Cold Call (Iris Thorne Mysteries Book 1)

by Dianne Emley

  “Little Saigon? I’d be the only round-eye there.”

  “You think I’m like them? I’m pillipino.” He jammed a finger at his chest. “I look behind me in Little Saigon.” He twisted his stubby body at the waist to demonstrate. “Not smart trust them. Little Seoul, too.” He nodded sagely.

  “One seat one-three twenty-one, no-smoking. Follow Frankie to your seat.”

  “So, whaddid Eddie say?” Teddy drummed and strummed.

  “Ask me if I see you.” Bobby leaned close to Teddy. “Told me tell him if I see you.”

  “Frankie will show you to your seat.”

  “Eddie Schmeddie.”

  “I won’t tell I see you.” Bobby winked theatrically.

  “Awwww.” Teddy waved at the air. “He just wants to talk to me about a deal I’m putting together for him. You know, finance.”

  Bobby pursed his lips and nodded.

  “I should have gotten back to him sooner, but I’ve been busy.”

  Bobby nodded again.

  “Shoot, you know the way the market’s been.”

  “Very busy.”

  “T.K. for five-ten stud, smoking, T.K. for five-ten stud, smoking. Follow Frankie to your seat.”

  “That’s me, buddy. See ya.”

  “Buddy, remember what I tell you.” Bobby pretended he was locking his lips closed with a key.

  Teddy pointed his index finger at Bobby.

  Frankie stood on the casino floor, holding a two-way radio like a bat and not smiling. He gave Teddy a once-over, then turned without speaking and started to walk.

  “Good to see you, too, Frankie.”

  “Asshole.”

  “Unsweet, Frankie.”

  Teddy followed Frankie across the casino, walking with his body tipped back from the shoulders, a cigarette dangling from one hand, the other hooked by the thumb in his pant pocket. He winked at a red-eyed woman at the bar.

  “C’mon, talk to me Frank-eee.”

  “Eddie’s seen you here.”

  “So?”

  “You just forgot about Sally Lamb?”

  “I don’t keep company with people like that, Frank-eee.”

  “Asshole.”

  Frankie pointed the walkie-talkie at the one empty chair at a full table.

  “Sit.”

  Frankie turned on his heel and left.

  Teddy rolled back the chair with a flourish and sat with a plop. “Good afternoon, men. Men, men, men, men,” he sang. “Hey, there’s my friend, Sammy.” He leaned over the table to shake hands with a muscular black man in a tight T-shirt. And ladies! Good afternoon.” He bowed toward a matron in a mint green polyester pantsuit.

  Her diamond-and-platinum wedding rings cut into her plump fingers. She giggled. The other woman was in her late thirties and was extravagantly dressed in a lavender jumpsuit with a lavender fedora angled over her eyes. Teddy bowed toward her and she nodded like the Queen of England.

  Three Asian men in sport coats and open-necked shirts sipped beer. The last man was middle-aged and cowboy handsome, wearing a flat-brimmed hat with a string of silver medals circling the brim. He leaned heavily on tanned, muscular arms that protruded from the sleeves of a white polo shirt.

  Teddy pointed at him. “You on TV?”

  The man gave a slow smile. “Sometimes.” His skin was flushed and covered with a web of broken veins.

  “I’ve seen you.”

  The man failed at concealing his delight.

  Teddy pulled out a silver money clip engraved TAK III, peeled off ten hundred-dollar bills, and handed it to a passing chip attendant, who wore a red shirt with the Four Queens logo embroidered across the back. Teddy got back several piles of multicolored chips.

  The dealer was a Hispanic woman with thick, shag-cut hair and long silver fingernails. She solemnly shuffled the cards, cut, pulled the first card off the top, and moved it underneath the deck. She dealt, sliding the cards off the top with the flat part of her fingers. Her silver nail polish reflected the light.

  Teddy reached for his cards.

  Frankie and another man took long strides across the room and stood on either side of Teddy. Frankie leaned over and spread his hand across Teddy’s cards, holding them down.

  “What?”

  “Get up.”

  “Why?”

  “Eddie wants to see you.”

  “Oh man,” Teddy whined, “I just sat down. I can’t get a decent game at this place anymore.”

  The dealer gathered the cards, sliding her fingers underneath, her nails scratching the felt table surface. The woman in the mint green pantsuit looked disappointed.

  Frankie called the chip attendant over. “Cash him out.”

  Teddy folded the cash into his money clip. He straightened his tie and his expression. “Sorry to interrupt the game, ladies and gentlemen. Eddie wants to talk to me about a deal we’ve been working on. Gonna write me a check.” He winked.

  Teddy got up from the table and pulled his arm away when Frankie tried to put his hand on it. Teddy made a beeline toward the door with the two-way glass on the other side of the casino. Frankie almost jogged to keep up with him.

  Teddy rapped furiously on the door, bouncing on his toes and smoothing his sparse hair in the mirrored glass. The door opened and Teddy pushed his way in, slamming it in Frankie’s face.

  The room was vulgarly lush, with a polished black lacquer desk and padded silk on the walls. Eddie sat behind the desk in a white leather chair. He was fortyish and getting even handsomer. He was wearing a big gold watch and big diamond ring and his clothes shouted European. His salt-and-pepper hair was swept back from his Roman face.

  “Teddy,” Eddie cooed. “So nice to see you again. Please sit down.”

  Teddy nodded feverishly. “Right, Eddie. What do I have to do to get a decent game in this place?”

  “Teddy, my apologies for interfering with your evening. Won’t you greet my other guests?”

  “You mean the two garlic cloves?”

  “Tsk,” Sally Lamb clucked. “These words from such a well-bred boy.” He was fortyish with olive skin and flat, too-black hair combed straight back from his forehead, colored with the comb-through men’s dye that promises subtle changes that no one will notice. A greasy concoction froze the comb’s tracks on the surface. He was a collision of textures and seasons, wearing a wool brown-on-brown houndstooth jacket over a tight, European-cut brown shirt tucked into white, beltless polyester pants. He wore a five o’clock shadow on a bloodhound face. A gold crucifix meshed with the sparse black-and-gray chest hair that showed through the V of his unbuttoned shirt. He was leaning against a wall with his head against the padded silk.

  Eddie stood. “I’m going to do my rounds. Make yourselves comfortable.” He shot a glance at Sally Lamb’s head on the silk wall before he walked out and closed the door.

  Teddy dropped onto a leather chair facing the desk, his legs sprawled out. “Hey, Sally. The seventies are over.”

  Jimmy Easter snickered. He was in his late twenties with olive complexion and black hair cut short and preppie-neat. He was pretty-boy handsome and would mash anyone who said it. He was wearing an expensive raw silk jacket over a plain black T-shirt over a free-weight-big chest and black Levi’s 501s pulled down over black boots with silver tips. The sparkling diamond in his earlobe matched the sparkle in his cobra smile. He was cleaning his nails with a red-handled pocket knife and had not looked up once.

  “You’re one real smart-ass, aren’t you, Teddy?” Sally said.

  “Sally, the Grecian Formula needs a touch-up,” Teddy said.

  Jimmy snickered louder.

  Sally gave Jimmy a hurt look.

  “Who else would tell you these things, Sally?” Teddy said.

  “That just goes to show you what a dumb fuck you are, Teddy. And you”—he shot a look at Jimmy—“had better shut the fuck up.”

  “Yeah, Black Bart,” Teddy said.

  Jimmy snuffed his smile, glowered at Teddy, and con
tinued to clean his nails.

  “What do you two bongos want?” Teddy said. “I’ve got things to do.”

  Sally folded his hands in front of him and nodded his head slowly up and down. “You think you know everything, don’t you? Got it all tied up.”

  Teddy raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth in mock confusion.

  “Here you are. College education. Smart boy. Bright boy. And look at you. A disgrace to your mother.”

  “Get real. My mother’s a lush. She’s too busy trottin’ around Greece with her boyfriend to care what I do.”

  “Shame on you, Teddy.”

  “Get a life.” Teddy started to get up. Jimmy snapped out of his chair, caught Teddy by the shoulders, and pushed him back down. Teddy’s complexion reddened with indignation.

  Sally put his face close to Teddy’s. “Sit there until I’m done with you.”

  Teddy touched Sally’s spray on his cheek.

  “Let’s not forget the order here. You’re the one who got yourself into this mess. I’m the one you came to for help.” Sally leaned over and jabbed a finger against Teddy’s chest. “And I helped you. We made a deal. Then what do you do? You don’t follow through. Now, I don’t call that very smart for a smart boy like you. Do you, Teddy?”

  Teddy stared a hole through the desk.

  “I said, do you, Teddy?”

  “No.”

  “No, that’s right. Very good, Teddy. Mr. College Educated from Big University and he still don’t know how things work.” Sally flicked his hand against the back of Teddy’s head.

  Teddy mumbled, “MIT and Harvard.”

  “What?”

  “I got my B.S. from MIT and my MBA from Harvard.”

  “That’s swell. Were you were a Boy Scout too and helped old ladies cross the street?”

  “Those are top schools. You don’t realize…”

  “I said it’s just swell, Teddy. Just swell. Now, give me my money.”

  “I don’t have it right now.”

  Silence.

  “You don’t have it right now.”

  “I don’t have it right now.

  “Hear that, Jimmy? He says he don’t have it right now.”

  Jimmy Easter balled his hand into a fist, admired it, then looked at Teddy, and raised a dark eyebrow.

  “I gave you everything I had last week. But I get my commission check next Friday. I’ll give you that. That’ll be a start. I’m trying, Sally,” Teddy whined.

  “There’s no merit badge for trying. And now you owe me five grand more. For interest and for being an asshole.”

  Teddy rubbed one big palm inside the other. “I had the money, Sally. More than enough. But it got away from me.”

  “You mean you put it up your nose and gave it to the tables out there.”

  Teddy looked at Sally dolefully. “You’ll get it all on Friday. I promise.”

  “You promise. What kind of a candy-ass are you, anyway? You promise, you promise. You promised me last week.”

  Teddy’s voice went up. “I said I’ll get it for you next Friday.”

  “You know, guys like you turn up all the time whacked out and left to rot in the canyon. Faces half-eaten by rats by the time anyone finds ‘em.”

  Jimmy spoke. “Ever wonder what it would be like to have your balls in your mouth while you were bleeding to death?”

  Teddy’s Sea Island cotton shirt grew deep circles under the armpits beneath his handmade suit jacket. He slumped further down in the chair.

  “What am I going to do with you, Teddy?” Sally paced the room with his hands behind his back. “You got a girlfriend, Teddy?”

  “No,” Teddy breathed.

  “What’s that?”

  “No,” Teddy said, louder. “I had a girlfriend. We broke up.”

  “Dumped ya, huh?”

  Teddy pulled the corners of his broad mouth down. His full cheeks were blotched red. His bottom lip rolled out. Perspiration shined through his sparse hair.

  “Girls don’t like losers.” Sally shook his head. “You need to clean yourself up, Teddy. Find a nice girl. Get a nice life. Stop being a jerk.”

  Sally paced and stroked his jaw. “Damn shame.” He sucked air between his teeth. He stopped pacing in front of Teddy. “Teddy, I don’t know why I feel sorry for you. I do business with a lot of scumbags. Everyone’s got a story. But you really tear me up.” He sighed. “But business is business, Teddy. You’re a businessman. You understand that.”

  He put his face close to Teddy’s. “I got my reputation to think about. I got a boss to report to, too.” He took Teddy’s chin in his hand and squeezed. “Next Friday. I don’t care what you do or how you get it. And don’t make me come lookin’ for you.”

  Jimmy Easter ran his tongue over his teeth.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  John Somers wanted to gush, to tell Iris how great she looked, that it was wonderful to see her, that she hadn’t changed a bit even though she had somehow. That she’d never left his thoughts. Maybe during the early years of his marriage, but not after that, and even then not really. He marveled at the twist of fate that had made their paths cross, even though he could have found her if he had wanted to. If he thought she might have wanted to see him.

  How should he start? He showed her his shield. “I’m investigating the Alejandro Muñoz murder.”

  Iris took the shield and looked at it up close, running her thumb over the bas-relief insignia. She looked at him. She laughed. “The family legacy caught up with you, huh?”

  “Yep.” Somers laughed even though he felt stripped bare, as people out of the past can make you feel. “And you—what happened to that PhD?”

  “Touché.” She laughed again.

  Somers remembered that laughing had always made her face light up.

  “Life’s weird, isn’t it?” she gave him his shield back.

  “It has a way of creeping into your dreams,” he said.

  “This is really cute.” Billy Drye laughed sardonically.

  “Drye. Go home,” Iris said.

  “Not on your life.”

  “You’re investigating Alley’s murder,” Iris said. “Small world.”

  “Yeah. Small world.”

  “You didn’t know I worked here?”

  “No. Well… I mean… I sorta knew. Those notices in the alumni magazine?”

  “My own PR. How ungracious of me.”

  “I was glad to see you’re doing well.”

  “Things are good… Things are okay. So, you want to talk to me about Alley?”

  “Everyone says you’re the one I should talk to.”

  “You want to talk here? We can go into an office for some privacy.” She looked at Drye, who was staring at them with a bemused grin.

  “How about dinner?”

  “Dinner?” Iris said.

  “Dinner?” Drye said.

  Somers shrugged. “It’s dinnertime. Aren’t you hungry?”

  “I don’t know if you can afford her on a cop’s salary, buddy,” Drye said.

  “Shaddup, Drye,” Iris said. “I had some work to do, but… okay. There’s a place around the corner.”

  “You going to Julie’s?” Drye said. “I’ll call the guys.”

  “Dream about it tonight, Drye. Don’t forget the handcuffs and The Wall Street Journal.” She gathered her stuff and walked in front of Somers out of the suite.

  “Interesting people you work with,” Somers said.

  “It’s the boy’s locker room wardrobed by Brooks Brothers.”

  On the elevator down, she watched the floor numbers. Somers watched her.

  “You’re staring at me.”

  “You look different.”

  “I was twenty the last time you saw me.”

  “You’re different, but you’re the same too.”

  “Is this police business or something else?”

  “I’m investigating the murder of Alejandro Muñoz.” Somers smiled at the elevator floor.

  �
��No problem. I just want to know what the score is.”

  They crossed a street logjammed with solo drivers fleeing downtown for the San Fernando Valley, Orange County, the San Gabriel Valley, the beach cities, or some other suburban safe harbor with clean people. Anywhere but here. Carpooling’s inconvenient and no one wants a subway stop on their street and only sad people without cars ride the bus and the bus would take just as long anyway so everyone commutes—two to five hours every weekday.

  The restaurant had high ceilings and marble floors that elevated the noise level to a tinny whine. Happy-hour revelers waiting out drive time were wing tip to wing tip to pump, crowded around an oval bar in the center of the room, having garlicky focaccia and cocktails and virgin drinks. The place reeked of gabardine.

  The host wore the uniform of the bored chic—a black suit with an oversized jacket over a black T-shirt. His hair was long, blunt-cut and bleached blond on top, and dark and shaved short on the bottom. A diamond stud sparkled in his earlobe. He took a long minute before he looked up from his table grid, then kind of looked past Somers and Iris and asked his obviously tiresome questions: “Have a reservation? Smoking or non?” Then he gave a look that said he expected they would answer a certain way. He raked his hand through his hair and stared off as he decided at which far corner and noisy table by a waiter’s station to seat them.

  He wove through the crowd to a row of small gray marble tables with a padded bench on one side and a hard-backed chair on the other. Iris turned sideways to squeeze between the tables, dragged her skirt across the table top, and sat on the bench, her elbows inches from the people on either side of her. The host dropped menus in front of them.

  A waitress with a wild mane of long, twisted hair dyed the red of the moment, wearing a leather mini and a tight, off-the-shoulder midriff top, recited a memorized list of specials, stumbling on the French sauces. Iris ordered a glass of chardonnay, the duck ravioli with pink caviar sauce, and an endive salad with raspberry-walnut vinaigrette. Somers ordered a beer and a burger, well done.

  “Iris, remember the Hip Bagel Café? Sprouts, sunflower seeds, and cream cheese on a bagel. Washed down with a protein banana smoothie.”

  “It’s a Fatburger now.”

  “And the rock station is New Age.”