by Neil Russell
Despite my winning personality, she looked at me without any warmth at all. “When you finish playing the lounge, we’ll get down to business.”
“I’ll make you a deal. You take these cuffs off, and we’ll find ourselves a Denny’s and talk. Otherwise, one of those cards is for a guy named Praxis. He’s my attorney.”
“I’m familiar with Mr. Praxis. We’re not doing a film deal. And if you’re thinking about pulling another stunt like you did last year with the LAPD, the FBI doesn’t blink.”
First Chuck and Lucille. Now the FBI. And I don’t like even little surprises.
“I repeat. What are you doing in Victorville? And don’t tell me you’re on your way home from Vegas. That might have worked on Ms. Cole, but we’ve had you under surveillance since you arrived at the Brando ranch.”
She gave me her best Michael Madsen stare, and for the first time, I noticed that her eyes were ice blue and as mesmerizing as any I’d ever seen. But I didn’t think she wanted to hear that, so I said nothing. Then more nothing.
It was a Bob’s Big Boy not Denny’s, but all I cared about was that the cook could conjure up a four-egg omelet with lots of tomatoes and onions and a double order of sausage. SAC Huston stuck to coffee. Her militia waited out front.
“Why were you at the Brandos?” she asked.
“I hope that doesn’t mean we’re skipping the Victorville question. I’ve been working really hard on an answer.”
She didn’t handle her coffee cup like somebody who had a cannon under her jacket, and her nails and makeup were perfect—and expensive. I couldn’t be sure her hair had come in the color it was now—an almost platinum blonde—but the Louise Brooks cut nicely accented the exceptional length of her neck. That wasn’t accidental. Beautiful women with a particularly remarkable feature know how to showcase it. I also caught a hint of something citrusy in the air. It would have been difficult to describe her as anything but striking; however, I was going to reserve final judgment until I saw her smile—which so far she gave no hint of knowing how to do.
“I knew an Audrey Huston once, but she had bad teeth and smoked cigars. Glad to see somebody is balancing out the line.”
The chill in her eyes got considerably colder. “If this is the charm offensive, wait’ll I fasten my seat belt.”
I had a good comeback, but I desperately wanted my omelet. So I went with, “I was invited.”
She looked at me like she’d stepped in something unpleasant in her Jimmy Choos. “Of course, you were invited. You arrived with a deputy chief. What I want to know is why.”
I thought it over. Whatever was going on, this wasn’t your classic turf war. Bluster, handcuffs, and my sore back aside, the Feds were on the outside looking in, which meant one of three things: no jurisdiction, no invitation or the Brando murders had suddenly intersected something else they were working.
The first two didn’t count. Since 9/11, all anybody has to do is whisper, “National Security,” and God couldn’t keep the FBI out of an investigation. So Huston and her heavily armed crew were bumping up against the LAPD, and Maywood didn’t have a clue they were there. More interesting was that the FBI was a step behind whatever was going on— possibly even several steps.
In life, like poker, silence is usually the best answer. And when it comes to law enforcement—especially the Feds— it’s the one thing the manual has no answer for. Well, there’s an answer, but you need to be someplace besides a booth at Bob’s Big Boy to trot it out.
So Francesca Huston sat and watched me eat, which I did slowly and with joy. When I finished, I casually called for the check and paid it. She insisted on giving me two bucks for her coffee, which I left, along with five of my own. Then I stood up.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked.
“Unless I’m under arrest for ingesting too much cholesterol, home.”
“We’re not finished.” But there was uncertainty mixed with the attitude.
“Ms. Huston, no offense to you or the picture of J. Edgar under your pillow, but we were finished when your drill team got badge heavy at the hotel. I just waited until I had a full stomach to tell you.”
I started toward the door, half-expecting a couple of JCPenney suits to come charging in and pistol-whip me. Instead, I heard her voice. “What kind?”
I turned. “What kind of what?”
“Audrey’s cigars,” she said. “The thin, elegant ones or something she bummed off a longshoreman?” It wasn’t exactly Don Rickles, but at least she was trying. She gestured at her empty cup and smiled, kind of. It was forced, but even so, it was better than I expected.
“Audrey was a longshoreman,” I said.
* * * *
The wind of the previous night was gone, leaving behind as intense a sunset as I’d seen for some time. As I drove into it, I replayed my conversation with Huston, which, because she wasn’t interested in telling me anything, and I didn’t know anything, could be best defined as tango with two people trying to lead. She asked the same questions every way she could think of, and I countered with my own until we pretty much ran out of language. Adding to the futility was that she kept slipping into hard-ass, and I couldn’t tell if it was contrived or real, though I had a pretty good idea.
One of the few things she did let go of was that it hadn’t been her idea to rough me up. “Agent Curtis insisted you were too big to take a chance with,” she said.
Considering there had been six of them—all armed—and they had me by surprise, I wasn’t buying it. My look must have said so too.
She cleared her throat. “He also thinks people always talk more readily after a hard takedown. I’m of the opinion that’s just plain male-stupid, but sometimes a supervisor has to give her subordinates a little leeway.”
“Did anyone happen to mention it was illegal?”
“You want to file a complaint?” she asked. “I’ve got some forms in the bus.”
Feds. Gotta love them. Just then another agent, a square-jawed guy with a brush cut, came in and handed her a folder. I caught his eye and was pretty sure it was Curtis. “Sorry to mess with your theory,” I said.
His face took on the color of a tornado sky, so I’d guessed right. He started to answer, but Francesca shook her head, and he took a deep breath and walked away. She spent a couple of moments perusing the file, then looked at me with narrowed eyes. “A Forbes 400 member and a decorated army veteran. Beverly Hills address but with a D.C. number to call if anybody has a question. Care to elaborate?”
I didn’t.
The waitress had been rolling her eyes and huffing every time she passed because we were clogging up her station. I felt the same way and stood up.
My interrogator looked at me. “I had a husband once,” she said, the corners of her mouth twisted into ugly commas. “He was sleeping with half the wives at our tennis club, but all the son of a bitch ever did was just smile and lie.”
“I haven’t told you anything, so I haven’t lied. And I’ll do a little more smiling when I get a couple of Advil in me.”
On my way out, I passed a white Malibu with Curtis and another agent in the front seat. I bent down and leaned in the driver’s side window. There wasn’t a lot of room between us, and our faces almost touched. “Next time you’re in Quantico for some refresher training, Curt-baby, give me a call. I’ll fly in and show you how I’d have made you talk.” I waited for a response, but none came, so I crossed the parking lot and made my way back down the road toward the Red Roof Inn and my car.
I gave it a thorough going-over, and because you can’t open anything on a Rolls-Royce without a special set of tools, I’d have noticed any tampering. As expected, the safe—it’s in the trunk—was ajar, but they’d used an expert. No scratches. I put my coupons back and closed it.
It was possible the storm troopers were finished with me, but I never underestimate a federal officer with a purse. It’s difficult to put a bug with any range in a cell phone, but once you have a ph
one’s signature, it might as well be a homing beacon. At the very least, Huston would be grabbing my numbers, so I decided to amuse myself. I hit 411 and asked for the White House. The real one. You can do that, it’s listed.
When the operator answered, I said, “Tell the president Bonks called. Got delayed by the Feds. A hard-ass named Huston.” Then I clicked off.
Bonks was my grandmother’s Corgi. He never met anybody he liked, so it was a safe bet he wouldn’t have liked Francesca either. My number is blocked, but the White House switchboard never gets a message wrong. The Secret Service would check Bonks against its known threat list, and sooner or later, just to close the loop, somebody would run down SAC Huston. Bureaucracies being what they are, she wouldn’t tell them she knew I’d called, and they wouldn’t tell her what I’d said, just ask her enough questions for lightning to shoot out of her eyes. It was the least I could do for her—and for Bonks, whose teeth marks are still in my shins.
I did the same at the CIA, and just for good measure, Antonin Scalia. I don’t know why I picked him, but I’d seen a recent interview on 60 Minutes, and he had a sense of humor. Also, he might have let me sue Bonks.
I pulled off at the next exit and into a truck stop. One of my companies buys blocks of phone numbers in various countries for employee use. I maintain a dozen or so, all registered on the Isle of Man, where privacy is embroidered on the flag.
After I bought the Rolls, Nino Scucci, a friend and a Michelangelo with leather, opened a seam in the passenger seat backrest and built me a pocket where I keep a few grand, a credit card, and an extra cell phone. I used a razor knife from the emergency kit to pop the seam and extract the clean phone. Then I walked my old one and its accessories over to a stocky Hispanic trucker leaning on his cab, knocking back a Red Bull. The lettering on his door read luis sanchez international freight, and he was hooked up to a full load of pigs.
“Luis?” I said, and he nodded. “How would you like to talk for free until the end of the month?”
He looked at the phone. “What’s the catch, man?”
“No catch. Some people are tracking me. Nothing dangerous, just a pain in the ass.”
He smiled broadly. “No shit, man?”
“No shit. How far you going with the pigs?”
“All the way. Tapachula.”
Couldn’t have been better. On a clear day, you can see Guatemala. He took the cell and was already dialing when I pulled away. Adios, Francesca.
Back in the Rolls, I plugged in the new phone to charge and dialed. Three rings later, a sandpaper voice picked up, “Praxis.”
“We missed you at Bert’s sendoff.”
“I’d apologize if I’d intended to be there. I thought I made it clear I don’t do funerals.”
“Yours is going to be like Harry Cohn’s. The town’ll turn out just to make sure.”
“Great Limey Standups. Still no entries.”
“You’re the second person today who’s had that opinion. Before I forget, tell Stella to send out an e-mail to the usual suspects. They should go to the next phone number on my list. Former one’s vacationing in Chiapas.”
I heard him talking to someone, probably Stella. “Okay, what else?”
“We need to talk. Preferably tonight.”
“I’m going to a screening. CAA.”
“I won’t be back in the city until later. And frankly, I’d rather have a root canal.”
“You pompous cocksucker. Like that crowd of yours is such a prize. How about Benny Joe Willis? He still on track to shoot up a school bus?”
Benny Joe’s a former government photo analyst with a JFK assassination obsession. He and Jake have some kind of history neither will talk about. I said, “I admit I know some oddballs, but unlike most of your clients, if the first-person singular disappeared from the language, they’d still be able to get up in the morning.”
He ignored me. “There’s a reception for the director afterward. He’s an old friend of yours. I’ll leave your name at the door.”
“Who’s the friend?”
“Dallas Bronston.”
“I thought he punched out the president of Fox and got blacklisted.”
“You have to be toes up to get out of this business. Went to Europe and made some bullshit picture about a lady bullfighter. Won a bunch of swish festivals. Now there’s a bidding war.”
“And you represent him, of course.”
“You wouldn’t want the guy floundering around with second-best.” He hung up without saying good-bye.
I had one more call to make. Another cop. One I really liked. He’d been lazy once, but who hasn’t. The phone rang a long time, and when he answered, he sounded half-asleep and none too pleased at the interruption.
“Sergeant Manarca?”
“It’s Lieutenant Manarca now. Who’s this?”
“Rail Black.”
“My accountant says I can’t loan you any more money.”
Dion Manarca is all-LA. According to him, clear back to Balboa. With somebody else, that might be a little awkward because he’s Italian, but if you stand at a bar long enough, pretty soon, he’ll grab a napkin and start drawing maps and lines connecting El Cid and the Castilian Knights to Venetian noblemen. Even if it’s bullshit, it’s a great story, and I learned a long time ago that life is a lot more interesting if you let people have their personal histories.
“I wake you?”
“What time is it?”
“Coming up on seven.”
“Stakeout. Thirty goddamn hours. What can I do for you, Rockefeller?”
“I spent a little time with one of your coworkers last night. Yale May wood.”
“A deputy chief working at night? Must have been a mirage. You get to that level, you’re tucked in at nine thirty, home or away.”
“We drove out to Victorville together.” I waited, but there was silence.
Finally, he said, “You’re pickin’ at a thread, except I ain’t wearin’ a sweater.”
That was exactly what I wanted to hear. “You know where CAA is?”
“Creative Artists? Century City, why?”
“There’s a get-together this evening. Can you swing by around eleven? Maybe dressed in something that doesn’t scream, You have the right to remain silent!”
“How about white ostrich Tony Llamas and my new leather sport coat?”
“Careful, somebody might try to sign you.”
“I hate that parking structure.”
“The agency valet will be full of VIPs. Park at the Hyatt and walk across. I’ll hang by the door. Eleven, okay?”
* * * *
I hit Beverly Hills just before eight and, in the lengthening shadows, slipped my Ray-Bans above the visor. Coming across Sunset, there’d been a major commotion at the Bel Air East Gate that had tacked on an extra fifteen minutes. Half a dozen LAPD black and whites had converged on a taxi with its trunk so packed with luggage the lid had to be bungee-corded. The turbaned driver was standing in the middle of the street yelling at the cops, and his passengers, three businessmen probably on their way to LAX, were out and yelling too. The empathy extended toward these unfortunate folks by my fellow motorists was indeed heartwarming.
Dove Way is in the hills north of Sunset, and as I wound ny way up, I was reminded again why I live there. Yes, the houses are large and the neighbors wealthy, but there are few cities as dynamic as LA where you can reside in complete serenity ten minutes from the action. My part of Beverly Hills doesn’t appear on cop shows. For two reasons: You can’t see much from the street, and it’s not a crowd that rents their places out for an ego boost. The people up here either own the studios or don’t care about show business. Aggressively don’t care.
My place is a rambling, white stucco hacienda built in the heyday of Hollywood by Howard Hughes’s attorney, Joe Stinson. Supposedly, H.H. lived in the guesthouse off and on when he was dodging process servers and phantoms. That keeps my address on the street-corner tourist maps, but even if you
manage to thread your way up, you can’t see anything but the gate. It’s so secluded that if you were to arrive blindfolded, once on the property, you wouldn’t know there was anybody within miles.
None of this prevents the occasional agoraphobe worshipper from leaving a note for Howard or a bouquet of the favorite flower of some actresses he was rumored to have bedded. I know it’s February 8 when I see ivory roses for Lana Turner or October 16 when it’s Linda Darnell’s yellow tulips. I always wish the girls a happy birthday.
Stinson designed the place himself and oversaw every detail of its construction down to a private, soundproofed elevator between the master bedroom and underground garage. He was as eccentric as Howard, apparently puttering around in bare feet, rolled-up brown slacks, white shirt with St. Christopher cuff links, brown fedora and an FDR cigarette holder clamped between his teeth.