Maurice nodded. “All I know is that they were doing some work for Monaldo on the side. But I swear to you I don’t know what. I tried to get it out of Hank but he…” Maurice’s voice cracked as he trailed off. “We hadn’t exactly been on great terms lately.”
“Oh?” Dana leaned forward again.
Maurice stared at his hands. “About three months ago Hank started working late at the club. Going in odd hours, when I knew he wasn’t on stage. I asked him what it was about. At first he wouldn’t answer me. Then one night I saw him coming out of Monaldo’s private office. I confronted Hank. I…” He blushed. “I thought maybe they were having an affair. When he came home I accused him of cheating on me and we fought. He told me he was doing some extra work for Monaldo. He, Larry, and Bobbi. He wouldn’t tell me any more than that. But the next day he brought me these as a peace offering.”
Maurice held out his arm for inspection. Diamond cuff links twinkled back at us from their spot on his worn jacket. And they didn’t look like the home shopping network knock offs. These were genuine, mined in Africa, diamonds. And they were big.
Dana did a low whistle. “How many carats?”
“Two. Each.”
Dana whistled again.
Maurice got a sad little smile on his face and his eyes filled with tears again. “Hank could be very generous.”
“So, was Larry working with him too?” I asked, thinking of the beat-up Volvo my dad had driven off in. He hadn’t exactly seemed like he was rolling in dough.
Maurice shrugged. “I don’t know. I assumed he was, but…” He paused, staring down at the carpet again.
“But what?” I prompted.
His hands twisted around the tissue, making little white shreds of paper dance in the air, spurring the yapper dog to chase them. “A couple of weeks ago, I was at the house with Hank when Larry came home. He was upset about something. He dragged Hank into the den. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they were definitely arguing. The only word I could make out for sure was ‘Monaldo.’ Then finally Larry came out and just left.”
Figures. His standard M.O.
“Hank was really upset afterward,” Maurice continued. “He even went out and bought a gun.” He cringed. “I hate guns. When I asked Hank about it, he just said it didn’t hurt to be cautious. After Hank died-” Maurice choked back another little sob. “After he passed I took the gun and went to the house to ask Larry what was going on. I wanted to know what their argument had been all about and why Hank had been so scared that he needed a gun. I figured now that he was gone… well, I think I have a right to know why he took his own life.” Maurice hiccup-sobbed into the tissue again.
I thought about what Ramirez had told me last night and wished I could tell Maurice it was more likely Monaldo had taken Hank’s life. But, instead I asked, “What did Larry say?”
Maurice sniffled. “Nothing. He said he couldn’t tell me. He didn’t want anyone else to get hurt. I told him it was too late for that. And that’s when you showed up.”
My crappy timing strikes again.
It was becoming more and more clear that Larry was into something bad all the way up to his cheap wig. Maybe it was time to ask Ramirez for help. I may play Bond Girl, but even I wasn’t stupid enough to believe I could protect Larry from the Mob.
“Maurice, have you ever heard the name ‘Marsucci?’”
He gave me a blank look. “No. But then again, I’m finding out there were a lot of things Hank kept from me.” His eyes threatening to fill with tears again.
“What about Bobbi?” I asked, shifting the conversation before we all drowned in salt water. “I heard he hasn’t been into the club in awhile. Have you seen him?”
Maurice shook his head. “No. And Hank hadn’t either. He was really upset about it. Agitated.”
I bit my lip. And now he was dead.
I digested this bit of worrisome information, wondering just where all this left Larry.
Queenie, apparently tired of chasing Kleenex shreds, jumped up on the sofa beside me and settled himself on Dana’s lap.
“Well, hello, cutie,” Dana crooned, rubbing Queenie’s ear until his tail beat a steady happy-dog staccato against the flowered cushions. “You are just precious, aren’t you?”
Queenie’s tail began to wave so fast it was nearly invisible. He did happy little wiggles all over Dana’s lap and I cringed as his claws pawed at Dana’s Donna Karan sweater. But Dana didn’t seem to mind. “You’re just adorable,” she said in that high pitched cutesy voice used only for communicating with babies, small animals, and retail clerks who look like they might give a cute blonde a break on a full price pair of heels. “Who’s the cutest puppy? You are. Yes, you are. You’re a cutie boy. A cute, cute, cutie boy. You’re a-”
Dana stopped as the dog did a strangled little yelp, then went instantly limp in her lap.
Maurice sucked in a breath. “What happened? What did you do to him?”
“I, I…” Dana looked at the limp dog. Then at the cell gun strapped to her belt.
Mental forehead smack. I quickly grabbed the cell and shoved it into Dana’s purse before Maurice saw it.
“Oh my God, you’ve killed Queenie!” Maurice started bawling in earnest now, sobbing hysterically as he lifted Queenie from Dana’s lap and clutched him to his chest.
“He’s not dead,” I reassured him. He’s just a little… zapped.”
“Zapped?” Maurice’s eyes went big. Obviously my word choice didn’t have the comforting effect I was going for.
“Um, maybe not so much zapped as… sleeping. That’s it. He’s just sleeping. Dana has a very soothing effect on animals.”
Maurice looked at me like I was one cookie short of a dozen.
“See, here’s the thing, Dana has this little stun gun…”
“Gun!” Maurice shouted. “You shot my Queenie?!”
“No, no! Not shot. Just zapped. Mac says they’re perfectly harmless. And she should know, she owns the gun store. Like with the kind of guns that shoot for real. With bullets and stuff. I mean, not that I know a whole lot about guns. I don’t. I hate guns. I don’t even own a gun. Neither does Dana for that matter.”
“Not for another two days,” she added helpfully.
“See? No real guns here. Well, expcet maybe for the one you have.” I paused. “Um, you don’t actually have that gun on you right now, do you?” I asked, suddenly a little wary. Maurice just gave me a look. “Right. Of course not. I mean, not that I thought you’d use it. You wouldn’t. You’re obviously a very nice person. Not that nice people don’t own guns, they can. And do. Like you. But Dana doesn’t have a gun. Just a stun gun. Totally different. It only gives a little jolt of electricity. A tiny one. See, he’s coming around already.”
Queenie’s hind legs began to twitch as a puddle of doggy drool formed on Maurice’s lapels.
“See, he’s fine. Probably having a lovely doggie dream about milk bones and fire hydrants and chewing up furniture…”
There was that look again.
“Right. Maybe not chewing up furniture. I’m sure Queenie would never chew up furniture. Certainly not yours. But the other stuff, definitely. Well, okay, I guess we should be going…”
Dana and I backed out of the condo as Maurice watched us, his eyes full of big tears, Queenie twitching in his arms. As soon as we were out the door, it slammed behind us and I heard Maurice throw the lock.
Well, that went well. I turned to my best friend. “You are a maniac! I don’t ever want to see that thing again.”
“What?” Dana protested.
“You just zapped a puppy!”
“On accident.”
“Right, and as long as the gun stays in your purse,” I annunciated very slowly, “there will be no more accidents.”
Dana pouted. “This is just like the Ben Affleck set.”
“Why, did you stun Ben too?”
“No,” she said as we got in the car. Then added as an afterthought.
“I kind of, totally accidentally, stunned his cat.”
Never mind fur traders, PETA should be going after Dana.
* * *
After we left the condo, we made a quick lunch stop at Burger King, where I ordered a double whopper with cheese, fries, and a thick vanilla milkshake. I had completely given up on fitting in the Nicole Miller. It was last season’s cut anyway. Dana, on the other hand, ordered a side salad and bottled water.
“I can’t believe you actually eat those things,” Dana said, scrunching up her little ski jump nose at my burger.
“Why?” I asked around a bite of pure heaven. I’m not ashamed to say I was two inches away from a gooey cheddar induced orgasm.
“Uh, hello? Mad cow. Do you have any idea what that burger was fed when it was alive?”
I looked over at her salad. “Probably your lunch.”
“Other ground up cows. Antibiotics. Growth hormones. Why don’t you just hook yourself up to an IV full of toxins?”
I looked down at my burger. “Because this tastes better?”
Dana shook her head at me and took a bite of her wilted lettuce.
I was just wolfing down the last of my heaven on a bun, when my purse rang. I slipped my cell out as I chomped on a deliciously greasy French fry.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Mads.”
Cripes! Mom.
“Uh, hi, Mom.”
“How’s Palm Springs?”
“Uh… ” I glanced around at the full Burger King, hoping she couldn’t hear the ding of the slot machine in the corner. “It’s great.”
“How’s the weather out there?”
“Great!”
“And, your fellow? How are things with him?”
“Grrrrrrreat,” I said, sounding a little too much like Tony the Tiger for comfort. “Everything’s just great.”
“I’m so glad. Listen, I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I just wanted to let you know I bought you a plant.”
“A plant?”
“Yes, I went by to water your plants and I got rid of that plastic thing you had. I bought you a real ficus instead.”
Great. Just what I needed. A ficus.
“Now, you’re going to have to water it every three days,” Mom continued, “but not too much, you don’t want to over water. Just until the soil is moist. But don’t let it overflow. I got you a dish to set it on, but it could still overflow onto your carpet, so easy on the water. And just a touch of plant food once a month. You can mix it right in your watering can.”
I rubbed my eyes, the sleepless nights catching up to me. “I don’t have a watering can, Mom.”
Mom paused. “What do you mean you don’t have a watering can? Everyone has a watering can. How do you water your plants without a watering can?”
“I don’t have any plants!”
“Yes you do. You have a ficus. Never mind, I’ll go out and get you a watering can tomorrow.”
I gritted my teeth together. “Mom, I have to go.”
“Sure, honey. I understand. You don’t want to keep that man of yours waiting. I know how you young folks are. I was young once too, you know. Of course, with Ralphie, I feel like I’m twenty-three again. God bless those little blue pills.” She did a little giggle.
My eye did a little twitch.
“Right. Okay, well, bye now, Mom, gotta go.”
I hung up, wondering how much longer I could keep up this charade. Mom may not be the sharpest dresser in the world, but she was no dummy. Any second now I was waiting for her to do the big ah-ha! and realized that not only was I not in Palm Springs with the guy I was not having sex with, but instead I was running around Sin city zapping puppies and chasing after Larry in a skirt. And I shuddered to think what the punishment would be then. Suffice to say, this was bad enough to make those Hot Dog on a Stick hats look like haute couture.
Once I finished my fries (and added a Hershey’s Sundae Pie for desert. Hey, after the conversation with Mom I needed comfort food.) and Dana finished the last of her rabbit food, we hopped into the Mustang and headed back to the hotel. As we merged onto the 15 heading south toward the Strip I pulled down the visor to check for chunks of Mad Cow stuck in my teeth and touch up my lip gloss. I was applying one last swipe of Raspberry Perfection, when I caught a flash of blue in the mirror.
I whipped my head around. “Sonofabitch.”
Sure enough, there in brilliant Dodge blue was my friendly neighborhood stalker, his Neon hanging back one car length in the next lane over.
Chapter Ten
“What?” Dana craned around in her seat trying to see what I was staring at.
“That blue Dodge Neon.”
“What about him?” she asked.
“I think he’s following me.”
“Oh Maddie,” Dana did a poo-pooing motion with her wrist and clucked her tongue. “You’re just being paranoid.”
“That’s what I thought, but I swear to you I have seen this same car four times in the last week. First in L.A. and now here. I’m telling you, he’s following me.”
I kept one eye on the rearview mirror as my hands did a white knuckle grip on the steering wheel. I wasn’t sure which was worse, thinking someone was stalking me or actually knowing it.
Dana craned around again to get a look at the car. “So, who is he?”
“I don’t know,” I said, accelerating. “But he’s really starting to freak me out.”
I angled my foot down on the accelerator, surging forward. Then yanked the wheel, veering to the right and cutting in front of a limo with tinted windows. Neon swerved out into the left lane pulling ahead of the limo, then quickly jumped right back onto my tail.
“He’s not real concerned about being seen, is he?” Dana asked, still looking out the back window.
No he wasn’t. Which was a little unnerving. Either he didn’t know how to tail someone, or he was confident we wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a lineup later. Like if we were dead or maimed from being run off the road.
I could clearly see the driver now. The same sandy haired guy I’d seen at the casino. He was wearing tinted aviator glasses and a rumpled polo shirt, to all the world a normal commuter. Except for the fact that his Neon was practically kissing my back bumper now.
I took a deep breath and slammed on the brakes, veering into the far right lane between a pair of semi trucks. The driver of the second one laid on his horn and did a not-so-polite hand gesture out the window. Dana braced herself against the dashboard.
“Whoa! Take it easy, Miss Earnhardt.”
But it was too late. I was in serious fight or flight mode and considering I had trouble keeping up in Dana’s low-impact Tae Bo class, I chose the flight option, hoping like anything there weren’t any highway patrol cars in the area. (I was already on a first name basis with three of the L.A. county traffic court judges, I didn’t need to add Nevada to the list.) Luckily, the Neon driver wasn’t dealing with the added bonus of adrenalin fueled reflexes and didn’t hit his brakes in time. He zipped past us in the left lane. I quickly veered off the freeway at the next exit, blindly driving surface streets like they were the Pomona Speedway until I was sure my back bumper was Neonless. I pulled the Mustang into the parking lot of a Denny’s as the surge of adrenalin receded, leaving my limbs feeling like Jell-o jigglers.
“Holy crap,” Dana said in the seat next to me as she dug her nails out of Marco’s naugahyde dash. “What the hell was that about?”
I would have answered but it was taking all my concentration just remembering to breath. In, out, in out…
“Who the hell was that freak?”
“I (in) don’t (out) know.”
Dana turned to face me. “Are you okay?”
“I’m (in, out, in, out) fine.” Sure, once I stopped panting and my heart returned to a pace slightly less spastic than a ten year old on Ritalin.
Dana dug around in the back seat and found a discarded Taco Bell bag, which she instructed me to breathe into. The odor of we
ek old Beefy Gordita Supreme was slighting nauseating, but after a few inhale-exhales, the urge to hyperventilate slowly dissipated. As I rhythmically inflated and deflated the fast food bag, I racked my brain to think of who cared enough about my movements to not only follow me all the way across the desert, but ride my butt all over Las Vegas as well. Ramirez? Larry? Monaldo? Not likely, since I’d never even met two of them until yesterday. And I couldn’t see Ramirez paying some guy in a Neon to keep tabs on his girlfriend. So who was he? Not surprisingly, I drew a total blank.
Dana offered to drive back to the hotel (probably because she was afraid to ride shotgun with Miss Earnhardt again) and by the time we pulled up to the casino, I’m happy to report that my breathing was once again back to normal. (Though I was totally jonesing for a taco.) Dana got out at the casino entrance, but I declined her invitation of an afternoon at the roulette wheel. With the kind of luck I was having lately, I didn’t think it was wise to put money on the line.
I was too keyed up to go sit in the room, not feeling lucky enough for slots, and considering I had a date with Mr. Hardbody tonight, seriously trying to resist the fattening allure of the buffet. I looked down at my watch. I still had an hour before my appointment at the salon. Which, I decided, left me more than enough time to do another quick drive by of Larry’s house on the off chance he was spending a quiet afternoon at home. The more I learned about him the more questions I had. And while the whole Mob angel was just this side of reality TV for me, I had to admit the question topping my list was why Larry’d called me in the first place. Okay, so he’d needed help, that much was obvious. But why me? I admit, the little-girl-lost in me was still holding out hope of that perfect father daughter reunion.
Unfortunately as I pulled up to 319 Sand Hill Lane, it was obvious today wasn’t the day for it. The driveway was empty. No sign of Larry’s battered Volvo. I parked at the curb and rang the bell just for good measure. No answer. I peeked in the garage windows. No car. No signs of life. No big surprise considering how my day was going so far.
Mr. Shar Pei was outside watering his cactuses again. I strolled over to the row of shrubs that served as a barrier between the two yards and waved. “Hi there,” I called.
High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5) Page 37