Death by Sarcasm - By Dani Amore Page 0,20

you could probably find it much faster than I could. Go.”

She pushed him away from the bar.

“Then will you leave and never come back?” Fogerty said, and walked over to the pile of thin newspapers. He picked one up, then mumbled under his breath. “Maybe go get some horrible disease and die a miserable death?”

“Stop trying to sweet talk me,” Mary said.

He flipped through the pages, scanning them quickly. Mary took a look around. The place was mostly empty. She pictured her Uncle Brent here, waiting to go on stage for his final performance. She hoped he had gotten at least a few laughs.

“Donny B’s,” Fogerty said. “On Sunset in West Hollywood. Okay?”

“Even though I trust you implicitly, show me,” Mary said. Fogerty held open the paper and Mary saw Jimmy Millis’ name in the rectangle for Donny B’s. She took the paper and headed for the door.

“Please don’t come back. You’re not welcome anytime,” Fogerty said.

“Don’t wait up for me, honey,” Mary answered.

Mary had figured the Leg Pull was at the bottom rung of the comedy club ladder.

She was wrong.

Donny B’s was under the ladder, down a manhole cover, on par with the sewer lines. Small, dirty and nearly empty, Donny B’s looked less like a comedy club and more like a dive biker bar even hobos would be embarrassed to frequent.

Jimmy Millis was on stage. Mary checked her watch. According to the flyer Mr. Greaseball had read for her, he was most likely in the middle of his set. She sat at the bar and ordered a beer. In a bottle. She swiveled on her stool and took in Jimmy’s act.

“And you know what else I love about black women?” he said. All nervous energy on the stage. “It’s okay to insult them. Just don’t do it in their house!” He waved his finger in front of him and raised his voice up a pitch or two. “You gonna say that to me in my house? You got another thing comin, bitch!” There was chuckle or two from the audience, Mary thought. Well, just one.

“So I can call you a mutherfuckin’ ho’ bitch, as long as I stand on the front steps and don’t actually come in the house?” Jimmy said. This time, he was met with dead silence.

Mary turned away from the carnage and took a drink of her beer. She thought about what had happened. Uncle Brent murdered. Barry Olis murdered. One attempt on her life. And a message conveyed by somebody shooting up her Buick.

Robbery certainly wasn’t a motive. The only drugs involved were Viagra. So why the hell would somebody want to murder a couple of washed up comedians? It made no sense. Was the killer just after the Coopers? Did Barry Mitchell become a collateral victim? Mary went through the case again but there was nothing. Nothing she’d missed anyway. But you never knew. You had to just keep plugging away.

Mary took another pull of her beer and glanced back at the stage as a smattering of applause broke out. Jimmy Millis stepped off the stage, wiping his sopping wet face. Nothing makes you sweat like dying on stage, Mary thought.

Jimmy headed straight for her. How could he not, she thought. She stuck out of the crowd so badly, she might as well have been phosphorescent.

“So now you’re going to buy me that drink, baby?” Jimmy said, and plopped onto the bar stool next to her.

“Sure, what the hell,” Mary said. “You must be thirsty after all that hilarity.”

“Yeah, I remember you,” he said. “The one that’s always got something to say.” The bartender set a beer in front of Jimmy.

“Here’s to silence,” Mary said and clinked Jimmy’s bottle.

She watched him drain half the beer in three big swallows. “So now that I’ve bought you a drink,” she said. “Why don’t you tell me who paid you to send me off to Vista del Mar?” she said. Mary watched his reaction closely and recognized the briefest flash of surprise in his eyes. He recovered quickly.

“Fuck no!” he said. “Nobody told me to send you over there! You one of them conspiracy theory people? Aliens landed and shot Kennedy? Oprah is Satan in disguise?”

“Ah, the beauty of true words being spoken.”

“Don’t give me that shit,” he said. “I’m serious. That old dude told me where he lived, like he wanted me to come over and grill some hot dogs with him or somethin’. Maybe he’s into handsome black dudes. Can you blame the poor