Death by Sarcasm (14 page)

But according to the Nielsen ratings, apparently the older folks loved him. Mary thought he looked like a blubbery Lawrence Welk.

Mary took the 405 down to a frighteningly bad neighborhood near South Central, near David Kenum’s address, while she waited for Mitchell’s assistant to take her call. Mary unconsciously touched the Para .45 in her shoulder holster.

“Claudia Ridner,” a bright, chirpy voice said through Mary’s cell phone.

“I’d like to make an appointment to chat with Mr. Mitchell. My name is Mary Cooper and I’m investigating the murder of my uncle, Brent Cooper.”

“What does this have to do with Mr. Mitchell?” the assistant asked, not sounding so bright and chirpy anymore.

“He should be able to answer some questions regarding certain issues in the case…”

“Mr. Mitchell is very busy.”

Mary didn’t like being interrupted. “My uncle was busy too, until he had his throat slit. Do you want me to talk to Mitchell or do you want the cops to talk to him? Or maybe a few reporters who would like to know about his links to a brutal murder?”

There was a long silence.

“There is a half hour opening tomorrow, starting at 3 o’clock.”

“Yippee,” Mary said. “Claudia, you’re a peach!”

Mary put the phone away and looked across the street at David Kenum’s apartment building. Lovely. Gray brick falling apart in every place imaginable, with pathetic little balconies featuring black wrought iron. Not useable because the windows had bars on them.

Mary knew why Kenum had picked this place. It must have reminded him of prison.

She got out of the Honda and walked to the front of the building. For some weird reason, she felt eyes on her. She didn’t put any store in that goofy premonition shit. Or sixth sense crap. But still, she felt strange. Maybe the pasta last night had been bad.

A boy came out of the building with a bike. He bounced it down the stairs.

“It goes faster if you pedal,” Mary said. He looked at her, and Mary wondered if he knew she was kidding.

“What, bitch?” the little boy said.

Mary stopped. Had she heard right? Had she just been called a bitch by a kid? She took a closer look at him. A slightly chubby ten year old. Or a growth-stunted early teen.

“Nice,” Mary said.

“Nice tits,” he said.

She considered backhanding him but pictured another trip downtown, this time a charge of child abuse and decided against it.

“They miss you at Finishing School,” Mary said, then walked past him and pushed her way into the building, through old steel doors with cracked glass and creaking hinges. Kids today, she thought.

The intercom system wasn’t functional. Mary knew this because the entire metal face of the system was smashed inward, as if someone with a size 17 EE foot had made the kick of his life.

It didn’t matter. The PO had told her it was apartment 525. She took the stairs to the fifth floor, then fished the .45 out of its holster. She held it at her side as she got to the door.

Apparently the guy with the 17 EE feet got around. Because David Kenum’s door looked just like David Kenum’s apartment building’s intercom system. Smashed in and hanging uselessly in the breeze.

Reminiscent of a Pottery Barn catalogue, Mary thought to herself. The only time Martha Stewart would find herself in a place like this would be if she’d been abducted and held hostage – ransomers demanding her recipe for cream cheese mashed potatoes.

Mary took a step inside the apartment, holding the .45 with both hands, pointed vaguely at the floor in front of her. The first thing she noticed was the smell. There are bad smells, and then there are bad smells. This was a bad one. Not dead-body-bad, but definitely fecal-debris-bad.

“Eesh,” Mary said to the empty room.

Only the stench answered her back. Mary took in the place: a single large room with a small kitchen consisting of an ancient stove and tall rectangle of dust where a refrigerator used to be.

She moved through the main room to the back where a tiny bathroom with a filthy toilet sat. “Love what you’ve done with the powder room, Mr. Kenum,” she said. Mary was looking at the rings of growth inside the toilet when she heard the soft scrape of a shoe behind her.

She whirled and had the .45’s three-dot sights lined up on the forehead of her unannounced guest.

“He’s not here, Sugar.”

She lowered the gun.

It was the boy from outside.

“You’re as bright as you’re polite,” she said.

“Nice gun,” he said. “I like a woman with a big gun like that. Turns me on.”

Mary looked closely at him. Oliver Twist he wasn’t. This kid looked like a well-fed, well-pampered punk.

“So, Miss Manners,” Mary said. “Who do you live here with? Andrew Dice Clay?”

“What’s it to you?”

Mary rolled her eyes. “You said ‘he’s not here.’ Who’s not here?”

“Santa Claus,” the kid said. “Who do you think? The guy that lived here. David.”

Mary nodded. “So if he’s not here, then where is he?”

“What’s it worth to you?”

Mary rolled her eyes again. She took out a twenty.

“I’m not talkin’ about money,” he said. “How about you do me right here, right now?”

Enough. Mary pulled out the .45. She walked up to the kid. “I’ve got a twenty. And I’ve got a .45. Which one do you want?”

He held out his hand and Mary poked his palm with the edge of the twenty but pulled it back when he reached for it.

“I used to steal bottles of wine for him,” the kid said. “Last one I gave him was just before he left. Told me he was going to work on a boat. Offered me a boat ride.”

Mary gave the kid the twenty.

“This boat have a name? A location?”

“It was called the Diver Down.”

“If-” she started to say but he cut her off.

“I know, if I’m lying you’ll come back and kill me. Big whoop. I almost wouldn’t mind seeing those sweet jugs of yours again.”

It wasn’t until she was back in her car that Mary finally let herself start laughing.

A
call to her contact in the state’s vehicle licensing division told her the boat was registered and its home base was the marina in Marina del Rey.

Mary took the 405 up to Sepulveda, and followed that into Marina del Rey. She wound her way along the harbor until she came to the marina she was looking for.

She parked and walked until she found a small structure on the eastern side of the marina. It had a sign reading “Marina Office” over its door.

“Hello?”

“What can I do for you?” said a burned out, older surfer looking dude with pink shorts, an orange Polo shirt and topsiders.

“I’m looking for a boat called the Diver Down,” Mary said. “Guy’s a big fan of Van Halen.”

“That’s before Sammy Hagar, right?” the guy said.

Mary nodded. “Yes. Well before that epochal moment when ‘Van Hagar’ came into existence,” she said.

“Man, Eddie goes through lead singers like I go through flip flops.”

“So where is this ode to 70s rock?” she repeated.

The guy sat, swiveled in his office chair and looked at a chart of the marina.

“Slip 73,” he said and pointed in a vague direction behind him. “That’s over there.”

“Thanks,” Mary said and headed for the slips.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Jamie’s cryin’,” the guy sang.

The Diver Down was painted red and white – just like the album. Mary wondered if she should be embarrassed that she knew that. She decided that yes, she was old enough to qualify, and, yes, she should be embarrassed.

The boat was about a thirty-footer Mary guessed. Not really a speedboat, but it had two big new-looking outboards on the back.

“Hello!” Mary called out. There was no activity she could tell of going on in the boat. But soon she heard the creak of the lower cabin’s door open and a man popped his head out.

“Yeah?” he said.

“David around? David Kenum?”

“Nope,” the old man said. “Who’s askin’?”

The man had now come out of the little doorway and stood on the deck of the boat. He looked old and haggard. His shoes and shirt were all a dirty gray. He had grease on his forehead. Dark, leathery skin full of deep creases.

“Do you know where he is?”

“How about you try answering my question before asking yours?” he said. His voice tired and annoyed.

Mary paused for a moment. “I’m his fiancé. His
pregnant
fiancé and when he found out the second part, he left faster than he shot his wad. Which was pretty damn quick to begin with.”

Would this guy have any sympathy for a pregnant woman? Probably not. But it was worth a try.

“Ah Christ, I’m sorry,” the old guy said. “But didn’t he just get out of prison? How’d…”

“Conjugal visits.”

The old man nodded. “Well, he’s not here but I know where he is.”

“Let me guess. He’s in the drunk tank. Or back in prison.”

“Nope. Catalina.”

Catalina island. About an hour and half boat ride from L.A.

“What the hell is he doing out there?” Mary said. “Buying knickknacks? Going for horseback rides? Instead of earning money to buy diapers and baby wipes for us?” She patted her tummy and emphasized ‘us.’

“He came looking for a job. His parole officer sent him here, but I quit doing that after the last guy made off with my motors. Luckily I had insurance. But I told him about a guy I knew was hiring, so he said he’d check it out.”

“That’s funny, David with a good paying job,” Mary said. “Yeah, he just loved to work and work and work. Suppose you tell me what kind of “job” that douche bag thought he was going to get?”

“Something that don’t require much of a brain,” the old man said.

He looked her up and down and this time, Mary did detect a note of sympathy.

“Look, I’m headed out there right now.” He gestured toward a stack of boxes and crates that he’d lashed against a rail. “Have to deliver all that to the restaurant. I can give you a ride out there if you want.”

“How long will you be there?”

“Long enough to unload and gas up. Maybe two hours, tops.”

Mary hopped onto the deck.

“Hit it, captain.”

L.A. faded into the background like a corrupt memory filed for deletion.

Mary stood on the deck, leaning against the rail, looking out at the deep blue water. It was beautiful, but she hated it. She hated the cold. She hated the depth. She hated the cool indifference it offered.

She hated that her parents had died here.

Well, not here exactly. But ‘out here’ in the water, cold and alone except for each other.

Mary wondered if they’d talked. Of if they’d already been dead by the time they hit the water. She shook her head. Why was she always so macabre? She knew better. Knew there weren’t any answers. If there were, they would have made themselves known a long time ago. She made a mental note: be happier. Be positive. Walk on the fucking sunny side of the street.

“Wind is bad,” the old man said behind her. “May take us an extra ten minutes or so.”

Mary turned. He stood by the wheel, on the right side of the boat. A can of Coke in his hand.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Mungons. Greg. But everyone calls me Mungo.”

“Mungo. It’s catchy. So how long you been doing this, Mungo?” Mary said.

“1959,” he said. “Sad, isn’t it? So much life going on either back there,” he gestured toward L.A. proper. “Or there,” he nodded toward Catalina. “I always felt like while life was going on I was either on the way to it or on the way from it. Know what I mean?”

“It’s like being in the middle of a shit sandwich,” Mary said. “I think Thoreau said that.”

“Not to mention the gas prices are killing me,” he said.

“How’s your 401(K) doing?” she said.

“That’s funny. You’re standing on my 401(k).” He took a drink of his Coke. “So how’d you end up with Kenum? You don’t seem his type.”

“What’s his type?”

“Trashy.”

“Well thanks for the compliment.”

“My advice?” the guy said.

“Yeah?”

“Get rid of it,” he said, nodding toward her belly, like he was telling someone to lose a moustache. Or throw out yesterday’s newspaper. “Nothing good will come from you having that baby. More people should do it.”

“What are you, a member of Planned Parenthood?”

“No, I just…”

“We could do it right here,” Mary said. “Just bring over that bait bucket and some fishing tackle…”

“Look, I didn’t mean any offense,” the old guy said.

“Plenty taken,” Mary said, acting hurt. She’d heard pregnant women could be pretty moody. She moved to the back of the boat, pretending to be nursing her wounded spirit.

Mary watched L.A. recede into the distance. It looked so harmless from the water. Not like the sinful, lecherous, community it often was. Although it had its decent moments, and its unique attributes, too. Like the Getty. Mary loved to go there. They’d even recently had a Jackson Pollock-

Lights exploded over L.A. and for a brief moment Mary wondered if there was some kind of fireworks show going on. But then blackness crept over her eyes and a horrible, all-consuming pain rocketed down her spine and then she was pretty sure she was screaming. The last thing she felt were hands on her legs and a sudden sense of airiness.

“Splish Splash I was takin’ a bath…” she heard a voice say.

And then a feeling of floating. Just before the cold wash of water enveloped her.

What…? Mary wondered, before she simultaneously sank into unconsciousness and the Pacific Ocean.

I
t was the first lungful of water that woke her up. She gagged underwater, heard the sound of the motor racing away and opened her eyes.

A thick wave of kelp was ten feet ahead of her. Her lungs were on fire and she had a mouth full of sea water mixed with vomit but she made it to the kelp before she surfaced.

She spewed a mixture of air, water and vomit at the surface, and saw the back of the Diver Down, too far away now, but close enough that she could see a man looking back toward where she’d gone into the water.