I introduced Bill. Julius was gracious, though his energy level was noticeably dimmed.
“Yes, yes,” he said. “You’re here about Marv Rudolph, Tenzing told me. What do you want to know?” The words ran together, as if he were speaking through mesh.
“Anything would be helpful,” Bill said. “For starters, what was your relationship with Mr. Rudolph?”
“My relationship?” Julius snapped. “Marv Rudolph was a thieving, lying sonofabitch, and I’m glad he’s gone. I’m not exactly proud of that, but, hell, if Los Angeles had a law against Schadenfreude the jails would be overflowing.”
Bill and I smiled as Julius swiped at the corners of his mouth with a napkin, his hand shaking. “And in case you’re wondering, I have an alibi.”
Bill shot him a look. “Sir, we haven’t told you Rudolph’s time of death yet.”
“Doesn’t matter. I haven’t left this property in three years.”
Bill’s cop-eyes narrowed at that. He decided to move on. “Do you know how he died?”
Julius shook his head. “The paper said ‘under suspicious circumstances.’ That’s all I know, or care to. Why?”
Bill said, “Well, it’s just that there are still quite a few missing pieces.” He sat back and opened his notebook. I decided to jump in.
“According to Mrs. Rudolph, her husband was quite passionate about a film project, Loving Hagar.”
Julius stiffened.
“I understand you might have been one of its backers . . . “ Bill shot me a look: News to me, it said.
Julius’s neck flushed red. “That fucking liar! I never put one penny into that movie. After that scumbag did what he did, I wouldn’t touch the movie, or him, with a ten-foot pole.” Julius’s right hand rubbed at an area just under the left forearm. Almost exactly where . . .
“Julius,” I said. “Did Marv ever show you his tattoo?”
Julius stared at me, his head swinging left to right to left to right. “After doing business in this town for fifty-plus years, I thought I’d seen everything, but Marv and his tattoo, that took the goddamn cake.” His fingers fumbled with the button at his left cuff.
“Do you mind?” he asked me. “The dyskinesia messes with my coordination.”
I unbuttoned the cuff, and he pushed up his shirtsleeve, exposing a faded blue tattoo on the pale underside of his forearm. Numbers.
His right thumb brushed across them, as if trying to rub them out.
“What were you doing when you were ten years old?” he asked Bill.
Bill’s smile was wry.
“Encino. Mrs. Landreth’s fifth grade class, God help me,” Bill said. Julius turned to me.
“Ummm. In a monastery in Dharamshala, memorizing Buddhist texts,” I said.
Julius pulled down his sleeve. “I was teaching my little sister, Sadie, that two times two equals four, in a hayloft near the Polish border. A fine place to hide, if you didn’t mind frostbite and rats. We lasted maybe six months before the Nazis caught us.”
“Where were your parents?” I asked.
His eyes flickered. “Smoke and ash,” he said. “The last memory I have of them was my father stuffing my pockets with oatmeal, raisins, and some gold coins, and my mother screaming at me to take Sadie and run.” His voice faltered. He glanced back and forth at Bill and me. “How did we get to talking about all this?”
“The tattoo on Marv’s arm.” Bill’s voice was gentle.
“Right, the tattoo,” He looked at the floor. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “This sort of thing has been happening to me a lot lately. What was I saying?”
Most of our experience with interviews entailed getting people to tell us things they didn’t want to. Our training didn’t cover what to do when somebody wants to tell you something but can’t figure out how to do so.
“Something about Marv Rudolph,” Bill offered.
Heat flooded Julius’s face. “That fucking liar! Three, four years ago, Marv called about pitching me a movie, a real passion project. Nothing new there—I probably listen to twenty or thirty pitches a year. This one did sound special: a love story between a Palestinian refugee and a third-generation Auschwitz survivor. Right up my alley, and I told Marv so. But Dorothy had just been diagnosed, so I wished him luck and passed. He and his wife, Arlene, had met Dorothy. In a moment of weakness I opened up, told him a little of our story, and that bastard used the information to connect with me. Right after Dorothy died, here comes Marv. He plants himself right where you’re sitting, puts his head in his hands, and starts sobbing.”
Bill and I exchanged looks. Didn’t sound like the Marv we knew.
“I’m sitting there wondering what the hell is going on, and all of a sudden Marv’s rolling up his sleeve and showing me his tattoo.”
Julius paused to take a small bite of sandwich. My breath caught. Please, we’re so close. Don’t lose track again.
“So then he says we’re like brothers because we were both in the camps, and now he’s lost everything again, and this movie’s probably career suicide, but he has to make it to honor everyone we lost and to show the power of love over evil.”
Julius spat the next words out. “And you know what? He hooked me. Dorothy had just died, and the son-of-a-bitch reeled me in like a fish. If I’d thought about it for ten seconds I’d have realized he was too young to be a survivor, but I wasn’t thinking straight, was I? And the truth is, I’ve done business with the best brass-ball bullshit artists in the world. Wasserman, Kerkorian, Shainberg, Weintraub—you name them, I’ve danced with them. But not one of them would have had the goddamned chutzpah to tattoo numbers on his arm and pretend to be a survivor, just to close a fucking movie deal!”
He made a sound of disgust. “I committed five million then and there, including a million up front to get things started. Shmendrik!” His mouth was ringed in white.
“How did you discover the tattoo was fake?” I asked.
“You mean when did I come to my senses? The next morning. Something wasn’t sitting right. I called my lawyers,” Julius said. “Within hours one of them calls me back. ‘You’re right. Marv Rudolph was nowhere near the camps. He was born and raised in the Bronx. Plus, he’s been lying about his age.’ ‘So what else is new?’ I said. ‘Everyone in this town shaves a few years off.’ ‘No,’ my lawyer said, ‘Marv’s started listing his age as ten years older.’
“I had to hand it to that asshole. Unlike your normal craven person working in Hollywood, where thirty is the new fifty, and anything older might as well be a death knell, he tacks ten years onto his age.” Julius leaned close. “Want to know the worst-kept secret in Hollywood? Surviving the Holocaust brings you great . . . “ Julius used his fingers as quotation marks, “‘. . .street cred’ out here. Even better than rehab.” His mouth twitched with humor, and the anger drained out of him. “Marv confessed he’d gotten the tattoo somewhere in the San Fernando Valley.”
“The San Fernando Valley?” I jotted that down.
“Yeah. A long way from Auschwitz. I pulled out of the deal, then and there.” His voice slurred. I concentrated. I didn’t want to miss a word. “Marv and I never spoke again.”
Julius ducked his chin into his chest. His eyes drifted shut. “Anything else I can help you with? I’m sorry; I’m feeling a bit tired.”
Bill stood up and I followed his lead. “Just to recap, Mr. Rosen,” Bill said, “You didn’t kill Marv Rudolph, and you have no idea who did.”
“I like you two,” Julius answered, his voice dreamy. “You don’t beat around the bush like most people.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rosen.” Bill said. “So, that would be a ‘No,’ would it?”
“Yes. That would be a ‘No.’”
On our way out, I paused. “If you don’t mind me asking, sir,” I said, “why haven’t you left the property for the last few years?”
Julius roused himself. One trembling hand offered a vague wave in the direction of the oil painting of Dorothy hanging over the fi
replace. “That woman was my lifeline,” he said. “She was the one facing out, running interference for me. After she died, I just . . . I couldn’t . . . “ His mouth twisted. “The truth is, I don’t like people all that much. Never have.” His body shrugged. “Ironic, isn’t it? Me being such a big philanthropist and all. Anyway, there it is. What can you do?”
My jaw tightened. I dislike that phrase What can you do?, or, as my highly eloquent contemporaries put it: Whatever. The shrug, the attitude, dismisses any possibility of things changing. It’s self-perpetuating paralysis.
And one of your own worst character flaws, Tenzing. So have a little compassion.
I relaxed my jaw muscles. My heart reached toward the frail man in his wheelchair, a gentle and tentative reminder that lifelines can come from more than one source. But Julius was fast asleep, awareness doused, like a lamp. He snored gently.
Bill had parked his car next to mine. We traversed the curved driveway together. His cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen, and his expression flattened.
“Yes?” he said into the phone. “Yes, chief. No, no we haven’t, chief. We’re still waiting on the ME’s report. We’re hoping to release the body later today.” He glanced at me. “Yes, sir, he is.” He listened, his neck turning a dull red. “No, sir, that won’t be necessary. Sully and Mack are already on it.” We reached our cars. Bill’s phone was still pressed to his ear, and he shifted from foot to foot. Finally he said, “I understand, Chief, but we’re moving as fast as we can.” Bill ended the call. He kicked at the gravel. “I fucking hate fucking celebrity homicides,” he muttered.
“So listen,” I said. “I spent a little time on the Internet getting more information on Marv, and . . . “
“On whose authority?” Bill interrupted.
“What?”
“On whose authority? Did the Chief call you?”
“No,” I said. “I just thought you might like a little help.”
“I’ll let you know when I need help, Ten. I’ve got too many cooks as it is.”
Too many . . . cooks? What was he talking about? “I don’t understand.”
“Fuuuck,” Bill groaned.
I waited.
“Ahh! Never mind.” He shook frustration off like a wet dog. “I’ll see you tonight, okay? You’ll be happy to know Martha made me invite what’s-her-name. Blondie.”
If he was trying to distract me, it worked.
“Heather? Heather’s coming?”
“Yeah. Heather. So happy birthday to you. Oh, wait. That would be my wife who turned forty today.” He clapped me on the shoulder, climbed into his car, and sped off.
I leaned against the Mustang, absorbing this new piece of information. On balance, I was glad, though it meant I wouldn’t be nearly as relaxed tonight. I made a vow to leave enough time this afternoon to meditate, as well as shower.
I checked my messages before I started driving. I had three. The first was from Verizon, letting me know I could save more money by spending more money. I deleted it. The second was from my new best friend, Clancy Williams.
“Hey, Ten, yeah, so, I’ve been thinking things over. And I guess I want to help. Just to let you know, Arlene Rudolph hasn’t left the house all day, but the kid, Harper? She took off in one of the family cars this afternoon. Yeah. So, I decided to follow her. Maybe get some grief-shots, or why-isn’t-she-grieving shots. Like that. But anyway, she’s led me somewhere interesting. Call me.”
My heart rate accelerated from stroll to jog. I called Clancy, but it went straight to voice mail. “Yo, Clancy here. Wassup?”
“Clancy? Where are you? Call me back.”
The third message was from Heather.
“Hi,” she said, her voice shy. “So Bill invited me his wife’s fortieth tonight, and, umm, I was wondering if you knew what Martha might like for a present? I’ve never met her, so . . . Anyway, if you could help with that, I’d appreciate it. Thanks, oh wait, here’s my number, oh wait, I’m calling your cell, so, well, just call this number, okay? God. Okay, then. Bye.”
I smiled at her awkwardness. I knew that clumsy-message feeling well. You might even say I invented it. My smile faded. I’d completely forgotten about getting Martha a present.
Before I devolved into full-scale panic, I closed my eyes, sensing my way into the essence of Martha.
Her warmth—that was key. Also her humor and innate creativity—Martha’s flower arrangements, culled from her own garden, were little works of art. She was a fabulous cook, too, famous back in the day for her gourmet gatherings for close friends and hungry detectives. And her stamina was legendary. Martha had worked full time as a court reporter right up until she had the twins. I used to tease her, call her Durga, after the Hindu many-armed goddess. And she was stylish, though maybe a little less so since the twins came along. Come to think of it, I couldn’t remember the last time I saw her dressed in anything but sweats.
Right. Something to wear. Something elegant and fiery. One-of-a-kind. A reminder that her Durga-like flame wasn’t out, just banked by motherhood for a little while. I knew just where to go look.
Julius’s front door opened. I looked over. Señor Beefy moved into the doorway and leaned against the frame. He crossed his arms, and his bicep muscles bulged against his suit coat.
I hopped in my Mustang and left Julius’s estate, intent on my gift-finding mission. I drove just over the speed limit, parked in an alley off West Third Street, and walked into freeHand Gallery, a store committed to selling handmade crafts, a scant hour later. I described what I wanted. The saleslady led me to a wooden rack against one wall, and within minutes I found almost exactly what I’d envisioned: a vibrant hand-dyed silk and wool shawl of swirling yellows, oranges, and reds. Most unmomlike. I threw in two little sparkling, beaded headbands for the twins. I had hoped to pay with cash, but the total was twice what I had in my wallet. I hesitated—maybe I should just go with a funny card.
No, this was Martha. I had to trust I’d be an earner again soon.
I handed over my little plastic debt-maker. The joy on Martha’s face would be worth forgoing months of Belgian Trappist beer.
I called Heather from the store parking lot, and got her voicemail.
“It’s Ten. Martha loves Gewürztraminer, or any good Pinot Noir. You can’t miss with either of those. Okay. See you tonight.” I hung up feeling smug. Nary a stutter out of me.
And nary a word from Clancy. I tried him again.
“Yo, Clancy here. Wassup?”
Yo, yourself. Answer your damn phone! my mind snapped. I shook the irritation off. Clancy wasn’t my employee. Not yet, anyway.
“It’s Ten, again. Call me.”
I stopped by the Urth Café, wolfed down a portobello panini, and raced home. Halfway up Topanga, my iPhone buzzed. I veered into a private driveway to take the call.
“Hey. It’s Clancy.”
“Clancy? Where the hell have you been?”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Great. I’d managed to piss off my first possible lead on Marv’s death before I even got the information.
“Really sorry,” I said. “Long day. Let’s start over. Hey, Clancy, thanks for your message. I really appreciate your keeping my proposal in mind. I could use a resourceful man like you in my life right now.” I paused. “And if you don’t tell me what the hell is going on I may jump right out of my fucking skin!”
Clancy laughed, and the tension between us drained.
“I told my wife about you,” he said. “How you’re, like, a monk, but then, not at all like a monk.”
“And what did she say?”
“She said, ‘Don’t look a gift monk in the mouth.’ Did I mention she hates what I do for a living?”
“I believe you did.”
“Right. Well, moving on. Like I said, no sign of Arlene all day. Just a lot of older women coming in and out with food and shit. But this afternoon the garage doors opened and Harper—she was wearing a baseball cap and shad
es, but it was definitely her—pulls out in a little red Mini Cooper. And guess where she winds up?”
“No idea.”
“Robinsgrove Apartments. And get this. Either she knew the code or she knew someone else in there, because she punched in a code and was buzzed inside. She came back out a few minutes later. I wasn’t sure what else to do, besides snap a few photos.”
“Are you still there?”
“Close. I went into Larchmont for a late lunch break. If I don’t eat every few hours, I smoke.”
“Meet me back at the Robinsgrove.”
So much for lowering my blood pressure before I saw the good Dr. Magnuson again.
CHAPTER 9
I was back on the road by 4:30 P.M., leaving just enough wiggle room for traffic and a quick stop at Robinsgrove Apartments. Much as I loved my canyon retreat, on days like this it felt like I lived in Siberia. As I slalomed down Topanga, I did a body-check. I was still wound up pretty tight. I had scheduled a full half hour to sit on the meditation cushion, but by the time I’d typed up the barest essentials of the meeting with Julius, fed Tank, gathered material for Clancy, and thrown on my blue-striped cotton shirt, there was no meditation window left. I would have spent the entire sit looking at my watch anyway.
I checked the gauge on the Mustang. Her tank read empty. Well, guess what, so was mine.
I worried this knot of a thought as I pulled into a 76 station. I had quit the LAPD in part because the bureaucratic demands had left me with a constant sense that I would never catch up, that there were never enough hours in a day.
What was my excuse now?
I needed to take a good long look at how I was spending, or wasting, time. Usually when I feel like there’s no time, it really means I haven’t made time for myself. I decided to explore this topic further, soon. As soon as I had time.
Clancy’s black Impala was parked a block south of the Robinsgrove’s front entrance. I circled around and tucked my Mustang in a private church lot just north of the apartments. The last thing I needed was one of Bill’s little cop-helpers eyeballing my car in the vicinity—might as well wave a flag announcing my continued interest in this case. I strolled back to the Impala and tapped on the passenger window. Clancy leaned across and opened the door. I slipped inside. A fresh supply of empty Styrofoam coffee cups and a few crumpled receipts littered the seat. I set the pile of trash on the floor.
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