I turned to face him. “Chooch, if there’s one thing I can try to give you, it’s this: You don’t have to impress anyone to be important. Around us you can be yourself. You can have big dreams, and all of us will help you live them.”
“I do,” he said, softly. “Playing football is a dream.”
“I’m worried that football isn’t as much of a dream as it is a device—a way for you to elevate yourself or prove yourself to others. For some reason, it looks like Coach Dowell may choose this other guy over you.
Coach Carroll likes you, but hasn’t offered you a scholarship yet, and he might not. Same with Penn State. So right now you don’t feel so important anymore. But try and think of it this way. You’re the sum of all your experience and your experiences have helped forge who you are. If you were valuable yesterday, then regardless of what anybody else thinks, you’re valuable today. It doesn’t matter what Coach Dowell or Coach Carroll do. It doesn’t change who and what you are, unless you let it. Everybody suffers defeats, son. You’ll come to realize some day, that it’s your defeats that define your victories. The way to true happiness in life is to love what you’re doing, not how well other people say you’re doing it. It’s an important distinction.”
Chooch stood looking down stoically at the wind ruffled water on the Grand Canal.
“Even if you don’t get an athletic scholarship to any university, and you go to one of these schools as a walk on, if you really love the game, love the process; you will succeed. Maybe not in exactly the way you once thought, but success will come.”
My son was looking at me now, his face a strange mixture of emotions.
“But you won’t ever be happy if you let other people grade your paper, Chooch. It has to come from inside you. You’ve got to be a believer before anyone else can believe.
“And you think that I play ball just so other people will think I’m a big deal?”
“Nothing in life is all one thing or all the other. In failure, there can also be accomplishment. In jealousy, there is usually envy and respect. The trick is to get the balance right. I think some things got out of balance for you this year.”
He stood beside me, his eyes again fixed on the water, pondering my words.
“In whatever you choose to do, I want you to compete, and hopefully you will succeed. But most of all, I want you to love the process, because that’s where happiness lies.”
“So it’s not important that Coach Dowell cancelled his visit?”
“Not in the long run.”
“What if he doesn’t reschedule? And what if I don’t hear back from USC either?”
“We can only play our game. We can’t play anybody else’s. You are a lot of things, Chooch. You are a combination of cultures and emotions. Your genes come from me, and your mother, Sandy. Alexa and I try to be good role models and show you how to behave through actions, not just words. But you get to choose what, and who, you want to be. You get to decide how you want to behave.”
“I should calm down?” he said softly.
“Yep. And you gotta believe.” I put my arm around him. “If it’s meant to be, it’s gonna happen.”
Chapter 36
At seven that evening I was at my desk in the den working on the Arden Rolaine homicide book.
As I went through the old case notes, trying to put them in chronological order, I noticed a margin note that read, “Re-interview VR about Jan. 3rd time line.”
I wondered if VR was shorthand for Victim’s Relative like in Cindy Blackman’s notes, or if it stood for Vaughn Rolaine, the victim’s brother. Since Zack said he was never able to locate Arden’s brother, I started looking around through all this disorganization for interviews he’d done with other family members.
As I was doing this, the doorbell rang. I got up from the desk, walked to the front door and peered through the peephole. The distorted images of Emdee Perry and Roger Broadway were stretched comically in the fisheye lens. I opened the door and saw they were both decked out in snazzy Lakers gear—purple and gold jackets and hats. Roger handed me a ticket.
“What’s this?”
“Lakers game,” Broadway said. “Staples Center. Ninth row. We scored the seats from the Mexican Embassy. For some Third World reason, the se hablas are Clippers’ fans. Never use their Lakers’ seats.”
I looked at the ticket. It was for the Spurs game, eight o’clock tonight.
“I’m in the middle of something.”
Emdee drawled, “We like you okay, Scully, but we sure as shit wouldn’t waste great Lakers tickets on you ‘less we had to. Tip-off’s in fifty minutes. Giddy-up, Joe Bob.”
“Something’s going down?”
They looked at each other in disbelief.
I told Alexa what was up, grabbed a jacket, and headed out. Roger and Emdee were waiting in a motor pool Navigator with smoked windows. I climbed in the backseat and Roger steered the black SUV up Ocean Avenue to the 10 freeway. Once we were heading east, Perry turned and handed me the transmitter Roger and I had taken off the Fairlane.
“ESD found out who made that little pastry,” he said. “Designed by a private firm here in L. A. name of Americypher Technologies.”
“Never heard of them.”
“It was founded in ‘ninety-three by a Jewish cat named Calvin Lerner,” Roger said. “Man’s got an interesting history. In ‘ninety-five Lerner gave up his Israeli passport and became a naturalized U. S. citizen. This was very good news because Americypher specializes in state-of-the-art listening devices and transmitters. It turns out Uncle Sam is one of their biggest customers.”
“We don’t make our own surveillance equipment?” I was a little surprised that we would subcontract out work like that.
“It all comes down to horseshit and gun smoke in field operations,” Emdee drawled.
Roger picked up the story again. “About two years ago Calvin Lerner, who still owned controlling interest in Americypher, went missing on the Stanislaus River in Central California during a trout fishing trip. Wandered off up the river alone, and did a Beam me up, Scottie. Never found any trace of him. No tracks, no blood, no body. His widow took over running the company. Americypher is still going strong.”
“Americypher sounds like it should be a good American outfit,” I said.
Emdee smiled. “One a the things ya learn working this beat is the more American a company sounds, the less Americans are probably involved with it.
“The bugs Americypher makes are years ahead of the curve. That’s one of them,” Broadway said, pointing to the tiny transmitter in Emdee’s hand. “They’re designed to use miniature low-volt batteries with twentyyear lives, but apparently because of the low voltage they’re a bitch to install. The way we hear it, the engineers from Americypher go out on black-bag installations to help their customers plant these things.”
Now I saw where this was going. “And you think since Americypher knows where the bugs are located, they could sell that information.”
Broadway said, “Counterintelligence plays a big part in world politics.”
“But would Americypher double-cross big federal clients like Homeland Security and the FBI?”
“The old team put together by Calvin Lerner probably wouldn’t,” Roger said. “But nobody knows much about his widow. She’s still an Israeli. Never took the pledge of allegiance. We just cranked up a new investigation on Americypher. The dicks in Financial Crimes are gonna hit that pinata and see if it spits out any candy.”
We pulled into VIP parking at the Staples Center and ten minutes later I was sitting in the best seat I’d ever had at that arena. Nine rows up, center court. The tip-off was at eight o’clock sharp.
While I watched the game, Broadway and Perry took turns getting up and going to the bathroom, or out to buy beers. Something was definitely up, but when I asked them what, they waved it off. I decided to just wait them out. Whatever we were doing here, it had nothing to do with the Lakers.
At the half the h
ome team was only up by three points. Fans were stretching and going out to the concession stands. Broadway said he wanted another hotdog and headed toward the exit.
Ten minutes later, Perry grabbed my arm. “We’re leaving,” he announced.
“We need to wait for Roger,” I said. “He’s getting food.”
“Roger’s in the car. Come on.”
We hurried up the steps through the midlevel tunnel. As we joined the crowd milling toward the food courts I caught a glimpse of the same baldheaded man in the blue blazer who had come to my phony funeral. He was now wearing a Lakers jacket and was about twenty people ahead of us, moving toward the exit.
“Isn’t that Eddie Ringerman?” I asked.
“Small fucking world,” Emdee said as he pulled me along.
“Why don’t you spit it out? What’s going on?”
He hesitated, then said, “We got direct orders from the chief not to confide in the competition, but he didn’t say we couldn’t follow ‘em. Ringerman’s a rabid Lakers fan, but if our boy gets up to leave with the game in doubt, something’s goin’ down. So we follow Ringerman, see if we can catch him in politicus flagrante. Then we’ll jerk a knot in his tail and make the boy give up something.”
Ringerman headed out the main entrance onto the street, then crossed with the light to the east parking lot and got into a gray Lincoln.
Perry still had my arm, pulling me along. “Hustle up,” he said. “Game’s on.”
Chapter 37
Broadway drove the Navigator out of Staples VIP parking and onto the city streets. I couldn’t see the gray Lincoln Town Car that Ringerman was driving. We’d only been following it for three minutes and already we’d lost sight of him.
“I like a nice, loose tail,” I said, “but isn’t it usually a good idea to keep the target in sight?”
Broadway opened the glove compartment revealing an LD screen. He turned it on and a city map came up displaying a two-mile moving grid. I could see a red light flashing down Fourth Street towards the freeway.
“Satellite tracking,” Broadway explained. “The feds aren’t the only ones with goodies. While you and Perry were watching the game, I hung a pill on Eddie’s ride. We’re following him from outer space.”
We followed the embassy car from a mile back as it turned off the Hollywood Freeway at Highland, then shot across Fountain and down the hill on Fairfax. We turned on Melrose and were right back where Yuri’s market had once stood. The center of Russian Town.
This three-block area was the L. A. version of New York’s Brighton Beach. Russian liquor stores featuring signs advertising expensive brands of Yuri Dolgoruki and Charodei vodka. Restaurants with names like Sergi’s and Shura’s dotted the landscape. Posters were plastered everywhere advertising an upcoming Svetlana Vetrova concert.
Roger finally pulled up across the street from a restaurant called the Russian Roulette. It was on Melrose at the west end of Russian Town, nestled close to the boundary of Beverly Hills. The building was stucco, but had a slanted roof with fancy trim. I spotted Ringerman’s gray Lincoln in a jammed-to-overflowing parking lot.
“Unfortunately, as it turns out, this ain’t the best place for me and Afro-Boy t’attempt a covert surveillance,” Emdee said once we were parked.
“Shane, you’re gonna have to go in there and check it out for us,” Broadway added.
“Me?”
“We’re unwelcome personages in there,” Broadway said. “A month ago, donkey brain over there, attempted to end the criminal career of one Boris Zikofsky, a known L. A. hitter and Odessa shit ball.”
“The man deserved the bust,” Emdee protested.
“Instead of following this hat basher into the parking lot and cuffing him out there like he’s supposed to, the Hillbilly Prince badges the motherfucker right in the restaurant without backup, and starts World War Three. My man ended up by dancing Boris through a pricey pastry cart from fifteen hundred Czarist Russia. Cost the department seven grand. The Loot shit a blintz.”
“Not my best polka,” Emdee admitted.
“So if we go in there, we’re gonna get made, turned around, and run right back out, then reported to the lieutenant.” Broadway handed me an old, taped together digital camera. “Take lots of pictures.”
“I don’t even know who the players are. Who do I take pictures of?”
“Everybody.” Broadway reached into the glove box and retrieved a big, clunky tape recorder with a directional mike that was about the size of a Kleenex box.
“What happened to all our miniaturized, state-of-the-art goodies?” I said.
Broadway handed the recorder to me and said, “If you can find the complaint box up on five, slip it in as the saying goes.”
Then he pointed at the camera. “No flash. It’s digital, but just barely,” he smiled. “Directional mike on this tape recorder has a short, so watch the transmission light to make sure it’s recording.”
“What are you two gonna be doing?”
Emdee switched on the radio. The Lakers game was in the third quarter. He gave me a lazy smile.
“Right,” I said, and headed across the street.
I decided not to go in through the front. I didn’t want to be seen, so I went to the rear of the restaurant.
The back of the Russian Roulette was littered with empty produce boxes and used-up liquor bottles. I looked in the trash and found some soft lettuce heads that didn’t look too bad. I put my clunky camera and recorder in one of the boxes, then arranged five heads of wilted lettuce on top. I took off my jacket, tied it around my waist, and rolled up my shirt sleeves.
With this brilliant on-the-fly disguise in place, I carried the rotting produce right back into the restaurant.
The kitchen was noisy and full of cooks turning out that vinegary smelling food that Balkan people seem to love. Without warning, a burly guy in a white tunic who looked like a cross between Boris Spassky and Wolfgang Puck, grabbed me and started rattling away in some language with way too many consonants.
“Sorry, pal, I’m just the relief driver,” I said into his guttural windstorm. “No speaky da Rooskie,” trying to do it like some zooted out delivery guy from Saugus.
He ranted some more Russian at me then grabbed a head of rotting lettuce out of the box and shook it under my nose.
“No can this … this …” He was sputtering. “Thing no to eat!” Then in frustration he turned to find somebody who could speak my language.
As soon as he was gone, I set the box down, retrieved my camera and tape and went lickity-splitting down the hall connecting the kitchen and restaurant.
I moved into the back of the dining room. The place was packed and noisy. The predominant language sounded Eastern European—Armenian or Russian. I scanned the room looking for Ringerman.
Halfway down, seated in a wall booth, there he was. Next to him sat Bimini Wright, the Ice Goddess with the silver Jag from the funeral.
I crowded behind a flower arrangement and took pictures of everybody in the restaurant. Then some patrons in the booth next to Ringerman’s got up to look at the pastry table. Apparently the priceless rolling cart hadn’t made it back from antique repair. I slipped down the aisle between tables and slid into the recently vacated spot next to my targets. Then I turned on the tape and laid it under my jacket close to the next table.
They were speaking softly in Russian. It surprised me that Ringerman and Wright, two Americans, would choose to converse in a foreign language. I couldn’t understand a word. They acted like people who were plotting something. I taped them for about ten minutes until the people from my borrowed booth headed back, carrying dessert plates. Then I bailed.
Minutes later, I was back in the Navigator, where Broadway and Perry were still listening to the Lakers game.
“You see him?” Broadway asked.
I scrolled through some digital shots of the two of them.
“Bimini Wright?” Broadway said as soon as he saw her picture. “Maybe the Isr
aelis are using Eddie to build a bridge to the CIA.” He looked up at Perry. “Something is sure as shit in the wind.” Then he turned to me. “What were they talking about in there?”
“Beats the hell outta me.” I punched Play on the tape recorder and we listened while their whispered voices, speaking Russian, filled the car.
We pulled out of Russian Town while Emdee hunched over the tape recorder in the front seat with an open notebook on his lap, translating the conversation. It surprised me that this transplant from South Carolina actually spoke Russian. These two were full of surprises. Listening to my bad recording, I could barely distinguish Eddie Ringerman’s whispered baritone or Bimini Wright’s elegant soprano. They spoke softly, their voices all but drowned out by the loud background chatter in the restaurant.
“Since they’re both American, why are they talking in Russian?” I asked.
“They’re both fluent. Both went to spy school. It’s the kinda stuff these spooks live for,” Broadway said. “Besides, it puts a crick in our dicks when we try to eavesdrop. Now this ignorant cracker gets to practice his night-school Russian.”
I glanced out the rear window of the Navigator at traffic piling up at a stoplight half a block behind us. Suddenly, the headlights on a blue Ford Escort swung wide and the car roared around waiting traffic into the oncoming lane. It ran the light and rushed up the street after us.
“She’s bitching about something called the Eighty-five Problem,” Emdee was saying, playing a section of the tape over. “It happened when she was stationed in Moscow. She’s pissed. Eddie is trying to calm her down.”
“Bimini Wright was at the U. S. embassy in Moscow for ten years in the mid-eighties and nineties,” Broadway said as the tape ran out.
“This all you got?” Emdee complained.
“Yeah. I had to leave the booth I was in.”
I was still looking out the rear window. The blue Escort now ducked in behind a Jeep Cherokee, trying to hide.
“Hey, Roger, make a right.”
“I don’t want to make a right,” Broadway said. “I’d like to go back to Parker Center.”
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