by Tony Bulmer
A pause as she let the true horror of this information permeate.
I cringed at the thought of mom swilling mixed drinks in public. She had taken to booze after she had retired in the belief it made her appear more sophisticated. The reality was it made her prone to bouts of shrieking hilarity and cringing loucheness, inappropriate for a woman of her social standing.
Social standing. Sounding just like my Pops. A reminder of the responsibility my upbringing had instilled. Pops was a tough man, an easy man to disappoint, aloof and judgmental. He’d always been slow to praise and quick to trowel on guilt. The guilt never went away. Maybe that’s why I could never feel satisfied, why I always had to push further—achieving more, no matter what the circumstances. I felt perspiration bathing me in a chill panic: Transported into the past, my father sitting behind the desk in his study peering over his spectacles with disapproval, as I told him of plans to hit the town with Ryan and Joe, rather work on my latest dissertation.
I felt lousy. I said, ‘You should have stayed home mom, you know how you like your comforts.’
‘I stayed home for your father for forty-five years. Now he’s got that damn pension of his, he’s going to do what the hell I want for a change.’
I swallowed. ‘Chowsey misses you, and I do too,’ I said quietly.
Mom’s voice was taught. ‘I have no doubt you do Daniel, but you will both have to struggle by with out me for a couple of weeks more.’
‘Don’t worry about a thing mom.’ Chowsey is in good hands.’
‘I just hope he is Daniel, because if you are neglecting your duties I will find out all about it when I get home.’
Like the dog would tell her about it.
‘How is…Pops?’
‘As miserable as the day is long Daniel, I am surprised you would ask.’
I pondered the implications of this statement.
‘I am trusting you Daniel.’ Her voice softened, ‘I know you have your issues. This situation with Kimberly for example.’
‘I am not getting back with her mom.’
‘I’m not telling you what to do Daniel. I am just saying that you should consider your position carefully.’
Mom speak for: get back with Kimberly, and all problems will be solved.
‘Listen mom, Kimberly is the last thing on my list, I got other problems—work is real busy right now.’ I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned work, but I just couldn’t help myself.
‘Work is always “real busy” for you Daniel, just like your father, which is why you are having problems.’
Just like my father—my mom telling me this. Any moment now, I knew the sky would open and a stone tablet from god, would be thrust into my hands with cold-chiseled advice, telling me I had to try harder. I gulped back a hot lump in my throat. I let the anger subside. Damn work. Damn Kimberly. Damn mom for interfering.
A pause.
‘Are you OK Daniel?’
I thought of the dead girl, of Rothstein and the cops. I thought of Cobra Close Protection and the world imploding around me. I felt my hands tightening on the wheel until it seemed like it might shatter with the latent forces flowing through me.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’m fine mom.’ I dropped through the gears, took a turn between Ventura and Moorpark near the LA River, or what would be a river, if it had rained anytime in recent memory.
‘I got to go mom.’
‘Say hi to Chowsey for me Daniel.’
‘Will do mom,’ a click and she was gone. Floating around the Caribbean on a booze addled tourist ship with my miserable old father.
Families, don’t cha just love ’em?
I squinted into the rear-view, driving slow onto the forecourt of the
Riverside apartments. Still no sign of the purple–flake Tahoe.
The apartments were a surprise: a three story Spanish style block, with lush fronded gardens and bulging palms, a contrast to the desert-heat dustiness of Fulton. I drove slow, tires eating into the gravel forecourt. I circled the building, and parked the Dodge in the back lot, opposite some greasy aluminum dumpsters. The sharpness of industrial cleaning fluid assailed my nostrils. An under current of decay wafted, in on the hot desert breeze. Smelled like something had died.
I walked into the courtyard of the complex. Coconut palms, olive and citrus trees all in giant planters, Spanish tiles and terracotta—commutersville enticing. The sort of place you could actually live, not what I had been expecting at all. I headed down one of the fresh scrubbed corridors, leading off the courtyard. I strode purposefully, made like I belonged. A big boned Hispanic woman in frowsy skirt and blue housecoat looked up from her floor cleaning duties, with suspicious eyes. I gave her my cheeriest have a nice day smile and wished her a pleasant afternoon. ‘1219?’ I enquired.
The cleaner pointed a pink-gloved hand, in the vague direction of the second floor, and muttered some semi-intelligible warning about the slickness of the floor. I thanked her. She stared back with dead eyes.
Climbing the stairs, I scoped out door numbers. Ascending values picked out in white plastic type, I was getting close. The doors all looked the same: fine grain wood, finished down with a smooth satin lacquer. The place was an association building, or housing co-op, it just had to be looking like this. Numbers rising into the 1200’s now.
My heart pumping.
I sensed trouble. Sensed my every footfall pulling me closer to an inevitable and messy collision with fate.
1219. I stopped outside the door, and rapped hard. No answer. I turned, looked out at the courtyard, the sun riding high across the palms. The cleaner wheeling her cart, with hard pressed determination, against the heat of the day. I knocked again, harder this time. Then saw the bell nestling in the corner of the doorframe. I pressed it twice. Inside, the sound of novelty door chimes. They sounded kooky, reminded me of some TV show theme I couldn’t quite place. Again I knocked. No one home? I moved closer to the door, cupped my ear to the woodwork. Nothing. The silence breathed back at me. A desert breeze played along the veranda, ruffling the leaves of the lush leafed bougainvilleas, lining the corridor in terracotta planters. I surveyed the corridor then stepped onto the doormat. My fingers closed about the door handle slowly, experimentally. I twisted, pulled.
Locked.
I took a step back, thinking for a moment. Where the hell was she? Boyfriend’s house? Grocery store? The girl could be just about anywhere. I glanced at my watch. A wasted morning. Frustrating. Maybe the girl was wise to her sister’s plans to skim Rothstein? Maybe she had been in on the scam and shipped out with the elusive Ms Cabrillo? Who could tell?
I leaned back against the wrought iron railings and ran the angles. The girl was a kook where would she go? Carmel in the beauty salon had said something about boyfriends from Hollywood Boulevard—in this up market commutersville apartment block? It just didn’t figure. My mind raced—Drugs, Prostitution? Maybe this Louanne girl was in on the Internet dating scam? How did Louanne, a massage therapist afford a place like this? The Riverside apartments were a ritzy address for a part time massage therapist. My eyes fell on the doormat. It bore the legend: Cats are people too. Deep. Where had cat girl gone? I leaned back against the railings and mulled it over.
If only I had a key.
The idea snapped me into life. I took three quick strides and reached for the doormat. No key. Nothing. Not even mat dust—looked like the cleaner was the conscientious type. Impressive. The hot desert breeze ruffled through my hair, mocking me. The leaves of the bougainvillea fluttered busily in the warm air. I turned towards the plant with a smile, and tipped it sideways. Nothing underneath. I tipped it one way, then the other. A damp patch, a soil-leached scum ring and a glossy beetle scurrying for cover. Perhaps the cleaner wasn’t so hot after all. I tipped a second planter. Again nothing. I eased it back into place, then rotated it slightly looking under the back. A dull brass key, covered in filth, looked like it had been there some time. I reached it out, and dusted it down, polishing o
ff the dull brass, on a corner of my shirt. The plant scum left a filthy mark on the patterned material that wouldn’t brush off. I fumbled the key with excitement, dropping it on the doormat. Of course the kooky cat girl would have a key under the planter—what if she got locked out?
I slid the key into the lock with blackened fingers. The dirty key ground home with difficulty. I gave it a clockwise twist. The latch snapped open. I wrenched the key out the lock and stepped inside quickly. The stench hit thick and sulphurous. Cat shit & death. Flies buzzed in the fetid gloom. Home sweet home. I moved forward cautiously, my fingers exploring the contours of the wall until they brushed a light switch, I flipped it, double-flipped it, nothing but enduring gloom. I squinted into the darkness, making out the looming shapes of furniture. I moved through the gloom, my heart double-timing in my mouth. The valley heat was creepy and oppressive—it encompassed everything. I moved forward, past darkened doorways. The entry opened out into an open plan living area. Again the stench, stronger now, stomach churning. The thick air throbbed around me. I inched forwards, feeling the detritus of careless living underfoot: Clothing, fast food rubbish the crunch of broken glass. I groped towards the slatted possibility of a Venetian roller blind, casting penlight shards of light into the gloom. My fingers connected with cords and the blind slewed up at a crazy angle. Angry sunlight burned into the room.
Behold the apocalypse. Everything trashed. Someone had turned the place over and turned it over good. The contents of draws strewn everywhere. Toppled furniture and a smashed TV set staring dead at the ceiling. Looked like some one was trying to send a message. I tiptoed through the mess. Not even a kooky cat lady could live in this.
Broken glass, smashed picture frames. Thoughts of my own apartment flooded back to me. The devastation had been slow and methodical. Who ever had done this, had been looking for something, then turned nasty when they didn’t find it. I pondered the connection. I reached down into the broken glass and picked out a picture of high school cheerleaders. Holding it up to the harsh light I looked at the girls, all legs and Lycra, their feathered pom-poms held aloft for high-school glory. I perused the youthful, freckled faces full of pride and hope. Mimi, Corin and Louanne. High-school honey’s, and partners in crime.
THE SEX NET 14
I found the cat in the kitchen. Fur matted with blood and maggots squirming in the sickening death ooze. The rigid sunken features pronounced that the animal had been dead some time. I shielded my face with my shirt, to mitigate the stench. No sign of Louanne. Memories of the death house over on Lakeridge, flooded back to me: Mimi dead in the chair, with blood drained putty for flesh. I moved through the apartment expecting to see a corpse. Nothing. Flies buzzed excited in the dead heat. I surveyed the smashed furniture. Where was the girl? Looked like my last chance of finding Corin Cabrillo had lucked out. Damn it!
The electronic trill of my mobile jolted me, tearing me away from my thoughts. I picked up, hearing Inez. Her voice was soft and urgent
‘Where are you at Dan?’
‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you Inez.’ I perched on an upturned couch swatting the circling flies.
‘Oh yeah? I expect that out of office bullshit from JR but with you Dan it’s got to be something else. So where are you at, and the answer better not be sucking down sodas at the beach and moping after every bikini clad surf chick in Venice.’
‘I sense hostility—you having anger issues again? If so, I am going to have to patch you through to my partner.’
‘Joe knuckle-brain? Hilarious. What gives Dan?’
‘I got problems… Inez.’
Yeah? Well Senator Positano rang, wants an update on the preparations for the meeting with Larry. She wants to know if Joe is going to take her for a spin in Larry’s new attack helicopter.’
‘That helicopter is worth a couple of billion dollars. So that depends on how drunk Larry gets on the limo ride over. I hope you told her?’
‘Sure I told her, but that woman is a bitch on wheels. She wants to speak to the head-honcho or no one. You ask me, she wants to suck face with you.’
‘Jealous?’
‘In your dreams Costello, but you better snap your act together double-quick, because Vampire-lady is heading on out here in her bat-copter so she can throw her spook mind-meld on you.’
‘That’s all I need,’ I growled.
‘Yeah? Well you better hope Joe knuckle brain irons out the situation with the Senator, or we are all heading for a billion dollar kick in the pants seat,’ snapped Inez.
‘No need to press the panic button, JR has his team working the Senator as we speak.’
Inez sucked her teeth with disapproval. ‘Don’t think I don’t know what you are doing Columbo. You are chasing down that floozy from the interweb aren’t you? Well forget about it. Leave it to the police. We got more important things to deal with.’
‘You know I can’t leave it, don’t you?’
‘You’re the boss Danny, what ever you want.’
‘Which reminds me, my mom called.’
‘How’s the Caribbean?’
‘Not as rum drenched as she would have hoped.’
‘Sorry to hear that, but what the hell does that have to do with anything?’
‘Chowsey needs a playmate to spoon out his kibble today.’
‘Forget it Dan. That rat-faced little mutt is mean as it is ugly.’
‘You did say whatever I want.’
‘I was just being nice,’ rasped Inez. The word nice tailed off into a hiss.
‘Top draw of my desk,’ I said, my toe prodding a smashed answer phone at my feet.
‘Huh?’
‘The keys to my mom’s house are in the top draw of my desk. You know the address,’ I said.
Inez confirmed she did, then: ‘You owe me for this, you know that don’t you?’
‘Sure,’ I smiled. ‘Whatever you want, and let me know when the super-spook touches down, I will ride over, for a meet and greet.’
‘That’s real big of you. I hope she sucks the last bit of flesh from your bones,’ replied Inez.
I conjured the image of Ellen Positano, of the Federal governments Deep Five acquisitions committee, feeding on my flesh vampire style. The thought gave me a cold-shudder cringe. I said my goodbyes, told Inez I’d make good for the Chowsey job. I felt bad for landing the dog on her. The task was light years beyond her job description duties. But Inez was more than a colleague. She was a friend. I contemplated this, as I sat on the upturned chair and probed the answer phone with my toe. I picked it up thoughtfully. Looked like the punks who had burglarized the apartment had thrown the machine at the wall, then stamped on it. It was a retro-styled answer phone, with the receiver attached to the body of the machine by a by a corkscrew cord. The machine casing hung open, its smashed plastic torso revealing a mass of wires and circuit boards. I turned the phone over in my hands examining it carefully, my mind racing with possibilities. I wrapped the smashed phone with the socket cable and headed for the door. The flies buzzed after me, barreling out into the sunshine, then dissipating wildly into the dessert breeze.
There was no sign of the cleaner now, just the freshly scrubbed tile corridors, bearing witness to her labors. I walked quickly and purposefully, the smashed telephone tucked under my arm. After the oppressive stench of the smashed apartment, the desert air smelt sweet and pristine, with top notes of flowers and foliage. I walked around back of the apartment building, to pick up the Dodge and there they were, waiting for me.
The two gang-bangers with the purple-flake Chevy Tahoe.
They ambled out of the shade to greet me, a waft of skunkweed marijuana floating on the breeze.
‘Hey there homes, how you doing?’ This was the driver. Big guy, heavy set, wearing a prison blue bowling shirt and outsize pants. He had the muscular waddle of an ex-con body builder and nightclub doorman.
I grinned wide. ‘Are you fellows following me?’
Blank faced incomprehension.
<
br /> Double-edged incredulity wasted. I tried again. ‘Let me guess, you are looking for directions to the nearest hot-rod convention?’
The linebacker in the San Antonio Spurs shirt spat on the floor. ‘He funning on us.’ He whined, his voice pitching upwards.
The driver eased back his sunglasses on to the top of his head and loomed closer, cocking his head on one side. ‘So you’s Costello.’ He said. It was a statement, not a question.
‘Let me guess, you guys are selling Tupperware for Frank Rothstein?‘
‘He talking about Tupperware, what’s he talking about Tupperware?’ whined the Linebacker, his jaw hanging loose.
‘Don’t pay him no heed. Mr. Costello here is smart mouthing us, on account of the fact he has no idea who he’s dealing with,’ sneered the Driver in a throaty monotone.
‘Let me guess,’ I sighed. ‘You two are running errands for big Frank.’
‘We don’t run errands for no one!’ shrilled the Linebacker. The Driver shot him an ugly stare.
I absorbed the dynamic. The Driver the dominant force here, the man to deal with. The Linebacker, the hired help, the triggerman, with a big-barreled automatic riding high in his waistband.
The only reason you ain’t dead already Costello, is your rich-boy brains are going to make a bad smell; they get splashed all over the sidewalk. Now what you think about that?’
‘Scary.’
‘You don’t know what scary is, not even close,’ glowered The Driver.
I unleashed my sunniest smile. ‘Well thank you for taking the time out to share that information with me.’
The Driver took a step closer. ‘Stay away from the girl Costello or you are going to get hurt.’
‘Thanks for your concern, but I don’t hurt easy,’ I breezed cheerfully. ‘Just so as I know, which girl are we talking about?’ I met The Drivers eyes; a darkness swirled within, a cold implacable darkness that spoke of pleasure in cruelty.
‘He’s funning on us JC shrilled The Linebacker, his voice amping hysterically. Sliding around in front of the Dodge now, pulling back his shirt to reveal the gun in his waistband.
