Frankly, My Detective

by Mary Keeley

  “So I began to understand why Scarlett wanted this. I was so proud when Scarlett finished law school.” Rosa sighed again.

  Lizette nodded. “So, yeah, I know she’s a lawyer, but why she doing this stuff? I mean the lawyer pay is off the hook, right?”

  Rosa nodded and continued. “My Scarlett is one smart cookie, but face it, she got tired and not a little disgusted by being the low-on-the-totem-pole girl at the law firm. It just wasn’t her style to do all the leg work and not get the credit or the money the senior lawyers and partners got. She’s too independent for that and who knows, maybe I knew that better than anybody.”

  Rosa stood up and went over to the large dresser and looked for a quiet moment at Scarlett’s college graduation picture. “Still, it was a while before Scarlett became known as a reliable, ethical investigator. The people, the clients, who came to her learned pretty quickly she could protect them and their ‘interests’ even if it meant they had to disappear for a while.”

  Rosa turned back to Lizette and smiled and pointed to herself. “That’s where Mama came in. At first, ya know, I was pretty skittish and reluctant about having strangers in my house; it’s my nest, right?” Rosa smiled and gave a short laugh. “I keep my house, well, like I was taught, tidy, and no clutter. Some smarty pants members of this family refer to it as a museum.”

  Lizette looked around and the impeccable room and its attention to detail. The simple light fixtures, the tidy dresser adorned with family pictures, including Scarlett’s and Cat’s graduation pictures from both high school and college, small religious statues and lovely pieces of Italian blown glass. Lizette smiled and nodded her understanding. She turned as Rosa continued.

  “But I don’t care, I take pride in my house and my appearance and both my daughters’ accomplishments. Either one asks for my help, well, I’m their Mama after all, so I help. Anybody Scarlett brings, I treat like family and I try to help her get them going in the right direction. You see?”

  Lizette stood and walked over to Rosa. Wrinkling her forehead as much as the Botox would allow, she nodded and said, “Yeah, I see. And you know what, Mrs. Salerno? Scarlett and her sister are damned lucky to have you. I know from experience, moms like you are pretty rare.”

  Rosa grinned and pulled Lizette into another nearly crushing hug. “Aw, that’s so nice of you to say, Sweetie. I know we’re gonna get along just fine.” She pulled back and looked Lizette up and down, raising her eyebrows at the trendy designer clothes her new charge was wearing. “Okay, let’s get started at making you look like something you’re not.” With that, she took Lizette’s hand and pulled her over to the large closet and pushed open one of the mirrored doors.

  So now Lizette was to be dressing in the dowdy clothes provided, wear no make-up, pull her dark tresses back in a ponytail and pretend to be invisible. That way, if any of the neighbors happened to see her, she could be explained away as a companion or a distant cousin from Italy who spoke no English; whatever Rosa wanted her to be, it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that Lizette was safe and that neither the police nor the man who wanted to kill her would find her.

  At the front door, Scarlett reminded Rosa to use only the pre-paid “burner” cell phone provided for the times when they needed to make their conversations as private as possible, as they usually did when they were protecting someone. Scarlett always told Rosa the people she brought to her were to be protected— she couldn’t bring herself to use the word “hidden”, even though they both knew that’s just what they were doing: hiding someone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Driving down Sunset Cliffs Boulevard north over the bridge on her way towards her next stop in another beach community, Scarlett’s mind drifted once again to the next player in her current drama: Cosmo.

  Cosmo Dante Di Stefano, Yano’s Uncle and titular head of the family business hated his nephew and the puttana he married. If he didn’t find her and kill her, his nephew’s money would go to her instead of him. Not the worst thing, even though Cosmo had more money than God, he always wanted more. The worst thing: he thought of his pazzo nephew as a stupid fag not even smart enough to successfully hide his secret relationships from Cosmo’s troops. He’d had Yano tailed for a long time, had bugged both his fancy house and his not-so- secret city condo. He knew about the boyfriend, that condo he’d set him up in and the credit card accounts Cosmo had lavished on both the boy-toy and the stupid excuse for a wife. Cosmo had even known for a time about the supposedly secret deals he had with certain Vegas “businessmen.” And if he lacked the brains to hide these parts of his useless life from his uncle and his sources, it would surely get out to other “business” associates. Cosmo couldn’t have that happen. He would not be disgraced by association.

  “And the bastard has a mole in the police department,” Scarlett said aloud as she sat at the stoplight. “So, Ms. Salerno, you’d better move fast, ’cause between the cops and Cosmo, you and Lizzie could be seriously dead. “‘Fasten your seat belts, boys and girls. It’s going to be a bumpy night!’”

  The cell phone’s ring made him jump and spill his drink on the redchecked paper place mat. Several heads turned towards his booth at the loud rendition of Heroes, his ring tone. Normally he loved the David Bowie song but today he with all he had on his mind, it was an irritation. He picked up the phone quickly and turned to face the wall as he answered, his back hunched over, hoping no one could hear his conversation.

  “Where the hell are you? I’ve been out of my skin waiting.” Jeremy Blake’s normally deep voice sounded harsh even to him. The voice on the other end of the call sounded calm and confident, but not reassuring.

  “Don’t get your panties in a wad, Sweetheart, just tell me where you are.”

  Jeremy turned to look over his shoulder and said in a hoarse whisper, “I’m at a restaurant that a friend owns here in Hillcrest. What’s happening? What am I supposed to do now? You said I’d be safe if I did what you wanted. The cops almost got me!”

  A deep chuckle from the caller. “Listen, there’s no time to panic now, we’re close to getting you what I promised. Where’s the car? You didn’t leave it on the street did you?”

  “No, it’s behind the restaurant in the alley between two big dumpsters. I thought it would stay kinda hidden that way.”

  The caller gave a low whistle. “Wow, curly top, I’m a bit, not a lot, but a bit impressed. Good thinking. Now it won’t stay hidden for long, so here’s what you do next. Wait till dark, smear some mud or something on the back license plate so it can’t be seen clearly and drive the car up to the Off Hwy 8 Motel in Pine Valley. Get a room and stay there until I call.”

  Jeremy began to sputter, “I can’t do that, I don’t have a bag packed, I don’t have a change of clothes, and I don’t have my THINGS!”

  “Oh put a cork in it, will ya! There’s an outlet center in Alpine by the Viejas Casino on the Indian reservation, go get some THINGS and do as I say. You want your cut, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” he nearly swallowed the word. “But I don’t know what to do up there so far away and when will you call again? You’re not deserting me are you? I’ve done everything you wanted.”

  “For God’s sake, you baby, do as I say and I’ll call you tonight. You’ve trusted me so far, right, so you’re just gonna have to trust me now. So get the hell out of town. NOW!” The line went dead.

  Jeremy sat for a moment listening to the silence on the phone. He took a deep breath, signaled to the waitress, ordered a house salad, dressing on the side and another diet soda. As soon as it was dark, he left some cash on the table, got up, nodded to his friend at the bar and walked with what he thought was casual dignity out the back door.

  It had been a long six months. Jeremy Blake bartended at a very private club in Hillcrest. It was the kind of place where closeted gay or bisexual men wanted to go, a place where they could be their true selves and not the image the straight world had of them. Even with all the newest accepta
nce of LGBT people, there were still men and women who would always be reluctant to admit who they were. And so clubs like this existed. Hidden behind the façade of a simple neighborhood bar, acquisition to the exclusive club upstairs was strictly monitored and expensive. Ironically, the décor appeared not unlike that of an historic gentlemen’s club in London. Replete with leather couches, overstuffed wing chairs, dark paneling and heavy drapes that shut out the street below, all–in-all a luxurious place to hide. The club, simply called, “The Club,” also boasted several private rooms where secret assignations either casual or serious took place. It was a real coup for Jeremy to get this gig. It paid fairly well but the generous tips—and not only for drinks poured, really helped pay the rent on his dinky studio apartment. He kept telling himself he didn’t need much. But when he saw the Rolex watches, the diamond pinky rings and key fobs of deliciously expensive cars the members sported, he began to wonder how he could live like they did. And then he came to the club.

  Jeremy knew this man wasn’t a member. Guests were allowed in on certain nights only. He had to admit: this man was good-looking, so Jeremy put on his best smile as he leaned over the bar provocatively, his tight black tee shirt showed his toned pecs to their best advantage.

  “And what can I get or do for you tonight, sir?” The man grinned at him, “The oldest, best Scotch you have, Sweetie, on the rocks.”

  Jeremy poured the $100-a-shot Scotch and made sure the man was watching his muscles flex as he scooped the ice into the glass and poured in the smoky amber liquid.

  “Here you go, do you want to run a tab?” He thought again, Good decision to go into debt for the teeth whitening. He smiled again at the stranger.

  As Jeremy put the glass down, the man quickly reached out and put something in his hand. “I’ve got a question for you. Do you have a minute to listen, or a break coming up soon?”

  Jeremy glanced down quickly at the two one-hundred dollar bills the customer slipped into his hand. He looked up at him for a second, turned his head to the other bartender and said, “Going on a quick break, Andy.” He pulled open the small gate at the end of the bar and with a quick jerk of his perfectly combed and gelled head signaled the tall and handsome man to follow him. The customer looked at Jeremy with raised eyebrows as he followed him into the room at the back where the liquor and bar mixes were stored. Jeremy shrugged an apology.

  “I’m not allowed in the private rooms unless a member gives a written request to the manager, sorry.” He closed the door behind them and stepped closer to the other man. He was a little surprised when the man took a step backward, his hands up, palms facing out.

  “Whoa, kid, I just need some info and I can surely make it worth your while.”

  Jeremy folded his arms across his chest. This didn’t sound good. “Hey, look, I gotta keep anything about our members on the down low. If I told secrets or gave info, I’d be outta here, so thanks for the nice tip, but I’m going back to work.” He put his hand on the knob, but the man reached out and stopped him.

  “There’s a man who comes here, name of Yano Di Stefano, but he may go by an alias, do you know him?” He spoke in a rush.

  “If I do, so what, and who are you? A cop? Now I’m really gone.”

  “No, really, I can make it easy for you to quit this two-bit gig and live like they do.” He tilted his chin towards the door to indicate the clientele on the other side.

  Jeremy thought for a moment. His recent rent increase had him digging into his ‘fun’ account and he owed money to his Vegas bookie for his losing bets on the kick-boxing matches. Not for the first time did he bet on the fighter’s body instead of his win-loss record. He took his hand off the door and listened.

  And that’s how it began. For an extra $200 a week he began an aggressive campaign to win the lust, if not love of one Yano Di Stefano, aka, Sonny D as his fellow club members knew him. It wasn’t that difficult, really. Jeremy fit Yano/Sonny’s type: muscular, blonde, handsome, alive and willing. The customer told Jeremy to only call him “M” and promised to give him ample help and information to attract and ensnare his prey. Jeremy figured the guy had a James Bond delusionary fixation going on with the secret name thing, but whatever worked. With the information he was given and the draw of a possibly big payout, he smiled and snuggled his way into Yano’s life so well that he before long he was settled into a small condo in Mission Hills and given an ample allowance. He even had the occasional use of Yano’s bitch of a wife’s BMW whenever she jetted out of town on yet another spa vacation. On the other hand, Yano was NOT Jeremy’s type. Short, given to soft flab around the middle, extremely hairy and much older. However, Jeremy figured you can’t have it all. The relationship was only bearable because of the promise of a wad of money “M” promised when “this little adventure,” as he called it, finished.

  Jeremy had grown up in a family, if you could call it that, with very little means. Both parents worked at low paying jobs and even though he was an only child, there was never enough money to make him even consider himself spoiled. By early adolescence, he admitted to himself that he was gay. When he tried to explain who he was to his parents, they sadly did what “good Godfearing folk” often did; they kicked him out of the house at 17. That was 12 years ago. He took what little money he’d saved from working at a fast-food job he hated and took the first bus out of his dinky town and headed west. Despite hardly ever having a high-paying job, Jeremy did have good taste and good looks, so he managed along the way. But he was 29 now and tired of just managing; he wanted so much more. Maybe this was his chance at last. The man “M” had given Jeremy little details as to the “what and why” of the deal. But he kept promising so much money, in fact, that Jeremy asked few questions and despite not liking himself or Yano very much, began to have dreams of living a life of luxury somewhere in the Bahamas, or Caymans or at the very least, La Jolla.

  But now Jeremy sat holed up in a dinky room at the Off Hwy 8 Motel, looking at the cheap clothes and toiletries he’d purchased on the way, hating himself for everything he’d become. Cursing again he tried angrily to get any kind of decent program on the small table-top television. “Dammit! What the hell have I gotten into?” he ranted as he threw himself on the musty bed, and slammed the remote on the floor, watching it as it split open, the batteries rolling out onto the stained carpet.

  Detective Clifford Aloysius Dawson stared into his third class of Red Breast Irish Whiskey.

  “See any solutions in there? I hardly ever do, but seein’ you’re a professional detective and all …” Declan Neil O’Malley, bartender and owner of The Plough and Stars Pub in South Mission Beach leaned on the polished mahogany bar waiting for an answer. Dawson looked up at the tall Kildare man and frowned.

  “No, Dec, no solutions in here, or in the other two glasses.” He threw the rest of the deep golden liquid down his throat in one swallow. Declan leaned back, scowling in disapproval.

  “That’s no way to be drinkin’ a fine sippin’ whiskey, my man. No matter what your troubles, you gotta treat a good, smooth whiskey like a good smooth woman: nice and gentle.

  Dawson shoved the glass over to him. “Well, then get me another so I can treat it better.”

  Declan snorted, turned and grabbed the bottle and poured a double shot. “It’s either a bad case you can’t solve or a bad woman you can’t get.”

  Dawson drank his whiskey neat with no ice; the Irish appreciate that. It was one of the things that made Dawson and Declan friends— that, and the fact that they were both great at keeping secrets. There were many sodden nights when the two tough men confided in each other, knowing that whatever they said was not held against them, never judged.

  Dawson took a slow, respectful sip of the whiskey. It was good, smooth, warm and comforting, like a good woman. Not for the first time Dawson had a brief, wistful thought that the only really good woman in his life was his mother, so might as well enjoy the whiskey. Declan polished a glass, his left eyebrow raised, waiting fo
r an answer. Dawson took another sip, put down the glass and looked up at his friend— his only friend, really.

  “It’s both, Dec. Goddammit, it’s both.”

  Declan looked hard at his friend, reached for another glass and poured a double shot of Red Breast for himself. He took a sip, leaned down with both elbows on the bar.

  “Right, then. I know you can’t tell me about the case, but I sure as hell want to hear about the woman.”

  “No, you don’t. Trust me.”

  “Ach, then its sure’n shit someone I know. C’mon, spill!”

  Dawson lowered his head, took a deep breath and blew it out hard. He knew the bartender would not budge until he told him. Resigned and somewhat terrified, he looked up and spoke through clenched teeth.

  “Do you remember the woman P.I. who was interfering on the Falco case?”

  Declan frowned, then both his eyebrows shot up suddenly, nearly reaching his hairline as he quickly stood up straight. His pale blue eyes fairly sparked in surprise and shock. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. Maureen, the fire-haired assistant bartender stood nearby carefully pulling a pint of Guinness. She glanced over at her boss and snickered.

  “Whatever did you do, Dawson? ’Tis surely a bloody miracle; you’ve stung him speechless.”

  Declan closed his mouth, grunted and looked over at her. “Mo, mind your pourin’ there, you’ll make the draught settle badly. And while you’re at it, mind you don’t sass your boss.”

  He turned to Dawson and jerked his head to the right. “Come away to the office with me. Now. Mo, mind the place for a bit. And make sure you watch old Mick there; he’s after glarin’ at ya for not refillin’ his drink. We’ll be in the back.”

  With that he and Dawson went around the bar and through a door past the pool table. Declan’s office had the look and set up for a man who spent a good deal of time there. He called the pub his second home but it was more often than not the only home for this confirmed bachelor. The room had the same dark paneled walls as the pub, with a large desk and two comfortable chairs set facing it. A long leather sofa sat against one wall and a small kitchen against the other. Dawson followed Dec into the room.