Clive clearly preferred going one-on-one with Beverly, but Mary didn’t offer that up for discussion. It was a rare moment of self-editing.
“I know it isn’t easy,” she said. It always went this way. Cuckolded spouses, both male and female, always focused on the friend or the neighbor or the coworker. Rarely ever the cheating spouse. Probably to distract them from the depth of the true betrayal.
Her client stood, took out his checkbook and scribbled out a check. He ripped it off with a controlled fury and dropped it onto her desk.
“Thank you,” he said. “I trust you’ll save those if litigation becomes necessary.”
“Absolutely,” Mary said. Sometimes they wanted a copy of the pictures to brood over while getting shitfaced. Some couldn’t wait to get away from them.
Mary cleared her throat. “If you know of anyone looking for a private investigator, please feel free to recommend me.” She hated doing the sales pitch, but it was a necessity of the trade.
“Of course,” he said, and walked out the door.
Mary wondered. That had sounded a little sarcastic.
*
Mary locked the photographs in her safe, then drove directly to the Leg Pull. There was still just enough daylight for Mary to get good look at the place. In the sunlight, the club looked like a hungover version of itself: pale, tired and vaguely ill.
She didn’t bother to back to the alley for another look, nothing back there but bad endings. There was a part of her that wanted to wait, to get a little more perspective on the death of her uncle before she dove into the investigation. But that wasn’t good investigative work. So despite the fact that the anger and hurt were still raw inside of her, she forged ahead. There would be plenty of time for contemplation later.
A bored waitress told her where she could find the club’s owner/manager. She walked back to the office, her shoes occasionally making sticking sounds on the wood floor.
The door to the office was open and Mary saw a slim bald man with a pencil thin moustache. He had on silk pants, a wrinkled silk shirt and cologne that could double as a pesticide, which probably made a lot of sense in this dump.
There was a cheap desk sign, probably from Rite-Aid, letting visitors know the manager’s name was Cecil Fogerty. He reminded Mary of Al Pacino’s brother in The Godfather.
“What’s up Fredo?” she said.
He looked at her blankly.
“I’m Mary Cooper,” she said. “I want to talk to you about the murder last night.”
He looked her up and down, without shame.
“Cooper? Did you say your name’s Cooper?”
“You can hear.”
“What are you, Brent’s daughter?”
“I’m actually his pimp,” Mary said. “I want to find out who destroyed my property. They owe me at least three tricks’ worth.”
He gave a weird little laugh that sounded like rodents scurrying behind a wall.
“Nah, you’re related to Brent, I can tell,” he said. His little eyes shone with the pride of his intellect.
“Actually, Columbo, I’m his niece.”
“Niece, huh? He never talked about you.”
Mary looked around Cecil’s office. Tiny, cramped, and the walls filled with photos of celebrities you just couldn’t quite place. Mary tried not to notice the smell of Cecil’s horrible cologne combined with stale cigars and body odor. And she tried not to think about this place being the last stop, the end of the line for Uncle Brent.
“Yeah, well I didn’t really talk about him a whole lot, either,” she said. “At least, until he got slaughtered behind your club.”
Cecil didn’t know what to say so Mary filled the void. “Why don’t you tell me what you know.”
“So you’re not a cop, right?” Cecil said, stroking his moustache. The little eyes were shining again.
“No, I’m a member of the SWAT team,” Mary said. “I’m a Polynesian princess. I’m a hostess at The Ivy. It doesn’t matter what I am. I’m just a grieving niece with an attitude and not a lot of patience.”
Cecil sat at attention. “Jesus, you are Brent’s niece, aren’t you? You don’t have to get nasty, though,” he said, waving his hands in an attempt at placating her. “Look, I booked him for some of the early slots, you know, sort of as a favor.”
Mary took a deep breath. How far had Brent fallen that he needed favors from a shit stain like Cecil Fogerty?
“Why would you do that?” she said.
“I owed him.”
Mary raised her eyebrows, indicating he should continue.
“Well, you know,” Cecil stammered. “Brent was pretty good with the ladies.”
Mary had known that. Uncle Brent was caustic. He used his sarcasm to hurt people. Mary had never bought into that. She believed in the power of humor to unite, not divide. But despite all that, she had heard that her Uncle Brent was quite the ladies’ man. If there was something she could feel good about, it was that Brent probably had one helluva good time before he checked out for good.
“Frankly, I’m shocked you might have needed some help with women,” Mary said. “I figured you’d tested more mattresses than Serta.”
Cecil looked at her and Mary could tell he wasn’t sure if it was a legitimate compliment or a whole hearted rip.
“Well…” he said, unsure if a modest agreement or honest denial was in order.
“So he helped you score,” she said, urging him on and desperately trying not to picture him naked.
“You’re pretty blunt, aren’t you?”
“Nah, I’m as delicate as Ming vase,” she said. “So get to the part about Uncle Brent helping you with a booty call.”
If sheepishness could be personified, Cecil Fogerty was now it. “Anyway,” he said. “I let Brent and his buddy come in, do their thing, and I’d slip Brent like, a hundred bucks, maybe two hundred depending on the size of the crowd and how his stuff went over.”
Mary let out a low whistle. “Two hundred bucks, huh?” she said, knowing it was probably only half that. “How do you keep this place running handing out that kind of dough?”
“Between Brent and the bar, it was a wash,” Cecil said. “But like I said…”
“You owed him,” Mary finished.
Cecil shrugged his shoulders in compliance.
“So you said ‘Brent and his buddy.’ What’s the buddy’s name?”
“No clue — never met him. I hired Brent.”
For once, Cecil took his eyes off Mary’s body. That’s how she knew he was lying.
“Ah, the truth has such a nice ring to it,” Mary said.
Cecil gave her a blank stare.
It pissed her off. Her uncle was dead. Had been cut open a stone’s throw from this shithole of an officer, and guys like Cecil Fogerty were still walking around.
“So you don’t even know his name. You let a comic onstage, without even knowing anything about him at all? Never saw him do some material? Come on. I’m not as stupid as you look,” she said.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. “I hire the guys, I don’t follow them home after they do their sets,” Cecil said, feigning exasperation. He looked at Mary, let his eyes run up and down her body. “Maybe I could come up with something…you know…if you want to have a drink with me.” He smiled at her. Mary shuddered.
“Well, that’s really tempting, Cecil, really tempting,” she said. She felt the bile rise in her throat, but she forced it back down. “I bet you could put that little ‘stache of yours to good use, couldn’t you?”
Cecil grinned like he’d hit the MegaBall jackpot.
“We have a few drinks, I show you around the upstairs, where I’ve got this cool suite…” he started to say.
Mary paused for just a moment. She could let him buy her a drink, finesse a few more stories about Brent out of him. Maybe even let him take her up to his suite for just a moment if she felt he had more information. She thought about that for just a moment and then pulled her stainless steel Par
aOrdnance .45 from her shoulder holster. She took out a handkerchief from her front pocket and wiped down the body of the gun, casually, as if she were cleaning her eyeglasses.
“I hate dust. I really ought to do more than just a surface cleaning, though. I really ought to fire a few rounds, then give it a good cleaning.’
She looked up at Cecil. “You got anything around here I could shoot?”
“This isn’t necessary…” he started to say.
“Let me ask you something, Cecil,” Mary said. “Do you think if I shot you in the head, and then pried open your skull, I would see the name of this comedian? The name you’re keeping from me? Or would a bullet damage the name? Maybe I should shoot you in the space where a heart normally would be, then find another way in.” She snapped her fingers. “I’ve got a Sawzall at home! A DeWalt!”
Mary could practically see the little moustache fibers on Cecil’s face twitching in fear.
“This gun is a ParaOrdnance .45. High-capacity. Holds 14 rounds plus one in the chamber. But what I love most are the sights. They’re called 3-dots. See them?” She pointed the gun directly at Cecil’s face. “When they’re all neatly lined up, I can’t miss.”
Cecil backed away from her. “Okay, okay! Talk to Jimmy G! Jimmy knows that kind of shit,” he said, his voice high and whiny. “I swear to God I don’t know any names or locations or anything. I just pay the guys. Jimmy G will be on tomorrow at four. I promise. Tomorrow at four he’ll be here. He’ll be able to tell you.”
Mary slid the .45 into her shoulder holster. Cecil rubbed his upper lip where the gun had nearly pressed against him.
“You sure know how to get a man excited,” Cecil said, massaging his moustache.
Mary let her eyes run up and down his body, just like he’d done to her.
“Hotties like you just bring it out in me,” she said.
*
You know it’s bad when you step outside in L.A. and breathe in the air like it’s fresh and clean. But that’s what Mary did now. She should buy a nasal inhaler to use after visiting places like Cecil’s office. Rinse the smell out of the nostrils.
She tried to mentally cleanse herself of Cecil Fogerty. At this point, she wanted to go back to her apartment and maybe take a long shower. Watch a movie. Forget about places like this for a little while.
But when she got to the Buick, she stopped, her breath momentarily caught in her throat. Her hand on its own volition traveled to the butt of her .45.
And then she counted the bullet holes in the Buick’s windshield. There were six. A 9mm or .357 perhaps. Were they from the same gun that was used to kill Uncle Brent?
She felt unusually light in her stomach, and she turned and did a 360 degree turn. There was no one anywhere near the car. She reflexively checked rooftops or open windows for the barrel of a rifle. But she saw nothing.
Mary felt the anger rise again. She gritted her teeth. And then she walked closer to the car and read the note tucked underneath a piece of the windshield.
Stop— or the next joke is on you.
Find Death by Sarcasm Online
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*
Cheryl Bradshaw
Just Me and James Dean…
When I was a little girl I used to make up stories at bedtime for my younger sister, Michelle. The most vivid centered on a boy and a girl who received a piece of gum for Halloween in their trick-or-treat bag, and when they chewed it, they were transported to a magical land where they were granted unlimited wishes. Even at such a young age, the process of concocting stories was effortless. My mind revolved like the reel of a movie spinning inside my head.
I spent many hours daydreaming as a child. Back then everything was as beautiful and white as a freshly painted fence. I fantasized about the day I would get married, the children I would have, the house I would own, and the life I would live when I was all grown up.
When I was a teenager, my mind still swirled with girlish hopes and dreams. I remember lying on my bed in my room staring at a poster on my wall of James Dean. He was hunkered down on the seat of a motorcycle, and Marilyn Monroe was perched behind him with her arms wrapped around his waist, and her head resting on his shoulder. I wanted to jump into the poster like the girl in A-Ha’s Take on Me video and ride off into life’s highway, just me and James. Together, forever.
When I became an adult and moved out on my own to attend college at the tender age of eighteen, I thought I had my whole world figured out. I’d developed a slight obsession with Agatha Christie and knew mysteries and thrillers were the perfect genre for me as a writer. All kinds of ideas flowed for the first novel, and I thought I was on my way. There was just one problem: I never started writing.
Why?
I wasn’t prepared for the events that were about to take place in my life or how they would affect my journey. Life didn’t turn out to be the dream I thought it would be, and I struggled—a lot, and faced challenges and trials that at times seemed more than I could bear. My relationships didn’t always work out, and all the babies I hoped to have didn’t come like I’d planned. There were times when I felt like my life was like a shattered mirror, and I was on my hands and knees desperately searching for all the pieces of myself so I could glue them back together and feel whole again. During those times I wondered how many other women out there in the world felt the same exact way.
Time went on and I struggled, but eventually I picked myself back up and I healed. With a new lease on life and a positive attitude about what I’d overcome, I thought about writing again. In 2009 I wrote Black Diamond Death, the first novel in my Sloane Monroe series. Sinnerman followed six months later and now I’m hard at work on the third, I Have a Secret.
As I sit here and write this, I’m shocked that I am being so candid. Normally, I safeguard my feelings. To say I’m a private person is an understatement, but I feel compelled to get this out. My message in all of this is to never lose sight of your hopes and dreams. Never forget who you are, where you came from, and what you are capable of accomplishing in your life. And if you have a passion, foster it with everything you have inside you. Let it shine. Let it breathe. Let it be.
When I pondered about the dedication I would use for Sinnerman, my direction was clear and I wrote the following:
This book is dedicated to anyone who’s ever had a dream. We have but one life, and one opportunity to live it. Make it last, make it count, and make it the best it can be. Live your dreams, I know I am.
Today, I’m no longer waiting for James Dean to ride up on his shiny black motorcycle. I’ve fallen for a different kind of boy now, one who dreams of wide open spaces and a simple life. One who wants to be a cowboy when he grows up. Now the poster I see in my visions is one of a man hoisting me up on the back of his trusty steed while we ride away together into the Wyoming sunset.
If you asked me ten years ago if this was the life I thought I wanted, my answer might have been no, but if you asked me today I would say I’m right where I’m supposed to be. My life isn’t perfect, the challenges are still there, and I still have a lot to learn about myself. But no matter what the future holds for me, I know one thing for sure: I’ll never stop writing.
About the Chick
Born and raised in Southern California, Cheryl Bradshaw became interested in writing at a young age, but it was almost two decades before she put pen to paper. “As a child I made up stories for my sister. The most vivid centered around a boy and a girl who received a piece of gum for Halloween, and when they chewed it, they were transported to a magical land where they were granted unlimited wishes.” In High School, Cheryl signed up for AP English and Creative Writing and discovered not only a love for books, but a passion for writing short stories and poems. Her poetry was published in The Looking Glass. After graduating, she attended college where she first realized her dream to write suspense novels, but it would be almost two decades
before she put pen to paper. In the meantime, Cheryl pursued other interests — earning a Montessori degree, obtaining a license in real estate and working as a copy editor for ten years. Being an editor gave her the nudge she needed to get back into writing.
In 2009 Cheryl wrote her first novel, Black Diamond Death (the first book in her Sloane Monroe series). Within six weeks of its release it was in the top #100 in two different mystery categories on the Kindle and has been a top rated novel since April 2011 averaging 4.4 out of 5 stars from reviewers. Sinnerman, the second novel in the series, was released in September 2011.
Cheryl is currently working on the third novel in the series titled I Have A Secret due out early 2012. When she’s not hard at work writing her next novel, Cheryl is an avid reader and loves to travel. “Every place I visit offers inspiration in one form or another which I draw from when I’m writing. I chose Park City as Sloane’s humble abode because I lived there and have a fondness for the quaint little town which I visit often.”
Find Cheryl Online!
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Reader’s Blog
Writing Blog
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Sinnerman
Cheryl Bradshaw
An Excerpt
Chapter 1
Sam Reids reclined back into the seat of his black 1970 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme and examined the women that shuffled in and out of the supermarket like predictable herds of cattle. It had been three long years since he felt the steady churn of butterflies in his stomach, but the anticipation of the nights soon-to-be events made it all worthwhile. The wait hadn’t been easy, and whenever he felt he couldn’t control his urges any longer, he walked down the steep series of steps that led to the basement and gazed at the trinkets he’d collected. They were all spaced two inches apart in single-file formation on a shelf. In total, there were fifteen glass bottles. Each container had a white label about the size of a Post-It note affixed to the front with the date and a name written in thick black marker.
Over the past few years Sam visited them often and took special care to dust and polish their exteriors, but he never opened them once they’d been sealed. He didn’t want to take a chance that one of his precious mementos could get spoiled. Sometimes he took one to his room and deposited it on the stand next to him while he slept. When he woke during the night to the illuminated glow that shone through the glass from the lamp above, he felt a sensation of peace, like a child that watched the constant spin of the mobile over the crib. It wasn’t the same thrill he’d experienced when he secured the object within the bottle, but it helped him pass the time.
Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories Page 41
