One Day You'll Burn

by Joseph Schneider

  “Yes.”

  “Then okay, but you have to drive. I don’t have a car.”

  After a brief argument between Ramesh and his uncle at the desk, the two were in Jarsdel’s car and heading up Highland toward Franklin. They drove mostly in silence, Ramesh staring in fascination at the dashboard computer and throwing glances over his shoulder at the shotgun racked behind the front seat. When they turned onto Los Feliz, Jarsdel asked for additional directions.

  “Left soon. Not here. There, coming up,” said Ramesh, pointing at Nottingham. They made the left and began to climb up into the hills, winding their way past old Hollywood mansions and robust stands of bougainvillea. They weren’t too far from Aleena’s place, Jarsdel realized. The road turned and dipped often, and progress was slow. When they’d come to a fork, Ramesh would point the way, and Jarsdel would follow. Finally, he directed them up Glendower Road, which quickly dead-ended. “Now what?” asked Jarsdel.

  “Now we park.”

  They got out, and Ramesh led them to a restricted-access gate and a sign reading Emergency Vehicles Only. Beyond, a single, narrow road snaked farther up the mountain and disappeared from view. The Griffith Observatory, the restored deco masterpiece, looked down on them from a vast plateau. Past that, the land swept upward again, rising to the peak of Mount Hollywood.

  The gate, Jarsdel saw, allowed a small gap for pedestrians to pass while still blocking the road to cars. Ramesh slipped through, and Jarsdel followed. Off to their left, the city lurked behind a shroud of haze.

  The two men made their way along the road for several minutes, avoiding the occasional pile of coyote dung. Jarsdel noticed an old air-raid siren standing sentry, its dark mouth poised to cast a blanket of sonic terror over the houses below.

  Eventually, they reached a sharp rise, at the top of which stood a lone metal pole, the remnant of a gate that’d long ago been removed.

  “Here,” said Ramesh.

  “Here? This is the place?”

  “Where we’d smoke. Best view of the city.”

  Jarsdel noticed the area was overgrown with dry shrubs and other desert plant life. A stray blunt dropped here at the wrong time would’ve sent the whole mountain up in flames. He resisted pointing this out and asked instead, “But this is where he’d go digging?”

  “Off down that way.” Ramesh pointed to where the road bled into a dirt footpath.

  “Show me.”

  They followed the path, which wound around a large water tank and stopped abruptly at the base of a granite cliff face. Something crunched under Jarsdel’s foot, and he looked down to find he’d stepped on the remains of a broken bottle. Shards large and small peppered the area, glinting dully in the muted sunlight.

  “Here? With all this broken glass?”

  “All around,” said Ramesh. “Wherever he found good dirt.”

  Jarsdel frowned and walked the area. Gaudy red and blue graffiti marred much of the cliff face and had even been used to mark nearby boulders. Jarsdel peered down at the tops of the boulders and saw more glass particles, but much finer, like dust, as if someone had smashed the bottles against the rocks with great force.

  Excited, Jarsdel bent lower and began scouring the ground. Almost immediately, under the shadow of one of the boulders, he found what he was looking for. Grabbing a nearby twig, he teased it out into the light where both he and Ramesh could see it.

  A shell casing. He’d found Delgadillo’s shooting range.

  Chapter 16

  Morales prepared the package for the Dwarves at Hollenbeck Station. Thirty-one casings recovered from the makeshift target range in Griffith Park, including photographs and a report from Jarsdel detailing how he came to locate the site. Ramesh provided a statement, and both detectives were confident that taken together, the evidence proved overwhelmingly that Wolin had acquired the 9mm cartridge on one of his digging expeditions. Whether or not Delgadillo or someone else had fired the weapon in the park was unimportant; what mattered was that it closed a major loophole for the defense. They’d found the connection between Delgadillo and Wolin, and it amounted to nothing the prosecution couldn’t handle.

  “Never seen Sleepy look so alert,” said Morales upon returning to Hollywood Station. “And Happy looked happy again. He’d been on his way to becoming Grouchy.”

  “You mean Grumpy,” said Jarsdel.

  “Whatever. So what do we got now?”

  “No idea. Tough to know where to go from here now that Delgadillo’s out of the picture.”

  “I kinda like the boss for it,” said Morales.

  “Tony Punyawong?”

  “That his name? Yeah.”

  “Why? Why possibly?”

  “You remember the way he was about the red quarter? Definitely knew something. I think we should take another run at him.”

  Jarsdel thought about that. “Okay, but let’s come at him with a fresh angle. That quarter was glued to Wolin’s hand. Wasn’t there by accident. So if Punyawong had anything to do with it, even if it’s only that he knows what it means and that’s why he was spooked, we’ll get further with him if we give him a little more. Let’s see what he does when we tell him the quarter was actually found on the body. Not where specifically—I know we don’t want to tip him to that—just on the body.”

  Morales agreed, and soon they were back at the office of Fantasy Tours on Gower. Morales pounded on the door as he had on their previous visit, and when there was no answer, he cupped his hands against the glass and peered inside.

  “Take a look.”

  Jarsdel did and saw the place had been completely cleaned out. “Gone. Well, he did tell us he was folding his tent.”

  “Yup. But I want to know why. And I don’t want to hear any more from him about ‘market saturation’ or whatever.”

  They went back to the car and pulled up Punyawong’s DMV record. He lived in Santa Monica, just off the Third Street Promenade, a large outdoor shopping center.

  Morales groaned. “Other ass-end of town. Take an hour to get there.”

  “Think of it as a field trip,” said Jarsdel. “Besides, we can either sit at a desk at the station or sit in the car. Personally, I’d rather be near the ocean.”

  Morales shook his head. “Closest we’re gonna get to the ocean is a traffic jam on PCH.”

  * * *

  They took Sunset most of the way, despite Jarsdel’s protests that it would have been twice as fast to go down Wilshire to San Vicente. Morales now seemed to actually be enjoying the drive, pointing out places he used to hang out when he was younger.

  “Used to be a Tower Records right there,” he said wistfully. “Don’t get to come over this side of town much anymore. It’s nice. Those fuckin’ WeHo cops got a pretty slick beat.”

  They continued west, passing the Beverly Hills Hotel and, farther on, UCLA. They crossed the 405 freeway, and Jarsdel gazed down at the cars gridlocked in both directions. It was only one thirty, but there didn’t seem to be an official rush hour anymore. Or maybe it was always rush hour now.

  Jarsdel wished they’d gotten something to eat before they left. By the time they made it to Tony Punyawong’s duplex, he was starving. Morales apparently felt the same way. “Shoulda hit Fred’s or House of Pies first,” he said as they got out. “I don’t know this area at all. Anything good around here?” He stood and buttoned his pants as he spoke, tucking in his shirt and cinching his belt.

  Jarsdel glanced around to make sure they weren’t being observed. “Hey, you know I’ve been meaning to ask, can’t you do that before you get out of the car? Anyone watching’s gonna think I’ve been servicing you or something.”

  “Are you actually bitching at me?” said Morales. “What? Get laid or something? Feelin’ your oats?”

  Jarsdel hesitated too long, and Morales grinned. “That’s it, huh? Well, good for you, partner. Finally
loosened up a little.”

  The two detectives approached the door, noting a For Sale sign in the yard, and Morales gave his usual teeth-rattling knock.

  No one answered. Morales was about to knock again when a voice spoke from somewhere above. “Left a few days ago.”

  Jarsdel and Morales took a few steps back and looked up, shielding their eyes. Leaning over the balcony of the adjacent unit was a fleshy, shirtless man of about sixty, face and body red from the sun. His hair and beard were long, stiff, and matted, like something soaked in brine and left to dry. He took a sip from a collins glass in which a handful of mint leaves danced in bubbly liquid.

  “You know the man who lives here?” asked Morales.

  “What’re you guys, tax collectors?”

  “LAPD,” said Jarsdel, showing his badge.

  The man took another sip and nodded. “Used to be in the Coast Guard Reserve myself.”

  “Sir, do you have any information on the whereabouts—”

  “Cleared out. Told ya so.”

  “And when was that?”

  The man tilted his head in thought. A light breeze blew past, lifting his beard like a flap. “I wanna say five, maybe six days ago.”

  “Any idea where?” asked Morales.

  “Nope. Haven’t seen him since. You could talk to his son, though. Works just down the pier.”

  “The pier? Where on the pier?”

  “Video game arcade, I think. He’s a surf bum, ’bout twenty or so. Gets up at five in the goddamn morning.”

  “And he lives here with his father?” asked Jarsdel.

  The man nodded, downing the rest of his drink.

  “Do you happen to know the son’s name?”

  He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Ran into him a thousand times, but it’s just not one of those names you hold onto. Plain sort, like Bob or Tim or Tom or something. Doesn’t fit him. You ever meet someone whose name doesn’t fit their face? This kid’s like that.”

  “Tell you what, sir, if you could give us a call if anyone comes back here, we’d very much appreciate it.” Jarsdel brought out one of his business cards. “Do you mind taking this, Mr…?”

  “Hank Lind. Nah, I don’t wanna come all the way down there. Just drop it in my mail slot.”

  Jarsdel did so, then turned to Morales. “Might as well walk it. We’re close enough, and the parking at the pier’s murder. You up for it?”

  “How far?”

  “Two, three blocks. But they’re long blocks.”

  “I don’t wanna go hunting for another parking spot. Yeah, let’s do it.”

  The two detectives set off on foot, crossing the promenade. A street performer juggled flaming torches while onlookers watched him through their phone cameras. Jarsdel and Morales wove their way through the crowds, making a left on Second and a right onto Colorado. It took them only a couple more minutes before they were heading down the ramp at Ocean Avenue toward the water.

  The Santa Monica Pier was originally built as part of the city’s sewage disposal infrastructure, running pipes a quarter mile out to sea to jettison their contents beyond the breakwater. Despite its unglamorous function, it had the distinction of being the first concrete pier on the West Coast, and its unveiling had been accompanied by the self-congratulatory pomp typical of Gilded Age achievements. The festivities culminated in a sort of play in which a boastful and appropriately hunky Rex Neptune declared his intention of battering the pier to scrap. Queen Santa Monica, unperturbed, pointed out that the whole of Neptune’s fury was no match for modern civic engineering. The chagrined Olympian conceded his defeat, mounted a sixty-five-foot tower, and dove back into the sea.

  A few years later, the Pleasure Pier was added onto the existing structure, bringing games and roller coasters and the magnificent Looff Hippodrome, which housed a grand wooden carousel. In 1996, the amusement center reopened as Pacific Park, with children’s rides, a new roller coaster, even a solar-powered Ferris wheel. And of course, there was also the Playland Arcade.

  They passed the Santa Monica Pier Aquarium, then a series of restaurants and food stands—Jarsdel eyeing them hungrily—before finally arriving at their destination. It was dark and noisy inside, the din, Jarsdel thought, much like a casino. Quarters clattered into the collection trays of change machines while sound effects and electronic music, tones rising and falling, blasted from the game cabinets.

  Against one wall in the large gallery stood a glass prize counter, its surface scratched and scarred from years of abuse. Behind it, a ponytailed teen was counting out a batch of tickets for a little girl wearing a cardboard crown. When he finished, the attendant said something to the girl, who pointed to a box of Chinese finger traps. The young man reached underneath the counter, picked one out—the wrong one; she wanted green—put it back, and gave her the one she’d asked for. The girl moved off, delighted, her fingers already firmly stuck.

  Jarsdel and Morales approached the attendant, whose name tag read “Chris.” He wasn’t Thai—his skin was a cheesy white, except his cheeks and forehead, which were ravaged by blooms of acne. Around his waist, he wore a belt of steel barrels, each one loaded with quarters, from which he could dispense change by flicking a small switch. It must have weighed at least ten pounds.

  Chris saw the detectives coming and stared at their badges. Before they could speak, he took an involuntary step back and asked, “What’s up?”

  Morales held out his palms to reassure him, but it only made him flinch. “We’re looking for someone. Maybe you could help us out.”

  “Okay,” said Chris. “I mean, I want to, but I don’t know anything.”

  “Relax,” said Morales. “Nobody’s in trouble. We’re looking for a kid, a Thai kid. Got a Thai name.”

  “Punyawong,” said Jarsdel. “We don’t know his first name, but he works here. Surfer?”

  Chris was already nodding. “Yeah, cool. Um, yeah.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Oh. Dan. His name’s Dan.”

  Jarsdel smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way. “Like we said, he’s not in trouble or anything. We just want to talk to him. Is Dan here?”

  “No. I mean, not that I know of. Haven’t seen him in, like, a week.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “Well, he missed his shift. That’s why I’m here. Last couple shifts, they called me in. I’m just covering. Normally, I work nights.”

  “Is he okay?” asked Morales. “Last time you saw him, how was he?”

  Chris shrugged. “I don’t know. Seemed fine, I guess.”

  “He give any indication where he might be going or why he wouldn’t be coming in?”

  “No, man. I mean, like, I hardly know him. We just cross paths and stuff. I come, he goes, that kinda thing.”

  “What sort of a guy is he? Moves around a lot?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Well, listen,” said Jarsdel. “If he comes back, will you tell him to give us a call? Maybe give him this?” He was about to hand over a card, then paused and added another. “You know what? Take two, just in case. And call us, okay? If he comes in.”

  Chris nodded, taking the cards and putting them in a pocket on his change belt. The detectives thanked him and left.

  They were almost outside when Jarsdel froze. Morales walked ahead a few feet before realizing he wasn’t beside him, then turned, frowning.

  “What? Thought you were hungry. Got some old Skee-Ball tickets you wanna cash in?”

  “Something.”

  “What?” Morales came back into the arcade and stepped closer. “Say again?”

  “I thought…” Jarsdel crossed back to the prize counter.

  Chris was rearranging a tray of cheap sunglasses, making sure all the lenses faced outward.

  Jarsdel peered at his coin belt. “Excu
se me,” he said when Chris looked up. He pointed at the coin belt. “What’re those?”

  “Huh?” He looked to where Jarsdel was indicating. “These? Just change. For the customers.”

  “I know that,” said Jarsdel. “I mean those.” He leaned over the counter, almost touching one of the steel cylinders at the teen’s waist.

  “Oh. These are for testing the machines. Like when someone tells me one of the games is down and I have to check it out. Or when a game eats someone’s quarter and I have to give him a credit. You know, so we don’t count ’em along with the rest of the money.”

  “Makes sense.” Jarsdel dug in his own pocket and brought out a quarter. “You mind if I trade you for one of those?”

  “What for?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Chris hesitated. “Okay,” he said. “I guess.” He flicked a tab at the base of the cylinder, dispensed one of the coins, and handed it to Jarsdel, who gave him his own in exchange.

  “What was that about?” asked Morales when the two met up again.

  “Here,” said Jarsdel, holding out a closed fist. Reflexively, Morales put out his palm to receive it, and Jarsdel dropped the red quarter into his hand.

  Chapter 17

  One of the fluorescent bulbs in Gavin’s office was dying. It hummed behind its frosted plastic screen, flickering in erratic little fits. As Morales and Jarsdel spoke, the lieutenant continually shot angry glances at the fixture, once glaring at it with such ferocity that Morales paused.

  The flickering eventually stopped, and Gavin turned to the detectives. “Yeah? Okay?”

  “I was saying, sir, that it’s looking like a longer road ahead. We don’t have nearly enough to begin extradition proceedings on Punyawong and the kid, so for now, they’re out of our reach, even for questioning.”

  Gavin cleared his throat and straightened in his seat. “And you’re pretty sure they’re in, uh…”

  “Thailand, yeah. We got the flight info.”

  “Do we even have an extradition treaty with Thailand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fine. But what I’m not getting is what your theory is at this point. What exactly do you think happened? Who’s the responsible party?”