Goodnight Sometimes Means Goodbye (Wrong Flight Home, #2)

by Noel J. Hadley

  “Parisi’s got people in Boston. You think?”

  “Shut up,” Giorgio said to his cousin.

  “I don’t think he went to Boston, Sir. He couldn’t have.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “I dropped him off at the Tom Bradley Terminal.”

  “That’s international.” Dino.

  “Parker wasn’t trying to throw you off?”

  “Maybe, I don’t know. I watched him walk through those double sliding doors. He only had one carry-on, a leather handbag. It couldn't have been photography related. I even made a comment to him about it then. I asked him where he was really going. He said he’d send me a postcard. And since the police made no mention of finding records that he'd flown out of LAX, I imagine he had a fake passport or something, if that's at all possible.”

  I sat there silently while Giorgio and Dino and that hulking bear of a man, Franco, thought it over, though I doubt Franco had much going through his head at all, other than an echoing European accent.

  And then my cell phone let everyone know that somebody was trying to reach me with Van Halen's Why Can't This Be Love for its ringtone.

  I said: “Sorry, my phone's been ringing off the hook.”

  “Hand it over,” Dino said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your phone, hand it over, now.”

  I dug through my pocket. Franco snatched it from my fingers and delivered it to Dino.

  “Who the fuck is this?” Dino studied the caller ID with its 562 area-code. He really did have a potty mouth, that Dino. “It says Parker, Giorgio. Penny Parker.”

  “That’s just somebody who works for me.” Van Halen finally sent her to a message. Only she didn’t leave one. “Her name’s Penny. She does photo touch-ups and maintains my website. I work her into all of my wedding contracts.”

  “You think he’s fucking with us?”

  “I think he may be fucking with us, Giorgio.”

  “Call her back.” He handed me the phone.

  I did as he asked.

  “Put it on speaker phone.” Dino.

  I followed his instructions.

  Penny picked up on the second ring.

  “Hello, Joshua?”

  “How’s it going, Hun?” I said. “Sorry I missed your call. I was taking a dump.”

  “It sounds like you’re in a car,” she said.

  “I was in a gas station bathroom. It was disgusting.”

  “Have you been paying attention to the news?”

  I twitched my eyes back and forth between Dino and Miss June's tatters, being careful to avoid any contact with Giorgio. “I can’t say that I have. What can I do for you?”

  “You know that guy who was shooting weddings as your second photographer, despite the fact that he wasn’t very good?”

  “Mm-hmm, Alex.”

  “Did you know he killed his wife?”

  “He’s only a suspect, Penny.”

  Giorgio frowned, and on cue Dino raised his hand, only he didn’t follow through with it. I tried my best to remain calm and ignore them.

  “Well, he sure did disappear in a hurry. Did you know he had the same last name as me?”

  “Hmmm, Penny Parker and Alex Parker; well, I’ll be damned. You sure you aren’t related, like brother and sister or anything?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know, like Luke and Leah.”

  “Gross. No.”

  “Just checking.”

  “Joshua, you’re not going to like this.”

  I waited a few seconds. “Spill the beans, Hun.”

  “It’s all over the news because of her connection to some crime family. And you are too. Chris Matthews is on Hardball talking about you right now, how you’re the grandson of Ira. This can’t be good for business. You're website has had tens of thousands of hits.”

  “Thank you, Penny. I appreciate the call. This really isn’t the best time, but please do keep me updated.”

  “Just answer me one question. Did you do it?”

  “Well, I’m not exactly proud of it, but yes, I did vote for a Democrat once in my life. And look where it got me.”

  Dino held up an erected thumb and index finger. I guess that made two counts of smart-assery.

  “No, Alex. Did you know he murdered his wife when you drove him to the airport?”

  “Of course not, why would I do such a thing? How does the press even know I drove him anywhere?”

  “I haven't a clue. I guess the story leaked to the hen house. You don’t sound so well. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “It’s probably just a bad connection.”

  “No, Joshua. You sound…. sick.”

  “Can you blame me under the circumstances?”

  “Are you on your way home? Should I come over?”

  “No. I’ll be fine. I’m just going to get a little sleep and then I have a flight to catch in the morning. It will be back to business as usual. You'll see. “

  “Of course. Joshua, the media’s all over this, and not just because it’s the pilot episode of the Fugitive. I’ve never heard of the Mancini family before, but they sound like some bad people. You stay safe.”

  “I’ll do that. Goodnight, Penny.”

  “Goodnight, love. Sleep tight.”

  I waited until her line went cold with a click. Only it didn’t remain silent for long. It rang again, the Beatles this time. Your Mother Should Know. MOM, it said, with a 562 area code. I showed the caller ID to Dino.

  “Do I need to answer this one too?”

  “It says MOM.” Dino told his cousin. “I think this guy’s a regular boy scout, Giorgio.”

  “If there’s anything I respect, it’s mothers. Let it go to message.” He turned now to his driver. “Slow down.”

  The driver pulled up to the nearest curb available. After several clever lyrics about a mother’s knowledge about music from before our time, Paul McCartney promptly sent Mother to message. She left one too.

  “If I find out you’ve been holding back information, now or until the second coming…” I waited for Giorgio to finish his thought. But apparently that was it, and I took the threat seriously. “I’m already sick at the very sight of you. Now get the hell out of my car.”

  “We’re miles away from my apartment. We were only a couple of blocks when we…”

  Dino said: “Be lucky it’s not the pig farm.”

  Franco wedged out, looking awkward with those massive arms of his as he did so, and stood. I slid past him just as quickly as I could and tried to make my bearings. I was standing in front of the Long Beach Convention Center on Pine Avenue, facing south. Rainbow Harbor was on the other side of Shoreline Drive, and just beyond that, the Queen Mary, that legendary cruise ship that bravely carried so many American soldiers across the Atlantic during the War, including my grandfather, was parked permanently in place. If the British wanted it back they could start a third Revolution.

  “See you around, shit-head,” said Potty-Mouth.

  The Lamborghini sped away, and all I could say to Giorgio and Dino and that bear-like Franco fellow, long after they were out of sight and gone, is: “Yep, definitely the mob.”

  15

  THE ACTUAL DISTANCE from the Long Beach Convention Center to my apartment building in Belmont Shore was actually just less than two and a half miles, which made it a nice walk on a summer evening. A spectacular view of the four artificial oil rigged islands (and Catalina beyond) along Bluff Park and Ocean Boulevard gave good company to my weary soul. More phone attempts from my mother. There were other pursuers too, probably the press, maybe even prank callers. Some left messages. I ignored them all. And then a ringtone from yet another caller. Henry Mancini, the main theme to A Shot in the Dark. I answered that one.

  “You need to watch your back,” the voice on the other end of the phone said.

  I said: “Is that your new JACK CHAMBERLAIN, PRIVATE EYE business card slogan, or do you need my help solving c
ases and fighting crime lords in the slummy underbelly of Leisure World?”

  “Dick-head, is that any way to treat your great-uncle?”

  “I'm not sure. Can you rephrase the question?”

  “We practically raised you, my numb-nut brothers and I.”

  “I'm no expert on the feeling in your nuts, thank the Maker, but otherwise I seem to recall something along those lines. Those were some good times.”

  “Are you making fun of my numb-nut brothers and I?”

  “I'm being sentimental.”

  “Uh-huh. So am I. Mancini and I go back a long time, a long, long time.”

  “Let me guess, Mancini's an archeologist.”

  “Is that supposed to be another joke? Are you calling me a mummy?”

  “I was thinking of fossil, but now that you mention it.”

  “You're not nearly the smart-ass as your grandfather, Ira.”

  “High aspirations.”

  “It's a wonder that you haven't been shot yet.”

  “You'd know. As a century old private investigator, how many times have you been shot now, Uncle Jack?”

  “I've lost count, but I think it’s been seven times in the ass alone.”

  “When you sit on the toilet, does it even still work?”

  “Mancini's boys accounted for at least two of those. He's bad news, and I don't like the fact that your name came up in a murder related to his only begotten daughter. Is anybody following you?”

  “They wouldn't be doing a very good job of it if I spotted them.”

  “This is true. Do you need me to come out there and protect you?”

  “You're ninety years old, Uncle Jack. What are you going to do, shadow me in that golf cart you drive around on the green and beat them over the head with your nine iron?”

  “I'm only eighty-five, dick-head. That practically makes me a spring chicken out here in Leisure World. I may have Parkinson's, but I can still aim a six-shooter. I keep hoping those hippie baby boomers who've been taking over the neighborhood break into my unit so that I can keep fresh on the practice.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And I was working the streets as a Private Eye when Mancini swept up a good portion of the Los Angeles crime pie after that thug Jack Dragna's downfall. Mancini's outlived his competitors and he's one bad pastry.”

  “So are you.”

  “You bet your un-shot ass, I am.”

  “I may have met his son.”

  “Georgie? Years of pampering has made that frat boy emotionally disfigured and malnourished, incapable of running his father's business, which means he's got a lot to prove. I don't like the creeps with daddy complexes. Do me a favor, if you bump into Georgie Mancini or Papa Mancini or any of his Italian boys, don't mention my name.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “We go back a long ways.”

  “Maybe you can settle your differences over a game of bridge or bingo at the Leisure World clubhouse.”

  “How about you come out here and I kick your ass at bridge or bingo?”

  “I'll have my people call your people.”

  “Uh-huh, that's what I thought. And by the way, you sound tired.”

  “Exhausted, it's been a terribly long day.”

  “I really am sorry to hear about Elise. She's a fine woman, Joshua, a fine, fine woman.”

  “News travels.”

  “Nah, I'm just a private investigator.”

  “You talked to my mother.”

  “I had to strangle it out of her.”

  “She probably squealed before you picked up the phone to say hello.”

  “You know I think the world of Elise. She's a dame among dames. But whatever you choose to do, pursue her or move on, I'll support you.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Jack. You've always had my back.”

  “And I don't want to sound like a broken record, but it wouldn't be a bad idea if you to skipped town for a few days.”

  “I'm heading out to New York in the morning.”

  “Good. Stay as far away from this as possible. You want me to watch your place while your gine?”

  “I'll be fine.”

  “I'll probably keep Adele company anyways. Have some fun out there, maybe pick up a pretty woman friend, help you get your mind off of things.”

  “In the unlikelihood of that happening, I'll keep you posted.”

  “You need anything, call.”

  “Thanks, you old putz.”

  “Shmuck,” he hung up the phone.

  16

  NOBODY FOLLOWED from what I could tell, and the sun was bleaching the sky a sunset red by the time I ascended the stairs to my front door. I arrived just in time too. That cute college-aged girl was walking her basset hound across the street. I stopped to pay my respects, appreciating beauty in all its forms and curves, and noticed a mysterious car, it was a Chrysler 300 (I hadn't seen it before), parked where Alex's Mustang had sat earlier that morning. A shadowy figure in a silk shirt and fedora idled behind the wheel reading The Los Angeles Times. There had been at least two-dozen suspicious automobiles and just as many pedestrians on the walk over, but nobody had been wearing a fedora or reading The L.A. Times. If I followed anybody I'd probably wear a fedora, and four out of five crime lords recommended a Chrysler 300. The thought occurred to me that maybe I was just paranoid. Or maybe I just really liked fedoras.

  Schmuck, Great-Uncle Jack's voice said.

  A musical record was circulating the turntable from inside my apartment. I recognized it to be The Suite Bergamasque, Claude Debussy’s third movement. Giorgio Mancini was listening to some bad techno remix on KIIS FM, not my cup of tea. I wondered what he thought of Justin Timberlake's single, Lovestoned. At least the person who’d broken into my apartment had a little culture to show for it.

  I slowly swung the door open on its hinges.

  17

  ARISTOTLE APPREHENDED MY HAND with an added dosage of salutations, and once the inside view was fully revealed Elise was standing over the turntable where she’d been watching the needle conduct its crackling symphony. I always thought Elise took on the reflective qualities of Carolyn Bassett Kennedy if she were staring into the mirror. I'd even shown Josephine a picture of C.B.K. once and convinced her it was Elise, despite both being identical twins. Long slender nose, broad amber lips, and blue eyes dominated her face, with a crown of blonde hair above it all, only with the slightly darker skin of a French woman to contrast the paler complexions of John F. Kennedy Jr.'s wife. She was dressed in white slacks with black pinstripes, what looked to be a white button-up vest and no shirt underneath, a design that spoke of perpendicular and vertical lines, and a slim fitting sports coat of matching fabric, cut off just below the elbows. Jewelry adorned her neck and brought extra attention to the upper crack of her breasts. I couldn't help but let my eyes wander there when I thought she wasn't looking. But she always knew. God have mercy, she always knew.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, “I let myself in.”

  “You’re my wife, Elise. My place is yours.”

  I often felt like such a child in her presence, especially lately. I remembered what it was like to see this particular Bibeau twin pass me by in the halls of our high school, on Fridays dressed as a cheerleader. But whatever the school day, butterflies hatched in my belly, and if she’d stop to talk with me (often with several of her female disciples in tow) my knees buckled. Despite the fact that adolescence was another lifetime entirely, those days didn’t feel so far away.

  She smiled. “I thought so much. I’m just surprised that you haven’t had the locks changed by now.”

  “If I do that, I’ll be sure to give you a spare.”

  “After the abominable way I treated you in San Francisco, I wasn’t sure you’d ever want to see or speak with me again.” Her smile dimmed.

  “Don’t be silly. Whatever happens, I’m seeing you now, and I enjoy the company.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Her smile widened again
.

  She was cautious to move across the room in my direction, but finally managed to do so, ending her maneuver with a hand on my chest. The way she held it there spoke of intimacy, years and years of intimacy, and her breath smelled good. Her wedding ring adorned her finger again, another plus. But she was sad, like that photograph of the Bibeau twins that sat framed on her empty half of the marriage bed. Childhood is such a short season in life, and yet it sets its eyesight on dominating the whole of us, from puberty onwards until the day we die. Here she was with all the sexual delights of a mature woman and yet there was something so tormented and childlike within her.

  She said: “I’ve never had much of an ear for music. You and Michael are the only two people I know who still listens to vinyl. I put one on.”

  “I'm glad you did.”

  “A few minutes ago I played that one song that I listened to as a child. I can never remember the name of it.” She snapped her fingers trying to recall. “It was used in those Long Ranger radio broadcasts.”

  I said: “The William Tell Overture.”

  “Yes, that's the one. Your music relaxes me.”

  “And now you're listening to Claude Debussy. Good choice. You even managed to find your way to Clair de Lune. It’s a favorite of yours.”

  “That means moonlight in French, you know.”

  “I’m glad I have a French girl to explain these sort of things to me.”

  “Josephine told me what happened. I was worried. It’s been top gossip in the news. You should have called.”

  “They generally allow one phone call per visit. I figured the family lawyer is a good way to spend my only skeeball ticket.”

  “I can’t believe Alex would do such a thing.”

  “I’m not so convinced that he had a part in it.”

  “They’re saying in the news that he’s connected with the mob? Is that true?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “I thought the mob, the real mob, fizzled out in the fifties or something, or built up Vegas and then sailed away like the elves at the end of Lord of the Rings.”