Five O’Clock Twist

Chapter 2

2

Ten days earlier…

Rebecca hurried across the narrow alley to the building that housed her tiny two-room apartment. It was dark, nearly nine at night, but the night was pleasant, and a full moon shone brightly. She was glad to be home, glad she had no complex homicide filling her days and tormenting her dreams at night.

The few street lamps cast a soft, golden glow on Mulford Alley, but as she took out her house keys, an uneasy feeling crept over her. She had never been one to pay any attention to “feelings” or “intuition,” but lately, she had met people, and one person in particular, who suggested she needed to listen to what her instincts were telling her, and not only to her too-logical brain. She listened now. Before she unlocked the door by the side of the garage, she made it a point to scan the area all around her.

And, just as her logical self had told her, no one was there.

She softly chuckled as she put the key in the lock. Such nervousness was a common ailment for anyone who was a cop these days, and especially for one whose job centered on murders. She opened the door to a tunnel-like breezeway, then walked through it to the backyard. Her “garden apartment,” aka a glorified storeroom, faced the yard.

Usually, once past the dark breezeway and near her front door, she began to relax. But for some reason, the jangly sense that struck her outside still hadn’t let up.

Maybe because it was Saturday night, she told herself. Usually, that meant she would be seeing Richie Amalfi. But tonight she wouldn’t and, despite the fact it was her own doing, it bothered her.

Next, she unlocked her apartment door. Needing to pass through two locked doors before reaching the inside of her residence made this the perfect set-up for a somewhat paranoid cop living alone. Also, this arrangement caused her to have the yard pretty much to herself, which she considered to be the best part of her living space.

Inside the apartment, she greeted her little dog, Spike, and then changed into comfortable clothes. With a fresh cup of coffee in hand, she and Spike went into the backyard with his favorite red ball. “Spike” was an ironic name for a tiny Chihuahua-Chinese Crested Hairless mix, but it was his when she decided to keep him after finding him at a crime scene. No one else wanted him, not even to adopt him from the Humane Society. Even she had to admit that his pinkish skin with large brown spots, and hairless body except for white tufts of hair on his head, feet, and tail were pretty peculiar looking. Some people were cruel enough to say he was ugly, and to say it right out loud where he could hear them. She understood completely why he tried to bite loud-mouthed strangers.

The bottom line was that Rebecca adored him. And now, she couldn’t help but smile at his joy and exuberance running after the ball.

She was glad someone was filled with joy. She wasn’t.

And she was sure it was all because of Richie.

The problem was a simple one. A short time back, he’d gotten himself into a situation where she feared he had been killed. The way she felt had focused her on all he had come to mean to her, how important he was, how much she cared—or more—about him. And it worried her.

The more time she spent with him, the more attached to him she was becoming. He was fun, exciting even. And surprisingly thoughtful and caring towards her, not to mention generous … and sexy. And good-looking. And sweet to Spike.

Even her sister liked him, which should have been the kiss of death.

Damn.

But she also knew that their relationship would go nowhere. Richie had made it clear he worried about her being a cop, about the dangers of the job, and she didn’t see them moving forward as a couple as long as she continued with it. And she wasn’t about to give up a job that she loved and felt was important.

Ironically, despite everything, she also recognized that as much as their relationship was bad for her, it might be even worse for him. He was surrounded by women in his work, and she was sure there were plenty that would make a lot better wife for him than she ever could. And the guy needed to settle down. The more she got to know him, and to care about him, the more obvious that became. His fiancée had been killed some years ago, and he was finally getting over the loss. But the danger she was often in and his resulting fear of losing her was like constantly tearing the scab off a wound where his emotions were concerned.

She could tell that he wanted someone to fill the void in his life. But she didn’t think she was that person. She liked being the one to bring bad guys to justice. Was that so wrong of her? And so, the time had come to stop seeing him. To break it off. End it … whatever “it” was. Goodbye. So long. Finito.

Her choice was Richie versus everything else she valued about her life, and she felt it was better to cut it off now, before things got any more serious between them, before she’d have to admit she was in love with him, and while she could still walk away. Or not.

Sometimes she really made herself sick.

She was dismally contemplating life without Richie when Spike suddenly stopped chasing the ball and looked up at the flat where Kiki Nuñez lived. He began to growl.

The building that housed Rebecca’s ground-floor apartment also had two upper stories. Kiki lived right above Rebecca, and the top floor comprised the home of their landlord, Bradley Frick.

Rebecca looked up to see what had caught Spike’s attention. Kiki’s lights were on, but Rebecca couldn’t see any reason for Spike’s growling.

Kiki was in her late forties, divorced with two grown children, and she owned an upscale spa that did extremely well. She had a big heart, an over-sized, vivacious personality, and a casual flirtatiousness that caused her to collect men with ease. Rebecca wished she had half of Kiki’s ability along those lines.

Before Richie entered Rebecca’s life, she spent a lot of time with Kiki. Often, on nights like this one, Kiki would come out to join her, her high-heeled mules clattering loudly on the back stairs, with a bottle of chilled white wine in one hand and two glasses in the other. The women would sit and enjoy the wine as they talked of life, love, interesting men they’d met, and what it all meant. And they would laugh. That was one thing Rebecca loved about Kiki. Coming from a job so filled with death and sadness, she found it wonderful to be around someone who enjoyed life as thoroughly as her neighbor.

She realized she should talk to Kiki about the problem of Richie. Kiki was a clear-eyed rationalist, and she’d be able to help Rebecca figure out if she was being logical or crazy to break up with a man she enjoyed being with so very much.

Spike’s growls grew louder.

Rebecca stood, trying to see what was upsetting her dog.

Spike suddenly began to bark. He rarely barked.

The feeling of being watched that Rebecca had had from the time she’d approached her building tonight returned again, tenfold. She moved towards the back stairs that led up to Kiki’s flat. Spike grew more agitated, running to the stairs and back to her. Rebecca picked him up, put him in her apartment, grabbed her gun, and all but flew up the stairs to Kiki’s back door.

Once there, she knocked hard and loud. When she received no answer, she knocked again and called Kiki’s name as she peered into the window near the door that faced the kitchen. She was horrified to see the kitchen table away from the wall in a skewed position, and a chair on its side on the floor. Rebecca tried the doorknob. It turned.

She opened the door wide.

It made a high-pitched squeal, but other than that, there was no sound coming from the apartment. She crept forward.

From the kitchen, she entered the dining room, then the living room. Both appeared undisturbed. She turned towards the bedrooms and stopped.

Kiki lay in the hallway, a pool of blood around her head.

Richie Amalfi stood at the back of his nightclub, Big Caesar’s. Located not far from San Francisco’s famous Fisherman’s Wharf area, it had been set up to look like the lush establishments of the 1930’s and ‘40’s with white linen-covered tables around a dance floor, a big band and singer, and an elaborate appetizer menu. Richie wore an elegant black suit and black bow tie to go along with the dressy ambiance of the place. Since he had a trim build, stood a little under six feet tall, with dark brown eyes and wavy black hair, purposefully worn just a tad long, the clothes on him looked James Bond suave rather than like some wedding party escapee.

Surrounding him was a group of customers including a couple of women who openly vied for Richie’s attention despite their dates. The group was laughing and telling amusing tales. Or, mainly, it was Richie telling stories while the others listened with rapt attention.

The dance area was filled, as usual, when the big band began playing the old jazz and swing favorite, Cab Calloway’s “Minnie the Moocher.” Hearing it, Richie all but cringed, knowing what was coming. The music was fairly soft until the customers loudly joined in singing the “Hi dee hi dee hi dee hi” scat refrain. The raucous cacophony quickly started getting on Richie’s nerves. It was all he could do not to pull the plug on the sound system and tell everybody to go the hell home. He maintained a smile as he escaped from the group by telling them how sorry he was that he had to ‘mingle.’ He was heading for his office when another group of customers stopped him, smiling with anticipation to talk to the popular club owner. At the same time, he noticed his two closest friends, Vito Grazioso and Henry Ian Tate, III, aka “Shay,” enter the club. Vito and Shay helped him handle those difficult and specialized jobs that were the real source of Richie’s income.

The customers introduced themselves, and by force of habit, Richie did all he could to commit each name to memory. He’d learned, over the years, that you never knew when such information would come in handy. “It’s great to meet all of you,” he said as they shook hands, smiling at each person as if he or she was the most important person in the world at that moment, and not giving any hint that he wanted to get away as quickly as possible. “I hope you’re enjoying yourselves tonight.”

“It’s wonderful,” they gushed.

“Thank you so much for coming,” he said. “I truly appreciate it.” He then excused himself and went off to meet Vito and Shay.

“What the hell took you so long?” He hurried with them back to his office.

Vito and Shay caught each other’s eyes and didn’t reply.

They entered the office, a large space, designed by Richie when he took over ownership of the club. On one side were a walnut desk, bookcases, and plush leather chair, and other side held a sofa, side chairs, and a mini bar. Blown-up photos of the great jazz and swing performers of the last century—people like Ella Fitzgerald, Billy Holiday, Louis Armstrong, Frank Sinatra, and Dean Martin—hung on the walls. The office also had a private bathroom with a shower. Richie had no idea why or if he’d ever need the shower, but since he’d put in the bathroom, why not?

They all sat in their usual seats, the sofa for Vito, and a side chair for each of the other two. Richie had a new job for them, a typical job, involving a guy who gambled too much at a floating poker game organized for the Bay Area’s high-roller elites. Richie’s client lost big, and now he was supposed to pay off—but had nothing to pay off with unless he sold either some property or some of his wife’s jewelry. It was Richie’s job to make a deal with the organizers to keep the man’s marriage, if not his finances, intact. And from the whole mess to squeeze out enough of a payment for himself, Shay and Vito, that it was worth their time and effort to get involved.

“So, you got all this straight, Vito?” Richie gritted his teeth as he waited for his friend’s answer. “Or do I have to go over it again?”

“I got it, boss. Wha’dya think? You know you can count on me with these things.” Vito tried not to show that his feelings were hurt, but they clearly were. He was a bear of a man, although a not-too-tall bear, with a barrel-shaped body covered in a perpetually worn tan car coat whose pockets bulged with food and mysteries unknown to anyone but Vito. And sometimes it seemed not even he knew what he’d stuffed in there. He was a bit older than Richie, but his still black hair grew thinner by the day, and his hairline receded deeply. His face was overly fleshy, and his eyelids drooped so badly his nearly black eyes were scarcely visible. He could look intimidating, but he was the softest one of the three. Finally, he mumbled, “You know it’s child’s play.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Richie sneered.

“Knock it off, Richie.” Shay snapped with a twist of his mouth. “You know we’ll handle it.”

There were times, like now, when Richie wondered just who the boss was in this merry crew. At the same time, he knew Shay had a point. He was acting like an S.O.B., and had no business picking on Vito.

And Shay was the only guy he knew with the balls to tell him so.

Shay was Vito’s opposite in every way. With six-feet-three-inches of rangy muscle, he could have passed for a model in GQ Magazine. Richie always enjoyed watching women react to him. Everything about him was pristine, and he rarely had a single strand of his light, wavy blond hair out of place. His eyes were large and deep blue, with an almost purplish hue in certain lights. His clothes were expensive and impeccable, and he had a penchant for silk ascots. Even his voice sounded exquisite. But he never allowed anyone to get close. Not women, not men. Richie and Vito were the best friends Shay had, and even from them, he kept secrets.

“You know there’s nothing difficult about this case.” Shay pressed his fingertips together as he spoke. “Another gambler, no self-control, got in over his head. His nuts are in a vice and he wants us to keep it from his wife. It’s scarcely a big deal, and not a problem. The thing that is a problem, however, is you.”

Richie’s irritation level soared. “Me? You’re saying I’m a problem?”

“Exactly,” Shay said. “Something’s wrong with you.”

Richie could scarcely believe what he was hearing. “That’s bull shit.”

Shay ignored his outburst. “Does it have to do with Mayfield?”

“Rebecca?” Richie widened his eyes. “What makes you think that?”

“You haven’t seen her the last two nights, and if you don’t tonight, Saturday night, no less, that’ll make it three. What’s going on? Did you two get into a fight again?” Shay asked.

“Hey, I pay you two to spy on other people, not on me. It’s none of your damn business whether I see Rebecca or not.”

Shay folded his arms and leaned back in the chair. “It’s our business when it makes you a bastard to work with.”

“You know we care about you, boss,” Vito added. “Whatever it is, you can tell us. Did she dump’ya?”

“No!” Richie smarted. At least, he didn’t think she had. But he knew something was bothering her. When he called, she was always “busy.” Being Rebecca, she tended to clam up instead of telling him what was going on in that cop-brain of hers.

“Maybe it’s time you just go see her,” Vito said. “Face-to-face.”

“I’m busy here,” Richie answered, his arms spread wide.

“You think this place can’t run without you?” Shay asked. “Your new manager would walk through fire if you asked him, and you know it.”

“Go see her, boss,” Vito said. “We can’t handle you this way.”

Shay stood. “I think Vito’s right,” he said. “But it’s up to you. I’ll let you know what I find out about your guy’s finances. Maybe he’s not as hard up for cash as he wants you to think.”

Vito got to his feet, as did Richie. “I’ll head out, too, boss. I’ll tag after your Mr. Big tomorrow, let you know what I find out.” Vito couldn’t keep up with Richie’s ever-changing clientele, so he tended to use “Mr. Big” as the name of any person whose case they were working.

After they left, Richie sat alone in his office, gave a thirsty glance towards his mini-bar, and thought about Vito’s suggestion.