The Sex Net (Danny Costello Book 1)

by Tony Bulmer

  ‘Take it easy dude, or you’re liable to blow your gonads off—and stay away from my ride I just had it waxed,’ I snapped.

  The Linebacker reached out his gun and pointed it at my head. He held the pistol sideways, like a movie show amateur, the kind of grip practiced in front of a bedroom mirror. I figured the moves. And it annoyed me. I hate having guns pointed in my direction.

  He got the girls phone JC, Why he got the girls phone? The Linebacker was close now, so close I could smell him. The dude smelled bad, real bad, fried food and body odor, the lingering stench in my smashed apartment. The connections rolled into my consciousness, like the wheels of a jackpot fruit machine clicking home. This dude had wrecked my home, smashed my dad’s pictures.

  I moved fast, Hapkido style. Swiveling sideways, I blocked The Linebackers gun arm, with a hammer blow, then cracked him in the windpipe with an elbow spin.

  The gun exploded, a hot shell casing jacking into the air. I moved fast. Spinning into the move for maximum impact, I hit The Linebacker in the face with the answer phone, and swept his feet out from under him. As he sank choking to the floor, the gun flew out of his paralyzed fingers, cart-wheeling into the air. I caught it back handed, ejected the magazine and racked the slide with millisecond precision.

  The sound of the cartridge case rattling to the floor.

  The Linebacker on his knees now, eyes bugging wide, hands clutching at his neck in a desperate bid to draw breath.

  Whoa! Look at Mr. Kung Fu shit,’ said The Driver. He was standing back now, holding a snub nosed Smith & Wesson, pointing it like he meant business. ‘Think you can catch a 45 caliber slug with those fancy moves you got?’

  ‘The only thing I hate more than having my apartment burglarized is having a gun pointed at me.’ I said smoothly.

  ‘Yeah? Well that’s too bad for you tough guy, I got questions to ask.’

  ‘Ask away,’ I sighed. ‘But if you are looking for fashion tips you might not like the answers.’

  The Driver smiled thinly. ‘Seems like you and Frank Rothstein got some kind of beef goin’—you want to tell me about that?’

  ‘He pointed a gun at me, and I popped him, end of story.’

  ‘He tells it different. He says you got something that belongs to him.’

  ‘Frank has nothing I want. You can trust me on that.’

  ‘So where’s the Cabrillo girl Costello?’

  ‘How the hell should I know, why don’t you ask Frank? Seems like he was renting her out by the day.’

  The Driver narrowed his eyes. ‘You got no idea what you are dealing with here have you rich boy?’

  ‘So tell me what am I dealing with.’

  Where I come from people get dead, for just looking at some dude wrong. My side of town they kill folks with fancy wristwatches and pretty clothes just soon as look at them. What you think about that Mr. Kung Fu millionaire?’

  ‘The world’s an ugly place. You looking for a charity donation?’

  ‘I want the fucking diamonds Costello.’ Gripping the gun tighter now, fingers antsy on the hand grip.

  ‘I don’t have the diamonds.’

  ‘If you had them on you, you’d be dead already Costello, and the pleasure would be all mine. What I want to know is where they are now. You stash ’em with your girl Costello, is that where they are at?

  ‘She isn’t my girl.’

  ‘Frank, says otherwise. Way he tells it, you and the Cabrillo girl got something going on, you saying that ain’t so Costello, you calling Frank a liar?’

  ‘We went on a blind date,’ I sighed. ‘I barely know her.’

  ‘You even thought about dating my girl, you would be eating your balls for breakfast, bottom of San Pedro bay,’ sneered the driver.

  ‘Just so you know, the Cabrillo girl and her friend Mimi had Rothstein hooked into a scam they were pulling. Frank set them up in the pad in the hills, thinking he could use them to run merchandise from back east and have a little poontang palace on the side. But the girls had other ideas.’

  ‘Says you Costello—Frank says otherwise. He thinks you are involved.

  I am involved,’ I snapped, ‘that’s for damned sure. ‘I swing over to Hollywood on my night off, for a couple of drinks and some company and end up getting framed for murder. That’s enough to piss a guy off.’

  ‘You telling me you didn’t kill that Mimi chick?’

  ‘Hell no, If you ask me, Frank whacked her when he found out his diamonds were missing.’

  ‘So why you stalking the sister tough guy?’

  ‘The girl has questions to answer, and when I find her I’m going to ask them.’

  ‘Now that is going to be a problem for you Costello. Big shot business man or not, you stand between me and my diamonds and you are going to find yourself in a world of hurt.’

  ‘Surely you mean Frank’s diamonds?’

  The Drivers eyes glinted: cold, implacable, cruel. ‘You remember what I said now–and one more thing,’ he indicated the answer phone with a twitch of his gun. ‘You are wasting your time there Costello there ain’t a damn thing on that machine, I done checked it already.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip,’ I shot a glance at the linebacker, still choking on the floor, ‘You might want to take him down the emergency room, see if they will give him a bath.’

  THE SEX NET 15

  ‘How long is it exactly since you fed this dog?’

  ‘I have been kind of busy Inez.’

  ‘The poor little baby must be starving. Looks like he’s been living on decorative cushions the past week at least.

  ‘What the hell is wrong with that animal, I was here just yesterday.’

  ‘I should report you to the ASPCA.’

  ‘That little rat is just acting mean to get attention.’

  ‘He misses his mommy, and mean uncle Daniel has been neglecting him.’

  ‘Did you sit the little rat in front of the shopping channel, like I told you?’

  ‘What? You didn’t mention the shopping channel Dan—the little fellow went crazy when I got here. I think I am going to need a rabies shot and a Margarita, and not necessarily in that order.’ Her voice was rough and sexy. Indignation flashing in her caramel eyes.

  She was messing with me. She smelled good—too good. I tried to focus, turning on my parent’s big box TV, its blast from the past styling dominating the room from a giant mahogany utility cabinet. My Pops might have been Mr. technology during office hours, but when it came to household appliances he was budget-brand frugal. The TV volume boomed. I flipped channels. Chowsey yipped around, harrying my ankles. I danced onto the couch, still flipping channels.

  ‘Looks like he’s mad at you.’ said Inez.

  ‘He hates other men encroaching on his territory—that’s why I thought you would be safe.’

  ‘Well I wasn’t,’ snapped Inez massaging her ankle. ‘Your mom ever thought about training—or kennels?’

  ‘Cable TV is the only thing that works with this mutt, trust me,’ I Danced across the couch, attempting to avoid Chowsey’s snapping jaws. The little dog peered out from beneath a crooked fringe and bared its teeth.

  ‘Look out Dan,’ shrieked Inez. ‘He’s coming at you again!’

  I leapt into the air, my thumb pressing down hard on the remote, the channels flipped by in a blur.’

  Suddenly: Place your orders for miracle sheen surfactant, the big secret in household cleaning that will save you literally hours of elbow grease.

  Chowsey turned his head to the sound of snake oil promises. Looked at the television, glanced back at my ankles and licked his lips with indecision.

  Buy now on this toll free number… Buy now and receive a complimentary free gift… Call now, ask our specialized sales team about the modern way to make household savings. Chowsey scampered off the couch, bouncing eagerly across the room, towards his favorite cushion, in front of the television. A final territorial yip towards Inez and myself then he settled down, head on his paws, engr
ossed in telesales nirvana.

  ‘I think there’s going to be a scar,’ said Inez slumping down in my mom’s favorite armchair and scrutinizing her ankle.

  ‘You should wear boots next time.’

  ‘There will be no next time Costello. You can trust me on that.’

  ‘Aw, don’t be a crybaby. Let me buy you dinner by way of compensation.

  ‘I got plans Danny.’

  ‘We all got plans, how about tomorrow…next week then. You wanna go Mexican down in Venice, or maybe Sushi? I know a great new place that has opened up in Santa Monica?’ Talking quicker now, hoping she wouldn’t notice—I felt like a high school nerd, asking the prom queen to the movies.

  Inez smiled. ‘I’ll take that Margarita now.’

  ‘You want your rabies shot before or after?’ I asked, raising a comedy eyebrow.

  ‘I think I’ll take a rain check on the shot Dan. Your mom got any plasters?’

  ‘My Mom has everything. She’s got a medicine cabinet like a hospital emergency ward. It’s a hypochondriacs dream come true in there.’ You want me to patch you up?’ I hit her with my big-eyed come and get me look. Irresistible.

  ‘I think I can manage Dan,’ smiled Inez.

  Danny Costello super flirt and dating game dropout. I didn’t let the disappointment show. I headed for my parent’s overstocked wet-bar and began swilling tequila and triple–sec into my Mom’s Tikki-tikki electronic cocktail shaker. Inez headed for the bathroom with careful steps. She was a tough girl—not the type to show the hurt. I watched her sashay down the corridor. I breathed in the smell of her perfume and her freshly washed hair. As she disappeared from view, I sensed Chowsey watching me. I hissed, cat like. The dog yipped disapprovingly and turned back to the shopping channel.

  I heaped ice and freshly squeezed limejuice into the cocktail shaker and pressed the ignition switch. Mr. Tikki head juddered into action, vibrating like a punk-rock Hawaiian, his miniature grass-skirt shaking to the beat of grinding ice.

  ‘So where do you think the Louanne girl is at?’

  Wrapped up in the Tikki-twist, I hadn’t noticed her return.

  ‘I ran my fingers through my hair thoughtfully. ‘I wish I knew. I thought I could figure this thing out. But it seems like she has split town, and I cannot say I blame her.’ I poured out Inez’s Margarita into a coupette glass.

  Inez took a sip. ‘Yowch, You pour a pretty mean cocktail Costello. You going to join me?’

  ‘You kidding me, I am on a regime.’

  ‘Hapkido ethics, I forgot,’ snickered Inez.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, ‘Super tuned abdominals and cocktail hour are incompatible, but seeing as it’s you, I’ll have a Tomato juice.’

  I told Inez about the days events: the cops, the trashed apartments and the gang-bangers, who had tried to muscle me over in Sherman Oaks.

  ‘You say you saw a photo of those girls together? Said Inez, ‘Maybe they are all involved in this date-scam thing?’

  ‘It’s possible, her apartment building was pretty swanky for a part time beauty therapist,’ I mused.

  ‘So what now Dan, seems like you’ve hit a dead end?’

  I smiled. ‘Louanne might have vanished, but I have the next best thing: her answer phone.’

  ‘That old thing, but it is smashed to pieces.’ Inez lifted the broken phone weighing it experimentally in her hand. ‘You get this going again, it will be a miracle.’

  ‘You kidding me, five minutes tops and this third-grade science project will be spilling it’s guts, ten minutes and I’ll have the name and number of every person she has ever talked to.

  Inez wrinkled her forehead doubtfully. ‘Watch out Doctor Thinkelstein, you keep talking like that and there will be villagers with pitch-forks and blazing torches gathering on the lawn.

  ‘I need nothing but faith and my trusty soldering iron my dear,’ I replied, hamming it up, with a mad scientist accent.

  ‘I wish you luck Dan, but I got to go.’

  ‘You do?’ I asked amping up the surprise.

  ‘Yeah, some of us have a life outside of work Costello. That surprise you?’

  ‘I’ll let you hold my soldering iron,’ I offered.

  Inez raised an eyebrow. ‘Tempting, but I got plans. I’ll see you first thing tomorrow at the Office.’

  ‘What kind of plans?’

  ‘None of your business kind of plans,’ smiled Inez sweetly. ‘And don’t forget tomorrow. We have the Larry Miller CEO of Bell-Textron flying in.’ She paused, frowned. ‘Just so you know, that means JR has to be there too, so no bunking-off on that boat of his.’

  ‘Yes Marm!’ I goofed, snapping to attention with a comedy salute.’ I watched her go; slinking out of the kitchen, then disappear through the screen door, into the slow-burning heat of the valley dusk. I stood at the window, watched her Mercedes back out the drive. Craned to see her taillights disappear down the street. When she was gone, I pondered the fast dissipating scent of her perfume lingering in the night air.

  The sound of the grumbling A.C starting up, snapped me to life. I went to work immediately.

  I dug around in the garage. All sorts of junk in there, barely room for my parents’ aging Caddy. I felt guilty about that one. The car had caused them all kinds of problems: bearings, transmission, shocks and all in the past year. Maybe I should have insisted they get a Honda? Nah, unthinkable, I dismissed the idea out of hand. I wanted tools and there were plenty on offer, trouble was, my folks were hoarders. They collected possessions, like junk-mad squirrels: broken coffee makers, picture frames, old clothes, garden tools and boxes and boxes of out of favor curios, stacked floor to ceiling, almost no room to move.

  I picked my way around the boxes, marveling and grimacing with equal measure, at the piled relics of my families suburban past. Plates and vases, my mom couldn’t get enough of them. She had stacked boxes and boxes of them all over. I shifted through the mess, moving cartons of glass and china aside, searching for what I needed. Finally I found it—an old wooden box, lodged down tight, behind the workbench. I reached it out from the dusty crevice in which it was jammed. Its removal precipitated an avalanche of precariously stacked plant pots. But I had it: my Pop’s soldering iron. I brushed grime off the box and inspected its contents. The iron was old; virtually an antique by today’s standards, but it would do the job. I wedged the soldering iron under my arm and rooted in my father’s tool draw. Just a few more things and I could get started.

  The answer phone was smashed beyond repair. It looked like someone had thrown it up against the wall and ground the shattered remains under foot, making sure it was broken good. Why? The why was the impetus that drove me on. I hotwired the hard drive of the shattered answer phone with a customized USB adaptor, some tin foil and a length of 5amp fuse wire. I discarded the broken phone case. Next I salvaged the shredded wiring and souped-up the phones circuitry, with the help of the ancient soldering iron. I used my Pops’ old reading magnifier and a steady hand. It took me longer than I thought. Some of the circuitry was badly damaged. I cannibalized the main board from an ancient mobile phone I found after rummaging in the kitchen draws. Then I hooked up a connection to my Mom’s PC. As I worked, Chowsey snoozed on his cushion, head on paws, soaking up news of the shopping channels latest bargain lines.

  I got the transformer from my Mom’s telephone. Not an exact fit, but a few modifications and it was time to power up. I flipped the switch and the dismembered guts of Louanne’s answer phone popped into life with a crackle of sparks. I laughed out loud. Dr. Finkelstein indeed! I popped the return key on the PC and downloaded the entire contents of the telephone hard drive to the computer. I listened to the messages first—Calls from Carmel at the salon. Calls from some girlfriend, who didn’t leave her name, said: call me after five on Saturday if you wanna do the usual. The usual? Calls from some guy, his voice gruff, perfunctory maybe a boyfriend? Sounded like he was from back east. More of the same. No clues, nothing useful. No leads as to where Louann
e might be, nothing from Corin Cabrillo or Frank Rothstein or… But suddenly I heard Mimi’s voice. A message from beyond the grave, popping out of the speaker on my mom’s PC, filling the room with it’s ethereal tone: Hi Licksey returning your call, hope you are doing good, bummed that I missed you, how about we hook up in Hollywood this weekend? Usual time, usual place.

  Licksey? Louanne—one and the same?

  Usual time, usual place?

  A rendezvous that would never happen.

  What was Mimi talking about? A girl’s night out for the weekend, or something more? I stared into the circuitry on the table, hoping it would throw out clues. Nothing. There were more messages of course. I listened to all of them, even the ones that had been erased. Most people don’t know you can do that. But that is the beauty of the hard drive, every dirty little secret and deviation, saved for posterity, lying hidden, begging to be discovered and exploited by some hotwiring hacker. After I had listened I listened to the messages again and again; chewing over the evidence, micro-analyzing every nuanced word and revelation, piecing together the world of perhaps the only woman who could help me discover Mimi’s murderer and hunt down the Cabrillo girl.

  After the messages I checked the call log, both incoming and outgoing numbers. Calls with a New York code; calls with a Chicago prefix, international calls: Mexico and Europe. Lots of calls to Hollywood, to a dozen different numbers. Three numbers popped: a mobile number. Louanne had made repeated calls to it on the days preceding her death. Then here was the number of the Lakeridge house and another number with a Hollywood prefix. The girl had been busy—real busy. The exotic calls, the calls back east, calls to Mimi at the death house on Lakeridge, it all added up to one thing: Louanne the beauty therapist was involved deep, the question was how?

  THE SEX NET 16

  Asleep in the big leather recliner by the fireplace, I woke with a start, my vision blurred, with the power of the sleep that had overtaken me. Raising a sluggish arm, I squinted at my wristwatch, trying to make out the time. The TV flashed a hypnotic beat, volume on low: the shopping channel, selling miracle-wax floor cleaner, to night-owl somnambulists. I struggled to focus. Rising slowly from the magnetic comfort of the armchair, something boded wrong. Chowsey’s cushion empty. Outside in the big-city perma-gloom: black fronded palm trees blowing wild, in the Santa-Anna winds.