by Louis Barr
Stella finger-combed her hair. “There’s a chicken noodle hot dish in the Frigidaire for supper. Put it in the oven at 350 until it bubbles, or in the Radarange for two minutes, stir, and cook for another minute or two.”
“Will do,” I said. Shit, I’d forgotten that, in the world according to Stella, a casserole was a hot dish, and any microwave oven was the original Amana Radarange.
I checked the time and date of the party. The invitation included a phone number to RSVP. Yes, it seemed a bit pretentious for a little boy’s birthday party. But the Pruitts lived in one of the Hills’s most affluent neighborhoods. Yes, degrees of privilege exist in them thar hills.
“We need to get Sage a birthday gift,” I said.
“Daddy, let’s go now,” Ian said.
“Let’s behave like gentlemen and walk Stella to the door first.”
Ian wiggled out of my arms and dropped to the floor, barely missing my socked feet. He grabbed Stella’s free hand. “It’s time for you to go home.”
Stella’s eyes met mine. We both grinned. “Men are such pigs,” I said.
Stella winked. “It’s a peculiarity of the male tribe.”
After seeing Stella off, I went upstairs to put on casual clothes, my little shadow following on my heels.
After meeting with Flynn in that shithole pub, my clothing probably reeked of last Friday’s fish fry and yesterday’s boot socks. My suit went into the dry cleaning bin. I pulled on faded jeans and shrugged into a blue T-shirt, then sat on the edge of my bed to make a call.
With Tom Andrews’s file open beside me, I punched in the direct line to Mystic Canyon Casino’s security director, Jud Tucker. It being late in the day, I didn’t expect Tucker to pick up his desk phone.
“Security,” a male voice answered the phone.
“Jud Tucker?”
“Yes.”
I identified myself. Then I said, “I’d like to ask a few questions about Tom Andrews.”
“Call the Mystic Canyon cops.”
He ended the call.
The fuck? Why wouldn’t Jud Tucker, the surly bastard, want to offer his assistance in finding the casino’s missing pit boss?
I slipped the phone into my hip pocket, smiled at Ian, and gave his face, hands, and clothing a close appraisal before we headed out—still clean. “Ready to go shopping?”
My phone vibrated. Checking the number, I answered the call.
Raoul sounded elated. “I’ve got a screen test tomorrow morning. Thanks for your help.”
“I didn’t do much.”
“Bullshit, you got my foot inside the door of Steele Productions, something my agent hasn’t been able to do over the past five years.”
“That’s great news,” I said. “Ian and I need to make a run to the mall. I’ll see you this evening.” I almost ended the call before saying, “There’s a chicken noodle casserole in the refrigerator for dinner. Warm it up and help yourself.”
I dropped my phone onto the bed. Ian lunged for it. I grabbed it first.
Ian roared like a dinosaur and jumped on my back. Both of us laughing, I let him wrestle me to the floor. In a flash, my little boy would be a tween. In a blink, he’d be starting college. Turn around, and he’d be a young man heading out the door to start a life of his own. While I still could, I hugged him and kissed him on the forehead. “Let’s go, buddy.”
We went to the Beverly Hills mall where every floor had stores bearing designer names. Looking for Prada? It’s right here at a store named Prada. Want Diesel jeans? Your ass is covered at the Diesel shop. Looking for Gucci, Armani, Burberry? It’s all right here in stores bearing the designers’ names; those clever bastards. Want a barista-brewed coffee? There’s even a Starbucks here. But where the hell isn’t there a Starbucks within pissing distance?
I never step into a mall until I know what I want, where to get it, and whether it’s in stock. How the hell did we manage before the days of smartphones? Ian and I made our way to a store called Brand Name Toys & Games. The wily bastards.
A slender, mid-thirties woman with dark auburn hair and deep brown eyes approached us. Her name tag identified her as Shawn. “May I help you gentlemen find something?”
“You’re pretty,” Ian said.
Ian usually smiled bashfully at women and might say hi while looking at his feet. But I understood his comfort with this stranger. Shawn’s hair color matched Sierra’s dark auburn to a T. Her svelte build and the way she walked reminded me of Sierra. She and Shawn almost could’ve been sisters.
Shawn looked amused. “Why, what a handsome charmer you are.” She looked from Ian to me and back. “I can see this man’s your father. So, where did you get that handsome auburn hair?”
“From my mama. She died.”
Following the winds of that dark cloud, Shawn glanced at me. I nodded. She bent and gave Ian a quick hug. “You sweet boy, I’m sorry about your mother, but I can see your father loves you dearly.”
Shawn stood and forced a smile. “Would you like to browse, or may I help you find something?”
I told Shawn what I wanted. “It’s for a six-year-old boy.”
Shawn led us to the radio-controlled model cars. “These are age appropriate.”
“Do you think Sage would like a Ferrari?”
Ian nodded enthusiastically. “Daddy, if we bought two cars, me and Sage could race them.”
I didn’t correct his grammar. Stella did enough of that. I could cut him some slack and spoil him a little too.
“Which one do you want?”
“The Mustang, please.”
“Good choice, buddy. That’s the one I’d have wanted.” He’d picked a 1968 Mustang Shelby GT500. It’s a dream car of mine.
“We’ll take these two,” I told Shawn, and I asked her to gift wrap Sage’s red Ferrari.
At the counter, I handed her plastic money. Her warm, slender fingers touched mine as she took my Centurion card.
It had been nothing but a casual touch comparable to a handshake. But I liked it. I liked it a lot. My shameless prick tweaked. And that’s only because she reminds you of Sierra, I told myself.
With Sage’s gift beautifully wrapped and ribboned, Shawn slid her business card across the counter. “I own the store. If you have questions about these RC model cars, give me a call. I know how every toy I carry works.”
I returned my Centurion plastic to my wallet and pulled out my business card, placing it in Shawn’s hand. “In case you ever need my assistance.”
She read the card and looked up with an expression that flowed from surprise to bemusement. “Thank you, Clint Steele.”
I smiled and flirted. “My son’s almost right. You go beyond pretty. You’re beautiful.”
Ian and I left Shawn’s toy store. I needed to get my son home to feed him Stella’s Frigidaired, Radarangeable chicken noodle hot dish. That, and I wanted to get my half-chubbed prick out the door before someone noticed.
As we got into the car, my phone vibrated. I checked the number. It was the Stop & Save supermarket in Laguna.
“That man I saw with Shane Danning left the store about a minute ago. But he didn’t have Danning in tow this time,” Larena White, store manager, said. “I don’t know if he’s important anymore, since everyone knows Shane’s alive and doing good.”
“That man you saw remains a person of interest.” I told Larena White I’d be at her store in about ninety minutes to talk with her.
Then I called Mars Hauser.
Ian and I found Raoul sitting at the kitchen island reviewing his company’s latest balance sheet and income statement. “Would you mind keeping an eye on Ian while I make a fast trip to Laguna?”
“Not a problem, Moose. I’m in for the evening.”
Ian opened his mall bag. “Look, Daddy got me a Mustang. Wanna play race car with me?”
“You can play after dinner,” I said.
Raoul had reheated Stella’s chicken noodle hot dish in the oven. Its mushroom-soup haze hung in
the air. I spooned some of the casserole onto a plate for Ian and warmed it in the microwave.
I hugged Ian, thanked Raoul, and headed out the door.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Talisman
Clint, Tuesday, May 15
About to turn onto the street, I saw my next-door neighbor, Darla Love, “Astrologer to the Hollywood Stars,” running toward me, waving a red scarf. I powered down the window.
“Man,” Darla gasped, “I’m glad,” she gasped, “I caught you,” more gasping, “before twilight.”
I asked her why.
Her breathing slowed. “I don’t want to freak you out. Well, maybe I need to scare the ever-lovin’ shit out of you, man.”
“Why’s that?” I said, expanding on the “why” theme of our conversation.
“You know Mercury’s still in retro. Your horoscope for this evening warns that you’re in danger.”
“Oh?” I said, but thought, What’s new about being in danger? We live in Los Angeles.
“Hold out your hand, man,” she said firmly.
I hesitated, uncertain whether she’d drop a tarantula or an asp in my hand.
“Your hand, man,” she demanded.
I surrendered my left hand. She placed a circular crystal about the diameter and thickness of a quarter on my palm. I held it up to the westering light and saw shifting flashes of colors like those in a prism, but moving and changing as if it were alive. I looked at Darla. “What is this?”
“It’s a talisman. Put it in your pocket, and keep it there tonight.”
Again, I hesitated.
She yelled, “Do it, man.”
I slid the talisman into my pocket.
“Keep your eyes on the shadows tonight.” She headed home, mumbling, “Now I feel better.”
Sometimes, an encounter with Darla felt like a trip into Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone (JFGI). That, or a bad acid trip. I drove away, watching my rearview mirror until I reached the end of the block.
Mars Hauser lives in a multilevel house constructed of glass, steel, and stone located in a Beverly Hills neighborhood of curving streets, tall hedges, black iron gates, exotic backyard gardens, and what Mars calls “a homeowners association run by fucking Nazis.”
His was the only dissident voice to be heard at HOA meetings; e.g., “What do you mean I needed to get an architectural modification request form approved before I replaced my central AC unit? I had the same brand of air conditioner installed in the same spot. Take your paperwork, roll it up tightly, and slide it up your ass!” Or one of my other favorites: “Who the hell’s whining that I’m hogging all the butterflies and hummingbirds because I grow too many flowering plants that attract them? Someone in here needs to get a full-time job.” And so on, and so on.
I rolled to the gates. They opened, Mars slid onto the passenger seat and set his messenger bag on the floor. “Okay, Moose, whom or what do you want me to sketch?”
“I need a sketch of a person of interest in the Danning case.”
He lifted one eyebrow. “This sounds serious.”
“Serious as antibiotic-resistant syphilis.”
We kvetched about the drivers who thought they could get ahead by continually changing lanes in the slow-and-go rush-hour traffic. I finally worked us onto the 5.
“You’ve got to see my Epiphyllous Oxypetalum,” Mars said.
“That’s the orchid cactus with huge, white flowers.”
“Eleven inches long, five wide flowers. They have an incredible scent. The cactus blooms every night around 2400 hours.”
“I’d like to see it in all its glory,” I said.
“Welp, get your ass over to my place and take a look.” Out of left field, Mars asked, “Are you dating anyone?”
“No.” I chuckled. I didn’t mention my bonk with Diana. It hadn’t been what I’d call a date. I saw it as a one-time trick, served with pricy single malt. I said, “How about you?”
“There’s been no one for me either. A couple of assignments kept me out of circulation for a while, and April had me tied up in divorce court for six months.”
“Remind me: Wasn’t April wife number four?”
“Nah, five,” Mars said.
I didn’t laugh at my best friend’s marriage misfortunes. I didn’t find schadenfreude amusing. I said ponderously, “Someone suggested I take a walk on the dude side the next time I get married.” I didn’t mention that Sierra had made the suggestion in Mars’s office.
“That’s my plan. Women and I don’t seem to play house together real well.” Mars blurted, “Maybe you and I need to negotiate a big package deal, pun intended.”
“We can talk about that.” He’d caught me off guard.
But I didn’t almost drive past the Stop & Save.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Best Laid Plans
Jud Tucker, Laguna, Tuesday Evening, May 15
“Lookie what we got here,” I said aloud as I watched Clint Steele slide from behind the wheel of his car.
I’d watched the trollop behind the customer service counter pick up the phone as I’d pushed my way out the supermarket’s door. Steele hadn’t wasted time getting here after the manager called and told him she’d seen me again. People behave so fucking predictably, abducting them almost becomes a brainless endeavor. It only takes patience.
“Goddammed motherfucking sonofabitch!” A brick shithouse of a man with one of those queer messenger bags got out of Steele’s car on the passenger’s side.
I’d planned to take Steele out of circulation tonight. But no fucking way could I subdue in a public parking lot two men with the height, build, and musculature of NFL linebackers. One must always recognize one’s limitations.
I started my van, pulled out of the parking lot, and headed home. So much for best laid plans.
People-hunting required tactics, strategies, luck, perseverance, patience, and sometimes, more than one attempt.
And I didn’t mind playing games with Steele a while longer.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Déjà Voodoo
Clint, Laguna, Tuesday Night, May 15
As Mars and I pushed through the doors, I saw Larena White, the Stop & Save’s manager, standing behind the customer service counter reading a tabloid. I noticed something new. Larena’s hair had gone from flaming red to black. And she’d added black eyeshadow.
Stopping by the shopping carts parked some distance away, I nodded toward her. “So, Hoser, whom does she remind you of? Actor and character’s names, movie title, and a line from the film.” It was an old game of ours.
Mars discreetly looked at Larena White, turned toward me, and smiled. “She kind of looks like Gloria Swanson as Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard.” He quoted, “I am big! It’s the pictures that got small!”
We bumped fists.
As we approached the customer service counter, Larena White simultaneously eye-fucked both of us. I thought it kind of impressive in a sad sort of way.
At the counter, I made the introductions and pushed ahead. “Do you have a quiet place where we can work?”
“Surely do, hons,” she said with a wink. I expected her false eyelashes to get stuck on the thick layers of eyeliner. They didn’t.
Mars and I followed her up a narrow wooden staircase, then into a small office with an Army surplus gray metal desk. Mars opened his messenger bag and pulled out a sketch pad and pencil. I stood behind Larena and watched two experts at work—a keen observer of man flesh and a masterful artist.
Mars had brought books of heads and facial features, but he didn’t need to use any of them. In response to his questions, Larena provided the shape of the man’s head, then described in detail, his forehead, hairline, brows, eyes, nose, lips, cheeks, chin, and ears. Mars effortlessly sketched the facial features following Larena’s precise descriptions of a man she’d only seen twice.
Mars asked about tattoos and scars.
“No ink I could see,” Larena said while studying the draw
ing, “but he has faint acne scars on his cheeks and forehead. I’d guess a plastic surgeon did some sanding, because they’re barely noticeable.”
Mars added faint acne scars.
“That’s awful close, sweetheart.” Larena studied the sketch some more. “Try making his nose a little thinner and his bottom lip a tad plumper.”
Mars made the changes.
“Lord love a duck, that’s him!”
Stepping forward, I glanced at the sketch, then did a double take. The fine hairs on the back of my neck tingled. I’d met this man in my office. He’d called himself Scott Davidson.
I thanked Larena for her help. Mars and I left the store without speaking.
I started the Viper. “Can you scan this sketch and find him on the Web? I need his name.”
Mars fastened his belt. “It might take me a little time. I’ll tell my computer to sketch him twenty years younger. I’ll find him and his name for you.” He leaned closer. “Moose, you know we’ll always be brothers in arms.”
“Always,” I repeated.
Chapter Thirty
Chasing Rabbits
Clint, Bakersfield, Wednesday, May 16
This morning, traffic on the 5 moved with a calm, steady grace. It does not happen often anywhere in the City of Angels. I exited onto North 99, accelerated the Viper to eighty, and stayed in the fast lane. Settling back for the drive to Bakersfield, I let my thoughts wander.
Diana had enjoyed our sexual liaison as much as I had, or so we’d let each other know with all our moaning, screaming, and yelling. She’d hoped to recapture a lost love. But other than looks, my father and I had nothing in common.
Christ on a Harley, after learning I’d slept with my deceased father’s mistress, not to mention the mother of my half brother, I felt as if I were the main character in a Joyce Carol Oates novel.
I passed a line of eighteen-wheelers. The miles clicked by. The landscape became increasingly flat and bleak.
What about the ransom demand for Shane Danning’s release? This twist did not fit the case’s known facts. I’d considered what I knew was true about Shane Danning’s disappearance, then developed theories that quickly became as useless as spit on a sidewalk.