voice, but a feminine one with Irish twang and brutally sure of itself.

  “Who is this?” I muttered in the phone.