by Tyler Colins
I could envision the man seated on a chaise longue under gently swaying palms by a kidney-shaped pool, sipping a frothy fruit-rum concoction. He'd be nicely tanned, wearing designer bathing trunks, a waterproof Rolex, and eyeing a buxom brunette or lanky blonde. The world, or at least the island, was his oyster. Or had been. Sal Marlowe was surely starting to see his luxurious world disintegrate.
“One last question: why get involved? Weren't shares and stocks, and a 95K-a-year job enough, never mind the hefty inheritance you collected five years back, enough?”
“Linda, baby, nothing is ever enough.”
* * *
Rey and I rushed forward, hugged Linda, and then quickly leapt back.
“Don't worry, I'm not contagious,” she assured us. “My naturopath provided supplements and a couple of old-world home remedies that worked. That, plus time in the sauna, helped. I'm feeling pretty decent.”
Rey slapped her back playfully. “How'd you get hold of Marlowe? More importantly, where'd you get all that information – you didn't make it up, did you?”
She looked us up and down. “How about you two telling me when you decided to join the Church?”
Slipping behind the sofa, Rey placed both hands on the headrest and adopted a somber mien. “We had to absolve a poor, sick soul.”
“'Twas a touching evening, me colleen,” I said with a bad Irish brogue as I hung an arm around Sister Bertrille's shoulders.
Rey grinned. “Your turn, Lindy-Loo.”
With a one-minute gesture, she darted into the guestroom and, before long, returned with a squat sleepy-eyed man shaped like a rutabaga.
“Meet Emilio Ferrarri.”
Our speechless guest's pea-green eyes gazed from Sister Bertrille to Sister Sixto and he made a sign of the cross.
* * *
Emilio wasn't much of a drinker and the Blue Hawaiians he'd had while he and Linda had talked at the pub had made him feel very fine. He'd agreed to meet Rey and me, but by the time they'd reached the condo, he'd needed to lie down.
Seated in the lanai with heaping plates of Thai food and iced green tea, Rey and I made small talk with Emilio while Linda raced upstairs to grab astragalus and goldenseal (to keep the immune system boosted). Upon return, she sucked back the supplements and three deep-fried dumplings before launching into the events of the evening.
“Emilio was more willing to share information once he knew we were attempting to find Jimmy Picolo's killer.” She smiled benevolently at the fifty-year-old.
Emilio's Lou Costello face brightened and, upon her signal, he began to detail how he'd discovered well-concealed monetary discrepancies.
“How did Jimmy Picolo stumble across the inconsistencies in the first place?” Rey asked through a mouthful of crispy fried tofu.
“Purely by chance. An employee stumbled across an old encrypted file. One thing led to another.” He sighed, sounding like a deflating tire. “My mistake was believing Sal Marlowe was part of the hush-hush audit. He and Jimmy had always worked so closely, who'd have thought…?” He sighed again. “When Jimmy told me that Sal, on the sly, had implicated me, I was shocked.”
“How did you figure out that Coco Peterson was involved?” Rey asked. “Was it that big mouth of his, like Sal Marlowe suggested?”
“I uncovered two phantom vendors, one on Oahu and another on Maui that had one name associated with both: George Franken.”
“George has a brother named Chester, right?” Rey inquired with a frown.
He thought for a second and nodded.
“Is he an employee at one of the companies?”
“He worked at the pickling plant for many years, first as a driver, then as a warehouse supervisor. He was fired last January for getting into an altercation with a forklift operator that resulted in damage totaling seventeen-thousand dollars.”
“Eddy Galazie didn't play a part, did he?” Linda asked.
“Eddy did short-term projects for Jimmy. I know he hung around with some plant employees now and again, but he'd never get involved in criminal activities. He's very dedicated to his uncle and has a good heart.”
“What was Coco's exact role?” Rey asked.
“That I'm not really sure about, but Coco, Linton and George, fly to Vegas often. On a whim, I did some digging and discovered that the three men almost always traveled there together.”
“So these guys – the Three Amigos – put their heads together and decided to defraud Picolo?”
“My understanding is that George cooked up the schemes because Linton had gotten himself into serious financial woes. He'd already lost two cars and his townhouse. But he couldn't shake the lay-bets monkey from his back. Again and again, there were collectors –”
“Limb-breakers,” Linda threw in.
His expression grew grim. “George didn't want to see Linton end up like a cousin of his – with two cracked kneecaps and no teeth.”
“Ouch.” Rey winced.
“What's your take on Jimmy's murder? Do you think Linton or George could be behind it?” Linda asked.
“Jimmy was talking to his lawyer about taking legal action before confronting Linton, but he was planning to do so soon. Thanks to my blunder with Sal, Linton and George would have known what was going to transpire, so it's quite possible one of them arranged to have Jimmy killed.” Appearing reflective, he scratched a stubbly chin. “I don't see why Eb Stretta or Mr. Razor would have been shot, though. They have no relation to any of the financial issues.” He appeared forlorn. “Those three owed money more often than they won it. How tragic to have a vice rule – and ruin – your life.”
“Amen,” Rey murmured, appearing equally forlorn.
Emilio smiled sadly and focused on a huge mound of ginger pork.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Hell-lo-o, hon-nies” was a ten-beer greeting if ever there was one.
Chester Franken was what you might define as unremarkable. He sported a square face with unpronounced cheekbones, a weak chin, and a nose best described as lifeless; several veins ran across the tip and it had that bumpy-blotchy look that serious elbow-benders tended to acquire over time. Years of sucking back suds made it difficult to pin down the man's age; he could have been forty as easily as sixty.
We'd struck out obtaining a number and address for George Franken. Gail hadn't responded to our VMs or texts, so we'd had to find an alternative means of gaining access to Georgie Porgie. Fortunately, it came in the way of Kent, who'd provided contact information for brother Chester. A quick call and we were on our way to River Street at half past noon Wednesday afternoon to see what Chester might reveal about his brother.
“Howzit?” Chester asked, sliding back a few steps on fat flip-flopped feet. Glazed pewter-gray eyes, as vacant as the expression, gazed up and down.
“It's goin' great,” Rey answered as we stepped into a two-bedroom apartment that was as small as a kennel cage and felt equally confining.
“Sit at the table.” A short fat thumb pointed at a lightweight kitchen table that could accommodate four people if they sat thigh to thigh. “Let me get you girls beers.”
“No thanks,” Linda said as we sauntered into a two-by-two eating area with scuffed walls the color of dead-pine brown. Eight twelve-packs lined a far wall and five more were stacked against a small banged-up fridge. The smells of stale beer, canned soup, and boiled wieners lingered in the thick, warm air.
“Are you sure?” He retrieved a battered pewter tankard from a windowsill. Beyond the spotted glass was a view of a crumbling brick wall.
“Very.” Rey leaned into an over-padded armchair the color of copper. “I'm Rey and this is JJ and Linda. You shared a pitcher of beer and information about Jimmy Picolo with a friend, Kent Winche, not long ago.”
He gulped beer and pulled a fresh bottle from the fridge. “Kent Winthe. …A young guy that looks like a rock star, yeah?”
“That's the one. Mr. Franken –”
“Ches.”
“Ches.
” Rey offered a caramel-sweet smile. “Do you have relatives that worked for Jimmy Picolo?”
He stifled a belch. “If I do?”
Chester Franken could either become belligerent or accommodating. Here went nothing. I pulled one of four stackable polypropylene chairs close. “We all know what a prick Picolo was. We're trying to contact people for their stories – to do an exposé, a disclosure, for a news story I'm doing.”
He guffawed and raised the glass. “I'd love to see that asth get his, even if it's in the afterlife.”
“We couldn't agree more,” Linda cooed, resting elbows gingerly on a tiny kitchen counter in an attempt to avoid crusted dirt and heavy stains. She glanced at an old photo in the corner of three men with their arms around each other: the Franken brothers. Taken a good twenty years ago, the smiling faces depicted happier times. “Do you know anyone that might want to put in their two cents?”
“Edgar's off to the new girlfriend's place, wherever that is, but you can call my other brother, George, in Ewa. I got his number somewhere.” Glassy eyes gazed around and came to rest on a fake walnut writing desk that appeared to have encountered a 6.5 magnitude quake. With a grunt, he wobbled over and began pawing through envelopes, flyers, and brochures. When that yielded no results, he plowed through a collection of papers in a huge cracked plastic tray.
Finally, he located a rectangular piece of taupe paper and recited a number as if he'd just learned to read, and held it out. “Take it. I got it written in my address book, somewhere around here.” He surveyed the desk and then the room – maybe hoping it would materialize out of thin air – and issued a listless sigh.
* * *
Once settled in Linda's peach-colored Echo, Rey swiftly placed a call.
“…Yo, George honey-bear, howzit?” I gave Rey an are-you-for-real look.
She stuck out her tongue and put the man on speaker. “George, yo, I'm an associate of Coco Peterson's. I haven't seen the dude in a while and he owes me money.”
“Who'd you say you were?” The voice was as rough as a lumberjack's, yet the tone as lilting as a cherub's.
“I didn't. I said I was an associate of Coco's. My name's … Barbara-Anderson Morther.”
I punched her arm and she punched in return. Linda shook her head and punched us both.
“What can I do for you, Barbara-Anderson Morther?”
“Tell me where to collect. I need the bucks.”
“You got a monkey on your back, darling?” he asked sympathetically.
“More like I need to get someone off it.” Rey looked from me to Linda and crossed her eyes.
“What is it you did for Coco?”
A sunshiny smile emanated from her voice. “He's mentioned you a few times, so I can trust you.”
“You really want to?” he joked.
“Why not? You should trust me, too, considering.”
Linda and I exchanged bemused glances.
“Uh, where do you know Coco from?”
“Trucking. Gaming. Poker. I've known him maybe four years. I helped him out of a sticky situation a few weeks back for which he promised he'd pay me two grand.”
As Chester's brother digested that, I watched scenes outside the Echo. Several people were strolling along the sidewalk, returning from a late lunch or going shopping. A motorcyclist barely missed colliding with an eager young biker shooting across the street while an over-anxious pedestrian's legs scarcely avoided canoodling the fender of an SUV. A group of teens, who should probably have been in class, squealed and laughed as they playfully jostled and shoved one another.
“You don't know me from Adam, or in this case Eve,” Rey continued cheerfully when he didn't respond. “But you and me, George, have things in common besides Coco Peterson.”
“Like?”
“…Linton Falsch and Sal Marlowe.”
“Do you work at the plant?”
“No.”
“Uh … what's your number, darling? I'll call you back.”
Rey merrily provided it and disconnected.
* * *
Forty minutes later, after a grocery stopover, we pulled into the condo parking garage. George Franken called as we waited for the elevator.
“Did you feel a need to check me out, George honey-bear?” Rey purred, letting go of the bundle buggy and leaning into a wall.
Linda motioned her to put the call on speaker.
“Yeah. Nobody's heard of you, but I'm going to assume not everybody knows Coco's pals,” he replied, his tone a cross between indifferent and edgy.
“Coco would vouch for me if he were around,” she assured him, her tone toffee-sweet. “Falsch and Marlowe wouldn't … couldn't … because they've never met me. I, however, know about them. And I know about you.”
We could hear a gulp and it wasn't the result of sipping liquid. “Are you planning to do something with what you 'know' about me?” he asked gruffly.
“No, if you're truthful about Coco,” she said airily. “I hear Picolo put out a contract on him.”
George trilled like a Lesser Nighthawk. “Picolo's not a cement-shoes kind of guy.” He paused, as if collecting thoughts. “But you know, sometime back, there were whispers about Coco having a black checkmark beside his name. I knew he'd gotten himself into another gambling pay-off mess, but he's been in a few.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Early October, at a poker game.” He sighed softly. “It's weird, him going missing, but if what you say is true about a contract, it makes sense. But why would Jimmy put out a contract on Coco?” He drew a long breath. “Damn. What a mess.”
She winked at us and adopted a somber tone. “Looks like our pastimes are catching up.”
“You think?” he asked tensely.
“Our gambling bugs have gotten us in trouble before,” she said nonchalantly.
“Maybe it's time to shake loose,” he said quietly yet firmly, as if trying to convince himself. “You know, his brother said that very thing – that it was time to move on, and get involved in more profitable and less dodgy ventures.”
“How is his dear brother?”
I leaned into the wall beside her, as did Linda.
“Antsy some, but excited. You know how he gets.”
“Do I.” Rey looked from Linda to me and shrugged. “Has he gotten into any new rackets, uh, projects?”
“Coco's crazy brother's always thinking about something new, but never seems to work hard to make it happen. That's okay; he is who he is.”
Rey appeared frustrated, like me. Linda looked bored. George was talking a lot, but saying very little.
Time to move on.
Chapter Thirty
Once my groceries had been removed from the heap in the bundle buggy, Rey rocketed upstairs with it, looking like a chef-contestant going for a mad dash-grab through Flavortown Market in Guy's Grocery Games. She was meeting Colt at the Sheraton for drinks at 4:00 before the sunset sail and wanted to look drop-dead Mata-Hari gorgeous.
Linda and Button engaged in a rubber-chicken play-fight while I called Gail to see if she was up for B&Eing. With an uneasy breath, she confirmed she was. The plan: Sisters Linda and JJ would smile their devout ways up to Colt's third floor condo unit while Gail kept watch below.
At 3:00, Linda dropped back down with the habits and two bags: a gym bag contained a change of clothes while a faux-leather duffel bag held tools of the trade – Bushnell binoculars, first-aid kit, Willy's B&E kit, a cool new Sony wide-angle camera, and Taser (just in case).
Slipping casual apparel into a large knapsack, I also ensured there were snacks: mixed nuts, pretzels, bottled water, club soda, M&Ms, and Bounty bars (we did so love our chocolate).
Linda slipped onto the living-room sofa and started scanning emails on her phone as Button got comfortable on her lap. “What time are we picking up Gail?”
“Half past four.”
“Do we have an idea as to how we're going to access that condo?” she asked nonchalantly, h
er eyes glued to the small screen.
“You're going for the master key, while I talk about the Word to the security guard – or concierge as they're called in swankier places. Gail will serve as diversion.”
Linda looked over, her forehead crinkled like an origami rose. “Do you know enough about it, Sister?”
Holding a hand to my heart, I appeared most earnest. “Those countless sermons I've attended have not fallen upon deaf ears.”
She uh-huhed, then winked. “What about Gail? Is she going to fake a heart attack or something, if need be?”
“She said she'll let the mood of the moment dictate.”
“Here's hoping all goes smoothly.” Linda's expression wavered between doubtful and optimistic.
“Here's hoping we don't get arrested, you mean?” I asked dryly, strolling to the mobile phone when it started ringing.
Petey's raspy voice offered a gruff greeting.
“Linda's with me. I'm putting you on speaker.”
“So Rey's best friend isn't a figment of her wild imagination,” he joked.
“Hey there, Mr. P.I.,” she said gaily.
“Who do you want to hear about first: Winche or Coltrane?”
“Colt.” I grabbed a pen and notepad from a kitchen drawer.
“Stella acquired a Kapolei address and number for your potential traitor.” He recited both. “Apparently, it's a very nice place under the name C.C. Hodge. You may find this of interest – and you owe Stella big time, ladies. His local agent career began ten years ago with gang detail. He moved to administrative for a short stint and then joined the organized crime unit. A long-term assignment included investigating Jimmy Picolo in the days when his businesses were under microscopic surveillance.”
“So the guy poked around trying to find evidence and/or witnesses to ensure that defrauding and racketeering charges would stick?” Linda asked flatly.
“More or less.”
Unease began to trickle like a faulty water tap. “Would I be correct in assuming his undercover work took him onto actual Picolo turf?”
