Jarsdel massaged the tense muscles of his brow. “Okay. I guess I’ll just…I don’t know. Okay.”
“You’re still single, right? It’s Friday. Go have some fun. Get lucky even. Hey—library’s still open, right? You could meet someone, talk about the Dewey Decimal System or some shit over a cup of tea. Never know.”
Jarsdel considered the suggestion. “Actually,” he said, “I think I’ll go to a lecture on industrial psychology.”
* * *
Los Angeles attracted seekers of all kinds. When the first movie producers descended upon the fledgling city, they were seduced by the year-round sunshine and variety of shooting locations. They also welcomed the chance to put three thousand miles between themselves and Thomas Edison, whose sue-happy grip on the East Coast film industry made entrepreneurship impossible.
But something about the land also beckoned to the spiritually ambitious, those who felt called to iron out the great universal truths. Once William Mulholland finished the aqueduct, delivering on his promise that Los Angeles wouldn’t perish from dehydration, the city could expand as rapidly as it desired. Along with the soaring population, a kaleidoscope of churches, orders, temples, and fellowships sprang up across the basin. In 1934, a Canadian-born mystic named Manly Palmer Hall opened the Philosophical Research Society, which he envisioned as a home for spiritual students of all traditions. The Society’s building on the corner of Los Feliz and Griffith Park Boulevards soon became a neighborhood fixture and, true to the founder’s vision, provided a haven to those hungry for ancient wisdom.
Jarsdel had taken a glance at the calendar of upcoming programs upon entering the modest lecture hall. Among them were “Saint Germain and Rosicrucianism,” “The Kabbalistic Origins of the Tarot,” and a three-hour seminar titled “Passages: Texts, Contexts, and the Ways to Wisdom—Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz.” Jarsdel didn’t understand how Aleena’s talk fit with such esoteric company, but the room was filled to capacity, and many in the audience took notes as she spoke.
Most of what Aleena said was utterly foreign to Jarsdel—a crash course in time and motion study, with an emphasis on discrete units of action known as “therbligs.”
“There are eighteen therbligs,” she announced. “Eighteen components that may comprise a given task. So for instance, let’s say I want a drink from this bottle of water, okay? First, I have to search for it, right? That’s therblig one: ‘search.’ Then when I see it, that’s another therblig, known as ‘find.’ It goes on like that, from ‘reach’ to ‘grasp,’ which then becomes what’s called ‘transport loaded,’ and so on. I suppose at its core, my job is to locate and eliminate waste within that process, lessening the time required to achieve each therblig—or even reduce their overall number if possible—and thereby maximize productivity. Maximize productivity in both mechanized and human-driven systems.”
She smiled self-effacingly. “Which all sounds, I know, like, creepy and authoritarian and heartless, right?”
There was general laughter, and a man sitting next to Jarsdel called out “Soylent Green is made of people!” Jarsdel glared at him, and the man reddened and dropped his eyes.
“And it definitely does come off that way with the language we use,” Aleena went on. “Lenin said scientific management was merely a new way of wringing sweat from the working class. But I think after we’re finished tonight, you’ll come to understand that that’s a major misunderstanding of what we do. And that’s really the fault of my industry, our failure to connect with people. Because time and motion study isn’t really about efficiency. That’s its stated purpose, yes, but the real goal? The absolute real goal, I think, is beauty.”
A screen behind her filled with three images, side by side. The first was of Mikhail Baryshnikov performing a grand jeté, the second showed the exterior of an industrial facility, with a focus on what appeared to be a large cooling unit, and the third featured a smiling family playing a board game.
“The one thing these three subjects share in common is efficiency. Baryshnikov demonstrates the apogee of physical efficiency—what’s possible when the human body works in absolute harmony with itself. A wasted motion would have lowered the height of the leap, would have strained the posture with unneeded effort.
“This server farm,” she said, pointing to the second picture, “requires a constant supply of cool air. As you may know, air-conditioning produces a tremendous amount of heat. That heat is normally wasted, just discharged into the environment. But what this business does is interesting: they reclaim the otherwise discarded heat with a simple recovery system and use it to provide hot water.”
Aleena moved to the third picture, the pace of her speech picking up. “This family would not be considered privileged by most Americans. Both the father and mother lack a college education and work in unskilled professions. The two children attend public school and depend on a subsidized food program. Together, they live in a one-bedroom apartment in a not-so-nice part of town. But here they all are, on a weeknight, enjoying some leisure time. A hundred years ago, this moment they’re sharing here just wouldn’t have been possible. So what changed? Think of everything that had to line up for this to occur. Not just the washer and dryer in the closet or the dishwasher in the kitchen, but what about the advances in textile manufacturing that make it so these parents don’t need to work so many hours to afford to dress their kids? Or what about the incredible upholstery foam packed into that couch behind them? To get furniture even half that comfortable, the wealthy of Europe had to harvest mounds of goose down—a slow, labor-intensive, expensive process.”
Aleena paused, considering her next words carefully. “I get it, believe me, that these ideas can be abused. Efficiency for its own sake can lead to some pretty horrific treatment of human beings and animals, and we’ve gotten so good at making stuff that we often don’t anticipate the ecological consequences. But I maintain that those are perversions of a truly magical idea. I’m not the most spiritual person in the world—not by far—but I know enough to marvel at the…unique, divine beauty in material mastery. In other words…” She paused again, thought for a moment, then shook her head. “There’s no way to say it that won’t make me sound like a moonbeam. But I guess this is the kind of place that doesn’t judge moonbeams too harshly.”
There was more laughter, with Jarsdel joining in.
“Physical mastery, the mastery of the physical universe,” Aleena ventured, “is a kind of prayer. Is a kind of meditation. Is a kind of love. It’s loving God, if you believe in God, or whatever you understand God to be. Because physical mastery is honoring creation—matter, and the spaces between matter.” She shrugged. “And, if you don’t believe in any of that, I’ll quote the great Frank Gilbreth, the father of time and motion study. When asked what the point was, what to do with all that extra time he was constantly trying to squeeze out of a process, he said, ‘For work, if you love that best. For education, for beauty, for art, for pleasure. For mumblety-peg, if that’s where your heart lies.’
“You see, if nothing else, it’s still better to live in a world where energy and resources aren’t squandered, where you spend less time on neutral or unpleasant tasks and more time on the things that bring you joy.”
Jarsdel liked watching her, liked how she commanded the stage, how she’d use shifts in cadence and timbre to texturize her words. Even her pauses were artful—coiled springs of silence that propelled her onto the next point with renewed momentum.
When it was over, he waited until the crowd around Aleena thinned out before deciding to approach. A tall, elderly man in a bright-yellow suit took her hand in both of his and said, “Wonderful. Just wonderful.”
“I’m glad it went well.”
“Oh,” he said. “Oh, it did.”
He moved away, and Jarsdel stepped forward. “Ms. Andreotti. It’s Detective Jarsdel. Tully—from the other day.”
Her face bri
ghtened with recognition. “Tully. You came. I’m glad. So what’d you think?”
“I think I—”
“And please stop calling me Ms. Andreotti. It’s Aleena.”
“If you prefer, okay.”
“I do. Go on. You were saying what you thought.”
“I think,” said Jarsdel, “that in theory, it’s the most direct and practical application of Stoic principles I’ve come across.”
Aleena looked uncertain. “Oh. I’m guessing that’s a good thing?”
“I think so, yes. It’s a way of mindfully engaging with the world, which can only lead to an increase in gratitude for one’s material circumstances. Gratitude is one of the keys to happiness, to inner peace—according to Epictetus.”
“Hadn’t ever considered it quite like that,” Aleena said, “but it’s nice. I appreciate you coming.”
The man in the suit returned and put a trembling hand on her shoulder. “Could we borrow you for some photographs?”
“Um, sure. Yes.” To Jarsdel, she said, “I’ll just be a few minutes. If you wanna hang around, we can talk some more.” She was led off to join a group gathered near a bowl of lime-green punch. Someone set off a dazzlingly bright flash, and Jarsdel looked away, his eyes stinging. When he turned back, others were already crowding in to have their own photos taken. Whether any of them had actually gained a single insight from Aleena Andreotti’s hour-long “Pursuit of Perfect: The Sacred Mission of Efficiency, from Taylorism to Tokimeku” wasn’t the point, Jarsdel knew. Half the fun of attending an obscure lecture was in telling everyone you’d done so. It let your colleagues know that while their brains lay dormant, ossifying in front of the nightly news, yours was alive, electric, popping new axons and synapses into being.
Direct and practical application of Stoic principles, thought Jarsdel. What pompous, turgid bullshit.
Disgusted with himself, Jarsdel slipped out of the lecture hall and escaped into the forgiving night.
Chapter 11
It was the first time Tully Jarsdel had met Detective Gerald Cooney of Hollenbeck Division, but he understood immediately why the man’s nickname was “Sleepy.” Cooney was slumped in the chair across from Jarsdel and Morales and looked as if he might nod off at any moment. The tired pout started with his wildly bushy eyebrows, as if each weighed several pounds and were pushing his features ever downward. He reminded Jarsdel of Droopy Dog.
Seated next to Cooney was Detective Troy Rislakki, his partner, who smiled and nodded with the frequency of a brownnosing fifth-grader. He was called, also appropriately, “Happy.” Together, the two men, though both were of normal height, had been christened “the Dwarves.”
Rislakki spoke as Morales flipped through their murder book, the thick binder containing all information relevant to the Delgadillo investigation.
“No doubt about it, he’s guilty. Stone-cold killer,” he said brightly. “We got him in protective custody in the Twin Towers. Any of those 18th Streeters get ahold of him, and they’ll tear him to pieces. Already got a bounty on him, far as we know.”
“What can you tell us about the arrest?” asked Jarsdel.
“Typical barrio bullshit. No one wanted to give up a thing, but it didn’t matter. We got it all on video.”
“Right, but what actually happened?”
“Two bangers from 18 get off the freeway in the wrong part of town is what happened,” said Rislakki. “But whether they don’t know they’re in Big Hazard territory or just don’t care will forever remain a mystery. They pull up to a liquor store in their lowrider, music pounding away, like they’re trying for attention, right? Anyway, our guy, Delgadillo, he’s in the store and looks out and sees them through the front door. You can watch him just standing there, trying to think what to do next. Then he pulls the milli out of his waistband and goes to work. Pop pop pop. Goes to work some more. Pop pop pop. This isn’t the old spray and pray game you usually see with these assholes. Delgadillo’s deadly with that fuckin’ thing, like he puts in time at the range. Who knows? Maybe he does. Anyway, other guys didn’t even get a shot off. Dead where they sat, right through the windshield. So there’s nothing up for dispute. Our guy did it, then got in his own ride and took off. Picked him up later off his license plate. Came pretty easy, considering he’d just blown away two vatos. Still had the gun on him even, which we match in record time. Open-and-shut case, right?”
“Until you two jokers show up,” said Cooney.
“I’m sorry?” said Jarsdel.
“Bonifacio Delgadillo skated on at least two other killings we know about. Uncle’s a cartel hitter down in Culiacán, and we think the nephew’s up here making inroads for the organization. We want him bad, and this could put him away so as we don’t ever have to see him again. LWOP. But then you guys come along and muddy the waters with your fucking shell casing.”
“Wait a minute,” said Morales, putting down the murder book. “This isn’t exactly our fault. All we did was run some evidence from this vic’s apartment. How were we supposed to know it would come back to you guys?”
Cooney didn’t answer.
Rislakki sat forward. “I think my partner’s point is that this cartridge isn’t helping anybody. In fact, it could do our case some serious harm.”
“How?” asked Jarsdel.
“Take your pick. Prosecution’ll have to disclose it during discovery, and any attorney—even some shitty PD—will have a blast digging up enough reasonable doubt to get Delgadillo off. More likely, he’ll have some slick cartel lawyer. Here’s a scenario for you: The police weren’t able to maintain chain of custody. The crime scene wasn’t secure if one of the shell casings ended up on the other side of town. You know how evidence is. Any of it’s tainted, and the rest gets thrown out. The OJ effect. Or how ’bout this? Even better, and this isn’t as far-fetched as you might think. For whatever reason, our video gets excluded. Happens all the time. Then they can argue that your guy—what’s his name?”
“Wolin,” said Morales.
“Wolin. Okay, that this Wolin guy was at the scene and participated somehow. Maybe even pulled the trigger and then gave the gun to Delgadillo to get rid of. Without the video, they can make up any story they want. And I guarantee you the guy behind the counter won’t testify differently even if we subpoena the shit out of him. You think he’s more scared of us or Delgadillo?”
“You’re right—it doesn’t sound far-fetched. It sounds batshit crazy,” said Morales. “Our vic was a two-bit Hollywood hustler, not a crazed banger hit man.”
“But that’s my point too,” said Rislakki. “The wilder the story, the more the jurors will eat it up. It’s good theater. You know as well as I do that whenever the defense wins, it’s only because they managed to tell a better story.”
“Come on, Happy,” said Morales. “Our guy was probably killed by those cartel maniacs. He wasn’t working for them.”
“Can you prove that?” It was Cooney, and he looked sleepier than ever.
“We will. Our guy was obviously the only witness to this thing other than the store clerk. Why else would he have a shell casing? Probably intended on talking to you guys, which is why he ended up in the oven. If I were you, I’d get that clerk of yours some serious protection.”
“We got a couple uniforms cruising his place regularly,” said Rislakki. “Besides, I don’t buy it. Put us together, and we got more than two dozen years in Central Bureau. Never heard of anyone getting baked before. Why go through all the trouble for one Hollywood loser, just to keep him from talking? Nah, they’d just pop him.”
“This is a bunch of guys who stick peoples’ heads on spikes, and what—you don’t think they’d stoop to something like this?” said Morales.
“We’re not getting anywhere,” said Cooney. “We need to know what your next move’s gonna be.”
“Hey, all we do is follow the facts where
they lead us. And right now, they’re leading us to Delgadillo. It may not be as clear-cut a case as you got, but he’s looking better than anybody else right now.”
“Even though,” said Cooney, “that by trying to link your case with ours, you’ll more likely sink them both? Anyone ever tell you that a pound of shit mixed with nine pounds of ice cream is still just ten pounds of shit?”
“What do you suggest we do?” said Jarsdel.
“Easiest thing in the world. Nothing. Pretend you never found the goddamned thing.”
“Ain’t gonna happen,” said Morales. “Guy gets cooked alive and left right in our backyard. Freaks everybody out. It’s like a kind of terrorism. Nope. We’re not gonna let that fly up here. This ain’t Juarez.”
“Look,” said Rislakki. “This thing goes to trial in eight days. Eight. Unless you’ve got something you can file with, just sit on it. That’s all we ask.”
Morales and Jarsdel looked at each other.
“What?” asked Rislakki.
“Too many people know,” said Morales.
“Who?”
“Councilman Peyser, Lieutenant Gavin, Captain Sturdivant. Not to mention ballistics, obviously. You’ll have to disclose.”
“Fuck,” said Cooney. “You fuckin’ clowns. I’ll tell you something. If this goes tits up because of you, you’ll have to live with it. Because the next time Delgadillo opens up on somebody, it might not be just a couple mopes from 18. Could be a citizen. Could be a kid. That’s on you.”
* * *
“Terrific,” said Jarsdel as they got back in the car.
Morales grunted, undoing his belt and pants before he sat down. “Don’t let old Sleepy get to you. Guy as tired as he is, sure carries lotta anger. Don’t know where he gets all the extra energy.”
“Is he right?”
“About what? About us fucking up their case? Nah, they’re overreacting. If anything, we’ll make it stronger, show what a maniac Delgadillo is.”
One Day You'll Burn Page 13