The Crime Writer

by Gregg Hurwitz

  I was convinced Chic was Sherlock Holmes in another ethnic incarnation. I told him about Morton Frankel and asked him to put his guy on him to see if and how he connected with the other living and dead players in our evolving drama. Chic of course lifted an eyebrow at the new name and listened pensively while I yammered on about the case developments.

  “What you gon’ do next?” Chic asked. He seemed to have been expecting my silence, and nodded. “Call me when you need it.”

  We ducked into the corner store and picked up a plastic braid set for Asia’s friend.

  “That’s how it works,” he said. “They buy crap for your kids, then you buy crap for theirs. It’s supposed to show you’re caring.”

  My cell phone rang, and I tugged it out of my pocket and answered.

  “You’ll be here at one-thirty, correct?”

  It took me a moment to place the voice as Caroline’s.

  Junior’s court date. Oh, yeah.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “I’m just…I’m sort of tangled up today. More than usual, I mean.”

  Caroline said, “Last I heard, your presence was court mandated.”

  “There is that.”

  “Get him there, then you’re off the hook. But you’d better not screw this kid over with what’s at stake for him.”

  From my brief experience of jail, I knew it was no place for a fourteen-year-old who cried over his dog going to the pound.

  “I agree,” I said.

  “Trust me, you don’t want to go to war with me.”

  “No,” I said, “I think I enjoy you too much.”

  I hung up as Chic ran down the food truck. His shapeless jersey, from an obscure minor-league team, drooped to midthigh. Together with his unlaced black high-tops, it made him look as if he’d raided the closet of one of his sons. We strolled back together in silence, the sun coming off the pavement in waves.

  “The lady psychologist?” he finally asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “You like her?”

  “A lot. She’s a bit hard-edged, though. Moody, too.”

  “Always easier to take somebody else’s inventory.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I listened when you talked about her earlier.”

  “Thanks for the clarification.”

  He smiled his broad Chic smile, proud of himself, pleased with the world. “This life leaves you behind, Drew-Drew. There’s no way around it. Everyone. The singers, the actors, the shortstops all look younger than you. Okay, fine, you can get used to that. But then you take a ten-year nap and you realize that you’re pushin’ forty and Jimi Hendrix was twenty-five when he recorded ‘Purple Haze.’”

  “Twenty-seven when he died.”

  He tapped his temple. “You was always gonna be the one guy who’d do it different. Live up to your i-dee-lized self. Wudn’t gon’ get stained by mediocrity or domesticity. Keep reachin’. Keep fightin’. Have that affair with Sue from Accounts Payable. There’s them and us, and then there you are. Beer gut.” He tapped his washboard stomach. “TV watcher. Coupla rib joints. Slow-growth mutual funds. It hits you you ain’t gonna raise no monument or have your mug stamped on a coin. You’re you and you can’t avoid it. But I tell you this—when it quiets down, when you’re done fussin’ over how you miss the big paychecks and your shot at the Hall of Fame or wherever I was gonna wind up if I kept up a lifetime .302, the one thing you got is that woman next to you in bed. None of it matters. Nuthin’. Monogamy been tough on me—I never denied it. You give up the smile at the stop sign. The locked eyes in the elevator. Movie romance—marriage ain’t never that good. It ain’t never that good, but it’s better, too. It’s been ten years since I stepped out on Angela, and I ain’t never gonna step out on her again. Because I’m not afraid anymore ’ bout what’s passin’ me by.”

  Chic’s wisdom, as usual, came in baffling guises. I’d kept up with about half of what he’d said. His alteration between first and second person, while seemingly as sloppy as his free association, struck me as no accident.

  Before I could not respond, a yellow Camaro passed us, then locked on its brakes and reversed back to us speedily. A guy with thick hair and a track suit hopped out. “Chic? Chic Bales?”

  Chic eyed him warily, accustomed to the drill. “The one and only.”

  The guy ran over, jiggling happily beneath his clothes, and embraced Chic. “I love you, man.”

  Chic patted his back. “Giants fan?”

  “That’s right. Thank you.”

  “Glad to give something back.”

  The guy did a double take at me, then frowned at Chic. “Nice company you keep.” He climbed into his car and screeched off.

  We returned to a picnic table literally bowing under the weight of the food. The workers were packing up at the curb. My gaze pulled from the laden table across the expanse of the yard to the newly erected play structure, and I couldn’t help note the contrast between here and the cramped little space at the back of Hope House. I wandered off from Chic toward who looked to be the foreman.

  “Hey,” I asked, “how much does a play structure like that cost?”

  “The Romp-n-Stomp? Thirty-five hundo.”

  “I’d like you to send one to this address.” I jotted the Hope House address in my notepad, tore the page, and handed it to him. Tucked into one of the credit-card slots in my wallet, I kept an emergency check, which I unfolded and filled out.

  The guy asked, “You want to write down a message, something?”

  “Naw, say it’s an anonymous donor.” The guy shrugged and climbed into his truck. I saw a shadow and turned to find Chic standing behind me. “We don’t want it tainted,” I said.

  Chic stared at me knowingly. “Right.” As we headed back, he added, “You don’t got no money.”

  “I got more than those kids.”

  “Still.”

  “I’ll sell my cappuccino maker.”

  “Huh?”

  Angela was waiting for us at the table. She kissed Chic on the neck. “How’s my Drew?” she asked.

  “Contemplative,” Chic said.

  “Hi,” I said, “I’m right here.”

  We sat elbow to elbow, mowing through tortillas and chips. But I didn’t feel relaxed and safe as I usually did at the Baleses’ table. Every time I’d get distracted into a teasing match or a domestic squabble, Morton Frankel would seep into my thoughts. The gloomy factory interior, lit with flames and sparks. His dangerous eyes. Those too-long teeth, like fangs that he didn’t have to bother to sharpen up.

  Occasionally swatting a child’s reaching hand, Angela listened quietly as I told her about the four days since I’d seen her last.

  “That Junior,” she said, “he sound like a nice boy.”

  “For a multiple offender.”

  “And the woman in charge of him? Ms. Caroline. He lucky to have her.”

  “She might be too smart for her own good.”

  “I know, baby.” Angela shifted her attention to Jamaal. “Tell your daddy what you wanted to tell him.”

  Jamaal said, “Okay okay oka-oka-oka-oka—”

  “Deep breath,” Chic said.

  “I want to go out for the team next year.”

  “Nuthin’ wrong with that.”

  “Soccer. Not baseball.”

  Chic dropped his fork.

  “And the scars,” I added quietly, to Angela. “I’m not sure I could get used to them.”

  “I know, baby.” Angela’s eyes didn’t leave her husband.

  Chic looked over at her, and she nodded once, slowly. With admiration I watched him gather his composure, his jaw grinding left, right, and then he said, through a strained smile, “Nuthin’ wrong with that either.”

  Jamaal came around the table and hugged him from the side, and Chic got him in a headlock and pretended to smack his head into the picnic table. Angela stood to clear.

  I said, “I think I might ask her out.”

  Angela re
sted a hand on my shoulder. “I know, baby.”

  Chic walked me to my car. I rolled down the window, and he leaned in. His eyes snagged on Frankel’s booking photo on the passenger seat. “Careful on this next move, y’ hear?”

  I rested my hands on the steering wheel, studied my thumbs. “Kaden was right—I think like a writer. But this is the real world.”

  Chic patted my forearm, drawing himself up. “It’s all the real world, Drew-Drew.”

  27

  “Hi, Big Brother.”

  “Hello, Junior,” I said for the fifteenth time.

  “You mind if I turn on the radio, Big Brother?”

  I finally caved. “Would you stop calling me that?”

  Clapping, Junior fell against my passenger door, weak with laughter. He wore a sweatshirt with the hood raised over his baseball cap in case we needed to pull over and rob a 7-Eleven.

  “Just look at the damn printouts before we get to court.”

  I’d zipped home after lunch at Chic’s to feed Xena scrambled eggs with diced bell peppers. She’d shown her appreciation by crapping on my hearth. Once I’d cleaned up after her, I’d hopped on the Internet and printed out pictures of Volvo wagons through the years. Junior’s attention was a scarce commodity, but we’d already determined that what he’d seen was clearly not one of the recent not-your-mama’s Volvos. He couldn’t distinguish between the 200s, the 700s, and the 800s, but he was pretty sure it hadn’t been a 900 series, with the rounded corners, introduced in ’91. Though it spanned too many years to be particularly helpful, the range of models he liked included Morton Frankel’s 760.

  “I tole you, homes, all this suburban shit look the same to me. Now, if it had some rims”—bouncing in his seat—“yeah, boy, then I tell you who, what, where, when, and why.”

  “And you’re sure the cops haven’t called you yet?”

  “Hayell yeah, I’m sure. You think Ms. Caroline gonna lose the message if the LAPD come callin’ for my ass?”

  She hadn’t been there when I’d picked him up. “Will she be back when I drop you?” After he shrugged, I cleared my throat. “She’s…Do you know what happened to her? Her face, I mean?”

  “What happened to yours?”

  Fair enough.

  “Course I know.” Junior studied me with his smooth brown eyes. “Oh, homes. Oh, homes!” Now with the elbows-out dance bump. “Big Brother and Ms. Caroline sittin’ in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes marriage—”

  I screeched into a parking space and hopped out before the baby carriage’s arrival. We were, thankfully, on time, but Judge Celemin wasn’t. Or at least he pretended to be running late, his occasional glances an indication that he was taking pleasure in making me and Junior wait on the uncomfortable bench in the rear of the courthouse.

  I checked my watch again—2:15. Forty-five minutes to quittin’ time for Morton Frankel. I assumed he’d come home for a post-work shower, and I wanted to be parked by his apartment to see what he drove up in.

  The judge bumped a few more hearings ahead of ours and then dragged through some paperwork. By the time he called Junior up—the public defender materializing as though he’d been summoned electronically—and tacked three more months onto his probation, it was ten till.

  I hurried Junior back to the car. He seemed pleased about the ruling. “I don’t never want to leave Ms. Caroline. She the shiznit.” He eyed me. “Ain’t she?”

  Frankel’s place was close to the courthouse. I wouldn’t have time to take Junior back and get there in time. I drove quickly, letting Junior distract himself by working my radio like a video game. The ploy only lasted so long.

  “Where we going?”

  “I’m having you neutered.” I slowed in front of a run-down three-story complex on a street spotted with fabric stores and taquerías. Five black teenagers squatted on the strip of brown lawn next door, hugging their knees and rolling dice. In the brief parking lot, the space corresponding to Frankel’s apartment number was empty. I cruised the neighboring blocks looking for a Volvo.

  Not the ride of choice in Lincoln Heights.

  At ten past I cruised up to the curb opposite the complex and threw a few quarters into the meter. The air smelled of car exhaust and boiling hot dogs from the cart parked up the sidewalk beside a bus stop. I was concerned that the teenagers might spot us after a while, but they seemed engrossed in their game.

  “This that guy’s pad, ain’t it, homes?”

  A pickup truck rolled to the front of the complex. Morton Frankel tapped the driver—a worker I recognized from the yard—on the shoulder and climbed out. Junior noted my rigid posture but didn’t say anything. Frankel walked up the unenclosed staircase, reappearing on the second floor. He swung open his door, threw his jacket and lunch pail inside, and headed back down. Reaching ground level, he started walking toward us.

  Before my heart rate could get up a good head of steam, Frankel cut left up the street. Junior blew out his breath. I reminded myself that fourteen-year-olds, no matter how nefarious, also get scared. Stalking a rapist with my juvenile delinquent, I guessed, would knock me from contention for Big Brother of the Year.

  Once Frankel was up the block, I pulled out after him.

  “Where’s his fucking car?”

  “That’s what I’m wondering. Maybe he’s taking the bus.”

  “This L.A., homes. Nobody take the bus.”

  “Not everybody has a Huffy.”

  “Stay further back, homes. Don’t you watch no T.J. Hooker?”

  “I was watching T.J. Hooker before you boosted your first car.”

  “Boosted? The word, Grampa, is ‘jacked.’”

  And so on.

  We followed Frankel another few blocks before he turned in to a body shop. I parked across the street by a rental-car lot—plenty of vehicles for the Guiltmobile to blend into. Mort disappeared into the office, a prefab shack. He emerged a few seconds later, rolled a cigarette, and smoked it.

  One of the garage doors slid up, and out coasted a brown Volvo wagon.

  For an older car, it was in great condition. A few cracks in the paint, but perfectly clean. Clearly Frankel took a lot of pride in his 760. Or he was taking care to keep it free of evidence.

  A mechanic with arm-sleeve tattoos hopped out, and Mort gave him a handshake and a shoulder bump. You keep an old car looking that good, you’d better be friends with your mechanic. The guy walked Mort to the right front wheel well and ran his hand over the perfect curve. Mort followed suit, then nodded, impressed with the work.

  Why fix the dent? Because he loved his car? Because he wanted to eliminate a potential identifier? Because he’d dented it dragging Kasey Broach’s corpse inside?

  He pulled a checkbook from his back pocket, leaned over the hood, and signed.

  With his left hand.

  A hundred eighty-five pounds, left-handed, diabolical gleam in the eyes. Just like me, but with a better gleam.

  I stared at his close-cropped brown hair.

  I just need one strand. Like you took from me.

  I drove back and reclaimed my old spot across the street from the complex. A few minutes later, Mort pulled in to his parking space, slid a Club security bar onto the steering wheel, cranked the window down a few turns, and disappeared into his apartment.

  I slapped Junior’s knee. “I gotta get you back.”

  “Thass it? Homes, you gots to get your evidence. You gots to break in to the car, see what you can find.”

  That was my plan, but I wasn’t about to tell Junior. “If I find anything, the cops can claim I planted it to get my own ass off the hook.”

  “Thass why you need me. I’m a witness. Plus, you can’t argue with no hair.”

  Hearing my own thinking spoken back to me by a fourteen-year-old was a powerful indication that I needed more sleep. “Why’d he leave the window down?”

  “He don’t keep nuthin’ worth nuthin’ in there, and he don’t want no one to break a window to
find that out. And it ain’t worth cutting through a Club to steal no old-ass Volvo. Now, go check the headrest.”

  “Thanks, but no.”

  “No? You gots to have ethics, homes.”

  “Ethics? Breaking in to his car would show I have ethics?”

  “Yeah. Like I won’t tag no trees or Lutheran churches. Ethics. You got a stone-cold killer out there, and you the only one knows who, and you too bitch-ass to pluck a hair off the headrest?”

  “What if the cops come?”

  Junior checked his watch. “It’s shift-change time at the Hollenbeck Station. Streets are clear of cops.”

  “How would you know that?” I waved him off. “Never mind. I’m an idiot.” I stared nervously at the black teenagers still playing dice on the lawn a few feet from the parking lot. “Those guys just watched him pull up. They’ll know I’m not the owner.”

  “What would you do in one-a your books?”

  “Create a diversion.”

  He snickered. “Like light a fire?”

  “No. Something clever.”

  “Hows about this?” Before I could stop him, Junior climbed out of the Highlander and onto the roof. I scrambled out, looked up to see him cupping his hands around his mouth. “Yo! Why’s there so many niggers up in here?”

  He leapt from the roof, seeming to bounce on the sidewalk, and took off up the street in a sprint. I leaned back against my car as the five young black men blew past me in angry pursuit.

  Diversion. Clever. Right.

  I stole across the street to the parking lot, keeping a nervous eye out to see if the commotion would draw Frankel from his apartment. Ducking through the Volvo’s open window, I scoured the headrest. Not a single hair. The interior looked freshly vacuumed. Of course—they’d given it a cleaning at the body shop. I reached down and popped the trunk, taking a deep breath before lifting it open.

  No blood puddles. No remnants of plastic drop cloth. No stainless-steel boning knife. The worn carpet bore lines from the industrial vacuum.