“And brought to Dunkin’ Donuts.”
“Exactly.” Derian handed his boss the DVD.
Hogue turned to the console behind him, slipped in the disk. “Who will I see?”
“Guy named Dick Henry.”
The blank screen lit up. “Why do I know that name?”
“They call him the Shortcut Man. He’s a . . . a problem solver.” Derian grinned. “Remember the Art Lewis funeral?”
“The resurrection! The funeral with the resurrection.”
“That’s the guy.”
“He did that?”
“He was involved somehow. I’m not sure which aspect.”
“Wish I could’ve seen that.”
Derian slapped his knee. “They had folks running all over the place. Twenty car accidents in the parking lot.”
“What happened with all that?”
“Well, the court declared a marriage that happens after death is invalid.”
Both men laughed.
“On the other hand,” said Hogue, “you wouldn’t give a shit.”
“Beyond the sphere of mortal concern,” Derian continued. “And the judge who put the scheme all together, Hangin’ Harry What’s-his-name, blew his head off.”
Hogue snapped his fingers. “I remember now. The judge was married to Ellen Havertine.”
“Good-lookin’ lady.”
“Fine-looking.” Hogue reflected. He’d slept with her. Thought he had. Probably did. Must have. But the memory was fuzzy. Maybe she’d just blown him. She had. Golf ball through the garden hose. To help get her series off the ground. Special Counsel. Yes. And hadn’t she sucked some director’s dick back when she was twelve or something? Lolita. Nabokov. Practice made perfect.
On the monitor, Dunkin’ Donuts flickered to herky-jerky, fifteen-second life in black-and-white. Hogue looked up to view the seedy night parade.
“Henry comes in at about two thirty-five.”
Hogue studied the screen. The doughnut business was a good one. Flour, water, and sugar were irresistible adjuncts to the stimulant, coffee. And the coffee, low-end beans. Of course. Not that anyone could tell the difference. Starbucks had sold shit beans at premium prices for a few years awhile back. They had called it an acquisition error. Right. And lately, some Ecuadorian beans that had actually passed through monkey sphincter were commanding tremendous sums. Actual shit beans. What a business.
On-screen, the Shortcut Man appeared in the picture. Derian pointed. “Here he is.”
Hogue didn’t recognize Dick Henry. But after the fifth or sixth stop-shot he thought he recognized the man Henry was talking to.
A man he hadn’t seen for twenty-some years. A dead man. Hogue couldn’t breathe.
Derian had been watching Hogue. Something was wrong. “Are you alright, Mr. Hogue?”
An artificial grin slithered across Hogue’s face and disappeared. He put a hand to his stomach. “Must have been something I ate.” Hogue stopped the DVD. “Why don’t you leave this with me, Mr. Derian?”
“Fine, sir.” Derian maintained his face in neutral. What on the tape had affected Hogue? “I’ll get on my way let you get back to business.”
Derian would reexamine his copy of the DVD when he got back to his office. No, better yet, he’d run the tape past Lew Peedner, Henry’s old partner. Maybe Peedner would see what Hogue had seen. And Peedner had it in for Henry. There was nothing like a little institutional gratitude.
Rules were rules. But gratitude was money in the bank. And sometimes you needed a bank to bend a rule or two.
• • •
Hogue was finally alone. He ran the DVD back and found Davis Algren. And ran it back again. And again. It was him. There was no doubt.
Algren was obviously in bad shape. Even in black-and-white the man appeared weathered. That grimy, shiny, reflective ruddiness that only years of alcohol and outdoor living could confer. His features, once stunningly handsome, now thickened, coarsened, scarred.
By himself, Algren would have been a remarkable curiosity. But the presence of Henry changed everything. Was it coincidence that put the two of them talking at a filthy doughnut house in the middle of the night? Hadn’t the Henry fellow purchased two cups of coffee?
Maybe it was a coincidence. But you couldn’t play it that way. No.
Undead Davis Algren was telling tales to the Shortcut Man.
THIRTY-TWO
Angles and Angels
“What else do you know about Howard Hogue?”
Devi looked at me across the kitchen table. I’d let her sleep and sleep and sleep. Looked like it had done her good. “I’ve told you everything I know. I’ve never met him. Why?”
I told her about the call from Helena Richards. And the invitation.
She sat there and thought about it. Exhaled her blue smoke slowly. “The only thing I can guess is that he knows something about the Rhonda situation.”
“That’s all I can figure. So where’s the leak?”
“It’s not Rhonda, it’s not Melvin, it’s not Nazarian. Which leaves Wolf.” She looked into my eyes. “It’s not me.”
“Assuming the worst about you, it’s not in your interest either.”
She shook her head. “It isn’t. It doesn’t kill me, like it kills Melvin, but it leaves me dirty. Which means getting dropped off at the next corner.” She paused. “What about the night guy at the El Royale?”
Winslow Peckman. Winston Peckman. Winston Peckham. That was it. Winston Peckman. The junkie with the job. Hell, most junkies had jobs. “Let’s see.” I thought out loud. “He knows Rhonda. He met you, he met Wolf, he met me, he met Melvin—”
“And he met Rojas and Tavo. Then Wolf went back.”
I shook my head. “I know he sure as hell did some heavy-duty wondering. But I don’t think anyone left him a card.”
“It’s got to be Wolf.”
“Wait a second. Pecker would know Hogue, too. Hogue rang her bell up there, didn’t he?”
“He banged her can,” said Devi.
That set both of us off again. I shook a finger at her. “This is serious shit, here.”
“It’s Wolf, Dick. Night Guy might have known Hogue, but he wouldn’t have known about the exact relationship between Hogue and Rhonda. And he’d never call anyway. It’s got to be Wolf.”
“Okay. Let’s say it is Wolf. Why would he rat out Nazarian and Melvin? He knows how they fit into the equation. Perfect for blackmail. Which lasts and lasts. Going to Hogue would be a onetime explosion. Which might come back at him.”
There was no ready answer for that one. We settled into silence. She looked at me, smiled. “I slept well last night, Dick.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I’m happy for you.” My appointment with Hogue was at two thirty.
“You know what I’m going to do, Dick?”
“No. What?”
“I’m going to sit on your lap.”
• • •
Yup. One day the Shortcut Man may be dragging an oxygen cylinder to a dialysis appointment, colostomy bag by his side. Getting off the wrong bus at the wrong stop, wondering what the fuck he’s doing at the YMCA. If that occurs, and you see him, drag his cane away and beat him to death with it. Please.
But, today, in the present, where lots are cast, I’m following a beautiful girl to my bedroom.
Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.
The girl is laughing. Can you hear her?
THIRTY-THREE
Himmler Calls
Melvin woke from a dark and dreamless sleep to the sound of the phone. He checked the screen. Wolf.
Wolf. Perfect. Rhonda. “Hello?”
“Melvin, this is Dr. Wolf.”
“Hold on for a second, Doc.” He put the phone down. Tylenol with codeine. Where was it? His face felt worse today then yesterday. Like the Nazi had told him it would. There it was. On the dresser. He opened up the vial, shook himself out two, put them in his mouth, looked
around for water.
In the bathroom he cupped his hand, washed them down. And why not a piss while Speer was waiting?
He got back to the phone. Wolf was still holding. “I’m back, Doc. Had to take a piss.” That would tighten him up.
“How are we this morning, Melvin?”
Melvin was immediately and deeply suspicious. Wolf had the bedside manner of a tarantula. “How are we this morning? I’m sore as hell. Like you told me I would be. You want to give me a massage or something?” Had something happened to Rhonda? “What’s up?”
A silence. Melvin looked at his phone. Still connected. “Actually, I’m calling about my bill. I mean, your bill, Melvin.”
“Your bill? You’re on salary as far as I know.”
“Salary is for normal conditions.”
“What conditions are you talking about?”
The doctor sighed. “I guess I’d be happy to talk to Mr. Hogue about my concerns.”
Surprise, surprise. Himmler was trying to blackmail him. You could annoy a man with a true grasp of human nature, but you couldn’t disappoint him. Melvin smiled. It was no way to treat a future partner. He’d play along. For a while. “What are you talking about, Dr. Wolf?” he asked in a small, frightened voice.
“I’m talking about a thousand dollars a week, every week, Melvin. Or a flat fee of fifty thousand dollars.” The doctor’s voice was triumphant. “You see, Melvin, I saw the golden gun.”
Well, well, well. The doctor had seen the golden gun. Undoubtedly, at Rhonda’s. Why hadn’t he seen the gun? Because Devi, that bitch, moved it before he came. Aha. Devi was seriously in the game, as well. And the Mystery Man? Was he in on it, too?
“Melvin, are you there?”
“You’re blackmailing me.” Melvin scratched his balls. He was aghast, aghast. Round up the usual suspects. “That’s ag-gainst the law, D-doctor.” He filled his voice with fear.
“I’ll want that money this week. Or arrangements made.”
“Fine. I’ll be right over.”
“What?”
“I said, fine. I’ll be right over. I know where you live.” Melvin hung up the phone. He wasn’t going to pay Goebbels a nickel. Wait a second. Could Goebbels pay him?
He stepped into the shower. Everything would work out. In time.
THIRTY-FOUR
For the Benefit of Smokin’ Jack
At Irv’s Burgers, corner of Santa Monica and Sweetzer, Lt. Lew Peedner waited for Huntington Derian. It would be hard to remain inconspicuous in the company of a fat man in a red suit. Except at Christmas. So he’d set the meeting right across, kitty-corner, from the West Hollywood City Hall.
Then he saw Derian exit City Hall and start across the street. Then wait for the second signal. Finally he arrived.
“Hi, Lew,” said the attorney, patting his head with a monogrammed handkerchief.
“Hi, Hunt,” said the lieutenant.
“What’s good here?”
“You’ve never been?”
“Been past a thousand times.”
“They don’t make what they can’t do. They deliver on everything they promise. I’m having the cheeseburger special.”
“Then I’ll have that, too.”
The burgers were excellent as long as you didn’t consider what hamburgers everywhere were made of. Diseased, hormoned, overmedicated cattle staggering gratefully to the sledgehammer. WHONK! But the service at Irv’s was superb and personal, including, on each paper plate, a hand-drawn caricature of every customer.
Lew looked at his illustration. Intentionally or not, the illustration had captured his sad fatigue. He glanced at the attorney’s plate. A generic, jovial fatman. But a resemblance.
“What’s up, Hunt?” he began.
“You heard the news yesterday. The bigwigs in the refrigerator box.”
“With the dead animals.”
“Animal, singular. A dead dog.”
“I’m not familiar with the particulars. Fill me in.”
“The bigwigs were brought to Dunkin’ Donuts. Obviously, against their will. We don’t want to embarrass the department.”
Lew wasn’t seeing where this was going. “What department?”
“LAPD.”
What the fuck, here. “Am I your straight man, Hunt? Give it to me all at once.”
Derian shot his cuffs, smiled. How many people in the world had the luxury of wearing a red suit everyday? Besides himself? And those cardinals boinking the altar boys. Derian had seven identical suits. North Indian silk. He handed Peedner a DVD. “This is from surveillance tapes at Dunkin’ Donuts. It may be a coincidence, a huge coincidence, but your old pal was hanging round and round just before the shit came down.”
And Derian was a poet, as well. Lew was not going to play straight man. He just stared at Derian, waiting.
“Your old pal, Dick Henry.”
“Dick?”
“Aka the Shortcut Man.”
“Dick is no longer part of the department.”
“A difference without distinction as far as the public is concerned. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Your bigwigs are okay last I heard. What do you get out of this?”
“The pleasure of serving our community and being responsible corporate citizens.”
That couldn’t be all.
“And perhaps, the opportunity to rehabilitate Jack Wilton—rather than incarcerate him.”
“Ahh. Smokin’ Jack.” Jack Wilton was a rising star on the Ivanhoe slate. With an appetite for heroin, cocaine, and underage quiff. Unluckily, he’d purchased some tar from an undercover officer behind the Clown Room. Smokin’ Jack was looking at significant time in county if proper channels weren’t properly greased. “He’s working on Gumshoe, am I right, Hunt?” Of course, channels would be greased.
“You are indeed. Lot of money riding on him.” Derian paused. “And upon young Jack’s shoulders, the lawful hopes and dreams of many upstanding citizens.”
Hmmm. The opportunity to whack Dick Henry around. Could Dick be involved in a kidnapping? Couldn’t be. But . . . he wouldn’t put it entirely past him. If the fee was right.
Had to be a story with Shea and Nazarian. Wonder what it was.
THIRTY-FIVE
A Rare Honor
I was waved onto the Ivanhoe lot at ten past two. I put my temporary permit on the dashboard and looked for a parking place. I’d been on every lot in the L.A. area and liked them all. Stars of old beamed down from large murals, tough as nails, sweet as pie. After a while, you thought you knew them. Fred, Ginger, Lana, Clark.
Hogue’s office was in a newer building, adjacent to an English village set. A beautiful, buxom redhead graced a bench, did her nails, smiled as I went by. I was in no hurry. I turned back, inquired if I was close to Mr. Hogue’s office.
Yes, I was. In fact, his office was that very large window looking down on us right up there. She stretched largely, languidly. I thanked her and went on my way.
The office of Hogue’s secretary, Helena, was larger than my house. And better furnished. Ten minutes after my appointment time, I was informed that Mr. Hogue would see me now.
Hogue’s office was as large as a department store. You couldn’t ski and you couldn’t surf, but everything else was a possibility. I was unsure of where exactly to proceed but then I was hailed by a man in a forest.
Actually, it was a ficus grove.
Ficus trees had been imported to Los Angeles in the seventies for their swift growth, their graceful appearance, their capacity to thrive on neglect. They responded to their welcome by uprooting sidewalks and impeding sewers and drains all over the city. Plumbers and street maintenance men rejoiced.
Hogue’s grove was still adolescent and under control. Hogue rose from a comfortable leather chair and extended a hand.
“Welcome, Mr. Henry.”
“Mr. Hogue.”
Finally. I’d shaken the hand of a billionaire. And one of America’s most prolific can-bangers. A rare honor. He b
ade me sit and I did.
“How’s business?” asked Hogue.
I tipped my head, looked around. “I think I’m in the wrong business.”
He laughed. “I heard you had something to do with the Art Lewis funeral.”
“I was there. It didn’t go so well.”
“So I’m told.”
I waited for him to segue into the Rhonda Carling matter.
“What does a shortcut man do?” he inquired.
I shrugged. “A little bit of this, a little bit of that. Solving various problems. By various means. But I won’t be hired for a strictly criminal enterprise.”
“The Art Lewis matter was legal?”
“At its core, I believe I was on the side of righteousness.”
“Says who?”
“Says me. The buck stops here.”
He turned to a low table, teak, opened a leather register. Carefully he tore out a completed check, handed it to me.
Pay to the order of Dick Henry. $5,000.00
“What’s this for?”
“For your time this afternoon. My time is valuable. I assume yours is, too.”
I placed the check on the table in front of me. “My time is valuable. Why am I here?”
Hogue leaned back, studied me. “Are you a man of discretion, Mr. Henry?”
“I’m not the law, and I’m under no obligation to apprise anyone of anything.”
“I have a question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Have you ever heard of a man named Davis Algren?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
He pushed the check toward me. “You’ve never met the man, Davis Algren?”
“No.”
He took the check back. Opened his register, removed another one, slid it over.
Pay to the order of Dick Henry. $10,000.00
“You don’t know Davis Algren.”
I looked at the check. Then back at Hogue. “I don’t.”
He took back the check for the ten, put a check for twenty-five in its place.
Pay to the order of Dick Henry. $25,000.00
“A last time, Mr. Henry. Have you ever talked to Davis Algren?”
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