Down and Dirty (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 9)

by A W Hartoin

“At night. Daytime is fine. Dull as dishwater.”

  “Mercy!” Mom yelled. “Don’t go to that motel.”

  Dad scooted out the door and said, “Call Tenne. Love you, Baby.”

  “Tommy!”

  He put a long arm around my shoulders and yawned. “Okay. You do the interviews. I’ll get Morty back on track.”

  “No problem.”

  “Something isn’t right about that suicide,” he said. “I wish I was thinking clearly. I’d already have it.”

  “It’s fine, Dad.” I pushed him toward the office and when he went inside, I knocked on the bathroom door. “Hey, Mom.”

  “Come in.” Mom was out of the tub wrapping herself in the world’s biggest, plushest bath sheet.

  I peeked in and said, “I think he’s better.”

  “Don’t go to that motel.”

  “I’d go to a straight up crack house, if it helped.” I’d done it before, but I didn’t mention that. I closed the door quick before she got to it.

  “Mercy!”

  I hustled down the stairs all by my lonesome. Like all good things, it wouldn’t last.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I MADE MYSELF a quick latte and poured it into one of Mom’s travel mugs, the one she had never and would never use. Dad gave it to her for Christmas and it said in bold type, “Coffee makes me poop”.

  Mom wasn’t amused, but Dad laughed so hard Millicent thought he was having a seizure. Mom said I had to approve all of his presents to her after that. I didn’t and that’s why she got another travel mug the next year that said, “Kick today in the dick.” I would’ve picked that one, but sadly it didn’t survive.

  I grabbed my purse, jumped over the Siamese, who were blocking the pantry door with claws at the ready, and dashed outside into an afternoon that had gotten twenty degrees chillier. Wind was whipping the trees and colorful leaves were flying everywhere. I checked my phone as I went down the brick walk, but the only calls I got were from Chuck and that idiot Julia. Nothing from Molly. I hoped that didn’t mean Mr. Calabasas wasn’t doing well. I expected her to call. It wasn’t the best idea to bother Mr. Cabot again, but I needed Molly’s information. Dad could probably rouse Uncle Morty, but it could take a while to get the account timeline through him and I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to press him. I’d rather skip straight to the source and leave Uncle Morty to recover from whatever had happened.

  I was about to call Mr. Cabot when I went out the back gate and felt something. It stopped me in my tracks. Someone was there, waiting. I didn’t see them. I felt them. I tiptoed backwards and tried to close the gate without making a sound. I needn’t have bothered.

  “Are you coming or what?” said a familiar voice that could’ve been male or female with its deep powerful tones.

  “Ah, crap,” I said.

  “You still haven’t shown me the Bled library.”

  I sucked it up and went through the gate to find Fats Licata leaning on the Isabella. I feared she might dent it, she was that big. That day she wore her usual workout gear but the winter edition with long skin-tight leggings that showed off the amazing definition in her legs, a pink puffer jacket that made her look roughly the size of house, and a pair of vintage Wayfarers.

  “Took you long enough,” she said and a toothpick emerged from her mouth and dangled on the edge of her full lower lip.

  “Not today,” I said. “I’m busy.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Tell Calpurnia you couldn’t find me.”

  Calpurnia Fibonacci was a mob boss that I’d accidentally gotten involved with. I couldn’t afford to owe her any more favors. It wouldn’t be healthy.

  Fats pondered that idea, chewed on the toothpick, and then stood up. The Isabella’s suspension creaked so long it was more like a scream. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Calpurnia didn’t send me.” She walked over to her truck, a Yukon Denali, and opened the passenger door.

  “I’m good.”

  “You’re alright,” she said. “Get in.”

  “Where’s Tiny?” I asked.

  Fats and my cousin, Tiny, had met while I worked Mom’s case and it was love at first sight. Their passion was so intense and fiery, I thought for sure it would burn out just as quick, but they remained devoted.

  “Sleeping,” she said. “Let’s do this thing.”

  “What thing are we doing?”

  Fats calmed herself by smoothing her hair, not that it could be smoothed any further. It was parted in the middle and slicked down into a pony at the base of her beefy neck. “I’m losing my patience with you. I told Tiny’s aunt I’d be back in a couple hours.”

  “Who sent you?” I asked.

  Fats spat out her toothpick and ground it to dust with the tip of her Asics. “That doesn’t matter.”

  “It’s mattering more by the second.” I skirted her and went for the Isabella. I’m proud to say I made it a solid three feet before she pounced and dragged me back to the Denali. Now I know how my Raggedy Ann felt. Fats booted me into the passenger seat, slammed the door, and locked it with her remote. It wouldn’t let me unlock it and she got in the truck, pointing at my seatbelt. “Buckle up, Morty.”

  “If you think I’m Morty, I look worse than I thought,” I said.

  She buckled up and raised the sunglasses. “Not Uncle Morty. Morty. As in Rick and Morty.”

  “That would make you Rick. I don’t think so.”

  “You want to be the asshat?”

  “I want to be the genius, not the hapless sidekick,” I said.

  She lowered the glasses and grinned. “It works.”

  “How does it work? I’m the one who solves crime and you’re not a sociopath.” I hope.

  “Fine. How about Kim Possible?” Fats drove out of the alley, neatly avoiding a collision with my parents’ neighbor, Sandy.

  “Am I Kim or Ron?” I asked.

  “I was thinking Rufus.”

  I crossed my arms. “I’m not speaking to you anymore.”

  “Have you seen your hair?” Fats asked. “Bald would be an improvement.”

  “Awesome. I’m a naked mole rat in this scenario.”

  “He’s got skills if that makes you feel better.”

  “Still naked and a rat so I’m going with no.”

  “You sure are fussy for someone who carries a ‘Coffee makes me poop’ mug,” she said.

  “Never mind. I am Rufus,” I said.

  “Glad we agree. Where to, Rufus?”

  “I still don’t know why you’re here,” I said, holding on for dear life as she barreled through the Central West End.

  “I’m helping you on the Calabasas and Cabot attempted murders.”

  “You are?”

  “I am.”

  “On whose orders?” I asked.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  I unbuckled and got ready to nosedive. I’d do it. I was a Watts and stubborn came with the territory.

  “God dammit, Mercy.” Fats grabbed my arm and yanked me back from the door.

  “Tell me or you can spend the next two hours chasing me or hanging in the ER. What’ll it be?”

  “Chuck. Okay?”

  “Are you kidding me?” I asked stunned.

  “Your man is worried about you. Not cooperating with the authorities. Concealing evidence. Refusing to interview.” She grinned and another toothpick popped out on her lower lip. “I like that about you.”

  “Yeah, well, Chuck can get bent.”

  Her smile vanished and her voice deepened. “What did he do?”

  “Probably nothing,” I said.

  “Yet.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Yet.”

  “Just between you and me. Your old man called Chuck and said you would be going to some pretty sketchy areas. He told Chuck to do a little ride-along. Chuck called me because you aren’t answering his calls for a reason that is beyond his comprehension.”

 
; “Tell me that my dad doesn’t know you’re here?”

  “You’re fine. The great Tommy Watts still thinks I’m Tiny’s high school girlfriend,” said Fats. “Is he off his game or what?”

  “I can’t believe he bought that.”

  “It could be true,” she said.

  “That you went to high school in the French Quarter of New Orleans with a name like Mary Elizabeth Licata and no accent?”

  “Well, I went to high school anyway.”

  That was hard to imagine. Fats’ brother, Rocco, joyfully described Fats as six foot and two hundred pounds in the seventh grade. She was a weightlifter with sponsors at thirteen.

  “I can’t see you in high school,” I said. “Going to dances and class.”

  “Try boxing lessons and the gym,” she said. “Where to?”

  “Is that just between us too?”

  “I don’t answer to Chuck Watts or your father.”

  “Do you answer to anyone really?”

  “Calpurnia, but she couldn’t care less,” she said. “So is Julia Jones the problem with Chuck?”

  I think my heart stopped and I got a little barfy.

  “Do not throw up in here,” said Fats. “I’ll never get the smell out.”

  “I won’t,” I squeaked. “How did you know?”

  “People talk. I hear things.” Fats stopped at a light and cracked her knuckles. “Someone might have to remind him which end is up.”

  “I’d like to see that.”

  “I’d like to do it,” she said. “Where to?”

  “The Majestic Motel and Motor Lodge,” I said. “Just between us.”

  Fats did a U-turn in the middle of the street, freaking out a dozen drivers simultaneously.

  “Somebody’s going to call your plate in.”

  “We’ll see how far that gets them. Grab my backpack.”

  I found Fats’ zebra-striped backpack behind my seat. In it was a collection of weaponry and what looked like a serial killer’s fun pack. She had a .22 with extra clips, a Python with a box of bullets, brass knuckles that looked like they were made for André the Giant, roach spray, bleach, zip ties, and duct tape. “What exactly do you think we’re doing?”

  “With you, there’s no telling.”

  “Did you finally finish Blood Meridian?” I asked.

  “I did.”

  “Understand it?”

  “I’d like to think so, but probably not. I’ve moved on to easier things.”

  “Oh, yeah? Like what? War and Peace?”

  She scoffed. “That’s only hard because of the names.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Here we are,” said Fats. “Home sweet flophouse.”

  She stopped and waited to cross North Grand Boulevard. It was the kind of area that made you feel bad just by seeing it. Filled with boarded up houses, cracked sidewalks, and defunct restaurants. My dad spent plenty of time there tracking down rapists, the identities of dead drug addicts, and more than a few murderers.

  The Majestic Motel and Motor Lodge couldn’t have been less aptly named. It sat behind a high brick wall that formed the back of individual rooms with no windows. There were a couple of guys huddled at the entrance under the sign that was missing an A, casting knowing glances our way.

  “You want to tell me why we’re going here?” asked Fats.

  “A woman named Tracy Payne is supposed to be living here,” I said.

  “Prostitute?”

  “A hacker.”

  “Let me tell you that no hacker lives here. They rent in three-hour blocks.” Fats turned in and the guys got ready, shuffling their feet and ready to deal. They were stooped, dirty, and wearing clothes that could’ve stood up on their own. I couldn’t imagine buying a brick from them much less something to consume.

  “Morty says she’s here,” I said.

  Fats parked in front of a sign that claimed there was an office, but it just looked like another room to me off the sad courtyard, filled with dirt, trash, and a funky smell like sewer mixed with Taco Bell. Fats and I sat in the Denali, neither of us willing to get out and the guys made their move, sidling over in a way that reminded me of water snakes slithering toward hapless prey.

  Fats casually flipped them off and they stopped to discuss options. Deciding we had to want whatever they were selling, they began their slither again.

  “Hand me that .22,” said Fats, “and a clip.”

  I gave them to her and she slapped the clip in, holding it up in front of her window. They stopped, considered the situation, and then slithered back to their spots by the entrance.

  “They were thinking about coming up anyway,” I said.

  “If they were bright, they wouldn’t be here,” she said. “Are we going in?”

  “You first.”

  Fats chuckled. “And you were coming here by yourself?”

  “I’ve done stuff, you know?”

  “Well, do some stuff now. Tiny’s getting up to watch a movie tonight and I intend to be there.”

  “Fine.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m going.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  I got out and took Fats’ backpack with me. I had my hand inside on the Python. I had done some stuff, including going in a crack house on the hunt for information about a runaway. But that crack house felt a whole lot safer than the motel. There were several greasy men loitering around and they made the ones by the entrance seem reputable.

  Suck it up, Buttercup. People come out of here alive. For the most part.

  I didn’t suck it up and I don’t care who knows it. I rapped on Fats window and said, “I think you better watch me.”

  She got out grinning. “I thought so.”

  I knocked on what purported to be the office door and a little Pakistani lady opened it. “Yes?”

  “I’m looking for Tracy Payne. Does she have a room here?”

  “No understand.”

  I pulled out a twenty. “Tracy Payne.”

  The lady looked me over, calculating our net worth and said, “No understand.”

  “Persuade her, Fats,” I said and Fats approached, casting a shadow akin to King Kong and the lady tried to close the door. I got my foot in and she cursed in what might’ve been several languages or just one.

  “Tracy Payne,” I said, wincing as she continued to ram the door against my foot.

  “No understand!”

  Fats shoved the door and it burst open, showing a surprisingly nice little office with a clean rug and a tv with three kids watching PBS.

  The lady panicked and I guess I didn’t blame her. She’d be a fool to take Fats lightly.

  “No! Go away. We have nothing for you here,” she said.

  “You have Tracy Payne and that’s all we want. A little talk with your tenant,” I said.

  “Talk?”

  “Sure. I have a few questions.”

  She held out her hand and I gave her the twenty. “Room 27. Now go and ask your questions. We want no trouble here.”

  “Then you’re in the wrong business,” said Fats as she closed the door with a loud snap.

  We walked down the row of rooms and I have to say business was booming for a Sunday afternoon. There were plenty of cars. Everything from Camrys to a BMW was parked there. A couple had car seats and it made me want to leave and never come back.

  “Have you ever been here before?” I asked Fats.

  “A couple of times back in the day.”

  “What for?”

  “Remember Lorenzo, Calpurnia’s nephew?”

  “Vaguely.”

  She stopped at Room 27 and knocked. No answer and she tried again. Then she reached for the door knob, and then thought better of it. There was a crusty stain on the knob, like someone had popped a bunch of pimples on it.

  “Have you got a tissue?” asked Fats.

  “Nope,” I said. “I say we kick it in.”

  “When you say we, you mean me, right?”

&n
bsp; I put the backpack on and made like I was ready to get to kicking. “I’ll give it a go.”

  She pushed me back by my forehead. “I wouldn’t want you to break a nail.” Then she kicked the door in. Just like on TV. One kick—not a very hard one at that—and it popped open. A little dog ran out and started barking at our feet and a woman chased him nearly colliding with Fats.

  “Holy shit!” she said. “Is the WWF in town?”

  “No,” said Fats. “Is this your dog?”

  “Maybe. Who wants to know?” asked the woman.

  She had to be Contempo Casual. Nobody else on the planet fit that description. I just didn’t know what it meant until I saw her. Tracy had on a simply amazing canary yellow jumpsuit with shoulder pads and a shiny black fanny pack. Her frosted blond hair was feathered and she wore—I’m not kidding—a terrycloth headband like she was going to work out or something.

  “We just kicked in your door,” I said. “You’re not concerned about that?”

  “It happens. Who are you?”

  Fats picked up the dog by the scruff of the neck and said, “Stop barking now.” And it did. It also peed, but still it was impressive dog handling.

  “That’s Mary Elizabeth Licata and I’m Mercy Watts,” I said.

  She put on a pair of reading glasses and said, “I’ll be damned. You are.”

  “I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “I’m sure you would.” Tracy stepped back. “Welcome to my oubliette.”

  Fats and I walked into the motel room, me with the backpack clutched to my chest and Fats with the little dog, who was wiggling and licking her hand. The room wasn’t as bad as I expected. The bed was made with a faded flowered coverlet and pillows that had been flattened to the thickness of hubcaps. The carpet was avocado shag, but recently vacuumed. There were no pictures and a small TV was attached to the ceiling by rusty metal that had been cobbled together with some wire.

  Fats sniffed not so subtly and it took me a second to know why. Underneath the intense smell of Febreze was the faint odor of cigarettes and stale sex. I suppressed a shiver and asked, “You know why I’m here then?”

  “Catherine Cabot, I assume,” said Tracy. “How’d you find me? I don’t have this on my address card.”

  “Morton Van Der Hoof is my dad’s best friend.”

  Her cotton candy pink lipstick cracked as she grimaced. “Morty. I should’ve known. He can find one particular fly in a field of manure.”