by Tony Bulmer
‘I don’t want to sound like I’m telling you how to run your day, but it really wouldn’t be hygienic to dump a corpse in the reservoir,’ I said.
‘Get your ass out there on the balcony and close the door,’ snarled Rothstein, ‘I got business to attend to, so don’t get any big ideas about going over the rail or I’ll shoot your punk ass.’
‘Hey, don’t mind me, you got a million dollar view going on out here.’ I stepped out on the balcony into the LA dusk, the heat enveloping. The balcony was fifty feet wide at least: maple decking, with a brushed steel balustrade. The space was expensively furnished. Looked like it had been fitted out, by some Beverley Hills style guru. I leaned against the steel rail and stared out at the immense panorama stretching away to the horizon. I shifted focus to the canyon below: heavy boulders and scree, fringed by broken scrub and twisted, fire ravaged trees. It was a long way down, eighty, ninety feet at least. No way out.
The bubbling hot tub drew my attention. I peripheralized Rothstein. The gangster was pacing the interior, roaring into his cell-phone and swinging the big chrome plated automatic with dramatic flourishes. I breathed deep—The sharp scent of pine, blasting up from the sun-zorched scrub below. The time to move was drawing close.
As I looked out across the city, the glass door flew open: footfalls coming up fast behind me. If it was going to happen, it would happen now. A single gunshot, reverberating in the soft falling dusk, a bullet exploding behind the ear, toppling me forwards into the fire ravaged canyon—falling down, down—then impacting hard on the black rocks below. Nasty.
I timed the move to the rhythm of the rapidly advancing foot falls, holding out until the last possible instant, then moving fast. I spun 180 degrees, catching Rothstein’s gun hand with a fast right. I cut a devastating left-handed chop with the edge of my hand, impacting Rothstein squarely in the throat. The power of the blow bugged the gangster’s eyes, like they were on stalks. I wrenched the gun from his paralyzed fingers, and span a fast elbow into his solar plexus. The power of the blow sent him staggering, a strangled gasp rattling from his lips. He struggled to stay upright. I popped the clip on the gun and sent it clattering down into the canyon. I raked the slide and ejected the cartridge from the breech; the bullet sailed over the balustrade. Rothstein teetered on the edge of the Jacuzzi, his leather soles skating crazily on the hot maple. I spun the gun by the trigger guard Roy Roger’s style, as Rothstein toppled backwards into the hot tub. A tidal wave of water planed across the hot wood, as he thrashed around in the bubbling water, gasping, choking and clutching his throat. I tossed the big automatic in after him. It disappeared into the bubbling water with an ominous splash.
Peering down at Rothstein, I said. ‘Hope that jumper isn’t cashmere. If so, you got even bigger problems than you thought you had.’ A curse twisted on Rothstein’s lips as he thrashed and choked in the frothing water. I sauntered for the door, then turned thoughtfully. ‘One more thing—You even think about my family, I will know about it. I will hunt you down and when I find you, I will hurt you properly.’
THE SEX NET 06
As I strolled out to the Dodge, a purple flake Chevy Tahoe, with racing rims cruised slowly into the driveway, headlights blazing in the dusk. This had to be the help. The Chevy rattled up the drive; it’s tires eating into the gravel as it came to a rest in the turn, out front of the house.
The driver was a big guy, heavy muscled, Hispanic, wearing a button down bowling shirt and outsize pants. Looked like he had just got out of a gangster rap video, or fifteen to life at Soledad State Penitentiary. He climbed out of the Tahoe and waddled up the path to the house. His buddy in a San Antonio Spurs shirt was taller, looked like a NFL Linebacker, except he was no college-boy pin-up. His face looked mangled and diseased. Both of them with greasy hair. Both of them wearing sunglasses. Charming.
‘Lovely evening,’ I observed twirling my truck keys.
‘We fucking know this guy?’ said the dude in the Spurs shirt. The stink of fried food and body odor had me queezing.
The driver did a head to toe double take, like some one had just dropped a turd in his tequila. ‘Cabron,’ he growled, his gym jockey arms bulging loose at the sides. I noticed he had a flaming thirteen tattooed on his neck, in an unsteady hand. Classy.
‘Guess that’s a no,’ I shrugged and he headed for the Dodge. Two pairs of malevolent eyes watching me go. I climbed into the truck, fired up the motor and gave it some revs, the big V8 roared and I pulled out, departing the scene, with a final cheery wave. The gangbangers watched me go, with implacable stares. I pictured the scene: old man Rothstein choking down the contents of the hot tub, his two goons standing poolside, in their gangster-rap party outfits. I chuckled to myself, it’s going to be some party, hope those guys have brought their swimsuits. I tuned the radio to the Dodgers game. The Blues were playing the Mets out east. I listened to the pundits rap, relaxing into the commentary. Driving down Lakeridge, I passed big fronted suburban homes and tree fringed greenery, everything looked quiet and cozy, like no one could ever die here, let alone be murdered. I headed for the Freeway driving slow, using my voice activated auto-dialer to call Joe. The computer locked down the number and I got a tone, Joe’s name flashing large on the LCD dash. Danny Costello, gizmo king.
‘Where are you at?’ I asked.
‘Traffic just South of The One. A truck full of watermelons has taken a spill, the damn freeway is covered in pink sludge. We are down to one lane east-bound out here—you should see the mess.’
‘It’s no picnic over here either buddy,’ I said quietly. Trying to figure out what would piss Joe off worse: the news that the lovely Mimi had been iced in a gangster’s fuck-pad; or the unsavory truth, that she and her girlfriend were nothing but call-girl hustlers, with a sleazy sideline in ripping off lonely-hearts via the internet. The idea made anger surge within me. The girl might have been a con artist, but she didn’t deserve to get murdered, not even if she had relieved Rothstein of his precious diamonds.
Joe’s mind was elsewhere. He was thinking about Mai Tais and hot tub hi jinx with the cabin-crew cuties, as he called them. He soaked in my ice-cold silence. ‘You haven’t been telling the girls any of your anecdotes have you?’ He asked suspiciously,
‘All you had to do was keep the drinks cold and Jacuzzi hot,’ he continued.
I didn’t answer.
A pause, then: ‘You OK Costello?’ Joe knew me well, had done since we played little-league together in West Hills, in the days when the San Fernando Valley was a backwater belt of satellite towns, floating outside the bad-land craziness of downtown Los Angeles.
‘We’ve got trouble Joe, big trouble,’ I said.
‘Hey, don’t sweat it, trouble is my middle name.’
‘You heard of Frank Rothstein?’
Frank-en-steen Rothstein: the king of kosher canyon? The creep’s a mobster, with ideas above his station. Don’t you know anything about this town Costello, or you been living up in Brentwood with princess perfect so long, the real world just don’t matter?
‘She’s dead Joe—murdered—they hurt her bad first.’ I paused, then said, ‘Corin…There is no sign of Corin…’
Joe soaked up the angry silence then said, ‘Rothstein had something to do with this?’ his voice taught and frozen. ‘You saying that rat-faced little prick murdered Mimi?’ A pause then: ‘How did it happen Costello?’
I told him how it happened, the whole thing; from the moment I got to the house to the moment I popped Rothstein.
‘You should have trod on his fuckin’ head and done the world a favor,’ said Joe. Maybe I should drop by and finish the job?’
I told him to cool his jets, told him about the cops at Santa Monica, describing how they had Corin and Mimi pinned as serial-scamsters with a penchant for emptying executive bank accounts.
‘You telling me the cops are involved Costello? You telling me they warned you off and you walked in to this mess, like you didn’t know what was coming?
What were you thinking dude? Why didn’t you ring me, tell me what was happening?’
‘Hey, I couldn’t reach you—same as usual, you ever answer that phone of yours?’
‘You’re out of line. Watching your ass ain’t no easy job, let me tell you, professor.’ Joe liked to remind me of that. Called me professor, like having an education meant you couldn’t have any real world smarts, the sort of smarts that came from flying helicopter gun-ships in the US Marine Corps, or brawling across every bar in the world from Camp Pendleton to Indochina. Joe didn’t get it, he never would. He had a military mind. He thought my years at Harvard counted for nothing. He wouldn’t admit that babysitting government suits for the US secret Service meant anything. It wasn’t active service dude, so ipso facto it was civilian shit and civilian shit doesn’t mean a damn thing when it comes to the real world, jack.
Bullshit bravado. I made allowances. When you’ve been friends for a lifetime, you have to. Joe Russell was the best, a straight up guy. His tendency towards over protectiveness stemmed from his deep-seated sense of integrity and personal loyalty. Joe was a friend of the family, always had been. Course you ever mentioned any of that head-shrinking emotional stuff to Joe, he would call you a candy-assed chicken-shit soon as look at you.
‘I don’t need a babysitter Joe.’
‘Hey throttle back Costello, all I am saying is we should’ve hooked up on this. Instead of which, you storm over to Hollywood like a hard-on and nearly get yourself plugged, by some geriatric diamond merchant, who thinks he’s a gangster.’
‘Thanks for the concern Joe, but those cops, vibed wrong and they were obnoxious too—they mentioned the Angels thing, like they’ve been checking us out or something. Joe’s failings in the pro-sports arena were a taboo subject. His untimely expulsion from the Anaheim Angels was a psychological scar that would always be with him, like a crippled knee. A career destroyed by boiling anger and the stroke of a selector’s pen.
‘You kidding me?’ snapped Joe his voice incredulous. ‘They are cops for Christ’s sake they are supposed to be obnoxious. My advice is keep out of this Costello—you dip your nose in this river of shit and you could end up dead—or in jail.’
I heard Joe talking, but the words didn’t register. ‘Rothstein said the diamonds were worth millions.’
‘So let him call the insurance company. What do you think you are Costello a fuckin’ private eye all of a sudden?
‘As I was blowing out of there, a couple of gang bangers in a purple Tahoe rolled up.’
‘And you are surprised by that?’ asked Joe. ‘Rothstein is a bottom feeder, he’s probably working a deal: drugs, guns and who knows what else. So do me a favor and stay out of this.’
‘I hear you,’ I said, ‘But I don’t know if that is going to be possible.’
I switched lanes, cruising out onto the freeway, merging slow into the heavy traffic. ‘I’m heading back to Venice to feed Max,’
‘Hey don’t worry about the damned pooch Costello he’s probably eaten your sofa already. Tell you what, soon as I get this fuckin’ melon hosed off my ’Vette we’ll grab us some dinner.’
‘Usual?’ I asked.
‘If by usual you mean Fat Tony’s you got a deal,’ said Joe. ‘Later dude,’ and the line cut dead.
Fat Tony’s sports bar on Admiralty, just off Highway One, the Pacific Coast Highway, had always been our place. It was a crazy place, a place of limitless possibilities, ground zero for a myriad futures, the kind of place where you could hang out for a beer, then ship out across the vast ocean, heading for adventure and pleasures unknown. Tony’s place was like no other. The quayside camaraderie ran deep. A community that protected it’s own. Fat Tony’s was special. In the old days, before my brother Ryan went away, I often stood out front, in the parking lot, feeling the warm glow of the tarmac rising up through my sneakers, as the Pacific breeze enveloped me. How many times in the past I had stood here, contemplating the vastness of the star filled universe. In those times, it seemed like Fat Tony’s was a crossroads, leading to the whole of America, and the limitless world beyond. In those days it had been easy to think such things—pondering life’s possibilities. Thinking that if you got in your car and drove down that one piece of tarmac that stretched away from Fat Tony’s parking lot, you could reach the most northerly and southerly points of a vast continent, without having to flip a turn. You were grounded at Fat Tony’s, connected.
Tony’s place always reminded me of Ryan and the slow burning nights we spent playing pool, watching sports and talking the big fight, about setting the world to rights. But Ryan was gone, a victim of conviction, he headed out to the US Marine Corps eighteen squadron and never came back. Misadventure in the Persian Gulf had been the official line: A navigational malfunction. But I knew different, because Joe had been there, flying tandem, when their chopper got deep-sixed by hostile fire in the Gulf of Oman. They had been hitting arms smugglers inside Iranian territorial waters at the time, part of a war that never officially existed. And now Ryan was gone. But the memory stayed strong, captured forever in the nights we spent at Fat Tony’s bar.
As I drove West, I figured I should drop by my mom’s place and feed her dog Chowsey the chow. Chowsey was a vicious little beast, who didn’t especially like me or my dog Max, in fact the only thing Chowsey did like, was my mom and sitting in front of television with the shopping network blasting full volume. Don’t ask me why, but the little beast seemed to find it soothing.
Half listening to the Dodgers game on the radio, my thoughts turned to Mimi, dead like my brother Ryan. Perhaps she too had a family somewhere: a brother, a sister, and parents? But what did a girl like Mimi matter in a world where someone like Frank Rothstein could use and abuse her, dumping her wrecked body at his convenience. To take no action would mean complicity. I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t keep quiet. I had to get involved, and that was going to mean trouble. I headed down the freeway, cruising taillights of the car in front. I auto-dialed a new connection hearing the dial tone now, five beats and I got a pickup. I listened to the voice then spoke, ‘Police please, I would like to report a murder.’
THE SEX NET 07
My mind buzzed with events as I shipped back to Venice. I knew I had to collect my thoughts, stay calm and focused, but I felt a long ways off from that let me tell you. I cruised traffic on Washington Boulevard; trying to kid myself things could be the same as they were this morning, flying down from Camarillo knowing that could never be.
I picked up my dog Max, at my apartment building in Venice. The place wasn’t Brentwood, but it wasn’t bad, more neighborhoody as realtors call it, closer to the ocean too. The building itself—a tree fringed three-story lo-rise on Pacific Avenue. Not too shabby for this part of town. I liked the vibe, friendly and relaxed, lots of old-girl retirees and a spattering of former-marital-home escapees. The dog was pleased to see me. He jumped up, feet on my shoulders and licked my face. Naughty! The kind of doggie behavior that would drive the ex crazy. She hated dogs, especially Max. But it hadn’t stopped her from getting her mouthpiece lawyer to send me a demand for the return of the family pet. Max looked up at me mournfully. Watch it, or I will send you back to Kimberly, I told him. He barked defiantly. Fat Tony’s? I asked him. He barked again, this time with more enthusiasm and lollopped towards the door, his gundog senses working over time.
Max was a regular at the bar, and as such, he knew that Fat Tony’s meant tidbits, and lots of them. I put him in the Dodge and we cruised the night with the windows down. Neon and halide accents rippled across the blackened waters of the lagoon at Marina Del Rey, accompanied by the rhythmic clatter of boat rigging dancing in time to the Pacific breeze. Max stuck his head out the window let the passing wind blow his ears back as we drove.
I walked into Tony’s place, soaking in a familiar scene. Ocean front regulars crowded the bar, along with a smattering of transient business: out-of-towners and corporate down-timers, kicking back for an evening of beer
and baseball.
Max pounded over to the pool table, where Joe Russell and Inez Santos were racking up a game. He leaped up against Joe, slobbering ecstatically, his front paws making contact with the big mans chest.
‘Some one loves you…’ remarked Inez dryly, as she chalked her cue. Max barked in agreement, then bounded around in delighted circles, shoelaces of doggy drool threading out the corners of his mouth. ‘Dumb mutt,’ snapped Joe malevolently. To Joe, dogs meant muddy paw prints, damaged upholstery and the kind of smells you could never get out of your carpet.
‘Hey, Costello,’ growled Joe. ‘You ever keep the mutt on a lead, the city council got firm views on that kind of thing.’
‘Ignore the nasty man Maxie,’ cooed Inez, in a baby voice, as she rough and tumbled Max’s delighted drooling face, between her manicured fingers. She bent down for a close quarters encounter. Max rewarded her with a generous slurp of his tongue. She wiped off with the back of her hand, ‘Aw, he loves me.’ she said.
‘Hey, that ain’t sanitary—no wonder you ain’t got a man.’
Inez cracked a mirthless smile, ‘Two things there, firstly you assume I want a man. Secondly, look who’s talking Mr. e-date.’
Joe leant in against the pool table, lining up a shot, ‘When you are as handsome as me, women get intimidated. I got to give them chance to make the right decision in the privacy of their own homes. You should see my profile pictures baby…’ He cracked the cue ball across the table, with a fluid shot, the balls clattered and popped, a couple toppled into pockets, rumbling back into the depths of the table.
Inez crossed her eyes skywards miming a throat fingered barf.
‘You kids about to start wrassling?’ I enquired.
Joe’s face furrowed deeply and he strode over, grasping my hand, then a body check embrace. ‘Sorry partner, this whole mess is my fault, it must have been ugly over there at the house.’