Eats to Die For!

by Michael Mallory

  “Okay, fine, I’ll call from the room,” I said. “There is a phone in here, isn’t there?”

  “On the desk.”

  Desk. That was a creative name for the rickety pile of wood that was pushed against one wall of the room. But it did hold a phone.

  “Z, at least take me back to the office,” Louie was saying. “I can make some calls there.”

  “Look, kiddo, I can’t risk losing my best reporter,” Zarian replied. “You stay here tonight. The world won’t end in one night. I’ll go back and call my shysters and get some advice from them on how to proceed. Okay?”

  Louie didn’t like the arrangement, but she finally agreed.

  “Good. I’ll be back in the morning. Until then, don’t do anything visible.”

  “In this neighborhood?” I said. “I don’t think I’ll be taking any long walks.”

  After a quick hug of Louie, Zareh Zarian turned and headed out, leaving her, me, and a snoring nonagenarian to the delights of the Ali Baba Motor Hotel.

  “God, I hate this!” Louie said. “I hate just sitting around and waiting!”

  “Hanley’s sawing some pretty big logs,” I said. “Maybe I could just leave him here and come over to your room…”

  “Nice try,” Louie said, smiling warmly and revealing those dimples again, “but I need to think, and make some notes.”

  Seeming to read my expression (which, if on the outside it looked anything like I was feeling, I could have taken the Gold in Pathos), she put and hand on my shoulder and added:

  “Aw, turn off the hurt puppy look, okay? I like you, Dave, I really do, but we’re no longer in enough danger.”

  “I could run with scissors,” I argued.

  “Or you could hotwire a car and drive me back to that movie studio so I can get my evidence. That would be dangerous!”

  Suicidal was my word for it. I shook my head.

  “Even if I knew how to hotwire a car, I wouldn’t do it,” I told her. “You’re going to have to go with your boss on this one.”

  “He’s never going to follow up on it,” she said. “He’s terrified of the Temple.”

  “You still have Palmer Hanley, live and in the flesh, to tell his story. Shouldn’t that be enough to get the DA’s office interested?”

  “I know you’re trying to help, Dave, but…shit.” She gave me a chaste peck on the cheek. “That’s for trying to help.”

  Then she went out and unlocked her room, Room Twelve. I heard her moan, “Oh, god, what a pit,” right before the door closed behind her.

  Fine, I thought, I’ll call Colfax on the house phone. If there was a charge for it, Zarian would be paying anyway.

  Maybe I should call my cousin in Cleveland while I was at it. I went to the parody of a desk and picked up the phone and hit the “O” button.

  Antranig answered a second later: “Yes?”

  “Hi, it’s Beauchamp in Ten.”

  “My cousin’s friend?”

  “Yes. I need to get an outside phone line.”

  “Hang up, hit star-nine, and that will take you out. It will be put on your bill.”

  “Your cousin is paying, remember?”

  “Of course,” he laughed, “but I hope you know better than to try to fuck with him regarding money. I’ve known him longer than you.”

  This was followed by another laugh, which I did not respond to, because I had suddenly turned colder than young Charles Foster Kane sledding down the hill.

  “Right…thanks,” I said, putting the phone receiver in the cradle on the second try.

  I’m wrong, I thought; I have to be wrong.

  You’re not wrong, kid, Bogie told me.

  I must have made a mistake.

  No mistake, Duke Wayne chimed in.

  “What do I do now?” I said aloud.

  Well, stop shaking like a leaf, for one thing, Lauren Bacall admonished.

  That was easier said than done, because listening to Antranig Bedekian on the phone just now, I thought I recognized his voice, and hard as I tried to tell myself I was being ridiculous, I knew I had heard it before.

  And I knew where.

  Furthermore, because I spend so much of my time hearing and placing disembodied voices, to the point where I could even tell those of Gene Kelly and John Garfield apart (and if you think that’s easy, try it blindfolded sometime), I was confident in my identification of Bedekian, the manager of the ten-cent hotel and the cousin of Louie Sandoval’s editor and friend.

  It was his voice on the threatening message that was left on Louie’s phone machine in her apartment.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Antranig Bedekian was one of them, and we had just been delivered into his hands. Did that mean Zareh Zarian was also a Theotologician? That made no sense whatsoever.

  Are you certain about that? the skeptical voice of Edward Everett Horton asked.

  “Yeah, I am,” I told the room, which contained only me and the sleeping form of Palmer Hanley. “He’s a crusader for the truth, at least in his own mind.”

  Or is he someone who uses his position to make certain that the truth never actually emerges? This time the questioner was Spencer Tracy.

  Was that possible?

  It still didn’t scan, but even if Zarian was an innocent bystander, the fact that his cousin was not only involved in the Temple but at a high enough adjustment level that he could leave threats against people suddenly made Zarian untrustworthy.

  I had to let Louie in on this.

  Dashing out of the room I practically pounded on her door.

  Opening the door, she said, “Look, Dave, I told you once—”

  “We’re in dan…trouble,” I blurted out.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  I told her, and her first reaction was to tell me I was wrong, then that I was crazy, but I persisted.

  “Louie, think. Did Zarian ever act as though he didn’t want you to follow the Burger Heaven story?”

  “Hell no, he made it easy for me.”

  Then she stopped and her face became thoughtful.

  “Oh, Jesus Christ, Dave,” she said, finally. “He made it too easy. He let me have carte blanche, never questioned any of my decisions or actions, the way he normally would when I’m on a story. I assumed it was because he was as excited about the outcome of this one as I was, but now…oh, god, do you think he was playing me? What an idiot I’ve been!”

  “Louie, we don’t have time for recriminations. We have to get out of here, and we have to take Hanley with us.”

  “You make that sound like it’s a problem.”

  “Go next door. He’s snoring so loudly I doubt you could roust him if you lit a fire under him. I guess we could try calling for a cab, if Antranig isn’t listening in on the phone, but I wouldn’t bet against that. If it was just you and mean, we could simply leave and start walking.”

  “Dave, you’re not working yourself up into leaving him here, are you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Because I need him for my story.”

  “I know, and I’m not so heartless as to abandon an old man who’s been held captive for thirty years. I just don’t know what to do.”

  If anybody inside my head has a wizard idea, this would be an excellent time to say so. No? It figures.

  But Louie, for some reason, was smiling at me.

  “You know, Dave, you can be a genius at times.”

  “Thanks. What did I say?” I asked.

  “You said you could only get Hanley up if you lit a fire under him. So, we’ll light a fire.”

  “Louie, that’s an expression.”

  “Think about it, though,” she said. “We set a fire, the fire department comes, we ask them to call your friend with the police, and we get out of here.”

 
; “Arson is illegal, you know.”

  “Only if it’s proven.”

  I looked at her, hoping to find some indication she was joking, and finding none.

  “Have you ever thought about going into politics?”

  “Occasionally, but that’s no matter. We have to start a fire.”

  “This place will go up like tinder!”

  “Not if we start a small one.”

  “Okay, fine, all right, let’s say we agree to start a fire. How do we do it? I don’t smoke. Do you smoke?”

  “No,” she said. “I wish Regina was here. She smoked like a chimney. Do you think Hanley smokes?”

  “I didn’t see him with a cigarette. Hey, maybe Bedekian in the office has matches?”

  That’s good thinking, kid, Bogie piped up. Go borrow matches from the manager right before a fire breaks out.

  “I have an idea, Dave,” Louie said, taking off her shirt and then her bra.

  “Louie, please don’t tell me that your ultimate danger jones is to make love in a burning building,” I moaned.

  “Sounds kind of sweet, but this isn’t for you,” she replied, then she put her Temple shirt back on, but only fastened the bottom button, which made her look like the cover model for the Theotologics Today swimsuit issue.

  I couldn’t help it; I was getting hard. Louie didn’t notice, however; instead she stepped to the window of the room, slid open the curtains, and peered out.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked.

  “A smoker.”

  About three minutes later, her face broke into a grin and she turned around, winked at me, and then went outside. Barely a minute later she returned with a lit cigarette.

  “What did you have to do for that?” I asked.

  “Less than you think,” she said. “Now, get that wastebasket over there and find some paper.”

  The ancient L.A. city phone book on the desk made the most obvious paper source, so I started ripping out thin pages and dropping them in the basket. She then took the lit cigarette and held the end to them, and in no time, we had quite a little camp fire going.

  Picking the basket up carefully, Louie carried it over to the window and stuck the bottom of the curtains in the blaze, igniting them. Then she threw the burning basket on top of the bed and opened the door of the room.

  “Next door, hurry. We have to wake the old man up.”

  Palmer Hanley proved so hard to awaken that, if not for his snoring, I might have assumed he’d at last reached the final fade-out while we were gone.

  Finally he opened his eyes. “I was dreaming,” he muttered.

  “Sorry, sir, but we have to leave,” I said.

  “Again? How this time, another flatbed truck?”

  “Nope,” Louie said. “This time by fire engine.”

  Hanley shook his head.

  “Thirty years you sit in a room and read and watch TV, and then you get a lifetime of adventure in one day. All right, let’s roll. Wait…I smell smoke.”

  “That’s why the fire truck’s coming. We’ll explain later.”

  The three of us ran outside and watched as smoke billowed out from under the door of room twelve. A few moments later, Bedekian came running out of the office, his arms waving.

  “What the hell did you do to my motel?” he screamed.

  “We didn’t do anything!” Louie lied. “It must be the crappy wiring in this place.”

  “Wiring my ass! I’m calling the police!”

  “The fire department might be a better choice, don’t you think?” I asked.

  “Shit!” Bedekian cried, running back into the office and the fire in the room grew larger.

  The first siren was heard off in the distance about three minutes later. Meanwhile the woman at the motel, presumably Mrs. Bedekian, ran out with a bucket of water, which she threw through the door of the room onto the flames, then ran back to get more. By the time the first fire engine had shown up, flames were largely out.

  Add a successful arson fire to the list of things I can’t do.

  Even though there was little left of the blaze but smoldering blankets, the firefighters were too busy to be pulled aside. I thought Louie might have a little more luck gaining their attention, but even she was not able to distract them. I was starting to think that this whole, dangerous adventure was so much wasted effort, when another vehicle with a siren arrived.

  It was an unmarked police car which screeched to a halt in the Ali Baba’s parking lot, and at first sight it filled me with hope. Then I saw the driver get out.

  It was Detective Hector Mendoza.

  “Oh, holy Mother of God!” he said upon seeing me.

  “You know, Hector, I understand that the LAPD is understaffed for a city of this size,” I said, “but isn’t there anyone else?”

  “This is my turf, asshole,” he replied. “Manager called me. Said he had a firebug. So are you into arson now, Beauchamp?”

  “It was the wiring in this garbage hotel. Just look at the place. Hey, where’s your new helper?”

  “Back at the station.”

  Louie came up and asked, “Are you LAPD?”

  “Yeah, who are you?”

  “Luisa Sandoval, L.A. Independent Journal, and I need you to take me back to Windsor Studios.”

  “Louie, don’t!” I cried.

  “Windsor Studios…what the hell are you talking about?”

  “Hector, look,” I broke in, “take us back to the stationhouse. I promise I’ll explain everything there. I’ll even tell you who killed Regina Fontaine.”

  “What the hell do you know about that?” Mendoza shouted. “Oh, I get it, you did it, that’s how you know.”

  “Stop being such a Mexican moron, would you?” I yelled, and while I would have loved to blame that one on one of the regular voices in my head, I’m afraid it was original.

  But I was beyond caring. “Take us in, book us if you must! It might prove to be the only place we’re safe!”

  Mendoza shook his head. “I really don’t get it,” he said, “but I’ll be happy to book you, Beauchamp. Get in the car. You too, lady.”

  “And the old guy, he goes with us,” I said.

  “Fine, whatever.”

  We started to pile into Mendoza’s car when Palmer Hanley said, “You promised me a ride in the fire truck!”

  “Sorry, but this is the best I could do,” I said, pulling him onto the seat beside me. Louie got in next and closed the door.

  “Whatever all this is, it better be good,” Mendoza said as he drove out of the parking lot.

  “When we get to the stationhouse,” I said, “I want to call Colfax.”

  “What’s Colfax got to do with this?” the detective asked.

  “For one thing, he’s investigating another murder related to the same case.”

  Mendoza suddenly pulled over to the curb and stopped the car.

  Turning around to us, he said, “Another murder? All right, I want to hear what this is all about, and I want to hear it right now, and I don’t want to hear it from you, Beauchamp. I want to hear it from real people. You, Independent Journal, what’s this about?”

  As though she were dictating copy for a news story, Louie related the case cogently, intelligently, and most impressively, grammatically.

  When she was finished, Mendoza said, “You’re telling me that old dude is Palmer Hanley?”

  “Ninety-five next August,” Hanley offered.

  “And the Temple of Theotologics is putting crystal meth in the hamburgers?”

  “Some kind of meth, is my guess,” Louie responded. “We need to get a sample to be sure, but now that the police are involved, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “And two people were murdered to keep everyone from finding out about the drugged burgers?”r />
  “Two at least, that we know of,” I said.

  “And you knew about this and didn’t come to the police until now,” Mendoza snapped.

  “It’s a little hard to contact your friendly neighborhood patrolman when you’ve been kidnapped and are being held against your will. I asked Mr. Zarian, the guy who runs the Independent Journal, to contact Colfax, but he didn’t. That was before we realized Zarian was in on all of this.”

  “I still can’t believe that,” Louie said.

  “Now that you know everything, Hector,” I said, “you can call Colfax.”

  Mendoza snorted. “That’s not going to happen.”

  “Why? Oh, I get it. You want all the glory for cracking the case yourself.”

  “If I can get it, yeah,” Mendoza said. “But even if I don’t, I’m not talking to Colfax. That asshole could’ve helped me when my fitness for this job was being questioned, but he didn’t. So fuck Dane Colfax.”

  “I think you’re being unfair,” I said. “He still keeps tabs on you.”

  “I don’t give a shit what you think or what Colfax does. We’re playing by my rules now.”

  “What does that mean?” Louie asked, her earlier bravado having dropped.

  She actually looked frightened, though if the danger she felt was great enough to have that aphrodisiac affect on her, it would probably be Palmer Hanley who was the lucky man, since he was sitting in between us.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen,” Mendoza said. “I’m going to take the three of you into the station, not as suspects, but as witnesses. We’ll get everything you said here down on paper. Then I’ll let my superiors decide what to do with you.”

  “All right,” Louie said, relieved.

  “Fair enough,” I added.

  “By the way, shithead,” Mendoza said, pulling away from the curb, “I like your new look. I only wish I’d done it.”

  Since the three of us were in the back seat of the car, I reached across Palmer Hanley and took Louie’s hand. She didn’t pull it away. Then Hanley put his gnarled hand on ours, and there we were: the Three Musketeers. All for one and one for all, riding to the Palms police station.

  Somehow, we’d get through this.

  My first thought that something might not be right was when Detective Mendoza pulled into a parking garage.