The Sex Net (Danny Costello Book 1)

by Tony Bulmer

  JC popped the passenger door. ‘How’s it goin’ Saint?’ Diego liked to be called Saint, made him feel like a big man, rather than a pimple face weasel. Hanging with the Saint was a mistake. JC could see that. A bad idea, just like flipping that dead chick in the dumpster out back of the Costello apartments on Pacific Avenue had been a bad idea. Who knew where that kind of shit could lead? And it was all down to that prick Frank Rothstein, ordering them around, like it was just another fucking gofer job. Throwing dead girls in dumpsters wasn’t gofer work. It was shit-stink heavy, the kind of action that could land a man back in the slammer permanent like. JC scowled. He hated prison. The Federales had fucked his life but good. He could have been carrying weight, moving import-export with La Eme right now, if the cops hadn’t pulled him on a bullshit meth-beef. He should have been moving on up to the big-time: steak-dinners and champagne, endless gangster-rap floozies in those fancy-assed lingerie clothes, like you saw on the television. Instead, he was stuck in the ’burbs, running errands for Frank-fucking-Rothstein.

  ‘Playa,’ the Saints voice was whiney and high pitched. The kid was petulant like a girl—affected. Stroking his grease-ridden fingers across the front of his Spurs shirt. Typical Diego—no self-respect. He thought he was a major-league, but his moves were all wrong. No wonder he was working for Frank Rothstein.

  ‘So this is the way we play it Martino…’

  JC gave Diego a cool look. He hated it the way the kid thought he could call shots. He listened, as the Saint outlined his plans. The kid was foul-mouthed and ugly. He said they should catch Costello in the parking lot, out front of Fat Tony’s Sports Bar on Admiralty. He said they should pop him in the spine as he opened his car—then cap him off with head-shots, to make sure. The Saint was excited. Spittle and food flecking out his mouth as he talked, Chili grease running across his chin in rivulets. The Saint held his sandwich in one hand, made pop-pop motions with the other, like he was shooting the Costello cat himself.

  Why would they shoot Costello? Who cared if Frank Rothstein said the cat was shooting lies about them. What the fuck did that matter? Besides, Rothstein was the kind of guy who would say anything to pull strings. He was that kind of operator. JC had seen cats like that in the joint, a hundred times over.

  The Saint was looking at him now. Looking for a reaction to his fabulous master plan, a plan from which they would gain nothing and risk everything.

  JC said, ‘I say we play things different, Saint.’

  ‘Different?’ The whiney voice pitching up again, arrogant and incredulous.

  ‘You asked yourself why Rothstein wants Costello out the way all of a sudden?’

  Diego looked sullen, ‘Frank said that Costello and the girl stole his ice. He said that he is sick of getting the run around off this prick. Besides what do you care all of a sudden, whether we pump a few caps into this Costello prick or no? We stay tight with Frank, we got it made, you understand? Frank is a player in these parts, he’s got connections, big-time connections like you are always talking about.’

  ‘So why didn’t he ask us to cap this Costello prick from the outset, instead of having us motor all over town, looking for this guy and who he hooks up with?’

  ‘Hey, Frank has his reasons. He is paying large for it too.’

  ‘You ask me; this Costello cat doesn’t have Franks diamonds, never did. We been following the prick for days. We flipped his pad, came up zero.’

  ‘So we flip the office.’

  ‘Are you crazy? This prick runs a security company, for Christ’s sake, you saying we break in there?’

  ‘I ain’t saying nothing of the kind Martino. Frank is a smart guy, if he says that this Costello prick has stolen his ice, that is good enough for me.’

  ‘You think Frank would want Costello dead, if he was still holding the stones?

  Diego, paused, his mind ticking over, so slow you could almost hear it, ‘So you saying Costello doesn’t have the diamonds?’ Diego’s brow furrowed deep, ‘So that means that Costello must have given them to the chick, the Cabrillo chick right?’

  JC smiled. ‘Now you are cooking.’

  ‘So if Frank wants us to hit Costello, he must know where the girl and the diamonds are at?’

  You think your friend Frank didn’t have his help looking for the girl while he had us chasing around town like pricks? Do you think he would tell us about it, if he cheated us out of a finders-fee on those rocks?’

  A look of anguish furrowed deep across Diego’s face, ‘You saying Frank is cheating us?

  ‘Yeah, he is cheating us—having us run round like pricks, to see if Costello connects with the girl, when all the while this friend of yours has been throwing the real leads elsewhere. And now he has made a connection, he wants Costello out of the way, to tie things off smooth, with his pals back east.’

  Diego took a last bite on his sandwich, tossing the remainder out the car window. He brushed crumbs then wiped off his greasy fingers on his jeans. Masticating noisily, he collected his thoughts, his jaw moving slower and slower. Finally he swallowed and said, ‘I got it Martino. This Costello prick’s done a deal with the girl. They thought they could scam Frank out his diamonds. The Cabrillo girl gets in an argument over the split with her friend and ices her, in some kinky fucking sex game. Costello arrives expecting to pick up his cut and walks in on the dead girl.’

  ‘And unlucky for Costello, he bumps into Frank, who is popping by early, to pick up his rent.’

  ‘Yeah, his rent,’ sneered Diego lasciviously.

  ‘So that leaves us cleaning up the shit for cheap, while your big-shot pal cheats us out of a share of those diamonds.’

  Diego turned in his seat, his eyes burning into JC, ‘I get where you are going with this Martino, don’t think that I don’t. You thinking I am a dumb-ass or something?’

  JC feeling the snub nosed Smith & Wesson bulging in his waistband wondered how fast he could reach it out, if Diego pulled a move. Probably not fast enough. He said, ‘I ain’t thinking about nothing, but how we get our hands on those diamonds. And that means we got two choices. We muscle your pal Frank to tell us where they are…’

  Diego blinked, his lips curling with contempt. ‘You ain’t so smart as you think you are you Martino? Frank knew you were talking like this, he would ice you for sure.’

  ‘I am sure he would,’ said JC, ‘which leaves us with the second choice. We get Costello to tell us where the diamonds are.’

  ‘You think that slippy motherfucker is going to tell us that?’

  ‘Sure he will,’ said JC, ‘But we are going to have to drop by that fancy pants house of his in Brentwood and pick up his kids first.’

  THE SEX NET 28

  Heading downtown from Brentwood, the evening rush moved slow. I speed dialed Joe, angling the Dodge through corporate canyon, towards the Staples Centre. The Lakers would be on court in less than twenty minutes, so I had to move fast. Unfortunately the traffic was not cooperating.

  ‘You didn’t tell me the chick was a Celtics Fan.’ Growled Joe.

  ‘When you say chick, I presume you mean Senator Positano?’

  The traffic roared—a perfumed haze of rush hour smog hanging low over the harbor freeway. I switched lanes, moving right for an exit.

  ‘That’s an affirmative Costello and guess what?’

  ‘She found out you are a single sports fan who likes turbo-fan helicopters and arm wrassling, and you are going to get snugly together?

  ‘Hell no, the chick is a regular statistics machine. She knows playing stats going back decades. You could learn a thing or three off this lady, let me tell you Costello.’

  ‘I am pleased to hear that you are getting on so famously Joe, because Inez seemed to think that a femtosecond would be the longest time you two love birds could coalesce for.’ I paused, shifting down into second. ‘Everything running smooth on our little field trip this evening?’ I hoped to hell there had been no hitches with the clients. Larry would be happy, with scot
ch and cigars, talking helicopters and sports to anyone who would listen. The Senator was quite a different matter. She was the kind of client who liked to find fault—keep you on edge, thinking that your primo-deal contract could be ripped from you fingers at any time. But with Joe running the show, I needn’t have worried.

  Overconfidence was his stock in trade.

  ‘Who you think you are talking to here Costello? My operations always run smooth. Always.’

  Typical Joe.

  ‘You mobile?’ I asked.

  Moving Into VIP parking, over on Lot One. It is a zoo out here tonight Costello, let me tell you. There’s a thousand-plus media and civilians running all over the drop zone. What’s your ETA?

  ‘You needing manpower?’

  ‘We got man power Costello, what I need is your ugly ass here to get me a soda and a guacamole combo plate.’

  ‘Sour-cream and chili fries—You do realize we have reservations at the Lexus?’ I hadn’t expected Joe to eat, when I booked our party into the Staples Centre’s shmantzy VIP restaurant, but it was fun to pull his strings anyway.

  ‘That fancy pants French cuisine gives me gas Costello, you know that.’

  ‘Well don’t soil your night dress big guy, because the cavalry is about to arrive.’ I pulled a rapid move out of traffic, heading for a shortcut I knew, round back of 12th Street. I rode the central reservation. Horns serenaded my taillights. When I saw the throng out front of VIP parking, I hit my emergency flashers. I had them rigged to look like police issue, but not be police issue. They scared the wildlife, and kept me out of traffic court, which was just the way I liked it. Or so I hoped, as I mounted the pavement out front of the Staples Centre. The roar of the Dodge and the strobing lights saw me though the melee. I gunned the engine and threw a cheery wave at security. Luckily they knew my gurning face only too well and favor that any friend of big-boss Buss, is a friend to all in Staplesville. Dwayne, who ran the VIP Gate on Star Plaza, saw me and rolled his eyes, as he waved me through the security line. I gave him my finest comedy salute and rolled past, my tires screeching out on the slick floor.

  The lot was thronging with sleek limousines. I didn’t have to look for my crew. Joe honed in on my unique engine signature and talked me in. I mean who else drives a supercharged vintage Dodge into a showroom lot full of celebrity super rides?

  ‘You got enough revs left in that tin box to make it here before the game is over?’ asked Joe.

  I gunned my engine by way of reply.

  ‘Cute,’ said Joe, ‘Straight down Isle C at the end by the lifts. You can’t miss me I am the guy with the phone in his ear waiting for your ugly ass. Watch you don’t throw any more revs in to that toy-town engine of yours, or it is liable to pop through the hood like a jack in the box.’

  ‘While you are goofing around in the parking lot, who exactly is running point on the clients?‘

  ‘Relax Costello, Larry has half a bottle of Scotch in him already, and the Senator is too busy torturing Inez, with Celtics anecdotes, to cause any serious damage. Plus, we got the team watching the perimeter, making sure there ain’t no situations.’

  As I pulled into my reserved space by the lifts, I heard the roar of the crowd reverberating through the building. Game time. Joe and I walked the corridors to our seats. I keep a private suite reserved on Level A. Running the suite is expensive, the kind of expensive that makes my accountant sigh, as she signs it off against taxes. What the IRS—or my ex would give to get their hands on that kind of money. But to me, the suite is an essential part of business, for Cobra Close Protection. It gives our high level clients the thrill of thinking they are normal for just a short time, with none of the risk of mixing it up with the game time crowd. All the suites at Staples have a great view, with service to match. It ain’t courtside, but there is no way I would allow our clients to sit down in the firing zone, too many variables to watch out for, too uncontrolled—always the chance that some street-crazy lunatic might make a move. In the world of close protection, these things are important. You have to watch the angles, keep danger to a minimum. Course, you do get the occasional film star sitting courtside, the mad dog crazy ones, the ones who either don’t care if they get shivved in public, or could use the publicity—but one thing is as sure as hell, they aren’t our clients.

  Arriving at the box, there was standing room only. Joe and I hung at the back, watching as the Celtics moved up the scoreboard, against a lack-lustre Lakers defense. The game moved fast, the Lakers turning it around, popping doubles and triples with an energy level that just wouldn’t quit. The lights burned, the crowd roared. Our guests roared with them. But all I could think about was Corin Cabrillo and the Varga girl, wondering where they were hiding out, wondering what had happened to the diamonds. As these thoughts rolled through my head the hospitality team moved into full effect, serving Champagne and Canapés to our guests. I felt my phone pulse silently in my jacket pocket. I toyed briefly with the idea of letting it go to voice mail, there are some things more important than business, and championship basketball is one of them. Who would be calling me when the Lakers were on court? What kind of soulless philistine would do such a thing? The vibrations continued. Persistence always gets my curiosity. I reached out my phone. The caller ID was inconclusive. I slid my thumb over the keyboard to switch off, but pressed the wrong key. An excited voice in my earpiece—a voice that I did not at first recognize. I strained to hear words over the roar of the crowd.

  Mr. Costello, It is Louanne. Louanne Varga. You told me I should ring you if I heard anything about Corin, well there’s something I would like to tell you…’ The girl’s words came quiet and hesitant. She sounded scared.

  I told her she had done the right thing in calling. I made sympathetic, told her I was listening, then paused, watching as the Lakers made a fast break up court for a rapid two pointer.

  You got to help me Mr. Costello, Rudy is dead—they killed him.

  Sounded like she wanted money. I hate it when girls want money. When a girl wants money, especially a girl like Louanne, it is usually the prelude to an ugly scene. Running personal protection for big money clients has taught me this. Money-grubbing hustlers orbit the wealthy, looking for signs of gullibility or weakness. Maybe she thought a blind date with her little cheerleading friend Corin Cabrillo made me an easy mark? Maybe the kid did have information. The fear in her voice was new, it sounded real.

  I have to see you Mr. Costello, I do not know who to trust right now, besides, I need money, please Mr. Costello, you have to help me.

  There it was, the cash shot. I closed my eyes, for a five count, asked her how much she wanted.

  ‘Fifty thousand dollars.’ She said matter of fact, like she was asking me to buy her a martini.

  I swallowed down the temptation to shout, fifty-grand, you greedy little tramp! It would have made me feel better, but it would get me no closer to finding Corin Cabrillo and the diamonds.

  I played it close, asking her where she would like to meet. She said how about the Polo Lounge. That made me smile. The Polo Lounge is tucked away inside the Beverly Hills Hotel, the shmantziest joint on Sunset. If Louanne Varga, beauty therapist was taking cocktails at the Polo Lounge, she must be making some pretty big tips, or maybe I was in the wrong business? There was a third possibility however, one that I didn’t like to entertain, and that was the idea that the cute freckle-faced cheerleader from Sherman Oaks had turned out more wrong than even I had suspected.

  THE SEX NET 29

  I looked at my watch. The scene on Sunset would just be firing up. I stood antsy watching the game. The Lakers were ahead by a fraction, but the Celtics were playing it close, turning around one basket after another. Soon it would be half time and the result was too close to call either way. As the seconds ticked away an off the ball foul caused pandemonium. A nasty scene ensued, pushing, shoving and a possible elbow strike, resulting in a benching for the Celtics star forward. The crowd went wild, jeering and booing as the TV ca
meras panned in for close-ups.

  Joe gave me a look. The look told me he had heard everything I had said to the Varga girl, and filled in the blanks for himself.

  ‘You go meet that chick Costello, you are even crazier than I thought you were.’ He gave me the hard-eye, arms folded with disapproval.

  ‘You know what this means don’t you?’ I asked.

  ‘Hell yes, I’m going to have to get my own snacks and soda again. Seems like you always got something more important to do when it is your turn to go run for refreshments, and if you think I am going to be happy about that, you are wrong.’ He squinted at me, his head tilting back with the vaguest nuance of irony.

  ‘You are just going to have to tough it out big guy. Don’t go talking to strangers whilst I am away now will ya? I shot him the comedy fingers, six-shooter style.

  Joe stared back, impassively, ‘Get the hell out of here he said.’

  As I headed back to the Dodge, the Staples Centre reverberated to the roar of the crowd. The volume notching upwards, as play resumed. As I passed a concession stand, I decided to grab popcorn for the road. I stood in line, trying to make up my mind whether I was in a sweet or savory mood. As I perused the menu items, I caught a glimpse of two familiar figures heading across the concourse towards me.

  I scratched my head with my souvenir program in the hope they wouldn’t see me, but it was too late. Ramirez had a visual, his head swiveling fast, as he squinted against the stadium lights, looking at me as though he had seen a mirage. Cullen walking beside him, Soda in hand broke off mid-anecdote and turned to follow his partner’s gaze.

  The cops exchanged glances then hurried forwards, double-timing it towards me. I peripheralized their arrival, made like I hadn’t seen them, as I strolled towards the exit with my popcorn. The cops closed the distance—the sound of shoe leather on concrete. The sound of a heavy panting arrival, then they were upon me.

  Where the fuck is he Costello?’