Cicero's Dead (2 page)

He took a long pull on his beer. “Let me just
take a second to flash through the memory bank.” He placed both hands on his
temples, his usual mannerism when thinking. Then he swallowed more beer.
“That’s a name you don’t forget. You don’t run into many Cicero Lamont’s. Why
would I have heard of him?”

“He might’ve been dealing weight, and he got
clipped in a hit-and-run last August.”

“Dealing what?”

“Dunno. Skag, probably. I don’t think it was
meth.”

“I’ll check on it.”

The next morning the Santa Anas were blowing
at near gale force and the fire danger was off the charts. When I got to the
office, I jotted down a few notes concerning my meeting with Jade. Cicero
Lamont getting popped was a hazard of the drug trade. I knew Tony would jump on
it and might be able to steer me in the right direction as to whom, and why.
What was much harder to figure was the death of Mrs. Lamont. Why off her with
Cicero already worm food? Jade had given me the check for ten large as casually
as if she was loaning me a Jackson. Was there a fortune in the picture? And
with Cicero and her mom out of the way, Richard and Jade could be next in line.
I decided to send one of my investigators, Audrey, to talk to Jade to get a
handle on the cash situation. She mostly takes care of our adultery cases, and
she was glad to get into something new.

“Nick, sounds like this chick may not be
leveling with us.”

“Maybe you two can bond and get her into
therapy while you’re at it.”

“Just because I think
you
need therapy,
doesn’t mean everybody does.”

“Wouldn’t you, if your parents died in the
space of two weeks?”

“I’d need it even if they didn’t.”

“You’ll like Jade,” I said finally. “She’s a
righteous babe, among other things.”

“Yeah? Maybe we can get it on.”

“Maybe, though I don’t recommend it. Anyway,
find out everything you can. She’s pretty friendly, so ask her about credit
cards. See if we can trace Richard that way.”

“I’m on it, Boss.”

I put the phone down and stared out the
window. I tried to envision a web of interlocking relationships, marked by
greed and violence with Richard and Jade at the center. For all I knew, they
could both be living on borrowed time.

Richard’s friend, Ron Cera, lived in the
Valley just north of Studio City. I slid into my silver Camry XLE, and drove
north on Alameda. Just after Union Station, I pulled onto the 101. Traffic was
heavy as I drove north through Echo Park and Silver Lake, then up into
Hollywood. The freeway threads through the Hollywood Hills and just past
Universal City, I turned off onto Laurel Canyon. Valley Village consists of
mostly two story apartment buildings and duplexes, sandstone colored dwellings
that have a clipped and manicured Midwestern feel.

I parked down on the end of Ron Cera’s block
and walked slowly toward his building. I had my set of lock picks and my Colt
Commander .45 holstered in the small of my back. As I walked up the driveway, I
noticed an elderly lady with gardening shears watching me closely. I waved and
she snapped her head away. Chuckling, I climbed the stairs to Ron’s second
story apartment.

I knocked hard three times and waited. I was
about to pound again, when I heard grunting, some movement and the door swung
open. Ron was about 6’2” and a dead ringer for a young Nick Nolte. Same strong
jaw, same singular intensity.

“What the hell, Buddy?”

I smiled. “Sorry. I know it’s kind’a early.”

“Fuckin’ A. I’m on Hollywood time.” He wore
sweats and an Ozzy Osborne tee-shirt with a bat hanging upside down below his
name. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m a private investigator.” I flipped open
my wallet and showed him my license.

“You working for Arnold Clipper?”

“Never heard of him.”

“You’re lucky.” He stepped back from the door
and motioned me inside.

The living room was small with hardwood
floors, off-white walls that could stand a coat of paint, and brown trim. The
famous poster of Humphrey Bogart holding the shot glass was framed above his
couch.
 
Some boxes were stacked in
the corner and I wondered if he was in the process of moving.

Ron noted my interest in the Bogart poster.
“Bogie was the man.”

“You got that right.”

I sat on the couch, and the faint but
unmistakable odor of marijuana drifted down the hall.

“Hang on,” said Ron, “I’ll be right back.”

He disappeared, probably to slam down another
lungful from his bong. As I waited, I glanced at the magazines on the solid oak
coffee table that filled most of the space between the door and me. The room
lacked windows and the stuffy, weed-tainted air was probably giving me a
contact high. Ron returned carrying a bong filled with dirty water, a zippo
lighter, and an ashtray. He set everything down on the coffee table, went into
the kitchen and came back out with a straight-backed chair.

“I was just about to get high when you knocked
on the door. I assume you don’t mind?”

“You could be smoking seaweed with a
turpentine chaser, and I wouldn’t care.”

He grunted, sat down, lit up and sucked a huge
hit of designer weed into his lungs. Exhaling, he repeated the performance and
looked at me with satisfaction. “Wanna hit?”

“Thanks but spliff gets me way wrecked.”

“More for me,” he grinned. “Sorry I acted like
a jerk just now. I get like that in the morning. I work late and need my beauty
rest.”

“Me too.”

He chuckled. “You sure you’re an investigator,
or is this some kind’a screen test?”

“Do you know Jade Lamont?”

“Yeah, I know Jade Lamont,” he confirmed
bitterly. “Butterfly girl. That little cooze used to jump my bones like it was
Christmas and she was Mrs. Claus.”

I laughed. This guy was pretty funny.

“I was just about to fall in love with her, or
at least fall in love with her money when she dumped me like a fresh laid turd.
I still haven’t gotten over it. Makes you realize how women feel when they get
used.” A flash of sadness darkened his eyes. He shrugged it away and took
another hit.

“She’s a beauty.”

The THC was having its desired effect, as he
exhaled smoke propelled words. “You know those butterflies above her breasts?”

I nodded, recalling the tattoos emblazoned
into her caramel skin.

“Dude, that’s nothing. She’s got a red cobra
tattooed on one of her hot little ass cheeks and a green mongoose on the other.
Never seen anything like it.”

“Wow. I’ve missed out. She was very sedate
when I met her.”

“That’s ‘cause she wanted something other than
your dick. That girl’s gonna be a star one day, if she lives long enough. She
may be the best actor I’ve ever met.”

“She retained me to find her brother.”

He raised his eyebrows and suddenly looked
concerned. “Yeah? Huh. If I know Jade, she’s freaking out. They were very
close.”

“Were?”

“Things change. You’re aware, of course, that
he has certain proclivities?”

“I thought there was a possibility.”

“She didn’t tell you, did she? Ms. Lamont is
very selective when it comes to releasing classified information. She could be
a spook if she didn’t come from a crime family.”

“I did get the impression that her father may
have been running a little weight on the side.”

“A little?” he smirked. “I believe it’s called
Persian brown. You mix it up with lemon juice before you slam it. The high’s
supposed to be amazing, but I stay away from that shit.” He shivered, took
another hit off his bong and shook his head as he held in the smoke. 20 seconds
crawled by. “I almost feel guilty having told you that. Almost. Anyway, I like
Richie. He’s a good kid. I was flattered when he hit on me, except I don’t
swing that way, but he was cool. When I asked him why, he couldn’t answer. Made
me think that what he really wanted was a father who gave a damn. I felt bad
for him. Then a few weeks later, Cicero gets splattered into road pizza. Small
wonder the boy’s a mess.”

“That’s good character analysis.”

“Thanks.”

“So how’s the career going?”

Ron sighed. “Terrible. You see, these days it
gets down to Nick Nolte and Johnny Depp.
 
Do they want the moody sensitive yet swashbuckling type, or do they want
the masculine, hard-bitten Nolte type? I’m more Nolte than Depp and it’s just
not happening for me right now.”

“You’re in the wrong era. Go back 50 years.
Who did you have then? Glenn Ford, Spencer Tracy. Kirk Douglas. Hell, John
Wayne, Robert Mitchum. Even William Holden before he got fat. And of course
Bogie. Those guys were men. They weren’t pretty boys. They didn’t need to be.”

“You’re a genius. I think I’ll kill myself.”

“Don’t be in any rush. Not until you help me
find Richard.”

“He can be very elusive. My guess, he’s in
trouble.”

“I get the impression Jade agrees with you.”

“She doesn’t know the half of it.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, and I’ll tell you why and then I’ve got
to get ready for work.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I met Richie and Jade about a year ago, in a
club on Melrose. Later that night, we drove out to Malibu and partied on
somebody’s private beach. I had some bud with me, Jade was drinking wine and he
was wired on meth. He’d just discovered it and was completely amped. I mean,
dude, he couldn’t shut up. I learned a lot about the Lamont family that night.
Probably too much. After she got hammered, Jade started talking too. This was
almost a year before their parents died. I saw her off and on for about 11
months, or rather, she saw me when she felt like it.
 
The last time was about a month after
Dominique walked out on Cicero, which was maybe three weeks before he met up
with an unforgiving bumper. Or at least that’s the way the story goes.”

“And you don’t believe it?”

“I don’t know what to believe. Jade did give
me the impression that the separation was only temporary. Just a little
vacation to sort things out. Anyway, Cicero had no time for his wife. He had
his business enterprises and, according to Richie, his Vietnamese massage girls
in Westminster. He didn’t care if mamma had a fling or two. Boy, Jade hated
those call girls. She could be very high-handed considering her own
laissez-faire
morals.”

He paused for breath and absently poked at the
weed in its container. I waited patiently for him to continue as I considered
this new info.

“In case you haven’t figured it out, Jade has
expensive taste. And she can afford it. That’s what I learned that night in
Malibu, and I’m not sure either of them remembers telling me. I learned
something else, though. Something peculiar. It was about four in the morning. I
don’t know if you know what happens when you’re up on crystal meth and it
starts wearing off, but you get quiet and depressed. Your body’s all fucked up
and you wanna kill yourself. Anyway, we’re all huddled together ‘cause it’s
cold. Jade has her arm around me and I’m kissing her neck, when Richie gives me
a funny look, comes around on the other side of her and puts his head on her
chest. Next thing I know, the damned guy is licking her butterflies. I’m
weirded out but hell, you know, it’s Hollyweird. Jade and I barely know each
other and her brother is licking her butterflies. I mean, shit, man.”

“Yeah, that’s kind’a freaky.”

He looked at his cell phone. “Sorry, gotta hit
the shower and split for work.”

“No worries.”

“Wish I was rich, but I don’t wish I was
Richie.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Little less than a month ago and man was that
weird. It got me freaked.”

“Why?”

“Tell you what, meet me at Milford’s on Vine
in the parking lot at 2:00 a.m. That’s where I work and I’ll fill you in on the
rest of the story. After that, no offense, but I don’t ever wanna see you
again.
 
Jade and Richie are bad
news. I need to disconnect.”

“Where do you think I can find him?”

“Oh, he’s around. Try the gay bars, or the
clubs on Sunset. He swings both ways. The women love him. How could they not?
He’s a dead ringer for John Garfield.”

Ron opened the front door and we shook hands.
“Thanks, Ron.”

“You seem like a cool guy. I just don’t want
to end up dead when I’m not even 25.”

Chapter II – Arnold Clipper

I live in Whittier, 18
miles due east of downtown Los Angeles, with my wife Cassady and Maleah, our 11
year old, adopted Chinese daughter. When I got home, they were dancing to Gwen
Stefani in the living room. Gwen was yodeling and Maleah, who sings like a
bird, was yodeling right along with her. Cassady’s a couple years younger than
I am, but looks about 30.
 
She was a
punk rocker when I met her, and still really is at heart. She’s a helluva good
mother, and she and Maleah are joined at the hip. I sank into a recliner and as
I watched them, I thought about Ron Cera.
‘Why
was he so scared?’

Five minutes later the doorbell rang. It was my
old college friend, Brad Tanner, with a suitcase in either hand. Tall and
skeletal, his hair, now bone white. Behind him, I could see his mud-and-insect
splattered, burgundy Volkswagen Passat parked on the street. The last time I
saw him was three years ago in the Bay Area where he was living with his wife
and daughter. It had been obvious then that his marriage was deteriorating.

“Hi,” he said. His brown eyes were dead serious.

“Hey, Brad, come on--“

“--Sorry to drop in like this, but I seem to
remember you telling me to stop in any time.”

“You okay?” I stood to one side and he stepped
into the hallway.

“Uh, you know, life.”

“Put your bags down and let’s go see Cassady.
She’s in the kitchen.”

“I hope she doesn’t shoot me.”

She was in the kitchen finishing off a stir-fry, a
light film of moisture across her forehead. She looked at Brad and knew
immediately something was wrong with him. “You’re just in time for dinner.”

I wanted to kiss her.

Before we ate, we took his luggage to our
downstairs guest room. “Can I smoke?”

“Sure, but on the patio.”

I grabbed a couple of Perriers and we sat outside
in the cool jasmine scented night air. Around us, crickets chirped and buzzed
away into the night. He lit up a Marlboro and inhaled deeply.

“You want one?”

“No, I’m good, thanks.”

“I really appreciate you guys letting me crash.”

“No worries.”

“You have a beautiful place. Quiet. Peaceful.”

It was obvious that he was hurting. “How’re you
doing, Buddy?”

“I’m good, you know. Six months now, since the
divorce.”

Brad was handsome in his gaunt aquiline way.
Although sadness floated in his brown eyes, they were not entirely devoid of
their old familiar sparkle. He looked at me, cigarette in one hand, the other
folded atop our ceramic patio table.

“You ever hear from her?”

“No, except to talk about our daughter. And then
she’s strictly business.” He crushed out the butt in the ashtray and lit up
another. “It’s been a little rugged, but I’m through the worst. Time to put the
shoulder to the wheel, I guess.”

We’ve been friends for two decades and have hardly
ever touched except to shake hands. I wanted to hug the guy, but knew that a
friendly touch would most likely cause him to break down, and men don’t cry
easily in front of other men.

“It’s good that you’re here because I’ve been
wanting to introduce you to a pal of mine, Bobby Moore.”

“Who’s that?”

“Nam vet who’s been to hell and back. He helps me
when I need muscle.”

A tic appeared above Brad’s left eye and he
swatted at it impatiently. “I hear you, man. Don’t worry. I’m not gonna fuck
up.”

Cassady served the delicious stir-fry with a Greek
salad and fragrant Basmati rice. While we ate, Brad filled us in on his recent
tribulations. After his ex-wife Keri had given him the heave-ho, he’d spent six
months in rehab with the muscle-tee and mullet crowd in Eureka, up near the
Oregon border. After that, he moved in with his parents in Redding.

“My folks are great. I love them dearly. Still, it
can be a little rough when Fox News plays 24-7. The real point, though, is I’m
a little too old to still be living with mom and dad.” He paused. “This adobo
is something else. You’re one heckuva chef.”

Cassady still wears her thick red hair punked up,
has never completely shed her youthful rebelliousness and loves being
complimented on her cooking. “Thank you. I’m teaching Maleah and she’s getting
pretty good too.”

“We’re foodies,” said Maleah. “There’s a new Asian
supermarket at the top of the hill.
 
We go there every Friday when I get out of school.”

After we’d finished the main course, Cassady
brought out a delicious carrot cake with walnut frosting, and we retired to the
living room, where she and Maleah entertained us. My daughter sang the Fergie
song, “Big Girls Don’t Cry”,
with
Cassady accompanying her on piano. Then she sang her three octave special from
Pocahontas.

“Young lady,” said Brad, “you’ve got a fine
voice.”

“Thank you,” said Maleah. “Does your daughter
sing?”

“Tressa sings.
 
But not like you. She’s really good at
gymnastics.”

“Is she going to visit us?”

“I hope so. If I can talk her mother into it.”

After I’d put Maleah to bed, I came back into the
living room. Brad and Cassady were huddled in earnest conversation.

“You should see her,” he said. “She’s gotten way
weird and has purple hair. Thinks she’s still 25. I mean, it’s ridiculous. She
has a lesbian therapist and a masseur who gives her butt massages.”

Cassady offered gently, “I guess Keri’s trying to
put her life back together. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Yeah, but everyone’s telling her I was the
problem.”

“You were drinking like a fish.”

Brad looked unconvinced. As smart as he is, he
hasn’t handled his divorce well.

“Anyway, you should be celebrating. You’ve got a
whole new life ahead.”

“You’re right, Cassady. I’ll have a Heineken.”

“Don’t make me shoot you.”

We laughed. It was good to have Brad around. It
had been a long time and I realized how much I’d missed him.

The alarm went off at 1:00 a.m. Two hours sleep is
hardly optimum, but in my profession you get used to it. I snapped on the
bedside lamp and looked at Cassady. The blankets were pulled down, revealing
her arched torso. She’s 41 and still smoking hot. Her head was half off the
pillow, her long throat pale and vulnerable. I leaned over and kissed her, from
the hollow at the base of her throat, to the curve of her chin. She sighed
softly in her sleep. Reluctantly, I dragged myself out of bed and pulled on
some jeans.

After splashing water on my face, I went
downstairs to the guest room. Brad was sitting bolt upright, still fully
dressed. He cracked open his eyes and I said, “C’mon, we’ve got work to do.”

We each grabbed a mug of coffee and went out to my
car. The night was luminous and traffic on the 60 was light. Escalades and
Navigators rolled on by, the preferred mode of transportation of nefarious
Nighthawks and those that pursue them.

“Man, I had some god awful dream,” said Brad.
“Don’t remember what it was.
 
Something about a woman, but it scared the crap outta me.”

His long face was skeletal and for a moment, I
wondered if he was going to make it back to the realm of the living. I pushed
the question out of my mind. We turned off the 60 onto the 101 and drove up to
Hollywood. At Melrose, we exited and headed west through Thai Town, past the
shops and restaurants. Just for the hell of it, I turned off on a side street
and drove through a residential section. A great deal of L.A. is rundown, but
even the ghettos are beautiful. The old craftsman bungalows, built after the
first war, just knock me out.
 
The
palms float upwards like sentinels greeting the weary traveler. The small yards
and detached garages shimmer in the mist, while the bungalow porches with their
rocking chairs and flower boxes beckon.

“It’s nice,” said Brad. “I like it here.”

“It’d be real cool to own one of these. They cost
a fortune. Maybe someday when Maleah’s grown up and off to college.”

“What’s a fortune?”

“Oh, maybe 1.3 million for a three bedroom,
one-and-a-half bath. 1500 square feet with a small formal dining room, with
coved ceilings and wainscoting. Cassady would love to have one of these.”

“Me too. Maybe I can just sell my body.”

Brad’s a raw-boned, 6’3” veteran of many
skirmishes. “Good luck.”

He grinned.

Milford’s on Vine, between Melrose and Santa
Monica Boulevard. It’s a seafood and sushi joint that does a good weeknight
business, and hits the jackpot on the weekends. We pulled into the parking lot
at exactly 1:55. It was emptying out, and we watched the late night customers
stroll to their vehicles.

A few minutes later I walked to the back of the
restaurant. I had a miniature tape recorder in the inside pocket of my jacket
and although I don’t usually record conversations, I figured Brad could be
brought up to speed by listening to it. I didn’t want to spook Ron.

After about five minutes, Ron walked out carrying
a black gym bag. He was wearing a white tuxedo shirt with the sleeves rolled
up, black slacks and shoes. His dark blond hair was plastered against his
forehead. When I stepped out of the darkness, he showed no surprise.

“Busy night?”

“Very, but lucrative. That’s the good thing about
being a waiter, instant cash.” His Honda Civic was parked three slots down from
my Camry, and if he saw Brad, he didn’t react.
 
“I know a place where we can talk.”

He and I got into his car and drove north on Vine.
After a few blocks, we slid through residential streets until we came to one
that curved uphill away from the bungalows. At the top, it circled a small
grassy area with benches and a fountain. Ron parked, reached into his gym bag
and took out his pipe. It was already loaded and I watched as he sparked a
flame, inhaling deeply.

“That’s quite a habit you’ve got there.”

“This designer shit is way addictive. But it’s
still just marijuana.”

“Maybe,”
I thought. It was so hi-tech, it smelled like perfume. He put his pipe away and
we quietly climbed out of his car, and sat on one of the benches.

“Occasionally I bring girls here. It never fails
to charm them and no one ever bothers you. I’ve even sat here till dawn and
sometimes, it’s as if the flowers talk to you while the sun comes up.”

I watched him closely as the weed took effect. He took
a moment to compose himself and looking down the dimply street, he began. “I
don’t even know why I’m telling you this. It’s the sort of thing no one should
ever hear. Maybe it’s because I want to help Jade. Maybe it’s because she gave
me the best pussy any man’s ever had. But after I tell you this, I’m going back
to the restaurant and like I said earlier, I don’t ever wanna see you again.
Deal?”

“Deal.”

“Okay. She and I had this sex thing going, and I
was falling in love with her. Richie was hanging around the fringes and for
some reason, Jade started to get bored. She disappears and I always kind’a knew
that a chick like her, you know, she was probably gonna do that, so I let her
go without a whimper. Still, Richie kept coming round, so I kind’a still had a
tie to her, and then one night, he got a little too friendly and I told him I
didn’t swing that way. It was obvious I’d hurt his feelings. I felt bad and
told him we were still buddies. He and Jade had their bizarre thing going on,
and he had way more money than a spoiled kid could handle. So anyway, one night
he shows up completely deranged, crying, and tells me that his parents are
dead. I gave him a hug to, you know, comfort him. Not exactly my idea of a good
time, but the dude was in need. He calms down a little, so I let him sleep on
my couch.”

“Still no sign of Jade?”

“No and after that I didn’t see much of him
either, apart from the couple’a times he stopped in to say
‘hello.
’ Anyway, last night, I’d just got home from work and was
watching “Crash,” which as you know is one dynamite film, when there’s a knock
on the door. It was Richie and someone else and dude, the kid was wired like a
goddamned power station. So I turned off the movie and gave ‘em a beer.”

“Who was the friend?”

“His name is Arnold Clipper. I guess he’s about
30. Seemed cool, composed. You know, the type who looks good in a headshot. He
was wearing expensive workout clothes and oddly, worn-out white Reeboks.
Richard was meth babbling and to make it worse, he had a switchblade, which he
kept opening and closing. A couple of times he jumped up and charged my Bogie
poster like he was going to run it through. I was pretty toasted and since I
didn’t wanna obsess on him and his knife, I kept fixating on why this fashion
plate was wearing these old mud-spattered running shoes. After a while, Arnold
got sick of listening to Richie’s babble and sez, ‘
Hush up, Richard. Sometimes you talk too much,’
or something like
that.”

“What did he do?”

“Before the come down insanity sets in, meth heads
like to communicate, and he’s one that wears his heart on his sleeve. You could
see the emotions fire across his face in rapid succession.
 
Hurt, surprise, a flash of anger, the
realization that Arnold was right. Trippy and kind’a sad. Arnold put his arm around
him, and began gently stroking his cheek.”

“That calmed him down?”

“Yeah, you could see the tension wring out of him.
The hurt morphed into gratitude and he squirmed up against Arnold, who’s a half
head taller. I felt embarrassed and was about to head into my kitchen when he
pushed him away and said,
‘Easy baby.
Time and place. And put that knife away.’
”

“And did he?”

“Yep. I shot Arnold a grateful look. He shrugged
and smiled, but his eyes were very cold, like a snake, you know, and that
scared the shit outta me. I wondered what in the hell Arnold was doing to
Richard to be able to check him like that, but I didn’t wanna find out.”