Beautiful, Naked & Dead (Moses McGuire) Read online

  I let myself in the back door of the club. The cleaning crew was busy vacuuming. Kelly’s locker was almost bare, a cute furry sweater she wore when the air-conditioning froze her out and a small makeup bag. Slipped into the lining of the bag was a postcard from the Cock’s Roost, one of Nevada’s many legal hot pillow joints. The postcard had a cartoon picture of a rooster surrounded by big-titted hens in lingerie. On the back was a Nevada postmark. It was addressed by hand in flowing purple cursive. The note read, “Kelly, all is swell, peachy in fact. I’m making mucho ducats, and if you don’t expect much from the guys you don’t get disappointed. For the first time in my life I feel that I am in control of my fate. I hope all is well with you… Write me! Cass.” It wasn’t much but it was all I had. My search turned up nothing else of any use.

  Back at the crib I cranked up a little Black Market Clash, I needed the edge. Four calls to different area codes in Nevada finally delivered a number for the Cock’s Roost. A woman with a thick sultry voice answered the phone, “Cock’s Roost, how can we pleasure you?”

  “Yes, I’m looking for Cass?”

  After a brief pause she said, “We have no one by that name here, but if you want to stop by I’m sure we can find you a pleasing substitute.” I told her I would and jotted down the address, not that I knew what the hell good it would do me.

  “An old Jew, a Black guy and a cop come into a bar. ‘What’ll you boys have?’ says the barman. ‘Goys?’ says the old Jew, ‘Goys? I didn’t survive two years in the death camp to have to listen to this crap.’ And he stomps out.” Bob the bookie and I were sitting in his booth at Bordner’s, a local low-life watering hole. “Now the black guy looks the bartender up and down real slow. ‘You call the Amazon a creek?’ he says, ‘You call King Kong a monkey? No? Then don’t call a man a boy.’ And he walks out. So, the cop, he walks up.”

  “What color was he?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “The cop?”

  “It don’t matter.”

  “Well you got a Jew and a Black guy, so what color was the cop?”

  “Blue, ok? Blue, like all of them bastards. Now can I go on?”

  “Go ahead,” who was I to stop him. “I just wondered.”

  “Ok, ok so the Jew, no the cop, yeah ok, so the cop steps behind the bar and shoots the bartender in the knee and then arrests him for resisting. Moral of the story, don’t call a man a boy, unless you’re sure he doesn’t have a badge.” Bob looked at me, waiting for a laugh that wouldn’t be coming any time soon.

  “You make that up?” I said.

  “Sure, this morning while I was in the crapper. Get it?”

  “I got it. I think the cop was probably White.”

  “Who the fuck cares what color the cop was, it’s not the point.” Bob was a fur covered fireplug of a man. He kept his moon shaped face clean-shaven all the way down his neck but through his open collar a tee-shirt of chest hair showed. We had been friends since we hooked up in Juvie. I was twelve at the time, he was two years older than me, but even then I had size on him. The Mexicans were all crewed up as were the Black kids, that left Bob and me to fend for ourselves. We covered each other’s asses in there, but when we got out we drifted back to our separate worlds. He had the good fortune of being born Italian. He had never been made, but that didn’t stop him from being a good earner for the LA family. And when he was busted in the eighties he did his jolt like a man and never rolled on anyone. That earned him a new Cadillac and a permanent place on the team.

  “Tell me you brought me some cabbage,” Bob said. “We’re pals and all but cheezus I can’t keep covering for you.” I slid an envelope across the bar. I had $600 donated by the Armenians, cash I had meant to give to Kelly. Bob flicked the envelope open and closed. That was all it took for him to count it.

  “Couple of grand light, aren’t you?”

  “It’s a start. I need you to take me to the Pope.” You never knew who was listening so we always call Don Gallico the Pope, his lieutenants we called the cardinals.

  “No, you don’t,” Bob said with as much steel as his pudgy face could muster.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “He doesn’t have a real soft spot in his heart for you. Not since you ankled it out on him.”

  “Old news.” I said. Years back the head of the LA family offered me a job in collections as a way to get out from under some cash I owed them. I tried, really, but it just wasn’t me. “He said he understood.”

  “He says all kinds of stuff. You hurt his pride. It was like you were saying you were better than him.”

  “I’ll take my chances. Come on, Bobby, it’s a short drive and ‘a hello how are you’.”

  “Forget about it. Ain’t going to happen.”

  “I’ll tell him you sent me.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “I need this.”

  In public we may have called the old man The Pope, but to his face we called him Sir. He’d been the head of the LA family going back to the day. In all those years the man had never seen a single night in the cage. In part this was because he never let the business actually touch his hands, also he insisted that the LA family stay clear of drugs, but the main reason for his lack of jail time was that if anyone even thought about ratting him out, they wound up as so many body parts floating in the LA river. He was old when I was a kid, but walking into the restaurant I wasn’t prepared for what fourteen years had wreaked on his body. His once large frame had collapsed in on itself. His skin hung grey and loose like a cheap suit after a two week run. His silver hair had gone to near transparent white and fringed his shiny cue-ball of a skull. Cigars had taken his larynx so that when he spoke he had to press a finger against a small voice prosthesis in his throat.

  “How you doing, sir?” I asked, sitting down across from him.

  “I speak out of a tube in my throat, I shit in a bag and my dick only gets hard when I pop six Viagra. How the hell you think I’m doing? You come here to bust my chops you little cock sucker?”

  “No, sir. I meant no disrespect.”

  “Hell you didn’t. Look at you, you’re a walking disrespect. Manny don’t pay you enough to buy a suit? Or even a razor?”

  “I, um…”

  “Johnny,” his metallic voice squawked to the waiter. “Get the kid a slice with prosciutto and peppers.” Refusing to eat in front of The Pope was a sin, one he never let you commit. “I can’t take good food any more. Not that it would matter, I got no more taste buds see? Do yourself a favor kid and die young. This growing old is the craps.”

  We were sitting in Figueroa’s, a small Italian restaurant and bakery in the Los Feliz area. His crew looked more like a V.F.W. meeting than a mob. Fifty would have been a youngster with this group. Not that their age made them any less dangerous. Most of these guys had more bodies to their count than I had bad debts. Bob had gone in first, cleared my way and then faded back onto the street. He had no desire to be around if it went sideways between me and the old man.

  “I need to ask you a question,” I said, my eyes darting around the room.

  “So ask. Don’t worry, I have this place swept daily.”

  “I know Uncle Manny kicks you a piece off the top, not that it’s any of my business.”

  “Did that little towel head send you to me?”

  “No, he doesn’t even know I’m here. Problem is I may have to jam up two Armenian punks, caught them running a protection racket on my girls.”

  “Inside the club?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cock-sucking sons of bitches.”

  “I don’t want to step on any toes. But you know I can’t let it pass.”

  “These Armenian pricks have some balls, huh? If it was ten years ago, I’d just take them off the count and call it a day. New York wants us to make peace. They’re trying to strike a deal with the Russians. This is the golden age of mergers, huh kid?”

  “I’ve heard they have a mob set up out of Glendale.”


  “Fuck that. A few crews at best. But they’re growing balls fast. Gas station tax scams, credit cards, cloned cells, some loan sharking. They keep it in their neighborhoods and out of the press. I had a little boundary dispute with them. These Russian bastards don’t scare easy I’ll tell you that. I put three of their pawns in the grinder before I even had their attention. Now this crap in my territory. If it’s sanctioned, bodies got to drop. Let a man shit on your lawn, he’ll be screwing your wife by nightfall.”

  “You’re a poet, sir.”

  “Whatever.”

  “If these punks are freelancing?” I asked.

  “Then you’d be doing me a favor by squashing them.”

  “Who do I have to ask before I pull the switch?”

  “Rafael Hakobian, he’s running things since his brother took a federal fall two years ago. I’ll have Frankie make a call, an introduction, nothing else. You go in alone, you come out if you’re lucky.” The waiter placed a slice of pizza in front of me. Say what you will about the Wops, they make a mean piece of pie. “No shit, kid, these fucks are some evil pricks, kill cops, kids, girls, they just don’t seem to care. In ninety-four, we had a council meeting after bodies started washing up on Brighton Beach, I said we should take them down, but the New York families wanted to wait and see. Well, we saw. Now, I say go to the mattress and they say we negotiate. When did the world go to the pussies?”

  “Maybe they’re all just looking out for their piece of the pie.” I said, taking another bite of the thick-crusted pizza.

  “Yeah, and we’re going to lose the whole pizzeria in the deal. You don’t come out of this Russian fuck’s crib, ain’t shit I can do, we’re clear on that, right?”

  “I’m on my own, Sir, I got it.”

  “And you still want to go in?”

  “No, but I have to. Nobody fucks with my girls, you know that.”

  “Uncle Manny don’t pay you enough to die, so why?” I could tell he really wanted to understand what would make me do it. I thought about it for a moment looking out the dirty window. On the street a Latin immigrant woman pushed a shopping cart with all of her worldly possessions piled high, her face was deeply wrinkled. I wondered if this was the promised land she had hoped it would be. Two Cholos in a candy apple red Impala rolled by like a cool jet of red steam.

  “I guess the truth is, there’s only so much you can let pass, then you start drawing the line. Don’t draw the line somewhere, it all turns to shit. It’s like live and let live, but you cross the line and fuck with what’s mine and you will go down.” He looked at me for a long moment then nodded appreciatively, he motioned for one of his boys and sent him to make the call. While he did, we talked about horses, who we liked, who was overrated. He told me about his son, a big time lawyer, lived up in Santa Barbara. There was no pride when he spoke of him. I think the Pope was aware he was the last of his kind, a dinosaur who could feel the cold breath of the ice age on the back of his neck. The new generation of mobsters had M.B.A.’s and law degrees and when they stole it was all legit. Enron alone made his whole career look like boosting hubcaps. His man came back and whispered in his ear. The Pope nodded briefly then turned back to me, slipping me a piece of paper with an address on it.

  “Go with God kid,” he said, making the sign of the cross. “If it turns out freelancers are pissing on my turf, I would consider it a personal favor if you put the hammer down on these stray dogs.” The steel returned to his eyes, reminding me that deep down beneath all his age and ailments was a man who could kill you with a claw hammer and not have it ruin his appetite, such as it was.

  CHAPTER 6

  The address was in the Glendale Hills, expensive sprawling California ranch-style homes littered the steep streets. Most of the houses were designed to cover every inch of available building space, a perfect example of the mansionization craze: take what is already fatally ugly and make it bigger. The thin roads were clogged with gold trimmed BMW’s and Mercedes Benz’s, it was ghetto rich, all flash, telling the world you had made it up the hill, ornate iron fences, huge brass door knockers. It screamed like a ten-pound gold neck chain “I have cash, look at me.” It was all show, no go, just more fools spending every cent they have to prove to the world that they are here, that they are worthy. If they thought all this stuff would protect them from the random spin of the wheel, they had an awakening coming.

  Rafael Hakobian’s house was on the crest of the hills. In front of a security gate I spoke into a video camera and waited. A deep voice told me to follow the driveway up to the house. What a house it was, a three-storied box that looked more like a motel than a home. It had to be five thousand square feet of ugly gray stucco with balconies jutting out at odd angles, as if added on as an after thought. The windows were all multi-paned and looked expensive but the brushed aluminum they chose for the frames made them look cheap at the same time. The garden was all grass, not a flower in sight, just a huge expanse of rolling green. In the center of the lawn a tall maiden stood on the back of a sea serpent spraying water up into the air, the mammoth fountain looked painfully out of place in front of the modern house. Beyond the house the view was magnificent, all of Glendale spread out below us and past that, the gleaming glass towers of downtown. Two men, only slightly smaller than Mac trucks stood waiting for me. I’m a big man and not too used to being looked straight in the eye. Under their matching black collar-less jackets were large, not so hidden pistols.

  “Here to see Mr. Hakobian,” I said, their expressions didn’t change. I climbed off the Norton and they moved in blocking my path. One of them held a small metal detector, with a flick of his finger, he motioned for me to raise my arms. “Big talkers huh?” I said, the huge man just stared at me with cold dead eyes. So I lifted my arms away from my body and let him give me a quick sweep with the metal detector. The thing went wild when they got to my leg. Both men tensed. “It’s bolts in my leg. Motorcycle accident, titanium rod in the femur, two bolts in the knee,” I told them, but they didn’t relax a bit. “You got a scalpel I’ll show you,” I said with a grin.

  “Drop you pants,” one of them said in a thickly accented growl.

  “Fuck off.” I said, turning back towards my bike. “Tell your boss it was nice not meeting him.” Two huge hands clamped down onto my shoulders spinning me around and locking me in place, my face inches from his ugly mug. I rocketed my knee quickly up into his crotch, he gasped a stream of hot garlic breath into my face. I pulled the short barreled heavy frame .357 from under his arm, smashing the pistol into the side of his face. He stumbled back and went down. His twin was reaching under his coat when I pulled the hammer back and drew a bead on his forehead. “You really want die over this shit, Huh? Do it! Keep moving that hand and see if I give a fuck.”

  “Yuri, kak dela?” A voice came from the front door. I flicked my eyes over long enough to see a large barrel-chested man in a silk shirt.

  “Tak sebe,” the standing twin said with a small shrug.

  “Horosho,” the man in the doorway said, “Vlady?” The twin on the ground groaned pulling himself up, a burgundy bruise was blooming on his cheek from his eye to his hairline and he was having an uncomfortable time walking. He looked at his boss and tried to force a smile.

  “Mr. McGuire, please either shoot my worthless bykis or come inside for a drink,” the man at the door said disappearing into the shadows of the house. Looking from one thug to the other I smiled briefly then opened the cylinder of the .357 and dropped the shells on the ground. Walking toward the house I tossed the revolver over my shoulder in the general direction of the stumbling giant.

  The entryway was built to impress, marble tiles and a vaulted ceiling that went up the full three floors, in the center of it hung down a huge crystal chandelier. Tall Chinese vases held dried flowers and gold mirrors flanked the walls in thick ornate frames. The entryway alone was bigger than my entire bungalow. Two slender legs appeared from above, stepping silently down the plush carpet of a wide curving
staircase. Bare feet and legs made long by the short purple leather skirt they disappeared into. A tight baby doll tee-shirt with the word “Brat” stretched across her teenaged frame, big-chest, tiny waist, and about a can and a half of hair spray struggling to control her hair. There’s something sweet about a teenager wanting so bad to be a woman and having no idea what it entails. Long black wild hair framing a sad face. Fresh makeup covering a bruise on her left cheek. Her feet left small tracks in the freshly vacuumed white carpet. Hitting the marble floor of the entryway she looked up, surprised to find me there watching her. I shot her my best smile, the one I wish said I’m ok I don’t eat the young. Looking me over she raised her nose in the air like she smelled a bad fish.

  “Who the hell are you?” she asked.

  “No one important.”

  “That’s an understatement,” she said without a hint of humor.

  “Maral!” At the sound of her father’s voice her face flashed from arrogance to fear to complacence all in the flick of an eyelid. Without a glance in my direction she walked out of the room.

  In a large library, Rafael Hakobian sat in a deep red leather club chair smoking a cigar and looking me over. Behind him the walls were filled with leather bound books I was sure he never read, like everything else in this house it was all for show. “Sit, have a vodka and tell me what you are here for,” he said motioning me to the chair across from him. From a crystal decanter he poured a tall shot of clear liquor into a shot glass and passed it to me.

  “To your health, Mr. Hakobian,” I said and powered down the shot. He smiled and drank his. He poured us each another.

  “I would drink to your health, but I despise hypocrites,” he said. “And as I may have to kill you, that would be the wrong toast. So we say udachi! Good luck!” Raising his glass we drank again, and again he filled our glasses.

  “Kill me huh?”

  “Neizvestno, chto teper’ budet.” He blew out a slow stream of blue cigar smoke.