The Straight Man - Roger L Simon

by Roger L. Simon

  "I imagine you would, Mr. Wine."

  "I wonder where that would be."

  "Why don't you have a look?" He opened the door for me. "I don't think the Chu's Brothers will disturb you. Good to have met you, Mr. Wine. God bless."

  I exited the building and got into my car, driving off a few blocks and then slowly back along Ninth. I parked in a 7-Eleven and walked back toward the Hankyu Investment Center through a long driveway that ran behind the shops that fronted Crenshaw. I had noticed on the way out that the entire building was wired with closed-circuit television and, Chu's or no Chu's, I wasn't sure I wanted to go back in. So I stopped in the rear parking area and looked into the detective's friend, the garbage dumpster. It wasn't my favorite kind of work. But I had long since given up whatever squeamishness I had at this method of investigation, because nobody, not even Bob Dylan or the CIA, shredded all their papers. Something always slipped through, even if it was just a phone number scribbled on a check from the local Mexican take-out.

  Fortunately, this particular dumpster wasn't loaded with yesterday's guacamole, or even kim chee. It was stacked to the gills with printouts, readouts, and all the rest of the detritus of our microprint age. Within about five minutes I could quote the Dow Jones averages for the last week, cite the Standard & Poor's ratings on at least five up-and-coming corporations, and knew the prices of gold, silver, platinum, and Krugerrands. Koontz was right: the whole world was going berserk on integrated business software.

  I was about to give up and go to real estate school, when I pulled out yet another printout from under a pile of insurance brochures. It was titled: CURRENT AFFILIATES—NEW EVANGELICAL CHURCH OF THE EASTERN GATE.

  I skimmed down the alphabetical list but stopped right off on the second entry: BIBLES FOR BUCHAREST—CONTACT: W. T. WEBSTER, 46 AVONDALE, GLENDALE. I glanced up at the penthouse. The sun was beginning to set, turning the office window of Reverend Wu a smoky orange. I stuffed the list in my pocket and headed back for my

  car.

  Thirty minutes later I was cruising slowly up Avondale. It was one of those ramshackle neighborhoods in the flats of Glendale that probably hadn't changed much since the first Okies and Arkies came out to California during the days of the Dust Bowl. This was Bible country, the kind of place they still pronounced "roof" as "ruff" and Sting was something you got from a bee.

  Number 46 was the second to last house on the block, a decrepit affair in the bungalow style with eaves that were painted a nasty yellow and faded green asbestos siding. Some golden bamboo had run wild near the front porch and I could see it protruding through the concrete steps as I climbed up to the front door. There wasn't a bell, so I pulled back the torn screen and knocked firmly on the inner jamb. I could hear the Five Blind Boys of Alabama singing "Carry Me Up" on a scratchy record somewhere inside and I half expected the faces to be black, but it was a young white man in his early twenties who opened the door, keeping it on a chain that was long enough to see about a third of his face, which was blotched with psoriasis. He wore a set of braceson upper teeth that looked heavily corroded by sugar.

  "You ain't sellin' and I ain't buyin'," he said before I could open my mouth.

  "I'm not a salesman."

  "So?"

  "Tell 'im to go away," came the voice of an old woman from within.

  "He ain't comin' in, Granma." He brought his eye closer to the door and peered at me. "Whaddaya want?" I recognized his voice from someplace, but I wasn't sure where. Then I remembered. The phone call.

  "I'm a Christian," I said.

  "The devil you are!" He turned away. "We got a liar out here, Granma!"

  "We better call the police. I'm gonna call 'em right now, Billy."

  "Where are the medicines, Billy?" I said.

  "What is this? You get away from here. You ain't supposed to come here .... Granma, you got the police?"

  "Uh-huh. I'm talkin' to 'em now. You want the small-bore or the recoilless?"

  Billy didn't say anything.

  "What happened to Stanley Burckhardt?"

  "Who?"

  "Fat man, around fifty. A private dick."

  "That wasn't my business. They took him away."

  "Who? The Koreans?"

  "Ain't no Koreans in this. Koreans religious people, holy people."

  I grabbed Billy by the shirt and pulled him to the door.

  "Who took Burckhardt?"

  "I was tryin' to help you, mister, and now you tryin' to get me killed. You ain't supposed to be here. Get away. Get away .... Granma, get that small-bore. Granma, fast!"

  "You're the guy who put Burckhardt on my tail, aren't you? The twenty-three-year-old."

  "Someone was lyin' to us. They said they was holy people. They said they was with the Korean, but they wasn't."

  "You mean whoever convinced Vasile to let them into the penthouse of the Picasso pretended they were part of the Reverend Wu's church?"

  Billy nodded frantically. "They knew all about it. They promised us Bibles."

  "But you guys didn't know they were gonna get rid of Ptak, did you? Commit a cardinal sin. And now you're feeling guilty."

  "You gonna get me killed. I know'd it. Just like poor Vasile. I swore I'd never tell. I swore. Lord have mercy on those who do His work. Granma!"

  "Unburden yourself, Billy. Repent! Who was it'?"

  Through the window slat, I could see the shadow of the old woman outlined against a church calendar as she advanced toward the door with a shotgun.

  "A dark-haired guy. Thin face." I described the New Yorker for him.

  "I ain't gonna tell you, mister. I ain't ever gonna tell you." He suddenly slid down against the door, slumping to his knees and leaving me staring straight at Granma who was pointing the small-bore in my face with a lunatic gleam in her eyes.

  "Turn tail, boy!" She cocked the gun for emphasis, but she didn't need to. I already had the distinct impression she meant it.

  "It's okay. It's okay," I said, backing away past an old rusted-out Dodge parked in their driveway.

  I got in my car and drove down the block, parking around the corner of the next intersection. In about five minutes a couple of prowl cars roared up the street, their sirens wailing. I sat there for a while, thumbing through Sandollar's Billboard, waiting for them to leave and wondering who, if it wasn't the Koreans, had Billy so frightened. It was clear that whoever it was had duped Nastase into allowing him or them into the penthouse, drugged Ptak, bumped him off, and then took care of Nastase and probably Burckhardt to keep it covered up. No wonder Billy was panicked. With a record like that, who wouldn't be? It was a lot more than he bargained for when he signed up to enlighten godless commies with Bibles for Bucharest.

  In about ten minutes, one of the cop cars came by with Billy and his grandmother ensconced in the backseat. I figured the other one was waiting back at their house for my return. But by then I wasn't that interested. My attention was elsewhere. It was focused on the full-page ad on the back of Billboard.

  19

  Two hours later I was still staring at the ad, pacing about my apartment and trying to put the pieces together, when the bell rang. I opened the door and Chantal burst in, wearing a cloche hat and a black trench coat. She started talking the moment she entered. "Look, I know apologies are useless, but I'm sorry. It was stupid of me, getting up and blabbing in front of all those people. I never should've done it. I was just too headstrong to admit it. You get that way, don't you? Take a position and you can't back off and then you regret it ten minutes later?"

  "If it's ten minutes later, I usually try to come back and patch things up as quickly as possible."

  "Well, that's not me. I mean, not usually. I never go back. But I'm here now. Doesn't that count for something?" She looked at me hopefully. "Anyway, whatever happens, I couldn't drop the case just like that. I mean, it's pretty interesting and everything. So this morning I decided to follow Emily again, and I took some pictures you might want to look at." She put a manila enve
lope on my coffee table.

  "Pictures, huh?" I looked at her. She had turned around and was facing the sofa, tapping her toe and staring at the ceiling, trying not to look nervous. This woman was something—the most extreme case of tough/tender I had encountered since Barbara Stanwyck in Golden Boy. I had to admit it—I was thrilled she was back.

  "Aren't you going to take your coat off'?" I said.

  "Oh, yeah. Sure." She wheeled around, peeling off the hat first. Her red hair cascaded down on the black coat.

  "Look, uh," I continued, trying to stick to business, "you know that gorgeous Art Deco wreck on Sunset, the building right down the hill here?"

  "You mean Astro House? The one everyone dreams about remodeling?"

  "Yeah. But no one thinks it's really worth the investment." I walked up to her and put the Billboard in her hand, pointing to the back page. "Look."

  She stared down at a slick airbrushed layout of a 1930s-type Chrysler Building skyscraper dominating the Strip. Little miniature DC-3's were circling its spire as they did in the old Universal Pictures logo with RKO-like radio waves shooting out of its antenna in the form of musical notes. Down below a line of Maseratis, Porsches, and Lamborghinis awaited a parking valet beneath a large porte cochere with the name of the establishment written in brilliant rose neon across the top: Neutron City.

  "Neutron City . . ." she repeated.

  "Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"

  She looked at me, puzzled.

  "Could that have been what Mike was shouting from the penthouse? Not nestron, neutral, or nastral. Or even neuter. But Neutron . . ." I took the magazine from her and read from the ad copy: " 'Future Home of the World's Greatest Recording Studio and Radio Broadcast Facility. The New Capitol of Pop at the Old Astro Building. The Past Lives in the Future and the Future Lives in the Past in this Multimillion-dollar State-of-the-Art Renovation that Begins Next Week. Who Says that Rock 'n' Roll Is Dead? Reserve Space at the Neutron Now. Contact: 555-3023."

  "What's that?"

  "According to the Haines Directory"—I gestured to my microfiche, which had a reverse phone book on film—"it's something called Sassafras Productions."

  "Who're they?"

  "Well, I don't know for sure, but I just spent an hour at Tower Records, snooping around the oldies bin, and it's a pretty strange coincidence. Remember that group about five years ago, the Headless Chickens?"

  "The one with the creepy bass player in the clear vinyl jump suit?"

  "Right. The guy who bit live animals on stage for p.r.? Anyway, that was a Sassafras Production for Licorice Records."

  "Sandollar's old company." She looked back down at the Billboard ad. "A multi-million-dollar renovation" she said.

  "I thought he was sick of the music business."

  "It's an addiction. He told me himself."

  "And he's supposed to be broke."

  "Yeah. Funny, isn't it? You'd think with his track record, no one would touch him."

  "Then where'd he get the . . . ?" She stopped and looked at me.

  I didn't answer.

  "Cosmic Aid." She let the words out slowly. I nodded.

  "Out of the mouths of starving Africans . . ."

  "Into the ears of the people who wanted to feed them. Nice trick, huh?"

  "What a prick," she said. "What an incredible prick."

  "Yeah, twenty-five millions' worth. And I bet he doesn't leave tracks. He's probably keeping it all in cash and we'd have to show where he got it in the first place. With a charity, that could take years."

  "Well," she said. "Now I'm really sure you ought to look at those pictures."

  20

  "So you don't like her pictures," I said. "That's kind of an insult, you know. The lady was a professional photographer in D.C. for two years."

  "I didn't say I didn't like her pictures. I just said the risk entailed is more than the possible gain."

  "More than the gain? Right now you've got one client hiding under a rock and the other one's being railroaded onto Death Row."

  "I wouldn't worry about that. California hasn't pulled the plug on anybody since Caryl Chessman."

  "Yeah, but they've kept a lot of people waiting."

  It was the following night and I was riding through South L.A. in the back of a rented T-Bird. Chantal was sitting next to me. Purvis Wilkes, Otis's manager/lawyer, was in the front next to a black behemoth named Omar, who as yet hadn't said one word.

  "Look, I want to see the man himself," I said. "I'm sure he's capable of making his own decisions."

  "He's not in L.A."

  "Don't give me that shit, Purvis. His brother's up against the wall and if he wasn't here, we wouldn't be this far along in the first place."

  At that point, we were making a right onto Slauson, not more than a few blocks from where, about a dozen years ago, the SWAT team dusted the SLA in their safe house. We made another right onto Compton and continued through the invisible county line where, for reasons known only to some long-deceased bureaucrat, the city of L.A. became the city of Florence and then became L.A. again in the section the world knew as Watts, famed for its riot and for its subsequent generations of Eastern tourists who would gawk and say, "It doesn't look so bad here."

  But the four of us in the car weren't saying anything as we drove, continuing past the Rodia Towers and the old Red Car tracks until we turned once more onto a tiny side street lined with rusted oil barrels and junked cars called 111th Place. A couple of brothers in black berets and motorcycle jackets with skull and bones on the back were standing at the front end by one of the cars when we rounded the corner. We slowed as we approached them, waiting for them to nod before we moved on. I glanced over at Chantal who was staring calmly in front of her with her fingers tucked under my leg. Two houses ahead, I saw a light go on in the window and then go off.

  We veered behind a row of barrels, bouncing over a lawn, and pulled up along the side of that house. Chantal and I started out of the car, when two other brothers emerged as if out of nowhere, thrust us up against the hood of the T-Bird, and began to pat us down. Wilkes watched, half smiling. When they were satisfied we were clean, they led us into the house. Wilkes followed a few steps behind while Omar, never moving from the car, sat and waited.

  The living room was totally dark when we got in. In the filtered window light, I could just make out the figure of King King sitting in the corner smoking a thin cigar. He waited for us to sit on the couch before he spoke.

  "You cause problems, cowboy. Problems in the entertainment business and problems in . . . the pleasure business."

  "I think they'd have problems of their own."

  "And you brought a bitch. You didn't say you were bringing a bitch."

  "She's my partner."

  "I don't trust men who work with bitches. They get led around by their cock."

  "What about women who work with men?" said Chantal.

  "What do they get led around by?"

  "I haven't figured that one out yet." King King laughed softly and smoked awhile. "So you have some pictures."

  "Y0ou interested?"

  "I don't know. This thing is a great risk."

  "Yes, it is. It seems they're very well protected. Even better than I thought."

  "And this has to be done now?"

  "So I'm informed."

  "How many do you provide?"

  "Just the two of us."

  "And the rest are supposed to come from me."

  "Four good people would be enough. Any more and it could be cumbersome. That's c—u—m—" The look on his face said he wasn't in the mood to make an addition to his private dictionary.

  "And what happens to the money?"

  "It can't go back into your business."

  "You are a moralist, Mr. Wine."

  "No, I just don't think much of what you do."

  "I don't think much of what you do, either. And I still say you are a moralist."

  "As you wish."

  "And what about my
brother? Will this free my brother?"

  "There are no guarantees."

  King King shrugged and shook his head.

  "Perhaps you should see the pictures," said Chantal.

  He shrugged again. "As you wish."

  Chantal reached into her purse as one of the brothers who escorted us in took out a pocket flashlight and handed it to King. Suddenly someone started to come in through the kitchen door.

  "Get out of here!" King shouted.

  "Hey, what the fuck? I do what I want. I the one who's out on bail here. You the fugitive from justice." It was Otis.

  "I'm the fugitive and you're the moron. I told you a hundred times, every minute you're seen with me is another year down the road to self-destruction."

  "I jus' wanna have a look at this white boy here." He walked over to me and stared in my eyes. "Hi, white boy. I got you a little publicity on the six o'clock news the other day, didn't I? Sorry about that. You know us crazy black motherfuckahs. We schizomatic. One day we hates ya, one day we loves ya. It's just like you Jewish motherfuckers—two thousand years of rocky road makes you walk funny even when it's flat. And I wanna tell you one other thing: if you save my ass, I'm gonna hate you for it. I know that sounds weird, but that's the way life is and we all gotta live with it."

  I took the photographs from Chantal and walked over to King, who flicked on the flashlight, training it on the picture on the top of the pile. It showed three tiered concrete-block buildings notched into the end of a valley surrounded with eucalyptus and live oak. "That's the headquarters of Cosmic Aid."

  "Looks like a cross between a minimum security prison and a bomb shelter. Where is it?"

  "Up a hidden dirt road several miles outside of Ojai, California."

  "Hey, I been there," said Otis. "Shangri-La. Where they filmed Lost Horizon. Camera dude took me up there one time to score some mushrooms."

  "Not this time," said King.

  Otis stared at his brother. "I ain't goin' with you, sonofabitch. Think I'd go with you?"

  "Damn right you're not. You're staying right where those movie people want you in that fancy hotel in Beverly Hills. And you're gonna wear a tie and walk around the lobby, talking white with Purvis and looking like the nicest black boy that ever came out of the Bronx .... Reggie. Hey, Reggie." One of the bodyguards appeared out of the shadows. "Make sure Otis gets home."