Death by Sarcasm

Twelve

“He was a big guy,” Jimmy said, and spat out more blood and another tooth.

“Did you see the actual murder?” Mary asked.

“Nah, but…”

“Then how do you know who did it, moolie?” Braggs said.

Mary grabbed a handful of Braggs’ shirt. “Shut up with that crap.”

“Cuz he and Cooper were really goin’ at it, man.”

“What do you mean going at it?” Mary said. She heard the sound of sirens in the distance and shot a look at Braggs. “You mean like fighting?” she said to Jimmy. “In the alley?”

“During Cooper’s act, man. The guy was hecklin’ him somethin’ fierce.”

“A heckler killed him?” Braggs said. “Yeah, right. You can do better than that, Aunt Jemima.”

“But Cooper, man. That f*ckin’ guy had a nasty mouth. Almost as bad as yours,” Jimmy said, looking at Mary. “Cooper ripped that guy a new a*shole. The dude was a fat f*cker and Cooper went off on all these fat jokes. Christ, he had a million of ‘em. The guy couldn’t take it and finally left, the few people there was all laughin’ at him.”

“How come you didn’t tell the cops any of this?” Braggs said.

Mary looked at Braggs. How the hell could he know what was told to the cops and what wasn’t?

“No one asked,” Millis said. “‘Cept her,” he said, again looking at Mary.

“Do you know the big guy’s name?” Mary said.

“Nuh-uh,” Jimmy said. “But he’s a regular at all the comedy clubs. You can’t miss him. Sometimes he likes the attention, you know. Some of the guys like to make fat jokes about him and he don’t mind. Sorta likes the attention, the pathetic f*ck. But Cooper, man. He just went off on him.”

“What’s he look like? Other than being a big guy,” Mary said.

“Tall, too. Maybe 6’4”, 6’5”. Gotta be 350, 400 pounds, easy. Usually wears a suit and tie and a baseball cap.”

The sirens were closer and Mary looked at Braggs. “Give him something for the abuse, you racist a*shole.”

“What do you mean?” Braggs said.

“She means cash, Lawrence Welk-lookin’ muthaf*cka! ‘Less you want me to go tell the cops how you and your girlfriend here assaulted me. What are you,” he said to Mary. “One of Barker’s Beauties?”

“Shut up, Jimmy,” Mary said.

Braggs whipped out his wallet and was carefully selecting a bill. Mary reached in, grabbed a handful of fifties and shoved them into Jimmy’s shirt pocket.

“Hey…” Braggs said.

“What are you worried about?” Mary said. “Bill it to Visa.”

“Visa?” Jimmy said. “I thought I recognized that voice. You the Visa dude?”

Jimmy looked at Mary, then back to Braggs, then down the front of his shirt which was streaked with blood.

“Always hated those f*ckin’ commercials.”

Mary pulled the Accord into the parking lot of Chez Jay’s, a dive bar on Ocean with a legendary pedigree. Supposedly Steve McQueen had gotten a blow job from Allie McGraw in the infamous back booth. Now, it was mostly made up of tourists and business people from one of the many hotels across the street. The occasional star popped in, when they decided to go slumming.

She had told Braggs to meet her here as they both hurried to their cars, away from Jimmy bloody Millis and the encroaching sirens.

Mary’s hands shook as she shut the car off and thought about what Braggs had done. It had worked, she had gotten a good lead, but still. That strongarm bullshit rarely worked. And all that racist crap was just plain wrong. It sickened Mary. All that garbage typically got you a couple nights in jail, and if you were a p.i., a fond farewell to your license.

Headlights splashed across the painted mural on the cinderblock wall of Chez Jay’s. It was some kind of mermaid riding a wave.

Mary glanced over and saw Braggs behind the wheel of a sleek black Bentley 8, the two-door coupe that everyone who was anyone now drove in L.A. Mary shook her head. Figures. The sick thing was, Braggs fit the car perfectly.

She chastised herself. How could she not have seen Braggs tailing her from Aunt Alice’s to Donny B’s? That was sloppy and amateurish. The words made her grind her teeth. She got out and leaned against the back of her Accord. Braggs stepped out, set the alarm on the Bentley and walked over to her.

“I always liked this place. Did you ever hear that story about Steve McQueen…”

Mary stepped in front of him.

“I want you to close your Visa sounding piehole,” Mary said. “And listen to me.”

Braggs raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow.

“You will not follow me again,” she said. “You will not continue any active role in this investigation. You are my client. Not my partner. If you further impede my inquiries I will cease our business relationship and keep your retainer. And somewhere in there I may have to kick your liver-spotted ass.”

Braggs smirked at her. “I don’t think ‘impede’ is an accurate depiction of my contributions to the investigation thus far…”

“This is not open for debate.”

“Augment. Enhance. Improve,” Braggs said, ignoring her. “Those would be far better descriptions of my role…”

“Racist Jackass would be a far better description of you…”

Braggs held up one of his beautifully manicured hands. Mary guessed that he’d carefully wiped the blood off before he’d gotten into his car. Probably with a monogrammed silk handkerchief.

“Say no more, Ms. Cooper. I shall inconspicuously retreat into the scenery.”

Mary shook her head. He sounded like a Shakespearean trained actor. A few minutes back, he sounded like some nasty, racist cop from Serpico.

Mary turned and got back into her car.

As she was about to back out, Braggs rapped lightly on her window. She rolled it down.

“Are you sure you don’t want to have a drink?”

“Nah,” Mary said. “This place is for has-beens.”