Death by Sarcasm (8 page)

“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, Aunt Jemima.”

“But Cooper, man. That fuckin’ guy had a nasty mouth. Almost as bad as yours,” Jimmy said, looking at Mary. “Cooper ripped that guy a new asshole. The dude was a fat fucker 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,” Millis 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, the pathetic fuck. 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, you racist asshole.”

“What do you mean?” Braggs said.

“She means cash, Lawrence Welk-lookin’ muthafucka! ‘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 fuckin’ commercials.”

Mary pulled the Accord into the parking lot of Chez Jay’s, a dive bar on Ocean with a legendary pedigree. Supposedly Steve McQueen had gotten a blow job from Allie McGraw in the infamous back booth. 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 Millis and the encroaching sirens.

Mary’s hands shook as she shut the car off and thought about what Braggs had done. It had worked, she had gotten a good lead, but still. That strongarm bullshit rarely worked. And all that racist crap was just plain wrong. It sickened Mary. All that garbage 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 descriptions of my role…”

“Racist Jackass would be a far better description 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 monogrammed 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, racist 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.”

S
he 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 about to her door 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 sportcoat 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. “You’re moving in, I assume?”

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

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

“Yeah, I just got the keys this morning,” he said. “Do you like it here?” he said.

“Yeah, except for the rats, they’re as big as raccoons.”

“Perfect, I’ve always been fascinated with rodents.”

Mary smiled, surprised that a guy that good looking had a sense of humor, too.

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. Something that just seemed more real. Not the primped and polished phoniness of so many of L.A.’s beautiful people.

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. Mary always thought about sharks at this point, and not the ones in the LAPD. No, she thought about the sharks, out deep during the day, coming in closer to shore to feed.

The chardonnay hit the spot. She thought about what Braggs had done to Jimmy Millis. That had been bad. All that racist bullshit. It just went to show you, no matter how much superficial beauty there might be, it could always hide something really, really ugly.

Mary got up and poured herself another glass of wine. She rummaged around the fridge for something to eat. The wine had gone 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 of her 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.

For the millionth time, Mary wondered why she had insisted on a condo with a view of the ocean. Her parents had died in the Pacific when she was just three. Lost during a storm while sailing their 36’ catamaran. The bodies had never been found. It was right after that she’d moved in with Aunt Alice, who had raised her.

Mary toyed with the pasta but she’d lost her appetite. She threw it away then filled her glass again.

Her mind drafted back to her new neighbor. It had been awhile since her last relationship. Jake had really been it. There’d been a few serious guys before that. A few not-so-serious. You had to have those once in awhile. At least when you were younger. Now, it just seemed like a waste of time.

A lot of the guys she’d been with had two big problems with her: one, she was a little bit sarcastic. And two, she carried a gun and knew how to use it. A lot of times, guys were okay with one of those. It was the rare individual who could handle both.

Even Jake. He’d been fine with career. It was the mouth that got her into trouble. One of the last times they’d been together, they’d made love and Jake had asked her if she had fantasized about someone else.

She still laughed about her answer.

“You mean like Kevin Costner in ‘Dances with Wolves?” she had said. “Did I imagine Kevin and I on a buffalo rug in a warm teepee, with him pleasuring me to the thunder of the hoofbeats of Tatonka! No,” she’d said, calming down. “Absolutely not.”

Mary thought it had been a funny joke – it had been a joke. She may have fantasized about Kevin Costner in Dances with Wolves when she was by herself, in her hot tub doing something naughty, but not when she was with Jake. And it wasn’t just that, they had cooled off slightly anyway. And they had never formally broken up, it just seemed that both of them were a little bit scared to make a decision one way or the other.

She’d had some really good times with Jake, not that they had seen each other that long. He was very kind, gentle, and funny in a way that complemented her sense of humor. Mary wondered if she’d made a mistake, if she should have told him how she truly felt. That she was in love with him. Was it too late?

Mary polished off her third glass of wine, her limit, and headed for the hot tub. After everything she’d been through, crying in her condo about a past relationship was not on her agenda.

She fired up the Jacuzzi in her master bedroom, sunk into the hot water, and thought about Kevin Costner in Dances with Wolves. Had he ever been cuter?

Mary had a feeling she was going to see some Tatonka.

T
he comedy club names were a parade of bad puns: Punch’s Line. The Delivery Room. Stand Me Up.

Mary went to them all. She talked to every bartender, manager and comedian she could find. She sat and listened to countless comedians talk about such lofty topics as why women check their makeup in the mirror, why there’s so much meat on pizza, and observations on the differences between New York City and Los Angeles. She wondered why so many had the same material. Maybe that’s why they were in these shithole comedy clubs instead of on the Tonight Show. The only thing she knew was that the few times she laughed, it was at something a heckler said, rarely the other way around.

It was at the Comedy Cabin, yes, designed like a log cabin in the Adirondacks, that Mary found the first glimmer of recognition.

“Yeah, I’ve seen the fat fuck,” the bartender said. He was a skinny white guy with a soul patch and a black T-shirt. “Dickbag never tips. I love it when someone rips him a new asshole. He deserves it.”

“Is ‘Fat Fuck’ his Christian name, or does he go by something else?” Mary said.

“No clue, babe. All I know is he’s fat, stupid and obnoxious. And he’s got a thing for a chick comic. The one who wears the leather pants all the time?”

He looked at Mary as if she could spout out the name immediately. “No clue, babe,” she said.

“Ask Janet. She’s a scout for one of the networks or something. She knows everyone.” He lifted his chin toward an older woman with big red hair, thick black glasses and sagging skin.

Mary went over to her. “Excuse me,” Mary said.

“Head shot with credits. Leave it on the table,” the woman said. Her voice raspy and bored.

“Thanks for your obvious interest,” Mary said. “But I’m not looking to get hired.”

“Then go away. You’re interrupting Mr. Jenkins’ hilarious take on airline food,” the woman said, referring to the disheveled comic on stage. “Turns out, the food’s not very good. Imagine that.”