Well, I could still check in with her, couldn’t I?
As I drove by, I saw the tomato waving alongside all the other ingredients, and rolled down my window to wave. Then I stopped.
The tomato was there, all right, but it was not Luisa Sandoval. It was a young African-American woman wearing the same costume. Well, maybe Louie’s shift had ended.
You really think it’s that simple, kid? Bogie said.
Until he had piped up, I was certainly hoping.
CHAPTER THREE
I made a flash decision to turn into the Burger Heaven. I was not particularly hungry, having eaten a Twin Halo only a couple hours ago, but damned if I wasn’t also drooling at the thought of having another one. Could it be that Louie was right?
Pulling into the first parking spot I saw, I got out and went inside. There was a line for the order counter—there always is—and I waited patiently until I got up there. A very young, fresh-faced, overly made-up woman smiled effusively at me and said, “Hello, welcome to Burger Heaven, how may I help you?” Her voice had a Midwestern twang, which probably meant she was on last month’s bus from Iowa or Missouri or Indiana, one of a thousand wannabe actresses ready to take their shot at the big time.
“Oh, just a regular burger, I guess.”
“Not the combo?”
“No, not the combo.”
“Our fries are awfully good.”
“Yes, I know they are, but I’m not hungry enough for a full meal. Just a regular burger.”
“All righty,” she said, grinning, and calling the order into a microphone. The burger was wrapped and on a tray within thirty seconds, and I carried it over to the first vacant table. Sitting there, munching the burger, I looked through the front wall of windows to watch the ingredients dancing and skipping about outside the restaurant. I may not be much as a PI, but I didn’t have to dress up as a pickle to earn bed and board.
I was about to pop the last, rather large piece of burger into my mouth when a voice said, You’re not going to finish that, are you? It was Lauren Bacall, and she arrived just in time. The point of my being here was to bring home a leftover. Looking longingly at the aromatic six-ply of buns, meat, tomato, lettuce and onion, I forced myself to wrap it up inside a napkin. After carrying my tray to the stack above the trash can, I started for the door, cupping the still-warm ort in my hand, thinking that whatever I decided to charge Luisa Sandoval for the patty chunk was the easiest money I ever made.
I was just about to go through the door when someone suddenly touch my elbow from behind. Turning, I saw a very tall woman in a security guard uniform, which bore a shoulder patch containing the Burger Heaven logo, holding a clipboard. “Thank you for coming, sir,” she said. “If you can spare a moment, we’d like you to take a survey.”
“A survey?”
“Yes, regarding how often you come to Burger Heaven, what you order, and so on.”
“Oh, well…”
“It will only take a minute or two, and in return for you time and information, we will give you a gift certificate for your next visit.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely.” She smiled broadly, which made her look very unlike a security guard.
“All right,” I said.
“Excellent, let’s just step out of the doorway.” She led me a few steps away to an alcove, and handed me the clipboard. “It’s just a few questions.”
Since taking the clipboard and writing on it took two hands, I had to set the napkin-wrapped burger bite down on the counter. The survey questions were pretty basic: Do you live in the neighborhood? How often to you visit Burger Heaven? The prices are competitive; Agree, Disagree, Don’t Know…that sort of thing. It did, in fact, take only a minute to complete, including jotting down my email to receive further coupons. I handed everything back to the grinning guard who thanked me so emphatically one would think I’d just donated a kidney to her, and handed me the gift certificate.
I glanced down at it and saw it was for ten bucks! “This is very nice,” I said, but when I looked up again, she was gone.
And so was the wrapped up bit of burger I’d set down to take the survey.
Okay, all right; somebody thought it was trash and picked up like a good employee. That’s all.
You’re certain of that, the voice of Raymond Burr intoned in my head, phrasing as a statement, not a question.
Well…even if I was not convinced, with a ten dollar gift certificate, I could try it again sometime.
Right now I thought I have a word with the new tomato. Going outside, I sidled up to the happy group on the sidewalk, only to be told to get out of the shot by a woman taking a picture of them with her phone. Once the woman was done, I went to the tomato and said hi. She smiled without really looking at me, handed me an ad flier and said, by rote, “There’s no hunger in Heaven.”
“Got a second to talk?” I asked.
“Sorry, but we’re not suppose to fraternize, just perform,” she replied.
“Well, I was really hoping to talk to Luisa anyway, you know, the tomato who was here earlier today?”
The tomato handed a flier to a middle-aged Japanese man, whose expression indicated that he was wondering on what planet he has suddenly found himself.
“Don’t know any Luisa,” she said, “and I’ve been here since nine this morning.”
“But—”
“Sir,” another voice said, and I turned to see the happy security guard, only now she wasn’t quite so happy. “I’m very sorry, sir, but we can’t really allow you to interfere with the duties of the Heavenly Host.”
“The Heavenly Host?”
“The performers. Please, sir.” Taking my arm, she started pulling me away gently but firmly—firmly enough as to imply that if I became a problem it would no longer be gently. “It’s an insurance problem, you see.”
I didn’t, really, but I decided not to press the issue. “I am sorry. They’re just so…”
“Heavenly,” she finished for me.
“That’s the word. Well, thank you again for the gift certificate. Goodbye.”
“Have a heavenly day, sir. Come again.”
As I walked back to my car, I attempted to make sense of what had gone on today. The new woman in the tomato suit was plainly lying, because I had seen for myself Louie Sandoval standing out in front of the restaurant, but what was the point of lying? Nothing made any sense.
I drove down Ventura toward home, but while stopped at a light, I made another decision. Louie had wanted me to get a burger sample, and I had failed. Even though I still found it a little hard to swallow that it was impossible, I had failed. So I decided I was going to go get a piece of hamburger or die trying. I made a quick left turn at the next street, went around the block, and headed back toward the same Burger Heaven. Pulling in to the lot, I parked and got out of the car, and then noticed a woman walking to the back of the restaurant. Even though she was no longer wearing the awkward tomato costume, I recognized her; the green stem hat was the tipoff. I watched her as she trotted through the parking lot and stopped by a large brown dumpster, where she lit up a cigarette.
As unthreateningly as I could, I strolled her way. When I got close enough, I said, “Hi, there.”
She reacted as though she’d been burnt.
“Shit!” she cried, stubbing out the cigarette. “What do you want?”
“I want to talk to you, just for a second.”
“You won’t tell them I was smoking, will you?” she asked, sounding like a six-year-old who had just gotten caught standing over a broken vase. “I’m supposed to have quit, but it’s so damn hard.”
“I don’t even know who they are,” I said. “I just want to ask you a few questions about your life as a tomato.”
“And suppose I don’t want to answer any questions?”
“T
hen I guess I’ll find them and tell them you were smoking.”
A look of panic crossed her otherwise beautiful face. “No! I mean…shit, mister, what is it you want to know, and why?”
“Well, why, because I’m a private investigator.”
Her eyes narrowed. “For who?”
“For Luisa Sandoval.”
“I don’t know any Luisa Sandoval. I told you that already.” Even Oedipus at the end of the play could have seen she was lying.
“So you have been here playing a tomato since nine this morning.”
“I never said that.”
“You told me you’ve been here since nine.”
“I have, but I wasn’t playing a tomato.” She started to pull out another cigarette and then glanced at me and thought better of it. “Shit, I hate this! I want a damn cigarette! Look, whoever you are, I’m the director of the little pageant we’ve got going out on the sidewalk. I’m a dancer, so I was brought in to tell the people how to move. You know, what kind of body language an onion would have, that sort of thing.”
“Wow, Burger Heaven really takes this seriously.”
“Oh, yeah!” she said. “We did have a girl playing the tomato, but she left, so I had to take over. Her name wasn’t Luisa Whatever, though, it was Maria. Maria Ramirez, I think.”
And a more stereotypically artificial Mexican name you will never hope to find, mi amigo, Ricardo Montalban said in my head. But I had already beat him to that one. As pseudonyms went, Maria Ramirez was as convincing as Jane Doe.
“What’s your interest in all this?” the woman asked.
“I really am a private investigator,” I said, “and the name’s Dave Beauchamp. I’m looking for her is all.”
“Well, she left. They had to get rid of her.”
“Why?”
“She wasn’t very good, for one thing.”
“That all?”
“Look, I don’t have to talk to you, you know.” Apparently she had decided by now that I was not going to tell “them” about her smoking.
“I’m done, I guess, though I would like to know your name.”
After a few seconds deliberation, she said, “Regina.”
“Thanks, Regina. And your cigarette habit is safe with me. But simply out of curiosity, how do you get a gig directing people dressed as hamburger ingredients on the street?”
“Thinking of changing jobs?”
Something you might want to think about, I heard. Shut up, Mitch.
“I’m just curious,” I said.
“Well, I guess you just find yourself in the wrong place at the right time, that’s how.” Regina walked past me, across the parking lot, and entered the restaurant, only to emerge a few moments later in full tomato regalia. She then went to join the others.
She didn’t even wave goodbye.
I could have gone in and ordered another burger, but Regina’s obvious fear lent a little bit of credence to Louie’s claims, making me think that maybe she had been right in her suspicions that she had been under scrutiny and suspected of something.
Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you. If I showed up so soon after trying to sneak out a burger bit, they might think I was onto them, too, so I got back in the car and headed home.
Once there I decided to give Louie Sandoval a call and see if I could find out what had happened to her career as a love apple. Fishing out the number she gave me, I dialed it and listened to four rings, before it went to a machine. Hello, her recorded voice began, this is Luisa. I’m not here, so leave a message. And if you’re a telemarketer… She went on to describe an action that I doubted could actually be done, even by professional contortionists.
After hearing the beep I left a message asking her to give me a call, or come by the office again, if she had the time.
Obviously, I was not hungry for dinner, which coincided quite nicely with my having little food in the refrigerator. It wasn’t that I could not afford to pack the fridge, at least this month, it was that I hadn’t bothered going to the store this week.
Figuring there was no time like the present, I headed out for the local Ralph’s and filled up the cart with basics—milk, bread, eggs, orange juice, coffee, hamburger meat (of course, my burgers wouldn’t be as good as Burger Heaven’s), frozen french fries, a bag of salad, some quick frozen dinners—and a DVD copy of Pomeranian Springs, a made-for-cable neo-noir that was one out of dozens of remaindered titles relegated to a $5.99 dump bin in the main aisle. At that price, I almost bought two.
By the time I headed back to my car with my groceries, which were tucked into three paper sacks, each of which cost a dime, dusk was starting to blanket the city. Maybe that was what affected my vision. Something had to be affecting it, because it just didn’t seem rational that the woman standing by the front of the store, appearing to look straight at me was the Burger Heaven security guard who had given me the gift certificate, now out of uniform. Once I noticed her, she turned and went inside the store.
It wasn’t impossible, of course, but the odds that I would see the same person on the same day at my usual grocery store had to be astronomical. But what were the odds that she was actually tailing me? No, I wasn’t that paranoid. It was someone other woman, it had to be.
If you say so, kid, Bogie chimed in, and I could tell he didn’t believe me.
CHAPTER FOUR
It had been two days since the tomato had walked into my life. Two days without a new case or client, or even the promise of one. Two days of coming to the office and downloading movies on my laptop while waiting for something to happen. Two days of realizing that even at $5.99, the DVD of Pomeranian Springs was a waste of money. At least I knew why they named it after a dog. I saved the jewel box for future use and put the DVD itself on my desk to use as a coaster.
Two days without hearing so much as a word from Louie Sandoval.
By eleven-thirty, I called Louie’s number again and left another message. It was the fourth. Either she was hot on the trail of a story, or had decided I wasn’t worth the money either, or something had happened to her. I didn’t want to think about that last or.
Picking up my well-thumbed copy of the Leonard Maltin Movie Guide, I went into my closet-sized bathroom. I once had a girlfriend who ascribed a more kinky connotation to my taking a movie guide into the john, but I swear, it’s only to pass the time. After finishing, I took the lid off the tank, fished out the bug in the baggie, and said into it: “Thank you for listening to station KRAP, Los Angeles,” and then flushed, after which I returned the bug to its place of honor. I doubted if anyone was still listening or recording, but it made me feel better.
Knowing who had planted it would make me feel better still, unless it made me feel awful, depending on who it was.
By one in the afternoon, having zapped a frozen box of mac-and-cheese for lunch (and yes, I did want to go back to Burger Heaven, but I was forcing myself not to until I talked with Louie), I was ready to do some detecting.
Going online I found the homepage for the L.A. Independent Journal, and after plowing through all the layers of offers to subscribe, join or donate, I found an office phone number. Dialing it led me to a mechanical voice, because all business telephones lead to a mechanical voice. I waited for the company directory and took a chance that the first name would be the person I wanted to talk to, since the most important people in a business were usually the first named, and since the first name was Zareh Zarian, I figured it wasn’t alphabetical.
Pressing the code, I waited until a real voice answered, “Zarian, make it quick.”
“Hi, Mr. Zarian, my name is Dave Beauchamp and—”
“Beauchamp,” he interrupted, “Beauchamp…aren’t you the guy who cracked that twin murder case?”
“That’s right, but now I’m—”
“Yeah, I rememb
er. We did a few inches on it. Hey, can’t you see I’m on the phone?” he suddenly yelled.
“Uh, I’m here with you. On the phone, I mean.”
“Not you, Beauchamp. One of my staff is talking to me and…oh, right. Sorry. I just got a new headset, and he really can’t see I’m on the phone. I hate these things. Now, what were you were saying?”
“I hope I’m not interrupting your day, but I was really trying to get a hold of Luisa Sandoval.”
“You know where she is?”
“No. I’ve been trying to contact her.”
“So have we. She’s nowhere to be found. It’s like she’s disappeared.”
The word disappeared lodged in the pit of my stomach like an ice block.
“What’s your interest in Sandoval?” he asked.
“She came to see me to get me to help her with a story she was working on.”
“The hamburger thing?”
“That’s right.”
“What did she need a dick for?”
That’s private dick to you, the voice of Dick Powell said in my head.
“This might sound a little funny, but she wanted me to sneak a hamburger out of a Burger Heaven.”
“I’m not laughing. Look, can you come down to the office so we can talk in person?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, two o’clock. Don’t be late.”
With that he hung up.
Since he hadn’t bothered to give me the address of the Independent Journal, I had to check the website again. The offices were on the west side of Los Angeles so I decided to give myself plenty of time to get over the hill from the Valley, particularly since today was one of those overcast days that seem to confuse L.A. drivers almost as much as actual rainfall.
Because of slow traffic on Coldwater Canyon Avenue over the hill and the perennial automotive quagmire known as Beverly Hills on the downside, it was not much before two o’clock when I arrived at the nondescript building on Pico Boulevard. There was a call box on the front door, and I hit the O button. A woman’s voice soon answered, “Can I help you?”
Eats to Die For! Page 3