Death by Sarcasm (12 page)

The pictures, the head shots, made Mary pause. God, they had all looked so young and happy. And real. She smiled at the credits. Television shows that she’d never heard of. Comedy reviews headed by a celebrity she’d never heard of. Clubs she’d never heard of. Movies she’d never heard of. It had been a different world back then.

The very first conclusion Mary reached was that Uncle Brent’s crew didn’t have great longevity. Of the first ten files, seven were dead. Not surprising, though. Depending on how old they were when they made the L.A. attempt, and what year they launched, the majority of the folks were somewhere between sixty and eighty. Despite L.A.’s current reputation for health conscious individuals, back then they all smoked and drank like fish. Cancer had gotten lots of them, most likely.

She then dove into the files, working as quickly as possible. It took her just under two hours to eliminate everyone she could. By the time she was done, she was left with a very manageable keeper pile. Twenty-six living, five unaccounted for. After all the illnesses, the car wrecks, the suicides, these twenty-six had made it through. She silently congratulated them. The five who were unaccounted for, well, she would make up her mind about them later.

The twenty-six living would be relatively simple. She would have to track them down, interview them if possible, and cross them off the list until theoretically, she got the pool down to a chosen few and then she would have to take it from there.

It was the five accounted for that would be the bigger challenge. They had completely fallen off the grid, as the law enforcement community liked to call it. Or, just as likely, had taken themselves off the grid. Running from the law. Running from loan sharks. Hiding from ex-wives and alimony payments. She already pictured a couple of the guys bagging groceries in Florida under some assumed names.

More people abandoned their identities than most people realized. The process really wasn’t that difficult. The fact that most people thought it was very difficult was probably why more didn’t do it.

There was a definite appeal to tossing out your current station in life, and staring an entirely new one.

She couldn’t blame them if that’s what they’d done.

At some point, hadn’t everyone fantasized about disappearing and starting over somewhere new? Just wiping the slate clean? The ultimate do-over?

Mary couldn’t speak for everyone.

But she knew she’d considered it.

Mary drove back to her place and was at her door when she heard him.

“Hey, hold up!”

She turned and saw the new good-looking neighbor trot down the hall toward her. What was his name again, she thought. Chris. Chris McAllister.

“Sorry,” he said when he finally reached her. “But I wanted to ask you a question.” He hesitated. “Actually, I’d like to get your opinion.”

“Yes, I think global warming is actually happening. Soon we’ll be underwater. Might be an improvement for L.A.”

He laughed, displaying that easy confidence she had noticed and liked, before.

“You know, I happen to agree, but I actually wanted your opinion on something else.”

“Hey, you want ‘em, opinions I got.”

“It’s actually my apartment. I can’t decide where to hang two paintings. I needed a different perspective.”

“Ah, so when you bring your lady friends here they’ll feel at home? Sort of some inside information?”

“Exactly. I want you to spy on your gender for me. Come back and tell me
everything
.”

Mary chuckled and then her mind flashed back to the shooting at the gallery where the mermaid/dolphin had been destroyed.

“You know,” she said. “Art and I don’t have a great history together.”

“Oh, come on,” he said. “It’ll only take a minute.”

“All right, I’ll tell my manservant Jacques to keep the lobster warm.”

He laughed, and for a brief moment Mary realized it was a laugh she could get used to.

Christ McAllister opened the door and Mary followed him in, checking out his ass as she went. Nice. It was firm and taut. She wanted to bounce a quarter off the damn thing, or maybe something else. Something more personal.

“Sorry for the mess,” he said.

Mary looked around. Mess? Her place hadn’t been this neat and clean since she’d moved in.

“Yeah, what a dump,” she said. “Sheesh. If you think this is bad, come over and make a mess of my place. It’ll be a huge improvement.”

It was a nice place. He’d bought completely contemporary furnishings. Sleek tables. Fifties style lamps. But not over the top. Not self-conscious. She had to admit, it was just good taste. Hip good taste.

“Before I present the dilemma,” he said. “Can I offer the judge a beverage? Wine? Martini? Beer?”

“Do you have any grain alcohol?” she said. “200 proof?”

“Sorry,” he said. “Just polished that off last night.”

“In that case, I’m good for now.” Her head still ached from the Jack Daniels. She was looking forward to going to bed. Maybe she should take him with her.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” he said. “As you can see, my overall style is eclectic, but I’ve got two pieces of art here.”

He led her to the living room where two large canvases sat. One was definitely in the impressionistic camp. Heavy brushstrokes.

The other was like a Giclee print. It was an electric guitar.

“Hmm,” Mary said.

“What?”

“Well, I like both,” she said.

“Oh come on,” Chris answered. “My impression of you was that you don’t pull any punches. What do I look like? A pansy? I can handle the truth.” He raised his eyebrows and did a reasonably good impression of Jack Nicholson from A Few Good Men. “You need me on that wall…”

“Does anyone actually use the word pansy anymore?” Mary said.

“Only pansies.”

They both laughed.

“Okay, I’ll be honest,” Mary said. “Which is something I haven’t been in a long time. In fact, the last time I was honest I actually strained an abdominal muscle.”

“Okay.”

“The guitar print fits better, but the impressionistic painting is a better piece of art. It’s really good. Even though it doesn’t fit, wouldn’t you want to go with the better art?”

She turned to look at her neighbor. He wasn’t even looking at the art. He was looking at her.

“I agree with you,” he said. “The funny thing is, that one-” he said, pointing to the guitar painting. “That one cost me a ton. And that one,” he said, pointing to the impressionistic piece. “That one I got for twenty bucks at an estate sale.”

“I didn’t figure you for a bargain hunter.”

“Oh, yeah?” he said. “What
did
you figure me for?”

“I figured you for some sort of circus performer.”

“Good guess. But I’m actually a chef.”

“Wow, what a coincidence. I love to have other people cook for me.”

Chris checked his watch. “Speaking of food, I was just going to whip up some pasta. Wanna stay?”

He turned and headed for the kitchen.

Mary checked out his ass again.

“I suppose I could cancel my dinner with the Governor.”

M
ary 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 fuck’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 fuck couldn’t change a light bulb!”