by Tony Bulmer
Seeing my colleagues bicker made me smile. Starting Cobra Close Protection was the smartest thing I ever did. Presidents come and go, and when the new man came my watch was over. They made excuses of course, but the new man was an asshole, didn’t like the fact I had got popped for his predecessor. Who knows, maybe the new man was superstitious? Maybe he though having a bullet magnet riding point on his entourage was bad juju? But things are different now. My partners are my friends. I can trust them with my life—a reciprocal understanding that counts for something, an unspoken bond more special than any kind of friendship I have known. As I watched Joe and Inez ribbing each other, Inez reached out an apple from the fruit-bowl and tossed it mid-air, as it hung there she whipped out her Kunai pen from her boot and speared the fruit mid-air. The surgical steel point cut through the fruit like a dagger.
She tossed it to Joe.
Joe caught the fruit and extracted the pen with interest.
‘Don’t say I never give you anything,’ deadpanned Inez
‘Wilhelmina Tell’ sniffed Joe. ‘That gizmo will come in real useful, I get caught in an altercation at a grocery store.’
Dead Famous 05
Beverly Hills. North Carolwood Drive—the kind of hood that would make millionaires row look like a slumlords paradise. Many of my clients inhabited these parts—upper echelon industrialists and financiers, movie stars, major league music people and a sprinkling of nouveau-riche Internet nerds with ten-digit bank accounts.
Carolwood isn’t Beverly Hills at all really, it is the Holmby Hills—but who the hell has heard of the Holmby Hills, right? No one. That is why Barrington told me the spread was in Beverly Hills. He figured it made him sound richer. I dressed up smart, for the occasion, or at least put a jacket on. I took Inez, so we could scout out the land together, and she could see what she and her protection team would be dealing with. When CCP takes care of a client we do it properly. Scout the territory–get a plan together—make provision, every eventuality covered incase the client comes under attack. CCP covers the angles always. When you are guarding an executive client nothing can be left to chance, and home security is the bedrock from which we build.
We took the Escalade to impress—personally, I think it rides like a tank, even with the V12 racing car engine I hooked into it; probably a result of the armor plate—resistant to hand-held rocket launchers and forty-caliber assault weapons—essential for the executive motoring market. Armored personal carriers disguised as soccer-mom run-abouts are all very well, but they get poor gas mileage—very poor. I gassed the big-rig on Santa Monica, bought a little tree air-freshener in the mini-mart—the Vanilla Pride with stars and bars—to hang from the rearview. Inez said she liked Black Ice better. I told her she had to be kidding. As we drove east, Inez filled me in. Told me the rumors—dark gossip about Sly Barrington, and how he had gotten to be top dog at the biggest entertainment company in the world. The truth was ugly and unconventional. The rumor mill ran contrary to his popular image as a genius hit-maker, with a talent for turning glitz into gold: beatings, disappearances, financial malfeasance. Word was he had threatened to dump one of his artists out a penthouse window in Vegas if she didn’t sign over royalties to him—classy guy, real classy.
Then there had been an IRS audit a few years back, looking into allegations of tax evasion, secret bank accounts and money laundering. But shmantzy lawyers and a top-flight accountancy team made sure it came to nothing—how could it? Sly Barrington was a master of the universe, a top-flight corporate hog snouting into the stock-market trough—and there was nothing that anyone could do to stop him. If any one tried, he would throw them out of a Las Vegas hotel room window. Shit happens dude—just try proving it—especially when you are plummeting thirty-floors, face first, into a pool terrace cabana.
Cruising the switchback trail on West Sunset, we took a left up the hill on to Carolwood. Now Beverly Hills is smart, but Carolwood is smarter, way smarter—a land of executive-super homes, palatial beyond your wildest dreams. In amongst the trees you see them—luxuriating in the forest, like fairytale castles. The architectural style of choice here is neo-chateau-chic. I mean really—who would have thought it? A bunch of richy-riches club together and decide to recreate the Loire Valley on a dessert hillside, ten thousand miles from France, then behave like this was the most natural thing in the world. That is Los Angeles for you—an architectural arms race, where nothing is impossible everything is permitted—so long as you got the cash. And Sly Barrington had the cash—lots of it. You had to admire the guy—he had turned a two-bedroom upbringing in down town Long Beach, into a multi-billion dollar business empire, courtesy of his street-dealer business smarts and a ruthless will to succeed.
Driving in through the high-gated entrance to the Barrington estate, past the high pines and luxuriant palms, I figured that maybe his ruthlessness had paid off. Or had it? You make enemies on the way up—you sure as hell don’t have no friends on the way down. That maxim counts double in the entertainment business.
I parked the Escalade out front of the mansion, next to a puss-yellow Ferrari and a Bentley convertible, that looked like it had just been driven out of the showroom. I was about ready to pocket my car keys, when a monkey-suited valet double-timed it towards us, full of manufactured enthusiasm. I retained my keys, but tipped him a C-note for taking the trouble to pant across the forecourt like a corpulent sea lion. The valet looked disappointed—anxious even. ‘Mr. Barrington he say—’
I slipped him the wink, ‘Don’t worry about Mr. Barrington—he will be sweet, I think you can rely on that. The valet didn’t look so sure. He stood there on the white gravel forecourt sweat beading out his forehead, his mouth hanging open with wordless objection.
‘Valet parking at a private residence—’ marveled Inez. ‘Now I have seen everything.’
‘I smiled tightly, ‘Not if I am guessing right you haven’t.’
Standing on the doorstep, I reached for the doorbell. But the giant door swung open, before I could reach it. I half expected to meet Lurch, the ghostly retainer from the Addams Family. Instead, a surly youth, with corn-row hair and an oversize Lakers shirt greeted us with obvious distaste. The man is out back,’ glowered the youth, rolling his neck like he had some kind of nervous affliction. Not even the over size jersey and his ass crack gangster jeans could cover the big caliber hip-rig he was sporting. Amateur hour. The kid ever unhitched that cannon the action would be over—less he got it out ahead of time, then it would be time to duck and cover.
I cast a casual eye over the Lives of the Rich and Famous interior and smiled pleasantly ‘lovely home you have here.’
The youth glowered, sniffed, and said something that sounded like, whatever, it was hard to tell: the kid was swilling something unpleasant around his mouth—chewing tobacco—flu-virus backwash, with a Dino gum chaser? What ever it was, it boded deeply unsavory.
I headed forth in the direction of the twitching head and gave the kid the comedy pistol fingers, ‘Go Lakers,’ I joshed brightly. The kid’s eyelids canopied down, as he gave me the look. Had to be family—or a reject gangster from the big man’s gangland past—no other way a player like Barrington would hire a kid this stupid.
We headed out back. Barrington was sitting on the terrace. The terrace was something else—looked like the palace of Versailles, if the palace of Versailles had been overlooking the verdant Los Angeles Country club and a billion dollar city-view that stretched eternal into the soft Angeleno morning.
Barrington, sat at a white-linened table, weighed down with ostentatious silverware. Beside him, sat a dude in a red tracksuit. The dude stared sphinx like. Barrington meanwhile sat back in his chair and paid us close scrutiny. He was a snappy dresser even at this time of day, the dude was sporting heavy designer shades and a monogrammed paisley smoking jacket, twinned fetchingly with a matching purple ascot, that gave him the air of a brilliantined playwright, or an eccentric English uncle. The look vibed deeply incongruous—maybe
that was the idea. Rich folks—it’s best not to reason why.
Barrington stared at us a moment, like our arrival was a rude surprise. ‘This here is Shaqi-J,’ offered Barrington. Neither of them smiled. Neither of them got up. The dude in the red tracksuit sprawled in his chair and pursed his lips. I noticed he had a bejeweled watch, the size of a carriage clock strapped to his wrist—it looked kind of heavy for workday use. I guessed that wouldn’t be an issue.
‘Nice view,’ I offered.
Barrington ignored me. ‘Shaqi-J is Saquina’s husband.’
‘Was, would have been more appropriate. I restrained myself figuring needless pedantry would be inappropriate this early in the grieving process.
Shaqi-J didn’t look too upset. He regarded us thoughtfully—or more precisely he regarded Inez thoughtfully, tilting his head ever so slightly to the side as he did so. That’s when he started gesticulating. ‘A fucking chick—you are hiring a chick as your bodyguard? We got people Sly, what we need some dumb assed cooze and her pasty looking boyfriend for? The busy hands gesticulating towards Inez now, ‘Don’t get me wrong honey, you are a sweet looking chick and all, but we is oversupplied in that department, if you know what I am saying.’
I gave Inez a cursory look. Expressionless. She didn’t fool me. The implications of a blunt force head trauma to one of our client’s associates didn’t bear thinking about. I stood ready to mitigate the impact.
Barrington regarded me for a long moment from behind his oversized sunglasses.
‘My brother here is upset. You will make allowances for that Costello, and Miss Santos too.’ He paused, raised a miniature espresso cup from a Lilliputian saucer and sipped thoughtfully.
‘Sorry to hear about your loss Mr. Johnson.’ I offered, by way of a response.
Shaquil Johnson sucked his teeth, ‘Like I give a fuck about how sorry you are Costello.’
I gave Johnson a happy smile. He didn’t like it, not one little bit, and that suited me fine. I looked at him and said. ‘Reason I am here is you got a problem, a real big problem—You got a billion dollar pay day heading your way in the shape of this IPO deal and you got a whole circus of bad publicity brewing in the wings.’ I paused, for effect, surveyed the verdant hillside and the cityscape beyond, said, ‘Bad vibrations of any kind could throw your cash-money company into the junk bond bargain bin overnight. Which will mean your pals at the New York Stock Exchange won’t be asking you out to fancy dinners no more.’
Shaquil Johnson stared at me, with a look of hate.
I stared back—right into his soul. What I saw was ugly—major league ugly—but I don’t have a problem with that. I get to meet ugly every day and kick its ass. My gaze cut though him—my words a blowtorch to his ego. I addressed Barrington now, the main man—hit him with the reality of what he was dealing with. Told him he wanted to look good with the money men and keep his billion dollar empire mint julep sweet, he better buckle up and do has he was told. Play things the CCP way.
Barrington sat impassive behind his schmantzy diamond encrusted shades and licked his lips thoughtfully. ‘You can breath easy on this job Costello, I got you in as a precaution, nothing more. My lawyer will forward you the bullshit paperwork, those insurance company assholes want filled—you will fill out said paperwork, while your sweet little assistant here wanders around in my wake, minding her own business for a week or so. Then we part our ways, you understand me?’ Understand came out unnerstan. I saw things clearly now. Barrington wanted to hire CCP, so it looked like he had a legitimate personal protection company providing him with cover. When really, he wanted nothing, or no one cramping his style.
‘We play things for real at CCP,’ I said matter-of-factly.
Barrington smiled. He gesticulated behind him with a careless gesture, ‘You see the houses down there? You know who my fucking neighbors are? Barbara Streisand, Rod Stewart and back in the day Elvis fucking Presley—the man who stole black mans music, turned it into school-girl pop, you heard of that motherfucker Costello?’
I admitted that I had, but there was no stopping Barrington. He pointed down the hill ‘And the house at the end of the street—that’s where that freak Michael Jackson lived—you see that Costello?
I peered down the hill, nothing but distant rooftops—real distant.
And you Costello—so as I understand it from your mouthpiece friend Weinman—live in Venice Beach, which is what, ten miles from here?
I twisted my lips thoughtfully, ‘I would guess,’ I said, ‘although It’s not ocean front so don’t get excited, I rarely entertain.’
Barrington stared at me, looked at Shaquil Johnson, not believing what he was hearing and said nastily, ‘I don’t give a fuck where you park your sorry assed life Costello, fact is I live top of the hill here, ain’t no one higher. I look down the hill I see that spiky haired limey Rod Stewart’s house, figure one day I might throw him some change and knock his place down, just so I don’t have to look at his sorry-assed roof all day, Now tell me Costello, do I sound like someone who likes to play things for real?’
I peered thoughtfully down the hill and said, ‘If you are worried about the rooftop, I could recommend a good landscaper I know. A couple of nice date palms and your problem will be solved.
Barrington smiled—it was a nasty cold smile, with no trace of humor. ‘You and your people will play things low-key Costello. I will take the charming Ms Santos and a team of your finest operatives on public engagements, so you can play it high profile for the insurance people. Rest of the time, you best stay the fuck out of my way—understand?’
Shaquil Johnson showed me a golden smile, then whispered something to his boss.
Barrington nodded and said, ‘One more thing Costello, seeing as you are looking after my daughter you better go find the bitch, so as you can take care of business.’
Dead Famous 06
Detective Javier Ramirez from Los Angeles Police Department’s Robbery Homicide division stood by the bath and peered down into the putrid water, as the crime scene suits lowered the girl into the black rubber body bag. The girl looked ice white and perfect—almost too perfect—like the life had been sucked out of her by some kind of horrible machine, leaving her icy face preserved for eternity. Ramirez felt his stomach, a hot burst of nausea galloping through him. He swallowed it down, gave his new partner a glance see if he had noticed. Nada. Kozak was ogling the cozy comfort bath towels, with an almost childlike wonderment. Ramirez popped a couple of Pepsid’s and hoped for the best. He found comfort in their icy calm. It wouldn’t help long term, never did under such circumstances, but fresh minty breath sure kept up appearances. The doctors had given him advice of course, told him to cut back on the booze and spicy foods. Minimize stress in his working schedule. But what use was that when stress, booze and chilidogs were as inevitable to his routine as a new rising day? As the gurney jockeys loaded the girl into the body bag. Ramirez noticed her feet: pedicure perfect, with a gold and diamond toe ring on her fourth-toe. Ramirez obsessed—who has a gold and diamond toe ring he thought out loud.
Kozak said, ‘Kids today—they decorate anything they got—saw a chick once, had an earring hanging off her hoohah. Say, these monogrammed towels they got here are thicker than a whore-house carpet.’ Kozak kneaded the towel with disbelief.
‘Can it Kozak, you ain’t working vice no more.’
‘I dredged more hookers out of hot-tubs than you’ve scarfed enchilada combo plates,’ snapped Kozak.
Ramirez wasn’t listening. He was too busy looking at the ugly crescent shaped wound on the girl’s right foot, staring at it now, like the whole world was closed down around him. The wound glistened—a hard, bloody impact, burning out against the porcelain flesh. The wound spoke out to him—sending word from beyond the grave, and that word was murder.
Ramirez popped another Pepsid, watched silently, as the coroner’s crew zipped the girl away. He saw the white face disappearing in black, finality now for the girl with the porce
lain face— nothing more than a number in a morgue chill cabinet. Ramirez swallowed down hot minty bile, it made him want to retch. He grimaced. Felt himself longing for a soft, cold Tequila-Blanco straight out the fridge.
Kozak said, ‘So, the chickadee gets maudlin—her ‘special friend’ checks out on television—so she decides to wash down the contents of the bathroom cabinet with a bottle of booze, and chases it with a couple of pints of luke-warm bathwater. Maybe she didn’t mean to, maybe she did? Who the fuck knows, who the fuck cares. Another pretty kid who thought she was smarter than the average bear, found out too late she wasn’t.’
Alternatively, a person, or persons unknown, held her under the water. The kid is bombed, but not that bombed she isn’t going to put up a fight, so as she goes under she starts kicking out, thrashing around and in the process cuts open the top of her foot on the faucet.
Kozak rubbing the towel against his face now stopped, perused his partner’s pensive expression and said, ‘What the fuck’s matter with you Ramirez, you are like some wet nosed hound-dog with his head in a gopher run—you think I don’t know when you are obsessing.
‘You see the girls foot?’
