by Tony Bulmer
Inez felt a rush of nausea, as the staggering truth hit home: A man who cared so little for his wife could quite easily have been involved in her death. Was this bounding, writhing maniac she saw on stage, the very same man who had pandered to the vulnerabilities of a damaged star and supplied her with the drugs that he knew he would killer her? The coldness of his offstage presence; the writhing, unchecked ego he presented to his adoring public; it all added up to one thing: Shaquil Johnson was sub-zero cool, the kind of personality who would be more than capable of exploiting and even eliminating any threat to his plans of power and fame, but was he capable of murder?
The big questions pounded through Inez’s head in time to the monstrous beat and just when it seemed that the audience could go no higher, a second figure dashed on stage: Sly Barrington’s obnoxious ward Kid Dolla.
Inez recognized the song, a high-riding radio hit she’d heard a hundred times before: In the gym, in the car, and the mall as well. No wonder Sly Barrington’s company was going public. His product was all-pervasive. His business a giant money making machine raking through the entertainment world like a bulldozer.
Inez stared, as Shaqi-J and Kid Dolla pranced on stage, like crotch thrusting demi-gods. They looked kind of comic, as they pulled their shop worn-moves. No joy in their faces, just unadulterated egotism, packaged with a double portion of locker-room raunch, For those who liked their pounding pop music with well-cut abdominals and a sleazy aftertaste this display would be irresistible. Inez liked the dance floor groove, the beat was infectious, but the teen idol image was unconvincing, more so for Shaqi-J who was clearly heading for his teeny-bop sell-by date at a rapid rate of knots.
Sly Barrington shared no such reservations however, on the contrary, he displayed wild enthusiasm for the performance, raising his hands in applause and bellowing wildly as the show reached its finale. Still cheering as his protégés took their lap of honor around the stage to wild applause, Barrington pressed forwards through the crowd, heading for the stage door. Inez had his moves covered almost before he made them, giving her team the signal to form up and create a passage. The distraction on stage worked for them, as they forged out of the VIP area heading for the labyrinthine corridors inside the back stage area.
As the thrudding beat receded, behind the swing shut fire doors, Inez turned to Barrington and said, ‘We got to hit the street, before the club turns out, else we will be vulnerable.’
‘We are sticking with the after party Santos, so you better relax into things, I done this shit a thousand times before, and tonight isn’t going to be no different.’
‘That’s the problem, you have to change things out, or you lay yourself open to attack, kidnapping, who knows what else.’
Barrington laughed out loud, indicated his burgeoning entourage with a flamboyant gesture and said, ‘You think anyone is going to fuck with me, when I got my family close?’
Inez gave him a tight look. ‘I don’t know how many billions this deal is worth to you Barrington, but I know how to keep people safe. You better play it the way those paper shuffling insurance goons want it while you are brokering this deal, or you take the consequences.’
‘I look like some one who gives a damn about consequences Santos?’
‘You sure don’t. But that ain’t my job tough guy.’
‘Your job is whatever I damn well tell you it is Santos, so take a chill-pill, I got people I need to talk to.’
As they headed closer to the stage door, Inez felt the hackles on her neck tingle. The place was non sterile. Disparate groups of gang-bangers were already congregating, with the heavy scent of marijuana hanging heavy in the air. There was no pass system, no way of telling who was who and as they shouldered their way towards the inner sanctum of the dressing room, the hangers-on looked progressively more ugly. High-fives and gang sign greetings welcomed Barrington like a conquering hero. He lapped it up, yuck–yucking like a neighborhood Don, just home from a holiday in the slammer.
They were alone in the badlands now. Venue security were nowhere to be seen, Inez figured they had been given orders to stay clear of the backstage area, so that Barrington’s unsavory companions could party freely, with no killjoy witnesses to recount testimony.
Outside the door to the dressing room, the bad vibes intensified. Marked as outsiders. Inez and her team received ugly-looks. The heavy smell of hard liquor and marijuana permeated everything. Inez stayed close to Barrington, sensing that things could get ugly and quick. No knowing who was armed here. No knowing who held a jealous grudge, or a dangerous need for notoriety.
In the subculture world of LA gangland, life was cheap, attitude was bad and salvation a very long way off. Inez played it poker faced—hung close to Barrington, feeling the reassuring snuggle of her Glock Seventeen tight against her flesh.
Once inside the dressing room, Inez moved fast, closing off the doors, with point guards, dialing in the venue manager on the house phone, telling him unless he got security to clear out the back corridor, her next call would be to the Fire Department, see what they thought about club Zoo’s fast and loose policy on venue capacity. Last she ran inventory on the room, checking out everyone who might be a threat. Almost everyone looked like a killer, so it was a difficult to focus. Her only option was to play things out. If trouble came, she would deal with it.
But when trouble came, it came ugly, in a way that Inez could never have expected.
She had already established that Shaqi-J was the kind of sleaze-ball creep for whom no kind of activity was too sordid or depraved—it was the squealing protestations of a cruelly violated groupie that first alerted Inez that the after party hoopla was going badly awry. It was hard to detail the genesis of the argument, as it originated deep inside the men’s bathroom; but when the pretty little girl with corkscrew hair and a torn dress emerged at speed, clutching her bleeding face in her hands, Inez swept rapidly into action.
She jerked her head at her wing-men—‘Get him out now.’
‘I ain’t going nowhere,’ growled Barrington, rising to his feet.
Inez didn’t wait to argue, she was already bounding into the men’s room, where she found a dazed and trouserless Shaqi-J nursing his bloodied knuckles. The bitch had it coming, was all he could manage, before Inez took him down with a brutal left, right combination that sent him skating across the filthy wash room floor on his bare ass. His head impacted the sink with a sickening clunk.
An ugly looking gang-banger stepped out of the stall, buttoning up his pants; he looked at Inez, then at Shaqi-J slumped under the sink.
‘You hit him pretty good lady.’ The gangbanger had a nasty face, scarred up like some one had pulled him out of a sideshow gift game with a mechanical claw. The part that wasn’t scarred, was tattooed in a scrawling gangland script.
‘Did you hurt that girl,’ asked Inez.
‘Ain’t none of your business what I do little lady, you a cop or something?’ He smiled, displaying an ugly nest of gold and rotten ivory inside his black little mouth. He twisted his head first one way, then the other. ‘You ain’t nothing like no cop I ever seen sweetheart, which means you are in a whole mess of trouble.’ He took a step forward, then another.
That’s when Sly Barrington walked through the door, closely flanked by his body guards.
‘I thought I told you two to get him out of here?’
‘He wasn’t listening Ms Santos.’
‘Maybe you should make him listen—now would be a good time.’
Scarface chuckled nastily, ‘Where you hire these party clowns from Barrington, you losing your touch or something?
Barrington moved quickly, faster than she had ever seen a three hundred pound guy move before. When he hit Scarface fractions of a second later, the impact was dramatic—the ugly little weasels face exploded with an impact so bloody it looked like he had been hit by a runaway prizefighter—or a former linebacker for the Oakland Raiders.
Barrington turned to Shaqi-J, ‘Get your pants on—you fuckin
g animal.’
‘I didn’t do nothing boss, Myron said his girl liked to double team, we just got a little carried away is all.’
That’s when Inez saw the gun, a snub-nosed Smith and Wesson Night Guard, balled tight in Barrington’s fist. She stepped in front of Shaqi-J, told Barrington to relax.
Instead Barrington raised an accusing finger at Shaqi-J said, ‘The girl is not even in the ground and you are back to your usual tricks, couldn’t save it until after the funeral could you?’
‘I’m sorry boss—I swear it will never happen again. I swear to you.’ Shaqi-J was squirming on his ass, attempting in vain to slot his legs into his filthy trousers.
For Inez the picture was now complete. No wonder Saquina Johnson had recoiled from this disgusting rapist creep. No wonder she had sought solace in drugs and the company of her beautiful young assistant Georgia. So why did she marry him in the first place. A second rate rapper with a penchant for violence, misogyny and hard drugs wasn’t exactly catch of the century was he? Suddenly Inez got it. Saquina Johnson had been hiding a homosexual lifestyle from her adoring public, how better to hide the lie than a glitzy marriage to the most heterosexual man in the music business.
‘We got to go, said Barrington.’
Inez laughed. ‘Now you want to go?’
‘Not want to, have to, that motherfucker with the tattooed face is Myron Chimola the head of the Southside mafia. Soon as his people find out what’s happened here, there is going to be a war.’
‘You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who would run out on a war,’ said Inez smoothly.
Barrington turned, leveled the snub nosed Smith at her stomach. ‘We could end it right here tonight, trouble is I don’t leave witnesses Santos.’
‘So what are you waiting for, loose one off, see how far it gets you,’ purred Inez drawing back her jacket, letting him see the handle of her Seventeen, giving him a look that told him she knew how to use it, if it ever came out of the holster.
Barrington just grinned, ‘I ain’t got a problem shooting you Santos, your boyfriends too. I put a slug in you there ain’t no one going to find you, no matter how hard they look. Problem is I like you.’
‘I am touched Barrington, because I never had to shoot a client before—not yet at least.’
Dead Famous 24
Roxy Barrington was none too pleased when she heard my edicts regarding her new found protected status, and I couldn’t say I blame her. What kind of parent has to hire Special-Forces security staff to keep his kid in line? Granted, most kids are not reckless dope-guzzling socialites, with an almost endless capacity for disaster; but Roxy Barrington was twenty-two years old, the age when commonsense and a measure of responsibility should be starting to kick in for even the most socially retarded youngster.
No chance of that. The girl was wilder than a charging leopard and dangerous with it.
I figured she would pull a move, make a break for freedom so when it happened I was ready. One minute she was plying her girlish charm on Joe, while I chatted to Weinman about the CCP game plan, next minute she was sliding towards the bathroom flashing her million dollar lashes, giving me a see you in a second wave of her sweet little fingers. I wasn’t buying it, not for a second.
I had her figured immediately.
So when she climbed out of the bathroom window, not even five minutes later, car keys in hand, I was there to help her down over the shrubbery. It was surprising how quickly the faux pleasantness melted away. Realizing she had been busted, she attacked immediately. Her style was impressive: a combination of mixed martial arts moves that scythed out of the darkness with lethal accuracy. The kid could throw the sort of flurries that would have taken down most people, no question.
Problem for her, I wasn’t most people.
I blocked fast, turned her moves around Hapkido style and took her down volante, with a couple of well-aimed thumb-strikes. I caught her before she hit the floor, readjusted the hemline of her dress as close to the knee as I could manage, then flipped her over my shoulder fireman style.
When I re-entered the house Weinman was aghast, staring at me in disbelief, like I was some schoolyard bully who had just bludgeoned his sweetheart and dragged the ugly evidence inside for him to inspect. ‘What the hell have you done to her Costello?
‘I could ask you the same question couldn’t I Weinman?’ I kept my voice pleasant, gave him a look that showed I knew exactly how far his relationship with Roxy Barrington went.
Weinman swallowed down the comment with a gulp that had his Adams-apple bobbing like a rim-shot basketball. He may even have turned a shade paler, but it was impossible to tell under his phony Florida tan.
‘We will look after her Weinman, meanwhile Joe here will stand guard, make sure she doesn’t choke down the entire contents of your liquor cabinet in one sitting.
‘You cannot do that Costello, that is kidnapping, stammered Weinman.
‘Don’t worry about a thing Al—we got this thing covered.’ Even as I said it, I knew there was more to the Barrington job than running protection on his errant daughter—I knew that the truth ran far deeper than either Barrington or Weinman were letting on. As my thoughts raced over the angles, my cell phone pulsed in my shirt pocket. I ignored it, thinking hard about the million dollar payday dangling before me; wondering why Al Weinman would be interested in hooking CCP into a big–bucks job like this in the first place. The situation had an unsettling undertow of conspiracy about it, but working the angles in the personal protection business you are always looking to the future and a healthy level of intuitive reasoning never does any harm. I knew one thing for damn sure—trouble was on the way.
‘Hey, Al, I hope you got chocolate pretzels and full-service cable, because the Dodgers are playing at home tonight,’ said Joe.
Weinman slid his finger inside his shirt collar and fidgeted, his reptile mouth twisting unpleasantly.
‘I gave Joe a tight look, ‘Look after the girl. Keep it low profile.’
‘Relax partner, I got things covered.’ Joe peered at Roxy Barrington, felt for a pulse, then popped open her eyelid, to check for dilation, ‘You took her out pretty good Costello—you hit her with the thumb jab?’
‘Something like that FYI the girl is a full throttle fire-cat, so be on your guard.’
Joe narrowed his eyes, smiled. ‘I like fire-cats, the wilder the better.’
My phone pulsed again. I took it out and examined the screen. An incoming text message from Inez, it read: Trouble at club Zoo, followed by an emoticon sad face. The sad face was code for come at once. I slipped the phone back into my pocket fast. ‘I have to go gentlemen.’
‘Just a minute,’ blurted Weinman, ‘Holding Ms Barrington against her will, is a felony, it is also highly unethical, Mr. Costello—you cannot involve me in this—this conspiracy.’
I gave him my nicest customer services smile and said, ‘You are involved Weinman, whether you like it or not, if you don’t like it, go cry to your rep at the American Bar Association, I am sure they will run a special feature on you in that cute little magazine they have, what’s it called again—disbarment weekly?’
Weinman’s eyes bulged with fear and barely concealed hatred. His face buckling as he tried, to think of a reason—any reason, to escape further involvement. His reptile face telegraphed his intentions. As I walked out the door I turned, said, ‘Play nice everyone and don’t think of running out on us Al, because if you do, there is no telling what your pal Sly Barrington will find out—are we clear?’
Weinman swallowed down the fear, his rat eyes darting quickly from Joe to me and back again before nodding in feeble acquiescence.
I made fast time down the mountain from Beverly Crest, taking every chicane turn as fast I could, I headed down Coldwater Canyon, towards Santa Monica Boulevard, my headlights picking out the glow of tight curve warning signs, as I drove hard onto North Beverly. The glowing neon Hades of the Angeleno night closed in around me: big box eateries, and
mindless consumption were major themes of this tombstone advertising bonanza. I filtered out the glow, switched lanes and headed for the target zone.
I hooked into the Escalades onboard computer system, speed dialed Inez and waited two beats for a pick up. ‘When I heard her voice, it was icy calm and husky, her words came slow and clear to a pulsing backbeat of dance music.
‘What’s your ETA Costello?’
‘Swinging into view any second, you got a situation on your hands?’
‘Precautionary measures, we need an extraction and fast.’
‘Any casualties?’
‘The away team took a hit, nothing terminal but it could turn ugly.’
‘Ten-four, how you want to play the pull out?’
‘We move to the rear, but be aware, the going is tight in the alley and there could be interference.’
‘Professional interference?’
‘Strictly picayune.’
By this time I was screeching out of my third light on Santa Monica Boulevard, heading west at speed. ‘You ready to go?’ I asked, as I approached the zone. An affirmative was all I needed to close. I told Inez to listen for the thunder, then closed the line.
I used the GPS to locate the alley, headed in fast from the east. The big truck rolled at speed, churning up clouds of dust and street trash. I flipped all the lights to full beam, creating a wall of light that filled the narrow space with a blistering halide glare. Up ahead, a crowd of dazed freaks and street flotsam fame hounds turned to the light. At first they were startled by the roaring intrusion, paralyzed by the power of the blazing lights. But as the giant truck headed towards them, with building speed, they quickly got the message, and began piling out of the trajectory of the fast moving vehicle as fast as they could scramble. I flipped back an anodized panel next to the gear-shift and fingered the controls, making ready for the go. Not even level yet, I hit the breaks hard and launched the truck into a careering power-slide, that sent a wall of gravel and dust high in the air
I pressed down hard on the hidden buttons, and watched with satisfaction, as thick clouds of M8, a military grade brand of hexachloroethane, billowed into the air. Less than three seconds later, the alley was a thick, impenetrable wall of smoke. I gave it a few seconds longer, watched as black figures rushed past at speed, racing to get somewhere, anywhere, but the smoke filled alley. I reached under my seat, pulled out my gasmask, and fitted it over my head in a leisurely fashion, to make sure the fit was right, then rolled down the drivers side window and launched an M84 flash-bang into the billowing smoke filled blackness—a brief delay. I covered my ears, squinched my eyes tight shut and waited for the blast. When it came, it came hot and powerful, like a real grenade was going off, rather than a non-lethal firecracker from my Army surplus toy-box.
