“Brent also mentioned you,” he said to Mary.
“I’m sure it was a real Hallmark moment,” Mary said.
Braggs smiled an easy, comforting smile. “He simply mentioned he had a niece who was a helluva private investigator. I swear, that’s what he said.”
“He was probably joking, testing out some new material,” Alice offered.
“Well, that’s kind of why I came to see Alice,” Braggs said.
“You need a good reason. No one would do it on their own volition,” Mary said.
“I came here to see Alice, but I also came to find you,” he said.
“Visiting Mary is like rubbernecking at a car accident — you don’t really want to, but sometimes you just can’t stop yourself.”
“Why me?” Mary said.
“The group of guys I told you about? The ones who all started out with Brent and me way back when?”
Mary nodded.
“We want to hire you to find Brent’s killer,” Braggs said. “And now Barry’s too.”
Her first inclination was to say absolutely not. But she was looking into the case anyway, so she may as well get paid for it. Plus, since she had a legitimate client now, she actually had a legal right to do some investigating. At least, enough right to challenge the Shark the next time they butted heads.
“There’s only one condition,” Braggs said.
Uh-oh, Mary thought.
“I’m coming with you.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mary shot up Pico, then hooked a left onto Lincoln. A few minutes later she pulled up in front of the Leg Pull. Mary hoped once and for all that this would be the last time she had to come to this shithole.
But then she smiled and laughed about Mr. Whitney Braggs. Thinking he could tag along just because he’d hired her. What was she, a ride share program for the elderly? That’s why she had slipped out the back door of Aunt Alice’s house. She didn’t have time to babysit some old man.
She eased out of the car, her body still ached. Mary dry swallowed some more Tylenol.
She walked into the Leg Pull and saw her good friend Mr.
Cecil Fogerty, standing at the bar, watching the bartender, a very well-endowed young woman. Mary figured the woman would last about a week, or at least until Cecil started putting the moves on her and she slapped him silly. At least, hopefully that’s what she would do, for her own sake.
Fogerty glanced out the corner of his eye when she walked in, stiffened as if someone had shoved a cattle prod up his ass, then immediately turned his back on her. Mary walked right up to him.
“Hey Cecil! Long time no see!” she said.
He turned to look at her over his shoulder. The bartender moved on so Cecil had no choice but to turn all the way around and face her.
“I told you everything I know,” he said.
“Ah, come on,” Mary said. “You went to MIT right? You must be a real fountain of knowledge.”
“Please go away,” he said, his voice small and sheepish.
“I can’t stay away from you,” Mary said. “I’m hooked. It’s like asking a bird not to fly.”
“You know,” he said, the light of a small challenge coming into his eyes. “I reported you to the cops for pulling your gun on me,” he said. He even puffed out his chest a little.
“No you didn’t,” Mary said just as loud. “You changed your soaked panties and told everyone you did me on the desk.”
“Yeah, but after that, I called the cops.”
Mary could tell he was lying. He wouldn’t dare call the cops and get involved with them. She was sure Cecil had all kinds of sideline activities the police would love to know about. And she didn’t have time to listen to his bullshit. Mary closed the distance on him and stood so close her boobs were hitting him in his chest. She could smell his body odor mixed with some high-octane Hai Karate. Mary tried not to look at the greasy pores on the man’s nose.
“Jimmy Miles,” she said. “Where is he?”
“Here we go again,” Cecil said. His voice actually shook a little and his chest caved back in.
“Is that your breath or are we standing over an open sewer?” Mary said.
Cecil gritted his teeth. “I have very active glands,” he said. “It’s not fair of you to make fun of something I can’t control.”
Mary reached up and grabbed the front of Fogerty’s shirt. The bartender looked over as well as a cocktail waitress who had reappeared from the back room.
“Tell me,” Mary said.
“I don’t know,” Fogerty said through clenched, yellowed teeth. “Go look in one of those Comedy Club flyers — it shows where everyone is. He’s probably listed in there.”
Mary nodded. “That’s a good idea. But since you know the clubs, you could probably find it much faster than I could. Go.”
She pushed him away from the bar.
“Then will you leave and never come back?” Fogerty said, and walked over to the pile of thin newspapers. He picked one up, then mumbled under his breath. “Maybe go get some horrible disease and die a miserable death?”
“Stop trying to sweet talk me,” Mary said.
He flipped through the pages, scanning them quickly. Mary took a look around. The place was mostly empty. She pictured her Uncle Brent here, waiting to go on stage for his final performance. She hoped he had gotten at least a few laughs.
“Donny B’s,” Fogerty said. “On Sunset in West Hollywood. Okay?”
“Even though I trust you implicitly, show me,” Mary said. Fogerty held open the paper and Mary saw Jimmy Miles’ name in the rectangle for Donny B’s. She took the paper and headed for the door.
“Please don’t come back,” Fogerty said.
“Don’t wait up for me, honey,” Mary answered.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Mary had figured the Leg Pull was at the bottom rung of the comedy club ladder.
She was wrong.
Donny B’s was under the ladder, down a manhole cover, on par with the sewer lines. Small, dirty, and nearly empty, Donny B’s looked less like a comedy club and more like a dive biker bar even hobos would be embarrassed to frequent.
Jimmy Miles was on stage. Mary checked her watch. According to the flyer he was most likely in the middle of his set. She sat at the bar and ordered a beer. In a bottle. She swiveled on her stool and took in Jimmy’s act.
“And you know what else I love about black women?” he said. All nervous energy on the stage. “It’s okay to insult them. Just don’t do it in their house!” He waved his finger in front of him and raised his voice up a pitch or two. “You gonna say that to me in my house? You got another thing comin, girl!” There was chuckle or two from the audience, Mary thought. Well, just one.
“So I can call you a ho’ as long as I stand on the front steps and don’t actually come in the house?” Jimmy said. This time, he was met with dead silence.
Mary turned away from the carnage and took a drink of her beer. She thought about what had happened. Uncle Brent murdered. Barry Olis murdered. One attempt on her life. And a message conveyed by somebody shooting up her Buick.
Robbery certainly wasn’t a motive. The only drugs involved were Viagra. So why the hell would somebody want to murder a couple of washed up comedians? It made no sense. Was the killer just after the Coopers? Did Barry Olis become a collateral victim? Mary went through the case again but there was nothing. Nothing she’d missed anyway. But you never knew. You had to just keep plugging away.
Mary took another pull of her beer and glanced up as a smattering of applause broke out. Jimmy Miles stepped off the stage, wiping his sopping wet face. Nothing makes you sweat like dying on stage, Mary thought.