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 Uncle Brent was quite the ladies’ man. If there was something she could feel good about, it was that Brent probably had one helluva good time before he checked out for good.
“Frankly, I’m shocked you might have needed some help with women,” Mary said. “I figured you’d tested more mattresses than Serta.”
Cecil looked at her and Mary could tell he wasn’t sure if it was a legitimate compliment or a whole hearted rip.
“Well…” he said, unsure if a modest agreement or honest denial was in order.
“So he helped you score,” she said, urging him on and desperately trying not to picture him naked.
“You’re pretty blunt, aren’t you?”
“Nah, I’m as delicate as Ming vase,” she said. “So get to the part about Uncle Brent helping you with a booty call.”
If sheepishness could be personified, Cecil Fogerty was now it. “Anyway,” he said. “I let Brent and his buddy come in, do their thing, and I’d slip Brent like, a hundred bucks, maybe two hundred depending on the size of the crowd and how his stuff went over.”
Mary let out a low whistle. “Two hundred bucks, huh?” she said, knowing it was probably only half that. “How do you keep this place running handing out that kind of dough?”
“Between Brent and the bar, it was a wash,” Cecil said. “But like I said…”
“You owed him,” Mary finished.
Cecil shrugged his shoulders in compliance.
“So you said ‘Brent and his buddy.’ What’s the buddy’s name?”
“No clue – never met him. I hired Brent.”
For once, Cecil took his eyes off Mary’s body. That’s how she knew he was lying.
“Ah, the truth has such a nice ring to it,” Mary said.
Cecil gave her a blank stare.
It pissed her off. Her uncle was dead. Had been cut open a stone’s throw from this shithole of an office, and guys like Cecil Fogerty were still walking around.
“So you don’t even know his name. You let a comic onstage, without even knowing anything about him at all? Never saw him do some material? Come on. I’m not as stupid as you look,” she said.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. “I hire the guys, I don’t follow them home after they do their sets,” Cecil said, feigning exasperation. He looked at Mary, let his eyes run up and down her body. “Maybe I could come up with something…you know…if you want to have a drink with me.” He smiled at her. Mary shuddered.
“Well, that’s really tempting, Cecil, really tempting,” she said. She felt the bile rise in her throat, but she forced it back down. “I bet you could put that little ‘stache of yours to good use, couldn’t you?”
Cecil grinned like he’d hit the MegaBall jackpot.
“We have a few drinks, I show you around the upstairs, where I’ve got this cool suite…” he started to say.
Mary paused for just a moment. She could let him buy her a drink, finesse a few more stories about Brent out of him. Maybe even let him take her up to his suite for just a moment if she felt he had more information. She thought about that for just a moment and then pulled her stainless steel ParaOrdnance .45 from her shoulder holster. She took out a handkerchief from her front pocket and wiped down the body of the gun, casually, as if she were cleaning her