Romeo's Town (Mike Romeo Thrillers Book 6)

by James Scott Bell

  I drove to Ira’s.

  He runs his law office out of his house in the Los Feliz district. It’s like a second home. Heck, my only home, the place I was housed when I first got to L.A., running ahead of the shadows chasing me.

  Ira told me the D.A. was going for the max on Clint. Unless he sang, as the cons put it. The primary reason, Ira explained, was because of the drug involved.

  “It’s a new street drug,” Ira said. “Vector Dust. The name comes from some zombie-like creatures that were in some old TV series. Take it, and you get to be a zombie for awhile.”

  “It’s nice to give kids goals,” I said.

  “It’s not to be trifled with,” Ira said. “It’s from a family of drugs called cathinones, a stimulant from the plant khat, popular in Somalia. But they’ve added something, a derivative of crystal meth, which intensifies everything. You get really high, you hallucinate, but paranoia is the cost, and screaming out-of-your-head episodes. Kids have been jumping off buildings. A boy of twelve set himself on fire.”

  I had to pause a moment over that bit of news.

  Finally, I said, “Mexican cartel?”

  “Don’t think so. It’s made in America, just like Budweiser.”

  “Bikers?”

  “Could be,” Ira said.

  “How did a low-level kid like Clint get into this?”

  “That’s the question. But he won’t tell us.”

  “Any way to stop him from pleading guilty?”

  “Technically, he’ll need us to consent to the plea,” Ira said.

  “And if we don’t?”

  “He could fire us and represent himself.”

  “But he’s just a kid.”

  Ira said, “If the court determines he’s competent to understand what’s going on, there’s nothing to stop him. Some jailhouse lawyer is going to tell him he has that option, if he hasn’t already.”

  “What about his mother? Doesn’t she have a say?”

  “You mean parental rights over a minor child? That has gone the way of the Dodo, Michael.”

  “Ah, yes. And society is so much better for it.”

  “Now you’re lamenting.”

  “Observing,” I said.

  “Well, why don’t we observe our case as long as we’re still attached to it? What have you got?”

  I summarized my interviews with Trista Cunningham and Bianca Aiken. Then showed him Clint’s notebook. He looked at a few pages.

  “The poetry gets darker as we move along in time,” I said. “And then we get to this.”

  I turned to the skull drawing. “TBD. To Be Done or To Be Determined.”

  Ira shook his head. “That’s corporate-speak, not what a troubled sixteen-year-old would write.”

  “His mom uses those letters, so maybe he picked up on it.”

  “Maybe.”

  “And here’s his laptop,” I said.

  “I’ll have a look,” Ira said.

  “Think you can get in?”

  He gave me his who-do-you-think-you’re-talking-to look.

  “Now this.” I showed him the phone photo of the Porsche, the one that had dropped Bianca off at her house.

  “Give me a few minutes on this one.” Ira’s background in intelligence makes him adept at finding things in the ether. He started tapping the keyboard. When he does this, it’s like Mozart jotting notes. You don’t bother Mozart. I wandered over to his bookshelf—which doesn’t have a single uninteresting volume in it—closed my eyes and ran my finger across the spines. I stopped on one and looked. It was Longfellow’s translation of Dante’s Inferno.

  Perfect. When I was sixteen at Yale, I read the Divina Commedia in Italian. It rhymes perfectly in the original, but that’s easier in Italian as almost all their words end in vowels. Longfellow made the wise choice in not forcing rhymes while keeping the cadence of the poet.

  I started reading.

  Midway upon the journey of life

  I found myself within a forest dark,

  For the straightforward pathway had been lost.

  Right there with you, Dante old sport!

  “Here we go,” Ira said.

  “Wait a second,” I said. “I’m entering hell.”

  “Not if I can help it,” Ira said. “Listen. Car is owned by a Gavin McGuane.” Ira did more tapping. “Address in Simi Valley. Ooh, very tony. Gated community.”

  “Must live with mommy and daddy.”

  “Let’s see what we can find out on social media,” Ira said.

  “Talk about entering hell.”

  “Pish. Okay, let’s see… Interesting. He’s the son of Shane McGuane.”

  “Is that supposed to mean something?” I said.

  “Shane McGuane is the actor. Remember him?”

  “No.”

  Ira looked at the monitor as he scrolled around. “He did that detective show fifteen years ago, Dolan.”

  “Rings a bell.”

  “Looks like he’s trying for a comeback,” Ira said. “Raising money for an indie film. Has a Kickstarter going.”

  “Anything more about his son?”

  “Let’s see… Facebook… Instagram… if you want to have a look at this go ahead.”

  “The sea of narcissism? No thanks.”

  “Not feeling social, eh?”

  “What good does it do? Present company excepted, of course.”

  Ira put on his rabbinical face—a furrowed brow and concerned expression. “At some point you’ve got to take risks with other people.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “It’s called living. And loving.”

  I clapped Dante shut. “Go on.”

  “Like with Sophie,” Ira said.

  I shook my head and sat down. “Don’t move like that.”

  “Like what?” Ira said.

  “From rabbi to matchmaker.”

  “What if she is the one, Michael?”

  “The one what?”

  “The one for you. Everybody needs a one.”

  “Now you sound like a Hallmark card.”

  “See?” Ira said. “There you go. Always defensive.”

  “That’s how you keep alive in this world.”

  “It’s not much of a life if you’re all alone.”

  “Spare me your Talmudic chatter,” I said, more biting than I meant it to be.

  But Ira, bless him, let it slide off his back.

  “By the way, I got a call from LAPD,” he said. “You knocked out a fellow with a book?”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Oh, that?”

  “He was holding a knife.”

  “But with a book?”

  “It was handy. It was Harold Bloom.”

  “Ah. Well at least Bloom finally served a good purpose.”

  “So what about the LAPD?”

  “A detective has some follow-up questions. He’d like you to call him.”

  Ira handed me one of his own cards. On the back he’d written a phone number and a name, Detective Coltrane Smith.

  “I’ll give him a call when I get good and ready,” I said.

  “Michael.”

  “And you’re not finished yet,” I said. “I’ve got another puzzle for you.”

  “You sound like an Oompa Loompa,” Ira said.

  “You’re going Willy Wonka on me?”

  “Why not?”

  “Then find me Brian Cunningham. He has a company called Cunningham Drywall. Think you can locate a build site where he might be working?”

  “Does Willy Wonka like chocolate?” Ira said.

  “I’ll be out back with Dante,” I said.

  I went out to Ira’s backyard. When I first got to L.A. this was my Eden, my garden spot, my little piece of peace in the world. There’s a tree in the middle of the yard, with a padded bench underneath the glossy leaves and elegant white flowers of the magnolia grandiflora.

  I called Detective Smith and left a voicemail, then stretched out on the bench and opened Dante’s epic poem. I got to
Canto III and the gates of hell. Through me you pass into the city of woe: Through me you pass into eternal pain… All hope abandon ye who enter here. That’d make a nice sign on the 101 as you roll into L.A. County.

  Before I could get deeper into the abyss, Detective Smith called me back.

  “Good time to talk?” he said.

  “Perfect. I was about to descend into hell.”

  Pause. “O-kay. Just wanted to follow up with you on the incident yesterday.”

  “You mean the attack?”

  “Actually, you stopped it before it became an attack. Technically, the only attack came from you.”

  “That’s my rule,” I said.

  “You have a rule?”

  “Five, actually. This was just one of them.”

  “I guess I should ask what that rule is, seeing as how I’m investigating this thing.”

  “Yes you should,” I said. “My rule is, Do it to them before they do it to you. Or to somebody else.”

  Pause. “You have an unorthodox manner.”

  “This I have been told.”

  “There are a few things you need to know,” Smith said. “The guy you took down is Sammie Sand. He is from a less than desirable family. The Sands have been known to try intimidation against witnesses.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, a couple of months ago Sammie’s older brother, Brock, was up on a battery charge. He slapped around a young woman named Rowena. He didn’t like the way she looked at him in a store, so he waited for her and followed her to her car and gave her a couple with the back of his hand. No witnesses, but Rowena was ready to testify. But at jury selection Sammie and his oldest brother, Adam—”

  “How many of these Sand fleas are crawling around?”

  “Four, including the father.”

  “He must be a great dad,” I said.

  “Oh yeah. Did a dime at Pelican Bay.”

  “The future of America is in good hands.”

  Detective Coltrane Smith got back to business. “So Sammie and Adam came to jury selection and sat there glaring at Rowena on the other side of the courtroom. Next thing you know she’s telling the deputy D.A. she’s not going to testify, and if they make her take the stand she’ll lie. A case like this depends on the victim’s testimony.”

  “Sure.”

  “We did all we could to convince her we’d protect her, but she didn’t buy any of it. The case gets tossed. Only later did we learn that Sammie made a W sign with his fingers and touched his crotch. That’s what Rowena saw.”

  “Meaning?”

  “She has a younger sister named Wanda. Sammie was telling her what the Sand boys were going to do to Wanda.”

  “So there’s your proof,” I said. “What more do you need?”

  “A witness,” Smith said. “Only Rowena saw the gesture.”

  My head was starting to buzz. “So these lowlifes get away with everything?”

  “We’ll get Sammie on something. But I wanted to give you a heads-up about these guys.”

  “How about I give them a heads-up about me?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Put me in a cell with Sammie and leave us alone for half an hour.”

  “I don’t think that would look good to the D.A.”

  “Does any law look good to the D.A.?”

  “Not going there, Mr. Romeo.”

  “Wait a second,” I said. “The case against that other Sand brother, the one with Rowena.”

  “Right. Brock Sand.”

  “You said the case got tossed.”

  “Yep.”

  “Then why would Sammie go after Wanda anyway?”

  “Slash and run,” Smith said.

  “How’s that?”

  “It’s a white supremacist thing. Slash the face of a black girl, then get away. Proves you have the juice, as they say.”

  “Still doesn’t make sense to me,” I said. “Sammie’d have to know it’d be easy to connect him to Wanda.”

  “It may be he wants to go into the joint.”

  “Proving his juice?” I said.

  “That, and smuggling drugs in via his rectal canal.”

  “Now there’s a fun search.”

  After the call I dropped back into hell with Dante and Virgil. I kept wondering what circle people like the Sands should be in. I wondered if it came down to it, I’d be speeding their arrival.

  Ira called to me. “I’ve got that info you wanted. Who’s your Willy Wonka, son?”

  It was getting late, but I chanced it anyway. There was a new build on Dixie Canyon Avenue, south of Ventura, in Encino. It’s the one Ira flagged after finding work-site permits cross-referencing subcontractors, one of which was Cunningham Drywall.

  The house was in the latter stages of construction. The exterior was yet to be painted and there were plastic sheets taped over the glassless windows. The front door was open and I could see a couple of guys in coveralls were inside. From this I deduced that Brian Cunningham was somewhere on the premises. It helped that a big, black pickup in the driveway had Cunningham Drywall stenciled on the door. I’m sharp that way.

  I stepped up to the open door and knocked on the frame. The two workers shot me a look. One of them was standing on a stepladder. The other one, stockier, had his hand on the wall, as if he were pushing it in place.

  “Brian Cunningham?” I said.

  The stocky guy said, “Yeah?”

  “My name’s Mike Romeo. I work for the lawyer representing your son.”

  He paused a moment, then looked back to his work. “What for?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “Nope.” To the other guy he said, “Go ahead and tape it.” The guy took out a roll of tape and started to apply a strip.

  “Would you like to hear about it?” I said.

  “Nope.”

  I waited until they finished the tape job, putting on my best I’m-not-leaving-until-we-talk look. It must have worked because Brian Cunningham came over to me, wiping his hands on the front of his coveralls.

  “All right,” he said. “What’s it about?”

  “Clint’s in juvi.”

  “On what charge?”

  “Possession for sale.”

  “Great. Fantastic.” He cursed and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. I waited while he lit up and blew a plume of smoke into the Los Angeles air.

  He said, “You have a kid, you think he could be something. You’ll teach him to play baseball and maybe he’ll have an arm and make it to the pros. Or maybe he’ll work with you and take over your business someday.”

  “He’s only sixteen,” I said. “There’s still time.”

  He took a drag on his cig. “What do you want from me?”

  “Is there anything you might know about any of Clint’s friends or acquaintances that might be a clue about what he’s into?”

  “Nope.” He thought a moment. “I think he has a girlfriend.”

  “Had,” I said.

  “Messed that up too?”

  “You think he messes up?”

  “Last few years, yes.”

  I wanted to say, Have you been there for him? Have you acted like a father? Have you tried to work with who he is instead of who you want him to be?

  But since I knew the answers were all no, I said, “Maybe you should arrange to see him.”

  “Why?”

  “You have to ask?”

  He frowned and gave his cigarette another pull. “I’m going back to work now.”

  I handed him one of Ira’s cards. “If anything occurs to you, please give us a call.”

  He shrugged, put the card in his pocket, flipped his cigarette out to the driveway, and walked back inside the house.

  I drove down to Ventura Boulevard to get something to eat. My taste buds requested a pastrami on rye. That brought to mind Jerry’s Famous Deli, a Valley eatery for over forty years. But following right behind that thought was another—that Jerry’s was out of business, another victim of
lockdown liquidation. So it’s not even open for take out. It has itself been taken out.

  I didn’t grow up here, but when you come to stay in L.A. it adopts you. It’s a wild crazy aunt of a town, dressed up in boas and bangles and laughing too loud, sometimes getting angry for no apparent reason and throwing a screaming fit, only to calm down and pull you in for a forgiving embrace even though you haven’t done anything to be forgiven for. But you forget about that because she’s taken you in and shown you good times, the best times of your life. She takes you to the beach at sundown to listen to the waves, to the hills of Hollywood to look down at Dreamtown, to Melrose to eat, to the Valley to stretch out, to downtown where the old buildings offer a friendly how-do-you-do.

  And then one day you wake up and she’s gone. Without a note. You listen for the laughter and it isn’t there. You wonder if she’s dead. You wonder if there’ll be a resurrection, and if there is will she be Zombie town, with sagging flesh and lifeless eyes? Will she care about you again? Will she even remember you?

  Questions unanswered. I settled for driving through an In-N-Out, about the only place worth driving through in this town, and ate my Double-Double in the car on the way home, with extra sauce but no joy.

  When I got home I left the sliding glass door open so I could hear the ocean through the screen. I opened a bottle of Corona, cut a lime wedge and shoved the wedge into the bottle. I sat at the kitchenette table where I had a fresh notebook and pen waiting. I opened to the first page of the notebook and began writing my chrono-log for Ira. This is a chronological record of my interviews, three so far—Trista Cunningham, Bianca Aiken (for what it was worth, with a side note on her dad), and Brian Cunningham.

  When I finished my summaries I turned to a blank page and wrote Gavin McGuane at the top of the page. The kid with the fancy car who’d dropped off Bianca at her house and engaged in a little tongue music. There was something odd about that picture. I needed to talk to him for sure. I jotted his actor-father’s name in the margin—Shane McGuane—more for completeness than anything else. I didn’t think I’d need to track him down, unless there was something about his bairn that didn’t seem quite right.

  On the last page of the notebook I drew what Joey Feint used to call a “name wheel.” You set the notebook lengthwise and jot the names of the people you’ve interviewed in a kind of circle on the page. If any connections besides blood relation come up between names, you draw a line between them. I drew a line from Gavin McGuane to Bianca Aiken and wrote Boyfriend? on the line.