Free Death by Sarcasm by Dani Amore

his wallet and was carefully selecting a bill. Mary reached in, grabbed a handful of fifties and shoved them into Jimmy’s shirt pocket.
    “Hey…” Braggs said.
    “What are you worried about?” Mary said. “Bill it to Visa.”
    “Visa?” Jimmy said. “I thought I recognized that voice. You the Visa dude?”
    Jimmy looked at Mary, then back to Braggs, then down the front of his shirt which was streaked with blood.
    “Always hated those fuckin’ commercials.”
    Mary pulled the Accord into the parking lot of Chez Jay’s, a dive bar on Ocean with a legendary pedigree. Supposedly Steve McQueen had gotten a blow job from Allie McGraw in the infamous back booth. Now, it was mostly made up of tourists and business people from one of the many hotels across the street. The occasional star popped in, when they decided to go slumming.
    She had told Braggs to meet her here as they both hurried to their cars, away from Jimmy bloody Millis and the encroaching sirens.
    Mary’s hands shook as she shut the car off and thought about what Braggs had done. It had worked, she had gotten a good lead, but still. That strongarm bullshit rarely worked. And all that racist crap was just plain wrong. It sickened Mary. All that garbage typically got you a couple nights in jail, and if you were a p.i., a fond farewell to your license.
    Headlights splashed across the painted mural on the cinderblock wall of Chez Jay’s. It was some kind of mermaid riding a wave.
    Mary glanced over and saw Braggs behind the wheel of a sleek black Bentley 8, the two-door coupe that everyone who was anyone now drove in L.A. Mary shook her head. Figures. The sick thing was, Braggs fit the car perfectly.
    She chastised herself. How could she not have seen Braggs tailing her from Aunt Alice’s to Donny B’s? That was sloppy and amateurish. The words made her grind her teeth. She got out and leaned against the back of her Accord. Braggs stepped out, set the alarm on the Bentley and walked over to her.
    “I always liked this place. Did you ever hear that story about Steve McQueen…”
    Mary stepped in front of him.
    “I want you to close your Visa sounding piehole,” Mary said. “And listen to me.”
    Braggs raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow.
    “You will not follow me again,” she said. “You will not continue any active role in this investigation. You are my client. Not my partner. If you further impede my inquiries I will cease our business relationship and keep your retainer. And somewhere in there I may have to kick your liver-spotted ass.”
    Braggs smirked at her. “I don’t think ‘impede’ is an accurate depiction of my contributions to the investigation thus far…”
    “This is not open for debate.”
    “Augment. Enhance. Improve,” Braggs said, ignoring her. “Those would be far better descriptions of my role…”
    “Racist Jackass would be a far better description of you…”
    Braggs held up one of his beautifully manicured hands. Mary guessed that he’d carefully wiped the blood off before he’d gotten into his car. Probably with a monogrammed silk handkerchief.
    “Say no more, Ms. Cooper. I shall inconspicuously retreat into the scenery.”
    Mary shook her head. He sounded like a Shakespearean trained actor. A few minutes back, he sounded like some nasty, racist cop from Serpico.
    Mary turned and got back into her car.
    As she was about to back out, Braggs rapped lightly on her window. She rolled it down.
    “Are you sure you don’t want to have a drink?”
    “Nah,” Mary said. “This place is for has-beens.”

Thirteen
    S he did want a drink, she just didn’t want to have one with Braggs, Mr. Dual Personality. She wondered, did Visa realize the voice of their company was a complete psycho?
    All she really wanted to do was relax in front of her fireplace and have some wine. Mary stopped at a little market a block or so from her condo. They had a good selection of wine and the only drawback was Julia Roberts always went