Death Be Nimble, Death Be Quick

By Walter Stewart

Someone is murdering the members of Hollywoods ber-rich Praetorius family one by one, and Pierce Investigations is on the job to find out who it is. Once again, their crack investigator, Taylor, is called upon to find the killer before he eliminates everyone in his way. Yet the more Taylor digs through the seedy entrails of L.A.s glitterati, the more he comes to see that the case is anything but simple?and as he becomes more and more deeply enmeshed in the labyrinthine history of a notorious Hollywood crime and its tangled secret, he comes to realize that these mysterious murders actually have been a hundred years in the making.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499046168

Walter Stewart

Walter Stewart was a Canadian writer, editor, and veteran journalist. Over the course of his career, Stewart worked for the Toronto Telegram, Star Weekly (published by the Toronto Star,) Maclean’s magazine, and the Toronto Sun, and was a regular guest on the CBC’s As It Happens. A prolific writer, Stewart penned more than twenty works, including Shrug: Trudeau in Power, Towers of Gold, Feet of Clay: The Canadian Banks, The Life and Political Times of Tommy Douglas, and the fictional Right Church, Wrong Pew and Hole in One, featuring reporter-turned-sleuth Carlton Withers. Stewart died of cancer in 2004.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

A greasy fat guy in a too-tight suit with an impossible, skinny, iridescent red tie flung open the front door of the tony Python Club and let the pneumatic blonde in the bright pink outfit pass through to the sidewalk. Instantly, cameras flashed wildly in a blinding blaze of light.

Mindy, over here, one paparazzo blurted out. Over here!

Mindy, in a trashy ensemble that just covered her ass, broke into a sea of teeth as she struck a slightly drunken pose and tried unsuccessfully but valiantly to steady herself on her five-inch heels.

Mindy, here, called out another as the cameras blazed forth to which she struck yet another pose, and another…and even another.

Ma’am, the tubby chubby signaled as a pink Bentley Continental GT pulled to the curb where its fat 21" alloy Michelins crunched the lose asphalt and street debris in front of the club. The door swung open, and Mindy sashayed over and gave a final Marilyn Monroe wave.

Love you! she called out breathlessly with a kiss and a wave as she slid eel-like into the driver’s seat, being careful to expose everything her mama ever saw when she was a babe to which the cameras naturally flashed unmercifully.

Ka-chunk, went the door as it closed, and Mindy Matheson roared off into the dank of the Hollywood night, leaving fans and the crowd of paparazzi alternately screaming and flashing their cameras at the next celebutard in front of the infamous bar.

It was a foggy November night and the streets were slightly slick. Mindy coolly maneuvered down Hollywood Boulevard to La Brea and turned left to Sunset. Then she went right and headed west towards Beverly Hills.

She took out a cigarette and lit up, breathing in the hot smoke, and letting it out luxuriantly. But she furrowed her brow as she felt the weight of the box.

Oh, shit! she spit out. Her eyes searched both sides of the street and spotted what she was looking for near Poinsettia. She pulled up to the curb and quickly jumped out, leaving the motor running so that the exhaust fogged in the cold night air.

It was a dirty place that carried the smell of cloyingly cheap candy and car air fresheners.

You got Slim Extra Lights? she called to the young Latina chick in the red T-shirt and heavily worn Levi’s behind the counter who was munching cashews from a cellophane bag. With the gold filters, she added as an afterthought.

The girl turned automatically and plucked a pack from a phalanx of cartons. Then in a single motion she turned and placed the cigarettes in front of Mindy.

That’ll be… she started to say, but not before Mindy insolently dropped a ten on the counter.

This should take care of it, she interrupted.

The Senorita nodded. Lemme get your change.

Keep it, said Mindy as she started to leave.

Thanks, returned the other and then added, Hey, you don’t remember me, do you?

Mindy stopped, turned, and squinted at the girl, looking hard and then almost with a look of recognition that she instantly dropped. Her mouth firmed up.

No. No, I don’t. She turned to leave. I have to go.

Silvia Morales, the other girl spit out. Remember? Tenth grade at Pali High? You were chunky and obnoxious back then. Remember, I saved your ass in the girl’s bathroom when you insulted those cholos and they were going to cut you?

Mindy’s eyes widened and her eyes dropped. No, I don’t remember anything like that. You have me confused with…

Sylvia smiled lazily. Naw, you remember. I can tell you remember. Look at your face, she went on as she popped another cashew in her mouth and chewed. You know what really always pissed me off? she threw in.

Mindy turned and looked at her blankly.

You never even said thanks, even though the others were right and you were just a miserable, insulting, obnoxious, prejudiced…

That was a long time ago. Really. I’m sorry. I never realized. I…I… She quickly reached into her purse and pulled out a twenty. Here, she said as she dropped it on the counter and hurried out of the joint.

Bigot, muttered Sylvia as she scooped up the twenty and stuffed it into her pocket.

Click, click, click, click went Mindy’s little heels as she crossed the sidewalk to the street and jumped into her car. She threw it into gear and raced off as quickly as she could, leaving the cigarette shop behind like a bad date. She opened the new pack of Slims and lit another coffin nail.

I don’t have to take that shit from some counter girl, she said to herself. I’m Mindy Matheson. I own a house in Beverly Hills. I have a lot of money. I’m on TV. I have the top-rated show in the Nielsens for my time slot. People love me. She smiled to herself. Yeah, that’s right. People love me, and she smiled broadly as she kicked up her speed a little more as she passed Fairfax, then La Cienega, and finally Doheny.

She continued to cruise west down Sunset where the big palazzos stood on either side of the grass median in the center of the street that acted as the demarcation line between the Beverly Hills moderately rich on the south and the Beverly Hills immensely rich on the north. In a moment she passed the Beverly Hills Hotel entrance and then made it to the next light where she turned right.

Mindy lived just off of Benedict Canyon before the split near Laverne Terrace. The fog was heavier now, and as she drove up the road her headlights sliced the miasma like lasers. She rounded a corner, drove up a block, and then punched a button on her dash. The wrought-iron gate groaned as it opened. She waited for about ten seconds and then drove up the driveway and around a planted terrace to the front door. She turned off the motor and just sat in the stillness of the night for a moment.

It was the end of a long hard day. She’d gotten up at four to make it to the studio for makeup, wardrobe, and to prep her lines. People thought that being on a hit TV show was nothing but fun, but what they didn’t know was that it was really nothing but work. She sometimes wondered if it would have been easier to film in front of a live audience where there was more danger of messing up but where the thing was done and finished almost all at the same time. As it was she had to endure take after take with new lighting set-ups every ten seconds—or so it seemed to her.

On the other hand, the set-ups gave her time to rehearse her lines, call her mother, and shoot the breeze with the other cast members and even with her co-workers—especially that new lighting tech, Cameron, whom she talked with the last couple of days. Mindy smiled to herself. He was cute, buff, and a good talker. Sure, he was only a tech, but things could always change. I mean, she thought, in Hollywood you could never tell what was going to happen next.

With that, she grabbed her bag and was just about to get out when she was surprised to find that something had gone over her head and now snapped tightly around her neck. Her head twisted with a jerk.

Instantly Mindy’s hands went to her throat as the band tightened. She couldn’t breathe but flailed and struggled to reach whoever was behind her. Her hands strained so that the veins distended. All for nothing. In a minute her arms dropped and her body went slack as a rubber dummy.

In a flash, a figure in black pushed her to the side and got out the door. Then he grabbed her by the hair, pulled her out the door, and dragged her to the front of the car. He bent down, pulled her by her hair so that her head fit snugly under the front tire, and finally stomped her skull with the sole of his boot so as to wedge her head as tightly as possible between the tire and the cold concrete. Then the assailant quickly ran to the driver’s seat, cranked up the engine, and shoved it in gear. The car pushed forward, and suddenly Mindy’s eyes shot open as the engine revved. She screamed for all she was worth and fought to move her head—but too late.

The Bentley rose in the air a little until there was a sickening crunch like the sound of a ripe coconut being split open.

The figure in black cut the engine, rifled through Mindy’s purse, dropped it, and fled down the drive leaving everything strewn on the concrete where a dark gush of thick red gore began to pool and run in streaks towards the gate.

Knock, knock, knock.

The dingy door opened as a shaft of light broke the dank of the even dingier hallway. A stocky black guy about five-five filled the doorway.

Yeah? he asked huskily, annoyed and with a slight tinge of challenge in his voice as he looked up at his guest who had over half-a-foot on him.

Verdis Cunningham? asked the white guy on the other side of the threshold.

Who wants to know?

I’ve got some news here might mean some money for him.

The black man furrowed his brow skeptically. Oh, yeah? Like what?

The white guy pulled a blue paper from his back pocket. This is about a Mr. Lance Farmington who would like you to contact him at the number on the last page. Here, he said as he held the thing out to him,

But Verdis suddenly shot his arm out and grabbed the guy by the front of his collar. Whaddaya think I am, stupid, White Boy? You tryin’ to serve process on me? I didn’t do nothin’ to that freak. You take your paper and tell Albert Salcido to shove it up his ass. I don’t owe him one goddamn thing.

The White Guy grabbed Verdis’ hand and twisted it so that he let go. You try that again, pal, and I’ll break your arm at the elbow and have you arrested for interfering with a deputy of the court. He shoved him in the chest so that he rocked back.

But Verdis was game and began to raise his fist when a woman’s voice called out from inside.

Verdis? Who is it?

It was as though all the air went out of the man. His arm dropped and his demeanor changed. Just a stupid salesman, Lorraine. It ain’t nothin’.

The two men faced off for a second.

Well, you stop playin’ around and get in here. I worked all day at the office and just spent an hour makin’ your dinner; now it’s gettin’ cold, Lorraine scolded.

The white guy dropped the paper on the ground at his feet with a smirk. You’re served, was all he said and turned and walked down the hall.

Yeah? Verdis called out. I ain’t through with you, sucker.

Taylor smiled to himself and descended the dirty stairs. He strode down the sauerkraut-air hallway to the sound of TV’s playing different channels behind the dozen or so paper-thin doors that led to the front exit where the damp night awaited him outside.

This wasn’t the best part of town. The neighborhood cinderblock walls and the exposed walls of the apartments were painted with graffiti and gang tags. He was already risking it just parking his car on the street. But then again, nobody really cared about an ‘88 Mazda hatchback. After all, it was an ‘88 Mazda hatchback! So they left it alone. If it had been a car of any value at all, it already would have been stripped, chopped, and set on blocks.

He passed the front of the apartment house and walked across an alley when he heard footsteps. His eyes shifted and the hair on the back of his neck went up. Two men, he calculated from the sound. One about five-nine in tennis shoes, and the other man in Oxfords about five-five. They walked in unison. Taylor didn’t speed up or slow down but maintained his pace. Then suddenly the footsteps accelerated into a run. Taylor still didn’t alter his step but took in a breath and let it out slowly as though preparing for his daily Tai Chi ritual. Just as they reached him, he crouched and turned like a spring-action machine. He swept his leg up, hitting the taller guy across the face with his foot. That sent him reeling. Verdis Cunningham gave out a guttural cry and hurled himself at Taylor only to find that he had sidestepped him ghost-like, and all he had was an armful of air. Then Taylor swung around, grabbed Verdis’ right arm and snapped it at the elbow. Verdis screamed as Taylor kicked his knee which bent with a sickening crunch. Verdis went down hard, whimpering in pain.

But the other guy was up again and game. He pulled a nasty-looking knife from his waistband, lunged and swiped at Taylor with the blade three time before he tore the fabric of his shirt.

You miserable son-of-a…! blurted Taylor but stopped himself in mid-curse as he scanned the torn arm of one of his best pin-point button downs.

With that he crouched down with his legs spread and his arms moving targets. The other guy stayed back from him lest he get another heel in the face. Then Taylor feinted back and to the side as the guy came forward with the knife. In five swift expertly executed moves Taylor kicked the stiletto out of the man’s hand in mid jab so that it flew into the air. Then he punched the guy in the solar plexus, chopped him in the Adams apple, grabbed the knife in mid air, and plunged it through the top of the guy’s right hand deep into his thigh.

The guy howled in pain until Taylor kicked him in the jaw and knocked him flat out on his back.

Verdis, you want me to call the cops now? inquired Taylor as he rubbed his arm where Verdis’ buddy had done more than just cut his shirt.

Verdis moaned and shook his head in the negative repeatedly.

Didn’t think so. Now you phone that number on the paper I gave you. Evening, Taylor added and then headed for his parked car as several lights came on in the front windows of the surrounding apartments. He hopped in the driver’s side and cranked it up. But before he took off, he grabbed a handful of leftover fast-food napkins from the passenger seat and wrapped his forearm. Then he took off.

The drive from Compton over to the Long Beach Freeway, up to the Santa Ana, and finally to the Hollywood Freeway took him more than an hour-and-a-half due to the traffic. He reflected on how slow the traffic was and how crowded the freeway. It never used to be this way, but with the influx of people in L.A., there wasn’t any time during the day—and not even after midnight—when the highways and byways were not just chock full of cars so that the roads resembled nothing less than rivers of steel as far as the eye could see. He occasionally winced at the pain in his arm, but he could tell that it wasn’t deep. It was just irritating, like a paper cut.

Taylor finally exited at Gower and drove west to his abode south of Franklin. The fog had rolled into town and all the parked cars were covered in a patina of fine mist. He walked through the iron gate to his stairway and was surprised to see a light in Vi’s window at the foot of the stairs. No one had lived there since she was murdered over a year ago. Well, that wasn’t completely true. A young couple moved in for about two weeks and then hastily moved out claiming that the place was haunted by a ghost. Taylor smirked to himself. Ghosts—please! How absolutely idiotic. In his experience there were just two states in life: the quick and the dead, and once the dead were cold and buried, that was all she wrote!

The light intrigued him as did the mellow music emanating from the apartment. It was anyone’s guess who lived here now, but he made a little bet with himself anyway. After all, what’d he have to lose? Still, after having chased all over the L.A. Basin all day, all that was pretty much beyond him right now. He was fried. He needed to clean up his arm and get some shuteye.

The sun crawled into the apartment building’s second-story window and hit Taylor full in the face. He grabbed a pillow and blocked it, but as soon as he did, the phone went off. He groped blindly for the thing and then pulled the receiver to his ear.

What?

Garbled mumbles from the other side of the line passed for conversation.

Eleven? Already? he said. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ll be in at twelve. Lemme get something to eat.

More garbled talk.

Sure. No problem. Yeah, I know, and the cream cheese.

He tossed the phone to the side and after a moment sat up to greet the new day. What a treat! He went to rub his arm but was careful not to remove the bandage he had applied to Verdis’ buddy’s cut.

Jerk wad! he spat and got himself going.

It was twenty past twelve when Taylor parked his car on the street across from the newspaper stand on Cahuenga. He grabbed the paper bag off the passenger seat and walked to the building. He trudged wearily up the worn stairs to the second floor and passed through the door of Pierce Investigations.

You’re late, bubby, groused Marge as she pecked at her computer and took a drag off her cigarette.

And Cal OSHA will ticket you for smoking in a business office, he shot back.

Yeah? she returned with a smirk. Well screw ‘em and the horse they rode in on. She took an extra big drag off the coffin nail and blew the blue smoke into the middle of the room. Better get your tuchas in there pronto, bubby. He’s in a mood.

Taylor chuckled. Naw, don’t worry. I brought his fix, he said as he wiggled the bag at her."

Okay, okay, she laughed, but come back later if you get a hankerin’.

Taylor gave her a wink and passed into the inner sanctum of Harry Pierce’s realm. Harry sat heavy in an open-collared white shirt with suspenders and with his usual cigar stuck in the right corner of his mouth. He instantly looked up as Taylor strode in.

Schmuck! Give it here, he ordered as Taylor grinned to himself and tossed the bag to him.

That’s seven bucks, cash.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, Harry returned as he reached in his pocket and tossed a handful of crumpled bills on the desk.

Why don’t you use a wallet like everyone else? Taylor asked.

And why don’t you mind your own friggin’ business. You got the guy in South Central? asked Harry as he retrieved a bagel from the bag, split it open, and smeared cream cheese on it with a pen knife as though in a single motion.

Course.

Guy complained to the attorney that you attacked him, y’know?

Strictly self-defense. If he wants to push it, let him.

Harry laughed his raspy horse laugh as he took a big chomp of the bagel. Jesus, that’s good, he said as he savored the flavor.

Great. Then I’ll sign the affidavit and be on my way. And don’t forget, Bernstein screwed around with that guy for three weeks and didn’t get him. You promised me double if I got him the first night, and I did.

Hey, hey, said Harry as he raised his hands defensively. I never welshed on a bet or a promise in my life. Wait…

Instantly he punched the intercom. Marge, make out a check for Taylor for the Cunningham service. Pay him double.

Garbled arguments from the intercom.

I don’t give a damn about the weekly balance, Harry shot back with a deep frown. He earned it. Pay him! he demanded. Then he rocked back in his chair. That do it?" he asked.

Okay. Be seein’ ya, said Taylor as he turned for the door.

Hold on. Hold on.

What?

Got another job for you. From Sid.

Taylor shook his head wearily. Y’know, I just knew there’d be a catch! You never pay off that easily. But forget it, I don’t need another job. With this I’m good for maybe three weeks, he said as he slapped the affidavit in Harry’s hand.

Taylor, just listen for a second. This is special. Right up your alley. Maybe you read about it. A girl got killed.

Killed?

Murdered.

Who?

Jesus, don’t you read the papers, listen to the radio, or watch the news?

I don’t like the news, especially single-digit TV news. It’s too depressing. They always have stories on how some little kid got hurt or killed. I hate it when kids get hurt.

Harry took another bite of his bagel. Yeah, I know, he nodded in agreement. But this girl, she’s a TV star named Mindy Matheson, was murdered in front of her house.

"Oh, that murder!"

Yeah, that one, seconded Harry as he pushed himself back in his chair. "So you do read the news."

Only the internet on my computer. Papers are dead.

You and your new friggin’ computer, Harry said sourly.

You can get a lot of useful information off of the Internet, Taylor said defensively.

Whatever! Harry shot back. Anyway, the family called us and wants to talk.

‘Bout what?

Didn’t say exactly, reported Harry as he stuck his cigar into his mouth. Didn’t want to explain over the phone. But if it’s about the girl and we play ball, they’ll pay us a shitload of money, I can guarantee you. You won’t have to work again for a couple of months. Believe me, these people are loaded.

Taylor raised his eyebrows, walked to the window, and stared out at the street below. It looked like there might be rain. But they can’t want us for the murder. That happened what, three or four days ago? The police have been all over this case and then some by now, he reasoned.

"Jesus, I don’t know what they want, and I don’t care! Harry exclaimed as he spread his fingers out on his desk wide and shook his head. It’s a job that pays. That’s all I gotta know. And…whaddaya wanna bet it’ll be simple."

Simple! Right. Exactly the same words you used to get me on the Zachetti case, Taylor complained as he pushed himself back from the window sill and nodded to himself. Not interested, he said. And I’m outta here, he added as he turned and made for the door.

Man, you don’t forget anything, Harry commented almost to himself as Taylor turned again for the door. Taylor. Come on, he pleaded as he rose a little in his seat. We need the dough.

We? questioned Taylor with a jaundiced look.

Yeah, we, Harry shot back. That includes you. You need to work, dammit; you can’t just keep sittin’ around and…

Not that again, Taylor groused as he stopped in his tracks.

"No, it’s not that again. In particular. It’s just that I hate to remind you, but that six months you took off…"

Not my idea.

Cost us. And I’m not pickin’ on you. Look, I wouldn’t have let you come back if I hadn’t thought you were a hundred percent. I mean, look how nice you cleaned up. Now you dress good and everything. It’s just that when you were gone, business…well, business fell off a lot—more than thirty percent as a matter of fact.

Taylor snorted. I’m not that important, he returned derisively.

Hey, fella, said Harry as he looked him dead in the eye. "To some people, especially to people around here, you are that important. More than you know, schmuck. And don’t forget it. Harry collapsed back in his chair. So, okay. Look, forget I ever asked you. Take your friggin’ money and get the hell out of here. I’ve got work to do."

The room filled with dead air as Harry took the last bite of his bagel with an almost grimly serious look on his face and fiddled with pencils and papers in front of him.

Taylor nodded to himself again and