Till Beth Do Us Part (A Jamie Bravo Mystery Book 2)

by Layce Gardner

  I hang up. “Okay, boys, I’ve gotta run.” I hand the address book to Travis, saying, “Copy this. I have to give it to London later today. When I get back I want to see those boards filled with useful clues. . .and stuff.”

  They both salute me and I head out the door. Time to go play matchmaker for two lesbians. I get paid to be the lesbian Dolly Levi. (See, Michael isn’t the only one who knows musicals.)

  Twenty-One

  The Kit Kat Klub is a strip club. It’s a little more upscale than the usual places you see in the movies, but it’s still filled with depressed men who hate their nine-to-fives. They come to the club to stare at naked girls and forget about everything else. When the club closes, they go home and their wives bitch at them and heat up TV dinners. On the weekends, they mow the lawn and drink a case of beer while watching wrestling or football. That’s the kind of clientele most strip clubs have and the Kit Kat Klub is no exception.

  There are two stripper poles on a raised stage. Colored lights bounce around the stage where a topless girl entertains a dozen men by swinging her breasts in opposite directions. To me it looks very painful, but the men are hypnotized by her circling nipples. They stare, unblinking, drool leaking from the corners of their slack mouths.

  I weave my way through the tables and find Angela Morelli sitting in the back at the bar. She’s dressed a lot like the goombahs at the gelato shop—steel gray silk suit, black tie, and shiny shoes. Her curly hair is short and slicked back. There’s a noticeable bulge in her slacks from where she’s packing, and I don’t mean a gun. Even though she’s probably also packing that.

  Angela swivels on her stool and takes a good long look at me as I approach the bar. I hope she isn’t pissed at me for giving her girlfriend Trish her walking papers. I sidle up next to her. She looks me up and down like I’m a side of beef and she’s Rocky Balboa.

  “Angela Morelli?” I ask.

  “You must be Jamie Bravo,” she says out of one side of her mouth.

  “Uh, yeah. It’s nice to meet you.” I hope she doesn’t notice the quivering in my voice.

  “Call me Angie.”

  “Okay. Angie. Thanks. You can call me Jamie.” Geez, can I be anymore weird and nervous acting? I look over Angie’s shoulder and note there’s an exit in case I have to make a run for it. Of course if she does have a gun, I’d be giving her a straight shot at me. I better run serpentine. And pray.

  “There’s another exit on the other side of the room,” she says. “But you don’t got to worry. I’m not going to shoot you.” She smiles crookedly and adds, “Yet.”

  She claps me on the back and guffaws. “Take a load off,” she says.

  I sit on the bar stool next to her.

  Angie signals the bartender.

  The bartender is there in a flash. She’s wearing torn jeans, a white wife-beater and she has a bleached white flattop. Her sculpted arms are sporting Sailor Jerry tats. “What’s your poison?” she asks me.

  I don’t know what to order. I have to drink something. Turning down Angie’s generosity is a no-no in Italian culture. It would be like a slap in the face. But if I order a Yoo-hoo, I’ll feel silly and foolish.

  “Don’t be shy, we’ve got everything,” Angie says.

  I swallow my pride and say, “I usually drink chocolate Yoo-hoos.”

  The bartender doesn’t even so much as crack a smile. “Coming right up.”

  “I’ll have the same,” Angie says.

  The bartender nods and walks away to retrieve our drinks.

  “I can’t believe they carry Yoo-hoos,” I say incredulously.

  “It’s a stomach soother. Lots of us in the business got ulcers.”

  “Oh. That makes sense.”

  The bartender sets the identical boxes of chocolate milk in front of us. She walks away without asking for payment.

  “So, I talked to Frankie,” Angie says then slurps her Yoo-hoo. She eyeballs me.

  She slurps.

  I sip.

  She slurps more.

  I sip more.

  It’s like we’re having a Mexican slurp-off. Until we both finish our drinks at the same time.

  She crumples up the box like it’s a beer can and says, “I don’t like being told what to do with my personal life.”

  “That’s perfectly understandable,” I say. I crush my own box. “Have you changed your mind about shooting me?”

  Angie laughs. “Nah, not yet. I was going to dump Trish anyway. But it’s the principle of the thing, you get me? I don’t tell you who to date and Frankie shouldn’t tell me. Capeesh?”

  I nod. I capeesh, all right. She’s a grown woman. She should make her own choices, good or bad. I wonder why she was going to dump Trish. I need to make sure Sheri Rosetti doesn’t have any similar traits. “Why were you cutting her loose?” I ask.

  “She chewed gum like a cow.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yeah, really. Smack, smack, smack, all the time. Drove me batshit. Then the attitude that went along with it. She got all full of herself when she smacked her gum. How can gum change somebody’s personality is what I want to know. I mean, it’s only gum, you know what I mean? I wanted her to quit smoking, ‘cause I’m allergic and I don’t like my women smelling like an ashtray, so I buy her gum. Next thing I know she’s acting all cocky and smacking. Should’ve known better than to date a woman who smoked in the first place.”

  I wrack my brain trying to remember if Sheri Rosetti chewed gum or smoked. I didn’t think so, but I needed to be certain. “You mind if I use the restroom? That Yoo-hoo went right through me.”

  “Sure, it’s right over there,” she says, pointing into the shadows in the far corner. “Let me know what you think. I just had it remodeled—marble countertops, top-of-the-line fixtures, and it’s got a lounge now. Girls can go in there, sit on velvet couches, hang out and talk trash.”

  “This club is yours?” I ask, getting up from my stool.

  “Yep. She’s my baby. Used to be this rat hole run by Manny Natalo. I won it in a poker game. Manny isn’t real good when it comes to cards. He should really quit, but he’s still got some more property to lose so no one is stopping him. Some people just don’t get it. Me, I’m a good gambler. I can feel if the cards are with me. If not, I do like Kenny Rogers and know when to fold ‘em.”

  “Good strategy. I’ll be right back.”

  “Take your time,” Angie says.

  Stepping through the ladies’ room door is like stepping into another world. It’s the nicest bathroom I’ve ever been in. Angie has good taste, or she has a good interior designer. I step into one of the stalls. I make sure to pull down my pants so if anybody peeks under the door, it looks like I’m peeing. Of course once my pants are down, I realize I really do have to go. My bladder has always been sensitive to stress. I take care of business then call Frankie.

  “Yeah?” he answers gruffly.

  I don’t bother to introduce myself. I get straight to the point. “Does Sheri Rosetti smoke or chew gum?”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s a deal breaker with Angie.”

  There’s a silence. “Oh, right,” Frankie says. “Hold on.”

  I hear some mumbling then more mumbling. Frankie gets back to me, “I got someone checking on it. The butler will know.”

  “Gotcha. I’ll wait.” I feel really vulnerable sitting here with my pants down talking to a mobster. “Will it take long?”

  “No, it’s being taking care of now.” More mumbling. Then, “No, no smoking and no chewing.”

  “Perfect. I’ll get back to you if there’s more news.”

  “Tell your mother hello from me. Ciao.” He hangs up.

  By the time I get back to the bar there’s a fresh Yoo-hoo waiting on me.

  “You like?” Angie asks.

  “It’s nicer than my whole apartment.”

  “You should work for me. You’d have something even finer.” Angie winks. Which makes me realize that people don’t win
k anymore, not since Carol Burnett stopped singing that song and pulling on her ear lobe. “What’re you doing now?” she asks.

  “I’m a private investigator. I do a little work for Frankie now and then.”

  Angie slurps on her own new Yoo-hoo. “I get it now. Frankie’s been looking for someone like you. He don’t like dealing with the girls. He ain’t got the skills. His own marriage is a battleground. You know like that song, ‘Love Is a Battleground.’”

  “Field.”

  “Huh?”

  “‘Love Is a Battlefield.’ Believe me, I know Pat Benatar songs.”

  “Same difference.”

  “Pretty much.” I slurp, too. Slurping allows for ruminations.

  “Like I said, I was gonna dump Trish anyhow. So are you fixing me up with someone or do I get you?”

  “Uh, well, not me, no. There’s someone better and who has oodles of cash.”

  “I don’t need cash,” Angie says, dismissing one of Sheri Rosetti’s better attributes with a wave of her hand.

  “She’s got great. . . you know,” I say, demonstrating Sheri’s best attribute with upraised palms in front of my chest.

  Angie’s eyes light up. She does a ‘gimme more’ gesture.

  “She has a nice ass and good gams.” I use the old school private investigator term because it makes me seem less wimpy somehow.

  “Okay, this is getting better. So what’s her downside?” Angie asks.

  I slurp. I figure that coming clean is the best thing to do. She’ll find out soon enough anyway. “She’s married. To a man. She wants to divorce her husband because he has a weird penis. She wants to be ardently seduced by a woman who knows what to do. She’d also like a soul mate, you know, in the future. That would be good. Frankie would like that. I mean, lesbians are known for their nesting habits.”

  “Who is she?”

  I take a deep breath. “Sheri Rosetti.”

  “Oh my God!” Angela pounds her fist to her heart.

  “Uh, is this a good thing or a bad thing?”

  “It’s an awesome thing. I’ve had a crush on her since fifth grade. She was Sheri Gilbert back then. I used to drop my pencil just so I’d have the chance to look up her skirt.”

  “Wow. It’s a small world.”

  “Especially the lesbian world. But Sheri Rosetti, that passed me by. I had no idea there was trouble in paradise. Does anyone else know?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You keep it that way and I’ll give you two large,” Angie says.

  “Keep it that way?” I’m almost salivating at the prospect of making two G’s, but I need to know exactly what my job is.

  “Make sure no other dykes get their paws on her, capeesh? Once everybody knows she’s fresh meat, she’ll be surrounded like sharks smelling blood.”

  I nod. It’s a gross metaphor, but I understand completely. “So, you want me to keep her occupied until you can go out with her?”

  She slaps me on the back. “You got it!”

  “We should set you up with her soon, though.” I think about Veronica in jail and my being paid to keep Sheri Rosetti occupied. I feel guilty.

  “Make me a date with her for tomorrow night. I got some business I need to attend to tonight.”

  “Okay, I can do that.”

  “Good girl,” she says to me like I’m a dog who retrieved the ball and dropped it at her feet. She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a money clip. She peels off two one-thousand dollar bills. She hands them over to me, saying, “Here’s two Grovers. I’ll give you two more upon successful delivery.”

  Grover? I look at one of the bills. Oh, I get it. Grover Cleveland is the president on the thousand dollar bill. I’ve never seen one of these. As a matter of fact, I’ve never seen a bill bigger than a Benjamin.

  She continues, “You just keep Sheri from falling in love with anyone else tonight. Think you can handle that?”

  “No problem.” I can’t believe it. This means I’m getting paid four grand to be Sheri Rosetti’s chastity belt for tonight. Not a bad job if you can get it.

  “Ciao, Jamie Bravo,” Angie says. She stands. “If it don’t work out with Sheri, maybe we can give it a try.” She gives me another wink before walking away.

  Twenty-Two

  I get in my car and call Sherri Rosetti’s number. She doesn’t pick up so I leave a message telling her not to make any plans because I’m coming by at seven o’clock to take her out to dinner to tell her some big news.

  Next stop: London Wells. I promised her I’d get Veronica’s address book to her this afternoon. I drop by my place and pick it up from Travis. He’s used our new copy machine (!) to copy its contents. (I can’t believe I am now the proud owner of a copy machine.)

  I drop a box of donuts on the desk sergeant’s desk. It’s the price I have to pay for easy admittance to London’s office. He gazes lovingly at the donuts and without even looking at me says, “She’s in the back. I’m pretty sure she’s waiting for you.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She told me you were coming.”

  “So I didn’t need to bring donuts?”

  He stuffs a whole jelly donut in his mouth and manages to talk around it, “Promotes future good will.”

  He has a point. I leave just as donut number two is mooshed into his giant maw. I find London right where he said she would be—in her office.

  London’s desk is littered with Styrofoam cups of congealed coffee and manila file folders with brown coffee circle stains. She has her elbows on her desk and her head in her hands. She looks tired. But even at her worst, London is sexy. She reminds me of a jungle cat in repose. I can’t believe I just had that thought. It’s so unlike me. I also can’t believe I’m in love with Gloria but thinking dirty thoughts about London. Shame on me.

  London looks up and catches me mid-dirty thought.

  My cheeks burn. I hope she doesn’t notice.

  “Hot flash?” she asks.

  Damn, she noticed. I wave my hand in front of my face like it’s the warm temperature in here that’s causing me to blush. “Warm in here,” I mumble.

  I drop Veronica’s address book on her desk.

  “Have a seat,” she says, pointing to a metal folding chair. “Just move those papers over there on top of the filing cabinet. That’s where they are supposed to go anyway.”

  As I move the stack of papers I notice that something’s missing. There’s a big circle of rust on top of the cabinet. “Where’s your spider plant?”

  “I threw it out the window. It kept taunting me about my inability to care for the hardiest houseplant known to man.”

  “I had to bury my mom’s plant out in the backyard and give it a funeral service. You know, say a few words over its dead body.”

  “I said a few words too. Words like ‘damn, hell, and shit.’”

  I laugh. “It didn’t hit anyone when you threw it out the window?”

  “Naw, just the chief’s car.”

  “Does he know you did it?”

  “No. He thinks the District Attorney did it. I may have inadvertently started a war.” London sips from one of the many half-full cups. She makes a face. “That wasn’t today’s.”

  I sit in the now clean chair. “What’s up with Veronica?”

  “We tried questioning her. She got belligerent and now she’s in the clink awaiting arraignment.”

  “Veronica belligerent? Imagine that.”

  “There’s a worse problem, though.”

  My blood pressure suddenly skyrockets. I hope she doesn’t ask me anything I have to lie about. I could never pass a polygraph test, not with my nerves. I try for a lighthearted comment, “What could possibly be worse than one of Veronica’s tantrums?”

  “Look at this case from my point of view. There was no forced entry to Veronica’s apartment.”

  I interrupt, “Condo.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s a condo, not an apartment.”

  �
�Okay. . . there was no forced entry to her condo. The murder weapon came from Veronica’s kitchen. She was the last person to see Beth Ellen alive. And the old saying is true: most murders are committed by someone who knows the victim.”

  “In other words, it’s not looking so good for her.”

  London picks up the address book. “Maybe I can find something in here. Did you go through it?”

  “I made a copy. Travis is working on it as we speak.”

  “So you’re finally letting Boy Wonder help you?” London asks.

  “I’d prefer he be my Watson. He could write about it and leave me be.”

  “Actually, his help might make a big difference. You know the police aren’t going to do much about this. As far as the chief is concerned, we got an open and shut case. It’s pretty much up to us to prove Veronica didn’t do it.”

  “Us? That means you’re going to help?”

  “I am a homicide detective. Yes, despite her track record, Veronica does not deserve to be railroaded,” London says. She gets up and walks around her desk until she’s standing in front of me.

  My heart pounds and my loins feel buttery. I blame it on pheromones. London has always had this effect on me. We’d only slept together once when there’d been a mix-up with Gloria, but every time I’m around London, my body betrays me.

  There’s a sudden knock on the doorframe.

  We both look at the door like we were caught being naughty.

  “What is it?” London barks.

  A young cop looks from her to me then back to her. He says, “Your murder suspect with the big mouth is bitching up a storm. She wants to talk to you, and I suppose, you,” he says.

  “Me?” I ask.

  “Yeah, she said some attractive Italian woman was coming in. That looks like you,” he says then walks off. Judging from his back side he’s been getting busy with the donuts, too.

  “Attractive?” London teases. “Are you sure you two aren’t dating?”

  “No, and don’t even say that. I don’t want to be a person of interest in this murder case.”

  “Speaking of which, you got an alibi? The coroner has pinpointed the time of death between 10:30 and 11:30.”