“Okay, so here’s what we do, guys,” I began, feeling less like the brains heavy of a crime drama delivering instructions to his henchmen, than Moe hatching a doomed plan for Curly and Larry to follow.
“We leave here and I lock the door. Ricky, you go home and call the police. You haven’t seen Louie in days, you’re worried, so you’re going to ask what you should do. Got it?”
“Haven’t seen her, worried, what do I do?” he repeated.
“Good. Avery, you go to your place, but keep an eye and an ear out for anything. If the cops do show up, let me know, okay?”
“How?”
“Oh, right.” I fished out another business card and gave it to him. “So we’re all agreed, right?”
“Right,” the two said in unison.
Ricky then left the apartment and strode down the hall toward the elevator. I started to leave, too, but Avery stopped me.
“You really think something bad happened to Luisa?” he asked.
“I really don’t know. I hope not. But I do know that if the police get in the way I won’t be able to investigate anything. Now come on, let’s get out of here before someone else shows up.”
In the hallway I looked both ways to make sure no one else was there, then closed the door and locked it, pulling out my handkerchief to wipe the knob clean.
“If the police talk to you, tell them everything you know about the last time you saw Louie, but don’t tell them you were in her apartment. And whatever you do, Avery, don’t tell them about the balcony trick. Call me if you need me.”
“I will,” he said, sticking out the dead halibut he wore at the end of his arm for me to squeeze. “Should I tell them about the messages on the phone machine?”
“If the police are any good, they’ll find those themselves.”
And unless they’re stupid, they’ll realize they’ve been listened to, I thought.
“Avery, I think you might have just saved our butts,” I said, explaining that the fact that the phone messages were not old phone messages, and having been reviewed, meant that someone else had been in the apartment after Louie disappeared.
It might not be ethical, in fact it might even fall under the category of withholding evidence. But better safe than sorry; the messages had to go.
“Will that get us in trouble?” Avery asked.
“You? No. Because you’re not going to do it. Go home and shut the door, and don’t think about it. If anyone asks you if I erased the messages, you have no direct knowledge of that.”
“But you told me you were going to.”
“That’s called hearsay. Trust me, I used to be a lawyer.”
“I think I see why you’re not one anymore.”
“Just go home. Leave the worrying to me. I’m good at it.”
“Okay.”
I waited until he disappeared inside unit 214, and then quietly unlocked the door again and entered Louie’s place. Going to the machine, I ran down through the messages, hitting the delete button at the start of each one.
When I got to the threatening message, I considered deleting it as well, but decided against it. Suppressing evidence to keep oneself out of the interrogation room is one thing, but suppressing genuine evidence that might lead to the solution of a potential crime was another. And the police would likely conclude that Louie herself had listened to it prior to disappearing.
After reclosing, relocking, and re-wiping down the door, I slipped the key into my pocket. I decided not to risk the elevator, where I might be seen, and instead found a stairwell and took it down. I didn’t feel like I had to hide or slink as I walked to my car, though once I had arrived there, I rather wish I had been more discrete, because standing across the street, about a half-block down, was someone I recognized.
It was the female security guard from the Sherman Oaks Burger Heaven.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Or maybe it wasn’t, maybe I’m just nuts.
(Maybe? Robert Mitchum shouted, but I had anticipated that.)
Maybe I hadn’t really seen the same woman following me around Los Angeles. This was, after all, the facelift capital of the world, and it was pretty amazing how many women one ran into on the street or in stores or in offices who looked like they were sculpted from the same prototype face by the same doctor.
If, on the other hand, I was not crazy—
(Shut up, Mitch.)
—and it was all the same person who had been assigned by someone to tail me, she was pretty poor at it. Then again, Sheldon Leonard and I had already agreed that the break-ins had been the work of an amateur, so it stood to reason that if I really were being tailed, it was also by an amateur.
But why?
No matter from which direction I approached the problem, all roads seemed to lead to Burger Heaven, and it was close enough to dinner time for a combo. Since I was still carrying around that coupon for a free meal, it wouldn’t even have to go on my expense report.
The question was, did I have the strength to leave a bit of it so as to try and sneak it through the doors again.
Oh, oh, if you need someone strong, I-I-I’ll help you…sure I will! the voice of Lon Chaney, Jr. said in my head. Thanks, Lennie, but I think I can do this.
While my intention was to jump back on the freeway and head over the Sepulveda Pass back into the Valley, then go to the newly opened one, I spotted a BH on Pico Boulevard, half-way to the on-ramp of the 405 freeway.
This was truly miraculous, since in my experience the only quick eating places to be found anywhere throughout the West Side were frozen yogurt shops or that ubiquitous sandwich chain whose stores smell a thousand times better than the polystyrene food they serve up tastes.
There’s a rumor that a pizzeria exists somewhere on this side of L.A., but I’ve chalked that up to urban legend.
I pulled in to the spacious restaurant parking lot—another miracle on this side of town—parked and went in. While standing in the predictably long line, I fished the gift certificate out of my wallet, and upon getting to the counter, where I was greeted by a young blonde who actually looked too happy to be working in a fast food joint, I ordered a Twin Halo combo. When I presented the gift certificate, though, she looked at it as though she was uncertain how to handle it. Frowning slightly, she turned and flagged down a fortyish man wearing a tie, presumably a managerial type, and showed it to him.
“Well, congratulations, sir!” he beamed, pulling out a pen to initial the coupon before calling the order into the back. He he asked me to initial it too, which I did.
It seemed to take a little bit longer than usual for my order to be prepared, but once I received it, I decided that it was the result of waiting for a fresh batch of fries to come out of the grease. They had to be fresh because they were nearly too hot to pick up.
The hamburger was equally hot and good, but I actually managed to force myself to leave a bit of it uneaten. It wasn’t easy; in fact, it was so difficult that I wrapped it in a napkin so as not to have to see it, and got up to go get back in line at the counter.
All right, I’m weak! But it’s a hamburger, not a fix of heroin! It’s my reward for actually saving a piece to sneak out.
“Are you finished with your tray, sir?” I heard a voice ask, and turned to see a kid with a wet wipe rag in one hand, while half-way reaching for my tray with the other.
“No, I’ll be back,” I said, reaching for the wrapped burger ort as casually as I could and palming it. “Please don’t take the tray away, I’m coming back. You’re food is so good I’m going for seconds.”
“Excellent,” the kid said, grinning, and then moving on.
I got a single burger this time, which turned out to be as much a masterpiece of hot, juicy goodness as its big brother the Twin Halo. When I was finished, I piled everything onto the tray, except, of course, for the wrapped piece of
my first burger, which I could feel was leaking secret sauce through the napkin in my pants pocket, then carried it to the trash bin, and then started to walk out.
And I made it.
I made it all the way to through the door, into the patio dining area, which was filled with cement tables and benches and halo-shaped sun umbrellas, and into the parking lot. And then into my car. And then out of the lot and onto the street.
Nobody tried to stop me, nobody tried to hassle me, nobody said a word.
So much for the rumor that Burger Heaven would go to any lengths to prevent their food from being taken off the premises. The first time I tried this stunt, only to be stopped by the security guard, who imprinted her image so firmly onto my brain that I see her everywhere now, it must have been a coincidence.
As I got closer to the 405 freeway, I could not help but notice that the lane for the on-ramp was backed up several blocks. This was not a good sign. Even with recent widening efforts, the 405 could be a nightmare, so I needed to avoid it for a while.
The answer was simple: since I was not far from the offices of the L.A. Independent Journal, and since I had the piece of evidence I had been charged with obtaining, I decided to drop it off on the way back. Maybe traffic would have lessened by the time I finished.
And maybe giraffes can fly, hoo hoo hoo! Hugh Herbert said inside my head.
Okay, then maybe Zareh Zarian would realize that I can accomplish what I set out to do.
About twenty minutes later I pulled up to the Journal offices, parked and went in, telling the receptionist, “I don’t have an appointment, but I need to see Mr. Zarian. I have something he wants.”
Zarian popped out of his office a few minutes later and waved me in.
“What have you got?” he asked, and I dropped the burger fragment on his desk. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“Hot damn! I’ll get it to the lab right away. Sit down, Beauchamp.” I did so. “Did you find anything out regarding Louie?”
“Someone broke into her apartment, ransacked it, and left a bug in it.”
“A listening device?”
“Yes. I found it and flushed it.”
“What do you suppose they were hoping to hear?”
“You’re in a better position to say that. Had she been working on a story other than this Burger Heaven one that might be considered dangerous in some quarters?”
“Her last assignment was looking into a billionaire developer who’s got the building-and-safety supervisor and half the city council eating out of his trough enough to get waivers on everything, and rip down any historic building that gets in his way. But that story went to press, and while a few sabers were rattled, nothing much came of it.”
“Who’s the guy?”
“Nick Bandini. He keeps threatening to run for mayor of L.A., but that would really be redundant since he controls the damn city anyway. Why, what are you thinking?”
“Someone left a threatening voice mail on Louie’s machine. It said, ‘You should know better than to eff with us, sister.’”
“Eff with us? You mean ‘fuck with us?’”
“I’m trying to be polite. The point is, us implies an organization or a company, not just one man, no matter how rich.”
“So you’re thinking us is the Burger Heaven corporation.”
“Based on the reason she came to me, that has to a consideration.”
“Have you gone to the police about any of this?”
“Um, no, I haven’t. I want to do a little investigating myself first without police interference.”
He nodded. “Good move. We’ve been keeping tabs on the LAPD for some time, even before every other black teen in South L.A. began sprouting a target on their back. The heat doesn’t like being on the receiving end of investigations very much. If they were able to trace you back to me, things wouldn’t go so smoothly for you.”
I didn’t bother informing him that my relationship with L.A.’s finest wasn’t that flowery to begin with.
“What about you?” I asked. “Won’t they try to shut you down?”
Zarian smiled, and his teeth were alarmingly small, straight and powerful looking. “They can harass and shoot people all they want, but even they know better than to take on the free press. So, Beauchamp, what’s your next step?”
“Well—”
Think fast, kid, Bogie said.
“—there was a woman at the Burger Heaven, Regina, who said she was the one who put on that little show with the people dressed up like food, though she claimed she had never heard of Luisa Sandoval, because Louie was operating under an assumed name.”
“Our people do that sometimes.”
“Right. But this woman claimed that Louie, or whatever name she gave, was fired because she wasn’t performing up to par.”
“And you don’t think she was leveling with you?”
“Well, it’s not like you have to be Meryl Streep to play a tomato. But more to the point, if that’s all there was to it, then where is she?”
“You tell me.”
“I think Louie already had already discovered something about the Burger Heaven chain, something concrete and damaging, and believe me, it pains me to say this, since I love their food, but having gotten the goods on them, I think she had to disappear for her own safety.”
“That makes more sense. I was never sold on the abduction theory.”
“Either way, my gut is telling me that something bad is going on, and this Regina might know more about it than she’s saying.”
Always trust your gut, young man, I heard Sydney Greenstreet chortle.
“When I talked to her before,” I went on, “she acted skittish, like she was afraid of someone or something. If I can figure out what she’s afraid of, I might able to get her to spill.”
He grinned. “Is that a technical term, spill?”
“It’s an old movie term, actually.”
Zarian smiled. “How would you like to keep working for me?”
“You mean in regards to finding Louie? I plan to do just that.”
“No, I mean any time we need an investigator. I’d like to put you on permanent retainer.”
“Oh, well—”
Well what, stupid? Robert Mitchum asked. You got something against money?
“That might impugn my independence a little,” I answered both of them.
“Shit, man, we’re the L.A. Independent Journal!” Zarian cried. “You can’t get much more independent than us!”
“What would this permanent retainer amount to?” I asked.
Zarian shook his head. “I’ll put you on the payroll for three-hundred a month. In return, whenever I need you to look into something for us, you’re there. You give me first dibs on your time, no matter what else you’re working on. If I don’t need anything that month, then take the three hundred and go to a Dodger game. It might cover it.”
“I think that could work,” I said. I still had a few vague, unformed reservations about the deal, but those might be chalked up to the fact that I’ve never had to consider an offer like this, being Paul Drake to someone’s Perry Mason.
“Great. Send me an invoice with all your information and I’ll put it in the system. Say ‘Retainer Contract Termination date TBD,’ or something like that. No need to get too technical. I’ll know what it is. Checks are cut at the end of the month. You got anything else for me?”
“No, but you might be able to do something for me,” I said. “Do you have a picture of Louie?”
“Why? I thought you met her.”
“I did, but I want something to show to Regina when I talk to her. She can waffle about the name, but she can’t about the photo. It might loosen her up.”
Zarian nodded and then shouted, “Ashley!”, which startled me. A few secon
ds later the young receptionist walked in.
“Print out a picture of Sandoval, would you?” Once she had turned and gone, Zarian said, “All our files here are digital.”
“I thought you only dealt in files that couldn’t be hacked.”
“You want to work for me or you want to be a smartass?”
Can’t I do both? Cary Grant asked inside my head.
“I’ll work for you,” I said.
But his comment had set a little bell off in my mind. If the Journal used all digital files, then there was little use in looking for Louie’s notes on paper. They would more likely be contained on a disk or a flash drive.
I also realized there was no reason to go back to her place and look for it, since Ricky Sandoval had likely called the police already, which meant they might be sniffing around the place, and even if they weren’t Avery would be.
I didn’t particularly want to see any of them right now.
Ashley returned with a still-warm printout of Luisa Sandoval’s headshot and handed it to me. Surprisingly, as attractive as Louie was in person, she did not photograph well. Some people are like that. In Hollywood, they’re called stand-ins.
“Thanks,” I said, rising, “I’ll let you know what I find out.”
I left the building wishing I could be as skeptical about the notion that Louie had been abducted by someone as Zarian was.
I’d covered a lot of miles today, with the only result being that I’d finally made off with a scrap of hamburger and delivered it, and part of me just wanted to go lock up the office and head home.
But the other part, the one with the promise of a retainer, said that it would be better to try and talk to Regina Fontaine sooner rather than later. If she wasn’t in tomato drag today, maybe I could talk to some of the other ingredients.
Once on the freeway, which was slow, but not a parking lot, I turned the news on the radio, but learned nothing other than the serious drought that was crippling California was expected to last until it rained. I’ve always been a sucker for a well-reasoned argument.
I soon switched over to the CD function and joined Miklós Rózsa’s portentous theme for Double Indemnity in progress. By the time the grandly opened Burger Heaven came into view, Miklós was on to “Parade of the Charioteers” from Ben Hur, and I was on my way to realizing I’d been carried away by my expectations.
Eats to Die For! Page 6