He found his way into the office and stood there, dripping, while for another three minutes she conducted an unintelligible conversation. At last she said, “Okeydoke, I'll order it,” and hung up. An absurdly tiny head was perched on enormous shoulders. She had no visible neck, and her bosom projected out before her, resting on the desktop. It must have been a struggle for her to see the keyboard on which she typed.
Mulheisen glanced at the name plate on the desk and said, “Miss Bommarito? I'm Sergeant Mulheisen, Detroit police.” He held up a laminated plastic identification card for her to read.
Her dark eyes widened, but a look of comprehension flickered across her face, and she said, “I bet it's about that shooting the boss almost saw.”
“That's right,” Mulheisen said. “Is Mr. Lande in?”
“You gotta be kidding. It's nearly four. Did you have an appointment?” She began to straighten up her desk and heaved herself laboriously to her feet to file various pieces of paper and reshelve some catalogs. She looked to weigh at least 250 pounds on a frame no taller than five feet two. She wore a neat woolen jumper over a silk blouse, and her legs were like tree stumps, tapering to tiny feet in flat-heeled shoes. Her arms seemed to be inflated; they projected out from her roly-poly body, ending in dainty hands that almost twinkled. Her pretty little head peeped out of the gross body like some kind of fairy trying to stay afloat in a vat of flesh. Long, rich black hair cascaded over her shoulders. She seemed to bounce and roll around the cramped office.
“His wife said he might be golfing,” Mulheisen said dubiously.
The woman glanced through the window that gave onto the showroom. “In this rain? Well, why in heck not? He's crazy enough for it. But I doubt that even Gene would be out in this. You might get him at the Eastgate Lounge, over on Cadieux. He sometimes goes bowling when it's raining . . . Well, he calls it bowling, but there's a couple guys there who play a little cards in the afternoon. Whoops! Maybe I shun't have said that.”
Mulheisen attempted to allay her fears with a grin that had less than an encouraging effect. “When is he in?” he asked, glancing around.
“Oh, he's in and out,” the woman said loyally. “Gene's not much for strict office hours, never was. He gets more done than the average guy, but he hates regular hours.”
“So . . . business is good, then?”
“Great! We got more'n we can handle.”
“Is it just you here, Miss?”
“No, we got a couple of salesmen, but I sent them home an hour ago. Nothing's happening today I can't handle, what with the rain.”
“What exactly do you do here?” Mulheisen asked. “I mean, what is the business?”
“Well, as you can see,” she said, “we sell computers—everything from lap models to mainframes. Are you into computers, Sergeant?”
“I'm afraid not. But I guess I'll have to get with it sooner or later.”
“You can't avoid ‘em anymore,” she agreed. “But the thing about Doc Byte is we devise systems for customers, mostly small businesses. Anything up to small factories. You see, a dentist's office has different needs from a tool ‘n’ die. We tailor-make systems.”
“Is that what Lande does?”
“Pretty much. He's some kinda genius about it, though he doesn't really know that much about conventional computers.” Alicia Bommarito laughed. She was quite charming, with her lovely little face beaming and her long, lustrous veil of hair swirling as she moved about. “I know that sounds weird, but it is weird. What he knows is all the theoretical stuff and how to get machines to do what he wants ‘em to, but if it comes to just what any given stock model is all about, you better ask me. Gene'd just confuse you. Salesmen, and even run-of-the-mill programmers are a dime a dozen nowadays. Gene sets up special deals and invents systems. A genius.”
“I see,” Mulheisen said, and he had a pretty good idea of what she meant. In Detroit it was not uncommon to find, say, a tool-and-die partnership in which one of the partners was the expert machinist, the tinkerer and innovator, and the other was the salesman and office manager. Separately these partners would probably not prosper, but combined they were formidable. Obviously Lande had found a way to dispense with the sales-and-details partner, thanks to a competent manager like Miss Bommarito and perhaps because of the oversupply of young, well-trained computer hands.
Whatever the details were, Mulheisen could see that Lande had at least won the staunch loyalty and support of his office manager. If Alicia Bommarito was as competent as she seemed, she was invaluable. He hoped Lande appreciated her. Idly he wondered what Lande paid someone like her.
“You like this kind of work?” he asked.
She seemed surprised. “Who wouldn't? A boss like Gene! He's never on your butt—pardon my French—and the pay is great. You pretty much make your own hours, and no union dues either. I'm closing up now because of this muck. Course, sometimes you haveta work till eight. But it's great.”
She unplugged the coffee maker and rinsed the utensils, setting them to dry on paper towels. All the while she chatted informationally about the constantly changing computer trade. Mulheisen lounged about, hands in pockets, nodding and asking a few questions from time to time. At one point he casually opened a door off the overcrowded office and looked into a small room that appeared to be a kind of warehouse. It was stacked with large cardboard boxes on which were emblazoned the logos of various well-known electronics firms.
“This must be shipping and receiving, eh?” he called over his shoulder to Miss Bommarito.
She stopped her bustling and looked at him disapprovingly. “I don't think you should be poking around like that,” she said. “Don't you need a search warrant or something?”
“What for?” Mulheisen asked. He switched on a light and wandered about the chilly room. “You aren't hiding anything, are you?” She stood in the doorway while he glanced at the work counter with its bills of lading on clipboards, a telephone, a couple of utility knives, and various items of packing equipment—tape, twine, labels. He peered at a pile of cartons on a pallet, all of them with electronics logos and shipping labels that read Corporate Banque, Ltd., 129 Belsize, George Town, Grand Cayman Island.
Miss Bommarito stood by the light switch. “You'll have to leave now, Sergeant. I'm closing up.”
“You sell computers to the Cayman Islands even?”
Miss Bommarito flicked off the light, and Mulheisen shrugged past her into the office. She hit the rest of the lights and allowed him to hold a tent-size trench coat while she stuffed her thighlike arms into it. She shooed him to the door.
There were few cars left in the parking lot. Mulheisen peered out at the now-drilling rain and said, “Can I give you a lift, Miss?”
“I'm parked out back. Is there any message for Gene?”
“No, I just had to check out this witness report. Thanks a lot. You've been very helpful.”
“Witness report,” she sniffed, “Gene didn't even see the shooting.”
“Well, we have to check it out. Thanks.”
Mulheisen dashed to his car and clambered in. Before he could start the car, he saw that the lights had gone out in Doc Byte. He pulled out onto Nine Mile Road and then turned down the next side street and parked. Sure enough, a few minutes later a brand-new Corvette slunk out of the alley behind the complex and turned toward Nine Mile. Miss Bommarito wore a broad-brimmed hat, and Mulheisen almost didn't recognize her behind the fogged windows. One would never have suspected that an eighth of a ton of flesh was hidden in the low-slung interior of that gleaming red car.
Mulheisen reckoned the cost of that car at thirty thousand dollars or more. Alicia Bommarito must be paid more than most office help, he thought. He wished he'd seen her getting into the Vette; that must have been a feat.
Joe Service parked his rented Tempo in the La Cienega Center parking lot and swaggered into the air-conditioned offices of Hello Central, an answering service, relishing the agreeable chill on his bare arms. He wore a g
olf shirt and slacks. He removed his dark glasses as a young woman came through the doorway at the back of the office. She was Asian, with long black hair, about twenty-two.
Joe flashed a friendly grin and said, “Hi, I'm just shopping for an answering service.”
“Oh, great,” the woman said, smiling back. “Is this a personal or a commercial service?”
“Well, both. I'm self-employed.”
“Oh, right.” The woman slid a tablet of forms along the counter and picked up a ballpoint pen to take down the essential information. “Name?”
“Humann. With two ens. Joe Humann.”
“Humann?” She wrinkled her little nose with amusement. “That's neat. What do you do, Mr. Humann?”
“I'm a consultant.”
“Unh-hunh. What kind of consulting?”
“It's like locations,” Joe said, getting into the spirit of things.
“Locations? Like movie locations? Really? Great!”
“Yes. I'm on the road a lot, naturally, and I don't really need an office, see. Well, I have a kind of office in my house—I live in Malibu. But the answering machine is getting like wiped out. It just can't handle the volume anymore. So I figured I need something more, like, professional. Do you answer the phone as if it was my office or something?”
“Sure. What's your company name?”
“Well, I don't really have a name. I mean, I like use my own name. But maybe I should have a real business name.”
“Oh, sure,” she said, “that'd be more professional. See, then I—or one of the other girls, whoever's on duty—could say, like, ‘Good morning, Humann Enterprises,’ or whatever. Actually, that's kind of cute.”
“Hey, I like it,” Joe said cheerfully. “But how about Humann Resources?”
The woman laughed. “That's great!”
“You don't think it's too corny?” Joe asked. He slipped the sunglasses back on so he could look the woman over. She was attractive, athletic looking, with a slim build. He thought she might be Japanese, but not wholly. He was delighted with her easy manner.
“I don't think it's corny,” she said. “It's kind of an informal business, isn't it? I didn't even know there was such a business, but I guess there'd have to be, wouldn't there?”
“It's essential,” Joe assured her. “Location means a lot in how a film looks. You know directors these days—everything's got to look just right. If he's got mountains in the script, you can bet he's got an idea what those mountains look like, right? So I find the right mountains.”
“Oh, right. Or a house.”
“Or a house, or an office building. Usually I can find everything I want right here in the LA area, which is why they like to hire me. But I go all over the country. Out of the country, too, and not just to Mexico. Europe, Asia . . . I was the guy who first found Vietnam in Guatemala, for instance, for Saigon Saga.”
“Saigon Saga? With Corey James? Gol, I loved that! Well, it was kinda violent, . . . but Corey James! Do you go on location? . . . Gol, what am I saying? But, I mean, . . . while they're shooting?”
“Sometimes, but I don't usually hang around much once they've started shooting. I did get to know Martin Shell pretty well, on Saigon.”
“Neat! He's so great!”
“A great actor,” Joe solemnly agreed. “But the point is, Miss . . . uh, what, uh . . .”
“Gisela,” she said promptly. “Jizzy, actually. Jizzy Kazaka.”
“Mmm, pretty name. Yours?”
“Of course! You goof!”
They laughed together.
“Well, it could be a stage name,” Joe said.
“Oh sure,” she joshed back, “like I'm a giant star or something. But no, really . . . everybody calls me Jizzy.”
“Everybody? Your husband, too?”
“Hey, it's like my mom, my dad, my brother . . . it was like some kind of joke at first, right? My gram, she's Jewish, used to call me Jizzelika or something. I think it's Yiddish or something, you know? And then the rest of the family made it even shorter.”
“You're Jewish? I thought you were, maybe, Japanese.”
“Both,” she said, “and don't say anything that involves the word princess.”
“Never crossed my mind,” Joe said. “So, what are you, the manager, Jizzy?”
“Me? Are you kidding? Gina's the boss. She doesn't own it, though. We're like a chain. She's not in today, though.”
“Do you think I could look at your operation, Jizzy?” Joe lifted the hinged section of the counter and stepped through.
The woman looked alarmed momentarily, but then she said, “I guess so. What was it you wanted to see? There's just Martie and Donna on the board right now.”
“I'm always interested in locations, Jizzy,” Joe said. “Who knows? One of these times I'll have to find an answering service for Cindy Williams.” There was a wall immediately behind the counter, painted pink with a couple of doors in it. Service opened one door and peeked inside. There were a half-dozen telephone consoles, only two of which were being used at the moment, by two women wearing headsets. A computer terminal was built into each console, presumably so that the operators could call up, and/or enter data for, their customers.
Joe closed the door and turned back to Jizzy Kazaka. She was a doll, he thought, getting the full view. “Very interesting,” he said. He eased Jizzy's tension by stepping back behind the counter.
“One thing I'm concerned about, Jiz,” he said, leaning on the counter, “is security.”
Miss Kazaka leaned on the counter. She was almost Joe's height, and their heads were fairly close. “Like what?” she said. “We're very security conscious here.”
“I can see that. But one of my biggest headaches is these directors—every one of them likes to think I'm working strictly for him, or her. I notice on my machine they never call without saying first thing, ‘Where are you?’ And that, of course, is exactly what I don't want them to know.” He laughed. “I mean, say Steven calls and I'm in Thailand for, oh, Sly. Not only do I not want Steven to know I'm doing Sly's new flick, but I don't even want him to know that I'm not in town.”
“Oh, right. No prob. We tell them whatever you say.”
“Jizzy, some of these guys—Bob Redford is one—can get anything out of anybody. If Bob calls and you're on the board and he says, ‘Where's Joe, anyway?’ I mean, it's not so easy to tell Bob you don't know. It's Bob Redford! Have you ever talked to Bob?”
Miss Kazaka was lost in wonder. “Ah, no. I talked to Robin Williams once.”
“Jiz, Robin's a sweetheart, I love him. But he's always jiving. He's no problem. Bobby is a whole ‘nother show. What Bobby wants Bobby gets.”
Miss Kazaka looked Joe straight in the sunglasses very seriously and said, “Bob, er, Robert Redford is old. Anyway, we wouldn't tell anyone anything you said not to.”
Joe Service had a feeling she meant what she said, but he summoned up a righteous tone to say, “Let me give you fair warning, Jizzy, Bobby's not all that old. I've seen him charm the pants off plenty girls younger than you.”
She arched a heavy black eyebrow and said, “Not mine.”
“I hope not. So, you run the board sometimes?”
“When Gina's here.”
“This is twenty-four hours, right?”
“Around the clock.”
“How many people do you have on at night?”
“Usually three, until ten; then one or two the rest of the night.”
“What happens when there's a call at night? Some of my clients call from Europe or Asia or Australia. They don't care what time it is here. How do you answer?”
“You mean after normal business hours? Any way you want. For instance, if you want, we can just give the number and say, ‘Can I help you?’ Then, when they ask for you, we say, ‘Mr. Humann's office is closed now. May I take a message?’ “
“I guess that'd be all right.” Joe looked thoughtful for a moment, then smiled and said, “You working tonight?”
<
br /> “No,” she said innocently.
“Well then, let's have dinner.” He grinned.
Caught off guard, she laughed outright. “That is soo sneaky!”
“I know. I'm terrible. But I'm overcome. Also, I'm just in town for the night. I'm outta here tomorrow—Brazil. That beach house of mine is too big and lonely. What do you say?”
“Serious?”
“Of course! What time do you get off?”
“Not till six.”
“I'll pick you up.”
“Not here,” she said. “Actually, I've got kind of a date.”
“Oh, well, . . . I understand.”
“But I think . . . I mean . . . what did you have in mind?”
“I know what you're thinking,” Service said with a rueful grin. “You're thinking I'm trying to drag you out to the beach, et cetera, et cetera. I'm not that kind of guy, Jiz. Well, I am that kind of guy, come to think of it. But I'm not in that much of a hurry. We're young, right? We got lots of time to get better acquainted. How ‘bout I pick you up at your place and we can catch dinner at Radio Ranch and then . . . let's see . . . Hey! Ronny Howard's having a party tonight. We could cruise that, and if it's too boring, we could maybe catch Sal at the Comedy Shop, or something. OK?”
Fifteen minutes later Service was talking to Detroit. “I need a beach house, in Malibu, just for the night. Got anything along those lines?”
It was a huge place and right on the beach. Service spent an hour removing photographs of a man and his family and other items that might give the lie to his enterprise. He locked them all in one of the kids’ bedrooms. The bikes and trikes and that sort of stuff he locked in the garage. He pushed the husband's clothes back in the closet and hung up his own stuff from his bag and set out some shaving gear in the bath off the master bedroom, after removing the wife's cosmetics.
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