by David Bishop
Charles came out the front door to meet me. I had called ahead to be sure Cliff was there.
“Good morning, Mr. Kile. The general is feeling poorly and won’t be using Cliff today. I saw him head down the stairs to the beach about ten minutes ago. He was in his trunks so he might have gone in for a swim. There’s hardly ever anyone in that stretch of the beach except coming down from our house.”
I wasn’t wearing a swimsuit, but I had dressed in a pair of casual slacks, a polo shirt and tennis shoes. They would be good on the wooden stairs; Charles had said there were one-hundred and eleven steps down to the beach.
There were landings about every ten-to-fifteen stairs. When I got near the bottom, a man I recognized to be the general’s chauffeur stepped up toward me. “I’m Cliff, you’re Matt Kile, right?”
I reached out to shake his hand and he hit me square in the jaw. I went down backwards onto the stairs behind me. He stood there waiting for me like an umpire waiting for Tommy Lasorda. His hands up, all Marquis of Queensberry like. I obliged him and stood. When I did, he took another swing at the other side of my jaw. It was my right to turn the other cheek, not his to do it for me. I blocked his blow and hit him in the stomach, then in his face, coming up under his chin. It was his turn to fall back. He did, stumbling down two steps before falling onto the sand.
“What’s your problem, Cliff? I wanna talk, not fight.” After I had my say, I stood back, waiting for him to get up. He didn’t keep me waiting long.
It was an old-fashioned fight. No weapons, just fists. It was the way men used to fight before every punk decided he needed a gun or at least a knife. We smiled, more like smirked, at each other as we moved slowly. His bare feet scarred the sand while my tennis shoes made strange imprints that filled with water, and then went dry.
“Why don’t you get lost, Kile?” He punctuated his question with a controlled left hook. I blocked it. Then he said, “Leave this family alone.”
I let my hands sag to my sides, and then brought my right up into his stomach. My left followed. He took the two blows to his gut well. I could feel its hardness.
“You’re all sweaty, Cliff. You been running on the beach?”
“Karen and me run a couple times a week.” He then dropped to one knee and hit me on my inside thigh. I staggered but stayed upright. He knew how to hurt somebody, but he had chosen not to hit the inside of my knee. He let me have a moment. I wasn’t sure whether he wanted to fight or talk. He kept doing both. “I want you to stay away from the Whittakers.”
It’s hard to say much when you’re getting slugged so I kept it short. “That’s the general’s decision.” I got up off my one knee and drove hard toward him. My head hit him flush and slid off the side of his chest. I wrapped my arms around his back and drove with my legs. We moved toward the surf and didn’t stop until I could see the darker, wetter sand below our feet. “I’ve got … questions,” I said, having to take a breath in the middle.
“Like what?” He grabbed me with his arms down under my chest, and groaned as he tried to lift and throw me off. He wasn’t able to lift me off but he cancelled my ability to drive him farther. Then he leveraged me sideways. I gave up my hold on his midsection and we went back to circling, our feet tearing the harder sand.
He hit me on the side of the forehead with a left cross, then a right to the nose, and two quick blows to my belly. Whomp. Whomp. He was good. He knew how to hit and how to do it in combinations.
I stepped back. “You’re a bit rusty? That combo should have put me down. Hey, let’s sit and talk.” He stood back, smiled and lowered his hands. When I relaxed, he lunged forward and hit me with the same combination leading first with the other hand.
I spat blood on the sand.
I left myself open a bit, inviting him to lead with his right. He did. I punched him in the armpit with my left, then brought that same fist up and around and hit him in the face. Then after faking a tired right cross, I used the flat edge of my open left hand to chop him hard in the throat. He was hurt. He was tough. He dropped to his knees. I dropped to mine and hit him two more times. Once with each fist, my left found his chin, my right caught him high on his opposite cheekbone. I figured he was about done in. I was wrong.
While we were still on our knees, he hit me in the stomach, again and then again. Then two times in the face. I could no longer keep count. It was all I could do to return as good as I took. His blows that landed weren’t hurting as much. I guessed mine had also turned feeble. We were both near the end of our endurance, no longer able to hold our hands up in any semblance of a defense. We were each taking blows and delivering them back, just two hard heads too ornery, too stupid, and too stubborn to do what we both longed to do—collapse onto the sand.
Then I heard voices. Cliff turned toward them. Over the crash of the surf, I couldn’t understand the words, but I saw the people yelling: Karen and Charles were hollering at us to stop fighting, that much was clear. We ignored their words and watched Karen running toward us. The uneven sand made her body do things that made us forget our fight.
“A draw, Mr. Kile?” Cliff extended his hand. I took it, stood and pulled up, helping him stand. Did that make me the winner? I won’t go there. We had fought to a draw. Cliff was a tough guy. It was a good old-fashioned fight, the kind that hurt like hell while feeling good on some level.
“Cliff,” Charles said, “the general will hear about this. The last time he bailed you out, he said no more fighting or you’re gone.”
“Whoa, Charles,” I said. “This wasn’t Cliff’s doing. We got talking about his time in the military, mine in the department. How we both missed getting in the ring with our buds. I asked him if we could go a couple rounds down here in the sand. He said he couldn’t. He had promised the general. I told him the general said the staff was to fully cooperate with me. I talked him into it and told him I’d take responsibility.”
Karen put her hand on my neck. The shoulder seam of my black polo shirt was torn. I looked at Cliff. It was obvious he didn’t like her fawning over me, but he stayed quiet. I put my hand out. “Thanks, Cliff. I appreciate you helping me. I’ll let the general know you were dead set against it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kile. To tell you the truth, it was fun. You said you had some questions you wanted to ask me. I can be free in about an hour. Can you stick around?”
“Take the time you need,” Charles said, “whenever Mr. Kile wishes to talk with you.”
“An hour’s fine,” I said, “I’ll come out to the garage. Okay?” Cliff nodded and the four of us turned our backs to the surf. I’ve always hated elevators, they make me mushy inside, but as we approached the hundred and eleven stairs up to the Whittaker estate, for the first time ever I would have preferred an elevator.
Chapter 15
Back at the Whittaker house I ran my hands over my clothes and arms trying to knock off any remaining loose sand. Karen took me by the hand up the stairs into her room and then into her private bath where she handed me a towel and matching washcloth before stepping out and closing the door. I stripped down and took a shower, then got back into my sweaty clothes. I walked into her bedroom still running the towel over my head and finger combed my hair, still damp enough to take some form. Karen was lying across the bed sideways, facing me, wearing a white halter top that seemed even whiter against her tan.
“There’s a little caveman in all of you men, isn’t there? I mean you’re all alike, just with different faces so us girls can tell you apart.”
“At least Cliff was straightforward.” I draped the towel back over my shoulder. “Why’d you put him up to it?”
“Me?” she said, propping herself up onto her elbows, her biceps running firmly along the sides of her breasts.
“Did you learn how to manipulate men from your mother?”
Karen swung her legs around, got up, and walked over to me. Her eyes big, white and wet, like jawbreakers after they’ve been sucked a while. “How dare you?” She slapp
ed my face.
I figured the slap was for the remark linking her to her mother, not my thought that her eyes made me think of sucked jawbreakers. The slap stung, but she hadn’t put all she could into it.
“I’m investigating a murder. I dare anything. Your cleavage might turn Cliff to mush, but it has no effect on me.”
Karen disrobed to the waist. I immediately noticed her tan covered her completely from the waist up. I actually prefer the light and dark contrast from a woman having developed her tan wearing a bikini. You understand this comment could never graduate to a complaint.
Her disrobing had called my bluff and I’m sure my face showed she held the winning hand. “So,” she said, “what makes you think I had anything to do with you and Cliffy doing your Neanderthal dance?”
“If the general wanted me gone, he’d tell me or have Charles do it. I haven’t met Eddie yet, but my guess is he’d try to order me off the case. As for Cliff, I don’t think he gives a shit one way or the other. Why did you manipulate him into that fight down there?”
Karen put the fingernail of her middle finger in her mouth, between her teeth and bit down easily. She lowered her head, her eyes angling toward where my gaze roosted. Then her look moved up, slowly, with a grin, like the screen vamps in the 50s.
By the way, if you’re thinking me rude for brazenly gazing at Karen’s breasts instead of glancing, the rule changes when a woman purposely bares herself in front of a man. When a woman shows a small portion of her abundance a man should take a small look, a glance in that instance is a compliment while a gaze rude. However, when a woman intentionally bares herself in front of a man, a glance would be rude and a gaze a compliment. I know it’s confusing. Things like this have slowed the evolution of the male species.
“I didn’t mean for you two to fight. Cliff and I run on the beach. We see each other now and then. I mentioned to him that the general was less calm, and Eddie a basket case. I think I said something along the lines of wishing you had never gotten involved, that I’d prefer it if you just went away. Apparently, Cliff processed that all wrong. I never told him to run you off, and certainly not to hit you.”
“You’re good. You’re very good. The way you turn all coquettish. Teasing and flaunting at the same time, a very sexy pose, a carefully worded suggestion. With a guy like Cliff you’re not fighting fair.”
“Oh, Matt, I don’t want you to think badly of me. Sometimes I can be a little … men like me. You like me, don’t you, Matt?”
“Yeah, I like you. But I don’t know any better. I collect blondes and brunettes.”
She stepped a bit closer, her breasts coming to a halt after the rest of her. “What else do you collect?”
“Bottles of Irish whiskey, full ones. I trade them in for empties. It’s a hobby a man has to work at.”
“Do you enjoy drinking that much?”
“It doesn’t matter if I like it. It’s a family tradition. An obligation passed down from my ancestors. Now why don’t you stop picking on Cliff? Choose somebody who can fight back.”
“Can you fight back, Matt?” She brought her black sweat shorts closer, her arms crossed below the feature of the day. Then she hugged me. Her hair tickled my face while her perfume played its way into my lungs.
“You just don’t quit, do you? You just keep coming.”
“I like to come, Matt.” She put her open palm on my chest. “Don’t you? But I know that already, don’t I. I’m guessing you’d like to come with me again.”
I backed away a few steps. “I’m supposed to go meet Cliff, remember?”
“I could come by your place later.” I didn’t respond. “Like the other night after we had dinner. This time I can bring the chocolate-dipped strawberries. I’ll also bring the container in case you’d like to drizzle some on me.” She took the bath towel from over my shoulder, walked into the bathroom and hung it on the rod. Then she walked back toward me, slowly, parts of her in constant motion, teasing me with each step.
“Ten o’clock,” she said.
“Perfect.”
I know. I sold out, but somehow I couldn’t place what would come my way at ten tonight anywhere in the realm of punishment.
Chapter 16
I found Cliff in the garage. He had showered and changed clothes but likely had done so without the rain forest shower head, the plush bath towel, and the eye candy that had accompanied my clean up in Karen’s boudoir. Life is good.
“You’re a tough son of a bitch, Kile.”
“Make it Matt. I’ll be sore for a week.” We shook hands. Yeah. This was like the old days when men could fight and find friendship, at least respect.
“So, you represent the general in this?” Cliff asked.
“I represent myself. It’s a tough world out there. For now, working for the general is in my best interest.” I had been cagey because I don’t like suspects being too certain of my motives or ethics.
“I got a couple of beers in the fridge in the corner?” I nodded and he got them. We screwed off the caps and took a pull before I spoke.
“I mean no disrespect, but I know Karen manipulated you into what just went down. You must know she enjoys pushing your buttons.”
He sat on a stool that faced a small workbench below a wall of tools, mostly for cars, not gardening. “Yeah. I gotta get over her, but it ain’t easy. If fucking were an Olympic sport, Karen would bring home the gold.”
I laughed. “She’s jobbing ya. Getting you to do something I doubt is in your best interest.”
He just lowered his head, shook it some and looked up with a smile. Then he nodded. “Beer okay?”
“Good and cold. Thanks. Look. You know why I’m poking around in the Whittaker family closet. I also figure you do a bit of watching and a lot of listening while you’re driving them here and there. You introduced Eddie to Ileana, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. Back then, Eddie and me rode our Harleys together. He’d never done that and needed an experienced rider along. For him it was a new toy. He sold it some years ago and I went back to just being the general’s driver.”
I went over and opened the passenger door of a black 1950 Mercury with wheel-cover skirts, it’s lines as sleek as Karen’s hips. I left the door open and sat with my feet on the sill, facing Cliff. “Tell me about Ileana.”
“Hot chick. She loved it like Karen, only Illy didn’t use her talents to tease. She dug Eddie, but I think she also saw him as a ticket to the good life.”
“You ever hear her say that?”
Cliff came over and got in the driver’s side. I swung my legs around and we became just two fellas talking in a car, a guy thing if ever there was one.
“Never heard any scuttlebutt, just my take on it. Illy was gorgeous. I went after her once. Did it right, flowers, met her folks, the whole deal. But I had nothing material to offer her. We became friends. That was it.”
“Could that be why you think she saw Eddie as a meal ticket?”
He hunched up his nose like he’d detected a foul odor. “Could be, I s’pose. Who knows? But Illy was good. Nice, you know, funny. Didn’t seem to take herself too seriously. But she wanted more than her folks had. Guys’ eyes followed her. She always smiled at them. Not flirty. I think she liked being noticed. And I can tell you, the guys liked noticing her.”
“Was Eddie a player or the kind who wanted to settle down?”
“He’s always liked playing around, no doubt of that. But then why not, he was a young man and he had a generous allowance. He lived good, didn’t need to marry for a second income to pay the bills. But the man was nuts about Illy. Her death broke ‘im, man. He was down a long time. I used to drive him to therapy. In those days he didn’t even care to drive his Mustang. On the way, he’d just sit quiet. Three times a week. Silent. Just sit there. Like a year, man. I was worried about the dude.”
“But he came out of it?”
“Yeah. A year I guess. How long can a guy be in the dumps? Hormones keep getting produced.
Tail talent keeps swishing by. Life goes on, you know. But for years, I could tell. There’s a point out there where he and Illy used to sit and look at the ocean for hours. Just talk. Laugh. You know. He still goes out there some. Sits. I don’t think he’s full over her yet.”
Cliff got out and brought back two more beers. When he got back in, I turned on the seat to face him. “Cliff, did Eddie kill her?”
His eyebrows went up, but his answer came fast. “No way. He loved her. Even if he didn’t, Eddie doesn’t have killer in him. Few guys do. Eddie spends most of his nights looking for a new place to hide his dick. No. Somebody tried to frame ‘im. It couldn’t just be a random killing. The papers said nothing was taken. She wasn’t raped. And a random killer wouldn’t have known about Eddie, or not enough to try and frame him. Somebody wanted Eddie to go down for it.”
“Who?”
He just shrugged.
“I hear you taught Eddie how to shoot?”
“Not long after I started working here, Eddie would have me take him out and we’d practice. Every once in a while he’d get in a groove and shoot the shit out of the target, like a sniper, man. But then he’d go back to missing the barn, you know what I mean? He’d go extra alone and practice. Next time I went with him, he’d be about the same, no better. Eddie just couldn’t consistently stop jerking when he pulled the trigger.”
