The Chinese Beverly Hills

by John Shannon

  *

  Rain ran in sheets down the awningless window of the church office. Just as he remembered, the man’s office in St. Thomas Aquinas was painted an institutional vomit green. Father Soong was still strange-looking in his big white robe, like a man poking his head out of a tent.

  There was a photo of Soong on the sideboard behind him, with a cop clutching either arm. Jack Liffey pointed at it.

  “Antiwar demonstration?”

  The priest smiled mildly. “Something like that. How I wished I’d been in Baltimore when the Berrigans poured their own blood into the draft files. I was stuck in a tiny mission church on the Rosebud Reservation in South Dakota. A complex moral problem. The Lakota, like most Native Americans, are extremely patriotic. Their sons were almost all on active duty. I was their pastor. So I kept my mouth shut about Vietnam.”

  Something thrummed in the walls of the office, maybe just an excess of reverence. It was time. “I’m sorry to tell you this, sir. I’ve learned that Sabine Roh is almost certainly dead. She was shot and then left in the path of the Sheepshead Fire.”

  The man’s features sagged, as if aging a year or two before Jack Liffey’s eyes. His fingers pressed into both of his eyes.

  “I just told the parents. If they’re your parish, you might want to go over.”

  “I don’t know how much comfort I have to offer. Sorry, that’s my own vanity speaking. I liked Sabby a lot. I don’t like her father very much. He has several advanced degrees in feeling sorry for himself. His daughter needed him badly, and he was lost in himself. Did he sit sideways, not looking at you?”

  Jack Liffey nodded.

  “What a prick—to use the ecclesiastical term. Thank you for coming to tell me, Mr. Liffey. I’d better go over there.”

  As Jack Liffey left, he looked back to see the small man staring down dejectedly at the Tibetan prayer wheel on his desk. Confusion everywhere.

  *

  Maeve stared guardedly at the CD that had been left pointedly on her coffee table. She was a little shell-shocked by her conversation with Swami Muni. The man had been humorous, self-effacing, soft-spoken and surprisingly unmystical.

  Every time she’d expected him to veer off into mysticism, he’d talked about particle physics or neuroscience.

  She felt a bit floaty, as if the guy had left a powerful intoxicant on the air. He’d also left the CD—Lesson One of Work, of course. The ears are the direct path to the yearnings of the unconscious. She wondered what her dad would say about it all. No, she knew.

  Another light rap on her door—certainly Bunny this time.

  “Hi, Bunny.”

  “Were you just entertaining who I think I think?”

  Maeve made a face. “I can see why he interested you.” In a different tone: “He told me the Mickey guy won’t bother us anymore.”

  “Great.” Bunny’s eye went directly to the CD imprinted with a distinctive hypnotic spiral. “You’re going to try work?”

  “Shouldn’t I?”

  “Wow on wheels, Maevie. You seem so grounded. But then, you are ready to jump at anything you feel sometimes.”

  “My dad once said you only regret the things you don’t do.”

  “Oh, I can think of some things I did do…”

  Maeve took Bunny’s hand. It was deliciously plump, warm and damp. “Bunny, we’re both really young. Let’s not have regrets yet. Mi mosca muerta.”

  “I worry when you hide in Spanish.”

  “It’s ‘my dead fly’ literally, but it means my sweet innocent.”

  “Innocent, huh? Be careful of that man, M. But I won’t prejudice you.”

  *

  On the car seat beside him Jack Liffey had a bag of sandwiches, and a couple of readable books that were carefully chosen to fly in sideways at a self-taught libertarian, sandbag his thinking a little.

  Rain hammered on his windshield. He paused below the cabin because a cop car was parked next to the Studebaker. Jack Liffey waited discreetly for half an hour, but nobody budged, so he drove on past to take another look at the death site Roski had showed him.

  He opened an umbrella and stepped out to investigate. The gravel wash was running half width with rainwater now. It would soon be full, and probably obliterate the crime scene entirely, but the ground told him very little except there’d been more digging. He’d watched Gloria work a crime scene once and been astonished by what she’d noticed. A square inch of tennis shoe imprint had got a killer caught.

  Jack Liffey stooped at something shiny, but it was just a pebble. Life never tossed you a super clue unless you were a super sleuth. In his experience, the only way to make a case was to stir the pot so hard that whoever you were looking for jumped out at you in a fury.

  He wondered why he was putting so much effort into Ed Zukovich. Maybe it was because the young man was trying poignantly hard to find his way in a world that was beyond his resources. Jack Liffey was always a sucker for that.

  When he drove back down the hill, the cop car was still at the cabin, so he drove home.

  *

  “Gus, it’s the admiral’s gofer on the line.” Andor Reik meant the admiral’s adjutant, a good friend of their family from back in the John Birch days.

  “No names,” Gustav said into the phone, and pressed a switch under his desk that automatically locked the double-glazed office doors on the business level of his building. The button also turned on a very expensive Chinese-made electronic jammer that killed every wireless signal within a hundred meters.

  “Boy, howdy, this is for you,” the gravelly voice said. “No hair and no horns left behind. The Navy is going to board your Sierra Leone ship before it gets to Iran. Some spook told them it was full of nuclear centrifuges.”

  “And when they find out it’s only fracking and oil drilling gear?”

  “It’s still in violation of the trade ban, pard. I know your company is very, very patriotic about that.”

  What the hell was more patriotic than making giant profits off the towel-heads, for God’s sake?

  “We can’t control what Nigerians and Syrians do with the tools we sell them. You hear me, spooks? And while you’re at it, kiss your own fucking asses goodbye, because I can make sure you’re stuck testing the temperature of the ice in Antarctica for the rest of your lives.”

  “Don’t worry, my end is secure,” the adjutant said. “Goodbye for now.”

  “Gus, it’s me.” Andor came back on startlingly from Omaha. How secure was it now?

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t be jumpy, bro.”

  Gustav hung up and switched to a new call.

  “Ad, you shouldn’t have been on that line. Forget it. You’ve got some work. First, get rid of the California chucklehead, that lawyer. Into the wastebasket of history.”

  “Can’t our supposed friends stop the Navy searching our boat?”

  “Hush now. The devil’s runnin’ up.” He cut Andor off and leaned back in his Recaro desk chair, which had been rescued from a crashed Ferrari.

  He considered his options. If the Navy was already steaming toward the Kroo Sky entering the Persian Gulf, it would be almost impossible to prevent a search. And the name Reik was plastered all over the oil equipment. But a lot of really big boys owed him.

  Okay, let’s see who feels froggy about this, he thought, as he punched a key that dialed straight into the Pentagon.

  *

  Late the next morning, Jack Liffey drove through the fire gate again carrying his picnic hamper with cold beer, ginger ale, two fresh meatball sandwiches, and the same books. He parked on the pad alongside the seasonal wash that was hard at work now. A big stream boiled angrily down its ravine, maybe two feet below the rim.

  He wondered if the stream had ever flooded its banks—but the cabin was an antique and had obviously survived a century of winter storms.

  Zukovich opened up after a knock, displaying a scowl. He was bare-chested in the cabin heat of the potbelly stove.

  “So
rry to disturb your study, Zook. I brought beer and sandwiches and more books.” He displayed the hamper.

  “Are you fucking serious? You’re way too spooky, dude. I don’t want you here.”

  “Not as spooky as the cops. A big pal of yours?”

  “He’d like to be. You didn’t tell me the slope girl had been shot.”

  “Can I come in out of the rain, Zook?”

  He still blocked the door. “You’re suddenly an expert on what I want to read?”

  “I did a lot of self-education myself. We’re more alike than you know.”

  Disgusted, Zukovich threw open the door. “Bring the beer anyway. If it’s cold.”

  “It’s no big deal, Zook. I was just a guy like yourself, trying hard to figure things out.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Beer on the table. And why are you here again?”

  Jack Liffey opened the hamper and took out the drinks, but not the books. “First, tell me why you’re messing around with the cops.”

  “Fuck you, fuckwad.”

  Jack Liffey smiled. “Yeah, I knew your twin in ’Nam.”

  That silenced him for a moment, until he grabbed one of the beer cans. “Who’s this twin?”

  “He was an asshole that every officer and MP could play like a pinball. When I met him, I thought I saw a guy brave enough to speak truth to power, but he liked being their pal instead.”

  “Who said that about truth?”

  “It’s from the Quakers. But maybe you like being a cop’s buddy too much.”

  The young man stared at him and seemed to make some inner decision. “Don’t be so mean, Mr. Jack. Sit a while. You’re a lot more interesting than the crater-face cop, cha cha cha.” He found one of the foil-wrapped sandwiches and unwrapped it. “Ah, Mr. Torpedo.” He opened the bun. “Mr. Meatball Torpedo, the best thing. This is from Ugo’s on Ynez, isn’t it?”

  “Sure.”

  Zook was obviously very hungry, and began to eat at once. Jack Liffey sat down on a creaking lawn chair, relishing the warmth of the old Franklin stove. The rain pattered on the roof, roared for a while, then pit-pattered again.

  “What is it I should tell power?” Zukovich said as he sat on his canvas swing chair. “And how do I get in touch?”

  Jack Liffey smiled. Extra credit for a sense of humor. “That’s your problem. I have no agenda here.”

  The young man still looked suspicious. “You’re a funny old fucker, you know that.”

  There was a book on the floor beside him, and Jack Liffey glanced at it idly, recognizing the author’s name right off: M. Stanton Evans. All those indelible names from his father’s kitchen table rants—Philbrick, Skousen, Bouscaren, Bishop Fulton Sheen.

  “I like stuff that’s off the map,” Jack Liffey said. “Sometimes it’s really loopy, but sometimes you learn something.”

  “I like books that tell me what’s going on underneath the media bullshit,” Zook said. “I hate superior bastards lying to me and then going to eat sushi.”

  “Did you grow up in Monterey Park?”

  He nodded. “It was already becoming chop suey town. Man, think of your own hometown and think of it turning into a foreign country before your eyes.”

  “I grew up in San Pedro, Zook. It was Yugoslav, Italian, Latino, Black, Norwegian, and Greek. I was the minority. A name like yours still feels like an ordinary American name to me. Roll call was Dragich, Mardesich, Zorotovich.”

  “It is American,” he bristled.

  “Say that in Kansas and see what happens.”

  The boy glared for a moment. “I bet you hang out with all the tame spades.”

  Jack Liffey laughed. “I hang out with a Paiute woman, son. What’s more American than that?”

  “Bet she plays your tom-tom in bed.”

  “Don’t do that, Zook. That’s my woman.”

  “Sorry, man, really. That was uncalled for. I know better than insulting a guy’s old lady.”

  Jack Liffey looked into the boy’s eyes, fresh and earnest. Was there any real hope? “Apology accepted.”

  “You want a doobie, man?”

  He did, but it had been over a decade since he’d smoked anything. Rain rattled on a window like fingernails. “Maybe some other time. I’ve got to go soon.” It was important to get out of there before the young man felt he was being crowded.

  Wind wailed eerily in the eaves of the cabin.

  “Whoa, you believe in Satan?” Zook asked, looking around.

  “No.”

  “Me neither, I guess.” He grinned. “But what if it’s end-times right this minute?”

  “Trust me. There’s a lot to take care of before that happens. I’m going to leave you something—you can read it or not.” He brought out an old paperback of John Berger’s Ways of Seeing. A guy had handed it to him right after Vietnam and it had hit him like a mortar round. The book had made him rethink a lot. It was mainly about art, and the way art influenced the ways you looked at the world, and he bet it would come at Zook sideways.

  “Zook, this book cuts into the lies people tell us all the time. Try the chapter about women. My card marks the place. Call me if you want to talk or if you just need a friend.”

  Zook finished off his beer. He didn’t look happy. “Man, look. That book has an evil glow.” And in the bright red pulse from the mica window of the stove, the white of the Penguin cover sure did

  Ideas always glow, he thought.

  *

  “Dad-o-mine, you’ve got to get a cell. I’ll give you an iPhone for Christmas. I mean it. You’re being an old fogey. Some fire department guy called me to leave you a message. I don’t know how on earth he got my number.

  “The guy said his name was Walt Roski and he needed to talk to you pretty soon.” His answering machine read him the number, the same number Jack Liffey already possessed on Roski’s card in his pocket.

  “Wait,” he said automatically, then realized he was only talking to a tape. He was an old fogey.

  “Yes, I’m okay, Dad,” her voice went on, anticipating him. “College is great. My friends are great. My painting is great. Well, it’s getting better. Have you ever heard of a guy named Swami Muni? Don’t get worked up. Just asking for a friend. Get a real phone, please. Bye.” The machine stopped and whirred.

  He wondered if there was any message she could have left that would have troubled him more? Swami Muni? He might not have worried about it at all if she hadn’t immediately and transparently resorted to her emotional blackmail. He called her back, but there was no answer, not even a message bucket. Late afternoon. In class with the phone turned off—hopefully. Or maybe on a hilltop with this swami, waiting for the chariot of the gods to come pick them up.

  How had Maeve become so impulsive? Was it his genes? He’d chased her down through a lot of open-hearted leaps, but he knew he finally needed to let go a little. And he had his own problems. Like Tien.

  The next recorded call was Tien’s voice. “Jackie, my great lover, I need you so bad. Why you always got a woman no good for you? I be too good.” His hackles rose and he missed a few sentences as he raged inwardly at Tien for leaving a message like this on his home phone, which Gloria might easily have monitored. His skin crawled. Of course, Tien had done it on purpose. Poking a big stick into the passing spokes of his life.

  “I hear maybe my niece-girl dead. You come see me, Mr. Big and Tough. Got to be. I expect you today. No telephone. In the person. We got to talk serious.”

  He was overwhelmed by a wave of tenderness for Gloria, and it felt so much like loss that he switched off the machine before retrieving the third call. He had to sit down to get himself together. Gloria had virtually ordered him to have an affair, but this wasn’t what she’d had in mind.

  After a while, he picked up the phone and punched in Walt Roski’s number. He got the leave-a-message message.

  “Walt, this is Jack. I guess we’re playing phone tag. Please call my home number.” He repeated the number. “It’s got a nice old-fashion
ed recording machine with a tape in it. I’m here or—”

  A clack meant Roski had picked up. “Hold on, Jack, give me a moment to clear some business.”

  “Sure.”

  Jack Liffey listened to the steady rasp in the ether, the abrasive indifference of technology, then Roski’s voice came back. “Jack, I’m at the County Fire offices in City Terrace, a long stone’s throw from your house. I need to see you.”

  “I know where it is. I’ll be there—”

  “No, not at the office. After 9/11, everybody’s paranoid. You need clearance from God to get in. Let’s split the difference and meet at the mercado on First, the restaurants upstairs. La Perla. You know the place?”

  “I could walk there if you give me fifteen minutes.”

  “Come on a skateboard if you want.”

  *

  Thank whatever Mariachi god was in charge, the competing bands had ended their lunchtime sets and hadn’t started up again. He was on the third-floor mezzanine overlooking hundreds of shops in the mercado two floors down.

  Jack Liffey glanced into the maelstrom down below—mobbed stalls of clothing, toys, shoes, CDs, and the magic potions of botanicos. The big-hipped waitress came and took his order for a Diet Coke and wandered off.

  Before long Roski seemed to appear like magic, and sat down opposite. Jack Liffey realized for the umpteenth time that he wasn’t really much of a detective. He hadn’t even spotted Roski approaching.

  “Hello, Walt. How about you tell me how the head of County Arson can’t make a call to the gate to get somebody in.”

  He waved the thought away. “Let it go. I don’t trust anyone these days. We’ve got a leak. Coroner data goes out to every sheriff’s station commander and forty-six police jurisdictions. There couldn’t be any leaks in all that, right?”

  “I’m a helluva lot more interested in what got leaked than who.”

  The waitress came back with a Diet Coke and then suffered through an exacting order from Roski for any beer from Mexico that was in a glass bottle, as long as it wasn’t Dos Equis or the surfers’ favorite, Corona. He settled for an Indio.