by Louis Barr
“That Hollywood royalty missing person matter,” I said casually.
“Holy shit, Diana Danning’s missing son?”
“Yup.”
“Daddy, Raoul used a bad word.”
“After dinner, we’ll put him in time-out with Heathcliff,” I said. “Speaking of eating, are you guys hungry?” I knew they were. It’s why I’m the private investigator.
A few minutes later, I carried a tray loaded with marinated steaks, hamburger patties and buns, vegetable kabobs, and potatoes to the terrace. Raoul followed with the packed cooler. Ian began kicking the soccer ball he’d left in the backyard.
I lighted the gas grill and checked on Ian. He remained out of hearing range. I said, “Did you hear about the two terrorists’ wives who went digging for food in a bombed-out bazaar?”
Raoul chuckled and shook his head.
“The older wife digs two potatoes out of the ashes and holds them up side by side.” I held two large spuds side by side in my hand. “The older wife says, ‘These remind me of my husband’s balls.’ The younger wife asks, ‘Your husband’s balls are this large?’ The older wife answers, ‘No. They are this dir-tee.’”
Raoul laughed, shooting the slug of beer in his mouth over a nearby planter of orchids. “Hot on the heels of that,” he said, “where the hell do you begin on the Danning case?”
I again checked on Ian, placed the food on the grill, and closed the lid. “I’ll start with the LAPD. Hal Flynn’s the lead investigator.”
“Great, you get to work with your cop buddy, Captain Fantastic Flynn.”
I nodded while flipping the steaks and burgers. “Being a high profile case, it’s no surprise it landed on Captain Flynn’s desk.” I began turning the meat continually.
Minutes later, I called Ian. He came running. You can call my son anything but late for dinner. I pulled everything off the grill.
We sat eating, drinking, talking, and laughing about everything and nothing of consequence. When we’d finished dinner, I pushed my plate aside. “I mentioned Vona’s new film project.”
“Tell me what Vona has in the pipe before I piss my pants.”
“Raoul,” Ian began, “if you gotta pee, you can jump into the swimming pool like I do when I’m too busy to run back to the house to use the bathroom.”
I used my dad voice. “Ian, you’d better not—”
Ian giggled. “Jokes, Daddy.”
My little boy would soon become a full-fledged wiseass, I told myself. I turned back to Raoul. “Vona has a film nearly out of preproduction. The budget calls for a three-month shoot, and another three in post.” I gave Raoul a synopsis of the script, adding, “I believe this movie will become a holiday blockbuster. I think you’re perfect for the leading role.”
Raoul chewed on his lower lip for a moment. “Is this project a sure thing?”
“That’s why I didn’t mention it until now. Vona found investors and put up some of her and my money. That makes it as much of a sure thing as it gets in the movie biz. If you’re interested, I’ll try to get your foot in the door.”
I handed Ian a couple of moistened towelettes. “You need to wipe your hands and face.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re wearing more ketchup than you ate.” It was one more vestige of the little boy.
“Thanks, Moose, you bet I’m interested. I appreciate your help.”
“I thought of you because Vona wants a handsome unknown for the starring role.”
“Yeah, La La Land has a severe shortage of good-looking unknown actors. As mentioned, I won’t hang up my hard hat right away. Thanks again for—”
“Hey, gorgeous guys! Am I crashing your dinner party?”
The voice came from the other side of the Italian cypress hedge. My next-door neighbor, Darla Wong, former sixties flower child of the Haight, now did business as Darla Love, “the Astrologer to the Hollywood Stars.”
“What’s up, Darla?”
She slowly climbed the ladder. Her coal black hair streaked with white, dark eyes, small nose, and thin lips appeared. One more rung, and her shoulders rose above the hedge.
A full-figured woman, Darla always wore one of her brightly colored muumuus. With rings on every finger and numerous bracelets on both wrists, she sported enough crystals, silver, and gold to disrupt aircraft communications.
She’d feng-shuied her backyard into a harmonious collection of shade and ornamental trees, exotic flowers, pebbled paths, and water that trickled over rocks into a koi pool. Apparently, good karma kept the raccoons and coyotes from eating her pricy fish. Then, fuck me sideways, Darla added a backyard aviary. I’d grown accustomed to hearing the twitters, peeps, tweets, and hoots. But I sometimes heard strange sounds that, as far as I knew, could’ve come from the Tookie Tookie Bird she’d conjured off an old George of the Jungle cartoon.
Ian ran to the hedge, smiled, and waved at Darla.
She spoke in an affected British accent, “’Ello, lit’l lovey.”
Ian looked down and blushed. Darla’s Asian and astrologer exoticism fascinated him.
“All righty, guys, dig it. Starting today through the middle of June, Mercury will be in retrograde. Moosie, sweetheart, do you remember what you need to do and what to avoid during any retro Mercury?”
“It’s a period of bad communications, unclear thinking, and travel delays,” I said. “It’s a time not to make big decisions or expensive purchases. Most important, it’s weeks of lies. You must question everything you’re told and avoid signing big money contracts.”
“Right on and groovy,” Darla said. “In general, we can’t get our karmic shit together during any Mercury in retro. The upcoming weeks make for a great time to reexamine problem areas of our lives and find fresh solutions. You can’t fight or control what bad luck might transpire. All you can do is go with the flow, guys. Oh, and it’s a bad time to begin an intimate relationship with someone. If you do, you’re looking at a one-night romance.”
She waved, bracelets jangling, setting off a cacophony of screeches, squawks, tweets, and whistles. She slowly stepped down the ladder and out of sight.
“Goddammit anyway,” I began, “Hope and I entered into a big money contract with Diana Danning this afternoon.”
“Come on, you don’t believe this Mercury retrograde astrology bullshit, do you?”
I shrugged. “Whenever Darla goes out of her way to warn me about something, she’s often correct.”
“And it’s not that you might unconsciously do careless, stupid shit, making her gloomy-doomy predictions come true.”
I grinned. “You should know this line from Hamlet: ‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”
“Boogah-boogah,” he said.
We laughed, then we gathered the dishes and carried them to the kitchen with Ian right behind us, cradling his soccer ball. He dropped it when he stumbled onto the terrace.
We talked and worked together with the ease of longtime friends. Raoul tossed the empties into the recycle bin and took a bag of trash to the dumpster. I loaded the dishwasher.
Raoul glanced at his watch. “As your next-door witchy woman would put it, ‘Oh wow, man, I gotta split.’ Thanks for everything.”
“You’re welcome.”
Ian and I followed him into the garage. Raoul and I did a one-armed bro hug, then he tousled Ian’s dark auburn hair. “Bye, cute dude.”
As the garage door did its slow lift, Raoul swung his six-foot frame into the truck’s cab. With a final wave, he backed the dually onto the driveway.
I listened to the garage door slowly descending with its steady rattle and growl, ending with a decisive clank.
Chapter Five
Sweet Dreams
Clint, The Flats, Monday, April 30
I ran a tub of warm water with bubbles for Ian, sat on the toilet lid, and kept an eye on him while he soaked and played. I had to tell him his face and ears needed more work and remind him to wash hi
s behind. After he dried himself, I passed him sleep shorts and a Happy Dance Snoopy T-shirt.
As we headed to his bedroom, he talked about becoming a house painter for Raoul.
“Maybe you can work for him when you’re seventeen, during the summer before you start college.”
“Yeah, when my penis is great big like yours.”
I considered warning Stella about Ian’s big-dick fixation, but she’d worked with children for decades. I supposed nothing Ian said about his penis would knock Stella out of her sensible shoes.
Pulling over a chair, I sat bedside and listened to Ian read aloud from a sci-fi novel about tween robots—a book written for ten- to twelve-year-olds. After a few minutes of perfect reading, his eyes drooped.
I set the novel on the nightstand and spent a few moments watching him sleep. I wished Sierra were here to see our beautiful child growing and thriving. I kissed him on the forehead, switched off the bedside lamp, clicked on the nightlight, and went downstairs.
I sat in my recliner with a diet soda in hand and the TV on, sometimes watching but more often spacing the marathon of eighties sitcoms. Heathcliff swaggered into the den and sat on his haunches, watching me with his large copper-colored eyes. “Come on, beast.”
He jumped onto my lap and tried squeezing himself between the right arm of the recliner and my thigh, forcing me to scoot over.
Maine Coons have a lion-like mane that adds to their regal bearing. “Did his highness finally get comfy?”
Unfazed by the staff’s insolence—Heathcliff had long known I was batshit—he watched The Golden Girls. Or maybe it was Designing Women. Loud purring ensued.
In a while, I caught myself drifting. I yawned loud and long. Turning off the television, I pushed down the footrest without disturbing Heathcliff. When it came to the recliner, the beast could sleep through a gunfight in the den. I stood, crossed the room, and climbed the stairs.
Brushing my teeth, I looked in the mirror and saw my tired eyes. Since Sierra’s death, I hadn’t slept well most nights.
I thought I glimpsed Sierra’s face in the mirror, checking her hair before heading out to the private university where she taught economics and political science. I blinked. Her visage disappeared.
I shut off the lights, stepped into my bedroom, and stretched out on my California king–sized mattress. I tossed and turned, stared into the darkness, kicked off the covers, fluffed my pillows, and cursed under my breath.
I switched on the nightstand lamp and went to the wall safe in the walk-in closet. I punched in the code. Among my guns, a roll of Franklins, important documents, and car fob, I snagged the prescription bottle and dumped two pills into my hand.
I chased them with the bottle of water I kept on the nightstand. Returning to bed, I fell into a restless sleep in minutes.
In my dream, Sierra and I lay nude in full body contact. I could smell her skin lotion, shampoo, and her natural flora scent. I heard us breathing, our hearts beating. I ran my hand over her hair as I kissed her neck, working my way down to her nipples.
The first time we’d slept together, she’d taken one look and said, “I don’t know if—”
“It will fit,” I’d assured her.
Our lovemaking always started with outercourse or intercrural sex. Teasing her vulva with my erect penis brought her to a screaming orgasm every time. When it came to penetration, I let Sierra ride me until we both reached a screaming, head-spinning, toe-curling climax.
The bedside telephone rang, coinciding with my night emission. Jolted awake, I pulled tissues from the box while fuzzily reading the caller ID. Shit, an unlisted number at 0218 hours.
I considered ignoring it, but thought better. A ringing phone at this hour usually meant trouble. I picked up the handset.
“Hello,” I said while cradling the phone and dabbing semen out of my chest hair, which I kept closely cropped. I wiped the post cum off my glans, then grappled my half-hard cock back into my sleep shorts.
Diana Danning softly cleared her throat and used her breathy voice. “I’m sorry to call you in the middle of the night, but I thought you’d want to know right away.”
“Want to know what?”
“Shane was seen in a Laguna supermarket tonight!”
“That’s great news. Was it a positive identification?”
“Abso-tivly possi-llutely identified.”
I knew what she expected me to do next, but I asked anyway. “Since Shane appears to be fine, do you want me to drop the investigation?”
Her voice rose. “For fuck sakes no. I still want you to find Shane and bring him home.”
“You and I need a meeting of the minds on that.”
“Go ahead,” she said grudgingly.
“Unlike the LAPD, I can search for Shane. I’m certain I can find him, talk to him, and try to convince him to come home. If he doesn’t want to return to L.A., I can’t cuff him and force him into my car. Shane isn’t a bail jumper, and I’m not a bounty hunter.”
Diana’s voice turned hostile. “You’ll do whatever it takes to bring Shane home. I don’t care how you do it.”
She ended the call.
I briefly considered calling Diana back, then muttered, “Fuck her.”
I fell into a dreamless sleep.
Wide awake at 0530 hours, I put fresh sheets on the bed. I’m not one of those guys who can sleep on dried semen, including my own. I tossed the bed linens into the washer. Carrying today’s clothing into the master bath, I showered and washed my hair.
Twenty minutes later, I toweled off, then brushed my teeth. Looking into the mirror, I decided to keep my scruff. I shrugged into a faded Delta Force T-shirt, pulled on butter-soft jeans with stringy holes, put on white socks, and laced up my boots. Applying a dab of product, I ruffled my hair, giving it a slightly mismanaged bad boy look.
I recalled Sierra studying me one morning after I’d similarly dressed down for work. “What?” I had asked, feigning innocence.
“I don’t know about your attire.”
“I’m wearing what’s needed for the work I’m doing today.”
“Yes, if you’re working as a cathouse bouncer.” Hands on her hips, she’d continued, “Hmm…that tight shirt emphasizes your broad shoulders, ripped torso, six-pack, and narrow waist. But the pièce de résistance is your distressed, second-skin denims. Babe, in those jeans, I can clearly see that you’re huge and not Jewish.”
“You think you’re seeing those intimate details only because you know every inch of my body.”
She placed a hand on my crotch. “Sir, I think what you’re wearing can only be described as provocative.”
I grinned. “Madam, on the matter of provocation, if you don’t take your hand off my crank, we’ll both be late for work.”
We were late getting to work that morning.
This morning, I peeked into Ian’s bedroom. Seeing he slept soundly, I silently closed the door.
The moment I stepped into the kitchen, Heathcliff began running in front of me and trilling his ass off about breakfast. For future reference, Heathcliff trills and does not speak in commoner cat meows. I fed his highness. Then I brewed a cup of dark roast and waited for Stella, who’d arrive at 0630 hours give or take a minute or two.
Sitting at the kitchen island, I sipped coffee, woke my tablet, and began writing interview questions.
Since Diana hadn’t shit-canned me after her tantrum, the due diligence work on the Danning case began this morning. Who knew? Maybe I’d learn something new about Shane’s disappearance and last night’s alleged appearance in Laguna.
Chapter Six
Still Not Quite Right
Jud Tucker, The Ranch, Tuesday, May 1
I pushed a handcart loaded with chicken feed and five-gallon stainless steel slop pails out of the barn, then paused to look at the old GMC parked next to my van. I’d need to sacrifice the Jimmy soon if I’d guessed the gumshoe’s first few gaming moves correctly—one of which involved Steele talking wi
th Deputy Sheriff Scott Davidson’s bugfuck nuts father. Sonofabitch, I liked the old, solid, reliable, American-made pickup. They didn’t build them like this anymore.
Turning my attention to the sunrise, I fired up a cigarette, exhaled the smoke out my nostrils, and squinted at another beautiful California morning.
Of the few things I loved, my ranch topped the list. My old man called it the “Million Miles from Nowhere Money Pit.” But the old bastard had been such a loser, he couldn’t have turned a profit off the land had he perfected a printing plate for hundred dollar bills.
I’d come into the world four months after my parents had gotten married. When I’d become worldly enough to do the math, I asked my old man about the five-month discrepancy.
“You’re a honeymoon baby and born premature. That’s why you’re still not quite right.”
At the age of six, I’d begun carrying buckets of chopped fodder to the stanchioned dairy cows while my old man and the hired hand washed udders and attached the milking machines’ teat cups. Like most farm and ranch kids, I’d worked my ass off knowing I wouldn’t get paid for my labors.
The hired hand started molesting me when I was seven. He’d wait until my old man went to town for supplies. He swore he’d bury me alive if I told anyone. I kept my mouth shut.
My mother called it quits when I was twelve. Dad wouldn’t consider wasting money on hospitals, psychiatrists, or even medical doctors who might’ve helped Mom win her war with depression.
I got off the school bus one day, walked inside the house, and smelled gas. I found Mom with her head in the oven. I shut off the gas, opened all the doors and windows. I tried to wake her up, but she’d already passed away. It was what it was.
After Mom’s death, my old man immersed himself in the dairy cattle, the beef herd, the crops, and the aging farm equipment that always needed repairs. His distance worked for me. Preoccupied, he didn’t punch me to the ground or whip me.
By the time I was thirteen, I knew how to operate the farm’s heavy equipment, how to herd cattle, how to buck bales, and how to butcher pigs, chickens, and cows. My old man put the fear of God in me on the dangers of silos, elevators, headers, augers, and PTO shafts, always ending with the same warning: “Boy, you’d best hear what I’m telling you or I’ll give you a whipping you ain’t never gonna forget.” And by that, I knew the old bastard didn’t mean a severe spanking.