PRIVATE EYE - Chapter 3

The pool hall was dark, the lights that were overhanging the pool tables casting the only glow in the long, low-ceilinged room. A few other tables were occupied, but it was quiet for the most part. There was a small bar at the front, close to the entrance doors.

Playing at one of the tables was Oliver with what might be considered his right-hand man, Frankie, a studious looking character with glasses and black, slicked-back hair, yet stocky and well built.

Harry and one of his most trusted henchmen named Ray, an overweight mountain of a man with a head of unkempt brown hair entered through the doors and approached the table. Oliver was stooping low, setting up a shot. He glanced up. Harry nodded and gave Oliver a thumbs up.

"Yes, Harry, it's a thumb. Quite useful for picking things up. What do you want?" asked Oliver.

"I took care of it. As of now, there are no witnesses."

"Good," said Oliver. He took his shot. A break shot. Frankie walked around the table to line up his own shot. "Although I distinctly remember telling you to lay low. I mean it, Harry. From here on out you are a hermit."

"What do you mean?" asked Harry.

"The cops are looking for you," said Frankie, piping up for the first time. "Which means you gott'a stay out of sight."

"For how long? What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to run our operations?" asked Harry, annoyed.

"I don't care how you do it, but you're going to have to do it behind closed doors," said Oliver. "Delegate to other people. I don't want you running around all over the place at the moment."

"Great. How about that? I'm grounded."

Frankie took a shot and potted a ball. "The point is, of which you're well aware, if the cops get a hold of you, you're connected to us. And from that point it involves all of us. And then it's a slippery slope. It can unravel everything. And we can't have that."

"Hey, who's talkin' to you, Frankie? I'm talkin' to my dad," said Harry, irritated by this interference.

"Enough, Harry," said Oliver. "He's trying to give you some much needed advice. His remarks are in our best interests."

"He's kissin' ass is what he's doing," replied Harry.

"Go and make yourself useful," continued Oliver. "We've got some Russians arriving this evening. I need you to set up some entertainment for them. I'm expecting to off-load a lot of weaponry to these gentlemen, so make them happy."

Harry, annoyed not only by his current predicament, but also at being treated like a child, turned and started towards the door. "Let's go, Ray."

Harry and Ray walked away in silence and exited the building.

"He's a liability, that boy," said Oliver.

"He's still young. He'll learn," replied Frankie.

"If he keeps it up, he won't be getting any older."

* * *

So, I headed over to the alleyway outside Reno's to see if I could find anything. I wasn't sure what I was looking for at this point. Maybe something the LAPD had missed? I wasn't even sure how much effort the cops had put into the investigation or if they even wanted to dig too deep. They knew they were dealing with a nasty piece of work. Harry Marconi. Some cops didn't like getting involved with mobster investigations. They feared for their families' safety. As for Harry, he had never actually been convicted of a damn thing. There had been allegations, sure. Plenty of them. But that's where it always ended. The legit business cover-up was very good. But of course the cops knew he was bad news. Great police motto, huh? 'To Serve And Run Away.'

I thought I might find some bullet casings, dropped items, trace evidence. Something.

And so, logically, Carlos began his investigation at the murder scene. Although now, obviously, the body had been removed and only torn remnants of the police tape remained. He traced slowly up and down, looking intently at the ground and the walls, scrutinising every crack, every hole, every inch of dirt, and around the bins that rested against the wall of the building.

He walked all the way down to the dead-end of the alleyway, past the side entrance door to Reno's. He saw nothing there except some empty beer bottles, discarded cigarette butts and a syringe covered in dirt. None of them uncommon sights. The usual late night aftermath.

A window opened upstairs on the side of the building above the entrance, looking down on to the alleyway. A man leaned out.

"Hey. You a cop?" he called.

"Who are you?" asked Carlos.

"I'm Reno. I own this joint."

"I'm an investigator."

"This about the guy that got killed down there?"

"You got information?"

Reno hesitated for just a few seconds. "Come on up." He leaned back inside and closed the window.

Carlos entered the building through the side door.

* * *

Reno's Bar was very busy. Almost every table was taken and all the stools at the bar were occupied. The room was loud with the sound of conversation, and music playing through the sound system in the background. Waitresses were hurrying around tending to the tables.

At one of these tables sat Harry, Ray and a third man called Mitch, who could aptly be described as 'rodent-looking.' Not remotely like someone you could trust. His 'no fear' attitude and the fact that he wasn't afraid to speak his mind or question anybody was in complete contrast to his wiry, stick thin and arguably weak-looking stature. All three were dressed in suits, shirt collars open. They appeared to be having an animated discussion.

"If I have to deal with Russians ever again, I swear I'm gonn'a shoot somebody," stated Harry.

"Should we even be in here?" asked Ray. "You know what your father said. He'll go nuts if he finds out you're in a freakin' bar, of all places."

"Hey, I took care of the Russians like he said. This is my own little reward. Damned if he ever acknowledges anything I do. Besides," Harry said, and pointed his finger at Ray and Mitch. "He ain't gonn'a find out."

"I ain't sayin' nothing," said Mitch.

Harry looked suspiciously at his beer glass, at the dirty smudges on the outside and at what was left of the warm flat beer lying at the bottom. "What the hell are they serving in here now, anyway?"

"You just got a weak stomach, Harry. Admit it. You're gettin' soft," said Mitch with a wry smile, in a playful bid to exact a response.

Harry drained the rest of the putrid beer from the glass into his mouth and cringed. He put the glass down on the table and pushed it away from him. "You're gonn'a see just how weak my stomach is when I projectile vomit this ass-water into your face. Next round's bourbon."

At that moment, Carlos entered the bar from the side door and started making his way across the room, through the many people that were not lucky enough to get tables. Harry and his men noticed him and Harry's gaze followed Carlos as he turned behind the bar and made his way through a door.

"Who was that?" said Harry, quietly, almost to himself.

"You want to wait around for him to come out?" asked Mitch.

"Yeah," said Harry. "I think we should."

* * *

Reno's office was small, and he sat behind a cluttered desk, scattered paperwork and an old computer making it look like he did more work than was actually the case. Reno was fifty years old, originally from Spain, with a balding head and sporting an impressive - what could only be described as - beer-belly .

There was a knock at the office door. Reno walked over and opened it and gestured Carlos inside. "Come in, come in."

They briefly shook hands. "I'm Reno Santiago."

"Carlos Vespa."

"Please, sit," said Reno, gesturing to one of the chairs in front of the desk. They took their seats opposite each other.

"So, you're an investigator?" asked Reno.

"I'm a Private Investigator, yeah," replied Carlos. "You mind talking to me?"

"I asked you up, right?"

"You spoken to the cops yet?"

"Nope."

"Why not? Haven't they been around to ask questions?"

"Nope. Not inside the building, anyway. Guess they got better things to do. You know as well as I do how useless they can be in this city. Especially when it comes to the mob."

"I never said anything about the mob."

"Come on. I know who I saw that night."

"The cops should have done something by now. An innocent person was killed."

"How did you get involved in this anyway?" asked Reno.

"That's not a subject for conversation, Reno," Carlos replied.

"Please. I need to know I can trust you."

"Look, you've obviously got something you want to tell me. To get off your chest. We didn't make any exchange of information agreement. Let's just say I was hired by concerned individuals. Leave it at that."

Reno nodded, seemingly satisfied, aware that he wasn't going to get anything more.

"So, what do you know?" asked Carlos.

"I was serving behind the bar that night. It was rammed in there. Much like today. A lot of people," began Reno. "The guy that got killed was at the bar most of the night on his own. He was getting pretty wasted. Harry Marconi and a few of his guys were sitting at a table. He went over to them at one point during the night. It looked like they got into a pretty heated argument. I thought it was gonn'a kick off."

"But it didn't?" asked Carlos.

"No. The guy just walked away in the end. Went to the men's room and came back to the bar, knocked back a few more."

"Okay. So what happened after?"

"Well, at this point there was only about an hour to go until last orders at the bar, so I finished for the night and just let the staff work the bar by themselves," said Reno. "I came upstairs. The adjoining room to this one is my bedroom. I had a stinkin' headache that night so I went in there to lay down. After I thought everybody had left I heard this commotion from the alleyway. The door had swung open and hit the wall. So I rushed in here to look out the window at what the hell's going on. I didn't open it, I just pulled the blinds back a bit. But I could see Harry standing over this guy, with a gun in his hand. The guy was laying flat on his back, so I assume he was dead by the time I saw them."

"So you didn't actually see it happen?" asked Carlos.

"No. I saw what I saw. Next thing, he started shooting up the alleyway at something or someone. The maniac."

"The witness that spotted him as she was walking past," Carlos said to himself. "He tried to kill her on the spot. Why are you telling me all this?"

"Because I want those sons of bitches put away," said Reno, angrily. "They're trouble I don't need, and trouble my bar don't need. I'm sick of them coming in here causing a disturbance, smashing things up. People don't want to live in fear of the mob."

"Have they been in here since that night?"

"Yeah. I can't refuse them entry or anything 'cos that'll let on that I know something. And I don't want to be involved any more than helping you right now. And that's where it stops."

* * *

Carlos walked back through the door, around the bar and across the room. Harry, Ray and Mitch were still seated at their table. And they watched him every second.

"What are you up to, pal?" asked Harry to himself, suspiciously.

Carlos left through the side door. He walked back down the alley and on to the main street. He waited for a break in the traffic and crossed briskly to the other side of the road.

So, I was off the mark. I'd managed to get some information about the night in question. That was something. I felt it was time to wind down. And you know the best way to do that?

Carlos raised his arm in the air, hailing a cab, which pulled up at the kerb next to him and he got in.

* * *

The cab pulled up outside the neon sign-lit Lotus Lounge Exotic Gentleman's Club. Carlos got out of the cab, paid the driver through the open window and made his way inside the club.

I'd only come across this place a couple of weeks ago but had never been inside. I'm not really one for strip joints. Too seedy. This place, I found, was the perfect balance. Like the right amount of ice with your whiskey. The dancers kept some - admittedly miniscule - clothes on, and I found that this was a place I could really clear my head and unwind.

The music was loud, the bass and drum beat thunderous, but the groove was sexy. The lighting was soft, ambient. There was a female exotic dancer doing a routine alone on the stage, snaking herself around the tall, chrome pole in the centre.

There was a large seating area below the stage, with round tables covered with cloths made of red silk. Chrome trim ran the circumference of the stage. There were mostly high-roller, business types seated at the tables, watching the dance, in unbuttoned suits and shirts. Waitresses in their own exotic attire tended the tables.

Carlos approached the small bar that was at the back. There was a girl prepping drinks behind it. She noticed Carlos approach.

"Could you take a seat, sir?" she requested.

"I'm sorry?" asked Carlos, confused.

"It's table service only. If you take a seat a girl will be over to take care of you."

Carlos nodded. "Right."

He walked down into the seating area, found a table and sat down. He began to watch the dance. It was very tasteful, yet sensual. One of the girls approached his table. "Good evening, sir. How are you tonight?"

"Great," replied Carlos.

"Good. My name is Bo and I'll be taking care of you this evening. What can I get for you?"

"I'll take a bourbon sour."

"Thank you. I'll be back directly."

Bo walked away to get the drink. Carlos continued to watch the dance, transfixed by the smooth, graceful movements of the dancer. Taken in by her curves and the way she seductively looked at her audience in the eyes, teasing, confident.

From just outside of his peripheral vision, a black gentleman with short hair, cut close to his head, dressed in a long, black leather coat and trousers and smart, red wine coloured shirt approached and without a word sat down at the table, disrupting the moment. He leaned in, too close. This particular intruder to Carlos' personal space was Antoine Michaels. If you wanted drugs in this part of town, Antoine was the man you went to. If he didn't come to you first.

"Yo, w'sup, man. Ain't seen you in here before," said Antoine, in as hushed tones as is possible over loud music. "Name's Antoine. You need anything? What's your thing, man?"

"I'm good. Thanks. Just enjoying the show," replied Carlos, without even looking at him.

"And what a show it is, dog, they got some fine ass ho's up in here," continued Antoine. "How 'bout a little sum'n sum'n for the cranium? Get you high, dog."

"No thanks," said Carlos, and nodded towards the stage. "I already got my high."

"Look, man," Antoine persisted. "I got the best blow in all of LA, dog. You rack this magic dust up into yo head, you be in space, you feel me?"

"Here comes my drink," said Carlos, and nodded to the approaching Bo, carrying a small silver tray with his drink on. "I'd like to enjoy it alone. Thanks."

Antoine reluctantly stood up. "A'ight, man. But you change your mind, you come find me. I'll be around." He sized up Bo as she got closer, and gave a smirk. "Enjoy your night."

Antoine walked away just as Bo reached the table and put Carlos' drink down in front of him.

"There you go," said Bo. "Bourbon sour."

"Thanks."

Carlos sipped his drink and, once again, continued to watch the dance. This time, in peace.

* * *

In his office, Reno was sitting at his desk going over some accounts paperwork. He was trying to get it done as quickly as possible. He hated this part of the job. The scattered piles of paperwork on top of the desk were slowly beginning to take an organized form. There was a knock at the door.

"Yeah?" called Reno. "Make it quick, I'm busy in here."

The door to the office opened and Harry stepped in, followed by Ray and Mitch.

"Hey, what are you doing?" asked Reno, a slight tremble in his voice as a flash of fear shot through his mind and down into the pit of his stomach. "You're not supposed to be up here."

"Oh, it's ok, Mr Santiago," replied Harry, approaching the desk. "We don't plan on staying very long."

* * *

The dark basement was in an unknown location. Well, unknown to Reno, who was sitting tied to a wooden chair by a rope that went around his chest and arms and then around the back of the chair. He was bleeding from his nose and mouth and was dishevelled, battered, bruised. A single lightbulb hung overhead by a thin grey wire, emanating the only light in the damp, cold, wooden basement. A couple of flies danced around the bulb.

Harry, Ray and Mitch were standing a few feet in front of him, hands cut and sticky with blood.

"You're in a bad way, Mr Santiago," stated Harry. "And I haven't asked you a single question yet. So imagine what will happen to you if you give me an answer I don't like."

"I haven't done anything!" cried Reno. "I don't even know you! This is crazy!"

"If you hadn't done anything to upset me, Mr Santiago, you wouldn't be sitting there bleeding all over the floorboards," said Harry.

"I have no idea what you're talking about! What do you want from me?" The fear, desperation and frustration could be heard in Reno's voice and tears started to form in his eyes.

"The man in the long coat that went up to see you earlier today," continued Harry. "Who is he?"

"A lot of people come see me during the day, it could've been any-"

Harry cut him off. "I suggest you don't go down that road. Tell me."

"Really, I can't-"

Again, Harry interrupted Reno's defence. "Stop." He than pulled a serrated knife out from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. It was blunt and rust could be seen developing on various places on the blade. He turned it back and forth in the light.

"This is what's gonn'a happen," began Harry. "You're going to tell me exactly what I want to know. Otherwise, I'm going to cut off your fingers one by one. And I'm sure you can guess how this situation develops. Next I'm gonn'a start on your toes. And it'll be a slow and painful process because this is a blunt serrated knife, which means I'm going to have to saw. Then, when I've run out of digits on your hands and feet, I can think of one more, that's a lot softer. And you really want to keep hold of that one."