by Tyler Colins
Jamey Gutlanden, the former gallery administrator, was currently working at a museum in curator capacity. A crazy-busy day of meetings lay ahead, so she'd call back later in the day or evening. I wasn't lucking in, so that left a visit to the actual gallery, now owned by a couple from Mexico City, and a morning of sightseeing.
Dressing appropriately, into the blustery day I sauntered.
* * *
“What are you eating?” Rey demanded.
“A Polish sausage sandwich, otherwise known as a hot dog,” I replied through the mouthful of spicy deliciousness.
“No luck on your end, either, huh?” Linda asked. Both gals were on speaker.
“You've developed psychic abilities. I'm impressed.”
“A matter of deduction, my dear Ms. Fonne,” she advised with a British accent. “You'd have contacted us, love, had you learned anything.”
“And I deduce by the 'either' you're striking out, too.” I chuckled and wiped wayward grilled onions from my chin.
“You're spot on,” Linda said cheerily. “But we're meeting with Randy later today and there should be a call-back from Paris from Monsieur Jean-Guy Gaetan Leclerc.”
“I'll be glad to see my mom and nephew, but I'm feeling this trip to Chicago is a major bust.” With a soft sigh, I popped a sport pepper in my mouth.
“It was worth a shot,” Linda said soothingly. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained, something like that.”
“What about the jazz joint?” Rey asked.
“Colt's buddy, Morton Smith—I got the full name from a bartender—comes around regularly. He was supposed to show up last night, but didn't. Would you see what you can find on him?” I gave a description.
“You're not going after him?” Linda asked, anxious.
“It's tempting, but we have a case that requires full attention,” I replied casually. “Still, let's see what we can find out and file the info for future reference.”
“Hold on—someone's at the office door.” Steps and background chatter followed.
“What's up?” I asked after several seconds.
Linda whistled softly. “It's Ald and he—”
“Where the hell are you, Fonne?” he demanded.
“On the Mainland.”
“I've got a young man in the hospital. He had your agency card in his wallet.”
Young man? Oh-oh. “Crispy—I mean, Jester—is okay, isn't he?” I asked worriedly.
“Crispy? Jester?”
“Who is it and what happened?” Rey demanded.
“Randolph Nagaraj met with an accident.”
Linda drew a deep breath. “Dang.”
“What's your business with him?” Ald asked.
“Just someone we dealt with recently,” Rey replied curtly.
“Someone associated with the gallery fires?”
“Of course,” she sniffed. “That's what Xavier contracted us for, isn't it—to put our awesome P.I. talents to work and find all we can about the fires?”
“Has anyone told you you're a pain in the ass?”
“Has anyone told you you're an—”
“Ladies, why don't you bring Randy flowers?” I interrupted before the two moved from verbal sparring to fisticuffs.
“He won't be seeing anyone today or tomorrow,” Ald advised curtly. “Like Loretta-Lee Kapua'ula, he's in a coma.”
“Dang.” Linda cursed softly.
“Double dang.” Rey exhaled and cursed not so softly.
“Did you check out his place—”
“We would have,” Ald cut me off. “If we could have gotten past the flames.”
Chapter Fourteen
Someone was very worried that something would be discovered. Given that Randy's house was now a mound of ashes, it was unlikely there'd be anything to find, but never say never. Maybe Rey and Linda could sniff around.
“Never say never” was a phrase I'd not used in some time. Come to that, I'd not beaned anyone either. I chuckled and drew a quick breath. Poor Randy. Hopefully, he'd be all right.
It was half past eight. Early enough to tuck in for the night, watch bad TV, stroll through the snowy cold, or hunker down with the laptop and type up case notes. Given recent success rates, it would take a whopping seven minutes to record information gleaned and actions taken.
Moving on. The mini bar revealed nothing appealing save for a couple of tiny tins of tomato juice. Grabbing both, I meandered to one of three tall curved windows.
Snowflakes looked pretty floating to the ground, veiling lamps, cars and concrete with a soft white fluffy blanket. There was hardly anyone on the sidewalk three floors below, save for an elderly gent walking a trio of frolicsome Miniature Schnauzers and four laughing and jostling teens.
Pulling a tab, I perched on the windowsill and took a sip. So, what had been learned today? The ins and outs of running a gallery. That Chicago was a fantastic city and the crime and mob tour was worth repeating. And while James-Henri wasn't especially liked, his art knowledge was first-rate.
Taking another sip, I surveyed the street and caught a flicker, a shadow. A tall, bulky shape shifted in the dark vestibule of a small closed café and lit a cigarette. That brief light illuminated glove-less, beefy hands and wisps of white hair peeking from a chunky, cable-knit beanie.
He peered up and I instinctively melted into the drapes. Could it be … Morton Smith was out there? Why?
Tossing both cans into a wastebasket, I pulled on a long loose-fitting turtleneck purchased at Macy's this morning, grabbed woolly mitts bought earlier at a discount store when my fingers had promised to seize up in the wintriness, and slipped on coat and boots. Weapons were back on Oahu, so manicure scissors and a metal hairbrush found their ways into a deep pocket. Better than nothing.
Slipping out a rear exit, I picked my careful way up a narrow, slippery crate- and bin-filled laneway. Maybe imagination was running wild and I was entirely wrong about the man across the street, but what the heck? Nothing ventured, nothing gained, or something like that.
Hugging a craggy brick wall, I peered one way and then the other. He no longer appeared to be lingering in the vestibule. Yup, definitely imagination running wild. I chuckled anxiously.
About to turn, a thickset arm hooked itself around my neck and yanked me back into the laneway as if I were a rag doll or kite.
“I hear you're looking for me, Jill Jocasta Fonne,” a tobacco-scented voice droned in my ear. “You found me.”
The guy was Hercules-strong. “You want to loosen your grip so I can talk?” I gurgled, extracting the clunky hairbrush and managing to whack an arm.
“You may want to reconsider using a brush as a weapon.” He chuckled and loosened his grip. “I'm impressed. Not only did you figure out who called—you came.”
“It wasn't rocket science figuring it out,” I grumbled, rubbing my neck as I looked up. The guy was boxy-big, like a side-by-side fridge. Although he was wearing a thick woolly scarf, I'd have bet dollars to donuts he had no neck.
“It wasn't,” he conceded. “But you took the bait and flew over to see what you could discover.”
“It was hard to pass up when I heard the name of the club: The Soul Cole Train Express Lounge. Surely that wasn't a coincidence?”
He cocked his head and stared, then burst into laughter. “Surely it was.”
Weirder things had happened, so maybe it truly had been that. “Okay, I took the bait. Wasn't that the intent?”
“It was a test. Yeah, I'm really impressed. I like to know who and what I'm dealing with. I didn't think you'd jump so quickly, but you did.”
“What if I hadn't?”
“I'd have called one more time to tempt you. If you hadn't jumped after that, I'd have let it go.”
“Why bother in the first place? I had no idea what you looked like or who you were.”
“But you did find out Colt's history.” Morton Smith exhaled slowly as he scanned my face. “That night on the boat, I was nearby when Colt was yammering and
heard him mention my 'clodhopper feet'. I figured you or your boyfriend might eventually come looking.” He scowled. “I don't like loose ends.”
Who could argue with that?
“I took off after I heard the shot, so I wasn't sure who got it at the time. And I didn't want to know. There was something more pressing to tend to.” He searched my face again, as if deciding what to say or do. “Just for the record, you shot Colt dead, but I'll be damned if you get me dead or alive, Jill Jocasta Fonne. You know, I could kill you right now and no one'd be the wiser. You'd be found in this alley and they'd list you as a victim of a mugging gone bad. But you know what?”
I eyed him expectantly, sensing something within the Behemoth was softening, but when he didn't continue, I lifted my chin defiantly, refusing to reveal apprehension. “What?”
Suddenly Smith smiled, like a toddler who'd received a candy cane from Santa. “My girlfriend told me this morning that we're going to have a baby. Imagine that: me, a father.” He looked proud yet overwhelmed.
I couldn't contain the congratulations; they slipped from my lips like a Stooge on a banana peel.
He beamed in return. “This is your lucky day. Here's the deal, Jill Jocasta—”
“If we're going to be on a first name basis, Morty, JJ's the name.”
A joyful smile pulled at unequal lips. “Here's the deal, JJ. I'm simply going to give a warning: mind your own f'g business. Stick to the firebug you're tracking.”
“Warning accepted,” I responded with a grateful smile. “You wouldn't happen to know who the firebug is?”
Morton Smith's laugh was deep and dark, like a comic-book villain who'd pulled something over on a nemesis. Pulling out a cigarette, he tucked it in the corner of his mouth, sighed loudly, and flicked it aside. “I'm not in the arson biz.”
“Just the double-agent one.”
Small, dark rodent-like eyes scanned my face. “Unlike what I'd originally planned, I'm going to prove accommodating and provide a tip. Then, I'm going to walk away and you're going to forget you ever saw my face or knew my name.” He leaned chest-to-chest close (well, chest-to-belly close, as it were). “Got it? Because if you don't, JJ, I'd have to revert to my former ways. That wouldn't be healthy for Jones, your lover, or those pretty ladies you work with. And, you know what? I'll extend that to the dog and rabbit… And there's a pig now, isn't there?”
I could smell sandalwood-scented cologne as I scanned his set expression. While I'd expect someone with his background to know everything about a target, it still shook me.
“I ask again: got it?”
I nodded like a Bobblehead.
“Keep a wary eye on Cholla Poniard. That lady's as icy as the South Pole, and loves taking risks. She's one hell of an actress and crazy compulsive. You think I'm dangerous? Try adding 'mad as a hatter' to the equation.” A cross between a snort and a chuckle erupted. “Talk to her two exes: Race Shortly, the former tennis pro and Dan Spades, the disgraced sportscaster. Given they've lost everything, including their ultra-fine lifestyles, I'm betting they'd be willing to chat your pretty little ear off.”
With an enigmatic smile and mock salute, Morton Smith ambled into the wintery night.
And I scampered back to a warm and snug-safe hotel room.
* * *
After de-stressing with a large bag of M&Ms, I crawled into bed with the laptop. Before I could start researching Cholla's ex-hubbies, Wayne “Danke Schoen” Newton announced a call.
“Hey you.” A tiny burp followed Rey's gay greeting.
“Hey.” I grinned, envisioning my cousin seated at an agency desk, happily sucking mango-pineapple bubble tea. “What's up?”
“Besides the fact I got a gig as a sashaying shrimp for a food-truck commercial, I thought you'd like an update on Angus.”
“Would I.” Propping pillows, I slipped under the covers. “Spill.”
“Last night, Linda and I met with him and A—I mean, Xavier—at Poncho's, a small bar not far from Angus' place. The guy looked like hell, and not 'cause we were sipping spicy rums on ice.”
“Angus is going through hell, so why wouldn't he look like it?”
Rey concurred and related how Angus kept calling himself a “stupid, fat dope”, among other things, to which Xavier sternly yet sympathetically advised that everyone underwent bad moments now and again.
“He really has it in for that neighbor, Mrs. Browne. Let's see if I can remember how he worded it… That frigging old bat is on the lanai 24/7 and sleeps with her eyes open.” She snorted. “She sounds like a super nosy busybody. Anyway, Xavier reminded him that the old gal did see him at Loretta-Lee's, that he was heard yelling, and they can prove she was hit by a left-handed person, which he is. Angus grew even more miserable.”
“Can you blame him?”
“I feel kinda sorry for the ol' bulldog.” Rey sipped noisily. “Would you like the details of what happened, as he related them?”
I settled in. “Detail away, my dear.”
And so the story went…
… Angus arrived at his former four-bedroom house waving legal documents. “Why the change, Loretta-Lee?”
As she usually did when irked, the attractive cosmetically-enhanced blonde flipped shoulder-length waves. “The original amount isn't enough to see me and the kids through.”
Leaning into a kitchen wall, her ex cursed softly. “You mean your frigging boyfriend decided it wasn't enough. What should I exist on, huh? You have this nice, big house—one I bought and put lots of hours and sweat into—while I live in a one-bedroom crap flat in Moiliili.”
Bracing her shoulders, Loretta-Lee leaned close and sniffed. “You've been drinking. You told the therapist and everyone you had it under control.”
“I never lied. I'm the social drinker; you're the one with the problem. And for your information, I had one rum and cola with lunch—fries and a cheap burger made of meat that probably once trotted in an Aloha Festival parade, 'cause that's all I can afford.”
Loretta-Lee wrinkled her nose and snapped, “Smells like you had four.”
“I spilled some. See the stain?” After pointing, he stomped to the kitchen door, sighed, and pressed both palms against it. “How'd we end up like this, Lor?”
She stepped up behind, rested a hesitant hand on his shoulder, and pulled back.
Angus turned slowly and ran an index finger along her cheek. “Right. You fell in love with Bobby.”
“I fell in love with the idea of falling in love.”
“It's not too late to be rid of him.”
“It's too late for a lot of things.” She cupped his cheek. “Take care of yourself.”
They regarded each other for several seconds, kissed hesitantly, then passionately.
“Guess I'll see you at the lawyer's,” he said quietly.
“Guess so.”
He chuckled dryly. “You're still a bitch.”
“I know… But then, you're one heck of a prick.”
He scanned her face and slammed the door behind.
“… You have to feel for the guy,” Rey said in conclusion.
“It's certainly no fun being accused of a crime you didn't commit, especially a violent one like batting an ex into a coma.”
“After the tenth 'I didn't do it', Linda and I decided to step in.”
“You're going to lend a hand proving him innocent?” I asked, hopeful. Angus could use all the help he could get.
“We're going to visit Mrs. 'I See All' Browne tomorrow. After that, we're checking out Loretta-Lee's.”
“You're not going to break-and-enter, are you?”
“Relax, Cousin Jilly. Angus gave us a key.”
“He still has one?” I asked, surprised.
“Tammy, the daughter, gave it to him last month as a 'just in case'. It's their little secret.” She chuckled wryly. “And what's up on your end?”
“I met Morton Smith face to face in an empty alley.”
“What!?”
* * *
Race Shortly, born Richard Ace Shortbottoms, was the son of an “ace” billiard player back in the day. Cholla entered Race's life in early 2004, when he was at the height of his career, having won a total of 36 titles. Small wonder he instantly fell for her. She looked absolutely stunning in every celebratory photo.
A one-month whirlwind romance resulted in an off-the-map wedding that had an assortment of sports and film celebrities in attendance. Parties on yachts, casinos in Monte Carlo and fun and frolic in Spain filled the two years that Race was married to Cholla, or Collie as she was called by the tennis crowd. Early photos showed a happy, fun-loving couple; later ones showed “Collie” looking increasingly weary and/or bored.
Toward the end of the marriage an abundance of tabloid rumors started circulating—that Race was not only continually bending the elbow, but directing illegal substances up the nose. Two DUIs added fuel to the escalating fire and it wasn't long before Race's career crumbled like feta cheese on Greek salad.
Thrice-wed Dan Spades, born Daniel Fuller Spades, was twenty years older than Cholla. Handsome in a Jude Law way, but with dark chestnut waves, he was also quick to put a diamond-encrusted wedding band on Cholla's slim finger. They regularly made the sports and entertainment pages, and all seemed rosy and cozy for two years. She filed for divorce again, citing Dan's “unhealthy interest in younger women”. Oh-oh.
I located an address and number for Race. He lived in a townhouse in Sutton Place, a neighborhood on the east side of Manhattan and working as a—what else?—tennis coach. His site was nothing more than a landing page, an amateurish one at that.
Not expecting to connect with a live voice, I must have sounded stunned when I did.
“What can I do for you?” The voice held a trace of a southwestern twang and was downy-soft, like dandelions blowing in a late-summer breeze.
