Death by Sarcasm

Twenty

Mary woke up in her own apartment. But only because she had insisted that she do so. The night had been wonderful. Good food. Great conversation. But more importantly, hard muscles, strong thighs and stiff flesh. She had been made a woman again. It had been too long. She’d forgotten how good good sex could be.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and looked at the stack of files in front of her. But her mind went back to Chris McAllister. Mary had never slept with anyone that soon – it was only the second time she’d talked with him. A part of her felt guilty and ashamed. A part of her told her she was middle-aged and that those kind of rules no longer applied.

She felt a small shudder when she considered that she could end up like those three nymphomaniacs who had supplied Uncle Brent with his Viagra.

Oh my, though, what a lover Chris McAllister was. Patient. Loving. But aggressive when she’d wanted him to be. They had meshed instantly and long into the night. Emphasis on long, Mary thought, and then giggled.

She was bad.

A bad girl.

She smiled.

Being a bad girl was clearly underrated.

She shelved her thoughts of carnal pleasures and called Braggs. She got his voicemail.

“Braggs, it’s Mary Cooper,” she said. “Change your message, you sound like one of those godawful announcers for the tractor pull.” She growled her voice. “Sunday! Sunday! Sunday! Get ready for the Monster Truck Rally-”

“Whitney Braggs here,” he said, cutting her off.

“Put down the Brylcreem and meet me at Alice’s. You can finish your French pedicure later.”

“It seems you think I’m a bit of a dandy.”

“Perish the thought, Princess. Just meet me there in ten minutes.”

“Affirmative.”

“Shut up, Braggs.”

Silence.

“Tell your old cronies to dust off the mothballs and meet us there, too.”

“Ah yes,” he said. “The ‘old gang’ as it were. I’ll get them there as absolutely soon as possible.”

“And tell them if they have any old pictures, mementos, letters, to bring them, too. Ixnay on anything pornographic.”

“They’re not those kind of men, Mary.”

“I was talking about you.”

They filed in like a parade of Hollywood glamour gone bad. Faces too tan. Or too pale. Bodies too thin. Or too flabby. Teeth too white. Or too yellow. If there were teeth at all.

Braggs introduced each new arrival to Mary, and gave her a brief rundown of their background. Mary recognized most of them from Margaret Stewart’s files. Mary noted each one as they were introduced, adding their faces to her mental Rolodex.

Jason Prescott. Really tall. 6’6” easy. Former stand-up comic turned MC of old folks comedy shows.

Mark Reihm. Average looking except for the severe acne scarring on his face. A gray buzz cut heightened the disastrous effect.

Franklin Goslyn. A chubby little bowling ball of a man.

Todd Castro. A white-haired, dark-skinned guy light on personality, heavy on horrible cologne. Most likely purchased at Marshalls, TJMaxx or Ross Superstores.

Eventually, the names, faces and handshakes, hugs bordering on ass grabs were over and Mary got down to business.

“All right,” she said to the assembled group. “We’ve got work to do, fellas. You guys can jerk each other off later.”

The group slowly quieted down.

“Nice hooters!” a voice shouted out. Chuckles and guffaws filled the air.

“Save it for your Inflate-A-Mate.” Mary said. Maybe she was in a good enough mood to joke about it because she’d had some great sex last night. A lot of great sex.

More laughter followed Mary’s comment.

“Now that’s what I call ‘junk in the trunk’!” one of the old men said.

“Baby got back, front, top and bottom!” another guy said.

“That’s some quality material guys,” Mary said. “I can’t believe no one else noticed your unique talents.”

Braggs, sitting in the front, turned back and gave the stinkeye to the rabble rousers. They quieted down and Mary used the opportunity to lay out the files of the five people she had failed to identify.

“Look, she’s spreading herself out,” a voice said.

“Right on the table?”

“Giddyup!” Someone added the sound of horse hooves. Clip clop, clip clop.

Mary picked up the first file, ignoring the barely concealed laughter.

“Martin Gulinski,” she said, and held up the first file.

“Farty Marty!”

“He’s been dead for ten years, and while he was alive, he smelled like he’d died ten years ago!”

Mary took out a pen and sighed.

“As much as I enjoy the colorful commentary,” she said. “Let’s try to stick to dead or alive, current whereabouts, next of kin.”

“He changed his name,” this from a guy sitting in the middle of the group. He sort of looked like Mickey Rooney. “Gulinski was too ethnic. He thought he wasn’t getting work because of it. So he changed it to Gulls and then got cancer and died. Should’ve stuck with Gulinski.”

“He had children,” another man added. “I think in Portland. He could never figure out why they were black kids. Looked just like the UPS man.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “The kids. Boys or girls?”

“Two boys, I think.”

Mary wrote down “Gulinski,” and “Portland.” She’d look the sons up and call them, try to confirm that their father was indeed, dead. She’d leave the flatulence part out.

Next file.

“Marie Stevens,” she said.

“Dead!”

“She’s not dead. She just disappeared.”

“OD’d in the Seventies.” This was from Braggs.

“She was always a partier,” another guy added. “I think I tapped that.”

“You couldn’t tap a quarter barrel, Roger.”

“Children?” Mary said.

“Thank God no. The Devil’s Spawn. She was crazy.”

“Where was she from?”

“Wisconsin.”

“Texas.”

“She wasn’t from anywhere else. She was from here. A native.”

“No way! Marie was crazy! You couldn’t believe a word she said.”

“Family?” Mary asked.

“No way,” a man said. “She was too ‘out there.’ I think she probably didn’t have family – that’s why there’s nothing on her.”

“Pauper’s Grave, probably.”

“You know what they call dead bodies in L.A.?” a guy in the back called out.

“What?”

“Studio audiences!”

Mary tried to keep her patience.

“Jesus Christ, you guys don’t know anything,” a guy standing near the doorway to Alice’s kitchen said. “Marie’s buried at Forest Hills, for f*ck’s sake. Harvey Mitchell paid for the whole thing. The burial and stuff.”

“Where is that bastard anyway?” someone said. “Is he at the proctologist again or is he just too good for us?”

“The procto’s – he goes every day!”

Mary wrote down the ‘Forest Hills’ next to Marie Stevens’ information.

She pulled out the next file.

“Matthew Bolt.”

“Fatty Matty!”

“He’s in the union. An electrician or something.”

“That f*ck couldn’t change a light bulb!”

“Hey, how many proctologists does it take to change a light bulb?”

Silence.

“As soon as he takes his finger out of my ass I’ll ask him!”

Again with the proctologist gag, Mary thought. No wonder these guys were bagging groceries at the Albertson’s.

Mary wrote down “Union electrician” next to Matt Bolt’s name.

The next file.

“Betty Miller.”

“Ready Betty!”

Too bad nicknames weren’t a lucrative industry, Mary thought. These guys would have been rich.

“Man she was great,” said the Castro guy. With all the cologne. “You could always count on Betty for a good screw. At one party she did like six or seven guys.”

“Yeah, in six or seven minutes.”

“Speak for yourself, Speedy Shot,” Castro shot back.

“She moved back to New York,” someone added. “Got married. Did some plays. Got really fat and died of a heart attack, I think.”

“Anyone know her married name?” Mary said.

“She married a poor Jew. Didn’t know there were any in New York.”

“Guy’s name was Schneider.”

“If you find her,” one old man advised Mary. “Lift her up and check underneath – he might be squished.”

Mary wrote down “New York” and Betty Schneider, left out the squished bit.

“Last one,” Mary said, and picked up the remaining file.

“David Kenum.”

There was silence.

“No cool nicknames,” Mary said. “Vapid David? Venom Kenum?”

The men stared back at her.

Finally, Braggs spoke for the group.

“That guy’s bad news,” he said. A low whistle followed his comment.

“Don’t follow up on that one, unless you want to go out to Chino.”

“A regular Boy Scout, huh?” Mary said.

“Well, he sure knew how to use a knife,” one of the men said. “He cut up a woman one night. Raped her. Murdered her. Claimed his doctor gave him the wrong medication.”

“Anyone know if he’s still alive?” Mary said.

“Doubt it.”

“That his real name? David Kenum?”

“Far as we know,” one of the men said.

“You know, he didn’t get life,” the tall guy said. Prescott was his name.

“Why not?”

“The whole medication thing.”

“What’d he get?”

“Something like 80 years.”

“I heard he didn’t have to serve it all, though.”

“How would you know?”

Prescott looked solemnly around the room.

“I heard he got out last week.”