by Tony Bulmer
‘The master home?’ I enquired loudly.
Indeed he was.
As Joe and I stood in the middle of Weinstein’s palatial white marble lobby, the man himself appeared, with a grin spread wider than a DC Senator at an arms industry fundraiser. I was expecting a spa-style toweling robe and post-coital flip-flop sneakers. But shark-tank Al was born to disappoint, choosing instead a very reserved white linen suit that made him look sub-tropical smooth.
‘Mr. Costello—and Mr. Russell, what an unexpected pleasure, how generous of you to come visit.’
‘We were passing, wondered if you might need anything from the grocery store?’
‘What a delightful sense of humor you have Mr. Costello, we are—I fear, somewhat oversupplied in the grocery department, but perhaps I can offer you a drink anyway?’
‘Rain check,’ I smiled.
‘Large bourbon, rocks,’ said Joe.
Weinstein turned wordlessly to the Butler, who trundled off to the bar, with a face like a wet weekend in Seattle.
‘I am glad that you called over gentlemen,’ said Weinstein, in a confidential tone. ‘Because there is someone I would like you to meet—please, come through to the verandah, we have a simply beautiful view of the city here.’
I turned to Joe, gave the wryest look I could muster, accompanied by an after you flourish of my hand. Manners cost nothing after all.
Joe gave me a sneer.
Out on the Verandah, the Barrington girl was sipping champagne and admiring the Los Angeles Cityscape like the whole world was hers. She was wearing a low-back party dress that looked like a million dollars and change. As she turned, the dress shimmered in the light. She looked good, real good, and demure with it. Hard to think that this was the same girl who had been running wild through the Hollywood night scene like a rampaging Viking.
Weinman made the introductions, the girl smiled, almost shy. Brushed shoulder length curls away from her face, as sweet a Sunday-school outing.
‘Good to meet you Ms Barrington,’ I said.
‘Please, call me Roxy Mr. Costello.’ One look in her almond eyes, I could see the girl was trouble. She shook my hand as dainty as can be, but her sinuous body revealed the super-tuned athleticism of track and field veteran. From her finely coiffed hair to the tips of her manicured toenails Roxy Barrington was a taught bodied troublemaker and smart with it.
For Joe it was love at second sight. As I watched him take her tiny hand in his giant Marine Corps fist, he looked like a giant bear who has just discovered he has got a peanut butter sandwich stuck to his foot, in fact, he looked so swoonishly enamored, I could have sworn he liked her almost as much with her clothes on—as he did from the naked hillside.
‘I have heard a lot about you Mr. Costello.’
‘All lies, apart from the good stuff,’ I conceded manfully.
‘I hear you are working for my father, Mr. Costello.’
‘Ah, the curse of the ever jangling grapevine,’ I said, with as much humor as I could muster, ‘You are actually only half right there.’
‘Your Pops wants us to take care of you,’ interrupted Joe gruffly.
Roxy Barrington broke a charming smile and said, ‘That is very nice of him I am sure, but I really don’t need taking care of.’
Joe frowned, ‘Your pops didn’t mention options.’
Roxy Barrington, broke another smile, but it was less charming this time. ‘That is so typical of my father,’ she said, her voice running smooth and even. ‘He thinks he can treat people like chattels,’ again the smile, ‘Tell me Mr. Russell, do I look like a chattel?’
Joe drew a sharp intake of breath that suggested he was sucking back one of his famous opinions.
Smoothing down the edge of her designer dress with her manicured finger nails, Roxy Barrington was just about as far from being her father’s little poppet as it was possible to get, seeing the way she talked to Joe, I detected an nasty incendiary edge to her voice, the kind of nastiness that could turn quickly, from spoilt petulance to something more dangerous.
I gave her my most gracious and sympathetic smile—least that’s the way I played it; you’ve got to fake it to make it in this town.
‘We wouldn’t wish to be a part of any kind of situation that made you feel uncomfortable Ms Barrington. I can assure you of that, In fact I was hoping that Mr. Weinman here might have—filled you in regarding the proposals your father has made, concerning your personal safety.’
‘My father isn’t worried about me Mr. Costello, he is worried about the stock price of his precious company.’
‘I am sure that isn’t the case,’ I offered.
‘You don’t know my father too well then, do you Mr. Costello? The only thing he cares about is money and he will beat down anyone who gets in his way without a second thought.’
‘Come, come, Roxy, Weinman interjected. ‘Think of Mr. Costello and his partner here as handsome escorts, I am sure you will be able to think of all kinds of amusements to make this short term arrangement a very pleasant distraction.’
Roxy Barrington shot Weinman the kind of look that would melt paint off an automobile.
‘I think what Al is trying to say,’ I said smoothly, ‘Is that we will play things very low key—at your own pace.’
‘You have no idea what my pace is Mr. Costello, I doubt if you could keep up.’
I pursed my lips thoughtfully, like I was pondering the implications, ‘Seeing as your father tasked us with keeping you out of trouble, you might find yourself travelling at a reduced velocity—for the next couple of weeks at least.’
Roxy Barrington laughed. ‘I am twenty-two years old Mr. Costello, what you going to do, tie me down?’ she asked, her voice smooth and contemptuous.
I wagged my finger in admonishment. ‘I was hoping that wouldn’t be necessary. There are some ground rules however.’
‘Ground rules—you have got to be kidding me.’
I swung a thumb towards Joe. ‘First off, here is your new driver, if you got yourself a low-key car of some kind, he will take you out in that, otherwise you will be sitting in back of our Escalade.’
Roxy Barrington folded her arms, her lips twisting sideways, with barely concealed displeasure.
‘Second, no boozing or narcotics—I get a smell you are breaking the second—you are going to have problems. Third—be nice and you will be back on your personal schedule faster than you can say billion-dollar inheritance.
Real sweet of you Mr. Costello, but what if I choose not to accept your gracious offer of protection.
Al Weinman had a look on his face that suggested he was going to give birth to a cantaloupe, when the girl coughed up that suggestion. He probably figured his involvement in Barrington seniors scheme to spoil his daughters fun was going to result in a precipitous and immediate fall off in this feisty little heiresses attentions, a double privation, for a priapic greed monkey of Weinman’s stature. But I wasn’t smiling either, and neither was Joe. We had just got ourselves a gig babysitting the biggest brat in America.
Dead Famous 22
Out front of Remi Martin’s pad, Ramirez and Kozak had a choice, and it wasn’t a happy one. Sure, they could get a warrant, waste precious hours, during which time Remi Martin might return to his crib and clean out any evidence that might be found. It stood to reason, that the minute Haze got back on the boulevard Martin would be his very first call, nothing too specific of course, the sniveling little punk wouldn’t want to admit he had spilled his guts to law enforcement, but he would put the kibosh on their chances of catching Martin with the drugs, that was for damn sure.
Choice two was no less wholesome, they went in without the paperwork and ran the risk of any evidence they found being subject to unlawful search and seizure. Those protocol hounds at IAG would shit a brick if they found out about that one.
Ramirez played the middle ground, pumping the doorbell with a heavy thumb. It wouldn’t do to grind nerves at headquarters, especially not on a job l
ike this. He stood back, looked up at the house. The place was a Spanish style mini-mansion, in battered white adobe. Must have cost a bundle. The whole area was the same; nothing but yuppies and old folks—normal families couldn’t afford to buy in this area of town.
Ramirez gave Kozak the nod, and his partner began scouting the ground floor perimeter, for signs of life. Ramirez figured that Martin must be out on the boulevard plying his trade. He scoped the overgrown garden and the densely parked street beyond. Foot traffic was light, but cars zipped by like firebugs in the night. Ramirez tried the door handle, slowly, experimentally. The heavy gauge bronze mechanism travelled downwards, before giving way with an exhausted click. Ramirez pushed and the door clunked open.
Kozak returned from his sortie, and stood at Ramirez’s side. Together they stared into the fetid gloom. Something smelled bad—a stench they had both encountered before, yet never become accustomed to. ‘This where we call the cavalry?’ said Kozak thinking out loud.
‘This is an unsecured property detective, there may be an injured citizen in danger.’
‘10-4 on that detective.’ Kozak shouldered his flashlight, whisked it around the interior in a wide arc, catching the ghostly shadows of a threadbare existence. Uncomfortable looking designer chairs, high piled electricals and an over sized elliptical machine stuck right in the middle of the family room. Ramirez and Kozak drew their weapons, moved forward quickly, covering each room as they went. Some rooms were empty, others piled high with boxes. Whoever lived here looked like they had just moved in or were about to move out.
Ramirez and Kozak moved in tandem, covering every door and danger point until they drew clear. They entered the kitchen: dirty crockery festered, in jagged unwashed piles. ‘This place was a restaurant it would be condemned,’ said Kozak.
‘What, you a clean freak all of a sudden?’ asked Ramirez gruffly, ‘You clear out back?’
‘Clear.’ Kozak eased out of his combat stance, let his gun sink down to his side. ‘Maybe it was the kitchen we could smell?’
Ramirez popped open the sub-zero and peered inside. Not much to see, just some fossilized condiment jars and a collection of wine bottles, filled to varying degrees with the kind of dregs that would give a frat-dorm alcoholic pause for thought. Ramirez rattled through the shelves. He saw the bottles of green tinged methadone first. Then, in amongst an aging collection of health freak vitamins were the real goodies, Oxycodone, Vicodin, and a bunch of other prescription meds of dubious distinction. Next, as he reached into the egg tray, Ramirez hit pay dirt—dozens of tiny glass jars. He pulled one out and held it close to the light. The label was covered in microscopic medical jargon, but it was the bold print branding that amped Ramirez’s pulse. ‘Jackpot,’ he said softly. “We got a connection.’ This creep has enough Thiopental to kill a whole penitentiary.
Kozak looked grim. ‘Looks like that Calina punk cut us a break. You think we should mail him his car keys back?’
‘Hell no, by the time that sniveling little punk calls Triple-A out, he should be half-way fit to drive, besides, we got work to do.’
‘Upstairs?’
‘Upstairs,’ confirmed Ramirez.
Ramirez and Kozak climbed to the second floor, with their weapons held high. Easing forward with caution, they found the stench that had assailed them in the lobby getting progressively worse with every step they took. Moving along the upper landing into a darkened hallway, they rapidly discovered that most of the upstairs rooms were entirely devoid of furniture, other rooms showed signs of squalid bachelor living: used laundry, piles of unopened mail and fast food detritus—everywhere. ‘This pig sty is giving me the creeps,’ said Kozak quietly, holding ready outside the master suite. Ramirez kicked open the door and they moved in fast, covering every angle of the room with their weapons.
Ramirez snapped the light on, with his elbow.
That’s when they saw the closet.
Ramirez moved forwards rapidly, following the sight of his weapon, as he pushed in through the half open doors.
The death stink hit them like a wall.
Ramirez shielded his nose and mouth with the crook of his elbow, stared hard at the corpse of Remi Martin, slumped against the far wall, gun in hand, the dark unsettling contents of his skull sprayed high against the wall.
‘Looks like the creep got a conscience,’ said Kozak quietly, his weapon hanging loosely by his side.
Ramirez gave the scene a professional once over, didn’t like what he saw. ‘Looks like a case of the citadel complex to me—we got the drug paraphernalia everywhere, like he was so fucking burned on dope he had the fear of everything, hid himself away in the closet so as he thought he would be safe.
‘I heard about it, but I never seen it,’ said Kozak.
‘These damn tweak jockeys are all the same, they think they can handle it, but by the time the realize they can’t, they are so hooked they lose all sense of perspective—start getting paranoid hallucinations that someone is trying to get them.’
‘You figure that’s what happened here? He was tweaking so bad he decided to blow his brains out?’
‘That would be real convenient for us wouldn’t it, this tweak-freak pops himself in the head, leaving nothing but a track record of lousy housekeeping and fridge load of Thiopental to be discovered by whom ever walks through the door.’
Kozak slid his weapon into his Bianchi holster and crossed his arms thoughtfully.
‘He left the front door unlocked—he wanted to be discovered.’
‘He wanted to be discovered, He wouldn’t have shot himself in the closet would he now, He’d have started shooting on Hollywood Boulevard at rush hour, like every other sick puppy stoner does when they are looking to become a walking cliché.’
‘He must have had it bad, he didn’t even pop his last shot, he’s still holding his damn rig for Christ’s sake.’
‘Yeah, he’s holding it detective and that’s the problem.’
Kozak bent down, examined the loaded syringe, then looked back at Ramirez in awe. ‘He is holding it in the wrong hand.’
‘You got to ask yourself why haven’t you? Young Remi here thinks he is the cock of the walk with all this primo dope he is running. All of a sudden, things go sour. He hooks up Saquina Johnson and her cute little pal with some killer dope and what do you know; said dope does what it says on the tin. So the king-of-tweak goes to ground, starts binging like he has never done before—feeling so low and dirty he just wants to die. In fact I wouldn’t be surprised the little creep watched the Academy Awards on television, saw the girl take the plunge, then put two and two together in his forty-watt mind—figuring we were going to be at his door sooner rather than later.
‘Only someone got to him first.’
‘Damn right they did. Trouble for them is they aren’t as smart as they need to be if they think they are getting away with this.’
‘So you figured this by the track marks—or the nicotine fingers?’
‘Pretty smart for a pimp-chaser Kozak.’
‘The kid isn’t going to hold his rig in the same arm he hits, and he isn’t going to, hit with his left if he is right handed—which means he shot himself with the wrong hand.’
‘Except he didn’t shoot himself, did he detective?’ Ramirez smiled. ‘My last partner was a world class prick on wheels, and I wasn’t exactly thrilled about running in a replacement, but I got to tell you Kozak, you ain’t half bad for a vice squad reject, Now get down to the vehicle, it’s time to call this one in.’
Dead Famous 23
Midnight forty-three in club Zoo and the place was throbbing with furious energy. Inez stood close to Sly Barrington, her close protection team tightening up, as the capacity crowd surged to the inhuman throb of a computerized dance beat.
Then cutting through the sound system, the voice of an MC, blurting an almost unintelligible announcement, driving the crowd ever wilder. All eyes turning to the stage, where backlit go-go dancers gyrated towards an elusi
ve crescendo. The volume amped-up. Dry ice swirled. A manic figure bounded on stage—stripped to the waist and shining, like a boiler-room stoker. The figure launched into a blistering rap routine, that quickly had the crowd pounding the air in time to the beat. As the dry ice swirled away, in the heat of the blazing spotlights, a shock of recognition ran through Inez. The crazed figure on stage was Shaquil Johnson, the very same Shaquil Johnson who had been so brusque and restrained at the earlier meeting with Danny.
The groove was infectious, the entire auditorium rising and falling in time to the furious rhythm of Shaqi-J’s routine. Inez watched in awe, as Johnson played every inch of the stage, goading the audience to ever-greater heights of approval.
Sly Barrington leaned over now, whispering in her ear, ‘My boy is a motherfucking star.’
There was no denying it, Shaquil Johnson exuded star quality form every pore on his shining body. He danced, he squirmed and he writhed, all the while fingering his finely muscled torso with a slow grinding sexuality that washed from the stage in waves. Could this really be the same guy? The quiet, creepy guy in the ugly sportswear; the guy that the tabloid press said was a brutal, monstrous husband. A man who cared for nothing and no one but his own selfish drive to become the biggest star in the firmament of music history.
Inez swallowed down the shock and surprise, wondering how any of this was possible. How could a woman as complex and fragile as Saquina be attracted to a rampaging beast such as this? Inez turned away from the stage, scanning the open beaming faces in the crowd as they shouted, danced and sang. How was it possible that so many could be so taken with this man, at a time when surely any other husband would be locked away in seclusion, consumed with quiet grief. Inez realized then, that the rumors were true. Shaquil Johnson had never loved his wife—could never have loved her—no matter how great his professionalism, he wouldn’t be able to put on a performance like this, with the drug ravaged corpse of his beloved lying cold and alone in the city morgue, after such a public and degrading humiliation.
