“Affirmative.”
“Shut up, Braggs.”
Silence.
“Tell your old cronies to dust off the mothballs and meet us there, too.”
“Ah yes,” he said. “The ‘old gang’ as it were. I’ll get them there as absolutely soon as possible.”
“And tell them if they have any old pictures, mementos, letters, to bring them, too. Ixnay on anything pornographic.”
“They’re not those kind of men, Mary.”
“I was talking about you.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
They filed in like a parade of Hollywood glamour gone bad. Faces too tan. Or too pale. Bodies too thin. Or too flabby. Teeth too white. Or too yellow. If there were teeth at all.
Braggs introduced each new arrival to Mary, and gave her a brief rundown of their background. Mary recognized most of them from Margaret Stewart’s files. She noted each one as they were introduced, adding their faces to her mental Rolodex.
Jason Prescott. Really tall. 6’6” easy. Former stand-up comic turned MC of old folks comedy shows.
Mark Reihm. Average looking except for the severe acne scarring on his face. A gray buzz cut heightened the disastrous effect.
Franklin Goslyn. A little bowling ball of a man.
Todd Castro. A white-haired, dark-skinned guy light on personality, heavy on horrible cologne. Most likely purchased at Marshalls, TJMaxx, or Ross Superstores.
Eventually, the names, faces and handshakes, and hugs bordering on ass grabs were over and Mary got down to business.
“All right,” she said to the assembled group. “We’ve got work to do, fellas. You guys can jerk each other off later.”
The group slowly quieted down.
“Nice hooters!” a voice shouted out. Chuckles and guffaws filled the air.
“Save it for your Inflate-A-Mate.” Mary said.
More laughter followed Mary’s comment.
“Now that's what I call ‘junk in the trunk’!” one of the old men said.
“Baby got back, front, top, and bottom!” another guy said.
“That’s some quality material guys,” Mary said. “I can’t believe no one else noticed your talents.”
Braggs, sitting in the front, turned back and gave the stinkeye to the rabble rousers. They quieted down and Mary used the opportunity to lay out the files of the five people she had failed to identify.
“Look, she’s spreading herself out,” a voice said.
“Right on the table?”
“Giddyup!” Someone added the sound of horse hooves. Clip clop, clip clop.
Mary picked up the first file, ignoring the barely concealed laughter.
“Martin Gulinski,” she said, and held up the first file.
“Farty Marty!”
“He’s been dead for ten years, and while he was alive, he smelled like he’d died ten years ago!”
Mary took out a pen and sighed.
“As much as I enjoy the colorful commentary,” she said. “Let’s try to stick to dead or alive, current whereabouts, next of kin.”
“He changed his name,” this from a guy sitting in the middle of the group. He sort of looked like Mickey Rooney. “Gulinski was too ethnic. He thought he wasn’t getting work because of it. So he changed it to Gulls and then got cancer and died. Should’ve stuck with Gulinski.”
“He had children,” another man added. “I think in Portland. He could never figure out why they were black kids. Looked just like the UPS man.”
Mary rolled her eyes. “The kids. Boys or girls?”
“Two boys, I think.”
Mary wrote down “Gulinski,” and “Portland.” She’d look the sons up and call them, try to confirm that their father was indeed dead. She’d leave the flatulence part out.
Next file.
“Marie Stevens,” she said.
“Dead!”
“She’s not dead. She just disappeared.”
“OD’d in the seventies.” This was from Braggs.
“She was always a partier,” another guy added. “I think I tapped that.”
“You couldn’t tap a quarter barrel, Roger.”
“Children?” Mary said.
“Thank God no. The Devil’s Spawn. She was crazy.”
“Where was she from?”
“Wisconsin.”
“Texas.”
“She wasn’t from anywhere else. She was from here. A native.”
“No way! Marie was crazy! You couldn’t believe a word she said.”
“Family?” Mary asked.
“No way,” a man said. “She was too ‘out there.’ I think she probably didn’t have family — that’s why there’s nothing on her.”
“Pauper’s grave, probably.”
“You know what they call dead bodies in L.A.?” a guy in the back called out.
“What?”
“Studio audiences!”
Mary tried to keep her patience.
“Jesus Christ, you guys don’t know anything,” a guy standing near the doorway to Alice’s kitchen said. “Marie’s buried at Forest Hills, for fuck’s sake. Harvey Mitchell paid for the whole thing. The burial and stuff.”
“Where is that bastard anyway?” someone said. “Is he at the proctologist again or is he just too good for us?”
“The procto’s — he goes every day!”
Mary wrote down ‘Forest Hills’ next to Marie Stevens’ information.
She pulled out the next file.
“Matthew Bolt.”
“Fatty Matty!”
“He’s in the union. An electrician or something.”
“That fuck couldn’t change a light bulb!”
“Hey, how many proctologists does it take to change a light bulb?”
Silence.
“As soon as he takes his finger out of my ass I’ll ask him!”
Again with the proctologist gag, Mary thought. No wonder these guys were bagging groceries at the Albertson’s.
Mary wrote down “Union electrician” next to Matt Bolt’s name.
The next file.
“Betty Miller.”
“Ready Betty!”
Too bad nicknames weren’t a lucrative industry, Mary thought. These guys would have been rich.
“Man she was great,” said the Castro guy. With all the cologne. “You could always count on Betty for a good screw. At one party she did like six or seven guys.”
“Yeah, in six or seven minutes.”
“Speak for yourself, Speed Shot,” Castro snapped back.
“She moved back to New York,” someone added. “Got married. Did some plays. Bulked up and died of a heart attack, I think.”
“Anyone know her married name?” Mary said.
“She married a poor Jew. Didn’t know there were any in New York.”
“Guy’s name was Schneider.”
“If you find her,” one old man advised Mary. “Lift her up and check underneath — he might be squished.”
Mary wrote down “New York” and Betty Schneider, left out the squished bit.
“Last one,” Mary said, and picked up the remaining file.
“David Kenum.”
There was silence.
“No cool nicknames?” Mary asked. “Venom Kenum?”
The men stared back at her.
Finally, Braggs spoke for the group.
“That guy’s bad news,” he said. A low whistle followed his comment.
“Don’t follow up on that one, unless you want to go out to Chino.”
“A regular Boy Scout, huh?” Mary said.
“Well, he sure knew how to use a knife,” one of the men said. “He cut up a woman one night. Raped her. Murdered her. Claimed his doctor gave him the wrong medication.”