Il Beso Di Morta

by Miles Archer

She paused for a moment after opening my office door. Let me get a full gander of the cashmere sheath dress that packaged her goods. I let my eyes have their fun for a few seconds. My libido thanked me.

"I'm looking for a private detective." Her voice poured out like warm oil from a hot motor. Smooth and steamy, promising heat and frictionless movement.

"You've found one. Have a seat." I put on my professional listener face and ignored the primitive urges tickling the underside of my cortex. I tried not to swallow visibly, although for some reason saliva was building up in my mouth.

"I don't know what to do about this..." She waited for the word she wanted. "...situation."

"Well, why don't you begin at the beginning." I usually want my clients to cut to the chase, but she was a multimedia treat for eyes and ears, so I let her take her time.

She took that kind of deep breath people take when they're about to dive under water. Or tell a long story. In this case, it was the latter. The inspiration caused the dress to expand in places that were already pretty pneumatic anyway. My pulse pounded in my temples.

"My name is Monica Grant." She said it like she'd had a lot of practice introducing herself.

I stood, like Mom taught me, accepted the fingers she offered and did my best to create an affable smile. I don't get a lot of practice being affable in this line of work. She continued. I'll summarize:

Seems hubby was in the investment business, ran a company that advised union pension funds where to put their dough. All those nickels and dimes coming out of the workers checks, clink clink clink. Seems they add up to a pretty nice chunk of change and plenty of people would like to have some of it.

I have an economic theory. Didn't need to read a book for this one: I figured it out all by myself. When you've got control of a lot of money, people will want to be your friend. Her story supported that theory.

"This person, this Dominic Abbruzio, thinks he's a business partner of Don's." Don is hubby. I hadn't heard about him, but the name Dominic Abbruzio flashed like a Hamms Beer sign.

"Thinks he's a partner or is a partner, Mrs. Grant?" I wasn't disappointed that she was married. Monica Grant is not the kind of woman that goes out with private detectives. She wouldn't like bourbon and I couldn't see her eating greasy burgers at the corner cafe.

"Well, that's just my point. I can tell that Don is unhappy about this..." she liked to fish for words, "...situation, but he won't talk about it." She snapped open a cigarette case. It glinted yellow in the pale fluorescent light. She held it out to me. I didn't really want one of her cigarettes, but I took the case from her just to feel its weight. Yeah, it was gold all right. I took one of the black cigarettes. Gold lettering on it: "Monica.". I knew they made personalized cigarettes, but I admit it was a first for me. It was a Dunhill, but it tasted like any other cigarette. She snapped a gold lighter and leaned over the wooden barrier of the desk to light me. The angle offered me a view and I wasn't so much of a gentlemen as not to look. She wasn't so much of a lady that she seemed to mind.

"So your husband has a business partner that you don't like. And your husband ain't too crazy about him either. I can understand why."

"You can?" She seemed surprised that I understood her problem without her finishing the story.

"Sure. Mr. Abbruzio is one of many our fine Italian-American citizens. And, to coin a phrase, some of my best freinds are Italian. He's a successful businessman. Well diversified in his interests. Booze, slots, broads, unions...he's a truly catholic in his interests."

"Oh, Mr. McCool, you're very clever. That was quite good, really." My ego purred. I know it's wrong to let her looks affect me, but I couldn't do anything about it. Okay, I'm a sucker for beautiful women with lots of money. Somehow I don't think that's unusual.

"So, if I were to guess, I'd say that there's something up with the union pension fund."

"That's what I don't know. And I'm worried about Don."

"Well, you should be. Working with Razor can be hazardous to your health."

"Razor?"

"Dominic's nickname. The Razor. Old-fashioned guy, used to carry a straight razor when he was a kid. In fact, he lost the first knuckle of his index finger with the thing."

"Oh, I always wondered about that. It's not the kind of question you can ask, though, is it?"

"I wouldn't ask Razor about it. Seems he accidentally cut it off and the guys teased him about it for years. Then one day a guy who'd been ridin' him turned up dead. With his, uh, how can I put this delicately? With a certain appendage stuffed in his mouth. Nobody teased Razor about it again. But the name stuck."

She didn't give me an "oh goodness" look, like I was expecting. That story isn't usually one that I would tell in polite society, but I thought it indicated a lot about Mr. Abruzio's temperment.

"So you think Don is in a lot of trouble? I mean, that this Abbruzio fellow is dangerous?"

"As long as your husband does what's expected of him, I'm sure he's fine. But there's no two weeks notice in the Mob. You don't quit 'cause you get a better offer. There's only two ways out: you can get old enough to retire or you can die. Even retired, you're not out, you're just not as busy. Hell, why do you think those guys that run the families are so old? They're scared shitless to retire. Figure once they don't control the power someone will whack 'em just to get them out of the way. It's a tough line of work, Mrs. Grant."

"Please call me Monica."

"Monica. It's still a tough nut. Mr. Grant is between a rock and hard place."

"Can you help us? Please Mr. McCool?" I liked it when she said "please."

"I assume you realize that this is going to cost." I may have liked her looks, but I can't pay the rent with it.

She unfastened the clasp of her purse. She had kept it on her lap, like it somehow wasn't safe on my floor. She may have been right. If Barbara hadn't been at lunch then, she would have picked her clean. Secretaries who haven't been paid in a month get like that.

She opened the tooled leather checkbook and raised her pen. Her green eyes skewered my soft brown ones. "Five hundred is the customary retainer, Mrs., uh, Monica." Damn, I hate it when I stutter.

Her pen glided across the check and she pulled it free. I didn't reach for it so she had to let it fall onto the blotter. I watched it float to the surface. For a second I thought it was going to wind up on the floor and then I would have had to chase after it, but I trapped it against the tan cardboard as gently as possible. Don't like to appear greedy.

"What can you do?"

"Well, the first thing I can do is see just what the deal is with your husband and Dominic."

"Oh, you musn't let Don know. He'd simply die if he thought I'd told anyone about this."

"Well, you're right. He'd die all right, although I don't know how simple Razor would make it. I plan to be very discreet, Mrs., uh, Monica." Again, Dammit! She graciously overlooked my inability to use her first name. Then I realized I hadn't invited her to use my given name. Geez, could I get any more stupid?

"Do you think you'll be able to help? I love Don. I wouldn't want to have anything," pause, "happen."

"In that case, why don't you take your check back and just forget about it. I wouldn't want to be responsible for your husband getting," I paused, "hurt." I was going to say "killed," but decided there was no point in being dramatic. Or accurate.

Barbara breezed in just as Gorgeous was leaving. She caught me holding that manicured hand and I may have inclined slightly from the waist, unconsciously. As soon as the door banged shut, she gave me a look.

"And what was that?" She had a way of looking at me that spoke volumes. I didn't need to hear it again.

"That, my dear, was the rent. And dinner. And even a couple of cocktails." I waved the check like a battle pennant. Or white flag.

Barbara's ruby-tipped fingers snatched my prize out of thin air. She studied the amount then blessed me with a smile. "Let's get this in the Goddam bank right away. Then you can buy me a double!"

I filled her in over spaghetti and garlic bread at the US Restaurant on Columbus and Broadway. They've got a way of steaming zucchini that seems like magic. The squash is al dente but suffused with garlic and oregano. The marinara sauce is the color of day old blood, still has the taste of chianti hidden behind it and chunks of mushroom, shrimp and clams that dance in your mouth. We sucked it up and washed it down with a bottle of the house red. Best Damn Dago red in the City.

"What are you gonna do for them? Can you really help him with Razor?"

"Shhh! Geez, don't use that name in here." Just then the Broadway side door opened and a young man entered. He gave the place a careful look, then stood to one side. The man behind him was older, probably forty , maybe forty five, but his hair was still dark and his figure trim. He walked into the crowded little place like he owned it. At a table against the wall another man stood and raised his hand, not a wave, not a salute, but a little of both.

When the new fellow arrived at the table I was startled to see the greeter bow his head quickly and take the proffered hand to his lips. It was so fast it was over almost before I realized what he'd done.  You don't see that kind of thing too often anymore, even here in North Beach.

North Beach is the Italian neighborhood of San Francisco. It's so Italian, they got a bar there that has opera on the juke box. That's right, E24 will get you Pavarotti, not Elvis. Even so, you didn't see too many guys who got the old respect.

The young bodyguard took his patron's coat and hung it up, then slid into the outside chair, where his right hand could be free. They wore nicely cut black suits with deep lapels and white-on-white shirts, with French cuffs held together with cuff links big enough to choke a large dog.

I murmured to Barbara. "Ixnay on the afiamay stuff." She looked at me for a second but worked it out.

The three wise guys ate their dinner. There wasn't anything interesting about that, they just ate their veal parmigiana or osso buco like good little boys and drank bottled chianti instead of the house stuff that comes in a carafe. I only mention it because the old-fashioned salutation caught my eye.

Monica Grant had agreed to let me into her husband's home office after he left in the morning. A short, round, middle-aged Latin woman in a maid's uniform opened the door, her face as carefully blank as the Sphinx. I introduced myself and gave her the hundred watt smile. Her smile flashed and those obsidian eyes warmed up.

"Ms. Gran' 'specteen ju." She stepped back from the door. "Ms. Gran' din' say wha' a beeg man you were." She eyed me up and down in a frankly appraising way. I felt my face get warm. Her laugh chortled up out of her belly and caused her bosom to quake. "Don' be shy! I tell her ju here. Hov a seat in dere." She pointed to a room off the entry hall big enough for a decent game of basketball. At least, big enough the way they used to play the game. Leaded glass windows with that Old-World crosshatch pattern revealed a million dollar view of the City from the Tiburon peninsula. The maid clumped down the hall, muttering something in Spanish about "...un hombre muy macho."

A fire burned in the round hearth occuping one corner. The firebox could have held a calf. I wasn't used to seeing a fire going in daylight, although the damp weather called for one.

Across from the fireplace loomed a mahogany bar, black with age; beveled glass mirrors doubling the shelves that held cut crystal glasses and rows of bottles. I pulled up a stool and hoped that Mrs. Grant would take the hint.

I was studying a solid chuck of polished green alabaster with a bowl carved in it for butts. The outside was jagged uncut stone. It was heavy. I was thinking what a great murder weapon it would make when she spoke, startling me. Thank God I didn't drop the thing on the polished wood.

"Mr. McCool! I'm so glad you came." You'd have thought I was stopping by for tea.

"Uh, I suppose you should go ahead and call me Doug." I wanted to make up for my lapse the previous day.

"Of course. Now, can I get you something, Doug, or do you want to get right to work?" 

"Well, how about if I do what I've come to do and then maybe we can have a drink. Your husband's gone for the day?"

"Oh yes. He won't be home until late. But I do have a Junior League luncheon, so..."

"Of course. I won't be long."

"If you would follow me." She turned into the hall. Hell yes, I'll follow you to the ends of the Earth. At least she didn't say "Walk this way" or I would have had to glide across the floor like a runway model.

We trekked down the marble hall. I took in the wide staircase, the paintings, the statue on a pedestal by the fountain. I'm not much on art, but I was pretty sure I'd seen that figure somewhere once. Maybe in a book. Then she opened a raised panel door.

"My husband's office. That Abbruzio man meets with him here when he comes over." She said the mobster's name like it left a bad taste in her mouth.

"Thank you. I can manage on my own. Would you like to meet me somewhere when I'm done?" I was trying to think of a nice way to say "Scram lady."

"Of course. Just ring the bell here and Hermosia will show you where to find me." She started to go. "By the way, you seem to have turned Herme's head. Whatever did you say to her?"

"Nothing. Just being polite." That's me, friend of the workingman. Or woman. A regular Karl Marx. She closed the solid door behind me.

What I had to do would only take a couple of minutes, but there's no point in letting clients know how easy it is to bug a room. I put one bug in a lamp, on the top of the finial where it wouldn't be conspicuous and then unscrewed the mouthpiece of the phone and popped in my other little friend. Unless he swept the place he'd never know they were there. I doubted Razor would worry about bugs. He might have worried about his own telephone, but he probably didn't think the FBI would bug this room. Of course, I wasn't working with the restrictions of warrants and the Constitution. But then, that's why people hire me.

"Okay, sexy. This is test. Can you read me?"

The pager on my belt vibrated after a minute, telling me that Barbara had heard my voice. She was in the van parked in the driveway. And not very happy about it, but someone has to be on the other end to check the equipment.

I cased the office for a few minutes but the desk drawers were locked and they were good enough that I would have had to make marks on them to get them open. The file cabinet was also locked. Nothing like a thorough man to make a private I's life hell.

I buzzed for Hermosia. She appeared magically and led me back to the front room where Monica waited.

"Well, that didn't take long. It's a little early, but would you like a drink?"

"Sure." I returned to my perch on the stool while she walked around the back of the bar. "Got any Scotch?"

"Would some single malt do?"

"Of course."

"Up or over?"

"Over."

She poured a generous splash into a heavy highball glass filled with ice.  While her back was turned I reached into my pocket and pressed another bug onto the underside of the bar, back in the joint where the counter met the front panel. That blue sticky stuff 3M makes held it in place. The miracle of modern science.

"Here you go." She had thrown together a quick vodka gimlet for herself. Up, not over.

"Confusion to the enemy." We touched glasses. She held my gaze with her own. I tried not to stare at her eyes, her lips, that stray lock of blonde curl that touched her jaw. The lobes of her ears were decked out with diamond studs the size of quarter-fine gravel. I realized that it's baubles like that women like her expect.

"I hope you can help us, Doug." I was surprised to hear the way my name sounded on her lips. She said it as though she had called me "Doug" forever.

"Let me see what Abbruzio's up to. Then we can figure out where to go from there." The cold single malt slid down my throat, finer lubricant than this old engine was used to. But I could develop a taste for it.

She settled on the stool next to me and placed one hand on my thigh. High enough to get my attention. "I so thankful you're here to help me." She exhaled lime. I inhaled deeply. Her other hand came up to my face and guided me into her lips. I tasted the gimlet and the flavor of lipstick. Her lips moved around like she was eating a peach. Her tongue was cold. I was running out of air when she released me. We made arrangements on how I would contact her.

Barbara gave me a look when I got in the van. Of course she had been monitoring our client and I as soon as the bug activated

"You and Mrs. Gotrocks certainly seemed to get along just fine."

I gave her an innocent "who me" look. I was going to add a verbal denial, but decided that would be protesting too much.

We set up the receiving gear in a fake fire hydrant and left it on the curb. You know, fire hydrants are something people never pay attention to. If one appears on the street no one bothers to think about it. Ours was a real hydrant (don't ask how we got it) with a waterproof box inside. The damn thing weighs a ton and I thought I'd bust a gut getting it out of the van and onto the curb. The cool thing is we could access the tapes from the top, so at least I wouldn't have to hoist the bloody thing up and down a lot.

Back at the office Barbara ran a credit check on Grant and Abbruzio. You'd be surprised at how much you can find out about someone with a credit check. Hey, even Mafia Dons use credit cards and checking accounts these days. I mean, it looks pretty strange to pay the electric bill with a wad of C notes, know what I mean? We also obtained their driving records.

The Grant's report, for example, showed that they were stretched pretty thin and were late payers. But most of their recent bills were on time and they looked like they were catching up. I assumed this indicated a recent upsurge in their cash flow.

Hubby's DMV record was clean, but Ms. Monica had two moving violations this year and was pretty regular with them in the past as well. Drove a Jag. I could have lived on what she had to pay for insurance each year. I noticed that she had gotten quite a few of them on 101, heading up to Marin from the City. Running late from a visit in San Francisco?

Abbruzio's credit check was revealing in the sense that it gave us the name of his "employer" and from that we could run a Dun and Bradstreet on the company. Everything seemed perfectly fine, his personal and corporate credit was great. But we did find a chain of interlocking companies. I can tell you that when you start finding that a fellow's company is owned or connected to another company, and that company to another company, and so on, what you've got starts to smell pretty bad. The old shell game, in other words. All the companies had innocuous names containing the word "credit" or "financial" in them.

My next goal was to bug Grant's office, but that was going to be a little trickier. I decided to use the telephone repairman gag. Only once in five years has someone actually wanted to see my ID, and the laminated card with my picture on it worked fine. I don't stick around very long and no one is the wiser.

I put one bug in his handset and another over by a little conference area at one end of his office. I didn't stop to admire the ultramodern blonde wood desk (I guess this guy had a thing for blondes of all types) and although tempted to give his filing cabinets a try I needed more time than the phone man gag would afford me. I try not to use B & E tactics unless absolutely necessary. "Don't do the crime if you can't do the time."

I put our recorder into the crawl space in the hallway outside his door. Nobody pays attention to a guy in khakis on a ladder either. I wish I could put guys in the basement or have the really good gear that the FBI uses, but my clients don't have that kind of budget.

Now that I had the bugs in place all I had to do was service the tapes every couple of days. Listening to the tapes is tedious as hell and Barbara helped out. Between the two of us we could keep up with the job, but it involved a full day every week  listening to calls to the dry cleaners, chit chats in the living room and detailed conversations about investing from Mr. G. Nothing interesting and no calls from Abbruzio to Grant.

Once a week Monica and I got together for a report and another check. We would meet at the Hoffman Grill and take a booth in the back. The joint is busy and noisy enough that we could have nice chat without worrying about anyone overhearing.

I had told her what we had learned about Abbruzio. I did not tell her what we had learned about them. I don't like to let my clients know that anytime they hire me, I investigate them as well. Can't be too careful in this line of work.

Week four we finally got something interesting. Abbruzio called Grant, returning Grant's earlier call:

"Don. What's up?" Abbruzio had a raspy voice, no trace of accent. After all, he'd been born in California, not Sicily. He didn't sound tough, like a New York hood with a Brooklyn accent, just like a successful businessman without a lot of time. Age had roughened it up a bit and he coughed a lot.

"Dom. Look, we need to get together and talk about Capital Consultants."

"What's the matter?"

"Well, with interest rates going up we're losing a lot of money these days."

"How much?"

"I'm not sure, it changes weekly, but at this rate-three million a month."

Abbruzio was silent for a moment.

"You can't fix it?"

"Dom, I need you authorize Western Financial to start making payments on that loan."

"That ain't gonna happen, my friend." It was a statement of fact.

"But Dom, you don't understand. If this keeps up my investors are going to take a bath."

"Well, you win some, you lose some. You know how it is."

"I wouldn't want someone to go over the accounts too carefully."

"Hey, that ain't gonna happen, Don. Relax. Things will pick up again. Look, you get together with Al and the two of you see if you can't work out some interest-only payments for a few months. You know, take the heat off. You just need to ride this thing out."

I turned off the recorder. Barbara looked at me and I her.

"Sounds like someone's nuts are gonna get squeezed." She has a delicate way of expressing herself.

"Yes dear. I'd say that there's trouble on the horizon for the good ship Grant."

"What ya gonna do for Monica baby?"

"I don't know. I think the only thing that's gonna keep old Don out of the pokey is a run to the Feds. If he agrees to set up the Razor and give them the whole enchilada they might keep his ass out of jail. Do the whole WPP thing for him and that tasty squeeze of his."

"She doesn't look like the kind of gal that wants to live in Scottsdale under the name 'Smith'."

"Well, if they don't do that she'll be the Widow Grant."

There was one other conversation that held our interest. Well, actually it wasn't a conversation, exactly. The bug under the bar picked up the blonde bombshell and another guy talking. It was just chit chat, nothing very significant. But then there were faint noises on the tape that sounded like...well, the sounds people make when they're doing something more physical than talking. Barbara ran her tongue over her lips and smiled. When the man gave a shout toward the end of the tape, she laughed. "I always wondered what a blow job sounds like."

I said nothing, but my imagination was talking a mile a minute.

I called Monica and we arranged to meet. She insisted that she attend her Save the Whales luncheon first, so we agreed to meet in the Top o' the Mark bar around three.

I was already on my second bourbon and branch when she walked in. Every pair of eyes followed her progress. The women looked envious; the men, well it's just that mid-brain thing Nature gave us that says: "Nail that one!"

She wore a green silk dress that clung to her like cobwebs. Her ass looked like two cats fighting in a sack. Judging by the distinct outline of her nipples I judged her not to be wearing a bra. She had a chunk of apple green jade dangling between those breasts that must have weighed six ounces, suspended from a thick gold chain, the kind the Chinese use to carry their wealth out of the country. The emerald on her finger matched her eyes. My radar went up along with something else.

She ordered a Grasshopper. Must have been on a green kick. I started on bourbon number three.

"What have you got to tell me?" She had a way of looking into a man's eyes so that you felt like she was hanging on every word.

"We have some tapes that would arouse the interest of the US Attorney's office and the SEC. The question is: do you want to see hubby go to jail or rat out Razor to the Feds? That's about the only choice he's gonna have."

I saw a flicker of something in those cool eyes.

"What should Don do?"

"I'm not really in a position to advise a man I've never met, Mrs. Grant. Don't you think the three of us ought to get together?"

She rejected that idea. "Don would be furious if he knew I were meddling in his affairs." I thought she was trying to save his ass, myself, but she lived with him, I didn't. "Could you turn your information over to the authorities? Without involving Don?"

I shook my head to emphasize the ludicrous innocence of her idea. "I don't think I can call the USA's office and tell them I have tapes but I'm not going to identify who's on them. This is a black and white deal, Monica. You've got to choose."

"I want to save Don from himself and those repulsive people. Please contact the authorities. They can protect him, can't they?"

"Yeah, they can try. But things are going to be hot for you and Mr. Grant."

"Yeah," she almost smiled. "They probably will be."

"And there isn't a damn thing I can do for you once they get involved."

"Oh, you've been a guardian angel, Doug. How much do I owe you?" She wrote me a check with a large number of zeros.

I thought things over for a day or two and then called the United States Attorney's office in San Francisco. The nice young AUSA listened to the tapes and my story. He rubbed his palms together in a most unappetizing gesture. I guess he smelled a promotion. I left our files there and went back to trying to find ways to pay the rent Barbara walked in late and tossed the Chronicle and a bag of Danish on my desk. I went for the Danish first.

"You might want to look at the front page, piggy." I love it when she insults me first thing in the morning. It sort of frames up the whole day for me.

With this warm invitation I opened the paper, leaving the Danish gently clamped between my teeth. The headline made me open my mouth and thus the Danish fell onto the newsprint, sticky side down of course.

"SF Financier Killed in Car Bomb Blast". He got four columns on the left hand side, not bad for a non-international story. Seems Don Grant, late of Capital Consultants, went out to start his Mercedes the previous evening and took a trip to a place he'd never been before.

I saw the grieving widow on the tube that evening, while I sucked down soft fried noodles and char shiu bao, chased them with Tsing Tao beer. She looked fine in black.

A couple of weeks later the Feds indicted Razor Abbruzio for racketeering, stock fraud, extortion and murder. He looked a little stunned when the cameras caught him entering the court house.

Six months later he was sentenced to twenty five to life.

A couple months after that Barbara and I were dining at the Poodle Dog, courtesy of a client who didn't know any better and thought that PI's deserved the same kind of class treatment as his business pals.

I saw the young hood from nearly six months ago come in the front door and do his looking-around-for-guys-with-guns bit and then stand aside so that a fantastic blonde could enter. The former Mrs. Grant moved into the room and then stood there. The dim lights grew dimmer in the presence of her radiance.

Behind her came the other guy. The guy I'd seen getting his hand kissed like he was the Pope.

All of sudden I felt a bad feeling. I nudged Barbara's foot and nodded in their direction.

"Oh yeah." She smiled at me. "What? You thought she was looking out for hubby?"

Our client looked at us as though we'd left him behind, because of course, we had. "You mean she used me to set him up?"

"Sometimes you get screwed without the kiss."

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