by Tony Bulmer
I cubed the chicken on the chopping board with a big knife; resolving to give Joe a call, see how the Roxy Barrington job was going down. I dashed in a hit of olive oil, into my easy-cook skillet—the pan sizzled and popped. Then, I whipped the eggs and poured in the vegetables. My gas hob flamed high around the rim of the pan. Max having scarfed his dinner, turned his attentions to my cooking, positioning him self at a carefully planned trajectory for tidbits. I sensed his big yellow eyes burning into me. ‘You know what the vet said about double dinners,’ I admonished. Max licked his lips unblinking, and scooched ever closer to the stove. Luckily, the hound is super active, or he would be fatter than a couch-bound Labrador in no time. I tossed him a piece of chicken. He caught it deftly—gulping it down in one swallow—then reprised the expectant look. Finito, I said. Max panted, wagged his tail, like it was the most enthralling piece of information that he had ever heard. Dogs.
As I flipped my dinner around the skillet, the house phone rang. No one rings the house phone—no one who knows me anyway. I frowned, stirred my dinner a little more, thinking that it would be a cold-call sales pitch for something I neither wanted, or needed.
The phone rang insistent.
I sighed, watched, as Max looked at the phone, then back to me, like he wanted me to answer it. I finally gave in, caught the call half a beat before the answer phone kicked in.
‘You got to come Mr. Costello,’ the troubled tone of Semo the Samoan, first mate of the Naja. I almost didn’t recognize the voice. Semo was a man of few words, but I knew that when he had something to say, it would be as important as hell.
‘It’s the captain, Mr. Costello, you got to come now.’
I needed no further bidding. If Semo the Samoan was telling me to come, it could mean only one thing: bad trouble and lots of it. I flipped off the hob and headed for the door, Max bounding after me.
Dead Famous 44
The gatehouse was dark. Ramirez and Kozak exchanged glances. ‘You home Mr. Johnson?’
Silence.
Kozak rapped on the door, stood back, noticed the bronze doorbell, a large ornate affair that looked like it had come from a different age. Kozak leaned in and gave it a push.
‘Los Angeles Police Department, Mr. Johnson,’ called Ramirez, ‘We would like to ask you a few questions.’
More silence.
‘Looks like our man ain’t home,’ sniffed Kozak, brushing down the line of his sports coat.
Ramirez shot him a hard look. ‘He ain’t home, that’s too bad.’ Stepping forward, Ramirez took hold of the giant door handle and gave it a twist. Nothing at first, then a heavy metallic crunch, as the door geared open.
‘We can’t go in, you know that don’t you?’
Ramirez shot Kozak a taught smile, ‘We are moving forward on this one partner, like it or not.’
‘Yeah? Well, let me tell you, this gangster-rap Versailles gives me the spooky-creeps, who lives in a place like this? You could drive an armored personal carrier in here, not even kiss the doors.’
‘Can it Kozak, this ain’t lifestyles of the rich and famous—We got a job to do, and the sooner we talk to Johnson, the sooner we get to kick it, over a bowl of chili and some ice-cold tequila blancos. You with me?’
Kozak drew his service piece, held it high and ready, ‘What are you waiting for—in we go.’
Ramirez twisted his face, with displeasure, ‘Let’s play it civilized Kozak, the natives in this zip code run tight with the shyster fraternity. You pop any holes in Mr. Johnson or his soft furnishings, you are liable to be working traffic on Wilshire for the next decade at least.’
Kozak threw Ramirez a tight smile, ‘This ghetto-rap superstar has himself a reputation. We go in we go in heavy or not at all. I ain’t going to get slugged for nothing, or no one, least of all for some pointy-faced public relations bullshit, the fourth floor has devised.’
‘I will be sure to relate that to Commissioner Jardine at your IAD hearing. Now get out the damn way Kozak.’ Ramirez strode inside the lobby of Shaquil Johnson’s gatehouse abode. Inside, the ceiling was high domed, with tiny window up high. Giant statues loomed out of shadowed alcoves, and as starlight filtered in from the high windows, Ramirez marveled, at the sight of a giant staircase, sweeping majestically upwards, like something out of an old-time Hollywood film set.
‘This is some kind of crib, it’s like a goddamn mausoleum,’ hissed Kozak.
Suddenly the cavernous lobby was bathed in a furious light from a giant chandelier, hanging above them, like a ballpark floodlight.
Ramirez blinked, held his arm across his face, shielding his eyes.
‘Who the fuck are you, and what the hell are you doing in my house?’ Shaqui-J stood at the top of the stairs, holding a large black shotgun. He was wearing silk pajamas, with a fancy monogrammed patch, embroidered on the breast pocket.
‘Police, Mr. Johnson. Los Angeles Police Department, Robbery Homicide, we…’
Shaqui-J racked a cartridge into the breech, pointed the weapon unsteadily from his vantage-point at the top of a sweeping staircase.
‘So you say. How I know that for sure?’
‘Drop the weapon Mr. Johnson,’ Yelled Kozak, moving quickly across the lobby, his gun held ready.
Ramirez moved right, with slow deliberate footsteps. ‘Do as the officer says Mr. Johnson. The door was open, we merely want to have a word,’ He held his badge high, ‘You see that badge Mr. Johnson. That ain’t a badge you want to fuck with, do you now?’
Sweating hard, Johnson adjusted his grip on the big shotgun, pointed it first one way, then the other, unable to figure which cop he should draw a bead on first. ‘Get the hell out of here,’ he squealed. ‘You ain’t got no right coming in my home like this. If I shot you now, there ain’t a court in the land that could hold me for it. Stay back, or I swear I will shoot you both.’
Ramirez lowered his badge, folding it away inside his jacket pocket. He gave a shrug. ‘Can’t say I would blame you for loosing off that cannon you got there. I am guessing you got to be some kind of big-balls sharpshooter holding that thing on officer Kozak and me, am I right Shaqui?’
Shaquil Johnson looked uneasy, shifting his eyes rapidly from one cop to the other, figuring the angles—knowing he wouldn’t be able to make two shots, without taking a hit himself. He bit his lip, eyes darting back and forth, consumed with indecision.
Kozak and Ramirez kept moving, widening the angle that their shooter would have to cover. Ramirez reached the bottom of the double sweep staircase. He placed his foot on the second step, and leaned on to his knee; giving Shaquil Johnson a cool, careful look. Ramirez raised his finger, wagged it in the air, and said, ‘Tell you what I will do Mr. Johnson, I will let you lower that cannon now, before detective Kozak here gets all enthusiastic and splatters the contents of your head across that expensive wallpaper you got going on up there. A few quick questions and we will be out of your hair. Sound like a deal?’
Johnson’s fingers moved antsy on the gun, ‘How I know you’re real cops?’
Ramirez smiled pleasantly, ‘If we weren’t, you would be dead already.’
The information computed slow through Shaquil Johnson’s brain. He opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. He eased his hand off the butt off the gun and held the weapon slowly out to the side, a symbol of capitulation.
Ramirez nodded, gave Johnson a happy smile, ‘You might want to reach down slow, place that shotgun on the floor.’
The adrenaline of the moment bubbled out of Shaquil Johnson, in a flow of verbal recalcitrance, ‘I ain’t done a damn thing, so don’t be saying I did. I got big friends in this town, real big friends and I won’t be taking none of your cop bullshit, just so as we are clear.’
Kozak was at the top of the stairs now closing fast. He kicked the shotgun clear, ‘Hands on your head’ he snapped.
‘You got to be kidding me,’ whined Shaqui-J.
Ramirez walked up the stairs still smiling, ‘Do we ever
kid detective Kozak?’
‘Uh-Uh,’ drawled Kozak by way of confirmation.
‘Get on your knees Johnson,’ commanded Ramirez.
‘Hell, no, I ain’t getting on my knees for no one, I am a god-damn star!’ Shaqui-J saw Kozak’s gun swing into his peripheral vision, and he got slowly, reluctantly to his knees.
‘You gonna pay for this, I swear you gonna pay,’ blubbered Shaqui-J.
‘Quit your bellyaching, and tell us about Remi Martin,’ snapped Ramirez.
‘I ain’t got no friends called Remi Martin.’
Ramirez stood on the top step of the sweeping staircase, bent in close to Shaqui-J and said, ‘Friends? Who mentioned friends? When I asked your pal Sly Barrington about Remi Martin, he assumed I was talking about Cognac, same as most people would. But you mentioned friends.’
On his knees at the top of the staircase Shaqui-J looked around in terror, ‘I made a mistake—I ain’t saying nothing.’
Ramirez sighed, pulled his knuckles ’til they cracked. ‘You know what a connection is Johnson?’
Shaqui-J shook his head furiously, ‘I don’t know anything about no connections, now let me up, my knees is hurting.’
Ramirez winced, gave Kozak a glance. Then, pursed his lips, asked in a thoughtful tone. ‘You ever been to Corcoran Johnson?’
‘Hell, no, I done nothing but county time, a man can make mistakes can’t he, don’t have to pay for it the rest of his motherfucking life?’
Kozak leaned against the banisters, looked down at Shaqui-J, sniffed, then said, ‘I am guessing a stretch in the Federal pen could play havoc with a musical career am I right?’
Shaqui-J shot him a wide-eyed look.
Ramirez nodded, ‘Ten years and those teenyboppers will be all grown up. Course there’s always the dinner club-circuit, I hear they pay top-dollar for nostalgia acts.’ Ramirez smiled inwardly, as Johnson squirmed. He had heard the creep’s misogynist cop killing lyrics, thought they were ugly and moronic. Shaqui-J played up his image as a law-breaker, talking the big talk about what a gangster he was, but when it came down to it he was nothing but a spineless weasel.
‘Your little pal Martin hooked Saquina up with the shit that killed her, didn’t he Johnson. And that makes you an accessory to murder. Did you think you could kill your wife and get away with it?’
‘I didn’t kill her I swear to you—I was trying to help her, you have no idea what it was like. That bitch was crazy, out of control, there wasn’t nothing could stop her getting drugs.’
‘Can the whining bullshit Johnson,’ snapped Ramirez. ‘You are in a mess of trouble. The whole world is out to find out who sold that cute little wife of yours the dope—some one has to take the fall, and it looks like that someone is you. So, unless you open up, tell us the real story behind this whole sordid mess, we will haul you down town for a fast-track ticket to the big house.’
‘Ain’t you supposed to read me my rights or something?’
‘We could play it formal—if you wanted to, but you could just as easily slip down this big staircase of yours, or accidently shoot yourself in the head, that shit happens all the time doesn’t it Kozak?
‘Hell, yeah,’ drawled Kozak. ‘All the time.’
‘You wouldn’t dare, I am fucking famous! People would know, they would find out…’
‘You think we haven’t done this kind of thing before Johnson?’
Shaqui-J looked up with tearful eyes, first at Ramirez, then Kozak and back again. He swallowed hard. ‘I talk to you I am a dead man—they tried it once already, they will try again, my life’s worth nothing, nothing!’
‘Who you talking about?’ snapped Ramirez brusquely, his fists balling with impatience.
Shaqui-J blubbered unintelligibly, a broken figure, at the limit of his sanity.
‘You talking about Chimola—Sly Barrington, or someone else?’ asked Ramirez, grabbing Shaqui-J by the collar. ‘Did they have a hand in the Blandell killing Johnson—did they?’
Shaquil Johnson swiveled fearfully, cringing as the implied violence in Ramirez’s voice cut through him, like a wide blade razor.
‘Blandell is dead? I swear I didn’t know, I swear it!’
‘Sounds like a bullshit lie to me,’ said Kozak. ‘You knew him, didn’t you?’
‘He was my wife’s probation officer for Christ’s sake, of course I knew him, but not in the way you mean. He was a creepy fucking bureaucrat. Got cheap thrills lording it over people, like he was god or something—but that’s what they’re all like, those god damn government desk jockeys.’
‘You ever visit a place called Club Stacked?’ snapped Ramirez.
Shaqui-J looked confused, thinking fast, like it was a trick question, ‘I visits I lot of places detective, that don’t mean a damn thing, does it?’
‘I think he wasted the probation officer for the hell of it, so he could make pretend he was some big time killer to his gangster friends,’ snapped Kozak.
‘You tripping if you think you can pin me with that kind of bullshit,’ squawked Shaqui-J. ‘Matter of fact, I think it’s about time I talked to my lawyer, see what he thinks about two police officers bursting into my crib without a legitimate search warrant.’
‘You got a nasty crybaby mouth on you Johnson; you are going to make real good company for those boys up in Corcoran. I hear Myron Chimola’s crew run that place. Maybe me and detective Kozak here will start up a sweepstakes at Hollywood Station on how long it takes you to get shanked—or worse.’
‘I know what you trying to do, you are trying to make me say bad things, that ain’t true, so that you can fit me up for what happened to that bitch wife of mine, but it ain’t working blue.’
‘That is a real nasty way to talk about the love of your life Johnson, what would your adoring public think?’
‘Fuck the public, they is stupider than you detective, if they think me and that stoned ass dyke bitch had anything going. It was all about the Benjamin’s baby! She got her self a handsome young stud to make her look respectable in the bullshit media. I get me a fat pile of cash by way of compensation. Slycorp had me on the payroll, a sweet check every month on the nose for compliance.’ Shaqui-J grinned wide with triumph, ‘Why would I cut that sweet business deal dead? But there is more than that isn’t there, I got the perfect alibi, there ain’t no one alive who would pass up the kind of scratch Sly Barrington was throwing my way, a million dollars a month, just for playing the happy husband.’
Ramirez stared, barely able to conceal his disgust, ‘You are slime Johnson.’
‘I can take your insults detective, after living with that bitch Saquina, I can take anything…’
‘Let’s push him down the stairs anyway,’ intoned Kozak.
‘You can’t do that.’
‘This creep is going to tell us all about Myron Chimola first,’ growled Ramirez.
Shaqui-J smiled happily, ‘I ain’t telling you a damn…’
A furious rushing of air, followed by a white light flash, and an instantaneous impact so explosive it popped windows on the outside of the gatehouse. A million glass shards scythed through the air, propelled by the concussive blast.
Ramirez staggered backwards, sagged against the wall. Kozak shouted something. But Ramirez couldn’t hear a damn thing, just a thick muffled pounding in his ears. The lights fizzed and went out.
A second flash.
This time Ramirez followed Kozak’s lead, fell forwards, covered his head with his hands muttering a silent prayer. When he finally raised his head, Shaqui-J was nowhere to be seen. Ramirez peered into the gloom, his head thick with the sound of the explosion, a distant sound of something that sounded like a fire alarm.
An acrid smoke haze, and the pulse of flames cutting out through the darkness.
Kozak, up close a flashlight in-hand—Mouthing unintelligible words. Ramirez frowned, stared at him like he was a crazy man. Slowly, ever so slowly, he figured out what the words were: They got the house. They got the house.
Slowly, unsteadily, Ramirez placed his hand on the cast iron banister and drew himself upwards. Once standing, he peered down the staircase into the dusty chaos of the room below. Shaqui-J lay at the bottom of the stairs, not moving.
‘You see him take a tumble?’ asked Ramirez.
‘He was like that when we got here far as I know,’ intoned Kozak.
‘That’s what I figured,’ said Ramirez. ‘You want to see if he’s got a pulse, because I don’t want no corpse stink in our vehicle when we haul his sorry ass down town.’
Kozak sniffed, ‘He sure looks dead. Stairs can be dangerous. You want me to cuff him to the banister, so as we can save him for later?’
‘I don’t think our boy is going anywhere…’ said Ramirez.
The air was hot and thick, filled with debris and the stench of destruction. Ramirez dusted himself off, a furious electric buzz resounding in his head.
That’s when the gunfire started.
Ramirez pulled his service piece, and headed for the door, Kozak at his side.
Shaqui-J lay motionless at the bottom of the stairs, where he had fallen—his neck bent at a crazy angle.
Dead Famous 45
As Inez Santos patrolled the inside of the Barrington residence, she moved uneasily from room to room. From events at Saquina Johnson’s funeral, she knew that out there somewhere, in the star-spangled city night, a killer was lurking. The nature of the graveyard attack had her worried, a pro-hit with a military grade sniper rifle meant that they were dealing with a major-league opponent. Inez knew from her experience working for the US Marshalls office, that gangland hitters make their mark with small caliber full-auto weapons, like the Mac 11. They like to get up close and personal, hose their victims down with a hail of gunfire: make sure they go down and stay down. The M.O. of the graveyard hitter was quite different. The approach vibed special forces military, a thought that made her deeply uneasy. If they were dealing with a disciplined military approach, the hitter would try again and soon. The knowledge filled Inez with the vigorous need to prepare. She closed off points of vulnerability placing rooms with high-risk exposure off limits to Barrington. Other rooms she shuttered down, adjusting the drapes and lighting, to prevent silhouetted movements. Enemies would be watching. Moving the client to a more secure location would have been a better solution to the danger. But Barrington and his crew of lackeys met all such proposals with recalcitrance—so much for expensive advice. If the mogul wanted to ride across the rifle range without a tin helmet, it was his prerogative—he was the client after all, and the client is always right, even when he is wrong. A fast work around was the only solution. Inez upped patrols in the grounds; hired a cement truck, to block the view of the house from the drive. Next, she added a bank of mobile floodlights, to throw a barrage of light into the trees near the tennis court. But there were plenty of other danger points that it was impossible to cover. Beyond the perimeter of the property, there were many high ridges, and a thousand other places where an assassin with a high-end sniper scope could hide, waiting for the right moment to unleash a salvo of death.
