"What's big casino?"
"What else? The Nobel Prize. That's what he called it."
"Well, that does it," Mario Villalobos said, with his sad and weary sigh. "My murder victim probably knew Lester Beemer as a customer. She wrote his name on her book. She called him at least once at Caltech's chemistry division when he was visiting someone. Mystery solved."
"Murder victim? Who killed her?"
"Pimp. Customer. Who knows? There's one more thing. His credit card was found in a Korean restaurant near the neighborhood where the prostitute died. Did he ever mention someone stealing his credit card?"
"No, not as far's I know."
"Who collected his personal effects after his death?"
"His sister in Seattle, Louise Beemer. She was all he had left and she's got one foot in the grave. There wasn't much. The police were called because of the motel."
"Which police? Which motel?"
"Pasadena. He was found in one of those no-tell motels on Colorado. His wallet was where he always kept it, in his sock. Old Lester wore garters. And he kept his moth-eaten wallet in his sock. Can you imagine?"
"Was his credit card in his wallet when he was found?"
"I have no idea."
"How about the office files?"
"I destroyed everything. All files. All tapes. You have to do that in a confidential business like Lester's. And like I said, Lester wasn't the soul of honesty and discretion."
Mario Villalobos stood and wiped his runny nose on a handkerchief and sneezed a few times as one of her cats ran across her slippered feet.
"Allergic to cats?"
"Uh huh," he nodded. "Well, that about does it."
But it didn't quite do it. Mario Villalobos was no longer a slave to a completeness compulsion, as he had been in former times, when he couldn't put a case away and do the "arrest is imminent" follow-up gags if there was a strand still dangling. In the old days he was not one who could gladly turn a back-shot victim into a suicide with a bizarre theory (which actually happened in another division) thereby closing a sticky case.
He was a different man these days. He was tired as dust. All the time. He would have been more than happy to call Missy Moonbeam's death a suicide if he thought he could persuade his lieutenant that she simply lost a few fingernails and a patch of panty hose while strolling toward her swan dive. In fact, he had no idea why he was fretting over this one. Could it simply be megaboredom? Was he so bored and weary, unaccountably scared these days that he felt compelled to do something? Something nostalgic? Like police work?
The credit card bothered him. He knew a little about the Pusan Gardens, where The Bad Czech found the card. The vice sergeant told him that the restaurant proprietor regularly engaged Asian and round-eyed B-girls to solicit drinks from customers. He knew that the Missy Moonbeams of this world were usually able to earn more money from Asian customers than they could get from white men or black. Maybe Missy Moonbeam simply knew Lester Beemer from the streets of Hollywood. It wasn't inconceivable that she drove or cabbed it to Pasadena from time to time to service the old boy. And that she and Lester had their last fling in the no-tell motel where his body was found.
But why a motel? Why not in Lester's apartment-to save money if nothing else? Lester Beemer was hardly worried about what the neighbors might think. The biggest why was the scribbling of the name on her trick book, the name of a dead man, along with manic doodling, decorated with scrolls and lines like daggers. And the number of the division of chemistry at the California Institute of Technology? If she wasn't calling the dead man, who was she calling about the dead man?
"Goddamnit!" Mario Villalobos said aloud, turning off the freeway, to get back on again and drive north to Pasadena. He wouldn't let it go just yet.
Fifteen minutes later he was standing inside Llewelyn Brothers Mortuary on Lake Avenue in Altadena, talking with the man who had collected the body.
"Of course it wasn't a coroner's case, Sergeant," the mortician said.
He didn't look like Hollywood's version of an undertaker. He looked like a bodybuilder, which he was. Since the family business was located in what was now a black neighborhood, the scion of the mortuary thought it prudent that the Llewelyn boys keep themselves in shape. Twice in the past year thugs had tried to rob the mortuary, just as bandits traditionally robbed liquor stores. The genteel old days of Altadena were long gone.
"I take it that a doctor signed a death certificate," Mario Villalobos said.
"Absolutely," the mortician said. "Wouldn't have touched him otherwise, in a motel like that. As soon as the police found the pacemaker identification bracelet with the name of his physician, they called him. And he later told me he wasn't the least bit surprised that Mr. Beemer died the way he had, in a sleazy motel."
"Was it obviously his heart?"
"Obviously. Probably during foreplay because he was fully clothed. He was just lying there in bed. Naturally the girl had run off, whoever she was."
"Is the physician local?"
"Dr. Trusk? Been around here for years. Elderly man. Very competent. Knew Mr. Beemer well."
"The police had no doubts whatever?"
"I don't even get near a coroner's case, I assure you. I learned that at my father's knee."
"Was there a wallet on the body?"
"At first the police thought there wasn't. Then I found it in his sock." The burly mortician smiled. "He wore garters. I haven't seen garters like that in years."
"Was there money in the wallet?"
"No, but the identification was intact. He had a few dollars in his pocket and some change."
"Were there credit cards in the wallet?"
"Credit cards? No, no credit cards. I sent his personal effects to his sister. An elderly woman from ... Portland."
"Could it be Seattle?"
"Yes, that was it, Seattle. She requested cremation. She was without funds and his insurance was minimal-veteran's insurance, actually."
This time Mario Villalobos decided that nothing was going to stop him from staying on the Pasadena Freeway and heading for the station. If his partner Maxie Steiner were with him none of this would be happening. Maxie wouldn't have put up with this kind of dumb chasing around. It wasn't as though he didn't have enough to do, what with babysitting Chip Muirfield and Melody Waters.
On the other hand, he was giving them the routine investigations and bothersome follow-ups, which freed him to indulge a whim concerning Missy Moonbeam and a Caltech connection. Now he was going to let it go. There wasn't anything else to do with it. He'd just book the credit card as found property, release it to Lester Beemer's sister or American Express, and that would be that. Almost.
Just one more little step to relieve megaboredom. Chalk it up to mid-life crisis. Half a step, really. He wanted to see if The Bad Czech knew anyone at the Pusan Gardens who might answer a few questions about the found credit card and Missy Moonbeam.
When he located The Bad Czech, the monster cop was standing in front of Rampart Station doing his impression of John Wayne. There was a blond television reporter, sweating in the sunshine, who was very sick and tired of this big ham ruining every take with speeches about how he was in the business of protecting and serving, and even saving the life of "assholes" like Earl Rimms.
On take two, The Bad Czech changed "asshole" to "scumbag" when someone told him what he'd said. On take three he softened it to "slimeball" on request. On take four he got it down to "puke," but by then he was so nervous he blew the first part of his statement about protecting and serving.
Between takes six and seven she tried to help the big dummy relax by offering to let him go into the station and get a drink of water so his cotton mouth would stop popping into the hand mike. When he said he'd rather have a real drink, she smiled, and he took it as an encouraging sign and asked her if she'd meet him after work in some place called Leery's Saloon.
She declined and they did takes nine and ten. The cameraman was on his last roll when
The Bad Czech managed something resembling a quotable statement about saving the life of the "rotten mugger."
The Bad Czech begged for one more take, saying that his mouth was as dry as Rose Bird's giz, but she refused, and called it a wrap.
"If you change your mind about Leery's, gimme a call!" The Bad Czech was yelling to the retreating blonde when Mario Villalobos pulled into the station parking lot.
A few minutes later The Bad Czech, ebullient from his television debut, was sitting in the detective car, heading for the Pusan Gardens on Olympic, telling Mario Villalobos about the marathon foot pursuit and the death of Gertie.
The Korean chef was overseeing the evening's food service when the beat cop entered with the detective. He looked about as happy to see the cops as he was to see the Chinese Army thirty-odd years ago when they swarmed across the border and overran the Americans. At which time he scooted out of Seoul with one thing in mind: Hollywood. And a restaurant he dreamed of, called "Seoul Food."
The Bad Czech spotted the part-time waitress, full-time B-girl, who was still doing waitress duty this early in the day. They walked her into the cocktail lounge where it was dark and private.
"Hey, Blossoms," The Bad Czech said. "This here's a detective and he's got a few questions for ya. Don't worry, he ain't with the vice squad. He's workin on a murder."
"Do you know this girl?" Mario Villalobos asked the chunky B-girl.
Blossoms was thick through the shoulders and thighs. Her face was flat and unrefined, the face of a peasant. They could see from her nervous glance that she knew Missy Moonbeam.
"She got in jail?" Blossoms asked.
"She's the dead one," Mario Villalobos said. "Did she work here sometimes?"
"Some time," Blossoms nodded, nervously fidgeting with her pencil and order pad.
"A ... hostess?" Mario Villalobos asked.
"Like me," the girl nodded.
"Did she work here Saturday night?" Mario Villalobos asked.
The girl thought for a moment, a decided effort. She wrinkled her brow and shuffled her feet nervously. "Before one day. Flyday," she said. "She here all night."
"Did she pick up some men?" Mario Villalobos asked.
"I good girl, no men," Blossoms said, glancing toward the kitchen where the chef was peeking through the open door.
"I told ya he don't work vice," The Bad Czech said impatiently. "Jist tell him the truth, for chrissake, Blossoms."
"Maybe few men," Blossoms said.
"Korean men?" Mario Villalobos asked.
"Yes," she nodded.
"Are you sure you didn't see her Saturday night? That was the night she died. It's real important."
"She not here after Flyday," Blossoms said.
"Did you ever see this?" Mario Villalobos asked, producing the credit card of Lester Beemer.
She held the card upside down and said, "Maybe."
"Can you read?" Mario Villalobos asked.
"No."
"Why do you say 'maybe'?"
"She have card like this one Flyday."
"It looked just like this?"
"Look just like," she said. "She say card no good sometimes. Sometimes good. We talk about ... ways make money. I good girl. She not so good."
"She talked about credit card scams?" The Bad Czech asked.
"What?"
"Did she say she used cards like this one?" Mario Villalobos asked. "To buy things? Cards belonging to other people?"
"Yes," Blossoms said. "I tell her no. I good girl."
"And this card?"
"Funny card, she say. Missy throw card on table and say no good."
"I don't understand," Mario Villalobos said, looking at the credit card. "It hasn't expired. It looks okay."
"I hate mysteries," The Bad Czech said. "They give me headaches. I like to know how things work and what's real and what ain't real and ..."
"Did Missy leave the no-good card on the table Friday night?"
"I sink so," she said. "Card no good, Missy say. Not anysing on card."
"Not anything on the card?" Mario Villalobos said.
When they got back to the station Mario Villalobos left The Bad Czech, who was beside himself with excitement about being on the five o'clock and eleven o'clock news. The detective had an urgent telephone call waiting for him. The number looked familiar, but the caller had refused to give a name. While he was dialing it, he realized the number was the Wonderland Hotel.
Oliver Rigby answered: "Hello, Wonderland."
"It's Sergeant Villalobos," the detective said. "Did you call?"
"Yeah," Oliver Rigby whispered.
The detective could imagine him peering around the lobby and cupping his hand over the mouthpiece. "Why didn't you leave your name?"
"It's too urgent!" Oliver Rigby whispered. "Some guy came in here. He was askin about Missy! He looked like he was gonna have a heart attack and die in the lobby. He asked did she jump. He kept askin, did she jump? Or did somebody help her jump?"
"You get his name?"
"He wouldn't give it," Oliver Rigby said. "Then I told him you was workin on the case and he should call you. I wrote down your name and telephone number. Did he call?"
"No, yours is the only call I've got on my desk," Mario Villalobos said.
"Did she jump? Did somebody help her jump? That's what he kept sayin! I thought about grabbin him and callin the cops."
"What'd he look like, Oliver?"
"Look like? Like a screamin fruit is what he looked like," Oliver Rigby said. "He looked like a peroxided limpwrist from Santa Monica Boulevard is what he looked like. Do I get a reward if he's the killer?"
After getting a more detailed description of Oliver Rigby's visitor, Mario Villalobos sat smoking at the homicide table long after most of the others had gone home. The Bad Czech didn't hate mysteries any more than Mario Villalobos did.
He was almost out the door when the call came. The lieutenant said, "For you, Mario."
The male voice was falsetto, so he figured who it was. The voice said, "Sergeant, I've been told that you're investigating the death of Missy Moonbeam."
"That's right," Mario Villalobos said. "What can I do for you?"
"I gotta know something first. Did she jump? Or was she, like ... murdered?"
"First, let me have your name and ..."
"I have some important information for you, Sergeant," the voice lisped, rising an octave. "Extra important!"
"Yeah, but I'd like to know who I'm talking to and ..
"Listen to me!" the telephone voice cried. "It's more than Missy. It's ... first, ya gotta tell me, was she murdered?"
In that the caller was getting hysterical, the detective said, "I believe she was thrown from the roof."
The caller was silent for a moment and Mario Villalobos could hear him beginning to hyperventilate. Then the voice disappeared from the phone.
uAre you there?" Mario Villalobos asked. "Are you there?"
"I ... can't ... I ... can't get my breathV the voice said.
"Get a paper bag," Mario Villalobos said. "Breathe into it. Try to relax. You're okay."
The telephone was put down for a few more minutes. Mario Villalobos smoked and looked at his watch. Then the voice came back and said, "I'm all right now."
"Tell me your name."
"I'm real scared," the caller said. "I think I'm the next to die!"
"I can come and see you," Mario Villalobos said. "Tell me where."
"I'm ... I'm too confused!" the caller said. "I'll call ya at ten o'clock tomorrow morning. Will ya be there?"
"I'll be here waiting for your call," Mario Villalobos said. "But can't you tell me ..."
"I can tell ya one thing, Sergeant," the caller said. "This is probably the most important case ya ever worked on. I don't know who killed Missy Moonbeam, but I know what he was!"
And then Mario Villalobos figured that his caller was as goofy as a waltzing mouse. As loopy as a laughing loon. As crazy as The Bad Czech. In a breath
y voice full of melodrama, but also full of fear, the caller said, "Her killer was a Russian spy!" And then he hung up.
A few hours later, Mario Villalobos was watching the Angels getting themselves beaten by the New York Yankees. Mario Villalobos could sometimes get a complimentary ticket at Dodger Stadium because he moonlighted doing stadium security. But tonight the Dodgers were on the road, so he drove to Angel Stadium and paid.
He ate hot dogs and ice cream and drank beer and didn't give much of a thought to Missy Moonbeam or Lester Beemer, because with that call it had gotten out of control. Even before having grown as tired as dust, Mario Villalobos had been a logical, methodical, if sometimes compulsive investigator. And Russian spies spelled fruitcake, and fruitcake investigations produced nothing but more fruitcake.
Maybe he should turn this one over to the shoulder holster kids. He thought about announcing it tomorrow: "Chip, Melody, I've got a case for you to work in your spare time. It involves a murder by a spy. The Russians are coming!"
He would have laughed except that Goose Gossage was just brought in to fire tracers at the Angel hitters, and that wasn't funny.
***
As usual, the ventilating was started by The Bad Czech who sat at the bar very nervously. The television news team had promised him that his interview segment would be on the five o'clock news. It wasn't.
Leery switched off the TV when The Bad Czech called the station and was told that extra coverage of the Middle East had preempted him.
"Sure," The Bad Czech complained to the losers at Leery's. "Mideast war. Arabs and Jews been killin each other since Christine Jorgensen had nuts. But how many times you seen an interview of a policeman that tried to save the life of a scum-suckin piece a slime like Earl Rimms? There ain't that many cops around with kindness in their hearts. Goddamnit, I better be on the eleven o'clock news or I'll firebomb that fuckin TV station!"
"Settle, Czech, settle," Jane Wayne said, standing behind the monster cop, tugging on his eyebrows.
"Well, whaddaya expect?" The Bad Czech said, picking up his newspaper. "Nobody cares about real news anyways. Listen to this. It says here that the no-nuke demonstration attracted the usual locals. There was the National Association a Social Workers. There was the Lesbian and Gay Democratic Club. I wonder why they have to stick 'Democratic' in there? It goes without sayin. There was the revolutionary Communist Party. The ACLU. The Catholic Workers. The Radical Fairies to Heal the Earth. There was women dressed in nuns' clothes with skeleton faces. There was paper helicopters piloted by Ronald Reagan dolls. And get this: about thirteen pages later there's a tiny article about a family a six gettin slaughtered out near Riverside. Kin ya dig it? Mass murder is about as important as the classified ads. Nobody kin tell the Hillside Strangler from the Freeway Killer without a program. A no-nuke march gets the press. So who cares about a cop doin a humane act, for chrissake!"
the Delta Star (1983) Page 13