Cicero's Dead Read Free Page B

was
Richie.”
    “When did you last see him?”
    “Little less than a month ago and man was that
weird. It got me freaked.”
    “Why?”
    “Tell you what, meet me at Milford’s on Vine
in the parking lot at 2:00 a.m. That’s where I work and I’ll fill you in on the
rest of the story. After that, no offense, but I don’t ever wanna see you
again.   Jade and Richie are bad
news. I need to disconnect.”
    “Where do you think I can find him?”
    “Oh, he’s around. Try the gay bars, or the
clubs on Sunset. He swings both ways. The women love him. How could they not?
He’s a dead ringer for John Garfield.”
    Ron opened the front door and we shook hands.
“Thanks, Ron.”
    “You seem like a cool guy. I just don’t want
to end up dead when I’m not even 25.”

Chapter II – Arnold Clipper

 
    I live in Whittier, 18
miles due east of downtown Los Angeles, with my wife Cassady and Maleah, our 11
year old, adopted Chinese daughter. When I got home, they were dancing to Gwen
Stefani in the living room. Gwen was yodeling and Maleah, who sings like a
bird, was yodeling right along with her. Cassady’s a couple years younger than
I am, but looks about 30.   She was a
punk rocker when I met her, and still really is at heart. She’s a helluva good
mother, and she and Maleah are joined at the hip. I sank into a recliner and as
I watched them, I thought about Ron Cera. ‘Why
was he so scared?’
    Five minutes later the doorbell rang. It was my
old college friend, Brad Tanner, with a suitcase in either hand. Tall and
skeletal, his hair, now bone white. Behind him, I could see his mud-and-insect
splattered, burgundy Volkswagen Passat parked on the street. The last time I
saw him was three years ago in the Bay Area where he was living with his wife
and daughter. It had been obvious then that his marriage was deteriorating.
    “Hi,” he said. His brown eyes were dead serious.
    “Hey, Brad, come on--“
    “--Sorry to drop in like this, but I seem to
remember you telling me to stop in any time.”
    “You okay?” I stood to one side and he stepped
into the hallway.
    “Uh, you know, life.”
    “Put your bags down and let’s go see Cassady.
She’s in the kitchen.”
    “I hope she doesn’t shoot me.”
    She was in the kitchen finishing off a stir-fry, a
light film of moisture across her forehead. She looked at Brad and knew
immediately something was wrong with him. “You’re just in time for dinner.”
    I wanted to kiss her.
    Before we ate, we took his luggage to our
downstairs guest room. “Can I smoke?”
    “Sure, but on the patio.”
    I grabbed a couple of Perriers and we sat outside
in the cool jasmine scented night air. Around us, crickets chirped and buzzed
away into the night. He lit up a Marlboro and inhaled deeply.
    “You want one?”
    “No, I’m good, thanks.”
    “I really appreciate you guys letting me crash.”
    “No worries.”
    “You have a beautiful place. Quiet. Peaceful.”
    It was obvious that he was hurting. “How’re you
doing, Buddy?”
    “I’m good, you know. Six months now, since the
divorce.”
    Brad was handsome in his gaunt aquiline way.
Although sadness floated in his brown eyes, they were not entirely devoid of
their old familiar sparkle. He looked at me, cigarette in one hand, the other
folded atop our ceramic patio table.
    “You ever hear from her?”
    “No, except to talk about our daughter. And then
she’s strictly business.” He crushed out the butt in the ashtray and lit up
another. “It’s been a little rugged, but I’m through the worst. Time to put the
shoulder to the wheel, I guess.”
    We’ve been friends for two decades and have hardly
ever touched except to shake hands. I wanted to hug the guy, but knew that a
friendly touch would most likely cause him to break down, and men don’t cry
easily in front of other men.
    “It’s good that you’re here because I’ve been
wanting to introduce you to a pal of mine, Bobby Moore.”
    “Who’s