Target Shy & Sexy

by L. J. Martin

  "What the fuck?" he manages as I walk over and plop my butt down on the adjoining chaise.

  "I need a little information."

  He's trying to rise up but I push him back down, making him spill some drink with an umbrella in it.

  "Coogan, is that how you get your juice in the morning?"

  "It's damn near noon. Not that it's any of your business. What information?"

  "I'm working on the case of the missing country singer, you know, Tammy Houston."

  "Not on our dollar you ain't." He again tries to sit up and I again shove him down. He continues, "You prick, you let me up and I'll stomp your butt."

  "I'm tempted, but I don't have time. What's your deal with Sammy Castiano?"

  He eyes me carefully. "Never heard of the fucker."

  "I think I will let you up," and I push the chaise I'm on back and rise. "Can I give you a hand, fat man?"

  I extend my left to his right and help pull him to his feet and he comes up with a round house left that I slough off, then slap him hard with my right palm. Then backhand him, then give him the palm again and I know his ears are ringing and his eyes spinning. Just as I finish the last slap, I see Harry the Hairless round the corner at a run, his automatic in hand.

  I can see he hasn't bothered to check to see if the clip's in place and it's not, so I'm not too concerned. I shove the fat man and he windmills his arms and lands flat on his back in the deep end of the pool with a splash to rival a broaching whale.

  Harry charges to within three feet of me—the dumb shit—and lays down on me with the auto. "I'm gonna fuck you up," he says, as I step into him.

  I turn the auto into him, inside, then over with the wrist as he's compressing the trigger and getting no bang for his buck. He goes to his back and I continue to twist the wrist and step over as he goes over to his stomach, yelling loud enough that the gulls seem a lullaby. Then, just for the hell of it, I kick him hard on the twisted arm just above the shoulder joint, and now I know his shoulder is, this time, truly separated. He's out of the game for about six weeks. I pick up the weapon and toss it into the deep end of the pool so as not to give him any more false security.

  Emory is trying to lift himself out of the pool without benefit of the ladder and I move over and put a foot on his shoulder and shove him back down, and under. He comes up spitting.

  I stand beside the pool until he tries to get out again, and again shove him under. He comes up again, this time a little red in the face and spitting even more.

  "I should just drown both of your dumb asses, but I'll settle for an answer to my question."

  Emory spits and chokes, then manages, "What question?"

  "What's your deal with Sammy Castiano?"

  "He's kind of a neighbor, lives around the point. I got no deal with him."

  "Who has Tammy?"

  "I wish I knew." He glances over at Harry, who's now sitting up rubbing his shoulder and looking like he might break out in tears any second. "Did you break his arm?" Then when I don't answer, he yells at Harry. "Hey, you worthless fuck. I thought you were a bodyguard."

  "Yeah," I answer, "he trained at the same school Butch Horrigan did."

  I start to move away, then turn back to Coogan. "Hey, fat man, I'm gonna do the job Tammy hired me to do, and it looks to me like you are right in the middle of this deal and part of the problem, not the solution. If she comes home in anything but one piece, I'm gonna rip you apart a pound of suet at a time. You got that?"

  "Get the fuck off this property."

  So I do, this time I don't have to vault the pass though gate as there's a latch low on the inside. I'm not surprised to see Detective Howard Adamson's car pulling up behind mine. He is out of it by the time I'm there.

  "I thought you were told to stay away from here?" he snaps.

  "No, no, you got it all wrong. I was invited to the pool party. Didn't I mention it at breakfast?"

  "I told you to stay away from my case."

  "Purely a social visit, Detective. Wanted to see how Tammy's grieving associates were getting along."

  As I'm getting behind the wheel of the Vette, he's shouting after me, "Stay out of my case, Reardon."

  I wave over my shoulder as I peel out.

  I'm not going far, as it's only a half-mile around the point to Sammy Castiano's place.

  Chapter Seven

  Ah, anyone who may end up creeping a place has got to love Google Earth.

  I park a block away and pull up the aerial of the Castiano compound, and I say compound as there's more than one house. Probably the smaller is a guesthouse, then a garage to contain at least six vehicles, one door large enough for one of those million-dollar motor homes. There's a greenhouse that's at least forty by one hundred feet beyond the garage and what must be a gardener’s shack attached thereto. A small cottage and gatehouse is only thirty feet back from the road and the driveway makes a wide circle from the gatehouse to a porte cochere in front of the main house that would cover four limos, then on to the garages, then a slight stubby driveway leads off to the side to a two-car garage attached to the guest house. The whole thing is a sort of Greco Italian Renaissance with a little Mediterranean thrown in. Arches, red tile roofs, but lots of glass. It's two stories tall over most of the main house. It must be a hundred yards from the rear of the house to the ocean with a cliff of forty or fifty feet. Google Earth shows me a small structure cliff side with a fair size deck cantilevered out over crashing surf below.

  Between house and cliff house is a pool large enough to float a fair size yacht and two short golf holes with their own greens, plus a putting green. I can make out what must be pads for driving balls out into the sea, a rich man's version of a driving range.

  The landscaping is mostly old eucalypti with a few wind-blown Monterey pines rising out of enough shrubs to make a real fire hazard. However the place is far enough from the Malibu Hills to not have to worry much. Some gardener has a full time job as there's color everywhere.

  It's a hell of a place. But not for the sake of security. Unless there are a couple of Rottweilers, I can get window side on the main house without ever being spotted.

  But I decide to try the direct route first.

  I pull into the driveway and stop at the gatehouse. I expected a no-neck goomba who looked to be right out of Detroit, and am a little surprised to see a pencil neck who sounds like he's right out of a Donald Duck cartoon. And he's got the tight lips and no chin. He fully fills the bill, so to speak.

  "Hi, I'm Richard Strong, here to see Mr. Castiano."

  "You have an appointment?" he quacks.

  "This is April 4th?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Then I have an appointment."

  "I don't have you on the calendar and I'm afraid Mr. Castiano is in town. Are you sure it wasn't with Mrs. Castiano?"

  I do a quick brain search and remember Sol's report. "Margo…well, he said maybe he and Margo. But just Margo would be fine."

  "Your name again?"

  "Strong. Richard Strong…friends call me Dick."

  He doesn't bat an eye but rather picks up the phone and hits a button or two.

  "Yes, ma'am." He says, and I can see he's working a device like a game console and a small video camera on the edge of the building pans the car then stops, aimed directly at my face. I can see Donald Duck eying a monitor, and see my own smiling mug increasing in size thereon as he zooms in. He still has the receiver to his ear.

  "Yes, ma'am," he says, with a nod of the head, then turns to me.

  "Someone will meet you at the door and show you in."

  I smile and drive away, resisting the urge to say "Thanks, Daffy."

  As I park under the porte cochere, a door befitting the Halls of Congress opens and a guy in black pants and coat but sans tie and with the top three buttons of the shirt undone, strolls out and walks around the Vette to where I’m climbing out. He's got a bit of an early Frank Sinatra look about him, not over five-foot-eight and a buck fifty
. He doesn't extend a hand, but nods.

  "I'm Tony, I take care of the house and grounds. You're Mr. Strong."

  "That's me, Tony. Nice job on the house and grounds, pardner."

  "Thanks. I have a little help with it all."

  "I imagine."

  "Mrs. Castiano is out by the pool if you'll follow me, please."

  He starts to lead the way, then we're both stopped by a loud, "Wow!" and I glance to the doorway where a tall, and I imagine formerly gorgeous blonde, is standing in a pool wrap, high heels, a sun hat as big as an umbrella, and quite a bit of skin showing around a way too itty bitty yellow polka dot bikini. She charges forward and spreads her arms wide, not at me, but at the Vette.

  "Do you have the provenance on this beauty? I had one brand new in ’57 when I was just sixteen."

  As she nears I can see she's had one too many facelifts and has the telltale frog mouth, her eyes beginning to look a little Oriental.

  "No, ma'am. I bought her in Vegas less than ten years ago, from some guy who rolled the bones one time too often."

  She walks up and down the car, teetering a little on the five inch heels. This gal has got to be in her seventies, but she's pretty amazing to still be in the bikini. The skin on her hands, arms, and lower legs gives away her age a little, but all and all she's amazing.

  She turns, and the slightly faded blue eyes narrow a little. "You tired of her yet? Wanna sell her?"

  "No, she's part of the family now. But I'm complimented you asked."

  "Come on in. It's not quite noon but I'll make an exception for a guy who has a beautiful cherry fifty-seven. Tony, pop a bottle of the good stuff."

  "Yes, ma'am," Tony says from behind me as I have to stride out to keep up with Margo. Champagne, which I imagine is the good stuff, is a lot better than crawling through the underbrush to creep the place. I should try this technique more often.

  She throws off her net wrap and steps into the Jacuzzi. "Peel down, Angelo. We're not bashful around here."

  "Uh…I'm not Angelo, Mrs. Castiano."

  Her eyes widen a little. "You're not the decorator?"

  "No, ma'am. I actually came to have a chat with Mr. Castiano."

  "Well, bless your black little heart. You wandered right in here like you were somebody. I thought you looked way too straight to be Angelo."

  I have to laugh, then add, "I'm Dick Strong, over from Vegas, working on the abduction of one of your neighbors."

  "You a cop or something?" She seems to relax a little and sinks on down into the hot water.

  "Something. I do recovery work, including missing folks upon occasion."

  "A private dick?"

  "No, ma'am—"

  "Will you quit with the fuckin' ma'am. I'm Mrs. Castiano or Margo."

  "Yes, ma'am…I mean, thanks, Margo. And no, not a private dick. I do carry a bail enforcement badge and sometimes do a little of that work."

  "Bounty hunter?"

  "Yep, upon occasion, but mostly recovery work."

  "Sounds like muscle work to me…you're built for it."

  "Thanks. But I try to use the brain when possible."

  "You might as well peel down and jump in. At least I'll know if you've got any weapons on you," then she laughs, and adds, "or a decent weapon."

  She's still giggling when Tony shows up with a tray in professional waiter fashion carrying with one hand a bottle of fancy champagne, two flutes, and a small bowl of chocolates.

  "You coming in?"

  "No, thanks. No time to display my weapons, but I'll have a glass with you before I have to run."

  She feigns a pout, then laughs, "So, you gonna haul my old man to the slammer?"

  "Nope, no contract on Mr. Castiano."

  "You and a dozen others like you couldn't do it anyway. So, what's up?"

  Tony has poured and handed me a flute. Before I answer, I take a sip. "Wow, that's good stuff."

  "Ought to be at two hundred a bottle."

  "True. What's up is I'm looking for info on the abduction of Tammy Houston."

  "What's that got to do with us?"

  "Came to me on the grapevine that Mr. Çastiano loaned Tammy's manager a large chunk of dough."

  She shrugs. "Hell, Sammy loans lots of folks money."

  I smile tightly. "Folks who disappear when they don't pay back."

  Her smile fades, and her eyes shoot daggers, then with a tight jaw, she yells, "Tony. The gentleman is leaving."

  "Thanks for the sip, and the presumption," I say, and place the flute back on the tray.

  "Presumption?"

  "Yeah, that I'm a gentleman."

  Tony appears in the doorway, and suddenly behind him are two no-necks, nicely dressed, but still goomba boys. And they are not smiling.

  Tony takes a few steps forward and notes the scowl on Margo's remodeled face, then asks, "You want him tossed, or just shown out?"

  Chapter Eight

  I answer for him. "Only three of you, or you got another half-dozen hid out somewhere?"

  "You don't think three of us are up to tossing you?"

  "Nope."

  "Margo?" he asks.

  Again, she's smiling. "I think Sergio can take him without any help."

  "He's the curly haired one, I'll bet," I say.

  "You got it," she says, then giggles a little crazily.

  The two others are filling the six-foot width of the open side of a sliding glass door leading out to the patio. The taller but thinner of the two steps aside and gives a head bow to Sergio, who grins broadly.

  I'm glad I didn't get all dressed up this morning. Hiking boots, jeans, and a pullover. I customarily wear a heavy belt buckle, and have a wide belt and eight ounces of buckle on, but even though it's a good weapon I won't need it with only one guy to deal with.

  Sergio is two inches shorter, at an even six feet, but weighs about the same. He's been a muscle fuck at some earlier time in his life, but has gone to a nice suet overlay. His six-pack is hidden under a hundred six packs of Lucky Lager. His nose has been broken more than once, he's got crisscrossed scars in both eyebrows, and one ear is cauliflowered. Wrestler, I'll bet. And no virgin to street fighting after his wrestling career was over. If so, I'll fool him as I wrestled in college and know most the moves and have invented a couple of new ones.

  Obviously I didn't make much of an impression on Margo if she thinks this guy is gonna toss me.

  "Hold on," I say, and Margo and the rest of them begin to laugh. "I don't mean hold up on the contest, I just thought y'all would like to cover this." I snatch my wallet from my back pocket and pop a Franklin out and lay it nicely on a glass top table. "Odds?"

  Margo gets a curious look. "You want to bet a hundred Sergio won't take you, and you want odds?"

  "Y'all are pretty confident that the Italian Stallion here will put me away, so yeah, I want odds. This pretty boy is probably the heavyweight champ of Italy."

  Margo laughs. "How about five to one."

  I smile tightly. "That'll make it worth my while."

  "Tony, my purse," she says, and Tony hustles inside.

  Sergio stretches his eighteen-inch biceps wide, and yawns. He doesn't seem worried in the least. Tony is back in a heartbeat and hands Margo her wallet. She peels out five fresh Franklins and literally covers mine with hers.

  "Sergio, I'm tiring of this," she says, and gives him a bit of a disgusted look.

  I move a couple of steps away from the Jacuzzi, and Sergio charges. He fakes his hands upward, then dives in low for a double leg takedown…as I suspected, a wrestler. I post off his head with my left hand, kick my legs back putting all my weight on the head, and drive his face into the flagstone, then pivot around to his back while he's trying to clear the cobwebs. Like any good wrestler he tries to get his knees under him so he can sit out and spin into me, but I have a hand on the wrist of the hand he's using to rise up, and, drive my head into his armpit and wrench the wrist back and up into a hammer lock. He continues his sit out and I wr
ench the elbow back and feel his shoulder go. So I let go, knowing he's finished even if he doesn't. He spins away and gets to his feet, but his left hand is on his shoulder and his eyes are tearing—sweet Sergio may just yell for his mama. Nothing hurts much more than a separated shoulder.

  Then the fool charges me, and I'm sure can barely see as his eyes are watering so badly, and I sidestep—and he joins Margo in the Jacuzzi, graceful as a hippo, splashing her coif with a wave that inundates the large blonde doo, and it goes straight in an instant and I'm surprised to see, cants to the side. A wig.

  "Damn you, Sergio. You've ruined my hair!"

  No neck number two is having none of it and charges throwing a roundhouse as he does, as I spin to the side sloughing off the punch and stomp down on his knee as he passes. It crumples and he rides it to the flagstone, screaming in an embarrassing falsetto—one leg out in front, one strangely bent to the side.

  I turn back to the Jacuzzi and the cursing woman.

  "Mrs. Castiano, you're in about ten grand in medical bills so far. Wanna go for twenty?"

  Sergio is spitting and hacking, trying to clear the water out of his lungs while rubbing his shoulder. Mrs. Castiano's mouth is puckered so tightly you couldn't drive a sixteen penny nail in with a sledge, and her red face shows even through the pancake makeup. No neck two is rolling around on the flagstone, holding his knee in both hands and moaning in a low tone, way more manly than the falsetto.

  "You fucker," Margo manages. "Tony, where are you Tony?"

  With a side-glance I'd caught Tony disappearing through the sliding glass door, and that concerned me. And I was right as he's roaring back through the doorway, a large semi-auto pistol in hand.

  I drag the little .380 from the small of my back where it was stowed under my pull over, drop to one knee where Margo is directly behind me, and have the weapon centered on the center of Tony's chest.