by Tony Bulmer
Sol turned to me and said, ‘Here’s what’s going to happen Costello, we are going to find your girlfriend—have a little chat with her, discover out what really went down between you two…’
‘She’s not my girlfriend.’
‘So you fucking say’ snapped Sol nastily. ‘We got people looking for this bitch right now. She might think she can disappear, hide out with her sleazy friends, but she can’t stay hidden for long, not when she’s got 48 million dollars of my diamonds in her pockets.’ Sol weighed the putter experimentally against the palm of his hand, he glowered at me and said, ‘That ain’t the kind of chump change you can take into the grocery store and swap for a pint of gin and some Lucky Strikes. Sooner or later Ms Cabrillo is going to surface, try and cash in her ill gotten booty,’ the words hung heavy with implication.
‘Sounds like you got the situation figured out,’ I said.
The old man scowled, ‘Sure I got it worked out, you smart assed punk and when I find the Cabrillo girl, she’s going to tell me every juicy detail about your part in this, so you better hope it’s as you say. Because if I find you have been lying to me, I am going to twist you into a shape you will never get out of.’ The old man smiled disarmingly, with too white teeth, holding the putter across his body.
‘I wish you luck with that Sol, I really do,’ I said evenly. ‘But I don’t appreciate your threats.’
‘There was a time, when I would have whacked you out for even looking at me like that Costello, never mind your smart-mouthed back chat. But we are living in the twenty-first fucking century now, right? When you are operating a multi-national business, you cannot run around whacking out every dime-store pimp and hustler that crosses your path.’ The old man took an experimental swing with his putter. ‘Not only would such behavior be uncivilized, it would make my schedule even fucking busier than it is all ready.’
‘My uncle is semi-retired,’ explained Frank, his face smug.
‘No kidding,’ I said.
‘I ain’t in the fucking grave yet Frankie,’ snapped Sol.
Rothstein blustered an apology, but the old man interrupted. ‘What I’m saying to you Costello is you haven’t heard the last of this thing. The girl will turn up with my diamonds…’
‘What if she doesn’t,’ I interrupted.
The old man smiled and looked down the green. ‘Then you are lawn mulch on the thirteenth schmucko, like it or not.’
THE SEX NET 23
As soon as Sol Rothstein was done talking, the golf buggies arrived. Dark suited thugs closed around us, trying their best to look inconspicuous. No easy task when you are wearing a Rodeo Drive monkey suit and a secret-service earpiece. They moved like pro’s, covering and containing, acting in tandem, as they ushered their paymasters away, their mean, hard faces paying me close scrutiny. No doubt they had been watching the meet. Observing every nuanced word and expression, as they coiled ready on the sidelines, preparing to strike if their masters were threatened. Impressive.
I watched as the goon squad worked the evacuation. I knew now that Frank Rothstein and his associates were more than a bunch of geriatric diamond merchants. The Rothstein crew were connected, high-end uber-goons, with the muscle to back up their rhetoric. As Frank Rothstein departed, he gave me a hard look, ‘Not such a smart guy now huh, Costello?’ he grinned, revealing a row of yellow snake teeth.
‘Let me guess, the guys in the clown-outfits work for your lawn mulch division.’ I asked.
‘Yeah, something like that, you fucking putz.’
I got the picture that was for damn sure. If Rothstein and his crew didn’t get what they wanted, they would bulldoze anything, or anyone who kept them from their goals. The gravity of the situation flooded in. Things were getting dangerous.
By the time I hiked back to the clubhouse, a convoy of black limousines lay waiting under the porte-cochere. More designer suits and sunglasses, yamulkes and micro ear communicators. I stood kerb-side watching the Rothstein circus depart. As I marveled at the spectacle, I heard a familiar voice trilling high above the hubbub, followed by peals of delighted laughter. I half turned, peering over the top of my Raybans, to see Paris and her friends flouncing through the lobby in their preppy designer outfits. Paris was working the scene like little miss popular. Arm in arm with a brawny jock. The kid looked unsettling, wide jawed, almost handsome, but he had a high simian forehead that protruded, reminiscent of the old horror star Boris Karloff. So this was Hal Son of Frankenstein. I threw a wave at Paris, gave her the famous Costello grin. No response. Could Brentwood’s most fashionable teenager be ignoring her own father, surely not? I tried to liven her up mouthing Hiya. A petulant flounce. Blonde curls bouncing on her shoulders, turning away contemptuously. I watched as the teenagers said their see-you-laters. I yuck-yucked at the exaggerated air kissing, cringed at the trilling squeals. Wondered how it was possible that my eldest daughter had turned into such a socialista.
Christ, turning into my dad…
Frank Rothstein stood by the limo’s; barking orders at the security goons. He turned to get in the car and saw me watching. He paused. Gave me a sneer. I flipped him a wink, and a see you later pistol-finger, that I knew would annoy. The parting gesture drew a menacing stare from the monkey-suited goon. He stepped in front of his master cocooning him protectively.
‘What are you doing daddy?’ The whisper was fierce and uncompromising.’ I turned to see Paris arms folded, a petulant look twisted across her face.
‘Just waiting around for my girl. How are you doing honey?’
‘Were you pulling a face at that man?’
I opened my mouth to respond, but Paris interrupted before I could speak. ‘Jeez Daddy you are such an embarrassment, do you have any idea who that man is?’
‘Yes, I do have a vague inkling who he might be, he’s the fellah who came up with cookie dough right… no, wait a second he’s the brains behind the multi billion dollar snack food empire that invented Cheez-Whiz?’
‘You are such a goofball daddy, that was my friend’s uncle.’
‘Uncle, are you sure?’
‘Yes, and they are old money wealthy daddy.’
‘Wow, old money, it buys so much more than that rubbish you get from the banks these days.’
‘You know what I mean daddy, they come from back east, but they have multiple homes, they even have a place in Europe.’
I hope you told him your dad has a place at the beach?’ I pictured my rat box apartment complete with burglarized accessories. Home and Garden wouldn’t be calling any day soon—that was for sure.
‘The beach is passé daddy.’
‘I see, so you figured you would skip school, to play tennis with your chi-chi pals? Don’t think I won’t be checking up on you Paris…’
‘Oh-my-god daddy, that is like soooo intrusive.’
‘Get used to it, you are seventeen, which incidentally makes you too young to hang out at the country club by yourself.’
‘Mother and Steve don’t mind’
‘Yeah? Well Steve isn’t your father, is he Paris, and nor does he make the rules for the Bel-Air country club.’ Paris scowled, her pretty face twisting with displeasure. ‘If you absolutely insist on hanging out here unsupervised, I could have a word with Howard over there, I am sure they have a policy on teenage truants. Maybe they could black-ball you?’
‘You wouldn’t’
‘Try me,’ I said flipping Howard a cheery wave. He gave me a greedy look like he had just scented high denomination greenbacks and came trotting over, a happy smile spread wide across his face.
Paris grabbed my wrist, squeezing hard, she flashed me a pleading look.
‘Howard, it has been a pleasure as ever…I breezed jovially, folding him a fifty.
‘You brought the Dodge didn’t you,’ said Paris, her voice dead with incalcitrance.
‘Of course I brought the Dodge,’ I said proudly. ‘It’s a classic.’
‘Why don’t you get a proper car, like a
BMW it is soooo embarrassing when you pick me up in that clapped-out old truck.’
‘Proper cars suck. What use is some fancy-schmantzy loser-limo to a guy like me, they are useless for transporting dogs…’
Paris stared blankly. ‘My friends laugh at your car daddy, they call you names.’
I reached out, gave her a bear hug, ‘I am sorry honey I had no idea. But if your so-called friends are saying things that make you unhappy, don’t you think it’s time you switched pals, rather than me switching cars?’
‘They call you Jed Clampett,’ said Paris miserably.
‘From the Beverly Hillbillies? That is hilarious, maybe your friends aren’t so bad after all,’ I gave Paris a wry look, thinking it would distract her from impending social ignominy. Bad idea.
‘It is an insult, can’t you see that daddy?’
I switched tack, gave her a look of earnest sympathy, to show I empathized deeply with her torment. Paris huffed, rolled her eyes, told me I just didn’t understand. Like really.
The valet parker arrived just in time to prevent further altercation. He inched the Dodge forwards, giving it too many revs, like he’d never driven a super-charged stick shift before. The big truck pulled slowly under the porte-cochère. The gears crunched, clouds of noxious fumes billowed, disapproving glances burned all around.
I raised a questioning finger, ‘If I am Jed Clampett that must make you Elly-May Clampett. That girl was a pin-up.’
‘A pin-up who wrassled critters,’ snorted Dakota, as she shambled up, a giant slice of pizza drooping from her fingers.
‘No fighting please girls.’ I rounded on Dakota, what you got there?
‘Pizza.’
‘You forgot we were going to dinner?’
Dakota threw me a recalcitrant look, ‘You promised seafood right? We are sick of Cuban food Daddy and Mexican too,’ She took another bite of the pizza, gooey cheese shoelaces stretching away from her mouth.
‘How about we ride out to Malibu, take a walk on the beach, then maybe we can grab something to eat afterwards, what do you say?’ I swung the truck door open. ‘If you don’t want proper food we could get milkshakes?’
The girls exchanged uncertain glances. Paris folded her arms and looked around nervously, as if the Beverley Hills trend police would pounce at any moment and slap her with a citation, for even considering the possibility of traveling in a domestic brand automobile in excess of ten years old.
I followed her gaze, saw Paris’ blue blooded tennis buddies congregating by the valet stand, giving us the snooty once over. Time to go. I pushed Dakota towards the truck door. Turning to Paris I stage whispered out the corner of my mouth, ‘Make like you are heading for the cloakroom, then double back and we’ll meet you round the corner.’
Paris looked around nervously, but she didn’t need any further encouragement, ‘Thanks Dad.’ She breathed then flounced off, her dignity intact.
Dakota eyed me darkly. ‘You are such a disciplinarian father.’
‘Just cutting your sister a break is all, and don’t call me father or I will punish you severely.’
‘How about you cut me some breaks?’ asked Dakota, her voice indignant.
‘I will cut you a break if you plug yourself into your iPod and don’t bicker with your sister the whole way out to Malibu.’
Dakota raised both eyebrows, ‘You know that’s not possible right?’
‘Have a go, just this once will you?’
Again the eyebrows raised in tandem. ‘And in return?’
‘And in return I promise not to send you back to that orphanage in Transylvania where your mother and I found you.’ I dropped the clutch, and the Dodge burned away from the club in a cloud of acceleration
‘Seat belt.’
Dakota gave me an oh-my-god look and complied.
We picked up Paris around the corner. She darted out furtively from the shrubbery, peering back towards the clubhouse to see if anyone was looking. I flipped her a wink. Dakota raised her eyes contemptuously skywards. Paris threw her a frigid look, before sinking back wordlessly in her seat to text message her friends. I drove on, moving through traffic towards the freeway, as easy listening rock music burned out the radio. I waited until Paris had finished hammering out her text messages before asked her the question.
‘Hal Rothstein?’
Paris stared blankly, saw her sister looking at her and pulled a snarl face, the one where you wrinkle your nose and stick your tongue hard against your bottom lip. Attractive.
I gave Dakota a look of admonishment. ‘Transylvania.’
THE SEX NET 24
The staring face was twisted, bent out of shape by some heavy and unnatural impact. A small caliber bullet hole in the left temple almost certainly a twenty-two glistened with coagulated blood and brain ooze.
‘Rudy don’t look too good,’ Observed Cullen as the medical examiner zipped up the body bag.
Ramirez considered the battered face, as the rubber bag closed around it, a final benediction. ‘Looks like he didn’t want to talk, but told them anyway.’ Ramirez knew Rudy Valentine of old. He was a two-time loser. The kind of mid-level Hollywood facilitator who always provided a ready touch when police enquires needed to be made. Too bad poor Rudy had to check out with a slug to the head. He had always been useful—maybe too useful, perhaps that had been his undoing. Ramirez watched the trolley-jockeys gurney the corpse outside. Paramedic lights strobed wildly. He felt the makings of a double-doozy migraine pulse at his temples.
Cullen furrowed his brow, and masticated gum with a thoughtful rhythm. ‘You telling me Valentine was holding out something so important he would have rather got his face smashed in, than spill his guts? That doesn’t sound like Rudy Valentine to me skipper, that little weasel was a regular twenty-four-seven blabbermouth.’
Ramirez popped a Tylenol and pondered the angles, ‘Question is why would someone shoot Mr. Valentine at all? He was always so accommodating to everyone, it’s almost like someone wanted him dead.’
‘There’s no accounting for low-life’s skipper. Valentine was a rat and everyone knew it. My money says he shot his mouth off once too often, and got wasted by way of a thank you.’
Ramirez nodded thoughtfully, watching as a uniformed sergeant with an earnest expression picked his way past the gurney crew. They exchanged greetings and the sergeant launched into a run down of events leading up to the discovery of the recently departed Rudy Valentine. He explained how some fruit-loop nightclub promoter, who lived next door, had called in the sound of gunshots two hours previous. The uniform ran through a discovery and protocol timeline in a workmanlike monotone, filling in details that the crime scene controller and medical examiner had imparted. Blunt force trauma, to the face and upper body. Facial lacerations consistent with pistol whipping and five small caliber gunshot wounds, possibly from a twenty-two-caliber automatic. The deceased’s feet and wrists had been wired together with stereo speaker cable. The sergeant paused. Ramirez stared ahead, sphinx like.
‘Looks like they tortured him good. He must have really pissed some one off this time,’ murmured Cullen. ‘What do you think boss?’
Ramirez turned slowly to the sergeant, ‘This neighbor, the one who called in the gunshots. He see anyone?’
The sergeant sniffed, shook his head slowly. ‘You want to talk to this guy Detective? He is a real piece of work. He’s got an attitude like you wouldn’t believe, a real prick on wheels.’ The sergeant flipped pages in his notebook. ‘Wait a second; the neighbor did say something about a houseguest. Said she has been hanging out by the pool semi-nude, like that was something to complain about.’
Ramirez considered the sergeant carefully, his eyes narrowing. ‘Did the neighbor talk to this girl sergeant? Because I want to know everything about her right down to her shoe-size and what kind of cereal she eats for breakfast.’
The sergeant consulted his pad. ‘The neighbor says he never talked with the girl, but he described her pretty good: five
seven, shoulder length auburn hair, set curly, said she had freckles across the bridge of her nose. The neighbor heard Mr. Valentine—the deceased that is, call her by name…’
‘Her name was Louanne,’ said Ramirez.
The sergeant paused, letting the surprise wash over him. When he spoke he spoke slowly, haltingly, ‘How did you know that?’ he asked.
‘We have been looking for Ms Louanne Varga,’ said Ramirez. ‘We believe she can help us with our enquiries into the murder of another young woman.’
‘Cullen leaned in and interjected, ‘This little lady’s sister wound up dead, just the other day and now, what do you know, someone else she knows gets dead. You turn up any ideas on where this Varga chick might be sergeant?’
‘The sergeant shook his head slowly. ‘If she was a houseguest like the neighbor says, the girl has left already. We found shoes and cosmetics in the master suite, even left her photo album behind. Looks like she threw a bag together on the hurry-up, taking only what she could carry. You want me to run the file on the Varga girl detective?’
Ramirez turned to Cullen, with a thin smile of satisfaction. ‘That won’t be necessary sergeant, Louanne Varga is a name that is very familiar to us.’ But you can put the call out anyway. The girl is scared now, running out of friends. It’s not going to be that long before we catch up with her.’
Cullen masticated gum, gave the sergeant a narrow smirk. ‘We got it covered,’ he said, ‘Don’t you worry about that.’ The sergeant closed the pad and nodded non-committal.
THE SEX NET 25
Driving the girls out to Malibu the toxic atmosphere eased considerably. It is amazing what a trip down the Pacific Coast Highway can do. We cruised down to the Ventura county line and ate at Neptune’s Net, a roadside joint on PCH. We chowed down on a fresh lobster and shrimp combo platter. Gulls soared, the ocean sparkled and a thousand LA troubles washed out on the ebbing tide. Dakota swore she saw dolphins, I wasn’t so sure. We all three watched the glittering ocean, hypnotized by the light and the sound of waves, falling lazily against the shore. Finally we all saw the dolphins, curving out of the water, swimming fast against the azure shoreline. The girls relaxed into the sun-drenched afternoon, talking about the aspirational minutiae of their Brentwood lives. Paris talked sports cars, Dakota talked motorbikes. I nixed both ideas firmly, but knew that their mother would have no such reservations. So I told them that if they worked hard at school a used SUV and dirt bike, for off-road Saturdays were definitely on the agenda. Paris said she wanted a Mercedes. I just smiled, told her she was going to have to think about taking on a paper route to fund it. She made pouty, but I could see she was already engaged in the fantasy of driving a European yuppie wagon around every teenage hotspot in Beverly Hills. It gave me a warm feeling to see her happy. I wondered how I could sell Paris the idea of a mid-priced domestic. More importantly, how would such a vehicle fit in with Kimberley’ color coordinated car-dealership aspirations? What would she say? What would the neighbors say?
