Killer Groove: A Cooper & Rockne Mystery #1 (Cooper & Rockne Mysteries)

by Dan Ames

  Oh God, Mary thought. It was going to be like Algae all over again.

  She half expected to see Jason up on the stage, bellowing one expletive after the other.

  Luckily, it wasn’t Jason, but a group of young locals doing their best to imitate some kind of rock/punk band from New York during the early nineties. Mary went to the bar and ordered a mojito. She didn’t really like tequila, even the expensive stuff. There was no doubt it was smooth, but the flavor didn’t do much for her. Besides, rum sounded good to her.

  “Hello there.”

  Mary turned and came face-to-face with the bare chest of a very tall man. She glanced up, and saw a scary-looking face. It was dark, with dark eyes, and horrible teeth. Short black hair was cut in an even bang across the man’s massive forehead.

  He looks like a Mexican Frankenstein, Mary thought.

  “Hola,” Mary said, barely getting the word out of her mouth. What she really wanted to say was holy shit.

  “How do you like Puerto Vallarta?” the giant said, his voice sounded like a garbage truck. With a missing muffler. “I can tell you’re not from around here.”

  “You’re both enormous and perceptive,” Mary pointed out. “I like it fine, so far. But the parties are lame. I’m from LA and am used to killer parties. With celebrities, especially musicians.”

  Sasquatch let out a long laugh. His breath smelled like a barbecued meat.

  “You are in the wrong place,” he said.

  “You mean PV?”

  “No, this place. Nothing good happens here. Except for me meeting you.”

  The human Sequoia smiled, revealing a mouth full of teeth, each the size of an apartment-sized refrigerator.

  “Oh yeah?” Mary asked. “Where’s the action?”

  “Let me show you,” he said. He held out a hand that resembled a catcher’s mitt. Mary let him walk her to the door.

  “Hold on,” she said. She chugged her mojito and set the empty glass on the bar. It gave her a chance to consider what she was doing. This club looked like a dead end, but then again, the giant might have a car waiting on the curb to kidnap her.

  In the end, she decided to be adventurous.

  “Let’s do this,” she said. Mary let the giant lead her out of the club, around the corner, and into another club, this one called La Boca Grande.

  It was full of locals, at least they looked like locals to Mary, and the music was a great kind of Latin groove, almost a boogaloo.

  Now she had to figure out how to ditch Lurch. “Going to el bane,” she said. The giant nodded his melon-sized head and Mary disappeared into the crowd. It was a throng on the dance floor, groups of people dancing alone and together, some smoking cigars, holding drinks, doing the cha cha or the salsa, whatever it was.

  She did, in fact, use the restroom. It was a squalid place, the stench nearly burning her nostrils, but Mary did her business and then rejoined the throng in the club. She was thirsty so she bought herself another drink and was about to duck back into the crowd when a stunning-looking woman grabbed her by the arm.

  “Girl, what are you doing here?” the woman asked. “You’ve got LA written all over you!”

  The speaker was a woman, with the kind of harsh beauty that’s unforgettable. Dark, smoky eyes, hatchet-sharp cheekbones, lips to die for, and a knockout body. She wore a little black dress showing off her perfect legs. Damn, Mary thought. And she’s perceptive. How did she know I’m from LA?

  “And you’ve got hotness written all over you,” Mary said. “Do you–”

  “Get away from her,” the voice boomed from behind Mary. She didn’t even have to turn to realize it was her giant escort.

  For a moment, Mary thought he was telling her to get away from this beautiful woman. But then she realized it was the other way around.

  “Fuck off, Brody,” the beautiful woman said.

  “Go to hell, Tara,” the giant said.

  At least now Mary had names to put to the two angry faces squaring off.

  The giant grabbed Mary and started to pull her toward him.

  Suddenly, Tara had a butterfly knife in her hand and made a move toward Brody, the giant.

  “Whoa!” the overgrown pituitary gland said.

  He let go of Mary.

  “You want a piece of us?” Tara hissed. She danced forward with stunning speed and power, slashing at Brody, who stumbled backwards and fell on his ass. It was an enormous crash, like a steer carcass being cut down at the slaughterhouse.

  Tara held out her hand to Mary. “Let’s get out of here.”

  The two of them left the club and found themselves out on the street.

  “Wow,” Mary said. “You sure know how to show a girl a good time. The next thing you’ll tell me is you’re a friend of Bulldog’s.”

  Tara laughed and looked at Mary with a quizzical expression. “How’d you know that?”

  “How’d you know I was from LA?”

  Tara laughed. “Good point. Hey, Bulldog’s having a party tomorrow night. Want to be my date?”

  Mary smiled.

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  This is how it’s gonna be

  You and me

  This is how it’s gonna be

  Now I see.

  -Right As Rain (by Groovy Train)

  Roger Goldman was a good lead, but I needed more. It was too early to hit the clubs, and I needed some time to think about my next step. Plus, I had some time before I was meeting Roger at a bar a few blocks away.

  The best place to wait?

  A pool.

  Or a bar.

  Or a pool with a bar.

  The hotel had a swim-up bar, the kind where the shallow end of the pool was a bar, with stools half-in and half-out of the water. I was not wearing a swimming suit and so I had no intention of partaking in alcoholic beverages while half-submerged, although the idea was enticing. And maybe, after a few drinks, I would find the idea more attractive.

  Then again, I was here to work, not to vacation.

  So instead, I went to the “dry” side of the bar, sat down and ordered a Pacifico beer.

  “There’s my gringo!”

  A little head popped up, barely over the edge of the bar from the swim-up side and I saw the woman from the airplane. I smiled in spite of myself, and tried to remember her name.

  “Alice,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Great,” she said. “How’s the plastics business, John?”

  “Booming,” I said. “Buy you a drink?”

  “Of course,” she said. She slid onto one of the poolside bar stools, across from me.

  “I’ll take a margarita, senor,” she said to the bartender.

  I sipped from my beer while the bartender made her drink. When he finally slid it over in front of her we toasted each other.

  “To Mexico,” I said.

  “And whatever happens,” she replied.

  I laughed. Again with the flirting.

  “I thought you were staying at a Westin?”

  “I am,” she said. “But they have a bar and pool reciprocity with this hotel. The Westin doesn’t have a swim-up bar. Plus, I heard all the hot guys hang out here.”

  “How’s the water?” I asked, not quite sure what to think of Alice.

  “Invigorating. You should join me. Go skinny dipping, I won’t tell.” Alice smiled and took a big slug of her margarita.

  “I would love to,” I said. “I am a firm believer in the buddy system.”

  “I’ll be your buddy, John.”

  I laughed. “And I’m sure you’d be a great one.”

  The beer felt good, and I thought about Zack Hatter and Bulldog. It seemed incongruous that the aged rock star was being held captive here in PV. Sitting at a hotel swim-up bar probably had something to do with that emotion.

  Alice and I chatted through one more beer and another margarita, until I felt guilty about not working the case.

  “I’m afra
id I have to run to a meeting,” I said to her. “About plastics. So I’ll take a rain check on the skinny dip.”

  “Okay, John,” she said. “If you ever want to check out the Westin, feel free to stop by. I’m in room 408.”

  The rest of my beer went down with a few easy swallows and then I settled with the bartender.

  “Ok, maybe I will. I’ll see you around, Alice.”

  “Hook up with you later, John.” She followed that with a double wink.

  Outside, the air felt a little cooler than near the pool deck, and the breeze was more noticeable. Roger, Nate’s writer friend, had given me the name and address of a bar where he would introduce me to someone who might know Bulldog. He’d also hinted that if I had at least a little bribe money, that I could possibly make it happen.

  The place was called El Gringo Barracho. The drunken gringo. Perfect. After the two beers at the hotel, I wasn’t drunk. But I had laid a decent foundation.

  It took me less than five minutes to find the place. There was no cover so I walked inside. I noticed two things right away. One, the scent of cologne was overpowering. And two, the place was full of men.

  I checked my watch. It seemed early for a club to be this packed, but hey, when in Mexico, right?

  Right after that, realizations number three and four followed. Three, it was a gay bar. And four, the dance floor was packed. They were all standing in the middle, as if they were waiting for something.

  A hand waved to me and I saw Roger sitting at a table with an extremely overweight man with pasty white skin and bright red hair. He had freckles all over his face and the world’s thinnest goatee.

  There was an empty seat at their table so I sat down.

  “Hey Roger,” I said. I had looked up his newsletter website and there had been a photo of him, a headshot, which made recognizing him easy. He must have done some homework on me, too, because he’d picked me out of the crowd.

  “John, this is Gustavo,” Roger said. “Gustavo, this is my friend John I was telling you about.”

  We shook hands and I was about to ask a question when shouting from the dance floor erupted. I turned, and saw that high above the dancers, suspended from the ceiling, was a giant foam machine. Bubbly foam began to pour down on the dancers below in great quantities. The men ripped off their shirts and began dancing and rubbing foam all over each other’s bodies.

  John, you’re not in Kansas anymore.

  I turned back to Roger and Gustavo, but both of them were eagerly transfixed on the action behind me. A waiter appeared and I ordered a Pacifico over the din.

  Mercifully, the suds dispenser finally stopped and both Roger and Gustavo suddenly seemed to realize that I was sitting across from them.

  “Sorry, what were you saying?” Roger asked me.

  I looked at Gustavo. “It’s very important to me that I get a chance to talk with a man named Bulldog. Do you know him? I heard the only way to meet him is to get invited to one of his parties.”

  The pasty man nodded his carrot-topped head. “Are you rich?”

  “No, I hail from middle-class suburbia.”

  “Are you connected to the music industry in some important way?” The red-haired ghost had a high-pitched whiny voice. His hand snaked out from underneath the table and snatched up his drink. Something with a mint leaf in it, in a clear plastic cup.

  “I love music, but I don’t do anything to help create it,” I admitted.

  Gustavo turned to look at Roger, as if to say, why am I here listening to this loser.

  “I believe John is willing to offer a finder’s fee to the person who can get him a personal invite to Bulldog’s. How much that might be is between the two of you.”

  Stifling the urge to cringe, I reached into my pocket and took almost all of my petty cash, a little over a grand. I whipped it out and said, “I’ve got a grand if you can get me in. Once I’m in, I might be able to get a little more.”

  I dropped the cash on the table.

  Gustavo had a smirk on his face. There was no way he was going to agree to the fee. That much was obvious.

  Roger leaned over and whispered something in Gustavo’s ear. The pasty mound of flesh softened his expression, raised an eyebrow at me, and swept the money off the top of the table.

  “Give me your cell phone number,” Gustavo said. “And be ready. I’ll text you an address and a time for tomorrow night. Wear something that will make it look like you actually belong at a party, please not what you’re wearing now.” He looked me up and down with open disdain. “You look like a first-grade school teacher on a field trip.

  Gustavo got up and left the table, leaving behind an aura of contempt, and a sickly sweet scent of body odor.

  “Thank you, Roger,” I said. “I could tell he wasn’t impressed with my financial contribution. What did you say to him to get him to accept?”

  “That if he gave you what you wanted, I’d give him what he wanted,” Roger said, with a sly smile. His teeth were perfect. “And Gustavo wants him.”

  Roger lifted his chin toward the dance floor. One man was alone on the dance floor, nearly naked, spinning and gyrating, rubbing his hands over his suds-covered body.

  I nodded.

  “Well,” I said, “cleanliness is next to godliness.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The blood of a renegade boiling in the sun

  The soul of a musician drowning in my rum.

  -Natchez Trace (by Groovy Train)

  Rutger felt good.

  He almost killed the hooker, but decided not to. Puerto Vallarta wasn’t his home base by any means, and he’d never really worked in the city before. Disposing a body wouldn’t be impossible, but it would add a lot of work to his plate.

  In his line of work, simplicity was always the best route.

  So while he was admittedly a little rough on her, okay, a lot rough on her, he let her live. Instead of killing her, he gave her a huge tip, a grand, and sent her on her way. Physically, she wouldn’t be able to work for a few days. The bruises, scratches, and internal damage would take time to heal and she would lose wages for a while, so the tip seemed fair.

  Rutger felt well rested as he’d slept most of the afternoon, like a lion who’d feasted on a fresh kill.

  Now, he went down to the hotel’s gym and pumped iron for an hour, followed by an hour-long burst of cardio that left him drenched with sweat. His work was usually more about precision than outright physical conflict, but it was important to him to stay in top condition, just in case.

  Rutger ordered a light meal from room service, and then changed into a dark silk suit, his only accessory being a forty thousand dollar Audemars Piguet watch. He had the invite in his pocket to the party hosted by Bulldog welcoming New York rapper Lucifer T to Puerto Vallarta. His employer in New York had some connections with the music industry and had provided the link, rendering the need for a beautiful girl to help him get into the party moot.

  He packed up his few items, left the room and tossed everything into his rental car.

  Rutger wasn’t planning on coming back.

  He decided to walk, rather than taking a cab, to the address he’d been given by New York. It belonged to a high-rise on the beach, clearly brand new and upscale, but not necessarily the biggest building in PV.

  Still, it reeked of money and exclusivity.

  There was a bar across the street with an outdoor seating area and Rutger went there, ordered a club soda with a lime, and watched the building. The sun had already disappeared below the horizon but enough ambient light provided a good viewpoint for Rutger. He was curious who would show up and when.

  For several hours, Rutger watched the building with interest. Occasionally, he got up and walked around, changed tables, even went to a nearby coffee shop and watched from their outdoor area.

  Mostly, he was looking for anything out of the ordinary. He’d survived in this business because he was extremely good with a gun. That was first and foremost. It wa
sn’t the Old West, but some of the worst scrapes of his life had come down to who could get their gun out the fastest and then who was the most accurate.

  Rutger had never lost.

  After that, he owed his existence to a passion for caution. He was careful in everything he did. Rutger often imagined it as if he had a movie projector in his mind and he had the ability to run an action through the projector and watch how the movie played out. The hooker he decided not to kill, for instance. The film got bogged down when it came to the part about getting rid of the knockout body.

  So he mostly watched now for any sign of an ambush. Maybe his employer in New York wanted to double cross him. Use him as a setup to scare a customer. Or to draw out a rival criminal element. It could be anything.

  What always caught his eye was the presence of a weapon. He knew exactly what to look for. Most of the time there was never any discernible shape underneath a man’s jacket, or inside a woman’s waistband. It was more about the way someone moved when they were armed. It was always different. And often times it came down to intuition, just knowing that someone was carrying a gun, even when one wasn’t visible.

  As some of the early arrivals made their way to Bulldog’s building, he spotted several people carrying. Most of them, he assumed, would be working security. He could tell by their clothing and presence that they were low-rent.

  No, what would really catch his eye was a top tier professional.

  And so far, Rutger knew he was the only one present.

  Finally, the time came for him to make his appearance. It was still early by party standards, but he hadn’t seen any entourage arrive so Rutger figured Bulldog was already on the premises. Probably via a private elevator, or maybe the party was in his personal apartment, although Rutger doubted it.

  Figuring that Bulldog was onsite was all Rutger needed to set his operation in motion.

  He walked into the lobby of the building, found the elevator where two security guards waited for him to present his invitation, which he did.