by Paul Neuhaus
She meant they slit his nose open—just like Roman Polanski did to Jack Nicholson in the movie. “Can’t we just say you’ve already done enough of a number on my nose for one day? I’m not gonna smell right for a week.”
She looked at me sympathetically, maybe feeling remorse. She held out her hand and helped me up. As soon as I was on my feet, I got another jab and went down on my behind for a third time.
“Fuck!” I said. “I’ll take that as a ‘no’.”
“You can take it as a—“
A new figure ran interrupted, running around her and placing himself between her and me. “What the fuck?!” the new figure said.
I couldn’t make out the details of the late arrival since his back was to me. From his posture, I could tell he was hopping mad.
“Noah!” Ivory said.
Maybe I’d gone about it the hard way, but I’d tracked down Noah Nguyen. Or, more precisely, he’d tracked me down.
“Goddammit, Ivory. I told you guys I didn’t want you doing this. I can take care of myself.”
Snowden folded her arms in front of her breasts and the feminine affect returned to her voice. “But you can’t take care of yourself. Not with all the cockroaches crawling around. A picture of you and Tad kissing could make somebody’s career. They’re never gonna give up. They’re gonna lurk in every bush and behind every lamppost between now and the end of time!”
“And who’s problem is that? Is it yours? No, it’s mine and Tad’s and that’s all. Either we’ll dodge the bullet or we won’t or we’ll drift apart beforehand. Either way, this is our deal and we can’t have you beating up everyone who asks after us. Do you remember last month?”
“Yeah, but I was just— “
“You were just being a reactionary idiot is what you were doing.” For the first time, Noah looked at me. He was a handsome dude. Vietnamese. High cheekbones. A solid jaw. “Last month someone else came asking after me, and Ivory was all ready to give them the same treatment she just gave you. Turns out the mystery man was my fucking dad.”
“Oof,” I said.
“Oof is right,” Nguyen said, returning his attention to the now properly chastened Snowden. “I’m not kidding. The next time you work somebody over on my behalf, I’m gonna sign on to their complaint. I don’t care who they are. I mean this is ridiculous.” With that, he completely forgot about Ivory and she slinked back around to the front of the Meatball. He held out his hand and helped me back up again. Once I was standing, I reflexively recoiled, thinking he might add on to what Ivory had already done. I’d been suckered one too many times already. “Come on,” he said noting my flinch. “That’s not my style.”
A few minutes later, we were sitting in an apartment above Nick and Nora’s. Noah, my host, gave me a tall glass of iced tea, a plateful of fried plantains and some ice wrapped in a towel. I moved the towel away from the center of my face whenever I took in some food. I don’t know why he had fresh fried plantains, but fresh fried plantains are fucking delicious so I didn’t even ask.
“Sorry I didn’t get there sooner,” Noah said. “Between the Tad thing and having a street full of protective big brothers and sisters, I’m constantly stressed. I don’t know who to be more bothered by, the people trying to dig up dirt or the people trying to keep it buried.”
My voice was silly thanks to Ivory Snowden flattening my nose. “S’allright. It’s kinda nice you got people looking out for you.”
“I guess. Mostly what it is is a pain in the ass.”
“These plantains’re really fucking good.”
“Yeah. Just the right amount of brown sugar. God bless Martha Stewart. Listen—”
I smiled (and it hurt a little). “I know what you’re gonna ask me, so ask.”
He returned the smile. “Are you a dirt digger?”
“I am not. I’m gonna level with you because I’m not gonna get what I need if I don’t. Do you know Randall Dunphey?”
“Yeah, I know Randall. The junior exec who’s really, if we’re being honest, more of a senior. Tad’s noticed what he’s done. Randall won’t go unrewarded. That’s the way Tad is.”
I nodded. “I believe you. My name’s Jack Huggins. I’m a private investigator. Dunphey hired me yesterday because he hasn’t seen Tad since Wednesday. He’s not only worried about Tad, he’s worried about the completion bond coming due on Monday morning.”
“Ugh,” Nguyen said. “So, Tad hasn’t popped back up yet?”
“‘Yet’? You sound like you know where he is…”
He shook his head. “Not exactly, but he drifted off in an unusual way.”
“You better tell me what you know. I mean if you can…”
“I can. I will. Randall’s… I was gonna say ‘good people’, but I don’t know that’s true. He’s a hard worker and Tad respects him, so that counts for something. I don’t wanna see him get in dutch.”
I put down my towel full of ice and leaned a little closer to Noah Nguyen.
Noah sighed. “Randall hasn’t seen Tad since Wednesday. That checks out. Tad came down here at lunchtime. Just to say ‘hi’. Paramount’s not that far from here.”
“Was he disguised?”
“Yeah, he was disguised. Dressed down. Jeans. A hoodie and some Raybans go a long way. Sometimes I don’t even recognize him.”
I didn’t wanna say anything, but, early in his career, Tad’s persona was heavily associated with Raybans. He’d worn them on a poster. Not saying I would’ve recognized him, but still.
“He came in, slipped behind the restaurant and came up. A little afternoon delight. Boner Time, we call it.”
“TMI. Then what?”
Nguyen shrugged. “Then nothing. He and I chatted, made plans for the weekend, and then he slipped back out. You can see through the glass doors there there there’s a little deck. I went out to watch him go.”
“Yeah, it’s a great apartment,” I said. It paid to be a close associate of Tad Albright.
“It is. Although it gets a little lonely sometimes. Mostly it’s just me. And my neighbor. The nice old lady you met on the way up. Doris Bergland.”
“You said you came out on the deck. On Wednesday.”
“I did. I saw Tad headed for his SUV. Some men stopped him on the sidewalk and started to herd him toward their own car. My antenna went up. Tad’s probably as good a kidnap victim as you can find. He usually has security with him, but never when he comes here. He wants a low profile.”
My head was spinning. “Wait… So, you’re saying Tad was kidnapped? Why haven’t you gone to the police?”
“I didn’t think he had been kidnapped. I mean not until you just told me he’s been missing for two days. Tad and I don’t see each other every day. Especially not when he’s working. It’s not that unusual for me not to hear from him.”
“But you just said some men muscled him toward their car…”
“See, I don’t think ‘muscled’ is the right word. They were pushy at first, but then they started talking to him and his posture relaxed. He was listening, hearing them out. It was almost like a negotiation. I even saw him nodding toward the end.”
“Did he go in the car with them?”
“Yeah, but not until I called out to him. ‘Chuck,’ I said.”
“‘Chuck’? Why’d you say ‘Chuck’?”
“Because if I’d’ve yelled out, ‘Hey, Tad! Tad Albright!’ I probably would’ve blown his cover.”
I flushed, but I bet he couldn’t see it thanks to the cauliflower face Ivory Snowden had given me. “Good call. Did he hear you?”
“Oh, yeah, he heard me. He heard me, flashed me the ‘okay’ sign and went with them.”
“How many is ’them’?”
“Four guys. He sat in the front seat with the driver and the other two guys got in the back.”
“What kind of car were they driving?”
Nguyen crossed his eyes. “A silver car? I don’t know from cars, you’ll have to forgive me.”
&n
bsp; “Okay, fine. Was as it newer? Was it shitty? What was the condition of the silver car?”
“Oh, it was nice. Looked newly washed.”
“Was it… a sedan? Do you know what a sedan is?”
“Yeah… I’d call it a sedan.”
“Here’s the million dollar question, Noah: Did you get the license plate number?”
His shoulders fell. “No, I wish I had. It didn’t seem like a thing I should worry about.”
“It wasn’t. Not under the circumstances. It was a shot in the dark. Tad gave you the ‘okay’. However, this turns out, none of it’s your fault.”
He leaned back, and it was his turn to flush. “Oh. I wasn’t thinking it was my fault. Do you think it is? Should I have been more alert? I mean I wouldn’t want anything to happen to Tad.”
“No, I’m being serious here: You didn’t do anything anybody else wouldn’t have done in your place. Hell, you’ve already remembered more than I probably would have. But let’s put that to the test: What can you tell me about the men?”
He nodded. “They were swarthy.”
“Swarthy? Define swarthy.”
He looked suddenly embarrassed. “I don’t know if swarthy is the right word. Is swarthy a slur? Truth be told, I don’t think I know what swarthy means.” With that admission, he giggled self-consciously. Noah Nguyen seemed like a good kid.
“Swarthy means ‘dark-skinned’.”
“No, that’s not right. Maybe ‘Semitic’. I mean, they could’ve been Israeli. Or Middle Eastern.”
“I think technically Israel is in the Middle East.”
“Okay, but you know what I mean. Arab maybe?”
“Dark hair? Olive skin? Prominent noses?”
He shrank down and looked from side to side. “Yes. At the risk of being un-woke.”
“It’s not racist if you’re describing a readily obvious physical characteristic.”
“You think?”
“Of course. Jiminy Christmas have the Millennials got our brains scrambled.”
“I’m a Millennial.”
“And even you’re not immune.”
The giggle again. “God, I guess you’re right.”
“Okay. So four Middle Eastern types in a silver sedan and Tad seemed to go willingly.”
“Right. Yes. As near as I can figure.”
“Great. Is there anything else you can think of? Don’t assume any detail is too small.”
“Well, here’s one: All four men had sleeves.”
“Sleeves? What do you mean sleeves?”
“Sleeves as in tattoos. Lots of them. All the way down the arms.”
“Right, of course.”
Noah thought for a moment. “Other than that, I think I got nothing…” He looked guilty, like he wanted to remember more.
“Don’t hurt yourself. If that’s all there is, that’s all there is.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out one of my cards. I handed it to him. “If you think of anything else later, call me. Day or night.”
He took the card. “Do you think you’re gonna find Tad?” he said, his demeanor suddenly sullen.
“I do,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to let either you or Randall down. Thanks for the fried bananas.” I stood up and headed for the door. I heard him stand up beside me and then I heard a loud crash. Shocked, I spun and saw Noah had fallen to the ground, pulling the cloth off of the table we’d been occupying. There was a spreading red stain on the back of his white shirt. I kept my head. I saw the bullet hole in the sliding glass door leading onto the deck. I slid the door open violently, shattering what remained of the pane, and looked around. On an adjacent roof, I saw a tall, bulky figure scrambling away. I could make out two details: The man was solidly built and had thick gray hair. I went back into the apartment and put two fingers on Noah’s neck. No pulse. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and, as I spoke to 911, I went back onto the patio. I watched the street. My eyes found the gray-haired man as he exited between two businesses further up Santa Monica. His rifle was now in a black duffel bag. He headed, calmly and confidently, toward the open rear door of a green SUV. He moved with precision, dropping the duffel onto the vehicle’s floor and sitting in the backseat. As the SUV pulled away from the curb, the shooter shut the back door. I strained to read the license plate, but it was too far away.
3 The Valley
The ambulance took away Noah’s body about twenty minutes later. I was just talking to the guy and now he was dead. As unexpected events go, this one was a whopper. If you’d’ve asked me, I woulda thought it more likely Santa Claus would fly low over Santa Monica Boulevard and drop brightly wrapped gifts for all of us. I wanted to ditch out. I was tired, my face was hurting, and I was freaked. There were cops crawling all over the place. And one of them was my oldest friend. Dennis Hill and I’d gone to high school together. I knew he was gonna wanna speak to me, and I didn’t wanna leave him in the lurch. Even if I was tired, hurting and freaked out. In the interest of expediency, I grabbed him and pulled him aside. “Listen, Dennis. It’s been a long day, so if you want a statement, you’re gonna have to take it now.”
Hill was shorter than me, dark-haired and had a salt and pepper beard. I could tell he would’ve preferred to talk to me on his own schedule, but he got a good look at my face and relented. “What happened to your kisser?”
“I got thoroughly decked by a transvestite.” My friend started to say something smirky, but I cut him off. “A really big transvestite. He was looking out for the kid they just took away.”
Dennis took out his detective’s notebook and flipped back the leather cover. “Hold up, hold up. Start at the beginning.”
“I can’t start at the beginning. I’m working a case. A case I’m hoping has nothing to do with the murder that just happened. Plus, this ain’t just a client privilege thing. If I went blabbing everything I know, it’d be a real breach of propriety. Bad karma for your’s truly.”
Hill scowled. “I bet the homicide I’m on now trumps whatever penny ante scam you got going.”
“Penny ante? Scam? You wound me, Dennis.”
He realized he’d hit below the belt. “Alright, alright. Gimme what you got vis-à-vis the actual killing. If I need to break out the thumbscrews, I’ll do it later. In an interrogation room.”
I don’t think I’d ever heard Dennis use the term “vis-à-vis” before, but I let it lie. Mostly, I just wanted to go home and put a steak on my face. “I was talking to the kid. He hooked me up with some plantains and was giving me some key details. Of my case I mean.” Dennis shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. I could tell he wanted to say, “Plantains?” but he didn’t. “Finally, I got what I needed, and I was about to head out when the shot came through the patio door.”
Dennis’ pen stopped working, and he shook it several times.
“You alright? You gonna need another pen?”
He tried it again in his notebook. “No, there it goes. Keep talking.”
“So, I stand up and go through the sliding door. That’s when the rest of the glass broke. I look to my right and I see a guy—with his back to me—skittering across the adjacent roof. In his hand is a rifle with a scope. Distinguishing characteristics: he’s big—say six four—and he’s got a really thick head of hair. Almost like a pompadour. I go back in, I check on the kid, get no pulse, pull out my phone and I go back outside. I start scanning the street.”
“Did you see anything?”
“I did see something. I saw the same guy—the pompadour guy—carrying the rifle in a black bag. He crossed the street and got into the back of a forest green SUV—and before you ask—no, I don’t know the make and model, but I’m gonna saw higher end. Maybe BMW. Doesn’t Porsche make an SUV now?”
He nodded. “The Cayenne. So, you’re saying it was a forest green Cayenne…”
“No, what’d I just say? I said I didn’t know the make and model, but it was higher end. Not a Toyota in other words.”
“Okay. W
hat about the guy? Tell me more about the shooter.”
“Like I say, big. In some ways, he was like the car. I bet his sweater and his jeans didn’t come from Target. Call it ‘expensive casual’. Also, his hair was gray. And there was a ton of it.”
“What do you mean, like long? Was his hair long?”
“No, not long. Just a lot of hair. You know David Lynch?”
“The movie director?”
“Yeah. Like him. Thick I guess is the best way to describe it. An accidental pompadour. Like a pompadour you can’t help.”
“Gray? How old would you say the guy was?”
“Not old gray. Premature gray. I’d say he was early forties.”
Dennis didn’t look up from his writing. “Uh-huh. Does the case you’re working give you any ideas about motive?”
“I see what you did there, Hill. You know I can’t get into that. But, no, now that you mention it. It doesn’t show motive like at all. Not at least with what I’ve learned so far. The… victim seems like he had his head on straight—and he didn’t wanna either get or give trouble. He’d be the last person I’d suspect’d buy it in the back.”
“Can you think of anything else?”
“Nope. I know the drill, though. If I have any sudden epiphanies, I’ll call you at the station.”
“Okay,” he said with a sigh.
I waited for him to close his notebook before I asked him the thing I wanted to ask him. “If I say to you ‘swarthy guys with dark hair and tattoos’, what’s the first thing pops into your head?”
“Glendale,” he replied without a moment’s hesitation.
“Glendale? Why Glendale?”
Hill looked at me like I should’ve been ashamed of myself. “Who lives in Glendale?”
“Armenians…” I said.
“Sure, Armenians generally, but also a certain breed of Armenian that fits your profile.”
“Right. Of course.” He was talking about the Armenian mafia—although “mafia” is is probably too grandiose a term. These guys were somewhere between a street gang and the loftier La Cosa Nostra. No one would ever make The Godfather of Armenian mafia movies.