Anthony Carrick Hardboiled Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 4 - 6): An Anthony Carrick Mystery

By Jason Blacker

Anthony Carrick Hardboiled Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 4 - 6)

Now you can grab the 4th, 5th and 6th Anthony Carrick murder mysteries in one Box Set!

 

Fourth Wall:

In the midst of Hollywood elite, Anthony Carrick has to uncover the killer or killers of not one, not two but three murders. Could they all be related?

 

Fifth Estate:

Anthony Carrick's not looking for a case. But when his good buddy, John Roberts asks a favor of him he can't refuse. Two young men have been murdered after visiting a biker bar in the wrong side of town in Jersey City. The only witnesses are the bikers themselves, but they're not saying much.

 

Sixth Sense:

After visiting a fortune teller at the Santa Monica Pier with his daughter, Anthony Carrick is called back a few days later when that very same fortune teller winds up dead. Why couldn't she have foretold her own misfortune? Worse still, why is she made to look like a voodoo doll?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jason Blacker
• Release date: Jun 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393350767

Jason Blacker

Jason Blacker was born in Cape Town but spent most of his first 18 years in Johannesburg. When not grinding his fingers down to stubs at the keyboard he enjoys drinking tea, calisthenics and running. Currently he lives in Canada.  Under his own name he writes hard boiled as well as cozy mysteries, action adventure, thrillers, literary fiction and anything else that tickles his muse. Jason Blacker also writes poetry and daily haikus at his haiku blog.  You can find his haikus and other poetry at his website www.haiqueue.com.  For FREE books and to stay up to date and learn about new releases be sure to visit www.jasonblacker.com where you can find more information about his writing and upcoming projects.  If you enjoy space opera in the tradition of Star Trek then take a look at Jason Blacker’s pen name “Sylynt Storme”. It is under the name Sylynt Storme where you can find both sci-fi and vampire fiction written by Jason Blacker.  “Star Sails” is the space opera series and “The Misgivings of the Vampire Lucius Lafayette” is his vampire series.

Book preview

Fourth Wall

An Anthony Carrick Mystery, Volume 4

Jason Blacker

Published by Jason Blacker, 2017.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

FOURTH WALL

First edition. March 2, 2017.

Copyright © 2017 Jason Blacker.

ISBN: 978-1927623688

Written by Jason Blacker.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

North of Montana

An Emotion Named Desire

Original Muscle Beach

Woodland Hills

Nosy Nelly

Vampires at Venice

A Play at Death

Grim is the Reaper's Night

Broken Fourth Wall

Helping Hands

The Rich and Infamous

Man from Montana

The Price is Right

A Taste of Britain

Smelting the Truth

Basket Cases

Bullet to the Brain

Britain's Second Best

Into the Hornet's Nest

Woodland Ills

Digging up Dirt

The Furious and Spurious

Three in a Row

And the Little One Said, Roll Over

A Pain in the Neck

Sign up for Jason Blacker's Mailing List

Also By Jason Blacker

About the Author

For my brother, the actor, who knows how hard artists work.

North of Montana

HER body was the color of the moon on a foggy night. He was on the bed getting dressed. She was under a single blanket that draped her curves like it was jealous. She was propped on an elbow with a cigarette in that same hand in a cigarette holder as long and slender as her hand. The kind that long dead movie stars used to use. She fancied herself as a movie star. She had the looks and the body but her talent was left wanting. Even the sex was trite and drawn out like an old Russian novel. Not that she’d read any.

He was tall and boyishly muscular. That was a kind way of saying that he was young. Time would catch up with him. He didn’t put effort into his temple. He never had to. Life had been somewhat of a buffet handed to him on a silver platter. But for now he had the smooth chest of a eunuch and the classic good looks that couldn’t be trusted. He was putting on socks and looking at her. He’d tapped that, he thought, looking at that lithe figure, almost languid as she lay across the bed.

It was her bed too. Her marital bed. But then what else is to be expected of people that lie for a living. In other words, the two of them were actors. In fact, the pair were performing at the Los Angeles Theatre. The play was the appropriately ironic Streetcar Named Desire. Ironic in the sense that she was a married woman in a difficult marriage. The only difficult thing about the marriage was the fact that he wished her to be monogamous. Faithful. But that was such a chore.

And this man who sat on her bed, who had just moments before been inside her and given her pleasure as she had never known, didn’t love her. She knew that. He had at least been open about that aspect of himself. Like I said, he was a man who thought of himself as God’s gift to the world. Though naturally, he wasn’t a pious man. Quite the opposite. It was his mission. One of his missions at least, to bed more women than Gene Simmons. Some had put that at 5,000. A monumental mountain to climb, but our lad felt up to the challenge. At twenty-eight, he had already managed over 2,000. He knew the exact number in his head. It was 2,012.

But it was stalling. Because this woman with whom he was with right now, was pestering for more and more of his time. That left less time for other pursuits and other women. Though at the moment, as he leaned over and pulled the sheet off of her and kissed her on the exposed hip, he wasn’t that worried about it.

You see, this man was a blockbuster superstar. He had a huge fanbase. A fanbase primarily of women, young women who would be nothing if not happy to have a piece of him inside of them. You might find this crass. But this, my friend, is the way of the world for some folks. Then why, you might be asking, was he wasting time in the theatre doing a play? Because it was all the rage now amongst big-name actors to spend a season doing a play. His agent said it would improve his chops. The thing is, he didn’t really have chops to improve. No sir, like I’d said before, he was a man who had been thrust upon the buffet of life only on account of his genes.

If you were to think kindly of him, and few men did, you might think his vacuousness and facile behavior was due to a deep insecurity. You’d be wrong. He was not insecure, rather he leaned more towards the other end of the spectrum. Arrogance. Though he tried to treat most folks well, there was always an aura of arrogance around him. No, perhaps the best that could be said about him was that his good looks had never allowed him to develop deeper characteristics on account of people always treating him differently because he was so damn good looking. But that would be untrue. Some people are just assholes and our man was one of them.

When will I see you again? she asked as ash dropped from her cigarette onto the ashtray on the bed in front of her.

You’ll see me tonight, baby doll, he grinned at her. We’re on stage at eight.

She rolled her eyes. In most women it was tiresome and overly dramatic. With her it was damn sexy.

You know what I mean, she said, sucking on her cigarette.

Our cad noticed that, and thought back to earlier in their tryst that afternoon when she was sucking on other things. She had the kind of voice that men would go to war for. The kind of voice that would keep you from work when it whispered in your ear for just a little bit more.

Well, let me check my schedule, he said, pretending to flip through pages of an agenda. Ah yes. Next year, in the third quarter, when the gray wolf barks at the blue moon.

She swatted at him with her free hand, but missed.

You’re impossible, she said.

Darling, came a voice from inside the large mansion.

Shit, it’s my husband, she said.

That’s the last thing the cad needed. He was indiscreet but he always did it with discretion. She waved her hand at the window, for there was no time for him to exit through the house itself. She got up and quickly made the bed, as our man threw on his shirt, zipped up his pants and slipped on his shoes and opened the window to exit. He stole one last look at her as she bent over the bed showing him once again where few had been. He had been one of the few.

He didn’t button up his shirt. He climbed out of the window onto the roof and slithered away from view. She ran to the bathroom and jumped into the shower. It was cold at first and gave her goosebumps on her perfectly marbled skin. The old man came into the room. He looked around and saw her clothes on the floor. Saw the carelessly and quickly made bed. Heard the shower and she singing in it. She could sing. She could fuck, and she could make grown men drool with just a glance. But what she couldn’t do was be kind to the man who had married her. At least not a certain depth of kindness that kept most marriages afloat.

He’d been told that she was only after his money. But he wouldn’t hear of it. She loved him. That’s what she’d said. And you believed her too. She told you she did. And angels didn’t lie. That’s what he thought until he realized that demons and angels can sometimes look alike. But now it was too late. He hadn’t asked for a prenup. Even his lawyer had called him an idiot. And now, with a quarter billion dollars at stake he wasn’t about to let her have a divorce. She wanted one but he had leverage. He had photographs of her infidelities and she knew that would cut into her share.

So they both sucked it up. She was eye candy on his arm and he was some schmuck who bought her things and let her live in a nice big house in North of Montana overlooking the golf course.

This old man wasn’t all that old. In the right light you could mistake him for being in his mid-fifties even though he was sixty-three. He wasn’t all that fat either. He was tanned and had naturally gray hair when it wasn’t dyed. He was soft, but that was to be expected. With his wealth and connections, there was always some luncheon or event to be at. And when he wasn’t networking he was on the set of the next blockbuster. And he’d had to work with our cad too. That galled him. He sighed, and rummaged his hands through his hair.

You wouldn’t call him handsome. You wouldn’t call him much at all, except for the accoutrements. That’s what caught your attention. The Patek watch. The Bentley. The house. Suddenly, our old man was looking pretty attractive. Unlike you and me friend, the rich and the beautiful have all sorts of problems, only money ain’t one of them.

You in there, Mary? he asked.

Her name was Mary Beale. I kid you not. Maybe that explained her love of the arts. Hard to say. It was her real name too, not just her stage name.

I’m just taking a shower, darling, she said.

He didn’t smile at that. She called everyone darling. It was just her way. Liars lying for a living. Darling might as well have meant asshole to him. He’d come home early to see if he might catch them in the act. He’d never been able to. It would help his case if she ever got a divorce. His PIs had managed to get good shots, but nothing nude and lewd as they say. But enough that you knew she was having an affair. He wanted the nude and lewd stuff. He wanted to embarrass her. But that was getting hard to do.

Outside, on the roof. Not a hot tin roof, but the pink clay tiles were warm to the touch, our cad squatted overlooking the golf course. His shirt was still open and the warm wind caressed his skin. Seemed even the natural world loved our young man. He was thinking how lucky he was. It was a close call, and a good thing that this part of the house was at the back and overlooking the golf course. The front would’ve been a nightmare. The tabloids would pay good money for these shots. But the paparazzi were in the front. You couldn’t get anything from the back. Or so he thought.

An Emotion Named Desire

I hadn’t been to a play in years. Probably the last time was with Racquel, when times had been good and Aibhilin was just a toddler. Why am I telling you this? Because M has just invited me to the Los Angeles Theatre to see A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams. I’ve never seen it before. And I probably won’t see it again. But it’s a classic you know. And because of that, people want to see it.

It’s not a happy play. The kindest thing that can be said of it, is that it is filled with lost souls. Let me give you a synopsis while I wait for M to come and pick me up.

There’s these two sisters, right? Blanche and Stella. Looks like Blanche has done well. It appears she has money until she loses the estate home she had after her husband dies. So she goes to live with her sister Stella who’s married to the asshole named Stanley. He’s abusive and Blanche doesn’t like him. He’s a drinker and gambler. However, Blanche gets sweet on one of Stanley’s poker buddies called Mitch.

But because Stanley doesn’t like Blanche, she comes across as a bit arrogant at first, he digs up dirt on her and tells Stella and Mitch. Stella’s upset with her husband as she should be. Mitch confronts Blanche, the woman he’s falling in love with about the rumors. She denies them at first but they turn out to be true. What rumors you ask? Like the fact that she caught her husband in a homosexual affair with an older man and that she whored herself out as a hooker. It also turns out that the reason Blanche lost her job as a teacher was because she fucked a student. These are the kinds of people this play revolves around.

So, Mitch is pissed as he would be, and it looks like he’s about to take his anger out on Blanche by raping her, when she’s able to escape. Stella by the way is having a baby, and when she’s off to the hospital it appears as if Stanley rapes Blanche. Because he’s an asshole and they don’t like each other. This ruins Blanche, pushing her into looneyville. So that’s where she ends up, in a mental hospital. And even though she told her sister, Stella, what Stanley did, Stella doesn’t believe her and sides with her asshole of a husband.

These are the kinds of fucked up people I had my daily fill of when I was on the job. I don’t need to watch plays about them. Anyway, there’s this hot young superstar supposed to be playing the role of Stanley that women can’t seem to get enough of. You might have seen him in one of the many blockbuster movies he’s been in such as Midnight Walks With Madness and the Role of Jimmy Mime. Both movies I haven’t seen, but they were huge hits for him. Amongst others. His name is William Orpen. My suspicion is that M wants to see the play in part to catch an eyeful of Willy Open. I don’t know if that’s a nickname he takes to, but it’s the one I use. I don’t know much about him, but you can’t help to hear the rumors. So he’s Willy, because Dick’s a nickname for Richard and Willy means the same thing only smaller, and he’s Open because that’s what it seems he is, at least to women.

I’m not jealous if you’re wondering. I just can’t get behind someone who’s never struggled. And that’s the case with Willy Open. You might recognize the family name. Orpen Financial Services is the name of his father’s business. How do I know all of this? Because you can’t live in LA, let alone the USA and not know one of the most successful hedge funds of this country’s history. And there’s a Dick if there ever was one, I’m talking about old man Orpen, Richard Orpen, who started the firm. Willy’s old man. And he’s a real dick, not just because his name’s Richard. He’s probably put more people out of work than Mexican and Chinese labor combined.

As an ex-homicide cop, it surprises me that there’s never been an attempt on his life. But I’m getting off course. I’m in between watching the middleweight fight of the year and cooking dinner for M, who should be here any minute. She hasn’t had the honor of visiting my swanky apartment before. And I say that in jest. There ain’t nothing swanky about it.

Pirate is eating dry cat food in the corner of the kitchen while the spaghetti is sitting ready to boil. It’s fresh pasta so I’m just gonna basically blanche it for a couple of minutes when M arrives. Meanwhile, the pasta sauce has been thickening on the stove for the past hour. I make a good pasta sauce. It’s all in the garlic and olive oil and fresh Roma tomatoes. It’s expensive, but it’s worth it. Oh yeah, fresh basil helps too.

I’m watching Jimmy The Fist Maloney fighting against Joaquin El Toro Sanchez. It’s round six of the usual twelve and from what I’ve seen, Jimmy The Fist is ahead on points. Jimmy’s got a longer reach and almost three inches in height. Joaquin The Bull is aptly named. He’s stocky and compact and can take punches like a sandbag. In fact, he’s never been knocked down or knocked out, and he remains undefeated.

Jimmy The Fist, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to have the cleanest record. He’s had twenty-eight professional bouts. Of those, he’s won sixteen, twelve by knockout. He’s lost twelve and been knocked out five times. The way I see it, it looks like El Toro is trying to tire him out for the big KO. But Jimmy’s looking in better shape than I’ve ever seen him. Gonna be a good fight.

I was gonna make my famous meatballs, but astute readers will remember that M is vegetarian. So I had to rethink that. I found these fake meatballs in the store when I went shopping. They’re made of tofu or something. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten tofu before. At least not knowingly. Not that I’m against it. Each to his own right? But it just doesn’t look appetizing. These fake meatballs though, they could pull it off. They look pretty similar. I’m just gonna fry them for a couple of minutes before I dump them on top of the pasta and sauce.

There’s also a simple salad that’s waiting on the table. I made the poppyseed dressing myself. For dessert there’s a tiramisu. I made it all. It’s not all that hard, and I’m self taught in the kitchen. But I figured I’d stick with the Italian theme for the night. Before I forget, I had tried to feed Pirate one of these fake meatballs just to see how authentic it was. He nibbled at it, and licked it, but that was about it. So the carnivorous critic didn’t go for it. But we’ll see. I could be fooled. Anyway, it’s for M. It’s not for me.

Sticking with the Italian theme, I picked up a bottle of Uvaggio Barbera 2007. This is a reserved lot of thirty-five cases, or so the wine guy was telling me at the store. Never had it. But at around twenty bucks it wasn’t out of my range. Supposed to go good with meatballs. We’ll see.

El Toro’s coming out strong now in the eighth. He’s cut The Fist up above the left eyebrow and he’s bleeding like someone just uncorked my Barbera over his face. I had money on The Fist, not a lot. Just a hundred bucks. I’d sold a couple more paintings this month so I was feeling flush with cash. Jimmy The Fist’s the underdog. I’m always a sucker for the underdog. In fact, he was a three to one underdog. Looked like I was gonna lose Benjamin. I shrugged. Pirate had finished his food when I heard the chime from downstairs. But it was a false alarm. Probably someone walking past the hallway.

I live in Santa Monica as you know. The only way I can afford to is because this building is old as dirt. It’s one of the last old Art Deco buildings still original in this little part of town. It’s now become historic they say. It’s been owned by an Italian family since it was built. I’m telling you this because it hasn’t got fancy technology. It’s all old from the twenties. I get the chime on my end, but no video of who’s there. Marcello owns the building now. He got it off his old man who got it off his old man, the guy who bought it originally. The Godfather, they call him. Giuseppe was his real name.

Giuseppe bought it in 1928. It’s called Vista Al Mar. That means ‘Ocean Views’. Maybe in twenty-eight it had ocean views but I can’t see the ocean if I craned my neck out the balcony and tossed a ladder across the street to the other buildings. Twenty-eight was when the building was just finished. Then it went to Franco and now it’s Marcello’s. Franco’s still around, but he’s old as dirt. Still got all his acuity though, and he comes by sometimes to bring me real Italian coffee as he likes to call it. He’s a small, thin guy. Maybe five six in shoes but wiry. His son Marcello’s my height but in a heavier weight class. He’s easily got thirty pounds on me. They tell me Franco looks a lot like his pa, the Godfather Giuseppe. But America builds them bigger here, especially those born from its soil.

Why I’m telling you all this, no reason, other than I’ve got cheap rent. Thousand bucks a month. And that’s what it’s been since I got this place, I got it back in oh-two just as I was leaving the force. Marcello’s got a soft spot for the cops. His brother retired from the LAPD a few years back. I think he was a captain out of South Bureau someplace. Could’ve been Southwest Division. I didn’t know him. Anyway, that’s how I got a sweet deal to get into Santa Monica. And the apartment’s a good size too. Two bedroom at around eight hundred square feet.

I heard the chime again. It was definitely in my apartment now. It was just after six as we’d arranged. The ninth was just coming to an end. Looked like The Fist had found his way around the ring again. I smiled to myself. It was still anyone’s fight. I got up and pushed on the intercom.

Is that you, M? I said, knowing exactly who it was gonna be.

It’s me, James, she said, in her best British accent which was better than mine. I pushed the button to let her in and waited. While I did, I unlocked and opened the door a foot or two and went into the kitchen. I splashed olive oil into a frying pan and turned up the heat on the pot of water ready to drown pasta.

I walked back into the my living and turned off the TV. There was a knock on my door.

Come in, I said as I walked up to the front door.

There was a short entranceway from the front door into my apartment. On the left was the closet and on the right was a toilet. Then you entered into the living room. Off the living room on the right was the kitchen. Off to the left from the living room were the two bedrooms where the magic happened. If I was a wizard that is. And the magic hadn’t happened with M, for she hadn’t seen my wand yet. I was taking it slow. I liked her and I wanted to do this right.

I kissed her full on the mouth as she came in and took off her coat and hung it up. She looked stunning, like a vision, and I told her so. She was in a knee-length dark blue dress which sparkled and hugged her in a way that made me jealous.

I’m just finishing up dinner. I’m about to fry up some meatballs.

Oh, she said, and I thought for a moment I detected a hint of disappointment.

But don’t worry, they’re kosher meatballs. I mean, not kosher exactly, but kosher for you. They’re vegan, I said. I found them specially for you.

She smiled at me, and I’d eat cardboard for that smile if it made her happy.

Come and keep me company in the kitchen for a minute, I said.

She followed me in. It was a big kitchen for an apartment. More square than galley. I showed her the packet the meatballs came in. It bragged that they were authentic. I chuckled at that.

What’s so funny? she asked.

I just noticed that the meatballs are bragging that they’re authentic. How can they be when they’re not made of meat?

Well, they probably mean they’re made authentically, you know. With the herbs and spices and technique. You’ll like them.

I hope so, I said.

The oil was hot in the pan. The pot was coming on a boil. I tossed the meatballs into the pan and they sizzled. They smelled good. They smelled authentic, I’d give them that. I uncorked the wine and showed it to her.

Doth m’lady approve? I asked.

I doth, she said, grinning at me.

I poured her a taste and offered it to her. She took it and sipped. I shook the pan of meatballs.

Any good?

Very nice, she said, you can really taste the blueberries, mixed with the licorice and white pepper. Um, and yes, the finish is definitely purple plum cake.

I looked at her and pinched my furrowed brow down to my eyes.

Really?

She laughed and touched me on the arm. It sent a warmth all through me.

No, she said. Not really. But I know of this wine, I was with a friend some weeks ago and she was telling me all about this wine. I can’t taste anything except that it tastes like red wine, and I like it.

My kinda girl, I said.

I poured her a full glass and had one myself. I tossed the pan some more as the meatballs spat and hissed at me like venomous snakes. The watched pot was finally boiling and I tossed in the pasta.

Shouldn’t be more than a couple or three minutes, I said. I had to go to the local health food store for these meatballs.

You should be able to get them at any regular grocery store, she said.

I shrugged.

I went to the local health food store just to be sure. I asked the young lady there for fake meatballs, and she showed me a couple of different kinds. She asked me if I was vegetarian or vegan. I didn’t know, so I said vegetarian.

I looked at her and she nodded.

I said it was for a friend. You know what she told me?

I don’t, she said. What did she say?

She said that I should tell my friend that there’s a lot of cruelty in dairy and eggs, and that if my friend is really concerned about the suffering of animals that she should consider going vegan.

I tossed the pan and stirred the pasta and turned down the heat a bit. I also put my hand in my pocket looking for a loose piece of paper.

Is that why you’re vegetarian? I asked.

Yes, she said. But I hadn’t really given much thought to dairy and eggs.

Yeah, I said. She lectured me pretty good for about five minutes on the suffering of animals. Turned my stomach to be honest. Baby chickens getting ground alive, veal calves being put in small crates and taken from their mothers.

I pulled my hand out of my pocket.

Here it is, I said, handing her the piece of paper. She told me to give you this info if you were interested. Some website where you can go and see for yourself about this cruelty.

M took the piece of paper and looked at it for a moment. She went back into the living room and put it in her purse. Then she came back.

Thanks, Anthony, she said. She kissed me on the cheek. That’s very thoughtful of you. I’ll have to look into it. I saw slaughterhouse videos many years ago and it turned my stomach. That’s when I gave up meat, and chicken and fish. It was just horrible how cruelly we treat animals.

I nodded.

That’s what this young woman was saying. Said she’s been vegan five years since she first came to see it for what it was.

I took the pot over to the sink. I poured the water and pasta out into a strainer that was already there.

I think we’re ready for dinner, I said. Cruelty free.

I smiled at her and she smiled back.

I scooped pasta into two bowls and scooped a generous amount of pasta sauce over top followed by the meatballs.

If you’d like to grab the bottle of wine, I said. Let’s go into the dining room.

The dining room was just off the kitchen where I had a dark wooden table that sat four people around it. I’d never had more than that many people for dinner at one time. The settings and salad were already put out. I placed the bowls next to each other. I didn’t want M sitting across from me. She was going to be sitting next to me.

We sat down and I raised my glass.

To a cruelty free life, I said, and to the most beautiful woman I know. Thanks for coming over for dinner.

We clinked glasses and sipped our wine.

Thanks for having me, Anthony. I’m surprised it took you this long to invite me.

I like to take things slow. Especially since my marriage ended.

I didn’t say more than that. M looked at me and smiled thinly.

I understand, she said.

She tucked into her pasta and oohed and ahhed as she ate the first mouthful.

This is delicious, she said.

Probably the fresh pasta, I offered.

No, the sauce is just divine.

Thank you, I made it myself. It’s a secret family recipe.

I thought you said you were Irish, not Italian, she said.

I am, I jest. I just loosely followed some ideas I found online.

Well, it’s the best pasta sauce I’ve ever had.

I grinned at her.

It isn’t bad if I say so myself.

I reached for the salad bowl and pushed it towards her.

Have some salad.

She scooped some out into a bowl and I did the same with mine.

That dressing I made myself, I said. It looks white, but it’s actually vegan. No dairy or eggs in it. It’s a poppyseed dressing.

She poured some on her salad and then I did the same. I cracked black pepper over my pasta and my salad and did the same for her.

How’s work? I asked her.

Busy, she said, chewing on some salad greens.

How many autopsies do you do down at your office?

About thirty on a busy day. Almost six thousand a year. Like most of the county offices, we need more people and money. That’s a constant battle with the city.

How many of those are homicides? I asked.

About ten percent. Last year, for example, there were just over six hundred and something murders in the county.

She looked up at me.

Are you looking for work? she asked.

I shrugged.

I’ve sold a few paintings some months back, so I’m okay for the next month or two. But beggars can’t be choosers.

Congratulations, she said. That’s great news.

I nodded and smiled at her.

It is, I said. Declan Dawson, my guy at the gallery, thinks it’s time to put up the prices.

Which gallery is that?

The Triangle Gallery.

Oh yeah, I know it, she said. They’ve had some famous artists through there, haven’t they?

Cady Noland, Christopher Wool and Brice Marden have all exhibited there.

I think I’ve heard of them, she said.

Don’t be embarrassed, most people don’t know them, not unless you’re in the art world. It’s one of the joys of being a famous artist. You aren’t famous like a rock star or movie star is. For example, Wool sold a painting for around twenty-six million not long ago.

Wow, really?

I nodded.

Makes my stuff seem like pennies.

What does Declan want to put your paintings at now?

He thinks around five thousand for the average sized ones.

That’s good isn’t it?

It’s not twenty-six million good, I said grinning.

She put her hand on my forearm and I would’ve paid twenty-six million for how she made me feel.

A journey to twenty-six million starts at five thousand, she said.

She was smiling, but she also sounded sincere. I liked that.

True that, I said. And five grand doesn’t sound bad until you realize I only get half and I only sell a handful a year.

She took her hand away and went back to eating. I sipped wine and tossed my salad with my fork.

What’s the most you’ve sold in a year? she asked.

The most I’ve sold in a year was a baker’s dozen. Thirteen.

Mmm, I can see. That’s not very much. Still, that’s almost thirty grand.

Would’ve been if I’d sold them at my new prices which are only going into effect as we speak. No, those paintings sold at around three grand average. I smiled at her. I’m not complaining, just explaining.

Well, for what it’s worth, Anthony, I think you’re undervalued. I love your work.

I smiled at her and put a forkful of pasta into my maw. I didn’t mind the meatballs. Hell, who was I kidding, if I didn’t know they were fake I would’ve been fooled.

So your friend, Johnny Rotten, hasn’t called you for help on a homicide then?

I shook my head.

It’s been a while, but then again I haven’t been hustling for it either.

I wonder why though, she said to her pasta, twirling some on her fork. I mean you’ve left no homicide unsolved right?

Right. Of those I’ve been investigating.

Then why wouldn’t they use your help?

Could be they’re watching the money. I’ve heard that the budget for outside consultants has been chopped. Or maybe they’ve already spent it all on psychics.

M laughed at that.

I could put in a good word for you if you’d like.

Not necessary, M, I’m sure something will come up soon enough.

It always did, but sometimes it was close. I’d always paid Racquel the one grand per month in child support, not that she needed it, but a deal was a deal. Add on rent and I’m at two grand for the month. Three grand a month income means I can drive a little and sometimes eat. Four grand is where I can start to feel comfy.

Although I have to say, continued M, that lately there’s been your run of the mill murders. Gang shootings, domestics and things of that nature. Probably nothing that they thought they needed your expertise for.

Could also be Frank Burton, I said.

Who?

The Chief of Police. He and I have never seen eye to eye.

Why is that?

It’s a long story that doesn’t make for great dinner conversation, I said. Let’s talk about Willy Open.

M laughed again.

Willy Open. You mean William Orpen.

That’s exactly who I mean, I said. You like him, don’t you?

I like the look of him, she said, yes. But that’s not the only reason I want to see the play.

You sure, because I think you’re a little too old for him.

Ohhh, Anthony, you’re in trouble now, she said. Did you just call me old?

Shit, I’d just stuck my foot in it. There was no getting out of this one.

I’m just saying you’ve got to be a good decade older than him.

I laughed.

Sorry, I said. I’ll just shut up now.

M laughed.

I know how old I am, she said, and I’m definitely not as old as you, old man.

She said it with a twinkle in her eye.

Besides, you don’t think a young man would be interested in this, she said as she moved her hand up and down her body.

I think even Samson would go bald for some of that.

She smiled.

That’s better. You’re slowly crawling out of the dog house. But seriously, I’ve wanted to see this play for some time. It is a classic you know, and the last time it was here was in 1949 just after they closed Broadway they took it around the country. What I would have given to be able to see that one with Brando and Tandy. That would have been something.

Sounds like it would have been an offer you couldn’t have refused, I said in my best Brando impression, which was left wanting. But M got a kick out of it.

Why do you think it’s such a popular play? I asked her. I mean it’s the kinda stuff I used to deal with every day. Abusive domestic asshole who rapes his wife’s sister and beats his wife and she still sides with him.

Exactly Anthony. I think that’s exactly what makes it so authentic. It’s just like real life. And by shining a light on real situations, perhaps it can give us a greater awareness to actually change things. Stella might not leave Stanley, but maybe a real life Jane Doe might leave a real life John Doe because of it. It’s hard to get perspective when you’re in the trenches, but sometimes watching a play of your own life gives you that perspective.

You could be right, I said. I’ve just never seen it happen out on the streets. The number of times I went back to the same couple on domestic after domestic call is staggering. And then there’s the tragic domestic murders too.

M nodded.

True, but I wouldn’t expect you to see any different.

I raised an eyebrow at her.

What do you mean?

I think what you’re explaining is one of the unfortunate side effects of your job, of being a police officer. You’re only dealing with people in difficult situations. So yeah, you’ll keep going back to that same couple having domestic troubles unless one of three things happens.

And those three things are?

Well, worst case, one of them murders the other or there’s a murder suicide. Or, she leaves him, because she realizes that you can’t change an asshole or by some grace of God they work things out together. But you see what I’m saying? In two of those three scenarios, the police are never needed again. So of course you’d never see how sometimes people are able to get out of horrible situations.

I nodded. She had a valid point.

And, I might add, you never know the role that you play in that. I’ve met at least one woman who found the courage to leave her abusive partner because of the kindness and faith shown to her by a police officer.

Is that so?

It is. Have you never felt that?

Never. I can probably count on one hand the number of times I was thanked for what I did. One hand. And that’s for a decade on the job.

M nodded sadly.

I’m sorry. But believe me, it’s important work. I mean you’re entering into very difficult, volatile situations. Emotionally charged situations and people aren’t often in their right minds. But I know that they’re often grateful for the help after the fact.

I got up to take our plates back to the kitchen. M helped me. I took out the tiramisu and put it on the kitchen counter.

Continuing with our Italian theme, I said.

And I suppose that’s not vegan, she said. Might be the last time I enjoy something like this.

Well, other than the cream, milk, eggs and cheese, it’s all vegan, I winked at her.

And you made this all yourself? she asked.

With these eight fingers and these two thumbs, I said, wiggling my digits at her.

You might just be a keeper, Anthony my darling.

I looked at her and grinned. She’d never called me darling before. That was something I could get used to waking up to every morning. I was going to bring attention to it. But that would have been immature. It would have made light of something wonderful. At least I hoped it was something wonderful.

You might want to reserve judgement until you’ve tried it, I said. How much?

About half as much as you’ll take, she said.

I scooped out a generous serving for me and put another portion on her plate. Half as much. We headed back out to the dining room. She dug in.

This is really good, she said. I’m keeping you.

Good, I said, I’ve always wanted to be a kept man.

She laughed.

That’s not exactly what I meant.

I poured more wine and raised my glass for a toast.

To keeping this alive, I said.

She clinked glasses at me and winked.

Why Italian? she asked.

I looked at the plate of tiramisu.

Well, I couldn’t come up with anything other than potatoes and whiskey as an Irish meal.

She smiled.

What about the famous Irish stew?

Yeah, that’s not bad, but it’s full of beef. The Irish aren’t known for their high cuisine. Beef, cabbage, potatoes and bread. Italians have got many more options.

It’s one of my favorites. Do you know why?

I can guess.

Okay then, guess.

Because they offer lots of vegetarian options in their cuisine, I said.

I’m impressed, Anthony. How did you know?

I cheated, I said. That girl at the health food store told me exactly that. Said her favorite foods were Indian, Thai and Italian for that very reason.

It’s true, but they’re tasty too.

I’ll eat to that, I said, putting a big spoonful of tiramisu in my mouth.

We finished up the rest of the wine and the tiramisu. It was a little after seven. We needed to get going soon.

I should get us a cab if we’re to arrive on time, I said.

Not necessary, she said. I’ve got Uber coming to pick us up.

Uber, I said, frowning. Is that your German ex?

I was jesting. I knew what Uber was.

No silly, she said. Uber is a car transportation service. Like a cab, but each person comes in their own car to pick you up. And you pay with the app, so you don’t need money on you.

I know what it is. I was teasing you, I said, smiling at her.

You’re incorrigible, she said.

We were sitting down on the living room couch together. I’d put the radio on to jazz. But you probably knew that already.

And I can see when our driver will be here, she said, showing me the map on her app on her phone.

About five minutes then, I said.

She nodded and put her hand on my thigh. It stirred my loins. She looked at me tenderly, and I wanted to have her then, but we didn’t have the time. I swallowed and smiled at her like a knucklehead.

On a serious note though, Anthony, she said. I looked at her. You haven’t showed me around your apartment. I’m especially interested in the bedroom. Perhaps when we get back?

Somebody had sucker punched me in the gut. I think it was that little fat cherub with his bow and arrow. He packs a harder punch than you’d expect.

Well, it’s just a little hole in the wall, M. You probably wouldn’t like it. Dirty clothes all over the place, a cot for a bed.

Well, I’d like to be the judge of that.

So would I, I said.

Her eyelids got heavy and my heart beat faster. She was gorgeous. I couldn’t wait to see what’s under that dress.

I sense a little trepidation, she said. We’ve been dating for a while now. Aren’t you ready?

I’ve been ready since I first laid eyes on you.

Then what?

She was moving her hand up and down my thigh subconsciously. Only I knew exactly what it was doing to me. I coughed. Damn, I wasn’t expecting to be so excited and nervous about this.

Well, I said, it’s been a while. Not since Racquel and I split.

That was in 2002, wasn’t it?

Yeah, just after Aibhilin was born.

Well, don’t worry, Anthony, I’ve had plenty of practice.

I frowned at her. She slapped my thigh gently.

You’re so adorable when you get confused. I’m kidding. I haven’t been with anyone since I broke up with my fiancé about five years ago.

I smiled at her.

That’s good, I said, because I hadn’t taken you for a woman of the night.

I’ll show you a woman of the night later, mister. Be prepared.

Original Muscle Beach

IT was mid-morning and I was out at the pier. Not the pier proper. No, I was at what they called the Original Muscle Beach. Lots of dull silver poles and rings for gymnastic activities. It was Saturday and that meant all the bros were out. Though most of the real meatheads were at Venice Muscle Beach. The OMB was more for regular folks. I was leaning up against a wall out under palm trees. It’s the middle of June. Naked apes are swinging out on the rings and the monkey bars.

Some of them are in great shape, but none of them are taking juice. The juice bar seems to have located down by the new Muscle Beach. And by juice bar you know what I mean. Vitamin S, and that ain’t no sunshine.

I like to come down here. Sometimes I watch folks play chess. Today wasn’t one of them. Today I was watching the tide come in and out. Rolling in slow like I remembered M’s heaving bosom from last night. Slipping back out like the making of our love. The ocean reminded me of that. The heaving and sighing of the sea as it thrust itself upon the white sands.

That had been the highlight of the night. The play had been better than I was expecting. But it was the night spent with M that had been one to remember. I took a large sip of my coffee. I hadn’t been this vulnerable with a woman in years. And it scared the hell out of me.

I started walking down towards the beach, zig-zagging through the silver poles that held men and some women in various contortions the young kids call exercise. I took a last drink of my coffee and put the empty cup in the trash. I pulled out a cigarette and lit it. I leaned up against the last half wall before the walkways opened up to the beach. I took off my shoes and put my socks inside of them. I rolled up my pants. There was nothing worse than sand in your shoes.

I walked down the beach like a man intent on drowning himself in the ocean. But I was really just looking to walk along the firm wet sand lapped at by the tide. I didn’t make it too far along when my phone started buzzing in my pocket. It made me think of M. I figured she’d be on a break at work and decided to give me a call. She’d left early in the morning. Must’ve been around six. It was mid-morning now.

I fished it out of my pocket, having stuck my cigarette in my mouth first. I looked at the number. It was my old friend Captain John Roberts.

Yeah, I said, talking through my cigarette.

That anyway to talk to an old friend, Sid? he asked.

Johnny Rotten, I’m on the beach with a cigarette stuck in my mouth, a phone in one hand and my goddamn shoes in the other.

I’m sorry to hear about your first world problems, he said. But we’ve got bigger things going on that I thought you might be interested in helping us with.

Sure. What is it?

Meet me at 2319 Vallendais Avenue up in Woodland Hills. We’re here now, so put some hustle in it.

Okay, I said and hung up the phone.

Woodland Hills

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d visited Woodland Hills. It was probably never, except maybe on idle drives I’d taken years ago. Not that it was far away. Maybe twenty-five minutes on a good easy drive like this late Saturday morning. The reason I’d never been up to Woodland Hills is I’d had no reason to. It’s a ritzy area and most of the folks I know don’t have enough money to live in ritzy areas.

And I knew from this address that this little quaint corner of Woodland Hills was even more exclusive. I was right. Heading into Vallendais Avenue meant stopping at a guard booth with electric gates. He was a young black man in a suit, the suit which looked out of place for a guard. He was very friendly.

Good morning, sir. Who are you here to see? he asked, beaming a smile at me.

I’m here to see the police at 2319, I said. Ask for Captain John Roberts and tell him it’s Anthony Carrick.

His smile slowly evaporated from his face. He picked up his cell phone and made a call. He nodded at the phone and then put it down after having said everything I told him to.

Thank you for coming, Mr. Carrick, he said. 2319 is at the end in the cul-de-sac, just carry on straight.

I nodded at him and drove on through as soon as he opened the gates. The houses here were opulent. Large mansions that could probably house three generations without anyone getting in anyone else’s way. All had swimming pools and some had tennis courts. 2319 was one of those. It had a swimming pool and a tennis court. I could see the tennis court, it backed up against the hedge as I drove towards the driveway.

You’d call it a Spanish Colonial Revival house. I’d call it just pretentious and expensive. It had a red tiled roof and a sand-colored stucco exterior. There were wrought iron bars outside most of the windows and I couldn’t tell if it was to keep the owners in or the riff-raff out.

I parked at the curb on the street. The driveway was full with a couple of uniform police cars and a couple of ghost cars. The coroner’s van was there, but they were just leaving as I walked up to the front door, having passed a couple of uniforms and spoken my intentions. They pointed me to the front of the house and I made my way through immaculate interiors which were now messed up. My first thought was that this place had hosted a party the night before and the cleaners hadn’t been in yet. I didn’t know who lived here.

Off the main living room were large glass doors that folded away against each other to create an open indoor/outdoor space. These doors were now open. I walked out onto a large patio with a tiled roof that offered shade. Just beyond that was a pool. It was a moderate-sized pool, most likely for privacy. Then there was a garden and beyond that to my right was the tennis courts I’d seen earlier.

Hey, Mike, I said, to Mike Cardigan, the tall CID Investigator. He nodded at me.

John Roberts was looking out over the garden with his back towards me. He turned around grinning.

Anthony, thanks for coming, he said.

Where’s the party, I said, I haven’t seen any DBs yet.

He pointed at the pool.

She was in here.

I walked out, careful not to step on a broken mug that was broken on the patio tile, past the pool and stared back towards the house. The house itself backed up against the hills of Serrania Park. From this side of the pool you were hidden from any looky-loos walking trails in the park. Roberts joined me. He was wearing a gray suit with a light blue shirt and yellow tie patterned with silver coins of some sort on it.

Warm out here, he said.

I nodded.

So what happened? I asked.

Anna Ancher was found dead in her pool. Looks like a drowning brought on by too much alcohol, but that’s yet to be determined.

I just missed them, I said.

Who?

The ME’s people.

Yeah, but not by much, he said.

Was Dr. Stratham here? I asked, wondering if I’d just missed M too.

Nope, she sent her minions I guess. I took photos though. Come have a look.

We went back into the shade under the roof of the patio and Roberts pulled out his phone. The first photo showed Anna face down in the pool. She had on a red bikini. There were a couple of other shots like that from different angles around the pool. There were empty champagne, wine and cocktail glasses around the edge of the pool, and what looked like a couple that had fallen into it too. They were floating. The broken coffee mug was in a few of the shots too. An unbroken mug was on the side of the pool with what looked like a dark chocolate stain in the bottom.

All these drinking glasses were plastic, were they?

Yeah, except for the two mugs. Smart move nowadays for a party. Nobody gets hurt.

Unless they get drowned, I said.

Well, there’s that.

What about the broken mug?

Roberts shrugged.

Don’t know about that yet. We’re having the small bit of coffee in it tested. Same with the unbroken mug. That one looks like it had hot chocolate in it.

There was also a champagne bottle by the edge of the pool. It had the signature gold foil envelope around the neck and the gold label of Cristal. From what I could see there was just a splash of it at the bottom of the bottle.

The last couple of pictures were of Anna on her back next to the pool. I knew who she was when Roberts had said her name. She was a vibrant, charismatic, attractive movie star in her early thirties. Tabloids had recently put her going through a difficult split with long time boyfriend Rip Peso, lead singer of the Magnetic Maniacs.

The thing about death is, it robs you of dignity. Not that the dead mind. But looking at the bloated, puffy pictures of Anna Ancher on her back by the pool, you’d never know she was once a living, breathing woman that teenage boys and young men fell in love with on the big screen. Here she was looking like a waxed moon colored grotesque doll. The eyes were open and cloudy with death. The lips swollen and the cheeks puffy. The only part of her that looked like it might be real was her wet, dark brown hair.

Parts of her stomach, thighs, arms had the splotchy, purpled discoloration of pooled blood. I’d never gotten used to seeing dead bodies, even ones like this, the non-violent kind. I looked back at Roberts.

No signs of struggle? I asked.

He shook his head.

Nope. Like I said, looks like a simple drowning maybe due to alcohol intoxication.

So why am I here? Why is homicide here?

You’re here because I miss your friendly banter. I’m here because in cases like this, and you know this, Anthony, high profile cases, we’ve gotta make sure we do a thorough investigation to fully rule out foul play. You do know who Anna Ancher is, right?

I nodded.

She was going through a tough split with her long time boyfriend Rip Peso, if you listen to the tabloids.

Yeah, that’s right. And from some accounts Rip has an anger problem. Assaulted a fan last year and settled for six figures from what I heard.

What was it over?

Fan was getting into his grill at an after-party, abusing his privilege to be there. Acting too familiar with Rip and Anna and so Rip got into it with him. That’s the story.

Got into his grill? I asked, looking at my pal like he’d just tried to get into a rave.

Yeah, got into his grill. You’re not hip with youth culture anymore? he asked.

I smiled at him.

I know exactly what it means, I’m just surprised an old man like you does.

Got it from Miles. He said I was getting into his grill over his homework. You know how kids are.

I know, I just wanted to hear you say it.

You’re in a feisty frame of mind, he said. Something got into your grill this morning?

He grinned at me.

I’m actually in a good mood, I said. Saw Emily last night. Went to the play.

Is that right? I knew you had seen her a couple of times, but I didn’t know it was serious.

I bobbed my head from side to side.

I think it’s getting there.

Roberts nodded.

That’s good my buddy. I’m glad to hear someone’s taking the vicious out of Sid Vicious, he said, gently slapping me on the shoulder. I think she’ll be really good for you. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?

A very long time, I said. Not since Racquel and I split.

Roberts nodded.

Well, when you’re ready, I know Jennifer would love to have you and Emily over for dinner.

I nodded at him.

I’d like it too, he said.

I nodded again.

Give it a month or two and let’s see where it’s at.

How long have you two been dating?

I think it’s been about six months or thereabouts.

Roberts nodded.

I’m happy for you, buddy, I really am.

Thanks, I said. But back to the case. What are your feelings on it?

Roberts shrugged and looked out towards the pool.

No foul play. There was a legitimate party out here last night. We got a call from a neighbor complaining about noise. That was around midnight. Hard to say. My gut wants to believe that this was just a tragic accident. Maybe she was popping pills and drinking champagne and got overwhelmed and drowned.

Who was the neighbor?

Roberts turned towards an officer just inside the living room.

Officer, can you get me Detective Beeves? he said.

Yes, Captain, came the reply, and the young officer left.

Greg Beeves is on this case with me. I don’t think you know him.

I shook my head.

Young guy. Real up and comer. Around thirty-two I think. Been with us ten years. Not homicide, been on the job ten years. This is his second year in homicide.

I nodded, and looked towards the living room where a stocky black detective was walking towards us. He had a shaved head over a round face. He wore a navy suit with a purple tie and pale blue shirt.

Greg, this is Anthony Carrick. He’s a civilian consultant, though we used to work homicide back in the day. Anthony, this is Greg, one of our rising stars.

We shook hands.

I’ve heard a lot about you, sir, said Beeves. The only detective to never lose a case.

Call me Anthony, and those are myths, I said. I’ve always had a collar but sometimes the dicks down at city hall can’t keep it tight around a perp’s neck if you know what I mean.

He chuckled at that.

Ain’t that the truth, he said. What can I do for you, Captain?

Anthony has some questions about last night.

Roberts looked over at me.

Yeah, who was the neighbor that called in the noise complaint?

"It was Maria Fitch from across