by Tony Bulmer
Channel 11 boomed loud: News of a liquor store shooting in North Hollywood. Helicopter footage of streets sealed off, police cruisers converging, crime scene tape hanging dead in the air; then, studio-commentary, about a tragic loss—the death of a modern legend. A photo appeared: Shaquil Johnson staring from the screen, with cornrow hair, a shot from the archives; him looking young, edgy, vibrant and alive.
I stared incredulous, contrasting the glowing obituary I was now hearing, with images of the whimpering creep I had seen upending his wife’s coffin, so that he could save himself and damn the consequences. The moment stood still, an endless freeze frame vacuum, holding me in thrall.
Cheyenne Wallis’ phone rang loud, sucking me back from the vacuum. The first words had her on her feet. She looked at me spooked, her face melting downwards with the pressure of ugly portents.
I waited for enlightenment. None came.
No surprise. I knew what was happening.
The high-jingo jungle drums were thrumming loud from the lair of her master.
She swung off the barstool, pulling her bag over her shoulder. She hit the floor running. ‘Stay friendly,’ I called after her.
I knew it would be a long time, bordering on never before we spoke again, and with a woman as electric as that, that is some kind of loss.
I sat there on the barstool for a long moment, sucking in the tragedy.
The Barista leaned in from behind the counter, caught my eye, said, ‘I know that lady, I seen her before someplace?’ more a question than a statement.
I watched City Attorney Wallis head out into the street, said, ‘Yeah, she talks the talk for the big men in City Hall, you probably seen her on television.’
The Barista frowned, thought for a moment then said, ‘Sure, I remember now, she looks taller on television.’
I gave him a look, slapped two twenties on the counter, told him to keep the change.
Dead Famous 52
I knew just as soon as City Attorney Cheyenne Wallis walked out on me, that I had to get to North Hollywood as fast as I could, so I made revs in my big red Dodge and burned out of the metered parking spot near City Hall heading west, into the morning traffic.
Hollywood was the home beat Hades for the big man, Javier Ramirez from Robbery Homicide division. I called him on my cell, but there was no pick up—a busy signal that wouldn’t quit. Way I figured it, I had to get to Ramirez and fast, to stand any chance of getting a jump-start lead on Roxy Barrington’s whereabouts. I cut a swathe through the down town drive time, heading volante along the bad town back streets. Still no pick up on Ramirez’s cell. I cursed. I upbraided, I drove the inside, and rolled the pavement. I headed through a gas station at speed, to make a corner. Danny Costello, the best worst driver in the history of citation city.
Out front of Circus Liquor in the North Hollywood barrio, things were running fast and ugly. The entire neighborhood swamped with cops of every description, EA units, even the damn Fire Department. Traffic crawled slow—the neighborhood approaching gridlock, and parking was non existent. I headed into the median and flipped a turn. Cruised two blocks, then three, before I spotted a parking space, in front of a rundown grocery store, on the bad side of NoHo. The spot was snug, but I reverse parked tight, my big wheels cutting over the pavement. I dropped into place behind a sun faded Maxima, and a dark, window-tinted Lexus saloon, that looked like it had three hundred thousand miles on the clock minimum.
As soon as I touched down, I was out and running, heading up the block towards the crime scene apocalypse, where Shaquil Johnson had met his untimely end. Double-timing it up the block, the sounds of Channel 11 filtered back in my head: speculation of a gunshot suicide, a distraught husband devastated by the tragic loss of his wife. I knew it couldn’t be true. Shaquil Johnson didn’t have the guts. The greedy little prick was wayyyyyyy too selfish to pull a move like that.
My pulse amped stratospheric, as I ran the block, heading towards the crime scene gridlock on Burbank and Vine. Outside the Liquor store, I saw a dozen police vehicles parked at crazy angles, the whole area surrounded, by a flimsy perimeter of yellow tape. An angry and vociferous crowd gathered on the surrounding sidewalks: Lookee-loos, weirdos, and dirty-denizens of all descriptions, angry at the intrusion into their short dog morning.
I pressed up to the tape and scoped the scene. Looked to me like the PD were working a wrap. Pretty soon the whole neighborhood would be back to the ugly normal, until the next gunshots rang out. A uniform cop working the perimeter reached out, touched my arm and told me to keep back.
I asked him where I could find Ramirez. He gave me a sour look, asked me if I was Press. When I told him, I was Charles Jardine’s long lost brother, he gave me double sour and a twist of lime to go, said, Ramirez was out back, talking to the owner of the Liquor Store, but there wasn’t no way in hell I could go back there, not even if I had won the state lottery.
I thanked the cop for his time, asked him if he had scoped the dead guy on his way out. The cop told me the Vic’ had shipped out hours ago, but the tow truck was caught in traffic, so every one would remain on scene until it arrived. He stared up the street, past the crowd, into the building traffic chaos and looked gloomy, told me to move along and get out, while I still had chance.
I thanked him, and headed around the corner, to see what I could find. When I got there, the side street was a confusion of building proportions, A forty-foot fire truck with extendible ladder, was jammed in amongst dozens of police vehicles, whilst firefighters, and uniformed officers, engaged in an unhurried dialogue, that looked unlikely to resolve the mess anytime soon. Paparazzi snappers were converging too, taking pictures of everything and anything, in their hunt for a story. I moved amongst the chaos, and pretty soon came across Ramirez’s slate grey crown Vic, parked high on the sidewalk. No sign of the man himself, or his partner Kozak either.
I leaned back against the car, and perused the scene. The other side of a chain link storm fence, I could clearly see the backside of a late model SUV emerging from behind a hastily erected crime scene wall, designed to guard the investigators from the prying eyes of onlookers.
‘Hey, get the hell off the car.’
I turned. Saw Ramirez and Kozak closing fast. They looked rough, like boulevard transients on dress down Friday. I greeted them friendly, ‘How you doing fellahs? Long time no see.’
Kozak moved in close, so close I could smell his caffeinated donut-breath panting all over me, like a pit-bull on heat. ‘Look who we got here, the fourth-floors favorite citizen. How’s it going Costello, more important where is that little lady who runs errands for you, we would like a word.’
I laughed, ‘talking of errands, who are you fellahs scooping up today?’
‘Cut the bullshit Costello,’ snapped Ramirez, looking like he had just crawled out of a cardboard box on Hollywood Boulevard, ‘We got a call from the Emperor’s little familiar in the legal department, she tells me you are persona non grata with the Commissioner.’
Kozak snorted, said, ‘They kicked you and your little battalion of monkeys into touch. That has to hurt, huh, Costello?’
‘We live in ruthless times detective. Luckily I am here to help.’
Kozak turned gave Ramirez a look, ‘You believe this guy?’
Ramirez looked up the street and back again, like he didn’t want to be seen talking to me, then said, ‘You are untouchable right now Costello, the Commissioner gets mad he stays mad, and you really done plopped a turd into his precious community relations cocktail, this time, so I hope you aren’t planning on getting a Christmas card anytime soon.’
‘Give me a break Ramirez. You, me, and every cop in the Department knows that Sly Barrington is a gangster.’
‘He is a billionaire gangster, and he is friends with the mayor, that’s quite different. So you would be wise to back off. Forget everything you ever heard about Sly Barrington, because as soon as his bullshit company goes global on the NYSE your ten cent opinions will
count even less than they do now.’
‘So, did you two geniuses figure out who blew a hole in the Barrington place with a rocket launcher.’
‘That was a gas explosion,’ said Kozak, ‘Don’t you watch the news Costello?’
‘My eyebrows jerked upwards, I smiled. ‘A gas explosion huh, and now the day after, Barrington’s right hand man turns up dead in a parking lot. You think there might be a connection there?’
‘The Coroner says suicide, and even if he didn’t, it would be none of your goddamn business Costello,’ sneered Kozak.
I nodded, said, ‘You spoken to the Barrington girl yet?’
Ramirez looked at me hard and steady, ‘That little lady thinks she has dropped off the radar, but it doesn’t matter, she will turn up sooner or later, there ain’t no reason to go popping valves over it Costello; the girl is the kind of damage case that seeks out trouble, and when she finds it, we will be waiting to have words with her.’
‘How many people will have to die before that happens, the girl is involved, you know that don’t you?’
Ramirez broke a grin, ‘Involved Costello? What are you—Perry Mason all of a sudden?’
‘She stabbed my partner in the neck with a hypodermic full of god knows what, he could have wound up dead if someone hadn’t found him.’
Ramirez scrunched his face, said, ‘Sounds painful, but that lunkhead should watch who he hangs out with. Roxy Barrington is a junkie whore, who just can’t help herself. You should get that partner of yours to a doctor, no telling what kind of disease that poisonous little bitch shot into him.’
‘I will be sure to tell him you said Hi…’
Ramirez looked at me, his dark eyes steady, unfathomable. Then he said, ‘You are leaning against my damn car Costello.’
I didn’t move, just taking in the day with my arms folded across my chest. I said, ‘You fellahs might want to get this rig valet cleaned, it’s looking real untidy. Plus, you leave it any length of time in this neighborhood, you are liable to find you got a nest full of vagrants setting up home inside.’
Kozak took a step forward.
I arrested his progress with my middle finger in his chest. ‘Easy now.’
‘I don’t like you Costello, your partner either, and you better tell that pretty little assistant of yours we are looking for her, see what she knows about automatic weapons.
‘You need any tips on which way to point your gun, I am sure she will be happy to oblige detective.’
‘Possession of automatic weapons is a federal offense in this state, a ten thousand dollar fine, with a side order of prison time. Maybe the little lady could go visit that brother of hers, keep him company for a ten stretch.’
I gave Kozak a breezy look, ‘You been doing your research, huh, detective?’
Kozak gave me a triumphant look. ‘You better watch it Costello.’
I nodded, said, ‘That’s what I like about you Kozak,’ I fired Ramirez a pistol finger, said, ‘See you around big guy.’
As I walked away, I heard Kozak ask, ‘What did he mean, that’s what I like about you?’
‘Nothing, said Ramirez…he meant nothing.’
Dead Famous 53
No way the Barrington girl would go back to her suite at L’Ermitage, I knew that for sure. That crazy little kid was way too slippery for that. However, there was one stop over I knew she would make for sure—the boyfriends. Roxy Barrington was the kind of girl who liked luxury-lots of it, so it stood to reason, her little spat with her pops would force her back into the arms of her money bags squeeze du jour Albert Weinman, attorney to the stars. I figured if I moved fast and smart, I might even catch her in situ, before she split out, to pastures unknown.
Driving across the valley, I had time to think things over. The connections came fast and furious. Al Weinman, was the big money power behind the Barrington throne, and the reason I had gotten sucked into this hell-trip mess in the first place. Looking back at the events of the past few days, it seemed clear that Weinman had dark unstated reasons for hooking me into this business. The true reasons he had suggested me for the job lingered beyond my understanding. Weinman didn’t like me, never had and the idea he had got me onto the Barrington case so he could have the juice to control outcomes no longer washed. There was more, much more to this affair, and knowing shark-tank Al, there would be a dirty payoff at the end of it. Meanwhile, I had no doubt Roxy Barrington had fixed Shaquil Johnson with a small caliber send-off, question was why: sex, dope, money, or a combination of the above? The Barrington girl was as wrong as it was as possible for a girl to be. Popping her daddies favorite pop-star sidekick meant she was moving into the final stages of something big—and I was the man to find it out just what that something was.
I headed into the hills from North Hollywood, speeding through the snake back curves, as they ploughed high across a coiling landscape of prehistoric rock and sun-zorched mountain scrub. The wind boiled hot through the open windows, bathing the morning in a scorching oven baked heat. I called Weinman’s face-ache social secretary Alphonse Jennings, to see if I could get a slot in his master’s hectic calendar. But plummy Alphonse was full of apologies for once, told me his master was a no show at the office. The underling sounded flustered, like he was in the middle of a big-time social calamity. I told him I would call by the house—see if Mr. Weinman was home. A squealing objection issued down the phone line, like some sort of electrical feedback. I didn’t argue, just closed the phone—re-figuring his master’s schedule would give the underling something to do with his double-entry day.
By the time I hit Bel Air Crest, my shirt hung damp on my back. No surprise then, that pulling into the drive out front of the Weinman place, I was about ready for a glass of something cool and refreshing. I pictured Weinman’s butler, Drake, walking poolside with an ice-filled decanter of lemonade, or something of that nature. I pressed the doorbell—no reply—so I double pushed it, then triple pushed it, and stared in through the heavy glass, my face pressed hard against the window. But the white marble interior was cold and sepulchral—devoid of life. Maybe it was Drakes day off? Maybe Weinman had run out for a strip-mall shopping spree? Above, the sun rose high, cutting down remorselessly through flawless blue. I tried the door. Locked.
No way I was going to wait.
I headed over the lawn, cut around the back of the house, through the verdant shrubbery and quickly found a high Italianate wall, barring my way. I traversed along the wall, past a locked entrance, and climbed an avocado tree, scaling through to the back of the house.
Dropping down into the back yard, I quickly found a pathway leading through to the pool area. When I got there, I had my first surprise of the morning, and it wasn’t the billion-dollar city view rising up through the new day haze.
Hanging dead in the swimming pool, a body.
I walked slowly, carefully, to the edge of the pool and looked down, by the snazzy black butler duds, I guessed it was Drake, but there was no way of knowing for sure, the corpse was floating face down in the middle of the water. The whole place had a spooky ambiance, nothing but the sound of distant birdsong and the slow hum of the pool-filters, to be heard.
I looked up at the house. It stared back at me blankly. I cocked my head slightly: hearing the sound of traffic now, coming up through the distant canyon—beyond the City of Los Angeles shimmering bright, through the morning haze.
Again, I looked up at the house, pondering the events that might have led to the untimely demise of the figure in the pool. I headed across the patio, towards the house, half knowing what I would find, but not fully believing it.
The patio doors were unlocked. I used the tail of my shirt to turn the handle, to avoid leaving fingerprints. Inside: everything in its place, no sign of a struggle, or violence of any kind.
Everything quiet.
Too quiet.
I stood on the cold marble, and let the creepy atmosphere coalesce around me. Listening harder now, I heard the soft hiss of
the air conditioning system, chilling the air. The cold air felt good, and as I looked around at the blanched interior, the place seemed brighter, more antiseptic than my last visit. I couldn’t imagine living in a house like this. The place was deader than the county morgue, an effect accentuated by skeletal design-house furniture, in alabaster and chrome. Puzzle-palace artwork hung dead from the walls, abstract daubs with out wit or meaning—a jagged little homestead, in keeping with its owner.
I walked through the house. Every room the same: antiseptic white, with ghastly art statement accents that probably cost a million dollars a pop. When I hit the master bedroom, I half expected to meet a photographer from an up market homes magazine. Instead, a quite different sight greeted me. Balancing atop a precarious three-legged stool on his tippy-toes stood Al Weinman. The sight was something to behold.
I stood there for a long moment, before I could even speak.
Around Weinman’s neck a noose. The noose was strung high over an architectural ceiling beam then tied off tight, to a bedpost. Weinman’s hands were fixed tight behind him, with plastic zip-ties, and as he tottered there, on his tippy-toes, he let out a pitiful whimpering noise, half panic, half blind terror. The exact nature of his torment was impossible to fathom, because as he tottered there, in nothing but his underwear, he couldn’t speak a word, muted by an ugly ball-gag that had been taped into his mouth with thick, black strips of duct tape.
He was a pitiful sight.
I frowned, ‘What the hell are you doing up there?’
Balancing precariously, as the stool wobbled and swayed, Weinman let out a horrible warbling squeal.’ He pirouetted first one way, then the other, struggling to remain upright. This was the man who had facilitated my ex-wife’s big money financial settlement at the end of our messy divorce, and now, here he was, having drawn me into the Barrington affair, dangling at the end of a noose.
I cringed, turned my head sideways, but things didn’t look any prettier that way either, ‘You probably want me to get you down, huh?’