Who Killed Rudy Rio?

by Lee Bellamy

  "I don't need a gun," I told him in a voice that didn't invite discussion. This was no time to express my views on gun control. "How much will you pay me?"

  "Forty an hour, plus expenses."

  I nearly choked. "Surely you jest."

  "It's a hardball world, honey."

  "Down in Los Angeles you couldn't get your floor swept for forty an hour."

  A malevolent smile tipped the corners of his mouth. "But we're not in L.A., are we? Forty-five, and that's tops."

  The words, I'd get a least a hundred in L.A., sprang to my lips, but I kept quiet. Only two hundred miles to the north I was in a world where unemployment ran sky high and salaries, by Southern California standards, low. I got practical. Even at Fresno wages, a few hours' work would put a definite dent in next month's Visa and MasterCard payments. Tom ran them to the max on his last, drunken, marriage-breaker Las Vegas spree. Just thinking of it, I swallowed my rage for the thousandth time. "It's robbery, but you've got yourself a deal."

  "They want you there tonight."

  I checked my watch. Three o'clock. "Tonight? Fine."

  Tish appeared in the doorway. "Reece, Perez just pulled into the parking lot."

  Barnicut didn't move a muscle. "It's about time."

  "Hey, babe, I'm back!" boomed a male voice from the lobby.

  With the subtlety of a tornado, Gil Perez strode into the room carrying a motorcycle helmet under his arm, wearing black leathers over T-shirt and Levis, and ankle-high boots. He was thirty-five or so; lean and spare; around five-feet-nine; dark hair short in front, long in back, down to his shoulders. He had an even-featured face on the thin side and a two-day stubble of beard. He planted his boots firmly in front of Barnicut's desk and said, "My man! How's it going?" I detected the trace of a Spanish accent in his low, melodious voice.

  Barnicut scowled. "We haven't heard from you for three days. Where have you been?"

  "What's the matter, Barlycorn? You got a problem?"

  "I've told you before, don't call me Barlycorn. I take umbrage at that."

  "Umbrage!" Perez's face lit like a kid with a new Nintendo. He turned to Tish. "Did you hear that? Barlycorn's got some umbrage. Where do you suppose it is?"

  Tish giggled. "I don't know."

  "Are you standing on it?" Tish giggled again and shook her head. He stalked behind her desk and pulled open a drawer. "Nope, I don't see any umbrage here." He pulled open another drawer and frowned. "Not here either. So, Reece, where'd you put your umbrage?"

  Barnicut raised pained eyes to the ceiling. He remained silent, slowly tapping his pencil.

  "Not talking, eh? Well, we'll get to the bottom of this." Perez turned his attention to me. "Pardon me, madam, are you sitting on some umbrage?"

  That cracked me up. I hadn't laughed so hard in a long time. Hadn't laughed much at all lately, come to think of it.

  Only Barnicut remained unamused. He finally cut in with, "Gil, that's enough." Stony-faced, he continued, "Are you finished?"

  "Finished." Perez set his helmet on the desk and dropped into a chair next to me, flashing one final, flippant grin.

  Barnicut pointed at me with his pencil. "Gil, this is Holly Keene. She's working for us on a temporary assignment."

  He shoved my resume across the desk. Perez picked it up and read aloud, "Licensed P.I... Berkeley grad..." He looked up quizzically. "You live in The Fig Gardens?"

  Now they would think I was rich and didn't need the job. "That's right, Old Fig," I reluctantly confirmed, referring to the name the euphuistic real estate agents called one of Fresno's oldest and most prestigious neighborhoods. "I'm staying with my mother for a while." She wasn't rich either, but no way would I tell him that.

  "Ah, a touch of class, Reece," said Perez. "B & P can use her." He finished the resume, nodding approval. "Looks good to me. Pleased to meet you, Holly Keene from Old Fig." His eyes crinkled in the corners when he smiled.

  I asked, "Is that your usual entrance?"

  "Not always." His expression sobered. He looked me over—thoroughly up and down—and I saw that he wasn't entirely the buffoon, that he was checking me out with a detective's keen eye. "Has Reece put you to work yet?"

  "I'm going out to Rosie's Bar tonight to check on the bartender."

  "Don't go alone."

  "I know how to defend myself."

  "She's got her purple belt, Gil." Barnicut's voice dripped with sarcasm.

  Perez ignored him. "Don't go alone," he repeated.

  I shot him a challenging glance. "Why not? I'll just slip in and sit inconspicuously in a corner."

  His gaze swept over all five-feet nine of me again. "You," he observed, "would be as inconspicuous as Mother Theresa at a cock fight."

  I gave him a look. "Thanks for your vote of confidence."

  "Want some company?" Perez appeared amused. His fingers brushed the leathers he was wearing. "I'm already dressed for it."

  Well, that was for sure, but no, I did not want his company. Perez might be amusing, but he was crazy—way too far out for me. I was framing my reply when Barnicut suddenly got alert, dollar signs in his eyes. "Well, hell, if you're going to go, Gil, then we don't need Holly."

  Thanks a lot, cheapskate. "Look," I said to Barnicut, "I don't need a chaperon. If you want me to go, I go alone. If you don't—" I flashed a lofty look at Perez, "—then your partner can handle it. Either way, it's fine."

  Barnicut looked surprised, like large-breasted blondes weren't supposed to act assertive.

  Perez got out of his chair and scooped up his helmet. "The lady goes alone, Reece. I've got better things to do." At the door he gave me a mock salute. "So long, Mother Theresa. Knock 'em dead tonight. And be careful."

  I got the details of the case from Barnicut and left. Out in the parking lot, I climbed into my Camaro, started the engine, and just sat there, head bowed, hands clutching the steering wheel. My thoughts were so boggled they bounced from one topic to another like a Ping-Pong ball.

  I thought about Jay Champion, war hero, risking his life in Afghanistan while some rotten, unpatriotic thief stole his trailers.

  I had a job. It wasn't much, but maybe I had managed to get my toe in the door of the best detective agency in town. Not that it would pay much. I recalled the money Tom and I had squandered back in our yuppie existence. How I could use it now! There was a time when I had thousands in savings. Now I had barely enough in the bank to cover the February bills.

  Mostly, though, I couldn't get my mind off Rudy Rio. His confession had been off-the-wall, totally inconceivable, not worth a second thought, yet it kept nagging me. Could there really be anything as awful as a snuff movie? Did the masked biker really cut the throat of the girl with the long black hair? No! Rudy was a liar. He made the whole thing up. He was trying to shock me, and yet, his story had a ring of truth. I could not get that haunted look in his eyes out of my mind. But I'd have to. Like Barnicut said, don't waste time on the what-ifs. Forget Rudy Rio.

  Only I couldn't.

  I wanted to hurry home so I could rummage through my closet and pull my biker girl outfit together. That would be fun. But first I had to talk to Rudy again and see if he was okay, and see if what he'd told me could possibly be true...

  Yes, I had to do it.

  I pulled out of the parking lot and got on Freeway 41, heading south towards Champion's Commercial Trailer Yard. I was in the midst of Fresno’s 5 o'clock traffic, but even at its worst, 41 was a wilderness road compared to the gridlock of Southern California. This was one of the good things about coming back home. Johnny Carson used to call Fresno the armpit of California, back when it was—depending on the season—a fogbound, sun-baked, mostly-white little town. When I was younger, I thought so too. I couldn't wait to head for the bright lights of L.A. Now Fresno is a fogbound, sun-baked big city with a half-million, multi-national population of Hmongs, Mexicans, Vietnamese, Filipinos, you name it. Whites are a minority now.

  Either way, for some inexplicable reason, it
was good to be home.

  Fresno's industrial area, what there was of it, is located south, out by Highway 99, which cuts through the west part of town. The streets are choppy and not well marked. I had to drive around for a while before I finally found Champion's trailer yard. It was located between a big trucking company and a small plastics manufacturing firm, in the middle of a bleak, treeless block that was definitely not the garden spot of Fresno.

  I pulled to the curb and parked in front of the long, gray, one-story office building that butted against the sidewalk. An eight-foot chain link fence, topped by a continuous concertina loop of barbed wire, surrounded the yard behind and to the sides. Beyond, long rows of commercial trailers, all painted the same dull gray, seemed to stretch to infinity. Everything was shades of gray—monotonous, hum-drum gray, except for a few green weeds poking through the sidewalk.

  A sickly looking miniature palm tree struggled for life in a red brick planter by the front door.

  In the front, the fence was broken by a wire mesh gate, chained and padlocked. Not very hospitable. If Rudy lived here, he was, if nothing else, secure. I hoped the office was still open. It was my only way in.

  I found the door unlocked. Inside, a long counter faced me. Behind it lay a big room filled with several desks, computer terminals, filing cabinets—the usual small office trappings. On a TV set in the corner a CNN announcer was describing a Taliban attack on government buildings in Kandahar. I thought of Jay Champion. Was that where he was?

  Stepping to the counter, I nearly bumped into a man hurrying towards the door. He stopped and I stopped, and when I got a good look at him, something in me went plink! I love tall men, and this one was at least six-four, with beautifully styled brown hair, a tanned face with the chiseled features of a male mannequin, and a physique as powerful and well-muscled as Hugh Jackman's. His slacks had a razor-sharp crease. I could see his hairy chest through the open collar of his Pendleton plaid shirt.

  "Hi there!" He smiled as he spoke, and his even white teeth glittered and flashed. "How can we help you?"

  "I'm looking for Rudy Rio."

  "Sure." He pointed towards the rear door. "Rudy lives in a trailer at the rear of the lot." His gaze dropped to the front of my jacket. What he thought he could see, I didn't know. When he found my face again, I detected a glint of lechery deep in his eyes. He asked, "Haven't I met you somewhere before?"

  Clever. "I don't believe so."

  With an easy motion, he held out his hand and flashed his smile again. "I'm Bill Hatcher, charge of sales. And you're—?"

  "Holly Keene, private investigator." I shook his hand briefly.

  "Holly Keen, P.I.," he repeated. "Hey! That's got a nice ring to it. You could be a TV star with a name like that."

  Oh, please. So much for the plink. I had just met my first post-divorce frog. It was like opening a beautifully wrapped present and finding an empty box inside. I backed away. "Pleasure to meet you. Must go."

  A woman's voice—cross and impatient—interrupted from behind the counter. "Go home Bill, I'll handle this." I turned. A slender woman of about thirty-five peered at me over one of the terminals. She had a big mop of peroxide blonde hair. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses rested halfway down her nose. She was frowning.

  Bill shot his eyebrows up in a see-what-I-have-to-put-up-with expression. He gave me a killer smile that brought out a darling dimple in his chin. He barely nodded at the woman. To me he said, "See you around, honey," and was gone.

  The woman arose from the terminal. Of medium height, she wasn't very attractive, what with those ugly glasses and those blonde bangs that hung too heavy and too low on her forehead. A fashion plate she was not, and if she thought her cotton turquoise blouse went with her baggy green wool skirt, she was sadly mistaken. Ditto the brown cardigan sweater slung over her shoulders June Allison style, fastened with a circa 1955 gold sweater chain. The whole outfit she could donate to the Smithsonian. "Rudy's not home." Still frowning, the woman cast a meaningful look at the wall clock. "We're about to close."

  "Mind if I make sure? This is important." I put on my Little-Miss-Charm smile. "Maybe you could phone?"

  "Rudy doesn't have a phone." Her eyes grew wary. She drew herself up and glared. "What is this about?"

  I realized I should have found Rudy on my own. Now I'd have to watch it. I could lose my license if I wasn't careful what I said. "It's something personal. He was at Barnicut & Perez today. Something came up. I want to talk to him."

  "Oh, really?" She immediately grew alert, and keenly interested. Not more friendly, though. She had an air of aloofness about her that would be hard to penetrate. "You work for Barnicut & Perez?"

  "Let's just say, I happened to be there."

  "I'm the one who called Reece Barnicut. I'm Doris Trusdale."

  I would not have guessed. Doris had come across as a lot more personable on the telephone. The hostility hadn't come through. "I was there when you called."

  Her face clouded. "Jay champion is a war hero, ready to give his life for his country, yet some lowlife had the nerve to steal from him." She lowered her voice and hissed, "I know Rudy's a part of this. He couldn't have done it by himself, he's not that smart. But I know."

  I shrugged noncommittally. "The police will sort it out."

  Doris clamped her jaw. "They'd better. Jay doesn't deserve this. You do know Jay Champion, don't you?"

  "No, I don't."

  "You don't?" Her eyebrows lifted in annoyed surprise. "I guess you don't read the paper much. Jay's so active in the community. He belongs to Rotary...Kiwanis...Friends of the Zoo. He's a deacon in his church—" her face took on a glow "—he works at Poverello House, dishing out food to the poor. His friends want him to get into politics."

  "Sounds like a great guy."

  "And that's not all." Her eyes glittered. She was getting all worked up. "Jay didn't have to join the reserves. He has his own business—a beautiful family—a good life. But money means nothing to Jay. He's a patriot. He joined the National Guard because he wanted to serve his country."

  "That's really terrific."

  "Yes it is, only..." Doris's forehead creased with concern. "Jay loved to play weekend warrior. That's why he joined the National Guard. Who would have thought his company would actually be sent off to a war again? Velia's worried sick." She nodded briskly. "Well of course we all are."

  "Velia?"

  "Velia Champion, his wife."

  "Oh, of course," I murmured. I'd heard that name before—something in the recent news, but I couldn't put my finger on it. "So can I see Rudy?"

  "But why?"

  It was none of her business, but I refrained from saying so. "When I saw him today he got a little upset."

  "Upset? No wonder." Venom flashed from Doris's eyes. "The little creep was lying, wasn't he?"

  Side-step that one, or I could be in big trouble. "Mr. Barnicut will be calling you. This is a different matter. It's personal." Time to get assertive. "I really need to see him."

  "You want to see him," she repeated. A corner of her mouth tugged down with annoyance. She made some time for herself by rolling her eyes at the clock again, then pulling her sweater tighter around her shoulders, although the room wasn't that cold. "I'm not sure he's home. Why don't you come back tomorrow?" She crossed her arms in front of her chest, a bit of body language that clearly translated to back off bitch.

  No chance, Doris. "This will only take a minute. He's here, isn't he?"

  Changing tactics, Doris heaved a martyr sigh. "Yes, he's here, out back. But really, uh...Holly—" she leaned across the counter, anxious, it seemed, to impart some solicitous advice. "Rudy's a drinker. He's probably two sheets to the wind by now. He gets blotto every night. It's not safe. You know how men are when they're drinking. You'd better come back in the morning."

  I tried to conjure up the image of Rudy, the Drunken Beast, and stifled my laughter. "I'll just have to take my chances," I informed her solemnly. "I've got to see him."

>   "Well, if you must." She had run out of excuses so she gave me a drop-dead look and pointed towards a rear exit. "Go out that way. Follow the row of trailers all the way to the rear. He lives in an old forty-foot Travel King clear at the back. Thanks to Jay," she added with pointed sarcasm. "I'm going home now, so when you're done, he can let you out through the side gate."

  Chapter 4

  Rudy's battered trailer fit right in with the dreariness of Champion's Commercial Trailer Sales. It sat on bare dirt, flush against the rear fence, unskirted and unadorned. Darkness had fallen by the time I got to his door. I walked up the rickety steps, knocked and waited. The door cracked open and Rudy peeked out.

  "Well, hello there, missy." A pixie smile broke across his face. He opened the door wide and motioned. "Come in."

  Unbelievable. I stepped inside, shaking my head. I had expected a man in torment, racked with anguish over the memory of the terrible murder he witnessed. Instead, Rudy appeared in fine fettle—carefree, practically bubbling. He still wore his dress shoes and slacks but had stripped down to his undershirt. He clutched a can of Bud in his hand. One overpowering whiff of his beer breath told me Doris made an understatement. Three sheets, not two.

  His combination kitchen-living-dining-room was cluttered and small. He swept a couple of empty beer cans off the scaled-down sofa, saying blithely, "Sit yourself down. Want a beer?"

  "Sure. Got a Light?"

  He dug another Bud from his tiny fridge. It wasn't a Light, but I took it anyway. I sat down and popped the top. "I was worried about you, Rudy. That's why I came to see you."

  "Hey, that's great!" He broke into a little elf dance, holding his beer can high as he pirouetted around the narrow room. "You're worried about me? A great looking broad like you?"

  "Simmer down, Rudy."

  "Hey, no sweat, I'm fine." He finished his dance and sank into a chair. "Feeling no pain," he mumbled, the euphoria suddenly gone. Through glazed eyes he peered at me. I saw the anguish there still. "Rudy Rio does jus' fine," he repeated, lifting his chin with bravado.