Gudgaloff and crew were the first to pass, about thirty minutes after I'd begun the wait. I sent a mental salute to Toni and let them pass. Twenty minutes later another car came down, and then another shortly thereafter, but I waited until two o'clock for Frank Dostell. He was driving a hot looking Ferrari and a woman was in the seat beside him. I gave it ten seconds and pulled out behind him and took up the track. Wasn't a very long one. Ended at a beach house several miles along the highway toward L.A., one of those that are jammed in side by side with backsides and garages butted directly onto the highway.
I made a mental note of the location and went on by as he was wheeling the Ferrari into the garage. By the time I got turned around and found a place to park, lights were on inside the house and I could hear angry voices raised against each other as I felt my way toward the ocean side. These places are built for maximum exposure to surf and sand. Every year, it seems like, when
the winter storms come in across the Pacific, the houses along here get battered and flooded and one or two washed away, but you couldn't pay these people to live somewhere else. Don't blame them, it is nice if you can afford the lifestyle and don't mind the roaring of surf night and day.
This one had open decks on two levels overhanging the sands, stairways from both levels—maybe a duplex, up and down—glass fronts for maximum ocean view. The lights and sounds were on the lower level. I reached the deck outside just in time to witness a full blown domestic brawl, assuming they were married or living together.
Dostell is about my age, I guess, give or take a couple years, suave looking guy with military hair and mustache, glittering eyes that can go real mean real quick— probably handsome and sexy from the female point of view. He had no visible means of support other than investments in movie properties from time to time—films, that is, with occasionally a credit as a co-producer— and I guess he had backed a couple of small local plays that had gone to Broadway and made some bucks for him. He made it look good on paper, anyway, and kept his illicit gains very well covered.
There had never been a suggestion from any source that Dostell was into big time drug trafficking but it was common knowledge among the in-crowd that he had all the necessary contacts and an ever available access to cocaine, which had become the glamour drug of the eighties. Cocaine from Dostell, in fact, had greased many a business transaction in the local movie and music communities while greasing his own slide into the inner circles of local wealth and power as well.
Of course, most of this had come during those naive years when all the hip people were deluding themselves with the thought that cocaine was a harmless ride into fun and frolic, in a town that does love to frolic. The drug's proscription was viewed as a ridiculous and misguided attitude of the square community, much the same as the prohibition of alcohol in an earlier era, and those who were brave enough to deal in the stuff were accorded no less respect than the bootlegger or speakeasy proprietor of yesteryear.
In fact, Frank Dostell had been a very popular hero of the drug revolt and apparently he continued to wield considerable influence even during this enlightened time. Part of the reason for that, of course, was that so many who had lionized him in the past were now addicts and relied on his continued good favor to feed their habits.
I have seen so much of this, you know. I've seen what an addiction can do to deservedly proud and successful people and the depths into which they will descend in order to safeguard their supply of the junk. Which is why I was so intrigued with the possibility that Nicholas Gudgaloff might be caught in one of those descending spirals. If it could happen to bankers and generals and movie stars and recording stars and athletes and all the other bright people of our age, then why not to a bright and ambitious Russian agent far from home?
Which is exactly what I wanted to discuss with Frank Dostell.
Though there were drapes at that glass wall overlooking the sea, they had not been drawn and my view was through lacy curtains which really did not hide a lot from up close. I could hear the angry voices even over the sounds of the surf but I could not distinguish words. The woman was not a bad looker and seemed quite a bit younger than Dostell. She had a nasty mouth, though, and she was screaming things at him apparently at the top of her voice, judging by the body language that accompanied it. He was yelling back at her and pacing around the room. It ended, finally, when he began slapping the hell out of her and tearing at her clothing.
I had no part in that. I simply held my ground there in the shadows of the deck and waited for a chance to get closer. Don't know to this day what it was all about and didn't really care at the time. They kissed and apparently made up with her standing naked in his arms, then she gathered her clothing and went into another part of the house.
Dostell made himself a drink at the bar and came out onto the deck, walked right past me to stand at the rail and gaze broodingly at the sparkling surf.
I could not have set it up better myself.
"Won't find your answers out there, Frank," I told him from behind.
He turned on me with a startled face; asked, "Who the hell is that?"
"Doesn't matter who it is," I replied. "It's purely business."
"What kind of business?"
"The life and death kind. Yours and mine."
"Everybody dies," he said quietly, almost thoughtfully. I was shadowed by the building and he was trying to get a better look at me.
"Some sooner than others, though," I reminded him, "and some harder than others. Lately there's been an epidemic of hard and premature deaths. I think one of those is trying to find you. Me for sure."
"Who are you?" He was circling warily, squinting in the effort to pierce the shadows that enveloped me. "You look familiar."
"I should," I told him. "I busted you once."
That really pissed him. Those glittery eyes were blazing with hatred as he growled, "I won't tolerate this kind of harassment! I'll have your Goddamned badge! What do you—?"
I stopped him with a very simple device, the snout of a pistol. It was in his mouth before he even saw it and his last few words were biting on it. The taste and feel of it locked his jaws in place and bulged the glittery eyes.
I told him, "The name is Copp, with two 'p's. I haven't been a one-P cop since shortly after the first time we met, so I've had no interest in people like you. Suddenly I've got a new interest because it seems my life is at stake. Way it works out, that puts your life on the line with mine. I'm not going to play cute games with
you because there's not time enough for that and because I don't like you very much, Frank, to start with."
It was a long speech to bear with one's mouth wrapped around the cold steel of a revolver. He was beginning to drool around it already and I still had a few words to say up front.
"We begin with the self-evident truths and go on from there. I'll ask you a simple question. Then I'll give you the opportunity to give me a simple answer. We'll try that first, see how it goes. It's up to you, Frank. How long have you known Gudgaloff?"
I withdrew the barrel of the pistol but let the muzzle nestle the lips and made him speak past it. Very effective arrangement.
"I think since shortly after he came here." Dostell replied shakily into the pistol bore, all the fight drained out of him. "Five or six months, I guess."
I gave him some cold steel to suck on while I asked the next question, then again withdrew it to the muzzle for his reply. We did it that way every time, so the conversational flow was not as smooth as it may seem here.
"Did he find you, or vice versa?"
"He found me."
"How?"
"A party somewhere. He just came over and said he'd like to buy some stuff."
"He's quite the party animal, eh?"
"I guess so. He makes buys usually two or three times a month."
"Expensive lots?"
"Usually, yes."
"Is he a user?"
"I think so. But no one could use that much."
"I think he gives it to his friends."
"Or business associates?"
"Well, that's usually the way . . ."
"What?"
"I said usually that's how it works."
"Why is that?"
"Well . . . that's how . . . this stuff is power, you know, it's better than money."
"Gives one a business advantage. Do that for me and I will do this for you."
"Yes. Look do we have to—?"
I gave him enough barrel to gag the most determined fellatrix and said, "Uh-uh—I ask, you respond. Did he make a buy tonight?"
"Tonight? Uh . . ."
I reinserted the barrel of the revolver as I told him, "That was a test question, Frankie, and you failed it. Try again."
"I saw him just a few hours ago."
"For a buy."
"Yes."
"And what else?"
"Well, he . . . wanted to know ... if I'd thought it over."
"Thought what over?"
"Uh . . ."
I said, "I'm not sure how many tests I will let you fail, Frankie."
"Our proposed business venture."
"Perestroika venture?"
"Yes."
"Exports to Russia?"
"Yes."
"In particular, the commodities that are at your disposal?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"Uh . . ."
"Last chance to make me happy, Frankie."
"They have diplomatic privileges."
The woman surprised me at the doorway, hadn't heard her come up and apparently she had not been aware of my presence either until she was almost on top of us. She let out a gasp and a little squeal, and Dostell made an appealing gesture toward her, like trying to calm her. She was still naked but had added a few trinkets to emphasize the nudity.
I was about out of questions anyway.
I withdrew the revolver as I told him, "Congratulations, you passed this time."
Then I vaulted over the railing onto the sand below and got the hell away from there.
All in all, it had been a highly profitable night. Not
only did I have a possible KGB cokehead, maybe now I also had a KGB official trying to smuggle the junk into the very square Soviet Union via diplomatic pouches.
So now what the hell could I do with that?
Chapter Seventeen
Right away there was a problem with Gudgaloff. Had to do with image and the way our perceptions of the world here in America are distorted by our entertainment media. James Bond is sophisticated and classy, see, a good-looking womanizer and hip man of the world. But he is one of ours and apparently this is the vision we enjoy for our heroes. It is a perception of glamour and excitement that must fit well into the American image.
But we don't often see the other side that way. Not the KGB, especially. They tend to have shaved heads and brutish features, and they are very dull boys—sexless, humorless—with absolute and total allegiance to Marxist-Leninist goals and ideals. And it's not just the KGB image, this is the way we tend to see all Russians, as peasants and laborers—a nation of working-class stiffs—toiling along with empty dreams and fruitless lives, unless they can make it in ballet or Olympic sports.
So that was the first problem with "Nicky" Gudgal- off. This guy was a true James Bond type working for the other side. He traveled around in a limousine, wore tuxedoes, mingled in high society and gained access to the in-crowds, consorted with business leaders and educators, spoke at trade conferences and farm granges, was becoming a familiar figure at every gala in town.
I had to believe that the guy had the full support of his government in all that. So was it glasnost, openness, and perestroika, capitalistic-style free enterprise, or was it merely a new approach to old goals for the Soviet Union? Hell, I did not know the answer to that and I could not afford to even wonder about it. Politics is not my game, especially not world politics.
But since my life was on the line here, I did have to consider and try to decipher the political implications if Gudgaloff had fallen prey to what older leaders in Moscow have termed "western decadence." I did not know, for example—is there a drug problem in Russia? Can the stuff be obtained as easily as here? If not, and if one of their officials comes over here and becomes a junkie—what happens when he returns home and his supply is cut off?
I remembered hearing something a few years earlier about an alcoholism problem in Russia—something, too, about a mental health problem centered on manic- depression and a high suicide rate. They'd also had their problems with black marketing and official corruption— inevitable, I guess, in a nation where the basic necessities are always in short supply.
I also remembered being surprised recently to learn that although Russia is a military superpower it is economically a third world nation, with per capita income about one-fifth of ours.
So what? So, okay, maybe "western decadence" is just a sour-grapes look at our culture from the other side, an officially "square" look that is trying to make the best of a bad situation at home—and maybe these guys feel like they've finally been let out of jail when they draw an assignment to these shores—and maybe some of them go a little crazy with it.
Maybe that explained our Nicky.
On the other hand, maybe not.
With my life maybe in the balance, I knew that I could not afford to guess wrong on this one.
went straight back to Cherche's. The night was nearly over, though, and the place was buttoned up, gate closed, electronic locks set. I had to call in on the intercom to get through the gate, and that required a couple of minutes to get cleared through.
Several expensive cars remained in the parking area. I left mine at the front door. A youngster in wait- 3r's attire let me in and led me back to the game room. 4e immediately went behind the bar and resumed a cleanup that apparently had been interrupted by my arrival.
Cherche came in before I got sat down. She'd changed outfits while I was gone, now wore long pen- iant earrings of diamonds and rubies, looked like,
matching necklace with a pendant below the breasts, satiny spike-heeled evening slippers and a red see- through chemise or whatever, to about mid-thigh. That is absolutely all she was wearing, and it was immediately and entirely obvious that she wore nothing beneath that chemise.
She stretched up to clasp her hands behind my neck, and her first words were, "Why have we never made love, my darling?"
"One thing and another," I suggested, "probably got in the way."
"Ah, but there must be a deeper reason. Such a strong and virile man, my Joseph, yet so straight and unyielding in your judgments. I saw it when first we met, and I said to myself, 'Well, perhaps one day this one shall have wisdom and sensitivity to match his strength, then we shall see.' But then you went away, and I always wondered. Have you grown up, Joseph?"
"Probably not," I replied. "But you had it wrong then so you maybe have it wrong now. It's a matter oi priorities with me, not moral judgments and certainly not disinterest. A matter of moment, darling."
I guess she became aware of my physical response to her close presence because she rubbed against me ever so delicately as she said, "Well then perhaps the moment has found us at last. A few guests remain overnight but they are in proper care and pose no concern But you look so tired. Let me take you to my bedchamber and I will give you a nice massage, remove the frowns from your face. Then we shall explore our moment."
I am sure there was genuine regret in my voice as I responded to that offer. "What I need most right now, Cherche, is a moment of pure honesty and cold conversation. We all could be in very grave danger and there may not be a lot of time to prepare for it. Will you talk to me?"
She released me and stepped back, gave me a pouty little look, then turned to the bartender and quietly commanded, "Go home, Jimmy."
He needed to hear it only once, dropping a towel immediately and departing with a faint, "G
'night."
I went behind the bar and poured several fingers of bourbon into a water glass, added ice, took it to a stool and perched there while Cherche watched in obvious agitation.
"Start at the start," I suggested bluntly, "but this time with total honesty. Tell me about Nicky. No—first, tell me about Angelique. Exactly who is she and how does she figure into your operation?"
"I have told you, Joseph, that she is the daughter of an old friend."
"That's what you told me, yeah. Try again."
She showed a quick smile and a sly look, came over and slid onto a stool beside me, kicked off a shoe and insinuated the bare foot onto my lap. "Always the policeman," she said playfully.
"Be glad of that," I recommended.
"Very well. You are right. I repeated a lie when I
told you that. I knew that she was an imposter. But I know why, I think, and so I . . ."
"Go on."
"Well ... the girl she claims—this girl died five years ago in Israel, the victim of a terrorist attack. This I know to be true. But . . ."
"But?"
"Joseph . . . would I disappoint you terribly if I tell you—you said that Nicky is KGB and I laughed when you told me that. Now perhaps you will laugh at me when I say that Angelique, I think, is CIA."
I didn't laugh, nor did I feel like laughing.
I said, "But you've known all along that Nicky is KGB."
"No. He came to me as a trade attache seeking important connections, and he presented himself as a distant cousin. I have verified it. He is the grandson of my great-uncle on my mother's side. I have seen nothing of KGB in Nicky. But then when Angelique came to me ... well, you see, it is a natural conclusion. And—this may disappoint you—I have had CIA contacts in the past. When you and I were friends in San Francisco, my darling, even then Cherche was a friend also to the CIA."
Copp In Deep, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) Page 10