by Tony Bulmer
Max appeared at the door, the remains of a pizza box held proudly between his jaws, like a Frisbee.
‘Food. Is that all you think about?’ I asked, with mock incredulity. I breathed a deep sigh, that’s when I noticed it—the alien smell, wafting on a tobacco haze. I furrowed my brows and sniffed again.
‘You smell that Max?’
Max dropped the pizza box and barked gruffly.
‘Yeah, I though so buddy, stale sweat and fried chicken, like Colonel Sanders croaked in the air-con, or something—You smell that?’
Max barked an affirmative.
The smell evoked a memory that I couldn’t immediately place. The jangling uncertainty troubled me. ‘Esperanza is not going to be pleased,’ I thought aloud. Esperanza was my cleaner, had been for years, since before I had been married to Kimberly. Usually Esperanza came Fridays. It was a sub-rosa agreement that I couldn’t mention to anyone, as Esperanza was still cleaning for Kimberly weekdays. Loyalty was a fine thing, an admirable quality. Kimberly would not see it that way. She would see it as a betrayal. She would sack Esperanza, or worse, get her face-ache lawyer Weinman to slap a restraining order on her. A cease and desist with a domestic help clause. I could just imagine that one at the next pre-trial slang-fest. I surveyed the wreckage. This was an overtime situation, no doubt about it. Esperanza would be thrilled.
Max bounded across the room. He put is front paws up on the desk and licked my face, ‘She’s not getting you either buddy,’ I laughed wiping off doggie slobber with the back of my arm. ‘You want to go live back in Brentwood, with Princess fancy-pants?’
Max responded with a gruff negative, at least it sounded like a gruff negative. Smart dog Max, no doubt about it.
‘You wanna go for breakfast?’
Max pressed his paws against my chest and licked my face enthusiastically. No need to ask him a second time.
‘How about we go quay-side, see where that partner of mine is’
Max lifted his paws off my chest and pounded towards the door.
I clicked off the security latch and patted down, to make sure I had the keys, then bowled straight into Audrey Wong the building super. 4 foot nine of voluptuous attitude. She was wearing six-inch hobble heels and a velour workout suit, in a stomach turning shade of peach. As I emerged, she staggered back and raised her hand slightly, as if she were preparing to knock at my door.
‘Were you listening at my door?’ I asked.
‘Hey smart guy, you make plenty noise. This is a respectable neighborhood. We had complaints. The whole night we had complaints.’
‘I got complaints myself,’ I said. ‘You hoping to hear what they were with your ear pressed against the door like that?’
‘Plenty noise last night Costello, this is a respectable neighborhood.’
Perhaps you should put that in writing and send it to the LAPD, I am sure they will prioritize any points you raise and get back to you in the next couple of years minimum.’
Hands on hips now, manicured fingernails curling up like dragon claws. She gave me a dangerous look. ‘I hear you had trouble, police trouble.’
‘Maybe you should have been listening out for what was happening in my apartment, rather than listening to the jangle of the local gossipmongers,’ I said. Someone broke in my apartment last night, forced open the balcony window.
‘I bang on door and no one come.’
‘You heard a noise?
‘Plenty noise, smash, smash, smash!’ her voice pitched upwards.
‘You didn’t think to call the cops?’
‘Cops here all night, murdered girl in dumpster. Cops ask me where you at.’ She stared at me, a frown creasing between her brows, her dark eyes suspicious, accusing. She brushed her hair back from her face and stared at me.
‘The cops were here all night?’ I asked.
‘All night. They tramping everywhere, all over garden. You see mud in corridors? This is going to cost top dollar cleaning. All residents disturbed. Police they knocking on doors, asking many questions.’ The bottom lip was wobbling now, traumatized by the prospect of marshalling unscheduled cleansing shifts.
‘I am sorry to hear that Audrey I really am,’ I sympathized with as much warmth as I could muster. The neurosis of the small time bureaucrat weighed heavy on Audrey Wong, of that there was no doubt. Her job was a responsibility so involving, that nothing could distract her, from her duty, not even robbery—or murder.
I could tell from the steady tap of her hobble heel on the tile floor that an explanation was required. I moved closer, confidentially—breathing in the freshness of her perfume, ‘Spies,’ I said.
Audrey Wong looked horrified, surprised, ‘Spies?’
‘You know I work for the government?’
‘I thought you were a business man?’
‘Government project, Top Secret,’ I confided, with heavy lidded insouciance. Almost feeling like I was back at my Secret Service day job.
‘Top Secret?’ asked Audrey Wong, her eyes widening.
‘You seen anyone hanging around here the last couple of days, anyone suspicious?’ I asked.
She faltered, her lip trembling, thoughts of unspoken terrors rolling through her head unchecked.
‘There is nothing to fear,’ I reassured her, ‘but I would ask you to be vigilant. Lives may be at stake.’ Max sat at my side, wide-eyed and innocent, his giant pink tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. I reached out my wallet and drew out my business card, I brandished it momentarily: Cobra Close Protection CCP. ‘This is my card. I want you to call me if you see anything suspicious.’
She reached for the card hesitantly, as though contact with its embossed surface might transport her into a terrifying world of intrigue and industrial espionage.
I dangled the card. Then, as her fingers closed about it, I folded it into her grip, clasping her tiny hand, with manful reassurance. ‘There is nothing to be afraid of,’ I said. ‘If enemy agents are watching the place as I suspect, it is me they will be seeking. Other residents have nothing to fear.’
Audrey Wong tottered backwards, her heels faltering uncertainly on the stone tiles.
‘No trouble here Costello, this is a good place, respectable place. No noise, No mud in corridors. Residents they not happy.’
I bowed my head, noble and acquiescent, with the duplicity of a European diplomat, ‘I understand Audrey,’ I said solemnly, thinking: What kind of name is Audrey for a Chinese-American anyway?
Audrey Wong looked down at my business card, and snapped it against her fingers, ‘Your friend Joe Russell, I not see him recently.’
I blinked. Another member of the Joe Russell fan club, surely it wasn’t possible?
‘You tell him I say hi,’ she batted her giant spider eyelashes and turned, slinking down the corridor to a click-clack sound track.
I turned to Max, ‘Another trophy for the Joe Russell scalp belt?’
Max woofed in agreement.
After locking up the apartment, for what that was worth, I walked down Pacific to the Marina. Joe’s boat The Naja was moored on dock 3000 off Bora Bora way. I took the long route, walking the beach as far as the creek then heading back on Via Marina.
A cool morning breeze blew in across the waterfront, jangling the rigging of the sailing yachts, in an atonal cacophony. The Naja crouched menacingly dockside, its angles curvaceous and muscular, in the soft rising morning. The Corvette was there too. Cap’n Joe Russell was home, no doubt about it. Max scooted off, like a mad grey streak, bounding down the gangplank to see what kind of tidbits he could scrounge, before my role as supervisory killjoy could spoil his fun.
I followed, with heavy steps my head boiling with the nights events. If Joe hadn’t been supervising the government job yesterday, what the hell had he been doing exactly? I stepped down onto the deck of The Naja and called out for Joe. That’s when I saw the Samoan looming large and muscular, like a nightclub door thug.
THE SEX NET 11
A picture o
f inscrutability The Samoan loomed Hulk-like, in Ralph Lauren boating clothes. ‘Hi Semo, how’s it going buddy?’ I breezed, with my cheeriest good morning smile attached. Mr. charming.
The Samoan made a guttural noise, it might have been a growl, it might have been a grunt, or perhaps it was some kind of esoteric Samoan greeting? It was hard to tell with Semo. Humorous banter was not his thing.
‘You seen the Cap’n?’ I asked.
Semo stared. His head swiveled fractionally on his giant neck, an almost imperceptible movement of the eyes then back to position one.
I smiled, ‘Hacking up corpses below decks huh?’ Then: ‘Keep working on the material buddy, I got friends on the Tonight show, and let me tell ya, that routine you got going is gold dust, pure 18 carat.’ I flipped the Samoan a cheeky wink and the comedy six-shooter fingers. Pushing my luck.
‘Costello, get your ass down here!’ the voice of Joe Russell, booming up from below decks.
‘Don’t go changing,’ I quipped. The Samoan stood expressionless, the vaguest twinkle catching the corner of his eye. Menace or amusement? There was no way to tell.
Joe emerged from below, wiping his hands on a bloodstained filleting apron. ‘Can you stop torturing Semo, with your so called sense of humor Costello?’ He walked through to the wheelhouse and gave me his USMC stare.
‘You wouldn’t be feeding my dog; fish guts for breakfast would you? They play havoc with his digestive system,’ I said, sitting down in the Captain’s chair.
‘That mutt is a four-legged garbage can, he doesn’t need inviting, he just helps himself,’ said Joe continuing to wipe off. ‘You had breakfast?’
‘Do I look like I had breakfast?’ I asked. Thinking about the night down town, with Ramirez and Cullen. Thinking about Mimi and my burglarized apartment. Breakfast indeed.
Joe regarded me carefully, with dark eyes, clearly unimpressed. ‘Frankly Costello, you look permanently hungry. I blame that nutso gym body regime of yours. If you are thinking of getting in shape so you can join the Corps think again. You are too old for the US Marines and they don’t like smart asses anyhoo.’
I spun a 360 in the Captain’s chair and raised a quizzical eyebrow, ‘Nothing wrong with being healthy. You still eating five meals a day?’
‘I thrive on it,’ Joe slapped his belly happily, with his teak colored hands.
‘Glad to hear it,’ I said. ‘I would also be glad to hear where the hell you were the other day.’
‘Oh yeah? You looking to micromanage my day now?’ His eyes were dark, intense.
‘Just interested to know how you been passing your time, while I’ve been explaining to the cops why one of your e-date Internet trawls was found dead in my dumpster.’
Joe’s brow furrowed. He scrutinized me carefully, then raised an enquiring finger, ‘You found Corin in your dumpster?’
‘Mimi.’
Joe looked puzzled; he pulled back the brim of his Lakers Cap. ‘I thought you found her up in Lakeridge. You telling me a dead girl followed you home Costello?’
‘What I am saying is Frank Rothstein is trying to put me in the frame for killing Mimi.’ I felt tense, antsy, trying to ease the pressure with shoulder rolls. Frowning now, I said, ‘That creep thinks he can get away with a stunt like that, I am going to have to pay him a visit and set him straight.’
‘I wouldn’t advise it Costello.’
‘You kidding? The creep held a gun on me… I hate it when people point guns at me, you know that.’
‘Relax Costello. He was going to shoot you, he have shot you.’
‘So you say. That giant chrome-plated cowboy gun of his had gone off, it could have hurt someone.’ I drummed my fingers against the chair arms, tension pulsing through me. ‘Then I get home and find he’s dragged the poor girl’s corpse over to my place, left her out back of my apartment—in the recycling dumpster for Christ’s sake. Mrs. Lieberwitz found the body—nearly had a heart attack.’
‘Sorry to hear that Costello.’
‘You might be sorry, but I just spent all night downtown with the LAPD explaining this shit. Then I get home and find my apartment’s been burglarized.’
‘You are angry,’ said Joe.
‘No shit, Sherlock, almost as angry as the Murder-Homicide cops, who are at this minute, searching the town for you.’
‘Yeah? Well, you would be a damn sight angrier had I laid the truth on you Costello, let me tell you.’
‘I’m listening.’
Joe pulled back the brim on his Lakers ball cap. ‘You sure you don’t want breakfast first?’
‘Hell no.’
‘I got Sea Bass, Yellowtail and Calico. How about a nice Tuna salad?’
‘Screw that Joe, where the hell were you yesterday? You told me you were going out to brief the team and run point on the Senator. The cops say you never got there. What gives?’
‘You wanna know? I will tell you, but only because you are pleading,’ he gesticulated, waving an emphatic finger just inches from my face.
‘I covered your ugly ass last night, you owe me,’ I snapped.
‘And you owe me, for taking care of things after you bailed out on our poontang plans. It was a simple fucking plan Costello: Cuban food; cocktails, poontang.’
‘Jesus Joe, what is this 1973? I have to know a woman longer than a three-course dinner, before I take things to the next stage. Besides I got this divorce shit going on with Kimberly…’
‘Next stage? What is this next stage shit Costello? We are talking sex, booze and chicken with black beans. Why don’t you relax once in a while, get laid. Maybe then you wouldn’t be so uptight.’
‘The word is responsible…’
‘Bullshit. You blew out on the deal, you big cry baby, so Uncle Joe took care of things same as usual.’
‘You fucked them didn’t you?’
Joe looked genuinely hurt. ‘Think of it as taken care of…’
‘So that’s a yes then.’
‘You blew out on me, what was I to do?’
‘Say goodnight?’
‘You kidding me? Those girls were hot to party. After you bailed on us, we took it back to their place on Lakeridge.’
‘In the Vette?’
Nah, the Cabrillo chick drove their car, Mimi rode shotgun with me. Big mistake—that chick twittered on like a goddamned bird, talking about every thing you can think of. I laid plans on her for a re-match and she was really into it. She told me the Cabrillo chick was hot for you. Told me we could all make a second date at their place on Lakeridge. Maybe it was all bullshit, who knows.’
‘You remember anything specific?’ I asked.
Joe pondered the question. ‘I do remember one thing. She wouldn’t shut up about some fruit-cake sister she has, living out in Sherman Oaks, said she was a beauty therapist, or some damn thing.’ He scratched thoughtfully at one of his giant biceps, the anchor and eagle tattoo of the US Marine Corps protruding down below the line of his shirt-sleeve.
‘So what happened then?’ I asked.
‘Well my head was spinning from all the yack-yack-yack—the girl sounded like she was on drugs or something.’ Joe paused, half-closed his eyes, like he was trying to remember the sequence of the events that followed.
I drummed my fingers, regarding Joe closely. ‘You went back to their place, then what happened,’ I asked, moving into the silent space in the conversation that Joe had left.
Joe twisted his lips, like he knew he’d been busted and gave me a steady look. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘
‘What time was this?’
‘I don’t know, after midnight, had to be.’
‘And you left at what time?’
‘I didn’t leave OK? So sue me.’
I raised my eyebrows in tandem. ‘You did them both?’
‘Hey no big apology Costello. Truth is I cannot remember if I porked the chicks or not.’
My face twisted out of shape. ‘You have got to be kidding?’
‘I got over the ho
use… they took me out on the balcony, we had drinks, admired the city view, next thing I remember, I am waking up on the couch. Maybe I had too much to drink, maybe I just nodded off—who knows. One thing I do know: the girls were out of there. I thought they must have gone to work, so I split myself.
‘What time was this Joe?’
‘Sun was up, so morning I guess. I do know that.’ Scratching the tattoo again staring out over the harbor, like this kind of shit happened all the time.
‘You can understand my concern here Joe. What you are telling me puts you at the scene of a murder, just hours before it happened.’
The dark implacable eyes turned towards me, ‘Hours before—see that is the important part of this Costello, because I didn’t kill that blabbermouth chick, or her pal, no fucking way.’
‘You were at the crime scene Joe. How long do you think it is going to take the cops to figure that out?’
‘The cops can think what they want. If those bozos figure I killed those chicks, they are crazier than you Costello. I haven’t whacked anyone recently, least of all a pair of date-scam floozies.’
‘So let me guess, you went fishing?’
‘I got the situation with the Senators team straightened out, swung by the office to see Inez, then took to the ocean for a couple of hours, to clear my head. That Cabrillo chick was pouring the booze. I figure she must have hit my drink with something, because my head was banging like a gong all day long.’
‘We are running a business. CCP takes priority Joe. We cannot afford any screw ups, there is too much at stake.’
‘I take that on board buddy, but I ain’t a goddamned cyborg, you know what I’m saying? I need a time out once in a while, and so do you Costello, trouble is you are too dumb to see it.’