Giuseppe bought it in 1928. It’s called Vista Al Mar. That means ‘Ocean Views’. Maybe in twenty-eight it had ocean views but I can’t see the ocean if I craned my neck out the balcony and tossed a ladder across the street to the other buildings. Twenty-eight was when the building was just finished. Then it went to Franco and now it’s Marcello’s. Franco’s still around, but he’s old as dirt. Still got all his acuity though, and he comes by sometimes to bring me real Italian coffee as he likes to call it. He’s a small, thin guy. Maybe five six in shoes but wiry. His son Marcello’s my height but in a heavier weight class. He’s easily got thirty pounds on me. They tell me Franco looks a lot like his pa, the Godfather Giuseppe. But America builds them bigger here, especially those born from its soil.
Why I’m telling you all this, no reason, other than I’ve got cheap rent. Thousand bucks a month. And that’s what it’s been since I got this place, I got it back in oh-two just as I was leaving the force. Marcello’s got a soft spot for the cops. His brother retired from the LAPD a few years back. I think he was a captain out of South Bureau someplace. Could’ve been Southwest Division. I didn’t know him. Anyway, that’s how I got a sweet deal to get into Santa Monica. And the apartment’s a good size too. Two bedroom at around eight hundred square feet.
I heard the chime again. It was definitely in my apartment now. It was just after six as we’d arranged. The ninth was just coming to an end. Looked like The Fist had found his way around the ring again. I smiled to myself. It was still anyone’s fight. I got up and pushed on the intercom.
“Is that you, M?” I said, knowing exactly who it was gonna be.
“It’s me, James,” she said, in her best British accent which was better than mine. I pushed the button to let her in and waited. While I did, I unlocked and opened the door a foot or two and went into the kitchen. I splashed olive oil into a frying pan and turned up the heat on the pot of water ready to drown pasta.
I walked back into the my living and turned off the TV. There was a knock on my door.
“Come in,” I said as I walked up to the front door.
There was a short entranceway from the front door into my apartment. On the left was the closet and on the right was a toilet. Then you entered into the living room. Off the living room on the right was the kitchen. Off to the left from the living room were the two bedrooms where the magic happened. If I was a wizard that is. And the magic hadn’t happened with M, for she hadn’t seen my wand yet. I was taking it slow. I liked her and I wanted to do this right.
I kissed her full on the mouth as she came in and took off her coat and hung it up. She looked stunning, like a vision, and I told her so. She was in a knee-length dark blue dress which sparkled and hugged her in a way that made me jealous.
“I’m just finishing up dinner. I’m about to fry up some meatballs.”
“Oh,” she said, and I thought for a moment I detected a hint of disappointment.
“But don’t worry, they’re kosher meatballs. I mean, not kosher exactly, but kosher for you. They’re vegan,” I said. “I found them specially for you.”
She smiled at me, and I’d eat cardboard for that smile if it made her happy.
“Come and keep me company in the kitchen for a minute,” I said.
She followed me in. It was a big kitchen for an apartment. More square than galley. I showed her the packet the meatballs came in. It bragged that they were authentic. I chuckled at that.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“I just noticed that the meatballs are bragging that they’re authentic. How can they be when they’re not made of meat?”
“Well, they probably mean they’re made authentically, you know. With the herbs and spices and technique. You’ll like them.”
“I hope so,” I said.
The oil was hot in the pan. The pot was coming on a boil. I tossed the meatballs into the pan and they sizzled. They smelled good. They smelled authentic, I’d give them that. I uncorked the wine and showed it to her.
“Doth m’lady approve?” I asked.
“I doth,” she said, grinning at me.
I poured her a taste and offered it to her. She took it and sipped. I shook the pan of meatballs.
“Any good?”
“Very nice,” she said, “you can really taste the blueberries, mixed with the licorice and white pepper. Um, and yes, the finish is definitely purple plum cake.”
I looked at her and pinched my furrowed brow down to my eyes.
“Really?”
She laughed and touched me on the arm. It sent a warmth all through me.
“No,” she said. “Not really. But I know of this wine, I was with a friend some weeks ago and she was telling me all about this wine. I can’t taste anything except that it tastes like red wine, and I like it.”
“My kinda girl,” I said.
I poured her a full glass and had one myself. I tossed the pan some more as the meatballs spat and hissed at me like venomous snakes. The watched pot was finally boiling and I tossed in the pasta.
“Shouldn’t be more than a couple or three minutes,” I said. “I had to go to the local health food store for these meatballs.”
“You should be able to get them at any regular grocery store,” she said.
I shrugged.
“I went to the local health food store just to be sure. I asked the young lady there for fake meatballs, and she showed me a couple of different kinds. She asked me if I was vegetarian or vegan. I didn’t know, so I said vegetarian.”
I looked at her and she nodded.
“I said it was for a friend. You know what she told me?”
“I don’t,” she said. “What did she say?”
“She said that I should tell my friend that there’s a lot of cruelty in dairy and eggs, and that if my friend is really concerned about the suffering of animals that she should consider going vegan.”
I tossed the pan and stirred the pasta and turned down the heat a bit. I also put my hand in my pocket looking for a loose piece of paper.
“Is that why you’re vegetarian?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “But I hadn’t really given much thought to dairy and eggs.”
“Yeah,” I said. “She lectured me pretty good for about five minutes on the suffering of animals. Turned my stomach to be honest. Baby chickens getting ground alive, veal calves being put in small crates and taken from their mothers.”
I pulled my hand out of my pocket.
“Here it is,” I said, handing her the piece of paper. “She told me to give you this info if you were interested. Some website where you can go and see for yourself about this cruelty.”
M took the piece of paper and looked at it for a moment. She went back into the living room and put it in her purse. Then she came back.
“Thanks, Anthony,” she said. She kissed me on the cheek. “That’s very thoughtful of you. I’ll have to look into it. I saw slaughterhouse videos many years ago and it turned my stomach. That’s when I gave up meat, and chicken and fish. It was just horrible how cruelly we treat animals.”
I nodded.
“That’s what this young woman was saying. Said she’s been vegan five years since she first came to see it for what it was.”
I took the pot over to the sink. I poured the water and pasta out into a strainer that was already there.
“I think we’re ready for dinner,” I said. “Cruelty free.”
I smiled at her and she smiled back.
I scooped pasta into two bowls and scooped a generous amount of pasta sauce over top followed by the meatballs.
“If you’d like to grab the bottle of wine,” I said. “Let’s go into the dining room.”
The dining room was just off the kitchen where I had a dark wooden table that sat four people around it. I’d never had more than that many people for dinner at one time. The settings and salad were already put out. I placed the bowls next to each other. I didn’t want M sitting across from me. She was g
oing to be sitting next to me.
We sat down and I raised my glass.
“To a cruelty free life,” I said, “and to the most beautiful woman I know. Thanks for coming over for dinner.”
We clinked glasses and sipped our wine.
“Thanks for having me, Anthony. I’m surprised it took you this long to invite me.”
“I like to take things slow. Especially since my marriage ended.”
I didn’t say more than that. M looked at me and smiled thinly.
“I understand,” she said.
She tucked into her pasta and oohed and ahhed as she ate the first mouthful.
“This is delicious,” she said.
“Probably the fresh pasta,” I offered.
“No, the sauce is just divine.”
“Thank you, I made it myself. It’s a secret family recipe.”
“I thought you said you were Irish, not Italian,” she said.
“I am, I jest. I just loosely followed some ideas I found online.”
“Well, it’s the best pasta sauce I’ve ever had.”
I grinned at her.
“It isn’t bad if I say so myself.”
I reached for the salad bowl and pushed it towards her.
“Have some salad.”
She scooped some out into a bowl and I did the same with mine.
“That dressing I made myself,” I said. “It looks white, but it’s actually vegan. No dairy or eggs in it. It’s a poppyseed dressing.”
She poured some on her salad and then I did the same. I cracked black pepper over my pasta and my salad and did the same for her.
“How’s work?” I asked her.
“Busy,” she said, chewing on some salad greens.
“How many autopsies do you do down at your office?”
“About thirty on a busy day. Almost six thousand a year. Like most of the county offices, we need more people and money. That’s a constant battle with the city.”
“How many of those are homicides?” I asked.
“About ten percent. Last year, for example, there were just over six hundred and something murders in the county.”
She looked up at me.
“Are you looking for work?” she asked.
I shrugged.
“I’ve sold a few paintings some months back, so I’m okay for the next month or two. But beggars can’t be choosers.”
“Congratulations,” she said. “That’s great news.”
I nodded and smiled at her.
“It is,” I said. “Declan Dawson, my guy at the gallery, thinks it’s time to put up the prices.”
“Which gallery is that?”
“The Triangle Gallery.”
“Oh yeah, I know it,” she said. “They’ve had some famous artists through there, haven’t they?”
“Cady Noland, Christopher Wool and Brice Marden have all exhibited there.”
“I think I’ve heard of them,” she said.
“Don’t be embarrassed, most people don’t know them, not unless you’re in the art world. It’s one of the joys of being a famous artist. You aren’t famous like a rock star or movie star is. For example, Wool sold a painting for around twenty-six million not long ago.”
“Wow, really?”
I nodded.
“Makes my stuff seem like pennies.”
“What does Declan want to put your paintings at now?”
“He thinks around five thousand for the average sized ones.”
“That’s good isn’t it?”
“It’s not twenty-six million good,” I said grinning.
She put her hand on my forearm and I would’ve paid twenty-six million for how she made me feel.
“A journey to twenty-six million starts at five thousand,” she said.
She was smiling, but she also sounded sincere. I liked that.
“True that,” I said. “And five grand doesn’t sound bad until you realize I only get half and I only sell a handful a year.”
She took her hand away and went back to eating. I sipped wine and tossed my salad with my fork.
“What’s the most you’ve sold in a year?” she asked.
“The most I’ve sold in a year was a baker’s dozen. Thirteen.”
“Mmm, I can see. That’s not very much. Still, that’s almost thirty grand.”
“Would’ve been if I’d sold them at my new prices which are only going into effect as we speak. No, those paintings sold at around three grand average.” I smiled at her. “I’m not complaining, just explaining.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, Anthony, I think you’re undervalued. I love your work.”
I smiled at her and put a forkful of pasta into my maw. I didn’t mind the meatballs. Hell, who was I kidding, if I didn’t know they were fake I would’ve been fooled.
“So your friend, Johnny Rotten, hasn’t called you for help on a homicide then?”
I shook my head.
“It’s been a while, but then again I haven’t been hustling for it either.”
“I wonder why though,” she said to her pasta, twirling some on her fork. “I mean you’ve left no homicide unsolved right?”
“Right. Of those I’ve been investigating.”
“Then why wouldn’t they use your help?”
“Could be they’re watching the money. I’ve heard that the budget for outside consultants has been chopped. Or maybe they’ve already spent it all on psychics.”
M laughed at that.
“I could put in a good word for you if you’d like.”
“Not necessary, M, I’m sure something will come up soon enough.”
It always did, but sometimes it was close. I’d always paid Racquel the one grand per month in child support, not that she needed it, but a deal was a deal. Add on rent and I’m at two grand for the month. Three grand a month income means I can drive a little and sometimes eat. Four grand is where I can start to feel comfy.
“Although I have to say,” continued M, “that lately there’s been your run of the mill murders. Gang shootings, domestics and things of that nature. Probably nothing that they thought they needed your expertise for.”
“Could also be Frank Burton,” I said.
“Who?”
“The Chief of Police. He and I have never seen eye to eye.”
“Why is that?”
“It’s a long story that doesn’t make for great dinner conversation,” I said. “Let’s talk about Willy Open.”
M laughed again.
“Willy Open. You mean William Orpen.”
“That’s exactly who I mean,” I said. “You like him, don’t you?”
“I like the look of him,” she said, “yes. But that’s not the only reason I want to see the play.”
“You sure, because I think you’re a little too old for him.”
“Ohhh, Anthony, you’re in trouble now,” she said. “Did you just call me old?”
Shit, I’d just stuck my foot in it. There was no getting out of this one.
“I’m just saying you’ve got to be a good decade older than him.”
I laughed.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ll just shut up now.”
M laughed.
“I know how old I am,” she said, “and I’m definitely not as old as you, old man.”
She said it with a twinkle in her eye.
“Besides, you don’t think a young man would be interested in this,” she said as she moved her hand up and down her body.
“I think even Samson would go bald for some of that.”
She smiled.
“That’s better. You’re slowly crawling out of the dog house. But seriously, I’ve wanted to see this play for some time. It is a classic you know, and the last time it was here was in 1949 just after they closed Broadway they took it around the country. What I would have given to be able to see that one with Brando and Tandy. That would have been something.”
“Sounds like it would have been an offer you couldn’t have
refused,” I said in my best Brando impression, which was left wanting. But M got a kick out of it.
“Why do you think it’s such a popular play?” I asked her. “I mean it’s the kinda stuff I used to deal with every day. Abusive domestic asshole who rapes his wife’s sister and beats his wife and she still sides with him.”
“Exactly Anthony. I think that’s exactly what makes it so authentic. It’s just like real life. And by shining a light on real situations, perhaps it can give us a greater awareness to actually change things. Stella might not leave Stanley, but maybe a real life Jane Doe might leave a real life John Doe because of it. It’s hard to get perspective when you’re in the trenches, but sometimes watching a play of your own life gives you that perspective.”
“You could be right,” I said. “I’ve just never seen it happen out on the streets. The number of times I went back to the same couple on domestic after domestic call is staggering. And then there’s the tragic domestic murders too.”
M nodded.
“True, but I wouldn’t expect you to see any different.”
I raised an eyebrow at her.
“What do you mean?”
“I think what you’re explaining is one of the unfortunate side effects of your job, of being a police officer. You’re only dealing with people in difficult situations. So yeah, you’ll keep going back to that same couple having domestic troubles unless one of three things happens.”
“And those three things are?”
“Well, worst case, one of them murders the other or there’s a murder suicide. Or, she leaves him, because she realizes that you can’t change an asshole or by some grace of God they work things out together. But you see what I’m saying? In two of those three scenarios, the police are never needed again. So of course you’d never see how sometimes people are able to get out of horrible situations.”
Fourth Wall (An Anthony Carrick Mystery Book 8) Page 2