Worst In Show: A Jamie Bravo Mystery

by Layce Gardner

  “Fisticuffs? Where are we, in the eighteenth century?”

  “You know what I mean, Jamie. Lest you forget, I may be small, but I have a black belt,” Travis says.

  “A black belt? In karate? How come I didn’t know this?”

  “No, I just have a black belt. It goes with my black Armani suit,” Travis says.

  I laugh harder than the joke calls for. Mostly because I’m relieved that my best friend isn’t mad at me for never letting him be my sidekick. What he doesn’t understand is that I’m not a superhero. I’m a detective and we don’t have sidekicks. We’re the loner type. A lone wolf, that’s me.

  I hear a bunch of catcalls and rude comments. I swivel around on my stool to see Burt himself, doing a runway model’s walk and striking poses. He’s decked out in a three-piece black silk suit with a hot pink silk tie.

  I think the pink tie is a nice touch. Only big bad men with secure male egos would voluntarily put on pink and pull it off. Burt is six feet six inches tall and weighs in around the three hundred pound range. He looks intimidating. Except when he’s modeling.

  “What d’ya think?” he says, striking a pose for my benefit alone.

  “Don’t swish in front of the mobsters,” I reply. “Other than that you are everything I imagined and more. Did you put the holster on?”

  “Sure did, honey,” Burt says, opening his jacket and showing me. “I feel so manly when I’m packing.”

  I pull my gun out of my coat pocket and stick it into his empty holster. This sends Burt into another spasm of instantaneous modeling. He ends up with an open-jacket pose, exposing his holster and gun.

  The five queens Oooh and Aaaahhh and clap their soft hands.

  “You’re giving him a gun?” Travis asks incredulously.

  “It’s not loaded. But no one will know that,” I whisper.

  Burt flaps his giant hands and does some kind of tippy-toes dance, squealing, “I’m so excited! I just can’t hide it.”

  “Chillax, Pointer Sister,” one of the queens scolds.

  Burt stops doing whatever that was that he was doing and says, “This is more exciting and dangerous than Stonewall.”

  “You were at Stonewall?” Travis asks.

  “In spirit. I was a teenager in Nebraska at the time, but I was still proud,” Burt says, doing a little shimmy.

  “Where you going all duded up like that?” Bozo the Queen asks.

  “To play with the big boys,” Burt says. He takes out his gun and lovingly strokes the barrel. The table of queens gasp.

  “Don’t do that,” I say. “Don’t stroke the gun.”

  Travis whispers, “You don’t really think this is a good idea?”

  “Yes, I do. I mean, look at him. Everything about him invokes fear. As long as he doesn’t talk. Or move.”

  “He always talks.”

  “Not when he’s in character. He assured me that he’s capable of invoking fear without the use of words or movement. He told me he did several years of theater,” I say.

  “Community theatre,” Travis says. “And he was the costumer.”

  “It’ll be fine.” I offer up a silent prayer and pat the envelope in my back pocket. The envelope contains fifty-six one-thousand dollar bills. Enough to pay the fifty large, the vig and a three thousand dollar bonus for being patient. I had to talk Mrs. Charles into that by telling her the goombahs might still want a pound of Milton’s flesh for the inconvenience he caused them. As the saying goes, “Money talks.” I sincerely hope that holds true.

  Eighteen

  I leave Silver parked at Burt’s Burlesque and we drive Burt’s car to the meet 'n greet with the mobsters. It was actually Burt’s idea. His ride is a black Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows. I read somewhere once that the sale of black Escalades went through the roof when The Sopranos won an Emmy. Kind of like how white Ford Broncos popped up everywhere after O.J. made car chases famous.

  Burt parks right in front of Giovanni’s Gelato. From this angle I can see three goombahs lounging in their track suits and gold jewelry at a booth near the window. We’re parked close to the front door which is good for a quick getaway if need be.

  “You ready?” I ask.

  Burt flips down the visor, licks his pinky and smoothes it over his eyebrows.

  “Get into character, Burt!” I scold. “They can see you femme-ing out with your eyebrows!”

  “Darling, they can’t see a thing through my tinted windows,” he says all queeny-like.

  I get out of the car before I hit him. I should’ve known better than to bring Burt into this mess. What’s that old saying about making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear? Now I understand what it means, except Burt is the silk purse and I’m trying to turn him into a sow’s ear.

  Burt joins me on the sidewalk. I say, “Let’s go over it again.”

  “I have my lines memorized,” he says out the side of his mouth.

  “But you don’t have any lines.”

  “Precisely. Now let’s get our mobster on.” He reaches for the door. I grab his elbow, stopping him.

  “Maybe we should take a minute and get in touch with our inner mobster.” I turn my back to the window and Burt does the same.

  “If you insist,” he says with a giant sigh.

  “Close your eyes and think of Tony Soprano. That’s how tough you are. Channel Tony,” I say.

  Burt closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath and exhales. “Unique, New York. Unique, New York. She sells sea shells by the seashore.”

  “What’re you doing?” I hiss.

  “Tongue twisters. All actors do it,” he replies.

  “You are NOT going to speak. Got it? Are NOT.”

  “I got it, I got it,” he says. “I was going to bring a cigar, you know, like Tony Soprano, but I thought maybe it was too phallic. If I put that in my mouth then everybody could tell I was gay.”

  I grit my teeth and open the door. The door chimes. All three mobsters eyeball me. I walk straight up to their table. If I had any sense at all, I would turn and run. But, of course, I’ve never had much good sense. I stand still for a moment, eyeing each mobster in turn. I can feel Burt’s breath on the back of my neck.

  I grab a chair from a nearby table and place it at the end of the booth. Burt stands next to me. Two of the mobsters put their hands inside their expensive silk suits. I look at the only goombah who isn’t reaching for his gun. I make him as the leader of this quaint threesome. He’s busy scarfing down a cup of gelato and not looking at me.

  I say softly, “Hello, boys. I’m here to make a deal.”

  The leader continues scooping up gelato and depositing it inside his gob. After two bites, he wipes his lips and says, “For whom might you be making this deal?”

  “Milton Charles. I believe he owes you fifty large,” I say. My mouth is so dry I can barely talk.

  “Where is he?” says the other mobster. This one has a nasty looking scar down the left side of his face.

  “That doesn’t concern you. The only thing you need to be concerned about is me. I’m here as his proxy.” I can’t believe that sentence just came out of my mouth. Do I have a sudden death wish?

  “His what?” says the skinny mobster.

  The leader holds his gelato cup over his upturned mouth and lets the last of the gelato slide into his mouth and down this throat. It reminds me of a nature program I saw where a snake swallowed a mongoose whole. When he’s done he slams the bowl down, and smacks the skinny guy upside the head. “Get a dictionary, moron.”

  Nasty Scar says, “She means she’s here for Milton. Because Milton is a pussy and too scared to handle his own business.” He looks at me. “Ain’t that right?”

  I nod once.

  “Who are you?” the leader asks.

  “Like I already said. That’s not important,” I say.

  The leader laughs. “This lady’s got some balls!”

  They all take their cue from him and laugh along. Skinny guy chortles, “A lady wit
h balls. That’s funny!”

  The leader smacks him again. “Shut up, you idiot. I didn’t say you could talk.”

  Skinny swallows hard and bobs his head up and down.

  “You bring the money Milton owes?” the leader asks. “The vig too?”

  I nod. “Plus a three thousand dollar bonus for causing you trouble. Sort of like forgiveness money.”

  The leader smiles, showing crooked teeth. “You look familiar to me. Like we’ve run into each other somewheres before.” He studies me like his brain is shuffling through a mug shot book trying to place me.

  “Doubtful,” I say. “What’s your name?”

  He rubs his chin like he’s debating whether or not to tell me. Finally, he says, "I'm Frankie Smith." He points across the table saying, “And that’s Jimmy Smith.”

  I look at the skinny guy that keeps getting smacked. “Who’s that?”

  “That?” Frankie says with a laugh. “That’s Dumbshit Smith.”

  Obviously, he wasn’t going to tell me their last names, but first names were good enough. I can Google and find out more if I want. I’m sure they’re all on a list of bad people.

  “What’s his name?” Frankie asks, looking at Burt.

  “Guido,” I answer. “Guido Smith.”

  They laugh all around.

  “Before I hand over the money I have a few requests,” I say. My palms are sweating. I wipe them on my pants. Actually, I have three requests. Tony Bugatelle needs his ten large too and I’d like these guys to give it to him so I don’t have to face him and his helmet. Mrs. Charles wasn’t happy about that either. Milton has to be squeezed hard to get that little snippet out of him after she found out about the fifty large, the vig, the bonus and my service charge. He wasn’t going to get any allowance anytime soon.

  “Yeah?” Frankie says. “What kind of requests?”

  “First, I’d like a receipt.” I know a receipt seems an odd thing to ask for when making an illegal transaction, but I also know that mobsters have a code of conduct. They might kill somebody, but they won’t go back on their word. And I’m just asking to get their word in writing.

  The one called Jimmy grabs a paper napkin out of the dispenser and pulls a pen out of his jacket pocket. “Who do I make it out to?”

  Frankie bops him upside the head. It’s no wonder these guys have brain damage. “Make it out to Milton Charles, dummy.”

  Jimmy rubs his head and scribbles on the napkin. Frankie turns back to me. “What’s the second request?”

  “That you don’t enable Milton to gamble. Throw his butt out the door if he comes sniffing around trying to get in the game,” I say. “Ban him from any future games.”

  “Now that’s a good idea. We got more trouble than it’s worth with these morons like Milton. They get in over their head, can’t pay up so they get themselves killed. How’re we supposed to make a living when everybody who owes us money keeps turning up dead?”

  “That’s right,” I say. “Milton owes money all over town. No way he can pay it off if he’s dead.” I hear Burt shifting from foot to foot. I hope the goombahs can’t smell his fear or mine.

  “Who else does he owe?” Frankie asks.

  “A guy name Tony Bugatelle. He bashed Milton with his motorcycle helmet. Due to his violent nature I was hoping you all might know him and give him his money too. You know, if it’s not too much trouble,” I say.

  Frankie smiles. “Sure we know him. He’s got a bad temper. He might take it out of your hide just for giving him the money. He’s like that.”

  I feel Burt put his hand on the back of my chair. I hope it’s not because he’s afraid he’ll faint.

  “So you’ll do it?” I ask.

  Frankie smiles again. But I don’t kid myself. This is the kind of smile a shark gives you right before he eats you. “What you gonna do for me?” he says.

  He's a businessman. He wants something from me in exchange. “What do I have that you want?”

  I wait but he takes off on another tangent. “Hey, I know how I recognize you. You’re Bella Rivetto’s daughter ain’t you?” he asks.

  I nod. Rivetto is my mother’s maiden name.

  “I thought so. Bella and me, we go way back.”

  I don’t say anything.

  Frankie looks at Jimmy. “Remember Bella? She was the good-looking broad that worked in her father’s deli over on Fourth Avenue. Marone a mi, the prosciuttos she had."

  “Yeah, yeah, who could forget her? We all wanted to go out with Bella,” Jimmy says, looking me over. “I can see the resemblance now.”

  I don’t really want to go down memory lane with these guys. I cut to the chase, “What do you want from me in return for taking care of Bugatelle?”

  “What’re you doing in the collection business?” Frankie asks. But before I can answer he calls out, “Hey, Giovanni, get my new friends here a gelato.” He looks back at me, “I’m buying. What flavor d’ya want?”

  I know better than to turn down the offer. That would be as good as a slap in the face. I say, “I thought Giovanni was out of gelato. He told me it was out of season last time I was here.”

  Frankie smiles with only one side of his mouth. “This is from my private stash. Give these guys chocolate,” he says to Giovanni without turning his head.

  “Right, boss,” Giovanni says.

  “You like chocolate?” he asks.

  “Sure, I like chocolate. Who doesn’t?”

  “So back to your line of work,” Frankie says. “How did a daughter of Bella’s get in the business?”

  “You got it wrong,” I say. “I’m a private investigator. I was hired to find out what Milton was up to. I found out and went to his wife. I told her she needed to pay up or Milton would be coming home in a coffin. She offered to pay. I offered to carry it to you. That’s all.”

  They were all quiet for a moment. Then Dumbshit says, “What d’ya know, a lady dick.”

  Frankie hits him upside the head. “Shut the up, moron. This is Bella’s blood you’re talking about.”

  Dumbshit rubs his head. Giovanni brings over the gelatos. He hands one cup to Burt and sets my cup in front of me. I hear Burt’s spoon clinking the side of the gelato bowl in quick succession. Maybe he thinks it might be his last meal and he better take advantage of it. Besides who doesn’t like chocolate gelato?

  “You ever do this kind of proxy work before?” Frankie asks.

  I shake my head. “Not exactly.”

  “Did you come up with the idea of going to the wife and squeezing her for the dough?” Frankie asks.

  I nod.

  “Smart. I think we just found a new way to collect. We hit the families. We go to the source,” Frankie says.

  “What do you mean by ‘hit the families,’” I ask. Burt’s spoon clangs in his bowl.

  “We have a little counseling session with the family members,” Frankie says. “We soak them for the money.”

  “Yeah, but how we go about finding and talking to these family members. We ain’t got time to go chasing people down,” Jimmy says. “And we gotta find the ones that got the cash.”

  He ducks before Frankie cuffs him. Jimmy evidently has quicker reflexes than Dumbshit.

  “That’s where she comes in,” Frankie says, pointing in my direction with his chin. “She finds out who holds the keys to the family coffers and goes and has a chat, see? They’ll pay to get the guy off. I mean they’re gonna have to pay for his funeral anyway if they don’t. And we agree to ban them from the table. I mean all tables—no exceptions. We get a one-time payment. We incur no losses and there’s a lot less waste management.”

  “Brilliant, boss” Jimmy says. He looks at me. “You got a card?”

  “Sure,” I say, handing it to Frankie. He studies it. “Jamie Bravo,” he reads. “Nice. Welcome to the family,” he says, extending his meaty hand.

  I shake.

  “We’ll keep in touch,” he says. “Giovanni, get them a pint of gelato to go.”

>   I get up and put my chair back. Burt goes to the counter to collect our gelato-to-go.

  “Tell your mother hello from Frankie,” he says with a wink.

  “Sure,” I say. Burt leads the way out of the shop. I don’t think I even breathe until we’re back in the Escalade.

  I look over at Burt and ask, “Did I just get hired by the mob?”

  He opens the pint of gelato and sticks in a plastic spork. “I think so, sweetie,” He puts a huge sporkful of the stuff in his mouth. I think gelato is his new comfort food.

  “Welcome to the family,” I mutter. “Holy crap. I just got made. I'm a made mobster.”

  “You want a bite?” Burt asks.

  “No thanks, you go ahead. My stomach is still doing back flips.”

  Nineteen

  “What’s up, Ma?” I say into my cell phone. I’m behind the wheel and just pulling out of Burt’s Burlesque parking lot.

  “What’s up? What’s up?” she mocks me. “What kind of language is that? Whatever happened to a good old-fashioned hello? Or are you too big in the pants to say hello to your mother?”

  “Hello, mother,” I say.

  “That’s better. Half an hour. Baked ziti.”

  “What do you want?” I ask. My mother only makes my favorite dish when she wants something from me.

  “Just be here,” she says and hangs up. My mother has no phone manners. She calls up and doesn’t even say who she is before barking orders. Then with no goodbye, she hangs up. And she’s making comments on my phone etiquette? But I have learned one thing—don’t criticize your mother.

  When I walk in the kitchen, Ma is stirring a big pot on the stove. I take advantage of the fact that her back is to me and I quick-grab a biscotti out of a jar on the kitchen counter.

  “Get your hand out of the cookie jar,” she says.

  Ma has eyes in the back of her head. I’m grown up now and I still can’t figure out how she sees everything I do. I kiss her on the cheek. “Smells good.”

  She pats my cheek and says, “Go say hello to your sister.”

  I sigh. My sister, Juniper, is a pain in the ass. She’s older than me but only by sixteen months. She’s a girly-girl. All lipstick and hairspray and painted toenails. She got married right out of high school, had a kid and has never worked a day in her life. She doesn’t have to. Her husband, Jenner, makes a lot of money. In other words, my sister is everything I’m not. And she never lets me forget it.