Beg for mercy, p.12
Beg for Mercy, page 12
part #1 of Mercy Hollings Series
“If you were trying to find Dominic, where would you look?”
The bartender paused, thinking about it. “Maybe that tittie bar on Seventeenth. Rocko goes in there a lot.”
I figured this loser had told me all he knew, so I said, “You can forget everything about this conversation, everything after you lit my cigarette.” Then I let go of him and saw the familiar blinking that was a grotesque parody of my customers when I finished their hypnotherapy.
“You want another beer?” he asked, noticing my empty glass. I didn’t remember drinking it. I’d better be careful. I wouldn’t be able to keep that up all day—and night, probably.
“No, thanks.” I left the rest of my change on the bar and went outside, savoring the cool air on the way to my car. One dump down, forty or so to go.
My plan wasn’t very well-formed, but it was all I had. I remembered Dominic’s words.
Don’t even think about going to the police. You have no idea which of them I have in my pocket. And what are you going to tell them? I assure you, there is no evidence that can be tied back to me.
Maybe he was telling the truth, and maybe he wasn’t. Certainly someone had told him about Rocko’s fingerprints—someone with access to police reports—but he couldn’t have the entire staff of both the Costa Mesa and the Newport Beach police departments under his control. He’d already admitted his press wasn’t as strong as mine. And as for evidence, why bother to tell me there wasn’t any if he wasn’t trying to discourage me from finding out?
No, I couldn’t go to the police with what I had, which was basically nothing. But if the very first lowlife I had talked to had guessed Rocko was working for Dominic, I’d bet there was more to be found. And I was going to find it. Somehow, before Monday, I had to find out enough about Dominic’s drug operation so that a few anonymous phone calls would ensure that he would be too busy covering his own ass to worry about hurting my friends.
I got back in my car and flipped my rearview mirror to an angle that prevented me from seeing my face again. I was afraid that when I looked into my eyes, I would see Dominic staring back out at me. I may have to become him to defeat him, a voice in my head said, but I don’t have to like it. I put my car into gear and drove out of the parking lot.
11
I hadn’t set the alarm for Sunday morning, so was instead awakened by a combination of ringing telephone and sandpaper cat tongue. I picked up the phone without checking the caller ID and said, “Hello?”
“Hi, Mercy, it’s Sam.”
“Sam.” A pleasant sensation spread through me, to be immediately displaced by panic. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine? Why wouldn’t I be?”
I could tell my odd question had puzzled him, so I hurried to explain. “I’m sorry, I’m still half asleep. What time is it?”
“Eight-thirty. Sorry, I had you pegged for an early riser.”
“Usually I am. I had some…business to take care of last night, and it kept me out late.” I removed Fred from my chest and struggled to sit up. “What’s up?”
There was a pause. “I was calling to see if you were still up to visiting Dad this evening. Skip’s going to close up for me, so I thought we’d leave around four.”
Shit, I had completely forgotten. “God, Sam, I’m sorry. I completely forgot, and there’s something I really have to do.”
Another of those pauses, this one longer. “I take it these aren’t plans you can change.” He didn’t sound happy. I really hate secrets. Well, this particular secret was for his own good.
“Not really, no.” I winced at the curtness in my voice and hastened to add, “But I really do want to meet your dad sometime. Maybe next weekend.” If we’re all still alive.
“Yeah, sure. Look, I gotta go—someone’s checking out one of the powerboats.”
“Okay. Bye, Sam.” I was about to say something about calling him soon, but the call disconnected. Damn. Well, I could repair the damage later. I hoped. Today I had people to see.
I picked up my clothes from where I’d flung them last night before finally falling into bed. They stank of stale cigarettes and beer, which meant I did, too. California has a law against smoking in bars and restaurants, but the establishments I’d visited last night openly ignored it.
As I measured coffee and assessed the age of the few slices of bread still in the bag—not moldy yet—I mentally reviewed what I had learned so far. Not as much as I had hoped, but a lot more than I had expected.
Rocko had been hanging around town for a couple of years, mostly sticking to a circle of blue-collar bars in Costa Mesa and Fountain Valley. He wasn’t known to have had a regular job, but he sold a little marijuana and crank—low-quality powdered speed, usually snorted—and was considered to be a pretty decent auto mechanic, if somewhat unreliable. He liked to fight and had been picked up by the police once or twice, but most of the places he frequented leaned toward self-policing, with fights broken up and minor injuries tended by patrons.
Then, about six months ago, Rocko had stopped hustling cash-paying engine-repair jobs, yet he seemed to have more money in his pocket. About the same time, Dominic had begun making his occasional appearances, although he never stayed longer than it took to order a drink and have a chat with Rocko. Bartenders notice things—it’s essential for survival in an environment where inhibitions are often left behind with the second drink. Dominic was remembered for his lavish tips and the way people reacted to him.
I had finally found the two men who had accompanied Rocko to Jimbo’s on the one and only night I had seen him there. I’d been afraid that I wouldn’t recognize them, but I needn’t have worried. I had been at the Pierce Street Annex, a reasonably respectable rock-and-roll bar with an ear-splitting band, where the two were unsuccessfully trying to pick up the college girls gyrating on the dance floor. They stuck out like sore thumbs among the smooth-skinned scions of the Newport Heights set, most of whom were dressed in sloppy cargo shorts and eighty-dollar polo shirts.
The two Rocko wannabes—the very thought made me shudder—were standing at a corner of the bar and adopting macho poses, flexing their biceps whenever a girl walked by. It wasn’t working, though it might have been amusing to watch for a while, but I had an agenda.
“Hi, boys. Didn’t I meet you two last weekend at Jimbo’s? You’re Rocko’s friends, right?”
“Yeah,” said one, and they both tried to pretend that women approached them all the time. It would have been more effective if both sets of eyes weren’t glued to my boobs.
“Why don’t we go out to the patio? It’s too loud to talk in here.” I didn’t press, but I didn’t have to. As Sukey had pointed out, they’re really good boobs.
Once in the relative quiet of the patio, however, I didn’t have time to fuck around. I had never tried to press two people at one time before, but it was a night for firsts. “Tell me what you know about Dominic.”
“Rocko’s boss?” asked one, and I nodded. “Rocko was moving drugs for him.”
“What kind of drugs?”
The speaker shrugged, and the other chimed in. “Cocaine and crack.”
I nodded, and the original guy spoke up again. “But he was going to get some heroin. A lot of heroin.”
This was apparently news to bachelor number two, so I ignored him and concentrated on the first guy.
“Tell me about the drugs.”
“Rocko was just small-time. He would get a little product from Dominic, push it out to the guys that dealt in the bars and stuff. He made a cut and could keep a little of the stuff for himself and to share with his friends.”
“Like you guys.”
“Yeah, like us. And for chicks. You know.”
Yeah, I knew. “Are you talking about the cocaine or the heroin?”
“The coke. But Rocko was bragging that he had done such a good job that he was moving up. He was going with Dominic on a pickup, then taking the stuff back to his place. Dominic was gonna let him cut it and, you know, repackage it.”
“For sale on the street?”
“No, to pass on to some guy in Santa Ana. For his people to sell.”
The conversation had gone on for some time, but I had learned no more. After wrapping up with my now usual instruction to forget all about our little chat, I called it a night.
So Dominic had thought he was covering his tracks. He had apparently not thought it necessary to tell Rocko not to brag to his fan club. And if Dominic had made one mistake, he could make more.
So today I had a couple of choices. If someone in Santa Ana had been expecting a big delivery of heroin, there were probably some unhappy customers on the street and some very nervous dealers on the street corners. But I didn’t think I could face a crawl through the Santa Ana streets so soon after last night, and I had another lead.
Jimbo had said that Lawyer Bob and Taylor the Mercedes salesman had both recognized Dominic, and Hilda had given me the name of three places where she had seen him. It was time for a whole different kind of bar crawl. I picked up my cell phone and punched in a number that I had never actually called before.
“Hello, Hilda? It’s Mercy.” I was expecting her to sound fuzzy, figuring I was probably waking her up.
“Mercy! I was going to call you. I’ve lost six pounds, and I’ve told simply everyone that they must go see you.” She sounded as if she had been up for hours.
“I’m not calling too early, am I?” I didn’t really care, but I was surprised by her perkiness.
“Heavens, no, I’ve been up for ages. I haven’t been drinking, you know. I think you pegged it when you pointed out that’s why I wasn’t losing weight. And the clubs are kind of boring when everyone’s drunk and I’m not, so I’ve been getting home kind of early.”
“I’m really happy to hear that, Hilda.” And I was. If ever I needed a reminder that my abilities could actually be used for something other than to coerce assholes to talk, it was this morning. “Actually, I was calling to ask a favor.”
“Name it.”
Who was this woman? And what had she done with Hilda?
“I was calling to ask if anything interesting was going on at the Bay Club or the Wayne Club today and if you would be willing to take me with you.”
“Really?” Hilda had invited me to these establishments a dozen times, then given up. “Wait a minute, I should have the monthly calendars here somewhere. Hold on.”
I heard a clunk as the phone hit a hard surface, then some drawers opening and closing.
“Here they are. Let’s see…Sunday. You’re in luck. There’s a friendship regatta at the Bay Club—racing small boats against some of the other clubs, you know—and those are always fun. After the race, all the single boat owners usually hang out at the bar. You can come, but I get first shot at any likely prospects.” Good old Hilda. It was nice to know that alcohol wasn’t responsible for all her personality flaws.
“Sounds perfect, Hilda. Should I meet you?”
“God, no, I’d never live it down if you were to valet park that tin can you call a car at the Balboa Bay Club. I’ll pick you up at eleven, or better yet, come to my house and we’ll ride over together.”
“Sounds good. Oh, and Hilda? One other thing.” I took a deep breath. “Can I borrow something to wear?”
The Balboa Bay Club is not the oldest nor the most exclusive of Newport Beach’s private yacht clubs, but it is the most expensive. If you look up nouveau riche in the dictionary, you will see pictures of a number of its members, as well as a few shots of the seldom-away-from-the-dock trophy yachts that line its piers. But for every pretender, there was at least one or two legitimate sailors in the club, and the competition in the semi-annual Newport Harbor Friendship Regatta, which the clubs took turns hosting, was fierce.
I had shown up at Hilda’s door with an assortment of pants, some battered deck shoes and my one good pair of sandals, which showed little wear and tear, because they were horribly uncomfortable—but were too expensive to throw out. Hilda and I are about the same number of inches in circumference, but I’m a good six inches taller and couldn’t possibly borrow her slacks, nor squeeze into her tiny shoes.
After a careful perusal of my pants, she decided the khaki slacks were the least offensive, and she actually clucked with approval over the torturous sandals. One of her guest bedrooms was essentially a giant walk-in closet, and I stared in amazement at the racks of clothes, many of which still had tags.
She started sorting through a selection of sweaters that seemed to be on a nautical theme. The sailors I knew never wore anything with gold braid or appliqués of sailboats, but Hilda assured me that the Bay Club was different. Her own culotte set had enough gold braid on it to make an admiral jealous, and the matching gold sandals had spiked heels that would never be allowed on a boat deck.
We finally agreed on a relatively simple twinset with only a little red-and-gold braid on the neck and sleeves, and some kind of coat of arms on the cardigan pocket. St. John, the label read. The price tag, which she removed without a second glance, said $885.00, and that didn’t include the matching shell. I decided to avoid red wine and anything with tomato sauce.
An hour and a half later we were seated on the much-coveted balcony rail seats, drinking club sodas with lime and checking out the few men who had arrived. Hilda had been torn between making an entrance and arriving early to stake out the best seats in the house, and I had voted for the latter. If I had to stand for hours in these shoes, I was probably going to kill someone.
“Isn’t this where you met Dominic?” I asked when I thought we had been there long enough so the question would not seem suspicious. I would not press Hilda, at least not outside the hypnotherapy room. She was my client and, strange as it seemed, my friend. It shouldn’t be necessary, anyway. She loved to gossip.
“Yes, but he’s not a member.” Hilda had been happy to tell me that her initial enrollment fee had been fifty thousand dollars, and that was fifteen years ago. She hadn’t told me the annual dues. I knew she eagerly scanned the lists of new candidates being sponsored for membership, looking for celebrities and potential boyfriends. She would have known if someone was trying to sponsor Dominic.
“Do you know who invited him?”
“Why do you want to know?” she asked, her tone mildly suspicious.
“I don’t see anyone else I recognize. I just thought it might be nice to see a familiar face.”
This was apparently an acceptable answer, as she continued. “I’m not sure who invited him, to be honest. It might even have been at one of the Thursday Opens.”
I nodded. Even I had heard of the night when the club opened its doors to nonmembers. Young girls looking for sugar daddies and unscrupulous men looking for rich widows prowled the bar. From what I’d heard, the members were on to them, and they mostly ended up with each other.
“But I’m sure you would recognize some of the other members, Mercy. I see people from here around town all the time.”
I was about to argue that I didn’t go to the same places she did and so was less likely to recognize anyone, when a voice to my left interrupted.
“Mercy Hollings, is that you?”
I turned. An elderly couple, carefully dressed as if coming from church, were standing at the door to the dining room.
“Edna?” I stood, managing not to wobble on the ridiculous heels, and bent to kiss a powdered cheek. “And Ralph, isn’t it? How have you been?”
I knew the couple from the library, where Edna volunteered a couple of days a week. I’d had no idea they were part of the Bay Club set.
“We’ve been fine, Mercy. We read about your new business in the paper.”
“Yes, it’s going very well, and—Butchie!” The former owner of Sam’s business came through the door and joined them. “Don’t tell me you’re a member here.”
“Hell, no!” Butchie was dressed just as I had always seen him—ancient khakis, a ball cap and a gimme T-shirt advertising something nautical. “But half my old customers are. Edna and Ralphie here invited me to have a snort and watch the races. Even though I’ve never forgiven Ralphie for proposing to Edna first.”
“Oh, behave, would you?” Edna said, looking vastly pleased as Ralph gave Butchie a mock-threatening growl. “Stop by and say hello, dear, before you leave,” she said to me.
Just then the hostess appeared, and the three were escorted to a table at the opposite end of the deck.
“See what I mean?” said Hilda when I returned. “You’ll see a lot of familiar faces before the afternoon is out. Oooh, fresh meat, three o’clock. Don’t look at them!”
I obediently kept my back turned to whomever Hilda was surreptitiously scoping out, but she soon turned away dismissively. “Fake Rolexes,” she said in disgust. “You can tell by the second hand.”
I filed this little piece of information in my who-gives-a-shit folder and turned to begin my own perusal of the crowd.
The number and density of people steadily increased as the afternoon wore on and, by the time the first finishers from the race started to arrive, the upper and lower decks were both crowded. By four in the afternoon a live band had started playing and the place was wall to wall.
I was about to tell Hilda that I wanted to go when I spotted a familiar face through the crush. Lawyer Bob, aka Robert Randall, attorney-at-law, was trying to negotiate the crowded deck with a beer in one hand and a cocktail in the other.
“Save my seat,” I told Mr. Fake Rolex number one, who was hitting on Hilda. Apparently she had decided that timepiece authenticity wasn’t all that important, because she seemed to be enjoying his blandishments. He gratefully took the seat I had vacated, and I followed Bob. Luckily the crowd prevented me from moving too quickly, so I didn’t have to worry about looking as if I knew how to walk in those damned shoes.
I caught up with him just as he handed the beer to a big-bellied man with a deep red sunburn and white hair. “Hi, Bob. Remember me?” He turned to see who was talking, and I smiled brightly.
“Oh, hey, Mercy. Haven’t seen you here before.”
