a case of killer be kilt in misc. flash fiction

A CASE OF KILLER BE KILT

“I need someone followed,” demanded a diminutive man in sensible slacks and utterly moderate shoes, his rage counterbalanced by that most rationalizing of influences, fear, “but I have no clue how to do it myself.” He stared at the matchbook in his hand, my number and name on the cover. “I gather you’d know how to follow discreetly and without getting your face beaten into cowboy sauce at that.” I let his odd phrasings hang in the air for a while before asking “Cowboy sauce?”

“It’s,” he exhaled, “I’m not good with anger. I get obsessed and come up with ten ways to say it. I churn out pop songs for the pretty-boy snots down at the Brill,” already liked him a bit more on that note, “what sounds great sung into a mic often rings stupid spoke plain.” I couldn’t disagree.

“I have experience with following, yes,” I sipped a coffee he couldn’t know I’d boozed up, “but following those with proclivities for, as you said, cowboy sauce, my rates tend to rise sharply.”

“Money’s no issue,” he sighed, finally sitting, “my issue’s the Loch Ness Mobster.” “Sixty-feet long and green?” I asked. No laugh. “Six-foot-eleven, crimson hair. Roy MacLeod. Muscle for The Chilelli Family. Sixty times more dangerous as he actually exists. Been hanging too close when my wife sings down at The Tijera. Investigator with a name like Grave, I figured…”

“Graves.” I said. “What?” “Detective Graves. The printshop lost a letter, cost too much to get it redone.” “Either way, I need find out. I hope you can dissuade my fears, Mr. Graves. I write all of her songs, Rose is the love of my… but I couldn’t face down a beast like MacLeod, I hate to admit. He’d have my guts for haggis in three seconds flat. Might be more in your line of work.” “Might be.” Charged him through the nose for my services, didn’t even negotiate, transparently desperate in his jealousy. Enough up-front to print a whole goddamn warehouse of matchbooks.

The Tijera Club was well-known as the most upscale spot in town for what Grandpa would have called “fancy boys”. I killed in the war, got medals to show for it. I’ve killed at my job, got a file of dismissed charges for that as well, I’m not so apt to judge. A man loving another man can’t be one-half as damning as killing one. As long as I’m not expected to join in and you’re not so loud next-door that you wake up my dog, you can do whatever the hell you like, far as I’m concerned.

His wife Rose Gold (not the worst nom-de-stage, her married name Roslyn Guilderland) indeed The Tijera’s main attraction, it was packed when I arrived, dozens of gentlemen’s gentlemen as well as a large contingent of overdressed women as well, drunk on neon cocktails, appreciating the oppressively-glamorous ambiance. “Camp entertainment.” I’ve heard it called. “Kitschy.”

Rose lounged atop a baby grand in a sparkly red dress that caught every damn light in the house, blinding to look at her half of the time, a garish piano player off to her side and they’d exchange little jokes between the tunes. The crowd ate it up. Not my thing but again, I’m not one to judge.
Little slip of a thing, barely five-feet, I saw how she could still consider her husband manly. It’s true, the birdie sure could sing, though her lyrics were awful. “Don’t call the police! But there’s been a break-in to my heart! I thought you said you loved me. But you’ve just broken it apart!” Probably the client’s fault. Who knows, maybe they were god-awful on purpose, an intentional comedy thing. The crowd roared with her, not at her, so who knows? The world takes all kinds.

One of the kinds this world takes as well, of course, is Loch Ness Mobsters and there in the back of the crowd was the giant himself. Staring intently up at the stage from afar, smiling like a king who ruled the world entire. The rest of him, though, looked like it could rip a tree straight out of the ground, roots and all, and go golfing with your skull. My client was right, the direct approach would be unwise. Best to work it from the fringe like someone who likes to keep breathing, as is my one true extravagance, that hardest habit to break. I will admit, I’m basically dependent on it.

I began by tailing her accompanist Stephen Keyes (a stage name as well, I’d hoped) figuring the flamboyant ivory-tickler a great bit easier to intimidate than a goliath the width of the Highlands himself. The Angel By The Sea, one of the city’s less trafficked tiki bars, seemed to be a regular haunt of his, for its physical closeness yet cultural distance from the crowds at the Tijera. I don’t believe he grasped the irony of a torch song player hiding in a tiki dive but for humans, ignoring internal contradictions is second only to the weakness for breathing. We are all addicts to that.

“What’s the least fancy thing on tap?” I asked the bartender in the knock-off Polynesian attire they made them all wear. “Sir,” she returned blankly, not angry, just tired, “this is a tiki bar.” “What’s Slim over there having?” I pointed to the dimly-lit booth in the corner where the pianist was drinking something from a coconut chalice that had been delivered ablaze. “Scorpion’s Sting Firebowl.” “That’s a hell of a name.” “Wasn’t my idea, sir.” “I wasn’t blaming you, miss.”

“Can you do a coffee with two shots of rum thrown in just for fun?” “Possibly.” “Great. One for me, one for you and another Scorching Whatever for our friend over in the far corner.” I tipped her well. You never know when you’ll need a friendly bar-keep in my esoteric field of studies.

I waited until the second burning concoction reached Stephen’s booth before I approached him. “Appreciated, sailor,” he chirped dismissively, “but this port’s occupied.” “It’s not like that, no offense, my flag doesn’t swing that direction. I just caught your show and I had a few inquiries.”

“It’s not my show, honey, it’s Rosie’s…” he blew out the fire on his Sting, “I just play the piano all pretty and look even prettier.” “You like working with her?” “Why wouldn’t I? The money’s good and her songs are hilarious. I just don’t hang around after since I hate getting hit on, don’t you know, I’m the monogamous type. That’s why I take my nightcap at the Angel instead.”

“I’ll be brief, then, let you get back to your Scorpio Borneo or whatever. I’m no secret admirer, Mr. Keyes, I’m a private detective of that other sort, have some questions to ask for my client.” “Ask away then, sounds more entertaining than our opening band.” “Have you ever made sight of the legendary Loch Ness Mobster?” Suddenly, the flirtations ended, his face went ashen and he started trembling, checking for something in his pocket. “Who sent you?” Stephen hissed under his breath, “Giuseppe Chilelli? Goddamn closed-minded Old World…”

Under the table, I heard the unmistakable click of a small pistol being cocked back. “Joey Chill? No, I…” he burned a hole straight through me with his eyes, bullet to soon follow, “I was hired by Rose’s husband, Sy Guilderland. He thinks she’s running around with MacLeod on the side.”

I heard the pistol slowly unclick and saw the color return to his cheeks. “Sy.” “Yeah.” “Sy thinks Rose.” “Yeah.” After two beats, he broke into peals of high-pitched laughter before recomposing himself for the sake of the barflies. “Sy, that sweet insecure little mush.” He went into the leather handbag at his feet and pulled out a blue silk kimono the size of a circus tent. “Honey, I’m happy to tell you, Roy-bear is mine.” The mob, he explained, tends to sway toward tradition and would look down on their enforcers possessing such non-traditional traits. Still, he couldn’t help but try and discreetly watch “his Stevie” perform. That’s why Roy was always around at their shows. It was for love, sure, but a kind of love Sy never wrote songs about.

“I’ll call the over-protective darling tomorrow, Detective Jawline, don’t worry, clear it all up. Go do whatever manly-man stuff you people do, get your check from Simon Monday afternoon.” He smiled as if the weight of the Highlands had fallen off his slight shoulders. “But tip the poor girl at the bar again, this must have been the easiest job of your life.” Stephen was spot-on, at that. I threw the bartender another twenty and took my leave of the Angel. By Tuesday, they would be printing up the corrected matchbook covers and maybe folks would start getting my name right.