Mary pulled the Accord into the parking lot of Chez Jay’s, a dive bar on Ocean with a legendary pedigree. Now, it was mostly made up of tourists and business people from one of the many hotels across the street. The occasional star popped in, when they decided to go slumming.
She had told Braggs to meet her here as they both hurried to their cars, away from Jimmy bloody Miles and the encroaching sirens.
Mary shut the car off and thought about what Braggs had done. It had worked, she had gotten a good lead, but still. That strong-arm bullshit rarely worked. It typically got you a couple nights in jail, and if you were a p.i., a fond farewell to your license.
Headlights splashed across the painted mural on the cinderblock wall of Chez Jay’s. It was some kind of mermaid riding a wave.
Mary glanced over and saw Braggs behind the wheel of a sleek black Bentley 8, the two-door coupe that everyone who was anyone now drove in L.A. Mary shook her head. Figures. The sick thing was, Braggs fit the car perfectly.
She chastised herself. How could she not have seen Braggs tailing her from Aunt Alice’s to Donny B’s? That was sloppy and amateurish. The words made her grind her teeth. She got out and leaned against the back of her Accord. Braggs stepped out, set the alarm on the Bentley, and walked over to her.
“I always liked this place. Did you ever hear that story about Steve McQueen…”
Mary stepped in front of him.
“I want you to close your Visa sounding piehole,” Mary said. “And listen to me.”
Braggs raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow.
“You will not follow me again,” she said. “You will not continue any active role in this investigation. You are my client. Not my partner. If you further impede my inquiries I will cease our business relationship and keep your retainer. And somewhere in there I may have to kick your liver-spotted ass.”
Braggs smirked at her. “I don’t think ‘impede’ is an accurate depiction of my contributions to the investigation thus far…”
“This is not open for debate.”
“Augment. Enhance. Improve,” Braggs said, ignoring her. “Those would be far better descriptors of my role…”
“Jackass would be a far better descriptor of you…”
Braggs held up one of his beautifully manicured hands. Mary guessed that he’d carefully wiped the blood off before he’d gotten into his car. Probably with a silk handkerchief.
“Say no more, Ms. Cooper. I shall inconspicuously retreat into the scenery.”
Mary shook her head. He sounded like a Shakespearean trained actor. A few minutes back, he sounded like some nasty cop from Serpico.
Mary turned and got back into her car.
As she was about to back out, Braggs rapped lightly on her window. She rolled it down.
“Are you sure you don’t want to have a drink?”
“Nah,” Mary said. “This place is for has-beens.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Mary did want a drink, she just didn’t want to have one with Braggs, Mr. Dual Personality. She wondered, did Visa realize the voice of their company was a complete psycho?
All she really wanted to do was relax in front of her fireplace and have some wine. Mary stopped at a little market a block or so from her condo. They had a good selection of wine and the only drawback was Julia Roberts always went there for this or that, so that meant there were always a few people going for a look at Julia Roberts. But despite the sometimes long lines, she loved their oddball selection. She picked out a chardonnay and a pinot grigio, then went back to her condo.
She was just getting her keys out when the door of the condo next to her opened. Mary was surprised. It had been vacant since about four months before when a young character actor she’d met once or twice had died of an overdose.
A man stepped out into the hall. He had on a tan sport coat with jeans and tan leather shoes. He looked up at Mary and smiled.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hi,” Mary said back, momentarily caught off guard by how handsome he was. Really bright blue eyes and wavy light brown hair. Nice build. She stopped in front of her door.
“Do you live here?” the man said.
“I wish. I’m actually the plumber,” Mary said. She nodded her head toward her own door. “Their toilet’s backed up again.” She hefted the bottle of Chardonnay. “I use this instead of Drano.”
The guy raised his eyebrows, a slight smile on his face. He knew she was kidding around. Hmm, the guy was quick. She liked that.
She smiled. “Mary Cooper,” she said and stuck out her hand.
He shook her hand. “Chris McAllister,” he said.
Mary liked his handshake. It was warm, not too strong, not too weak.
“I’m moving in, just got the keys this morning,” he said. “Do you like it here?” he said.
“I do, especially because it’s close to my liquor supply.”
He laughed then, a soft easy smile that showed his perfect white teeth.
“Well,” he said. “I’m going to finish bringing this stuff up. It was nice to meet you, Mary.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” she said. She stepped inside her apartment and closed the door behind her, then leaned her back against it. Whoa, she thought. It wasn’t that she didn’t see many handsome guys. There were plenty of them in L.A. Jake Cornell being one of them. Plus, a lot of her clients were in the entertainment industry, Home Central for the Hotties. But there was something different about this Chris guy.
Mary walked to the kitchen and got the wine opener. She twisted it, cranked it downward into the cork, then clamped down and slowly drew it out of the bottle. She liked her chardonnay slightly chilled, but didn’t feel like waiting now. Patience was overrated and instant gratification was just plain getting a bad rap.
She went to her stereo, run by her iPod, and put on some Jamie Cullum, the young British jazz sensation and her favorite artist of late. You couldn’t get a ticket in London to see him, but in the States, fourteen bucks got you front row seats.
She settled into her couch, put her feet up, and looked out her picture window at the dark ocean.
The chardonnay hit the spot. She thought about what Braggs had done to Jimmy Miles. That had been bad.
Mary got up and rummaged around the fridge for something to eat. The wine had gone straight to her head. She’d been popping Tylenol, still hurting a bit from the bomb blast.
Finally, she dug out a plastic bowl filled with some hazelnut pesto pasta that she’d made a couple days ago. She grabbed a fork and sat at the kitchen table, looking out past the living room toward the water.
For the millionth time, Mary wondered why she had insisted on a condo with a view of the ocean. Her parents had died in the Pacific when she was just three. Lost during a storm while sailing their 36’ catamaran. The bodies had never been found. It was right after that she’d moved in with Aunt Alice, who had raised her.
Mary toyed with the pasta but she’d lost her appetite. She threw it away then filled her glass again.
Her mind drafted back to her new neighbor. It had been awhile since her last relationship.
A lot of the guys she’d been with had two big problems with her: one, she was a little bit sarcastic. And two, she carried a gun and knew how to use it. A lot of times, guys were okay with one of those. It was the rare individual who could handle both.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The comedy club names were a parade of bad puns: Punch’s Line. The Delivery Room. Stand Me Up.
Mary went to them all. She talked to every bartender, manager, and comedian she could find. She sat and listened to countless comedians talk about such lofty topics as why women check their makeup in the mirror, why there’s so much meat on pizza, and observations on the differences between New York City and Los Angeles. She wondered why so many had the same material. Maybe that’s why they were in these shithole comedy clubs instead of on the Tonight Show.