Who Killed Rudy Rio? Read online

  Doris clamped her jaw. "They'd better. Jay doesn't deserve this. You do know Jay Champion, don't you?"

  "No, I don't."

  "You don't?" Her eyebrows lifted in annoyed surprise. "I guess you don't read the paper much. Jay's so active in the community. He belongs to Rotary...Kiwanis...Friends of the Zoo. He's a deacon in his church—" her face took on a glow "—he works at Poverello House, dishing out food to the poor. His friends want him to get into politics."

  "Sounds like a great guy."

  "And that's not all." Her eyes glittered. She was getting all worked up. "Jay didn't have to join the reserves. He has his own business—a beautiful family—a good life. But money means nothing to Jay. He's a patriot. He joined the National Guard because he wanted to serve his country."

  "That's really terrific."

  "Yes it is, only..." Doris's forehead creased with concern. "Jay loved to play weekend warrior. That's why he joined the National Guard. Who would have thought his company would actually be sent off to a war again? Velia's worried sick." She nodded briskly. "Well of course we all are."

  "Velia?"

  "Velia Champion, his wife."

  "Oh, of course," I murmured. I'd heard that name before—something in the recent news, but I couldn't put my finger on it. "So can I see Rudy?"

  "But why?"

  It was none of her business, but I refrained from saying so. "When I saw him today he got a little upset."

  "Upset? No wonder." Venom flashed from Doris's eyes. "The little creep was lying, wasn't he?"

  Side-step that one, or I could be in big trouble. "Mr. Barnicut will be calling you. This is a different matter. It's personal." Time to get assertive. "I really need to see him."

  "You want to see him," she repeated. A corner of her mouth tugged down with annoyance. She made some time for herself by rolling her eyes at the clock again, then pulling her sweater tighter around her shoulders, although the room wasn't that cold. "I'm not sure he's home. Why don't you come back tomorrow?" She crossed her arms in front of her chest, a bit of body language that clearly translated to back off bitch.

  No chance, Doris. "This will only take a minute. He's here, isn't he?"

  Changing tactics, Doris heaved a martyr sigh. "Yes, he's here, out back. But really, uh...Holly—" she leaned across the counter, anxious, it seemed, to impart some solicitous advice. "Rudy's a drinker. He's probably two sheets to the wind by now. He gets blotto every night. It's not safe. You know how men are when they're drinking. You'd better come back in the morning."

  I tried to conjure up the image of Rudy, the Drunken Beast, and stifled my laughter. "I'll just have to take my chances," I informed her solemnly. "I've got to see him."

  "Well, if you must." She had run out of excuses so she gave me a drop-dead look and pointed towards a rear exit. "Go out that way. Follow the row of trailers all the way to the rear. He lives in an old forty-foot Travel King clear at the back. Thanks to Jay," she added with pointed sarcasm. "I'm going home now, so when you're done, he can let you out through the side gate."

  Chapter 4

  Rudy's battered trailer fit right in with the dreariness of Champion's Commercial Trailer Sales. It sat on bare dirt, flush against the rear fence, unskirted and unadorned. Darkness had fallen by the time I got to his door. I walked up the rickety steps, knocked and waited. The door cracked open and Rudy peeked out.

  "Well, hello there, missy." A pixie smile broke across his face. He opened the door wide and motioned. "Come in."

  Unbelievable. I stepped inside, shaking my head. I had expected a man in torment, racked with anguish over the memory of the terrible murder he witnessed. Instead, Rudy appeared in fine fettle—carefree, practically bubbling. He still wore his dress shoes and slacks but had stripped down to his undershirt. He clutched a can of Bud in his hand. One overpowering whiff of his beer breath told me Doris made an understatement. Three sheets, not two.

  His combination kitchen-living-dining-room was cluttered and small. He swept a couple of empty beer cans off the scaled-down sofa, saying blithely, "Sit yourself down. Want a beer?"

  "Sure. Got a Light?"

  He dug another Bud from his tiny fridge. It wasn't a Light, but I took it anyway. I sat down and popped the top. "I was worried about you, Rudy. That's why I came to see you."

  "Hey, that's great!" He broke into a little elf dance, holding his beer can high as he pirouetted around the narrow room. "You're worried about me? A great looking broad like you?"

  "Simmer down, Rudy."

  "Hey, no sweat, I'm fine." He finished his dance and sank into a chair. "Feeling no pain," he mumbled, the euphoria suddenly gone. Through glazed eyes he peered at me. I saw the anguish there still. "Rudy Rio does jus' fine," he repeated, lifting his chin with bravado.

  "Sure, Rudy. So why did you run off today? I wasn't finished with you."

  "Ah... I didn't have anything more to say, you know? So I left."

  I crossed my ankles and took a sip of Bud. "You were telling me about a snuff movie. I wanted to hear the rest."

  "Ah, you didn't believe that crap, did you? I was making it up."

  "No you weren't. I want to hear more about that snuff movie." I held my breath. He could break down and tell me, or he could shut up tight.

  He grinned again and shrugged—a shrug that said the world could self-destruct tomorrow and he wouldn't give a damn. "What do you want to know?"

  He was going to talk. I kept my face straight while I quickly got my questions in line. "For openers, I'm wondering if you know anything else about Delphine. You said you didn't know her last name?

  "Nope, just Delphine. I talked to her before they started filming. She said she'd been in a few porn movies, but nothing special, you know. She wasn't a big star like Sasha Grey or Jenna Jameson."

  "Did you know anything else about her?"

  "She worked in Vegas for a while, but I don't know what she was doing. Other than that, all I know is she came from Fresno."

  "When was this snuff movie filmed? How long ago?"

  "Hmmm..." He clutched his chin and gazed at the ceiling. "Jeeze. I can't remember exactly. Maybe five or six years ago, somewhere in there."

  "So that would make it around 2005?"

  "Whatever...yeah, I guess so. Maybe around April."

  I went for the jackpot question next. "So who made the movie? And who was the masked man who killed her?"

  He rolled his eyes and shifted uncomfortably. "I don't remember."

  "Come on, Rudy."

  "I don't remember," he repeated sullenly. His mouth snapped shut, and he shot me a look that said drunk or no, he wasn't going to tell me anything more.

  I finished my beer. We talked of other things, mainly—as if I already hadn't heard—about the shrewd wit, fantastic generosity, and keen intelligence of his great and good friend, Jay Champion. They'd been friends for years and "worked in the same business down in L.A." Four years ago, when Rudy was down and out without a penny to his name, he'd come to Fresno. Jay gave him this trailer to live in and the night watchman job. "Just until I get on my feet, you understand. I'll be getting back into show biz pretty quick now."

  Before I left, I dug one of my business cards out of my purse and scratched off my old home phone number. The cell number was still good, but not for long, I dismally reflected. No way could I make my next payment to T-Mobile. "Here's my name and cell number. If you remember anything else, give me a call."

  Rudy took a key from a hook beside the door, walked me to a side gate and let me out. I got back to my car wondering what, if anything, I'd accomplished. I was almost sure Rudy was telling me the truth, but not positive. Could I go to the police with what I knew? Would anyone believe there was really a snuff movie called Virgin in the Pines?

  They'd laugh their heads off.

  I headed home.

  ***

  Never do I get tired of driving through the beautiful streets of the Fig Gardens. Like wine, Old Fig gets better as the years pass by, w
ith its magnificent eucalyptus trees and oleander bushes, lush flowers and foliage, and gems-of-architecture homes dubbed "Spanish Renaissance," or "Lombardic Influence," by the Fresno Historical Society, or "Classical Revival," or "Picturesque Tudor Cottage," and so on.

  When I grew up, my father owned two successful hardware stores, so of course we lived in the Fig Gardens. In 1996 he died unexpectedly of a heart attack, leaving practically no insurance. Worse, he'd mortgaged the stores and was deep in debt. Mother lost the stores and had to go to work for the first time in her life. She took up real estate but never sold much, maybe because she couldn't bear to give up her afternoon bridge club. Thanks to Prop 13, though, her taxes stayed low, so she managed, just barely, to keep living in her Monterey Revival. In the heart of the Fig Gardens, it has four bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a football-field front yard that used to be tended weekly by a mob of little dark men who didn't speak English very well. Now my brother Dennis comes over and mows the lawn once in a while when he thinks of it.

  It needs mowing now, I noticed as I turned into the circular driveway. Tomorrow I'd get out there and cut it myself. I parked beneath a weeping willow tree, and went inside.

  ***

  "Holly, is that you?" Mother called from the living room. "Ashley's had her dinner. Did you find a job?"

  "Thanks for feeding Ashley. Yes, I found a job. How was bridge today?"

  "Just marvelous. I got a small slam. Come here and I'll tell you."

  I called, "I'm in a hurry," and headed to my room. I didn't want to hear about small slams right now. Mother tended to dominate the conversation. She tended to dominate, period. She would make all my decisions for me if I let her, so there was a lot about my life she didn't know. If she suspected I was broke, she didn't say. So far, I'd been able to chip in enough money for our keep. There went that clutch of anxiety in my chest again. I had to get more money. Before I mooched off Mother, I'd pick cotton in the fields.

  By eight o'clock, I'd read Ashley a story and put her to bed. When I tucked the covers around her, she looked up at me and said, "I love you, Mommy. I wish Daddy was here."

  My heart wrenched, hearing her say that. Tom had been a good father, if nothing else. "I love you too, baby. You'll be seeing Daddy soon." I didn't know when, but I'd make sure she did. The worst part about divorcing Tom was how our split-up hurt Ashley. Even though I hardly had a choice, I felt terrible about breaking up the family. Ashley sensed my guilt, I was sure of it, and mostly kept her feelings to herself. She was only six, but she had a depth of understanding beyond her years. She amazed me. I had assumed that any daughter of mine would be a little hellion like me when I was growing up. Instead, I had a blonde, rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed angel who was spunky but sweet; bright, but not a brat. We were very much alike in one way—both survivors. We coped, no matter what. All the same, on those occasions when Ashley asked about her daddy, I wanted to cry.

  Back in my bedroom, I put on my idea of what every biker girl should wear and did a spin in front of the mirror to check it out. Tight jeans (screw Barnicut and his little tight mini-skirt), red tank top, short jean jacket. Blue eyelids and a ton of mascara. Hair blonde and wild, tumbling loose about my face and shoulders.

  Hey, not bad for a biker girl!

  Mother called, "Holly? Are you going out again?"

  "I'm going out on a case, Mom."

  "Where are you going?"

  She had to ask. I might be thirty-one, and have lived an independent life for years, but I was still Mother's little girl. "I'm going to Rosie's. It's a biker bar."

  She appeared instantly in the doorway and flinched when she observed my outfit. "Is that entirely appropriate?"

  "Tell you later, Mom." I got out of there fast.

  Swinging the Camaro out of the driveway, I felt a leap of excitement. For the first time in a lot of dreary months, something upbeat was happening in my life. Holly Jane Wallace Keene, licensed private investigator, was about to tackle her first case.

  ***

  When I pulled into Rosie's, I saw a row of motorcycles parked in front of a low, ramshackle building. I drove around the packed parking lot until I finally found a spot clear at the back beneath some Eucalyptus trees. Inside, I had to pause while my eyes adjusted to the dark and cavern-like interior. When they did, I saw a long bar, jukebox, pool tables at the back, and a small, crowded dance floor. Lady Gaga was singing "Born This Way."

  I found one stool vacant at the bar and slid onto it fast, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

  "Well, hellooo, baby."

  Not fast enough. The greeting came from the hulk on my right who was leaning towards me, getting his jollies leering at my breasts jutting out of my tight red top. He looked like Mountain Man. Acid dyed jeans—black Harley Tee—a red bandanna knotted around his head—his long hair wild and tangled, as if he'd ridden through a hurricane. An untamed, bushy beard covered his face. Only his forehead, beady eyes, and flat nose were exposed. He continued his charming dialogue with "Wanna beer?"

  "No thanks, honey, I'm buying my own." Be careful. If I acted too aloof, I'd look suspicious. If I got too friendly with Easy Rider here, or anyone else in this dump, who knew where I might end up? I flung my hair back and fired my best defense: "I'm waiting for my boyfriend."

  "Oh yeah?" He scratched his head and kept on staring. "So what's his name?"

  For a second my mind drew a blank. Then I got an inspiration. "Moose."

  Mountain Man grunted, and shifted the other way.

  I ordered my own beer and settled in to do my job, occasionally checking my watch, the door, and then frowning. Moose was late.

  Three bartenders worked behind the counter, but the one I was supposed to watch was a fat, bald-headed fellow named Al. He was a jovial guy, always laughing, but half an hour was all it took to confirm that the owner was right. Jolly old Al was skimming a bundle off Rosie's Bar with a scheme both neat and simple. If you weren't watching for it, you'd never notice.

  The regulars at Rosie's paid $3.00 for a bottle of beer, $3.50 for a well drink. Al, however, maintained a special price structure of his own. If you were a stranger—say, you just got off Highway 99 for a short one—Al charged you $3.40 for a beer and $4.00 for a well drink. He would put the money in the cash register, but naturally needed a way to keep track. His method was simple: toothpicks and shot glasses. Every time he overcharged a beer, he moved a toothpick from a box beneath the counter into a little pile. For the well drinks, he moved a shot glass from one shelf to another. At the end of the evening, all he had to do was count toothpicks and shot glasses, and deduct that amount from the till. The books balanced, and Al walked away with an extra hundred or so in his pocket.

  Just about the time I figured out his scheme, Al got suspicious. He kept looking over at me like, what are you looking at, girlie? Time to go. I started to slip off the stool just as Mountain Man grabbed my arm.

  "Let's dance," he said.

  "I can't. I'm waiting for—"

  "Moose?" Mountain had a skeptical look in his eye. "Your boyfriend's real late, isn't he honey? Let's go."

  It was no time to draw attention to myself. I'd dance one dance, then split. Toby Keith was singing when we got out on the dance floor. Tall though I am, Mountain towered above me. The guy was at least six-feet-six. He wrapped his arms around me tight and started a clumsy two-step. It was like dancing with an over-friendly gorilla. Shuffling around the floor, I nearly smothered. He whispered something in my ear, but Toby's voice boomed so loudly that all I caught was, "go outside."

  "What? I didn't hear you."

  He whispered again. The music still blasted, but "California Gold" came through loud and clear from his lips.

  That did it. When the music stopped I said a fast good night and left him standing on the dance floor. I hurried out of Rosie's and across the parking lot. When I got to my car, I reached in my purse and fumbled for my keys, wishing I hadn't parked on the dark, far side of the lot. Suddenly, I sensed some
one behind me.

  "Why'd you run off for?" Mountain asked. He gripped my arm.

  "I'm going home. Moose stood me up." Damn! Where were my keys?

  "Sure, baby." Mountain started crowding, backing me up against the car.

  My heart started pounding. "Hey! Get away from me, buddy."

  In answer, he pressed harder still. He stuck his hand beneath my chin, forced my head up and kissed me, a hard, vicious kiss that left me breathless and alarmed. He pulled his lips away. I gasped for air, my face stinging from his scratchy beard. He slapped his hand over my mouth. "Scream and I'll kill you." My knees went wobbly. Mountain knew how to get his point across.

  Hand still covering my mouth, he started dragging me towards a grove of Eucalyptus trees at the back of the lot. It was time to use my purple-belt Karate, all twelve months of it, but how? His huge, hairy arms held me like a vice.

  The first thing they teach at Buddy Quan's Rising Sun Karate School is whenever you are attacked, you must not strike unless you are ready. I was not ready. I couldn't even move.

  Sheer desperation hit me as we got closer to the trees. Mountain wasn't planning any picnic in there. If I didn't want to get raped—knifed—strangled—God knew, I'd better act fast. By now, my adrenaline was raging. I managed to pull one arm free. I swung it around and bashed him in the nose with the heel of my hand. It worked! He grunted with surprise, half-way loosening his grip. Encouraged, I cut loose with the heel of my hand again—"to the cup" they said at Buddy Quan's. "To the balls" they meant. It worked again. With a pained, outraged roar, Mountain let me go. I took off running and headed back for the bar. Before I got there, Mountain closed in on me again. He wrapped his arms around me from behind. I bent forward, brought my head back hard and knocked his chin with a tremendous whack! That was supposed to take his concentration off his hands so he would let go, or so they promised at Buddy Quan's, but it didn't work. He yowled, but his grip tightened. I jabbed an elbow to his stomach. He hardly winced.

  We resumed our sentimental journey towards the Eucalyptus trees. This was bad, I realized. This was desperation time. I started panting in terror; there was nothing I could do.