Glamour Puss

by R. J. Kaiser

  “I think I’ll go home and have a soak in my spa.”

  “You look like you could use it.”

  He nodded. Jade patted his arm sympathetically. As he climbed in his vehicle, she glanced up the street the direction the Chevy had gone. Ricky? No, she couldn’t believe it. And yet…

  She said good-night and went back around the car, jogging to the front door as fast as her tight skirt would allow. After fumbling with her key, she got the door open. When she glanced back, Art started his engine. She waved and went inside.

  For a moment she stood in the dark living room, trying to sort out the currents of emotion going through her. Maybe she’d gotten a job. Maybe Ricky was back in town. And maybe neither was true. At least, for the most part, her dignity was intact. That in itself was a victory.

  She went to the bathroom then, and looked at her face in the mirror. She didn’t see the Jade Morro she knew. She saw a slut.

  Taking the bar of soap, she began scrubbing her face. She didn’t stop until she had all the makeup off. As she toweled her face dry, she saw a figure loom up behind her in the mirror.

  Screaming, Jade spun around, her hands clenched into a fist, ready to fight. It took a couple of seconds before she realized that it wasn’t Ricky or Art, nor was it a burglar or rapist. It was Ruthie Gibbons, sleepy-eyed, suddenly as frightened as Jade.

  “Ruthie,” she gasped. “You scared the shit out of me. What are you doing here?”

  Ruthie rubbed her eyes. “I’ve been waiting for you, Jade. I laid down on your bed and I guess I fell asleep.”

  “Well, you damn near gave me a heart attack.” She clasped her hands to her chest. “I thought you were going home.”

  “I was, but after you left I made some calls and decided I’d better stay and tell you about them.”

  Jade’s heart still pounded from the adrenaline surge, but was slowly coming under control. “What calls?”

  “I checked to see if a car fitting the description given by the old guy across the street is registered to Ricky.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing’s registered under his name. Which really doesn’t mean anything because he could have borrowed it.”

  “You just don’t want to give him the benefit of the doubt, Ruthie. He’s probably in Mexico with the wife and kids.”

  Ruthie shook her head. “Nope. He’s back in L.A. I called some friends who checked with some other friends. It’s definitely confirmed.”

  Jade felt her stomach fall. “You sure? He’s really back in town?”

  “You got it, girlfriend.”

  Jade slumped against the basin. “Damn.”

  “What’s wrong? Just because he’s back, it doesn’t mean you have to see him.”

  “Ruthie, a few minutes ago somebody in an old Chevy tried to run Art down when he got out of his car to walk me to the door.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “Ricky?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see either the driver or the plates.”

  “It was Ricky.”

  “You don’t know that. And, personally, I still have trouble believing it.”

  “The man was crazy over you.”

  “I still don’t buy it.”

  “Well, I couldn’t go home without telling you what I found out. What you do with it is up to you.”

  The two of them exchanged a long look of mutual understanding.

  Ruthie said, “So, how was the dance? Lose your glass slipper?”

  “No, but I got a blister. And maybe a contract with McGowan Enterprises.”

  “You mean lover boy came through?” Ruthie exclaimed. “What did it cost you?”

  “Surprisingly little. He only got about four inches above my knee.”

  “You’re still a recycled virgin then.”

  “You better believe it.”

  “Oo-ee!” Ruthie exclaimed, laughing.

  They exchanged high fives.

  “Which reminds me,” Ruthie said. “You had a call right after you left. From the man himself. Mr. McGowan. He wants you to phone him in the morning.”

  “Yeah, Art said Mac wanted to talk.”

  “Sounds like maybe you’re flyin’ high, girl.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Well, I’m pooped and ready for bed. I’m going home for some real sleep.”

  “Thanks for everything, Ruthie.”

  Her friend beamed. It was more than gratitude on her face.

  “What are you smiling at?”

  “For what it’s worth, you really were hot tonight, Jade. I mean that. You looked beautiful.”

  Jade looked at her plain-Jade face in the mirror, knowing this was the real her, Ruthie’s compliments and encouragement notwithstanding. Playing dress-up had served its purpose, though. She had her foot in the door at McGowan Enterprises.

  And yet everything wasn’t idyllic. Ruthie had brought troubling news, which sort of put a damper on things. Ricky Santos was back in town, meaning there could be trouble.

  If there wasn’t already.

  Burbank

  She was only half-asleep when she felt somebody sit on her bed. Manuela sat up abruptly. Then she saw who it was.

  “Jesus, Angel, you scared the shit out of me. What are you doing?”

  “I did my job, now I want to be paid.”

  “Now? In the middle of the night?”

  “Yes, in the middle of the night. I got places to go, things I want to do. I need some bread. Get me my money.”

  Manuela straightened the top of her nightgown and rubbed her eyes. “So, what happened?”

  “I got Conti to crap in his pants, just like McGowan. So your boys are taken care of.”

  “Aren’t you going to tell me what you did?”

  Angel briefly recounted the events of the evening. “And I found out the broad with Conti wasn’t his date,” he added at the end. “She was there to see McGowan. I guess Conti just picked her up for him. But McGowan didn’t show or something. All I know for sure is she was pissed.”

  “You mean the one tonight is Mac’s girlfriend?”

  “Yeah, I heard them talking about her going over to his place tomorrow.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. What do you think, that I’m making this shit up?”

  “But how…”

  “I’m not a fucking detective, all right? Now quit farting around, Manuela, and give me my money.”

  “First, what about this woman, Mac’s girlfriend? Tell me about her, Angel. Who is she? What’s her name?”

  “Let’s see,” Angel said, “I heard it. What was it? Uh…Jade. Yeah, that’s it. Her name’s Jade.”

  “Jade?”

  “Isn’t that what I just said?”

  “Jade. I wonder if it could be the same one.”

  “What same one?”

  “I was talking to Ella Vanilla earlier. She called to see how I was doing. And we talked about the company. Ella said Art’s been talking to this private investigator about something to do with the Pool Maids.”

  “So?”

  “Her name was Jade.”

  “She’s an investigator?”

  “More than that, she’s a former cop. That’s what Ella said, anyway.”

  “That bitch tonight was a cop?”

  “If it’s the same one.”

  “How many Jades could he know?” Angel said.

  “So it must be her.”

  “Shit, if I knew that, I’d have shoved her in the drink. Or worse. Fucking bitch.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “I want to know.”

  “She was a broad, what can I say?”

  “Pretty?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, is she blond or what?”

  “No, dark hair. She had a good body, except she was flat.” In the darkness Manuela could see her brother’s frown. “She really a cop?” he asked, disbeli
eving.

  “Used to be, according to Ella. And she’s really Mac’s girlfriend?”

  “Isn’t that what I said?” Angel, losing patience, stood up. “Okay, that’s enough bullshit gossip. I’m through. Give me my money.”

  “Jesus, Angel, do you have to be so goddamn pushy?”

  Her brother suddenly grabbed her by the arm and dragged her from her bed so brusquely she landed on her ass with a thud.

  “Angel!”

  He jerked her to her feet, practically ripping her arm from the socket.

  “What are you doing?” she cried.

  “My money, Manuela, get me my money.”

  She went to her chest of drawers and got the ten twenty-dollar bills she’d tucked away to pay her brother. Angel grabbed them out of her hand and left the room without a word. Manuela went and sat back down on her bed in the dark. Her arm hurt. Angel was crazy, there was no doubt about it. But she didn’t think about him for long. It was Mac McGowan who was on her mind. So he did have a girlfriend. And of all things, a former cop.

  Manuela put her head in her hands and thought of Mac’s beautiful house. All that lovely furniture and the big rooms. And that big egg on the table. She’d thought about the house a lot. She’d imagined living there in Bel Air with Mac. Every day she’d pick up that egg and look at it and think how glad she was to be Mac McGowan’s wife. She’d even thought of having babies with him. It didn’t seem fair that it couldn’t be. It was such a beautiful dream. And she’d been so sure that anybody that nice to her, that kind, loved her, too.

  No, it wasn’t fair. And who would be getting all that stuff? A former cop, that’s who. The thought was enough to make her sick. And crazy mad. Same as Angel, who, when she stopped to think about it, wasn’t all that different from her.

  Sunday, August 27, 2000

  Norwalk

  Jaime Caldron finished watering the potted plants, then sat in his favorite chair under the aluminum patio cover to rest his slightly arthritic back. Sunday was his day off, but in another seven weeks gardening would be his full-time occupation. Hard as it was to believe, his career was nearly over. Though a cop’s life wasn’t easy, and most guys looked forward to a secure retirement, Caldron had mixed feelings. Lucia was eager to return to Arizona where she’d grown up, eager for the “easy life,” far from the hustle and bustle, the pushing and shoving, the greed and the crime of L.A.

  But all that had been an integral part of the fabric of his life—especially the crime. He’d been a soldier for justice so long that retirement, in a way, seemed like retreat. But of course there were other fighters, younger, healthier people ready to take his place. Still, it wasn’t easy. “Don’t worry,” his wife had said. “I will keep you very busy. That’s the key.”

  Caldron knew Lucia was right. The trouble was, his idea and her idea of busy were not the same. When he’d said maybe he’d start a security business in Arizona, she’d shook her head with grave disapproval. “Out of the frying pan and into the fire, Jaime. If you don’t want to run the gift shop with me, then you must garden or something. You love to grow things. Do it for profit if you want.” His dear wife had gotten him books on truck farming, new techniques for raising greenhouse vegetables. It struck him as more like school than retirement.

  Caldron listened to the water splashing gently in Lucia’s fountain in the back corner of their walled-in yard, her little sanctuary of peace and tranquillity. In the tree beyond the wall a bird twittered. But then out front a motorcycle roared past the house. It was the kid a few doors up who liked to announce his arrival and departure with a mechanical display of virility. The bike was new, along with the license to drive it. Caldron considered telling him to cool it, but the kid lived with his mother, a single parent who struggled mightily to hold things together. He decided not to add to her burdens, not considering his house was up for sale and he and Lucia would be gone in a matter of weeks.

  The siren of an emergency vehicle sounded over on Rosecrans Avenue, bringing Caldron to attention before he relaxed again. That—out there in the streets, where the action was—had been his life. How would he exist without the challenge, the hot breath of danger, the fight?

  Inside the house, he heard the phone ring. A moment later Lucia opened the sliding glass door.

  “Jaime, it’s your office calling.”

  He was a bit surprised. He had no hot cases going. He’d spent his time of late cleaning up old files, preparing for the end of his career. Under the circumstances, he couldn’t imagine why he’d be getting a call on his day off, unless there had been a major incident, prompting an alert to all off-duty officers.

  Caldron went into the kitchen where his wife had been baking, a smell that gave him a warm feeling about her—second only to her favorite perfume. He picked up the phone. “Yes,” he said. “Caldron.”

  “Lieutenant, this is Tory Fernandez in the documentation section, downtown. We talked about your old cases a few weeks ago.”

  Caldron remembered her, a little Filipino girl who couldn’t have weighed ninety pounds. “Yes, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you on your day off, but I’m leaving tomorrow on vacation, and I didn’t want some information I picked up to get lost along the way. Remember you asked me to run an update on the list of suspects on your open cases?”

  “Yes, what about it?”

  “Well, I put the names in the computer system to be flagged…at least everybody who wasn’t dead or in prison. I thought, just in case something new came up, it would be a good idea. From all the files you gave me, there must have been thirty or forty names.”

  Caldron wanted to tell her to get to the point, but he recalled the girl was young and earnest. He didn’t want to discourage initiative. So, he let her spin out her tale.

  “I put in all the aliases and even the names of family members when I had them,” she went on. “My supervisor gave me permission to run the names through the state and federal databases. I tried to be thorough.”

  “Sounds like you were very thorough,” he said. “So what have you turned up? I assume you’re calling because you found something.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant, I did. And funny thing is, the name turned up in a routine patrol report out of West L.A. Minor incident. Not even an arrest or anything.”

  “Who we talking about, Fernandez?”

  “Joseph McGowan.”

  Caldron ran the name through his mind. “McGowan?”

  “Yes, I guess he goes by Mac.”

  “Oh, my movie-star case. Aubrey St. George.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s the one. 1978.”

  Caldron remembered the case well. Not because he couldn’t solve it, so much as because he couldn’t make a case against McGowan and St. George’s wife, who, he was certain, were behind the actor’s disappearance and probable death. “What do you have?”

  “Last night a canine unit responded to a report of a prowler at a vacant home in Brentwood. It turned out to be your suspect, McGowan. Said he was checking out the property. No criminal activity or anything. The officer told him to leave. No big deal. I probably wouldn’t even have made a note of it, except for one thing.”

  “What’s that, Fernandez?”

  “The location, sir. It was the address of your victim in 1978.”

  Caldron was surprised. “Really?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That is interesting.”

  “I thought so, Lieutenant.”

  “You have the information there?” he asked.

  “On my monitor.”

  “Why don’t you give me that address.”

  She did and he jotted it down at the bottom of his wife’s grocery list, thanking the clerk before hanging up the phone. Standing at the kitchen counter, Jaime Caldron ran the particulars of the case back through his mind. Over the years he recalled tweaking McGowan from time to time, but other than reading the file a couple of months ago, it had been a long time since he’d done anything with it. Bu
t this latest development—McGowan going to the St. George property some twenty years after the fact—struck him as very strange, something worth looking into.

  “An emergency, Jaime?” his wife said.

  “No,” he replied. “Some interesting info on an old case, that’s all.”

  Lucia looked at him as if she knew he was going to spend the rest of the day thinking about a dusty old file instead of focusing on her. And she was probably right.

  “You getting hungry?” she asked. “I can have some chicken burritos ready in fifteen minutes.”

  “It’s a nice day,” Caldron said. “How about we go to the beach instead? Maybe get something to eat there?”

  “You mean over to Manhattan Beach?”

  “No, I was thinking more like Malibu.”

  “Why all the way up there?” his wife asked.

  “Thought maybe we could swing by Brentwood on the way.”

  Lucia nodded with understanding. “Because that’s where your case was, right?”

  Jaime Caldron smiled. “Cara mia, you know me too well.”

  Bel Air

  Manuela couldn’t get Mac McGowan’s girlfriend out of her mind. A former cop. The detective that arrested her after she’d wasted Donny was a woman, too, and the female guards at the prison were worse than some men. It made her blood boil to think of Mac with somebody like that. She really wanted to know what this Jade was like. Angel’s description wasn’t much help. But, since she knew the woman was visiting Mac today, she could see her for herself, though not up close, of course. Going to Mac’s was risky, but she was so bummed out that she didn’t care.

  Manuela drove up the canyon above Mac’s place, parked, then walked back, so nobody would spot her car nearby. With all the bushes and things, there were plenty of places to hide, and she camped out and waited, even knowing it might take all day. But what the hell, she didn’t have anything else to do until that night when she was supposed to see Mike O’Gill.

  She wasn’t looking forward to that. When she’d called him, Mike was the same as always—wanting everything he could get for a favor. “Sure, you can come back and dance for me,” he’d said. “I always got a place for you, Manuela. Why don’t you come to my place Sunday night and we’ll talk about it?” To Mike, “talking about it” really meant “Show me a good time and we’ll see what I can do.” It pissed her off to have to fuck somebody to get a job, but considering how good dancing at the Bottoms Up Club paid, Manuela would put up with a lot. Anyway, she’d had a lot worse than Mike O’Gill, even if he outweighed her by two hundred pounds. She had to pay Angel and keep food on the table somehow, didn’t she? Could she let her old, sick mother starve?