Dating Dead Men

by Harley Jane Kozak

  “A hundred shares of the stock would do it,” I said, provoking a laugh. He thought I was kidding.

  On the porch, a somber female employee handed out bandannas. Before I could twist mine into a noose and hang myself, Robert took it from me and knotted it around my neck, cowboy style. In the house, I excused myself and was shown to a black marble bathroom ample enough to store the contents of my apartment. I ripped off my shredded fourteen-dollars-apiece stockings, leaving my garters dangling, and when I couldn't find a wastebasket, I stuffed them into an urn. At least I hadn't paid for the dress. Fredreeq must've described tonight's original itinerary to Tiffanie's Trousseau as “five-star restaurant/nightclub” to have scored this number, which did not show to advantage with a bandanna. Well, it wasn't as if I was the only overdressed person on the premises, I said to the mirror. All the service personnel were in black tie.

  The grounds—the term “backyard” didn't really apply—were lush enough to support a community of sculptors, farmers, and landscape architects. The evening was warm for early spring, but even so, heat lamps were set up every few feet along the trails, just in case there should be any shivering cowboys or cowgirls. The smell of night-blooming jasmine accompanied us on our journey across the plantation, and it was hard not to be seduced by the graciousness of it all. I began to relax.

  Saul and Elaine's tennis courts had been covered over with a dance floor, parquet sprinkled with sawdust and the odd bale of hay. Some fifty guests swung their partners to and fro under Japanese lanterns. I was amazed to see so many people dancing.

  “Saul insists on it,” Robert said. “And few can afford to offend Saul. He's one of the top five lawyers in Hollywood, and seventy percent of everyone here is in law. The rest are Industry.” He pointed out our host, a bespectacled man in a ten-gallon hat drinking a martini. Saul was talking to a guest who looked like John Travolta. On closer inspection, it turned out to be John Travolta.

  “And even those willing to offend Saul,” Robert continued, smiling, “are terrified of Elaine. She made up the hoedown rule: You can't get a drink without a name tag. And you can't get a name tag without showing up on the dance floor. Shall we?”

  We followed the relentless instructions of the square dance caller to the twang of a banjo, reducing people to alligator boots to the east, suede fringe to the west, yoked shirt straight ahead. Cryptic pieces of conversation wafted past, as my quartet networked the neighboring squares.

  “. . . bastard rescheduled the deposition!”

  “. . . got you that TRO but we still . . .”

  “. . . reversed on appeal or we're screwed . . .”

  A gal in an alarming petticoat hopped onto a hay bale and began to yodel. Perhaps I'd been Ma Kettle in a past life, because it came naturally to me, the do-si-dos and allemande lefts, even in heels. Limbs sashaying wildly, my mind was free to ponder . . . diamonds.

  Cut, carats, and clarity, the three C's, sounded right the minute Fredreeq's client had said it. A diamond was portable, fenceable, more or less white . . . what else? Carmine mentioned a name inside. Engraving? Yes. Our item-in-a-box, I felt sure, was a piece of diamond jewelry, worth half a million dollars. Eureka. Wait till I told Doc.

  Doc.

  Married.

  Depression reared its ugly head, but it was hard to focus on it, what with all the yodeling going on. Romantic angst would have to wait; I turned to my partner.

  My partner was focused on his feet as if the NASDAQ itself depended on it. Robert had a face that stopped short of handsome, but he wore it well and smiled often. What he did not have was a gift for square dancing, a fact he acknowledged with lifted eyebrows, and I found that engaging. It began to matter less that I was dressed wrong and didn't know anyone. People seemed friendlier as the dancing continued. I could have promenaded all night, but when our yodeler hollered, “Git ready to POLKA!” Robert took my hand and bunny-hopped off the sawdust. A servant stood by with name tags. Mine said, “Howdy, I'm Wollie,” and below, in fine print, “Welcome! Greetings Corporation.” Robert's fine print was an understated “Quarter Enterprises.” Number five, I thought automatically, Has Job.

  We found the bar, adjacent to a rose garden. After procuring drinks, we claimed a heat lamp near a swan-filled pond, and I stepped out of my heels to revel in upper-class grass. Darkness had descended, Orion twinkled away at us, and I was beginning to give in to the charm of it all when I looked toward the mansion and saw Dave Fischgarten. Date Nineteen.

  He strode down the path with an astonishingly built blonde in a pink calico dress. Had she rented the costume for the occasion? I wondered. Had Dave rented her? What was he doing here, anyway? He was not in law or show biz, nor, on a research scientists's salary, was he a client of Saul's. I doubted Ms. Pink Calico was either, judging by her openmouthed gawking.

  Dave and Date were coming our way. Dave saw Robert, did a double take, then stopped, assuming an eager “Hi, remember me?” look, waiting for Robert to turn and see him. When Robert did not turn, Dave glanced at me. He may as well have worn subtitles: Are you Somebody? No. He moved off, with Ms. Calico, to the swan pond. Five days after our date and he didn't recognize me.

  Wait. It wasn't lack of recognition, it was lack of surprise. Dave expected to see me here. With Robert. But how was that possible, with dates supposedly answering my Personals ad, randomly, and getting screened by Joey and Fredreeq—?

  Memories of my Friday night date came stumbling back, the words “chaos theory” flashing in my brain like the clock on my VCR. What was it Dave had said?

  Chaos was what appeared to be random, but had an underlying pattern to it.

  “Robert, do you know that man?” I asked, pointing to the swan pond.

  Robert looked at him, his face impassive. “Probably. I know everyone.”

  I shivered, convinced that Dave's presence tonight was no coincidence. Well, so what? So what if he gave my phone number to the entire Fortune 500, in exchange for party invitations or stock tips or whatever? You're paranoid, I told myself. The underlying pattern here is you, Wollie, dating so many men that eventually you'll meet them wherever you go.

  “Irving and Lois Gorman-Goodman,” Robert said, leading me up the hill. He was referring to a couple hailing us from the barbecue line, in matching overalls, straw hats, and fake freckles. “He's Sony, she's D.A.'s office.”

  A moment later, their name tags confirmed this and I made a mental note for Fredreeq, who collected Who's Who stories. Robert made introductions and Irving asked, “Are you an actress, Holly, or an attorney?”

  “Wollie's in retail,” Robert answered for me, handing Irving a heavy china plate.

  “I never got over Versace,” Irving said cryptically, and went on to chat with Robert about mutual friends and mutual funds while I waited, and Lois drank. At the first opening, I squeezed into the conversation.

  “Robert and I were just talking about JFK,” I said. “And the Cuban Missile Crisis. And the Bay of Pigs,” I added, as all three looked at me expectantly. It was a socially peculiar moment, but I plunged on. “And I was wondering if there were Cubans—or any Latinos—in the Mafia.”

  “There aren't Latinos at this hoedown,” said Lois, “unless they're parking cars.”

  “There are Greeks here, though,” Irving pointed out. “Tell me, does Arianna Huffington have a speech impediment, or is that just her accent?”

  “But are there strategic alliances?” I persisted. “Like, in prison. For instance.”

  Lois snorted. “The mob's in bed with everyone. They can't afford to be picky anymore. These days it's all about the Russians, the Asians, the Albanians, for God's sake. The Serbs. This is not your grandmother's Mafia. Of course, you wouldn't want to say that to Eddie Minardi, it being a sensitive subject.”

  “Eddie Minardi?” I said, startled. I tried to recall Doc's newspaper article, and what exactly it had said about Eddie Minardi.

  “Is he here?” Robert asked.

  “Well, he's Saul's
client. Haven't seen him yet,” she said, “but it's the first night all week I haven't. The ubiquitous Eddie Digits. Morton's. Chinois. Laker game.”

  “NCAA's on in the screening room,” Irving said, reaching for tortilla chips. “March Madness. Duke's going down.” He addressed this last news to me, as if I had any idea what he was talking about. I turned to Lois and asked if she knew Eddie Minardi.

  “In a manner of speaking.” She helped herself to guacamole. “My boss just indicted him for jury tampering—that's why he's in town.”

  “Who are we talking about?” Irving asked, through a mouthful of chips.

  “Eddie ‘Digits' Minardi,” said Robert, “also known as Big Eddie Minardi, as in the Minardi crime family. Pay attention, Irving.”

  I said, “Didn't I read that one of his soldiers is getting out of prison early?”

  “Really?” Robert said. “Ratting out the boss?”

  Lois sighed. “I wish. You're referring to Ron Ronzare, and believe me, we tried to turn him, but Minardi's his brother-in-law. And Ron was only doing a dime, meaning out in five. Five years is a sabbatical for these guys. He's a real piece of work.”

  “Who, Big Eddie?” I asked.

  “Actually, he's a gentleman. Anglophile, very Savile Row, very ‘tea with the Queen.' No, I'm talking about the Weasel. Aptly named, because he's an animal,” she said, frowning at the pork ribs, “with a real facility for getting in and out of tight places. Weaseled out of a breaking and entering two years ago.”

  Irving laughed. “‘Weasel.' ‘Digits.' Love that mob.”

  Ronald “the Weasel” Ronzare—the newspaper said he was at Corcoran. Which was where Shebby, the dead kid, met his cellmate Juan, who later had him killed. That's why I kept thinking there was a connection. Robert had his hand on the small of my back, steering me toward a table, but I turned once more to Lois. “Why is Eddie Digits called Eddie Digits?”

  “He's kind of a dandy. Wears rings on several of his fingers. Toes too, for all I know. It's not gold chains, but it's a definite lapse in taste.” She stuck a jalapeño in her mouth and made a face. “Diamonds all over his hands.”

  THE LIMO'S ROSE leather upholstery was cool, but Robert's body was close enough to give off heat. Also aftershave, something subtle and spicy. He talked on the phone to Tokyo and I was so physically relaxed from two margaritas, I'd have been dead asleep and snoring were it not for bells ringing in my head like a church at high noon. I collated information.

  Juan, murderer and ex-cellmate of Shebby, had something stashed somewhere. Carmine implied that that something was a diamond. Diamonds were what Big Eddie wore on his digits. Big Eddie had a brother-in-law in Corcoran. Juan was in Corcoran.

  But how was Coughing Carmine connected to Eddie Digits? And how was Ron, “the Weasel,” connected to Juan, the cellmate, and Shebby, the deceased? Who was in the Hummer?

  And what about the Swedes?

  I rubbed my eyes, then stopped, remembering mascara. There were more names than people, and way too many people. Leaving out nicknames, unknown names, and dead people, there remained Eddie, Carmine, Ron, Juan, Olof and—

  Ron. Juan.

  I inhaled sharply, and sat up straight. Robert turned to me, curious, and I shook my head at him.

  Speech impediment.

  Shebby was a kid with a speech impediment. What were speech impediments but inabilities to reproduce certain sounds? The letter “r,” for instance, the Wugged Wed Wabbit Syndwome.

  Where Ron became Wan. Juan.

  There was no Juan. There was only Ron, and Shebby's problem saying his name. Doc had quoted Shebby verbatim, to mislead me.

  It was Ron “the Weasel” Ronzare, soldier in Big Eddie's crime family, who'd stashed a diamond. And killed Shebby. And wanted Doc.

  And me.

  chapter twenty-two

  Robert kissed well. Parked in front of the shop, our faces were so close we looked at each other cross-eyed, practically mandating a kiss. I didn't resist. He smelled good. I liked him. I'd had enough of murder for one day. I closed my eyes, found his lips, let myself relax. I thought, Don't think about Doc.

  The mouth was soft and the face too, making me wonder what kind of shaving cream he used. He had no discernible taste, probably because we'd shared food and margaritas all night. He took his time. This, I realized, was one of the 50 Most Powerful Men in Media, and as a businesswoman, I should pay attention to his deal-closing techniques. I felt strangely content, almost stupid, even when his strong hand found its way to my neck. Was this how stranglers do in their victims? I wondered, but then the strong hand slid south and ended up on my nearly bare breast, confident of its welcome. My breast, for reasons of its own, rose to the occasion. It had been a long time since I'd been touched like this.

  The bark of a dog penetrated my consciousness, then the slam of a door and Kelvin yelling, “Sweetie Pie!” Something was going on outside, but my brain didn't really kick in until one of the limo's back doors opened and cold night air hit me. I stopped kissing and opened my eyes. There was Doc, looking as surprised as I was.

  I froze. Across the long stretch of car, Doc's eyes went from my face to my breast, where Robert's hand stayed as if glued. I opened my mouth to say something—I have no idea what—when something outside drew Doc's attention. He wheeled around. There was a whump! sound. Kelvin was taking him down.

  “Whoa!” I threw off Robert's limbs to scramble over the seat and across the plush carpet as fast as short spandex would allow. I lurched out of the car right into Doc and the two of us went down onto the asphalt. In a matter of seconds Sweetie Pie was on top of us and everyone seemed to be either yelping or swearing until Robert roared, “SHUT UP!” Amazingly, everyone did.

  “It's okay, I'm okay,” I said, hauled to my feet by various parties. “He's my cousin. Doc. Cousin of mine. Doc, this is Kelvin and Rob—”

  “Yeah, hi. Excuse us. Family emergency.” Doc put an arm around my waist and jerked me backward, veritably lifting me up onto the sidewalk. Kelvin was corralling Sweetie Pie, but Robert moved toward us, taking exception to my being manhandled.

  “No, it's okay, Robert,” I said, waving him off. “Family emergency. Happens all the time. Thanks for—you know. Everything. Call me.” I watched them get back into the limo as I was pulled, not gently, into the shadows of Loo Fong's. “Doc,” I hissed, breaking free, “you know who that was?”

  He leaned against Loo Fong's red door, bent over as if he were going to be sick. After what seemed like a long time he said, “Which? The one with the—fist in my gut, or the one”—his breath came in spurts—“with his tongue down your throat?”

  “Oh, God,” I said, and put a hand on his back. “Are you hurt? Did Kelvin punch you? I'm so sorry. See, he's a bodyguard as well as a chauffeur, so . . .”

  He didn't respond, apparently saving his breath. Finally, he straightened up. “Let's go. Stay in the shadow.” He grabbed my arm and steered me toward Plucky Chicken.

  I stalled, looking back at my shop. “But what are we—?”

  “Sweetheart,” he said, dragging me with him, “we're on the lam.”

  We picked up Ruby and Margaret in the alley behind Bodega Bob, and made our way through side streets, staying off Sunset. I was reminded of the von Trapp family, escaping through the Alps, except, of course, that none of us were singing. In this group, nobody was even talking, although I couldn't vouch for Margaret, in her crate. “Want to fill me in on what we're doing?” I asked, for the fourth or fifth time.

  “Not in front of Ruby,” Doc said.

  “We're not in front of Ruby,” I pointed out. “We're three yards behind.”

  The child bounced down the sidewalk, happy to be touring Hollywood after dark. She wore blue jeans, stiff with newness, which no doubt helped her high spirits. Doc wore new jeans too, but they weren't having the same cheerful effect on him. And I was in spike heels. “We gotta slow down,” I said. “I'm not dressed for racewalking.”

  He didn't slo
w. He speeded up, caught Ruby, and steered her left, down yet another alley. “Doc?” I called. “Do we have a destination, or is this aerobics hour?”

  “Try to keep up,” he said, over his shoulder.

  This was too much. I stopped and said the magic words. “Ron ‘the Weasel' Ronzare.”

  Ahead of me, he came to a dead halt.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Now, you can tell me what new Mafia crisis has come up, or I can turn around and go home.”

  He called to Ruby to stop, then came to me. “What do you know about him?”

  “That he's a soldier in the Minardi crime family. That he's the brother-in-law of Eddie Minardi, the big cheese. That he's getting out of prison early, which is why he no longer needed Shebby to rescue his thing-in-a-box, as he can presumably do it himself.”

  He studied me. “Ronzare was released Friday. He's the one in the Hummer.”

  “Oh, jeez,” I said, recalling how close to him I'd been that morning.

  “And he did the shooting we heard last night,” Doc went on. “A half hour ago, he called your apartment. Ruby and I were eating pizza. We heard the message on your machine, but by the time I figured out it was him, he'd hung up. So we went down to the shop to wait for you, figuring you'd go there first.”

  I gulped. “What did the message say?”

  He looked at me steadily. “I would have erased it, but I think you should keep it. As evidence.”

  Evidence. I waited in silence, my earlier bravado draining out of me.

  “The gist of the message was that he was . . . waiting for you to come home.”

  “And—?” I asked. When he hesitated, I said, “I'd rather hear it from you first.”

  “He mentioned knives.”

  I noticed I was shivering violently. “I'm very cold.”

  “You're half naked,” he said, and put an arm around me. “Let's go.”

  THE BUDGETEER MOTOR Lodge lobby had a Viva Las Vegas look, screaming fluorescence featuring snappy casino-themed wallpaper. Waiting to check in, I slipped out of my torturous heels and limped toward the pay phone until Doc intercepted me. “I have to call my machine,” I told him. “P.B. was going to leave a message.”