Heaven, INC: Chapter 13: EVERYBODY HATES MIJ

Do you remember the bills you have to pay?
Or even yesterday?
Have you been an un-American?
—Young American,
DAVID BOWIE

RED CIRCUS NIGHTCLUB,
OCEAN BEACH
8:59 AM PDT

JIMMY PARKED around the corner and walked to the Red Circus with Owen tagging along on account of 75 bucks Tory owed him. Out front of the bar were parked a half-dozen police-cruisers along with a big Chrysler bearing the license-plate TOP CAT Jimmy recognized as Neil Finnerty’s.

“Hey, let’s go round back, see if Tory’s smoking.”


TORY WAS INDEED out back and perched on a milk crate, smoking a cigarette as Owen came through the back gate.

Tory saying with perfect aplomb, “What’s up, dude? I was gonna call you to say I’ll give you your money after tonight’s show. If there is a show tonight.”

For Owen, it was a growl. “What about the money from last night’s show?”

“You know, dude, bills, lotta bills.” Seeing Jimmy, Tory’s eyes widened. “Oh, hey, Jimmy, how you doing, bro?” He turned to Owen. “Know what? Think I got thirty bucks in my pocket.” Fishing around, he pulled out a pair of rumpled twenties. “Whoa, look at that. I woulda had all of it if Mij hadn’t gotten killed— you heard about that, right?” Dragging on his cigarette, Tory concluded, “Mij wasn’t around to pay so the band got pissed and poured beer on the sound-board and now everything’s shorted out. Which is why I’m here at the crack of dawn seeing what the fuck I gotta buy to get it working. And I may be out a job with Mij dead. Talk about bullshit with your morning coffee.”

Jimmy said, “You see Mij yesterday?”

Tory nodded reflectively. “He came in and sat at the end of the bar reading his paper and drinking his scotch like he always does, bitching to Kelly Jaye she was screwing up the ice in his drink.” He shrugged. “I told her I’d be like, what the fuck, Mij, it’s scotch, not a mai tai. Lotta ice, a little, either way it tastes like ass. The guy who came in to see Mij drank Jamesons and didn’t complain one bit. The other guy had a Heineken and tried flirting with Kelly Jaye. He was European, but he wouldn’t tell her what country unless she went on a date. She told him she has a fiancé, so he never told her where.”

Owen asked, “Kelly Jaye has a fiancé?”

“Nah, she’s still single, she’s just not gonna let some douchebag in a pork-pie hat know.”

“What about the other guy, Jamesons?”

Tory shrugged, taking a last drag on his cigarette before flicking it over the fence. “Some big dude in a suit. Sat in the booth talking to Mij in a low voice, but you could tell he was tearing Mij a new one.” Tory pulled out his cigarettes. “Dark hair, no tie and one of those gold horns hanging from around his neck like the guidos wear. And he had these heavy eyebrows, like a caveman.”

“How old?”

“45, 50. Sergeant Finnerty wants Kelly Jaye and me to go downtown and see if we can pick em out of a book.”

“Good.” Jimmy considered this a moment. “So, what’d Mij do after these guys left?”

“He seemed nervous, actually. Or it coulda been the coke. He had a couple more drinks and bailed, saying he’d come back to pay the band.” Tory lighted his cigarette, suddenly noticing their shirts and the ChemSteem logo embroidered on the breast. “Hey, I’ve got an idea—why don’t you guys go over and clean my carpet?”

“No way. We are not going to IB.”

“Owen, your money’s stashed back at my pad. All you gotta do—”

The Red Circus’ back door suddenly banged open and out strode none other than Detective Sergeant Neil Finnerty, an Alaskan idiot resplendent in brown leisure-suit and cowboy boots. And giant belt buckle in the shape of a Dallas Cowboys helmet.

Neil adopted a surprised expression. “Holeee shit. Jimmy Francisco, fresh outta stir.” Neil’s gaze sharpened. “See you found your true calling . . . carpet boy at ChemSteem Superior Carpet Cleaning and Upholstery Specialists. ” Neil laughed, like it was all a big ol’ hoot. “Hey, carpet boy: how about you do my car interior, I give you ten bucks?” The country fuck grinning around his toothpick and hardy har-harring like it was funniest thing in the world. “Fact, you get all the oil Buttkowski’s tracked in my car, I might even tip. How’s that, convict?”

“How about I clean your wig instead? You’re getting a little greasy around the temples.”
Neil Finnerty’s smile flattened. “We’ll see how funny you are back in stir after I nail your ass for witness tampering.”

Jimmy shrugged. “I’m talking to a friend.”

“Francisco, all your friends are all in jail.” Neil’s breath reeked of cheap cigarettes and 7-Eleven coffee. “Didn’t prison teach you about poking your nose into places it doesn’t belong?” Neil cocked his head. “You know what? I think you don’t know this guy from Adam, you’re just back here poking around again, asking questions don’t pertain to you in a murder investigation you got no business getting involved in. And that’d be a problem, since a paroled felon accused of witness tampering could find himself back inside.”

It was at that moment Tory made his move.

“Mister detective, dude, sir, we were talking about my carpet.”

“Your carpet.”

“Yes, sir. About Jimmy cleaning it for 20 bucks. Right Jimmy?”

Jimmy nodded. Realizing Tory was pulling another of his vintage cheapy operations.

“The whole apartment, right, Jimmy? A deuce.”

Jimmy nodded. Tory might succeed in getting Neil off his back, but it would cost.

Neil eyeballed Jimmy’s ChemSteem attire, the too-big ChemSteem shirt, the shorts and tennies.

“And here I thought doing my car for 10 bucks was an insult when you’re already an insult to yourself. How old are you, Francisco?”

“41.”

“Jesus. A 41-year old man cleaning carpet and living in some deadbeat trailer-park, I hear? For what, so you can play in some bullshit band?” Neil stood there, shaking his head. “What are you, 15 fucking years old? Grow up, Francisco, you were a cop once, remember?”

Jimmy glanced down at his battered tennies, the starting-to-fray shorts and the too big ChemSteem shirt and couldn’t entirely disagree, but what was the point anyway?

It’s Neil you’re talking to.

The only upside to this rotten enchilada was Neil’s contentment with humiliation over interrogation. “You know, Francisco, the fact of seeing a man once carried a shield reduced to a ratty, low-budget carpet-cleaner sickens me, it really does.” Neil took a long, dramatic moment to suck at nicotine-stained teeth before concluding, “Tell ya what I’m gonna do . . . On account of pity at seeing a cop reduced to a pathetic, bottom-feeding low-life—”

Neil was flat out loving this part, dishing the shit out and Jimmy offering nothing in return, but what the fuck, Neil had a badge and he’d have his say. Besides, it was Neil.

“— I’m gonna overlook this situation so you can get back to your carpet cleaning while we do the investigating. Like when one of those lords let a peasant off for hunting his land.”

Before Jimmy could respond and probably end pursuit of the evidence chain via whoever had visited Mij, Tory was holding out his keys. Closing the deal.”

“Silver house-key, dude, 20 bucks is under the fish tank. And don’t let the dogs out.”