Try Fear

by James Scott Bell

  Once when we did that, sitting on the sand, a blanket around us as the wind blew in cold, I thought it was the happiest moment of my life. A wheelhouse where everything had finally come together for me.

  It was all ripped away a few weeks later, when Jacqueline was killed.

  I went outside and walked to the parking lot of St. Monica’s. I looked down at the Valley, past the 118 Freeway, at the buildings of Warner Center, tall in the oncoming gloom. It’s a view people pay millions for and I had it for free.

  I sat on the curb and watched dusk become night, aching for Jacqueline and a blanket and a breeze.

  58

  THE NEXT MORNING I drove into Hollywood to the job site Carl had worked on before he died. Boss Hildegarde had Sister Mary delivering some of St. Monica’s signature fruitcakes to victims—I should say customers, but I won’t—at locales around the Valley. So I was on my own, which I didn’t really want to be. I liked Sister Mary’s eyes on the people I questioned.

  The dig was, ironically, just a beer can’s throw from the Hollywood station where Carl was booked that December evening, and where I got to cool my jets after sparring with Knuckle Face on the boulevard. But I wasn’t getting sentimental about it.

  The site was also right around the corner from the field office of City Councilmember Jamie MacArthur, the up-and-coming L.A. politico with the square chin of George Clooney and a showstopping wife. This project, everyone in L.A. knew, was MacArthur’s baby, because he made sure everyone knew.

  I found a place on the street and walked over to the site. It looked like they’d leveled a whole city block for this. A line of concrete trucks was snaking along the street. They were taking turns feeding the beast—the giant snout of the snorkel boom that spat wet concrete for the pad.

  A team of rubber-booted workers guided the pour, one with the snout in hand, five others rodding it out with a two-by-four. Another guy was tamping with a handheld, and there were even a couple of workers with trowels. Some things you still had to do with basic tools and muscle. I like that. There’s too much comfort in technology these days. A kid can thumb an iPhone, but can he change a tire?

  I stood at the entrance of the temporary fence and waited around. Finally, a couple of Hispanic workers, with heavy-duty knee pads and yellow hard hats, came out together, chatting. The larger of the two had a black mustache.

  I said, “Hi.”

  They stopped for a second.

  “You guys know Carl Richess?” I said.

  They looked at each other, then back at me. The one with the mustache said, “Don’t think.”

  “Big guy.” I indicated mountain size with my arms.

  The shorter one thought about it, then nodded. “Sí, con Ezzo.”

  Mustache shrugged. “Maybe with Ezzo.”

  “Who’s Ezzo?”

  He turned and pointed down at the pad. I saw a couple of trucks with Ezzo Cement on the side.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  They nodded and walked by me. I let myself in through the gate and walked down a dirt path to the large trailer with the sign that said Dragoni Associates, Inc. I didn’t bother knocking. I went right in and saw a couple of men standing behind a desk, looking down at some papers. One was middle aged and bullish, dressed in a polo shirt and slacks. The other was younger, leaner, and wore a denim shirt over Levi’s.

  They looked up at the same time.

  “Help you?” Polo Shirt said, in that I-don’t-really-want-to-help-youbut-I-have-to-say-it tone.

  “Are you Mr. Dragoni?” I said.

  “I’m Dragoni,” he said. “You are?”

  “I’m here on behalf of the Richess family,” I said. “Carl Richess was part of the cement work, or was supposed to be.”

  “Oh,” Dragoni said. He had prominent teeth in a round head with wispy brown hair on top. The taller one had more hair but smaller teeth. “Yes, we heard about what happened. And they arrested his brother, one of our subcontractors.”

  “That’s right. And I’m representing him.”

  “I hope he turns out to be innocent.”

  “He is,” I said. “At least that is the presumption under the law.”

  The Levi’s-clad guy grunted. “Lawyer talk,” he said.

  Dragoni said. “What is it exactly you want?”

  “I want to find out as much about Eric and Carl as I can. Since both of them are connected to this project, I thought you might be able to help me out.”

  “I don’t see how. What’s done is done.”

  I said, “Sometimes you don’t see it at first, then something comes up that helps you figure out what might have happened.”

  “They had a connection with our project, sure,” Dragoni said. “But from what I understand, they didn’t get along with each other.”

  “Was there anybody else around here who didn’t get along with Carl?”

  Levi’s said, “We build buildings. We don’t get involved with personal lives.”

  “I’m just asking if you may have seen anything, that’s all.”

  “The answer is no,” Dragoni said. “Anything else?”

  I handed Dragoni one of my cards. “I would appreciate it if you would call me if anything comes to mind.”

  “Nothing will.”

  I paused, turned to go. Then I turned back and said, “You are contracted with the city of Los Angeles, is that correct?”

  “That’s no secret,” Levi’s said.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.” I put out my hand.

  Levi’s just looked at my hand and said nothing.

  I dropped my hand. “And who is your liaison with Councilman MacArthur?”

  “That’s really all we have to say,” Dragoni said. “Thanks for coming by.”

  “Who’s your contact person in the councilman’s office?” I said.

  Levi’s stepped from behind the desk and approached me. “Good-bye.”

  59

  NO MORE PLEASANTRIES exchanged.

  I walked out the same way I came in, but headed toward the corner where the cement trucks were coming in and out. I spotted one of the Ezzo trucks as third in line for the boom snout, and walked down the truck ramp. I put myself on the side that kept trucks between me and the mobile office. Just in case anyone was peeking.

  When I got to the Ezzo truck I found the driver leaning against the front, arms folded, watching the pour. He was short and Italian looking. I could see him behind a deli counter as easily as driving a truck.

  “How you doing?” I said.

  He gave me a look like I didn’t belong here, which I didn’t. But he nodded.

  “You a friend of Carl Richess?” I asked.

  He unfolded his arms and stood straight. “Who are you?”

  “That seems to be the question of the day,” I said. I offered my hand. “Ty Buchanan, family lawyer.”

  He shook my hand tentatively. “What do you want?”

  “And your name is?”

  He let go of my hand. “I asked what you wanted. I got nothing to say.”

  “If you don’t know what I want, how can you know you have nothing to say?”

  “Look, I got work to do.”

  “How well did you know Carl?”

  “I got nothing to say.”

  But he looked like he could say a lot if he wanted to. “Carl’s dead,” I said. “And I’m representing his brother, who’s being charged. I just want some facts.”

  “I got nothing, okay?”

  “Then do you know anybody at the company I could talk to?”

  He shook his head.

  “Toss me a bone,” I said. “For a guy whose life is on the line.”

  He looked at his feet. “I’m sorry about Carl, okay? I’m sorry about Eric, but that’s the way things break.”

  I hadn’t mentioned Eric’s name. But this was a guy who did not want to be pushed, not now. I took out a card and held it out to him.

  He didn’t take it. “I got nothing for you.”
/>
  A voice bellowed from in back of the truck. “Nick! Let’s go!”

  The Italian turned quickly, ducked around to the driver’s side, and got in his truck. From the cab he gave me a quick look.

  Then I felt whap on my shoulder. A security guard the width of a cement truck said, “You have to leave now, sir. Please don’t come back.”

  60

  SINCE I WAS doing so well getting people to talk, I walked the couple of blocks to the field office of Councilmember Jamie MacArthur.

  It was functionally governmental, with a reception area. At the front desk a young woman asked how she could help me. I thought about saying, You can tell me who murdered Carl Richess and where to find him, but instead I said, “I don’t suppose the councilman is in today.”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “Councilmember MacArthur will be out the rest of this week.”

  “Cutting ribbons somewhere?”

  She said nothing.

  “You know, supermarkets and all that?”

  She shook her head.

  “Maybe I could talk to his aide. I’m a lawyer.”

  “Lawyer?” she said. “May I ask what this is regarding?”

  “Politics. Building projects. Fun.”

  She said, “Excuse me,” got up, and went through a door behind her desk.

  I looked at the framed photo of a smiling Jamie MacArthur on the wall. I tried to figure out just how symmetrical his square jaw was. And whether he’d had some work done. Like Stallone. Like just about everybody in this town, at one time or another.

  “Hello, I’m Regis Nielsen.”

  I turned. He was tall and thin, with an almost perfectly round head that seemed too big for his neck. His glasses had black plastic frames.

  “Ty Buchanan,” I said, offering my hand. “I’m a lawyer. I’m representing a client who used to work on the building project you’ve got going around the corner.”

  “It’s a major project, all right. Going to be a fine-looking office complex when we’re done. Good for Hollywood.”

  “No doubt. Lots of labor. I imagine you had your hand in setting it up.”

  “I don’t know what you mean by that, but of course the councilmember was heavily involved in bringing this project to the district.”

  “What I mean is, you probably have the typical labor problems, and we all know what that’s like.”

  “Councilmember MacArthur has always had good relations with the unions. In fact, he has good relations with just about everybody.”

  I had to bite my tongue. There was a rumor that MacArthur had once had relations with a woman not his wife. Back when he was on the board of the L.A. Unified School District. He’d weathered that, his marriage survived, and now he was framed, on the wall.

  “Word is,” I said, “that he’d make a great gubernatorial candidate.”

  Regis smiled in that public-relations way political aides have. “We are dedicated to serving the needs of our constituents. That’s all Mr. MacArthur has on his mind right now.”

  “Reason I’m asking,” I said, “is I just want to know what my client’s involved with, if he had any dealing with anybody from the job site, or this office. Maybe you have records here on a database and could do a quick search to see if his name comes up.”

  “Oh, we can’t do that, Mr. Buchanan. Unless our records are subject to a subpoena, which we’d fight, our constituents expect that we will not be careless or public with our internal records. You can understand that.”

  “Sure, and I wouldn’t expect anything less from our next governor.”

  “Then we can count on your support?” His smile looked permanent.

  “You never stop, do you?”

  “If I did, I wouldn’t be doing my job.”

  “And if I stopped right now, and didn’t trouble you a little more, I wouldn’t be doing my job either, would I?”

  His smile faded. “I don’t really see the need,” he said.

  “People who are getting questioned rarely do. Getting deposed is really such a bother.”

  “Who said anything about a deposition?”

  “I like to cover all the bases.”

  “Why are you going out of your way to pick a fight with Mr. MacArthur?”

  “Maybe because his aide is running too much interference.”

  Nielsen did not reply.

  “Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll give you a card, and you can let me know if the future governor would like to show his concern for the proper administration of the justice system. Talk to him about it.”

  He took the card and said, “Thanks for coming in. Have a pen.”

  He picked up a holder stuffed with ballpoints. I took one. It said Councilmember Jamie MacArthur on the side.

  “Our tax dollars at work?” I said.

  “Privately funded, of course.”

  “By who?”

  “Thanks again for coming by, Mr. Buchanan.”

  He left without shaking my hand.

  I left with a new pen.

  61

  FROM THERE I drove to Hollywood and Highland, thinking about L.A. politics. The city is, for all intents and purposes, a one-party town. That being the case, every politician looks out for number one.

  Jamie MacArthur was no different. It’s all stepladder politics. You want to get to the next level. If you can’t, you try to stay in your office for as long as possible. You strive to become a beloved local pol.

  When I got to the hub of the new Hollywood, I couldn’t find a place on the street to park. So I went into the giant parking structure at the Center, then walked back to the Stella Adler Theatre.

  I looked for Son of Foghorn Leghorn. Today he wasn’t there. Maybe he’d gone up to Alpha Centauri for a confab.

  I went into the Adler and up the stairs, which led to a small lobby. A giant black-and-white head shot—Stella herself, I assumed—looked down on me. A woman around twenty-five, with silky hair the color of bricks, was standing there, studying pages. She wore a red sweater, tight as in the Lana Turner legend, and black pants.

  She saw me looking at her and put the pages down.

  “Hi,” I said. “Tim around?”

  “Tim Larchmont?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “He’ll be here later. We’re in rehearsal.” She nodded toward the open door at the top of a little staircase.

  “What are you guys doing?” I said.

  “An evening of one-acts.”

  “Which ones?”

  “They’re new. Three of them.”

  “Three one-acts?”

  “That’s right.”

  “That should add up to a play,” I said.

  “I suppose.” She smiled.

  “So how many are you in?” I said.

  “Just one.”

  “What’s the title?”

  “Nobody Gets Raped in La Jolla.”

  I paused to see if she was joking. She wasn’t. “Catchy.”

  “You in the industry? You can get comps. You want me to set you up with comps?” She motioned with her hand, toward the corridor. And, no doubt, the ticket office.

  “You know,” I said, “I might just do that. Plays about La Jolla are my meat. But I want to talk to Tim first.”

  “Business?”

  “Yeah. He was recommended to me by someone.”

  “Are you an agent?”

  “Me? You kidding?”

  “Why would I be kidding?”

  “Don’t you know the old saying?”

  “What old saying?”

  “You can take all the sincerity in Hollywood and put it into a gnat’s navel, and still have room for two caraway seeds and an agent’s heart.”

  She laughed, and that was a good sign. I wanted her to trust me. Actors are always looking for someone to trust.

  “Please come and see the show,” she said. A guy appeared at the top of the staircase and said, “You’re up, Penny.”

  Penny offered her hand and said, “Really. Come
see it.” And then she bounded up the stairs. It was the movement of hope, the ascent of a dream. One in a thousand ever makes anything close to lunch money as an actor. I hoped she’d make it.

  62

  I SAT IN a chair in the lobby and read L.A. Weekly for a while. Three guys came in about half an hour later, heading for the stairs.

  “Tim?” I said.

  One of the guys stopped. He was short and workout thick. Late twenties, I guessed. He wore a black T-shirt and black jeans. “Yeah?” he said.

  I stood. “My name’s Buchanan. I was Carl’s lawyer.”

  He looked startled. Maybe even shocked. Then regrouped. “I’m really bummed about Carl. He was a good guy.”

  “Can we talk a minute?”

  Tim Larchmont looked at his watch. “I’ve got ten minutes. Let’s go outside.”

  63

  WE WALKED OUT to the boulevard, footing it past some stars on the Walk of Fame. Vivien Leigh, Ray Charles, Lee Strasberg, Stella Adler.

  “Good thing Stella’s right outside, huh?” I said.

  “She was the greatest,” Larchmont said. “The real American acting genius, you know.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Strasberg gets all the credit, but he ruined more actors than he made.”

  “No way.”

  Larchmont nodded. We stopped just short of the corner, on Bessie Love’s star. “All that emotional memory, inward-looking junk,” Larchmont said. “It just makes for indulgent acting. Stella was about being in the moment, believing it, letting it all happen naturally. That’s all acting is. She made Brando, you know.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Took him from a military school dropout and said she’d make him into the best actor in New York, and she did.”

  “She did that?”

  “Yeah. Brando would have been just another pretty boy without her. You like Brando?”

  “Early Brando. Not fat Brando, except for The Godfather.”

  “Love Brando. De Niro, too.”

  “Can we talk about Carl?”

  Larchmont looked down. “I can’t believe his brother killed him.”

  “He’s not convicted.”

  “Yet. He hated Carl.”

  “Hated him?”