A couple comments popped into her head, mostly about bedside manner, but this time she didn’t let them slip out.
“I’m sorry,” she said. She couldn’t tell if he really believed she meant it, but she did. She just didn’t know how to tell him. Like her bedside manner, ‘opening up’ wasn’t one of her strong suits. “This probably won’t help, but you know it’s rarely about the spouse,” Mary said. “Usually they’re looking for something that’s lacking inside themselves.” Mary thought about what she’d just said. What was Jake lacking? Besides a backbone.
“It’s okay,” her client said, looking again at the photographs. “How disgusting. Clive and I play basketball together.”
Clive clearly preferred going one-on-one with Beverly, but Mary didn’t offer that up for discussion. It was a rare moment of self-editing.
“I know it isn’t easy,” she said. It always went this way. Cuckolded spouses, both male and female, always focused on the friend or the neighbor or the co-worker. Rarely ever the cheating spouse. Probably to distract them from the depth of the true betrayal.
Her client stood, took out his checkbook, and scribbled out a check. He ripped it off with a controlled fury and dropped it onto her desk.
“Thank you,” he said. “I trust you’ll save those if litigation becomes necessary.”
“Absolutely,” Mary said. Sometimes they wanted a copy of the pictures to brood over while getting shitfaced. Some couldn’t wait to get away from them.
Mary cleared her throat. “If you know of anyone looking for a private investigator, please feel free to recommend me.” She hated doing the sales pitch, but it was a necessity of the trade.
“Of course,” he said, and walked out the door.
Mary wondered. That had sounded a little sarcastic.
Chapter Seven
Mary locked the photographs in her safe, then drove directly to the Leg Pull. There was still just enough daylight for Mary to get a good look at the place. In the sunlight, the club looked like a hung-over version of itself: pale, tired, and vaguely ill.
She didn’t bother to go back to the alley for another look, nothing back there but bad endings. There was a part of her that wanted to wait, to get a little more perspective on the death of her uncle before she dove into the investigation. But that wasn’t good investigative work. In any murder case time was of the essence. So despite the fact that the anger and hurt were still raw inside of her, she forged ahead. There would be plenty of time for contemplation later.
A bored waitress told her where she could find the club’s owner/manager. She walked back to the office, her shoes occasionally making sticking sounds on the wood floor.
The door to the office was open and Mary saw a slim bald man with a pencil thin moustache. He had on silk pants, a wrinkled silk shirt, and cologne that could double as a pesticide, which probably made a lot of sense in this dump.
There was a cheap desk sign, probably handmade, letting visitors know the manager’s name was Cecil Fogerty. He reminded Mary of Al Pacino’s brother in The Godfather.
“What’s up Fredo?” she said.
He looked at her blankly.
“I’m Mary Cooper,” she said. “I want to talk to you about the murder last night.”
He looked her up and down, without shame.
“Cooper? Did you say your name’s Cooper?”
“You can hear.”
“What are you, Brent’s daughter?”
“I’m actually his pimp,” Mary said. “I want to find out who destroyed my property. They owe me at least three tricks’ worth.”
He gave a weird little laugh that sounded like rodents scurrying behind a wall.
“Nah, you’re related to Brent, I can tell,” he said. His little eyes shone with the pride of his intellect.
“Actually, I’m his niece.”
“Niece, huh? He never talked about you.”
Mary looked around Cecil’s office. Tiny, cramped, and the walls filled with photos of celebrities you just couldn’t quite place. Mary tried not to notice the smell of Cecil’s horrible cologne combined with stale cigars and body odor. And she tried not to think about this place being the last stop, the end of the line for Uncle Brent.
“Yeah, well I didn’t really talk about him a whole lot, either,” she said. “At least, until he got slaughtered behind your club.”
Cecil didn’t know what to say so Mary filled the void. “Why don’t you tell me what you know.”
“So you’re not a cop, right?” Cecil said, stroking his moustache. The little eyes were shining again.
“No, but I have been known to use excessive force. But it doesn’t matter what I am. I’m just a grieving niece with an attitude and not a lot of patience.”
Cecil sat at attention. “Jesus, you are Brent’s niece, aren’t you? You don’t have to get nasty, though,” he said, waving his hands in an attempt at placating her. “Look, I booked him for some of the early slots, you know, sort of as a favor.”
Mary took a deep breath. How far had Brent fallen that he needed favors from a crap stain like Cecil Fogerty?
“Why would you do that?” she said.
“I owed him.”
Mary raised her eyebrows, indicating he should continue.
“Well, you know,” Cecil stammered. “Brent was pretty good with the ladies.”
Mary had known that. Uncle Brent was caustic. He used his sarcasm to hurt people. Mary had never bought into that. She believed in the power of humor to unite, not divide. But despite all that, she knew that her Uncle Brent had been quite the ladies’ man. If there was something she could feel good about, it was that he probably had one helluva good time before he checked out for good.
“Frankly, I’m shocked you might have needed some help with women,” Mary said. “I figured you’d tested more mattresses than Serta.”
Cecil looked at her and Mary could tell he wasn’t sure if it was a legitimate compliment or a whole hearted rip.
“Well…” he said, unsure if a modest agreement or honest denial was in order.
“So he helped you score,” she said, urging him on and desperately trying not to picture him naked.
“You’re pretty blunt, aren’t you?”
“I’m as delicate as a Ming vase,” she said. “So get to the part about Uncle Brent helping you with a booty call.”
If sheepishness could be personified, Cecil Fogerty was now it. “Anyway,” he said. “I let Brent and his buddy come in, do their thing, and I’d slip Brent like, a hundred bucks, maybe two hundred depending on the size of the crowd and how his stuff went over.”
Mary let out a low whistle. “Two hundred bucks, huh?” she said, knowing it was probably only half that. “How do you keep this place running handing out that kind of dough?”
“Between Brent and the bar, it was a wash,” Cecil said. “But like I said…”
“You owed him,” Mary finished.
Cecil shrugged his shoulders in compliance.
“So you said ‘Brent and his buddy.’ What’s the buddy’s name?”
“No clue — never met him. I hired Brent.”
For once, Cecil took his eyes off Mary’s body. That’s how she knew he was lying.
“Ah, the truth has such a nice ring to it,” Mary said.
Cecil gave her a blank stare.
It pissed her off. Her uncle was dead. Had been cut open a stone’s throw away and guys like Cecil Fogerty were still walking around.
“So you don’t even know his name. You let a comic onstage, without even knowing anything about him at all? Never saw him do some material?”