The Trouble In Dogflat Hollow

by Cameron Sword

  Jon was sure he was about to win the wager right there, right then.

  Pumpkin Eater took it, immediately grimacing in terrible pain as he dropped it, his thumb and forefinger savagely blistered. Truth is, there was an actual hissing sound – like flesh being seared on a barbecue grill.

  “Unholy serpent of Eden!” Pumpkin Eater cried as he made his way to the sink to run his hand under cold water.

  Buddy stirred, calling out unconsciously in slurred sleepy speech. “I could’ve been a deli worker once but I couldn’t cut the mustard.”

  Buddy quickly went back to snoring.

  “What has she done, Peter?” Jon asked.

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t clasp it long enough.”

  “Try again.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Jon stroked his chin, very confused and concerned now. He’d heard the hissing sound, seen the wisp of smoke it created, smelled the odor of burning flesh. Maybe he was wrong about Grace.

  Grace laid on an examination table on her side, the young doctor stooping behind her. A nurse stepped in, carrying a phone, stretching its cord into the room.

  “Sorry to interrupt, there’s a Detective William Fusco on line two for a Grace Hallond. He claims it’s urgent.” explained the nurse.

  Grace took the phone as the nurse disappeared.

  “Billy. How’d you know I was still here?”

  “You weren’t at home.”

  “Check this out. Not a virus. Hookworms. Apparently, I shouldn’t allow my dog to lick my plates clean anymore. Got Doogie Howser on the case now though, he’s sticking something slimy up my ass.”

  “Thanks, that helped me out a lot.”

  “Let me help you out some more. He goes any further, something slimier is going to explode all over his lab coat.”

  The doctor reacted, stiffening, actually stepping back a bit.

  “Look, the sanitation people don’t have it. Claim the homeless treat those alleys like hotel rooms. How about it? Did you see anyone out there?” asked Fusco, sounding nervous, unsettled.

  “I didn’t see anyone.” Grace replied, lying easily. Effortlessly.

  “You sure?”

  “Ghost town, Billy.”

  “All right. Thanks.”

  “Hey, have you spoken to my parole officer yet?”

  “Soon.”

  Fusco hung up on her. Grace glanced over her shoulder.

  “How’s it coming along back there, doc? Any survivors?”

  It was early in the afternoon. Pumpkin Eater and Buddy were fast asleep, Pumpkin Eater lying supine on the floor this time. Jon continued to sit by the window, nodding in and out of consciousness, the briefcase still by his side.

  Down below, the night urchins had disappeared from the street. It was quiet now. Finally.

  Jon didn’t notice Grace materializing around a corner, her dog on a leash by her side. Apparently, Jon also hadn’t noticed that Grace had arrived home some time ago and had slipped out to take her dog for one of his daily walks and now she was returning home. She entered her apartment building, disappearing inside. Jon settled into a deep sleep.

  Fusco, however, was watching, keeping Grace under surveillance from the confines of his well-hidden vehicle, a skill he’d honed from his early years of establishing radar traps as a young traffic cop and further perfected during stakeouts when he made detective.

  He watched as a late model sedan pulled up and parked across the street from Grace’s building, two men, obviously not from the area, inside. They exited the sedan, crossing for Grace’s building.

  Grace’s apartment was sparsely furnished but well kept with plenty of statues of Buddha lying around. She sank into her couch, completely spent. What a long day – and night.

  Her dog jumped up on the couch next to her, snuggling up, his tail wagging furiously.

  “Keep that fucking tongue away from me, Cooper. Sit. Settle in.”

  Cooper complied. He was well trained. She knew she’d have to take him to the vet for medication similar to the medication she was given, but she’d do that later, after she slept. Right now all she wanted to do was unwind for a few minutes in front of the TV before retiring to bed. She found a newscast that caught her attention because it had to do with Foster’s murder. She turned up the volume.

  “Police are speculating that the body, described as a middle-aged white male, was the victim of random violence. His name has yet to be released, pending notification of next of kin. In other news, a leading gay activist group is calling for boycotts and demonstrations against mega mogul Yves LaPomme and his many organizations, citing Mr. LaPomme’s long-standing bigotry against the gay community. When asked to comment, Mr. LaPomme simply stated, quote, ‘Levitcus 18:22.’ A protest rally is scheduled for New Year’s Eve outside Mr. LaPomme’s Beverly Hills mansion where planners hope to disrupt his annual celebration. Now this.”

  It wasn’t long after the first commercial began to air that her apartment door unexpectedly swung open.

  The two men Fusco had seen cross toward her building eased inside. Bert Picknell, 50s, her parole officer, crocodile eyes in the face of a crocodile, had let himself in. With a key. Roy, also in his 50s, his clothes marked by a certain mid-1970s inertia, entered along with him. Roy carried rope, duct tape, a ball gag and a few other assorted items – essentially, a forced bondage kit.

  “What the fuck.” objected Grace, finding her feet, confronting them.

  Cooper was a large breed of dog to be sure, but he certainly wasn’t exactly a guard dog. He jumped down from the couch, searching desperately for a place to hide. Picknell stepped further into the living room.

  “What did I tell you about swearing, little girl?”

  “Eat shit, motherfucker. You can’t just barge in here. Get out!”

  “Obviously, I failed to apprise you of the fact that parolees are subject to search by their parole officers without a warrant. Day or night.”

  Grace found Roy who was just standing there ogling her lecherously, licking the corner of his mouth.

  “She’s beautiful.” Roy said. What a creep.

  “Grace, this is Roy. Roy, Grace.”

  “You’re insane. This isn’t going to happen.” Grace said, emphatically, doing her best to project bravery but the truth was, she was getting intimidated.

  “Relax. Roy is a bona fide chiropractor. One of the best. He’s here to give you a few adjustments.”

  “Get the fuck out.”

  Picknell dug into his pocket, coming up with a large baggie of white powder, dropping it on her coffee table.

  “That’s a lot of cocaine. Could be construed as felony possession with intent to distribute.” Picknell said, trying to pressure her further.

  Grace took a swing at him but he grabbed her. Roy joined in, trying to engage his duct tape. She screamed as Fusco bulldozed inside, surprising everyone, punching Picknell and Roy squarely in the face. Once. Picknell and Roy hit the carpet, out cold, sucking up rug mites through bloodied nostrils.

  “Tell me something. What’s the rent on a shithole like this?” Fusco asked as he pocketed a set of brass knuckles.

  “It’s affordable.”

  “You enjoy living here?”

  “I’ll move one day. You know, when I’m ready to buy. What’re you doing here?”

  “You were supposed to drug him.”

  “What?”

  “Foster. Instead you had sex with the guy.”

  “He had a high tolerance. What was I supposed to do?”

  “Forensic science is based on the Locard Principle, Gracie. That’s the theory that when two bodies get together, there’s always a transfer of materials like hair, fibers, bodily fluids. Homicide is going to link you to that crime scene.”

  “That’s it, I’m turning myself in.”

  “No.”

  “I’m not going down for this, Bill. I’m a witness. I can identify the killers.”

  “I thought you said you couldn’t.�
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  “I lied. The last thing I wanted was to spend any more time hanging out with you and your bozo friend. Drive me down to the station, I’m turning myself in.”

  “What are you going to tell them?”

  “I’ll leave you out of it.”

  “What are you going to tell them?”

  “Foster was my trick.”

  “The autopsy will reveal traces of Zoplicone in his system.”

  “So I drugged him, I’ll admit to that. I was there to rob him.”

  “Uh-huh. He had over twenty-five thousand dollars in his fanny pack, a Rolex watch, credit cards. Why didn’t you take any of those items?”

  “He had twenty-five thousand dollars in his fanny pack?” Grace asked, mentally kicking herself for not having been as thorough as she should’ve been.

  “Look, I can’t afford to lose my job. Or worse, get indicted. Give me a couple of days. I’ll get us in the clear.” Fusco explained.

  “How?”

  “Evidence is going to get shuffled around a lot between departments. It can easily get lost.”

  “And what if it doesn’t? What if you can’t fix this? I’m a parolee, I’ll end up doing serious time.”

  “If I can’t fix it, you’ll be getting a visit from Homicide in a few days and you’ll tell them you failed to come forward earlier because you were scared.”

  She deliberated on that for a moment, finally nodding. Fusco leaned in closer, searching deep into her eyes.

  “I’m gonna ask you a straight up question, and I want you to look me in the eye as you answer. That briefcase, you really lost it, right? You’re not working some angle.”

  “I’m offended. That offends me.”

  Fusco continued to hover over her for a moment, scrutinizing her expression, feeling a metric ton of suspicion pressed into her two tiny sentences.

  “You won’t mind if I look around then.”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Once again, Fusco took a moment to contemplate her reply. He believed her. The briefcase wasn’t here. She might have it stashed away somewhere – or knew who did – but it wasn’t in her apartment. She was too smart for that, the most cunning bitch he’d ever met.

  “Fine.” Fusco replied, stepping back, indicating the unconscious men on the floor. “Which one of these clowns is your parole officer?”

  “That one. That baggie on the coffee table, it’s his.”

  “Okay, I’m going to take him in. You owe me.”

  “Owe you? This was part of the deal.”

  “Talking to him was part of the deal. I’ll put him away, get him off your back for good. His maggot piece of shit friend too.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay what?”

  “Okay, I owe you.”

  “Fucking right you do. So if you happen across that briefcase, or happen to hear about anyone who has, I’ll be the first to know, right?”

  “You’ll be the first to know.”

  Tony lay in a hospital bed recovering from the incident involving the billboard, wearing a neck brace and sporting a couple of bandages on his face. Rocco sat there by his bedside.

  “Doctors say they’ll be releasing you today. How’re you feeling?”

  “Dad’s going to kill us.”

  Fusco walked in.

  “Get dressed, you’ve been released.”

  Tony sat up, an authentic apologetic tone to his voice.

  “I’m sorry, Dad.”

  “Yeah.” Rocco added.

  “Get dressed. We have some serious loose ends to tie up. She got a good look at both of you, after all.”

  Fusco’s foolproof scheme had blown up in his face. It was such a simple idea and it should’ve worked as smoothly as spreading hot butter on a warm piece of toast. But here he was now, feeling jagged walls splintering in on him from every angle.

  He had done lucrative business a handful of times with Rogers in the past, but on this particular occasion, Fusco planned on really cashing in, and by that I mean, the retirement type of cashing in. He knew Rogers was lying to him about the fraudulent stock certificates because he had overheard Rogers on his cell phone announcing to whomever he was speaking that he’d be willing to give up his entire fortune to get his hands on that artifact. It was that important an object to him.

  Fusco hatched a plan. He’d follow through with his deal with Rogers but have his sons steal the artifact, eliminating the witnesses by leaving behind two dead bodies and making it look like a murder/murder episode. Foster, once he realized he’d been drugged, shot Grace and killed her, but Foster would succumb soon afterward to the drug overdose.

  Fusco would explain to Rogers that the artifact could’ve been pilfered by anyone – someone in the hotel staff or a hotel guest who happened by, but that he would get to the bottom of things – quietly – except this time, it was going to cost Rogers. A lot. He’d wait until Rogers could gather together the money – in cash – and then deliver the artifact, as if he’d just procured it. It was like playing a fixed lottery ticket.

  “I say we toss her apartment while she’s not there and grab the case. That’s where it is.” Rocco reasoned.

  “That’s not where it is.” responded Fusco.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because she’s not stupid like you.” Fusco said. “She must be working with those three you reported seeing. They have it. We need to wait until they surface, make our move then. Kill them all.”

  “I’ll take care of the woman.” Rocco said.

  “I’ll take care of her. Your gun might turn into a friggin’ tuna again.” Tony countered, mocking him.

  “Trout. I told you, it was a trout.” Rocco retaliated.

  Fusco remembered the dead fish he had seen in the alley, wondering if Rocco was finally having that mental breakdown Fusco’s ex-wife had always warned him about.

  “Get dressed, let’s go.” Fusco said.

  Buddy’s snorting and wheezing continued. Pumpkin Eater was snoring too. Jon jerked awake all of a sudden, saliva dribbling down one side of his mouth. It was midafternoon now and he had managed a few winks. He glanced over at Grace’s apartment and saw her flitting about. Energized, he grabbed the case and left his quarters, careful not to wake anyone up.

  It wasn’t long before he appeared knocking on her door. She approached, peering through the peephole, Foster’s gun in hand this time, to see him standing there, toting the briefcase. She grabbed Cooper by the collar and swung open the door, careful to contain her excitement. Cooper immediately began to growl.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but I believe this is yours. You dropped it in the alley, I thought I’d return it to you.” explained Jon as he kept a careful eye on Cooper, completely cognizant that Grace was holding a gun as well.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Your friend, Buddy, he pointed out where you live, I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, no, not at all.”

  And as Grace reached for the case, tucking her gun away, Cooper suddenly broke free, lunging at Jon in full attack mode. Jon backpedalled sharply, spinning, slamming hard into the hallway’s wall, knocking himself out.

  “Cooper! Cooper!” Grace yelled, but Cooper wasn’t listening, jaws tearing at Jon’s clothing instead.

  Grace quickly grabbed the briefcase, glancing down the hallway in both directions to see if anyone was watching. Nobody was. She set the case inside before turning to see Cooper relieving himself on Jon.

  “Cooper! What the fuck! Get over here!”

  But Cooper’s leg wasn’t lowering. She had to grab him and walk him into the bedroom, shutting the door, sealing him inside before checking on Jon. He was still out cold. She took him by his ankles and pulled him into her apartment. Cooper kept growling.

  Jon came to, immersed in a bubbling hot bath. Grace hovered nearby. Cooper was still locked away in the bedroom, growling. Jon instinctively moved to get up but quickly eased back down. He was naked.

  “Your cloth
es are in the dryer although I’m afraid my dog kind of chewed them up a bit. Sorry. He’s never behaved like this before.”

  “What happened? Why am I soaking in a tub?”

  “He also did something else. You don’t want to know. Might be a good idea if you scrubbed up a bit.”

  She placed a towel down nearby.

  “I’ll bring you your clothes in a few minutes. In the meantime, I’m preparing dinner. How do you like your spaghetti? Fully cooked or al dente?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Perfect. That’s exactly how I make it.”

  She disappeared into the living room, shutting the bathroom door behind her, producing Rogers’ phone number as she found her phone and dialed. She also turned up the volume on her stereo to help drown out the conversation, in case Jon decided to eavesdrop.

  Yves LaPomme’s stately manor was nestled in a luxurious palm-fringed street. Iron-gated. Plenty of security. LaPomme was swimming laps in his magnificent pool, Atiu reading a newspaper nearby.

  Rogers looked on through a pair of binoculars from a distant location. His body language said it all. Breaking into that fortress was going to be next to impossible. His cell phone chirped. It was Grace calling.

  “Hello?”

  “I need a translation.”

  “Miss Hallond?”

  “The term priceless. Convey that to me in numbers I can understand.”

  “You’ve got the briefcase?”

  Dead silence.

  “Hello? Hello?” Rogers echoed.

  “U.S. currency is fine.”

  “I’ll give you fifty thousand dollars.”

  “That’s a lot of currency.”

  “When can we meet?”

  “As soon as you come up with nine hundred and fifty thousand more. In cash, of course. That’s an even mil in case you have trouble adding.”

  “I’ll need time to come up with that kind of cash.” Rogers said, after a brief hesitation.

  “How much time?”

  “I can have it by tomorrow night.”

  “Holy Cross Catholic Cemetery on Slauson Avenue. You know where I’m talking about?”