Coco's Nuts

by Tyler Colins

  “It's unlikely you'd be subpoenaed, given that I'm not Jimmy's or Eb's killer, and there'll be no case.”

  I eyed her quizzically.

  “So like physician-patient privilege, what you've learned and I've imparted remains private?”

  “Certainly,” I said reassuringly. “This will soon be all behind you.”

  Buddy took several short sips, placed the cup on an end table, and leaned forward. “I'm going to disclose something. It remains with you and doesn't go beyond this room.”

  I leaned forward, as well. “Of course.”

  She motioned a plate. “Look underneath.”

  I did as requested and found a piece of paper with one typed word: imu. …Imu? Right. A luau or round pit up to four feet deep that basically served as an underground “oven” for steaming pigs. I looked at her expectantly.

  Buddy motioned the second plate.

  Another piece of paper. This one read: Wahiawa Fresh Water State Park, Walker Avenue.

  She rose, sighed softly, then smiled wryly. “Jimmy offered too much to refuse.”

  My eyes popped from my head like those of an old Looney Tunes cartoon character. “You…?”

  She nodded once.

  Stunned, I glanced at the words once more and stated for the record, “Coco's buried in a pit, somewhere in that area.”

  Another nod.

  “The tattoo and jewelry … were trophies?”

  “Trophies for Jimmy and proof of deed done. He'd wanted something 'frighteningly real' to show – and warn – Coco's two amigos about what happened when you betrayed the boss.” A resigned smile tugged at those seductive Scarlet Johanssen lips. “There's one more trophy: for me. It serves as a reminder that anything is possible if you apply yourself to the task.”

  “Dare I ask what it is?”

  “Coco's nuts.”

  “…There never was a lunch at Sammo's Shrimp Truck, was there?”

  She shook her head.

  “You never drove him to Sand Island?”

  Another shake of the head.

  “Did you two meet at the gym that morning?”

  A nod.

  “And he never left there alive … I'm assuming.”

  “You assume correctly,” she acknowledged with a dry smile. “The place was closed for renovations, but I had a key. The owner's a good friend.”

  “Will you tell me how it went down?”

  She watched Bonzo bound across the room to a plastic flower-themed mat on which rested a cornucopia of bunny-rabbit delicacies, otherwise known as veggies, and nibble on lettuce. Finally, she provided a quick rundown.

  “Bearing in mind our confidentiality covenant, what you share with your police pal will be limited to the location of Coco. You truly didn't hear it from me.”

  I nodded to the notes. “Why the drama?”

  “Strictly for that: drama.” She smiled prettily. “You could always tell Hives you found the notes in an envelope in the hallway or tucked under your windshield wiper – if you need to explain how you came upon Coco, should you come upon Coco. …As an FYI, there aren't any fingerprints or DNA or anything on them, except yours, of course.”

  I was too stunned to see her to the door, but I did manage to respond to her farewell wave with one of my own before my hand, arm, and jaw crashed to the floor … and I envisioned Coco's final moments.

  * * *

  “Still lookeeng goo-ood, chiquita, rrrrrr-rrrrrrrr,” were the tremulous words uttered by Coco Peterson before he fainted in a graceful heap like a corset-clad historical romance heroine. There he lay, on a sweat- and blood-stained wrestling mat at Ralston's, one underdeveloped hand to his breast and the other draped across a high, perpetually glistening forehead.

  Such theatrics. All because Buddy was holding a Glock 29 in one hand and an eight-inch Henckels carving knife in the other.

  “Lookeeng goo-ood, chiquita, rrrrrr-rrrrrrrr.” Glazed eyes gazed wildly around. “Yea-ah, lookeeng goo-ood.” Dragging himself to his knees, he managed a smile that bordered on the wanton, and got to his wobbly feet.

  Down he went again, this time with an opening in the chest.

  Again, he staggered upright. “Yeah, sweetcakes, lookeeng –”

  The third time he hit the mat, he was dead.

  Buddy's trophy lay in a shiny onyx-black box decorated with delicate gold Asian calligraphy, with an amber tassel hanging from the lid by a satiny braided cord. Nuts to Mr. Lookeeng Goo-ood.

  * * *

  The four of us stood quietly before Petey in a two-bed, pale-peach room. The man usually smelled of spicy man soap and Cuban cigars; at the moment, cafeteria food and antiseptic were the predominant scents. Congealing scrambled eggs and dry toast lay on a standing tray before off-white curtains that partially hid a second patient hooked up to an oxygen saturation monitor and PCA pump.

  Petey's body seemed as stiff as chipboard and one of his beefy arms was in a backslab and sling. Multiple bruises and several stitches on his timeworn face made it appear as if he'd hit the embankment sans car.

  It was five minutes before ten. Ald had arrived shortly after nine and had been sitting in a corner chair until we'd entered a few minutes ago. He looked beat, as if he'd had next to nil sleep, much like yours truly. No one had spoken since we'd entered the somber room, including a young methodical nurse who had popped in twice, making sure all was satisfactory machine- and medication-wise.

  Pâté-brown eyes opened slowly and scanned the ceiling, and then the room. They came to rest on Ald first, moved to Rey, then Linda, and finally me. He managed a weak greeting.

  “Hi,” we said simultaneously with cheery smiles that had to appear as fake as reality show clashes.

  “I'd ask how you're feeling, but I'm pretty sure I know.” Ald gently squeezed Petey's bandaged hand while the three of us kissed his cheeks.

  Scabbed lips pulled into a slim smile. “I should get waylaid more often.”

  “What happened?” Ald urged softly. “Can you remember?”

  “I was following our friend.” He stared at the ceiling in recollection. “After we finished up at Dave & Buster's, I drove back to his house. The place was dark so I called it a night. Nothing of note happened Thursday until I saw you guys meet him in the early evening. I set after him once you'd separated in front of that Mexican place.”

  “You're good,” Linda complimented him. “We didn't see you. Where were you?”

  “I don't divulge trade secrets,” he replied with simulated gruffness. “That's something you learn on the job.”

  “What happened that night?” she pressed with an encouraging smile.

  “I followed the guy to a scuzzy bar on Nuuanu. I couldn't locate him inside and when I stepped outside, his car was gone.”

  “He knew he was being tailed,” Rey said flatly.

  “The guy's not stupid. In fact, he's pretty good.”

  “Good and crafty,” my cousin grumbled.

  “How did you hit an embankment? You're not accident-prone and much too skilled to get sloppy,” I winked.

  “I didn't expect to be followed.” He laughed wryly and groaned.

  “Who was it?” Rey asked urgently. “Not our friend?”

  “It was someone in a dark car … someone with excellent driving skills who probably had high-performance driving training.”

  “Someone like Colt,” I suggested to my colleagues.

  “Quite possibly,” he acknowledged.

  “Colt?” Ald asked, puzzled.

  Oopsy. I shot Petey a warning look. “Just an example of someone who has exceptional skills and talents.”

  “Yeah, like our pal,” Petey said easily. “Too bad I didn't catch a glimpse of the driver.”

  “Too bad,” Ald murmured, eyeing us suspiciously. “And who were you following?”

  Petey ignored the question. “What day is it?”

  “Saturday.”

  He sighed.

  Ald looked at us.

  Taking the hint, Rey s
aluted, Linda nodded, and I shrugged, and headed down the corridor.

  An anxious-looking Gail was strolling toward us with a bright, mixed-floral bouquet.

  We greeted her and I motioned the room. “They'll probably be talking for some time.”

  “I'll pop in and take a coffee order,” she said. “Let's catch up later.”

  Rey watched her waltz into the room. “Linda and I will head over to Chase's. What about you? It's too early for Kent.”

  “I'm taking a scenic drive before heading over.”

  Rey eyed me curiously. “Anywhere in particular?”

  “I hear the locale in and around the Wahiawa Freshwater State Park is worth seeing.”

  * * *

  The drive to the State Park was quiet, peaceful, even relaxing, thanks to a beautiful peacock-blue sky, soothing winds, and Diana Krall singing softly in the background. Green and lush, the area seemed prime for picnicking. Narrow and sidewalk-free Walker Avenue was lined with small detached houses, a few low-rise apartments, and a scattering of businesses.

  I wasn't naïve or foolish enough to believe I'd locate Coco reclining in an imu or luau pit, but I was willing to give it a bona fide shot in the hour or so I had before picking up Kent. Mind you, there was no longer any reason to check out the places he'd suggested because after meeting Buddy at the gym, Coco was a done deal. She was the last person to see him alive. And dead. To use Linda's favorite expression (and one that was becoming mine): dang. Who'd have imagined a beautiful personable society gal was capable of murder, never mind mutilation and trophy gathering?

  Coco's nuts. Mentally, he'd leaned toward wacky; physically, he was no longer in possession of them. That was perversely amusing. (Or was that amusingly perverse?)

  Curiosity being what it was, I pulled over and walked along Walker and a couple adjacent streets. When someone crossed my path, I humbly inquired if any houses on Walker had imus and if there were any abandoned ones nearby. I learned that a few houses in a six-block range had them, as did a neighboring dilapidated house that had been on the market three years. In dire shape, no one seemed remotely inclined to purchase it, even at the bargain price of 200K.

  An elderly man, who'd bowed gallantly and introduced himself as Broderick, recalled a high-school friend having constructed one in the 60s and proceeded to narrate fond memories of festive celebrations. They sounded like good times.

  My wristwatch said it was half past noon. Time to head over to Kent's, for what it was worth. I got into the Nissan, but didn't start the engine. Coco kept swimming through my mind like piranha at an Amazon River tour-boat capsizing.

  What if Buddy wasn't the last one – or the only one – to have seen Coco alive? What if she'd been followed? Buddy Feuer had been set up, of this there was no question, and I'd have bet Annia's annual salary times three that the reason was that someone was getting back at her for Coco's demise. Why not frame her for the murder of the man who'd ordered the hit? Both should pay. The more I considered it, the more plausible it seemed.

  Where Eb fit in wasn't clear, but maybe he'd merely served as icing on the cake. Razor had to go because he could have easily stumbled onto something exposing or telltale, like a contract.

  The King of Cool announced a call. “Yes?”

  “Uh, this is Eddy Galazi. You got work maybe?” His voice was soft and light, like the feather of a sparrow.

  “Eddy! Yes, right.” I'd been thinking about the money in the bags at his house; they'd probably served as a “savings account”. And now it was gone. He'd require cash, no doubt. I felt a need to play fair, like his uncle, because I was pretty sure he was innocent of wrong-doing. He'd merely been endeavoring to assist his beloved uncle. But he might still have a scrap of information that could paint the final picture. “How would you like to earn a few dollars for fairly simple work over a couple of weeks or so?”

  “I could use some, yeah, sure.” He sounded hopeful. “That's awesome. Thanks.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Why did you run away from home?”

  “…I got a call from a guy.” His voice was as soft as the flutter of butterfly wings. “He said … I should keep my mouth shut about anything related to Uncle Piccy … or else. I got worried and grabbed some stuff, and ran.”

  “You loved your Uncle Piccy.”

  “He was the best!” His tone brightened. “He watched out for me like … like an angel.”

  “I bet he did,” I said merrily. “My associate, Linda Royale, will contact you with details. Are you around today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Great. Expect a call this afternoon.” I disconnected and phoned Kent to let him know there was a change of plans and I'd see him around 2:30. A crazy idea had started to form, like a waterspout developing into a visible condensation funnel.

  I was about to ring Linda when Dean announced another call. As usual, Rey didn't wait for a greeting.

  “Just checking in –”

  “I'm glad you did, because I'd meant to ask if George ever got back re that photo of Colt.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.” She chuckled, but not with cheer. “He left a super nervous-sounding voice-mail. I'm gonna paraphrase. The guy sucker-punched me once. He's real dangerous. Stay clear of him. That's all I'm gonna say and don't call me again, sweetcheeks.”

  “I guess George is a dead end at this point, but at least he admitted to knowing the guy.”

  “Speaking of dead ends, we had no luck at Chase's. We're heading to Yokohama Bay next.”

  “Don't bother. It'll prove a colossal waste of time.”

  “Why do you say that?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Because it's fact. I want you two to meet Kent and me at Picolo's Haleiwa retreat around four.”

  “Okay. Why?”

  “We're going to solve the case.”

  “Sounds like fun,” she said gaily. “We brought our Tasers.”

  “Don't forget who broke mine,” I reminded her.

  “I said I'd buy you a new one,” she said sassily.

  I laughed. “Make sure you don't use that one for butter-tart target practice and get sticky-sweet filling all over it – and yourself – when you accidentally fire it at yourself.”

  “I needed to practice my aim,” she sniffed. “We all have little accidents now and again,” she sniffed.

  “You couldn't use your own to practice?” I teased.

  She blew a raspberry. “You were the ones with the box of tarts.”

  “Please ask Linda to get in touch with Eddy at three and have him drop by the condo building tomorrow around one. If he can't help clear up a few of the little nagging case details, we'll have him clear up the agency. We could use him for errand running, too. And will you call Fugger to get the spare key? He may need convincing, as he's not keen on parting ways with it.”

  “What should I tell him?”

  “That we know who Jimmy Picolo's killer is.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  When Kent climbed into the Nissan, he was wearing an earthy cologne that melded nicely with the scents of spicy orange soap he'd obviously showered with and cinnamon gum being chewed with great fervor. Dressed in boot-cut jeans, a simple fitted black T, and funky Converse high tops, the guy looked fit and athletic, in an extreme-sport kind of way. My clothes, on the other hand, appeared to amuse him.

  “You're looking very Prissy,” he chuckled.

  I glanced down at the long flouncy floral skirt and lacy blouse. A what-the-heck-do-I-wear moment had resulted in me pawing through every item in the closet. There wasn't much, considering laundry hadn't been done in ten days. Luckily (or maybe not), I'd come across this never-worn-before ensemble. Where it had come from was anyone's guess, because I couldn't remember. A relative's well-intentioned gift maybe? “Prissy?”

  “Prissy – short for Priscilla, my aunt. Dressed like that, you remind me of her. She was into hippie-dippy clothes, too. The woman shopped
at consignment stores.” He grinned and leaned back. “Poor Aunt Prissy got whacked by a weed whacker.”

  I glanced at him in disbelief as I pulled into traffic. “No way.”

  “It really happened.” His expression was earnest. “The feisty lady lived next door to a burned-out bouncer who loved bourbon. They got into regular cussing and name-calling. He played his heavy metal music too loud, walked around in a Speedo most of the time – it wasn't pretty, I hear – and uttered profanities a lot. She played her folk music too loud, wore 70s leftovers – not too pretty, either, I hear – and warbled off key when she worked in the garden. One day, they pushed each other too far. She pelted him with a trowel and he –”

  “Whacked her with a weed whacker,” I finished. The story was too crazy not to be true.

  “Why are we headed back to the retreat?”

  “The answers to solving the case will be there.”

  “I guess Buddy's really off the hook.” He eyes were on the road ahead and while his face seemed impassive, there was a touch of frost in the tone.

  “One might think you'd want her in prison.”

  He arched a muscular shoulder. “That, JJ, is the last thing I want.” He squeezed my forearm encouragingly and unzipped a large leather knapsack, removing two large Red Bulls and opening them. He passed one.

  I offered an appreciative thank-you because a burst of energy was exactly what I needed.

  He located a hip-hop station and we settled in for the drive to Haleiwa. Two fender-bender traffic holdups aside, the trip was smooth and uneventful. Kent was singing with Iggy Azalea when we pulled past Linda's Echo parked thirty feet from the house. Driving up to Jimmy Picolo's side door, I turned off the ignition.

  He gazed around. “Looks like a storm's brewing. How'd I miss that?”

  “You were too entrenched in 'click clack bang bang' with your blonde bombshell,” I winked.

  Like undulatus asperatus cloud formations, low and sweeping clouds resembled mammoth wads of dark-hued cotton pasted against a gilt-tinged backdrop. During the last few minutes, the temperature had dropped a few degrees and it had grown menacingly mottled – that distinctive charcoal-gray and olive-gold before a tornado funneled in or a squall raged through. Hadn't the weather been equally strange the last time here?