Turn Left at Doheny--A tough-edged crime novel set in Los Angeles

by J. F. Freedman

  There were no other customers in the store. A muscled-up security guard (ex-cop or military, Wycliff figured, from the fit look on him, not one of those cheesy mall cop wannabes) was planted against the far wall, his holstered gun prominently displayed on his hip. It was identical to the Glock Wycliff had once owned, and now didn’t. He glanced at the automatic with envy. This dude’s piece was definitely bigger than his.

  A swarthy middle-aged man in a Versace suit, his skin-tone identifying him as Middle Eastern, entered from behind a closed door at the rear of the store. ‘Mrs Cooper!’ he greeted Charlotte warmly. He cast an inquisitive look at Wycliff.

  ‘My associate,’ she introduced Wycliff, without offering up a name. Meaning, they both understood, my bodyguard. ‘In case I buy that diamond-and-emerald ring today and take it with me. I do covet that ring,’ she trilled. Her voice had taken on a subtle southern accent.

  ‘An exquisite piece,’ the owner agreed. ‘It’s in my safe. I’ll bring it out for you.’

  He went into the back room to get it. ‘I love this store,’ Charlotte declared. ‘So tastefully decadent. Lordy, what the rich spend their money on.’

  ‘Like you?’

  ‘That’s rude.’

  ‘You’re here to buy a diamond ring, aren’t you? Expensive enough you want me armed for protection.’

  She looked at the security guard, who was out of earshot at the opposite side of the room. ‘Keep your voice down. In fact, stay quiet altogether.’

  That stung. ‘You brought it up.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Did I hurt baby’s delicate feelings?’ She leaned towards him. Her voice, soft and husky, was barely more than a whisper, but the force was intense. ‘Cool it for now.’

  Wycliff was in over his head, and her sudden toughness towards him confirmed it. He took a step back, glancing as he did at the rent-a-cop, who stared back at him with opaque eyes.

  The proprietor returned from the back. He set a piece of dark velvet cloth on the counter and unfolded it.

  The ring, set in platinum, featured a large oval-shaped diamond in the center surrounded by several emeralds. Charlotte looked at it with a discerning eye. ‘Beautiful,’ she murmured. ‘Absolutely stunning.’

  ‘One of the finest I’ve come across in a long time,’ the owner agreed.

  Charlotte delicately picked the ring up. ‘May I?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She slid the ring onto the second finger of her left hand, which was otherwise unadorned. ‘This is beyond perfection.’ She extended her hand and looked at it adoringly. ‘How much is this piece of heaven on earth?’

  The owner smiled. ‘Six hundred thousand dollars. The same figure I quoted the last time you visited us.’

  Wycliff felt the blood rushing to his head. That rock was worth over half a million dollars? How much was the rest of the inventory in this story worth? Tens of millions, had to be.

  Charlotte held her hand out to him. The ring was dazzling against her pale skin and blood-red nails. ‘Buy it for me, would you, darling?’ she said. ‘I would be ever so grateful.’

  Wycliff’s knees buckled. Charlotte laughed. ‘Don’t stop breathing. I’m just funning on you.’ She turned back to the store owner. ‘The others you showed me. May I look at them as well?’

  ‘Certainly.’ He retreated to his office again.

  ‘What do you think?’ Charlotte asked Wycliff. She held her hand up and looked at the ring on her finger. ‘Should I buy it?’

  The question staggered him. ‘Jesus, don’t ask me. Six hundred thousand dollars for a ring? For Kobe Bryant, maybe, but not regular mortals.’

  She gave him a penetrating look. ‘You have to set your sights high, darling. That’s what dreams are for. I’ve been a dreamer all my life. A dreamer and a schemer. You can’t have one without the other.’

  Wycliff knew about dreams. And he certainly was hip to the scheming side; most of his life had been devoted to one scheme or another. Not at this level, but he understood where Charlotte was coming from. Maybe that’s been my problem. Maybe I haven’t schemed at a high-enough level. If you are going to fail – which I always have – you might as well fail high.

  Maybe she could teach him how.

  The owner emerged from the back room with a long, narrow jewelry box. He opened it to reveal half a dozen rings, all featuring large diamonds as their centerpieces. Carefully, he took the rings out of the box and placed them on a soft cloth on the counter.

  ‘Can I examine them more closely?’ Charlotte asked.

  ‘Of course.’ He took a loupe from his pocket and handed it to her.

  She took the ring off her finger and put it on the cloth next to the others. Then she placed the jeweler’s glass against her eye and brought one of the new rings up to it, slowly turning the ring from side to side.

  This is not this lady’s first rodeo, Wycliff thought, as he watched her examine the ring. She knows what she’s doing and she checks everything out. Which brought him up short. If Charlotte was this vigilant in examining a piece of jewelry, she would be as meticulous in finding out everything she needed to know about a human being. His instincts told him that she had an agenda, and that he was part of it. Be careful, he warned himself. You don’t know these waters. There could be sharks lurking under the surface.

  Charlotte put the second ring down and shook her head ruefully. ‘This is what happens when you climb Mount Everest. Every other mountain is a molehill in comparison.’ She picked the first ring up again, looked at it fondly, put it down. ‘Don’t get me wrong, they’re all beautiful. But they aren’t …’ She didn’t need to finish her thought.

  ‘Yes,’ the owner agreed. He was on her wavelength.

  As she handed him his loupe it slipped from her fingers, sliding across the counter and onto the floor. ‘I’m sorry,’ she apologized, bending over the counter to see where it had landed. ‘I hope I didn’t scratch it. There it is,’ she pointed.

  ‘Not to worry,’ the owner assured her as he retrieved the eyepiece from the floor.

  Charlotte pursed her lips in concentration. ‘I have to have that ring,’ she declared. ‘I have a meeting with my accountant on Monday. I will beat him over the head with an ax handle until he agrees to let me have it. It is my money, after all.’ She was building up a good head of steam against the absent financial advisor. ‘What are stock certificates? Pieces of paper. You can’t admire them, you can’t wear them, you can’t turn your friends green with envy over them. That ring will surely appreciate, don’t you think?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ the owner assured her. ‘It will double in value in five years or less. I give you my blood oath.’

  She laughed. ‘That won’t be necessary. Just don’t sell it out from under me.’

  ‘I promise I won’t.’

  Charlotte turned to Wycliff. ‘Isn’t this fun?’ Her eyes were sparkling.

  Fun? Wycliff thought. His heart was pounding, and it wasn’t even him who was laying a small fortune on the line. ‘Yes,’ he told her. That was what she wanted to hear. ‘It’s fun.’

  Juan, the hermano in Pacoima who owned the chop shop, was a walking slab of concrete, sporting jailhouse tattoos all over his arms and neck. ‘So you know my man Aaron Montoya, over there in Arizona?’

  ‘Yeah, we’ve done stuff together in the past,’ Wycliff affirmed. Stuff meaning the occasional B&E. Aaron had given him this dude’s name, in case Wycliff ever needed to do business on the west coast. ‘He’s good people,’ he said.

  ‘The best,’ Juan agreed.

  The Blue Book on the Lexus was $39,500. Juan offered seven large. ‘Which is generous, bro’, this car’s already on the national hot list.’ Wycliff didn’t hesitate – he snatched the bills out of the man’s hand like it was the last pork chop on a boarding-house platter.

  ‘In the market for fresh wheels now?’ the big man asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Wycliff answered, ‘but cleaner than this one. I’ve got to play it extra safe.’

&n
bsp; ‘Copy that,’ Juan agreed. ‘Anything particular you got a hankering for?’

  ‘BMW,’ Wycliff answered. ‘An Audi S4 would be fine, too.’

  The chop-shop owner whipped out his cell phone and speed-dialed. ‘Richard, it’s Juan. Dude of my acquaintance just blew into town, needs a car with paper that’ll pass for legit. Something of the Germanic persuasion would be his first choice. He’s cool, I’ll vouch for him.’ A moment of listening, then: ‘On his way.’ He snapped the phone shut. ‘2010 3-series Beemer, cherry ride. The paperwork will get you into Fort Knox. My man will work a sweet deal for you.’ He brought up a ball of phlegm and hocked it onto the concrete floor. ‘Hey, Chuy,’ he called across the room to another behemoth, who was taping a Porsche for priming. ‘Take a break and give this dude a lift over to Richard Ortega’s.’

  Wycliff and the owner shook hands. ‘Nice to do business with you, partner,’ the man said. ‘You come across another car to unload, you know where to find me. I particularly can use Escalades and E-class Mercedes.’

  Wycliff smiled. ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

  Twilight was fading into evening when Wycliff pulled into the driveway of his brother’s house in his new ride, a metallic-platinum BMW 335i. He carried a sack of groceries and his fresh-from-the-store wardrobe inside and turned on some lights. The house was warm and inviting. If you had to die, this would be as good a place as any to do it. Billy would be at peace here, in his own, familiar surroundings. With a loving family member at his side.

  After he and Charlotte left the jewelry store, they had a late-afternoon drink at a wine bar in West Hollywood, then he brought her home. She had an engagement in the evening. They would get together again tomorrow. She didn’t tell him what the engagement was and he didn’t ask, although he was mildly curious. Maybe she was seeing another man. For all he knew she could be married and had some kind of arrangement with her husband. He didn’t think that was the case, but with this woman anything seemed possible.

  She was trouble – that he did know – in spades. What kind of trouble was the question. As long as she didn’t put him in a hot box, he would swing with it. She was glamorous, great in bed, and had money: everything he had always wanted in a woman. Even her age was a positive. There was no chance of a long-term relationship. Theirs was not going to be an open-ended affair. She would use him for what she needed him for, he would get whatever he could out of it, and they would move on. Hopefully, trouble free. Wycliff had never been in a relationship that hadn’t ended badly. Maybe this would be the one that would break his losing streak.

  He fired up the Weber’s on the back patio and grilled a couple of center-cut pork chops, which he ate with potato salad and an ear of corn, the food washed down with two cold Bohemias. A Camel filter and a slug of Gentleman Jack for dessert. He would not smoke inside, he would maintain the interior as a sterile chamber for his dying brother.

  The Dodgers were beating the Diamondbacks on Billy’s hi-def big-screen Sony. Wycliff sprawled out on the couch until the game was over, then remained there, out of ennui more than anything else, as the local news segued into commercials for Cialus, women’s roll-on deodorant, Wal-Mart.

  He was bushed. He reached for the remote to turn the set off.

  ‘In Beverly Hills, a brazen robbery in a jewelry store.’

  His hand froze on the controls.

  The newscaster continued: ‘An unidentified woman, who the police speculate is a professional at this type of theft, stole an expensive ring from an exclusive jewelry store this afternoon. The woman had been in the store before, trying on the ring, and when she returned, accompanied this time by an unknown man who authorities assume was part of the sting, she was able to divert the store owner’s attention long enough to take the ring and leave before the theft was noticed. Cosmo Kalajian, the owner of the store, estimates the value of the stolen ring at over half a million dollars. According to a statement issued by the Beverly Hills Police Department, unless the ring turns up in a pawnshop or another jewelry store it will probably not be recovered.’

  Dumb-ass doofus! Wycliff silently cursed himself. The gun Charlotte had foisted on him should have been an alarm bell in his head, warning him this woman was not some housewife treating herself to a trinket. If there was ever a time for a stiff shot of Gentleman Jack, this was it. He turned off the set, pried himself off the couch, and walked into the kitchen. The telephone rang. He jumped in startled panic, his heart pounding in his chest. The phone rang again, loud, shrill. It’s not for you, he told himself. No one knows you’re here.

  Which was not true. His brother knew. Stanley, the former occupant, knew. And of course, Charlotte knew. Who else? He had not told anyone else; had he? His mind was racing. He couldn’t remember. Hell, he could barely breathe.

  A third ring. The ring tone was loud, like a hammer hitting an anvil. Maybe Billy’s hearing had deteriorated because of his illness and the phone was turned up extra high.

  Wycliff couldn’t stop himself. He tore the receiver off the hook.

  ‘Are you watching the evening news, by any chance?’

  ‘Yes,’ he choked out. He felt his blood heating up in his chest. What would happen if it actually boiled inside him? Would he blow a gasket? More likely, a heart attack, which right this moment did not seem that far-fetched.

  ‘You have nothing to worry about,’ Charlotte told him, her voice maddeningly calm and assured. ‘You’re fresh off the shelf here. No one knows you exist, except me.’

  He wanted to reach through the line and strangle her. ‘This caper of yours could put me in prison.’ His throat was constricting, he could barely force the words out. ‘There was a video camera! We’re on tape! Why in God’s name did you involve me?’

  ‘Don’t be a baby,’ she scolded him. ‘If there actually was a tape, they would have shown it. And you were wearing a hat, so your face was covered. I’ll explain everything when I see you.’

  ‘Is that why you called?’ he bleated. He sounded like the lamest little bitch in the world.

  Charlotte’s voice, in contrast, was molten honey: her self-control was infuriating. ‘I called to make sure you don’t act rashly, like making a beeline out of town.’

  That very thought had been coursing through his mind.

  She punctuated the silence. ‘Are you still there, Wycliff?’

  He groaned. ‘Yeah, I’m here.’

  ‘Take two aspirin and go to bed. You’ll feel better in the morning.’

  The phone went dead in his hand. He stared at it like it was a dead rat. Numbly, he dropped the receiver back onto the cradle.

  He couldn’t call her back, he didn’t know her phone number. He didn’t even know her real name. Anything about her, truth be told. She’s setting you up, dummy. For a big, goddamned fall.

  There was nothing he could do about it. His instinct, which flashed in big neon letters, was to cut and run. And that was the one thing he could not do. Not because of her. He didn’t owe her squat. She had spent a few hundred dollars outfitting him. From what he had seen of her lifestyle, she could easily afford it.

  The reason he couldn’t leave was his brother. He had given Billy his word that he would get him out of that miserable deathtrap of a hospital and bring him to his own home, so he could die with some dignity. They were polar opposites, him and Billy. Cain and Abel. But this time around, the evil brother would not slay the good one.

  Wycliff didn’t think he could fall asleep, but he conked out as soon as his head hit the pillow. His dreams were turbulent. He was being chased by pursuers unknown, he was looking for something or someone he could not find, the world was closing in on him. All in vivid color and violence, like an X-rated comic book.

  The knocking on the door sounded like a rifle shot. He sat bolt upright. He slept commando, so his first move, once his brain unscrambled enough to realize this was not a nightmare, was to grab his pants and struggle into them.

  Three more raps. Not hard knocks, like cop bang-ban
gs. Three steady tattoos.

  The revolver that Charlotte had thrust upon him was on the side table next to his wallet and keys. He snatched it up, cracking the barrel to make sure it was loaded; a fundamental detail he had neglected to do earlier. Another rookie mistake.

  It was loaded, fully. Five copper-jacketed .38 bullets, all snuggled in their chambers. He wasn’t looking for trouble, but if it came, he was prepared.

  All the lights were off. Thank God for that, the darkness gave him cover. He slipped out of bed and crept from the bedroom to the living room.

  The front door opened directly in from the street. Holding his breath, he tiptoed around the perimeter of the room, hugging the walls, until he was next to the window that overlooked the street. He pressed his face against the glass and peered out.

  He jerked the door open. Charlotte, clad in a raincoat over bare legs, stood on the threshold. Her hands were in her pockets to keep them warm from the chilly late-night fog. She was wearing just enough makeup to smooth out the rough spots.

  ‘This is how people get shot,’ Wycliff rasped at her.

  Her look to him was one of infuriating calmness. ‘Can I come in?’ she asked. Without waiting for an answer, she stepped past him. He slammed the door shut behind her as she walked into the center of the room. ‘Nice,’ she commented, looking it over. ‘What do you have to drink?’

  There was a bottle of white wine tucked in the back of the refrigerator. He popped the cork and poured two glasses. Charlotte gracefully lowered herself into a Herman Miller Eames lounge chair, crossing one regal leg over the other. Wycliff perched on the couch across from her. She took a sip of wine and placed the glass on the side table.