by Tony Bulmer
‘Just a second,’ said Joe, ‘I forgot something.’
‘You think I got time to hang around, while you make your tearful goodbyes to the residents association?’ I asked, but Joe was already out the door, on his way to the Escalade. I kept the revs high, as the sound of police sirens grew deafening. The engine raced, my hands grew clammy on the steering wheel. I stuck my head out of the window and called. ‘Some time this week would ya?’ But Joe was rooting in the trunk of the Escalade. Finally he pulled out a giant gun-case and ambled back to the Dodge, at a leisurely stroll.
Inez was on the front porch now, ‘What the hell are you guys doing?’ she called. I flipped her a cheerful wave, She wasn’t impressed, swinging her arms around now, like she was shooing away a rampaging Wildebeest.
Joe rolled his eyes, turned his attention to a figure tripping towards us through Steinberg’s arcing lawn sprinklers. ‘Who is that,’ asked Joe, his gun case sitting snugly on his knee.
I followed his gaze; saw Louanne Varga, her progress slowing, as her heels sank deep in the turf. She bent down, removed her shoes and continued her run towards us.
‘That is the girl,’ I said. ‘Louanne. She is Mimi’s sister.’
‘Wow,’ said Joe, ‘she is hot!’
‘You got to be kidding me,’ I said, ‘At a time like this?’
‘Hey, I’m only human Costello, and it is almost three straight days since I got laid, you got a problem with that?’
‘Three straight days? That’s got to be some kind of record right?’
‘Ho-de-fucking-ho Costello, quit with your belly aching and hit the gas would you, that girl needs a ride.’
I dropped the clutch and the Dodge burned rubber, mounting the kerb with a jolt that almost launched Joe through the sunroof. He threw curses and clutched his gun-case tightly, as though unseen hands were preparing to snatch it from him. I burned across Steinberg’s drive way and onto his lawn. I pulled a handbrake turn and the Dodge spun 180 degrees. Joe popped the door, allowing Louanne to squeeze in between us. I told her to buckle up, then put my foot down hard. The big V8 let lose a thunderous burst of power, that sent the Dodge burning around the Steinberg’s front yard, turf arcing through the air, as the big tires gouged deep into the lawn.
‘Impressive,’ scoffed Joe, you got an encore?’
‘I always wanted to do that,’ I confessed, slowing for the stop sign at the end of the block.
‘No shit Costello, you were living in this phony neighborhood all these years and you never pulled a donut in your neighbors yard? You got to be repressed or something.’
‘What the hell would you know about neighbors—you live on a boat.’
‘I got a problem with neighbors. The beauty of living on the ocean, is neighbors don’t stay neighbors for long.’
‘You have a boat? Asked Louanne.
‘Sure do honey, you want to see it?’
As we paused at the stop sign, Police cruisers flashed past in force, their sirens blaring through the night. The lights and sirens faded, a Doppler symphony, heading into the past.
Louanne gave us both a double take look, threw her eyes back on the road and said, ‘Those cops are looking for you guys aren’t they?’
‘You play fast and loose with neighborhood ordinances, there’s going to be comeback somewhere down the line,’ Joe threw the girl a smile, ‘There anywhere we can drop you off sweetheart?
The Louanne looked downcast, fidgeting to adjust her wet dress. ‘Mr. Rothstein, is a cruel man, after what happened I am scared to ring round my friends, he is certain to find out where I am and come after me.’
Joe shot me a look.
‘Your sister stole Rothstein’s Diamonds didn’t she Louanne?’
Louanne sniffed miserably, wringing out the hem of her dress and looking at her shoes, she said, ‘All I know is that Mimi had a thing with Corin, a sideline they were running. She said it was only until we had enough money to open up our own Salon in Sherman Oaks—get a business going—something of our own, so we could get to a place where people like Frank Rothstein couldn’t touch us. She didn’t tell me all the details, but I know she was panicked the day she disappeared, she rung me up from back east, told me some guy she knew got murdered.
Joe said, ‘People get murdered all the time sweetheart, especially when they hangout with scumbags like Frank Rothstein.’ He reached behind the Dodges bench seat and pulled out a blanket, he wrapped it around the girls shoulders and said, ‘What was the name of this friend of Mimi’s?’
‘His name was Ronnie Weismann, Mimi said, everyone called him Pervo Ronnie, on account of the things he liked to do to girls,’ Louanne paused, looking uncomfortable. ‘He liked BDSM: bondage, domination, Sado-Masochism, and he liked to take pictures, ugly pictures.’
‘No shit,’ said Joe grimly, ‘and what else do you know about this Ron Weisman character?’
‘That is the thing,’ said Louanne, ‘Ronnie was into diamonds, he was a diamond dealer.’
A diamond dealer.
I gripped the wheel, as connections arced out like electricity.
THE SEX NET 37
The guy was creepy, real creepy, and he smelt too, but the car was worse—a real mess, like these guys were vagrants or something. Dakota sat in the back seat. The creepy guy kept touching her leg. His face was weird, disfigured, looked like he had some kind of disease, or something.
‘What are you going to do to us?’ asked Dakota, her voice calm, or at least she hoped it was calm.
‘What would you like us to do to you honey?’ asked the creepy guy, his face was up close, touching her leg again—she could smell his breath, wafting through rotten teeth. Dakota queezed, said, ‘You better let my sister out of the trunk, on account of the fact she gets claustrophobia.’
The creepy guy looked confused, asked her if her sister was sick or something. Dakota gave him a withering look.
The Driver told the creepy guy that claustrophobia meant you got scared if you got locked up in tight spaces.
The creepy guy got angry, said he knew what it meant—then he laughed, like he was enjoying the idea that Paris was scared, being locked up in the trunk.
Dakota watched the driver. He was a big guy, lots of muscles, like a body builder or something. Dakota watched the back of his head as he drove the car—he had an ugly tattoo on the side of his neck. The tattoo was all crooked—it looked wrong, like it had been inked by someone with the shakes. Imagine having an ugly tattoo on the side of your neck like that, so everyone could see. Dakota had thought about getting a tattoo, something small, something that only she would know was there. But seeing this guy with the tattooed neck really put her off. Tattoos were ugly. Besides getting a tattoo would really piss her mom off, and that was something she could do without. Mom could be a real bitch when she was pissed.
Shrinking into the corner of the car, Dakota considered her options. Jumping on the driver, grabbing him around the neck, so he crashed the car was the first plan she considered. She weighed her chances, figuring that the creepy guy would pull her off and hurt her, before she could do any real damage, besides, the car was moving fast, god only knew what would happen if they spun into oncoming traffic, or took a plunge off the side of the road. There were too many variables. The car was a wreck on wheels, if it spun out, they would probably all be killed, or maimed. Dakota decided she was too young to be killed or disfigured, thinking her chances of popping open the door in heavy traffic would be way better. The car was moving now, but this was LA for Christ’s sake, it was only a matter of time before they got snarled up in a traffic jam.
‘Where we going?’ asked Dakota.
The creepy guy slid his arm along the seat behind her, gave her a slimy look, whetting his thin little lips with his tongue, like he wanted to kiss her or something. She pulled away instinctively and the creepy guy laughed. His laughter was high-pitched and unpleasant, like he was crazy. After he had finished cackling, he told her they were going for a drive through the canyon, so as
they could see the sights. So close now, she felt the putrid flecks of his saliva spit-balling against the side of her face. He pawed at her leg, his bony grease-ball hands lingering near the top of her thigh. She shuddered, pulled away, told him to keep his hands to himself. Again the high-pitched laugh, Again the wet little tongue, darting out across his spitball lips.
Dakota didn’t like the idea of driving through the canyon. The canyon was dark, lonely, no traffic or bright lights like there were on the freeway. People got murdered in the canyon; you saw it on the TV news all the time. Her mind raced, thinking of an out. What would dad do? She knew the answer straight off and it made her feel bad. Dad would have never let himself get taken like this, he would have made his move way earlier, in the house, in the driveway or, as the kidnappers were bundling Paris in the trunk, thinking they were home free … Dakota tried to think positive, told herself she was just a kid after all, told herself these guys were bigger than she was… they had guns…
‘Hey, what you thinking sweet-lips? You wondering if I am available?’ Snickered the creepy guy. ‘You maybe ain’t as cute looking as that firebrand sister of yours, but I ain’t the choosy kind, not like those high school jock-boys. I bet they give a crazy looking chick like you a hard time huh? Funning on you because of the way you look, and all?
Dakota stared ahead, trying to zone out the chatter. She stuck her hands in her jacket pockets, stared hard at the drivers tattoo. Her fingers closed around her cell phone, its smooth face cool against her fingers. She had nagged her dad to buy it, and now she wished she hadn’t. Her last cell phone had an old-school key-pad, the sort that would pocket dial contacts. Those old style keys were so big and fat; you could dial a number without even looking. But the new phone, was sleek and smooth, with a touch-screen face. No way she could dial for help without alerting her captors. The creepy guy was still yakking away, coming out with pathetic sleaze-ball lines. The guy was so old—twenty-five at least, and ugly with it. Looking at his creepy face, was enough to turn a girl lesbo.
‘Hey, Martino, your buddy is drooling all over the place, back here, you mind if I sit up front?’
The driver looked around, surprised. The car swerved violently, heading towards oncoming traffic, Martino cursed, steering back into lane, to a serenade of blaring horns
‘Where you hear my name kid?’
‘Mr. personality here name checked you back at the house, your name is Martino right?’
The driver said, ‘Never you mind about names kid, names could get you dead.
The creepy guy was staring at her now a frown on his face, ‘Hey, there ain’t nobody drooling back here or nothing sweet-cakes, I was only trying to be friendly is all.’
‘There ain’t no time to get friendly Saint, all you got to do is keep an eye on the kid, make sure she doesn’t try nothing fancy.’
‘You calling me Saint now, so she knows both our names?’
‘It ain’t no big thing; you tell her it’s a pseudonym.
‘Say what?’
‘A pseudonym, it’s like a fake name, an alias.’
‘I don’t care what the fuck it is Martino, I don’t want you using my name on account of the fact this here kid is a bat-eared little motherfucker and if we be speaking our business in front of her, you can be sure she is taking every detail down in evidence, you know what I am saying?’
Martino tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. He looked annoyed. The car sped faster, switching lanes now, heading out past Santa Monica.
A malevolent silence enveloped the car. Dakota felt the creepy guys eyes eating in to her. She slouched away from him, her arms folded. She found that if she leaned at just the right angle, she could close her fingers around the door release, without the creepy guy noticing.
‘This kid has a smart mouth, and she is starting to piss me off. We should have taped her up like we done her momma.’
‘Relax Saint, we just hours away collecting on this deal. You got to remember how smart we are working this thing. Way I figure it we are heading for a double payday. This Costello cat is going to come through with a pay off, whether he has the ice or not. Then we got that little bonus collection to make from your man in Encino, before we blow out of this town for good.
The creepy guy looked mad, he said, ‘There ain’t nothing I hate worse than babysitting a pair of snot nosed little brats.’
Slowing down at the lights, Martino turned and looked at them. ‘I got an idea, why don’t we all get drive through, make an evening of this thing, so we don’t have to worry about name calling, or getting sniffy about the job we got to do?’
The creepy guy looked uncertain. Dakota could tell he was weighing the options, in his head. After a long pause, he said reluctantly, ‘Perhaps you is right Martino, I could sure use myself a chicken box and a milkshake right now.’ He turned to Dakota, ‘You hungry for take out girl?’
Dakota shrugged, ‘Whatever,’ she deadpanned, her fingers curling tight around the door release. As she prepared to tug it open, the car started moving again, switching lanes on the boulevard, as big box signs flashed by. Dakota tensed, her pulse racing for the moment she knew was coming. She knew she would have to move, and move fast, before the kidnappers could realize that their hostage was escaping. She didn’t hold much hope for her chances if she failed. She was good at reading between the lines, and listening to her captors talk, she could be certain of only one thing: they were going to kill her, and Paris too. Unless she could make a break and soon, she would be dead for sure.
THE SEX NET 38
Inez did what she could with the field dressing, utilizing the contents of the bathroom cabinet, and an emergency first aid package, along with cling film and disinfectant from the kitchen. By the time she had finished wrapping him up, the guy from the downstairs bathroom was beginning to come around. She watched with a sense of satisfaction, as the Paramedics scraped him onto the gurney and towed him out to the ambulance. As she followed him out the door, a uniform cop barred her way.
‘You don’t get to leave Marm, not just yet,’ said the cop in a dry monotone.
Inez shot him a tight smile, asked him what seemed to be the problem. The cop said no problem, but he had instructions—word on the wire. Inez smiled, told him she understood, of course she did, but that didn’t stop the resentment. Didn’t the cops understand that CCP were working on the same team? Yet they were holding her for more questions, treating her like a criminal, like they didn’t believe anything she said. Experience told her that this was how investigations worked, that the department criteria had to be satisfied. But the rule by the book squad were sabotaging the very outcome they sought with their plodding approach. The Police Department needed a shot in the arm. Inez looked out the window, watched the uniforms mill around the garden with lackluster faces, chatting, like there was all the time in the world, meanwhile—Paris and Dakota were being held prisoner by a pair of lowlife psychos.
The sound of Kimberley’s over wrought voice rose above the hubbub. Inez pulled the curtains back into place, and walked quietly down the hallway, listening intently. Kimberly Costello sat in the kitchen, surrounded by cops. She looked pale and indignant, recounting events, in an angry tone. Inez recoiled, as she listened to the embellishments: Kimberly telling the cops how the kidnappers were in cahoots with her ex husband, how there had been an argument about stolen diamonds. She listened to the bitterness, as Kimberly talked down her ex, like he was a criminal mastermind and the world’s worst father too, not caring if his cohorts had stolen away his children or not. Kimberly filled in marital details, twisting the knife, with plenty of juicy character assassination, Bad husband, absent father, always thinking of himself. No, he had never been violent toward her, but he was a dangerous man, worked for the Secret Service, had guns in the house and all kinds of enemies. She felt scared, threatened—neglected, and the children too.
When Inez had heard enough, she turned away, trying to figure a way she could slip through the bullshit with
out being seen.
‘Ms Santos, good to see you again so soon, how have you been?’
Inez turned to see the two cops who had called by the office. They looked shabby, like they had been working triple overtime shifts since Memorial Day. Inez figured that the crime scene jungle drums must be beating loud at Robbery Homicide’s down town hang out. She took the greeting in the spirit it was offered, wry faced and perfunctory.
‘Ramirez and Cullen right? Good to see you detectives.’
Ramirez looked at her, raised an eyebrow, like he gave a shit about running into her again or not, he said, ‘Let’s cut to the chase Ms Santos. We are investigating your work colleagues, Mr. Costello and Mr. Russell, in connection with a series of murders, and it would be very helpful if you could tell us where they are.’ Ramirez pulled out his handkerchief and patted down his brow. He gave her a hawkish look and said, ‘Before you say anything Ms Santos, consider your reply carefully, because you try and feed us a line of bullshit like your boss has been feeding us this past couple of days, we are liable to throw a conspiracy charge at you.’
‘Thanks for the heads up officer, but Danny and Joe are out chasing the guys who kidnapped his daughters. Maybe you should try helping them out and see where that leads you.’
Ramirez regarded Inez coldly, from beneath heavy eyelids. He pushed the handkerchief back into his suit pocket, ‘Glad you mentioned those children Ms Santos, because this thing has got ugly—uglier than you can know, and unless you help us trace Mr. Costello and that partner of his, the consequences for those children could be very grave indeed.’
Inez told the cops about the job they were working. She kept details to a minimum. She said they had business to attend to, when Danny got a call that his children were in danger…
Cullen butted in, ‘Hey, we hear you feeding us the lines lady, but we ain’t going to bite. Either you tell us where Costello and that buddy of his are at, or we run you down the office and park you in a cell, so as you can get time to think it over.’
