Cicero's Dead

by Patrick H. Moore

  We each grabbed a mug of coffee and went out to my car. The night was luminous and traffic on the 60 was light. Escalades and Navigators rolled on by, the preferred mode of transportation of nefarious Nighthawks and those that pursue them.

  “Man, I had some god awful dream,” said Brad. “Don’t remember what it was. Something about a woman, but it scared the crap outta me.”

  His long face was skeletal and for a moment, I wondered if he was going to make it back to the realm of the living. I pushed the question out of my mind. We turned off the 60 onto the 101 and drove up to Hollywood. At Melrose, we exited and headed west through Thai Town, past the shops and restaurants. Just for the hell of it, I turned off on a side street and drove through a residential section. A great deal of L.A. is rundown, but even the ghettos are beautiful. The old craftsman bungalows, built after the first war, just knock me out. The palms float upwards like sentinels greeting the weary traveler. The small yards and detached garages shimmer in the mist, while the bungalow porches with their rocking chairs and flower boxes beckon.

  “It’s nice,” said Brad. “I like it here.”

  “It’d be real cool to own one of these. They cost a fortune. Maybe someday when Maleah’s grown up and off to college.”

  “What’s a fortune?”

  “Oh, maybe 1.3 million for a three bedroom, one-and-a-half bath. 1500 square feet with a small formal dining room, with coved ceilings and wainscoting. Cassady would love to have one of these.”

  “Me too. Maybe I can just sell my body.”

  Brad’s a raw-boned, 6’3” veteran of many skirmishes. “Good luck.”

  He grinned.

  Milford’s on Vine, between Melrose and Santa Monica Boulevard. It’s a seafood and sushi joint that does a good weeknight business, and hits the jackpot on the weekends. We pulled into the parking lot at exactly 1:55. It was emptying out, and we watched the late night customers stroll to their vehicles.

  A few minutes later I walked to the back of the restaurant. I had a miniature tape recorder in the inside pocket of my jacket and although I don’t usually record conversations, I figured Brad could be brought up to speed by listening to it. I didn’t want to spook Ron.

  After about five minutes, Ron walked out carrying a black gym bag. He was wearing a white tuxedo shirt with the sleeves rolled up, black slacks and shoes. His dark blond hair was plastered against his forehead. When I stepped out of the darkness, he showed no surprise.

  “Busy night?”

  “Very, but lucrative. That’s the good thing about being a waiter, instant cash.” His Honda Civic was parked three slots down from my Camry, and if he saw Brad, he didn’t react. “I know a place where we can talk.”

  He and I got into his car and drove north on Vine. After a few blocks, we slid through residential streets until we came to one that curved uphill away from the bungalows. At the top, it circled a small grassy area with benches and a fountain. Ron parked, reached into his gym bag and took out his pipe. It was already loaded and I watched as he sparked a flame, inhaling deeply.

  “That’s quite a habit you’ve got there.”

  “This designer shit is way addictive. But it’s still just marijuana.”

  “Maybe,” I thought. It was so hi-tech, it smelled like perfume. He put his pipe away and we quietly climbed out of his car, and sat on one of the benches.

  “Occasionally I bring girls here. It never fails to charm them and no one ever bothers you. I’ve even sat here till dawn and sometimes, it’s as if the flowers talk to you while the sun comes up.”

  I watched him closely as the weed took effect. He took a moment to compose himself and looking down the dimply street, he began. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. It’s the sort of thing no one should ever hear. Maybe it’s because I want to help Jade. Maybe it’s because she gave me the best pussy any man’s ever had. But after I tell you this, I’m going back to the restaurant and like I said earlier, I don’t ever wanna see you again. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  “Okay. She and I had this sex thing going, and I was falling in love with her. Richie was hanging around the fringes and for some reason, Jade started to get bored. She disappears and I always kind’a knew that a chick like her, you know, she was probably gonna do that, so I let her go without a whimper. Still, Richie kept coming round, so I kind’a still had a tie to her, and then one night, he got a little too friendly and I told him I didn’t swing that way. It was obvious I’d hurt his feelings. I felt bad and told him we were still buddies. He and Jade had their bizarre thing going on, and he had way more money than a spoiled kid could handle. So anyway, one night he shows up completely deranged, crying, and tells me that his parents are dead. I gave him a hug to, you know, comfort him. Not exactly my idea of a good time, but the dude was in need. He calms down a little, so I let him sleep on my couch.”

  “Still no sign of Jade?”

  “No and after that I didn’t see much of him either, apart from the couple’a times he stopped in to say ‘hello.’ Anyway, last night, I’d just got home from work and was watching “Crash,” which as you know is one dynamite film, when there’s a knock on the door. It was Richie and someone else and dude, the kid was wired like a goddamned power station. So I turned off the movie and gave ‘em a beer.”

  “Who was the friend?”

  “His name is Arnold Clipper. I guess he’s about 30. Seemed cool, composed. You know, the type who looks good in a headshot. He was wearing expensive workout clothes and oddly, worn-out white Reeboks. Richard was meth babbling and to make it worse, he had a switchblade, which he kept opening and closing. A couple of times he jumped up and charged my Bogie poster like he was going to run it through. I was pretty toasted and since I didn’t wanna obsess on him and his knife, I kept fixating on why this fashion plate was wearing these old mud-spattered running shoes. After a while, Arnold got sick of listening to Richie’s babble and sez, ‘Hush up, Richard. Sometimes you talk too much,’ or something like that.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Before the come down insanity sets in, meth heads like to communicate, and he’s one that wears his heart on his sleeve. You could see the emotions fire across his face in rapid succession. Hurt, surprise, a flash of anger, the realization that Arnold was right. Trippy and kind’a sad. Arnold put his arm around him, and began gently stroking his cheek.”

  “That calmed him down?”

  “Yeah, you could see the tension wring out of him. The hurt morphed into gratitude and he squirmed up against Arnold, who’s a half head taller. I felt embarrassed and was about to head into my kitchen when he pushed him away and said, ‘Easy baby. Time and place. And put that knife away.’ ”

  “And did he?”

  “Yep. I shot Arnold a grateful look. He shrugged and smiled, but his eyes were very cold, like a snake, you know, and that scared the shit outta me. I wondered what in the hell Arnold was doing to Richard to be able to check him like that, but I didn’t wanna find out.”

  “Fear can be a powerful control mechanism.”

  “Yeah. I knew there was more to this visit and suddenly Arnold grabs his face and squeezes his mouth together. You know, puckered it up?”

  “Richie’s?”

  He nodded. “It looked like it hurt, but he didn’t move. It was scary, dude. Then Arnold locks eyes with me and says, ‘As you can see, I like handsome young men with sensitive features,’ and squeezes the last remaining drops of blood out of Richard’s mouth, and still he doesn’t pull away, even though his eyes were watering. I knew I was way out of my depth. I got mad. The son of a bitch had no right to hurt him like that, but at the same time, I felt this peculiar terror. You ever felt that, anger and terror, all rolled into one?”

  “All the time. Not a good feeling.” To my surprise I realized I was sweating even though the night was breezy and mild. My tape recorder was whirring away in my pocket and I wondered what Brad would think when I played it back to him.

  �
�No, it’s not,” said Ron, embarrassed. “I wanted to get them outta my place, but I was too scared to do anything in case this Arnold dude had a gun, or maybe was good with Richie’s knife.”

  “Yeah, I would’ve been too.”

  Ron looked grateful for the lie.

  “‘Mr. Cera,’ sez Arnold. ‘What do you think of Jade Lamont?’

  “‘She’s very pretty. Cool.’

  “‘Do you like fucking her?’

  “I said, ‘Hold on, Man. I haven’t even seen her in weeks.’

  “‘It’s come to my attention that Ms. Lamont is trying to hurt Richard.’

  “I was lost and told Arnold he was going to have to explain himself.

  “He goes, ‘Certainly. Ms. Lamont has told Richard that she is going to press rape charges against him, based on that time in Malibu when you forced Richard’s face down between her--’ He stopped and cleared his throat. ‘--Womanly parts and then watched while he fucked her.’”

  I shivered. Something about this reminded me of what I’d always heard about Hitler. The Big Lie approach to power mongering. Always tell the big lie and it keeps everyone guessing.”

  “This is pretty weird. Who is this guy?”

  “He’s the very incarnation of evil. You should’ve seen him. All the while he’s telling me this, he’s talking like he’s Christopher Walken in ‘True Romance.’ It was freaky.”

  “Great movie.”

  “Yeah, anyway, I knew I was being blackmailed to help them get to Jade.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense.”

  “That asshole, Arnold, then tells me that if I don’t help them find her, Richard’s prepared to swear under oath that I raped him one night. Right here, in my place.”

  “What?”

  “I know, crazy.”

  “Why do that when Jade hired me to find Richie?”

  “You’re not too smart, are you?”

  “I have my moments.”

  “Arnold doesn’t give a crap about her or him. He wants the whole ball’a wax, man. The empire.”

  “But Richard’s got plenty of money. All Arnold has to do is get him to fork some over, or give him power of attorney.”

  “Not exactly. See, Jade’s already got that over Richard’s end of the trust fund. He gets a certain amount each month, but that’s it until such time as Jade, and the family lawyer, decide he’s mature enough to handle it on his own. Considering his current condition, it could be a cold day in hell before that happens.”

  “How much money’re we talking about?”

  “Enough to offset the national debt of a small country.”

  “That’s a lotta motivation.”

  “Yep.”

  “How did it end?”

  “Arnold let’s Richie go, and kisses him gently. So weird, dude.”

  “And Richie didn’t say or do anything?”

  “No. Arnold heads for the door, holding his hand. He stops and looks at me, giving me that psycho death stare.”

  “That’s it?”

  “And sez, ‘48 hours,’ and leaves.”

  A cat hurtled past us, startling us out of the intensity of the moment. “Shit,” is all I could croak out, somewhat embarrassed.

  Ron dragged a nervous hand across his mouth and took several deep breaths. We sat there for a while in silence, and when we’d sufficiently calmed, got in his Civic and headed back to Milford’s. By now the streets had emptied out as we drove through the mist, neon and soft air that seemed to promise things it could never deliver.

  Ron pulled into the empty slot a few cars from mine, and kept the motor running.

  “You’ve burned 24 of the 48. What’re you gonna do?”

  “Move. Tonight.”

  We shook hands and I got out. He gave me one last look, and pulled away into the night.

  As we drove east on Melrose, I played back the tape for Brad. I dropped down to 3rd and hung a left, and we listened as we passed through downtown and Skid Row. Tent City was flourishing with its army of lost souls. Some pushed shopping carts full of woe, while others dragged themselves across the stained and littered asphalt. We passed my office and the warehouses that stretch east toward the river. There’s a restaurant on Traction Street, Abel’s Market Diner, tucked in between a couple of abandoned warehouses. No one would know it was there unless they knew the area. It opens at three a.m. and caters to the early crowd: cops, working men and insomniacs drinking coffee, eating eggs, hash browns and Abel’s legendary blueberry pancakes. The booths were half-full, mostly tradesmen and a few homeless types nursing cups of coffee.

  Brad asked, “What if Jade turns out to be the bad guy?”

  “We’re all bad guys. It’s only a question of degree.”

  It was 5:00 a.m. when we got back to my office. It’s pretty basic but it does have a few good features. Some soul with foresight had installed a hot plate, a small refrigerator and a shower. I asked Brad to answer the phone and check my email.

  I took a long, hot shower, trying to rinse off the mounting layers of weariness. About 15 minutes later, I dressed and went into the office.

  “You’ve got three emails. One is from a woman named Audrey, who says you need therapy. She also says to call her immediately. The second is from Tony, who says something stinks.”

  “And the third?”

  “It’s from Bobby Moore, the guy you want to introduce me to. He wants to know when you’re coming over.”

  I called Audrey. She sounded sleepy but as soon as she recognized my voice, she perked up.

  “Sorry to call so early. I had a long night prowling around Hollywood, got back to the office and saw your email.”

  “That’s all right. Ramona is still asleep and Tim’s in the shower.”

  “How did your meeting go?”

  “I didn’t connect with Miss Jade until 10 last night. She claimed that they’d put her on a rush case at Waldrop & Hemsley, and kept her working ‘til nine.”

  “Do you believe her?”

  “Not exactly, but I don’t understand why she works at all though if she’s so wealthy.”

  “Maybe she’s industrious.”

  “Maybe. Anyway, I met her at her condo on Wilshire. During the course of our conversation, I made several specific observations. One, Jade is beautiful. So beautiful she brings out the lez in me. I’ve got some lez you know.”

  “We all do.”

  “Two, she dresses very well. And not just the usual designer stuff. The girl has taste.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “I’m not so sure you are. I don’t believe you can tell Ann Taylor from Dolce and Gabana. Three, she probably spends more money in a week than I make in a year. How much was the retainer?”

  “$10 K. But I guarantee you there’s more where that came from.”

  “Nice. Can I have a raise?”

  I grinned.

  “Right. Number four; I feel she’s all right. She really does love her brother, and she may have even loved her parents. She has that stricken, helpless look and five, they’re very, very rich and no, Richard doesn’t use credit cards. He did have one of Jade’s, but she took it back once he’d maxed it out. So now he’s allowed to draw up to $30K a month.”

  I whistled softly. “That’s as much as some people make in a year.”

  “Exactly. So about my raise--“

  “--Who makes these decisions?”

  “The administrator, James Halladay. He’s their lawyer, but Jade is the trustee. Do you know him?”

  “I know of him. He used to represent ‘made guys’ way back in the day, and now probably represents their replacements. Did she say anything about having a boyfriend?”

  “There’s no one currently, but I haven’t got to the best part. There’s something weird about her father’s death. Maybe her mother’s death too, but that’s harder to figure. When Cicero Lamont was run down, Jade was on vacation with her friends in the Austrian Alps and here’s the odd part, she wasn’t informed until
three days after his death. She flew back immediately, just in time for the memorial service, which was at Forest Grove. Apparently Jade’s mother had Halladay’s office make all the arrangements. It was a small service, family and close friends only.”

  “Who contacted her?”

  “Halladay.”

  “Why not Richard or her mom?”

  “You tell me. And, they had the body cremated because it was mangled beyond recognition.”

  “That’s strange. It’s usually easy to identify hit-and-run victims.”

  “Jade was contacted by two uniformed officers from the Mission Hills Division the evening she returned. They informed her that sometimes this type of accident is never solved.”

  “Did she get their names and badge numbers?”

  “Uh-huh. Jim Fishburne and Stanley Koncak. They stayed in touch with her, daily reports at first, but it’s dwindled as there’s nothing new to report.”

  “Should be easy to trace, if they exist.”

  “Nick, are you saying that Cicero was not killed in a hit-and-run?”

  “I have no reason to believe he wasn’t, but I just had an interesting conversation with a witness who shed some new light on the situation.”

  “So what do you think happened?”

  “I don’t think. I just collect evidence. Once I have enough evidence, then I start thinking.”

  “Okay, asshole. I just don’t believe it’s at all surprising that Cicero would get whacked. He was a major narcotics dealer and undoubtedly had enemies. Could be he got popped first, and then they made it look like a hit-and-run.”

  “Was there a coroner’s report?”

  “I didn’t ask for it, but there has to be.”

  “I’ll check on it.”

  “What is suspect is that everyone waited to inform her that her father was dead.”

  “Correct.”

  “When do you sleep?” Brad yawned.

  I shrugged. “Gets pretty hectic sometimes, especially at the beginning of a case, but it sure beats a real job.”

  “Such as?”