eight.
The next day, Nigel and I took in a matinee of the latest Broadway hit. It told the story-in three-part harmony-of a man who is tricked into marrying a woman he doesn't love. He refuses to sleep with her so she seduces him in the dark and then leaves. When her disappearance is noticed, the man is accused of murdering her. The woman-and their child-return in time to save him from the electric chair. The man realizes he does love his wife and is happy.
Nigel said it was the stupidest thing he'd ever seen. I said it was based on Shakespeare's All's Well That Ends Well. Nigel said that if it weren't for the fact that he was dead, Shakespeare should sue.
Afterward, we joined my friend Marcy Garcia and her husband Arnie for dinner. I had worked with Marcy when I was a detective. Marcy was still working homicide. Arnie taught at a private school for wealthy children who'd been expelled from every other school they'd attended. Each maintained that the other's job was easier.
"So, how did you two meet again?" Arnie asked, as Nigel sampled the sommelier's suggestion.
"Rehab," Nigel answered after taking a sip and nodding his approval.
I laughed as I saw Arnie's eyes grow wide. "Physical rehab," I clarified. "I was recovering from a gunshot wound, and Nigel was recovering from a skiing accident."
"Tree jumped right out in front of me," Nigel explained.
"Which is one of the many reasons we live in L.A.," I said."There are fewer leaping trees."
"And they only attack celebrities," said Nigel.
Arnie laughed. "I think as a Martini, you qualify as a celebrity. From what I hear, your family could buy and sell New York."
"Well, thankfully they didn't. I shudder to think how my aunt would redecorate it if she had."
"Toile," I suggested.
Nigel nodded. "And chrome. Anyway, in L.A. there is so much obscene wealth, the Martini family's pales in comparison."
"So, you work in movies?" asked Arnie.
"I work with old movies; specifically, film restoration. A lot of old movies were destroyed by fire or, worse, just left to rot out of indifference. My company works to find them and salvage what we can."
"How did you get into that?" asked Arnie.
"My mom is a huge movie buff. Growing up, I watched just about every movie ever made. During college, I interned at The Film Institute and later started my own company."
"Nigel's company has restored over two hundred movies so far," I added. "Which was a perk for me on those days when my leg ached too much to move. Nigel would bring over a movie and a bottle of wine and we'd watch these great old films."
The waiter arrived, and Nigel and Arnie turned their attention to placing our orders. As they did, Marcy turned to me and said, "You look great, Nic. But then you always do. You were the most glamorous detective in the department." She looked admiringly at Nigel's profile. "I never thought you'd leave New York, but now I see why you did," she said in a low voice. "But I still can't picture you as a West Coaster. Are you sure you don't miss the Department? You were one of the best."
I shook my head. "Not a chance. I'm done with all that. I never thought I'd like the West Coast either, especially L.A., but I really do. Besides, I have my plate full just trying to block all the starlets who throw themselves at Nigel. He seems to attract them like flies."
"Attracting flies doesn't sound like a compliment," said Nigel. "Besides, you exaggerate. One silly girl threw herself at me. And, if I remember correctly, she had buckteeth and a lazy eye. You had nothing to worry about."
"So, had she been attractive, I might have had something to worry about?" I teased.
"That depends-how attractive are we talking about?"
I stuck my tongue out at him. "Well, until the right one shows up and you kick me to the curb, I'm done being a detective."
Nigel leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. "I'd never kick you to the curb, dear. You know that. As a gentleman, I'd have you escorted. And besides, you aren't done being a detective. You just took on a new case, remember?" Turning to Marcy he said, "Nic's agreed to find my cousin's missing husband. Though for the life of me, I can't imagine why she'd want him found."
"I'm sure I'll find him holed up with some bimbo or hiding out from Frank Little. Or both."
"Audrey has excellent taste in men," said Nigel. "That is if your taste runs to gold digger losers."
"Wait. Frank Little?" asked Marcy. "The one related to Danny Little?"
"Yeah, he's Danny's little brother," I said. "Why?"
"Because Danny Little was paroled this morning. Got out early for-get this-good behavior."
"Good behavior? That sociopath?" I said. "You've got to be kidding!"
Marcy shook her head in sympathy. "I know. You don't have to tell me. But the prisons are overcrowded, and Danny Little can afford the best legal representation."
"Who was his lawyer?" I asked.
"Flynn Sawyer."
Flynn Sawyer was a high-profile attorney. Known for his garish suits, bombastic TV ads, and sleazy tactics, he was a defendant's dream and a prosecutor's nightmare. The city was plastered with his billboards and ads that featured his grinning face and promised a "Win With Flynn."
"That cheap suit?" I said. "I can't believe that man is still allowed to practice law."
"I know," agreed Marcy. "The sad part is that he's raking it in hand over fist. He just bought himself a luxury yacht. Named it Soft Tissue Damage."
"Very nice." I said. "I heard that Frank is working for Fat Saul these days. Is that true?"
Marcy nodded. "That's what I heard. When Danny went to prison, Frank made a deal with Fat Saul."
"Any idea what Danny thought about that?" I asked.
Marcy shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. Under the terms of his parole, he's not allowed to be near any gambling facilities, which, of course, is the bread and butter of his business. He convinced the parole board that he's going to be managing the family restaurant now."
"That's still in business?"
Marcy took a sip of her wine before answering. "Apparently. Though I suspect it's a front. I mean, would you willingly eat at a place called Little's Vittles?"
Next to me, Nigel laughed. "I would. Absolutely. In fact, I think I might have to insist on it."
"Well, we might have to if Leo doesn't turn up soon," I said.
Marcy laughed. "Well, in that case, avoid the veal. I hear it's anything but veal."
"Duly noted," I said.
nine.
The scene that met us when we returned to our hotel room was utter bedlam. Chairs were upended, cushions were ripped, and covering it all was a fine layer of potting soil. The origin for the latter-a large ficus tree-lay across our bed, its branches limp and torn.
Our first thought-that we'd been robbed-was quickly discounted once we saw Skippy. Poised on the loveseat opposite the bed, his fur smeared with potting soil, Skippy warily eyed the ficus tree as if he feared it might attack. Seeing us, he leapt up and barked excitedly, his tail thumping against the couch cushions.
"Um ... good boy?" Nigel ventured.
I folded my arms across my chest. "I know we're supposed to be a united front with him," I said. "But I don't see this as a good boy moment."
Skippy jumped off the couch and pranced happily over to us. Nigel patted his head. "He was just trying to protect us," he said.
"From a ficus tree?"
"I'm sure he meant well."
"I'd hate to see what he'd do if he didn't like us so much."
I stared down at Skippy. His tail thumping happily, his tongue hanging out to one side, his eyes returned my gaze with an undeniably proud gleam. I sighed and scratched him behind his ears. Skippy: 45; Me: 0. "Fine, but you are explaining this mess to the front desk," I told Nigel.
An hour later, Nigel, Skippy, and I were settled in our new room. One without a ficus tree. Or any kind of shrubbery for that matter. I didn't know how Nigel explained everything to the hotel staff, but based on a few overheard words and the pitying smiles sent my way, I once again suspected that epileptic seizures played a role.
We opted to stay in for the evening and order room service and watch Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney in White Christmas. "Did you know that he was twenty-six years older than her?" Nigel asked me as he snuck a hand out to steal one of my fries. I smacked it away.
"Yes, I do. You tell me every year when we watch it. Why would anyone want to wash their hair and face in snow?" I asked, listening to the peppy lyrics.
"I don't know. Although you ask me that every year."
"Touche," I said, pushing my plate of fries toward him.
Nigel took one and then raised his glass of wine to mine. "Here's to the hobgoblin of little minds, for we are its poster children."
"I'll drink to that," I said, clinking my glass against his.
"I know," he replied with a smile. "You always do."
_____.
The next morning, Nigel and I went to pay Frank Little a visit. Skippy came as well, the end result of a mutual agreement between Nigel and the entire hotel staff. According to the address Marcy had given me, Frank lived in an old brownstone on the Lower East Side. The neighborhood had seen better days, but then it probably had seen worse, too.
I climbed the worn steps, knocked on the front door, and waited. After a moment, it swung open. Frank Little stood in the doorway. I knew him to be about forty, but he appeared older. Broad through the waist and narrow between the ears, he had a reputation for family loyalty and stupidity, although it could be argued that this was a redundant description. A limp strand of black hair hung down over his pockmarked forehead. He gazed at me from watery, bloodshot eyes and blinked. His right eye was slightly swollen and bruised. Glancing down at Skippy, he blinked again.
"Hi, Frank," I said. "Remember me? Nic Landis; except now it's Nic Martini."
Frank pulled his gaze away from Skippy and focused on me. "Yeah, I heard you were back in town," he said.
"Did you now?" I said. "And yet, none of the old gang has called or written. Oh, well. I guess that's how it goes."
"I heard you moved out to California and got married," said Frank. "So, who's the lucky lady?"
"Ah, you always were a quick one with the wit, Frank. Can we come in for a minute?"
"What do you want?" he asked.
"We want to come in, Frank," I said. "Come on, now. Pay attention."
Frank looked dully at Nigel. "Who's he?"
Nigel produced a cheerful smile and held out his hand, "Nigel Martini."
Frank ignored Nigel's hand. He narrowed his eyes and pushed the errant strand of hair back up with the rest. "Why do you want to talk to me? I didn't do nothing," he asked.
"I need to talk to you about your pal Leo Blackwell," I answered.
Frank's eyes came into focus. The wheels in his head creaked back to life, and he appeared to come to a decision. Taking a step back, he swung the door open wide. "You got ten minutes," he said.
We followed Frank down a dingy hallway toward the kitchen, where we could hear voices. The decor of the kitchen consisted of battered wood cabinets, stained yellow appliances, and faded wallpaper depicting oversized slices of citrus. At a sticky wooden table, sat three men. On the table was a half-empty bottle of whisky and four glasses. From their large frames and dull eyes, I guessed the men to be associates of Frank.
"Jesus," the largest of the three said when he saw Skippy. His head was shaved and resembled a dented bullet. "You buy a horse, Frank?"
"Shut up, Vic. Don't be a moron," Frank said, pronouncing the word as a color rather than an insult. "This ain't a horse. It's one of those fancy English dogs."
Vic took a sip of his whisky. "Oh. Well, why the hell did you buy one of those?"
"Shut up, Vic," said Frank. "This here's Detective Landis," he added, jerking his thumb in my direction. "Except that she don't do that anymore, seeing that she's retired."
The smallest of the men stood up, yanked a rickety chair out from the table, and offered it to me. He had dull blond hair, pencil-thin lips, and a left eye that drooped. "Have a seat, Ex-Detective Landis," he said, his voice almost a drawl.
"Thank you," I said, taking the offered seat. Nigel pulled out his own chair and sat down next to me. Skippy sat down on my other side. He rested his head on the table and stared at the men."And you are?" I asked the man who had pulled out the chair for me.
"Pete," he said, sitting back down. He didn't offer a last name, and I didn't ask for one. "You don't look like any detective I ever saw," he continued with an admiring glance. "You want a drink?" he asked, indicating the bottle.
"No, thanks."
"Why are you here?" asked the third man. His eyes were hard and his black hair was cut short enough so that the tattoo on his head was visible. It looked like something with talons was perched on his skull.
"I'm looking for Leo Blackwell," I answered. "Do you know him?"
Talons curled his lip in disgust. "Yeah. I know him."