Gao had no warning that the raid was coming. Neither did he ever hear from the woman who had called him asking for money.
“Do you know a nurse who worked there? Tala something?”
“You find that fat Filipina, you let me know,” he answered.
“Have you been looking for her?”
“Yeah, I’m looking for her,” Gao grumbled. “The bitch set me up. Who do you think brought that problem into the house?”
I relayed the information Badger had discovered on Tala. She never showed up to work and her condo in the Valley was partly vacant, like someone who had left in a hurry. I had asked Badger how he came across this information, and he subtly told me she had left a window ajar and he had looked around a bit.
Gao couldn’t mask how impressed he was that I had this information. I seemed to earn some points with him for it.
“Do you think Tala could have been the woman who called me?” Gao asked.
“Maybe. But if all she wanted was money out of you, she didn’t need Jeanette to be at the house. She could have blackmailed you with the threat to expose the illegal activities going on inside the house.”
“Do you think she’s connected to Valenti?” I let my silence serve as a response. “Fuck, man,” he said like someone who has been played.
“One other link to Valenti,” I began matter-of-factly, “is a murder from 1963.”
Gao studied me.
“He killed my uncle Heng,” he said flatly.
“Valenti was never charged with that murder.”
Gao understood the underlying meaning in my clarification.
“Allegedly, his thug killed him.”
“Why?”
“Because unlike my grandfather and unlike my dad, my uncle didn’t let himself be pushed around. He stood up to them. And they killed him.”
“What was it over?” I asked.
“It doesn’t matter. Another stupid deal that one guy got the better end of and the other guy didn’t like it.”
“This upsets you—”
“Fuck yeah, it pisses me off. My grandfather took orders. My big-shot father took orders. Uncle Heng didn’t take orders and neither will I.” The statement was somehow equally defiant and yet full of resignation. Gao didn’t want to be pushed around by Valenti and all that he stood for, but inside he knew that was exactly his fate. His anger wasn’t necessarily toward Valenti as it was toward the family that disappointed him. Also in his anger was a fear that his own limitations would lead to a similar outcome.
“Does it upset you enough to concoct a scheme to lure Valenti’s daughter in so you could finally get back at the man?”
He studied me with abject hatred.
“You never shut down that birthing clinic,” I reminded him. “And this mysterious caller doesn’t quite add up, especially since you never heard from her again. Now this Tala woman is missing and you apparently want her found but can’t seem to do it. Gao, it all sounds like a wild scheme to get back at Valenti that backfired and now you are covering your tracks.”
“You’re wrong,” he said.
“Why did you allow what was going on in the house? You clearly knew what they were up to.”
“Why would I do that?” he replied incredulously.
He humored me as I tallied up the litany of moral and ethical reasons. But I could tell right away that he didn’t believe in any of them. It was all just words.
“Let me ask you something,” he said. “What did you, or I, do to deserve the life we got today? I’m sure you have a nice house in a safe neighborhood.” Not nearly as nice a house or neighborhood as yours, I thought to myself. “You have a decent job that doesn’t require you to work very hard but still pays you good money and benefits. Good healthcare, retirement package?” he continued.
My attempt to guilt him was having quite the opposite effect.
“You probably have a couple of kids going to some private school and playing all the sports they want to.” It had been assumed that I had children so many times lately that I was starting to believe I actually did have my own brood. I was at the point of actually giving them names.
“Have you ever asked, ‘Why us?’” Gao paused but not so I could answer. “Why do we get all this and not someone on the other side of the world? Are we that much better than them? Think about it. The only difference between us and them is that we were born on this soil and they weren’t. Say what you want, but I’m at least giving them a chance. The same one we got.”
In his odd way, the clinic was his only chance to even the score.
EVERYTHING’S ROSES
It struck me later.
I had stopped off at the office to catch up on work and on the drive home I took the surface streets back to Eagle Rock. The normal route involved a series of short jaunts on multiple freeways and at this time of day, taking the full brunt of traffic jams from multiple interchanges was not wise.
I wound my way over to the river and took Riverside up the western shore that skirted Silver Lake and then Los Feliz. Before fully entering into Griffith Park I crossed over the interstate at Colorado and then traversed the river and came into the backside of Glendale.
This section of Colorado Boulevard was stuck in another era, when it was the main route for hundreds of thousands of tourists coming to Los Angeles. Old motels with colorful names and even more colorful signs crowded long stretches. Many were flower-themed and played off the Rose Bowl, even though it was a good seven miles from here. I imagined the disappointment when a family of four from Akron drove all the way to Los Angeles to the Roses Motel and found out what it actually was. The signs were now rusted in spots and the swimming pools were mostly filled in with concrete.
I had driven this street many times and always wondered how the motels stayed in business. The freeways that flanked Colorado had long drawn away any sort of tourist traffic and yet a good portion of these roadhouses remained. They had to have some sort of trade. Prostitution, I imagined, was a mainstay. But what about a young couple on the lam?
I quickly ruled it out. A newborn had to attract a lot of attention. And the couple couldn’t have much in the way of resources. Jeanette didn’t have a credit card. According to Meredith it was Valenti’s attempt to raise a blue-blooded cheapskate. Perhaps Nelson had some money but it was probably not enough to pay for an extended stay at even the cheapest of these motels.
It all led to the suspicion that they were staying for free at a friendly residence where they could remain undisturbed. As I progressed along Colorado from Glendale into Eagle Rock proper, I went through the list of possibilities. Neither Jeanette nor Nelson had many friends, if any at all, and even if they did, those friends would have parents who most likely would not be willing participants in these sorts of shenanigans. Relatives were another idea that I quickly ruled out as far as Jeanette’s side—no one would cross Valenti, not even Jeff’s family. Nelson’s family was a distinct possibility.
And that’s when it struck me. They were meaningless words when I first heard them, just the utterances of an annoyed neighbor with a crabgrass problem next door that threatened to invade his perfectly groomed turf. The home was not being cared for and was bringing down the property values of those around it. He hoped I was there to do something about it. I remembered the house looking unkempt, bordering on abandoned. But then the neighbor’s words said otherwise.
“They’re not home,” he told me.
Sheila Lansing had mentioned that she was a reluctant resident of the convalescent home. Such people often hold onto their past lives on the slim hope that they will someday be able to return to them. The empty house served as the perfect hideout.
As I reached my street I quickly made a U-turn and headed back to the freeway that would take me to Pacoima.
I could barely hear the doorbell over the whine of the leaf blower from the neighbor next door. I stepped back off the front stoop and watched the curtained windows for any sign of movement, but none came. I th
en walked the perimeter of the house just in case the occupants were prone to fleeing, but on this day I hoped they wouldn’t because the heat was excessively oppressive.
At the back of the house the yard was in even greater need of maintenance than the front. The dirt was like powder and coated my shoes in a thin film. I found the garbage cans around the side of the house. The fact that they had contents confirmed there were people living in the house. The existence of several used diaper bundles convinced me the occupants were those I was looking for.
“Can I help you?” asked an irritated voice.
The nosy neighbor held the silenced leaf blower like a shotgun.
“You know the people who live here?” I asked.
“Who are you?” he replied.
“We met before, remember?”
“Yeah, but who are you?” he persisted.
“I work for the original owner. The people staying here aren’t supposed to be.”
“No kidding? They’re squatters? But they seemed so nice.”
“Is there anyone else staying here with them? Maybe another woman, a little overweight, dark?”
“Nope, there’s none of that going on here,” he said defensively. His mind clearly went to a darker place than I implied. It felt like the neighbor still felt protective of the young couple. I decided to ease off lest he stir something up before I could talk to them.
“Well, I’ll swing by later to see if they’re home,” I said casually.
“Hey,” he called after me, “don’t go getting them into any trouble.” He wagged his finger at me. “They’re good kids, you know.”
“I know,” I waved back and returned to my car.
I drove around the block and parked farther down the street, where I still had a good view of Sheila’s house, but wasn’t in a direct sight line of the overly protective neighbor. I didn’t want him to see me and bring the local police down for questioning.
MAN LEFT IN CAR
I was a case study for why you should never leave your dog in a parked car. Even with the windows rolled down, the temperature inside was well over one hundred. I had a half-filled water bottle from a previous purchase that was warm enough to make sun tea. I futilely tilted the visor to keep some of the sun off of my face, but I didn’t want to completely obstruct the view of the house and so I was forced to get the full brunt of the rays. An hour in, I hit a point of woozy bliss where the body is covered in a sheen of perspiration and the breaths are short and metered and hypnotic. With every passing car I angled my head to catch the slightest of breezes, which were as refreshing as a tall glass of ice water. After about the fifth one of these I kept my head in that position leaning against the doorframe. That’s when I saw a set of eyes staring at me from across the street.
It was Nelson.
The adrenaline shot through me and I awoke from my lethargic state. His body started to lean, and I knew he was going to try to make a break for it.
“Kid, don’t make me run. It’s too hot,” I pleaded. His eyes hung with me but his shoulders slowly swung around. “Come on, you couldn’t outrun me in a million years.”
He tried anyway.
I flung open the door in pursuit and fell flat on my face. My knees had buckled on the first step. The asphalt burned my palms and the tender skin on my forearms. Scrambling to my feet, my head swirled from the quick movements and from the heat off the pavement. For a moment I thought I might vomit.
“Will you stop?” I shouted, but Nelson had no intention of obeying my command. I was more annoyed than anything because despite the head start he hadn’t made it very far down the street. And now I had to run, jog maybe, to catch up to him.
Nelson fumbled with his cell phone. He was a slow runner, slowed more when trying to text and run at the same time. My head cleared somewhat and I gave pursuit. I got within five feet of him long before he reached the intersection, and by the end of it he was so gassed that I briskly walked up behind him and horse-collared him to a halt.
“Stop with this nonsense, already,” I said and wiped the prodigious amount of sweat off my hand that came from the back of his shirt. “Who are you texting?” I asked but didn’t wait for a reply. I snatched the phone out of his hand and read the latest text: Don’t come home. I didn’t have to read the recipient’s name because I already knew it was Jeanette. “Nice,” I grumbled and handed him back the phone. “Let’s go talk inside. I hope you have air conditioning in that house.”
The living room was mired in an early 1980s remodel. The coffee table and TV console were made of lacquered blond wood. The floral-print wallpaper bubbled in spots and was starting to peel at the corners near the popcorn ceiling. It brought back memories of my parents’ living room and getting a lecture for missing curfew.
“Listen, kid, I meant what I said before. I want to help you. If I didn’t, don’t you think the cops would be here right now?”
Nelson wasn’t buying it, and I didn’t think he ever would. He spooked Jeanette with the text he sent her, and if I had any hope of her ever coming back I was going to need him to help.
“Give me your money,” I demanded. Nelson looked at me like I was mad. “Come on, give me your money. Don’t tell me you guys are broke already?” I shook my head. “That rules out that option. Jesus, this is a mess.”
It was the first step from a persuasive selling technique called “controlled drowning.” The idea was to present the subject with several scenarios that all ended in locked doors. By gradually building on each hopeless scenario you could then dangle a solution that they never thought existed. The technique was undoubtedly developed by former Black Ops specialists.
I built an airtight case for gloom. They didn’t have enough money to last a week. They didn’t have friends or relatives who would be willing to help them. And then add the unavoidable fact that the authorities wanted him for questioning in a murder case. Eventually they would track him down.
“I didn’t do anything to her,” he cried. He tried to elaborate but the words stumbled out in an incoherent babble. The boy rocked in the chair.
“All right, take it easy. I know you didn’t have anything to do with it.” I let him come a few steps back from the edge before giving him another shove. “The detective on the case seems like a reasonable guy, but you never know with cops. They’re a stubborn bunch and they got one and only one suspect—you.”
“But I didn’t do it,” he said.
“Sure, but these guys’ job is to close the case. That doesn’t necessarily mean closing it with the guilty party going to jail. We just somehow have to convince these guys that you are innocent,” I said but shook my head like what I had just uttered was a next-to-impossible task.
“How’s the baby doing?” I asked. I needed to ease into this part lest he completely shut down. “What’s his name?” I asked, even leaning back in the sofa to ease the tension.
“Holden,” he muttered.
“Catcher in the Rye fans?”
“Yeah.”
“Great book,” I lied. I thought it was great when I was too young to know better. “You left the father out of that decision, huh?”
“What do you mean?” he asked, looking a little hurt.
“I’m sorry. I assumed you weren’t the dad.”
“He’s mine,” he stated.
“Nelson,” I said, leaning back in, “I have no doubt that you can and will be a great father, but you’re not the father.”
“It doesn’t matter who it is,” he said after a moment. It sounded like even he didn’t know the identity of the father.
“No, I get it. But obviously the courts won’t see it our way.”
That one had a greater impact than I thought it would. I had successfully maneuvered the kid to the point of total despair. It was time to bring him back. What was supposed to feel like a moment of triumph instead made me feel ashamed.
I convinced him to meet Jeanette and the three of us would contact the authorities. I would hire them a law
yer and be with them every step of the way. Nelson nodded his head in resigned acceptance of my plan.
There was a knock on the front door. We looked to each other for an explanation.
“Jeanette?” I asked.
“I doubt it,” but there was hope in his voice.
“Could be the neighbor next door,” I said.
We were both wrong.
“Hello,” said Detective Ricohr with a smile, but there was nothing cheerful about it. “Can I come in?” he asked as he crossed into the living room.
Nelson stood by the couch as the detective and the local police streamed into the increasingly cramped space. Through all the chaos Nelson never took his eyes off me.
“Sit down, son,” Detective Ricohr instructed. “This wasn’t Mr. Restic’s fault. Not intentionally, anyway.” He turned to me. “I took a gamble and put someone on you. I had a feeling you knew more than you let on.”
We all walked out together into the late-afternoon sun. It sat low on the horizon and felt hotter than it should. The police activity attracted many onlookers from the surrounding homes, including the neighbor on the left. I avoided his gaze but I knew it was directed at me. I was getting tired of disappointing people.
Detective Ricohr rode with me on the long drive back to downtown. We were like a couple of travelers forced into intimacy on an oversold bus. There were no TVs to distract us and nowhere at all to escape.
We talked about anything and everything—the sectarian violence in the Middle East, which neither of us really understood, the inanity of LA’s freeway system, for which major feeds crossed each other and somehow didn’t have connectors, the wild idea to have the concrete-encased LA River return to its natural state. Detective Ricohr was more of a revealer than me, and I heard all about his various ailments, his divorce from twelve years ago, and the three kids from the marriage. Two things we did not talk about were the weather and the murder case.
The Perpetual Summer Page 16