Sufficiently pleased with himself, Matty trotted to the bar area. The room was lined with a dark mahogany floor and full brick ceiling. There were zero windows, which gave Matty the feeling this would be the perfect spot for a hipster photo shoot or, in this case, a drug dealer. Matty took a seat at the large central bar next to a group of young men and women conspicuously dressed in all black. "What's up with you folks," he said as he sat down, "rob a bank or something?"
One of the men turned towards him, laughing, "Good guess! We're actually theater nerds. Our musical wrapped up its final show in L.A. last night. This is our official wrap party. Next week we're moving on to Dallas!"
"Oh cool, where have you been staying?"
"Upstairs," the man said, "We're basically regulars here. Our producer worked out a deal with the bar to let us hang out here and party at a discount. It's kind of a win-win that way: the production staff always knows where we are, and we get a swanky place to hang out."
"Well, you've got that right. But this is just my starting off point for the night. I'm actually looking for a little something to take the edge off."
The man grinned. "Well . . . funny story . . . my castmates and I were here a few weeks ago, bored and looking for a good time. The bar is kitschy and all, but we wanted something a little more . . . calibrated . . . if you get what I'm saying.
"Oh yeah," Matty said, "so what did you find?"
"There's a lady that hangs out in Valentino's Lounge on the weekends, towards last call.
"Valentino's Lounge?"
"It's the ultra-cool speakeasy in the back," the actor said, pointing to a hidden door in the back. "Ask for Marlowe. She'll hook you up."
"Cool, thanks."
Matty looked at the bartender. "Whiskey sour, please."
"Sure thing," he replied.
There was nothing worse than being in a public setting with no friends and no cell phone. Practically unheard of in Los Angeles. Matty took out his phone and tried to send another text message to Zeke. "Where are you?" he wrote. But when his message didn't send he noticed that his phone didn't have any reception. Basement, darn, he thought to himself.
After getting his drink Matty chatted up the bartender a bit. "So," he asked the bartender, "I've heard you guys will give away a finger of 'The Jack Walker' to anyone with the cajones to ask."
"You heard right," the bartender said, pulling a fancy looking glass bottle out from underneath the bar. He poured a dark brown liquor into a shot glass and passed it to Matty. No time like the present, he said to himself before throwing back his head and downing the liquor.
"Honestly," he said to the bartender, "it kind of all tastes the same to me." He grabbed his drink and made his way to Valentino's lounge.
Behind the hidden door was a small room, even more dimly lit than the central bar. Inside were a few overstuffed leather sofas, a small wet bar, and a woman sitting in the far corner. She had a jet black mohawk and a was wearing a Ramones shirt.
"Marlowe?" Matty said, walking up to the woman.
"Who's asking?"
"Someone looking for a good time."
"What, you think I'm a hooker or something?" the woman responded.
"What? No! The theater folks told me that you were selling—"
"Yeah, yeah. I'm just pulling your chain. Take a seat, I think I can help you out."
"I'm Matty, pleased to meet you."
"I bet you are. I'm Marlowe, as you know, and I can sell you anything your heart desires."
"I see that you don't have a drink. Can I get you anything?"
"Nah, I'm okay. I don't drink."
"That's kind of a weird line to draw in the sand for someone in your occupation, isn't it?" Matty quipped.
"What the hell do you want, Matty?"
"Information, actually. I'm looking into—"
"You a cop?"
"Look at me," Matty said, pointing to his long hair, handlebar mustache, and manicured beard, "do I look like a cop?"
"From the wild west maybe."
"I'm looking for information on Victor Mikulski."
Marlowe paused, looked Matty up and down, and continued. "What for?"
"You probably heard about the Cahill case?"
"Yeah."
"Well, my firm is representing the guy they arrested. But we have it on good authority that Mikulski was stalking Cahill at work, perhaps even harassing her. An associate told us that you're one of Mikulski's distributors. Figured you might know a thing or two about it."
"And what makes you think I'd flip on my own boss?"
"You're too punk rock to care what your boss thinks. And I've got a feeling that if he was doing this to Cahill, he was doing it to other women too."
Marlowe sat silently for a few minutes. Matty figured that he had jumped the shark and she was waiting for her backup to arrive before she spoke up again.
"You're right about being punk rock. I don't give two shits about what Mikulski or anyone else thinks of me. But you're wrong about Cahill. She wasn't being harassed, at least not in the way that you think. She was deeply in debt to Mikulski."
"I figured she was a high roller, given her acting career."
"Problem was Mikulski financed her entire career. Mikulski gave Cahill her first big break, but he was taking a whole lot off the top of her pay. He bought her a house in Beverly Hills, cars, clothes even. All of it was on condition that she continue working and pumping out those Lindsey Delmonico cashgrabs. They were both making money—Milkski more so than Cahill—for a little bit, until Cahill's drug addiction pushed her over the edge."
"How did that happen?"
"Well, given the fact that you're sitting in front of me, you already know it's L.A.'s worst kept secret Mikulski is running a drug ring in West L.A. He's sells mostly to the entertainment types: actors, directors, producers, and their entourage. Cahill, as I hear it, was from a tiny town in the middle of Texas. She was overwhelmed by what fame brought her: papparzzi, endless critcism on social media, a few film flops. So, she dipped her toe into a world she knew nothing about, and not too long after that she was in the hole even further to Mikulski."
"How do you know all this?"
"I was her dealer."
Lucky break, Matty thought to himself. "Couldn't Mikulski just cancel her debt? She was working for him anyways?"
"That's not how Victor Mikulski rolls. He didn't become a high-powered film executive by turning away good money. Cahill was his golden goose, yes, and he was determined to squeeze every last penny out of her celebrity."
"I've heard she hired a security detail a few weeks before the murder."
"That's half true. Mikulski hired Cahill a security detail, but it wasn't for her own safety. He needed a way to keep tabs on her, in case she tried to runaway. She came here a couple times after they started, though. Apparently, they didn't care she was using, as long as they knew where she was."
"You were still selling to Cahill?"
"Up until the bitter end, yeah. Mikulski apparently didn't really care about her personal well-being, just that she was able to pay off her debts."
"Wow," Matty said, "he must have ice in his veins."
"Sure does, but I guess I do too. I knew everything that was happening. But this is my job. It's this or being a starving artist, you know."
"So, given the amount of money she was making him, Mikulski probably saw her as being worth more alive than dead."
"On its face, yeah. That's unless she really called it quits. He couldn't actually force her to act in his movies. VMK had taken a fat life insurance policy out on Cahill. I wouldn't be surprised if Victor has already cashed the check."
Matty checked his phone, still nothing. "Well," he said, "this was a lot more than I was expecting."
"The whole thing is tragic, really. But this is what Los Angeles looks like underneath all the glitz and glamour. It's just money and vices. Everything else is just for show."
"So, now what?"
"Look, I can't
say for sure that Victor was involved in her death. But things definitely seem fishy. The truth is Victor Mikulski can't be beat. Every major player in this town is on his payroll, one way or another."
"Well, we still have to try."
"Sure you do. Watch your back, Victor's got a lot of friends."
Matty finished his drink and stood up.
"It was a pleasure to meet you, Marlowe," Matty said, extending his hand.
"Likewise," she replied, ignoring his open palm, "do me a favor and don't come back."
Matty put his hands in his pockets and walked out of the lounge. The wrap party must have moved somewhere else, because the place was nearly empty.
He walked outside and up the stairs, hoping that he would be able to get reception. It was 2:15am and he still hadn't heard from Zeke.
February 26th, 9:45pm
Zeke felt the car stop and a garage door close behind them. He thought it had been about 20 minutes, but he’d lost all sense of direction after leaving Little Tokyo. They were almost certainly still in Los Angeles—the city was simply too sprawling—but where, exactly, Zeke couldn't be sure.
"You can take it off now," the man said, "get out."
Zeke took off the bag and sat up. They were in a well stocked mechanic's garage. Car parts lined the walls. There were at least 6 car ports, with two or three motorcycles parked in each.
"Where are we?" Zeke asked as he got out of the car.
"What the hell do you think the bag was for?"
It was worth a shot, Zeke said to himself. Zeke hadn't been kidnapped since his ex-girlfriend made him the designated driver on a shopping haul with three of her friends. The night had ended at one of her friend's friend's art galleries and several bottles of wine. Zeke preferred being kidnapped at gunpoint.
The man walked to a door at the back of the garage and gestured Zeke through. "He's ready, let's go."
Zeke walked down a hallway lined with wood paneling and yellow shag carpet. On the walls hung dozens of old photographs of women in front of motorcycles, cars, mansions, and piles of cash. Also displayed were photos of tattoos and biker gear. Zeke could just make out one of the biker vests reading "Inland Widows."
He could hear voices up ahead. One person said, "and what the hell do we do with him when we're done?"
"We're back," the man said behind him, "I've got the lawyer."
Zeke and the man walked into a large living room with a vaulted ceiling. Inside were about a dozen women sitting on couches, chairs, and stools. A few were smoking cigarettes or drinking beer. One woman sat at a card table near the fireplace. She was wearing a motorcycle cut that read "President."
"Blackbird?" she asked.
"In the flesh," Zeke replied.
"Thanks for coming."
"He didn't give me much choice."
"Good, that's what I'm paying him for." She turned to the man, "thanks Eric, that'll be all for now." He grunted and walked into a back room.
"How was your date?"
"Short. How did you find me?"
"We own several businesses in Downtown, mostly for laundering money. But really, who doesn't love sushi?"
Bad luck, Zeke thought.
"Also, we had Eric follow you. We don't take chances. But really, how was your date?"
"Things were going well until you friend showed up."
"Yeah, sorry about that. Believe it or not, I told them to give you guys enough time to enjoy yourselves."
"How generous. What am I doing here?" Zeke asked, trying to play it calm and collected. On the inside, though, he was a mess.
"We've been following your client's case. How's Alex doing, anyways?"
"Mr. Garcia is fine. He asserts his innocence—"
"You don't need to preach to me kid. I don't really care either way. My interest is in Victor Mikulski."
"What about him," Zeke asked.
"First, allow me a few introductions," she said, standing up from the table, and grabbing a baseball bat from the mantle above the fireplace. "You're at the headquarters of L.A.'s first and only female biker gang, The Inland Widows. We've run drugs and guns in the Inland Empire, East L.A., and Downtown for nearly two decades. I'm Rebecca Cuneo, current Widows president. These," she said, pointing the bat at the rest of the women, "are my sisters."
"It's a pleasure," he said to the group.
"About two years ago a bunch of our distributors Downtown started getting heat from what we thought was a rival gang. We've determined, however, that the rival gang is actually VMK studios, led by Victor Mikulski."
"I see."
"When I heard about the Cahill murder, I knew immediately that Victor's side-business must be involved." Vicki tapped the bat on the ground, rhythmically. "Even if it wasn't, I assumed the ensuing investigation would undercover his criminal enterprise. But that doesn't appear to have happened."
"I can say with certainty that the District Attorney is convinced Mr. Garcia is responsible for the murder. As far as I can tell they didn't much look into Mikulski."
"And that's where you come in. I'm willing to offer your client a deal. In exchange for protection at Twin Towers Jail, we'd like you to bring Mikulski's side hobby to light."
"How do you suggest I do that?"
"You just need to keep doing what you're doing. We know that you've met with his right-hand man, Wainwright, and one of his distributors in the Fashion District. Clearly you're developing your own theory of the case that involves Mikulski."
"So, if this thing goes to trial, you want me to pin it on Mikulski?"
"That's the long and short of it, yes. Even if the cops don't arrest him, a public trial would draw enough heat that he would be forced to reduce his operations. It's just what we need to reestablish ourselves Downtown."
"Look, Ms. Cuneo, even if I could do what you're asking—and I'm not saying I can—how exactly would you give him protection? You know he's staying in the all-male wing, right?"
Vicki swung the bat at a lamp, causing the rest of the room to cringe. It exploded into shattered glass. "Don't be stupid, Zeke. We've got muscle in nearly every men's and women's jail and prison from Blythe to Pelican Bay. Sure, only the women can be members, but we don't discriminate when it comes to making money. Alex is in 141-B at Twin Towers, right?
"I think so. How do you know?"
"It was actually one of our guys that Alex beat up. We would've—"
"I'm sorry, what?"
"You haven't heard?" Rebecca laughed, "Happened a few days ago. Alex took on my biggest distributor in Twin Towers—a big oaf named Jimmer—and won. We would've ordered a hit on him if we hadn't found out he was the suspect in Cahill's murder.
Shit, Zeke thought to himself, I'm really dropping the ball with Alex. "So what do you mean by protection?"
"Well, usually we would just have our guys jump him into their gang, extending an umbrella of protection over him while he's there. We are in a unique position, here, since it was Jimmer that was apparently beating up on him. The guards are on our payroll too, so we'll make sure they don't report the scuffle to the District Attorney. Then we'll make sure that Jimmer keeps his distance from your client. I have a couple of guys in 141-B, so I'll make sure he's well taken care of. All you have to do is your job."
Zeke was stunned. A few minutes ago, he was half certain any number of the potential enemies he's made in the past two weeks would try to off him. But here he was with what seemed like a winning proposition: keep investigating Mikulski and ensure Alex's safety. But there was a small snag.
"You are aware this is isn't strictly legal, right?"
"And you're aware that I'm the leader of drug smuggling biker gang, right?"
"Fair point. But I'm a brand-new attorney. If the police found out, let alone the California Bar, they could throw me in prison and strip me of my license."
"I see. Well, you'd be investigating Mikulski anyway, so I'll take your response as a no," Vicki said, winking, "and just go ahead and still do it."
>
"I guess I can't stop you."
"That's exactly right. And be aware, if Alex pleads out or you go after someone else during his defense," she drew a finger across her neck, "we'll be going in a different direction. Understood?"
"Clear as crystal," Zeke replied.
"Best of luck with your case, Mr. Blackbird. Impressive that you're working on a murder case as such a young attorney."
"It's suicide, really," Zeke said.
"It very well could be."
February 27th, 1:30am
It was nearly 5am when Eric stopped the car. Zeke again removed the bag from his head and got out of the car, realizing they were back in Little Tokyo. Eric handed Zeke his cell phone and sped off down 2nd Street. He turned onto South Central Avenue and away from view.
What the hell just happened, Zeke thought. He checked his phone. Matty and Lexi had sent dozens of messages asking where he was. He sent Lexi a text saying that he was absolutely fine and would call her in a few hours. He called Matty, wondering if he'd ended up going to Dirty Laundry.
"Where the hell have you been?" Matty asked.
"Long night," Zeke said as he got into his car. "Yourself?" Zeke replied.
"Same here. Made a new friend."
"Me too. Sort of."
"Well, mine has a mohawk and leather jacket."
"Mine is in a biker gang." Zeke started his car and began to pull out of the parking lot.
"Sweet," Matty said.
"We need to talk as soon as possible. Can you meet me at the office this afternoon? I just need to get some sleep—"
Zeke paused. There was another car in the garage. It was distinct. A purple mustang. It was running and its headlights were on, but it had tinted windows. Zeke couldn't tell who was inside.
"I think I'm being followed," he said to Matty.
"Figures, the more I find out about this job the more I don't like it. Who do you think it is?"
"Not sure. They have interesting taste, though. Could be my new friends, but I don't think so. Media, maybe?" Zeke hadn't done a very good job keeping in contact with the major news studios. They were running stories about the case daily, but he hadn't had too much time to field their questions.
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