by L. J. Martin
She smiles, and with a sexy tone says, "Thanks," then laughs, "Don’t say tongue unless you mean it," then adds as my mouth goes dry, "Cozy."
"You bet." I say, but I'm thinking about the tongue remark. Who wouldn't? But I add, "No telling how intimate the conversation might get so we don't want to be overheard."
She laughs. "You don't waste any time."
"It wasn't me made the tongue crack, to risk a pun."
"Like I said, you don't waste time."
"Dilly-dally has never been my strong suit."
"And I bet long-term relationships have never been your strong suit either."
I feign being hurt. "Wow, the lady judges me before we've had our first drink together."
"Speaking of drinks, what's that you’re having?"
"Jack rocks, I usually have it neat but want my wits about me on a first date."
"Date? I thought this was business."
Now it's my turn to laugh. "Yeah, it would have been until you showed up in that luscious-fitting black piece. That doesn't say biz to me."
"Just so I know."
"Speaking of business, let's get a little biz out of the way."
"How about I get a Manhattan first."
The waiter is already on his way, so I put in her order, "Manhattan up, two cherries." Then I turn back to her. "So who do you think has run off with your boss?”
She's quiet for a second and I think she's going to break into tears. Then offers, "I have no idea. All celebs have stalkers but they usually operate alone. Three guys hit the front door and dragged her away from a poolside chaise lounge in a bikini."
"After they dropped the bodyguard."
"Yes."
"Where was Coogan?"
"In the John. He came out and seemed a little surprised to see Butch on the floor rolling around."
"Seemed?"
Again she's quiet for a moment. Then she sighs deeply before continuing. "He's been under a lot of pressure lately."
"Horrigan?"
"No, Emory."
"Why?"
"He doesn't talk much."
"I caught a little electricity between you two. You and he have a...a thing going?"
She's given to thinking before she speaks, and does again. She bats her dark lids at me as if she's about to be intimate. The she sighs and says in a very low tone, "When I wanted the job, we did some stuff, but I got the job and got to be really good friends with Tammy, and I was able to break it off with Emory."
"Sounds like Mr. Coogan is a pure asshole."
She laughs. "Not so pure."
Her drink arrives so she's quiet for a moment. "So, business is over? What's good here? I was flying high the last time I was here and can't remember."
"Classic Italian, even though Dan Tana was a...a Serb, I think."
She laughs. "So long as the food is good. If my geography is good that's just across the pond from Italy."
"You a meat-eater?"
"You bet, a real carnivore."'
"I know it's not the way things work nowadays, women's lib and all that stuff, but do you mind if I order?"
"Go for it, big boy."
I can't help but eye her up and down, but don't say that's exactly what I'm doing...going for it. We'll work that part out later.
I wave the waiter over. "A bottle of your best Malbec," I've already checked the menu and see I'm only risking seventy bucks, "A caprese salad to start, two fillets medium rare slathered in those great mushrooms, pasta putanesca on the side, and some asparagus."
And he's gone.
"How'd you know," she says, batting her eyes again, "that Malbec is my favorite?"
"You said you were a carnivore, so you gotta love the ultimate carnivore's red."
"I hope you're half as good at other things as you are at ordering." More eyelid bats.
"Ma'am, I aim to please."
"Then I'm going to skip dessert."
"You have an apartment nearby?"
"Yes, on the second floor of the same building I just came from. The company pays for it...but we can't go there." She cuts her eyes away and stares at the wall.
"Ah, because what's-his-face will be there. So you haven’t exactly broken it off.”
“Not totally,” she says, and blushes a little, caught in a white lie.
“Where does he think you are?"
"Now you're embarrassing me."
"Where does he think you are?"
"Visiting my sister up in Valencia."
"Works for me. I'll bet the London up near Sunset has a room."
I don't normally get involved with involved women. But this one knows way more than she's telling, and if I'm going to find Tammy, I need to know everything. Every little intimate thing.
What a sacrifice a dutiful bodyguard has to make.
Chapter Five
When we're halfway through our perfect steaks, she asks, "Tell me about Mike Reardon."
"Not much to tell. Born on the slopes of the Rockies, military for ten years or so, then out into the cold world."
"You're saving it? The world I mean. One of those guys?"
"Yeah, one miscreant at a time."
"You do more than bodyguard then?"
"I actually do very little in the bodyguard biz. I mostly do recovery work."
"So, like a car repossess guy?"
I have to laugh at that. "Yeah, if your car is worth a mil or so, otherwise I'll leave repo work to the real tough guys."
"So, you're not a tough guy?"
"Na, I'm a wuss. I only get angry with bullies, or wife beaters, or folks who steal their boss's yacht or airplane or retirement. And to be truthful, I hate dope dealers. But I normally call a cop."
"Why don't I believe that?"
"When you need a cop in seconds, he's only minutes away."
She laughs, then asks, "So, what's been your most exciting gig?"
"Can't tell, I'm sworn to silence. To be truthful, most of what I do folks don't want to talk about, or have their affairs talked about. I wouldn't have any new clients if I kiss and tell."
"You're not much of a conversationalist?"
"Now that hurts my feelings. Can't talk about work, but try me on literature, stage plays, movies, or the normal conversational clap trap."
"Okay, what's your favorite rock group?"
"The Eagles."
"You're older than you look."
"Again, you've hurt my feelings. I love classic rock. Who doesn't love living it up at the Hotel California?"
"Okay, you're classic, not old."
"Why does that sound like the same thing?"
She laughs. "If the shoe fits..." Then she adds, "You haven't asked about me."
"When I take on a job, I know more about all the players than they know about themselves."
"Oh, yeah. So, where did I go to college?"
"U.T., Austin, majored in Business, minored in music, got your B.A. but didn't finish your master's program as you got pregnant and daddy stopped with the funding. The boyfriend took a hike and you visited a clinic."
Her eyes widen and she glares at me, then her eyes soften. "Enough. Maybe I don't want to know what you know."
"I think you're a nice lady. We've all had our ups and downs. What I know about you is ninety-five percent good, and there's not many of us can say that."
We finish our cocktails, a bottle of wine, and a couple of after dinner drinks and I ask, "Did you drive or cab it here?"
"I cabbed it. I figured I might have a few drinks to drown my sorrows over my friend getting absconded with. So I cabbed it."
"You got a scarf?"
"Is the wind blowing? We gonna walk?"
"No, ma'am, you're gonna ride in style with the wind in your face."
"Then, let's go. I checked my jacket and can hold my hair down with it."
The Vette keeps my promise and she doesn't bother covering the hair. The windblown look is just fine on her. The London Hotel is a little high class for my normal overnight s
tays, but so's the lady, so I don't mind a bit.
The lady has a lovely body, makes all the right moves, but seems a little detached. She is no kicker, yeller or screamer. Nice, for recreational sex, but nothing to write home about, not that one writes home about such a thing. Of course, maybe there’s some reticence on her part and I’m judging her unfairly. I do work up a sweat, so it's at least as good as a quick workout at the gym.
Even so the interlude was worth the bottle of good wine and great steak, and I did learn an interesting tidbit. It seems Emory Coogan was on the verge of bankruptcy a few months ago and he tried to borrow money from Tammy Houston, and she told him no. Still, a month later, his fortunes must have turned, as he didn’t file.
She leaves at midnight, saying that's how long it would have taken to visit her sister and drive back from Valencia.
I get a good night's sleep alone in a big king size bed, a light breakfast of juice and a bagel, then head out for Malibu. It's obvious Emory Coogan is not picking up my phone calls as all are going to the answering device. So it's time to get in his face.
As I'm going down the elevator I call Sol in Vegas and advise him of Coogan's former financial problems and get him on the prod.
And I presume the cop, Detective Howard Adamson, is at some regional sheriff's office. So I call him as soon as I get back on Sunset heading west. It turns out his office is in Agoura Hills, over the mountain near the Ventura Freeway. But he's heading for Malibu and we agree to meet for coffee.
We agree to meet at the Malibu Farm Pier Café, located at the foot of the pier. I can't imagine it's an easy spot to park near, but he picked it.
I'm a little surprised that for a mere ten bucks I can park in a lot just south of the pier. Who ever heard of an ocean front parking lot?
The place is a ramshackle old Spanish motif like a good part of Malibu, but what a location overlooking the pier and a nice stretch of white sand beach with enough bikini—even at mid-morning—to keep me interested. While I'm sipping my coffee and waiting, I get a text from Sol. Coogan borrowed a cool mil from Sammy Castiano, a contractor and road builder who also has a place on Dume Point, and gives me the address on Birdview. The plot thickens.
My coffee is cold and it's a little tough to get a warm up in a place that prides itself on the view, not the service, when Adamson finally wanders in.
He's looking a little better this mid-morning. No stains on the tie.
He plops across the table from me. "You buying, Reardon?"
"You bet, if you’re candid about what you know."
"You're buying ’cause I can talk for the rest of the day and not tell you much."
I wave the waitress over. "Order up."
And he does, a full breakfast with a large orange juice.
I've worked up some appetite with my roll in the hay so I follow suit, and finally get my coffee warmed.
"So, any leads on who snatched our girl?" I ask.
"Not much. Our APB didn't pay off. The van obviously didn't stay on the Pacific Highway but there are a half-dozen ways to duck into the mountains and once you're over into Thousand Oaks or Agoura…or who knows, they could have holed up in the hills."
"No ransom note, no demands?"
"We've got two guys at the house with this Coogan guy, but nothing yet or I'd have heard."
"What do you know about a guy named Sammy Castiano?"
He eyes me for a moment, sipping his coffee, seeming to weigh his words. "You know Sammy Castiano from Vegas?"
"Never heard of the guy until this problem."
"He's got nothing to do with this."
"So, you know the guy?"
"Everybody around here knows, or knows of, Mr. Castiano. Big name in Malibu. Hell, big name in California. Road builder, heavy Democrat contributor. Had a fund raiser for the president last year with fifty of the biggest names in Hollywood in his backyard. I took time off to work security for him. He pays big and in cash. What's Castiano have to do with this?"
"Probably nothing…but I have reason to believe Coogan borrowed some major dough from him a year or so ago."
"Hell, that doesn't mean a thing—"
"Unless this Castiano is mobbed up."
Adamson laughs out loud. Then shakes his head. "Just because his name ends in a vowel."
I don't break a smile, in fact I bore in. "Is he mobbed up?"
He sobers a little, and glares at me, but he has a twitch in one eye. Were we playing poker I'd think that a tell.
"How the hell would I know?" he snaps a little too energetically. "We've got an organized crime unit but they work out of Monterey Park. As far as I know Mr. Castiano is a solid citizen."
We're cordial enough as we finish our breakfast, but after the tab comes and the girl takes my card, he lays one on me.
"Reardon. You don't have the best rep, and you don't have any brass worth flashing here in California…nothing that means squat. I pulled a sheet on you and you got no wants or warrants, however, you know that concealed carry permit you have from Wyoming is good for anything but butt wipe here in California. You carrying now?"
"If I were, and since I have no right to do so, do you think I'd mention it?"
"No, you wouldn't mention it, but I just asked."
"I guess it's your right to ask."
"How about I shake you down right now?"
"You ever hear of probable cause, Detective?"
"Yeah. And I think just you being you is probable cause."
It's my turn to laugh. "Maybe I should be complimented?"
"Maybe you should stand up and put your hands on the table, feet back."
"Maybe you should go fuck yourself."
We stare at each other for a moment, then he shrugs, then adds, "Don't get in the way of my investigation."
"Detective, we were doing fine until I mentioned Castiano. He your brother-in-law or what?"
He stammers a little, "He's an upstanding citizen who supports lots of good causes. You stay away from Sammy."
"Sammy?"
"Yes, Sammy Castiano. Or I won't worry about any probable cause."
I rise and head for the door, waving over my shoulder. "I'll let you know if I turn anything up."
He shouts after me. "You stay the fuck out of my case."
“You’re welcome for the breakfast.”
He gives me the middle finger.
There are only a half-dozen other patrons, but all stare at Adamson, who's getting red in the face as I stop at the register and sign my ticket. I give the waitress a wink. "Don't mind my friend. He's a cop and thinks he can talk that way in front of anyone." She glares at him then looks at the tip and smiles as I head for the parking lot.
Now to get in Coogan's face.
Chapter Six
A new player.
This guy is even bigger than Butch Horrigan and looks to be about five percent body fat. However, he's a gym rat with biceps, triceps, traps and lats so big he probably has to call for help to wipe his butt. If muscle bound were in the dictionary his picture would be the example. I park the Vette at the end of the walk as if I pulled in the driveway he might, just might, be able to turn it over and that would piss me off.
He places his book down and wanders off the covered porch where he's parked in a swinging love seat. All that beef and reading a book.
I move around the car to meet him.
"Quantum theory or what?" I ask.
"Uhh…" he mumbles.
"That's what I thought. Comic book?"
"You mean what was I reading?"
"You win."
"Nothing."
He's carrying the book so I reach down and turn his wrist so I can see the cover. It's a gay novel by the picture on the cover.
"Hey," he grumbles, and jerks back.
"I'll bet you’re Lance or Bruce?"
"I'm Harry."
I can't pass that up. "Bullshit, I bet you shave every square inch of that well-oiled bod of yours."
"Who are you, Mr. Cu
rious, and what's your business?"
"Is Mr. Coogan home? I'm here to reset the thermostats." I'm wishing I had my van with one of the many magnetic signs I carry, Thompson Heating and Ventilating, but I don't. He'd probably buy it if I did.
"Bullshit. You in that old Corvette."
"That happens to be a cherry ’57 with the original paint and upholstery."
"Still old."
"Okay, you're pissing me off now. Get Coogan for me before I shove that paperback up your butt…come to think of it you're wishing I would, aren't you, Handsome Harry?"
He drops the book on the flagstone walkway and takes a hint of a defensive posture. He's probably got a belt in karate and thinks he's indestructible. False security. He growls. "Coogan is busy. Leave your card in the mailbox and I'll tell him you stopped by."
"Against the law."
"What?" he asks, looking a little perplexed.
"A federal crime."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"You can't put anything but mail in a mail box. Any imbecile knows that."
He's beginning to turn a little red. But I comply and pull a Mike Reardon Repairman card out of my wallet. I fold it in half longways and step forward, acting as if I'm going to hand it to him. "We don't want to go to the federal slammer, now do we?"
I keep the card six inches from my chest until I'm within arm's length of him, then lash out and poke him in the eye with it.
"Yeooow," he yells, and grabs his eye and does a little two step, which gives me the opportunity to do a sweep with my left foot, knocking his out from under him. He goes down hard, as a guy over two-forty would, and hits hard enough on his right shoulder that I'm surprised the flagstone doesn't crack. He oofs, grabs his right shoulder with his left hand and rolls away, then rocks back and forth like his shoulder is separated. I doubt it. But he has an automatic in a hard-plastic holster on his right hip and I reach down and pop it free, pop and pocket the clip, and eject the chamber shell into the flowers. Then I drop it on the flagstone.
I move away and over to a driveway, which is fenced from the rear, and to a four-car garage by a swinging car width gate. But there's a lower human pass-through gate on the side next to the house. The swinging car gate is at least six feet high, the pass-through is only five. I guess the great security mind that designed the place thinks a car can jump higher than a person? I give them a lesson and vault the pass through person gate. Circling to the back, with the beautiful view of the Pacific beyond, a bevy of gulls circling overhead, and a beached whale on a double-wide chaise lounge next to the pool—Emory Coogan, obscene in a speedo lost in the cracks of fat.
