Cicero's Dead

by Patrick H. Moore

  “Nick, sounds like this chick may not be leveling with us.”

  “Maybe you two can bond and get her into therapy while you’re at it.”

  “Just because I think you need therapy, doesn’t mean everybody does.”

  “Wouldn’t you, if your parents died in the space of two weeks?”

  “I’d need it even if they didn’t.”

  “You’ll like Jade,” I said finally. “She’s a righteous babe, among other things.”

  “Yeah? Maybe we can get it on.”

  “Maybe, though I don’t recommend it. Anyway, find out everything you can. She’s pretty friendly, so ask her about credit cards. See if we can trace Richard that way.”

  “I’m on it, Boss.”

  I put the phone down and stared out the window. I tried to envision a web of interlocking relationships, marked by greed and violence with Richard and Jade at the center. For all I knew, they could both be living on borrowed time.

  Richard’s friend, Ron Cera, lived in the Valley just north of Studio City. I slid into my silver Camry XLE, and drove north on Alameda. Just after Union Station, I pulled onto the 101. Traffic was heavy as I drove north through Echo Park and Silver Lake, then up into Hollywood. The freeway threads through the Hollywood Hills and just past Universal City, I turned off onto Laurel Canyon. Valley Village consists of mostly two story apartment buildings and duplexes, sandstone colored dwellings that have a clipped and manicured Midwestern feel.

  I parked down on the end of Ron Cera’s block and walked slowly toward his building. I had my set of lock picks and my Colt Commander .45 holstered in the small of my back. As I walked up the driveway, I noticed an elderly lady with gardening shears watching me closely. I waved and she snapped her head away. Chuckling, I climbed the stairs to Ron’s second story apartment.

  I knocked hard three times and waited. I was about to pound again, when I heard grunting, some movement and the door swung open. Ron was about 6’2” and a dead ringer for a young Nick Nolte. Same strong jaw, same singular intensity.

  “What the hell, Buddy?”

  I smiled. “Sorry. I know it’s kind’a early.”

  “Fuckin’ A. I’m on Hollywood time.” He wore sweats and an Ozzy Osborne tee-shirt with a bat hanging upside down below his name. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m a private investigator.” I flipped open my wallet and showed him my license.

  “You working for Arnold Clipper?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “You’re lucky.” He stepped back from the door and motioned me inside.

  The living room was small with hardwood floors, off-white walls that could stand a coat of paint, and brown trim. The famous poster of Humphrey Bogart holding the shot glass was framed above his couch. Some boxes were stacked in the corner and I wondered if he was in the process of moving.

  Ron noted my interest in the Bogart poster. “Bogie was the man.”

  “You got that right.”

  I sat on the couch, and the faint but unmistakable odor of marijuana drifted down the hall.

  “Hang on,” said Ron, “I’ll be right back.”

  He disappeared, probably to slam down another lungful from his bong. As I waited, I glanced at the magazines on the solid oak coffee table that filled most of the space between the door and me. The room lacked windows and the stuffy, weed-tainted air was probably giving me a contact high. Ron returned carrying a bong filled with dirty water, a zippo lighter, and an ashtray. He set everything down on the coffee table, went into the kitchen and came back out with a straight-backed chair.

  “I was just about to get high when you knocked on the door. I assume you don’t mind?”

  “You could be smoking seaweed with a turpentine chaser, and I wouldn’t care.”

  He grunted, sat down, lit up and sucked a huge hit of designer weed into his lungs. Exhaling, he repeated the performance and looked at me with satisfaction. “Wanna hit?”

  “Thanks but spliff gets me way wrecked.”

  “More for me,” he grinned. “Sorry I acted like a jerk just now. I get like that in the morning. I work late and need my beauty rest.”

  “Me too.”

  He chuckled. “You sure you’re an investigator, or is this some kind’a screen test?”

  “Do you know Jade Lamont?”

  “Yeah, I know Jade Lamont,” he confirmed bitterly. “Butterfly girl. That little cooze used to jump my bones like it was Christmas and she was Mrs. Claus.”

  I laughed. This guy was pretty funny.

  “I was just about to fall in love with her, or at least fall in love with her money when she dumped me like a fresh laid turd. I still haven’t gotten over it. Makes you realize how women feel when they get used.” A flash of sadness darkened his eyes. He shrugged it away and took another hit.

  “She’s a beauty.”

  The THC was having its desired effect, as he exhaled smoke propelled words. “You know those butterflies above her breasts?”

  I nodded, recalling the tattoos emblazoned into her caramel skin.

  “Dude, that’s nothing. She’s got a red cobra tattooed on one of her hot little ass cheeks and a green mongoose on the other. Never seen anything like it.”

  “Wow. I’ve missed out. She was very sedate when I met her.”

  “That’s ‘cause she wanted something other than your dick. That girl’s gonna be a star one day, if she lives long enough. She may be the best actor I’ve ever met.”

  “She retained me to find her brother.”

  He raised his eyebrows and suddenly looked concerned. “Yeah? Huh. If I know Jade, she’s freaking out. They were very close.”

  “Were?”

  “Things change. You’re aware, of course, that he has certain proclivities?”

  “I thought there was a possibility.”

  “She didn’t tell you, did she? Ms. Lamont is very selective when it comes to releasing classified information. She could be a spook if she didn’t come from a crime family.”

  “I did get the impression that her father may have been running a little weight on the side.”

  “A little?” he smirked. “I believe it’s called Persian brown. You mix it up with lemon juice before you slam it. The high’s supposed to be amazing, but I stay away from that shit.” He shivered, took another hit off his bong and shook his head as he held in the smoke. 20 seconds crawled by. “I almost feel guilty having told you that. Almost. Anyway, I like Richie. He’s a good kid. I was flattered when he hit on me, except I don’t swing that way, but he was cool. When I asked him why, he couldn’t answer. Made me think that what he really wanted was a father who gave a damn. I felt bad for him. Then a few weeks later, Cicero gets splattered into road pizza. Small wonder the boy’s a mess.”

  “That’s good character analysis.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So how’s the career going?”

  Ron sighed. “Terrible. You see, these days it gets down to Nick Nolte and Johnny Depp. Do they want the moody sensitive yet swashbuckling type, or do they want the masculine, hard-bitten Nolte type? I’m more Nolte than Depp and it’s just not happening for me right now.”

  “You’re in the wrong era. Go back 50 years. Who did you have then? Glenn Ford, Spencer Tracy. Kirk Douglas. Hell, John Wayne, Robert Mitchum. Even William Holden before he got fat. And of course Bogie. Those guys were men. They weren’t pretty boys. They didn’t need to be.”

  “You’re a genius. I think I’ll kill myself.”

  “Don’t be in any rush. Not until you help me find Richard.”

  “He can be very elusive. My guess, he’s in trouble.”

  “I get the impression Jade agrees with you.”

  “She doesn’t know the half of it.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yeah, and I’ll tell you why and then I’ve got to get ready for work.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I met Richie and Jade about a year ago, in a club on Melrose. Later
that night, we drove out to Malibu and partied on somebody’s private beach. I had some bud with me, Jade was drinking wine and he was wired on meth. He’d just discovered it and was completely amped. I mean, dude, he couldn’t shut up. I learned a lot about the Lamont family that night. Probably too much. After she got hammered, Jade started talking too. This was almost a year before their parents died. I saw her off and on for about 11 months, or rather, she saw me when she felt like it. The last time was about a month after Dominique walked out on Cicero, which was maybe three weeks before he met up with an unforgiving bumper. Or at least that’s the way the story goes.”

  “And you don’t believe it?”

  “I don’t know what to believe. Jade did give me the impression that the separation was only temporary. Just a little vacation to sort things out. Anyway, Cicero had no time for his wife. He had his business enterprises and, according to Richie, his Vietnamese massage girls in Westminster. He didn’t care if mamma had a fling or two. Boy, Jade hated those call girls. She could be very high-handed considering her own laissez-faire morals.”

  He paused for breath and absently poked at the weed in its container. I waited patiently for him to continue as I considered this new info.

  “In case you haven’t figured it out, Jade has expensive taste. And she can afford it. That’s what I learned that night in Malibu, and I’m not sure either of them remembers telling me. I learned something else, though. Something peculiar. It was about four in the morning. I don’t know if you know what happens when you’re up on crystal meth and it starts wearing off, but you get quiet and depressed. Your body’s all fucked up and you wanna kill yourself. Anyway, we’re all huddled together ‘cause it’s cold. Jade has her arm around me and I’m kissing her neck, when Richie gives me a funny look, comes around on the other side of her and puts his head on her chest. Next thing I know, the damned guy is licking her butterflies. I’m weirded out but hell, you know, it’s Hollyweird. Jade and I barely know each other and her brother is licking her butterflies. I mean, shit, man.”

  “Yeah, that’s kind’a freaky.”

  He looked at his cell phone. “Sorry, gotta hit the shower and split for work.”

  “No worries.”

  “Wish I was rich, but I don’t wish I was Richie.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Little less than a month ago and man was that weird. It got me freaked.”

  “Why?”

  “Tell you what, meet me at Milford’s on Vine in the parking lot at 2:00 a.m. That’s where I work and I’ll fill you in on the rest of the story. After that, no offense, but I don’t ever wanna see you again. Jade and Richie are bad news. I need to disconnect.”

  “Where do you think I can find him?”

  “Oh, he’s around. Try the gay bars, or the clubs on Sunset. He swings both ways. The women love him. How could they not? He’s a dead ringer for John Garfield.”

  Ron opened the front door and we shook hands. “Thanks, Ron.”

  “You seem like a cool guy. I just don’t want to end up dead when I’m not even 25.”

  Chapter II – Arnold Clipper

  I live in Whittier, 18 miles due east of downtown Los Angeles, with my wife Cassady and Maleah, our 11 year old, adopted Chinese daughter. When I got home, they were dancing to Gwen Stefani in the living room. Gwen was yodeling and Maleah, who sings like a bird, was yodeling right along with her. Cassady’s a couple years younger than I am, but looks about 30. She was a punk rocker when I met her, and still really is at heart. She’s a helluva good mother, and she and Maleah are joined at the hip. I sank into a recliner and as I watched them, I thought about Ron Cera. ‘Why was he so scared?’

  Five minutes later the doorbell rang. It was my old college friend, Brad Tanner, with a suitcase in either hand. Tall and skeletal, his hair, now bone white. Behind him, I could see his mud-and-insect splattered, burgundy Volkswagen Passat parked on the street. The last time I saw him was three years ago in the Bay Area where he was living with his wife and daughter. It had been obvious then that his marriage was deteriorating.

  “Hi,” he said. His brown eyes were dead serious.

  “Hey, Brad, come on--“

  “--Sorry to drop in like this, but I seem to remember you telling me to stop in any time.”

  “You okay?” I stood to one side and he stepped into the hallway.

  “Uh, you know, life.”

  “Put your bags down and let’s go see Cassady. She’s in the kitchen.”

  “I hope she doesn’t shoot me.”

  She was in the kitchen finishing off a stir-fry, a light film of moisture across her forehead. She looked at Brad and knew immediately something was wrong with him. “You’re just in time for dinner.”

  I wanted to kiss her.

  Before we ate, we took his luggage to our downstairs guest room. “Can I smoke?”

  “Sure, but on the patio.”

  I grabbed a couple of Perriers and we sat outside in the cool jasmine scented night air. Around us, crickets chirped and buzzed away into the night. He lit up a Marlboro and inhaled deeply.

  “You want one?”

  “No, I’m good, thanks.”

  “I really appreciate you guys letting me crash.”

  “No worries.”

  “You have a beautiful place. Quiet. Peaceful.”

  It was obvious that he was hurting. “How’re you doing, Buddy?”

  “I’m good, you know. Six months now, since the divorce.”

  Brad was handsome in his gaunt aquiline way. Although sadness floated in his brown eyes, they were not entirely devoid of their old familiar sparkle. He looked at me, cigarette in one hand, the other folded atop our ceramic patio table.

  “You ever hear from her?”

  “No, except to talk about our daughter. And then she’s strictly business.” He crushed out the butt in the ashtray and lit up another. “It’s been a little rugged, but I’m through the worst. Time to put the shoulder to the wheel, I guess.”

  We’ve been friends for two decades and have hardly ever touched except to shake hands. I wanted to hug the guy, but knew that a friendly touch would most likely cause him to break down, and men don’t cry easily in front of other men.

  “It’s good that you’re here because I’ve been wanting to introduce you to a pal of mine, Bobby Moore.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Nam vet who’s been to hell and back. He helps me when I need muscle.”

  A tic appeared above Brad’s left eye and he swatted at it impatiently. “I hear you, man. Don’t worry. I’m not gonna fuck up.”

  Cassady served the delicious stir-fry with a Greek salad and fragrant Basmati rice. While we ate, Brad filled us in on his recent tribulations. After his ex-wife Keri had given him the heave-ho, he’d spent six months in rehab with the muscle-tee and mullet crowd in Eureka, up near the Oregon border. After that, he moved in with his parents in Redding.

  “My folks are great. I love them dearly. Still, it can be a little rough when Fox News plays 24-7. The real point, though, is I’m a little too old to still be living with mom and dad.” He paused. “This adobo is something else. You’re one heckuva chef.”

  Cassady still wears her thick red hair punked up, has never completely shed her youthful rebelliousness and loves being complimented on her cooking. “Thank you. I’m teaching Maleah and she’s getting pretty good too.”

  “We’re foodies,” said Maleah. “There’s a new Asian supermarket at the top of the hill. We go there every Friday when I get out of school.”

  After we’d finished the main course, Cassady brought out a delicious carrot cake with walnut frosting, and we retired to the living room, where she and Maleah entertained us. My daughter sang the Fergie song, “Big Girls Don’t Cry”, with Cassady accompanying her on piano. Then she sang her three octave special from Pocahontas.

  “Young lady,” said Brad, “you’ve got a fine voice.”

  “Thank you,” said Maleah. “Do
es your daughter sing?”

  “Tressa sings. But not like you. She’s really good at gymnastics.”

  “Is she going to visit us?”

  “I hope so. If I can talk her mother into it.”

  After I’d put Maleah to bed, I came back into the living room. Brad and Cassady were huddled in earnest conversation.

  “You should see her,” he said. “She’s gotten way weird and has purple hair. Thinks she’s still 25. I mean, it’s ridiculous. She has a lesbian therapist and a masseur who gives her butt massages.”

  Cassady offered gently, “I guess Keri’s trying to put her life back together. Nothing wrong with that.”

  “Yeah, but everyone’s telling her I was the problem.”

  “You were drinking like a fish.”

  Brad looked unconvinced. As smart as he is, he hasn’t handled his divorce well.

  “Anyway, you should be celebrating. You’ve got a whole new life ahead.”

  “You’re right, Cassady. I’ll have a Heineken.”

  “Don’t make me shoot you.”

  We laughed. It was good to have Brad around. It had been a long time and I realized how much I’d missed him.

  The alarm went off at 1:00 a.m. Two hours sleep is hardly optimum, but in my profession you get used to it. I snapped on the bedside lamp and looked at Cassady. The blankets were pulled down, revealing her arched torso. She’s 41 and still smoking hot. Her head was half off the pillow, her long throat pale and vulnerable. I leaned over and kissed her, from the hollow at the base of her throat, to the curve of her chin. She sighed softly in her sleep. Reluctantly, I dragged myself out of bed and pulled on some jeans.

  After splashing water on my face, I went downstairs to the guest room. Brad was sitting bolt upright, still fully dressed. He cracked open his eyes and I said, “C’mon, we’ve got work to do.”