One Hot Mess (13 page)

“She's in bed.”

“At six o'clock in the evening?”

“She's not a CPA, you know. She can sleep whenever she wants. Besides, she was driving me crazy, so I put a little Budweiser in her bottle.”

“You did not!”

“I been at the station all day and I still got night class.”

“Put Holly on the phone!”

“Couple of sips and she was out like a fat first baseman.”

I was breathlessly appalled. “You don't even deserve to have a house plant.”

“Hey, I didn't hear her complaining.”

“I'm calling Mom,” I said, and he laughed again.

“Shit, Christopher, what's wrong with you? You really think I gave my baby beer? Holly'd put my balls in a vise.”

I gritted my teeth and glanced out the window toward the coffee shop. The midmorning haze had burned off, leaving the afternoon hot and windy. “You're an ass,” I said.

“Yeah, but I'm the father of your only niece.”

“How is she really?” I asked.

“Loud, funny, chubby. Hey, kind of like you,” he said.

I hung up after I'd called him a few relatively creative names, but I still felt kind of out of sorts. My family may be nuttier than Skippy brand, but they're still family. If the truth be told, I even missed Chicago in a strange sort of masochistic way. The smog, the gritty wind, the Mafia.

Which made me think of Dagwood Dean Daly. I'd first met him just a few months earlier—while saving Pete's sorry ass.

D, as he liked to be called, was a card-carrying member of the mob. Involved in drugs, prostitution, and politics, but kind of charming, in a break-your-kneecaps sort of way. Well, actually, Pete had said he was better known for stealing livers. I've never known what that meant exactly. Maybe it was just a euphemism. Kind of like “steal your heart.” Or maybe not, I thought, but my mind trickled to a halt.

Politics. D was involved in politics. Which maybe meant that he would know something about Miguel Rivera, especially if the senator had presidential plans.

I bit my lip, tried to talk myself out of being an imbecile, and dialed the phone.

OT ANOTHER INCIDENT with your fuckwit brother, I hope.” D didn't believe in long salutations, such as “hi.”

“No,” I said, feeling breathless and ridiculously flattered that he'd not only remembered me but recognized my phone number. Which could, if one thought about it, be considered a good thing or a somewhat deadly thing. Depending on how fond you are of your liver.

“It's good to hear your voice, Christina,” he said. A chair squeaked as if he were leaning back, putting his endangered-species boots up on his polished walnut desk.

“Ummm…” I was never quite sure how to talk to a crime boss. One who dressed like a Garth Brooks wannabe and had framed photographs of himself with
Disney characters was even more confusing. “It's good to hear yours, too.”

“Yeah? Did you miss me?”

I straightened, remembering to be professional. “Do you have a minute, Mr. D?”

“Mr.
D,” he said, and laughed. “Does someone have a gun to your head or something?”

I glanced around a little nervously. No one did. “Not at the moment,” I said.

“Don't I remember telling you my life story?”

“Maybe a piece of it.”

“I think you're a hell of a shrink.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Most people don't even know my name.”

“Isn't it Mr. D?”

I could hear his smile. “I missed
you,”
he said.

Sentiment sometimes makes me fidgety, even when it doesn't involve a liver-stealer, and I tend to cope by employing humor, some of which is not very humorous. “I was hoping your aim hadn't improved,” I said.

He chuckled. “That might be funny even if I
weren't
a thug.”

I swallowed, realizing for the first time what a truly bad idea this was. “I thought you hired out that sort of thing.”

He laughed. “What can I do for you, Christina?”

I closed my mind and tried to act sane. It didn't go well. “I have a favor to ask,” I said.

dreamt about Rivera again that night. Again he was lying on the concrete. But this time there were
two
bodies beside him.

I awoke at three in the morning, breathing hard and telling myself it was just a dream. But the image of his sightless eyes was clear enough to make my hands shake.

Pushing Harlequin aside, I stood unsteadily and made my way to the bathroom. The mirror above the sink was not kind. I looked pale and haunted. Dark crescents hollowed my eyes. Sleep lines were etched like scars into my face. I tried to scrub them away and assured myself that everything was fine. The deaths were, after all, outside Riveras jurisdiction. He had said so himself. Everything was fine. He could look out for himself. Just as I could.

And just then I had to pee so badly I ached. Glancing at the toilet, I sighed, turned, then pattered from the room and out the back door. The night was cool and quiet and dark. The dust felt soft against my bare feet. I peed in the shadows near the corner of my house and went back to bed, falling almost immediately into dream-shrouded slumber.

The following morning wasn't much better. I tried to forget about my troubles and focus on work, but it was no use. My last client of the day left a couple minutes before five. I paced nervously around my office for a while, then tromped out to the reception area.

Shirley was dusting the leaves of our resident rubber tree. It looked shocked but happy. Two days ago she'd brought in a ficus and a jade as big as Buddha. They looked giddy.

But the Magnificent Mandy was to return from her sick bed on the following day, and that spelled trouble for all living things. I stifled a sigh.

“I can't tell you how much I appreciate all your hard work,” I said.

Shirley glanced up. “What? This? This ain't hard. You oughta try nursing a baby while frying bacon and cleaning toilets.” She settled back in her chair. It heaved a little under her weight. “Lucky you don't have to pay me by the pound, huh?” she said, and sighed as she tucked her rag away in the bottom drawer. “How was Mr. Mozer tonight?”

“All right.”

“Yeah?” She canted her head. “Then what's the problem?”

I considered denying there was one. It didn't seem worth it. “If someone gave you a check …” I paused. “For no particular reason—would you cash it?”

“Was it… like a gift?”

I scowled, not really sure how to answer that. “I guess so.”

“Then yeah.”

“It's quite a sizable check.”

“Then
hell
yeah,” she corrected.

“What if there are strings attached?”

“Are those strings likely to land you in the maternity ward with a baby the size of a watermelon stuck in your woo woo?”

A bevy of questions screamed through my mind, but I tried to remain focused. “No.”

“Killed?”

“I hope not.”

She squinted her eyes at me.

“No,” I corrected.

Her heavy brows lowered. “You can't keep peeing in the backyard.”

I started. “How did you know—”

“Seven kids. I've seen everything.”

“I
do
need a new septic system,” I said, “but maybe it'd be wrong to take his money.”

“Honey…” she said, and, standing up, came around the corner of the desk like a road mender on a mission. “You got a good head and you got a good heart. I'm sure you'll use the money wisely.”

“Really?”

“Of course. Besides, if it's from some man, he probably deserved to lose it anyhow.”

“Yeah?”

“Cash the check,” she said, “then go get yourself some sleep.”

I took her advice. Well, I cashed the check. But then, when I least expected it, my car missed the turn onto Sunland Boulevard and sped west toward Sespe.

Happy Daze Pub looked like any other bar anywhere in the country. It was small, dingy, and quiet, even for a Tuesday night. Christmas lights were strung haphazardly above the door. I took a stool near the corner, where I could get a panoramic view of the place.

The occupants were a manila lot. Blue-collar workers mostly, with a businessman thrown in for color. The bartender was a woman. She had good-sized arms, which flexed mightily as she leaned against the hardwood.

“What can I get you?” Her voice matched her arms. My guess was steroids and a good healthy disgust for anyone sporting testicles.

“I'll have a strawberry margarita.”

“No blended drinks,” she rumbled.

“A vodka cranberry, then,” I said.

She nodded and moved away. I was a little insulted at
her haste. I mean, I'm a firm heterosexual, but at least she could have flirted a little.

“A margarita?” someone said, and I turned.

The man who approached the bar was carrying a drink of his own. He was twenty soft pounds overweight, had curly hair, and wore a diffident expression.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

I gave him one haughtily raised brow. I'd learned while serving drinks to the inebriated populace of Schaumburg, Illinois, not to take too much guff. “That I like strawberries?”

“I think they serve them at the Dairy Queen. Do you mind?” he asked, and indicated the stool beside me.

I shook my head and he sat, setting his drink down in front of him. It looked like a gin and tonic.

“This isn't the kind of place with fruit?” I asked.

He took a swig of his drink. “This is the kind of place where people come after their shifts at the plant.”

“To get drunk?”

“By the shortest possible route.”

“You work at the plant?”

“For twenty years.”

I looked him over. He couldn't have been much older than thirty. “That's a long time.”

“I'm generally the first one here,” he said.

“Hey, Mac.” A man in a khaki work shirt gave him a nod in passing.

“Hey,” answered my companion, and took another swig.

“Your name's Mac?” I asked.

“That's what they call me. How about you?”

“They call me Mac.”

“You're kidding.”

“Wish I were,” I said. “So, you've lived in Sespe a long time?”

He shrugged. “Old man loved work boots.”

“So you do, too?”

“Took too much effort to love anything else. How about you?”

I glanced around the room. California had gone smokeless in the ′90s, but judging by the haze, Sespe might not have gotten the memo.

“I'm a cocktail waitress,” I said.

“Yeah? You meet Lyda here?” he asked, as the bartender returned with my drink. She set it in front of me and nodded.

“Hey, Mac,” she said, then to me: “Four-fifty.”

“I got it,” he said, and lifted his almost-empty glass in a well-understood signal. She gave him a near smile and moved down the bar to fulfill his wishes.

“Thank you,” I said.

He shrugged. “Friday's payday.”

“No point letting all that potential money go to waste.”

“Almost be a sin,” he said. “Where do you work?”

“L.A.”

“Yeah?” He jiggled his ice. “I heard of that place.”

I smiled and tasted my drink. It wasn't bad, maybe a little heavy on the vodka.

“What are you doing
here!”
he asked.

Honesty may get you to heaven, but a couple of handy lies will get you answers. “I was visiting my brother. Just on my way home.”

“What's his name?”

I took another sip. “What?”

“Your brother. Could be I work with him.”

“Oh. No. He lives in Santa Barbara. Just had a new baby.”

He smiled a little. Lyda replaced his drink. “Babies are nice. New life and all that,” he said, and gazed with melancholy at the bottle-lined wall in front of us.

It seemed a perfect segue. “I heard a guy drowned here the other night.”

He drew a deep breath. “Weird.”

I felt my stomach cramp. “How so?”

He took a swig. “Manny liked the water. Could swim like a fish, or so he said.”

“So you knew him.”

He shrugged.

My heart was racing. “Did you work with him?”