Blues in the Night

by Dick Lochte

  ‘You leave the electronic gizmo that starts the engine?’

  ‘I’ve been a little busy. Christ, Paulie. Can’t your guys handle a hot-wire job?’

  Paulie was starting to babble about the new technology when Mace snapped the cellular shut. He returned to the Mustang. Before getting in, he remembered the gun he was carrying. A murdered man’s gun. Something that could tie him to four homicides. He got out Tiny’s hanky for the last time and used it to wipe the gun. Then he tossed both items into a trash bin resting inside a smooth cement shell that the mall’s architect had created to make even the garbage look Malibu-pretty.

  They were zooming past the Santa Monica beach club when Mace realized the atmosphere in the car had changed. He glanced at Angela Lowell. She was awake and staring at him. Not with warmth.

  ‘Who the devil are you?’ she demanded, slurring a little.

  Instead of replying he returned his attention to the highway.

  ‘Do you work for Tiny?’ she asked.

  ‘Nobody works for Tiny anymore,’ Mace said, steering them on to the Santa Monica Freeway. ‘Not even Tiny.’

  ‘What do you mean? Why are you driving my car?’

  ‘I’m getting you away from a bad situation,’ he said. ‘We left four dead men back there at Point Dume. Five, if you count Tiny as two.’

  ‘My God. Who . . . ? You killed them?’

  He smiled at that. ‘No, ma’am. I don’t kill people. Unless I have to.’

  ‘Then who . . . ?’

  ‘A tall thin guy who’s either British or affected. His first name is Thomas. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of him?’

  ‘Of course not. But you evidently have.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Did you and he have a fight?’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Your clothes,’ she said. ‘You look like you’ve been fighting.’

  ‘It’s been a rough day.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘A guy who found a beautiful woman unconscious in a house full of dead men,’ he said. ‘I thought it best to get you dressed and out of there before the cops showed.’

  She looked down at her gown. If he expected her to blush, he was disappointed.

  He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out her panties. ‘I think these are yours.’

  She took them from him. Without hesitation, hiked up her skirt and slid them on.

  She leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes. ‘I . . . took something. To relax. I shouldn’t drink when I do that, but . . .’ She made a helpless shrug.

  ‘Your timing couldn’t have been better,’ he said. ‘It probably saved your life.’

  She stared at him. ‘My God!’

  ‘Tell me what went on at Tiny’s earlier, before you faded.’

  ‘We were about to leave for dinner,’ she said. ‘Then Tiny got one of his phone calls, and that meant dinner would be postponed for a few hours.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘I’m not sure why I should be talking to you about this,’ she said.

  ‘Just trying to make some sense out of what happened back there.’

  She studied him, obviously wondering if she should trust him. That done, she said, ‘Well, with Tiny business always comes . . . came first. The caller said he had something to discuss and Tiny suggested he come to the beach house. He told us we could eat later. That’s when I poured myself a glass of wine even though I’d taken a pill and knew better.’

  ‘Who was the caller?’ Mace asked.

  She shook her head. ‘Tiny didn’t say and I didn’t ask. He said I should go to my room, that Carlos would come tell me when the meeting was over and we could go to dinner.’

  ‘When you were . . . sleeping, you didn’t hear anything? Gunshots? Shouts? Anything?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Did Tiny have a giant . . . have any animals? Pets?’

  She shook her head. ‘The beach house is full of very valuable art. Not a place for pets.’

  She was silent for a minute or two, then asked, ‘You sure they’re both dead? Tiny and Carlos?’

  ‘Carlos a pretty boy who only uses a razor on odd days?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Dead,’ Mace said, flatly.

  ‘He . . . worked for Tiny.’

  ‘If he was a bodyguard, he was a piss-poor one.’

  Mace moved the Mustang around a creeper hogging the fast lane.

  ‘You live at the beach house?’ he asked, as if he didn’t know the answer.

  ‘I have my own apartment. But I . . . go there sometimes because the art makes me happy. It helps me to . . . unwind. That guest room is rarely used, except by me.’

  ‘What was he to you? Lover? Friend?’

  ‘Tiny is . . . was gay. He was a client. My profession is appraising works of art. I helped Tiny with his collection. He was also a friend. A very sweet man. Always concerned about me. Like an uncle.

  ‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘Were you a friend of Tiny’s?’

  ‘Do I look like a friend of Tiny’s?’ Mace asked.

  She shrugged.

  ‘We used to work together.’

  ‘In investments?’

  He smiled. ‘Yes. Investments.’

  She was staring at him. ‘Is that why you were at the beach house tonight?

  ‘You got it,’ he said. ‘Where are we headed, by the way?’

  She hesitated, then said, ‘I live at the Florian. Above Sunset. You know the place?’

  ‘I’ve driven by it,’ he said.

  FIFTEEN

  As he remembered the nighttime Sunset Strip of the Nineties, it had not been a particularly wholesome venue. But that had been like Disneyland compared to the present streetscape. Garish. Ugly. Young Latinos bouncing up and down in their hot paint low-riders.

  Paused at a red light, Mace watched male and female hookers hungrily work their way through the stalled traffic. The light changed and he started forward, almost hitting a huge man on Rollerblades. He was wearing a pink Mohawk, matching pink short shorts and tube top, gliding across the boulevard with a boom box under one heavily-muscled arm and a pink poodle under the other.

  ‘What do you think?’ Mace asked. ‘Too much?’

  She smiled. A first for the night.

  Passing Honest Abe’s Coffee Empourium, he indicated the crowd waiting to get in. ‘Popular place, huh?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Ever been there?’

  She gave him a curious look. ‘I don’t like coffee,’ she said.

  He turned left and headed up to the Florian, nosing the car on to the circular drive. ‘Where do I put this?’

  She directed him to the parking area she’d been assigned.

  ‘What now?’ Angela asked when he turned off the ignition and handed her the key.

  ‘You go inside and get on with your life and I walk down to Sunset to catch a cab.’

  He got out of the car and circled it, intending to open her door. She didn’t wait, her expression indicating she considered such courtesy to be old fashioned and foolish.

  Or maybe she was just eager to be free of him.

  He stood near the car, letting her initiate the goodbye.

  ‘Why don’t I give you a lift to wherever you’re headed?’ she said.

  ‘Better for you to go inside and get some sleep,’ he said, leading her to the Florian’s front door. ‘The police will be calling on you sooner or later. You want to be fresh for that.’

  ‘What do I tell them?’ she asked.

  ‘You’ve visited Tiny’s often, but you weren’t anywhere near there tonight.’

  ‘Where was I?’

  Mace smiled. ‘I’ll leave that up to you.’

  At the door, he said, ‘Be sure to lock yourself in.’

  ‘Why not come up?’ she said. ‘Wait there for a cab. If that’s what you want.’

  A cab was not at all what he wanted. He was tempted, but he said, ‘Rain check.’
>
  He tried to read her reaction. Surprise. Disappointment. Maybe a hint of pique.

  ‘This is it, then?’ she said.

  ‘I hope not.’

  She started to say something, thought better of it. She nodded, turned and entered the Florian.

  Mace didn’t think she’d look back, but he waited to make sure. Then he circled the building.

  SIXTEEN

  What the fuck happened to you?’ Wylie asked as Mace let himself into the apartment. He’d been sitting at the window, chair leaning back, feet up on the table. He swung his legs to the floor and popped the electronic buds from his ears.

  ‘I went for a drive in the country,’ Mace said, removing his torn and muddied jacket.

  ‘The cu . . . the subject’s been gone the whole . . . Shit. Somebody work you over?’ He was pointing at Mace’s shirt which was ripped and crusted with dirt.

  Mace took off the shirt, balled it up and threw it into the wastebasket near his bed. He moved to the bathroom, Wylie following.

  ‘Your neck’s scratched,’ Wylie said. ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘Give me a few minutes, OK?’ Mace said, and turned on the washbasin faucet.

  Reluctantly, Wylie obeyed the request, fading into the bedroom.

  Mace washed his hands, then his face. He dried off and opened a leather kit that was resting on a shelf over the toilet. He removed a bandage strip that he placed on a dry corner of the basin. He examined the inch-long scratch on his neck that he hadn’t even noticed before. It seemed to be strictly surface, but he’d seen tiny wounds blossom into problems.

  ‘Put a couple shots of Jack in a glass for me,’ he called out to Wylie, who responded eagerly.

  Mace drank two-thirds of the whiskey, then poured the rest on a rolled-up ball of toilet paper that he used to sterilize the cut.

  ‘Ugly bruise starting on your shoulder,’ Wylie said.

  ‘I got kicked by Elvis,’ Mace said.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ Mace said, applying the adhesive strip to the scratch. ‘What’s Lacotta been up to lately?’

  The question clearly discomforted Wylie. ‘I . . . who knows? I don’t get invited to the fucking board meetings.’

  Mace zipped the leather bag, clicked off the bathroom light and went past Wylie into the bedroom, carrying the whiskey glass.

  ‘A smart guy like you picks things up,’ he said. ‘This would be something a little different from the daily routine.’

  Wylie was flattered but still wary. ‘Mr Lacotta took a couple trips for this deal that didn’t happen. That what you mean?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Mace said, pouring a drink for himself and one for Wylie. He handed Wylie the tumbler.

  ‘Much as I know, it was some kind of thing with the government.’

  Mace sipped the bourbon. ‘When was this?’

  ‘Maybe a month and a half ago, Mr Lacotta flew to Frisco. Day or two later, he took off for DC. Came back totally stoked, said he’d been wining and dining with a bunch of the big dogs at the White House. He was soaring. Never saw him so up. But that mood sure didn’t last long. I think the whole thing tanked.’

  Mace moved to the windows and picked up one of the binoculars. He looked out at Angela Lowell’s apartment. The drapes were drawn, but a light was on in her living room. A shadow flitted across the drapes.

  ‘No hint what the deal involved?’ he asked.

  ‘Hell, nobody tells me about the deals that go through, much less the ones that don’t.’

  Mace traded the binoculars for the booze bottle, poured Wylie another shot. He wondered how close that DC visit was to Lacotta sending Wylie to clock the visitors to Commingore Industries. But he couldn’t bring up Commingore again at that moment. If there was a time link, he didn’t want Wylie to be thinking about it.

  ‘Speaking of people who don’t tell me stuff,’ Wylie said, ‘if it was followin’ the bi-atch got you bounced around, don’t you owe me a fill-in? I follow her, too.’

  So Wylie was not a total asshole after all and maybe he did deserve a heads-up.

  ‘I was on the job, parked, waiting for Lowell to emerge from . . . a building when this oddball crew surprised me,’ Mace said. ‘Thomas has a little moustache, dresses like David Niven used to. Suit. Ascot. He’s a shooter.’

  ‘What kinda weapon?’

  ‘I’m not exactly sure, but I’m guessing a Spitfire. Because it’s British. He’s very handy with it. His younger brother Timmie had his brain fried when he was a baby. Acts like a five year old. Looks a hell of a lot like Elvis, blown up to about six-five or -six. Got wrists as big as my thighs. He likes to dress up. He was wearing a cowboy outfit today.’

  ‘Gee-zus. Never even heard of any dudes like that. Sure they weren’t yankin’ your chain?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure it was no joke,’ Mace said, thinking of the bodies at the beach house. ‘They were using a mustard-colored limo.’

  ‘Yuck. You get the plate number?’

  ‘No,’ Mace said. Why hadn’t he? He closed his eyes, trying to recall. When Thomas had marched him to the vehicle, he hadn’t had a clear view of either its front or rear. On the country road, the license plate had been obscured by a trail of dust. He wasn’t even sure if it was a California plate.

  ‘The driver was a guy they called Sweets. Black dude, maybe six-one. Tried to shoot Lacotta yesterday and I had to break his wrist.’

  ‘Holy crap. When were you gonna tell me about that?’

  ‘I should have. Sorry. You know the guy?’

  Wylie shook his head.

  ‘He told Lacotta he worked for Tiny Daniels.’

  ‘Black?’ Wylie frowned. ‘The only guys I see with Tiny are slick-looking white butt-boys.’

  A sudden surge of music came from Wylie’s pocket. A TV series theme, Mace thought, though there was no way he could name the show.

  Wylie got out his cellular and put it to his ear. ‘Wylie.’

  He listened a beat, said, ‘Right here,’ and tossed the phone to Mace.

  Mace had to study it a bit before putting it to his ear. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Cops got a lot of the area roped off,’ Lacotta said. ‘You were lucky you left when you did.’

  ‘What about the rental?’ Mace asked, getting to his feet. He headed toward the bathroom.

  ‘Taken care of. Relax. Get some sleep.’

  Mace closed the bathroom door and lowered his voice. ‘How much do you want Wylie to know about the murders?’

  ‘Whatever he reads in the papers tomorrow. Unless you feel he should know you’re part of that sad tragedy.’

  ‘He should be clued in on just how deadly these guys are.’

  ‘You’ve had a rough day. Get some sleep. You worry too much.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Mace said and terminated the call.

  He returned to the table by the window and gave Wylie his phone back.

  ‘What’s up?’ Wylie asked.

  Mace felt Wylie deserved a little more information. ‘These guys, Sweets and the Brit brothers, you don’t want to screw around with this crew,’ he said. ‘If they show, head the other way. Once you’re clear, give me a call. Understand?’

  ‘No. I don’t. Sweets is a pussy. And from what you say, the Limeys don’t sound like much. A skinny fag with an ascot and his brain-dead brother. No big threat.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t know Sweets,’ Mace said. ‘What makes you think he’s a pussy?’

  Wylie frowned, then said, ‘You told me you broke his wrist. Anyway . . .’

  When Wylie did not finish that thought, Mace said, ‘Anyway what?’

  Wylie shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I got nothing.’

  Mace stared at the punk and wondered what he was holding back. He could probably get it out of him with three or four more shots of whiskey. But he didn’t have the time or the patience.

  He pulled his two-suiter from under his bed and opened it. He removed a fresh shirt from his still-unpacked clothes, shook it
out and put it on.

  He looked down at his dusty trousers. The left knee, scraped in the leap from the limo, was a shade lighter than the rest. He didn’t care. He tried to beat some of the dust out, but the material had been damaged. Too bad. He undid the belt, button and zipper and tucked in his shirt before reversing the process.

  ‘That the gizmo to start your rental?’ he asked, picking up a small black device from the table beside Wylie’s bed.

  ‘My smart key, yeah. Why . . . ?’

  Mace headed for the door.

  ‘Whoa,’ Wylie said. ‘Time for you to house-sit. ’m gettin’ hungry.’

  ‘I’ll bring something back,’ Mace said. ‘Cheeseburger OK?’

  Wylie stared at him. ‘Yeah. That’s fine.’ He turned, picked up the binoculars and trained them on the opposite wing of the building. ‘What if she goes out?’

  ‘I don’t see that happening,’ Mace said. ‘Oh, and I wouldn’t be lingering at the window with the spyglasses. She may be visited by the cops tonight and I hear they’re on the lookout for stalkers these days.’

  ‘Cops coming here? Why?’

  ‘It’s what they do. So just take a quick check from time to time without the binocs. Make sure she’s still there.’

  ‘Wait a minute . . .!’ Wylie yelled.

  But he was alone in the apartment.

  SEVENTEEN

  Mace stood on the sidewalk in front of a run-down stucco duplex on Orange Avenue. He didn’t see Simon S. Symon’s broken-down grape Cherokee parked anywhere, but it could have been tucked away in a garage. The duplex’s front door was open and a rectangle of light from its hallway spilled out over cracked and peeling white wooden steps and a section of sun-scorched yellow lawn.

  An overweight woman stood in the doorway, cradling a crying baby in one fleshy arm, while she used the other to bring a cigarette to her pouty lips. Pink shorts cut into bulging thighs. She was wearing a tight, faded green T-shirt with a bib that rested on her jutting breasts like a doily on an overstuffed chair. Mace figured she wore the bib in case the baby got so irritated by the cigarette smoke it had to throw up.