Total Sarcasm (Mary Cooper Mysteries #1, #2, #3) Page 6

  “Jimmy Miles,” she said. “Where is he?”

  “Here we go again,” Cecil said. His voice actually shook a little and his chest caved back in.

  “Is that your breath or are we standing over an open sewer?” Mary said.

  Cecil gritted his teeth. “I have very active glands,” he said. “It’s not fair of you to make fun of something I can’t control.”

  Mary reached up and grabbed the front of Fogerty’s shirt. The bartender looked over as well as a cocktail waitress who had reappeared from the back room.

  “Tell me,” Mary said.

  “I don’t know,” Fogerty said through clenched, yellowed teeth. “Go look in one of those Comedy Club flyers – it shows where everyone is. He’s probably listed in there.”

  Mary nodded. “That’s a good idea. But since you know the clubs, you could probably find it much faster than I could. Go.”

  She pushed him away from the bar.

  “Then will you leave and never come back?” Fogerty said, and walked over to the pile of thin newspapers. He picked one up, then mumbled under his breath. “Maybe go get some horrible disease and die a miserable death?”

  “Stop trying to sweet talk me,” Mary said.

  He flipped through the pages, scanning them quickly. Mary took a look around. The place was mostly empty. She pictured her Uncle Brent here, waiting to go on stage for his final performance. She hoped he had gotten at least a few laughs.

  “Donny B’s,” Fogerty said. “On Sunset in West Hollywood. Okay?”

  “Even though I trust you implicitly, show me,” Mary said. Fogerty held open the paper and Mary saw Jimmy Miles’ name in the rectangle for Donny B’s. She took the paper and headed for the door.

  “Please don’t come back,” Fogerty said.

  “Don’t wait up for me, honey,” Mary answered.

  Twenty-Three

  Mary had figured the Leg Pull was at the bottom rung of the comedy club ladder.

  She was wrong.

  Donny B’s was under the ladder, down a manhole cover, on par with the sewer lines. Small, dirty, and nearly empty, Donny B’s looked less like a comedy club and more like a dive biker bar even hobos would be embarrassed to frequent.

  Jimmy Miles was on stage. Mary checked her watch. According to the flyer he was most likely in the middle of his set. She sat at the bar and ordered a beer. In a bottle. She swiveled on her stool and took in Jimmy’s act.

  “And you know what else I love about black women?” he said. All nervous energy on the stage. “It’s okay to insult them. Just don’t do it in their house!” He waved his finger in front of him and raised his voice up a pitch or two. “You gonna say that to me in my house? You got another thing comin, girl!” There was chuckle or two from the audience, Mary thought. Well, just one.

  “So I can call you a ho’ as long as I stand on the front steps and don’t actually come in the house?” Jimmy said. This time, he was met with dead silence.

  Mary turned away from the carnage and took a drink of her beer. She thought about what had happened. Uncle Brent murdered. Barry Olis murdered. One attempt on her life. And a message conveyed by somebody shooting up her Buick.

  Robbery certainly wasn’t a motive. The only drugs involved were Viagra. So why the hell would somebody want to murder a couple of washed up comedians? It made no sense. Was the killer just after the Coopers? Did Barry Olis become a collateral victim? Mary went through the case again but there was nothing. Nothing she’d missed anyway. But you never knew. You had to just keep plugging away.

  Mary took another pull of her beer and glanced up as a smattering of applause broke out. Jimmy Miles stepped off the stage, wiping his sopping wet face. Nothing makes you sweat like dying on stage, Mary thought.

  Jimmy headed straight for her. How could he not, she thought. She stuck out of the crowd so badly, she might as well have been phosphorescent.

  “So now you’re going to buy me that drink, baby?” Jimmy said, and plopped onto the bar stool next to her.

  “Sure, what the hell,” Mary said. “You must be thirsty after all that hilarity.”

  “Yeah, I remember you,” he said. “The one that’s always got something to say.” The bartender set a beer in front of Jimmy.

  “Here’s to silence,” Mary said and clinked Jimmy’s bottle.

  She watched him drain half the beer in three big swallows. “So now that I’ve bought you a drink,” she said. “Why don’t you tell me who paid you to send me off to Vista del Mar?” she said. Mary watched his reaction closely and recognized the briefest flash of surprise in his eyes. He recovered quickly.

  “Hell no!” he said. “Nobody told me to send you over there! You one of them conspiracy theory people? Aliens landed and shot Kennedy?”

  “Ah, the beauty of true words being spoken.”

  “Don’t give me that shit,” he said. “I’m serious. That old dude told me where he lived, like he wanted me to come over and grill some hot dogs with him or somethin’. Maybe he’s into handsome black dudes. Can you blame the poor bastard? Shit.”

  Mary let it all go by. “Now, Jimmy. I hate to point out your blatant lies…”

  “Hush your mouth!” he said.

  “…but the first time I asked you where the old guy lived you told me it was part of his act,” she said. “You said that’s how you knew where he lived. Remember?”

  “No.”

  “Now you’re telling me something different. That this old guy told you where he lived, as opposed to it being part of his act. So which one is it? Which one is the truth?”

  “I hate to disappoint a pretty lady,” he said. “But you’re barking up the wrong tree, baby.” He took a long drink from his beer and set it back down on the bar, empty. He stood up to go.

  Suddenly, a deep, cultured voice behind Mary spoke. “Why don’t you tell the woman what she wants to know?”

  Mary turned into the face of Whitney Braggs.

  “Oh, Christ,” she said.

  “More like Moses without the beard,” Jimmy said.

  “Shut up, punk,” Braggs said to Jimmy. To Mary, it was incredibly odd to hear such coarseness come from a man who looked like a spokesman for the AARP.

  “Who the hell are you?” Miles said. “Bob friggin’ Barker? Why don’t you go back to the Price is Right? Or if not that, the goddamned nursing home!”

  Braggs walked past Mary and to Jimmy’s other side. He looked at the bartender. “I’ll have what they’re having.”

  When the bartender turned to get the beer, Braggs slammed his forehead into Jimmy’s face.

  “Shit!” Mary said.

  She heard the crunch of cartilage. Jimmy sagged but Braggs held him aloft and half-walked, half-dragged him to the door.

  “I don’t believe this,” Mary said as she threw some bills onto the bar.

  She stepped outside just as Braggs propped Jimmy up against the wall. With lightning fast speed, Braggs hit him twice in the belly, then threw a wicked uppercut that made Jimmy’s head snap back into the brick wall. Another right and another left drove into Jimmy’s face. Blood covered the comedian’s face. Teeth dropped onto the sidewalk.

  “Stop it,” Mary said, stepping toward Braggs. Braggs ignored her and grabbed a handful of Jimmy’s greasy hair and held him upright against the wall.

  “Who told you to lie, asshole?” he shouted. “Who got to you? I need a name. Right here. Right now.”

  Mary reached inside her coat and reached for her .45.

  “Braggs, you are going to let him go right now,” she said.

  Just as her automatic cleared leather, Jimmy coughed and spat out blood.

  “No name,” he said.

  “Liar.”

  “Sheet of paper,” Jimmy gasped. “Two hundred bucks if I did it. Bad news if I didn’t. What did I care?”

  “So you never knew Barry Olis?” Mary asked, keeping the .45 inside its holster for the moment.

  “Shit no!”

  “You don’t
know anyone,” Braggs said, sneering. “How convenient. You worthless shit!”

  “Shut up Braggs,” Mary said.

  “Matter of fact, I don’t!” Jimmy said. “I don’t know no names. But I do know something else.”

  “Yeah?” Braggs said, his voice dripping with doubt.

  “Yeah,” Jimmy said. “I know who killed Brent Cooper.”

  Twenty-Four

  “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?” Braggs said.

  “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, jerkwad.”

  “But Cooper, man. That guy had a nasty mouth. Almost as bad as yours,” Jimmy said, looking at Mary. “Cooper ripped that guy a new one. The dude was huge 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,” Miles 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. 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.”

  “What do you mean?” Braggs said.

  “She means cash, Lawrence Welk! ‘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 commercials.”

  Twenty-Five

  Mary pulled the Accord into the parking lot of Chez Jay’s, a dive bar on Ocean with a legendary pedigree. 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 Miles and the encroaching sirens.

  Mary shut the car off and thought about what Braggs had done. It had worked, she had gotten a good lead, but still. That strong-arm bullshit rarely worked. It 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 descriptors of my role…”

  “Jackass would be a far better descriptor 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 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 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.”

  Twenty-Six

  Mary did want a drink, she just didn’t want to have one with Braggs, Mr. Dual Personality. She wondered, did Visa realize the voice of their company was a complete psycho?

  All she really wanted to do was relax in front of her fireplace and have some wine. Mary stopped at a little market a block or so from her condo. They had a good selection of wine and the only drawback was Julia Roberts always went there for this or that, so that meant there were always a few people going for a look at Julia Roberts. But despite the sometimes long lines, she loved their oddball selection. She picked out a chardonnay and a pinot grigio, then went back to her condo.

  She was just getting her keys out when the door of the condo next to her opened. Mary was surprised. It had been vacant since about four months before when a young character actor she’d met once or twice had died of an overdose.

  A man stepped out into the hall. He had on a tan sport coat with jeans and tan leather shoes. He looked up at Mary and smiled.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hi,” Mary said back, momentarily caught off guard by how handsome he was. Really bright blue eyes and wavy light brown hair. Nice build. She stopped in front of her door.

  “Do you live here?” the man said.

  “I wish. I’m actually the plumber,” Mary said. She nodded her head toward her own door. “Their toilet’s backed up again.” She hefted the bottle of Chardonnay. “I use this instead of Drano.”

  The guy raised his eyebrows, a slight smile on his face. He knew she was kidding around. Hmm, the guy was quick. She liked that.

  She smiled. “Mary Cooper,” she said and stuck out her hand.

  He shook her hand. “Chris McAllister,” he said.

  Mary liked his handshake. It was warm, not too strong, not too weak.

  “I’m moving in, just got the keys this morning,” he said. “Do you like it here?” he said.

  “I do, especially be
cause it’s close to my liquor supply.”

  He laughed then, a soft easy smile that showed his perfect white teeth.

  “Well,” he said. “I’m going to finish bringing this stuff up. It was nice to meet you, Mary.”

  “Nice to meet you, too,” she said. She stepped inside her apartment and closed the door behind her, then leaned her back against it. Whoa, she thought. It wasn’t that she didn’t see many handsome guys. There were plenty of them in L.A. Jake Cornell being one of them. Plus, a lot of her clients were in the entertainment industry, Home Central for the Hotties. But there was something different about this Chris guy.

  Mary walked to the kitchen and got the wine opener. She twisted it, cranked it downward into the cork, then clamped down and slowly drew it out of the bottle. She liked her chardonnay slightly chilled, but didn’t feel like waiting now. Patience was overrated and instant gratification was just plain getting a bad rap.

  She went to her stereo, run by her iPod, and put on some Jamie Cullum, the young British jazz sensation and her favorite artist of late. You couldn’t get a ticket in London to see him, but in the States, fourteen bucks got you front row seats.

  She settled into her couch, put her feet up, and looked out her picture window at the dark ocean.

  The chardonnay hit the spot. She thought about what Braggs had done to Jimmy Miles. That had been bad.

  Mary got up and rummaged around the fridge for something to eat. The wine had gone straight to her head. She’d been popping Tylenol, still hurting a bit from the bomb blast.

  Finally, she dug out a plastic bowl filled with some hazelnut pesto pasta that she’d made a couple days ago. She grabbed a fork and sat at the kitchen table, looking out past the living room toward the water.