Val & Pals Boxed Set: Volumes 1,2 & the Prequel (Val & Pals Humorous Mystery Series)

by Margaret Lashley

  “Okay, okay,” Capone said. He turned to Mickie. “Just do it.”

  Mickie unraveled his bandage. All five fingers were alive and well.

  “I wasn’t lying,” Capone said. “The guy you want is Mickie. I just couldn’t find him.”

  “So who’s this guy, then?” I asked.

  “Someone who wanted ten bucks.”

  I turned to Goober. “How did you know they were lying?”

  “Come on, Val. Look at the guy. Construction work? That guy couldn’t lift a hammer to nail a fly to the wall.”

  ***

  Crap, crap, crap! Now I had nothing to prove my innocence – and no attorney either! Where could I go from here? I climbed in Maggie and was halfway back to the beach when I realized I’d forgotten to go to Chocolateers. Boy, I really was in deep. I glanced over to my left as I passed my favorite restaurant. I forgot all about fingers and chocolate and possible jail time. In the parking lot of Ming Ming’s, sidled up next to Tom’s silver 4Runner, was Milly’s red BMW.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I nearly lost control of Maggie. What were Tom and Milly doing together? WTF? Was it just a coincidence – or were they having an affair? It took all the strength I could muster not to turn Maggie around, go flatten their tires with a butcher knife, then march into Ming Ming’s and knock their feeble heads together like two rotten coconuts. What the hell was going on, here?

  When it came to confrontation, I talked a good game. Safe within my own thoughts, I could devise of all kinds of dastardly ways to exact my revenge. But in the end, I never did any of them. I’d learned a long time ago there was no real joy in it. Besides, what if this really was just an innocent coincidence? I’d have made an ass of myself. And even if it wasn’t, what right did I have to interfere? Tom and I weren’t engaged. We never even discussed monogamy. I guess I’d just assumed….

  Aunt Patsy’s snippy, self-righteous voice filled my head. “When you assume you make an ass out of u and me.”

  Screw that! I hit the brakes, did a one-eighty in the middle of Central Avenue and set my sights on a whole new kind of investigation. But the closer I got to Ming-Ming’s, the more my rage turned to uncertainty. By the time I’d driven the six blocks back to the restaurant, my self-righteousness had lost most of its steam. I settled on a sensible stakeout instead of a shit-slinging showdown. I turned left and parked a block away, on the opposite side of Central. I crept back and crouched behind a car parked at the laundromat across the street. Peeking out from behind the rusty bumper of an old Ford Bronco, I had a clear view of Ming Ming’s. I crouched down and rehearsed my interrogation lines.

  I didn’t get much practice. A minute later, Tom and Milly came out, all shit-eating grins and giggles. Tom pressed something into Milly’s hand and kissed her on the cheek. She laughed. He opened her car door for her and she climbed in. Tom walked around the back of her Beemer to his 4Runner and fiddled with the door. A strange thumping sound filled my ears and everything turned red. My mind melted into a pile of infuriated mush.

  I jumped up from behind the Bronco. I drew in a big breath in preparation of projecting a stream of obscenities across the road. But before I could make a sound, my phone rang. Was it Tom – the lying, cheating bastard himself? I shut my hang-dog mouth and squatted back down behind the car. I squirmed with anger like a trapped weasel as I fished around for my phone. I couldn’t make out the caller I.D. All I could see was stars.

  “Yes? Who is this?”

  “Goober One to Goober Two.”

  Crap! “What do you want?”

  “Hello to you, too miss manners.”

  “Sorry. Look, Goober, I’m busy. What’s up?”

  “Too busy to meet the real fingerless freak?”

  “What? Another one? Does Capone have them lined up in the bushes? I don’t have time for another wild goose chase.”

  “It’s not. This is the guy.”

  “How do you know it’s the right Mickie this time?”

  “Let’s just say, ‘I checked.’”

  A loud voice rang out behind me.

  “Lady, what are you doing?”

  I turned to see an obese black woman in a tight pink dress eying me like I was Lizzie Borden. She held her cellphone in her hand like a weapon.

  “Get away from my car or I’m calling the police!”

  I stood up just in time to see Tom’s silver 4Runner driving away. Milly’s car was already gone. Shit!

  “I’m leaving, okay? Geeze!”

  I brushed off my knees. The woman kicked the air.

  “Go on, now. Git!”

  I took a few jogging steps in the direction of my car and put the phone to my ear.

  “Goober? Are you still there?”

  “Yeah. And I thought I led a weird life.”

  ***

  I was back at Old Northeast Pizza, springing bail for Goober, Capone, and if peanut-head was right, the real fingerless Mickie. He was short fellow, not any taller than me, with a mangy grey ponytail that hung like a faded, weather-worn rope halfway down his back. Apparently, Mickie was in the habit of losing body parts. His once-handsome face was now punctuated with a gold front tooth, a goatee to match the rat tail, and a patch over his left eye. He, Goober and Capone were busy chewing mouthfuls of pizza when I walked in. Goober gave me a salute. I nodded back.

  “What are the damages?” I asked the tattooed pizza guy.

  “Ten-fifty.”

  “Here’s fifteen. Could you add a slice to it? I’m starving. Plain cheese, please.”

  “No problem.”

  The pizza guy put a slice on a wooden paddle, shuffled over to the pizza oven and slid it in. I turned to my attention to the trio of derelicts in front of me. Mickie held out his four-fingered hand, the stump where his index finger used to be was still red and scabby. I shook his hand and tried not to retch. Great. I have to eat pizza with this hand.

  “I’m Mickie,” he said. “I hear you found my finger.”

  “See? I told you I’d find the right guy,” Capone sneered. “Where’s my fifty?”

  “Shut up Capone,” Goober said. “You’ll get your money when my friend here’s satisfied this guy’s the real deal.”

  Capone eyed Goober, then looked at his paper plate.

  “You gonna eat that crust?”

  Capone reached for it. Goober swatted his hand away. Capone sneered and got up off his stool. He stuck a finger in the coin return of the pin-ball machine next to his chair. It was empty. His face soured again and he plopped back down on his stool and sighed.

  “Yes, Mickie, it looks like I did find your finger. I’m curious – how did you lose it?”

  Mickie eyed me warily.

  “I didn’t. Somebody took it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Somebody cut it off.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “I dunno. Maybe I owed ‘em money. I got a few debts outstanding.”

  “Like you, lady,” Capone groused. “You owe me fifty bucks.”

  Goober swatted Capone on the back of the head.

  “But why would they take your finger? It’s not worth anything – is it?”

  Mickie eyed me with curiosity, then concern.

  “It was for the ring. They couldn’t get it off…. Hey! Wait a minute. It was you!”

  “Me? What are you talking about?”

  “You did it. You and your boyfriend. You assholes rolled me when I was drunk. You put a sack over my head. I couldn’t see your face. But I’d recognize your voice anywhere. You told him to do it!”

  “Do what?”

  “To cut my damn finger off!”

  “What? You’re wrong! You’ve got the wrong person, Mickie. I’m trying to –”

  “Trying to what? Get my gold tooth next? Stay the hell away from me!”

  Mickie jerked to standing and ran out of the pizza place, his ratty ponytail trailing in the air behind him. Goober and I stared at each other, stunned. Capone held out his
hand.

  “Harummm.”

  I placed two twenties and a ten in his dirty little palm.

  “Here’s your pizza,” the tattooed guy said.

  Capone shoved his money into his filthy jeans and eyed the slice.

  “You gonna eat that, lady?”

  ***

  The sky was falling. I went home and hid under my bed. No matter which guy the finger belonged to, I was totally screwed.

  Chapter Twenty

  Something crawled across my face. I shot upright and smacked my head, hard.

  “Ouch!”

  In the grey twilight, swarms of dragonflies thronged around me. My head pounded and my mouth tasted of dust. A plastic, monocle-wearing peanut grinned at me from under its black top hat. I sat up in the booth on one elbow and touched the tender bump on my forehead. I sneered at my two assailants, an overhead kitchen cabinet and an empty bottle of Tanqueray. I’d spent the night with them and Glad in her old RV.

  I vaguely recalled getting home yesterday – then the memories came flooding back like a clogged toilet. A crazy man was after me for cutting off his finger. A crazy girlfriend was after my lying boyfriend. A crazy-mean policeman was after me for murder. And I’d been crazy enough to think getting plastered would solve everything.

  I sat up and grunted as I reached down to the scuffed linoleum floor. I picked up Mr. Peanut. Hot tears sprang from my eyes and thumped onto his monocle eye, making it appear as if he were crying, too.

  “I miss you, Glad.”

  A tear rolled down Mr. Peanut’s pitted cheek. I held the bank to my chest and whispered to my dear, departed mom.

  “What would you do if you were me?”

  “I’d get off my duff and get a shower.”

  The voice came from a small window above my head. I turned around and looked up. Laverne was smiling and waving at me.

  “Rough night, Val?”

  “Kind of.”

  “One night you’re pulverizing porcelain, the next you’re camping out with a piggybank. What’s up with you?”

  I sniffled. “Same-old-same-old.”

  “Aww. Come on, sugar. Tell me about it over a cup of coffee.”

  “Have you got a bra on?”

  “Ha ha! No. But neither do you.”

  I looked down. I was wearing one of Tom’s t-shirts and a pair of his boxers. Geeze. I must have gotten way drunker than I thought. I stood up. My head thumped like a bass fiddle. I sniffed away my tears and pouted at Laverne.

  “It had better not be decaf.”

  ***

  While Laverne poured the coffee, my eyes poured over her décor. Laverne’s house was a museum of Vegas memorabilia. Her white leather couch was covered in playing-card pillows – red hearts and diamonds, black clubs and spades. Framed posters of headlining shows and entertainers lined the walls. Towering behind the sofa was a nearly life-sized vase of a white tiger. Its jug handles featured the miniature figures of Siegfried and Roy.

  The red Lucite clock in Laverne’s kitchen sported actual white dice to mark the hours, each rolled to the correct number. Two die were used for numbers higher than six. An inscription on the clock read: “In Vegas, It’s Always Pair-a-Dice.” But the real show stopper was a huge picture hanging over the kitchen table. In it, Elvis himself was crooning away at a beautiful redhead in a glittery, feathery showgirl outfit. I did a double-take.

  “Is that you, Laverne?”

  Laverne handed me a blue, turban-shaped cup filched from the Aladdin.

  “Yeah, that’s me, doll. Used to be, anyway.”

  “What happened? I mean…why did you leave Vegas?”

  “Nobody lasts forever in Vegas, honey. My time was up. It was either leave as a glamour girl or stay and work the buffet ’til I dropped dead of fallen arches. Speaking of dead, you look like death warmed over, sugar. What’s up?”

  I took a sip of coffee.

  “Man, that’s good coffee, Laverne!”

  “Learned from the best. Frankie taught me how.”

  “Frankie as in Frank Sinatra?!”

  “I didn’t get to live this long by telling secrets. I know when to keep my mouth shut. So spill it, gal. You’re safe with me.”

  I blew out a breath. What the hell.

  “I’ve been accused of murder and of cutting off someone’s finger. And I just found out Tom’s cheating on me.”

  “Damn, child! You want some Kahlua in that coffee?”

  “If I thought it would help, I’d drink the whole bottle.”

  “Ah, sugar. I’ve lived through worse and I’m still standing. Life has a way of working things out.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Sure. Who’s the stiff?”

  “Huh?”

  “The guy they say you murdered.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Any way to find out?”

  “Not that I can think of. Wait. I do know a guy who works in the morgue.”

  “Good. Call him. Now, who’s this finger guy?”

  “A guitar player. He’s missing an eye and a tooth, too.”

  Laverne looked at me sideways.

  “I didn’t take them.”

  “You talking about Mickie?”

  “What?! Yes. You know him?”

  “Sugar, when you’re as old as me, you know just about everybody. I’ve seen him playing gigs around town. Why on earth does Mickie think you took his finger?”

  “Long story short, because I had it. I gave it to the police.”

  “Hmmm. Well there you go, honey.”

  “What?”

  “Possession is nine-tenths of the law. Everybody knows that.”

  ***

  I’d just gotten back from Laverne’s house when the phone rang.

  “Is the Valiant Fremden?”

  Shit. “Yes.”

  “Yes, well, I’m Ferrol Finkerman. I’m calling…”

  “Look, whatever you’re selling, I’m not in the mood.”

  “Ms. Fremden, this is serious business. I’m calling on behalf of my client, Harden Michaels. He’s named you as the responsible party in a personal injury case.”

  “I don’t know anyone named Harden Michaels.”

  “Oh. You might know him by his…um…street name. Hard-on? Mickie the Guitar Man?”

  “What!?”

  “Yes. My client identified you as the assailant who removed his finger by, shall we say, force. At any rate, he’s suing you for personal injury, mental anguish and loss of lifetime career earnings.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. How much does he – do you – want?”

  “How much have you got? Tell me and I’ll settle for half. Don’t tell me and we’ll go for the whole enchilada.”

  “You’re a total piece of shit, you know that?”

  “Hey, with a name like Ferrol Finkerman, I was doomed. Save your insults for your husband. So, what’s it gonna be, your money or your life behind bars? If we settle out of court, there’s no need to get the cops involved. Mr. Michaels will drop any and all criminal charges for the right price.”

  What the hell! What was going on here? I needed time to think.

  “Mr. Finkerman, can you give me a week to sort this out? I’ll prove to you that you have the wrong person.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you called me Mr. Finkerman. You’re trying to butter me up.”

  “No. It’s not that…”

  “Listen. You had the finger, right?”

  “Uh…yes.”

  “I’ll give you two days. And some advice on the house. It doesn’t look good for you. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, you know.”

  ***

  I called Laverne as soon as I got off the phone.

  “Ferrol Finkerman? That guy is the biggest shyster outside The Strip.”

  “Why would he sue me?”

  “Honey, you don’t go digging for gold in a dumpster.”

  Crap! “I’
ve gotta go, Laverne. I’ve got some errands to run.”

  “Honey, as long as you’re out and about, could you give me a ride to my nail salon? I broke a nail and I can’t drive.”

  “You can’t drive because you broke a nail?”

  “No, silly! I broke a nail trying to fix my car. You know anybody handy with old engines?”

  “Yes, I think I do.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Get in, Laverne. Where’s the nail salon?”

  Laverne opened the passenger door and plopped her skinny butt on the bucket seat, her back toward me. As she twisted her torso to face forward, she folded her long legs and carefully swung them around. Her knobby knees bumped against the glovebox. Dressed in a gold velour workout suit and a million gold chains, she looked like a hip-hop grasshopper from outer space.

  “What’s with the grand entrance?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  “The legs.”

  “Oh. Habit. These gams were my money-maker back in the day. One cut or bruise and I’d be off the cast until it healed. One bad scar and a girl’s career could go down the drain faster than a bottle of cheap wine.”

  “Wow. I had no idea.”

  I turned the ignition. “So, where’s the salon?”

  “Over off of 22nd and 34th.”

  “Okay. Pops’ place is right around the corner from there.”

  I cruised out of the driveway and headed toward Gulf Boulevard.

  “Pops’ place?”

  “Oh. Earl Popkins. Pops for short. He’s the old man I bought Maggie from when I was broke last year. I gave him $125 down and a handshake to pay another hundred every month until I paid Maggie off or he died, whichever came first.

  Laverne shot me a dubious look.

  “That’s pretty harsh, honey.”

  “Hey! It was his idea, not mine. So far I’ve been sticking to the deal, more or less. But today Mr. Methuselah’s gonna hit pay-dirt. I’ve got the rest of his cash in my back pocket.”

  “Miss Big Bucks.” Laverne winked at me. “Bet he never thought he’d live to see the day.”

  I shrugged and grinned.

  “Neither did I.”

  “So who’s this guy Winky? The one you said could fix my car?”