Anthony Carrick Hardboiled Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3) Page 7

  “Mmm, that’s not very pleasant.”

  “Murder usually isn’t,” I said. “Do you think Stephen could’ve killed him?”

  “I suppose so. He wasn’t all that friendly to Lorenzo. Stephen is quite a strapping lad, but I imagine Lorenzo would give him a fight for his money. Stephen would have to be sober to pull something like that off.”

  Didn’t seem to be a fight from what I could tell. The only thing that tells me though, is either Lorenzo knew his attacker or it was a surprise. And it could have been both.

  “What about Maria?” He shook his head.

  “I don’t think so. I don’t think she would have known about Lorenzo’s million going to her if he died. Unless Max told her, but I doubt that. She and Lorenzo were pretty friendly from what I could tell whenever I’ve seen them together. And you’ve seen her. I don’t think she’d be capable of it. She’s petite. Lorenzo’s not.”

  “Fair enough.” I had a scowl on my face.

  “This doesn’t look too neat and clean and tidy for you does it?” I shook my head.

  “No it doesn’t. They usually aren’t but this one is some kind of special the way people are all screwing around with each other like some soap opera.”

  “Sorry I can’t be more helpful. Is there anything else?”

  “Yes actually. Vanessa told me that Max gambled a bit. Was that a problem?”

  “Well I guess it depends on what you consider a problem. If you can’t afford it I guess it’s a problem. But in this case I wouldn’t consider it a problem. Max was in for just over a quarter mill from what he told me.”

  “And was he telling the truth?”

  “Even if he wasn’t, I doubt he was in for more than a million. And considering the estate here, I don’t consider that a problem.”

  “Yeah but his bookie might’ve.”

  “Yes, but they’re not in the will so they’d have nothing to gain by killing him.”

  “Perhaps, but they could put the squeeze on a couple of other soft targets though. Like his wife or son, or maybe the brother. Do you know who the bookie is?”

  “No I’m afraid not. But I do know he was into horse racing. Spent a lot of time down at Bay Meadows. Check with his assistant Sulan. She’d probably have that info.”

  “You were going to tell me about the brother.”

  He leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms, craning his head towards the ceiling. I yawned. We both needed some action.

  “Walter is a down and out alcoholic. He’s used his brother too many times to mention. And Max keeps helping him out. I told him there was someone else who needed to be cut off. I think he was just enabling him. But he wouldn’t hear of it. Call Max what you will, but he was loyal and generous. If you’re going to ask me if Walter could’ve killed his brother I’d adamantly say no. He’s a feeble mouse of a man. And he’s wasted away from alcohol. A real skid row alcoholic who without Max’s help would be on skid row. He’s about fifty but looks a good ten years older than that. A very sad soul Anthony, very sad.”

  “Do you know where I can get in touch with any of these people? I’m thinking specifically of the son.”

  “Yeah, he’s in Echo Park someplace. Let me look.” He picked up his Blackberry off of the side of his desk and punched some buttons into it.

  “Here we go. Apartment 103, 62 Kensington Road. I’ll write it down for you. Apparently this is Jezebel’s place.” He wrote it down on a pad of paper and handed the sheet to me. It had the address and a telephone number. He also wrote down an address for Walter and telephone number to go with it. The sheet of paper also had Levin, Logan and Lundberg in nice gold type at the top with their telephone number. I wondered if it was real gold. Maybe it might be worth something. I didn’t care, I folded it up and pushed it into my trouser pocket.

  I got up to leave. I didn’t offer him my hand. I was tired of squeezing soft fish.

  “Thanks Luke, you’ve been real helpful,” I said.

  “I hope so,” he said as he walked me to the reception area. “I’ll see you on the thirtieth?”

  “I’d like that,” I said. “And bring a truckload of money.”

  “I just might.”

  With that I was out waiting by the elevator. I think the odds of him showing at the gallery were about three to one against. Those are just the average odds. Most people lie like that. They want to be kind. I wanted to sell some paintings. Hell, I’d settle for figuring out a murder right now. The elevator doors opened and I climbed in. I was alone. If I was going to visit strapping Stephen, high on heroin I figured I’d bring a friend. I decided I’d detour home first to pick up my Glock. Nothing helps you feel more centered than a few pounds of lead. I wanted to do the talking but I figured I could use another eye to keep a watch on things.

  SIX

  Ham Sandwich With Buddweiser

  I was still hungry when I got home. I had forgotten to pick up another bratwurst and I was cursing myself about it all the way home. Traffic had picked up a little bit over the lunch hour but I was in no rush and I decided to take the scenic route. The quiet route home. I finished Oliver Nelson’s CD and let it go onto repeat. It was turning into a bluesy kind of day.

  The sun was interrogating the whole of Los Angeles. I could take pointers. Nothing like blistering heat to wilt a man’s confidence. It was hot and humid but the haze was lifting. I was going to be hot in a jacket and I wasn’t sure if Stephen Ernst would have air conditioning down in Echo Park. One could hope. He did have over a million bucks. Maybe he’d splurge for Jezebel. The thing is, trolling around Echo Park or anywhere for that matter with a gat showing just wasn’t going to cut the right impression. It makes people a little nervous. It usually doesn’t open up doors. Literally. But then again that’s just been my experience. Now a nice jacket and hat gives a certain air of sophistication. Alternatively people think you’re eccentric in a harmless way. Though the fedora is making a comeback. You see some of the actor types donning one on to avoid the paparazzi. Or maybe to mask bed head. Either way, I was going to look stylish. You’ve got to impress young people nowadays. They’re all about the bling and the fashion. The façade not the substance. I was going to enjoy meeting Stephen. Nothing the world detests more than spoiled rich kids pretending to slum it.

  Pirate came to the door to greet me. He looked up at me and rubbed his fur all over my pants. I admired his tenderness for an alley cat. He was an old boy. Half blind, his one eye milky and opaque. I’d found him like that late one night when coming home form a job. He was limping and trying to hide against a fence in the alley. He was tattered and torn. There was blood all over his face and parts of his body. He had courage but he wasn’t a fighter. He was small and old. He still is small and he’s older. They figure about thirteen so the vet says. His ears are still tattered and missing little chunks, but his fur has come back nicely. He’s a tortoiseshell. A money cat, and being male extremely rare. That’s something else the vet told me. Maybe that’s why I like him so much. Just an abstract mess of colors. Like my paintings. I picked him up and carried him into the kitchen scratching his head and hearing him rattle the loose chain in his throat.

  “You hungry boy?” I asked him. There were only three little bits of dry food in his dog bowl. I put him down on a butcher’s block table so he could look out the window. There wasn’t much of anything going on. Maybe some birds flying by and thumbing their noses at him. His jaw cracked and his mouth stuttered.

  “Yeah you’re hungry all right.”

  I tossed a handful of dry food kibble in his bowl. He didn’t jump down to get it. I didn’t think that was the kind of food he was hoping for. I left him to watch the birds for a while. His mouth continued to stutter, making a strange cracking sound.

  “Have some food Pirate. Those birds aren’t for eating.”

  He ignored me. So I went to making myself a sandwich. A man who’s well fed is up for any challenge. And I figured things might start getting challenging in a while. I wo
ndered if I would have to deal with the mob. I didn’t like that. They didn’t play nice and you had to give them a little respect. If you didn’t, well you might find yourself shark bait with cement booties. That didn’t thrill me. Though Luke might have a point about them not worrying too much about his dough. But they could lean on Vanessa or even his kid. That would be more likely. And I suppose they could’ve killed him to lean on the kid. Jesus, this thing was complicated. And if all this was just for a quarter or half a million. Well, you’ve gotta wonder about people if that’s all it takes to do someone in. But first I’d go have a talk with Stephen. No point in getting into fisticuffs with the mob if I didn’t have to. Maybe the kid would be stoned and I’d be able to slap a confession out of him in no time. That’s where I have the upper hand on the cops. No worrying about silly rights for me. I can take a confession anyway from Sunday. Then I’d let the cops deal with the legalities of it. Doesn’t win me friends in the department. But it gets things done and my employers are happy. Not to say I slap people around for confessions. I don’t. I’m just more interested in the truth than in jurisprudence.

  I got myself some multi grain bread out of the freezer and put it in the microwave. I took out some tomato, lettuce, English mustard, ham and butter from the fridge. I love a good old fashioned ham and tomato sandwich. I took the bread from the microwave and put it in the toaster for a crunchier taste. I sliced the tomato thickly and tore off a couple of leaves of lettuce. I popped the toast and slathered one slice with butter. You had to get the butter melting or it just wasn’t the same. I slathered the other slice with mustard. I don’t mind hot mustard. I put the ham on the buttered slice topped with tomato. Then I tossed salt and pepper on the tomato and added the lettuce. The mustard covered slice came next and I cut it in half diagonally. This is how you have to do it. If you want it done right.

  I took a Heineken out of the fridge as I returned the tomato, lettuce, mustard and butter. I took everything into the dining room and sat down. I could hear Pirate jump down and start crunching his kibble. A chip of the old block. He didn’t have many teeth, but that didn’t seem to bother him. My daughter Aibhilin named him for me. And before you get your tongue all twisted pretend the ‘bh’ is a ‘v’. She thought he reminded her of Johnny Depp from Pirates of the Caribbean. It’s grown on me and with his tortoiseshell colors I can see the resemblance. A couple from down the hall were getting into their car outside. It was an old Honda Civic hatchback with two doors. Three if you count the hatch. Their car was also tortoiseshell. Rusted all over. Probably twenty years old. A good reliable car so I’ve heard.

  I finished my sandwich and downed my beer. I took everything to the sink and dumped it there. The maid, me, could deal with it later. I went into the bedroom and grabbed my underarm holster and tan jacket. I checked my Glock. The gun was loaded and ready to party. I looked in the closet mirrors. I needed a tie. I put on a dark blue one with thin yellow diagonal stripes. Dapper Dan, that’s me. Nothing like making a good first impression. I donned my fedora and walked out into the lounge. Blue tarpaulin was taking up a small corner where my paintings were. I’d rather be painting but had work to do first. I hoped Aibhilin was going to make it to the opening but I had my doubts. Twelve year old girls just don’t find their dads all that cool. I thought of ringing Racquel, the ex, but I didn’t feel brave enough. Had to head on out and steal some courage first. I took out the note Luke had given me. I flattened it out and read the address again. It was coming on one thirty and I’d probably be there in around a half hour. I figured on the ten towards downtown then the one ten towards Pasadena and the one oh one towards Hollywood was the quickest. Barring any road rage or traffic jams. I’d take my chances. With my gun under my arm, I felt pretty lucky.

  I figured I needed a little something else to listen to. I dug deep into my art school days and pulled out “Catch a Fire” by Bob Marley and the Wailers. I figured this would put me in the right mood. Sometimes I get a little antsy carrying my gat around and a big dose of mellow reggae gives you the Rasta man vibrations mon. I’ve got eclectic taste. I know. I’m not a music snob. If it makes you feel good I like it. Drives Aibhilin crazy. I cranked “Concrete Jungle”. How apropos. He must’ve come out to LA back in the day. This sure is a concrete jungle. But a pretty one. The haze gives it a mystical quality and the palm trees add that tropical touch. A lot of people don’t care for the City of Angels. But I love it. It isn’t my hometown but it might as well be. Angels guard this place and its denizens. The good ones anyway. The bad ones will be vanquished in time. This city has a charm that visits you only once you’ve settled in for a while. Too many people leave before that. On the ribbon rivers of concrete you can see that this city was born to be driven. Only they’ve never kept up. Now traffic’s like a swarming hive and noisy too.

  SEVEN

  A Punch To The Face Says Hello

  ECHO Park is an up and coming little enclave. A mixed bag of goodies. Folks like these bums I was going to visit. But artists and yuppies are trying to make inroads. If I was a betting man I’d say it’ll make it. But there’s work to do yet. You can see the effort by Echo Lake and the park around there. Stephen and Jezebel weren’t too far from it. But I somehow didn’t think I’d catch them making much use of the park. That’s a shame. Might clean them up.

  I pulled my car out front of the apartment complex. I pulled out my Glock and checked it again. Loaded and ready. You never know with addicts. They can get mighty squirrelly all of a sudden. The place was a white building with a brown roof in a u shape open to the road. It was the kind of building that hadn’t decided if it was going to be gentrified. It was putting up a half assed fight. And it showed. One oh three was down on the right hand side towards the end. There was a brown picnic table in the middle of the u-shaped bowl on grass that might’ve liked a little sip of water. Above me and closer to the road was a guy sitting out on a white lawn chair on his balcony. He had on paisley boxers and white legs with black wire for hair. His belly was covered tight by a wife beater and his right arm had a tattoo that I couldn’t read but figured might be a heart with “mom” on the inside. He was smoking a cigarette and as I looked at him I saw someone had squashed gray putty under both his eyes. If I wasn’t carrying I would have hightailed it out of there already. He was one scary dude. Especially as he got into a coughing fit and wheezed all the way back into his little hole.

  No one else was out. I stopped just before their apartment. A folding camp chair was out front by the door and an ashtray lay next to it. It hadn’t been emptied in months. The chair was faded and fraying on the ends and was sunken in like it was weary of carrying so much fat ass for so long. The window was closed. I cursed, the bugger hadn’t sprung for a/c. there was a television playing hardcore thrash metal on it. But it wasn’t hardcore thrash metal loud. He was already annoying me so I dug deep into my Rasta man vibrations for some calm. All I could reach was my gun. That’ll do at a time like this. Other than that this place was quiet. Almost morgue quiet. I smirked, this just might become one.

  The curtains were drawn and the door was closed. The number on the front was in a silver metal. It read ten E. The three had got tired and was hanging by its ankles upside down. Some things are so kitsch it’s almost cute. I knocked on the door. Rap a tap tap. I was a howdy-do-pleased-to-me you salesman. My fedora was on my head snugly. I heard a nice phlegmy cough and wondered what they’d do with that. I didn’t care to know. Sounded like a woman. The door opened up a crack to a skeletal face that had been mourning too long. Black mascara was blurred up all around the eyes and the eyes were bloodshot. Same color as the smear of lipstick on thin lips. Except the lipstick was on thick. She blinked at me a couple of times trying to focus. She was too high, couldn’t do it from that altitude. She didn’t say anything.

  “Howdy ma’am. I was just passing by and noticed that you folks don’t have any air conditioning.” I pointed my head and hands towards the closed window to my right. She blinked at me
a little more and opened her mouth a little. A bit of spittle like a stringy worm spanned the distance between lips. I figured maybe I needed to let my fingers do the talking but I didn’t know any sign language. I tried again.

  “It sure is a hot one out and folks like you I bet could use some nice cold air conditioning.” She was dressed in a tank top that floated over her skeletal frame. Her clavicle was deep enough to carry hangers and her upper arm was as thick as her wrist. She didn’t have any breasts from what I could see and I didn’t want to look too hard neither. Her hand wrapped around the open door edge had nails bitten down to the bed. A couple were topped with crusty blood. Her hand had a couple of bruises and older scars. The skin was splotchy with bad circulation. Her legs were shrouded in baggy track pants. But she wasn’t a runner. Still not a word. She closed her mouth to swallow and then opened it again. Damn spittle was still stretching away.

  “Ma’am, if you’d care to invite me in I’d like to talk to you about the great deals we’ve got on air conditioning right now. I’m with the Stone Cold Steve Austin air conditioning company,” not even a blink, “and we’ve got prices that just can’t be beat…”

  “Tell him to fuck off,” I heard a male voice behind her someplace say. That’s my boy. I gave the door a good shove and pushed her aside with my right hand. A guy at the end of the lounge area and off to my left got up out of an old brown florally printed recliner. He was pretty steady on his feet for seeing a guy come into his apartment uninvited. He was a tall fella. I’d put him at around six two or three, and he was in stocking feet. He came up to me pretty quick. He had a matching white tank top the same as his betrothed. He was wearing those hip knee long basketball shorts. They were blue with white stripes down the sides. He was muscled and sinewy. Hadn’t been an addict too long I figured. His skin was smooth. He was still a boy. My five o’clock shadow had more hair than his whole body. He telegraphed a right cross, way back from last week. I ducked under it and to the side and came in close to his right side and gave him an uppercut to his kidney with my left. He grunted and stumbled off. I came back with my left and planted a jab on his nose. It was softer than I thought. More like putty. Not so much like cartilage. He stumbled back again dropping his guard that he never had. I used to pray for openings like this. His face was a bull’s eye. I pictured an x on his lower right jaw. Keeping my left up and my chin down I crossed him right on that x. He took a step backwards before crumpling down to the floor and sliding down by the wall. His nose dribbled blood. Jezebel started to get up off the floor closer to the window. She staggered a bit like she’d been a couple of rounds with me. She saw Stephen blinking on the floor and trying to get up. She ran over to him. Blood was starting to dot his white tank.