Hollow-Point Holiday: Edgar "Doc" Holiday, #3

By Kirk Alex

Hollow-Point Holiday: A Doc Holiday Private Investigator Mystery (Book 3)

Money talks.
But who will pay the price?

 

The sky is dark and heavy when Private Investigator Edgar "Doc" Holiday discovers the body of Hollywood's most famous animal trainer at a ranch in the San Fernando Valley. Titus, the canine star of a major motion picture is still missing, and his disappearance is costing the movie business more than just money.

 

But as Doc continues his search for the invaluable dog, he soon unearths a deadly secret more complex and twisted than he could ever have imagined: someone is trying to sabotage the biggest blockbuster of the year and the lives of many are at their mercy.

 

At every turn in the case, another barbaric murder takes place and the number of guilty suspects is growing drastically.

 

Can Doc catch the ruthless Hollywood killer before another victim is claimed? Or will this labyrinthine investigation destroy him first…

 

Hollow-Point Holiday is the third book in the heart-pounding Doc Holiday mystery series by the inimitable Kirk Alex. Perfect for crime thriller readers and fans of Jo Nesbo, Lee Child, Tana French, Sean Chercover and Derek Raymond.

 

 "Kirk Alex gets right down to it. There's not a wasted word. If you don't know his work, you should." (Throwback & Backlash: Love Lust & Murder series) – Mark SaFranko, author of Lounge Lizard

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kirk Alex
• Release date: Aug 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9780939122950

Kirk Alex

Instead of boring you with a bunch of dull background info, how about if I mention a few films/singers/musicians and books/authors I have enjoyed over the years.Am an Elvis Presley fan from way back. Always liked James Brown, Motown, Carmen McRae, Eva Cassidy, Meat Loaf, Booker T. & the MGs, CCR. Doors are also a favorite.Some novels that rate high on my list: A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole; Hunger by Knut Hamsun; Street Players by Donald Goines (a street noir masterpiece, a work of art, & other novels by the late awesome Goines); If He Hollers Let Him Go by the incredible Chester Himes. (Note: Himes at his best was as good as Hemingway at his best. But of course, due to racism in the great US of A, he was given short-shrift. Had to move to France to be treated with respect. Kind of sad.Am white by the way, but injustice is injustice & I feel a need to point it out. There were so many geniuses of color who were mistreated and taken advantage of. Breaks your effing heart. I have done what I have been able to support talent (no matter what the artists skin color was/is) over the years by purchasing records & books by talented folks, be they white/black/Hispanic/Asian, whatever. Like I said: Talent is talent, is the way I have always felt. The arts (in all their forms) keep us as humans civilized, hopefully). Anyway, I need to get off the soap box.Most of the novels by Mark SaFranko (like Lounge Lizard and Hating Olivia; his God Bless America is one of the best memoirs I have ever read, up there with Ham on Rye by Buk);The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway; A Farewell to Arms also by Ernie; Mooch by Dan Fante (& other novels of his); Post Office by Charles Bukowski; The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath; the great plays of Eugene O., like Iceman Cometh, Long Days––this system has a problem with the apostrophe, so will leave it out––Journey Into Night, Touch of the Poet; Journey to the End of the Night by Ferdinand Celine (not to be confused by the Eugene O. play); Postman Only Rings Twice by James M. Cain; the factory crime novels of Derek Raymond (superior to the overrated Raymond Chandler & his tiresome similes & metaphors any day of the week; Jack Ketchum; Edgar Allan Poe; The Reader by Bernhard Schlink; Nobody/s Angel by Jack Clark; The Professor and the Madman by Simon Winchester, et al.Filmmakers: Akira Kurosawa (Ihiru; Yojimbo); John Ford (almost anything by him); horror flicks: Maniac by William Lustig and Joe Spinnell; original Night of the Living Dead; original Texas Chainsaw Massacre; original When a Stranger Calls; The 400 Blows by Francois T.; the thrillers of Claude Chabrol; A Man Escaped by Bresson; the Japanese Zatoichi films;Tokyo Story by Ozu . . . and many other books, films and jazz musicians like the amazing tenor sax player Gene Ammons; Sonny Rollins, Chet Baker, Jack Sheldon, Stan Getz, Paul Desmond; singers like the incomparable Sarah Vaughan, Shirley Horn, Dion Warwick; Al Green, Elmore James, Lightnin Hopkins . . . to give you some idea.However, these days though, tv does not exist at all for me, nor do I care for most movies, in that I would much rather pick up a well-written book. I get more of a kick from reading than I do watching some actor pretend to be something he is not.Having said that, I confess that as a young man I did my share of wasting time watching the idiot box and spent my share of money going to the flicks. But those days are long gone, in that there is no interest in movies (be they cranked out by the Hollywood machine, or elsewhere).Final conclusion when it comes to celluloid? Movies are nothing more than a big waste of time (no matter who makes them). Reading feeds the brain, while movies puts the brain to sleep. There it is.

Book preview

High Praise for Kirk Alex

Throwback & Backlash

Love, Lust & Murder Series

. . . if you want a raw, dark in-your-face good read . . . go for it.

—Hidden Gems Book Review

Lustmord: Anatomy of a Serial Butcher

Great book. Dark—yes. Grotesque–certainly. Sexually explicit—without a doubt. And the writing is excellent. Character & dialogue, is as real as it gets. A terrifying, non-putdownable horror.

—Jeff Bennington, Kindle Book Review

Zook

"Zook was a zoo ride! All of the characters were well written and you find yourself unable to put the book down! You might even find it a little sad. ***** out of 5 stars."

—NetGalley

Ziggy Popper at Large:

14 Tales of General Degeneracy,

of Mayhem & Debauchery –

For the Morally Conflicted & Borderline Criminal

Gruesome, violent, awesome! I absolutely LOOOVEEE Kirk Alex. I am always ready for his next book!! Extremely entertaining. A whole lot of violent, and just what I was looking for. Private detective Felix Choo-Choo Buschitsky and Ziggy Popper are now my two favorite characters. ***** out of 5 stars.

—NetGalley

nonentity

–A Rant For Those Who Can’t–

Presented as a Novel

This is a quick read and engrossing. I found myself wanting to know what happened. Many of the situations were funny in the way they were presented. Fast, easy read.

—NetGalley

Kirk Alex’s prose is swiftly moving and terse and dark and angry and ugly. There is no wiggle room in what he writes and what he sees; bad is bad and good is rare. Apparently the writer has struggled a long time to get this book published, and it's a good thing he did. This will grab you by the heart and choke the breath out of you - and by book's end, you'll thank him for doing it.

—Steven Rosen, Curled Up With A Good Book

BLOOD, SWEAT and CHUMP CHANGE

L.A. Taxi Tales & Vignettes

"After reading BLOOD, SWEAT AND CHUMP CHANGE — Taxi Tales & Vignettes by Kirk Alex you understand why the American Dream needs liposuction. It’s all here: Hate, poetry, sadness, hope and the ache of an aloneness that never goes away. Belly up!"

—Dan Fante, author of Spitting Off Tall Buildings

by Kirk Alex

Crime Fiction:

Throwback: Love, Lust & Murder – Book One

Backlash: Love, Lust & Murder – Book Two

Ziggy Popper at Large – 14 Tales of General Degeneracy, of Mayhem & Debauchery – for the Morally Conflicted & Borderline Criminal

Horror:

Lustmord: Anatomy of a Serial Butcher

Zook

Cash Register Working Stiff Series:

Paycheck to Paycheck

Loopy Soupy’s Motley Crew

Journey to the End of the Week

A Confederacy of Mooks

nonentity — A Rant For Those Who Can’t

You’re Gonna Have Trouble

LA Cab Exploits:

Working the Hard Side of the Street – Selected Stories/Poems/Screams

Blood, Sweat & Chump Change – L.A. Taxi Tales & Vignettes

Doc Holiday Contemporary Mystery Series:

Hush-Hush Holiday #1

Hubba-Hubba Holiday #2

Hollow-Point Holiday #3

Hard Noir Holiday #4

Hammer-Slammer Holiday #5

Hollow-Point

Holiday

A Doc Holiday Private Eye Novel

#3

Kirk Alex

Tucumcari Press

Image1

Tucson – 2021

Copyright © 1983 Just Another Private Dick by Kirk Alex

Copyright © 2020 Hubba-Hubba Holiday — #2 by Kirk Alex

Copyright © 2021 Hollow-Point Holiday — #3 by Kirk Alex

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. For information address Tucumcari Press, PO Box 40998, Tucson, Arizona 85717-0998

First printing, 2021

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

ISBN: 978-0-939122-94-3 (6x9 pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-939122-95-0 (ePUB)

Chapter 1

The door that connected the suite opened, and Ilsa walked in. She had a stack of mail she was going over. Paused where she stood. Held one envelope up in particular. Holiday was at his desk, typing up a report, when he noticed her taking a long, hard look at the piece of mail.

Purvis, he heard her say. It’s from Sterling Purvis, Doc. For you, evidently. Mailman must’ve dropped it in through our slot by mistake.

She handed it to him. Doc tore open the envelope. Read the note. Stuck his hand back inside and withdrew two crisp one hundred dollar bills. Holiday was now the one staring at his friend. Ilsa waited.

Freddie Beans, Titus’ main stand-in has gone missing.

Bet you anything that dog we buried in Santa Monica was Mr. Purvis’ Freddie.

Holiday shook his head.

What is it?

This, said Doc, holding up the bills and note. Same method the producer used: Francis Tracton; to get in touch. Money and note inside an envelope. I drive out there to his place—and find him deader than a deadbolt lock. Then: At the time it was assumed it was the producer. Bulls still aren’t sure. Anyway, I hope this is not an omen.

Tried to contact Mr. Purvis recently?

Too often to count—ever since we found ‘Titus’ dead—or at least we assumed it was Titus. Short while later, we return to where we buried the animal in back of that beach house owned by Ms. Donavan—and the dog is gone.

Could be phone lines in Granada Hills are down. Storm continues to wreak havoc.

Could be, said Doc. I pray that’s what it is.

Holiday rose. Got into his trench coat, donned the trilby.

Guess I’m driving out to Granada Hills to see Mr. Purvis.

Not without me, said Ilsa Goth. He saw her toss a screenplay into a leather satchel at her desk, then step back into his share of the suite. She closed her door behind her.

Is that the Armit screenplay, Ilsa?

Made a copy, said Ilsa. Been meaning to read it. Thought I’d give it a try in the car. It’s a long drive out.

Chapter 2

The storm raged. Streets were flooded just about everywhere. Traffic on surface streets was not bumper to bumper, but it was bad enough. Only when Doc got them on the Hollywood Freeway, it got much worse. It moved for about half a mile, then the flow would reduce, drop down to about twenty miles per hour for about half a mile, then pick up to 40, 50 and even 60, but then, for some unexplainable reason, was back down to half that. It was frustrating as hell and Doc found himself regretting not having asked his friend to drive. And through all of it, she’d had the screenplay open and been able to read.

Want me to take the wheel, Doc? said Ilsa, lowering the Armit scenario. Pull over.

I would if I could.

They were in the Diamond Lane and there was no way to move over to the right to get to the shoulder. And even had they been able to, there would not have been anywhere to stop.

Nothing to do but stay with it, thought Doc. He fooled with the radio. Found something by Shirley Horn and stayed with it. This kind of smooth, soft jazz proved the healing balm. One of the good things about being with Ilsa was that she didn’t mind his taste in music. Sure, he liked some rock: Doors/Bob Seger/Gene Pitney/Elvis/Solomon Burke; liked Motown, even some country, but his favorite kind of music, hands down, was jazz, R&B: Stan Getz/Chet Baker/Zoot Sims/Artie Shaw/Gene Ammond/Willie Dixon—and the lady was fine with it.

While later they passed the cause of the trouble, in addition to the storm: three car pile-up in the far right lane just north of the Highland exit. Traffic picked up considerably at this point. Drivers were doing sixty easy, and beyond. Doc and his friend trekked on through to the Valley side, passing Coldwater, Woodman, Van Nuys, the 405. They got off the freeway, and headed north on Topanga Canyon Bl into Chatsworth. The outskirts. Hilly roads. Ranches. Horses stood in corrals in the rain. Some of the corrals had shelters with metal siding for roofs, but the horses, most, preferred the rain.

They passed a trio of soaking wet coyotes who felt the same way, as they bounced single file along the fence on the right, unperturbed. Cars? Used to it. People? Same thing. They were not intimidated. On the hunt for grub.

There was a dirt road riddled with potholes that they ended up taking in to a ranch style house up ahead on the left. Ilsa had the map book open, and pointed the house out to him. A pickup, old and battered, sat parked not far from the front door. There was a chainlink fence to the right that fronted the yard, then curved upwards around it. A few animals, mostly dogs stood in the grass and mud, barking at them as they pulled up.

Doc and Ilsa walked up to the front door, rang the doorbell. Stood there waiting. Tried again. Got nowhere. Doc reached for the doorknob. Turned it. Pushed the door in. Called out Mr. Purvis by name. There was no answer.

You go in, said Ilsa. I think I’ll take a look around.

Careful.

I don’t care for the looks of this, said Ilsa. Animals appear underfed. And she walked off along the left side of the house.

Chapter 3

Mr. Purvis?

There were chimps and chipmunks/parrots/cats/hamsters and even the possum: George Jones (in his cage, clawing at the gate) in the vast and hair-covered and cluttered living room, but no Sterling Purvis.

Sir? You home? Doc Holiday here. Got your note and the retainer.

There was animal fecal matter on the worn carpet and one had to be cautious where one stepped.

Sterling? You around? Sterling Purvis?

At this point, he decided to draw his piece, and moved on ahead toward the kitchen. More clutter/strong stench/plastic trash bags torn open on floor along base of the cupboards, dirty dishes and animal food trays in the long trough of a sink. Couple of small monkeys sat atop the kitchen table sucking on beer cans.

Large fridge door was open, inside of which was stained with milk and orange juice, bits of hamburger and various rotting vegetables and fruit. There were traces of corn flakes along the floor throughout; empty dog food cans and bits of dry dog food.

There was a large cork board on the wall to the left of the fridge. Cork board was loaded with memos/outstanding bills/grocery lists for pet food and general household items. He took one of the lists down, folded it, and stuffed it in a trench coat pocket.

Soon enough, the dogs he saw earlier outside in the yard, were standing at the open door to the kitchen. They barked some more at first, then stood giving him the once-over quietly. Whimpers followed. Then some mild barking, as if they were trying to tell him something.

What is it? said Doc. Felt foolish for addressing the dogs. The barking continued. There was some business of the three dogs shaking their heads, spinning, then pausing to bark some more.

He walked towards the door. They backed away from him, and appeared to be wanting to draw his attention to a barn-like structure at the far end of this fairly vast yard.

Holiday didn’t like it; he just didn’t like it. Ilsa was right: doom was in the air. Something unpleasant was about to unfurl. That dead husky dog in back of Mallory Donavan’s beach house that they buried in the sand in Santa Monica had to be Sterling’s movie dog Freddie Beans. And if so . . . meant what? Where was Purvis?

He walked the length of the yard, stepping in mud, doing his best to avoid piles of animal waste. It was a barn indeed. Left half of the door closed, right halfway open, with lots of cracks in the boards and downright holes and gaps, as though someone had whacked at it with a sledgehammer.

As he got near enough, he noticed the heavy bloodstains on the inside of the door, bits of what appeared to be brain matter, pieces of scalp and skin. At one point he leaned in to determine what initially appeared to be a small fragment of ivory among the mud and strands of hay covered floor and realized it was a tooth. Human or otherwise, was tough to discern.

He turned his head to take a look in back of him where the dogs remained a few feet outside the barn and were quiet now. Perhaps whimpering, but no longer barking. He looked about. Wondered where Ilsa was and if she were all right?

He folded the umbrella, and jammed it in one of the pockets of his cargo pants. He had the gun up, ready to blast if need be. Stepped inside.

Chapter 4

This was a large barn, with horse stalls, hay, mixed-in with mud on the cement floor. The horse stalls, half a dozen along the right side of the barn, the left side had a series of various size cages along the wall with a variety of animals in them: rabbits, a raccoon, goat, honey badger, cheetah, monkeys, hyenas; other dogs, cats, rats . . .

He lifted his head, straining to see what the lump was in the hay on the ground down at the far end where the other door was. He walked to it and watched rats scurry away from the male body on the ground. No one had to tell him who it was. Easily recognized the face—as chewed up, blood-stained as it was—that of Sterling Purvis, the movie animal trainer.

Plenty of his face had been devoured, as well as neck, arms, bare feet and parts of his legs, could be seen through the torn mud and blood-stained clothing. Doc knelt beside the body.

Mr. Purvis? Why he did this he had no idea, because Sterling Purvis was one dead stiff. And had been for days, looked like. He proceeded to rise, when a male voice from behind told him he needn’t bother.

Raise your hands, said the man, who had walked up on him. Doc could tell out of the corner of his right eye, that the middle-aged gent held a shotgun. Had it aimed at his back.

Drop the gun.

Doc Holiday, private investigator. Mr. Purvis here sent me two hundred bucks to come and talk to him.

You shot my brother, said the man.

Like hell I did, said Holiday. Got the note I was sent right here in my pocket.

Baloney.

You’re Sterling’s brother? You might be able to recognize his handwriting. If I can show you the note.

Drop the firearm.

I suggest you drop yours, mister, said Ilsa, who had walked up from behind and held her Glock aimed at the man’s head. There was tension. They waited; the three waited.

I’m a damn good shot, mister, Ilsa Goth warned the man who claimed to be the late Sterling Purvis’ brother.

We’re private detectives, said Ilsa. Like my partner just told you. Your brother—Sterling Purvis—sent us a note with the two hundred dollars to come out here and talk to him about one of his missing movie dogs, Freddie Beans.

The man released a heavy sigh, then dropped the shotgun.

Chapter 5

Holiday holstered his piece. Waited while the man looked at Ilsa’s ID. The man’s eyes had been welling, when he said:

Name’s Silas Purvis.

He pulled out a kerchief to wipe his eyes and face.

About a week ago, I get a call from Sterling. Felt like the property was under surveillance or something; like he was being followed. There were hangups; regularly. Phone would ring, he’d answer, but then whoever was calling at the other end would never say anything. Then simply hang up on him.

Doc showed him the note, plus the money his dead brother had sent. Silas Purvis nodded.

What am I going to do about all of these animals? he said. I’m not in the movie business. Don’t know anyone who is. That was my brother’s vocation. My wife and I don’t own pets. And besides, she’s allergic to most of them anyway.

If you have a number where you can be reached, said Ilsa, I might be able to place some of your brother’s menagerie.

Silas fought hard to keep the tears from resurfacing. It was not easy. He apologized. Looked up.

Freddie Beans has been missing for a while now, he said. And you say you think you folks found him?

Doc showed him the photos they’d taken of the dead dog at the beach house owned by Mallory Donavan. Silas Purvis looked at it good and hard. Nodded after a while. Then found himself shrugging.

Sure. Looks like Freddie. Then again . . . Christ; why’d they have to do that to him? Freddie was friendly. Liked people. He shook his head. Handed the photo back. I can’t look at it. It’s too much. Bludgeoned like that. Why?

We have a theory, said Ilsa, only it wouldn’t do anyone any good to waste time pontificating on it.

Was Freddie given a decent burial at least? asked Silas Purvis.

When we returned to the beach house to do just that, the dog was gone. Missing.

Missing?

Someone had dug him up, and . . . taken him somewhere. We have no idea. Or maybe we do: they were afraid that we’d be able to figure out that it wasn’t Titus. That’s who Freddie was supposed to be: Titus.

Titus?

Titus, Mr. Purvis, said ilsa. Freddie was one of two dogs that doubled for Titus on the first movie, as well as what was shot of the sequel. They wanted us to think Titus was dead, but once they figured out that the idea would merely work for a while, they decided to make Freddie disappear, so that we wouldn’t be able to go back and take a look to see if we might determine he had contact lenses in. The dog’s eyes were infected; bloodshot, but seriously infected. We figure it was because of the contacts.

They did all this to Freddie because of Titus?

Perhaps felt threatened that the studio might be tempted to use Freddie to finish up the sequel to a popular picture.

If so, why was my brother murdered? asked Silas.

Had it figured out, or saw something. He was killed to keep him quiet, said Holiday.

What now? asked Mr. Purvis.

You call Valley PD?

He nodded.

Since there isn’t anything we can do here to be of any help to anyone, said Doc, I figure we’ll be leaving. He handed Silas Purvis a business card. Call us if you feel a need to talk. I met your brother at the Grich talent agency on Sunset Blvd a while back. He was a nice man. Loved his animals. Like my friend Ilsa over here.

Silas Purvis nodded once more, said: Thank you both.

Doc walked out the same way he had come in, and Ilsa followed him out to the car.

Chapter 6

Feel like driving? asked Doc at the car.

Sure, said Ilsa, and got behind the wheel. He pulled out the grocery list he took off the corkboard in the kitchen. Asked to see the ransom note they picked up at Mallory’s beach abode. Held them side by side. Doc found himself shaking his head. He let Ilsa take a look.

Ransom note is a poor imitation of the handwriting that created the grocery list, said his friend.

Mallory, Mallory, sighed Doc. The deception never ends with Ms. Donavan.

Unless, once again, it comes down to Livonia Molotov.

And she’s dead.

Yep. Deader than a deadbolt lock, Doc—to use one of your expressions.

We better get out of here, said Holiday. Unless you feel like being given the 3rd degree by Valley PD.

She handed the pieces of paper back. Turned the car around, and had them taking the same dirt road back out and off the property, just as a Valley cruiser approached from the opposite direction.

Where to? said Ilsa.

Doc was speechless. She glanced at him. Waited.

Sorry, said Holiday. Seeing Sterling Purvis like that got to me just a bit. I knew the man; talked to him. He was rather decent. And now he’s as dead as all the others.

What all others?

All the other dead peeps. Never to be again. Gone. For good. And all that reincarnation crap never added up to me—or maybe it did: as total crap.

You thinking of Mr. Ferguson, Doc?

Yes, said Holiday. My folks; brother. Dead and buried. And the world never knew about them, any of them; their decency and kindness. He was quiet. "Someone once said: All graves finally go unvisited. It’s true. We are all forgotten at some point. Every damned one of us. Good/bad—in between; don’t matter. Unvisited. Forgotten. Buried."

That’s it. The lot, said his friend. The way it is.

Purvis didn’t deserve what he got; no more than Jerry J. No more than Jimmy Armit or Tryn Rundle.

Or Freddie.

And Livonia smashed his skull in.

On orders from Mallory Donavan.

So she claimed.

And if not?

"She did so on her own. Protect Mallory’s interests. Her bestie beastie, from their wild Euro escort days. Malloy has the movie itch, no doubt. Chasing the brass bring. Desperate to make it big in that smelly crapper made of tinsel."

You never answered my question.

What question was that?

Where are we headed, my deeply-troubled friend?

I’d like to get my hands on Livonia from Estonia, said Doc. Which doesn’t seem possible now. Short of that; I guess I got no choice but to get back to Mallory and ask her why she lied about my lifting those Super-8 reels.

She claimed you did that?

McCurdy and my pal Del Rey had me in the hot seat down at Parker Center for the 3rd Degree. Claimed that Ms. Donavan insisted that I broke into her Westwood Village cribby and filched the Super-8 reels.

What was on them?

Not certain. I might have to take another look at the footage to determine what’s going on.

She did that before the nervous breakdown and the psycho ward stretch.

Yep.

Ilsa pulled into a mini-mart parking lot.

I need coffee, said Ilsa, climbing out. How about you?

Sure, said Doc.

She walked to a payphone there, dropped a coin in. Was on it briefly, then hung up. Dropped more coins in. Spoke for a while, then entered the mini-mart. Dc got out to stretch his legs. Ilsa soon reappeared with two coffees. Handed Doc his.

Ms. Donavan is in.

I need to get on over there, said Doc. What about you?

Just spoke with Termite. Got a clean-up for us in North Hollywood. He’s on his way to pick me up.

Bad one?

Babe shot her hubs and four young kids to be with her beau, who wants nothing to do with her.

Wonderful, said Doc. Had a sip of coffee, and slid behind the wheel.

Drive safe, my friend.

Doc nodded, and pulled out. Got on the 405 south, and took it all the way down to Westwood Village.

Chapter 7

He buzzed Mallory Donavan's unit at the entrance to her lobby. Got nothing. He took his keys out for show, waited around for a tenant to appear: either someone exiting, or walking up to the apartment building. Someone did eventually, and Holiday slipped inside the lobby after the person.

PI took the elevator up. The lock in Mallory's door did not appear to have been tampered with. There were no visible scratch marks/tell-tale signs that the lock had been picked, that he could tell. He knocked. Same as before. No response.

Against his better judgement, Doc picked the lock. Went in. Mallory Donavan had an open suitcase on her bed. She was stuffing clothes in it. She hardly bothered to glance the PI’s way, and went on with what she was doing.

You just about caused me to lose my license, lady.

This did not so much as warrant a second glance from her.

What's the idea telling the rollers I boosted those reels?

She looked up this time.

Rollers, repeated the PI. Bulls. Cops.

You did.

That's a lie.

I saw you.

You're lying.

She jammed a pair of white tennis shoes between a bottle of Coppertone oil and a can of shaving cream. She folded a pair of faded blue jeans and placed them on top.

The PI grabbed her by the arm, and a can of Mace materialized in her other hand that she held inches from his face. She was ready to start spraying.

Take your hands off me.

The PI did not want any part of the Mace and went along with the request.

You're bum-rapping me. I’d like to know why.

Stand by the door.

Thought we were going to treat one another with a touch of decency.

That was before you betrayed my trust, violated my space by breaking in here and took property that belongs to me.

You bipolar? That your problem? That’s it, isn’t it? Explains why you and Livonia were such great pals. Two of a kind. Birds of a feather.

If I reach for my .22 you’re a dead pig.

Pig? I’m not a cop.

I’m a reasonably good shot. You saw a sample of my ability with a gun in Culver City.

You would shoot me? After the effort you invested to bond with me?

"By the door."

The PI was getting good at taking orders from this woman. He did as directed. She stuffed the Mace in her trench coat.

I don't like the idea of being used. I showed you the footage out of the goodness of my heart. You came back and you took the reels. I don't know what you plan to do with them—and I really don't give a damn.

She snapped the suitcase shut. Walked into the bathroom. Took a hairbrush out of her purse and proceeded to brush all that wavy, long hair with it. My god, she had hair. A man could fall in love with all that beautiful hair alone. In spite of the loony-tunes behavior.

You're not making sense, lady. I'm trying to help, and you stick a shiv in my side.

She chuckled a fake chuckle. Shook her head.

You're being paid to find a missing hybrid. Why don't you go find the missing hybrid?

You can't believe I took the reels. You can't believe I came back, not the kind of shape I'm in.

She stopped. Gave him one of her patented hard glares.

I saw you. Now, will you please get out?

Was this before, or after they put you on mood elevators at the nut ward?

That was not a nervous breakdown, said Mallory. What that was was sheer exhaustion and shock, seeing what had been done to Titus.

You mean Freddie Beans, don’t you?

How would you know?

That dead animal at your beach house had infected eyes; caused by contacts, no doubt. It’s plausible to think so.

Think what you like.

Maybe someone did steal the reels, said Doc. Fine. What makes you so sure it was me?

It was.

Did you leave the lights on? How could you see in the dark? How the hell could you tell it was me?

She wouldn't answer right away.

Nightlight by the bed.

She gestured in the direction. There was a nightlight on, plugged into a wall socket near the floor.

Where did you leave the films?

The lot was on the table. You came back, picked the lock, like the thief that you are, and went directly to the table and took everything.

He was beginning to truly hate this woman. If you're lying, Doc thought, I'll get you good. I'll nail your ass, no matter how hot. He sighed. Said something off-color like:

How do you know it's not Francis' ghost come back for revenge?

Leave, please? Just leave?

Before we become mortal enemies?

Something like that.

So where are you headed, anyway? What's the hurry?

He got nothing.

You were so damned determined to get back at the punks for squeezing you out, and now you're running out of town? Makes no sense.

Do you leave on your own, or do I summon the manager?

How did this type pour it on, then turn it off? Like there was nothing to it. One minute you're human, the next you were less than a bug. She'd shown some interest in him that other time, but because of something he'd allegedly done, he was despised. Maybe there were health issues he wasn't privy to. Then again, there was a lot she was obviously dealing with here, too much.

The PI took the elevator down, and waited in his rental.

Chapter 8

The split-personality diva was getting under the PI’s skin. He was being taken for a fool, it seemed, and he didn't like it. He wanted to know what the crazy bitch was up to. More accurately: He needed to know what the hell she was up to.

It was 1:10 in the afternoon, and it may as well have been 1:10 in the a.m. It was just about that dark. He turned the radio on.

"Four people swept out into the ocean in the City of

Santa Monica. A rescue party is combing the area . . ."

The gate to the garage was sliding open. Rain made it impossible to see who the driver was. Not that it mattered, or was crucial, in that you didn't see too many gold Ford Mustangs around, period. He was slumped low in his seat. Waited to see which way the car would turn. It came up his way, driving past. Driver had long hair. Had to be Mallory.

He turned his key in the ignition, was about to follow through with a quick Uie, when a black limo sped past, tearing after the gold Mustang. Or else it seemed that way. The PI made his U-turn, and followed. Down Levering, to Gayley. They made a right on Wilshire.

Doc couldn't see Mallory's car most of the time and took it for granted that it was just there in front of the limo when they got on the 405, and took it south. The limo was flying. He figured Mallory Donavan was, too. A gutsy lady.

He wondered at this moment about the other private dick Green had mentioned, and if he were anywhere around? Doc couldn't tell. But that didn't mean anything. Usually, he was fairly good at spotting tails, but in this weather? Forget it. No use trying, unless the mother was right on top of him.

The PI followed the limo to the Sepulveda offramp, past a couple of traffic lights. Mallory was on her way to the airport. So her plan seemed to be, except the limo driver tailing her had other ideas: he whipped the limo around her, suddenly/unexpectedly, forcing her off Sepulveda, onto a side street on the right.

The PI killed his lights, the windshield wipers, and came to a stop at the corner. Foceri got out of the limo and walked over to the other car. It looked like he had a piece in his hand and soon was hauling her and her suitcase out of her Mustang and dragging her back to the limo. The limo got back on Sepulveda, and Doc tailed it to Imperial, and that to Hawthorn, where it turned down an alley in back of the Foxy Lady. Mallory wouldn't allow the thug to lay a hand on her this time, and so she entered without help.

The PI waited for Foceri to do likewise: watched him reach in for the suitcase, and followed Mallory. Doc pulled the trench coat collar up iver his ears, and walked to the small window to the right of the door. Window was a bit high and had iron bars over it. But it had been left open a bit to promote air circulation and Doc thought it might be worth the effort. He turned a garbage can over, and climbed up on it.

Chapter 9

It smelled fishy, maybe like a set-up. Whole thing too convenient. Piggy was there. He was wearing the same red outfit, the same pizza stains, or was it lasagna?—considering that's what he was stuffing his jowls with this time at his desk.

They had Mallory Donavan sitting on the sofa, just below the window. Doc could see the top of her head. She sneezed once. The PI could see Foceri standing by the door, arms folded. His face looked like a road map, with the stitches and all. The other thug was there, Dom, his fat ass parked on the far right corner of Piggy's desk. Piggy was sitting in the leather swivel, wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, balled it up and tossed it onto his plate.

He did the sniffing bit with a cigar. PI had smoked a cigar or two in his time. The sniffing bit didn’t mean squat. Piggy clipped the end finally. Waited for the one with the stitched face to fire him up. The goon did that, and stepped back and stood by the door. It was here that Doc noticed the head bobbing between Mr. D.’s legs. It was one of the ingenues from before. Doing the casting couch bit. Anytime he saw something like this take place it kind of bothered him, because—without fail—it reminded him of Candy and what she'd gone through trying to make it in Hollywood. The redhead, barmaid, from the other bar, stood at DiPalermo’s right elbow, offering tips and instructions to the girl on her knees. The barmaid was also holding a large rubber dildo, licking and stroking. The other hooker, friend of the one engaged in the blow job, was on the sofa, sat at Mallory’s right elbow.

Doc wished he was somewhere else. He could feel water trickling down inside the collar of his trench coat. His socks were wet, the new shoes just about ruined by now. Bucks down the drain. No more new shoes. I'm sticking with the mis-matched pile. Anyone who didn't like it could take a long drive on a short pier. He would start a new trend: Defective footwear for defective private detectives.

Dom Foceri rose, unzipped his pants, walked over to the sofa at the right end, to the right of the other hooker. Ingenue wasted no time: was on her knees, positioned between the thug’s legs. Private eye was glad the sofa was below the window, just about beyond his view. This was not what he was here for. Doc was no voyeur. He'd never hated porn, per say, but neither did he particularly enjoy watching humans engage in the sex act in person