Cheap as Beasts

by Jon Wilson

  “This is an outrage!”

  “I’ll say.” I scrambled up with Flatly’s help. “I was just complimenting the man on the aroma of his tobacco, and he went berserk.” I addressed Flatly. “Be a good fellow and retrieve my hat.” The cop bent over and snatched my hat up off the gravel, giving it a few considerate swipes to dispel some dust before returning it to my top.

  Dent stood arranging himself, not just his disheveled clothes and hair, but also his temper. It was a struggle. He ground his teeth so hard, I could hear them. He’d lost his pipe during the scuffle, but I doubt he noticed. His glare was such that I knew he was more than ready to take me somewhere private without his badge and gun. I thought about sticking my tongue out at him, but it was too late for any sort of horseplay. We’d both gone too far at that point and, as strained as our relations had been previously, I knew they’d be far worse in the future.

  “I’m beyond words,” Kelly was telling everybody within earshot. “This is police brutality at its most despicable. Lieutenant Dent, I demand you leave these premises immediately.”

  Dent couldn’t tear his eyes off me, but he told Kelly, “You demand, do you?”

  But Kelly was neither biting nor buying. He stood there like my hero, facing off against the cops. “I do. And take your men with you. And count yourself fortunate that I am willing to let it go at that.”

  Without anyone instructing him to, Flatly, my handler, was getting the cuffs off me. No one tried to stop him. Most of the other cops looked around trying to figure out what to do. Dent stood there, murdering me with his thoughts and wishes. Finally he walked back over and climbed into the passenger’s side of the police cruiser again.

  Flatly climbed into the driver’s seat and shut the door. He said something to Dent that I didn’t catch, even though I was three feet away. Dent hollered back, “Just get me the hell out of here!” Flatly started the engine.

  Kelly and I walked over toward the porch as the rest of the crew came back to life and returned to work. We heard assorted whispers, all variations of, “What should we do?” and “Do we finish up or scram?” No one seemed to have any answers.

  Flatly steered his police cruiser out through the large gate onto Pacific and sped away. The scientists decided to finish up on the Hillman they’d been examining. The sole remaining uniform said something to the O’Malley’s mechanic, dismissing him, then moved over to join the scientists, probably on account of there is often safety in numbers. As Kelly and I reached the porch, I noticed that O’Malley was eyeing me right up until my gaze met his. At that point, he started looking at anything else.

  Before anyone could speak, the front door opened and Miranda O’Malley stepped out. She was dressed in a print blouse and clamdiggers, with leather sandals on her feet and a scarf tied around her hair. An incongruously bedazzling bit of finery was dangling from her neck. I figured it was emeralds, cut large and cast in silver, with a few diamonds, a tenth the size of the green rocks thrown in for diversity. Her sleepy eyes were hidden behind large, dark sunglasses. She looked around at us as if surprised we should be standing there awaiting her.

  “Oh. Morgan, George. Hello Mr. Colette. What happened to your face?”

  I felt pretty certain my face was fine. Dent had grazed it a couple of times, but most of his wrath had spilled atop the back of my head and shoulders. Not to mention that he’d had neither leverage nor a proper arena to put too much into any particular swing. I tipped my hat to her. “Good afternoon, Mrs. O’Malley. I’m afraid I’m not used to all this sun.”

  She didn’t smile. She might not have heard me. After delivering her question, she’d pretty much forgotten me, digging into the handbag she had hanging on her arm. “George, do you know if they’ve finished with me? I’d really like to get started.”

  Kelly replied absently, studying her with a suspicious slant to his brow. “Yes. I had them attend to the Bullet first.”

  “Thank you. Damn. I can’t—oh, that’s right. I gave them to Hector.” She smirked at herself but shared it with us, all around, before starting forward. “Goodbye.”

  Kelly and O’Malley watched her go. From their expressions, a view that would have pleased most men was rather wasted on them. Kelly still looked worried and O’Malley, disheartened. I tried to cheer them up. “Well, I’d like to get started myself. I figure I’ve caused enough trouble around here.”

  Kelly directed his scowl at me, and I interpreted it along the lines of, “I hope you don’t come back,” or, “If you hadn’t already had one thrashing and there weren’t all these witnesses around, I’d enjoy having a go at you myself.” Or maybe he just wondered where I got off addressing him so informally.

  “Mr. O’Malley?”

  Morgan didn’t look at me. He aimed his sad, bewildered stare down at the porch, then over at the lawn jockey and then at Kelly. “They haven’t started on the Highlander. They can catch up with me at the bungalow, you think, George?”

  Mrs. O’Malley stopped halfway to the mechanic’s room and pivoted on her toes. “Don’t be silly. I’ll happily give Mr. Colette a lift.”

  That hadn’t occurred to me, but I admit I liked it. I told her, “Oh, ma’am, I can walk it easily enough.”

  She smiled mischievously. “I thought you said you couldn’t take the sun. Let me get my keys.” She twirled back around and ducked into the mechanic’s shed.

  Kelly sighed, looking out at everything and nothing along the great sweep of drive. “I suppose the inspector will come now, probably with another ADA. I won’t get anything done.” He glanced at me, not kindly, then looked over at O’Malley as he turned to the door. He didn’t thank us, but we got the message loud and clear. He went back inside.

  The client, which I supposed he was at that point, even if he hadn’t yet signed anything, stood looking slightly nauseous. I offered him a bracing pat on the arm that had him nearly snapping his spine as he tried to dodge. I thought, So that’s how it is, while saying, “I’ll be in touch,” and stepping down off the porch.

  I didn’t know which car belonged to Mrs. O’Malley, but based on the moniker the Bullet, I took a guess that it was the pretty little Alfa Romeo residing in one of the open sheds. Stepping up to the fountain, I lit a cigarette and hoisted a shoe onto the rim of the tile bowl. The garish contraption was about three times the size of my bathtub and presented a cavalcade of mythological fish piled atop one another nearly five feet into the air. At the top, what looked like half a dozen Chinese trout spit streams of water from their wide mouths. A very slight breeze carried enough of the spray over to mist me. Once I had the smoke between my teeth, I took off my hat and used it to fan myself.

  “Mr. Colette.”

  I had tilted my head back, shutting my eyes to enjoy the sun and the spray, but when O’Malley said my name, I faced him. He had moved to the front of the porch and lowered one foot down onto the top step. He looked like he had decided something, and I figured I knew what. Words were clearly wrestling with one another in his throat.

  But I never got to hear them. An engine revved and purred and gravel crunched as Mrs. O’Malley steered the silver coupe up along the other side of the fountain.

  “Here we are.”

  She looked as suited to that machine as you might imagine. And as I made my way around to the far side, I spied something very like a smile on her face. I settled into the passenger’s seat, perched so low I expected my rump to chafe on the gravel. My hat had been returned to my head but she reached over, snatched it up and dropped it into my lap.

  “Silly.”

  She fed the snarling beast enough gas to make it leap forward. Gravel flew, and I leaned back against the seat and tilted forward again when we paused at the gate. I didn’t swivel my head, but glanced surreptitiously into the side mirror. All the city employees were watching us. I couldn’t see O’Malley, but I figured he would be watching too.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Do you drive?”

  We zoomed west along P
acific, heading further from my office. But I wasn’t bothered; the wind felt great in my hair.

  “Sure,” I told her.

  Lacking O’Malley’s penchant for finding curb space, she nevertheless managed to squeeze in near the corner of Lyon. She sat simpering at me a moment, then reached over and took the hat out of my lap. “You aren’t going to make me walk around?”

  The Bullet rumbled, clearly distasteful of her leaving its stick between gears. I got out and made my way to the other side of the car while she climbed into the space I’d vacated. As I was getting settled, a dark gray Chrysler drove by, and she wiggled her fingers at it.

  “You shouldn’t tease them,” I told her.

  “Why? You do. You nearly gave that poor fellow a heart attack.”

  “Dent?” I showed her my hand, with all the fingers curled except the first two, which I held as far apart as possible. “We’re like this.” I put the car into first and looked for an opening to get back into traffic. “Were you spying from a window?”

  “A little. It looked interesting. I told you yesterday, you’re not the sort of detective I’m used to.”

  I tsked her. “Speaking of yesterday. What was all that about?”

  “All what?” She had leaned her head back on the seat with her sunglasses aimed at the sky.

  “The femme fatale show.” I’d found my opening and taken it, turning left onto Lyon and heading south. Fully integrated with the flow of the other cars, I gave her a sidelong glance. “This is much better.”

  Turning sideways in her seat, she slid her right leg slowly up alongside her left. “How do you know this isn’t the show?”

  I shook my head, chuckling. “You’re a silly idiot. Maybe you can’t control it.”

  “I can control it fine.” She climbed around, facing toward the rear with her hands on the back of her seat. Apparently she was looking for something. “Where did they go?”

  I checked both my mirrors. “They’ll be back.”

  In a sudden acrobatic twirl, she spun back around and settled herself properly again. “Can you lose them?”

  “In this baby? What would be the use?”

  “It would be fun.” She put her hand on my forearm. “Impress me.”

  “Ah, rein it in and maybe I’ll try.” I dropped a gear and took a sudden right onto Clay. I figured the tail would probably swing back along Washington, and we might miss them. “It won’t amount to much. There probably isn’t another car like this within a thousand miles.”

  She made a face at me. “Smarty-pants. I happen to know of two in this very town.”

  “Huh.” I decided to try flanking the cops by heading north, hitting the Presidio, then cutting for the sea. If they really had turned back to look for us at Pacific and Lyon, it wouldn’t be a terrible strategy. The car handled like a dream, and I only popped the clutch a couple of times.

  “I thought you said you could drive.”

  “Shut up and watch me.”

  When we reached the lake, she told me to take a right into the base.

  “You want to go in there?”

  “I want to go across the bridge.” She sounded excited. “Wait’ll you drive the bridge in my Bullet.”

  I complied, taking us through the tunnel and out on the bridge. “Hang on to my hat.”

  She did, removing her scarf with her other hand. The wind seemed to gather up her raven hair and lift her from her seat. I nearly grabbed hold of her myself, thinking she was apt to fly away. It was exhilarating—frightening and fun—and I resisted the urge to look out toward the ocean. I forced myself to watch the road, to concentrate on my driving and the girl on the seat beside me. She was taking so much pleasure in the speed and sun, I figured it wouldn’t hurt too much to indulge myself in a small part of that joy. The ocean would still be there tomorrow, waiting for me.

  Once we were across, I asked her where we were headed, and she told me nowhere. Then she suggested I take the first road toward the bay side of the peninsula, and we cruised into Sausalito. We made our way along the waterfront, up past the nearly desolate Marinship, then took side roads back toward the ocean.

  A few miles west of Marin City, we passed an assortment of gay buildings tucked away from the road behind an orchard. A well-maintained dirt drive meandered back to them, but we did not take it, continuing westward through the rolling hills.

  “You know what that place was?” She had her head resting back on the seat again, her face angled to soak up the sun. I hadn’t been aware she’d even realized we were passing it.

  “Sure. That’s Marty Velasco’s place. The Sea Shanty. Is that what we came to see?”

  “Don’t be smart. Have you decided to take my money?”

  “Can’t. I’m working for your stepson.”

  “Don’t let him hear you call him that.” She sat up and took off her sunglasses. Her eyes looked tired, and she squinted in the bright light. “I thought he might get you.”

  I didn’t look over, but I let the side of my face show her what I thought of the remark. “You thought so, did you?”

  She half-turned to face me, bending her left leg and tucking it under her in her seat. “I’m not really a silly idiot.”

  “Good to know.” I drove on, waiting to hear what she had to say. When she didn’t speak for a long while, I prompted her. “I didn’t really think you were. I haven’t decided what I think you are yet. Possibly silly, but definitely not an idiot.”

  “And you don’t want to kiss me at all?”

  I laughed. “Want? I’ll do it if it’ll help. You really have had a shock. A slap would probably do better.”

  “No. But I don’t want a kiss, either. Pull over.”

  We were on a lonesome country lane between two vineyards with no houses in sight. Almond trees grew in single straight lines down either side of the road, overgrown and shady. I steered the car onto the packed dirt of the shoulder, completely off the asphalt and under the deep shadow of a tree.

  She sat there a long time mulling it over. My hat was in her hand, and she was worrying the brim between her thumb and fingers. I removed it gently and set it up on the dash. As previously stated, I only have the two. She began fiddling with her sunglasses instead.

  “Did he tell you about Velasco?”

  I acted nonplussed. “He who?”

  She looked at me, squinting some more. “You know he’s been arrested three times.”

  “This will work better if you ease up on the pronouns. I assume Velasco has regular run-ins with the law. But arrests? I’d wager he parts with regular sums to ensure that doesn’t happen.”

  She had clearly reached the understandable conclusion that the best way to appreciate my wit was by ignoring it. “Twice before the war, and once a little over a year ago. He isn’t always as discreet as we would like. Though George has managed to handle things so far. That’s why Larry threw him out—Morgan, I mean. He was at a party, and the police raided the place and he socked a cop.”

  “Really?” That surprised and impressed me. It was foolish as all hell of course, socking a cop during a raid, but not unimpressive. I was actually more surprised to hear he’d been arrested three times. Gig had told me there were no arrests on O’Malley’s record. Of course, Gig had also told me O’Malley liked girls.

  “So how does Velasco figure in?”

  She gave me a world-weary look. “How do you think? He caught Morgan with his pants down back there at the Shanty.”

  “But George handled it.”

  “He’s trying.”

  I looked across the road at the grapes and the almonds. “And you’re telling me all this why?”

  “I just want you to have the whole picture. And if Morgan really is in trouble, maybe you can help him.”

  “I assume Velasco wants money. I’m not going to be much help there. As rich as you all are, why wouldn’t you just pay him?”

  “Of course, we did. But now he must want more.”

  “What does he have? Picture
s? If George was dumb enough to pay and not get negatives, he should pay more.”

  “I don’t know.” She certainly looked to me like she didn’t. Her expression had a frightened, overwhelmed quality that did not suit her at all. “But he must have something.”

  “Well. Fortunately we’re right here.” I reached for the starter. “Let’s go ask him.”

  She grabbed hold of my wrist. “What? Go to Velasco?”

  “Why not? He’s a businessman looking to turn a profit. Probably the main hitch in your situation is that no one ever tried to sit down and reason with him.”

  “You’re crazy. He’d kill us!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You patronize his club. And he doesn’t kill people. He takes pictures of them in compromising situations and then charges for it. Kill us. Pfft.” I reached for the starter again.

  “Wait! Please. Let me at least think about it a moment.”

  I sat back. “Fine. This is a nice spot. Think away.”

  She went into her purse for a cigarette and I held my breath, expecting to be asked to supply another one. But she surprised me not only by having a pack, but by also offering one to me. I pressed the lighter on dash, only to discover she hadn’t the patience for it. She lit us both with her diamond-encrusted portable number.

  After a nice, calming, smoke-filled breath, she asked me, “Is it true what that policeman said. Were you really court-martialed?”

  “You were spying.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d tell me why.”

  I shrugged, sliding down in my seat so that I could rest my head on the back edge. I held the cigarette in my left hand up on the door so that I could flick ashes into the road. Mrs. O’Malley was sitting up straight, her leg still folded under her, watching me.

  “Sure. I was a Mess Sergeant, and I burned the colonel’s toast once too often.”

  I heard a noise and looked up. A mud-colored Ford was heading toward us from the other direction.