Angel’s Gate

by p. g. sturges

“Neither do I.”

  “Want to hear Melvin’s message?”

  I nodded. “Let’s hear it.”

  I detected pain in his voice. “Thank you, Devi, for giving the Nazi my phone. And, since you’re not answering your phone, you fucking bitch, lemme just clue you in on a few things. I don’t know who hit me, but he’s fucking dead. Dead man walking.

  “So I’m going to need his name. So I can have his coffin made up. Or you’re fucking dead, too.

  “And I don’t know what you pulled with our Nazi doctor last night, calling him back and shit, but I smell something dirty. I pray to God, for your sake, that you didn’t mention Nazarian’s name to him.

  “And how I ended up, all tied up in a fucking box at Dunkin’ Donuts, then meeting the cops—you better have some answers. Or I’ll peel your skin. When you get this message call me. Bitch.”

  I looked at Devi. “That’s quite a message.”

  “That’s Melvin.”

  “What is he talking about, tied up in a box at Dunkin’ Donuts, then meeting the cops?”

  “I have no idea. I thought he was spending the night on Mulholland.”

  I found a spot up the street from Fairfax Convalescent, parked, told Devi to wait a minute, immediately called Amanda Stewart.

  Amanda was a friend of long standing. Back from the old days. She was an archivist at the LAPD. A pretty brunette with a cheerful smile for everyone, she had solved more cold cases from behind her desk than most detectives in the field. Her memory was elephantine and encyclopedic.

  “What can I do for you, Dick?” she inquired brightly.

  “I need you to trace a name. See if he crossed paths with the department. Would have been this morning.”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Melvin Shea.”

  Amanda’s laugh bubbled over the phone. “Melvin Shea. Everybody knows about him. He’s the case of the day.”

  “Case of the day? Tell me.”

  And she did. Dunkin’ Donuts, refrigerator box, physical attachment to director Eli Nazarian, the reek of gin, swollen faces, dead dog. Was that the Melvin Shea I’d been talking about?

  “I think so, and thank you, Amanda.”

  “You’re welcome. But one day, you know, you’ll have to explain your part in this. Just for me.”

  I told her to expect a honeybee. She disconnected, laughing. I called Rojas. He wasn’t picking up.

  • • •

  Fairfax Convalescent was a one-story sprawl of outdated sixties modernity. I opened the door and the smell hit me. And the memories. The unholy mixture of urine and disinfectant. An odor you never forgot.

  Georgette’s aunt Nan had Alzheimer’s and had lived out the last year and a half of her life in a place in Studio City. Not all that far from Twain’s.

  Alzheimer’s was a horrible and degrading disease, stripping away from its victims both memory and personality. Leaving a cantankerous shell of confusion, loss, bitterness, and rage. And that was the good part. A downward slide without possibility of recovery, visiting Aunt Nan was to visit a suspicious, sulking stranger who thought she had been secretly and unjustly confined in Mexico. Mexico. Because the majority of the nurses were brown-skinned Filipinas.

  Georgette would leave in tears, and I would beg her never to return, remind her that Aunt Nan wasn’t there. Just not there. After a while Aunt Nan lost all humanity and then she forgot how to swallow. The loss of that ability was the last fork in the road. One choice, a merciful death of hydration and morphine; the other path, the hopeless, long-term maintenance of a human vegetable. You’d think that the Methodists, the Catholics, and the Jews would come to agreement on this one. No.

  Aunt Nan went on water and morphine and slipped gently away in a week’s time. God bless you, Aunt Nan.

  • • •

  Devi spoke to the Filipina at the front desk and inquired about Rhonda Carling. We were directed to Room 156.

  At least the place was clean. We walked through the human warehouse, finally reaching our destination near the end of the north wing.

  Rhonda was the lone occupant of 156. Her breathing was long and slow. We looked down on her.

  Jesus. I guess I’d seen her before the blackening and the swelling set in. With the black now were yellow, plum, and green, the skin swollen tight. Her nose was off to one side. Her ingenue days were over. To wherever she returned, she’d be one more liar from Tinseltown. One eye was swollen shut.

  “Rhonda,” said Devi, softly. “Rhonda, it’s Devi.”

  One bloodred eye opened, wheeled around, found us. Or didn’t find us. “Who’s there?”

  “Rhonda, it’s Devi.”

  Rhonda’s lips were grotesquely swollen obstacles to speech. “Where am I?” she managed, thickly.

  “You’re in Fairfax Convalescent.”

  The red eye rolled my way. “Who’s he?”

  “I’m Dick Henry, Rhonda.”

  “Fuck you,” said Rhonda. The eye found Devi again. “He really fucked me up good, didn’t he?”

  “You’re going to be better,” Devi lied. “How are they treating you here?”

  “How the fuck should I know? I’m here and I hurt all over. He put a gun up my cunt.”

  “I know he did. You told me. He won’t get away with it.”

  “Yeah? What are you going to do about it?”

  “We’ll do the right thing.”

  “I don’t give a shit about the right thing. I want a million dollars.”

  Devi nodded.

  “I want a million dollars, Devi,” repeated Rhonda.

  “I heard you,” Devi returned.

  “A million dollars.”

  Devi nodded again.

  “Did you hear me, Devi?”

  “Yes, I heard you. A million dollars. That’s a lot of money.”

  “Whose side are you on?”

  “I’m on your side.”

  “I want a million dollars.”

  “I get the figure, Rhonda. But I don’t think this is the proper time for a real discussion. I think that—”

  “Fuck you, Devi.”

  “Fine. But no one’s going to pay you a million dollars. Let’s be realistic.”

  “Howard will pay.”

  “Howard?”

  “Look at me. Look at my face! I want a million dollars. And I’ll get it. Or I call the police and CNN and Fox News and the L.A. Times. And I’ll tell them all about the Ivanhoe talent program. I’m no fool. He’s probably got eight or ten other girls like me. You remember Tricia?”

  Red-eye kept up her barrage. “I visited Tricia. Jesus Christ, I visited her right here! Right here!”

  “Rhonda, calm down. You’ve got to—”

  “I don’t have to do anything. Ivanhoe is a criminal operation.” She pointed a finger at Devi. “And you’re part of it! You tell fucking Melvin I want my million dollars or I pull down his evil house. Tell him! Let him put that in his pipe and smoke it.”

  Devi looked over to me with a slight shake of her head. “Alright, Rhonda, I’ll tell him.”

  Rhonda’s bloodshot eye rolled back over to me. “You know what, mister?”

  Well, I knew it wouldn’t be salutary. “What?”

  “Fuck you,” said Rhonda, summing up neatly.

  Devi’s cell phone rang.

  “Oh, perfect,” said Rhonda. “There’s the boss man now! You suck Melvin’s dick to keep your low-ass job? I did. And I know that’s him now. Checking on your progress. Seeing how far you’ll jew me down. Well, you won’t! I want a million fucking dollars or I bring the house down. Now get out!”

  “Rhonda, listen,” began Devi, but Rhonda steamrollered her. “GET OUT!”

  We left.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Mr. Hogue Will See You Now

  Just yesterday he’d been in this very room, this antechamber, awaiting good news and waxing fortunes. Now it was all on the line. Thankfully, three lines of coke had done him well. He felt a little bit human. He looked over a
t the Asshole from Armenia. Asshole’s jaw was wired shut. And his head was shaved. A ball cap perched on painful territory. The Nazi told him he’d put fifteen stitches back there. Served him right.

  Of course, with Nazarian’s big case of director’s dick, he’d have to be handled carefully. Don’t ruffle the feathers of the great creator. What old movie had he seen? There’d been a great line. Something about the people most in need of a beating were enormous.

  Nazarian looked at him balefully. “Talk to him yet?”

  “No.”

  “We’re here about Dunkin’ Donuts, only.”

  “That’s all, Eli. He doesn’t know about anything else.”

  The door opened. Helena stuck her head in. “Mr. Hogue will see you now.”

  • • •

  Hogue watched the assholes walk toward his desk. Eager as kids walking to the woodshed for a dialogue with Daddy. And Melvin didn’t like Nazarian, that much was obvious. But few people did. Nazarian was a cold fish.

  He could fire both at will. And he would, if it came to serious collateral damage to Ivanhoe. If America demanded it. Who was he to stand against the will of the people? Of course, the rabble would have to wait until Nazarian finished Gumshoe.

  In the final twenty feet of the penitent’s march, Hogue turned his chair to look out the grand window behind him. He heard them sit. Outside the window a tall strawberry blonde with a nice chest sat down on a bench in the Merry-Olde-England village set. A very nice chest. Very, very nice. Maybe he’d send Melvin after her. Later.

  He turned to regard the pair. “Well. The two Hollywood-refrigerator-box bigwigs. No pants. Gordon’s gin. Dead dog.

  Where was I, gentlemen, where was I?”

  A silence held until Nazarian broke it. “I don’t know what happened. I woke up in that box, connected to Melvin.”

  The director was talking funny. “What’s with your mouth, Eli?”

  “My jaw’s been wired shut. It’s broken.”

  “How?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “You do know you’re in the middle of shooting an Ivanhoe picture.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Then you have taken into consideration that your absence today has cost me five hundred thousand dollars.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “And you, Melvin?”

  Melvin shrugged. He’d decided on the fuck-me-blind-I-don’t-know-shit ticket. He spread his hands, shook his head, painfully. Hogue was angry, but, as he and Nazarian had hoped and surmised, this meeting was about refrigerator boxes. Not battered women. “I don’t know what happened. I woke up with Eli. The only think I can think of is Rohypnol.”

  “Rohypnol. The date-rape drug?”

  “That’s all I can think of,” repeated Melvin.

  “You guys dating?”

  Hogue watched the duo endure his humor. “You guys were together last night?”

  “All of us went to celebrate over at the Grill.” Melvin looked over at Nazarian.

  Nazarian nodded. “We had a couple of drinks, everybody did. And that’s all I remember.”

  Melvin looked at Hogue and asshole. The shared account of the evening had just departed from the truth. Yes, they’d had a drink.

  In fact, three. Four. Then Nazarian had cornered him. “Hey, Melvin.”

  Melvin nodded. If he didn’t know better, Nazarian had huffed a few lines of coke in the men’s room. A genial bonhomie had pervaded the group of afternoon millionaires. “Whazzup, Eli?” Melvin smiled, but Eli would pay for the golden gun in his face.

  “You know the chick in the Wells-Fargo commercial?”

  “You mean Rhonda Carling.” One of Hogue’s twenty-eight. “The one who looks like Catherine Deneuve.”

  “She sure does.” But taller, bigger tits, and no brains. Better than Deneuve. “What about her?”

  “Maybe she could be a part of Gumshoe. I’d like to get to know her a little bit.”

  Melvin could imagine a thousand ways the director might get to know her. Nine hundred and fifty of them with her legs in the air. And what had he heard about Nazarian? That he hurt people. Paid them off. But maybe that was all bullshit. He certainly didn’t take much shit on the set. Heather Hill, moron. Motivation, blow job.

  He checked his watch. It wasn’t seven thirty. Officially, Rhonda was free that night. It was Mandy’s night. Rhonda was Hogue free. Statistically, she was on only one day a month. The lunar cycle. That fit. A pack of bitches. Didn’t they all bleed at the same time? What had he read about that?

  He looked at the Armenian. With that fat check in his pocket. If the Armenian had huffed enough coke for that fixed, circular, cocaine thinking to begin, only Rhonda would do.

  He looked into the director’s eyes. “Let me give her a call, see if she’s loose.”

  “Great.”

  “But she’s expensive.”

  “How expensive?”

  “Five grand.”

  “That is expensive. She’s made of gold?”

  “Yes. She is.” Because she belonged to the emperor. “Anything she wants,” said Nazarian, waving his hand.

  • • •

  Of course, she was loose. It’s Eli Nazarian, he had explained. The director. He’s looking to put someone in Gumshoe. The girl who had the part had been shit-canned.

  “But he wants to fuck me first,” reasoned Rhonda.

  “That part is up to you, Rhonda,” he had said.

  “He wants pussy, I want twenty-five hundred,” said Rhonda. “I just did Wells-Fargo.”

  “I know you did. He saw it. He liked it.”

  “Fine, Melvin. Make a deal. And have an eightball sent over right now.”

  “Okay.”

  “I love showbiz.”

  “Showbiz is your life.”

  “And what a life.”

  Melvin hung up, smiled. It would be a profitable evening.

  • • •

  “Where do I get five grand cash this time of night?”

  Melvin saw more white residue on asshole’s lip. “If she’s too expensive for your tastes, Eli, there’s always Hollywood Boulevard.” He shrugged. “You want prime, virgin pussy . . .”

  Nazarian had to grin. “Did you say virgin pussy?”

  “Well, almost virgin.” Melvin’s turn to smile. “Maybe you can’t be first, but you could be next.” He leaned quietly into to the director. “She never let me in.”

  Melvin accepted asshole’s personal check.

  “She never let you in?”

  “No.”

  No. But he’d bartered his way in a half-dozen times. A little of this, a little of that. Some of that fine, flaky, Peruvian marching powder. Some of that Persian heroin. When Melvin delivered, he delivered. And never a Moses.

  “What’s a Moses?” Rhonda had asked as the small, green hill of heroin disappeared up her nose.

  He’d grabbed those big titties, thumbed her nipple through the silk. “A Moses is getting to the promised land, but never getting in. With me, you get into the promised land.”

  But first, a tonsil wash. He pushed her head down into his lap.

  • • •

  “So you guys remember nothing past The Grill?” Hogue tapped his pencil.

  “Nothing,” said Melvin.

  Nazarian spoke up. “Look, Howard. Everyone knows I like to party. Yesterday you gave me one hell of a bump. My intention was wine, women, and song.”

  “And you woke up with Melvin.”

  “Yeah. I woke up with fucking Melvin.”

  Melvin, annoyed, hooked his thumb at the director. “The way I look at it, Howard, I woke up with him.”

  Hogue worked a sesame seed out from between his teeth. “You didn’t shoot anyone with your golden gun, did you, Eli?”

  The golden gun. He’d completely forgotten about it. Until this moment. Where the fuck was it? Nazarian shook his head. “The way I feel, though, I might shoot someone tonight. But I didn’t shoot anyone yesterday.” And
his check? What in fuck’s name had he done with that?

  “You okay, Eli?” asked Hogue.

  Stay on course, you Armenian asshole, thought Melvin.

  Nazarian put a hand to his forehead. “I’m having trouble putting things together. Until you mentioned the gun, I hadn’t even thought of it.”

  “Well, you better think of it. The silencer makes it illegal in California.”

  “By the way, Howard”—Nazarian paused for sincerity—“thanks again for the gun. It’s a unique gift. Tremendous. I’ll treasure it always. Thank you.”

  Hogue studied his pair of highly paid liars. Of course, they’d just laid a pile on him. It was their nature. Like snakes bit. “Rohypnol’s no accident. If that’s what it was. Someone either wanted to fuck you up for shits and grins—or fuck you up for fun and profit.”

  “Blackmail,” said Melvin, pretending to struggle for understanding.

  “That’s right. We need to find out the rest of what happened last night. Ivanhoe doesn’t do blackmail. I’ll bring Chuck Hames in.” Hogue stood up, turned, looked out the window. “By the way, getting you released from Hollywood Precinct, anonymously, cost thirty grand. You guys will make immediate arrangements to pay Huntington Derian that amount. That clear?”

  • • •

  Hogue watched Nazarian and Shea depart. Chuck Hames had heard and seen everything via the top-notch surveillance system. There was no doubt. The two men were liars.

  “You heard all that?” asked Hogue.

  Hames nodded, sat. “There’s more to that story.”

  “A lot more.”

  “What are your priorities, sir?” Always call the boss sir. Never, his whole career, had the practice served him badly. From the marines to Blackwater to Ivanhoe. Though he’d gotten a little rambunctious in the Sand Kingdom. Twisted a few towels a little too hard. But those evolutions had led right here. To a plum gig. At six times his previous salary. Hogue paid well. Hames would not question his outrageous fortune.

  “What do you think of the Rohypnol theory, Mr. Hames?”

  “Usually it’s the girl who gets it.” Hames allowed his perfectly bland expression to communicate his skepticism. “But I can go to The Grill and ask a few questions. That’s where they began to waffle.”

  “I agree.”

  “But first I’ll swing by Dunkin’ Donuts. They run videotape 24/7. Obviously, the gentlemen didn’t choose to arrive in a refrigerator box. Maybe the tape will tell me something. Was there a police report?”