Bubble Screen (Burnside Series Book 3)

by David Chill

  "What's your interest in him?

  "There's some possible violations going on. Related to the NCAA," I said, and then added, "it involves an SC football player. I'm trying to keep him out of trouble."

  "That doesn't sound good. I still follow the Trojans up here. Big game coming up Saturday, huh?"

  "Always a big one."

  "Let me sniff around and see what I can find."

  "Great, thanks. One other thing. Does the name Adam Barber mean anything to you?"

  "Nope. Should it?"

  "I don't know. I'd appreciate it if you could check him out, too. You never know."

  "You never know. Hope that's all you got," he laughed. "I do have a day job here."

  "That's it. Not unless you can get Kyle to deliver me a pizza tonight in Santa Monica."

  Chandler laughed again and hung up. Amanda called me back and we set up a time later in the week to run the sting. When I told her I had spoken with Billy, she asked about every detail of the conversation. She asked if I was certain he was going to come, and I assured her he would be there. She gave me the address of the house, on a street called Sherbourne in the Pico-Robertson district. While it wasn't in Beverly Hills, it was about a mile or so away, close enough to get away with saying "Beverly Hills-adjacent. "

  For Billy the Fixer, that should work out just fine.

  Chapter 11

  The next morning I headed back downtown, but this time my destination was more familiar. I had spent four years living down by USC and knew the area intricately. I pulled off the Santa Monica Freeway at Vermont Avenue and drove past the blighted thrift stores, auto repair shops, and taquerias. Most had iron bars protecting the windows, but a few retail outlets had a metal shutter pulled down over the full exterior, indicating they were closed, some of them for good.

  The USC campus is situated in a large pocket near downtown L.A., and was now surrounded by gates and security entrances. Years ago, it was relatively easy to drive onto campus, and while you still can do so, there are now a host of restrictions. The university has had a good relationship with the nearby community, and during the 1992 uprising the campus went untouched despite looting and fires that destroyed businesses just blocks away.

  Provost Hunt's office was located in the Bovard Administration Building. I showed up early enough that his assistant had yet to arrive. But at 7:30am, I knew the Provost would be well into his day.

  "Good morning," I said, walking into his office. Provost Marshall Hunt looked up at me from his mug of coffee.

  "And a good morning to you, sir!" he boomed, with an enthusiasm that belied his 63 years. "Why, I just got off the phone with an old chum from my days on the crew team at Harvard. And now you show up. I believe good things do come in bunches!"

  "You're very kind," I smiled, marveling at his upbeat attitude. I regretted having to soon bring him back down to earth. "I do hope that's French roast. And I especially hope you aren't drinking the last cup."

  Marshall Hunt laughed a hearty belly laugh. "You were never shy, were you? Not even when you were a student."

  "Not then, not now."

  "Please," he said, rising, his large girth moving surprisingly quickly to a counter which held a very fancy coffee maker. He pulled a white mug with a USC logo on it from a cabinet, filled it with coffee and handed it to me. He didn't bother to ask about cream or sugar, he seemed to remember I took it black.

  "Thank you," I said, taking a sip. It may not have been French roast, but it was strong and robust and just what I needed. "I feel well taken care of."

  "As a distinguished alumnus ought to!"

  "I'm getting quite the royal treatment today."

  "Yes, yes. But we do fawn over our stars. Johnny tells me you've been selected as honorary captain for the UCLA game. Congratulations. That's a wonderful honor."

  "I'm thrilled. Honestly. And I've also been asked to address the team this week. Not sure what I'm going to say exactly. These kids are a lot more sophisticated than we were back in the day."

  "It's a new world," he agreed. "But you'll do fine. You're one of the fellows we don't need to worry about."

  "So I didn't realize the Provost got involved in matters outside academia."

  Marshall Hunt smiled. "I like to help out where I can. And at this university, football is almost a religion. I'd be foolish to ignore it. Especially when it intertwines so deeply with our alumni base."

  "Uh, yeah. Which brings me to why I stopped by."

  Provost Hunt's jovial expression turned serious in the blink of an eye. "You mean Miles."

  "Miles. His kids. The agent he was working with. A number of things are bubbling up to the surface."

  The big man's face exuded concern. "Terrible thing about Miles. Tragic, absolutely tragic."

  "Can you tell me anything more about him? I've heard he was a big donor to the university and he associated with some of the players. He seems to have had some connections with sports agents."

  Marshall Hunt sighed. "Miles and Clara certainly were generous, yes. But that was a while back. The past couple of years they haven't been donating. Oh, it's hardly an issue, everyone has their ups and downs. But I understand their business isn't as lucrative as it had been years ago."

  "Any idea as to what happened?"

  "Not really. But we did take notice that Miles was very friendly with a few of the agents. And while we do our best to keep the agents and their runners away from the players, these fellows continue to reach them. Sometimes through the alumni. We've started to close off football practice to outsiders -- which was naturally a problem for the agents. Miles, of course, was not an outsider, and he had access."

  "So he was making some introductions."

  "And I'd heard he had an understanding with the agents that if a player signed with them, Miles would get a commission. Ordinarily there isn't that strong a link between an agent and a donor. But when people get into financial trouble you'd be surprised at some of the levels they sink to."

  "Does the name Cliff Roper ring a bell?"

  "Oh yes. He's signed a few of our kids, a couple are still active in the NFL. And Cliff's one of the reasons we had to cordon off practice. Very aggressive fellow. He'd march right up to the players after practice and practically give them a five-hundred dollar handshake. We absolutely can't allow that and try to keep them away from the team. But they have runners who manage to ingratiate themselves. No matter what we tell the players, a few will forget."

  "Do you have any contact info for Roper?"

  "I can get it for you. I'm not sure talking with him will help."

  "Maybe I can get through," I mused.

  "Are there any players he's approached lately?"

  "You really want to know the answer to that?"

  The Provost smiled a knowing smile. "Perhaps not."

  "By the way, since we're on this subject of players and agents. Were Miles' kids involved with any of this?"

  "No, not that I could tell. Peter and Isabelle come to a few alumni events, but I think they were mostly focused on running the business. I'm sure they're quite nervous about the future after what happened this weekend. And speaking of which, do the police have any leads?"

  I shook my head. "Nothing concrete. They have a few people they're looking at, a couple of employees who have had issues in the past, but none have a good motive. Taking out Miles wasn't going to change anything for them."

  "Nasty situation. I spoke with Clara yesterday, gave her my condolences. If you speak with her, please let her know the university will help her in any way we can."

  I thanked him for his time and left the Provost to get on with his day. Walking over to the student union building, I wandered through the early morning dining options before settling in at a coffee kiosk for my second cup of the day. Back when I was a student, there was a cafeteria that served watery coffee and a few menu selections and that was it. Today, a sizeable food court had been built, and there was a wide plethora of choices.


  As I started to ponder how I got from being a wide-eyed student athlete to becoming a world weary private investigator, my phone began to buzz. The 702 area code told me Vegas was calling. Maybe, just maybe, I'd hit the jackpot.

  "Good morning."

  "This Burnside?"

  "It is."

  "Hey, it's Chandler. Listen I got something on a one Cliff Roper for you."

  "Anything good?"

  "Oh you have no idea. This Roper used to live here, he's a piece of work. He's been booked on check kiting, forgery, wire fraud, bank fraud. He even got charged with manslaughter."

  "A real winner, I see. And he's still walking around free as a bird."

  "Hey, with a good lawyer a guy can get away with a lot. Even murder. I've seen it."

  "Me too," I said. "Tell me about the manslaughter charge."

  "Business dispute with a partner. These things happen with guys who move in certain circles. But he got off, hung jury. They tried him three times before throwing in the towel. The prosecutor here wanted to try him for jury rigging too, but he didn't have enough hard evidence."

  "Let me guess. The partner had something to do with a sports agency."

  "You'd guess right. That was before he changed his name of course."

  "Do what?"

  "He used to be Hal Delano. Now he's Cliff Roper. Legally changed his name. Isn't America a great country?"

  "Guess that was good for business."

  "I told you he was a piece of work. I'll bet there's a few football players who haven't heard about this stuff."

  "Probably not," I said. "But there's bound to be a few who like the gangster aspect."

  "Sure. And he's certainly not the first agent to have criminal charges brought against him. But like I said, a good lawyer can work wonders."

  "This is pretty eye-opening stuff. Thank you."

  "Yeah. I hope you're able to help that player. At the very least keep him away from Hal. Or Cliff. Or whatever he's calling himself these days."

  "And anything regarding the other name I gave you? Adam Barber?"

  "No, nothing. But when I came across this, I figured I'd give you a call right away. If I find out anything, I'll call you."

  "Thanks. If you ever need a favor, let me know. I owe you."

  "I'll remember that," he laughed and hung up. Thankfully he didn't ask for tickets to the UCLA game.

  *

  Cliff Roper's offices were located in Hollywood in a high rise building near the corner of Sunset and Vine. This was not the Hollywood of decades past, where the tired boulevards and tawdry shops were far beyond their heyday. A cappuccino bar and a few trendy eateries were stationed at the bottom floor of the building. I shook my head as I noticed one that had a sign in their window advertising they only served grilled cheese sandwiches. I rode the elevator up to the 25th floor and walked out onto the deep, plush carpeting. The glass enclosed offices were inscribed with the name Roper Sports and a logo featuring a lightning bolt.

  I walked inside and came upon a lovely young woman with long blonde hair and a low cut top. She smiled a glittery smile and asked how she could help me.

  "You look very familiar," I said in my most charming voice. "Have you been on TV?"

  "Actually yes. I used to be a cheerleader with the Seahawks. I'm from Seattle."

  "Nice place when it's not raining."

  "Oh, you know what they say. If you don't like the weather in Seattle, just wait five minutes."

  "Are you down here to make it as an actor?"

  She smiled the big smile. "That's the plan."

  "Good one. I'm sure you'll do great. Say, could I see Cliff for a minute?"

  "Sure. What's your name?"

  "Vince Lombardi. I'm an old friend. Okay if I go in?"

  "Gee ... I'm supposed to announce you," she started.

  "You can tell him I'm coming in. Don't want to give him too much notice. It's a surprise."

  "Um, I guess."

  She picked up the phone and spoke briefly into it. I wandered past her desk and walked down a corridor. When I came to the corner office with his name on it, I turned the handle and walked in.

  Cliff Roper was a very short, wiry man in his early 50s with graying hair. He wore an expensive suit and had on a black shirt with the top two buttons open. Even as he was sitting at his desk I could tell he was short, but when he put down the phone and stood up, he removed all doubt. He was probably no taller than 5' 3".

  "Okay. Who the fuck are you? And don't give me that Vince Lombardi crap."

  "Your cupcake out there seemed to buy it."

  "Yeah well I'm not her. Start talking or get out."

  I approached him. "My name's Burnside."

  "And that's supposed to mean something?"

  I laughed. "And to think you're in the sports business."

  "State your case, man. I don't have all day."

  "I'm a private investigator," I said slowly. "I was hired by Miles Larson. That name ring a bell?"

  Roper froze. He nodded and told me to go on. I noticed he didn't invite me to sit down. Such poor manners.

  "You know Miles is dead."

  "No shit, Sherlock. I read the papers. What's that got to do with me?"

  "You and he had some business dealings. Heard it wasn't going smoothly."

  "You heard wrong. I didn't have a problem with Miles."

  "You've got one with Marcellus Williams, though. And now you're going to have one with me."

  Cliff sneered at me. "Who the hell are you? And why should I care? Look, get to the point or get out."

  I resolved not to suggest that the point was on top of his head. "How many of your players know about your criminal record? How many know you've changed your name, Hal? Does the NFL Players Association know about any of this?"

  Cliff stopped sneering. His mouth opened briefly, but nothing came out. When an agent is at a loss for words, you know you've made an impact. I became certain of it when he offered me a chair. He closed the door and we sat down at a round oak table by the window. The view was of Beachwood Canyon, and the Hollywood sign was close by. It was a little smoggy, but the visibility wasn't bad. It could have been worse.

  "Tell me what you know," he said slowly.

  "I don't know everything, but I know a lot. And what I know can hurt you," I replied.

  "What do you want from me?"

  "For starters, back off of Marcellus Williams. Stop trying to blackmail him."

  Roper smirked. "Is that what this is about? Some kid from the hood sent you to threaten me?"

  "Is that a problem for you? Is that worth blowing your small empire?"

  "Man, how do you think we make a living here? Megawatt signs with me and he's got no problems. He plays college ball until he's eligible for the pros. Then we both make a lot of money."

  "I don't think you're listening to me."

  "Look, this kid is solid gold. MW is going to be worth a hundred million by the time his career is done. I'm taking a piece of that," he declared, and then he looked straight at me. "Okay. How much do you want? I'll give you a cut up front."

  "That's not why I'm here," I said, wondering if English was his first language. "If you're going to sign Marcellus, you can do it in two years. Until then you keep your distance."

  "Do I hear an or-else at the end of that?"

  "What do you think would happen to your agent certification if the NFL Players Association learned you were indicted for bank fraud and wire fraud?"

  "They'd think I was innocent until proven guilty," he countered. "Last I heard this was the United States of Kiss My Ass."

  "And what if you were arrested for the murder of Miles Larson?"

  Roper stared at me. "You got any proof of that?"

  "Maybe there's enough proof to put the police on your tail."

  "What proof?"

  "Does it matter? Once the news is out that you're being investigated for murder, I think it's possible someone just might leak some of those other things about
your background. You might think your clients'll admire you for being a tough guy. They won't admire you for stealing from your other clients. They'll be worried it might happen to them."

  "They won't leave me," he insisted, attempting a certain level of bluster. I noticed he took a hard swallow.

  "You want to take that risk? You're a businessman. You know that it's a whole lot cheaper to keep your existing clients than to try and get new ones."

  He shook his head. "You're doing all this for Megawatt? What'd he ever do for you?"

  It was a good question, and I paused for a moment. It was hard to explain Trojan Family to an outsider. "Call it a favor to his coach."

  Roper's eyes narrowed. "Maybe I could back off," he said, his mouth curled. "Then again, maybe you might disappear."

  I stared back at him for a long moment and then zipped open my jacket wide enough to reveal the .38 in its nylon ballistic holster. After his wide eyes confirmed he had seen it, I zipped up the jacket again.

  "Don't bring your goons out," I warned him. "They won't stand a chance. And remember, there's other people who know what I know. Anything happens to me, and everything about you gets released. And everything is what you stand to lose."

  Roper slumped back in his chair. "You got stones. I'll give you that."

  "One more thing."

  "What? You want something else now?"

  "What's your relationship with Eddie Larson?"

  Roper shook his head. "Business associate. Kind of like Miles only different. They help me get clients."

  "How are they different?"

  "I've known Eddie for years. He introduced me to Miles. Miles made the introductions to the players. Eddie helps close the deals. Both get their cuts."

  "And everyone's happy."

  "Yeah. Except when some private eye sticks his nose where it doesn't belong."

  "You have your interests, I have mine. Do we have an agreement?"

  "About what?"

  "About your leaving Marcellus Williams alone for the next two years. You can sign him when he's eligible to go to the NFL. Not before. Or else ... "

  Roper looked off into the distance. "Okay. I'll wait for him. Jesus. I feel like a fucking broad. I'll wait for him."