Three
THREE
The Paradise Records lobby was awash with white marble and light, punctuated by long black leather benches and the label’s logo liberally sprinkled around the joint to the point of distraction. An expensive neon-blue glass reception desk loomed out at Bruce from beneath the myriad of pucker-faced portraits and gold discs lining the white walls. Three men, all black sunglasses, puffer jackets and short, sharp haircuts, sat together across the room, talking in furious whispers and glancing over at him when they thought he wasn’t looking. Bruce watched them chattering out the corner of his eye; they wouldn’t have a chance.
He lit a cigarette to calm his nerve like a nervous twitch, no thought, just an instinctive, automatic reaction to quell the sudden craving. A laugh echoed out across the room from one of the guys; a crazy hyena’s cackle that caught him off guard. Bruce’s feet slid out from beneath him on the slick polished floor, and he pirouetted awkwardly toward the blue whale of a desk. He caught hold of the edge and steadied himself. There was nobody sat behind its lonely expanse. He caught his breath. An old-fashioned brass push bell sat awkwardly at odds with the slick modern decor. Bruce hit it, with gusto, hard and fast with his prosthetic hand. It rang out with the sound and effect of musical machine-gun. The receptionist came running.
“Sorry, excuse me sir, how can I help you?”
The woman had a severe look about her; something about the way she bustled in through the door told him she was trouble. Pale skin, a curt brown bob, red lips and black holes for eyes; she challenged him with a stare.
“There’s no smoking allowed in here sir. Please extinguish your cigarette in the receptacle.” She pointed out the bin. “What name is it?”
He stubbed the cigarette out on the chrome lid without breaking eye contact with the receptionist. She jutted her chin at him; asking for a response. He gave it to her at last.
“What’s my name, doll? Von Toose, Private Investigator. You can call me Bruce. I have a 12…”
Her fingers flew at the keyboard as he spoke and she cut him off victoriously.
“Well, I’m afraid it is 12:27 now Mr. von Toose, I’m afraid you’re late. Your appointment is over. I can try and make you an alternative meeting, tomorrow perhaps, or next week?”
She turned robotically to face the screen, a smirk dancing at the edge of her glossy lips at another small victory won in the war against tardiness. Bruce smiled; the battle had barely begun.
“Tomorrow’s no good lady; you don’t get it, I spoke to Jimmy, your boss, on the phone not five minutes ago. He’s expecting me, I’m special. And if you delay our meeting just one more minute, just one, I’ll call him myself and you’ll be crying over the job pages in the morning. Is that what you want?”
He waved his phone at her, Jimmy’s number on the screen; she didn’t like it. She adjusted her headset and pressed the button on the side.
“There’s A Mr. Von Toose here to see you. Mr. Masters; he seems rather impatient.”
A crackling exploded from her headset and she cowered beneath the words.
“Yes, yes sir. Yes, I’ll send him straight through. I must apologise…. OK.”
She pointed at the double doors to her right, shaking her head. She opened her mouth to speak; Bruce beat her to it. He held up his hand.
“I’m on my way.”
He turned on his heel and left her staring blankly into space.
Bruce pushed the call button; the lift doors slid aside soundlessly at his touch and he stepped inside. Masters name was written on a plate at the top of the list of floors, the only name in the company of numbers. Masters was evidently a big cheese, shame he was rotten. He hit the button and adjusted his collar and pulled his hat brim low as the lift ascended silently toward the penthouse.
Moments later, the doors opened to reveal a small waiting area; two impractical looking bright red Teletubbies-esque chairs sat either side of an indoor palm tree, beneath yet more blown-up shots of air-brushed female faces. Across the hallway lay a vast heavy black wooden door bearing a name carved into an ostentatious golden plaque. It looked as though it belonged out front on Downing Street. Jimmy sure had a keen sense of his own importance.
Bruce walked across the waiting area and, without knocking, tried the handle. It wasn’t locked. His eyes darted around the lobby; no cameras. Maybe it was overconfidence, maybe it was arrogance; either way this was going to be a walk in the park.
Bruce stepped into the darkened office. Through the brass-handled, heavy door lay an even larger breed of desk, the top hewn from marble and mounted on a heavily carved ornate wooden base. Inside, the room was all subtle shades of carefully backlit green and rich mahogany, curling cigar smoke, deep crimsons and gold. A Wurlitzer jukebox sat gleaming in the corner, next to a chest high mini-bar equipped with a crystal decanter full of some high-end booze. The blinds were shut against the light of day and a classy looking art deco lamp stood in for the sun. A stern, high-backed red leather chair sat behind the desk, housing a snorting, brooding, deep-set figure with a terrible haircut. Jimmy gestured for him to take a seat. Bruce took his hat off slowly, ignoring him, avoiding eye contact. Jimmy couldn’t take the awkward silence a moment longer. He looked at his watch pointedly before he spoke.
“Mr. von Toose I presume? You’re late, sir!”
Jimmy’s little round glasses had steamed up and his loose chin quivered as he spoke. He watched as Bruce walked back across the room and turned the heavy key in the door’s lock.
“Forget about me, Jimmy. Let’s talk about you. This won’t take long. When did you last see Mastah Blastah? Was it around the last time you saw your own feet?”
Bruce looked Jimmy square in the eye as he approached the desk; he watched beads of sweat forming on the fat man’s forehead. His prosthetic arm hissed at his side, coiling to strike; he felt like a loaded viper. Jimmy was taken aback.
“Excuse me? Do you know who I am, Mr. von Toose? I know who you are, you scumbag; my people do their homework.”
Bruce leant forward.
“So, you know my name, I gave that to you on the phone brainiac. But who’s to say that’s my real name? Sounds kind of made-up, doesn’t it? But no, you’re right, the real question here is who the fuck are you, Jimmy? Really, who are you beneath that sea of gut? All I’m seeing here is talking cheeseburger.”
Jimmy went on the defensive; clearly the fat boy jokes were hitting their mark.
“I’m a decent family man, Mr. von Toose, unlike yourself sir. I’m the boss of a leading record label. I go to Church every Sunday morning and play football with my kids in my gigantic, beautiful garden in the afternoon. I put six figures on the table, without fail, every single month! I’m successful, unlike yourself sir, and what’s so bad about that? You’re just some washed up wannabe rent-a-cop with anger management issues. You barely exist!”
The outpouring of rage had taken it out of him; he mopped at his sodden brow with an expensive cuff. Bruce lunged suddenly, grabbing Jimmy by his pricey lapels and dragging him across the desk, bringing his round, boarish face to within an inch of his own. He could taste the fat man’s breath, sour on his tongue. Bruce shook him viciously.
“What did you do to Mastah Blastah?”
Jimmy’s eyes bobbled around in their sockets like a stuffed toy. He reached for his desk drawer, a look of desperation on his face. Bruce drove his forehead down hard into the other mans crown and released his grip on his shirt. Jimmy flopped back onto his chair bleeding from the forehead, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, his glasses broken in half. Bruce wrenched the drawer open with his prosthetic arm, almost tearing it from the desk; a small black pistol sat on top of a pile of papers. Bruce seized the gun in his good hand and pointed it at Jimmy’s gut.
“What were you going to do, shoot me? Who’ve you been messing around with Jimmy? Start talking or I swear it’s all over for you. Where did you get this piece? I wouldn’t think twice about wasting a scumbag like you. You sold out your own damn client!”
Bruce held the gun up in his good hand and used his prosthetic to crush the barrel flat in front of Jimmy’s fat face. The useless weapon clattered to the wooden office floor. Bruce grabbed him by the lapels again. Jimmy began to sob uncontrollably. His tears rolled down Bruce’s clenched fists.
“Please, don’t hurt me. I don’t know anything! Mastah Blastah was just an employee...”
Bruce shook him again, harder and slapped his chubby face, a tremendous blow that caught them both by surprise. Bruce regained his composure.
“Don’t lie to me Jimmy! He was more than that! He was your biggest earner, one of your first big acts. Why did you have him killed?”
Jimmy was shell-shocked; the slap had broken him. His breathing was ragged, fast and shallow; his eyes were closed. Bruce’s prosthetic arm began to twitch uncontrollably. It seemed somehow to be angrier than the rest of him. Bruce slapped him again.
“TALK TO ME YOU WORTHLESS PIG! WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM?”
Still no answer, the man was hysterical, pathetic, a blubbering wreck. Bruce brought his prosthetic metal fist to bear and buried it, hard and deep into the big man’s sternum with an audible pneumatic hiss. Jimmy eyes flickered open and he screamed as his ribs cracked. He turned to look Bruce in the eye as he regained his balance, steadying himself against the desk. A strange grin or grimace contorted his flabby lips. A red light flashed beneath the desk; he must have triggered a silent alarm. Jimmy spoke in flecks of blood.
“You have no idea who I am or what I’m capable of, Mr. von Toose. Let’s just calm down and have a nice chat about that while we wait for the cavalry, shall we?”