Angel’s Gate

by p. g. sturges

  Twenty-five grand. Which I could put to very good use. I shook my head. “I sure wish I had. But to my knowledge I haven’t.”

  Hogue nodded, sat back, spread his hands, what can you do.

  “Is this all you wanted to talk to me about, Mr. Hogue?”

  “I thought this might be the beginning of a fruitful relationship.”

  “But I don’t know Davis Algren.”

  “You say you don’t know Davis Algren.”

  I stood up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hogue. You’ve really confused me. I’ll be pushing on.”

  “Wait.”

  “What?”

  “Take one of those checks.”

  “I can’t. I wouldn’t know what I was taking it for.”

  “Your time is valuable.”

  “Look. Why don’t you tell me who Algren is? Then we’ll both know and we’ll have something to talk about.”

  Hogue stared at me. “Thank you, Mr. Henry.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hogue.”

  I left him, bemused, in his ficus grove.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Partners

  Melvin rolled through West Hollywood on Sunset, finally passed into Beverly Hills. Alta Drive was one of the first few streets, there it was. He made a left, recognized Wolf’s residence.

  Melvin had left his house in good spirits, but contemplation of Wolf’s demand started steaming him up. The evil Kraut must consider him a kunt, ready to lie on his back, pull up his knees, and get schlorked by a Nazi.

  Behind every great fortune is a great crime.

  A precept of universal acceptance after three drinks at the party. Then you named names and the innuendos began to fly in earnest. Getty. Kennedy. Rothschild. Gates. Though Gates had apparently nerded his way to the top. His crime had been a stiffie and pimples. But the world had paid dearly for his humiliations.

  Wolf did not possess a great fortune, obviously, but he had secrets. Melvin Shea would ferret them out. By the time he rang the doorbell he was coldly furious.

  A young, pretty Hispanic woman opened the heavy door six inches, inquired as to his business.

  “I’m Melvin Shea. I’m here to speak with Dr. Wolf.”

  “Let me see if the doctor is available, sir.”

  “He’s not available?” Of course the Nazi was available. He’d just tried so shake him down for fifty grand.

  “Let me see, sir.”

  Melvin grabbed the door, pulled it out of her fingers, then shoved it back violently, a six-inch throw. The door hit the woman square in the forehead. Bonk. Down she went. Melvin stepped in, stepped over her, looked back. The woman, moaning, tried to sit up, rubbing her head. “INS, darling. You better get your ass back to Culican.” Wherever that was. If it indeed existed.

  Melvin walked into the house. “Dr. Wolf? Dr. Wolf? It’s Mel-vin.” Singsong. Like Nicholson in The Shining.

  He wandered into the kitchen. “Dr. Wolf?” No one in the kitchen. A door led outside. Melvin looked out. There was the good Nazi himself, sitting down by the pool, under an umbrella, writing in a notebook. And wouldn’t that be a funny title for a film? The Good Nazi.

  The good Nazi didn’t realize he had visitors until Melvin was ten steps from the table. He stood up hurriedly, alarmed, off-balance.

  Melvin put two hands into the doctor’s chest and pushed him into the pool.

  Wolf splashed under, spluttered to the surface, flapped around.

  Melvin peered at him. “Sure hope you can swim, Doc.” On the table was a hard cheese, some salami, sour sourdough bread, and a silver knife. He sliced off some cheese, salami. Good stuff.

  At the edge, Wolf moved hand over hand to the shallow end, then pushed through the water to exit at the steps.

  Melvin held up the salami knife as the enraged Nazi approached. “Think this could go into your belly? Fuck up something important?”

  Wolf paused, eyes on the knife. “This changes nothing. Did you bring my money?”

  Melvin smiled. “You bring my money?”

  “You’re going to pay me fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Be happy to. Right after I receive your fifty thousand.”

  “I’ll take ten thousand today.”

  “Fine. Right after I receive your ten thousand today.”

  The Hispanic woman who had answered the door walked out from the kitchen, pointed a finger at Melvin.

  “What happened, Paulita?”

  The doc sounded really concerned. Duh. He was doing a little push in the bush.

  Paulita looked at Melvin. “He hit me with the door.”

  The doctor turned. “You hit her with a door?”

  Melvin nodded, sliced off another piece of cheese. “The front door. It was either that, Adolf, or send her to the gas chamber.” Melvin lowered his voice, whispered, “I think she may be illegal.” He smiled. “She said she didn’t know if you were in. Imagine. Lying—for a blackmailer.”

  His presumed power over Melvin had totally dissipated, evaporated. Something had happened. He wondered if Paulita noticed his clothes were soaked. “Go lie down in your room, Paulita. I’ll be up to check on you.”

  Paulita looked up at the doctor reproachfully, turned abruptly on her heel, and went back inside.

  Melvin waggled the blade. “Wife know you’re getting some of that south-of-the-border poontang, Doc?”

  Wolf shot a glance toward the house.

  Melvin laughed. “Guess not.” Maybe he’d like to dip his wick south of the border, too. Or just take a dip in the pool. Or just piss in it. He gestured toward one of the doctor’s other chairs. “Why don’t you sit down, partner, and I’ll tell you what’s gone down.”

  Wolf sat, regarded the grinning pimp. His natural enemy. Partners. Something had gone very wrong. Melvin would pay. Wolf would outwait him. And then . . .

  “We have a problem,” began Melvin.

  “We?”

  “We. We have a problem. Rhonda Carling.”

  “Why is Rhonda a problem? My problem?”

  “She wants a million dollars. I don’t have that kind of money lying around. Do you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then we have a problem.”

  “Explain.”

  “Rhonda wants to blab. She wants to bring the house down on us. On Narzarian, you, me, Devi.”

  “Me? How?”

  “It’s been two days since Nazarian fucked her up. Why haven’t you informed Hogue?”

  “Because I didn’t know anything.”

  Melvin let his eye wander around the grounds. “You got a nice place here.”

  “What are you saying, Melvin?”

  “I’m saying you had an opportunity to do things right, to talk to Hogue. But your stupid blackmail used up your little window. Now you’re one of us.”

  Wolf felt sick. The pimp was right. Hogue could think he was in on it. Then it all could go. The swimming pool, the built-in barbecue area, the pergola hung with vines. His whole life.

  Because he had seen the golden gun and gotten greedy. Fool. Imbecile. Now he had inherited a set of low, vile companions. The grinning pimp was right. There was no way out. He would sink with them all.

  Unless.

  A serpent, dormant and nearly forgotten, stirred in its lightless, frigid lair. “Do you have a plan, Mr. Shea?”

  Mr. Shea. Melvin nodded at the doctor. The doc was now seeing things his way.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Dead Certain

  Hogue had summoned Hames right after Dick Henry left. “What do you think?” he asked. He was back behind his desk.

  “I saw the exchange, Mr. Hogue, but I’m not familiar with the situation.”

  “Was he telling the truth?”

  Hames had seen the meeting go down live. Dick Henry. The same man he had isolated on the surveillance video from Dunkin’ Donuts. How much credit had Derian claimed in the matter?

  “By the way, Mr. Derian expressed great confidence in your abilities.”

  “Very kin
d of him.” He thought a second. When a person lied, if he were untrained, he gave himself away a million different ways. But those ways were specific to the person and the situation. He didn’t know Henry, he couldn’t really tell for certain. “Generally, I would say, Henry gives no obvious signs that he’s lying. But I don’t know him well enough to know. However, because we have real-time video of him, that video can be slowed down and examined for micro-expressions when the specific questions are being asked.”

  Hogue nodded. Could he trust Hames? Could he trust anyone?

  “The one good thing you’ve done, sir, is asking him the same question repeatedly. Our database won’t be deep, but it’ll be wide.”

  A silence commenced. And expanded.

  Hames, sensing opportunity, stepped into the vacuum. “Is there something I could accomplish for you, sir?”

  Hogue’s resources, vast as they were, did nothing directly for him now. He was helpless. “There, uh, there may be something.”

  Hames studied the billionaire. Hogue had offered Henry twenty-five grand to instigate a conversation. Henry had claimed ignorance. Hogue had not believed him.

  “Let me say one thing, Mr. Hogue. A man does not achieve what you have achieved by luck. Though accidents do happen. But it is not my job to make right what fortune has allowed. Life happens. Shit happens. I look forward. Not back. And my only loyalty is to you. Consider me completely at your service.”

  Hogue had read Hames’s service record. And his further adventures in Iraq. He was a man who followed orders, didn’t ask questions later.

  Hogue leaned forward. “There’s a man named Davis Algren, who played a peripheral part in a Hollywood incident of thirty years ago. Mr. Algren, erroneously, believes that certain things happened, believes that certain people are responsible. The weight of this knowledge has caused . . . has caused Mr. Algren to crumple under the pressures of life. He’s now a homeless alcoholic.”

  Hames summarized. “Davis Algren has information you think he has shared with Dick Henry.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I take it this is still sensitive information.”

  “Exactly right.”

  “In the worst case, we have to assume this information has already been shared.”

  “Agreed. Yes.”

  “So our purpose is to neutralize Dick Henry—to stop him from using this information. For what he may perceive to be good or evil.”

  “That’s right.”

  “If an accident befell Mr. Henry—you could live with the pain.”

  “I could.”

  “And if I could hire Mr. Henry to help us protect the innocent, as we know the facts, you could live with that?”

  “Yes, I could.”

  “Yet Mr. Henry claims he does not know Mr. Algren.”

  “That’s what he says.”

  “He’s a liar, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re certain he’s lying?”

  “Dead certain.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Davis Algren

  I walked out of Hogue’s office amazed. I’d been ready to talk about Rhonda Carling, he had not even mentioned her name. I called Devi, she didn’t pick up.

  Turning down large sums of money was no way to do business. But I had no idea who the billionaire was talking about. I’d never heard of Davis Algren, had no real idea where to begin. But I knew who would.

  Fifteen minutes later I entered the Hollywood Professional Building. Again I heard the One Tenor, demonstrating his la-la-las. I sympathized with him.

  Being a teacher required specialized knowledge and awareness. I had dropped in on Martine’s second-grade class down at Christ the King. There I was reacquainted with the attorney’s maxim: Never ask a question to which you don’t know the answer. I found it applied to teachers, too.

  Miss Hatton was twenty-three, a recent graduate from teacher’s college. Underpaid, overwhelmed, and inundated by visiting parents, Miss Hatton had called upon Andrew Lee.

  “Andrew Lee, give me a word that starts with B,” ordered a perspiring Miss Hatton.

  Andrew Lee rose from his seat and achieved fame. “Booger,” said Andrew Lee.

  I still recall the gratified shout of laughter that greeted young Lee’s correct answer. Unjustly, I still believe, Andrew Lee was banished to the hallway.

  I arrived on the fourth floor and knocked at Myron Ealing’s office.

  As always, he was happy to see me. “Brother Dick, come right in,” he boomed. I followed him back to the inner sanctum, took a seat at his desk. He dug into his de rigueur tin of Christmas corn and put a huge handful into his mouth. He washed it down with his life’s only beverage, Diet Dr Pepper.

  Diet Coke I could handle, it was okay. Diet Pepsi was a face-shriveling river of poison. But Diet Dr Pepper was embalming fluid once removed.

  “What can I do you for?” inquired Myron.

  “Another name.”

  Myron was always pleased to encounter a challenge. “Any luck with Ellen Arden, by the way?”

  Luck? My search for Ellen Arden had led me to Devi, and through Devi to battery, theft, kidnapping, convalescent homes, meeting billionaires with peculiar fixations. And it all had begun, I guess, here at Myron’s office. Luck? I decided to go simple. “Actually, Myron, no luck at all.”

  The big man smiled. “Like Albert King.”

  If it weren’t for bad luck, wouldn’t have no luck at all.

  Albert King, along with Freddie and B.B., were the three kings of the blues. For most of his life, Albert had made his living as bulldozer operator. An occupation he was proud of. Supposedly he was so good with the big machine he could knit with it. And who could forget Born Under a Bad Sign? Or Crosscut Saw, for that matter? Pearly King, my friend, occupied a lesser pedestal.

  “Have you ever heard of Davis Algren?”

  “Davis Algren.” Myron leaned back, stared at the ceiling, cogitated. After a bit he raised a finger. “I’ve heard the name. I’ve heard the name.” Then he snapped his fingers. “Got it. He’s an actor. Seventies. Eighties.”

  An actor. In Hollywood. Duh.

  Myron was putting it together. “Handsome guy, very handsome, but never really got it together. Noir movies.” Myron’s huge fingers danced on the keys of his computer.

  Myron’s database on underground Hollywood was huge. “Here he is,” said Myron, fingers dancing on the keys.

  I walked around the desk. I didn’t recognize the man on the screen. It was one of those suave, look-over-the-shoulder shots. “When was this?”

  “Twenty-five years ago, thereabouts. He’s about thirty-some, here.”

  I’d never seen him before in my life. “Is he still in Hollywood?”

  But Myron was thinking. “I take it back.”

  “You take what back?”

  “I said he never really got it together. That isn’t true, exactly. He had it going for a while. Low-level stuff. Third hat in the room. Then something happened. He was in the hospital or something. Maybe the bing.”

  “The bing?”

  “The nut house.”

  “Then?”

  “I dunno, he disappeared. I thought he was dead. What happened that you’re asking about him?”

  Of course, I couldn’t give Myron the 411. Didn’t want to lead him into harm’s way. Curiosity kills the cat. “A very important man in this town called me in. Asked me if I knew him.”

  “Knew him. Not knew of him.”

  “Did I know him.”

  “Then he must be alive.”

  “Who is this important man?”

  “I can’t tell you. Yet.”

  Myron shook his head. “I’m a big boy, Dick, but okay. What did you tell this important man who’s name you can’t reveal?”

  “I told him the truth. He repeated the question three times. He was very serious. Each time upping the ante. At the end, I walked away from twenty-five grand.”

  Myron turned to his computer, entered a smal
l blizzard of data. Something came up on the screen and he pointed a jumbo finger at me. “You were in Howard Hogue’s office.”

  Fibissedah face couldn’t hold his cards.

  Myron was jubilant. “It was in Hogue’s office, wasn’t it? How do I know?” Myron pointed at the screen. “Because Algren did most of his work for Hogue.” Then Myron tuned in on a distant beam. “Wait a second. I remember hearing something about a screenplay. That Algren wrote.” Myron’s giant brain churned in parallel through the petabytes. “I think it was Algren.”

  “What was it about, great sage?”

  “About a Hollywood party that went bad.” Myron reached for more Christmas corn. “It was a little too real.”

  “Too real?”

  “People took it as blackmail.”

  “And Algren was never heard from again.”

  Myron shrugged his mountainous shoulders. “That kinda makes sense.”

  I needed two things. To know what Algren looked like today. And to find his screenplay. If it existed. What was it that had gone down? That was enough to worry a billionaire? And why was Hogue so sure I knew Algren? “Who carries old scripts, stuff like that?”

  “No one’s going to have that. Especially if it really was blackmail. It’d be all over the Internet right now. Conspiracy theories and all that shit.”

  He was right. I stood up. “Thanks, bud.”

  Myron rose, ponderously, extended his huge hand. He could crush ball bearings. “Come back soon. Missed you.”

  “Missed you, too.”

  Once you were in with Myron, you were in. His door was open, his window was open, his heart was open. A real friend. And, of course, he knew and loved Enrique Montalvo Rojas. And Bosto Ket as well. The three of them would play mau-mau and drink deep into the night, their laughter reverberating off the walls, spliffs waving in the air.

  As I made my way down the stairs of the Hollywood Professional Building, I heard the One Tenor again. More la-la-las, then a venomous shriek. Poor guy. Maybe he was a genius. But even noble Plato’s reception in Hollywood would probably not have been august and respectful. What did he know about shadows and light?

  Another shriek. I stepped out onto Hollywood Boulevard.

  Andrew Lee, tell me a word that begins with B.