Death by Sarcasm Read Free Page B

cleared her throat. “If you know of anyone looking for a private investigator, please feel free to recommend me.” She hated doing the sales pitch, but it was a necessity of the trade.
    “Of course,” he said, and walked out the door.
    Mary wondered. That had sounded a little sarcastic.
    Mary locked the photographs in her safe, then drove directly to the Leg Pull. There was still just enough daylight for Mary to get a good look at the place. In the sunlight, the club looked like a hungover version of itself: pale, tired and vaguely ill.
    She didn’t bother to go back to the alley for another look, nothing back there but bad endings. There was a part of her that wanted to wait, to get a little more perspective on the death of her uncle before she dove into the investigation. But that wasn’t good investigative work. So despite the fact that the anger and hurt were still raw inside of her, she forged ahead. There would be plenty of time for contemplation later.
    A bored waitress told her where she could find the club’s owner/manager. She walked back to the office, her shoes occasionally making sticking sounds on the wood floor.
    The door to the office was open and Mary saw a slim bald man with a pencil thin moustache. He had on silk pants, a wrinkled silk shirt and cologne that could double as a pesticide, which probably made a lot of sense in this dump.
    There was a cheap desk sign, probably from Rite-Aid, letting visitors know the manager’s name was Cecil Fogerty. He reminded Mary of Al Pacino’s brother in The Godfather.
    “What’s up Fredo?” she said.
    He looked at her blankly.
    “I’m Mary Cooper,” she said. “I want to talk to you about the murder last night.”
    He looked her up and down, without shame.
    “Cooper? Did you say your name’s Cooper?”
    “You can hear.”
    “What are you, Brent’s daughter?”
    “I’m actually his pimp,” Mary said. “I want to find out who destroyed my property. They owe me at least three tricks’ worth.”
    He gave a weird little laugh that sounded like rodents scurrying behind a wall.
    “Nah, you’re related to Brent, I can tell,” he said. His little eyes shone with the pride of his intellect.
    “Actually, Columbo, I’m his niece.”
    “Niece, huh? He never talked about you.”
    Mary looked around Cecil’s office. Tiny, cramped, and the walls filled with photos of celebrities you just couldn’t quite place. Mary tried not to notice the smell of Cecil’s horrible cologne combined with stale cigars and body odor. And she tried not to think about this place being the last stop, the end of the line for Uncle Brent.
    “Yeah, well I didn’t really talk about him a whole lot, either,” she said. “At least, until he got slaughtered behind your club.”
    Cecil didn’t know what to say so Mary filled the void. “Why don’t you tell me what you know.”
    “So you’re not a cop, right?” Cecil said, stroking his moustache. The little eyes were shining again.
    “No, I’m a member of the SWAT team,” Mary said. “I’m a Polynesian princess. I’m a hostess at The Ivy. It doesn’t matter what I am. I’m just a grieving niece with an attitude and not a lot of patience.”
    Cecil sat at attention. “Jesus, you are Brent’s niece, aren’t you? You don’t have to get nasty, though,” he said, waving his hands in an attempt at placating her. “Look, I booked him for some of the early slots, you know, sort of as a favor.”
    Mary took a deep breath. How far had Brent fallen that he needed favors from a shit stain like Cecil Fogerty?
    “Why would you do that?” she said.
    “I owed him.”
    Mary raised her eyebrows, indicating he should continue.
    “Well, you know,” Cecil stammered. “Brent was pretty good with the ladies.”
    Mary had known that. Uncle Brent was caustic. He used his sarcasm to hurt people. Mary had never bought into that. She believed in the power of humor to unite, not divide. But despite all that, she had heard that her