by Karl Tutt
DIABLA
MAKES
AN
ENTRANCE
by
Karl Tutt
Copyright Karl Tutt 2014
All rights reserved without limiting the copyright reserved above. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, brands, characters, places, media and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which might have been used without permission. The publication use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Thanks to Carolyn and Rosalee, my patient readers, and Sue, an editor who is generous with her time and attention.
DIABLA MAKES AN ENTRANCE
By
Karl Tutt
Chapter One
I’m the tough broad you’ve all heard about, but weren’t sure existed. I’m the real thing. I can assure you of that. I called myself a dancer, but my partner was always a brass pole. I didn’t have to spend much on costumes. Four inch acrylic heels and a G string was all it took. I did some part time hooking, graduated to call girl and did things I shouldn’t have done. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not apologizing. I don’t think I hurt anyone and I learned plenty on the way up and on the way down. Now I’m a cop. There are a lot of things I wish I didn’t know. Still, they come in handy when you’re on the street hoping you can just make the bad guys keep their hands in their own pockets and not shoot any innocent bystanders.
There wasn’t any kind of trouble I wasn’t in as a kid. Drugs, B and E, assault, resisting arrest. You name it. Thank God I was minor. When I turned eighteen, Dad hired a good attorney and it was all expunged. It’s a miracle Dad has any hair left on his head. He lives on his boat in Key West, does computer stuff, got a nice girl friend. I think he’s as happy as he’ll get. He stuck by me through it all, enlisted his friends, T.K, Chris, and Sunny to bail me out of a situation that had me headed for an early grave. T.K. wrote about it in DEATH OF THE MARKED. It’s still hard to believe it was me, but I still got the tattoos if I need a reminder.
I was hooking when I started my degree in criminal justice. It was almost a game at first. Hell, I was pulling five grand a night, and that was one trick. Living in a penthouse on the beach, spending money like it was water. I had regular Johns, but I also had friends. It wasn’t all bad. It sounds corny, but something was missing. I hated those bastards that sucked the life out of farm girls who came to the city with dreams of modeling, acting, somehow making it big. Too many of them ended up in crummy dives with needle marks on their arms and diseases they would never shake. They died young. They died fast. And they died dirty.
When I graduated and applied to the Police Academy, a lot of my former adversaries laughed. The boys on the beat knew me from what I will generously call “my misspent youth.” Hell, I’d even slept with a couple of them. But thanks to Dad, my record was clean. After calling in a few favors, I got some nice letters of reference about my sterling character and good clean work ethic. Some of the bigwigs were afraid I might know “where the bodies were buried.” I did, but they also knew I could keep my mouth shut. I passed with flying colors and was in uniform and on the beat making $37,000 a year to get punched, shot at, called a slut, bullied by some of my superiors and generally having a wonderfully swell time. Shit, I used to make that kind of money in a week. But now I got a reputation as a tough, fair, and honest cop. I have to admit, I kind of like it.
I worked my way up. I’m a Detective now, 2nd grade, Fort Lauderdale PD. Making a little more money. I get to wear normal clothes, even fashionable when I can afford it, and I have access to some delightful unmarked wheels that reek of cigarette smoke, vomit and donut crumbs. So what’s to complain about?
When I was stripping, my stage name was Angel. I know you’re thinking, “Oh, how original!’ But I was born Angelique, so it wasn’t much of a stretch. Now I’m Dee Rabow. It used to be Rabowski, but my grand-dad shortened it. I’ve been told my sky-blue eyes could melt an iceberg, but they can also slice you like a stiletto. When I first went to work for the department, some Hispanic yahoo referred to me rather disdainfully as La Diabla or Spanish for the female devil. It stuck, and now all of the boys simply call me Dee. Actually it suits me just fine. Being a bitch sometimes can be quite useful. Big tits and a tight ass don’t hurt either.
Chapter Two
“Got a call. Asked specifically for you. No name,” Ricky said. He handed me the phone.
Ricky, that is Enrique Fuenes, is my sidekick, aka partner. Most of the guys in the squad won’t work with me. I don’t know if they don’t trust me, don’t think I’m tough enough, resent my past. Shit, who cares? Ricky is my man. Tall, smart, Cuban, drop-dead gorgeous, speaks Spanish, French, Chinese, not to mention damned good English. His family got out before Batista fell in Havana. Rumor has it that his people still have plenty of real estate in Miami. Don’t know why he wanted to be a cop, but I’m too polite to ask. Fact is Ricky’s handy with a gun and a tough character in a light tussle or an old-fashioned knock-em-down fistfight. He’s the guy who inspired the phrase “got your back.”
I knew the voice on the other end of the line instantly. It was Angie.
“I got to bother you. I need to see you as soon as possible. I got a package,” she said. There was the unmistakable stench of fear oozing out of the receiver.
“So when?”
“Can you come by the condo? I’ll have coffee ready and with a little taste of Irish in it just for you, Honey.”
“On my way.”
I hung up the phone and headed for the garage. I checked out my unmarked Taurus and wheeled into the street. I’d known Angie for several years. In the past we were rivals of a sort. She was one of the top call girls in Miami. Xi Bo Van Diem was her real name. Vietnamese, tall, lanky, hair like black silk and a face that would have shamed the Madonna, not to mention all of the healthy accoutrements that made guys stop on the street when she strutted by. She was a gourmet cook, a published poet, a classically trained pianist, and a tasteful art collector. She knew when to talk, when to listen and when to provide the comforts that a girl like that was famous for. I guessed an evening with her would set you back eight to ten grand and that didn’t include the Dom Perignon or Cristal you were expected to have in your hand when your date rang the bell. She lived in a penthouse on the beach where the doorman was discreet and neighbors minded their own business unless you made an ass of yourself. Angie didn’t.
Her grandfather had owned one of the hottest brothels in Saigon where they were solicitous and judicious in the care of our boys, both in and out of uniform. Beautiful women and the best dope in Asia. When the city fell, Grandaddy boarded the plane carrying two suitcases crammed with hundred dollar bills. There were rumors he had more stashed in numbered accounts in Switzerland and the Bahamas. His son had upheld the family tradition in Atlanta and a couple of other wide open southern cities. That was Angie’s dad. Finally, a huge bust from the Feds laid the family fortune low, and Dad had done some hard time. Angie, just doing what she did best, had branched out on her own. Despite it all, she had the honest demeanor of a church lady and the heart of a saint. We were friends.
I pulled up into the alcove. I could hear the roar of the ocean just a quarter of a mile away. The sweet scent of salt air rushed my nostrils. The valet was clean cut and nea
tly uniformed. “Yes ma’am, no ma’am. Ms. Van is expecting you.” He tried to disguise a stiff-lipped look of disdain at the unmarked. It didn’t work. I guess when you’re used to parking Bentleys and Maseratis it’s hard to be kind to a beat up Taurus.
I pushed twenty on the elevator display and my stomach bounced off my insoles.
She cracked the door immediately, looked up and down the hall and ushered me in. Then she smiled and threw her arms around my neck.
“I knew you’d come,” she whispered.
I hadn’t been in the place in a while. It was definitely an ARCHETECTURAL DIGEST moment. I’d been there before, but the splashes of color against the stark white, the lush aquamarine carpet, the warmth of the supple leather and the custom mahogany always knocked me out. Very eclectic taste. A signed and numbered piece by Jackson Pollock over the sofa. A few small etchings mixed with some of the well-known Florida artists. I’d been with her at the Vero Beach Art Show when she bought the original Highwayman piece. It was by Alfred Hair, the founder of the group. I remember her telling me, “they sold them on the street --- reminds me of us in the bad old days.” Sad, but funny, I guess.
We walked back to the breakfast nook. The view through the sliding glass doors was breathtaking, the ocean shimmering in a deep blue, gulls and pelicans soaring, a massive cruise ship meandering it’s way south. The place had to be a cool five mill and I bet it was paid for.
The coffee mugs were on the table, a bottle of Jameson next to mine.
“I know you’re on duty,” she said, “so I thought I’d let you pour.”
I removed the top and let just a healthy dollop of Irish sink into the steaming, brown liquid.
“You okay?” I asked. “You sounded kind of rattled.”
“I am. I received a package. Pretty little box, covered in white silk, with a huge pink bow on it. It was outside the door yesterday morning. No mailing label, no note. It just sat there shining. I figured it was some little treat from one of the johns. I opened it and there was a crystal bottle, like expensive perfume or something. I went to my dressing table to douse a bit on my wrist, but when I removed the top, an acrid smell lurched out of it. I took it to the bathroom and poured a couple of drops on a towel. It steamed and stunk. It ate right through the cotton in seconds. Some kind of acid. Thank God I didn’t pour it onto my hands or dab it behind my ears. I checked with the doorman and the building concierge, but no strange visitors, nothing out of the ordinary, no one knew anything. ”
The exotic almond eyes were damp, but no tears. At least not yet. I had forgotten how beautiful she was, the olive skin like deep ceramic, the graceful lines of a face that had been crafted in heaven. The image of acid creating a character out a of bad horror movie made me cringe.
“I went back to the box. There was a handwritten note in the bottom underneath the tissue.”
She handed it to me. “Be careful of your client list, Angie. Shit happens.” Nothing unique about the paper or the script except that it was written with a fountain pen. Nobody much uses them anymore.
I sat and wrinkled my nose. I took another sip of the black coffee. The Irish burned on the way down. The gift’s intent was clear. She was screwing someone she shouldn’t. If she didn’t stop, well . . . shit happens.
“Okay,” I said, “any new clients? Arguments with old ones? Anything that seemed odd . . . out of sorts?”
“You know. I have my regulars. Some of them may be a little scary, but none patently dangerous. Nobody who would want to hurt me. Nothing really new, except . . . “
“Except what, Angie?”
“You know the Commandant.”
I did. Back in the old days, I even screwed him once. Stuart Longstreet. He was a bigwig in the local Coast Guard. Oversaw all of the drug intervention from Miami through the Keys and up to the Treasure Coast. Well respected, well connected, just a few habits he needed to keep quiet. I’d always wondered how a man on the government dole could afford a girl like Angie, but there were ways. And even the tough girls can be suckers. I had my freebies in my time. It gave you a break, maybe even the suggestion of self-respect. He’d been seeing Angie for two or three years. Maybe twice a week, I suspected. But he was cool and their relationship was graveyard talk as far as I knew.
“It sounds stupid, I know, but I’m getting out of the game. Stuart and I are in love. He’s leaving his wife. We’re going to be married as soon as his divorce is final.”
When you’re in my business, not much shocks you, but that one dropped me in the dirt.
“I know it sounds stupid, Dee. I’ve heard every line a john can dream up. But Stuart loves me. I can see it in his eyes and feel it in his touch. Most of the time we just talk. He knows what I am and who I am . . . and he loves me.”
“So what about you? Are you in love with him?”
“I’ve asked myself that a hundred times. It’s like playing the Ouija Board except the answer always comes up the same. ‘My sources say yes.’ Still, I’m tired. I have to work a little harder at it, but I know I still look good. I‘ve got more damned money than I can ever spend. But I’ve had enough of playing Beethoven Sonatas for jokers who don’t know a C from an A minor. Had enough of listening to a parade of johns whose wives ‘don’t understand them.’ Tired of faking orgasms and giving blowjobs to guys who can’t get it up without a truckload of Viagra. I guess I’d just like to be a normal girl, two and a half kids, white picket fence and all that shit.”
“Sorry, Kiddo. Girls like us can never be normal. We’ve seen too much, know too much, have too many secrets that force us into a perpetual darkness. I wish I could tell you different, but it is what it is.”
“You’re my friend, Dee. I love you and respect you, but it just isn’t true. At least not for me. I’m going to marry the Commandant and set the clock back.”
I hoped she was right.
“Does he know about your little gift?” I asked.
“Yes. He gave me something just in case.”
She got up and went into the bedroom. She came out carrying a small pistol, laid it on the table. I picked it up. Ruger twenty-two semi-automatic. It had a nine shot clip.
“My God, Angie. That thing wouldn’t stop a squirrel, much less a man who wanted to hurt you.”
“Stu said these would help.” She put a twenty-two hollow point slug in my palm. At close range it could do some damage, but probably not enough. Still, it was better than nothing. It was time for me to shut up.
Chapter Three
I told her she needed to file a complaint, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She did let me take the perfume bottle and the box. I didn’t expect much, but I told her I’d turn it over to forensics. I slogged the last of the black elixir. She hugged me like I was the last friend she had on earth.
“Thanks, Dee. I can’t tell you how much better I feel,” she whispered.
When I got back to the precinct, my desk was a blizzard of paperwork. I told Ricky about the visit, leaving out most of the incriminating details. He knew all of the working girls. They loved him, called him Cuban Dynamite. He had met Angie when we went out for lunch a couple of months ago.
He pointed at the pile. We were working several cases and the proverbial shit had hit the fan on at least a couple of them. I didn’t know where to start with any of it, much less worry about Angie and what was probably just a pissed-off client who wanted to scare her. Ricky sat across from me and we dove into the morass. Lots of case reviews, phone calls, and interviews that needed attention immediately. The only message that really caught my eye was from Rod, one hot assistant D.A. and a recent addition to a long line of paramours who had appeared, been intimidated, disappeared, and whatever. The only difference was Rod seemed to know how to handle Diabla, the incorrigible bitch I was reputed to be.
“Dinner at your place. Saturday at Ten. Homemade lasagna. Please. I’ll bring the wine.” I was hoping that wasn’t all he was bringing. My mouth watered, but maybe not for the lasagna.
It was Thursday. Ricky and I had plenty to do. I sent an intern with the silk box and a note to forensics. Then I forgot about Angie and dove into the cesspool that seemed to be getting deeper by the minute.
Friday and Saturday morning marched on. We were making some progress on a dead pimp who crossed into some mob territory. He ended up with a thirty-eight hollow point in the back of his skull. Risks of the trade. A couple of his girls had lawyered up and were spilling their guts to avoid an unpleasant stay on the state’s dime.
There was a slight lull in the fun around four. I bolted. I made a quick trip to the deli and bought homemade pasta, some cheeses, some fresh greens and a couple of bottles of Sterling Cabernet just in case the night went on. Not the best of the grape, I know, but it’s good stuff and all I can afford.
I took a shower, washed my hair and did all the girly stuff. Then I slipped into a little black dress that featured cleavage down to China and clung to my ass like it was painted on. I debated the panties, then decided to go for broke.
He was a little early. I was glad. I answered the bell and cracked the door. There he was, all six-three, two hundred pounds of muscle and charm. His black curls tickled his forehead and I thought I smelled Brut. A sweet smile was etched into his granite jaw and his denim eyes twinkled like the fat man in red in the Christmas poem. I couldn’t help but laugh. He was wearing a white silk ascot tucked into his shirt under the blue blazer. I hadn’t seen one of those since my last date with Sir Laurence Olivier.
His lips brushed me lightly on the cheek and he handed me a fresh yellow-brown bouquet of mums and white baby’s breath. I’m a tough broad, but I have to admit it. I’m a sucker for that shit. I threw my arms around him and blew a warm, wine soaked kiss into his ear.
I uncorked the expensive Cab he’d brought and poured him two fingers. I can be classy when I want to. Then I put the lasagna on low. It would have to wait. When I first met him, I nick-named him Hot Rod. It wasn’t long before I remembered why. He knew all the right spots. Gentle and sweet, but the finale left me quivering and begging for more.