“Melvin, it’s me.”
“Ring at the front, I’ll buzz you up.”
• • •
He met her at door, welcomed her in, a kiss on her cheek.
“Aren’t you the gentleman.”
“Aren’t I always the gentleman?”
“I guess.”
She was looking around.
“Want a tour?”
“I’d love one. I always loved this place. What happened to Bambi?”
Bye-bye, Bambi. He shrugged, flipped on the lights. The front door opened into a hallway that ran right and left to the bedrooms, went forward past an open kitchen and bar, further forward into the large living room that expanded mostly to the right and looked down, through big, operable windows, onto the street.
“Big place, eh?” He could see with every passing second she wanted it more. And he wasn’t going to ask her to sell her soul. Just part of it.
“Can I take off my shoes?”
“You can take off anything you like.”
She squinched her toes into the carpet. The carpet was deep, the pile dense. The place smelled good. Cool night flowed in with the lights and sounds of West Hollywood. It beat the place, admittedly a nice place, that she occupied on Wilshire. Wilshire wasn’t what it used to be. Not that she’d ever seen it in its heyday.
The living room was furnished in white leather. Big couch, chairs. She sat down on the couch. She looked at Melvin.
“Okay, Melvin. What do you want?”
He laughed.
She opened the top button of her blouse, then the second button. Beneath her flawless face, lips slightly parted, the heavy swell of her breasts, contiguous with size, adrenalized his desire. Her nipples would be dark and hard. Her scented, long-fingered hands, nails in crimson, would gently support his balls, lifting them. Then one hand would grasp and squeeze his cock, thumb riding up just below the glans. Christ. He would feel her breath. He could feel her breath. More than anything in the world he wanted to send jet after jet down her throat, then thrust her away and look down upon her heaving, heavy-lidded beauty. She would smile. Wipe her mouth with her wrist. As she stared up at him.
But not tonight. Christ.
Tonight he was playing by fighter’s rules, tonight he would conserve his testosterone until he had accomplished what he had sworn to accomplish.
“Well, Melvin?”
• • •
So much for the testosterone bank. He had deliriously squandered his day’s inheritance. His body had triumphed over mind and now he wanted every sensation he could acquire. A nice hit of good fragrant green, a nice fat rail of coke, then another one, then a little green Persian chaser. Then he would lay back, adrift in perfect satisfaction, and listen to the sounds of the night.
But, no. This moment required discipline. Because discipline led to victory.
“I want you to do one other thing, Sylvette.”
She looked up at him. Men. There was always one more thing. A finger-wave. “What?”
“I want you to make a call.”
The fucker wanted pizza. “Who?”
“Devi.”
“Devi?”
“Yeah, Devi. I want you to call her. Tell her to come over here.”
“You want to do a three-way?”
“No. Shit. I need you to get her over here. Now.”
“Why am I calling? Why not you?”
“Because she and I are not getting along, right now. If that’s any of your business.”
“But you want her over here to see you.”
“Yeah. That’s what I want.”
Sylvette looked at Melvin. Melvin wasn’t a nice guy. She’d always known that. But hadn’t dealt with him on any significant, personal matter. Whatever he wanted Devi for, it couldn’t be good. Wouldn’t be good. Period.
He watched her thinking. She had reservations. Too bad. If she wanted this apartment, she would call. No, fuck that. If she wanted to stay in the program, she would call.
Otherwise, he’d give Howard the sad news.
Sylvette’s quit the program.
Who?
Sylvette Walker. From The Schwarzschild Radius.
The black one.
Yeah. Sylvette. She’s going back to Gainesville.
Or wherever she came from. Down where the cockroaches were as big as shoes. So big you called them other names so you could avoid disgusting yourself for putting up with them. Palmetto bugs. Gimme some palmettos in a 7D. Wait. Those black girls had big feet. Gimme some them palmettoes in an 11E.
Palmettos could run fifty body lengths in a second. Like a human running 210 miles per hour. Then you dive into a crack and wiggle your feelers.
• • •
Why had she coveted this apartment? Strings attached, strings attached, strings attached everywhere. Nothing straight up and honest. Everything curvy and twisty, knotted. But maybe there was a middle way. Like those Buddhists down the hall were always talking about. The middle way. Course, you walk the middle way on Wilshire Boulevard you get run over and killed. Flattened. “You gonna hurt her?”
“Fuck no. I need to talk to her and she’s fucking mad at me. You’d be doing her a favor. ’Cause she and I, we need to talk.”
“If you can swear to me you’re not going to hurt her, I’ll make the call.”
“I swear I won’t hurt her.” Christ. He was talking to a whore about moral issues.
“And you’ll give me this place.”
Melvin spread his hands. Always be magnanimous in victory.
“You had this place already. Howard loves you.”
Sylvette dug through her purse, found her phone. “Alright. I’ll call her.” The carpet felt good under her toes.
SEVENTY
If the House Came Down
I had started to believe Rhonda Carling and Betty Ann Fowler were sisters. Sisters of solitude, sisters blown into Los Angeles on winds of dream and ambition, sisters whose disappearances had aroused mild curiosities back home. Sisters of misfortune. Sisters, somehow, of mine.
I remembered Rhonda at Fairfax. Demanding a million dollars. Or she would bring the whole house down. Now I was thinking; who would the house fall on?
Nazarian had just made a very, very successful picture. He’d hurt other people before. He paid them off. Would Nazarian kill Rhonda over her demand? No. He might kill in the heat of the moment, but otherwise, given time, he’d think his way out. And if things went public? He’d just made a very successful picture. He’d suffer, but he’d survive. Too many careers were invested in his. Hogue himself would laugh it off. For a four-hundred-million-dollar payday.
Conclusion: the house could fall on Nazarian, but it wouldn’t kill him.
What about Devi? I remembered the conversation between Melvin Shea and Devi I’d heard from the closet, Nazarian at my feet. Shea and Devi were essentially in the same boat. Both had known Hogue’s stable of women were not devoted to Hogue alone. I recalled my surprise when I’d asked Devi how much money she was making from her unique position.
Thirty-two fifty a week. That was good money. Great money. It had bought her a home in Beachwood Canyon. Had financed her Lexus and other things. But, unless I was a complete fool, which I’d certainly been before, Devi was incapable of killing.
Conclusion: if the house fell, Devi would suffer injury, but not death. Therefore, Devi wouldn’t kill Rhonda.
Wolf and Shea.
Wolf could kill because he’d killed before. Why had he killed before? Essentially, for money. For things he could get. For influence and favors. From Hogue. What had he acquired?
I’d called my contacts downtown, spread some honeybees around. The Doc lived very well. Big house in Beverly Hills. Ranch near San Luis Obispo. Nice new Bentley, new Mercedes coupe for the wife. Trips to Europe every year. Stocks and bonds. A yacht at Cabrillo.
Well, well, well. A yacht at Cabrillo. That gave him the means. And a method he was familiar with.
I finished the paperwo
rk check. The Doc was indeed living well. His California income tax reported earnings of close to two million dollars that year. Deductions and losses up the yingyang. A rich man’s carefully woven fabric of hyperbole. I felt strongly the Doc was running hard, close to the wind, couldn’t afford to slow down.
Now I thought specifically. The fact that Hogue, in our meeting, had not yet learned about Rhonda meant Dr. Wolf had not told him. Why not? Undoubtedly it would have been his duty to do so. Somehow, it was in his interest to keep his mouth shut. What commanded his interest? Money. A man in his position could always use a little more.
I tried to put myself in Wolf’s head. He’s called out in the middle of the night to attend one of the emperor’s women. Did he know who did what? Well, I’d seen the golden gun. Chances were Wolf had seen it, too. Who would Wolf lean on? He’d lean on Nazarian. And he’d threaten Melvin.
Then what?
Then I saw it.
In not making a timely report to Hogue, he had made himself into a conspirator. Which meant that Rhonda’s revelations would bring the house down on him, too. Conclusion: the Doc could kill Rhonda. To save the life he’d created for himself. Means, opportunity, motive.
I started to get excited. But I had to run Melvin Shea through the process before I put my pen down.
I’d also gone downtown on Shea. He owned an expensive condo, an expensive car, and his California tax return indicated Ivanhoe paid him a huge amount of money. But the little I’d heard from the closet made me think he was a chiseler, financially treading water. Like Wolf, he probably couldn’t afford to stop running. And, if caught betraying his master, his Hollywood life was over. Period.
Conclusion: if the house came down, Melvin would die under it.
Question: Could Melvin and Wolf have been working together? No. That partnership wasn’t natural. They were not birds of a feather.
The phone rang.
It was Lew. Guess what?
What?
Lew smiled over the phone. He thought Wolf was on the lam. And he’d just gotten a call from Harbor Division. Wolf’s boat had sunk at the pier in Cabrillo.
SEVENTY-ONE
Two Hispanics
It came to me in a flash. Wolf had killed Rhonda, left her on the boat, sunk it, and run. Depending on marina protocol, that could give him weeks. “You know who’s on that boat, Lew?”
I guess Lew had been analyzing things as well. “Sure I do. Rhonda Carling.”
That’s why Lew and I had been successful partners. Until the day I’d air-conditioned Elton Reese.
• • •
We arrived at Cabrillo within the hour. It was eight o’clock and dark. Tom Pike, Harbor Division Master Diver, was already in his wetsuit. He checked his watertight flashlight, climbed backward down the ladder into the water. Waving, he disappeared.
Lew lit up a Kool. “You think Wolf is down there, too?” I shook my head. “Nah. He’s not going to roll over now. He didn’t with Betty Ann.”
Lew smoked his cigarette and we waited.
Tom Pike resurfaced. Treading water, he put his mask up, made the peace sign. “Two. Two of ’em down there.”
Lew turned to me in surprise, turned back to Pike. “Man and a woman?”
“No,” said Tom. “Two Hispanic males.”
• • •
Lew and I met at the morgue the next morning, talked with the coroner, Ellen Myers.
The bodies of the two men been lying on the floor of the sunken Hush, My Baby’s salon. The bodies were at ocean temperature, 67 degrees Fahrenheit. The fact that the bodies were at the bottom meant insufficient putrefactive gases had formed to raise the bodies. Interior gassing took two to three days. The fact that the bodies were at ocean temperature meant the bodies had been submerged for at least six hours. Bodies in water cooled at 5 degrees F per hour.
The men, Luis Torres and Ernesto Reyes, were in their late twenties. Reyes had been shot once through the heart from the back. Torres had been shot four times—in the balls, in the left knee, in the right elbow, and finally, point blank through the forehead.
“You’re saying he was tortured?” asked Lew.
“Yes. The other shots came first, of course. You don’t shoot a corpse. Mr. Torres knew he was going to die.”
Marina personnel stated that the vessel had sunk in the early-morning hours yesterday.
“The men were killed aboard the boat, gentlemen,” said Ms. Myers.
Lew looked at me. “And I bet the bullets sank the boat. These guys might be the guys who did the drop-off and pick-up at Fairfax Convalescent.”
Lew had learned of a pair of Hispanics from a terse and suspicious Dr. Moncrief at Fairfax.
Moncrief, purposefully vacant, seemed to remember a white van. Maybe gray. He’d only seen it at night. Make? Probably American. How old was the van? Not that old, not that new, kind of shiny. Did the men make both delivery and pickup? Maybe. He didn’t look that closely. Hispanic men? Probably. Could have been off-brand Asian. Off-brand? Laotian. Burmese. Dr. Wolf had signed Rhonda in? Yes. You countersigned? Yes. But she’d checked out by herself? Yes. She walked right out, under her own power? No, she rolled out. At her own insistence. You countersigned? Yes. Could Lew see the document? Get a warrant.
We were putting all facts into the Rhonda Carling bag, see if they fit. After all, there were only two Hispanics in the story. Both with ties to Wolf. And now two dead Hispanics on his boat.
Maybe the men had come back for another taste. Blackmail. Which made them loose ends. What to do with loose ends? Cut them off. It seemed to fit.
Lew looked up at the ceiling. Would the doctor fire bullets inside his own yacht? No.
It did seem rash. “You’re thinking Melvin.”
“Yup,” said Lew. “I’m thinking Melvin.”
I considered a partnership of necessity between Shea and Wolf. It was a possibility. Both had everything to lose.
John Elston, dockmaster, had seen the doctor after his craft had sunk. His demeanor? Like he was in shock.
Then Wolf disappeared. Had never gone home.
We went back to a logistics question. How had Luis and Ernesto gotten to Cabrillo?
Lew put out a query for a white van and got a hit. Earlier that day, in North Long Beach, two adolescents had been arrested for joyriding. In a white van. With a gurney in the back. Bingo. The joyriders admitted they’d had the van for two days.
We hammered out a provisional theory. Luis and Ernesto had been invited down to the boat and executed. By Melvin. How did Melvin know about the yacht? Because he and the doctor had disposed of Rhonda. Prompting the threatened Melvin to invite Luis and Ernesto to Cabrillo. So their bodies, like Rhonda, like Betty Ann Fowler, could be dumped at sea. But Melvin had sunk the doctor’s boat accidentally. The doctor had come down to the marina. He had seen his boat and knew what was in it. So he ran.
Maybe.
SEVENTY-TWO
Copycat
Melvin smiled into the mirror. If flight was indeed a sign of guilt, Wolf’s flight to Mexico was his godsend. And tonight he would finalize his business with Devi, the asshole from Armenia, and the Mystery Man.
The pieces of his plan fit exactly, like a jigsaw puzzle. The wooden, expensive kind. He felt in harmony with celestial forces. To the bold belonged the world.
Sylvette had summoned Devi. Then Sylvette had split, leaving the front door unlocked. Devi would enter and he would clock her. Like Mystery Man had clocked him.
When Devi got to feeling a little cooperative, he’d have her call Mystery Man. Requesting the golden gun. Because Mystery Man had the gun. Who else? The deal was simple. Golden gun delivered—or Devi’s life.
And the Mystery Dude would deliver the gun. His last good deed on earth. Actually, his last deed. Because Melvin would kill him. In front of a terrified, gagged Devi.
Then, when Devi thought it couldn’t get worse, he would do to her exactly what that cunt Nazarian had done to Rhonda.
Exactly. E
xactly like he’d seen it.
He’d break her nose. Blacken her eyes. Knock out some teeth. Put a cigarette to her right nipple.
Then, and only then, he would call fucking Nazarian. Come get your golden gun, Eli. I’ve got it right here.
He would greet Nazarian at the door, lead him in. Then, in sight of Devi, he’d whack Nazarian in the head. Hard. Knock him out. Then, using the golden gun, he’d put Devi out of her misery. Right between the eyes. Lastly, using Nazarian’s phone, he would call the police and confess. As Nazarian.
Then Melvin would slip out the door, go home, lay out a few sharp lines of Jackie’s fine cocaine. And a chaser of that superlative Persian green.
You don’t fuck with Melvin Shea.
SEVENTY-THREE
Dinner with Georgette
I suppose I always thought I’d end up back with Georgette. We’d been sailing over the dull seas of matrimony at three knots, until I’d started a fire and sunk the ship. But, looking back, it had been comfortable and regular and I dearly missed my interaction with Randy and Martine. Twelve and seven, now. Wow. Quick. My darling little people.
They said all sorts of good things about marriage. The pancreas secreted better enzymes. The spleen was serene. The liver was more efficient and cooperative. The reproductive system was exercised more frequently, if at a lower level of endorphination. Put that all together, I guess you lived longer.
And ended up wearing paper underpants and playing Uncle Wiggly with other Alzheimer half-wits at Rainbow’s End. Right next to Fairfax Convalescent. Not for me. I wanted to go out Rockefeller-style. With a bang. In the arms of a paid companion. If necessary.
Georgette had been messaging me lately. With some degree of urgency. I couldn’t figure out why. My payments were up-to-date, the appliances were in good order, we had nothing to bicker about. Which meant it could only be one thing. She wanted to get back together.
And maybe I was ready. Maybe it was time to let that home-cooked slop congeal around my waist. That was the wrong thing to say. What I meant was, perhaps I could sample some calorie-rich, home-crafted cuisine in the presence of my children.
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