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a Greek lunch. I will kill you if you pretend to like it.
—JACQUELINE KENNEDY ONASSIS
1561 PACIFIC AVENUE,
CORONADO
10:16 A.M. PDT
DARK, SUSPICIOUS EYES studied Jimmy through a flap in the door. “Who?”
“Jimmy Francisco. Just tell Beev I’m here.”
The eyes flicked to Jimmy’s shirt. “Carpet cleaner? We don’t need no carpets cleaned.”
“Hey, bud, just tell Bivo that Jimmy Francisco needs to talk.”
From inside the house, Jimmy heard the guy mangle his name and someone respond in Greek. The dark suspicious eyes returned. “You wait.” The flap snapped shut.
A minute passed. Then the sound of tumbling locks and a different Greek dude’s face appeared through the cracked door; big guy with sharp blue eyes and a gold horn swinging from his neck as he shot glances at the street and their feet. A look of distaste crossed his face as he ordered them to remove their shoes before admonishing, “Touch nothing.”
Jimmy’d been here a couple times, so it didn’t phase him, except for the overwhelming smell of dark tobacco and Aqua Velva. Two toughies sat at a coffee table playing dominoes, one guy in a black pork-pie hat; when Owen said, “Cool hat, dude,” he got only stony silence in return.
The big Greek led them to the pool, one of those Olympic deals surrounded by bushes carved into topiary that always made Jimmy think of Disneyland— if, instead of Dumbo and Mickey bushes, Walt had preferred women with leafy, oversized breasts.
Bivo sat at an umbrella table reading a newspaper, in sandals, a robe and tinted designer glasses. Without taking his eyes from the paper, he added a lump of sugar to a little espresso cup. Only when the big Greek cleared his throat did Bivo look up.
“Ah, Jimmy, my old friend, is been far too long. Please sit. Spiro? Bring Jimmy and his friend some coffee. The Greek, yes?”
When Spiro set a dish of green leafy things before them and poured coffee from a silver pot into little cups like Bivo’s, Bivo cheerfully explained, “One Greek is equal to five American.” He smiled. “Cups of coffee, of course.” Bivo sipped his coffee and nodded approvingly. “Jimmy, is most fortuitous that you are visiting. Most fortuitous indeed.”
“Yeah? And why’s that, Beev?”
“Because now you can help me choose song for tonight’s American PopStar western sub-regional finals— Heartbreak Hotel? Or Living La Vida Loca?” Before Jimmy could answer, Bivo turned to Owen. “Did you know Ricky Martin was in Menudo when he was a boy? And then such a long and distinguished career.” He grew serious. “Someday, Bivo Papacostas will be even bigger.” Smiling again, he said, “Jimmy here is good singer. Little nasal—” holding his fingers a quarter-inch apart “— but still quite nice. Right, Jimmy?”
Jimmy watched Spiro watch them from over by a leafy-titted woman and said nothing.
Bivo said to Owen— Owen’s expression was the flat one he wore when humoring someone trying to explain the musical merits of New Kids on the Block— Bivo said , “Once Jimmy and I did a duet of Unchained Melody? A standing ovation. Remember Jimmy?”
“It was six drunks and two sarcastic cops.”
“So? You think they do not know talent when they hear it?” Bivo sipped his coffee. “Jimmy, my friend, you have not even touched your coffee.”
Jimmy obliged and immediately decided the coffee tasted like the Daytona 500 in August. Adding sugar cubes, he said, “Z’ere cyanide in here?”
“No, Jimmy. Strychnine. We just run out of cyanide.” Bivo smiled at Owen. “Jimmy always my favorite detective— the others so unpolished, they track mud onto my beautiful carpets, refuse my food. And DEA? No manners at all.” Bivo refilled his cup from the silver pot. “So you here to clean my rugs, Jimmy?”
“I’m here,” Jimmy said, “about Mij Poopikov— owns Red Circus, over in OB?”
“I know the place. Karaoke Metal Shop on Mondays. Excellent sound. Decent book. I do the Motley Crüe and Scorpions— but I don’t think I know this Mij Poopikov person.”
“Cut the shit, Beev. You know the owner of every karaoke bar in the city. Maybe Mij was into you for some juice on the side.” Over Bivo’s shoulder, Jimmy watched Spiro drag a net along the far edge of the pool. That, and overtly listen, as Bivo said, “I am sorry, but I do not understand. I thought you work for—” he squinted at Jimmy’s shirt “—ChemSteemy Superior Carpet Cleaning? Carpet cleaners ask about doing the drapes and upholstery but you ask policeman questions.” On the table, a cheap looking cell-phone buzzed. Bivo silenced it and, smiling, said, “Jimmy, you have not touched the dolmas.”
Jimmy looked at the leafy things on the plate. “Dolmas?”
“Grape leaves stuffed with rice. I assure you they are very good.”
When Jimmy shook his head, Owen said, “Yo, I’ll eat ‘em,” and slid the plate over; Owen had the metabolism of a hummingbird on methamphetamine and free food was to him the sweetest nectar.
Bivo smiled approvingly. “So tell me, Jimmy, why you playing detective again?”
“Someone beat Mij up last night, then shot him and dumped his body.”
Bivo’s eyes grew wide behind tinted lenses. At the pool, Spiro stood motionless with the net until he saw Jimmy watching him. Immediately, he began netting more invisible objects from the sparkling pool.
Bivo leaned forward. “Mij shot? Shot by who? Who shot Mij?”
“I’m sure the cops’ll be asking you the same thing: they have a description matches your man Spiro’s of somebody showing up yesterday at Red Circus yesterday and shaking down Mij. I expect PD’ll be calling you anytime.”
Bivo scowled. “Is because I am Greek they always suspect me.”
“No, it’s because beneath your jolly demeanor you’re a hostile sociopath.”
Bivo brightened. “Yes, but with a good singing voice, no?”
“Not bad. You know, Beev, it was never proven you shoved that karaoke singer down the stairs, but you did make some enemies in the process. Neil Finnerty for one.”
Bivo scowled more. “King of the mud-trackers. He ruin my carpet with his stupid cowboy boots. Him and his gorilla friend.”
“Neil was his brother-in-law’s manager and claims he lost a lot of money when Gilfinkle missed the finals.”
Bivo’s pace grew pinched. “Lester Gilfinkle was faker! He sang Garth Brooks in fakers wheelchair and people feel sorry for him so he take Bivo Papacostas’ place on American Popstar. Is an outrage, Jimmy. An outrage! But I swear,” Bivo added slyly, “I know nothing about his unfortunate accident. Is why Popstar needs the alternates.”
Bivo sat looking alternately indignant and puzzled. Owen just looked ill; whether it was from Bivo’s display of karaoke passion or the grape leaves, Jimmy wasn’t sure, but he grabbed Owen’s last dolmas and took a bite of grape leaves and rice tangy with vinegar. Jimmy chewed and waited.
Finally, Bivo couldn’t resist. “Is good, yes?” When Jimmy agreed, he offered less petulantly,
“Jimmy, I do not know who killed Mij. I swear on my mother’s grave was not me or my people.”
“Your mother’s alive and cooking in the kitchen.”
Bivo crossed himself. “When she dies, is what I mean.”
Jimmy had the distinct impression Bivo was actually telling the truth. There was more to it, but the essential fact was that Bivo was surprised to learn of Mij’s demise. And without a badge, Jimmy had to take that at face value. His gaze went to the pool and to Spiro’s pool-net on the decking, but no Spiro.
“Can I use your bathroom?” Before Bivo could reply, Jimmy was out of his seat and heading for the house.
JIMMY MOVED ROOM TO ROOM without finding what he was looking for, even when passing two bathrooms without entering.
After discovering the Greeks were no longer playing dominoes, Jimmy heard a Greek voice coming from behind a closed door. You didn’t need to speak Greek to know the speaker was pissed off. Jimmy stoop to peer through the old-school key-hole.
There was Spiro, now jabbing a finger in Porkpie Hat’s chest, then pointed at something outside the house before jabbing his finger at Porkpie hat again. The whole time, Porkpie Hat was shaking his head vigorously while the other domino player had a cell-phone to his ear. Cell-Phone hung up and said something to Spiro who shook his head.
BIVO LOOKED UP as Jimmy stepped out the back door. “Your friend,” Bivo said, “is big fan of the King. He convince me tonight is the night for the King and not for Ricky Martin. So what you think, Jimmy, I sing the Love Me Tender? Or the Blue Hawaii?” Bivo frowned. “Jimmy, my friend, you look anxious. Did you not find the bathroom? You need to make a number two?”
JIMMY WHEELED THE VAN down the street and around the corner before whipping into a driveway beside a long hedge of oleanders and leaving the engine running.
So Owen said, “In normal jobs, this sort of goldbricking gets you fired. Course, this being ChemSteem, I suppose so long as we don’t break, burn or steal anything, we should be fine. In that case, Officer Coolie sends you back to prison and breaks up the band. Again.”
A car went by, a silver Mercedes with two French in front, the driver wearing a porkpie hat. Jimmy waited a moment and was rolling out of the driveway and after the Mercedes when Owen’s cell phone rang.
Owen glanced at the number. “It’s Roscoe. Probably calling about that big flood job, hunh?”
“You probably don’t want to answer that.”
“No? Why, because we’re not gonna make that La Jolla five-area by 11? Or because we’re not gonna make it at all?”
Jimmy turned onto Orange Avenue and let the Mercedes get a little out in front while the cell continued to chime the Grateful Dead’s Truckin’.
“Tell me,” Owen said, “why we’re following these guys. You think Bivo killed Evie?”
Jimmy thought about it again. “I don’t. But something’s up. Look, I want to see where they’re going in such a hurry. And trust me, it won’t be that hard— toughest thing’s not getting seen tailing them when we cross the bridge, but who pays attention to a carpet-cleaning van?”
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