Death by Sarcasm

Four

Photographs don’t lie. They deliver the truth. The truth in all of its naked glory, Mary thought, studying the spread of snapshots showing a beautiful woman and a handsome man riding each other like Brahma bulls at the county rodeo.

“Well,” her client said. He was an entertainment attorney, a very prominent one. Mary had been referred to him by one of her other clients. The entertainment industry was very compact. She had broken into the circle of lucrative clientele on a quiet case of kidnapping, divorce style. Mary had brought her client’s child back safe and sound, all without the press even getting a whiff.

Now, she watched as her current client studied the pornographic images of his wife and best friend, waiting for him to absorb the photograph’s contents. Mary had been a private investigator for well over ten years. Initially, she had thought about becoming a police officer, but after her criminology degree she took a job working for a local investigative service. She found the work interesting and despite the sometimes tedious stakeouts, rarely boring. And since her time in the field, she’d seen it all. Including plenty of clients faced with a cheating spouse. They all reacted differently. It took some folks longer, some of the brave ones faced it right away. She sensed this guy wouldn’t waste time.

Her client gave a bitter smile. “She said she was taking night classes,” he said.

Mary nodded. “Well, she’s certainly studying anatomy right here,” she said, tapping one of the photos.

Her client went pale, and Mary silently cursed herself. It had just slipped out, but that was the problem. They were always slipping out. Besides, she had just been reminded of some infidelity in her own life. Jake and his boss. Mary had taken that about as well as this guy was taking it.

“You were highly recommended,” the man said. “Your discretion, loyalty and tenacity were called second to none.” His face was pale and an edge crept into his voice. “Your bedside manner, however, was not listed as one of your strong suits. I see why.”

A couple comments popped into her head, mostly about bedside manner, but this time, she didn’t let them slip out.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She couldn’t tell if he really believed she meant it, but she did. She just didn’t know how to tell him. Like her bedside manner, ‘opening up’ wasn’t one of her strong suits. “This probably won’t help, but you know it’s rarely about the spouse,” Mary said. “Usually they’re looking for something that’s lacking inside themselves.” Mary thought about what she’d just said. What was Jake lacking? Besides a f*cking backbone.

“It’s okay,” her client said, looking again at the photographs. “How disgusting. Clive and I play basketball together.”

Clive clearly preferred going one-on-one with Beverly, but Mary didn’t offer that up for discussion. It was a rare moment of self-editing.

“I know it isn’t easy,” she said. It always went this way. Cuckolded spouses, both male and female, always focused on the friend or the neighbor or the co-worker. Rarely ever the cheating spouse. Probably to distract them from the depth of the true betrayal.

Her client stood, took out his checkbook and scribbled out a check. He ripped it off with a controlled fury and dropped it onto her desk.

“Thank you,” he said. “I trust you’ll save those if litigation becomes necessary.”

“Absolutely,” Mary said. Sometimes they wanted a copy of the pictures to brood over while getting shitfaced. Some couldn’t wait to get away from them.

Mary cleared her throat. “If you know of anyone looking for a private investigator, please feel free to recommend me.” She hated doing the sales pitch, but it was a necessity of the trade.

“Of course,” he said, and walked out the door.

Mary wondered. That had sounded a little sarcastic.

Mary locked the photographs in her safe, then drove directly to the Leg Pull. There was still just enough daylight for Mary to get a good look at the place. In the sunlight, the club looked like a hungover version of itself: pale, tired and vaguely ill.

She didn’t bother to go back to the alley for another look, nothing back there but bad endings. There was a part of her that wanted to wait, to get a little more perspective on the death of her uncle before she dove into the investigation. But that wasn’t good investigative work. So despite the fact that the anger and hurt were still raw inside of her, she forged ahead. There would be plenty of time for contemplation later.

A bored waitress told her where she could find the club’s owner/manager. She walked back to the office, her shoes occasionally making sticking sounds on the wood floor.

The door to the office was open and Mary saw a slim bald man with a pencil thin moustache. He had on silk pants, a wrinkled silk shirt and cologne that could double as a pesticide, which probably made a lot of sense in this dump.

There was a cheap desk sign, probably from Rite-Aid, letting visitors know the manager’s name was Cecil Fogerty. He reminded Mary of Al Pacino’s brother in The Godfather.

“What’s up Fredo?” she said.

He looked at her blankly.

“I’m Mary Cooper,” she said. “I want to talk to you about the murder last night.”

He looked her up and down, without shame.

“Cooper? Did you say your name’s Cooper?”

“You can hear.”

“What are you, Brent’s daughter?”

“I’m actually his pimp,” Mary said. “I want to find out who destroyed my property. They owe me at least three tricks’ worth.”

He gave a weird little laugh that sounded like rodents scurrying behind a wall.

“Nah, you’re related to Brent, I can tell,” he said. His little eyes shone with the pride of his intellect.

“Actually, Columbo, I’m his niece.”

“Niece, huh? He never talked about you.”

Mary looked around Cecil’s office. Tiny, cramped, and the walls filled with photos of celebrities you just couldn’t quite place. Mary tried not to notice the smell of Cecil’s horrible cologne combined with stale cigars and body odor. And she tried not to think about this place being the last stop, the end of the line for Uncle Brent.

“Yeah, well I didn’t really talk about him a whole lot, either,” she said. “At least, until he got slaughtered behind your club.”

Cecil didn’t know what to say so Mary filled the void. “Why don’t you tell me what you know.”

“So you’re not a cop, right?” Cecil said, stroking his moustache. The little eyes were shining again.

“No, I’m a member of the SWAT team,” Mary said. “I’m a Polynesian princess. I’m a hostess at The Ivy. It doesn’t matter what I am. I’m just a grieving niece with an attitude and not a lot of patience.”

Cecil sat at attention. “Jesus, you are Brent’s niece, aren’t you? You don’t have to get nasty, though,” he said, waving his hands in an attempt at placating her. “Look, I booked him for some of the early slots, you know, sort of as a favor.”

Mary took a deep breath. How far had Brent fallen that he needed favors from a shit stain like Cecil Fogerty?

“Why would you do that?” she said.

“I owed him.”

Mary raised her eyebrows, indicating he should continue.

“Well, you know,” Cecil stammered. “Brent was pretty good with the ladies.”

Mary had known that. Uncle Brent was caustic. He used his sarcasm to hurt people. Mary had never bought into that. She believed in the power of humor to unite, not divide. But despite all that, she had heard that her Uncle Brent was quite the ladies’ man. If there was something she could feel good about, it was that Brent probably had one helluva good time before he checked out for good.

“Frankly, I’m shocked you might have needed some help with women,” Mary said. “I figured you’d tested more mattresses than Serta.”

Cecil looked at her and Mary could tell he wasn’t sure if it was a legitimate compliment or a whole hearted rip.

“Well…” he said, unsure if a modest agreement or honest denial was in order.

“So he helped you score,” she said, urging him on and desperately trying not to picture him naked.

“You’re pretty blunt, aren’t you?”

“Nah, I’m as delicate as Ming vase,” she said. “So get to the part about Uncle Brent helping you with a booty call.”

If sheepishness could be personified, Cecil Fogerty was now it. “Anyway,” he said. “I let Brent and his buddy come in, do their thing, and I’d slip Brent like, a hundred bucks, maybe two hundred depending on the size of the crowd and how his stuff went over.”

Mary let out a low whistle. “Two hundred bucks, huh?” she said, knowing it was probably only half that. “How do you keep this place running handing out that kind of dough?”

“Between Brent and the bar, it was a wash,” Cecil said. “But like I said…”

“You owed him,” Mary finished.

Cecil shrugged his shoulders in compliance.

“So you said ‘Brent and his buddy.’ What’s the buddy’s name?”

“No clue – never met him. I hired Brent.”

For once, Cecil took his eyes off Mary’s body. That’s how she knew he was lying.

“Ah, the truth has such a nice ring to it,” Mary said.

Cecil gave her a blank stare.

It pissed her off. Her uncle was dead. Had been cut open a stone’s throw from this shithole of an office, and guys like Cecil Fogerty were still walking around.

“So you don’t even know his name. You let a comic onstage, without even knowing anything about him at all? Never saw him do some material? Come on. I’m not as stupid as you look,” she said.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “I hire the guys, I don’t follow them home after they do their sets,” Cecil said, feigning exasperation. He looked at Mary, let his eyes run up and down her body. “Maybe I could come up with something…you know…if you want to have a drink with me.” He smiled at her. Mary shuddered.

“Well, that’s really tempting, Cecil, really tempting,” she said. She felt the bile rise in her throat, but she forced it back down. “I bet you could put that little ‘stache of yours to good use, couldn’t you?”

Cecil grinned like he’d hit the MegaBall jackpot.

“We have a few drinks, I show you around the upstairs, where I’ve got this cool suite…” he started to say.

Mary paused for just a moment. She could let him buy her a drink, finesse a few more stories about Brent out of him. Maybe even let him take her up to his suite for just a moment if she felt he had more information. She thought about that for just a moment and then pulled her stainless steel ParaOrdnance .45 from her shoulder holster. She took out a handkerchief from her front pocket and wiped down the body of the gun, casually, as if she were cleaning her eyeglasses.

“I hate dust. I really ought to do more than just a surface cleaning, though. I really ought to fire a few rounds, then give it a good cleaning.’

She looked up at Cecil. “You got anything around here I could shoot?”

“This isn’t necessary…” he started to say.

“Let me ask you something, Cecil,” Mary said. “Do you think if I shot you in the head, and then pried open your skull, I would see the name of this comedian? The name you’re keeping from me? Or would a bullet damage the name? Maybe I should shoot you in the space where a heart normally would be, then find another way in.” She snapped her fingers. “I’ve got a Sawzall at home! A DeWalt!”

Mary could practically see the little moustache fibers on Cecil’s face twitching in fear.

“This gun is a ParaOrdnance .45. High-capacity. Holds 14 rounds plus one in the chamber. But what I love most are the sights. They’re called 3-dots. See them?” She pointed the gun directly at Cecil’s face. “When they’re all neatly lined up, I can’t miss.”

Cecil backed away from her. “Okay, okay! Talk to Jimmy G! Jimmy knows that kind of shit,” he said, his voice high and whiny. “I swear to God I don’t know any names or locations or anything. I just pay the guys. Jimmy G will be on tomorrow at four. I promise. Tomorrow at four he’ll be here. He’ll be able to tell you.”

Mary slid the .45 into her shoulder holster. Cecil rubbed his upper lip where the gun had nearly pressed against him.

“You sure know how to get a man excited,” Cecil said, massaging his moustache.

Mary let her eyes run up and down his body, just like he’d done to her.

“Hotties like you just bring it out in me,” she said.

You know it’s bad when you step outside in L.A. and breathe in the air like it’s fresh and clean. But that’s what Mary did now. She should buy a nasal inhaler to use after visiting places like Cecil’s office. Rinse the smell out of the nostrils.

She tried to mentally cleanse herself of Cecil Fogerty. At this point, she wanted to go back to her apartment and maybe take a long shower. Watch a movie. Forget about places like this for a little while.

But when she got to the Buick, she stopped, her breath momentarily caught in her throat. Her hand on its own volition traveled to the butt of her .45.

And then she counted the bullet holes in the Buick’s windshield. There were six. A 9mm or .357 perhaps. Were they from the same gun that was used to kill Uncle Brent?

She felt unusually light in her stomach, and she turned and did a 360 degree turn. There was no one anywhere near the car. She reflexively checked rooftops or open windows for the barrel of a rifle. But she saw nothing.

Mary felt the anger rise again. She gritted her teeth. And then she walked closer to the car and read the note tucked underneath a piece of the windshield.

Stop – or the next joke is on you.