“That’s what I like about you, Ms. Graves. You are constantly thinking outside the box.”
Avery turns around at the sound of the new voice. Behind her stands James Decessus of Messor and Decessus. Decessus is in his late sixties and has a grandfatherly appeal to him. His hair is gray with flecks of white spread through and he’s dressed in a standard tuxedo. In his left hand is a shrimp cocktail. He raises his glass to Avery in a gentle salute.
Avery maintains her composure. “I didn’t know you were affiliated with Saint Mercy’s.”
Decessus sips his cocktail. “Yes, well, it’s a recent development. We’re looking to establish roots in the community, as it were.”
Avery raises an eyebrow. “That’s an odd root for a grim reaping firm, isn’t it?”
Decessus nods in agreement, savoring the taste of his drink. “It is.” He smiles at her. “But we didn’t get where we are today by not thinking outside the box.”
“And where are you exactly today?” Avery asks him.
“The same place as everyone else,” Decessus replies. “We’re simply here.”
“Is that all?”
He shrugs. “Can you ask for anything more in this day and age?”
“I don’t know,” Avery says. “Maybe I should check with the grim reapers you’ve run out of town.”
Decessus laughs softly. “Ms. Graves, I thought better of you.”
“Maybe you need to learn to lower your expectations,” Avery suggests.
“Maybe.” Decessus plucks one of the shrimp from his drink and pops it in his mouth. “I hope you’re not just automatically believing every little thing you hear, Ms. Graves. You and your sister are two very smart ladies. There are always two sides to every story.”
“Care to tell me your side?” Avery asks.
“I don’t have to,” Decessus replies.
“You don’t?”
“Of course,” he says. “History is written by the winners. I’ve already won.”
“That’s a little arrogant.”
“Nonsense. It’s extremely arrogant,” Decessus corrects her. “But I’ve already won, so I think I’ve earned a little arrogance, don’t you?”
“Pride goeth before a fall,” Avery reminds him.
Decessus brushes her words aside. “Please, Ms. Graves, we’re not here to exchange platitudes and outdated sayings.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s a saying that still carries some weight,” Avery says. “So if I’m not supposed to get your side of the story, whose side am I supposed to get?”
“Obviously, the other side.”
“I thought I had that already.”
Decessus shrugs. “Clearly you didn’t.”
Avery pauses. “Are you here for an answer to your offer?”
“No,” Decessus replies. “I’m here because Randolph Thomas wanted to show off his doctors. I told you and your sister to take your time and I stand by that.” He smiles. “Go. Get the other side of the story. Then make your decision.”
“What if I don’t like what I hear?”
“Only you can say,” Decessus says. “I can’t see the future or read your mind.” He finishes the last of the shrimp on his drink. “I think I need a refill.”
“I wouldn’t have pegged you as a shrimp cocktail kind of man,” Avery says.
“One of life’s guilty pleasures as it were,” Decessus replies, looking forlornly at the empty cup. “My wife is horribly allergic to seafood. It’s only at functions like this that I get to indulge myself.”
“Where’s your wife?” Avery asks.
“Why, not here of course,” Decessus replies, smiling. “I’ll be seeing you around, Ms. Graves.”
Avery watches Decessus make his way over to the bar. A strong arm wraps itself around her waist and a pair of lips caress her neck.
“Hey,” Jack says.
Avery nuzzles back against him. “Where have you been?”
“Talking shop. Who was the old guy? Should I be jealous?”
“No, he’s married,” Avery replies, she twists around in his embrace. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. How much longer do we have to hang around?”
“Funny you should ask,” Jack says, glancing around. “Thomas has been tied up with Mrs. Benson for the last hour. I’m pretty sure we could sneak out of here and no one would be the wiser.”
“Excellent,” Avery replies. “Have I told you about my thing for men in tuxedos?”
Jack raises a bemused eyebrow. “Oh?”
“It’s a sexual thing,” Avery says. “In that I like to have sex with men in tuxedos. Especially, when they’re my boyfriend.”
“I’ll go get the car.”
thirteen
Clark’s is a quiet little restaurant that has all the charm and ambience of an upscale place, but the prices of a more down-to-Earth diner.
Brooke’s seated at her favorite spot at the bar. It gives her the perfect vantage point to watch the front door. The art studio let out almost thirty minutes ago. Since then it’s been a steady stream of frumpy, awkward looking artistic types with bulky clothing and bizarre hair colors. She spots the three male models immediately, of course. Chiseled good looks, square jaws and shiny blonde hair. Brooke feels herself getting excited at the sight of them. She watches them a little longer while she nurses a strawberry daiquiri. She’s careful, the night’s still young and she doesn’t want to waste it on a man who’s not up to satisfying her voracious appetite. She also wants to make sure none of them are gay, because it’s always a little awkward and very depressing to hit on a hot gay guy.
Brooke’s suddenly overwhelmed with the scent of cheap cologne.
“‘Ello, luv.”
Brooke slowly turns around on her stool. The lanky Brit sitting beside her dressed in a pair of neatly pressed slacks and a slightly oversized light blue polo shirt. His head is shaved and his lips are curled back in a smile that’s universally accepted as creepy. His name is Stanley Morris and not only is he Brooke’s ex, but he’s also a loan shark who she owes several thousands of dollars to. Buying shoes is an expensive addiction.
“Stanley,” Brooke says, wrinkling her nose at his scent.
He leans in for a kiss, but she turns her head sideways. Stanley settles for brushing her hair out of her face. “Yor lookin’ quite lovely this evening.”
“That’s high praise coming from a man whose idea of romance is a back alley behind a liquor shop,” Brooke replies.
Stanley smiles. “I remember that evening quite well.” He rests his hand on her shoulder. “We had quite a good run, luv.” He nods at the three male models. “Lookin’ for a little male companionship this fine evenin’?”
“You could say that,” Brook responds, shrugging off his hand. She looks at him. “Did you want to throw yourself into the running?”
Stanley adjusts his collar. “I don’t compete, luv. I win.” He settles back on his stool. “I’ve been lookin’ all over for you, luv.”
“And now you’ve found me,” Brooke says. “Good for you.”
“Yeah, I feel like I’ve earned a hearty pat on the back,” Stanley says.
“Well, you’re gonna have to get someone else to pat you,” Brooke replies. “My New Year’s resolution is to stop giving in to my vices.”
“Not quite the new year yet, luv.”
“I like to get a head start.”
He leans over and whispers in her ear, “How bad a vice am I, then?”
Stanley’s voice sends little shivers of pleasure rippling through her body. Brooke pushes him back and quickly finishes her drink. “Personal space please. I don’t have any money for you.”
Stanley smiles, happy with the response he got. “I’m not lookin’ for yor money.”
Brooke clears her throat, trying to watch her three potential dates for the evening, but they’re looking less interesting by the minute. “Well, the other thing ain’t happening either.”
Stanley pretends not to know what she’s talking
about. “Other thing?”
She looks at him sideways. “When I slept with you in exchange for you knocking off three grand from my debt.”
Stanley snaps his fingers, smiling as he does so. “Now I remember. As I recall, that was yor idea.”
“Well, it’s not happening again,” she says, not quite as firmly as she did before. “One time deal.”
“That’s okay, luv,” Stanley says, drumming his fingers on the bar. “I’ve got an honest way for you to work off your debt to me this evening.”
Dick’s Drugstore lives up to its name. It’s a dingy little store on the corner of Apple Street and Broward that looks like it should be selling illegal drugs, rather than the legal kind. Conveniently, though, that’s exactly what they do sell at Dick’s Drugstore-in the back.
The fluorescent lights are flickering as Brooke and Stanley enter the store. The cheap tile floor is sticky with fluids. Brooke tries not to think about what kind of fluids would end up on the floor of a drugstore. The place smells like used diapers. The shelves are poorly stocked and what is there seems to be placed in almost a haphazard manner. There aren’t any customers present, not that the clerk behind the counter would have been able to help anyone. The ginger teenager looks stoned six ways to Sunday. Stanley doesn’t pay the kid any mind as he guides Brooke towards the back.
Stanley’s lent her a long coat to wear, giving her a slightly more presentable look.
“I’m going to need you to step outside yor comfort zone a bit, luv,” Stanley’s saying.
Brooke raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything.
“Mostly I need you for your brains,” Stanley continues. “Dicky here likes the ladies, so that’s going to be a bit of a problem. But if it comes to a crunch, he likes money a little more.”
“Geez, Stanley,” Brooke says dryly. “If you’re asking me not to flirt with the guy, I’m not sure. You know how insatiable I get.”
Stanley stops suddenly and turns to Brooke and pokes her in chest. “That. That right there is wot I do not want you to be doing. No attitude, luv.”
Brooke frowns, folding her arms. She doesn’t need to actually say anything.
Stanley holds up three, slightly crooked fingers. “There’s three things you need to know about Dicky Ramburg: He likes ladies, he likes money and he likes a tussle. I would like to leave here without getting the crap beaten out of either of us. You savvy?”
Brooke smiles. “I always get to meet the most interesting people when I’m with you.”
Dicky Ramburg is basically a giant grease ball. He lost any real definition in his body years ago. Now, he’s just a ball with black stringy hair and squiggly lines where his facial features should be. To make matters worse, he’s dressed in a dark brown, velour sweat suit. Brooke fights the urge to vomit right then and there.
The back room of Dick’s Drugstore is cramped and poorly lit. In the shadows Brooke can make out three other forms in the room, they’re considerably larger and in better shape than Ramburg.
Dicky gestures to the round table he’s sitting at. “Stanley, please. Sit.” His voice has an odd accent to it, Brooke can’t place it specifically, but it sounded almost Russian. He looks at Brooke and smiles. “Who is your lovely friend?”
Stanley sits down. There are no other chairs so Brooke has to remain standing.
“I’m not here to expand your social circle,” Stanley says. Brooke bites the inside of her cheek to keep from frowning. She’s trying maintain a neutral expression, but this wasn’t what she figured when Stanley told her to keep off the attitude.
Dicky’s smile turns upside down. “Watch your tone, Stanley. My blood sugar’s a little low; I might take what you say the wrong way.”
Stanley folds his hands on the table. “This here is my expert.”
Dicky’s frown deepens, adding a few extra rolls to his face. “Expert?”
Stanley holds out his hands. “You didn’t think I was going to come here and just buy it like I was picking up a pair of knickers at Tesco’s, did yak?”
Dicky doesn’t respond right away. He smacks his lips together, making an unpleasant wet noise.
“We have a,” Dicky pauses for a second, “relationship.”
“Of course we do,” Stanley replies. “That’s why I’m sitting here with you and not down at Bernie Kent’s table.”
Dicky’s frown turns into a scowl. “Kent wouldn’t know a good piece of merchandise if it reached out and tickled his balls.”
Brooke’s nose wrinkles at the phrasing, but she keeps her mouth shut.
Dicky’s lips smack together for another few seconds and finally he gives in. “All right.” He raises a pudgy little hand and snaps his fingers. One of the slabs of muscle steps out of the shadows and places a box on the table. Dicky pushes it across to Stanley. “Have your expert look it over.”
The way he says ‘expert’ makes Brooke feel like she just got tossed through a sewer.
Stanley holds the box in his hands. It’s about nine inches by eleven inches and made of a dark stained wood. Stanley takes a breath before opening the box. He reaches in and pulls out what appears to be a very, very old human skull.
fourteen
“Well?” Stanley whispers to Brooke.
They’ve taken a few steps away from the table and Brooke’s carefully looking over the human skull in her hands. Dicky’s watching her like a child watches an ice cream attendant build them the perfect ice cream cone.
“What is it supposed to be?” Brooke whispers back.
“It’s supposed to be a bloody skull,” Stanley whispers.
Brooke lowers the skull and gives Stanley a look. “I know it’s a skull. Whose skull is it supposed to be?”
Stanley casts a nervous glance at Dicky, but the oversized grease ball is just sitting there patiently.
Stanley says to Brooke, “Sometimes I deal with rare antiquities-”
“This I know already,” she cuts him off.
Stanley just frowns. “Look, it’s supposed to be a bloody old skull. That’s all you need to know.”
She turns it over in her hands. “Well then you’ve got a problem, because this isn’t older than, maybe, twenty years.”
“It’s a fake?” Stanley whispers.
“Well, not exactly,” Brooke replies. “I mean, it is a human skull. Just probably not the one you’re looking for. How old is it supposed to be?”
“Bloody old.”
Brooke sighs. “Last time I checked, that’s not how we measure time here in the States.”
Stanley folds his arms. “Bloody older than twenty years.”
Brooke hands him the skull back. “Sorry, bucko.”
Stanley looks forlornly at the human skull. “Bollocks.”
“Seriously, whose skull are you looking for?” Brooke asks again.
“Nothing you need to worry yor pretty little head about,” Stanley replies.
She twitches her eyes back towards Dicky. “Is this going to be a problem?”
“Oh, definitely,” Stanley says. “But, hopefully not a problem for us.”
Brooke gives him a narrow look. “That doesn’t inspire confidence.”
Stanley walks back over to Dicky and sets the skull back down on the table a little too forcefully. “This isn’t the skull.”
Dicky smacks his lips together in disagreement. “It’s the skull, Stanley. It’s the skull you asked for.”
Stanley points to Brooke. “Not according to her.”
Dicky looks at her. “Oh?”
Stanley twirls the skull around to face Dicky. “This wanker’s been dead twenty years and you know that who I’m looking for has been dead a lot longer.”
The squiggly lines where Dicky’s eyes would be, cinch together. “Is that so?”
“It is.”
“And who is this expert that you trust over our relationship, Stanley? You and I, we go back.”
“Yeah, we go way back,” Stanley replies. “Why else would I bring my ow
n expert?”
“Are you insinuating that I would try to scam you?” Dicky asks.
“I’m not insinuating anything,” Stanley. “I’m just pointing out the facts.”
Dicky rolls his fat lips for a moment. “And what makes her such an expert on the human skull, Stanley?”
Stanley smiles. “This little bird’s a grim reaper.” He slides the skull back over to Dicky. “No deal.”
Dicky’s lips curl into a sneer. “You brought a grim reaper into my house?” He smacks the table and the skull rattles.
The three muscle boys from the shadows step forward. The air in the room gets very tense. Brooke’s adrenaline picks up. Fight or flight is ringing in her ears.
Stanley takes a step back, holding his hands up. “Now, let’s all just take a deep breath and calm down a bit.”
“I am perfectly calm, Stanley,” Dicky says.
Brooke can hear teeth grinding and realizes it’s coming from the giant grease ball.
“Honestly, it’s not you I’m worried about, but yor hired help,” Stanley says, eyeing the three goons.
“You have insulted me,” Dicky continues. “We are businessmen. A grim reaper has no place in this.” He spits out the words, grim reaper, like they’re poisonous apple bits.
Stanley frowns. “Wot did you think I was going to do, Dicky? There’s a lot of money riding on this particular ‘ead. I wasn’t born yesterday.”
Dicky glares at him. “I don’t like it.”
“No kidding.”
Dicky flexes his pudgy fingers. He looks at Brooke. “And, who exactly are you, missy? I like to know the names of the people who cost me money.”
Brooke swallows, clenching her fists. She’s never run away from a fight before and she doesn’t have any plans to start now.
Stanley steps in Dicky’s eye line, blocking Brooke from him. “She didn’t cost you anything, Dicky. Now, I think yor best bet here is to play dumb. It’s clear to me you got sold a lemon.” He shrugs. “It happens.”
Dicky traces the edge of the skull’s jaw, not saying anything.
Death & Stilettos Page 21
