The Name of the Rosé

by Christine E. Blum

  “I’ll have to check with the kitchen to see what they are making today, and what about the pup? A perro caliente, perhaps?”

  “Oh, thanks, but no hot dogs for her.”

  Sour, garlicky breath does not make for an endearing dog.

  “You look familiar,” Charlie said to Chloe. “I fly out and back in to here every couple of weeks, but this is my first time eating at this restaurant.”

  “I’ve been working here for almost four years now. Maybe you came in here for a drink one night and saw me?”

  “I don’t think so, but I have flown packages and coolers from this restaurant up to Santa Monica. Perhaps you brought one to my plane?”

  “You mean food? Maybe catering? I’ve never been involved with that.”

  “The last shipment actually contained frozen fish. A cooler was brought to my plane just before takeoff. The guy had on a Casa Machado shirt. Do you guys also have a place near Mar Vista or Santa Monica?”

  “I don’t think so, at least not that I’ve heard. We did have a busboy who was fired a couple of weeks ago. They suspected and finally caught him stealing food and supplies. He was always trying to scam something from someone. Maybe it was him.”

  “Do you know how we can get in touch with him?” I asked, and probably shouldn’t have.

  “No. Like I said, he was a slippery guy. I’ll get your orders in and get back to you about the white fish.”

  “Might have been one question too many, Halsey. She couldn’t get away from us fast enough,” Sally said to me.

  “I knew it the minute it left my mouth. You think she’s keeping something from us or just got spooked by our probing?”

  “Could be both or neither. That’s what makes this so frustrating. We need to get some real evidence.”

  “You’re right, Peggy,” Charlie said. “I’ll do all I can on this end. I do know some guys I’ve heard take up residence on those barstools during happy hour. And I’ll keep trying to figure out why this Chloe looks familiar to me.”

  “I’m afraid our fish shipment hasn’t been delivered yet. Would you like to have chicken or shrimp on your salad?” Chloe said, startling us with her abrupt return.

  “I’ll have the Burrito Ranchero,” I replied. There was no use pretending my interest in the fish wasn’t entirely gastronomical. Was she simply protecting the restaurant from any unsolicited attention, being a loyal employee? Or was she covering for someone like the busboy? Or maybe herself?

  “I’m so stupid. I blew this whole thing, you guys. I feel terrible.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Halsey, you were just trying to help me and Jimmy out.” Sally patted my back while staring out at the action on the runway.

  “Sally’s right,” Peggy agreed. “The important thing is that Chloe’s reaction to our questions was inconsistent with that of someone who had nothing to hide. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, and we’re going to have to rely on Charlie to snuff it out.”

  “I’m your man,” Charlie said with a puffed-out chest.

  We seemed to have run out of conversation once the food arrived, the place had started to get busy and Chloe was clearly done with us. We had to flag down a waiter when we were ready for the check, and he took care of our payment. As we stood, Bardot decided she wanted a souvenir and pulled the napkin out from under her water bowl, spilling its content all over the tile floor.

  “Geez, Bardot,” I said, grabbing the cloth from her and mopping up the water. “We have certainly worn out our welcome. I think we can leave out these back stairs,” I said to the group, and we made a hasty retreat.

  * * *

  We passed the hour before we were to meet Jack by taking a tour of the airport with Charlie in his golf cart. I kept my eyes peeled for anything suspicious, desperate to remedy the botched interrogation and salvage something from this trip. We were riding along the far perimeter of the airport when I noticed a yellow parasol-wing small plane taxiing down the runway.

  “Charlie?” I called from the backseat of the cart.

  There was so much ambient noise from the planes and helicopters that he didn’t hear me. I tapped him on the shoulder and he drove around the side of a hangar, where the noise was muffled.

  “I wanted to ask you about that plane that’s taking off, the yellow one. Do you know if Rusty ever flies down here?”

  Charlie’s eyes followed where I was pointing, but unfortunately, the plane had lifted off and was banking, so we couldn’t see the tail numbers.

  “It’s entirely possible. You think Rusty owns a Pietenpol?”

  “I think so, but I’m trying to prove it.”

  “I can check with the tower later to see if they can identify the plane and its ownership.”

  “Interesting,” Peggy said. “If we can connect this plane to Rusty, we might be able to link it to the one that dive-bombed Halsey. More importantly, it might give us what we need to show Rusty was seen at the airport where the drug shipment originated.”

  “And maybe tie him to Chloe. What if that’s where Charlie had seen her before? Not here, but with Rusty at the Santa Monica airport,” I added.

  “Now that’s a thought.” Peggy was adding up the pieces.

  “Maybe,” Charlie replied.

  “That’s a lot of ifs and maybes.” Sally wasn’t ready to jump on the breakthrough bandwagon.

  We were all drained. The entire day had been an ordeal, and when I saw my amber-eyed redwood of a man stride over to us, I couldn’t resist running into his arms for a good, old-fashioned bear hug.

  * * *

  On the flight home, we all sat mostly in silence. I was up front with Jack, and after I told him about questioning Chloe and pretty much shut down any hope of getting a lead, we had words over me thinking I was a detective. It’s been a bone of contention with us since we met. He is concerned for my safety and thinks I should leave solving crimes to the experts. To some extent he’s right, and in one instance my sleuthing landed me in jail—and we hadn’t spoken for a week. On the other hand, my success rate was two for two, and the Rose Avenue Wine Club had saved a number of innocent people from prison. We’d also stopped a number of seriously guilty people from continuing in their nefarious ways.

  My phone vibrated, and I saw it was Shelly from the aquarium.

  “Hi Shelly, I was hoping to hear from you. Again, I apologize for any trouble I may have caused you with Bardot.”

  She chuckled. “That’s water under the bridge. By the end of the day, everyone was laughing about it, and now we get asked to see the underwater dog.”

  “I’m so glad. Hey, I’m here with a few friends who are also anxious to hear your report. Do you mind if I put you on speaker?”

  “No, go right ahead.”

  Jack handed me the microphone for the intercom and turned it on.

  “Okay, Shelly from the aquarium,” I said for Sally and Peggy’s benefit, “what did the tests on the fish sample say?”

  “We identified the species as Parachromis man-aguensis, or what the locals of Central America call guapote. It’s a freshwater fish, as I suspected, but you’ll want to put air quotes around the word fresh. As the name implies, they come from Lake Managua in Nicaragua. They’re carnivorous and big-time predators, especially for their size of just about fourteen inches.”

  “Ugh, they sound like perfect pets.”

  “Not exactly, Halsey. Now, here’s the deal with Lake Managua, affectionately called one of the most contaminated lakes in the world.”

  Ah, another fan of sarcasm.

  “It presents a constant threat but also a temptation for the poor people of Nicaragua. They know it’s teeming with fish and they’re hungry, but they also know the water they live in is basically a forty-mile-long sewer from years and years of drainage and dumping from the city.”

  We responded with a chorus of “Ew.”

  “Still, out of desperation, some of the neediest people of Managua still live around the lake and eat the fish.”


  “Shelly, this is Jack. Thanks so much for helping us out with this. The results you are giving us are much more specific in terms of location than we ever could have imagined, which is great! Are you confident in the pinpoint of this guapote to that specific lake?”

  “Hi Jack. I’m very confident based on the DNA testing that was done. But in addition, we have a colleague here who is from Nicaragua. Before Eddy came to work at the aquarium, he worked with a US company and the DEA, acting as a guide through the El Brujo Natural Reserve. He confirmed the analysis and told me these fish, because of their abundance and the reticence of customs people to touch them, are easy to ship out of the country with drugs smuggled inside.”

  “Sound like we’ve got one on the hook,” I heard Peggy shout from the back.

  CHAPTER 13

  The long day turned into a long and silent night. Jack still wasn’t speaking to me except for essential communication like, “I’m heading home.” Bardot was equally nonresponsive after her day of what she no doubt considered shenanigans and hijinks. She raced to the bedroom and sprawled out in the center of the bed and was out like a light. I paced and stewed for a bit, but after a quick nip of Glen Garioch 12 single malt, I joined Bardot in rapturous slumber.

  I was woken in the morning by a call from Mary Ann, asking if I’d like to meet her downtown for a tour of the Los Angeles Times offices. Of course I jumped at the offer to experience more of my new home’s history, and I had a pretty good idea she wanted to talk about Jeb. We agreed to meet at eleven-thirty, with lunch to follow. Little did I know at the time that this would be a working lunch.

  I’d been in front of and driven past the Times building on several occasions, usually on my way to a concert at Disney Hall, an early morning trip to the flower market or on a very necessary procurement mission for Slippery Shrimp from Yang Chow in Chinatown. Depending on traffic, it can take as little as fifteen minutes to reach downtown or over an hour if there’s been an accident. I kept promising myself I’d take a Saturday to go there and become a total tourist, but beach going or murder solving always got in the way.

  Located on Times-–Mirror Square, the Los Angeles Times has resided in this building since it opened in 1935. It’s a monumental, grand example of Art Deco architecture as designed by Gordon B. Kaufmann. The outside is adorned with newspaper-style sculptures, a big clock and the words “The Times” etched in the towering limestone façade.

  Though I’d seen photos, my breath was still taken away when I entered the ornate Globe Lobby, named for the metal five-and-a-half-foot globe that sits on a pedestal in the center of the rotunda. Ten-foot murals depicting LA’s history and that of the newspaper business adorn the surrounding walls. I stood in awe and felt a chill being so close to artist Hugo Ballin’s depiction of iconic Los Angeles history. A series showed the process a newspaper undergoes before landing on your doorstep, from a writer working on a typewriter through printing and delivery. Others show scenes from the WPA era, including men working on public buildings, utilities and roads and people in the arts.

  “You know, I’ve been walking through here for over thirty years now and rarely do I stop and do what you’re doing now.”

  I turned in the direction of the voice and saw it was Mary Ann.

  “I’m sorry if I’m late, but I had to take this all in. I’ve learned quite a bit about the history of the Westside and Mar Vista but haven’t had a chance yet to explore the beginnings of Los Angeles here.”

  “Be careful not to say that too loudly. This place is teeming with old men reliving their glory days as Chandler cub reporters. Before you know it, you’ll be plying them with roast beef and old-fashioned cocktails for their stories.”

  She linked arms with me and led me to the elevators. I haven’t spent much time with Mary Ann and I couldn’t help but notice she was in fine spirits today. Maybe this was due to being in her work environment, or maybe it was from something else. I figured I was about to find out.

  “I’m a part-timer now, so I don’t have my own office. The Times keeps workstations for the floaters, as they call us, and today I was able to snag one by a window with an amazing view.”

  She giggled with excitement, and that got me laughing. I knew she could be cutthroat when working a story, but her bright eyes and the bounce in her step made this pixie woman easy to underestimate. Think Sally Field and Evelyn Salt combined and you’ll get the picture.

  As much as I embrace all things digital, I’m still a sucker for the printed word. I realize every morning that the newspaper I’m reading contains stories that were pushed to me almost a day before on my phone, but I still treat them with respect. These people paved the way for me to know the second a Kardashian lands at LAX or which third-world country has just had a coup. So as long as there’s a newspaper to be read, I’ll buy it.

  Mary Ann gave me the nickel tour of her floor and introduced me to the reporters and researchers for the various sections. I immediately recognized the respect and admiration they had for her, and I wondered if roast beef and an old-fashioned would be my price of admission to hear her stories. Certainly worth a try.

  “And this is where I call home today. I’m just polishing a piece I’ve been working on about municipal airports, including, coincidently, ours in Santa Monica. I could be doing this from home, but frankly, I miss the camaraderie around here. Plus, spending too much time with Jeb is exhausting.”

  “I don’t blame you. If I had a view like this from my desk, I’d be here every day too,” I said, staring out at the palm trees and City Hall.

  “Have a seat, Halsey. I also managed to scrounge up a guest chair, something that’s really a premium around here.”

  I settled in, noticing the very transient feel to Mary Ann’s desk. I’d imagined she’d be the kind of office worker to adorn her space with memories and inspiration. A photo with Mayor Tom Bradley, a signed Dodger baseball, maybe a pressed flower from Jeb. But the only personal item on her workstation today was a fob with her car keys.

  “I figured you’d enjoy coming here, and I wanted to talk to you alone, which isn’t always easy on Rose Avenue,” she began. “I have a confession of sorts to make.”

  I nodded and figured she needed to experience the catharsis of telling me about Jeb, so I let her continue while subtly letting on that I had no plans to involve the authorities on this matter.

  “When I’m not on my laptop for work, Jeb and I share the same computer at home. I hopped on a few days ago to send some links to my nephew, who’s getting ready to look at colleges. That’s when I saw that Jeb had left an email open on the screen from an organization calling itself Medications Without Borders. Well they should add Without Prescriptions. You know me: I had to check these people out. Jeb’s heart was in the right place. He’d read about the dire need that missions have in Los Angeles for healing drugs, so he first approached his contacts in the pharmaceutical industry. When that didn’t pan out as quickly as he would have liked, he got the idea that, being a chemist, he would make the drugs himself. I guess when I was at work one day there was a small fire in the kitchen, and that scared him off that path. So, he went online. I saw you in Watts that day, so you know how this story ends.”

  That took me by surprise. Mary Ann really is good; I’ll have to remember that for future spy missions.

  “First, I want you to know that I would never have told anyone about this, especially the cops. As far as I’m concerned, the matter is between you and Jeb.”

  She looked at me, expecting me to say more.

  “Marisol knows that as well, and as slippery as she can be, she knows how to keep a secret. We have several between us.”

  “Whew. I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear this, Halsey. Jeb’s a good man, he really is . . . it’s just that since he’s retired, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. I would go a little nutty too. I need to keep busy and that’s why I still work part-time. The same day he was at the mission, I confronted Jeb. He understood he cou
ldn’t go on dispensing medicine that way. We spent the next day sourcing legitimate, regulated organizations and identified some great prospects. He’s been interviewing them.”

  “Perfect. Consider the matter closed. Augie knows he has nothing substantive to tie Sally to that package, so eventually he’ll have to let that go. Now, the heroin is another matter, and I was hoping you could help me with that. I suspect once we solve who’s dealing these drugs, we’ll also know who murdered Jonas.”

  “Now you’re barking up my kind of tree,” Mary Ann said, firing up her laptop.

  I filled her in on our trip to San Diego and the possible connection to Rusty at our airport. The work she’d been doing for her article on local airports dovetailed well with what I needed. The next thing I knew, it was already one o’clock, and the food Mary Ann had ordered had arrived.

  She’d made it clear that no visit to Downtown was complete without feasting on the famous #19 pastrami sandwich from Langer’s Deli. I smiled politely, thinking deep down that it couldn’t possibly come close to the Reuben from the Carnegie Deli in New York, which I used to need to eat at least once a week. Boy, was I wrong.

  “You may want to look away; this isn’t going to be pretty,” I told Mary Ann as I felt Russian dressing and coleslaw escape the corner of my mouth.

  She giggled. “Enjoy it, Halsey. I knew you would.”

  “Om nom” was about all I could manage to respond.

  “Let me try to summarize what I’ve learned that could have bearing on this case.”

  Again, all I could do was nod, the combination of soft bread and crunchy crust serving as the perfect platform for savory pastrami and warm, gooey Swiss cheese. I thought that even if I had a glass of wine in front of me, I probably wouldn’t stop to take a sip because this was so good. Or not.

  “As you know, at general aviation airports, planes aren’t searched unless the pilots consent or officials have probable cause warrants. They need enough evidence to show that a crime has been committed. This seldom happens at the stage where small planes are flying within the United States. The place where most of the drug smuggling is detected is at the border—mostly Mexico, in our case—where warrants aren’t required for a search.”