by Jack Adler
For a moment her face was frozen as if she were uncertain about the anatomical significance of my remark, but then she smiled. "Good."
"I'm glad I'm contributing to your social life."
Stacy nodded, not bothered at all by my comment. "You should come to L.A. more often," she said, letting a tiny grin escape. "Maybe you bring me luck. But come under better circumstances," she hastily added.
I'm the one who needs some luck, I thought, as a feeling of irony swept through my mind. But I didn't want to continue on this topic. Given my reprieve, I had to call the Young Voters back and prepare my little talk.
Finally, Rona had been sloppy, Holly thought. One toilet had gotten clogged, and evidently they didn't want to risk calling a plumber. Luke was still trying to fix the toilet, but he complained he didn't have the right tools. Bender rejected the suggestion to go out to buy them. Consequently, they were all sharing the same bathroom. Despite her searches Holly had never found anything she could use as a weapon or even a writing instrument. But now Rona had apparently dropped a nail file in the wastepaper basket. The only reason she found the file, covered with soiled tissues, was because her comb had fallen off the counter into the basket.
The question now was where to put the file so that it wouldn't be discovered. If she kept it on her and Rona somehow noticed the file was missing, she would surely be patted down. They would search the entire house, and they were good at finding things. What about her clothing? Few options there, she concluded. Even if she had a needle and thread, it would be hard to conceal such a sharp instrument. Using her body cavities was out, too. The thought was repellent, and anyway, she would only wind up hurting herself.
In what she considered an inspiration, Holly looked at her shoes. With mounting interest she picked up a shoe. She stared at it as if might speak to her. She turned it upside down and then upright again. Gently, she shoved the file underneath the lining, trying not to rip the thin cloth. She then put her foot into the shoe and stood on it. Good! She could feel the file a bit but without any great discomfort.
She'd have to risk disclosure. At this point, what else could they do to her?
****
Bender and Rona slipped into Shuster's bookstore headquarters on Wilshire Boulevard just as he was getting ready to leave. They had parked across the street and waited until all the employees left him alone in the store. It was already dark. Cars sped by during rush hour, and even pedestrians strode by; some stopped to window-shop.
Inside the store, Bender pretended he knew just what he wanted and asked for the biography of J. Edgar Hoover while Rona appeared to just be waiting near the entrance gazing at a rack of discounted books behind the large plateglass window.
"Oh, good, I don't have to search for that one," Shuster said. "We were just about to close."
"Thanks," Bender said in an amiable tone. "It's a gift for a friend, but it doesn't have to be gift wrapped."
Bender followed Shuster to a ceiling-high bookcase in the back of the store while Rona kept a sharp lookout for anyone else who might enter. As Shuster searched the middle shelf for the book, Bender extracted a pistol. Meanwhile, Rona had come inside, closed the door and posted a Closed sign.
"Here it is," Shuster said, pulling a book out. He gingerly stepped down on the ladder, his body facing the bookcase.
"Indeed it is," Bender said, shooting Shuster in the back of his head before he turned to face him. Blood and brain matter splattered on the Hoover book and other volumes as Shuster fell to the floor.
Bender left a note on Shuster’s chest.
PAYBACK FOR ART LEBON!
THE REAL PATRIOTS
****
I met Val, for a change, on my side of the hills, not that anyone would see a great difference. Too much fuss was always made about the San Fernando Valley, and in my limited time there, I hadn’t experienced any so-called valley talk. I suspected, despite petitions and propositions on the ballot about the subject, the valley would never become an independent city. The two sides of the municipal body were too bonded to separate. It would be like dissecting Manhattan from New York City.
The weather tonight was warm enough for short sleeves on both sides of the hills, which weren’t too visible in a lingering haze of smog, another joint possession of these two parts of the sprawling metropolis.
Val had been surprised by my additional reprieve, it seemed, when I finally got a hold of her mid-afternoon. Her reaction didn’t exactly show shock, which disappointed me, but I was getting used to my puerile thoughts about Val and any personal interest she might have in me. I thought of asking her to meet me at the office, but then the notion of her possibly meeting Stacy was unsettling. I didn’t want to give Stacy any basis to think I was playing around on the job, especially since I had been critical of her date with a private detective representing a man threatening legal action against her employer. To some extent, I felt guilty, though I had no reason to be, as Val had been helpful.
We met at a noisy Greek restaurant on Sunset Boulevard filled with trendy men and women engrossed in animated chats. Grape leaves served as a fine appetizer, and the lamb dishes were even tastier. Neither of us were fans of ouzo and settled for just glasses of the house red wine, which though outrageously overpriced, wasn’t bad at all. Val looked radiant as usual in a yellow blouse with black trim and another one of her form-fitting skirts.
I brought her up to date on the latest developments, leaving out the in-house matter of Stacy socializing with Conrad. I had tried to reach Conrad during the day but wound up just leaving a message. He may have tried to reach me, so we might have been playing phone tag.
“Were you surprised they let you stay?” Val asked, digging into her baklava. As usual, I skipped dessert; I didn’t have much of a sweet tooth.
“I was glad,” I said with purposeful simplicity.
For an instant I searched her eyes, feeling like a lovesick juvenile. If she caught my glance, she didn’t show it. Still she said, “So am I.” But there was no sign of any great feeling. She was quite obviously a far better player at emotional poker than I was—if that was the game.
I had titled my minor peroration “Questioning The Questioners.” Ordinarily not a fan of alliteration, I thought the title reflected the point I wanted to make about not blindly accepting ostensibly authoritative statements from public agencies. I didn’t name the police, but I thought their inclusion was obvious. I prepared to back that up with all the documented examples from the past few decades of governmental figures lying and covering up their misdeeds. My point was hardly out of the mainstream of contemporary American thought—at least I hoped it wasn’t. I didn’t want to spend an inordinate amount of time on my talk, either, though Midren had told me they expected fifty to one hundred attendees and that it was likely the press would be there. I figured I’d fine-tune my talk later that night— unless Val had other plans for me, which was doubtful—and then asking Corinne to type it up and fax it to Wolcott the next morning.
“It will work,” Val reassured me.
Then she read my tentative text. “You won’t get any extra driving tickets,” she joked.
“Too weak?” I asked, surprised.
“Not at all. It’s strong, to the point. You’re saying something. I meant it’s not so antipolice that it would get you into more trouble with them.”
I shrugged. I wasn’t worried about driving tickets but about what other little surprises Detective Ruiz might have for me. What was worse, I was wondering what nasty deed the HAP had done or would still do today. When I got back to the hotel and listened to the 11 P.M. news, I found out.
Eleven
TUESDAY
Shuster’s death shook me. There was something about the sincerity and integrity of that elderly man that made me feel the HAP had taken away a valuable resource from society. He was someone I had actually met and shaken hands with. It was a major news item on television, of course, complete with shots of the bookstore and interviews with d
etectives. Ruiz was nowhere to be seen. I read the newspaper story avidly in the morning while having coffee at the office. The quote from Buzz Haley, the film producer, caught my attention. “Ben was a brave man, unlike the cowards who shot him down.” Haley must write the dialogue for some of his movies, I thought, remembering that he seemed less than stalwart in the group’s initial discussion about its mission, statement and possible reward, all of which were the reasons Shuster evidently lost his life.
But who had done it?
There was no evidence of the HAP, but the murder certainly had their signature. I was glad it wasn’t Holly’s signature. The notion of “The Real Patriots” seeking revenge for the murder of Lebon struck me as false. I still thought it was the HAP perhaps trying to stir up confusion and deflect attention away from them. The Shuster group was after the HAP, so it made perfect sense for them to go after Shuster and company. But no one was absolutely sure; a good deal of credence was being given to these ostensibly true patriots. Other than whoever had left the note on Shuster’s body, no one had taken credit for the foul act. At least there was no reference to Holly Baxter, which I had to keep reminding myself was the principal reason for me to be in L.A.
I gave my talk to Corinne to type and fax to Wolcott. Val, unfortunately, said she couldn’t make it to my speech. She wasn’t free for dinner, either, though we tentatively set up a meeting for the following night. I wondered if she was seeing someone, or had been all along. Perhaps her relationship with her police source wasn’t just professional. Feelings of jealously consumed me, and I felt almost as bad for having in a sense betrayed Wolcott, who had always, even if begrudgingly, backed me up. I should have just accepted that Val was catching up on other paying assignments, I reasoned without much success.
I phoned Conrad, who, as expected, had called me back. Again, he didn’t answer, leaving the game of phone tag to continue. We were alike in one sense; neither of us used a cellular phone, and I wondered which of us was more behind the times. I was also afraid of any pillow talk leaks and speculated on just what had transpired between Conrad and Stacy, but I didn’t want to pursue the subject at the moment.
I called Detective Ruiz and asked if he wanted anything else. I managed to keep my voice on an even keel, showing how cooperative Tramerica and I were. He said he’d get in touch if necessary. He was brusque but not unpleasant. Maybe I had graduated up from wiseass and sport.
Stacy ducked into the conference room. “Hey, sailor, want to help a lady out?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I have to make a presentation to a co-op, and it suddenly occurred to me that you could say a few words. Show some support from the home office.”
I only considered her proposal for a moment before agreeing. I didn’t have any important plans for that time, and this way I felt I was doing something useful for the company besides my other work. Wolcott would surely approve. No word had come about the reward, and I wondered if there was some problem.
“BB, did you read Buzz Haley’s remarks?”
Rona held up a copy of the newspaper as Bender nodded. He made it a point to follow the print and electronic media on a daily basis. It was amazing, he thought, how much nonsense was published and aired. A free press was supposed to be a valuable component of a democratic society, but he had to laugh sometimes at how easily the public was misled.
“I think Haley deserves a visit from us, too, seeing as how he contributed to the reward.”
“We can’t go after everyone in that group,” Bender said. “There’s no time, really. We’re going to finish our work here in two days, and we’ve already made our own statement about this group. No one has collected any reward yet, though it wouldn’t make any difference.”
“But Haley is so deserving, and he represents Hollywood and all that trash.”
“That’s all true,” Bender acknowledged. “But we already made our Hollywood statement.”
“But aren’t you going to see about that woman at Tramerica?”
Her trump card, Bender thought. But it was true. He had thought of a way to really shift some of the blame for their deeds to Tramerica. At least he could cause some more confusion and suggest a conspiracy. The press loved conspiracies. While this wasn’t on the scale of Lee Harvey Oswald and the Kennedy assassination, or the other Kennedy assassination, Tramerica was a major company. He could create a stir. After all, they knew the police were already looking further into Tramerica’s role as well as the imaginary group, the Real Patriots. He could read Rona’s mind: he was going out on a solo action, so why shouldn’t she? Plus, he had the authority to give her the go-ahead. But his mission was non-lethal, unlike hers, he thought as he searched for a counterargument.
“Rona, my effort doesn’t involve anyone’s mortality.”
With a shrug, Rona responded, “My effort will also reinforce our work.” She paused a beat. “Come on, BB. I’ll be very careful.”
“OK,” Bender said reluctantly. “As long as we stay on schedule and you don’t do anything stupid.” He didn’t want Rona to think he lacked trust in her to carry out a solo action; in truth, she seemed every inch a professional if he discounted her fights with Holly. “Things will be quiet here. Luke will probably play checkers again with Holly. He’s the only one she comes out of her room to see.”
“Great intellects,” Rona sneered.
“Which one?” Bender said, smiling.
“BB,” Rona said, her expression suddenly becoming contrite, “there’s something else.”
“Something or someone?” Bender asked. He looked at her with apprehension but said nothing. She had worked him first with the film producer, but there was a limit to how far he would let her operate alone.
“I’m missing a nail file,” Rona admitted. “I don’t know where I lost or misplaced it, but I think we’d better check the princess just in case. I’m sorry. I know it was very sloppy of me.”
“OK,” Bender said, almost relieved it wasn’t another outside project Rona had in mind. “I’ll tell Luke to check.” There was no point in chewing Rona out; she knew she had made a mistake, if indeed the nail file had been lost in any of their safe houses. If Holly had found the nail file, she was a fox and might be biding her time to use the tool. It was a good thing they were about to finish the Los Angeles operation; they were all getting itchy.
"I'm not asking you to hide out in your office, but you could reduce your schedule," argued Merch. "The police have recommended extra caution."
"I'm following my normal schedule," Mayor Waldon said. "I think I should be seen doing exactly that. Everyone is expecting me to be where I'm supposed to be, and I'm not going to disappoint them."
"And if you're killed or hurt by these madmen, what message will that send?"
"A grim one," Mayor Waldon said, smiling nonetheless. "It's a risk I'm willing to take. Now what's new with the police? Any new leads?"
"They seem optimistic for a change," Merch said, "but I'm not sure why. I'll check it out."
"Yes, and let me know. This Shuster murder is just compounding the mess. What the hell is going on here?
Merch shook his head. “The jury is still out on that one, chief. The police just aren’t sure.”
Mayor Waldon sniffed the air like it was foul. “Can’t the police function without someone making a phone call or leaving a calling card behind?”
Merch shrugged.
“Now we have an additional problem,” Waldon complained. “With all these shootings and disturbances, we're behind in getting our budget ready. It's not as if the city is shut down, you know . . . despite everything."
Merch nodded. Normalcy in the midst of anarchy? he wondered. Or was a level of anarchy part of the normal fabric of society? They were finding out the hard way, but he admired his boss’ stance, even if he didn’t agree with it. Courage, especially in the political arena, was a rare quality. Another man, or woman, in the mayor’s office might have taken a different approach to the crisi
s.
I looked at it like a warm-up when Stacy introduced me to an audience of travel agents, mostly middle-aged women, at the dark and depressing hotel meeting room. Some colorful artwork would have added to the room’s ambience. I wasn’t an expert, but I had seen enough hotel conference rooms to have a good frame of reference on the subject.
I stood behind the lectern and spoke without notes, mouthing the usual trade message. “Tramerica treasures your work as our partners,” I began. “And the best evidence of that is how promptly your commissions are processed and paid.” I figured that starting off with money couldn’t go wrong, and I could see the agents were receptive. Stacy, standing in a corner, seemed to be nodding in concert.
“We plan,” I went on, intent on maintaining eye contact with members of the audience, “to give you new and very sellable products in the coming year. There are also going to be new video brochures and other collateral material for your use.” Stacy had cleared these points. I went on for a bit more and then closed with a question-and-answer period. Most of the questions were on trade subjects, which Tracy fielded, but one agent, a white-haired woman with a sharp voice, asked, "What do you think will happen with Holly Baxter?"
Other agents looked at her, perhaps surprised at her non-trade question. But they seemed eager for my response. Stacy stood in a sort of coiled silence, and it was clear she wasn’t pleased by this query. This might have been a good moment to announce the reward, but that statement had to come out of New York first.
"I think we're nearing the conclusion of this tragedy one way or another," I said. "The HAP is going to get caught. It's just a matter of time. I just hope it isn't a shoot-out."
Before any follow-up questions could be asked, Stacy came to my rescue with a sales talk on how the co-op members could wring a higher overhead commission from Tramerica for selling its tours.