Orange County Noir (Akashic Noir) (31 page)

"Rick me rough, baby," she demanded-and he did.

The plan wasn't elaborate. It was straightforward and text book efficient. Emerald Valley Premium Dog Foods was in a
17,000-square-foot, one-story landscaped building in a cul-desac off an industrial park not far from a 605 Freeway off-ramp.
Lori McLaughlin had made a Sunday after-hours rendezvous
to get the money from a thrilled Brice Hovis. McLaughlin
told Randolph he'd insisted that she think of the loan as a
long-term investment in her and her daughter's futures, and
to come by the office to finalize the deal.

She knew the layout of the factory, and once she got Hovis wound up, she'd explained with a sneer, she'd leave a side
door to the parking lot, used by employees when they had to
work overtime, unlatched.

Dressed in overalls obtained that day from a thrift store
and wearing rubber dishwashing gloves, Avery Randolph
gained access to the facility at the appointed time. Inside,
he quickly spotted the thin strip of light coming from the office door at the far end the plant. He eased forward on tennis
shoes also purchased at the thrift store. His outfit would be
burned afterward.

Randolph passed belt feeders, tall stainless steel devices
with large conical vats atop them, automated packaging stations, and heavy machinery bolted to the concrete floor with
drive shafts that led to partially encased circular rotors he assumed were used to chop and grind the meat Emerald Valley
turned into dog food. Stilled circulation fans were set at various strategic locations in the ceiling.

McLaughlin had explained to him that the business, like
a lot of pet food manufacturers, bought rendered meat from
elsewhere that was shipped to them, along with grains and cereals from other suppliers. Randolph was pleasantly surprised
that the air smelled like cheeseburgers.

Coming to the end of a large boxlike machine on stout legs-a dryer, he could tell from its stamped label-he approached the office. He halted, shutting out all distractions,
getting it together for his performance. It's all about the inbetween, man, a jazz guitarist reminded him at a recent studio
gig.

He heard Hovis moaning between whaps. The tang of
marijuana cut through the burger aroma.

"Goddamnit, yes, oh yes, doctor."

Randolph stepped into the light to see Hovis leaning
over his desk in a stripper/nurse costume, short skirt up over
a thong, with high heels and a red wig lopsided on his bald
head. McLaughlin, in her underwear beneath an open lab
coat, was holding a dog hairbrush, the kind with short wire
bristles. She'd been using it on the man's tenderized rear end.
There was a strap-on dildo and a plastic enema bottle filled
with clear liquid occupying the paper-laden desk.

Hovis straightened up and stammered, "Who ... What
is this?" There was a good-sized alligator clamp dangling from
his penis over the thong.

By then Randolph, trying not to giggle too much, had covered the distance between them and squirted liberal amounts
of pepper spray into the man's eyes.

"This is not safe," the dog-food man blurted, hands grabbing at his face while he did a run-in-place dance of pain in
his night nurse uniform.

McLaughlin slugged him over the head with a smoking
bong, shattering it. Hovis ran and crashed into a tall filing
cabinet, knocking it and himself over.

"Don't either one of you fuckin move," Randolph blared.
He quickly tied a handkerchief around the downed man's
tearing eyes and McLaughlin made sounds like she was being
manhandled. Randolph tied Hovis up with cord he'd brought along and fixed a ball gag around his mouth. The man writhed
and whimpered on his side, then lay still.

"Where is it, bitch?" Randolph growled, giving it his best
Steven Seagal guttural rasp.

"I don't know what you're talking about." She slapped her
thigh for effect and grunted.

"We'll see about that. Come here, let me show you what
me and that dildo are gonna do to you." He marched her out
and returned after a suitable period to begin tearing up the
office. He knew where Hovis kept the money, but had to sell
the search.

He kicked over a surfboard leaning in a corner. Above
that, in a compartment Hovis had installed, the cash was hidden in the ceiling. "Well, what do we have here?" He walked
over to Hovis and kicked him, eliciting a stifled yell. "Clever
cocksucker, aren't you? Your girlfriend held out, but it's a good
thing for both of you I got eyes." He slid a chair over, stood on
it, and pushed up on the acoustic tile, revealing a large fishing tackle box. He pulled it down, assessed the contents, and
exited the office.

Hovis wasn't aware that McLaughlin knew where he
kept the money. She'd spied on him once when she was
working there. Though naturally he'd suspect her, she would
aim his suspicions toward a fired employee. Or so she'd told
Randolph.

On the darkened factory floor, he removed his disguise of
a bushy Afro wig, false goatee, and a Halloween rubber nose.
McLaughlin, in her bra and panties, stilettos off so as not to
make noise, came over and gave him a passionate kiss. He
rubbed his hand between her legs.

"Better get going. I'll meet you back at my place, Avery."

"I like it when you say my name," he whispered back.

"I know."

He punched her hard, twice, in the face, while she held
onto him for balance. Like a boxer clearing her vision, she
shook her head, and then she broke off one of her heels. She
put the shoes on and wobbled into the office while Randolph
turned back toward the way he had come in.

"Brice, Brice, are you all right?" she screamed, running into
the office. McLaughlin's face rearranged itself from feigned
concern to icy resolve. "Briiice," she drew out, hand beside
her mouth but barely saying his name. "Briiiice, my demented
shithead, can you get up?" She guffawed and removed a sharp
letter opener from a pen caddy on the desk. She sauntered
over, cut Brice Hovis's legs loose, and removed the ball gag
and handkerchief. His hands remained bound.

"Oh my God, are you all right, Steph?" His eyes were red
and wet. He looked from her to the open ceiling and back.

Her fingers trilled the tip of the letter opener. "I'm fine,
Brice. Real fuckin good." She flicked the blade and nicked his
thigh. Crimson ran behind the black mesh stocking material.

"Hey," he gasped, backing up, "this is no time for that.
Untie me, would you?"

Swaying her body she stepped closer, waving the letter
opener around like a drunk musketeer. "And what if I don't,
Brice? What if I go too far this time?" She took another nick
out of him, this time from his chest.

Brice looked about, panicked, while backpeddling in his
heels and skirt. "Quit fucking around, Stephanie."

"I'm serious as a fever, Bricey. Come on, beg for your life."
She placed her hand on her mound. "It makes me wet." She
lunged forward and tackled Hovis, then straddled him.

Down on the floor, he squirmed and bucked but ceased when
she put the tip to his throat, letting it sink in a centimeter.

"Why?" he pleaded. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because I can, cunt." She made another cut and Hovis's
eyes went wide.

"Yo, Steph-is that your real name?"

The woman looked up to see Randolph, his disguise back
on, standing in the doorway. She chortled. "Yeah, so? What're
you gonna do about it, homeboy?"

"This," he said calmly, shooting her in the mouth as she
laughed at him.

The woman's body tumbled off of Hovis, her heelless shoe
landing across his leg. Randolph tied up the terrified, bleeding
exec again and walked out of the office.

"There's something like ninety thousand in here," a woman's voice said behind him. He turned to Emily Bravera, who
was dressed in slacks and a striped shirt. She was hunched on
one knee, having counted the contents of the tackle box. She
relatched the lid.

"Not bad," Randolph said. "Plus, Hovis can't squawk to
the law since he was hiding it from the IRS."

"Well, he does have some explaining to do in that get-up
of his and two bodies sprawled out." Her arm in the crook
of his, he holding the strong box, the two strolled out to the
parking lot.

Laying dead under dim lighting on the uneven asphalt was
the bartender, Alfonso Carlson. He'd been in wait for Randolph, to ambush and kill him. But Bravera, a one-time investigating officer with the Criminal Investigation Command
of the U.S. Army, had done the bushwhacking. Inside was the
bartender's daughter, Stephanie Carlson. The Command's
motto was: Do what has to be done.

Before they departed, Bravera put her face close to Randolph's, squeezing his cheeks in her blood-nailed fingers. Her tan was prominent against his burnished-copper skin. "You
liked fucking her, didn't you?"

"Only doing my job, cap'n."

"Just remember, Thelonious, I know how to use a rifle
with a scope."

"I keep that information uppermost in my mind."

"See that you do." She kissed him deep and long.

At the Seaside Lounge, Avery Randolph began a mournful
rendition of "On Green Dolphin Street." At her table by the
window, Emily Bravera sat and drank sparingly, appreciating
his handling of the tune. The two had been working this area
for more than a month now, pulling off several lucrative burglaries in Long Beach and south along the Orange County
coast. Jewelry, a few spicy homemade DVDs, cash, and even
gold bars horded against the next meltdown. For it wasn't
only old hippies like Brice Hovis who failed to report all their
income.

The front they'd constructed involved Bravera posing as
a general's widow living in Rossmoor. Real estate being what
it was these days, the realtor was happy to rent to the widow
on a month-to-month basis. She was personable, knowledgable on a variety of subjects, worked out at the local gym, and
managed to get herself invited to this or that soiree or club
event-thus being able to scope out various domiciles.

Bravera had knowledge of security systems and Randolph
knew a thing or two about safes. For him, tumblers and electronic lock sequencing were merely different sets of notes to
master. Tomorrow they were going to take down the beach
house of the matching-hair couple. Yes, they agreed, the two
of them had one sweet hustle going.

When the alleged Lori McLaughlin had come on to him, the possessive Bravera did some checking and turned up that
she was Carlson's daughter. Randolph and Bravera didn't
know what the pitch was, but figured the two were setting
him up for an Oswald-be the fall guy. The piano player had
hinted to the bartender that he'd beaten a dope charge in
Baltimore. That was a lie, just part of the dodge, like his funky
apartment near the track. But the Carlsons must have figured
a footloose brother hiding out in Orange County, wanted on a
criminal charge elsewhere, was a good fit for a robbery-murder
here in town.

Randolph and his older lover and partner, not wishing to
pass up an opportunity for enrichment, had let the scheme
unfold. In another month or so, not so foolish to push their
luck, they'd move on.

"Like Duke explained, man, you gotta play with intent to
do something," the pianist said sotto voce, then hummed and
teased the keys, ending his extended version of "On Green
Dolphin Street." There was sustained clapping and several
patrons rose and dropped large bills into the snifter. Before
the tune, Randolph had announced he was taking up a collection to bury father and daughter. Bravera put in a fifty, smiling
at him. He lifted the glass with both hands, bowing slightly to
the gathered from his piano seat.