The Sex Net (Danny Costello Book 1)

by Tony Bulmer

  ‘I am beginning to think you two are following me,’ I said, ‘but that is because you are, right?’’

  Cullen balled his fists, his lips moving with silent blasphemy. Ramirez straightened his tie and mopped at his forehead, with a grey looking handkerchief.

  ‘Guess what, you’re under arrest asshole,’ growled Cullen through gritted teeth.

  ‘On what charge officer?’ I asked, trying my best to sound stunned. Failing.

  ‘Aiding a known fugitive, resisting arrest, moral turpitude and that is just for starters,’ suggested Ramirez.

  ‘You are wasting your time. Joe had nothing to do with that girl’s murder.’

  Ramirez nodded, folded his handkerchief into his suit pocket and cracked his knuckles experimentally. ‘I am sick of you wasting our time Mr. Costello,

  ‘I would like to believe that Ramirez, really I would but I am starting to think your girlfriend here is developing a not-so-secret crush on me.’

  Cullen surged forwards, but Ramirez caught his arm. He gave me a taught smile. Detective Cullen here gets easily upset Mr. Costello, you best mind how you talk to him, you keep smart mouthing like that and I won’t be responsible for the consequences.’ Ramirez threw me a taught smile, ‘You wouldn’t happen to know a gentleman name of Rudy Valentine would you?’

  I frowned, ‘You kidding right? Rudy Valentine, that sounds like some kind of porn star name.

  Ramirez drew a breath, exhaled slowly, ‘So I don’t suppose you have been over his house in West Hollywood have you Mr. Costello? Two sets of cop eyes bored into me.

  The pause that followed stretched to infinity. I heard the game buzzer sound, heard the thunder of the crowd, the volume pounding through me, in time to my pulse.

  I didn’t answer.

  Ramirez said, ‘Let me guess, you got an alibi? Well it better be a good one Costello, because Mr. Valentine wound up dead this afternoon and we want to ask you and your pal Joe Russell a few questions.

  ‘Are you arresting me detective?’

  Ramirez’s smile tightened, ‘Not yet Mr. Costello but that might change in the very near future.’

  ‘Much as I would enjoy hanging out with you guys, listening to your spurious accusations, I have a business to run, so why don’t you guys chillax, and watch the game, before my lawyer beats you around the head and shoulders with the kind of lawsuit that will have you weeping blood.’

  ‘Hide behind your lawyer, rich boy—your ass is going to jail,’ spat Cullen.

  ‘Not only are you wrong, you are wrong in a loud voice,’ I said.

  Ramirez raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘I think it was just a few short hours ago that I told you to keep out of Police business Mr. Costello, maybe you are too foolish—stupid even, to heed that advice…’

  ‘Thanks for the tip Ramirez, I will file it for consideration.’

  Ramirez said quietly, ‘You got a nice little business enterprise going Mr. Costello, government clients and everything. I am impressed. But how are you going to run things when you and that smart assed partner of yours are counting cockroaches in jail?’

  ‘It will never happen Ramirez, count on it. Now beat it, before I get all petulant.’

  Cullen stepped in close, wafting halitosis stink. ‘I’m going to take you down rich boy—see how you like that.’

  ‘They got personal hygiene products at your local pharmacy that could help you out,’ I suggested, ‘You should try some.’

  Cullen sneered, drawing up a right hand, coiled for the off. ‘You wanna go rich boy? It’s here waiting for you,’ he taunted.

  I offered up a profile, imagining how many blows I could land, before the big cop launched his strike. ‘Hey, no hard feelings Cullen,’ I said, ‘You are only doing your job, I know that. Problem is, you’re not doing it very well.’

  Ramirez folded his arms, gave me a bored look. ‘We have played nice with you up to now Mr. Costello, offered you the kind of candy-assed community relations bullshit the department is so proud of, but you have played smart with us for the last time, and we ain’t going to buy it no more. You hear me?’

  ‘Loud and clear Ramirez, but let me tell you something, I don’t take kindly to you and officer doofus here, harassing me, or my friends, with your crackpot accusations.’

  Ramirez held up his hands in mock resignation. ‘We will catch up with your partner Mr. Costello, no matter how smart you guys think you are, and don’t go leaving town, because we are making connections on this case and you will be hearing from us again. Count on it

  ‘Yeah, count on it, rich boy,’ confirmed Cullen jabbing a finger at me to emphasize the point.

  I gave him a look of pity. Watched them turn tail, head for the bar. I counted five after they disappeared from sight, then headed back towards the exit dialing Joe as I went.

  THE SEX NET 30

  Friday night on Sunset and the bar scene was amping up: a jostling, euphoric world, overflowing with energy and expectation. I cruised west, the Dodge in low gear, taking in the sights and smells: glamour, seediness, excess. But I sensed something more, an undercurrent of emptiness, a cynical fast money urgency burning through the hot dusk. It was a fragile, high-rent, high-turn over world where night-spots went out of vogue so quickly, that even the hippest of venues could become unfashionable, in the space of just one evening. I absorbed the energy Hapkido-style, let the chi of the night empower me.

  I valet parked at the Beverly Hills Hotel on West Sunset. The place resembled a creaky old birthday cake, pink and deliciously grand, with a fondant frosting of pure decadence. The hotel got famous in the mid-seventies, when it appeared on the cover of the Eagles album Hotel California. The thought always got me humming a tune, whenever I passed the old place.

  The Polo is just one of the hotel’s bars, an in-crowd watering hole, with delusions of grandeur. Just the sort of place a star-strung-out young nymphet like Louanne Varga would come to sip cocktails and connect. I gave the place the once over. No sign of Louanne. I grabbed a booth at the rear. My seat offered a panoramic view of the bar and entrance. I perused the menu. The help was supercilious but attentive. Well-rehearsed menu and aperitif suggestions were made. I rejected them out of hand. I ordered tomato juice and scarfed kobe burger, with truffled Provolone-cheese. It cost big bucks, more than any other burger I have ever eaten. My tomato juice arrived complete with greenery. I didn’t approve, so I asked the waiter to swap it out for a lemonade. He gave me a look that suggested I would need to tip big. I gave him a winning smile and asked for straws, wishing I had scored a vanilla shake and double-double with cheese at In-N-Out Burger instead.

  As I slurped my soda, I watched the high priced clientele, moving and shaking for all they were worth. The place was pumping, but it just wasn’t my scene. I kept my eye on the door, expecting Kimberly and Steve the boyfriend to walk in. As my thoughts turned to the ex and her penchant for up-market hangouts, I suddenly caught a visual, but not the kind I was expecting. Coming out the bathroom over the other side of the bar, I saw one of Rothstein’s goons, the big ugly looking one, who had opened up his limo door at the country club. The guy was wide as he was tall. Looked like a wrestler, with a pug nose and shiny pate, that glistened in the light. The thug swaggered through the bar and out into the lobby, at a rapid clip. Looked like Pugnose was having a busy night. I rolled out a tip for the waiter and rose to follow.

  The bar and lobby area was thronging with guests, moneyed locals and the international-set figuring big. Familiar faces flipped by, but no one I would want to share a high five hello with. I kept things low-profile. A commotion erupted, as I reached the lobby, some kind of celebrity couple making a big entrance. Flash bulbs exploded on auto-wind. I kept to the shadows, peripheralising the scene: a bouffant young woman, accompanying a much older man. The man wore wrap-around sunglasses. He was a flashy dresser, Patent leather shoes and everything. The girl was cute in a Kewpie doll kind of way. Her dress was cut navel low, the hemline floating just south of paradise.
They posed for photographs. A crowd gathered—spontaneous applause erupted. Hotel facilitators ushered the couple inside. I melted into the periphery, next to an ornamental palm, its luscious fronds fringing my view. A buxom woman and her husband stood next to me, camera phones at the ready, craning through the crowd for a better view of the arrivals. Who is that, she asked, to nobody in particular. My tailor’s brother and his young niece, I replied cheerfully—Danny Costello the tourist’s friend.

  As I was making smart to the tourismos, I kept Pugnose under close scrutiny. At first, he looked like he was going to exit towards the valet parking line. The distraction in the lobby must have thrown off his three-second memory, because he circled the lobby, paused, then doubled-back, heading for the lifts. Looked like he was a guest. He was either living large on his thug-for-hire paychecks, or working the over time shuffle. If it was the latter, his master would be close. I had a choice: hang out, drink the worlds most expensive lemonade and wait for Louanne, or follow Pugnose and see if he knew where I could get my self some hooky diamonds on the cheap.

  I followed a crowd of new arrivals, as they jostled towards the lifts, taking care that Pugnose never left my sight. I slid into the lift behind him, the crowd squeezing in around me. As the doors closed, Pugnose kept his eyes on the floor numbers, his lack of eye contact working for me. He reached his floor and I followed. I counted doors as he headed down the corridor. Door number three. He rapped smartly and put his ear to the door.

  As the door began to open, I move fast and silent, bounding forwards, with a burst of explosive energy. I hit Pugnose squarely between the shoulder blades with the full weight of my body. Despite his size, he tumbled forwards into the room, like a giant bowling skittle. The impact carried me forward into the centre of the room. Pugnose squirming at my feet now, his fingers grasping the carpet as he struggled to regain his breath. Looked like the wrestler was out of shape, big time.

  ‘Shabbat Shalom Mr. Costello.’ Frank Rothstein sat at a table eating a sumptuous meal. He raised his silver fork and gesticulated, ‘Come, in sit down, we have been waiting for you.’

  I scanned the room. It was quite a get-together, five guys and Pugnose made six, the same team who had covered the golf course. They looked special forces fit, and dangerous with it. But the real star of this three-ring circus sat across the table from Rothstein, wearing a pièce de résistance evening dress, in charcoal grey. Louanne Varga. She looked classy and sleazy, all in one big, long intake of breath. And the real kicker was, she didn’t look even remotely scared—not even embarrassed, and that really jerked my chain.

  I cracked a smile, ‘How’s it going gang—you been missing me, right?’

  ‘Sit down Costello,’ Rothstein indicated a high-backed lounge chair by the fireplace, jabbing at it with his fork, as he masticated food. I trust you are not armed, or wearing a Federal-fink wire?’ Again the fork gesticulating.

  I sensed the approach of a pat down, I said, ‘Don’t waste my time Rothstein. You just pulled me out of a Championship Lakers game, to chitty-chat? You better have some hot-shit news, or I’m going to take that little silver fork you keep twizzling around and stab you between the eyes with it, as a matter of principle.’

  Rothstein placed his cutlery on his plate, nodding thoughtfully, as if he was taking this little news flash into consideration. He chewed food and wagged his finger in admonishment. ‘Do me a favor Costello. This is Beverly Hills. People fall out of hotel room windows all the time in this neighborhood, you would be nothing more than a statistic if it happened to you.’ He picked up his cutlery and commenced eating again. ‘Besides, you and Ms Varga are my esteemed guests this evening, I would hate it if anything unpleasant were to happen to you both.’

  The girl gave me a pleading look, her auburn hair glowing in the light. I noticed ugly bruises on her wrists, her ankles too, I thought of Mimi in the house up on Lakewood Drive and my chain cranked tighter.

  Now let’s get down to business Costello. I have spent a very enlightening, if somewhat tiresome afternoon in the company of Ms Varga here. She has told me all kinds of interesting things, some of which confirm that bullshit story you told me—and some which sadly don’t. So she suggested we ask you over, to join the party, so you could update me on the whereabouts of my diamonds. I am sure you will forgive the subterfuge used to ensure your arrival, but I am afraid it was necessary.

  ‘Screw you Rothstein. You and your crew of hero’s been twisting the girl out of shape, until she’ll say anything you want to hear, just so as you will stop hurting her.’

  ‘I hurt no one Costello; I got people who do that for me. So let me tell you how things are panning out. See, last time we met, you spun my Uncle Sol that tear-jerking little story about not having my fucking diamonds. That is double flush bullshit Costello. I mean, you came on very convincing to my uncle, but he is eighty years old, he gets easily confused.

  That’s real convenient for you Rothstein, isn’t it? You hire a couple of grifters to run diamonds for the old man, then surprise, surprise, the merchandise goes missing.’

  Rothstein jabbed his steak knife towards me. I had my suspicions that Ms Varga here might be involved with this bullshit conspiracy. When you gave my uncle that crybaby story of yours, he thought she might be involved too. Imagine that, stealing work related merchandise from her poor, dead sister?’

  I turned to Louanne. She looked shame-faced at the floor, unable to hold my gaze. Rothstein had twisted the screws on her alright, I could see that now. The initial fortitude I had seen was beginning to melt away.

  Rothstein followed my gaze hungrily and smiled. So now I know for a fact that Ms Varga here does not have the diamonds.

  So that leaves yourself and Ms Cabrillo, or maybe your shmendrik partner Joe Russell. What do you think Mr. Costello? You say you don’t have my diamonds but can you vouch for your partner? I understand from my sources that he is a man of unconventional means, and that beautiful boat that he has moored over in Marina Del Rey—looks expensive, must cost a lot to maintain a boat like that. High-overheads. I learned that from my accountant Mr. Costello. If you have been dishonest, the IRS will get you on an overheads beef every time.’ Rothstein paused. ‘That burger you had downstairs giving you indigestion Costello? You are looking a little peaky.

  ‘You think you are smart Rothstein. How about the Cabrillo girl, you smart enough to find her?’

  ‘Rothstein smiled. Don’t you worry about Ms Cabrillo. You leave her to me. All you got to do is worry about my fucking diamonds, because I’m through listening to your whining bullshit, about how you ain’t got them and you don’t know where they are, because if you don’t know where they, are what fucking use are you to me, tough guy?’

  ‘Don’t threaten me Franco, or I am liable to get all agitated.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m just sure you will Costello, I been doing the background on your secret squirrel past. Seems like you were quite the loose cannon when you were working for the service back in Washington DC. Thing is, you ain’t dealing with no towel-headed terrorist motherfuckers now Costello. You are in fucking tinsel-town, and this is my town, no matter who the fuck is asking, you understand me?’

  ‘Real scary, but I don’t like you Rothstein and I got a cousin called RICO who doesn’t like you either.’

  ‘RICO? You fucking kidding me Costello? From what I hear, you ain’t got too many friends in the government these days. But you want to go shootin’ your crybaby mouth off to anyone who will listen, be my guest. I hear that the witness protection program ain’t what it used to be, in these times of economic strife, especially if you got two teenage kids living out in Brentwood.’ Rothstein paused, while he speared mushrooms and steak onto his fork. He raised the loaded fork to his mouth and chewed, regarding me steadily with implacable eyes.

  The girl gave me a sad look, mouthed the word sorry.

  Rothstein laughed out loud, enjoying himself now. You see that Costello the girl is sorry. You know why she is sorry?’
He paused, looked at Louanne like he was actually expecting her to say something, ‘What’s the matter honey, you ain’t as chatty as you were earlier.’

  ‘Leave her alone Rothstein.’

  Rothstein placed his cutlery down again, looking smug. ‘This chick, right here, has got to be the dumbest broad in the world, ain’t that right honey? She thought she could use her poor, dead sister’s credit card for a shopping spree—her and that no good junkie Rudy Valentine. Left a trail of credit card receipts that led right to their door. You seen Mr. Valentine recently Mr. Costello?’

  Valentine. That was the guy who Louanne had been staying with in Hollywood. The guy the cops had been asking me about. I knew where this was going and I didn’t like it, not one bit.

  Rothstein looked cynical, amused, waiting for my response. I twisted my face with contempt. He laughed and said. ‘You probably heard by now, that Mr. Valentine had an messy accident, which is particularly unfortunate for you and Ms Varga here, as you two love birds were the last people in the world to see him alive. That’s going to look like some kind of ugly coincidence for you Costello, considering your involvement with Ms Varga’s sister and her untimely demise. If I were a cop, I would say that the evidence against you is really stacking up.

  ‘Screw you Rothstein and your precious diamonds too. Come on Louanne We are getting out of here.’

  Rothstein held up his hand. ‘The girl is going nowhere Costello, She owes me and she is staying until she works it off.’

  THE SEX NET 31

  The house in Brentwood was dark. The place was shrouded in trees, poor sightlines of neighboring houses, an easy mark for a B&E gig. Martino parked the Honda Accord out front. He turned off the engine and checked the street for civilians. He didn’t like what he saw. Joggers, dog walkers, all sorts of nosey-parker, busybodies, just looking to dial the cops.

  ‘Hey, what we parking here for, the bitches house is over there,’ whined Diego, swiveling in his seat, his face incredulous that they would have to walk a block to the Costello house.