Dead Famous (Danny Costello)

by Tony Bulmer

  I triumphant electronic trill from the computer game, then the man from Long Beach looked up. ‘You took your time,’ he said, I thought you weren’t coming.’

  ‘Have you got it Bear?’

  Bear stared at her, ‘You got the money?’ he asked, his voice quiet and wet.

  Roxy Barrington drummed her fingers on the top of the leather attaché case, by way of reply.

  Bear licked his lips. ‘Listen, the thing at the house…’ his eyes fell on her legs and lingered there.

  ‘You thought I would be mad?’

  The eyes lingered on her legs for a moment longer then he looked up at her. ‘You mean that you’re not? I thought that after that scene at funeral you would be pissed at me?’

  Roxy Barrington turned, looked at him and said, ‘Silly Bear, I could never be mad at you, you know that.’

  Bear sniffed, looked at her a long moment, then reached down between his legs and grabbed a brown paper bag, with a fast food logo emblazoned across the side. ‘This is for you. I hope you like it.’

  She took the bag, weighed it experimentally in her hand. ‘What is this?’

  ‘It is a 9MM Springfield XD sub compact.’

  ‘That isn’t what I asked for, is it?’

  ‘I couldn’t get a Nighthawk with a suppressor. Those things are hard to come by, especially at short notice. I figured you would like this better, it has a sixteen shot magazine and is real easy to hide—so small folks’ll hardly notice you are carrying until it is too late.’

  Roxy Barrington smiled, ‘Is it powerful?’

  ‘Real powerful, you could stop a rhino with that thing.’

  ‘A rhino huh? Did you get the ammunition?’

  ‘Sure I did Roxy, two boxes and the spare magazines, just like you asked.’

  She gave him a steady look, her dark spider web lashes unblinking. She reached inside the paper bag and pulled out the gun. The pistol grip fitted her hand perfectly. She turned the weapon over in her hand, examining it carefully. ‘An automatic, I like it. You have done well Bear.’

  Bear ran his tongue over his lips, looked hungrily at the attaché case.

  ‘Roxy Barrington popped the magazine, checked it was fully loaded, then jacked the clip back into the gun with expert fingers. Racking the slide, she smiled at Bear, ‘Aren’t you going to check your money?’

  ‘I trust you Roxy, you know that.’

  She smiled, flashed her eyelashes and said, go on Bear take a look, I would like to see your face when you see your money.’ She slid the attaché case over, on to his knees. He caressed the surface of the case, his hot, wet, fingers trailing over the leather with anticipation before he snapped open the thick brass clasps

  Roxy Barrington moved fast, snapping the gun hard against Bear’s head. She pulled the trigger. Three fast shots on full auto—blam-blam-blam and then it was over.

  There he sat, his final words hanging dead on his lips, a million-dollars in bloodstained bills sitting in his lap.

  She watched the final choking death shudders, absorbed the gut-churning stink of the kill then wiped off the hot weapon with a Kleenex. She held the gun in her gloved hand marveling at its beauty. Bear had done well. He had excelled himself in fact.

  Dead Famous 56

  Ramirez was very far from happy. He came right over, with a hot, steaming coffee in his hand, as Federal agents rushed past, with heavy laden boxes of financial records. Kozak wandered in behind him, taking in the scene.

  Ramirez said, ‘I see it, but I don’t believe it Costello.’

  ‘About time you got here Ramirez, I was beginning to think you and Ranger Frank over there were losing your touch.’

  ‘What is it with you and murder scenes Costello, you like the cadaver stink or something?’

  ‘A man has to have hobbies,’

  ‘It is about time you got a new one.’

  ‘No-kidding. You met Agent Buchanan?’ I asked.

  Ramirez pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his sweat-bathed forehead, ‘Yeah, we had the dubious pleasure. He has a real high opinion of you—can’t imagine why—You been giving him the benefit of your famous crime-fighting opinions or something?’

  ‘They asked for a run down, I gave it. On the plus side, I met a very nice fellah from the Securities and Exchange Commission, who was the very personification of charm.’

  ‘No shit.’

  ‘Yeah, and he was a real snappy dresser—you hurry you might be able to get tips.’

  Ramirez dabbed at his face with the handkerchief, then folded it away in his jacket pocket. ‘Tell me about the stiff in the pool Costello.’

  ‘Well, I am no expert but the way he was floating in the water I would say he has been dead two hours tops. No immediate sign of blunt-force trauma or gunshot injury, So I am guessing that when the gurney wranglers fish him out, for a trip to slab city you will find he has been stuck with a hypodermic full of Thiopental.’

  ‘Damn it Costello, I already told you about your Perry Mason theories once today. You going for the show-trial finish or something?’

  ‘Awful cool Ramirez, for a man who is going to have the biggest murder case in Southern California history ripped out of his fingers, by a bunch of know nothing Feds.’

  ‘This is an LAPD jurisdiction plain and simple Costello.’

  ‘Is that why they just shipped Al Weinman down to Fed Central on Wilshire Boulevard.’

  ‘They got the lawyer? Barrington’s Lawyer?’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry—they didn’t tell you that? Agent Buchanan and his smart little buddy must have been too tramping all over your crime scene, to fill you in with the details. Either that, or they were laughing their asses off about all the fill-in paperwork you are going to do for them, when they have finally strip-mined this joint, of every last piece of evidence that might be useful to you.’

  Ramirez looked around him. Saw the procession of Federal Agents shipping out the heavy-laden boxes of paperwork, throwing them in the back of their truck. He took a gulp of coffee and looked at Kozak. ‘What you think detective?’

  ‘Pains me to say it, but I think Costello is right for once. These Federal pricks are stealing this case out from under us.’

  Ramirez scowled. ‘You are going to tell me everything that went on here this afternoon, and I do mean everything.’

  So I told him. Laid it on the line, every gory little detail Al Weinman had told me. Ramirez and Kozak listened close, holding on to every nuanced word. Sometimes they asked questions, but mostly they just nodded along as I told them how it was. And when I had finished they looked at each other, exchanging dark expressions.

  ‘They screwed us over, you know that don’t you?’ said Kozak, this whole case was bullshit from the start. Way I see it, the Barrington girl is in deep, all this high jingo bullshit from the Emperor’s office is just a way of containing things, until Barrington throws a share of this stock market flotation into the City coffers.

  Ramirez said, ‘You are starting to sound like Costello the conspiracy theorist, and you know what, as convenient as all this sounds, there isn’t a shred of hard evidence to link these crimes together.’

  Kozak said, ‘Really? What about Al Weinman, if he and the girl were really plotting to take over Slycorp that would mean…’

  ‘Where is Sly Barrington exactly?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t you worry about him,’ said Ramirez, the guy is flying out to New York for the Stock Market launch of Slycorp tomorrow. Way I hear it, he is going to ring the bell on the floor of the Exchange when trading opens, you time it right, you might just be able to catch it on television tomorrow morning.’

  ‘There ain’t nothing going to happen to him in the Apple,’ said Kozak, ‘and if something does, he will be out of our jurisdiction.’

  ‘He won’t be out of mine,’ I said.

  ‘Give me a break Costello,’ said Ramirez, ‘If you’ve got an ounce of sense in that retrograde brain of yours, you will stay the hell away from that creep Barringt
on. If your smart-ass theory is right, and he does get dead, what of it? You ask me, it couldn’t happen to a better guy. Why would you go and spoil that, by sticking your nose in where it isn’t wanted?’

  ‘Professional integrity, gentlemen. You better tell New York I am coming.’

  Ramirez and Kozak exchanged glances

  Ramirez said, ‘I am sure the NYPD will be thrilled, I bet they will rollout the red carpet and everything.’

  But I was already heading out the door, I speed dialed a number on my cell phone and waited for a pick up. The robot tone stretched endlessly. Finally I heard Sly Barrington’s voice.

  ‘What you want?’

  ‘I want you safe.’

  ‘Couldn’t be safer Costello,’

  ‘Where you at?’

  ‘Seeing as you got the balls to ask, I am heading east in my private jet, and tomorrow—well that’s the day Slycorp becomes untouchable, but you probably heard that huh?’

  ‘I heard all kinds of things, which is why I am coming out there, like it or not.’

  ‘I got it covered, but seeing as you were nice enough to wish me well, I will mail you that million I was watching for you.’

  ‘Generous. I will pick it up when I see you.’

  No reply. The phone was already dead.

  Sly Barrington placed his phone on the table napkin, next to his bone china soup bowl. The chef had excelled himself once again, fresh in from Paris, it was impossible to know what he was burbling most times, but the food was damn good. Barrington smiled to himself. He took a pull on his cigar, and looked out the airplane window, to the distant sun, settling down, amongst a world of golden clouds.

  ‘Who was that on the phone?’

  ‘That punk Danny Costello.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘He had concerns.’

  ‘What kind of concerns?’

  ‘Concerns for my safety.’

  ‘How nice of him,’ said Roxy Barrington, adjusting her handbag in the seat next to her, ‘I will have to thank him when I see him.’

  Dead Famous 57

  Running flight schedules on my smart phone, I considered my options. The next flight to New York out of LAX was over two hours away, but if I moved fast, I would be in time to snatch the next United Airlines flight to Newark, New Jersey. I called in to the CCP office, got them to book me a business class ticket, and headed across the San Fernando Valley to Burbank. What lay ahead was uncertain, but I knew one thing for damn sure, I wasn’t about ready to watch Barrington’s corporate dream go global from the comfort of my executive chair in Marina Del Rey.

  I made good time to Burbank, but the airport slip road was jammed with slow moving traffic. In the distance, lights of police emergency vehicles flashed red and blue. I glanced quickly at my watch, knowing that I would miss my flight, unless I pulled a move and fast. I built revs as the traffic inched forwards, then powered into a screaming U turn that blew a wall of smoking rubber high into the dessert wind. I powered down the strip, and over a planted median, into a fast-food parking lot, where I jumped free of the Dodge and headed for the airport terminal on foot, like I was making time for an Olympic Pentathlon. By the time I reached security, I was breaking a sweat. Security moved slow. Real slow. Even though I had no luggage, the TSA Security goons gave me the full-body al-Qaeda pat down, with a generous side order of blue-collar stink-eye, to rival any government department in America.

  By the time I cut past the security log jam, a voice echoed around the terminal to announce that the gate on my flight was closing. I double-timed it down the mile long corridors, made the plane just as the orange-jacketed ground crew were making their final preparations to close the cabin. I powered out of the terminal, across the apron, and up the stairs to the plane, just as the cabin door was closing. ‘You got room for one more?’ I asked the flight attendant breezily. She gave me a big smile, the brightest I had seen all day. Then she perused my ticket, and directed me to my seat. When I got there, I got another smile, this one rather more familiar.

  ‘You took your time. I was beginning to figure you wouldn’t make it,’ said Inez, her dark eyes glistening with devilment.

  ‘Nice to see you are all relaxed, how the hell did you manage to get across town so quickly?’

  ‘We took the Helicopter,’ said Inez brightly.

  ‘We?’ I asked, knowing already what this implied.

  ‘You think we were going to let you ride solo on this one Costello?’ Joe Russell Stuck his head around the corner of Inez’s seat, and gave me a look over the top of his sunglasses.

  I grinned, ‘How’s the neck buddy?’

  ‘I feel like I been clubbed with a Louisville slugger.’

  ‘Yeah? There has to be a lesson in there somewhere—I hope we aren’t going to have to sit here for the next four and a half hours listening to you cry about it?’

  ‘Listen to the boss man,’ laughed Joe happily, ‘Did you think you were going to sneak off to NYC for a company junket, without the folks who really run things?’

  ‘Speaking of which, I got our arrival fast tracked,’ said Inez, ‘The Place Hotel is sending over a limousine to pick us up at the airport, and I have all access passes to the New York Stock Exchange organized for tomorrow—the SEC people will courier them over to the Hotel tonight.’

  ‘We are staying at the Palace Hotel? Isn’t mid-town Madison Avenue a little far from the financial district,’ I wondered. ‘Did you figure you could get a little shopping done?’ The plane was taxiing out to the runway now, the shriek of the jets engines building to a roar.

  Inez just smiled, ‘That’s why you need me Danny.’

  ‘To cruise every department store on Fifth Avenue?’

  ‘No, because the Barrington Party are booked into the Penthouse suite at the Palace Hotel, and we have the suite next door.’

  As the plane took off, climbing steeply across the mountains and heading east, Joe leaned in across the seat backs. ‘You hear what happened at the airport? He growled, ‘Some guy got shot, in the parking structure. I heard talk it was a robbery that went wrong,’

  I half turned in my seat. ‘A robbery?’

  ‘Yeah, real amateur hour stuff—way I heard it, they found the stiff with a suitcase full of money open on his knee, and a half his head shot away; like the killer made the hit then got spooked by the mess and split without taking the cash.’

  ‘That’s just gross,’ said Inez.

  ‘Plain dumb if you ask me,’ said Joe.

  ‘Perhaps the killer was sending a message,’ I said.

  ‘Inez looked at me, ‘What kind of message?’

  I looked back at her smiled, said, ‘Some things are just more important than money.’

  Dead Famous 58

  As the flight circled in over New York City, the west side of Manhattan shimmered, like a diabolical storm-wreaked ocean. Rain beat into the aircraft, in relentless crashing waves. The plane made a series of fast, hard, turns against the wind, as it struggled against the building storm. The engines roared and screamed, powering through the turbulence. Finally, the runway lights washed into view, as the plane listed first one way, then the other, sinking down, to the black runway below. When the wheels hit, the plane bounced high, then aquaplaned through a torrent of boiling surface water, before skidding to a stomach churning rest. The cabin lights fizzled. The Captain muttered platitudes. The fasten safety belts sign glowed hot. A long pause, then the plane trundled off, down a taxiway, towards the rain-swept terminal building.

  As we disembarked, into the fast-food glow of Newark, New Jersey, Joe laughed crazily, ‘Boy, that was fun, like Six Flags Hurricane Harbor, but with out the queues. We should come here more often.’

  ‘I would feel sick, but I left my stomach somewhere in the mid-west,’ said Inez.

  They cracked me up the pair of them. By the time we located the driver, and took the tunnel to mid-town, the time was close to midnight and the rain was sweeping in across the city in wind blown sh
eets. ‘They got a tropical storm moving in from the south’ explained the driver, in a heavy Brooklyn accent, ‘Been blowing the living crap out of us for three days now.’

  As I wondered who, They might be, Inez marveled aloud, ‘This city has weather—kick-ass weather—I like it.’

  ‘Like a steam bath, furnace, and carwash all rolled into one,’ scoffed the driver, ‘You should come in the winter. Shit really kicks off then.’

  As the limo crawled through the rain-washed mid-town canyons, I was glad to see the welcome sight of the Palace Hotel, stretching endlessly upward into the night sky, a tombstone guardian, looming down over the lacy spires of St Patrick’s Cathedral.

  ‘You got a plan Costello?’ asked Joe, as I tipped the driver big and headed into the Hotel lobby.

  ‘I’ve always got a plan.’

  ‘I hope so, because I have a few ideas of my own, and that hot-wheels Barrington kid isn’t going to like any of them.’

  As we arrived at check in, I said, ‘Cool your jets big guy, we are here in a firefighting capacity. The last thing we need, is your gasoline temper doing the talking for us.’

  The woman at check in gave me a nervous look. She was fashion model petite, with a chairperson-of-the-board outfit that looked like it had rocked corporate worlds on five continents at least.

  ‘I am Danny Costello. My colleagues and I have reservations.’

  Ms Petite made tippity-tap on her computer keyboard, and brightened immeasurably when the full implication of our big spending penthouse status hit home. It was like a special switch had been flipped. Underlings of every description came scurrying forth from the wainscoting, to attend to welcome our arrival, and very soon, we were stepping out of the VIP elevator into our very own private Penthouse suite. A swish facilitator who looked like he had just stepped out of the trendiest male outfitters on Fifth Avenue breezed around the room, prodding and pointing and folding and smirking. When he asked if there would be anything else we might need, I had the tip ready to go. I smiled, eased open the door to assist his departure and said, ‘Yes, I will be sure to call if I needed anything.’