by K. J. Larsen
“License—shmicense. Okay, so technically my ‘Private Detective License Packet’ has not been completed.” He did the air quotes with his fingers for added emphasis. “But I am really close. I only have forty hours of firearm training to do. Then one or two minor, technical hoops to jump through. But then I will be completely above board.
An unexpected feeling of dread twisted my gut. For one curious moment I couldn’t breathe. Now that was a sign. A big fat flashing neon sign. No way were things going to turn out well.
I massaged my temples. “Those thugs were carrying some serious hardware, Billy. Why were they chasing you?”
“I didn’t wait around for them to explain.”
“You must have some idea.”
“Not really.”
“Make a wild guess. What did they want?”
“Well, if I was a betting man…”
“You are.”
He stuffed the last bite of cannoli in his mouth. “I’d say they wanted to kill me.”
“And they say I piss people off.”
Chapter Three
My house in Bridgeport is a brick bungalow on a corner lot with a big front porch and a swing. A separate entrance on the side of the house opens to my office. It’s for clients. The cheatees. I buy my tissues by the case at Costco. Of course, not all clients are horribly wounded. Some are relieved to end a bad relationship. Some use my 8x10 glossies to maximize their financial settlement. Some want to save their marriages. Some post my 8x10 glossies on Facebook, MySpace, or even make a video montage for YouTube with their favorite song. And sometimes, someone like Cleo peppers her husband’s lying, cheating ass with buckshot.
Cleo Jones is a former client-turned-assistant for the Pants On Fire Detective Agency. She’s fiercely loyal and her enthusiasm is unparalleled. As is her disturbing eagerness to shoot people.
I pulled in front of my house and parked behind Cleo’s canary-yellow Corvette.
The Corvette had belonged to Cleo’s no-good husband, Walter. Cleo recently acquired Walter’s worldly possessions when somebody put a bullet in his chest. Walter had a knack for pissing people off. He pissed off Cleo when he ran off with her sister, her dog, and all her money. But Cleo didn’t kill Walter. Someone else beat her to it.
“That’s my assistant’s car,” I said. “Cleo’s oven is on the fritz. She’s borrowing mine.”
He grinned. “I hope she likes your new partner.”
Inga growled from the backseat.
“Cleo is catering the appetizers for Mama’s Bridge Club, and she’s trying out some recipes. It’s at Mrs. Millani’s house. Mama recommended Cleo, and she wants everything to be perfect.”
“I hope she makes buffalo wings.”
“No way. Mama wants to wow Mrs. Millani.”
“You can’t get more wow than buffalo wings.”
“You are such a guy.”
I killed the engine and checked the street. The coast was clear.
“Pull that blanket around you, and we’ll make a dash for the front door.”
Bill slid out of the car and hitched the blanket tight. It was short and barely closed around his Hostess-anointed frame. White calves showed bare above black Santa boots. He looked like a flasher.
Mrs. Pickins, the neighborhood snoop, appeared from nowhere.
“Get her, Inga,” I whispered. Inga wagged her tail.
Mrs. Pickins screeched, “That man has no pants! He’s a pervert. Hot Pants Detective Agency indeed!”
I felt Bill smile behind me.
I gritted my teeth and whispered. “Flash your reindeer and I’ll dress you in pink.”
I scooted up the steps, unlocked the door, and shoved Bill and Inga inside.
“You break your mama’s heart, Caterina De—”
I kicked the door shut behind me. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
I took Bill’s blanket and folded it. “You can take a hot shower while I find you something to wear.”
Beau, Cleo’s black Tibetan Terrier, came rocketing to the door, sounding the alarm. Cleo trailed after, her apron dusted with flour.
“We have company,” Cleo said.
“This is Bill,” I said.
“Indeed.” She checked out the reindeer boxer guy and smiled. “I like the soft tufts of hair around his man boobs.”
“You do?” I said.
“Ho ho ho,” Bill winked. “You like Rudolph?”
“Keep his nose in the barn,” I said.
I heard a gasp behind Cleo. I shuddered. I’d know that whimper anywhere. It’s the sound Mama makes when her daughter’s going to hell and she’s dialing her priest. Mama has Father Timothy on speed dial.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t alone. Mama and Mrs. Millani gaped at the near-naked man in my hallway. Mama gripped her heart. Mrs. Millani dragged a wide-eyed gaze from Rudolph. She touched Mama’s sleeve. “Are you alright, dear?”
Mama wasn’t alright at all. Her eyes were horrified. Her cheeks were hot. She was mortified.
I glared at my assistant. Cleo shrugged.
“What? I said we had company.”
A faint wheezing escaped Mama’s lips. Margaret Millani is the one woman I’ve seen Mama want to impress. She and her husband Ken are the only millionaires Mama knows.
I sucked in a breath. “Call 911,” I said. “Somebody mugged Santa Claus.”
***
The tale I told of Santa’s suit-snatching assault would crack the heart of Scrooge. At least Mrs. Millani was moved. Mama didn’t believe my story for a minute, but later she thanked me and told me to go to Confession.
The women fussed over Bill and wrapped a down quilt around him. Mrs. Millani made hot chocolate. Cleo tossed in rum. Mama fed Bill a fat plate of appetizers. There weren’t any chicken wings. Instead we had Garlicky Doused Shrimp, a Tomato Parmesan Tart, a Carmelized-Onion and Gorgonzola Grilled Pizza, Chicken and Sun-dried Tomato Bruschetta, and Raspberry Tiramisu.
Bill’s eyes went glassy. “Wow,” he said.
I found guy clothes in the guestroom closet. My brother, Rocco, stayed with me last summer when someone dumped a dead rat in my bed. I selected a soccer uniform that said Coach on the front of the jacket. Rocco DeLuca was embossed on back. The getup was roomy on Rocco. Bill tugged, squeezed, and finally managed to compress himself into it.
Mrs. Millani drove Mama home before Chicago’s finest, in the form of my cousin Frankie, answered the 911. Mrs. Pickens ogled from her front window. I saw her self-satisfied smirk below binoculars as Frankie’s squad car came roaring up the street, sirens at full scream. The tires screeched their complaint as he slid to a stop at the curb.
Frankie DeLuca spent the first twenty years of his life preparing to be a G-man. He became an excellent marksman. At fourteen, he shot an unsuspecting neighbor’s donut hole from his own kitchen window. At fifteen, he wire-tapped the school cheerleaders’ phones. His mistake was not studying for the psych eval. When he was turned down by the FBI for general insanity, he launched a promising career with the Chicago PD. My crazy cousin was just what they were looking for.
I opened the door before Frankie beat it down. He charged inside, gun drawn. Frankie stiffened and his gaze narrowed on the guy sipping cocoa on the couch.
“Is this the perpetrator?”
“Put the gun away, Frankie,” I said. “It was a false alarm.”
Frankie’s face crashed. He’d like to knock off a few rounds to impress Cleo.
Cleo and Frankie have a “thing.” I warned my assistant not to date my crazy cousin Frankie. Maybe because I have a rule against dating psycho men. They’re unpredictable. I don’t know what my cousin Frankie would do if he was pissed off. But I know what Cleo does. She hauls out the buckshot and fires.
“Hi, Frank,” Bill said.
“You remember Bill Bonham,
” I said. “He recently moved back to Bridgeport.”
Billy grunted. “I’m a private dick now. Like Cat. We’re working a few cases together.”
“Excuse me?” Cleo demanded more than questioned.
“You want in, Frank?” Bill said.
“No!” I said.
“Bonham?” Frankie reluctantly holstered his weapon. “I thought Captain Bob shot you.”
He sounded disappointed.
“Nah. I ran faster.”
Frankie’s gaze took in the coaching uniform stretched tight over Bill’s ample, Santa-like gut. “You don’t look so fast.”
“He can still jet,” I said. “I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
Chapter Four
Bill and Cleo hung out at the house, and I wrapped up the Martini case. I printed the photographs and delivered Olivia’s 8x10 glossies. Olivia Martini didn’t need me to tell her Bernie was a putz. While Bernie was at the pub getting his glasses steamed, she hired a brutal divorce lawyer. And she made an offer on a condo near her sister’s house in Glen Ellyn. Olivia Martini was going to be okay.
I buzzed home and met a pizza delivery guy on my front porch. The door was open. Green Day blasted from my speakers. And Bill Bonham rummaged through the pockets of his borrowed sweats. He came up with lint.
I settled with the pizza guy and carried the pie to the living room. The furniture had been shoved aside, and Billy and Cleo were dancing to the Red Hot Chili Peppers. They’d made a sizeable dent in a pitcher of margaritas. If I acted fast, I could squeeze another glass out of it.
Bill caught my hand and spun me around. When we were kids, I was taller than he was. I still was.
“They played this song at graduation. Remember? You were dating that dumb jock back then.”
“Dumb? The guy was a Greek god. He went to the University of Michigan on a football scholarship.”
Bill snorted. “If he graduated, someone did his homework for him. I tutored him in Chemistry. The elevator didn’t reach the top floor.”
“I was young. If I had cared about the top floor I wouldn’t have married Johnnie Rizzo! I remember you were hot and heavy with Captain Bob’s daughter.”
“I was crazy about that girl.”
“I happen to know she’s available. Call her.”
“You think her dad would still shoot me?”
“I’m pretty sure he would. If anything, you proved one thing today.”
“Yeah?”
“You can still run.”
Bill dipped me low, lingering above me a long moment. I thought Cleo would appreciate the view of his man-breasts.
“Maybe I’ll call her after we find the ice earrings. But I won’t go bragging about my windfall. I made that mistake with my ex-wife. She’s stalking me like she wants to get back together. She wants that diamond for herself and her new boy toy.”
“Hold up here, Studmuffin. After we find what?”
“Haven’t you been paying attention? You may have more experience, but if we’re going to work together, you’ve got to focus.” He did that annoying gesture, darting two fingers back and forth between our eyes.
I wriggled my way back up to my feet and kicked his shin. “Diamond earrings? Seriously? Is that why those thugs were chasing you?”
“I may, I repeat may, have been looking for a safe in the brick wall. But they couldn’t tell what I was doing. Not when you think about it.”
“They couldn’t tell?” I heard my voice rise to a pitch I’d only heard from Mama. “They chased you out like a dog. They knew exactly what you were doing. And another thing, what the hell do you know about cracking safes, anyway?”
“Safe cracking 101. It was chapter twelve in my correspondence course.”
I grabbed my hair. “Awwggh!”
Cleo shimmied around the room, purring “Wake Me Up When September Ends” in her vibrant voice.
I grabbed the margarita pitcher. “We’re taking this pizza party to the kitchen table. Santa has a lot of explaining to do.”
***
Bill recounted his story, lapsing from time to time into Bogie’s voice. I clamped my mouth, gritted my teeth, and listened.
“I got this client named Cristina McTigue. So, four years ago, she’s workin’ as a bartender at Tierney’s Irish Pub. One night she locks up and forgets her purse. She drives back to the pub. Lets herself in. Her boss’ car is parked outside, and she wanders back to talk about a shift change.”
Cleo said, “Did she get her purse back?”
“Ya, I guess.”
“Cuz I hate to lose a purse.”
“I’m guessing this isn’t a story about the bartender’s purse,” I said.
Cleo kicked her chair back and dragged three beers from the fridge. “Just sayin’.”
“The thing is, there’s this other guy with the boss,” Bill said. “The guy’s dangling these killer diamond earrings in the air. I mean, the chandelier kind. Lots of ice. Tierney says, ‘I’ll take those diamonds now.’ The guy says, ‘Screw you.’ And Boom! The boss pulls a gun and shoots him dead. Cool as ice.”
Cleo nodded, “I’ve had my share of jerk bosses.”
I threw her a look.
Bill took a long pull from his bottle and said, “Cristina sees Tierney take the earrings out of the dead guy’s hand. He drops them in a wall safe with some papers and fat stacks of money. He turns around, and there’s Cristina. Eyes wide as saucers. She runs. The chase is on.”
Cleo grunted. “The girl’s got some serious angels to be tellin’ this story.”
“No shit. Two cops are cruising by. They hear the gunshot, come bustin’ through the door. Cristina escapes out back. She races home, drags her daughter from her bed, and drives west until she runs out of road and hits the ocean.”
“Why run?” I said. “Why not go to the police?”
Billy did a palms-up. “She says Tierney has connections. She’s scared of him.”
“I don’t run for no man,” Cleo said. “I’d fill his bum with buckshot.”
I pulled another slice from the box. “I remember the case. Tierney went to prison.”
“He did four years. He was released last month. Had some time shaved off for good behavior.” Billy said.
Cleo snorted. “That’s a load of crap.”
“The economy sucks and prisons are overcrowded.” Billy shrugged.
I shook peppers on my cheese. “I don’t remember anything in the papers about diamond earrings.”
“As far as we know, only three people knew about the ice. Kyle Tierney, Cristina, and the dead guy. He’s not talking.”
“If your client’s so frightened of Tierney, what’s she doing back in Bridgeport?”
“She wants to blackmail him,” Cleo said. “I know I would.”
“Not smart,” I said.
“Cristina hired me to break into the safe and take the earrings, of course. If the rocks aren’t there, she says the cash will do.”
“Jeeze, Bill. What the hell are you thinking?”
He grinned. “It’s not theft, really.”
“No. It really is.”
“I gotta go with Bill on this one,” Cleo said.
“Cristina doesn’t care about the money,” Bill said. “She’s not like that.”
“Uh huh.”
“She has a brain tumor. She’s dying. It’s the only reason she came back.”
“Poor thing.” Cleo sighed and chugged down her beer.
I pressed my fingers to my eyeballs. Bill was a runaway train. And Cleo was his big, fat caboose.
Bill poked his head in the fridge and came out with more beer. “Cristina is sick. She doesn’t have insurance. She wants financial security for Halah, her fifteen-year-old daughter.”
“Hear, hear,” Cleo said.
�
��When Cristina’s boss killed that guy, she lost everything too. She had plans to go back to school.”
I said, “Cristina needs a lawyer. Not a private dick. She needs to sue the guy.”
“She may not have time.”
“Okay, I get it,” I said. “But breaking into a tough guy’s safe isn’t like super-gluing the principal’s desk to his office ceiling.”
“Bill did that?” Cleo said with admiration.
“Don’t encourage him,” I said.
“It was Cristina’s idea to dress up like Santa. I went in during a shift change. I told the bartender I was there to talk about a Christmas event. Cristina knew he’d tell me to wait in back. No one wants to see Santa on a bar stool.”
“Or a priest in a whore house,” Cleo said.
“So I’m in the back room looking for the safe. My hands are all over the wall when a dude walks in. I say, ‘Ho, ho ho. Where’s that damn chimney?’”
“Smooth,” Cleo said.
“The guy’s a prick. He’s got no Christmas spirit. He lunges at me, so I ran.”
I squeezed Bill’s hand. “Isn’t it possible Cristina is confused? She may not know what she’s talking about.”
His spine stiffened.
“Listen. I had a concussion last summer. I know what it’s like when everyone thinks you see dead people. Mama couldn’t look at me without crossing herself. So I say this with all compassion for your client.”
“Say what?”
“Cristina may not remember the events as they occurred.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Nut job,” Cleo sang.
I kicked her under the table. “Your client has a brain tumor. The safe. The diamonds. It’s possible she imagined them.”
Bill chucked a fist to his chest like Mama and choked.
“Hey, Bill. I’m just saying.”
“Stop. You’re giving me gas.
Chapter Five
We finished off every slice of pizza in the box. And the bottle of tequila, another casualty of the night. A pint of Ben & Jerry’s was next to fall. We polished off a pot of strong coffee and I drove Bill home.
