Disco's Dead and so is Mo-Mo (Triple Threat Mysteries Book 6)

Book summary

In "Disco's Dead and so is Mo-Mo," the Triple Threat Investigation Agency faces their most perilous case yet as they delve into the mystery of mobster Mo-Mo Martine's disappearance during the disco era. When Mo-Mo's body resurfaces in Oahu, an associate's request puts them on the trail to prove Johnny B's innocence. With a host of enemies and the elusive Death Angel looming, the P.I.s must unravel the secrets hidden in old photos to crack the case before more lives are lost.

Excerpt from Disco's Dead and so is Mo-Mo (Triple Threat Mysteries Book 6)

“So, that’s it, huh?” my cousin Rey asked, her strawberry-tinted lips pulling into a sucking-on-an-unripe-persimmon pucker.

“That’s it,” Detective Ives, more commonly called Ald by the three of us, private investigators from the Triple Threat Investigation Agency.

Dressed in a retro bowling shirt and jeans, and Converse runners, he was on his way to playing with the station team when Dr. Franklin Smithers called and said he had Sammy Mo-Mo Martine on a gurney … or rather what was left of him. Given our house was on the way to the bowling alley—"sorta, kinda” per Rey—he’d swung by.

Seated in the kitchen, our most popular room, the handsome detective, reminiscent of Viggo Mortensen in Eastern Promises, reiterated what we’d already heard: Sammy Mo-Mo Martine’s shriveled, stooped mummified body, had been found in a water storage drum not far from Bellows Field Beach Park. This had those at the morgue placing under-the-table bets (gambling was illegal, after all, on the Islands) on how the mobster ended up on the other side of the world after having gone missing in Montreal a few decades ago.

“Franklin’s got twenty,” Ald advised wryly, sipping Perrier from the bottle and watching Button, my rescue dog—a mix of Havanese, Schnoodle and Chacy Ranoir—pad over to her water bowl. Immediately behind was Piggaletto, Linda’s pot-bellied pig, and behind the porker hopped Bonzo, Rey’s Checkered Giant rabbit.

“And you?” Linda asked with an amused smile.

“Fifty.”

“What’s your theory?” I asked, getting up to get “kiddie” treats from the far kitchen cupboard in our five-bedroom house.

“A fellow mobster, vying for Sammy Mo-Mo Martine’s turf, ‘shipped’ the guy over here to make sure he’d never be found.”

“They failed,” Rey noted flatly.

“Given the timeframe, maybe yes, maybe no,” he said, tilting his head one way and then the other. “Four decades bury a lot of secrets.”

“What does cutie-pie Franklin know so far?”

Ald eyed my cousin’s flashy rhinestone-encrusted pineapple earrings (she’d developed a thing for them a few months back and, now, [frequent] sales expeditions resulted in purses and/or shoes and earrings). “Two 9x19mm Parabellums—courtesy of a Beretta 92—were parked in Mo-Mo’s skull, one in the drum, and a costly if not flashy gold cigarette lighter was tucked in what was left of—”

“Maybe the murderer’s,” Rey interjected excitedly, then held up a hand. “No, can’t be. The dude was probably murdered back in Canada. Maybe it belongs to the body-stuffer.”

“He’d have to have been pretty careless, letting it slip into the drum,” Linda pointed out, her expression skeptical.

I had to agree. “Anything special about it?”

The handsome detective nodded. “It had the initials JTV in diamonds on it.”

“JTV?” Rey mused aloud, staring through the window into a cloudy day.

“Johnny Tino Vespuzzi,” Ald stated.

“Right. A fellow mobster back when.”

He nodded again. “JTV could belong to a number of individuals, or have been an acronym, but a tubular meat design etched into the gold alongside the initials seems a certain giveaway.”

We eyed him blankly.

“Johnny’s nickname? Baloney? Remember?”

Rey gave a thumb’s up, then her brow creased. “But how—wow. This is getting weird.”

“It gets weirder, if you consider that Vespuzzi’s family lives here.”

“Really?” Linda asked, stunned. “How come we never heard of any mob-related incidents—”

“The sons, Johnny Junior and Tino Tony, have always stayed on the up-and-up. So have Johnny Baloney’s—uh, Vespuzzi’s—brothers, Domenic and Carmen. In fact, the two opened up Coco-Neesey’s in 1979 and have done pretty well since.”

“Oh, I like those,” Rey stated breezily. “Who’d have thought cheeses and coconuts would work so well together?”

Ald grimaced. “Evidently, they did.”

“And the sons work there, as well?” I asked.

“Tino Tony, known as TT, has worked there since he graduated high school. Johnny Junior—”

“JJ, right?” Rey threw forth with a simper.

“JoJu, actually.”

She snorted and rolled her eyes.

“He runs Johnny B’s with the brothers’ two cousins, Antoinetta Valentina and Pietro Liberace.” Noticing Rey’s you’re-pulling-our-legs expression, he nodded once. “That’s right. His folks were fans of the lavish performer.”

Rey snorted again and he continued. “The place nearly went under after Vespuzzi’s death, but Domenic stepped in, reassigned the cousins with roles more befitting their skills and interests, and helped keep it going before he returned full-time to Coco-Neesey’s.”

“Johnny B’s Bestacular Baloney,” Linda nodded. “I’m not much for processed meats, but the herb-infused and garlic-saturated ones are pretty good.”

“Doesn’t he have an olive-speckled one?” Rey queried, bemused. “And a broccoli-brie one? I think I tried that. It was tasty.”

I winced. “Didn’t Johnny die not long after establishing the factory?”

Ald’s smile was grim. “Flattened by a frantic flock of feral goats. It was 1985, I believe.”

“What a way to go,” Rey murmured.

“That’s herd or tribe, by the by, not flock,” Linda pointed out. “They weren’t commercial or purebred.”

“You say herd, I say flock. Either way, it wasn’t pretty.” He chuckled darkly. “But it made for some great late-night TV jokes.”

Before we could respond, a mourning dove announced a call.

Ald raised a shaped eyebrow.

“She’s back into bird calls,” Linda told him, grabbing my cell phone from the windowsill and passing it over.

“Better than those dog barks last month,” Rey said with a shake of the head.

He grinned and got up.

I held up a hand. “Yes … yes, we can meet with you. At six, for dinner, sure. Sven’s, okay. We’ll find it. See you then, Harry.”

“Harry?” Linda asked when I disconnected.

“Harry the Hoarse.”

“Really?” my colleagues asked in unison, eyebrows arched.

Ald appeared equally surprised. “What’s that bookie-slash-limb-breaker calling you for?”

Harry the Hoarse was someone we’d met during our Coco’s Nuts case, so called because, when riled, Harry yelled and shouted to the point of hoarseness. The avid golfer and flashy dresser—and limb-breaker, bet-maker, among other things—lived on Oahu most of the time but also spent time in Vegas.

“Besides being a cousin of Gail’s, he’s also related to the Vespuzzis; his sister, Ennis, is married to Domenic.”

“Small world,” Ald said with a shrug. “I wonder why Gail never mentioned that.”

“She doesn’t tend to mention Harry much, so why would she share that?” Rey asked saltily.

Gail Murdock, who worked for Ald as HPD Administrative Specialist, had become a close friend and often helped us out when we were information gathering (or doing a bit of B&E).

Ald snorted softly. “Guess I wouldn’t, either.”

“What does he want?” Linda queried, taking a sip of iced herbal tea.

“To talk to us about finding out what happened to Mo-Mo. He doesn’t want the Vespuzzi name being ‘sullied’ because of a stupid lighter.”

“How’d he hear about that?”

“The guy’s got ears in all the right places,” Ald grumbled.

“Except for the initialed lighter,” Rey said with a frown, “nothing actually points to Vespuzzi.”

“Anyone could have put it there. Or had one made to frame him.” I met Ald’s keen gaze. “You’ll let us know what they find out about Mo-Mo?”

“If you keep me informed about Harry and this case you’ll likely become involved in,” he smirked. “No one says ‘no’ to Harry.”

Didn’t we “no” it?

***

Rey, Linda, and I had donned similar attire for our dinner meeting with Harry: black pants and white blouses. While Linda and I sported flats, Rey wore strappy sandals, adding 4” to her lanky 5’10” frame. Linda and I had also done our hair in wrapped high ponytails. Rey’s wheat-colored hair with sunshine-yellow streaks hair was now elbow-length; usually, she wore it loose or in braids (a very recent “new look”), but today it was pinned up with gold butterfly clips. Subtle and professional.

We’d arrived at the small trattoria, simply called Sven’s, ten minutes early and had been ushered to a corner table with a floral-print tablecloth situated by a tall narrow window and large Etruscan-styled urn (one of four). The small zucchini-yellow room held two-dozen tables of varying sizes and shapes. All were empty except ours. A few watercolors of Italian landscapes painted by an amateur hand lined the walls. Despite the minimal adornment, the establishment held a degree of warmth and comfort, and the scents of herbs and garlic excited the palate.

A tall attractive man of sixty strolled over and stopped before our table and bowed like a musketeer in a royal court. With his lustrous white hair and mustache, he reminded me of suave Cesar Romero. He introduced himself as Sven, the owner, and advised that Harry would arrive ten-fifteen minutes later than planned, courtesy of a flat tire. “Allow me to offer you lovely ladies a plate of stuzzichini. Negroni would be nice to start with, yes?”

“Yes,” Rey murmured, unable to stop staring.

He winked, bowed again, and left.

“Negroni?” she asked the swinging kitchen door.

“It’s an Italian cocktail,” Linda explained. “Gin, Campari, and Red Martini.”

“With a twist of orange, if I’m not mistaken,” I added.

“He’s really good looking for an old guy,” my cousin purred, staring at the kitchen door.

“Down girl,” Linda chuckled.

Rey drew a quick breath, tossed her head, and glanced past the window, onto the quiet dimly lit street. There was little foot traffic and very few cars. “This place is kinda in the middle of nowhere.”

I glanced around the empty room. “I wonder how it manages to stay in business.”

Sven re-entered, followed by a man dressed in cocoa-brown pants, a satiny brocaded vest and crisp white shirt, carrying a tray with three drinks. “This is Albano, my nephew.”

The thirty-year-old nodded, placed the drinks before us, and returned to the kitchen.

“I’m very fortunate to have you—and Harry—all to myself this evening.”

Rey’s grass-green eyes widened. “Harry reserved the restaurant just for us?”

“And his new assistant, Duke.” Sven motioned a round table in the east corner. “He and the chauffeur, Tom, will sit there.”

“I’m impressed … I think.”

Sven’s laughter was reminiscent of a conga drum being struck with a relaxed hand. Soft yet potent. “Enjoy—ah, perfect. My nephew has your stuzzichini.” With a wave, he left.

We sipped the cocktails and found them delightful, as were the “bites”: Parma ham with fresh melon, walnuts and sliced pears, and Milanese-styled goat-cheese balls. The plate was empty by the time Harry waltzed in, followed by Duke and Tom.

“Snazzy,” Rey said, gesturing the Sharkskin gray suit.

“You like?” Harry asked as he took a seat and ran hands through his ash-gray, classic Joe-Penny styled coif.

“Very.”

“My new tailor, Kenny, is the best,” he singsonged. He jerked a thick manicured thumb (baby-pink nail polish this time) at the table Sven had gestured and Duke and Tom quickly ambled over. “I hope you don’t mind me ordering for us, but I know what Sven’s chef, Ticco, excels at.” He eyed the finished drinks and filliped Albano, standing by the kitchen like a sentry at his station. “Four more, please. And two sparkling waters for my guys.”

Albano hastened to his bidding.

“Let’s enjoy dinner first and get down to business after.”

Linda smiled amiably. “I always took you for a business-first-and-foremost kind of guy.”

“I make an exception for dinner at Sven’s.” He inhaled deeply and relaxed visibly.

“We’ve waited forty years for Mo-Mo to be found, so what’s forty more minutes?”