Death by Sarcasm

Nine

“You sure that’s all you want, baby? Information?”

Mary leaned against the door frame of the dressing room, if you could call it that, behind the stage at the Leg Pull. Cecil, the manger, hadn’t lied to her about when the comedian who might know the identity of Brent’s ‘friend’ would be performing.

She looked at Jimmy Millis, a fifty-ish black guy wearing a glittery shirt and shiny black pants. A half a bottle of Jheri Curl had to be in his hair.

“Liberace know you’re wearing his shirt?” she said.

She had come directly from her office where she’d tied up some loose ends on another case, filed paperwork and cleared her e-mail. She’d also tried to erase from her memory banks the X-rated information she’d received from the three Senior Nymphs at Palm Terrace. It wasn’t an easy thing to do.

After she left the office she came over once more to the Leg Pull to try to find out more information about Uncle Brent’s partner. When she pulled up to the place, she vowed that once Brent’s killer was locked up or dead, Mary would never come anywhere near the Leg Pull ever again.

Now, the Liberace comment had hit home and Jimmy’s eyes went wide in feigned shock. “Whoooeee!” he said. “That is some kinda mouth you got. Naughty, naughty, naughty.”

“Naughty? Let me guess, now you’re going to ask me if I need a spanking. Come on, if you’re not funny, try at least to be original.”

The comedian gave her a big smile. “You sure are quick, baby! I like that!”

“I really appreciate that, Jimmy. High praise. I really respect your opinion,” Mary said. “Now I’d like to make this quick, too. Brent Cooper.”

Jimmy’s eyes went wide again. “That guy got stabbed out back? What about him? Not me – I’m a lover not a fighter – you git my gist, baby?”

“You know anything about the guy he was performing with that night?” Mary said. “Your boss Cecil said you knew everyone.”

“Shit.”

“According to Cecil, you’re a regular gossip hound.”

“That f*cking bitch!” Jimmy said. “Who does he think he is labeling me, like that?” His voice had risen a couple of octaves. “No one labels me! Goddamn, I’d like to kick his ass one of these days.”

“Ease up there, Macho Man.”

“You makin’ fun of me?”

“No, I’m being sincere. Just tell me who he is or where he is, I don’t care which.”

Jimmy looked at her. “You like my shirt?”

Mary debated about pulling out the .45 again, but decided against it. You can do that only so many times before someone lodges a complaint. So she said, “I love your shirt. I’ll stop by Radio City Music Hall and ask the Rockettes if I can borrow one of theirs so we can match.”

“That’s how it’s gonna be, huh?” he said. “Tell you what. Ordinarily I’d let a pretty little lady like you buy me a couple drinks first. But since I go on in about ten minutes, I don’t think I should be partaking in any of that nice booze out there. So why don’t you just give me some of that cash riding on that sweet ass of yours and I’ll buy myself a couple shots after the show. I’ll even toast you. That’s how Jimmy rolls, baby.”

Mary sighed and pulled out a twenty. She held it in the air.

“Let me hear something other than all those crackling sequins,” she said.

Jimmy snorted. “A*shole’s name is Barry Olis,” he said. “Some old, un-funny geezer lives over at the Vista Del Mar apartments on Venice. Only reason I know that is because he’s got some lame-ass joke in his routine about it.”

Mary let the twenty dollar bill slip from her fingers and it feathered down to the floor.

“Add that to your wardrobe budget.”

Vista del Mar. View of the ocean, or Oceanview, in Spanish. Not quite, Mary thought. More like Vista del Gas Station. Or Vista del Winos and Liquor Stores.

She parked the Accord and went to the apartment complex’s lobby, if you could call it that. It was more like a combination phone booth and port-a-potty. Small, dirty and home to a few mystery puddles that looked like Apple Pucker after it’d been processed through someone’s oversized liver.

Jeez, Mary thought. Uncle Brent’s place was like Camelot compared to this shithole.

She was surprised to see the name Olis listed on one of the mailbox slots. #312. Mary looked around but didn’t see an elevator so she opened the door marked STAIRS and took them up. On the first landing, a man lay sprawled in his own vomit.

“That’s okay, don’t get up,” Mary said as she passed him by. The man moaned and gargled at the same time. The smell made Mary hold her breath until she reached the third floor, which was the top floor at the Vista del Mar.

As Mary opened the door and began walking down the hallway toward 312, she thought about Barry Olis. The name didn’t ring any kind of bell with her, but this was Hollywood. Uncle Brent had met and known untold numbers of people as a comedian and writer. There were probably hundreds of names she’d never heard of. Mary wondered if Uncle Brent had known this Barry guy recently or if they were old friends. Hopefully, this Barry had seen anything that had happened the night Brent was murdered. As of right now, there still weren’t any real witnesses.

Mary finally came to Apartment 312. Farther down the hall, she heard a door slam and someone shout. She put her right hand inside her sportcoat on the butt of her .45. With her left hand, she reached up and knocked.

The door gave a little under her knock, and she saw that not only was the door unlocked, it wasn’t even latched shut. She looked both ways down the hall before taking her .45 all the way out of her shoulder holster. She pulled the slide and disengaged the safety.

“Hello?” she said. “Anyone home? Culligan Man!”

Again with her left hand she reached up and gave a very gentle knock. The door creaked inward and in a flash, Mary saw the thin wire stretched across the opening and she dove to her left as a bright flash blinded her and then a tremendous roar filled her ears. She felt herself lifted off the floor and then smashed into something hard.

For just a moment, she wondered if she looked just like the guy passed out in the stairwell.

And then she didn’t wonder anymore.

“I always knew I’d see you in bed again soon.”

Mary opened her eyes, despite the crushing headache that made her grind her jaws. She was on a rolling bed in an ambulance, parked outside the Vista del Mar. Jake Cornell looked down at her, a look of bemusement on his face. It made her head hurt even worse.

“And I knew you’d have to knock me unconscious to do it,” she said. Ooh, it hurt to talk, too. She ran a quick inventory up and down her body and discovered that just about everything ached.

“The blast knocked you backward and you hit your head on the fire extinguisher hanging on the wall,” Jake said. “You were lucky. It could have been a fire axe instead. But your head is so hard, it wouldn’t have mattered.”

Mary thought of a couple comebacks, but it hurt too much to actually say them.

“What’s your head made out of, anyway? Pewter?” Jake said.

Mary groaned and struggled to sit up. The pain actually lessened once she was up, but now she felt sore ribs, too. When she looked up, what she saw next really hurt.

Lieutenant Arianna Davies now stood next to Jake. The Shark apparently smelled blood.

“Let me guess,” Davies said. “You were here dropping off hand-knit scarves for the elderly.”

Mary turned to the paramedic who was next to her, closing up his medical kit. “Do you have anything in there that will make her go away?” she said, nodding toward the Shark. The paramedic pretended not to hear her.

“You really don’t want to keep your p.i. license do you, Cooper?” Davies said. “I told you to stay away from this case.”

“Well, maybe you should sign me up for the same obedience course you put him through,” Mary said, nodding toward Jake.

“Why were you here, Mary?” Jake asked. He tried to put it gently, but Mary still hated him for asking anyway. Traitor.

“Deadbeat Dad case I’m working on,” she said. “Supposedly the guy was hiding out here. Turns out he has a psychotic daughter.” She turned to Davies. “Your Mom hired me to find him.”

“Not funny,” Davies said.

“In Apartment 312?” Jake asked.

“Deadbeat Dads don’t put their names on their mailboxes, Jake. You’ll learn that when you become a detective.” Jake’s face flashed red, and for a moment, Mary felt bad, which surprised her. She didn’t want to hurt him, just sting him a little. And she really didn’t want to f*ck up his career.

“Ever heard of a man named Barrymore Olis?” Davies said. “Barry Olis to his friends?”

“I know an Oily Boris, but not a Barry Olis.”

“Well, there was a body in 312, and the apartment belonged to a Barry Olis,” Davies said.

“Excellent deduction, detective,” Mary said.

Jake pulled out a sheet of paper. “Any idea what this means?” But before Mary could answer, the Shark snatched the paper from Jake’s hand.

“Let’s get information, Detective Cornell,” Davies said. A hard edge to her voice that perfectly complemented her entire being. “Not give it. We’re all done here,” she said. The Shark turned her full attention on Mary. “Stay away from me, Cooper. This is your last warning. You turn up at another one of my crime scenes and I’ll run you out of town like the obnoxious jerk you are.”

The Shark stormed off with Jake in tow.

“Thanks for coming!” Mary called after them.

But it didn’t matter. She didn’t really care what the Shark threatened to do. She’d gotten a good look at that sheet of paper in Jake’s hand. A part of her wanted to believe that Jake had done it on purpose, to give her the information but make it look like he’d done it accidentally. Her heart lightened a little bit and she almost smiled. He was smarter than Davies, that was for sure. Hopefully, she’d find that out one day, in a bad way.

Mary had seen that piece of paper, and she had read it. So she knew what she had to do.

It had been three little words. But words that tied this murder into Uncle Brent’s.

The note had been in big block letters.

He really bombed.