by Paul Neuhaus
“So, what, I’m helping you with your case now and you can’t help me with mine?”
“What’re you talking about? Did I not just give you a description of your shooter and the car he was in? Don’t whine at me, Denny. It’s been a long day.”
His eyes went down then back up again. “I wasn’t whining. You’re free to go, I guess.”
I gave him a, “Gee, thanks, your majesty” before heading back toward my Jeep.
I thought I was free but Hill called after me. “Hey, how’s Hailey?”
I stopped in my tracks, throwing back my head and emitting a heavy sigh. “Dennis, you know how Hailey is. You know there hasn’t been any change in that situation since I talked to you last. Saying to me, ‘How’s Hailey?’ is a none-too-subtle way of cranking up the Guilt Machine.”
“You’re goddam right I’m cranking.” Not only had Dennis, and I gone to high school together so had Hailey and Dennis’ wife Marjory. The fact Hailey and I had split, and I’d taken up with a hot young thing gnawed at Dennis’ sense of propriety. Either that or he was jealous of the hot young thing. “I don’t know what you’re doing when you’re just gonna end up back with Hailey again, anyway.”
“What makes you think that?”
“This little chippy you’re with—what’s her name Eva? Is she gonna wipe your ass for you when you’re old and sick? Is she gonna support you the way Hailey has? I mean, fer crissakes, there’s something to be said for loyalty. For steadfastness.”
“‘Steadfastness’? You been watching too much Downton Abbey.”
“I’m just saying you’re gonna wise up some day soon, and you’re gonna come to me and you’re gonna say, ‘Dennis, I wish I’d listened to you sooner. I’m such a dumb fuck’.”
“Yeah, that sounds like me.” I started hoofing it again. “Say goodnight, Dennis.”
“Good night, Dennis.”
As I drove out of WeHo, I realized it was my first time alone and away from the unexpected whirlwind I’d found myself in since I finished my tacos al pastor. What did I have to show for it I didn’t have before?
The good folks on the main drag in West Hollywood had taken young Noah Nguyen under their wing. They’d made a pact of sorts to keep his relationship with the big movie star out the press. They’d succeeded in that, but they hadn’t kept the poor kid alive. That wasn’t on them since, like I told Dennis, nobody could’ve seen what happened coming. The more I thought about Nguyen’s fate, the sicker I got. I wanted a heart to heart with the man who’d pulled the trigger. I wanted the whys and wherefores and then I wanted to whip his ass.
But at least I’d gotten what I came for. Apparent Armenians kidnapped Tad and the nexus point of Armenian life in Southern California was in Glendale—which, like Sherman Oaks, was part of the San Fernando Valley.
Most of me wanted to go home, crack a beer, maybe get a hand job and go to sleep. It was only midday, but the thought of putting in more hours was painful.
But then I remembered Randall Dunphey and the promise I hadn’t kept to his dad. If life was an Adam Sandler movie, Howard Dunphey would’ve appeared in flashback and chastised me for letting him down. Thank God life isn’t an Adam Sandler movie.
I said, “fuck” and made one more stop before I headed back to the Valley.
Gary Pasternak’s offices were in Santa Monica near the ocean. Mostly redwood construction and huge glass windows. A rich man with good taste sets up shop, hires a good designer and a good architect and Stalwart Pictures is what he gets. I’d met Pasternak years before. I worked a case for him that had to do with a missing brother and an inheritance. It’d worked out in his favor and the two of us bonded over movies. We’d stayed friends despite the fact there wasn’t anything clear in it for Gary—which was nice. As I neared his little campus, I got him on his cell and asked him to meet me at the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf around the corner. I didn’t risk going into Stalwart just in case Randall was there. Gary bitched at me about being a busy guy, but he relented. I only had to wait a few minutes at the coffee shop before Pasternak barreled in—and “barreled” is the right verb, too. Gary was a huge guy. A bear. Huge body. Huge head. Face like a potato. He was in his late fifties and as aggressive and ill-tempered as anyone I’d ever met. Why I was friends with him was a mystery, but I was. Maybe it was the movie buff in me. I cultivated as many industry-adjacent friends as I could. Shallow, but what the hell.
Pasternak sat down across from me and I slid him the drink I’d gotten him. “Danke schoen,” he said. He was almost too big for the table.
“Listen,” I said. “I’ll cut to the chase since I know you’ve a studio to run. I’ve got myself a problem…”
He grinned at me. “These days it’s no big deal. You take her to a clinic, they do a little procedure. Don’t let one mistake ruin your life.”
I returned the grin. “Okay, that’s funny,” I said. “But it’s not that kinda problem.”
“Does it have anything to do with the state of your face?”
“Kind of…”
He shrugged his shoulders and took a sip of his drink. “So, spill.”
“A friend of mine’s in trouble. He’s… in the industry and he’s gonna take the heat for something that’s not his fault. In the typical Hollywood shit-rolls-downhill kinda way.”
“There’s nothing new under the sun.”
“Okay, yeah, but this kid’s a real friend of mine and I don’t want him taking a bullet for something he didn’t do.” The phrase ‘taking a bullet’ caused me to cringe internally given how I spent part of my afternoon. I tamped the discomfort back down.
Pasternak’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t a dumb guy by any stretch. “This is about Randall Dunphey, isn’t it? I don’t know that I like him discussing company business with outsiders.”
“C’mon, Gary. I’m not an outsider. I’m practically the kid’s uncle. You hired him because he knew me. There’s no funny business here. I’m just afraid the clock’s gonna run out, the… asset’s not gonna show up, and Randy’s gonna eat shit.”
Gary cocked his head at me. “Has Dunphey got you out looking for… the asset? He does, doesn’t he?”
“And would that be a bad thing?”
He had to admit that it wasn’t. He thought about the situation for a moment. “I don’t want the completion bond coming due, the studio doesn’t want it, Randy doesn’t want it, and I’m willing to bet the asset doesn’t want it either. If you can dig him up before Monday morning, God be with you. I’m all for it. But, come Monday, if we have to shut down production, my hands’re tied. There’s no way I can side with your boy over an exec producer with decades on the clock. You’re trying to help—which I admire—but my hands’re tied.”
It was the answer I expected, but I had to make an appeal to reason. Unfortunately, Hollywood and reason don’t always go hand in hand. “Okay, but do me a favor: Don’t tell Randy you and me spoke. I don’t want him knowing.”
Pasternak shrugged. “I can do that. Next week it’s not gonna matter, anyway.”
The 405 cuts North-South through the Valley. Just after the exit that would’ve taken me home, I merged onto the 134 which cuts West-East. It would take me past Burbank (where most of the modern movie studios are) and, finally, to neighboring Glendale.
For a long time, what would become Glendale was home to the Tongva Indians. (Remember them?) After Whitey drove them out and things got settled, the place was known as a “Sundown Town”—in other words, any nonwhites still in the city risked arrest or violence. That reputation for being, shall we say, “non-hospitable” continued into the fairly recent past. In 1964, a guy by the name of George Rockwell put the headquarters of the American Nazi Party in Glendale—and there he remained until the 1980s. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to think if Nazis moved into my hometown, we would’ve sent them packing, but not good ol’ Glendale. They let those racist shitheads live among them for two decades.
Nazis notwithstanding, Glendale’s bee
n home to Armenian folks since the 1920s—since after that big Genocide no one wants to talk about. In the 1970s, the population started to balloon until Glendale was home to one of the biggest populations of Armenians outside of Armenia. Since there’s something like 70,000 of them in Glendale, it follows a subset would be criminally organized. Like I say, though, don’t think Sicilian mafia when you think Armenian mafia. The latter are what I’d call a more sophisticated version of the Chicano and Black street gangs found in other parts of Los Angeles. They have tattoos and they’re violent, but they have connections to the Russian mob, and they’ve pulled some “white collar” crimes. Identity theft, credit card skimming and Medicaid fraud. At the risk of painting with too broad a brush, I’d say they’re like the Crips or the Bloods, but with more sophistication.
Were they sophisticated enough to talk Tad Albright into a car? It sure looked that way.
I don’t go into Glendale often. Not because I don’t like Armenians, but because Glendale is boring. It’s at the far right side of the Valley, and there just isn’t much there I find interesting. It’s got a helluva big mall, but that’s about it as far as I’m concerned. Guess I’m just not that nostalgic for the Ghost of Racism Past.
Fortunately, I’ve got contacts in just about every part of town. In Glendale, it’s Levon Yousefian. I helped him out with an insurance fraud thing a couple of years before. Good guy. Owned a bakery, so it was to the bakery I went. I didn’t have any fear he wouldn’t be there. Barring hospitalization, Levon was always there. He was one of those kinda guys. I parked on the street and it was exactly what you’d expect: A bit of retail space in the front, a whole lotta baking space in the back. I put my hands in my pockets and trudged through the rain into the store. Levon was in the front so I didn’t have to ask for him. “Lee,” I said. Everybody called him Lee.
“Jack!” his eyes lit up. He was about four inches shorter than me, a little softer around the middle and his wavy black hair was going gray, but he was a scrapper. He had that air about him. He held out his hand and then pulled it back, his face growing suspicious. “You said we were out of the woods on the fraud thing. Are we not out of the woods on the fraud thing?”
I laughed loud enough to attract the attention of his workers—mostly family members, some of whom I recognized. “Lee, it’s been two years. If there were loose ends, you woulda heard about it by now. This ain’t about that.”
He held out his hand again, and again I moved to shake it. He pulled it back yet again. “What happened to your face?”
“Work-related, I’m afraid.”
“Yeesh. You need a safer line of work. You take this. For the day you’re having.” He pulled a plastic bag of matnakash, Armenian flatbread, off a rolling rack and handed it me. “You and your wife enjoy.”
I wasn’t about to object—matnakash is delicious. I also didn’t want to get into it with him about Hailey. “Listen, Lee—“
“How is your wife? Lovely woman. Hailey was her name, am I right?”
“That’s right, Lee. Jeeze you’ve got a killer memory.“
“It’s no great trick to remember someone’s name. People act like it’s a thing, it’s not a thing. You just pay attention. Open your ears.” He grinned then. “Over there is my wife. Do you you remember my wife’s name?”
I waved at Levon’s wife. “Hey, Narzani, how are you?”
Narzani beamed as she returned my wave.
“Ha!” Lee said. “I knew you would remember.”
“Sure. Narzani. Means ‘delicate’. You told me. To be fair, though, she’s the only Narzani I know.” Her name fit. She was a tiny little thing, although she worked harder than most of the guys I knew.
“But you’re a detective,” Lee said. “Memory’s your stock in trade.”
“I don’t know where you got that idea. I don’t even remember what I had for breakfast.”
“Knowing you it was probably a McMuffin or some similar garbage. You gotta eat real food, Jack. Real food or you’re gonna die young.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll take it under advisement. I know that’s your thing. Speaking of which, Jesus, it smells good in here.”
“Thank you,” Yousefian replied with a scowl. “But don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”
I’m not a geographer. I don’t know how you qualify Armenia—whether it’s Middle Eastern or Eastern European—but unlike like their old enemies the Turks, they’re majority Christian. “Sorry for the blasphemy, but there’s nothing better than the smell of baking bread.”
“It’s true.” I’d been following him around the store as he performed his tasks. Finally, he stopped at the counter and picked up a towel to wipe his hands. I stopped too. “What can I do for you, Jack?”
I sighed. “Well, I’m not sure you can do anything for me, Lee, but you’re the only person I know in Glendale, so I gotta ask.”
“So, ask…”
“Sorry, but it involves other Armenians. I know that’s racist to come in and ask an Armenian about other Armenians. As if you guys all know each other…”
He waved my concern away. Lee didn’t care about that kind of nonsense. “You ask me. Either I can help or I can’t. It’s not a big thing. You’re working a case? There are Armenians involved?” He leaned in. He was always taken with the Philip Marlowe-y aspects of my job. If nothing else, being a P.I. was substantially different than being a baker.
“I’m working a case, and it involves alleged Armenians. Not something I saw myself. A witness. He saw some dark-haired guys talk my missing person into a car. Dark-haired guys with sleeves. Tattoos all up and down their arms. All of them, all four guys.”
Lee’s expression darkened. He looked at his family then back to me. “Criminals in other words.”
“Yeah. Oh, hey, I wasn’t trying to insinuate you had anything to do with the Armenian Mafia…”
He waved both hands that time. “I know, I know. Everyone’s so sensitive these days. Walking around on eggshells. It’s exhausting. I know you weren’t insinuating anything. But these guys… They’re neighborhood guys. I was as good a place to start as anyone. If I were you, I’d’ve come and talked to me too.” Levon Yousefian is one of the most easygoing guys I know.
“What do you think? Can you help?”
“Not with what you’ve given me so far. But this is a neighborhood shop. My business is ninety percent neighborhood. I know almost everybody. What else can you give me?”
I nodded. Down to business. “Four guys. Dark hair like I said. Tattoos. I can’t give you any more distinguishing characteristics since they were seen from a distance. They were driving a silver sedan.”
“Silver, huh? Okay. And you say they muscled the person you’re looking for into the car?”
I shook my head. “My witness said it wasn’t really a muscling situation. It was more of a negotiation. Like the four guys talked him into it.”
“Hmm. That doesn’t sound all that mafia to me.”
“No, maybe not.”
“Can you tell me who you’re missing? I mean is it pertinent?”
All the rules of my profession said I should keep Tad’s name under wraps, but I trusted Lee, and I could see it being relevant—particularly if Tad had been seen in Glendale since he’d been picked up. I pulled him over by the windows so we could be discreet. I didn’t want to haul his family into it. “I’m looking for Tad Albright. He went missing a couple of days ago.”
“Tad Albright the movie star?!”
“That’s the one.” Over his shoulder, I saw Narzani’s ears perk up. I wished Levon had been a little quieter.
My host started to say something, but he stopped when his wife rested her hand on his shoulder. “Arsen,” she said.
“Arsen?” I repeated.
“What makes you say, ‘Arsen’?” Lee asked.
Narzani tired of working through her husband. Without taking her hand off his shoulder, she spoke directly to me. “Arsen Gasparyan. He fits your description in more ways
than one.”.
“She’s right. This boy she’s talking about… He’s been into some weirdness the last couple of months. I mean more weirdness than just organized crime.”
The missus nodded. “Plus there’s a thing I didn’t tell you, Lee.” She pointed across the store toward her youngest daughter. Cute twelve-year-old named Gayane. “Gay saw Arsen yesterday riding in his car with an odar man. A very handsome odar man.”
“You didn’t tell me? Why didn’t you tell me?” Lee said.
Mrs. Yousefian folded her arms in front of her chest. “Because I didn’t care. It seemed like trivia to me. I couldn’t imagine you caring. It wasn’t even a little bit relevant until just now.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa” I said holding up my hands. “Odar? What’s an odar?”
“‘Stranger’. ‘Foreigner’,” Lee replied. “Basically, ‘non-Armenian’.”
“Kind of like ‘gaijin’ for the Japanese?”
Lee shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’m not up on my Japanese culture, but I think ‘gaijin’ is derogatory. ‘Odar’ maybe not so much.”
“Okay.” I looked past the Yousefians to their daughter. “What color car does Arsen drive, Gayane?”
“Silver.”
I looked back to the girl’s parents. This stop was paying off better than I imagined. “You said Arsen’s been into some weirdness… In the past couple of months…”
Narzani nodded. “He’s had himself a girl. An odar like Tad Albright. A real—what do the Jews call it?—shiksa.”
I laughed. “Shiksa” is a Yiddish term for a gentile girl. About as far from Jewish in appearance as possible. My friend Abelman invoked it at the last meeting of Washout’s Anonymous. “Can you tell me anything about this shiksa?”
Mrs. Yousefian shook her head. “I’m not much of a gossip,” she said.
“It’s true,” Lee added. “She’s good that way.”