by Tony Bulmer
Chowsey paced by the patio windows, every few steps leaping against the glass with ferocious yelps. Maybe there was a Raccoon or a Coyote out there? My watch read, 3.27AM. ‘Put a cork in the yapping, Muttley,’ I grumbled sleepily. ‘It’s the wind. Get back on your cushion, before you miss the offer of a lifetime.’ I listened to the roar of hot desert air rattling through the shrubbery outside—the sound of wind chimes blowing wild. Then something else, something that amped my pulse. The rattle and grind of garden furniture being slowly, deliberately moved, as some one or some thing approached the windows in front of me.
I stepped forward, standing on Chowsey’s squeaky chew-toy. As I danced away from it I stubbed my toe on the couch. I hobbled forwards cursing softly. The dog barking up a storm now, spinning crazily, and leaping at the window.
It was Chowsey’s cushion that saved my life. I tripped over it in the gloom. I tried to correct, but my injured toe wouldn’t allow me. I toppled forwards, my head impacting the carpet with impressive force. In the same second, the window exploded, in a muzzle flash firestorm, an avalanche of glass cutting into the room. Splintering wood and porcelain shards filled the air. The Television set detonated like a bomb, showering sparks and shrapnel. I rolled for cover, hands pressed down on the back of my head. The firestorm continued, a roar filling my ears. I lay on the floor motionless, my ears reverberating—trying to figure out what was happening.
Gunfire.
I lay on the glass-covered carpet, the sounds of tumult echoing. The night wind blowing into the room now, snow falling, settling gently all around, beautiful like an Aspen dusk in November. Except it wasn’t snow, it was shredded fabric—stuffing from the armchair I had been sitting in—drifting and eddying in the desert wind. I marveled at the slow falling flakes. My mind raced, confusion not terror running through me. Telling myself snow wasn’t possible in the summer heat. Telling myself there was just a slim chance I might be dreaming. But I wasn’t dreaming. The scent of gunfire and the cold roar of the night told me that.
The shattered window filled the room with a gaping blackness. My pulse raced out of control, my mind taking over, filling in the horror with a bizarre list of demands. A shopping list of tasks needing completion: ring Joe, arrange a breakfast meet at the Marina; pick up Max from the boat; pick up juice and dog chow from the store; thank you flowers for Inez; meeting at the office. Then cruise up to Brentwood, pick up the kids from chateau Kimberly. I had to do that Friday. Friday was that tomorrow—or today? Jesus!
Weird. Stupid. Mundane. I raised my head fractionally, peering out into the dark garden. Above the ringing in my ears, the sound of a shrieking, snarling commotion.
Then the realization: some one had just hit my parent’s house with a machine gun. Fired through the window in the night, without thought of who might be hit—a killer targeting my family. Rage powered through me. I rose up, running out through the smashed window, into the dark chaos of the garden beyond. In the shrubbery ahead: a ferocious, thrashing struggle.
The crazed snarl of Chowsey, biting into human flesh. A grim smile twisted across my face and I ploughed into the bushes. Bursting through the leaves, I glimpsed a masked figure straddling the garden wall. Chowsey had his jaws clamped tight to the intruders dangling ankle: holding fast, snarling, swinging mid air like a pendulum.
I launched myself into an end zone dive, my fingers clutching for contact, as the masked intruder twisted, in a last desperate attempt to loosen Chowsey, the sound of curses now, and furious panting breath—the buzzing reverberations of the shots still clattering in my head. I grasped wildly for my assailant, as he disappeared over the wall. I connected, but my fingers felt the soft rending of fabric, tearing away as the dark figure crashed into next doors yard. Security lights in the neighbor’s garden snapped on. A blinding halide wash, illuminating the chaos in sharp contrast. I caught sight of a burly silhouette outlined against the glaring lights. The figure hobbled across the fresh-watered lawn, limping desperately for the shadows. The figure looking back now, holding up a blunt nosed Uzi, rooting in a pocket for something.
I knew what was coming next—knew I didn’t have time to make the distance, before the dark figure plugged another clip into the gun. I dived for cover, as a firestorm of bullets came blasting through the cinderblock wall. Hot metal filled the air. Ricochets sang and danced they came rattling through the trees and undergrowth, cutting all before them with a furious energy.
Then a pulsing interlude, as the clip ran dry.
Brick dust and leaves floating down through the eviscerated branches, the bitter stench of fresh burnt gun smoke filling the air.
I lay on my back in the bushes, staring at the leaves floating on the breeze. I gazed at the stars, my pulse hammering. I let my breathing normalize. Alive, but I could so easily have been dead. A slow realization: a sensation of wetness on my forehead, Chowsey licking my face, the dog that had never liked me, now a comrade in arms, in the face of insurmountable adversity.
‘Hi buddy,’ I said ‘I’m afraid the bad man killed your TV set.’
Chowsey let out a defiant yelp, and licked my face again.
‘OK, so you saved my life, but that doesn’t give you any special privileges,’ I quipped.
Chowsey gamboled with excitement, I sensed doggie euphoria, my parent’s prancing pooch acting as though battling gun-wielding gangsters might be a chew-toy alternative to nights spent watching the television. Scary.
I struggled to a sitting position, making sure all my body parts were still connected. It seemed they were. I rose cautiously to my feet. All around, in the early morning darkness, the neighborhood rising to the sounds of carnage: shouts of fear and outrage, barking dogs, the distant wail of police sirens. Lights snapping on all over the block. That was when I favor that Chowsey had a shoe, or sneaker to be exact clamped tightly in his jaws. The sneaker had a putrid stink of fried food and body odor. My jaw tightened with grim resolve. I knew who had attacked me and I knew why. The punk who had done it was going to pay—pay big.
By 7am it seemed like every cop in the Valley was crawling over the house. Poking, prodding, asking the same damned questions again and again. I sat in a Barcalounger under the hot blaze of the living room lights, contemplating my mom’s bullet shredded TV chair. I stared at the eviscerated cushion spewing its guts onto the glass-strewn floor. I knew I was invincible, of course—always had done. I knew my destiny would follow a different path than the one that had determined the fate of my brother Ryan. It would take more than the bullets of a crazed fanatic, or street corner punk to kill Danny Costello. But my mom and Pop were different. They were fragile, vulnerable. My fingers gripped the arms of the Barcalounger, pressuring white at the tips, as the cops fired questions at me.
With the gunfire aftermath reverberating in my head, I sat rigid, letting the cop questions wash over me. Answering in a considered monotone, as their suspicious cop eyes drilled into me. I listened to them tramping around the house, watched them rooting and measuring in the garden, photographing the results for posterity. Just doing their job. But still the anger boiled inside me. I tried to rationalize: The intrusion, the threat, the sacking of childhood refuge. My parent’s house smashed, all of these thoughts revolving, welling up inside of me, a geyser of poisonous hatred. I sucked in Zen breaths, focusing on the movement of my diaphragm, sucking in the energy of turmoil and recycling it Hapkido style, energizing myself. I smiled grimly. The tempest was coming, of that there was no doubt, and when it arrived I would be ready for it.
There came yet another ring at the door. I barely heard it in the crime scene hubbub. Chowsey was alert to intrusion however and let out a fusillade of savage yelps, I reined the dog in, and attached his lead to the arm of the Barcalounger. The miniature pooch liked goading interlopers, almost as much as he liked watching the shopping channel.
Ramirez and Cullen walked in, like some goofball double act, soaking in the carnage. I never knew who let them in. Maybe it was one of the uniforms,
or the legion of aftermath wranglers, who were gathering in the kitchen exchanging notes, in matter-of-fact voices. Whoever it was, I wished they hadn’t bothered. Cullen had a giant Starbucks cup, clutched tightly between grimy sausage fingers. He looked dirty, wearing the same clothes as the other day? Surely that wasn’t possible? A stale cheese smell assailed my nostrils. Maybe it was possible.
‘A trifle late I think gentlemen,’ I observed by way of a welcome.
‘How you doin’ Costello?’ sneered Cullen, his feet crunching on broken glass, as he sloped into the room.
Is that a rhetorical question? Because if it is, you can have a rhetorical answer,’ I mused cheerfully. Mr. philosophical.
Cullen scratched at the seat of his dirty Chinos and snorked back phlegm.
Ramirez’s brow furrowed. ‘Heard you had a problem out here last night Mr. Costello?’
‘Yeah, shootout in the boondocks,’ scoffed Cullen. ‘You are a long way from South Central out here in the Kosher canyon Costello, what gives?’
‘Who’s to say,’ I replied evenly. ‘My mom’s dog disturbed a prowler and the punk popped off a few caps, end of story.’
Cullen crunched across the room and examined the shattered doorframe. He pulled out a pencil stub and probed experimentally. ‘A few caps? Looks like you had the god-damn Taliban through here last night, Costello, you got something you want to tell us?’
‘There are a number of things I would like to tell you Cullen but I don’t like to give offence to public servants, before I’ve had my breakfast bagel.’
‘Your grave Costello,’ sneered Cullen. ‘Looks to me like you got enemies and a lot of them.’ He surveyed the room with theatrical flair, nodding sadly to himself, as though the sight of the bullet-ravaged furniture disturbed him deeply. Cullen slurped coffee, looked at me dangerously. ‘The sort of enemies who would hose down your family home on full-auto to make some kind of point. You know anybody—any business acquaintances for example—might want to throw a scare into you for some reason?’
Ramirez twisted his face with impatience and glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Hey Cullen, take a turn round the garden. Talk to CSI and see what they got, we are working to a schedule here.’
Cullen glowered unpleasantly, before heading out as instructed, slopping coffee on to the carpet as he went.
I gave him a c-ya later wave.
Ramirez sucked a deep breath, looking at me long and hard. ‘ Cullen doesn’t like you,’ he said.
‘Please say it’s not true,’ I said.
Ramirez waggled an accusatory finger, looked like he was going to say something, then thought better of it. He made a half turn, dusted of the couch with his fingertips. ‘Mind if I do?’ he said.
‘Be my guest,’ I said. I could see a lecture heading my way.
‘My question is, what’s next Costello?’
I drew breath, to make the kind of earnest and heartfelt response that he felt was required at this juncture, but Ramirez interrupted.
‘Shut it with the wise cracks Costello and listen up.’ Ramirez eased himself back into the couch, redistributing his immense bulk. He took a look out the window, where Cullen was engaged in an animated exchange with a uniformed cop, then leaned forward confidentially, elbows on knees, his fingers steepling together, in an approximation of reverence.
‘Some guy out in Sherman Oaks yesterday, looking to hook up with a crack-whore beauty therapist, ring any bells Mr. Costello?’
I rolled my eyes skywards, twisted my lips to the left and clicked my tongue, thoughtfully. ‘This a trick question?’ I asked.
The steepling fingers twitched with irritation. ‘Seems like the aforementioned beauty therapist is now missing and would you guess what—her flat has been burglarized.
I nodded, ‘Wow, really, and you are telling me this because?’
‘Audrey Wong.’
‘The super in my building? My advice is she’s not your type.’
‘I figured that one out for myself, when she was showing me around that show-home apartment of yours.’
‘Should have told me you were coming, I could have ordered in donuts.’
‘Thoughtful Mr. Costello, real thoughtful, the only reason I mention it, is your place at the beach looks very similar to the apartment of a certain crack-whore beauty therapist in terms of décor.’
‘What can I say, the life of the single man isn’t quite the breeze it might seem—things can get kind of messy.’
A thin smile, fingers drumming together thoughtfully now. ‘That’s exactly what detective Cullen said you’d say Mr. Costello.
‘Detective Cullen is a crime-fighting genius,’ I said.
Ramirez looked unimpressed. ‘I know you are involved Mr. Costello, question is how?’ Maybe you and your buddy Joe Russell thought you could ice these girls out, as payback for that little date scam thing they had going? Trouble is, I don’t know if even you could be arrogant and stupid enough to think you could get away with something like that.’
‘Those girls pulled that date-con routine before, you, said as much yourself, they’ve probably been doing it for years. I bet those girls got a queue of outraged suitors stretching from here to Las Vegas. Maybe you should check that out?’
‘We are checking Mr. Costello, you can rely on that.’
‘So what do you want from me detective?’
‘There’s more to this case than you know Costello, much more. You think you can fit the puzzle pieces together, you are wrong. Worse, you are holding out on us I don’t like that when I’m working a case, I take it personally. What I like even less, is you poking your nose into this thing, like you are Dick fucking Tracy or something,’ Ramirez’s voice hung thick with menace.
I nodded, held up my hands in supplication, ‘I hear you detective, what can I say? I go on a blind date with my buddy and it opens the gates of Hades. You got complaints about that you better address them to another party, because it ain’t my concern. What is my concern is when some street punk loser starts shooting up my parent’s house with an Uzi. I take that kind of thing very personally.
Ramirez gave me a hard look, then rose to his feet with difficulty, ‘You better take a back seat Mr. Costello,’ he said.
‘I never like sitting up back,’ I said. ‘I’m a front seat kind of guy.’
‘Get used to the back,’ said Ramirez, ‘or you just might wind up dead.’
THE SEX NET 17
The plane curved in steep over the mountains. A Cessna Citation X. Flashy. Some said it was the world’s fastest passenger jet. I knew otherwise. My Pops had souped up a G550 for the Director of National Intelligence with a calibrated airspeed 135 knots faster. But this plane belonged to someone much more dangerous: Senator Ellen Positano, head of the Federal Acquisitions Committee. Positano was a leading client, a catch from my days with the United States Secret Service. I guess Positano liked the work I had done with the President’s Office. When I left the service and went freelance, she was one of the first to give me a call. I liked to think that it if there was anyone who needed the help of Cobra Close Protection it was a government sanctioned arms dealer. The Secret Service budget just doesn’t cover Senators. Joe however was more matter of fact. He said the old trout wanted to jump my bones, but I was just too dumb to see it.
We stood strip side at Santa Monica air field, a meet and greet party out front of the terminal building, watching the Citation burn rubber, as it touched down fast, for a crazy-assed short-runway landing. Joe sucked his teeth with disapproval. ‘Messy,’ he said.
‘Let’s hope they had the china table service stowed,’ I replied. Max looked up at me, his tongue lolling in the heat. He had the self-satisfied look of a dog who had been eating fish guts all night. Whenever Max ate fish guts he got gas. It didn’t matter how many times I told Joe and Semo. They always let Max indulge. What do you expect when you let scurvy-seadogs baby-sit your pooch? I searched Max’s face for signs of repentance. He gazed back, hangdog happy his eyes alive w
ith the guiltiest of pleasures.
Joe perused the planes approach, with barely concealed distaste. ‘They got some jock-boy agency fruit behind the stick,’ he observed dryly. ‘Maybe they think we’ll be impressed if they crash-land their corporate cock-rocket into the terminal lobby?’
We watched the Citation taxi. It came in at a rapid clip, throttling around the apron, towards the corporate terminal. ‘What’s the betting they pull a handbrake turn when they get out front the building,’ I wondered out loud. As the words left my lips, the doorway of the Citation cracked open and, a stairway sank earthwards—all this without a resting stop. Oh, dear.
I turned to Joe. ‘Doesn’t that maneuver contravene the FAA code of practice?’
‘Rebels,’ intoned Joe, ‘no other word for it.’
Ellen Positano was the first to exit, looking immaculate in a high fashion business two-piece and heels. She was wearing wrap around shades, her one concession to the SoCAL climate, they gave her a robotic demeanor.
‘Gentlemen,’ she greeted us in her clipped New England accent. A five-man team followed in her wake, they vibed big money law and accountancy. Our people moved in, a Praetorian guard, closing around our guests.
‘How are you Senator?’
Senator Positano clasped me by the shoulders, her thin fingers grasping like talons. She smelt expensive. Big-ticket jewelry glittered. She air-kissed my personal space. Her toadies made pleased to see you noises, their faces plastered wide with government smiles.
‘The President sends his regards gentlemen,’ announced the Senator crisply.
I threw Joe a you-have-got-to-be-kidding glance. Joe pulled a face. We showed our charge into the #2 vehicle in our convoy, a blacked out Escalade with armor plating and a racing car engine.
