A man can only change from within, at the time of his own choosing. Rutland was ready to turn over a new leaf, I had merely, uh, provided the rake.
Then I showed him the key. A smile broke over his face. “I haven’t seen one of these for a long time.” He hefted the key. “These were the days. Extraordinary workmanship.”
“What is it?”
“This key is made by the Bauer A.G. Company. Zurich, in the twenties.”
“What’s it for?”
“It’s a customer key for a safe deposit box. Not many of those boxes still in service.”
“Anyplace around here?”
“Just one place, if my information is right. Bank of America. In Echo Park. Happens to be the longest continuing-service bank branch in Los Angeles.”
“How do you know that?”
Perry was pleased with himself. “Because that’s the kind of thing I find fascinating. That branch has been open since 1942.”
“And they have this kind of lock.”
“Yes.”
I picked up the key. It had a four-digit number on the handle, 1376. “This key’ll get me in?”
Perry shook his head. “Not even. If I’m thinking of the right mechanism, it takes two keys. One key that’s yours, a key the bank retains, and a four-letter combination. It’s a key and combination combination, if you get me. If I’m right. You’ll have to go see.”
• • •
Mr. Glastonbury, one of the branch’s oldest employees, studied the handle of Algren’s key. “Thirteen seventy-six,” he rasped. “Yes, that box is here.”
He led me to a room in the rear of the bank. It was clean, had that old-metal smell. “This is thirteen seventy-six.” He pointed to a box at eye level. Then he studied me. “This is not a procedure that requires identification. You either know your part or you don’t.”
“Well, I don’t.”
Glastonbury shrugged. “Then it’ll be right here when you do.”
I explained briefly. A man died with the key around his neck. Maybe important stuff was in the box.
“It’s not that I don’t want to open it for you. For any number of good causes. It’s that I can’t. It’s a two-man operation.”
“Can you explain how that works?”
“I’d be most happy to.”
I had a feeling that Glastonbury’s expertise had not been found as necessary as it once had been. The old man straightened his tie. Thin and red. “Excuse me for a second.”
He returned with a key. Like Perry Atwater had surmised. “Look at your key,” he said. “It has seven blades.”
I studied my own. Yes. It had seven.
“I take my key,” he began, “insert it in the mechanism, turn it clockwise half a turn. Turning my key moves the top three levers and one bolt lever. Then I leave the room with my key. Then you set your alphabetic dials to your secret code and insert your key. Setting the code allows you to turn your key another quarter turn. That quarter turn moves the bottom four levers and the remaining bolt lever. Then you scramble your secret code. So the banker can’t see it. After you scramble your code, you’re able to turn your key the final quarter turn, opening your box.” Mr. Glastonbury smiled at me, proud to have been of service. “And that’s what you do. And that alphabetical lock has 234,256 possible letter sequences.”
“So your customer is totally secure.”
“Exactly,” said Mr. Glastonbury, with gravity, “so the customer is totally secure.”
In other words, unless I got brilliant, which was unlikely, the oldest continuing-service bank branch in Los Angeles would crumble into dust before that safe deposit box was opened.
“Thank you, Mr. Glastonbury,” I said, “you’re a credit to your profession.”
“No trouble at all, sir,” returned the redoubtable Glastonbury, standing a little taller. “Always pleased to serve.”
I left the branch chastened by his excellence. A last holdout from an earlier, simpler, perhaps better America.
God bless you, Mr. Glastonbury.
SIXTY
Where You Draw the Line
Chuck Hames had retrieved the script from Hale Montgomery’s house. San Pedro. He stopped in Brentwood for an iced coffee, flipped through it. Instantly, he’d understood Hogue’s interest and concern. The thinly disguised script was blackmail pure and simple.
Hogue, Montgomery, and Dr. Wolf were murderers. Davis Algren was an accomplice after the fact. Though Algren’s account was now closed. He had seen to that.
He entered Hogue’s offices and stopped at Helena’s desk. Stopped at her desk out of courtesy. Helena was the gatekeeper. He had to keep her on his good side, not for himself—he could just walk right in—but for others he might find reason to send.
“Hi, Helena. Boss called me. Is he ready?”
Helena smiled up at him. “Let me see.” Helena dialed, spoke softly, put the phone down. “He’s ready.”
He thanked her, entered. Now where was the emperor? Not at his desk. Not in the forest, not on the green—ah, at the conference table.
“Got it?” asked Hogue.
Hames put it down on the table. “Here it is.”
“Did you read it?”
“Of course. It’s blackmail.”
“Exactly.” Hogue studied his security chief. You could never trust anyone absolutely. But while their interests coincided with your own, you were pretty safe. “Sit down, Mr. Hames. What do you see next?”
Hames took a seat. “I think I pay a visit to the San Pedro Film Company. See what I can squeeze out. We know the bottom line.”
“Money.”
“Exactly. Have you had a call?”
“No.”
“It’s coming. Where do you draw the line?”
“Money. I draw the line at money. I don’t pay. If you pay, you go on paying.”
“Agreed.” Hames did agree, but nothing was set in stone. Sometimes a little cash greased the skids. It depended on the point of view of the blackmailer. Sometimes the demand was a real, half-justifiable cry for justice.
Hogue’s phone rang. Hames rose but Hogue gestured him to stay.
“This is Howard.”
Hames watched the billionaire. Hogue cocked his head, then spoke. “Listen, Ulli, I’m in the middle of something right now. I’ll call you back in five.”
Hogue disconnected, looked at Hames. “That was Dr. Wolf. Guess what he just received?”
“A script. Should I go get it?”
“Yes. Then let me know what you find at San Pedro.”
“I’ll go by this afternoon. Recon. Then I’ll go back tonight and look around.”
Hogue nodded. “Sounds good, Mr. Hames.”
Hogue watched Hames exit. As long as their interests coincided.
SIXTY-ONE
Prick Cop
Nazarian looked into the mirror. He was feeling a little better. Smokin’ Jack Wilton. He felt like killing him. Gumshoe on hiatus. Until Smokin’ Jack was rehabbed enough to continue.
Of course, that was why he loved Wilton. Hiatus would give him time to recover somewhat. The wires in his face would be gone by the time production resumed.
He needed another twenty-six days of shooting. Gumshoe would be in the can. Jack could go back to his crack. Or whatever the fuck.
The call from Lieutenant Peedner would have threatened the average man. But Eli Nazarian wasn’t the average man. He knew the average man because he wasn’t one of them. One of Gödel’s incompleteness theorems: No system could explain itself. Hence arithmetic could not explain the workings of arithmetic, language required a metalanguage to define itself: noun, verb, gerund, participle, adverb.
Peedner said he could come into the station or they could meet informally.
Informally, of course. Why put himself into an unnecessary box?
• • •
Peedner climbed Coldwater from the valley, made a right on to Mulholland. He knew a number of things:
Nazarian had brutalize
d Rhonda Carling.
Rhonda Carling had been checked into Fairfax Convalescent by Dr. Wolf. Wolf had been assisted by two Hispanics.
Rhonda had supposedly checked out of Fairfax Convalescent under her own name.
Rhonda’s current whereabouts were unknown.
Wolf, with Montgomery and Hogue, had previously disposed of an inconvenient woman. At sea.
Wolf owned a yacht currently moored at the Cabrillo Marina.
• • •
Like he and Dick had agreed, there was no perfect justice in the world of men. A world of wealth and influence. Betty Ann Fowler was at the bottom of the sea and nothing besides an admission would convict the men who did it. The screenplay was hearsay, nothing more. But maybe the information it contained could help Rhonda’s case. Her case. Rhonda herself, he had the feeling, was beyond help.
• • •
Nazarian had suggested the Glen Centre, right off Mulholland, where the heavenly smells of the Beverly Glen Deli were now killing him by degrees. Liquid nutrition. “What’s this about?” he asked the hard-eyed cop after introductions.
“It’s about Rhonda Carling. You know her?”
Nazarian had played out this conversation in his mind.
Denying he knew her was outright falsehood. Detectives were smart. They dealt with liars every day. Not as good a liar as he was, but still. “Yeah, I know her.”
“How do you know her?”
“As an actress.”
“She’s been in your movies?”
“No. But I thought perhaps I could use her.”
“Use her for what?”
“A part in Gumshoe.”
“With Jack Wilton.”
“Fucker’s in rehab now.”
“You’re on hiatus?”
“Yes.”
“Did you visit Miss Carling?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do over there?”
“We read her part in the script.”
“Were you going to hire her?”
Nazarian saw a glint of opportunity, used it. “I didn’t think so.”
“Did Miss Carling have any other visitors during the time you were there?”
“No. Well, not to my knowledge.”
“When did you leave Miss Carling’s?”
“Sometime after a lousy fuck.”
“But what time was it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I don’t know what happened. I was drugged. Assaulted. I woke up at Dunkin’ Donuts in a cardboard box.”
“With Mr. Shea?”
“Yes. He was in the box, too.”
“You had not seen him at Miss Carling’s residence.”
“No.”
Nazarian had a huge ego, Peedner could see it. He decided he’d tweak it. “You say you were assaulted. Sexually assaulted?”
“No. Common assault.” He tapped his jaw. It was beginning to ache again. “My jaw’s wired shut.”
“Sorry to hear that.” Real sorry. “Have you heard from Miss Carling since?”
“No. Why?”
“Well, apparently she was assaulted as well. She ended up at Fairfax Convalescent.”
“I see.”
“You see? You didn’t know?”
The cop was trying to trap him. Stick to the truth as closely as possible. “No. I didn’t know.”
“You haven’t called around to see what may have happened that night?”
“Look here, Lieutenant. Let me be clear. I’m a selfish prick. I don’t give a shit about anybody else but me. If you drove off Mulholland on your way home, I wouldn’t care. It would be your problem. Your life—your problem. Rhonda Carling fucked up that night? Didn’t know about it. Haven’t called about it. Don’t care about it. See?”
“So you never cared to find out what really happened to you that night.”
Prick cop. “Come on, Lieutenant. You know what Rhonda Carling’s about. Maybe she sensed her reading wasn’t good and decided to fuck me up. What else happened—I don’t give a damn.”
Nazarian sat back. “My jaw is broken. And it’s healing. I have a star in rehab. That’s as complicated as I want things to get right now. Okay?”
Peedner stared at the liar, said nothing. “Not quite okay, but it’ll have to do, I guess. For now. The problem is Miss Carling. She was admitted to Fairfax Convalescent in the early morning after your visit. Yesterday she checked out. Nobody’s seen her since.”
“Just gone.”
“Yup. Just gone.”
“And?”
“The injuries she suffered that night would have prevented her from just signing out. So where did she go?”
“She checked out under her own power?”
“Supposedly.”
“No one’s filed a missing persons report?”
“Not yet.”
“Then I don’t see how this is your business.”
“Officially, it isn’t. Unofficially, it is. Like our conversation right now.”
“Well, good luck with it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Nazarian.” He slid his card across to the director, trotted out his TV dialogue line. From Dragnet to NCIS. “If you remember anything else, Mr. Nazarian, please give me a call.”
Prick cop.
“And, of course,” added Peedner, “we’ll be looking more closely into the events of the night in question.”
“You do that.”
“We will, Mr. Nazarian. Our job is to protect and serve.”
Nazarian watched him go, tried not to inhale through his nose. It was the corned beef that was torturing his soul. Fucking prick cop.
SIXTY-TWO
Melvin Points a Gun
He rang Melvin. Went to message.
Fucking prick cops. The golden gun. He’d had little flecks of memory. Dancing around with it. Waving it in the air. The gun would place him at the scene. But it wouldn’t prove anything. He’d told Peedner that he’d been there. But it could make things sticky.
Howard would be suspicious. Suspicion would roll downhill. First, on top of the blackmail Nazi, who’d gotten her admitted to Fairfax. Second, on top of Melvin. Melvin, on the way out, would lash out, create a shit storm. Then the doctor would roll over, tell all he knew, and Howard would make sure his golden director never worked in this town again.
He rang Melvin again.
“This is Melvin.”
“Melvin, this is Eli. It’s been hard to get a hold of you.”
“I’ve been busy, dude. Whazzup?”
“What’s up is I need to get in over at the El Royale.”
“That might be dangerous. They might be looking for Rhonda.”
“Who gives a shit? No missing persons report has been filed yet.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I just talked to a cop on the case.” His jaw was starting to ache again. “I gotta get in over there. Right now.”
“I’m a little busy, Eli.”
“If I go down, you go down, Melvin. Don’t be stupid. You got keys?”
“Uh . . . yes.”
“Then meet me over there. I don’t want to have to talk to Hogue.”
“Hogue? Are you blackmailing me?”
“Easy, Melvin. I don’t want to go to Hogue and tell him I lost the golden gun, that’s all. That story could get involved.”
Fucking asshole Armenian. Hadn’t even begun to appreciate all that had been done for him. “Okay, okay. Meet me over there in half an hour.”
“Fine.”
• • •
The locks had not been changed. Melvin’s key turned. They stepped into the late-afternoon shuttered dimness and listened. It was absolutely quiet. The smell wasn’t good.
Nazarian walked directly to the table by the couch. Nothing, top or bottom. Nothing under the couch itself, nothing behind or under the pillows.
Nothing on the bookshelves. And nothing in the cabinets under them. Melvin looked at Asshole. “W
here else were you? Were you in the bedroom?”
“Probably. I was all over the place.” Nothing in the big drawers of the rolltop desk. “God damn it.”
“Why’d you bring the gun here?”
“Why? I don’t know. It must have seemed a good idea at the time.”
“You don’t remember much.”
“Fuck you.” Melvin was a flunky and he didn’t like flunkies. “Can you look in the kitchen?”
“There’s nothing in the kitchen.”
“How do you know?” Nazarian stared at Melvin.
“Uh . . .”
Nazarian was in his face in a second. “You know there’s nothing in the kitchen because you were here that night.” He grabbed the flunky’s shirt. “When I was out cold, you son-of-a-bitch. You know where the gun is, don’t you?”
“N-never saw it.”
Nazarian twisted the fabric of Melvin’s shirt. “Where’s the fucking gun?”
Melvin shoved Nazarian away from him. “Keep your hands to yourself, motherfucker.”
“Where’s the fucking gun, Melvin?”
“I said I never saw it.”
“Then what did you see?”
Melvin saw red and it all came out. “I’ll tell you what I saw, you asshole. I saw the girl you beat the shit out of. Saw her lying on the couch, her face smashed. Her tits burned. Blood all over the fucking place. You should see the kitchen, motherfucker. You’d be proud of yourself.”
Nazarian’s hand rose from his side, fast as a snake, slapped the flunky’s face. WHACK.
Melvin went down. Nazarian kicked him in the ass, stared down at him. “Don’t you dare judge me. You? You’re a pimp! A drug dealer! A fucking nothing. A handy-boy for that rich pig. I bet he fucks your ass, too. Don’t ever judge me. Don’t you ever judge me.”
Melvin found all fours, got to his feet.
“Now where’s the gun, Melvin? Where’s my fucking gun?”
Melvin’s face was numb from the slap. “I have the gun,” he said.
Cold delight filled Nazarian’s face. “Where is it?”
Melvin reached into his coat, pulled out the 9mm that had sent Luis and Ernesto to their eternal reward. “It’s right here, Eli. You Armenian pig.”
Melvin extended his arm, pointed the gun at Nazarian’s mouth. “I don’t know where you came from. Your mother must have been an animal, too. You’re barely human. I set you up with a beautiful woman and you ruin her. And threaten fifty other lives with your incredible carelessness, your self-centered-ness. Who are you? Who are you?”
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