MudStones

It’s all about beginning again, innit?

Were he to paint a darker picture there would be a crow or two staring, accusatory, from a fence, overcast day and moonlit night gray in equal measure. Dec could vindicate unpaid time spent investigating the disappearance of an old acquaintance, but what he discovered about friends and himself along the way provided only half of the satisfaction he sought. Unhappy with the knowledge that his darker side threatened to overcome all, he might as well be looking for a different line of work. He had taken much for granted based on fuzzy logic, which now comprised interference and mayhem.

Dec regarded the mournful keening of Seraphic Light from a slightly off pitch saxophone from who knew where appropriate enough upon discovering the chopped up corpse had not been Charlie Dicer. The reason behind this dismemberment would probably remain undiscovered, the victim a John Doe. Charlie’s fate awaited discernment. Dec found the matchstick man in the pocket of his other jacket, and he recalled the war dioramas in Brandt’s office. He attended to the lipstick smudge on his collar while trying to convince himself not all his childhood acquaintances had gone to the dark side. He much preferred Vienna’s attention.

Miriam, at Smutz’s funeral, accepted Vienna’s consolation in a way that Dec observed with cynicism. Personal loss did not obliterate her guilt, a fact she was obviously aware of. She was no virgin princess. He had her pegged as an assassin. Brandt, who had accompanied his charge, appeared flustered as the two went off to speak quietly in a corner. The old soldier, too, must be harboring animosity. Dec wondered who was caring for the children not in evidence but thought it unseemly to question Miriam at this juncture, though he knew she would disappear faster than a magician’s assistant.

The forensic evidence indicated the hustler had been bludgeoned with a dull edged object before being cut and then his body was dumped in the alley. He had not been murdered in situ. The seed of doubt planted in Dec’s mind on taking note of the bloody clothing, made him realize he had only imagined Miriam’s involvement. Her m.o. was entirely different. She might have caused Charlie’s disappearance, but now Bobby was implicated, and things were getting out of hand. Rivalry had another provenance. Vengeance he had assumed now smacked of vigilantism. Somebody else was taking out the bad guys.

Dec, aware of Vienna’s accusations and innuendo concerning her ex, still found it hard to believe their veracity even upon catching Bobby in action. How little he knew his old acquaintance. Bobby was virtually flirting with the young man of olive complexion, both dressed in black denim and leather accessories. One with a bandaged hand and looking considerably more sinister than his likely age would suggest, and Bobby appearing more frustrated than seductive, despite having finally donned street clothes. On the wrong street, in the wrong part of town, a part of Dec died concluding they had never been rivals.

Dec, on a rare visit to Dunphy’s sat by himself, nursing shots. Four was his preset limit, but infrequent routine was elastic depending on his quandary. Vienna had him dancing like a puppet but that wasn’t his dilemma. Maybe he loved her. Aware she dabbled in witchcraft, he had known her a long time, and she wouldn’t need a charm to secure his affection, if that was what she wanted. He occasionally questioned how much he knew her at all. At this juncture, however, he wondered at his perturbation over Charlie’s disappearance. He didn’t actually owe the old guy anything.

“What about Brandt’s son?” Dec, seeking a clue, felt any revelation might serve. “Overdosed.” Bobby, once again underdressed, was eating fudge with an apostle spoon. “You ever wear pants?” Dec averted his eyes from the gaping fly. “Anything between you and Antonio?” “Vienna’s poolboy? Get real. I know he also owed Jimbo money, which may have to do with why he ended up inert.” “Also?” “My failing, but I pay my debts. Jimbo mentioned a woman I think might have been Miriam. Out of my league, but not his. He likes heat and can afford it, or so I thought.”

James had had to have his stomach pumped. The alcohol and sedative combination had nearly killed him. Brandt, awaiting word on his son’s condition, had rubbed a knuckle raw. That night after finding him passed out on his ridiculous bed, he had answered the doorbell to find Bobby Ventimiglia who then offered his assistance but was not helpful, serving up platitudes with what seemed like a sense of relief. Somewhere in the back of Brandt’s mind reverberated the thought that there was more to their relationship than he was able to decipher. He imagined it had to do with money.

After the rain, Vienna strolled with him past the kennels tossing treats and sweet words to her fourteen pointers. Now in black, she was wearing a gaudy white gold bracelet with filigree work. “Plug for your new line?” he asked nodding. “Would I come up with something like this? I thought you knew me.” She gave him an ominous look indicating he had better if he wished to remain relevant. “No. This was a gift from our old friend Charlie.” “What the hell!” Dec stopped short. “Transgressions cost. In memoriam and all that.” He was losing her by the minute.

Although Vienna was playing to her opponent’s weakness and likely to win the set, Dec, gazing across the forecourt was distracted by the heretofore elusive Miriam, who appeared to be keeping vigil from a seat above and to the left of the Wee Ones Daycare alphabet and “Enjoy dairy products daily” ads. She must have assumed he had questions, however, because she glared back. He would never make it round to the opposite side to speak to her. She would disappear before the rain began in earnest. Remaining unapproachable was her stock in trade. Smutz was justified in his concerns.

The once large Smutz appeared a wraith of his former self sitting in an overstuffed chair. Dec knew he’d been invited to supply information on the man’s daughter, facts he knew but couldn’t share, and more, of which he’d not been fully apprised. Piecing together his own investigation, he asked, "Do you remember Charlie Dicer?" Smutz’s face grew red, as if he were about to detonate. "A rapscallion, who, receiving his due verdict, would be serving time instead of being free." So, he didn’t know and was only recalling the old animosity. Charlie had certainly made enemies in his time.

She had allowed speculation to fill in for public knowledge. That was the way of it. What couldn’t be proven was rumor. Rumor fueled gossip. Guilty until proven innocent? Feeling febrile, conjuring unsound decisions, she allowed for probability, envisioned a concluding statement with and without regard to ransom. She visited a medium on a lark, and later laughed over the poetry in her reading. She had no old friends, although she clearly recalled those who had been. The death card…a dark stranger…yada, yada. She thought of her father, her children. Things couldn’t continue, but had to. Possibilities necessitated more money.

Vienna appeared distraught, but Dec assumed her mourning of Antonio found floating in the pool was scant recompense for the way she treated some people. An open barrel of chlorine powder ruled a simple mishap, but she claimed Bobby might be guilty of foul play. She reiterated what she had thrown at him at the courts, but Dec, speaking in the plural said, “We don’t really believe that, do we?” Already looking into Charlie’s disappearance, he tried to convince her she was just feeling guilty and overreacting. All the same, he was pleased to learn she was truly over Bobby.

Brandt buzzed, but as James did not respond he used his own key. When the lift opened, a man costumed in studded leather exited, merely tipping his cap in greeting. “Unsavory neighborhood,” crossed his mind. At first the apartment appeared vacated with all its ebony furnishings neatly in place, one red rose, wilting in a glass vase, providing an accent on the darkness. Not how he would have elected to live. He wondered at the provenance of James’ moribund taste. “Not his mother’s son.” James lay spread-eagled across the black satin sheeted bed. “Stoned unconscious,” Brandt thought, “or dead perhaps.”

Kids gathered round Charlie when he displayed his fat roll of singles and distributed dollar bills to each of them. It was rumored he was a bookie and Mrs. Ventimiglia’s boyfriend. Bobby never confirmed or denied as their belief gave him a cachet his secondary status would not have otherwise acquired. In a one-two punch, Charlie funded Dec’s education, despite his mother’s protesting. Vienna, when she thought of ”Uncle” Charlie, recalled only his hirsute hand sliding under her dress, as she sat behind the wheel of his Caddy and his assurance that she was the prettiest girl in the neighborhood.

Dec sat staring at the evergreen outside his office. The odor of pine wafting through disturbed his concentration as he riffled through the Chronicle seeking news of Charlie’s murder, but only found notice of his being among the missing. Redundant, really. Apparently, the police hadn’t found the chopped corpse. Or were keeping their discovery on the QT. Or, more likely, they weren’t even looking for him. Dec knew of at least four suspects who were happy for the nonce, but the pinball machine in his mind resounded with a loud clang, and a TILT sign. Something definitely was not kosher.