Death by Sarcasm (4 page)

“Is that what you’re going to tell Davies? Maybe during a little pillow talk?”

“A. We’re not sleeping together so there is no pillow talk. And B. Christ, no, I won’t tell her anything you say. You think I’d tell her the truth? That I gave some information regarding an ongoing investigation to a private investigator? Do I look suicidal?”

Mary smiled inside as the light turned green and Jake gunned the car. He had shared information with her that Davies would not be happy about. That was good. She liked that. But the smile didn’t appear on her face. She thought of saying something nice to him.

Instead, she said, “Maybe it slipped out during a particularly fierce orgasm.”

Jake took both hands off the wheel to raise them in frustration. “You need to give me a break. That was a one-night stand – we were both drunk. It didn’t mean anything. And it still doesn’t. Besides, you and I had already broken up.”

“It was an unofficial breakup. You had Davies seal the deal – with her cooker.”

“Oh my God,” Jake said. Mary enjoyed the fact that she could exasperate him so.

Yeah,” Mary said. “And you obviously took our parting so hard you ran into her arms, or should I say, legs?”

They pulled up outside Mary’s condo and Jake rammed the shifter into Park. He turned in the seat to face her. “Don’t act all innocent,” he said. “I heard you were going around with some weird little weightlifter guy. What’d you guys do on your first date, spot each other on the squat rack?”

“The guy at my gym?” Mary laughed. “He was my trainer.”

“Yeah, sure. Uh-huh,” Jake said. “Probably your sex trainer.” Mary loved it when he tried to get sarcastic. It was like a kid trying on clothes that were too big for him.

“The only squat thrust I’ve seen recently,” Mary said. “Is the one Davies was doing over your goddamn wanker.”

“All right!” Jake let out a fierce sigh. He put both hands back on the steering wheel and squeezed as if it were a stress reliever. “Let’s just…stop talking about it.”

They sat for moment before Mary spoke. She really would have liked to invite him up to her place, but didn’t want to ask. It was like she’d gone too far down a one-way alley and didn’t have enough room to turn around.

“And for your information,” she said. “I didn’t go out with that little weightlifter guy. I was worried he would chalk his hands when things got heated up. Maybe strap on that big leather belt of his.”

Jake laughed softly. Mary loved to see him smile. He had a great smile, his eyes brightened and ten years fled from his face.

“You know what I don’t get?” he said, glancing in his rearview mirror.

“Nose hair,” Mary said. “But you’re getting plenty in your ears.”

“When we were together,” he said, ignoring her. “You never really acted like you cared too much, you know? I mean, I figured you did, but maybe I was wrong. And if so, then I don’t see why you would now.”

“Who says I care now?”

“You don’t?”

“I care about the truth,” she said.

“Oh, the truth,” he said.

“Look,” Mary said. “You moved on. You made love to a woman with the personality of a cod. And we hadn’t broken up yet. But if you want to maintain your innocence. Go ahead. Fine with me. Your conscience is clear, even if your ear canals aren’t.”

Mary swung her door open and stepped out. She shut the door then leaned in through the window.

“But even if I still cared, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you wouldn’t be able to withstand the full force of my emotions – it would render you a slave. You would beg me to allow you to caress my nether regions, to gently buff my ivory buttcheeks-”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Jake said as Mary backed toward the door of her building. “Have a good night, Mary.”

He pulled the car from the curb and zoomed back toward the city.

She watched him go. Well, what she had said was mostly the truth. Except for the part about her ivory buttcheeks.

They were really more like porcelain.

T
he Voor Haven Funeral Home was a modest building two blocks west of Santa Monica Boulevard. Mary stood in the stuffy, overly perfumed parlor next to Alice and her uncle, Kurt Cooper, Brent’s brother.

Looking at Uncle Kurt, Mary was reminded again what a cruel puppet master genetics can be. Uncle Brent had been a dashing ladies man. Uncle Kurt looked like Burl Ives after a three-month crack binge.

Kurt’s son, Mary’s cousin, was a twenty-three year old hipster named Jason. He had thick greasy brown hair and a thick greasy monobrow. Best of all, even with the nauseating stench of potpourri, Mary could detect the scent of marijuana that enveloped him.

In the casket next to them Brent lay in peace, with his hands across his chest and a microphone in one hand. The microphone had been Kurt’s idea.

“It’ll give him something to do with his hands,” he’d said.

One of Brent’s buddies from his condo complex stepped up to pay his respects. He held out his hand to Kurt, who stood at the head of the line.

“He was a good man,” the old man said.

“Nice try,” Kurt said. “I already called dibs on his stereo.” Kurt then beamed and clapped a hand on the man’s back. The man was caught off guard, looking at each of them in turn, and then back to Kurt.

“Um, yeah, okay,” he said.

Mary shook her head and looked down at her shoes. They needed a good buffing. Nice leather. She had a feeling she’d be looking at them quite a bit today.

Out of the corner of her eye, Mary watched as Alice stepped forward and took the man’s hand. “Pardon my brother,” she said, nodding toward Kurt. “He thinks he’s in a comedy sketch.” She twirled her finger around her ear. “Dementia,” she whispered.

Mary accepted the man’s condolences as an older woman spoke to Kurt.

“He’ll be missed,” she said. “It was horrible, horrible what happened to him. I can’t believe he’s dead.”

Kurt took her hand, a look of sincere grief on his face. “Well, I hope he’s dead – we’re going to bury him in forty-five minutes!”

The woman’s face held a look of barely concealed horror. Alice once again tried to explain, while Mary wished she could smoke some of her cousin’s weed.

It was going to be a long, long morning.

St. Hugo’s Catholic Church was sparsely occupied for Brent’s funeral. Mary was surprised anyone had shown up at all. Then again, from where she was standing behind the altar in the doorway leading to the priest’s quarters, she studied the visitors and saw that most of them were old. There may have been a bus from the old people’s condo where Brent lived, and it was likely that some of its occupants thought they’d signed up for a trip to the farmer’s market. But being old people, they probably figured they had plenty of time and would just see what this whole guy in the casket thing was all about.

Mary turned and watched as Alice and Kurt argued about his behavior at the funeral home.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Kurt said. “I was in the zone, on a roll, baby! They were eating it up!” His face was flushed and he looked like he had just come off the field after scoring the game-winning touchdown.

“You made that whole thing about as dignified as one of those hookers down on Crenshaw,” Alice shot back.

“Hey,” he said. “Don’t talk about the priest’s girlfriends like that.”

Mary heard a subtle cough come from behind the priest’s half-open door. Uncle Kurt was definitely going to Hell. No doubt about it.

“Listen, butthead, this is a church. Not a comedy club,” Alice said. “They don’t have a liquor license here. There aren’t any drunks to appreciate your gags.”

“They have wine, dude,” Mary’s cousin said. He looked at each of them for a response, when he got none, he simply shrugged his shoulders.

“Is it Night Train?” Mary said. “I’m thirsty.”

“Okay, listen goody two shoes,” Uncle Kurt said to Alice. “First of all, there is dignity in good humor.”

“Yeah,
good
humor. I’m surprised you didn’t ask one of the old ladies to pull your finger,” Alice said.

Cousin Jason snickered and Mary got an even stronger whiff of dope. He must have toked up on the way over from the funeral home.

“Second of all,” Kurt continued. “Some of those hookers are really quite dignified – they put a handkerchief on your lap when they blow you.”

The cough behind the priest’s door was a little louder this time.

“Okay, Uncle Kurt, if you’re finished preparing your sermon-” Mary said, and tapped her watch, but Kurt kept going.

“Listen,” Kurt said. He put his arms around Alice’s and Mary’s shoulders, and pulled them together like a coach gathering his players in the huddle. “We’ve got a good crowd out there. They’re expecting a Cooper style mass, so let’s not disappoint them.”

“It’s not a show, you jackass,” Alice said.

Jason wandered over and picked up a long, brass candle snuffer and turned it upside down. Mary could hear his thoughts; ‘hmm, if I put the weed in here…’

“You think Brent would have wanted a big sob fest?” Uncle Kurt continued. “If we don’t have those people laughing, he’ll send down a curse. So just all of you go sit down. I want to go over my material. I’m gonna blow ‘em away.”

Alice looked at Mary.

“Is your gun loaded?” she said.

Mary, Alice and Jason sat in the front pew. When the priest finished his role in the ceremony, Brent came on to deliver the eulogy. Mary wanted to shrink down lower, but her knees were already pressed up against the front of the pew.

“We’re here to remember Brent Cooper,” Uncle Kurt said with a solemn tone to his voice. His head was bowed. He was the absolute picture of somber sincerity. “If anyone’s here for the Denny’s Early Bird Special – that’s two doors down.”

Mary closed her eyes and fantasized that she had been adopted. That somewhere her real family was wondering whatever became of that sweet little baby girl they’d put up for adoption.

“The cops are diligently following up every lead,” Kurt continued. “And right now, all the leads point in one direction: the Dunkin Donuts on Wilshire.”

Behind her, Mary heard one of the old men snoring.

T
his is fantastic.

A tragedy and a farce all rolled into one. I love it! I’d like to get up there and tell everyone how much fun it was to put a bullet into the back of Brent Cooper’s finely shaped head. I could improvise a scene: Brent trying to talk St. Peter into admitting him to heaven.

He’d called ahead.

Were his tickets at Will Call?

Hey, where’s the coat check?

Why is it so foggy and cloudy up here? The Weather Channel said it was supposed to be blue sky!

St. Peter starts to shut the door.

Brent says – Grandma! I came toward the light!

I want to laugh but despite Asshole Kurt Cooper up there, the crowd is deadly – no pun intended – silent. No wonder I’d never seen Kurt. Brent got all the looks and what little humor ran in the Cooper blood.

That girl, though. Mary. She looked like she had something to her.

The way those cops had looked at her at the crime scene – looked like she’d been tossing out some pretty good one-liners.

Where’s my notebook? I’ve gotta write some of this shit down.

And plan the next one.

I
n Studio City, among the office buildings put up in the seventies, parking garages, the occasional furniture stores and overpriced delis, sat the condominium complex for the elderly called Palm Terrace. Like its residents, the Palm Terrace had seen better days.

Mary parked the Accord in a visitor’s spot. She’d gotten the car out of storage now that the Buick was history. She went into the office where she found a woman in her fifties playing euchre on the Internet.

“Excuse me,” Mary said, after politely waiting the requisite few seconds. The office had cheap paneling and particle board furniture. It looked like a hospital waiting room. In Mexico.

The woman held up a finger. She had a heavy sweater, polyester pants and gray hair done up in a perm.

“Just one minute,” she said. She anxiously watched the monitor. Mary saw a flutter of movement on the screen and then the woman shot up from her chair.

“You fucking idiot! Goddamn moron!” She thumped her fist down on the desk and the keyboard jumped. Mary caught a glimpse of the screen and saw the card game was over.

“Let me guess – you won,” Mary commented.

“Won? How can I win when my own partner, my own
husband
, makes the most boneheaded, infantile moves…”

The woman hit speed dial on her phone and punched the speakerphone button. A man’s voice answered.

“Don’t start, Rosie...” he said.

“I’m wondering if you have a moment to help me,” Mary said, trying to get to the woman before she started in on the phone. But she was too slow.

“How do your internal organs look?” Rosie shouted at the phone. “Huh? That’s what you must be looking at since YOUR HEAD IS UP YOUR ASS!” An impressively large gob of spittle shot from the woman’s mouth and hit the computer monitor. She picked up the phone and slammed it down. Mary heard a dial tone and then nothing.

The woman turned to Mary. “Sorry about that, but we were playing the Jenkinses,” the woman said. She lowered her voice. “I can’t stand Rhonda Jenkins. The woman is a total bitch. And I absolutely despise losing to her.”

“A competitive drive,” Mary said. “That’s good. So listen, my uncle was murdered,” she said. “Brent Cooper?”

The woman’s mouth snapped shut. “Oh God, I’m sorry,” the woman said.

“Don’t worry about it. I just want to see his apartment,” Mary said. “Condo. Whatever you call it.”

“I’m sorry about that yelling,” the woman’s face had turned red.

“Hey, don’t apologize,” Mary said. “You’re entitled to enjoy your Golden Years any way you want to,” Mary said.

“Tell that to the jackass upstairs,” the woman mumbled.