by Tony Bulmer
Now Joe’s trunk is a mess, always has been, and we aren’t just talking normal trunk mess here, we are talking Special-Forces apocalypse, meets Service-Station lube change Hades. There were tools in there, fishing gear, ancient oily copies of Rolling Stone and Sports illustrated magazine, along with an unwholesome assortment of stained work clothing and military surplus junk. I also found an oil covered diary from 1985. The cover was bent and stained. I assumed ’85 had been a particularly good year and he was hanging on to it for keepsake posterity.
‘You are going to get a better weight/performance ratio if you clean out your trunk.’ I suggested helpfully. The response was predictably gruff.
I rooted through the packed trunk, re-arranging the mess, in a way that would allow me to slide Joe’s weapon case inside. It was a tough task. I had to remove a whole pile of junk before I could get the gun in, then rearrange the clutter around it. After a great deal of frantic cramming, I paused briefly, wondering how best to fit the final stack of greasy work clothes into the car. I contemplated tossing them into the kitchen dumpster, I would have done so if they were mine, but I knew Joe would never allow it, he has a sentimental attachment to such things. So I jammed the work clothes in, as best I could and damn the consequences. As I did so, something fell out of one of the pockets. I picked it up and turned it over in my hands. A Louis Vuitton cosmetic case?
Joe, called to me to get a move on, so I slammed the trunk shut and jumped in. He burned out the parking lot at speed, and we headed up PCH, towards Topanga Canyon. He really put his foot down and we cut through traffic, like we had a rocket tied to our tail pipe. ‘So, this box of spanners you spend all your money on really has some pick up, huh?’ I asked evenly, as he took an amber light at sixty.
‘The garage says I got to run the engine at a hundred every day, or it looses condition,’ said Joe.
I shot him a look and he laughed. The car throttled forward, even faster. I turned the cosmetic case over in my hands, ‘Didn’t know you were a fan of designer purse chic.’ I said.
The car almost throttled down a gear—but not quite—as we cut North up the at breakneck speed.
‘Tell me something JR, when you gave Mimi a lift the other day, she have any luggage with her?’
‘Just some over night bag, she jammed it in the trunk when I picked her up from the airport.’
I opened the cosmetic case. It was tight packed with tissue paper, wound around what felt like bubble wrap.
‘I never had you pinned for a Louis Vuitton guy…’
‘Louis who?’
‘Exactly.’
‘What you got there anyway Costello? ’
‘Unless I am very much mistaken partner, what we got here is $48 million in stolen diamonds.’ I held up the tight wrapped plastic, but there was no mistake, the diamonds were big, real big. You could see them glistening, even through the protective packaging.
THE SEX NET 46
Martino hung on tight, tree bark cutting into his hands and face. As he hung there, swinging in the blackness. He swore to himself that he would never leave the city again. He hated the dipshit stink of the goddamn country. Why would anyone choose to live in a place like this? All flies and trees and sun-zorched valleys, full of snakes and scorpions, and all the other mean faced critters that would eat you soon as look at you. Martino hugged the tree his feet skating on the slippery bark as he fought to get a footing. He slipped and cursed, almost lost a shoe for Christ’s sake. You couldn’t hardly see a damn thing in the dark canyon. Above, the mountains, disappearing into the swirling mists and below—well, below didn’t even bear thinking about, not right now anyway. Man it was dark down there, darker than the swirling pit.
Somehow, Martino managed to shimmy down the giant tree. By the time he reached the lowest branches, he encountered a new problem—a twenty-foot fall to the rock-strewn forest-floor below. As he contemplated the drop, he heard the ominous groan of the wrecked Honda swinging precariously, in the branches above. The car was leaking fluids, as it swung, like a deathly pendulum. Another groan, and the steady drip, drip, of oil and gasoline, raining through the tortured branches. Soon the car would fall. He had to move and move now, before the car came crashing down on top of him, like a mangled wrecking ball.
Martino contemplated the drop to the precipitous forest floor. Even if he managed to jump down there, without breaking his neck, the canyon wall chasmed away steeply, down to god knows where. He took a tumble now, he was finished for sure. He almost laughed at the sheer stupid luck of it all—he fell and broke a leg, there wasn’t no way he was getting out of this—no one would find him, save a mountain lion or the coyotes.
He edged around the tree trunk, as far as he could go, but he figured it wouldn’t be far enough. If the car came rushing down through the branches, it would take him with it, smashing him on the rocks below.
As he looked down, he saw that his only chance of salvation was a leap, into a clump of Oleander bushes growing close to the edge of the tree’s canopy. It was a long shot, a hell of a long shot. But it was the only shot he had. He edged out along the lowest branch, as far as he dared, then clung onto it, edging forwards painfully, through the razor-sharp pine needles. As he inched forward, contemplating when he should make his drop, the branch began to bend downwards, creaking ominously. Martino didn’t like the sound of the creaking, not one bit. He tried to edge backwards, but couldn’t. The only way was forwards, so forwards he went. That’s when the branch snapped. It exploded, loud as a rifle shot. The sudden release sent Martino cart wheeling into space. As he flew through the air, he contemplated his pointless night and all that had lead to it. Those diamonds, those god-damn diamonds… The impact was sudden and brutal, he catapulted through the bushes, flying out the other side, in a storm cloud of leaves, a thousand broken daggers slicing into him as he went. Then he hit the ground, tumbling over and over, until he thought he would never stop.
Martino lay on his back looking up to where the stars should be. But the mist enveloped, swirling high amongst the jagged canyon peaks. Above him, distant lights of traffic moved past in the night, the muffled roar of engines carrying towards him the faint hope of salvation. He got himself to his feet and dusted himself down. Not a single part of him that didn’t hurt. No part of him that didn’t sing out, with the anguished need to evolve through this filthy stinking life. He thought of the Saint hanging dead in the car. He thought of the misery of San Quentin and the hell he had found outside. He picked his way up the mountainside—took him forty five minutes or more—thinking all the time and by the time he got to the roadway, one thought consumed him—Frank Rothstein and the money he said he’d give them, except there was no them now, only him. Martino breathed, sucking mountain air deep into his tortured lungs. He limped forward, heading towards Entrada road, and the rendezvous with Rothstein. What difference would it make if he told him the Costello cat was dead? By the time that loudmouthed prick found out the truth… Martino allowed himself a genuine smile—thinking about Acapulco and sunnier times.
By the time he came to the Topanga Grocery Mart in Fernwood, Martino knew he wasn’t going to make the meet with Rothstein. Despite the chill of the night, his shirt was wet with exertion and panic. He couldn’t ring Frank to reschedule, even if he’d had a phone. You didn’t do shit like that with a man like Frank Rothstein. He told you to be some place, you got there like he told you, and in good time too. Frank hated tardiness. He wasn’t a forgiving kind of guy. You got late with Frank, he thought you were a screw up, end of story. And if he got to thinking you were a screw up—well, that didn’t bear thinking about.
Martino lounged back on the woodpile at the side of the store and caught his breath. The whole place was backwoods hokey, timber board walls and everything. Hard to believe you were on the doorstep of one of the largest cities in America. This place looked like a testament to a throwback age, a time of trappers and hunters and Indian traders. Martino hawked a loogie and spat long into the parking l
ot. Damn, he hated the countryside. He eyed a pair of beat up pick ups out front of the store, antique motherfuckers, looked like they hadn’t been driven in years. He whet his lips and pondered the possibilities, as he did so, a late model Silverado roared into the lot, with its headlights blazing. Looked like the owner was in a damn hurry for something—too much of a hurry for his own good. The driver jumped down out of the truck and headed into the store, without so much as a second look around, to see if his precious truck would be OK in the parking lot all on its lonesome. Man—the red-neck idiot had left the keys in the ignition and everything, without so much as a tip of the hat to valet parking, except there was no valet parking, only Martino sitting on the woodpile.
Boosting the Chevy was a breeze. Martino didn’t even break sweat, just hopped in the cab and away. Man it was a sweet ride, leather seats and buttons to do just about everything. So many switches on the goddamn dash you couldn’t figure what they were for. He flipped on the sounds, but the radio was tuned to some god-awful cracker channel. Martino flipped stations, cycling through to find something more amenable. He settled on cool jazz. Man he liked cool jazz. The Saint had liked that ghetto-banging hip-hop shit. But that kinda music never new when to quit, just the same old beats over again, and angry with it too.
Humming along to the sounds of Chet Baker, Martino pulled into Entrada road with time to spare. He took it slow, cruising up to Dead Horse parking lot he made a loop. No sign of Rothstein. He had worried about nothing. Then he had a thought. There were two parking lots on Entrada, the second farther up, close to the trailhead. He had to take a look. He would never hear the end of it if Rothstein was up there waiting. Who knew what the prick would do? He could be real nasty, shooting his dirty mouth off, like he was something special. Martino snorted with contempt.
Reaching out to the passenger seat Martino put the snub nosed .45 between his legs. The butt of the weapon was encrusted with dried blood. He picked off the flakes idly, as he cruised up the road. It had been a hell of a night. Every part of him aching like a motherfucker, it was enough to curdle a guy’s milk. Martino scowled. He was in no mood to take shit of that geriatric prick on wheels Frank Rothstein. The cat wanted to pick a fight, he would goddamn find one and to hell with the consequences.
THE SEX NET 47
The cab pulled up front of the Rothstein Compound. It had been a long trip out to Encino, night traffic running heavy on the 405. The cabbie took a detour through Sepulveda, running through the tunnel to Sherman Oaks, like the old days. Not that Louanne had ever been a party to the old days, hell no. Far as she was concerned life started in 1985. Whatever came before that was so old-school-retro it was dinosaur—I mean really.
Louanne didn’t need to buzz in the side door by the banana palms was always open. Frank liked to keep a man out front, called him the gatekeeper. The guy was new. She didn’t know his name, but she had seen him earlier at the hotel. The guy was pug ugly with a badly applied sticking plaster stuck over his nose. She gave him a lingering smile, but he wasn’t buying, didn’t even seem to recognize her. Louanne gave him sweet talk, made like Frank was expecting her. The gatekeeper frowned and asked questions. She gave him another smile and twirled her hair with her fingers. The guy looked uncertain, he ogled her breasts. Louanne vibed ultra plausible She made excited, gave him a coquettish pout, like the dude might be in with a chance. He gave her a soft-hearted look, and let her in reluctantly. What harm could it do? She sensed his eyes following her Watching hungrily, as she flounced across the lawn. Ogling her ass no doubt, the thought excited her, as she sashayed towards the house. If she was lucky Frank would be in, if she was extra lucky he would be out. That would give her time to run through his office draws and slip into some lingerie. See what he thought of that.
Frank’s home was palatial like something out of a magazine. Louanne figured the place looked like the house in that movie Scarface, the one where Al Pacino played the crazy drug dealer. Louanne liked Al Pacino, she thought he was hot, least he had been at one time. The marble entrance hall echoed to the sound of her footsteps. The place smelled good. It smelled of flowers and something else something very familiar to her…
‘Hello Louanne, how nice to see you, I heard you had split town.’
Louanne spun around. She tried to suppress a startled gasp, but failed. ‘What you doing here? She asked almost whispering.
Corin Cabrillo, circled towards Louanne, a steely look on her face.
‘Taking care of my property, making sure I get what’s mine.’
Louanne breathed her scent, it was strong, overpowering, ‘You killed my sister,’ she said, her voice cold and soft.
‘I wish that was true honey, that bitch had it coming, unfortunately someone beat me to it.’
‘Frank would never do such a thing.’
Corin Cabrillo laughed nastily. ‘Frank kills lots of people, you stick around long enough, he might even kill you.’
‘You sound pretty sure of your self these days Corin, what happened to the promises you made in the old days? What happened to friendship, and all those times we had growing up?’
‘The past counts for nothing in this life sweetheart, there is only money, and the now that matter a damn, all the rest is a stupid fucking dream.’
‘You are wrong Corin. You never said things like that before…’
‘Before Frank?
Louanne frowned, ‘Frank is my friend, he thinks you are a bad person.’
Corin Cabrillo laughed, ‘I might be a bad person, but he is in love with me, you just cannot bear that can you, you little tramp?’
‘Frank is using you. He used all of us, just like Ronnie Weismann.’
Your manipulative bullshit, won’t cut it with me, little miss innocent, you carved up that old pervert to get to the diamonds, ’cept it didn’t get you anywhere, did it sweetheart?
‘I didn’t kill Ronnie.’
‘You expect me to believe that? Just like you didn’t kill that loud mouthed junkie Rudy Valentine?’
Louanne pouted, the merest hint of a frown shading her brow, ‘Rudy was a sweet person, he wouldn’t hurt anyone.’
‘Not anymore he won’t, now he’s down the county morgue. But that little rat would have shopped you to the cops in a heart-beat, if he thought it would get him anywhere, and that is why you had to kill him isn’t it?’
Louanne looked sulky. She toyed with her curls and surveyed the room, feeling now like she had made a mistake, a big mistake. ‘Frank said he would front me the money for the salon, if I helped him with the Costello thing, he told me he would make you pay for what you did to my sister.’
Corin Cabrillo reached inside her purse and pulled out a silver barreled .22 automatic. She gave Louanne a tight look. ‘You see Louanne that is your problem, you are just like your dumb-assed sister, you will believe anything won’t you?’
Louanne took a step backwards, her head spinning tight with the horror of the unfolding scene. She couldn’t believe that her oldest friend, someone she had known since childhood would murder her for money, but something in Corin’s eyes told her different. ‘He is playing us against each other, has been from the start, can’t you see that Corin?’
‘Who cares? Soon as I get my cut on the diamond job, Frank Rothstein is history.’
‘You will never get away with it Corin, Frank is big time connected. You screw with him, he will kill you, without a second thought.
‘Scary, real scary, but he will have to find me first.’ Corin Cabrillo raised the gun, pointing at Louanne’s heart, a cruel smile spreading across her face. ‘Once those big time connections back East find out what he has been up to, he will have big problems of his own—too big to be worrying about me.’
Martino sat in the Silverado, his stomach churning. The sound of the Saint’s voice assailing him a with a deathly whine, loading his mind with accusations and rebukes, telling him success didn’t come easy, never would unless he followed the plan. Martino figured the damn plan was
what got him in this mess to start off with. He wished to hell he was back in Berdoo, working his cozy little alarm company gig, for the East-side alarm crew. Life had been smooth, back then, playing make believe to anyone who took an interest, he was a working Joe like everyone else. Trouble was he was no working Joe, couldn’t be, even if he wanted in this economy. Hell, the whole world was wrong, everyone was working an angle, had to if they wanted anything more than table scraps in a little brown envelope at the end of the week. The only folks who could afford the luxury of the square-john world, were the big money hypocrites who’d landed the economy in the flusher to start off with. Martino felt the disconnect, as his stomach growled louder. The cold, bitter emptiness of a life that had led him to this dark hillside washed over him. Again the sound of the Saint’s whining voice assailing him from beyond death, twisted and manipulative, firing him up, with accusations of failure and promises of success… Those promises were nothing but talk, Martino knew that now—the cat had played him for a sucker, made him think that Rothstein was good for a big money pay-off, when really the guy had played them like chump-change hustlers. Martino hated being played for a fool. He hated being cheated. Bad thoughts ate into him like acid. His guts churned. He gripped the snub-nosed 45 tight, feeling it’s reassuring weight, cold in his grip. He rolled the window to get some air, but the heavy night offered no relief, just a cloying darkness and a haze of mist, swirling in from the ocean.
Martino peered into the night, straining to hear sounds on the distant road, hearing nothing but crickets vibrating in the night air. The agreed time was past due, and no sign of Rothstein. He cursed, slamming his hands on the dash with frustration. Why did it always end this way? Always chasing the big pay-off that never arrived. Martino held his grumbling stomach, trying to figure the last time he ate, not remembering, as a confusion of thoughts piled in on top of him. He looked out across the parking lot, staring blankly at the faux stone building that housed the public toilets. The building loomed out of the darkness, stirring feelings of resentment, as Martino pictured day-tripper tourists and happy-camper picnickers using its facilities. He gritted his teeth, figuring he could use the crapper himself, seeing as that chicken-shit Rothstein was a no-show. He climbed down from the Silverado and ambled across the parking lot, the hum of crickets mocking him from the darkness.
