MJ 4: The Nightlife Case

He nodded and sucked down more coffee. I polished off my burger and thought carefully. "All right, you lined up a buyer, you felt safe enough to come back...what happened next?"

"D-Bag and Cherokee are here, Marly. They're here and Liz went missing. I think they took her, I think they took her because the storage locker was cleaned out and the security camera shows Liz driving up to it. They have her, Marly."

"What makes you think she's not dead and these two aren't in South America right now, living the high life?" Screw tact, I thought.

"This is ten year old coke and heroin. Shit is no good. Liz found a chemist, met him in some out of the way bar when he responded to a classified ad. Said there were maybe two people who could turn it useful and sell it. The other guy is in Europe or some shit, and Liz never gave me this guy's name. D-Bag and Cherokee need Liz alive to meet with him, turn this shit into cold, hard cash, and then they'll go."

I felt my blood turn to ice. I needed that money, needed it bad, but if I understood what he was saying, if I read between the lines, I was a hired gun to kill these two. He needed his wife and the drugs back, but D-Bag and Cherokee couldn't be left alive.

I had shot people, I had killed people, but it had always been ethical to my thinking. This was...nothing I could easily be a part of. "I don't do cold-blooded murder." I lit a cigarette and took a long drag while he studied my face.

Finally, Arthur shook his head. "It's not that. I need you to find them. I need you to find the drugs. I need you to find Liz." It struck me that his wife came third, but we were talking a shitload of money. "Whatever happens to D-Bag and Cherokee is up to you."

I slurped my own coffee and turned that over in my mind. Perhaps for this kind of money my morals could be...flexible. "How long ago did they grab Liz?"

"It's been eight days. They called me early this morning, right before I called you. Liz...Liz said she wouldn't tell them anything unless I was there."

Suddenly I realized what was afoot. He didn't know if he could trust his wife. She had been the one crossing the border, looking to make a deal. She was the one that had finally brokered it, and she was the one who grabbed the drugs. Had she double-crossed Arthur with D-Bag and Cherokee? The twists and turns were dizzying, but I knew why Arthur hired me; he had already betrayed me and I was the only one he could trust to kill all the people who had betrayed him; D-Bag, Cherokee, and his own sweet wife Liz.

I thought of a cool three million in cash, and then I thought about being Montgomery's slave into old age.

"So when and where do you meet them?"

"They call me tomorrow with the location for tomorrow night. Marly, there's more. I didn't just stay in Mexico to avoid the cops, I did it to avoid the man we robbed."

"Wait, you said the money and drugs came from a storage locker used by multiple dealers, none of them big time."

"There was only one man we stole from." Bowers looked away, scanning the Denny's as if expecting a SWAT team to be moving into position. "Alejandro Javier."

My heart skipped a beat. Javier was a man wanted by the FBI and every major crime-monitoring organization in South America. He made my big scary mobster, Montgomery, look like a choir boy.

"So anyone who touches this money is fucked." This was a clear set up. He wanted me to find the three musketeers, kill them, get him the drugs. He'd sell them, undoubtedly double-cross me again, and leave me to take a bullet between the eyes courtesy of Mr. Javier.

I'd be lying if I didn't say there was an adrenaline rush, but this was going to be a tough one to stay a few steps ahead on.

He nodded. "I figure we have seventy-two hours before Javier gets wind. Three days, starting an hour ago, to end this, make the cash, and get the fuck out of Dodge.

"So, can I trust you?"

I stubbed out my cigarette and exhaled in one long stream. "The question is, Bowers, can I trust you?"

***

Bowers gave me ten grand in cash as payment up front along with a nice .357 much like mine, and a case of bullets. I didn't question where it came from as the bills were old, worn, circulated, and non-sequential. The gun was filed well, used, and likely hot. As long as it shot straight I didn't give a fuck. I used some cash to check into a cheap motel in a shabby neighborhood and get some sleep. In the morning would come the call and we wanted to be well-rested and prepared.

The dreams came, black and white and blood, and I woke again in a panic, uncomforted by the strange surroundings.

It was early but I got up, had a smoke and showered. I dressed carefully in a denim skirt, low kitten heels, and a tank top. I put my gun holster over it with Bower's gun and my windbreaker. With a little makeup and some earrings, I was set for the day.

I called Bowers cell and it went straight to voicemail. Feeling itchy and knowing it was early, I decided to have a little me time. The call was due at 10 and it was only a few minutes after sunrise.

First I rented a car. I paid extra and got myself a sweet little 'Stang. It wasn't nearly as sexy as Finn's classic but it was a convertible, powder blue, and sexy as hell.

I drove straight to a shooting range to try the gun out. I didn't really trust Bowers, not at all, but the gun was sound. A newer model than mine it accounted for the recoil so that took some getting used to, and my accuracy would be impaired, but I could still hit the trunk of a body if I needed to.

Then I did the one thing I knew I'd never tell anyone about. I had a file with me and put it out on the seat and drove, following the directions. It took me from East L.A. to the Valley and another hour to find a parking spot. It was nine, Bowers had not called me back, but I had a clear hour before go-time.

I walked to the small warehouse building, bright white like the others. Traffic was heavy and people only walked from their cars to stores, no one strolled the sidewalks like I was used to at home.

I found a good spot and pulled up the Times I had grabbed from the box by parking spot. It took thirty minutes of waiting in the hot morning sun but finally a black short limo pulled up to the curb and the door opened.

Out strode Michael Finnegan. He was 6'3" and wiry, with broad shoulders and ropey muscles. His coal black hair was long enough to be pulled back into a ponytail which just barely fought the curl to it, and his bright Irish Blue eyes were covered by chic sunglasses. He was tanned deeply and still the handsomest man I'd ever seen.

He'd also worked some kind of magic. He had killed Montgomery's two daughters, women Montgomery wanted dead, but Finn had beaten him to the punch, normally a killing offense. Somehow he'd bought his way out of trouble and now that he was free of any suspicion for murdering his girlfriend and star actress Stormy Michaels he was emerging back into the spotlight, a place Finn was born to rule.

He was surrounded by people but I couldn't see them. I stared, mouth watering, heart pounding, palms sweating. Oh, God, my body would never stop wanting him, my heart would never make up its mind to love or hate him.

He looked lean and chiseled, renewed. I myself felt more polished, but compared to him I had changed very little. A little makeup, contact lenses, a trim, and high heels were all cosmetic things. Something about Finn seemed darker, leaner, more dangerous.

Before he'd always been an affable guy with a ready smile and a naughty joke, but now his smile was shallow, cool, his face laser-focused.

Suddenly he stopped before getting into the car, his hand on the roof, and swept that gaze across the street. I jerked the paper up and felt my heart hammer. What would I do if he came over, or called my name? I wanted to slap him, scream at him, bite him, screw his brains out, and cry on his shoulder all at the same time. It would always be like that between us; I knew I should never have come.

Then I heard his door slam and the car pulled into traffic. I lowered the paper and watched it go, wondering who he was going to see, where he was going to go.

In the end it didn't matter. He was a porn king in California and I was a super-low-rent private dick in Chicago. Michael Finnegan had arrived; he'd made it out of the muck. I had one more job to complete and I too could exit stage right, alone.

Story of my life.

***

Ten a.m. came and went with no call. I left Bowers two more voicemails but it went straight to voicemail, not even ringing. His phone was off, which meant he had a voicemail from Liz, D-Bag, or Cherokee, likely.

I'd scribbled down the name of his hotel and rode over, getting there as the post 11a.m. checkout-cleanup was gearing up.

At the desk I was told Bowers had checked out last night, but, surprise, surprise, he'd left a package for me.

I took it, tipped the clerk a small amount so I'd be remembered favorably but not clearly, and walked back to my car. My temper was boiling and my stomach was growing; I went through a drive through at Carl's Jr. and pulled over into the shade to chow on my grease and see if I'd been left a bomb.

It was small but somewhat heavy and rattled with a dull thud. With a deep breath I tore it open and found a cell phone...with a post-it on it.

"Liz," I read aloud, and shook the box. A car charger fell out and I put it in the cigarette lighter and plugged it into the phone.

I let it charge as I finished my late lunch and when it beeped it was done, I turned it on. There were a few unlabeled numbers and I began with the one called most often.

"Hollywood Gateway Motel," a pleasant female voice called. I hung up and tried the next.

"Pizza Hut," a cracking teenager said, and again I hung up.

I went through a few but none answered "D-Bag's evil lair," or "chemist who can recycle old shit for high cash," or even "likely meeting spot for chemist interviews away from prying eyes and ears."

On my eighth try a silky smooth, deep male voice said "Coon Saloon," and I knew I had it.

"How do I get to you from the four oh five?"

***

The story usually followed along the lines of more and more questions emerging with the progression of the case. For once, it seemed not to go that way. This seemed easy...too easy.

I left a final voicemail with Bowers and headed up to the Coon Saloon. I left well before sunset but traffic in L.A. was something out of a horror film. After two hours and several considerations of homicide, I made it out of the city and headed for Angeles Crest Highway.

By the time I found it the sun was sinking ahead of me as I followed it west towards the tiny town of Camp Wilson, noticeably missing from any map I found at 2 gas stations along the way.

After an hour of scant traffic on the hilly highway I found a widening with a few buildings, the largest of which bore the name Coon Saloon in paint on paint, the only lit sign proclaimed Miller High Life was sold there.

I parked the Mustang between an old Bronco and a Tundra pickup that had seen better days. I was sweaty, my hair was threatening to frizz, and I was glad to have a suit jacket to cover my pit stains.

As I stood examining my lipstick in the side view mirror a young man strode inside with a large .45 on his hip. I patted my .357 and smiled. Hell, at least I packed like a local.

Inside it was the bar that time forgot. If they ever made a movie set in a typical 80's country bar, the Coon Saloon was perfect. All the signs celebrated cowboys, horses, and bulls, no nod to skiing or anything that was the actual lifeblood of the area.

There were a few tables and chairs, a long bar, and in the back a pool table and a juke box. At the pool table the young man who'd come in was shaking hands with a slightly older version, likely a brother.

At the bar was a couple, older alcoholics, and a gruff looking middle-aged man in trucker chic watching the lone TV playing a Bulls/Lakers game.

A cocktail waitress was polishing her nails at the end of the bar, and filling bowls with popcorn was a striking man. Something about him looked familiar, but I couldn't place it.

He was slightly tall, 6' even or 6'1", had long hair that was light brown but sun-streaked blonde, and his skin was tanned like honey, stretched across gym-toned muscles. He was good looking in a generic actor sort of way, not pretty like Finn had been before oddly a broken nose turned him stunning.

Damn it, my mind screamed, why did I have to compare every halfway attractive man to Finn? That was not why I was here.

The bartender was the first to glance at me and I made my way to a stool and sat. Alcohol and bars were my old friends. I was drinking less since my old tendency to blackout-drink had landed me in the middle of two murder investigations, but I hadn't stopped.

"Whiskey, neat," I said with a slight smile, hopefully just enough to seem friendly, not eager.

He pulled down a glass from up top and a bottle from down below. "Car break down?" He was the owner of the silky voice that made my mind think of cool sheets.

"Nope," I shook my head and set my purse on the stool next to me. "Actually I was headed here."

He raised a brow and quirked his lips, bringing out the ghost of a dimple in his chin. "You the one who called?"

I nodded.

"Meeting somebody?"

I took my drink and slapped a twenty on the bar. "No. I'm a private investigator, looking for a woman named Liz Howard," I carefully used the fake name she and Arthur had been going under. "She disappeared, lived in Mexico. Stayed once a month in L.A. and for some reason came out to this place regularly. Tall woman, my age, athletic, bottle-blonde, tan, pretty. Remember her?"

"Liz?" he asked slowly, drawing her name out the way men often did with statuesque blondes. A light flickered in my mind and I had to wonder if she had come there to visit him. It would just be the perfect fuck-up if there was no chemist or deal, and Arthur, D-Bag, and Cherokee were all chasing a ghost. "She came here to escape. Bad marriage, I think. Was in just a few days ago. When did she go missing?"

"Two days ago. Were you here that night?"

He nodded, his eyes as intense as his mouth was grim, strangely enhancing his masculine beauty. "That night she came in, put two bucks in the juke box, drank four beers, seemed to be waiting for someone. Sometimes a guy would join her, tall thin, white, nondescript, a bad tipper, but he wasn't there this time.

"When she left, she headed for the Bluff Inn, or so she said. She left her car here and thought she'd been drunk and caught a ride with another regular, Charlie," he indicated the trucker, "but she didn't call the next day and the Inn said she'd never checked in. I figured she'd met somebody and split."

I had scant descriptions of Cherokee D-Bag, but Cherokee would be easiest. "The bad tipper, was he a man who looked like a white boy playing Sitting Bull?"

The bartender smiled finally, and it struck me as slightly odd. "Someone like that would have stuck out. No, this guy was vanilla, bookish looking, like he should be wearing glasses, but he didn't. White, thirtyish, younger than her. They seemed to talk business, he'd write and she'd gesture. They always left in separate cars, and he never took the same one twice."

Bookish? Calm? That was definitely not the notorious D-Bag. If anything, it sounded like Arthur, but he and Liz wouldn't meet here separately.

"She mentioned once to Kelly," he pointed to the cocktail waitress with newly blood-colored nails, "that she was married and it was rough. Other than that she never said much."

"She seem like she had a lot of money to you?"

He raised a dark brow. "Wouldn't you know that?"

"Why would I?" I needed to hear how he'd arrived at that conclusion.

"If she really is missing, I assume her husband hired you."

I finished off my whiskey and set the glass down for another pour. "No, actually. See I'm looking for...something else, and she just happens to be a possible link in my case. Could be a dead end, figured it was worth a shot."

Finally he lifted a corner of his mouth, close to a smile. "What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't. Marly, Marly Jackson." I held my hand and he took it with a firm grip of his own, and gave me a respectable shake.

"Hank Mobley, I own this establishment."

"Hank, could I grab another whiskey, and then you said he car was out in the parking lot?"

He poured for me, the twenty sitting unchanged. "Actually it's out back. She left the keys in it and I didn't want to risk anything, so I moved it back there by my place. You really an investigator?"

I pulled out my wallet with my ID and his eyes noted my gun. Not with reproach but with respect, and I found myself studying him as he read my ID like an altar boy in church.

The unnatural blonde in his hair, the length, and the carefully calculated muscles said this was a man of low intelligence. The set of his face, his posture, the softness of his deep voice spoke volumes. He seemed to be a man who had on the surface given up on a dream, likely that of on-screen stardom, and had done so too young, too early, and at the behest of another.

A touch of mystery was always a welcome thing to a PI.

"Here," he finally passed back my ID and turned around to the cash register. He opened it and pulled out some keys, very clearly a rental car company. "Take these. Somebody should call Hertz."

"Why didn't you?" I asked, standing and sliding the twenty closer.

"Keep it," he said solemnly.

"You've been a big help, call it a tip then. Why didn't you call anybody when this woman disappeared into thin air? What were you waiting for?"

I only believed him because he didn't smile. "You," he said after a long pause.

Unsure of why that made something low turn over inside me, I chose to pay closer attention to my spidey sense. I'd go look the car over, check out the Bluff Inn, and when the Coon Saloon closed, Hank Mobley had some serious questions to answer.

***

I felt like I was running in circles. Liz's car was sterile, clean. Hertz was abusive when I called them, making me hang up on them. The Bluff Inn told me Liz stayed there sometimes, only when drunk, and always alone. They did add it was Mr. Mobley himself who walked her over most nights, but cast doubt on my suddenly formulating theory when they said he did that for all out of town drunks, as well as lushes in the doghouse.

I asked about D-Bag who's real name was Dominic Monahan, and Cherokee. No hits at the Bluff Inn, but a guest who appeared to fall under the "local-lush-in-the-doghouse" category slurred he might have seen a man like Cherokee pass through a few days prior in a dark car, possibly a sedan,, possibly a coupe, maybe a Ford or maybe Japanese.

Real helpful.

I went back to the Coon Saloon but sat on the back stairs. It appeared Hank lived upstairs with a separate entrance and so I waited, smoking, trying not to think of Eddie.

Eddie had owned a large club that made a lot of money and housed a lot of illegal activities. He too had lived above in an apartment with a separate entrance.

And the last time I'd climbed those stairs Eddie and I had been long over, but for our final dance I found his dead body in a pool of blood inside.

I'd smoked what felt like half a pack and though it was late summer the night was cool and I was wishing I'd brought more than my windbreaker.

"You could have come back inside the bar," Hank said beside me, materializing like a ghost. I jumped and dropped my cigarette.

He bent to grab it but he was lightning fast and picked it from the ground, and hogged it for a moment to light his own cigarillo before passing it back.

"You're welcome," I said testily.

He smiled again and it didn't touch his eyes, merely showed off blindingly-perfectly white teeth. His eyes seemed guarded, judging, and tired.