The Tilsons Got Killed

The Tilsons Got Killed

A Downtown Tony Brown Erotic Mystery

By

LAHomedog

The Tilsons Got Killed

A Downtown Tony Brown Erotic Mystery

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This is my entry into the The 2021 "Hammered: an Ode to Mickey Spillane" Author Challenge. Warning: This is a detective thriller. There is a lot of sex, action, and the body count is high.

This is a work of fiction. There is no such thing as a gang named "The NoHo-16" and some of the other major elements in the story.

I would like to thank as usual Eva_Adams and Redhaired Wonder Woman for their beta-reads and proofing, and the latest member of the Dawg editing team, fsa52. It's a long story and you did an incredible job, ladies. I couldn't have done it without you!

Please enjoy meeting Downtown Tony Brown, everybody. I'm planning others.

The Tilsons:

The Tilsons settled in the expansive sunroom that overlooked the infinity pool in their backyard, and the twinkling lights of the San Fernando Valley in the distance. It was a festive atmosphere with party lights and decorations courtesy of his kids exclaiming "congratulations, bravo, hurrah, and even a Mazel Tov!"

They were celebrating and had debated over the sunroom, the formal dining room that his wife Kelly had their architect design to hold 16, or buying out the Wine Room in the Beverly Hills Maestro's for a blowout shindig.

But at the end of the day, Bradford Tilson wanted to celebrate this win with only his family. Kelly, his son, John, John's fiancé Julie, his oldest girl, Ilene who was destined for great things in medical school next year, and the special joy of his life, his daughter Courtney. So they had sent the housekeeper home and made it a family dinner.

It was a funny thing, Of all of them, Courtney was the one who took after him the most.

John was smart and on a pathway to success, but his passion was sports. Anything with a ball. He'd end up a GM for a professional team one day. That's why they bought Dodger and Lakers season tickets when John was only five. A lot of good times at those games.

Bradford thought back to the Showtime Lakers. Kareem, Big Game James, the others, and Magic Johnson before HIV forced him to retire in his prime. Yes. A lot of good times. But John was on his own course now, and soon would be starting his own family with the lovely Julie.

Ilene was the brainiac of the family and they were all certain she was going to be the doctor who finally cured cancer. At least, her scholarship to Johns Hopkins bestowed that imprimatur.

He was a lucky man. A loving wife, three kids, and one, Courtney, who wanted to follow him in the family business and had a flair for it. He was beginning to feel for the first time that the legacy of his commercial construction business was going to make it into the next generation.

He had worked it up from nothing. Starting in construction as a carpenter, then a foreman, and now one of the foremost construction firms in the country for major commercial projects from skyscrapers, to specialty projects such as new sports stadiums.

They were celebrating winning the bid on the long-awaited new stadium for a local team. They had worked hard to get the contract, and it was awarded today in a large press conference hosted by the team ownership filled with reporters of all media from newspapers to local news, to web-based sites like "The Athletic."

Kelly stood up and said, "I want to start with a toast," and she raised her glass.

"Shit," Bradford blurted out. "Sorry, I mean shoot."

They all laughed at his embarrassment.

"Wait a minute, honey," he said. "I got a special bottle of your favorite wine for this."

Bradford looked at his youngest daughter seated next to him at the table.

"Courtney, would you do the Old Man a favor? The bottle is in the gift bag on the counter by the fridge."

"Sure, Dad."

Courtney moved towards the kitchen in the front of the house.

BOOM!

The concussive force shook the house as the military helicopter rose up from the hillside, and grenades blew through the walls.

Diving for cover, in shock, Bradford and family barely registered that it wasn't a major earthquake.

Glass and roofing flying, a chiseled specter in black body armor stepped into the scene.

In shock, Tilson looked at his wife and family, "You okay?"

They didn't have time to answer as the first bullets hit.

He struggled for breath. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" He grabbed the sleeve of the invader's arm turning it in the process.

"Canceling your contract."

And he shot Bradford Tilson point-blank in the face, then killed Kelly, John, Julie, and Ilene with single shots to the head, dropped his unregistered Glock 9 on the floor, and walked back to the copter.

Chapter 1

I was sitting in a booth in Langer's downtown eating the best pastrami sandwich in town courtesy of the lunch invitation from my favorite attorney, Mary Carlson.

The last time I saw her she was grabbing media attention with her camera-loving lush red hair, piercing green eyes, and Playboy quality, err, bodice along with her client of the moment, an abused star of a prominent Hollywood mogul. Others had gone after this sleaze many times before with no success. She asked for my help on what was probably a lost cause. The fee was too large to say no, and where others had failed, we nailed the scumbag, Mary winning millions for her client, and eventually, it helped to start a criminal prosecution that put him behind bars for a long time.

"This is the Marilyn Monroe of pastrami sandwiches," I said.

"As if I would know," replied the model-thin attorney on the other side of the table picking at her Chef's Salad, hold the egg and cheese.

Langer's is a gigantic deli, the size of a small aircraft carrier in downtown Los Angeles with a surprisingly good and varied menu beyond its sandwiches, verging on fine dining with some of its items. The skirt steak won a James Beard award. Open since 1947, it has been serving pastrami and other deli treats to L.A.'s powerbrokers, politicians, and criminal elite. Sort of the same thing, I guess.

Some folks think she's a strident, spotlight-grabbing media whore who is only interested in promoting herself, but I think of Mary as a brilliant lawyer, who believes in equal protection under the law, does right by her clients, and has a Playboy quality bodice. Which is a lot more than you can say about most lawyers. She wanted me to take on a client for my services.

The Vice-President of the United States walked towards our table with all eyes in the restaurant watching the VP the same way the secret service was watching them. I had read in the papers she was in town for a fundraiser.

"Hi, Tony." She said.

"Anthony. Madam Vice-President, it's good to see you."

"Right. How's that arm?"

"Doing fine, thanks."

"Mary."

"Madam Vice President."

Ms. Harris moved on.

"That was impressive. You got top billing," Mary said.

I shrugged.

"It's been 10 years since the Super Bowl, and she's still asking me the same damn question."

Ten years ago I was fortunate enough to heave the winning touchdown 80 yards down the field for the 49ers over the Chargers as I got hit by 345lbs of angry defensive tackle plowing me into the turf. The VP's father taught at Stanford and was a diehard San Francisco 49er fan.

"Downtown Tony Brown," guaranteed Hall of Famer, but I blew out the rotator cuff of my right shoulder on the hit. We won the game, and I won surgery, but the shoulder was never the same. The famed Dr. Jobe, who invented Tommy John surgery and saved the careers of 1,000s of major league pitchers, said it was the worst rotator cuff injury he had ever seen in his life, and I said a big adios to the NFL the fat multi-million-dollar contract extension, and my career.

At least I would never have to hear that damn Jim Croce song again as I was introduced and the stadium crowd singing along changing the words to "Bad, bad Tony Brown. Baddest man in the whole damn town."

I tried to make it in broadcasting, but I took a belly flop worthy of Buster Keaton. Coaching wasn't for me, so I moved back home to Los Angeles, went to the academy, learned policing, refused my test, and went off and got my private license as a PI, rented an office and put up my shingle. It was impossible for me to go from being the quarterback to a member of the rank and file!

I was much better being my own man.

A lot had happened in ten years.

"Mary, you are my kind of woman: Big Brains, Big Breasts, Big Heart, how can I say no, and how can you?" I flashed her my most killer smile.

"Come on Anthony, we had our night. It was really hot and you are a great lay, but I think business is business, and we are better as business partners than bed partners."

I flashed onto that night. We were having a business dinner together at Vibrato, Herb Albert's supper club on the top of Mulholland and Beverly Glen. We were listening to country songwriter Georgia Middleman performing her hits. Mary had the ribeye. I opted for my usual, veal scaloppini with drinks to start -- Mary was old school and was drinking a Gimlet. I went for my usual Maker's Mark on the rocks. Caesar's salads and the standard sides.

We chit-chatted until our entrees came and then dove into business. Another of her celebrity female clients abused by a cheating husband. I ordered Mary another Gimlet and moved my knee onto hers.

"Mary, how long are we going to play this game between us? Come on, we are not kids. Don't you think it is time already?"

She played with her side of creamed spinach and said, "I don't know Anthony. You get me drunk enough and you might finally complete the negotiation," and smiled. "I will say you do have the hottest ass of any guy I know in town."

The hours of deadlifts and squats did show. Made it occasionally difficult to tailor my slacks to fit, well, that wasn't the only reason, but worth it in a fight, or on a date.

Crème brulee, and cognac sealed the deal, and she drove me home in her new Mercedes sports car. A lot nicer than my jeep, the Brown Bomber.

We got back to her house high in the Hollywood Hills, went through the door to a lot of flinging clothes being thrown off by both of us.

Her tits were insanely gorgeous. No wonder she represented all of those Playboy Playmates -- I was certain Hef had asked her once or twice to pose since I had heard they were a thing for a little while.

Too bad she didn't, but I had them now!

We made out like teenagers down the hallway and up the stairs to her bedroom where I picked her up, threw her on the bed, and proceed to eat that $800 dollar an hour pussy like there was no tomorrow.

And I'm not talking hooker. I'm talking her legal fees that went up to $1,200 an hour in court.

Mary's pussy wasn't as groomed as I preferred, but at least she trimmed her flaming ginger pubic hair into a nice triangle, and had waxed it totally off her vulva and around her clit. And, her clit was as perfect as her breasts and her nails.

Not too long, not one of those you cannot find, not the fleshy kind, which I don't care for, on top of fine, delicate lips that were leaking a sweet-smelling nectar that reeked of a fine upbringing, good hygiene, and serious arousal.

She rolled around and dove into a serious 69, swallowing my cock in one stroke.

The counselor knew how to make an argument in the Court of Cock and had me all the way down her throat on first dive. She came back up, rolled her tongue around my head for a while, and then started to throat fuck me again.

Jesus!

I dove into her pussy like crazy trying to meet her stroke by stroke and we both explosively came. Mary bucking, and gushing into my mouth, as I shot a ton of my hot, sticky, spunk down her throat and into her mouth.

I'm happy to report she was a swallower.

We laid back in bed sipping a glass of wine or two.

"I like how you twirl your gun."

"Counselor, Private Detectives don't twirl their gun. Cowboys twirl their gun."

"Oh?" she lifted one eyebrow. "And what, pray tell, do Private Dicks do?

"We know how to aim our pistol and shoot."

"You most certainly do."

We shared a few more sips of wine and some laughs, waiting for my hardon to recover, and then fucked two more times with Mary cumming three more for a total of four, and I finally got my third one around 1 am.

She was a tiger in court, and a tiger in bed. A hot night.

Her serious voice jolted me back to the moment. "Look, Courtney Tilson is the only surviving daughter of that family that was slaughtered by those hitmen a few months ago. I know you saw it in the papers. You couldn't miss it."

"I need you to do a couple of things: Protect Courtney from the mob, that will not be easy, and find out which one killed her family and why. When you do, I am going to make sure the motherfuckers land in criminal court and face justice. And I'm going to help provide it. I am personally opposed to the death penalty, but I want to see these guys swing. I'm going to make them pay for what they did to this poor girl."

"That's a big order."

"Do you remember the details?"

"Yeah, I scanned the headlines."

"Then tell me, besides the US Army, who else has the money for attack helicopters, concussion grenades, and the rest? Smells like a mob to me, and a mob who is bringing in a lot of drugs from Southeast Asia. The Tilsons were killed with armor piercing bullets. Maybe a military connection. My nose is never wrong when it comes to protecting my clients."

I thought this through for a moment considering the challenges and danger of the assignment. "Well, my nose is never wrong when it comes to protecting my own skin. You will have to pay for Ryker," I said.

"I figured that and agree."

We negotiated and settle upon an acceptable amount.

"Okay. Show me the file."

Chapter 2

I have always thought you have to be either unlucky, deserving, naive, or dumb to get murdered.

I know that sounds rude, but I challenge you to come up with another reason.

"Unlucky" is how most of us get murdered. The guy walking down the street who gets popped while being robbed of his wallet, or in the wrong place at the wrong time as someone is shooting and killing others for no reason, or in love or involved with someone who kills you. Cops who are shot in the line of duty mostly fall into this category.

"Deserving" are the criminals in gangs, the mob, real criminals, or the scum of the earth who prey on others and live by the gun. "The Godfather" isn't real, but the Italian, Russian, Armenian, Israeli, and the various drug mobs are. In my book, abusive husbands and guys who beat up women fall into this group.

I once had a problem with the Armenian mob on a case and a friend of mine, an Executive Chef at one of my favorite restaurants in Beverly Hills, said to me, "You don't want to fuck with the Armenian mob. Trust me. They'd rather kill you than talk to you."

I was smart enough to back off. I was not willing to fall into the "dumb" category.

I have a friend who had a wise-ass 25-year-old son, as many parents of 25-year-old sons have. The kid had parked his car at a local mall and was crossing the alley to enter it. A black Mercedes came screeching down and nearly hit him.

The kid flipped them the bird.

The Mercedes stopped, backed up and four guys got out with the driver on a cell phone. Suddenly a second black Mercedes showed up and stopped. Four guys got out. One walked over to the young man and sucker punched him. The kid hit the ground and the four guys beat and kicked the shit out of him.

They then took a carpet knife, and slit him from the base of his neck to his ass, and said, "We are NoHo-16, motherfucker. And we kill people for the fun of it.," and kicked him in the head one more time, and split. Leaving him to the emergency room and 21 stitches.

He fell into the dumb category. I do not mean this to sound cold. I had major concern for my friend and his son, but if you incite the NoHo-16, some say the most dangerous drug mob in L.A., you fall into the dumb category whether it is by accident or not.

Or maybe he falls into "Naïve." Some of us never realize that we are engaging in a relationship that is going to lead to their murder. That is the stuff that movies are made of.

Trusting, innocent, unaware people who are mostly killed for passion, greed, or vengeance.

"Dumb" is the most obvious category of them all. Challenging someone to a fight especially when drunk, calling someone a slur that you shouldn't say, participating in an event that is designed to incite violence, fucking your best friend's wife, pulling a gun on a cop. The list goes on and on.

Like it or not, a lot of people are killed because they are dumb.

Guys like me fall into that category.

If I get murdered it is because I'm dumb.

You don't survive in my job if you're dumb.

And Mary Carlson had just asked me to find out if Bradford Tilson and his family had been killed because they were unlucky, deserving, naive, or dumb, and who killed him, and I said yes.

That might have been dumb.

Chapter 3

Ryker was a bit older. The joke in the gym was "you're old, but no one is as old as Ryker."

That's because he was a few years ahead of us. Army, Rangers, special forces. A few secret raids that you heard about afterward on TV news, a turn with the CIA performing missions that he would have to kill you if he told you about them.

He never said anything, but I heard through the grapevine about a few key assassinations that may have taken place.

I didn't care. All in the line of duty.

A walking, human weapon who could just as easily kill you with his hands as his gun, but fiercely loyal to his friends and family and I was his only true friend.

Ryker was not tall. About 5'-10", but solid as a rock, with 19" biceps, a shaved head, and one of those special forces tattoos. Not on his upper arm or forearm like most, but on the left side of his neck. A snake sword through a death skull in a beret wearing wings wrapped around "DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR."

He was a Chicago Cubs fan and would walk around Dodger Stadium wearing a yellow "wife beater" with big block letters saying, "Dodgers Suck." No one questioned him.

Ever.

Quite simply he was a mean motherfucker.

He now worked freelance, mostly for the government, but also anyone with a legal need that met his fee. But he preferred to work with me, and I preferred to work with him

I knew I'd find him at the gym. Most likely over in the free weights. Which he was doing single armed overhead presses ten reps at a time.

He broke and we both went over to the health bar for a smoothie. Ryker poured a bit of vodka into it from a flask that he kept down on his ankle by his workout gun, a Glock 27 subcompact. The same as I keep in my ankle holster. I don't remember who was the first. I claim I was. Ryker just laughs. A sign that as far as he was concerned the discussion is over. And that's that.

"You still carrying that pussy-assed Glock 17 on your hip?" he asked.

"We are in love. And true love lasts a lifetime."

After the derisive laughs stopped, I filled him in, told him the fees Mary was willing to pay, who I thought the bad guys were, and how I thought we should start.

"We are going to need some serious firepower if it really is the guys you think," he said.