by Tyler Colins
Without hesitation, Rey and Linda bolted outside, patrons and Razor's mother not far behind. One patron retched, another cursed.
“Shit! Shit!” The acne-faced fellow clasped his head and goggled.
One bullet had penetrated the unsuspecting victim's heart. Two had hit him in the face, piercing each eye and leaving two gaping, oozing holes. Liquid crimson and chunks of pulpy flesh stained a lemon-yellow top and uneven sidewalk. Two more had perforated kneecaps. It had been a high-end professional hit job if ever there was one.
“My sweet Lord, but that's damn good shooting,” the glass-eyed guy stated with a Kiwi accent, staring down at a lifeless, spongy mess that had recently served as Picolo's personal assistant and bodyguard.
Razor's mom fought back a sob as she crossed herself and dropped to her son's side, crushing the bag containing a delicious dessert Razor would never again have the pleasure to eat.
* * *
Although it was after business hours, you never knew who might be lurking in the building, like a zealous employee merrily laboring overtime. Closing the heavy office door carefully, so as not to make noise, Kent traipsed across a Persian rug to woven black cobblestone shades and closed them. “What's first?”
Kent had called while Rey, Linda and I were still in the park. He'd been several blocks away, finishing with Old Chester at a strip club. Considering the proximity and time, it seemed like the right moment to meet and share news, such as the latest slaying which had, surprisingly, not yet hit the news. He'd also eagerly suggested that we might help Buddy by checking out Picolo's Bishop Street office. As he'd managed to acquire a key, there was no reason not to go along with the proposal; it wasn't as if we'd be breaking and entering.
It was an hour since Kent had met us at the intersection of Ala Moana and Piikoi. When he'd heard about Razor, Kent had been so flabbergasted, he'd not spoken for several minutes, but when those sexy, full lips became fully functional again, they made up for lost time and didn't stop flapping the entire drive.
Old Chester had a lot of things to say about Jimmy over a pitcher of beer. Anything incriminating or interesting? No. But Kent did get a couple of names to add to the I-hate-Jimmy-Picolo list: Canon Thiebault and Melville Querul. Kent stated that he'd follow up with the two former garlic-farm employees.
Picolo's executive assistant, Henrietta Bicce, undoubtedly ensured that the office remained perpetually clean and orderly. Kent very proudly explained how he'd cajoled “Sergeant-Major”, a nickname she'd been granted twenty years ago when she'd determinedly barged into the pickling plant personnel office and demanded a job. Proving a whirlwind, the woman ended up working at JSP, located on the fourth floor, but also assisted with top floor functions and events, as required. Because she and Kent had always gotten along, she'd lent him a security pass and key so that he could – delivered with a remarkably woeful face – finish what ill-fated Mr. Razor had not yet started.
Stacked boxes and heaped bins aside, the immense office was as elegant as had been described and portrayed in business and designer magazines. There was an abundance of marble and onyx, 14-K gold and mahogany, as well as an array of designer crystal vases and bowls. A large cigar humidor with beveled glass windows was of exceptional craftsmanship, as was an opulent desk with four curved table legs. Both pieces, embellished with gold, possessed a piano-black finish. A heavily padded black leather chair rested behind the desk while two smaller versions stood before it. Those four pieces alone had to cost more than I'd earned in the last decade.
Two small ficus trees were situated to the left of a small bar while a bamboo tree stood tall to the right. To the east was a stunning door of heavily-etched glass with a heron design. That had to be the file room Kent had mentioned on the way up the elevator.
My gaze fell upon the waterfall. At present, nothing flowed, but curious I raced over and sniffed. Amused laughter erupted from behind.
“Are you actually smelling it?”
“I'm determining if champagne flowed,” I stated petulantly.
“It didn't.”
“I knew it – it was all hype.” (Silly, but I felt let down.)
“It flowed beer.”
An eyebrow nearly flew from my forehead.
“Beer,” he repeated, glancing at his Rolex. “It's 7:30. Let's get moving. We don't have a lot of time.”
I motioned a mahogany armoire with beautiful walnut ferrarese inlay motif, which made the one I'd recently acquired look like a charity clothing drop-off bin. “Are you good at picking locks?”
“I don't need to be.” He melted behind the bar like soft ice-cream under a Waikiki mid-day sun. Up popped a sparkly pineapple keychain with six small keys. “Sergeant-Major told me where to find them.”
I smiled waggishly. “You are a charmer, Mr. Winche.”
He displayed an angelic face.
I scrutinized it. He was extremely attractive and certainly sexy, yet something about him was off-putting. What, though? His tendency to gossip? His sense of self-assurance that bordered on arrogance (like Cash's)? “It's not like we'll find a lot of paperwork, but I'll poke around his desk for letters, contracts, deals.” Dropping my knapsack onto the rug and rolling up the sleeves of a thin black sweater, I scanned the room. “Did Sergeant-Major provide passwords for the desktop and laptop?”
After providing a malevolent look in response, he unlocked the glass door and tossed me the keychain.
I moved to the bar fridge to see if there was a bottle of water to be had. Grabbing one sitting on the bottom shelf, I gazed curiously around. Inside: two bottles of Soave, a mushy apple, a carton of orange juice, and a package of mango yogurt past its prime. The freezer held ice-cubes, a half-full bottle of arrack, six Almond Joys and four Babe Ruths. The secret life of Jimmy Silone Picolo III: chocoholic.
I unlocked the top left desk drawer and began flipping through neatly arranged goodwill letters. An email at the bottom caught my eye. Dated three weeks ago, Picolo advised Emilio Ferrarri that he would be reviewing Braddah Jimmy's Pickled Aquatic Delights financials the first week of November. Was monetary hanky-panky going on? Why wait until November to check possible pilfering? Picolo was the sort to state something bluntly, demand answers straightaway, and take action pronto.
As I tucked it into my knapsack, I saw Kent exit the file room door and move to a window. Moving aside shades, he peered below.
“What's up?”
“I'm seeing if your friends are in view.”
“Are they?”
He looked one way and then the other. “Yup – under the lamp post, as agreed.”
Suddenly, a shrill rendition of AC/DC's “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” resounded.
Chapter Nine
With breaths caught in our throats like oversize supplements, Kent and I jumped as if we'd been propelled by invisible pogo sticks. We crashed into each other, groaned, and staggered backwards. He extended muscular arms as if to ask “what gives?” while I stared at him with canyon-wide eyes. Cell phones had been left with my colleagues, so where was this ringtone coming from?
Kent slipped around the side of the armoire and held up a cell phone too small and slim to be so strident. He answered it, but no one responded.
“Did someone know we'd drop by Jimmy's office or did someone simply misplace their phone?” Kent ambled over, bemused.
I picked up my knapsack. “Someone must have tucked it there.”
“It could have fallen from someone's pocket or purse or something,” he offered.
“It could have.”
He studied my expression and smiled dryly. “But not likely?”
I smiled tartly in return. “Not likely.”
“…Did you know that Buddy's a big AC/DC fan?”
“Really?” Who'd have thought?
“She loves them as much as she does the Dixie Chicks and a classical or jazz dude named Thomas Ades. Her musical tastes are all over the map.” He chuckled, sobered, and tucked the cell into his denim shirt pock
et. “We better leave.”
“Let's stay a few more minutes.” There was probably nothing of major worth to be found, especially if we couldn't access the computers, but not everything had been checked.
“No more than five, JJ. Your friends are waiting.”
I inspected one desk drawer after another, not finding much save for typical office items, a box of red-bean energy bars, two bags of peanuts in their shells, neon-colored condoms, and a copy of Kama Sutra, which had me wondering if he was performing Perfumed Garden positions with Sergeant-Major.
Discouraged, I sat on the edge of the desk and peered through a thick leather appointment book. Thank goodness for old school. Three dozen names were recorded at various times and days during October. I was about to tuck it into the knapsack when I discovered a wordy two-page letter folded in the back.
“Let's go, now!”
Kent's apprehensive voice startled me. I glowered and returned to my find. The resignation letter, dated six weeks ago, came from Sal Marlowe, CFO of the pickling plant. Among other convoluted phrases that offered nothing substantial, the reason for the departure cited “extraneous reasons on which there is no need to elaborate”. Some people loved to communicate a lot, but often said very little.
“Should you be taking things?” Kent asked, slipping alongside.
“No more than I should take the laptop –”
“Oh no you don't! Sergeant-Major will know and take a fit!” He grabbed my wrist and slapped my hand playfully. “Bad girl, JJ. Bad girl.”
Chuckling, I slipped the knapsack over a shoulder.
“Let's go.” He slipped to his Nikes, hooked an arm thru mine, and started to pull me toward the door when he suddenly stopped.
We stood chin to nose. I watched his lips near mine and pulled free. Great. Just what I needed: an amorous sidekick.
“What are our chances of getting into Picolo's house?” I asked nonchalantly, strolling forward.
“Better if my salary goes up another two thousand,” he muttered. “I'll need it to take out life insurance.”
We peered down the corridor. Seeing it was clear, we slipped into the elevator and descended in silence as we avoided looking at each other.
With a wave to Radar, the security guard, we strolled through the front glass doors like two employees who'd put in extra hours and had had enough. Most of the surrounding office buildings had closed for the evening and all was fairly still – until the earth shook with a Cyclops' roar.
We lost footing and kissed concrete. Stupefied, we gazed at each another and then turned numbly to the building. From missing windows on the topmost floor, swells of smoke and rollers of flames surged like seismic sea waves. The blast had come from Jimmy Picolo's office. What had caused it? Faulty wiring equipment? A burst gas pipe? … Or was it a consequence of our covert visit?
My cohort jumped to his feet and hauled me to mine. “Let's get out of here before they think we caused that.” Grabbing my hand, we raced for Linda's Echo.
Although bewildered, Rey possessed enough sense to leap out of the car and open the rear door while Linda turned on the ignition.
Kent pushed me in and landed across my lap. “Gun it, girl!” he ordered, righting me as I listed to one side like a cannonball-damaged galleon. “Are you okay?”
I felt my face. One cheek was sore and my lips felt as if they'd sucked on steak flambé with the flames still flickering; licking them confirmed that the bottom one was split. I must have struck the pavement mouth first. Thankfully, my teeth were still intact (Mom would have had an apoplectic fit if costly childhood orthodontics had gone to waste).
A sharp pain in one knee prompted me to glance down. There was rip in my jeans and visible blood. “I'll live. What about you?”
His chin was minus a layer of skin and the palms he held up were scraped and bleeding. “It could have been worse.”
I watched smoke spiral in the distance. “A lot worse.”
“You're lucky you got out when you did,” Rey said somberly as she passed back tissues and antiseptic wipes.
“What happened?” Linda asked, eyeing us in the rearview mirror as we waited for lights to change. Sirens wailed a few blocks over. “Did a bomb explode?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” I patted an antibacterial swab along my lips and winced as it stung. “Another wound in the line of business.”
“Hopefully, this one won't scar,” Rey said with a quick smile. She was referring to the mark on my chin I'd acquired courtesy of William Howell's crazy associate, Lee Smith. I suspected a few more would be gotten in this line of business. Additional medical insurance might be worth checking out.
* * *
At 10:45 p.m., the four of us had finished noshing on Panang Nuer and Gai Phad King, and some great Moo Tod Kratiem and Poo Cha. We were sitting on huge, brightly-colored cushions on a dark-stained hardwood floor in front of a 60” HD television in Kent's tastefully decorated Aiea house. A funky red and black leather sofa and two matching wing chairs were situated before us on a thick charcoal-gray rug, as was a glass-plated, chrome-legged coffee table. Lining four pale-gray walls were dozens of African and Venetian masks, the former somber and solemn, the latter vibrant and cheery. They made for a fascinating contrast.
“More wine?” Our handsome host didn't wait for a response and refilled retro goblets with an agreeable, inexpensive Chilean chardonnay. Per Linda's fervent review, it was a perfect accompaniment to spicy food, as well as a pleasant after-meal sipping wine.
Kent looked different in the tight black wool sweater and black denim pants he'd donned. More GQ perhaps, but in a casual way. His blond locks hung loosely. No question, the man was alluring, as was evident in the way my cousin was observing him (pie-eyed Cousin Reynalda was all but drooling).
Kent stretched and propped himself against the sofa. “Now that we've eaten and chilled, watched the news about the fire and 'suspicious' explosion, and counted our blessings that we got away without any repercussions, what's on the agenda?”
“We've got a few names, thanks to that appointment book. Let's divide them and make calls tomorrow,' I suggested.
“What are we asking?” Rey asked, sucking on a spring roll and eyeballing Kent as she stretched long legs under the coffee table.
Linda and I attempted to keep straight faces. “Questions like: when did they last see Picolo; what did they talk about; did they know anyone who had it in for him. Suss it out. See how responsive the person is and take it from there.” Weary, I leaned against the sofa and scanned crown molding. “We should find out who that cell phone belongs to and check the numbers stored on it.”
“That's going to be kind of hard to do.” With a rueful look, Kent reached over with bandaged hands, cleaned and bound courtesy of Doctor Linda and Nurse Rey, and opened a third bottle resting in a penguin-shaped, stainless-steel ice bucket. “The cell phone flew from my pocket when we stumbled. It's probably lying in a rocky flowerbed in five pieces.”
I sighed and closed my eyes.
On the way to Kent's, we'd stopped at Picolo's Kahala mansion. The ultra-modern milk-white mansion was a tribute to Ayn Rand's Howard Roarke: elegant and efficient. Noticing a sedan with two people parked behind a nearby banyan, we decided it would be prudent not to poke around the place. Maybe they were lovers having a chat. Maybe they were undercover cops. We had no clue, so why chance potential trouble?
“Hey, JJ, you awake?” Rey asked teasingly.
“Yes, Rey, my dear,” I replied softly, forcing open fatigue-and-wine-heavy eyes. “I was considering whether it would be worthwhile to check out Picolo's place and, if so, when.”
“We should,” she said, looking at Linda. “Shouldn't we?”
“I don't see us getting in there any time soon unless we do a bit of B&E,” her best friend replied. “Besides, the police have probably gone over it with a fine-toothed comb.”
“Why not check out a place they may not have paid much attention to, if any?” Kent aske
d with an impish gleam.
“We're all ears,” Linda said, leaning forward excitedly.
“The man owns a two-million-dollar place on the North Shore, in Haleiwa. He called it his 'little retreat'.”
“When can we go?” Rey asked eagerly.
“I have a few can't-miss meetings, but I can drive us up Wednesday morning.”
“Damn. I have to be somewhere,” she said with a pout.
“I've got something on the go, too,” Linda advised.
“What about you, JJ?”
“Looks like we're on.”
Kent grinned and poured more wine. “As for tonight, why not stay over, ladies? I have a king-sized bed that can fit four nicely.”
Rey's gleeful chuckle hinted of decadent delight.
“Are you up for it, JJ?” Kent grinned again, this time more impishly. He gazed from me to Rey and then to Linda, with curiosity and hope.
“The question is: are you up for it?” I smiled drolly, then sobered. Enough play. I downed half the chardonnay to soften the aches and rose. “I have to get back to Button. And we all have work tomorrow.”
Kent sighed and gestured. “There's an office with a pull-out sofa and a guest room with a double bed. My brother Frank claims both are really comfortable. You girls use them.”
“Does Frank live here?” Linda asked, curious.
He helped her to her feet. “He sleeps over once in a blue moon, which is more than I can say for Chris, who's a film producer in Vancouver. We haven't spoken more than ten words in the over ten years,” he imparted with a rueful smile. “We haven't been close since Mom passed.”
“I'm sorry,” Linda said, squeezing his arm. “I know how tough it is not having a mom – or dad – around.”
He murmured agreement and while they chatted about lost family, Rey and I brought dishes and glasses to the modern eat-in kitchen.
Chapter Ten
“You're positive he left sometime last Friday?” I asked Jem Stretta over the phone. Like Buddy, he lived in Lahaina, but in the Kelawea Mauka neighborhood near his late younger brother, Eb.
