I said, “You solved your own problems.”
“Bouncers,” he said. “Cost me a big slice of overhead.”
“So you sold out.”
“To some Chinese,” said Salawa. “Anyway, Kimby, I think that was her name, can’t see why she’d want to go back there.”
Milo said, “What’s Kimby’s last name?”
“Sorry, that’s all I remember, sir. When you texted me I was totally thrown, wondered if someone would try to go after me civilly. Her family, you know?”
“You no longer own the place. Why would they do that, Ron?”
“ ’Cause of the way it is,” said Salawa. “Bus-bench lawyers troll records. I know I sound paranoid but I already have a pain-in-the-ass time when I travel, getting hassled by customs at the airport, can’t qualify for Global Entry.”
Toothy smile. “They won’t say why. As if. Anyway, I’m just finished closing my bags back up and you text me about this.”
“Kimby,” said Milo.
“I think.” A red shoe tapped. “Sorry it happened to her but don’t know her.”
“Could you check her employment records so we can find out who she is?”
“I could if I had them,” said Salawa. “Minute I closed with the Chinese I got rid of everything to do with that dump. There wasn’t much records to begin with, the girls were independent contractors—that’s how my uncle set it up. Less paperwork.”
“Better for taxes.”
Salawa blinked. Reaching into his jacket, he slipped on a pair of Maui Jim aviator shades. “He told me it was legal, sir. Whole deal was supposed to be turnkey. Later I found out he was in trouble—my uncle Moussa. Owed a lot of money to a lot of banks, going back to Dubai was an escape. My mom was ready to—she’s totally pissed off, he’s her brother, there’s supposed to be family honor. I ended up with the club and three other parcels but everything had liens Moussa didn’t tell me about.”
I said, “Did Kimby know Moussa?”
“Maybe but he’s not even in Dubai anymore, maybe Abu Dhabi, who knows? And to be honest, sirs, he’s not the killer type, just a sneak. I only remember her because she was one of the better-looking girls. The situation Moussa put me in, I wasn’t exactly getting supermodels.”
Milo said, “Did you ever socialize with the girls?”
Salawa drew himself up. “I’m a married man.” Small smile. “Not exactly a champ at it, this one’s Number Three, but I don’t play those games anymore. You ask anyone about me, they’ll tell you the same.”
I said, “Those problem customers, did any of them hassle Kimby?”
“Not that I heard. You’d have to ask the bouncers.”
“Nothing you noticed yourself.”
“I wasn’t around much,” said Salawa. “Less time I spent there, the better.”
I said, “What can you tell us about Kimby’s personality?”
Salawa let out an exasperated sigh. “These questions, sir. I didn’t know her. Okay, it’s a murder, I get it, you got to ask. But personality? I didn’t give them psychiatric tests. What I can tell you is that when I interviewed her she seemed okay.”
“Okay…”
“Quiet, polite, nothing weird. Not likely to be a pain.” Salawa adjusted a lapel. “If they looked half decent I put some music on and tried them out.”
“Kimby was a good dancer.”
“Actually, sir, not really. She’d move back and forth.” Illustrating with his hands. “Like she was bored. But by that time I just wanted to fill the stage.”
I said, “Did she hang out with any of the other girls?”
Salawa flicked the bottom of his beard. “Maybe I’m not getting it across: I wasn’t involved with any of them.”
Milo and I remained silent.
Salawa said, “I’m not trying to give you attitude, just telling you the truth. Can’t believe she’d go back there. Why would she do that?”
Milo said, “That, Ron, is the question. So no stalkers you’re aware of.”
“No.”
“What about a boyfriend?”
“For all I know,” said Salawa, “she could’ve had a girlfriend. You’d be surprised how many of them swing that way. Wish I could tell you more, she seemed like a nice girl—oh, yeah, here’s something. A couple of times I saw her doing a crossword. Or with a book. Does that help?”
“Everything helps, Ron.”
“Then okay, I helped you. She’s in her costume, waiting to go on, concentrating. Doing this.” Salawa’s upper teeth took hold of his lower lip.
“What was her costume?”
“What was available and fit. I wasn’t exactly running a studio with a huge wardrobe allowance. So what was going on at the place when it happened?”
Milo said, “Wedding.”
“Wow.” Salawa grinned. “Should’ve happened at my first wedding. Bad omen to warn me off.”
Out came Milo’s pad. “The bouncers’ names, please.”
Salawa inhaled. “You guys are going to think I’m hiding something but I’m not. Like with the girls, they were independent, all I remember is first names.”
“Then we’ll take those.”
“Okay…let me try to remember.” Fingers tapped a temple. “The ones back then I think were James and Del…something. DelMar? DelMonte? Del something. You know how they get with their names.”
“They?”
“Black guys. Okay, yeah, here’s something: James had a common last name. Smith, Jones, Brown, whatever.” Salawa shook his head. “Sorry—hey, I can tell you what they looked like. You want that?”
Milo gave him a thumbs-up.
“Okay,” said Salawa. “James was totally bald, Del-whatever had the long stuff—dreds. Big black guys. I think one of them maybe played football. I think Del. Maybe both of them, not sure.”
“Where’d they play?”
Shrug. “I can’t even tell you why the football thing is in my head, maybe he mentioned it. Or someone did. Or I’m wrong. I must sound like an idiot.”
I said, “How old are these guys?”
“Del was in his forties, James was younger—thirties. Huge—arms like a normal guy’s legs. I think he might’ve been gay.”
“Why’s that?” said Milo.
“You know queers,” said Salawa. “No matter how tough they are, sooner or later the way they move, the way they talk. I’m not saying he was a wimp. No way, José, someone messed with him good luck. I just got a feeling—the way he kind of…strutted? And sometimes he’d stand there and be doing this.”
Dangling a limp wrist. “Maybe I’m wrong, but probably not. I’ve got a feel for people.”
I said, “Your feel for Kimby was—”
“Nice girl, not much of a dancer, great looking. She didn’t seem dumb. Can’t say that for some of the other girls.”
“The bouncers took care of problems. Did anyone mess with them and end up the worse for it?”
“No one got hurt,” said Salawa. “I set rules: See them out and get them in their cars. If they weren’t too drunk. If they were, we called them a cab. I lost plenty of money on cab fees. Trust me, no one got hurt, the proof is no one sued me.”
Milo said, “Any idea how we can reach James and Del?”
“Hmm…I think James lived in the Valley—I’m saying that because sometimes he’d bitch about traffic coming over the hill. Del, I can’t tell you.”
“Independent contractors.”
“That’s how Moussa set it up,” said Salawa. “I thought he knew what he was doing.”
* * *
—
We watched him drive off in the Mercedes.
Milo said, “Let’s take a walk.”
“Food or peace and quiet?”
“Already ate.” He hooked a thumb and we d
id our usual southward stroll into the working-class residential neighborhood that borders the station. Nothing fancy but maybe the safest blocks in L.A.
“So what do you think of Ron?”
I said, “Hard to tell. Anything in his background?”
“No criminal record but no angel. In frequent arrears for child support with the first two wives, they’re always in court. Several convenient bankruptcies, and one fire at a warehouse he owned in East L.A. that looked suspicious but wasn’t provable as arson. Unfortunately, when it comes to his club venture, he seems to be leveling. He got the properties because his uncle—who’s a total deadbeat with a conviction for attempted bribery—owed him money on the sale of three apartment buildings they co-owned in Downey. Two of them Salawa unloaded at a loss, the other one and The Aura, he barely broke even.”
“Struggling businessman,” I said. “That could mean resentment and secrets.”
“Sure, but he returns to a dump he hates on the day of a stranger’s wedding in order to kill a former employee? Can’t see how that works.”
“Maybe he lied and it was personal. He tried to impress us with how disengaged he was. But he did notice Kimby’s looks and her dancing.”
“Wouldn’t any guy notice a girl like that?” he said. “Even guys who do this.” Aping the limp-wristed dangle.
I laughed. “Maybe he’s not as monogamous as he claims.”
“Cuties on the side and she was one of them?”
“I keep coming back to the club layout. For all his claims about hating the place, meeting there could’ve been a turn-on. How about seeing if James and Del-whatever can elucidate.”
“Common name,” he said. “How about James Brown—wouldn’t that be a hoot? Man’s world and all that.”
Half a block later, he stopped, found a panatela in a trouser pocket, rolled it between his fingers, and resumed walking. “Maybe I’m getting too far afield. I keep thinking about what Lee Cardell told us.”
“Baby’s wild ride in Vegas.”
“A bride who fools with a male stripper, a few days later a dead female stripper? Do boys and girls in that world hang out?”
“No idea,” I said. “It’s been years since I experienced the joys of the skin trade.”
He stopped again. “You’ve got a past?”
“Back when I was playing music the musicians spent after-hours at topless places.”
“And you tagged along.”
“I was eighteen and they paid for my illegal drinks.”
“Bunch of hopheads out to corrupt you. Did it take?”
I smiled.
He said, “Dr. Enigma Within A Puzzle. I’m also still wondering about the injection, the whole medical thing, so while I waited for ol’ Ronnie, I looked into the Mastros’ civil status. Distressingly clean, not a single malpractice claim, which in these days is something. A few patients of Dr. Stuart Mastro do yelp at him for having a cold bedside manner. Dr. Marilee seems to be more popular.”
“What about Dr. Wilbur?”
“No ratings at all. Maybe ranchers and farmers are too busy to spout off online. Okay, let’s head back.”
CHAPTER
7
As we neared the station, I said, “James the bouncer probably spends a lot of time in the gym. If he does live in the Valley, Moe might know him.”
“The kid’s Mr. Muscles but the Valley’s a big place, Alex.”
“It’s a long shot but we’re not talking Spinning classes. You want to get huge, you’d need serious iron.”
“Optimism,” he said. “Tsk, tsk, after all you’ve seen, you still won’t change your ways.”
* * *
—
Moe Reed was also working on Sunday, doing paperwork at his desk in the big detective room. The room was half empty and Reed wore a black T-shirt and sweats. Off-shift but wanting to tackle paper.
Milo beckoned him out to the corridor.
“Where does someone in the Valley go to look like Arnold? Or you?”
Reed stared at him. “You’re considering an exercise plan, L.T.?”
“When swine aviate.” Milo slapped the young D’s massive left biceps. The resulting sound was cardboard on teak. “Where’s your gym, kid?”
“I alternate,” said Reed. “Got a pretty good setup in my spare bedroom but there’s a limit to how much I can put in there, don’t want the floor to cave. So for the big stuff, there’s a place in Sherman Oaks—”
“Name.”
“The Iron Cage. Can I ask why, L.T.?”
Milo explained.
Reed said, “Don’t know of any Dels but there’s a Jim sometimes spots me. And a James. And a Jameson, but none are bald. There are some bald guys whose names I don’t know but the only black one’s a little guy who deadlifts four hundred.”
“Hair grows, Moses. Last names?”
Reed shook his head. “It’s not at that level, we don’t hang. Someone needs a spotter, it’s a courtesy to do it. You’re sure about the age?”
“That’s what the club owner said.”
“Then Jimmy’s too young, more of a kid, maybe twenty. James and Jameson are both in their thirties. Also, they live together, L.T.”
“A couple.”
“I assume,” said Reed.
“The club owner thought James was gay.”
“Ah…I’m not sure I see either of them as bouncers. They’re kind of…refined. Talk as if they’re educated and drive a new Jag.”
“All bouncers are apes?”
“When I did it, they were.”
“When was that, kid?”
“After I graduated high school. Just for a month, I didn’t like the atmosphere so I got a job driving a liquor delivery truck. Got to carry heavy boxes.”
Milo looked at me. “First you, now him.”
Reed said, “Pardon?”
“Apparently everyone’s got a history, Moses. Alex will fill you in on his, if we ever get some spare time. Can you get me surnames on James and Jameson?”
“I’ll give it my best, L.T.” Reed turned back to the big room. Milo caught him by the elbow.
“Do it in my office, away from the riffraff.”
* * *
—
Office in function, closet in size. The long-ago, vindictive decision of a corrupt police chief who’d retired under pressure and traded Milo for silence.
My friend’s payoff was an evasion of departmental orthodoxy: instant promotion to lieutenant, normally an administrative rank. The big payoff: allowed to continue working cases rather than drive a desk.
Every succeeding chief eventually found out about the arrangement and like any other self-righteous cleric, began by setting out to annul it. Each backed down because Milo’s close rate was even higher than the Robbery-Homicide honchos downtown, why mess with success.
The non-office stemmed from the hostile chief’s conviction that solitary confinement in a windowless room off a grubby hallway would be cruel and inhuman punishment.
Milo took to it like a bear to a den.
Along the way, he developed a working relationship with other cops when necessary, had progressed to creating a mini-cadre composed of Binchy and Reed. But he’d never forget the time when LAPD claimed homosexual officers didn’t exist and he’d endured isolation and worse and made solitude his thing.
He’d lasted long enough to see huge changes in the department’s treatment of gays and everyone else, but continued to keep a low profile and avoid advocacy.
Sticking to his personal motto: Do The Damned Job.
As he and Reed lumbered up ahead, taking up nearly the width of the corridor, I wondered how the three of us would fit in what passed for his personal space.
* * *
—
We wouldn’t. Milo and I stood out
side while Reed worked the phone.
It didn’t take long, no ruse necessary. He simply began by asking the gym owner and got his answer.
Scrawling the info on a Post-it, he said, “Thanks, Rod, hoping to have time tomorrow—yeah, keeping the city safe.”
Milo said, “At The Cage, you’re a VIP.”
Reed blushed and shrugged. “I’ve interceded in a few situations. Also, I pay my membership on time.”
* * *
—
James Earl Johnson, Jameson Raymond Farquahar.
Milo called up the DMV shots.
“That’s them,” said Reed.
“Thanks. What were you doing when I interrupted you?”
“Robbery-assault, transcribing witness statements.”
“Okay, back to reality.”
“Happy to get away from it, L.T. Thanks for the break.”
“Happy to distract you when there’s something to do.”
“Bring it on, you know how I feel about robbery,” said Reed. “Assault I can deal with but the assault part on this one’s wimpy—someone got slapped.” Shaking his head and rolling massive back muscles, he trotted away.
Milo and I stepped back into the office, where he squeezed into his rolling desk chair and I stuck myself in my usual corner.
We examined the stats on both men. Johnson was six-four, two eighty-three, Farquahar six-five, two seventy-nine. The similarity ran beyond dimension: Birth dates put them a year apart—thirty-three and thirty-four—and they bore enough facial similarity to be fraternal twins.
I said so.
Milo said, “Brothers not boyfriends? You think Moe’s gaydar’s out of tune?”
“I think they look alike.”
He grunted. “Whatever the story, they live together in Studio City.”
He ran criminal searches, came up empty, checked vehicle regs and found a white Jag and a black Porsche Macan.
He logged onto a shared Facebook page filled with travel shots in Asia and Europe. James Johnson and Jameson Farquahar holding hands, embracing, and in a few pictures kissing. The rest of the photos were the men with two rescue dogs, a huge mastiff-type named Little and a miniature schnauzer named Biggs.
The Wedding Guest Page 6