by Mary Keeley
“Close the door, will ya?” Declan muttered.
Dawson did as he was bidden then turned to face his friend who promptly smacked him hard upside the head.
“Hey! Ouch! What the hell?”
“What the hell indeed, you great eejit of a man! Has the whiskey turned your already feeble brain to porridge? The Salerno wench? Are ye daft entirely?”
Declan turned away in disgust while Dawson shook his head to clear it and tested his jaw to see if it was dislocated. He tried to speak, but thought better of it since his friend still muttered and groused, his voice a low punishing rumble.
“I cannot for the life of me cipher what you’re thinkin’ or for that matter what you’re thinkin’ WITH, ’cause for certain it can’t be with your head.” He turned and tilted his head towards Dawson’s crotch. Seeing his friend scowling and reaching for the doorknob, Dec grumbled further. “Aw c’mon then, sit ye down and I’ll make you somethin’ to eat, ya great miserable fool.”
Dawson, still frowning, plopped obediently into one of the worn leather chairs opposite the desk. Declan, cursing under his breath, reached into the mini fridge, took out eggs, butter and cream and proceeded to make two enormous scrambled egg sandwiches. Dawson knew cooking always calmed the big man down so he just sat and waited.
As he piled the eggs onto the dark soda bread he’d made from his own mother’s recipe, Declan sighed, “Aw, me Mam was right. An egg sandwich is great with the whiskey. Eat up.”
They ate in stony silence for a bit. The warm rich eggs melded perfectly with the solid bread and the melted butter. By the time they were down to the last delicious bites, the two men had mellowed both in body and spirit.
“Thanks, Dec,” Dawson mumbled as he picked up both plates and put them in the small sink. The bartender acknowledged the thanks with a slight, not unfriendly grunt. He settled back in his chair, reached for his whiskey and didn’t speak until the other man sat down. His voice took on the softer tone of a man gently chiding his errant adolescent son.
“Cliff, tell me, in the name of all that’s holy and rational, why her?”
“She just gets to me, Dec. I mean, I know she’s an obnoxious, over confident, interfering, tiring woman, but still …”
“That she is, and not even Irish to boot. I don’t get it. Italian, is she? Well, that’s all right. Better that than the mix.”
Dawson frowned, “The mix?”
“Irish and Italian, like the one I nearly married.” He crossed himself. “A very dangerous woman, that. God never meant them to reproduce, ya know.” He reached again for the bottle.
Dawson just shook his head. “Anyway, nothing’s going to happen between us for very simple reasons. One, she can’t stand me, thinks I’m a fool, two, our professions don’t exactly go together that well, three, she made me look like an idiot by bringing in the Falco perp herself while gloating like she’d just won the Super Bowl and four, well there’s you know...” His voice trailed off as he self-consciously rubbed his palm over what remained of his once full head of hair and shrugged.
“Ah,” Dec said, catching his friend’s meaning. He inclined his head as he refilled his friend’s glass yet another time. “Well, that’s good to hear, if not entirely believable.”
“Whaddya mean by that?”
“I mean, Detective Dawson, when you’re after something, you’re like a daschund heading down the badger hole. You’ll fret and fester about this woman like you do your cases, until you conquer or are conquered, m’boy. God help ya, I hope the case you’re workin’ on takes your mind away from her.”
Dawson sat in silence and looked into his whiskey glass, twirling it gently between his two palms. When he not only did not answer nor meet Dec’s eyes, the bartender abruptly sat up straight, his desk chair squeaking in protest to the sudden change of position.
“You don’t mean she’s in the middle of THIS case as well?”
Dawson nodded without raising his head. “See, there’s no way to get away from her. She’s at it again and right now, I think she may be two steps ahead of me. I tell ya, if she reels in the bad guy before I do again, I’ll never make lieutenant, never mind me getting the girl!”
Before Dec could fully take in the import of the policeman’s remark, they heard a quick knock on the door. It opened just enough for Maureen to poke her head in, red curls bouncing as she spoke.
“Hey, Dec, there’s a woman out here looking for Dawson. Says she knows he comes here after shift and wants to know if he’s been about. Should I tell her he’s here or not?” She grinned over at Dawson, “She’s not halfbad; you may wanna go for it Mr. Cop.”
Dawson and Dec looked at each other, shrugged, stood, took a few seconds to steady themselves and followed Maureen out the door. The sandwich had done its work. Dawson felt pretty good despite the fair amount of drink he’d consumed. His head seemed pretty clear, considering. But as soon as he came around the bar and saw her, he gripped its polished edge to keep himself from falling into the nearest stool.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Whoa, looks like I’ve got a ways to go to catch up with you. I’d better get started.” She waved to Maureen and turned back to the stunned Dawson. She patted the stool beside her. “Well don’t just stand there, Detective, we’ve got a lot to talk about.” Grinning, she ran a hand through her already messy dark and carefully highlighted hair. “See if you can tell me who said this in what movie: ‘This is the way I look when I’m sober. It’s enough to make a person drink, wouldn’t you say?’ ’’ Dumbstruck, Dawson just shook his head.
“Oh, that’s right. You suck at the quotes game. Hope you’re better at the cop game.” Scarlett turned away from Dawson, flashed a smile to the bemused Maureen and said, “I’ll have a Campari and soda on ice with a chunk of lime and my friend will continue on the same destructive path he’s chosen.” Glancing at the gob-smacked Dawson, she tilted her head and continued. “Right, Cliffie, let’s get started on making me look better.”
“You’ll never catch up to the likes of him drinkin’ this.” Maureen grinned as she set about getting the drinks for Scarlett and the still-speechless Dawson.
“Yeah, well, one of us has to be serious here, ya know. And Campari’s good for the digestion, and God knows I’m gonna need a strong stomach to deal with his detective-ness here.”
Dawson wanted to gulp down his whiskey, but saw Declan frowning at him from the corner of the bar, so he restrained himself and sipped, holding the warm liquid in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing. His courage up, he turned to Scarlett and cleared his throat.
“So, what brings you out this late? I mean, it’s not a full moon, is it?” Scarlett snorted a short laugh and nodded her thanks to Maureen before taking a sip of her own drink. “That was nearly good, Clifford. Nah, I heard you were a regular here and needed to have a bit of a chat, that’s all.” “Really? About what? Frankly, Scarlett, you never seem to give a damn about talking to me unless you’re making fun of me.”
“Gosh, you almost made a movie quote there. Careful, I might be rubbing off on you.” Scarlett took a longer sip of her Campari and suddenly became serious.
“Look, Cliff, we’ve got to talk about this Di Stefano case. There’s gonna be some really nasty stuff going down and I think, God… I can’t believe I’m saying this …” She shook her head and looked into her glass, then up at him. “I think we’re gonna need to help each other on this one, you know, maybe even work together a bit.”
Dawson stared at her for a long moment. He felt the glass in his hand about to wobble. He clenched it in his fist and downed the whiskey in one gulp— to hell with Dec. When he could finally speak, his furious low tone surprised them both.
“What the hell is this, Scarlett, some kinda joke? Look, don’t even think of jerking me around like this. I’m a goddamned good cop and I don’t need your help. Who the hell do you think you are, anyway, Nancy Freakin’ Drew?”
Scarlett was stunned, but curious. She sat quiet
ly and let him spew. He slid his empty glass across the bar with a vengeance and continued, leaning in close enough for her to smell the whiskey on his breath and see the small grease spot from his egg sandwich on his blue and white striped tie.
“Listen, Salerno, you screwed me over on the Falco case, remember? That nearly cost me my badge and I’m sure as hell not going to let that happen again. So whatever you think you know better than me, or think you do better than me, just forget it, right?” Turning to Maureen, he said loudly, “What do I have to do to get another damned drink, huh?”
“You’re done, pal.” Dec said quietly but firmly. Dawson looked at him, started to open his mouth to protest, but the big Irishman’s scowl and shake of the head silenced him. Maureen quietly placed a glass of club soda with a wedge of lime on the bar near his hand.
Throughout Dawson’s diatribe, Scarlett sat silently sipping her Campari through the short red straw. When her glass was empty, Maureen deftly placed a fresh drink in front of her in a smooth, practiced motion, obviously not wanting to miss any of the exchange. Scarlett winked at her in thanks, looked over at the detective and spoke quietly.
“Cliff, are you done, now, because I’ve got something to tell you and I really don’t want to see any more smoke coming out of your little pink ears, all right? It’s unattractive.” She sat back and waited while he took a drink of the club soda and quietly enjoyed seeing him grimace at the taste before she spoke.
“You’ve got a mole in your department, Cliff. Somebody knows what went down in the Di Stefano murder and they’re on the payroll of his shitty Uncle Cosmo.” She held up her hand when he started to speak, silencing him. “And don’t ask me how I know, because I can’t tell you— privileged info— so you know I can’t. And yes, you’re a good cop, and no, I don’t think I’m Nancy Freakin’ Drew, ’cause I’m way better than that sickeningly sweet and clever little bitchlet. Cliff, no matter how rotten this family is, neither one of us wants to see anybody else dead and I know what’s left of this pseudoMafia bunch can do some real harm. So, do you want to hear me out or not?”
Dawson sat back and looked at her for a long time not speaking. Like a good barkeep, always observant and often intuitive, Declan turned toward them, catching Dawson’s attention. The big man nodded and jerked his thumb to the right at a closed-in snug around the back of the bar near his office.
“Come away with ye, now, I’ve the place for quiet talk.”
He kept this snug for important customers or friends who didn’t want to be seen in the main part of the pub. He led them to it and as he reached down to open the small half-gate on the high-backed dark booth, Scarlett whistled through her teeth.
“Wow! I’m impressed, barkeep.” She went up the one step, slid onto the booth seat and patted the smooth deep green vinyl next to her as she looked up at Dawson. “‘Well, sir, here’s to plain speaking and clear understanding.’” At his perplexed look, she explained, “Sydney Greenstreet, in the ‘Maltese Falcon’. Gosh, Cliffie, were you an underprivileged child or something, never watched any classic movies? Geeze.”
“Cut the crap and get to it, will ya? It’s already been a long day, and night.”
“You’re tellin’ me! I’m the one with the wrecked car and the sore bod. No sympathy, huh? Okay, let me tell you what I can.” They both took a drink and she tried again not to snicker at the face Dawson made at his club soda. The snug was comfortable, but despite the long-ago ban, the high wooden backs of the booth seats still held a slight smell of stale tobacco smoke. Scarlett wrinkled her nose at the scent, but continued.
“I’m a San Diego girl, Cliffie, born and raised. Good city, but every city has its pocket of trouble, you know. It may change with the times, but some things survive, even if very quietly. For a lot of years, there was a Pacific Beach branch of, for want of a better word, the ‘family’. Capice?” Dawson just continued to look at her. He didn’t nod, move, or even blink. She went on.
“This bunch controlled some of the fishing business not owned by the Portuguese, lots of businesses in P.B., where some of them lived, and import/export stuff as well. All very legit looking, stuff taken care of behind store fronts like restaurants down on Grand Avenue and shoe repair places, some barber shops. Family members brought over from Italy and Sicily to run the legit businesses while the graft and shady stuff went unnoticed. I went to school with a lot of Portuguese fishermen’s daughters, so I grew up hearing a lot about the so-called ‘dealings’. Always thought it was gossip, ya know, girls’ powder room snippy stuff, but there was some truth to the tales. Remember the guy, Basilio Benedetto Calvino? They called him Benny?” Dawson shook his head and smirked, clearly wanting her to get on with it. She took a deep breath and continued, ignoring his attitude.
“Anyway, you should look up the case, at least, educate yourself.” Attitude for attitude, even up, she thought. “Several years ago, he supposedly had this great business importing Italian goods and setting up stores, helping some of the guys who might still have places in town. Well, Benny built this huge house in La Jolla, up on the hill. Soledad area, loved the view and thought he was something, being near the big cross. Cost him a freakin’ fortune. Real showplace. Only problem, he messed up on his income tax, probably used the infamous two sets of books. You’d think they’d learn, right? So when the IRS came looking, the investigation got too close to some and they got worried.” Scarlett stopped to take another drink, ignoring Dawson pretending to yawn.
“So, poor little Benny showed up dead in a gutter in P.B. after having been missing for days. Cause of death: ‘undetermined’, which, according to my pals at the County Morgue is a ‘classification that means the information pointing to one manner of death is no more compelling than one or more other competing manners of death in thorough consideration of all available information’. Mouthful, huh? So detailed I made myself memorize it.” Dawson mimed applause, his mouth twisted to one side. “Nice sarcasm there, but I’ll take the applause anyway. May I continue, sir?”
Without waiting for an answer, she went on. “All to say, we don’t really know how the hell ol’ Benny bit it. Body was a soggy mess, case never really solved. His businesses were all in his kids’ and wife’s names and all the IRS stuff suddenly checked out. His lawyers made all the papers nice and legal and wifey and kids paid a bunch. Lost the house, businesses all got quietly liquidated. Wife wound up working in a friend’s dress shop. But everybody else, somehow, quietly taken care of nicely, except for Benny, of course.”
Dawson shrugged and pulled at his already loosened shirt collar. “Nice story, but what does this have to do with the Di Stefano case? As you say, all happened a long time ago, and who really knows if there ever was a P.B. Mafia? Just a lot of rumor and conjecture over the years from what I hear. Nothing really criminal stuck to anybody, huh?”
“Cliffie, I know you’re not a native here, but believe me, there was a small P.B. ‘family’ and some are still hanging around loosely, if you know what I mean. Uncle Cosmo is still somehow connected, if that’s what it’s still called, and he’s doing bad things, very bad things.”
“‘Connected’, huh? You sound like a bad Scorsese mob movie. Where’s your proof, Salerno?”
Scarlett sat back quickly, a look of shock on her face. Recovering, she leaned in close to Dawson, glared at him and snarled. “Before I go on, I need you to know something and never forget it, Cliffie. There is NO such thing as a bad Scorsese movie, mob or otherwise!!” She sat back and took a deep breath, ignoring Dawson’s scowl.
“Okay, now that that’s clear, back to business. As for proof, that’s what I can’t talk about right now, but I’m close, I really am. Been looking into this bunch for months, and no, I can’t tell you why!” She held up her hand to stop his obvious question. “I know Yano was killed for a reason and murder is either for love, lust, money, jealousy, more money and did I mention money? I have a couple of ideas who may have done the deed but I can’t nail anybody for sure—yet. What I d
o know, shall we say, suspect strongly, is Cosmo is into something else really foul and maybe you and I can nail him for that kinda Capone-style ya know, get him into that 6x8 stone room without a view any way we can.” She stopped for a breath and when Dawson just sat there, she sighed and continued, speaking quickly, hoping to see some sign of interest in the detective’s deliberate, blank gaze.
“Yano thought he had a secret life with his little boy twinkie on the side, but he messed up and Cosmo found out and may have figured Yano was too much of a risk. And I admit I have no real evidence of who did Yano in. Now the people who do know what happened are, shall we say, not exactly available. But they do exist and I know it and so, unfortunately, does your mole. It’s your mole who’s going to mess this case up for you, Cliff. If you and I don’t get to him soon or find out how to get to Cosmo, more people may die or disappear. Believe me, Cosmo can make people disappear. I can’t say any more, but believe me, he already has.”
Dawson studied her face. She looked at him directly and didn’t flinch. He wiped a hand across his face, his day’s growth of beard raspy against his palm. He glanced away for a moment before he spoke, his voice intense. He didn’t look up at Scarlett.
“Listen, what you’re saying is damned hard to take. I mean, you’re saying one of us …,” he poked his index finger hard against his chest and repeated, “… one of us is dirty.” He turned to look at her, waiting. Scarlett’s dark green eyes held him. He couldn’t have looked away then if he wanted to. Running a hand through her consistently obstinate wavy hair she sighed before she spoke.
“Dawson.” Surprise, she hadn’t called him Cliff. “Dawson,” she said again, her tone soft but clear. “Cosmo is the worst kind of creep there is. My other source has been staking out a residence he owns south from here. Big yellow Victorian with a lot of grounds and a more security than the White House.”
