Dead Famous (Danny Costello)

by Tony Bulmer

  Luckily, I was wearing my black on black Levis and a two-tone Tommy Bahama shirt over the top of my V-neck T and it doesn’t come much trendier than that kids, let me tell you.

  As I sat at the bar, soaking in the vibe, waiting for a drink I didn’t really need, I shot the breeze with the barman Jimmy—rapidly discovering that Rocco had shipped me in here for a reason. Turned out Roxy Barrington had been entertaining, and with quite some style. She and an entourage of friends had managed to rack up a five-digit bar bill the previous night—that’s a lot of pre-dinner aperitif’s, even at Beverly Hill’s prices. I racked out a Franklin, tucked it under the mixed nuts ‘n’ olives combo dish that Jim had so thoughtfully furnished me with, and asked: ‘Who were the friends?’ I sensed a forthcoming reply, when Jim’s eyes darted behind me

  ‘I help you gentlemen?’ enquired Jim, his voice smooth and businesslike.

  I had no need to turn round. The newcomers bulged into my peripheral vision soon enough, and the view boded deeply ugly. Detectives Ramirez and Kozak from LAPD Robbery Homicide division. Both of them in nylon jackets, both of them perspiring like well run racehorses.

  I gave them a cheery welcome. They didn’t seem to like it, so I turned to Ramirez. ‘Can I buy you fellahs a drink?’

  ‘What you doing here, Costello?’

  ‘Officially, I am about to enjoy one of Jim’s famous flowering teas, how about yourself detective?’

  Ramirez winced, turned to Jim, said, ‘Tequila-Blanco on the rocks.’

  ‘You got a mixed drink menu?’ enquired Kozak.

  Jim’s eyebrows raised fractionally, a tight, vertiginous expression twisting fleetingly across his face. ‘I am afraid we do not have a—list sir, but I would be happy to make whatever you desire.’ Jim enunciated the word list with the kind of distaste normally reserved for words such as necrophilia.

  ‘That case, I’ll take a long island-iced tea,’ said Kozak, oblivious.

  Jim tilted his head his head with a you-know-best inflection, and swept away.

  Ramirez waited, until Jim was out of earshot, then hissed nastily, ‘I know what you are playing at Costello, and I am warning you now, you get mixed up in another of my investigations, I am liable to talk to my friends in the DA’s office so as they can turn your life into injunction city.’

  I held up my hand. ‘Give me a break Ramirez, we both got a job to do.’

  ‘That job would be what exactly?’

  ‘Securing the interests of my clients.’

  ‘Clients, huh? If you talking to me about that prick on wheels Sly Barrington we are going to have a problem.’

  I winced. ‘There are no problems in life, only challenges.’

  ‘Yeah? Sounds like grade A bullshit to me Costello, but I tell you this—working for Barrington you are going to find you got challenges up the ying-yang, because that dirty motherfucker will ride anyone he thinks is useful, until they ain’t useful no more, ¿me entiendes?’

  ‘Yeah, I understand, but hear this—I got work of my own to do, and soon as I get the check, my part in this is over.’

  ‘Let me guess, you are running one of your lame assed security operations for the creep, figuring you can mitigate the bad press on his nasty little world, before he goes public with his bullshit media empire?’

  ‘No pulling the wool over your eyes, is there detective?’

  Ramirez smiled knowingly, ‘You better watch your step Costello I got word that a whole bunch of shit-don’t-stink Federales are looking into the business affairs of your new found friend Barrington—so you better make that paycheck good and soon, or your accounts department might just have to send out to San Quentin prison for payment.’

  Jimmy returned with the drinks then retreated to a discrete distance, to talk with another customer. My flowering tea steamed seductively. Ramirez scowled, banged his drink down in two, and sat there, anger oozing out of every pore.

  I sipped my flowering tea, soaking in the fresh scented aroma of Jasmine. The taste reminded me of hot summer nights in the San Fernando Valley, Chinese food on Ventura, then through the canyon for a night at Fat Tony’s place, with Joe and my brother Ryan. My brother was dead now—never coming back, not even in a Marine Corps body bag—Shot out the sky over the Persian gulf, in a war that never officially happened.

  I signaled Jimmy to bring Ramirez a refill. When it came, the big cop perused it, fingering the cold glass with the respect of a hard drinking professional. ‘Maybe, seeing as you are working the inside track on this case Costello, you could think of your public duty for a change—this Saquina Johnson business has the city brass jumping like a tenement flea circus. Bad publicity don’t come any worse than some spoiled bitch artiste OD-ing at the premier social event of the year.’

  ‘Unfortunate.’

  ‘It is more than unfortunate Costello it is a giant pain in the ass. Worse, the Department is having to red-letter this debacle for a quick resolution.’

  I raised an eyebrow, ‘Let me guess, the mayor is up for re-election?’

  ‘You are a real smart ass Costello.’

  ‘It’s true though, right?’

  ‘The Chief sees this whole episode as reflecting badly on our city’s post riots record as a happy-clappy race-relations paradise.’

  ‘Figures, But how is some corn-fed Diva croaking at the Oscars a race relations issue?’

  Ramirez frowned—You just don’t get it do you Costello, Mr. Barrington likes to throw money at the public purse, this kind of shit happens to one of his people, it reflects bad on the community, and before you know it the public purse is hurting.’

  ‘Drug addicts die every day in this city. The mayor going to do anything about that?’

  ‘Fuck ’em, less they got the juice at City Hall, they die anonymous.’

  ‘So what about the girlfriend?’

  ‘There isn’t no girl friend Costello and that is official.’

  ‘I heard a story says that ain’t so—I heard some cutie-pie a topped herself in the Slycorp suite at the Peninsula. Word is she checked out in a body bag the morning after the Saquina girl croaked on television. You telling me that was a coincidence?’

  ‘That is the subject of a Police investigation,’ blurted Kozak.

  ‘A very thorough and far reaching investigation it will be, I am sure.’

  ‘I don’t like the way you are talking Costello—you disrespect the department, you and me are going to have a problem,’ said Kozak.

  ‘Throttle back Lance-Corporal, you ain’t in the 75th no more, you’re in Beverly Hills now—and that is my neighborhood.’

  ‘I was a fucking sergeant Costello, and you want to get beat down, I am up to the task, no matter whose fucking neighborhood we are in.’

  ‘I turned to Ramirez, ‘The voice of community policing has spoken.’

  ‘Kozak is feeling volatile, on account of the fact we been riding round on a known associates tip all day—that kind of work makes a man cranky—so here’s a word to the wise Costello—you hook up with Roxy Barrington, you tell her we want a word, her life might be in danger and she keeps up the party–party routine, then trouble is going to come.’

  I gave Ramirez an incredulous look. ‘What the hell you talking about?’

  Ramirez said quietly, ‘The girl at the Peninsula, the one who was sharing the suite with Saquina Johnson—her personal assistant for the record—was drugged with an under the counter barbiturate known as Thiopental.’

  It was my turn to frown now, ‘Thiopental—better known as Sodium Pentothal—the drug used in state executions—a drug so dangerous junkies just can’t say no.’

  ‘That’s what they say,’ confirmed Ramirez grimly, but that’s just the half of it, The girl in Ms Johnson’s suite—Georgia they called her—She was flying on a whole cocktail of drugs. But that’s not what killed her.

  ‘She wouldn’t be the first junkie to die in the bath tub.’ I said.

  Ramirez shook his head, ‘We got word from the coroner and t
he word is murder.’

  ‘You kidding me?’

  ‘I ain’t kidding tough guy, far from it—and this shit only gets worse.’

  ‘How you mean?’

  Saquina Johnson had a vial of this Thiopental shit on her when the paramedics scraped her up off the floor—word is she was speed-balling it, with a whole cocktail of other drugs: smack, coke and prescription meds too, stuff she scored on the side from some low-life drug dealer.

  ‘So you are looking for the dealer?’

  ‘We will find the dealer, Costello, You can count on that, meanwhile, you hook up with Ms Barrington, you tell her from me to keep her snout out of the dope trough, if she values her life at all.’

  Kozak slurped noisily on his Long Island Iced Tea, ‘And when you done warning Ms Barrington, you tell her we want a word.’

  I smiled, gave Kozak the pistol fingers and said, ‘You got it sergeant.’

  Kozak gave me a hard look, slid off his barstool and headed for the door. Ramirez said, ‘We will be seeing you Costello—make sure you and that partner of yours keep it on the right side of the law.’

  I flipped him a tilt of my chin. He didn’t look best pleased with that, far from it. I watched the cops amble out. As they disappeared, Jimmy appeared in front of me with the silent efficiency of a cocktail lounge oracle.

  ‘The Barrington girl had a bunch of friends in the other night, they looked like lawyers if you ask me, sounded like it too. They drank champagne the whole night.

  ‘Recognize anyone?’

  Jim polished glassware, spoke so low-key you could hardly see his lips move.

  ‘Mouthpiece name of Al Weinman, you know him?’

  Dead Famous 15

  Three black limousines sat ready out front of the Barrington residence in preparation for the night times maneuvers. Inez had advised against predictable activities as a precaution against attack. But Barrington didn’t like precautions—he said precautions were for chicken-shits.

  Given the choice, Inez would have clubbed Barrington over the head and shipped him out of town for the duration, but the mogul had insisted it was business-as-usual and to hell with the consequences, so here they were, limoed–up, preparing for a night of uncertainty, in the dark heart of Los Angeles clubland.

  Inez gritted her teeth. She had made the arrangements fast, maybe too fast for her liking. She called in a team of CCP’s toughest personal protection professionals, all of them ex-military: Special Forces, Marines, Army Rangers. The sort of guys who would take control in any situation, should Sly Barrington’s privileged world of big-money luxury suddenly, and unexpectedly come under attack.

  Inez had the moves planned: at the Barrington residence, a three-man team, working three-shift turnovers. It was a classic play—one man running control, two on perimeter duties. Barrington took the briefing grim-faced. Listened impatiently as Inez gave him the low-key outline of how he would stay protected. Barrington fired back a low-tolerance response on how CCP had better stay out of his way.

  The emperor had an empire to attend.

  Wasn’t nothing going to stop him.

  Inez knew different.

  Control was the most important aspect of any close protection job, closely followed by anticipation. Client co-operation was most often a given. Not here however. Sly Barrington was head and shoulders the most difficult client that Inez had ever encountered. He had no fear. He seemed ready to confront whatever danger came his way and damn the consequences. Inez made allowances. She planned around Barrington’s long list of proviso’s. She didn’t like it, but she had no choice. Her remit was: keep things copacetic. It wasn’t going to be easy. Barrington’s failure to comply with suggested strategies for low-key living was bad enough, she could plan for that, adjust.

  There was however, one wild card element that simply defied the prerequisite of effective planning, Barrington’s nutso nephew Kid Dolla.

  The same Kid Dolla Barrington had tasked with charming guests on their arrival. The Kid was a hard-cussing, tobacco-chawing gangster–rap wannabe, and he liked to carry a gun.

  ‘He ain’t my real nephew, you know that don’t you girlie?’

  Inez stood by the limo in the jasmine scented dusk. She had suggested that the nephew sit street-side, so she could be last in first out, when they arrived at their destination. She threw Barrington her best facilitator face.

  ‘And I am not your girlie, so I guess it makes us square,’ Inez said breezily.

  Barrington stopped dead, ‘We got a problem girlie?’

  ‘We have if your young associate insists on carrying an unlicensed fire arm around in public.’

  The dark look on Barrington’s face suddenly split wide, ‘Young associate? You talking about Dolla being a “young associate.” You fucking kidding me?’

  ‘You said he wasn’t your nephew.’

  Barrington looked at Inez, then the Kid, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  Kid Dolla threw Inez an ugly look, hitched up his over baggy gangster duds and masticated noisily, like he was preparing to say something smart. The comment never came, just a bunch of sullen attitude.

  Barrington said, ‘Just so as we are clear Santos, the Kid here is not my nephew, I might treat him like he is, but he ain’t, so maybe it’s better you call him Kid, or Dolla—he likes that.

  Kid Dolla threw Inez a poisonous look, every pore on his rickets thin body oozing hatred. ‘Just so as you know Lady, we don’t be needing your presence here.’

  ‘Get in the car Kid and keep it respectful, otherwise I’m liable get all snippety. And since we are chatting, you best give me the gun.’

  ‘I ain’t giving you my piece, for nuthin’,’ sulked the Kid.

  Inez stood by the Limo door, gave him a sad smile as the Kid tried to brush past her. It was a play she knew he’d make, and when he made it, she moved with lightening speed—reaching under his baggy shirt, pulling the big-barreled automatic out of it’s holster, before he knew what was happening. She popped the clip. Jacked the breech cartridge and tossed the gun in the air, catching it back-handed at the waist.

  ‘Hey bitch!’

  Inez gave the Kid a pained look, ‘Respectful, I said, and you best remember that if you want to get this popgun back any time soon.’

  ‘You cannot do that!’

  ‘Just done it son, there’s the difference, and while you are at it, you best hand me out the back up piece you got strapped to your ankle. Do it nice and slow, in case it pops off by accident and blows your foot off.

  The kid looked helplessly at Barrington for support, like he was going to get adjudication in his favor.

  ‘Look at it this way Dolla, you get the night off from being a bad ass, give us all a motherfucking break,’ laughed Barrington.

  ‘I don’t need no night off Sly—this bitch be disrespecting—you down with that?’

  ‘You questioning?’

  ‘No I ain’t questioning Sly, it’s just that—’

  ‘Hand Santos the piece, then get in the vehicle, and shut the hell up Dolla, less you want me to get all righteous?’

  The Kid looked downcast. With a great deal of reluctance, he pulled out his back up piece, a fat caliber barrel gun. He brandished it in the air, barrel skywards. Then snapped open the breech. He popped slugs out the chambers and placed the gun on the roof of the car. He shot Inez a crazy look then slunk down, scooching up front in the limo.

  ‘You like making things hard for yourself Santos?’ asked Barrington.

  ‘You want to know how hard things would get, if your nephew there gets busted with felony possession of an unlicensed firearm, while he is joyriding around Beverly Hills?

  ‘You need to relax Santos, there is no way our friends In Los Angles Police Department would mess with us—we is too big to mess with, ain’t that right Dolla?

  The Kid looked sulky, ‘Suppose,’ he conceded.

  ‘What did I tell you,’ beamed Barrington. ‘Shoot a man on skid row, the government ca
lls you a criminal, shoot ten thousand—a hundred thousand, the government suddenly wants to do business, especially if you are wealthy, take our friends the Chinese for example—

  ‘I don’t do politics Barrington it is beyond my remit,’ said Inez blankly, as the convoy moved out into traffic.

  ‘Remit?’ queried Dolla, his face twisting with puzzlement, ‘What the fucks she talking about remit?’

  ‘This is why education is more important than guns,’ barked Barrington, ‘You got yourself a motherfucking education like I told you—ya wouldn’t be asking dumb assed questions about vocabulary now would you?’

  ‘Street smarts got me places no candy assed college diploma would,’ sneered the Kid, ‘Besides, I’m too busy to be sitting in class listening to some know nothing bookworm who never did nothing in life, ’cept swallow down some learning.’

  ‘You listening to this,’ asked Barrington.

  ‘A real social thesis,’ said Inez flatly.

  The Kid squirmed around in his seat, pondering the conversation, before announcing loudly, ‘I don’t like the sound of no social thesis, or what you talking about either.’

  ‘So tell me something kid, you ain’t the nephew and you sure don’t sound like the help, so that must make you—’

  ‘Dolla is my Ward Ms Santos. I am his court appointed guardian and I have been these last ten years.’

  Inez raised an eye brow, ‘That’s real public spirited of you Barrington.’

  ‘There are those in the media Ms Santos, ignorant people for the most part, who refer to Dolla here as my nephew—I allow them that luxury, because it is easy for them to understand. The reality is, I see him as a son and treat him accordingly, so I would thank you if you would do the same.’

  ‘You did this by yourself—seems a little unusual.’

  ‘Unusual? Perhaps, Ms Santos. Or perhaps you are enquiring in your round about way about the institution of Marriage?’