The Sex Net (Danny Costello Book 1)

by Tony Bulmer

  ‘I haven’t got a problem with time-outs—unless they affect business.

  ‘You got to be kidding me?’

  I breathed deep, resignation lining my face. We got to be on top of things twenty-four-seven, that’s how this business works Joe, you know that.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean I have to like it,’ the veins in the teak arms bulged with latent aggression.

  ‘Meanwhile, your hobby has got us a problem we could do without. A problem we have to sort out, before the cops and that freak Rothstein put the kibosh on our reputation.’

  ‘This ain’t no big thing Costello, you are just too much of a citizen to realize it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just because that pimple-brained gangster Frank Rothstein has had a bust up with his hooker girlfriends and they have ripped off his ice, we don’t need to get involved. You kidding me?

  I furrowed my brow.

  ‘The old soak probably went or there to party, discovered his shag pad couriers had run off with his loot. All of a sudden, you turn up, catching him in the crapper and he figures you for a straight shooting citizen he can put the frighteners on, with his chrome plated cowboy gun.’

  ‘So what do you suggest?’

  ‘I suggest we call over there, rip his fucking liver out and beat him to death with it. See if he gets the message about who he is dealing with.’

  ‘Like where you are going with that partner, but I think that plan may need a couple of tweaks.’

  Joe pulled down the brim on his Lakers cap and glared, his eyes burning with a savage intensity. ‘The hell with tweaks Costello, it’s time to kick ass.’

  ‘We have to find the girl, don’t you see, Corin Cabrillo is the key to this whole mess. We find her. We clear up this whole scene. Rothstein, the Cops everything.’

  Joe snorted and flexed his powerful arms. ‘You are crazy Costello, there is no way you are going to find that chick, unless she wants to be found, and that’s assuming she is alive to make that decision, which given the kind of company she keeps is doubtful.’

  ‘She’s alive, I am sure of it, what is more, I am going to find her.’

  ‘I wish you luck with that detective. How long do you think it’s going to take, searching through every cesspool joint a chick like that could have gone to ground in?’

  I smiled. ‘All you got to do, is make sure operations with the Senator are running smoothly and leave the rest to me.’

  ‘Where the hell are you going?’

  ‘To see a beauty therapist out in Sherman Oaks.’

  THE SEX NET 12

  Traffic on the 405 running heavy in the morning rush. I cruised north until I got to Ventura Boulevard, running the Dodge up the inside lane, so I could scope out the storefronts. Ventura had a sun-bleached rhythm to it. The boulevard flipped by, blanched by the heat and dust. Welcome to the San Fernando Valley.

  After cruising the boulevard, I headed for Sherman Oaks Galleria. I pulled into the concrete and steel parking structure and parked up front, in the creepy fluorescent perma-gloom. The mall had been redeveloped: open air corridors, in pewter and smoked glass, themed up, to attract the moneyed crowd. I walked the polished canyons, my footsteps echoing in the quiet morning sunlight. I bought an overpriced café latte at a corporate coffee bean, and trawled past the fashion boutiques. There were a couple of joints where the sister might have worked, but my enquiries met with bored indifference. I gave them my Secret Service smile, fed them plausible lies. No results, just a one way ticket to nadasville.

  I re-thought my line of enquiry, puzzling over the possibilities. Joe hadn’t given me much to go on. I didn’t know for sure where Mimi’s sister worked, but I trusted that I could find her. Never doubted it. No one disappears without leaving some kind of trail. It just isn’t possible. Years working for the US Secret Service and big government facilitators had taught me that. Considering the possibilities, I knew one thing. I had to move, and move now. The sister was the only connection I had, in a murder trail that was fast running cold. And once the trail had run cold, there would be no quick fix way to find Corin Cabrillo, or Frank Rothstein’s diamonds. Two beauty stores and three hair salons later, I was no closer to finding the sister. I walked back to the Dodge, trying to figure the girls next move. She was scared. Chances were she would try to skip town. But she was also a Valley girl. Valley girls have connections. My instinct was, she would say her goodbyes, that meant my chances of finding her would multiply exponentially. I sat in the cab drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, planning my next move. I had to find the sister, she was the only connection that made sense, I found her I would find the girl.

  I moved east from Sepulveda, working out towards Coldwater Canyon. The temperature rose into the eighties—then the nineties, the thermometer on the dash rising steadily, as the sun burned higher. I kept rolling. I kept making calls, knowing that if I pounded the street, a break would come. A thrill amped through me: the idea that I could piece events together, get some background or insight from the dead girls sister, a clue that might lead me to Corin Cabrillo and Mimi’s killer. I turned the words over in my head. I was making big assumptions here—maybe Corin Cabrillo had killed Mimi? Maybe the girl I was looking for and the killer were the same person? In spite of the building heat, the thought chilled me. Could a woman torture and kill another woman? Could she bind, beat and murder a fellow human, who was supposedly her friend? Could greed drive a person to do such a thing? The awful possibilities spun in my head. Tension throbbed in my temples. I drove onwards, switching lanes in the late morning traffic, determined to seek the truth.

  As I cruised the street, I refined my cover story. I worked a scenario, sculpting the plausibility, making it so bright and glowingly wholesome, I almost believed it my self. Beauty store denizens are smart where it matters, streetwise smart. They don’t take kindly to snoopers asking questions—they smell a shakedown. I spoke to a black girl called Sheree, at Valley Style Nail & Beauty out on Woodman Avenue, she told me: “You work this kind of industry you got to be ready to fight off creepy boyfriends and government agents, sometimes two at a time.” Sheree had spray on pants and super-bodied corkscrew curls. Said she lived in Encino. I said I understood. She said she still couldn’t help me, even if she knew who the hell I was looking for.

  The problems continued.

  Everywhere I went: suspicious stares, stonewalling and confrontation. On Moorpark and Fulton, I met loud-mouthed street talk and head wobbling recalcitrance. There goes the neighborhood.

  My enquiries drew a blank.

  Eleven-twenty-seven and counting. I re-evaluated my approach once more.

  Next salon I called into, I told them I was planning a surprise birthday party for my sister and her friends. A swanky sit down do up in Laurel Canyon. I explained I had worked my sister’s address book, but there were still a few stragglers, could they help?

  I played the charm card: wide grin and sheepish demeanor.

  Then I threw in a Hollywood angle, told them my sister worked for central casting at 20th.

  Worked like a charm.

  No one moves to Hollywood to be a beauty therapist.

  They move to Hollywood to get in the movie business.

  I got tips galore, along with a handful of business cards, three resumes, and a screenplay about germs, by a thirty-five year old manicurist, who said she was from Madison Wisconsin. Like that was going to happen anytime soon.

  Scamming beauty therapists felt weird and sleazy. I worked the method-acting angle, pretended it didn’t matter. I tried to rationalize my actions. I thought it out. I justified my reasoning and motivation.

  I still felt dirty.

  The dirtiness drove me on, inspiring me to renew my efforts, so that I might move forward, put the spinning uncertainty of the now behind me. I imagined what Pops would have said about me feeding lies to blue-collar Betty’s. Pops would not be pleased. He would have blamed Joe, crossed his arms like some fifties style patriarch fr
om the McCarthyist past. “That god damned delinquent. All he does is play ball, like working a real job doesn’t matter.” I gripped the wheel. Pops was a son of a bitch, no other word for it. A bitter faced academic gone wrong. I had figured it out, least I thought I had: a life of physics and science, mathematics and equations. There had to be something outside that. I knew smart as Pops was, as much as I loved and respected him, my father had never discovered his soul. He knew how to make aircraft fly faster, higher and longer, He knew about rocket engines and weapons systems, but he never truly knew himself. It was the sacrifice he had made to excel in his field, and it had made him a deeply unhappy man.

  I knew I would never make that mistake.

  Hoped I would never make that mistake.

  Knowing and implementing, are two different things.

  I drove on.

  But progress was slow. Results evaded me. I got tip offs: you try crazy nails on Columbus? Of course I had. I chased down the leads, but the leads came up blank.

  After I had worked the main drag I doubled back stopped for a quick lunch at In-N-Out Burger on Moorpark and Van Nuys. Their home cut fries are the best ever. I sat in the car park scarfing down lunch. Still no girl and the temperature was breaking a hundred degrees out there. Heat bounced up from the car park in calorific waves sucking moisture like a solar vampire. I slurped my cola and turned up the air-con’.

  I tried to think smart, tried to picture the kind of woman a girl like Mimi would have as a sister. Hardworking and career minded, or freewheeling flake? I mulled it over. What type of beauty therapist would the sister be? What section of the primping and preening demographic would her skills cater to? Where would she ply her trade? I knew I had exhausted all the leads amongst the high-end boutiques. Everyone I had talked to had given me the brush off, or straight out didn’t know anyone who fitted the profile of Mimi’s sister.

  When the break came it came unexpectedly. The Salon was an off street place, it had individuality—trying hard to be classy, but not quite making it. The sign out front said: To dye for—Hair and Beauty. I parked up front and regarded the advertised services: tinting, highlights, nails, shiatsu-massage, mid-week specials, new clients always welcome. The type was stick on gold, some of the letters peeling, others missing altogether. I perused the smoked glass frontage. Classy.

  Walking inside, I planted a simple minded smile wide across my face preparing to improv’ my lines. The girl at reception greeted me brightly. A name badge read Carmel in the same gold type as the frontage. Carmel had a Persian look to her, olive skin and dark snaking hair. She masticated gum and batted unfeasibly long lashes.

  ‘I help you?’ she asked.

  I smiled. ‘I would be really grateful if you could Carmel.’ Mr. Smooth. I told her the story, I told it good, laying on the bullshit sugarcoating thick. I told her about the surprise birthday party for my imaginary sister, sexed up the details about the swanky sit down in Laurel Canyon. Even threw in a description of the menu: shrimp and avocado starter with sweet piquanté peppers. Who could resist?

  Carmel batted her giant eyelashes regarding me lazily with lustrous green eyes. The demeanor was bored, rather than impressed.

  ‘You talking about cat-girl?’

  I flashed my brightest smile as though cat-girl, whoever she might be, was exactly the person I was talking about.

  ‘You are wasting your time, she’s a vegetarian,’ advised Carmel.

  ‘Scuse me?’

  ‘Avocado and prawn,’ said Carmel, batting her eyelashes, ‘it will be wasted on her.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  ‘You are single right?’

  ‘How did you guess?’ Danny Costello king of the snappy come back.

  ‘No offence, But you smell of dogs—no girlfriend I know would put up with that, and your bullshit story about your sister’s wedding? I don‘t believe that for a moment.’ Carmel looked at me with her big green eyes. ‘A guy like you cannot be banging a screwball like Louanne, so I figure you are hunting down that flake-o sister of hers, like all those other guys who been in here asking for her.

  ‘Other guys?’

  Carmel leaned on the counter twizzling her hair. ‘Cops, boyfriends, you name it. Cat-girl and her flake-o sister are real popular.’

  ‘Would it be possible to speak with Louanne?’ I asked, doing my best to keep my voice earnest, confidential—like I was some kind of TV gumshoe making client enquires.

  ‘I don’t know who you are Mr., but we don’t give out employee information to just anyone.’ Carmel leaned on the front desk, regarded her nails closely. Pressing her ample cleavage hard against the reception desk now.

  ‘I’m a friend of the family,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah right, sure you are, and I am the first lady’s smarter sister.’

  ‘Owch,’ I said, ‘Repartee.’

  ‘You are some kind of private eye, right? You working for an insurance company or somethin’?’ asked Carmel.

  ‘I work for the government.’ I said, so much for earnest and confidential.

  ‘No shit,’ deadpanned Carmel. The lashes shuttered down half closed, her heavy glossed lips pursing left then right as she trawled a lazy thumb across her nails.

  ‘So is Louanne working a shift today?’ I asked.

  ‘Lookee here, Mr. whatever your name is, this is a place of business. I ain’t obliged to give out details about nothing to no one.’

  I nodded understandingly and reached inside my jacket.

  ‘Don’t be showing me no fake ID,’ squawked Carmel, her voice notching up a full octave.

  I pulled my money clip and flipped a crisp hundred on the counter.

  ‘Benjamin Franklin is always welcome around here,’ rasped Carmel throatily. ‘He got any friends?’

  I snapped out another hundred.

  The girl’s eyelashes flickered a do-me-a-favor double take. She crossed her arms drumming her fingers now.

  Silence.

  I snapped out a third bill.

  ‘So you fancy an Indian head massage special agent?’

  ‘I said I worked for the government not the Feds…’

  ‘You can work for who ever you want for three hundred bucks.’ Purred Carmel.

  ‘Where can I find Louanne?’ I asked, trying hard to keep my eyes away from Carmel’s cleavage, failing, wondering what an Indian head massage might be.

  ‘She lives around the block, Riverside apartments over on Fulton, apartment 1219. Watch out for your fancy sneakers, that place is cat shit central.’

  ‘I will bear that in mind.’ I headed for the door, a sense of purpose in my stride. Carmel called after me.

  ‘You watch out for that girl.’

  I turned back, a questioning look on my face.

  ‘That girl has a penchant for loser boyfriends, if you know what I mean.’

  I agreed that I did, but Carmel explained herself anyway.

  ‘The girl is unreliable, she’s always got some sleazy boyfriend sniffing around, real dirty freaks, look like they are druggies or musicians, sort you find over on Hollywood Boulevard.

  ‘What is an Indian head massage?’ I asked.

  Carmel smiled, her lustrous eyes lighting up with amusement, ‘Come back soon special agent and maybe I will show you, compliments of the house.’

  I walked out of the chilled salon and the Valley heat hit me full on, like a wall. I squinted against the glare, sliding my Raybans into place. The sound of rubber on hot tarmac, as some hot-rodder burned out the lot, with a squeal of acceleration. I turned to see a purple flake Chevy Tahoe heading out into traffic. I recognized the truck straight away.

  The gangbangers from the Rothstein place.

  Could there be another truck pimped out in such a garish shade, this side of New Mexico. Who would spray a Tahoe purple and think it looked cool? Color blind drug dealers, and dumb ones at that.

  I climbed into the Dodge. The only thing worse than a gangbanger was a dumb gangbanger, that could kind of company, co
uld be dangerous, unpredictable. I fired up the V8, and gunned the engine. I was going to have to be careful, very careful.

  THE SEX NET 13

  I cruised around the block once, twice, three times; no sign of the Tahoe, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles whitened. Rothstein’s goons were following me. They had to know about the sister.

  My phone rang.

  ‘Hi mom.’

  ‘How’s Chowsey Daniel?’

  I scrunched his eyes and banged the flat of my hand against my forehead almost dropping my phone. Chowsey, my mom‘s dumb as paint miniature chow, home alone. Fuck! And me, doting and obedient son that I am, had agreed to look after the little beast, despite every instinct I had warning me against it. A deep sigh of resignation issued from my lips. I just couldn’t help it I bashed my fist against the steering. Double fuck.

  ‘You there Daniel, what was that noise I heard?’

  ‘Driving mom.’

  ‘You been following the instructions I gave you?’

  ‘To the letter mom.’ I lied not a real lie, a mom lie, a lie of protection to prevent mom worrying and save me from one of her famous screeching lectures.

  ‘You been working the meals schedule Daniel, you know how little Chowsey gets when he’s off schedule.’

  My teeth tightened together. ‘Sure mom, I know how he gets.’

  ‘You letting him watch the shopping channel?’

  ‘I got his cushion just how he likes it mom, don’t worry about a thing.’

  ‘But I do worry Daniel. I hope you have been keeping Max out of the house he is such a galoot, lolloping into everything. You know how little Chowsey hates upset.’

  I knew. Boy did I know. ‘How’s the cruise mom?’

  ‘The cruise is just fine dear, but the bar is expensive, you wouldn’t believe how expensive it is.’

  I agreed that I did indeed have no idea about the kind of outlay that might be involved.

  ‘And you know what they do,’ she continued. ‘Every darn time we get ready to pull out of port—they check your bags, to see if we are smuggling booze on board.’