by Tyler Colins
“Ric, hon, you know about that tattoo and jewelry, and the fact he's dead – murdered and carved like a Cornish hen.” A hand flew up as his lips parted. “Before you invoke the Fifth again, at least tell me how you knew about the items in question. …Please.”
“I learned about them from my brother.” Hopping to his expensive shoes, he paced the kitchen a couple of times before stepping so close we practically touched. “I hear you girls are good for newbie private eyes. While you're helping Ms. Feuer, anything you discover about Jimmy's killer, you report to me. I'll pay expenses and cover fees. I mentioned an incentive the other day; it's yours if you deliver.”
“Buddy is our priority –”
“Of course she is,” he interrupted brusquely. Non-existent lips pulled into an oily smile. “I said, while you're helping. As you're clearing her name, you'll uncover Jimmy's killer, or at least vital facts related to his murder.” He held out a fake tanned hand. “Deal?”
“Only if you answer a couple of questions.”
The hand remained extended and I took that as consent.
“You and your brother didn't care much for each other, correct?”
The hand, and its mate, slipped into blazer pockets. “We had differences of opinions – about a lot of things.”
“Like his racketeering and loan-sharking.”
“Unproven racketeering. As for the other, well, he preferred to call it money-lending.”
“Did you sell your interest in JSP because you wanted to steer clear of unproven illegalities?”
He smirked. “Let's just say I've always liked maintaining a certain image.”
I regarded him closely. “You didn't kill him…?”
His gaze expressed displeasure. “I didn't kill him and I didn't arrange to have anyone else kill him. If that were the case, I'd hardly ask for your help. Look, we didn't usually see eye-to-eye, but he's family. Blood. I owe it to him to see his killer brought to justice.”
“And for the record, you didn't kill Coco or have anyone arrange to kill him?”
Our gazes remained locked.
Finally, he answered, his tone as cold as his gaze. “No and no.”
“Would one of Annia's gambling associates have had your brother killed in retaliation –”
“For her not paying?” he interrupted with a loud, dismissive assibilation. “They threaten and hurt; they don't kill.”
He was probably right, but “they” required further investigation. “You tried to save her keister on a few occasions, I hear.”
His grunt sounded like an uncooked egg hitting the floor. “Anything else?”
“Not for the moment.”
He smiled smugly and kissed me on the nose before I could retreat. “Later, hon.”
“Later.” Jackass.
* * *
Lifting a forkful of syrup-slathered pancakes to glossy lips, Buddy's smooth forehead grew as wrinkled as sundried olives. “Ric said that?”
With a nod, I sipped super-sweet coffee (a sugar-rush was required to launch this chocka-block full day).
Both early risers, Buddy and I chatted at five and agreed to meet at six for breakfast at iHop. She'd wanted to get out of Eda's condo for a bit and I'd decided her pancakes-for-breakie suggestion was a great way to start a gray, dreary Thursday morning.
“What else did he tell you, besides Coco being dead?”
I gave a quick rundown.
It was her turn to nod and sip. “Are you going to attempt to find out what happened to Coco?”
“Kent intends to contact various persons to pinpoint Coco's moves before he dropped from the radar.” I eyed her for several seconds. “When did you last see him?”
She shrugged. “Ralston's, I suppose.”
“Ralston's?”
“It's a popular boxing gym in Mililani – um, Wednesday, October fifteenth. I'd finished doing an extensive workout – boot camp, to be precise – with six other women.”
“Did he go to there often?”
“I don't know. He'd called me earlier to get advice about a new Maui route he'd be taking over soon, and thought we could do lunch,” she explained.
“Did you?”
She chuckled dryly. “Yes, at a local shrimp truck.”
“Did he mention that he was anxious about something or someone?”
“He kept peering around as we were eating, but when I asked him about it, he laughed and put it down to too many energy drinks.” She smiled cheerlessly. “He'd been gambling, as he regularly did, and had lost a lot of money – ten thousand, to be exact. No doubt, he was worried, if not frantic.”
“He'd told you he'd lost that money gambling?”
“Actually, Kent had.”
* * *
The eight a.m. boxing class had gone swimmingly well – not. Inspired by Buddy's enthusiasm, I'd signed up for a sixteen-week program. It was the second class and I really needed to get a game face on for the next fourteen weeks. I'd been replaying Coco facts and envisioning the murder as my opponent and I were practicing jabs and hooks, and she inadvertently clocked me in the left eye. With a scab already decorating my chin, a black eye would only add to the facial charm. Fortunately, a long skirt and lightweight sweater concealed ugly bruises on the rest of the torso.
Note to self: remind Rey and Linda about those karate classes we'd signed up for a few weeks back and postponed. Knowing various forms of self-defense was a must in this profession.
“Yeah?” Gerald Ives sounded cranky.
“Did you get up on the wrong side of the bed, Detective? It's nearly ten a.m. – time to be alert and presenting a professional demeanor,” I said gaily as I walked along the Hilton lagoon on a roundabout way back to the condo. Altrostratus, a dense gray layer cloud, allowed the sun to shine through slightly, but rain was surely on the agenda.
“I've been here since four,” he said brusquely. “What's up?”
“I was wondering if we could meet for coffee tomorrow and discuss the Buddy Feuer case.”
“You mean pump me for information, don't you?” he asked flippantly.
“I mean discuss,” I said with equal glibness.
“Why is she a client?”
“Because she needs help and she's innocent.”
“Yeah, right, and I just won the Powerball jackpot.”
“Congratulations.”
“Not funny.” He sighed. “Let's meet tomorrow at two at La Casbah.”
“Fan-see,” I purred.
“You're paying,” he purred in return. And disconnected.
Chapter Seventeen
A narrow emerald-green door swung unhurriedly open, as if a weak or wary person were pulling the handle of the pre-1960 abode.
Into the doorway stepped a Dean Norris / Hank Schrader look-alike. Instead of a chrome dome, however, a head of thick wavy silver hair framed a smooth-skinned oval face. I'm not sure what Rey and I were expecting, but it wasn't a “debt collector” dressed in persimmon cotton pants, snow-white leather oxfords, and a butter-yellow cardigan over a Jello-green shirt. The middle-aged gent looked like he should be driving a cart on a Florida golf course or playing shuffleboard on a cruise ship.
In one extended nonchalant glance, he took in our faces and casual attire, and waited patiently.
“Hank – uh, Harry?” I asked, shaking rain from my umbrella.
“Yeah?” The voice was flat, devoid of emotion, and held only a whisper of hoarseness. Apparently, he'd had a relatively calm day so far, but then it was only half past noon.
“We're acquaintances of Jimmy Picolo's.” I extended a hand.
Harry the Hoarse didn't look at it, much less take it.
“We're investigating his murder.”
He glanced over Rey's trim shoulder and peered from left and to right.
“Expecting someone?” Rey asked crisply.
“Maybe.” He looked from her to me. “What's up, ladies?”
“I'm JJ. This here's Rey.”
“The P.I. cousin
s.”
“You know who we are?” Ms. Cool-as-a-Cucumber asked nonchalantly, leaning into the doorframe.
The neutral facial expression didn't change, but fine lines around tiny hazel eyes crinkled like uncooked ramen noodles. “It's a small island. Word travels fast.”
Rey and I looked at each other. Only Gail had known where we were headed.
He answered before we could ask. “Speaking of cousins, Gail's mine. She called to say you were coming and that I'd better cooperate.” A chuckle sounding like a crow's caw erupted. With an almost imperceptible nod of the head, he motioned a tiny oak-accented foyer.
I'd have expected Harry to live in Chinatown or Kalihi, or even Kaheka maybe. I suppose I was stereotyping, but I didn't expect someone of his dubious profession to be living in a single-family Mānoa house. Exchanging leery glances, we entered. Noticing a tall brass umbrella holder beneath a small circular window, I took Rey's and slipped both inside.
Closing the door softly, Harry slipped around. His gaze was dark and measuring, maybe even amused. He had the Breaking Bad Schrader smirk down pat. “I'd offer you a drink, but you're not staying long, are you?”
Rey mirrored the smirk. “It appears not.”
Harry's assessing gaze meandered down her oversize chambray shirt and Paige jeans to open-toed ankle-strap sandals. It lingered on metallic-pink toes for several seconds before returning to her face. “What's on your mind, honey-bun?”
“Did you kill Jimmy Picolo?” Rey asked bluntly.
“Nope.” He smirked again. “What the hell. I'm having a Mimosa. Join me.”
We followed him into a long tapered living room large enough to hold meetings. It was furnished with chocolate-brown leather, oatmeal-colored carpeting, oak-accented furnishings, and unexceptional oil paintings of sailboats and schooners. There were two sofas in the middle and several armchairs throughout. The place in two words: mannishly lackluster. I'd have expected velvet, pine or teak, and posters of buxom babes. I know, I know – assuming those with questionable mob-like professions possessed equally questionable decorating and fashion tastes wasn't appropriate for an aspiring detective.
The medium-sized man strolled to a custom-made two-piece wall unit with a mirrored upper section that supported numerous bottles of Armagnac and Scotch. He reached into a small fridge and pulled out a Waterford pitcher, and nodded to the side. “Meet my associate, Tom Thumb.”
“You gotta be yanking our chains, dude,” leapt from Rey's lips like a Black Friday shopper gunning for a prime sale bin.
“Yo.” On a corner armchair sat three-hundred pounds of pure muscle. The man's clothes – black jeans, charcoal long-sleeved shirt, and jet sneakers – were as dark as the eyes set in a twenty-five-year-old simian face. Intense and measuring, and chillingly cold, they scrutinized us like a correctional officer assessing newly-arrived prisoners.
“Hey, sweet cheeks.” Harry held an etched goblet like a dog owner did a bone before a pet. A platinum Tiffany & Co band ring adorned the right pinkie while a platinum rectangle-link bracelet graced the right wrist. His long thin fingers were manicured, his knuckles scarred.
With a lower, Rey sauntered forward and accepted the chilled cocktail. “Nice mani. I'd go for seashell pink next time instead of coral. It clashes with the skin tone.”
His smile displayed perfectly aligned, ivory-white [capped] teeth. “Were you expecting a balding fat cat in polyester with dirty nails, drug-store jewelry, and salami breath?”
“Yes,” she admitted frankly.
Harry winked and held up a second glass. “What do you ladies want to know?”
“Let's start with someone named Coco Peterson. Know him?” Rey questioned.
“I understand he just lost ten K.” I strolled forward to accept the drink.
“Peterson. One of the Three Amigos.” He looked as if he'd ingested something disgusting.
“Three Amigos?” I asked, taking a quick taste. It was heavy on sparkling wine and lime, and light on juice.
“He's attached at the hips to two longtime fellow gamblers.” He concentrated on his Mimosa, obviously enjoying the tart, bubbly concoction. The topic of Coco was now closed.
“What about Jimmy Picolo's daughter?” I asked.
“What about her?”
“You've been dealing with her for some time. Do you think she might have killed her father for the inheritance?”
“She wasn't in his will.”
“How do you know?”
“I know,” was all he said.
“So, you don't kill people, given your profession?”
He reached into the fridge and brought a can of Belgian beer to Tom Thumb before answering. “If I killed people who owed me, I'd be in the poor house.”
“You just break their bones,” Rey affirmed, testing the cocktail. A grimace advised it wasn't her cup of tea.
“I see money owed is paid.”
“How does it work, considering Hawaii doesn't allow gambling?” Rey looked him up and down. “You're known to run poker games –”
“Solely non-profit social ones,” he interrupted with a slick smile.
“Sports-betting –”
“Friendly non-profit bets.” Another slippery-slick smile.
“Slots in –”
“Hearsay, dumpling buns, mere hearsay.”
Rey threw up a hand with a you-win gesture.
He smirked. “If locals gamble at offshore operators or bet paychecks, that's their business, not mine.”
“It's very much your business,” Rey responded with a whiffle and snuffle.
Tom Thumb's laughter sounded like a series of sneezes.
She moseyed to the nearest window, and peered into a day that had grown so misty, it looked as if smoke encased the house and street. I moved over to the entertainment unit and found a varied if not odd music collection: Mariah Carey, Bruno Mars, Ella Fitzgerald, Leadbelly, Frank Sinatra, and the Velvet Underground.
“Do you have a number for Paranoid Pat?” Rey asked, turning back.
“I'd tell you to get it from Gail,” he jerked a thumb, “but you can ask his brother.”
Once again, Tom laughed/sneezed.
My cousin eyed the thickset man closely. “Did your brother have anything to do with Picolo's murder?”
“He was with me in Atlanta when Picolo sucked back those bullets.” Meaty fingers popped the tab on the can and he gulped back a good portion. “You'll have to check elsewhere, girls.”
“Where'd you get your nicknames?” Rey asked.
“Nicknames?” Harry grinned, returning to the bar and topping off the Mimosa. “I was born with mine. Weren't you, Tom?”
They laughed like a couple of frat boys who'd downed bounteous pitchers of beer at a local watering hole.
“It's been a pleasure, gentlemen.” I placed the drink on an end table and removed car keys from my jeans pocket.
“Leaving so soon?” Tom mocked.
“Why overstay our welcome?”
“I like that you two speak your minds and don't take guff. With those looks and brains, you'd be a real asset to my organization.”
Rey offered a prickly smile.
“You've got the sass to get what you want and need. I'd like to put you on my payroll,” he pressed.
“When Harry likes someone, they're wise to have him continue liking them. Think about it. Harry pays his folks well.” Tom's belch sounded like a squawk. “We could work real well together.”
“Careful whose toes you step on, cupcakes,” Harry warned. “You're going to upset some nasty people in your P.I. travels, if you haven't already. These people play for keeps and they don't play fair.”
“But this guy can keep you safe if you accept Harry's offer.” Tom pointed fat, furry thumbs at himself.
Rey and I exchanged skeptical glances and I said, “We'll give the job offer some thought.”
Harry probably wasn't accustomed to being put off; his brow furrowed and he smiled tightly. “While you're th
inking, want some sound advice?” He didn't wait for a response. “Pack guns. You'll need them.”
* * *
The spit, as my cousin called the sporadic mist that had followed us from Harry's, had finally stopped. Turning off the windshield wipers, I glanced at the clock to see it was one o'clock.
“Wanna grab bubble teas and check on how the painters and carpenters are doing with the Chinatown office?” Rey asked as I pulled the Nisson Cube onto S Beretania.
“Sure. We haven't got much else to do right now, except maybe check in with Gail to see if she's had a chance to delve into Kent and Coco. I sent her a request before boxing –”
“You may want to rethink taking that, unless you want to have a Rocky Balboa hammered mug thing going.” she advised drolly. “Let's check.”
Long pink nails pressed and swiped. She listened and left a message for the Administrative Specialist, and then called another number. Rey sighed. “Per Lindy-Loo's voicemail, she and Makjo are having a late lunch and then following Mrs. Kelmore's 'wayward' hubby after he finishes work.”
“I'm happy those two are getting along so famously.”
“He's a definite keeper,” Rey admitted. “That leaves you and me. If you're not up for Chinatown, how about costume shopping for tomorrow night's 'haunting' holiday? Or do we just dress up like zombies, and have a fright-night film fest with the kids?”
“Bonzo and Button will certainly enjoy it, especially when they luck out in the treats department.” I watched a cyclist in front make a crazy – and illegal – left turn. I winced as tires squealed and curses flew. “While we're making calls, let's see what Kent's up to. Maybe he's discovered something.”
When Rey and Kent connected, a glum voice came up on speaker.
“What's Mr. Cutie-kins been up to?” Rey asked à la Marilyn Monroe.
“Chasing Coco's ghost,” was the flat response.
“Any luck?” I asked, exchanging a surprised glance with Rey.
“No, but hopefully I'll get some call-backs today. I did find out that Sal Marlowe, the CFO who resigned recently – and served as Acting Financial Analyst at the brewery, by the way – has been in Turks and Caicos pretty much since the last working day cited in his notice.”
