Try Darkness

by James Scott Bell

  Oscar said, “Not now, Disco. Got business.”

  Then Disco said, “You want to find the guy that killed her?”

  89

  OSCAR’S CHIN DROPPED. “What’d you just say?”

  “I seen the guy, yeah, I seen him, mumbuddy.”

  “You can talk?” I said.

  Disco flashed a hard look at me. “Mumbuddy!”

  “Better let me,” Oscar said. To Disco: “What are you telling me, Freddy? That you saw the guy who killed 414?”

  Disco Freddy nodded.

  “What did he look like?” Oscar said.

  “Mr. Buddy Ebsen!”

  I shook my head. Buddy Ebsen? I thought I recalled him from an old movie I watched with Jacqueline once. Maybe a Shirley Temple. He was a dancer. That’s why Disco Freddy was saying this.

  “Nice try, Oscar,” I said.

  Disco Freddy did a turn.

  Oscar grabbed Freddy’s shoulders to stop him. “Freddy, listen to me. What do you mean you saw a guy who looks like Buddy Ebsen?”

  “Buddy Ebsen! The greatest dancer of all time! Loosey goosey!” Disco Freddy started to flap his arms. He looked like a heron made of rubber.

  “I think he saw somethin’,” Oscar said to me.

  To Disco Freddy I said, “Hey, man, was the guy white or black?”

  “Buddy Ebsen . . .”

  “Yeah, Buddy Ebsen. Was he white or was he black?”

  Disco Freddy shrugged. “Saw him from the back.”

  “Okay,” I said. “What did he have on his head?”

  “Head?”

  “Yeah. Was he wearing anything on his head?”

  Disco Freddy frowned, took a step back, spun around one time. “Over the rainbow!”

  “Whoa,” I said. “You mean a rainbow hat? Different colors?”

  Disco Freddy nodded. I looked at Oscar. “Now I think he saw something, too.”

  “Where’d you see him?” Oscar said.

  “Mumbuddy.”

  “Come on, Freddy.”

  “Mumbuddy!”

  I looked at the ceiling.

  “Why don’t you just show us?” Oscar said.

  Disco Freddy jumped, then crouched, then went into a soft shoe. Leading toward the stairs.

  Oscar looked at me. “Let’s go,” he said.

  90

  FREDDY DANCED UP to the second floor, shouting “Mr. James Cagney!” all the way.

  Yankee Doodle Freddy.

  We came to the second-floor corridor. It was long and narrow and gray, except for the white wainscoting that spoke of an earlier era. Most of these downtown hotels had been fashionable once.

  A music mix blared. Somebody was pumping out gangsta, and somebody else had Tony Bennett on full blast. So a lovely street ode to ho’s and weed was bucking right up against Tony telling everybody to forget their troubles and, come on, get happy.

  Sitting against the corridor wall was a young African-American woman with a child, a boy about eight, who was rolling a fire engine back and forth on the floor. She looked our way with sleepy eyes, and then I knew it wasn’t sleep that was in them. She’d had her morning fix.

  Disco stopped and pointed to the end of the hall.

  Oscar said, “Down there is where you saw him?”

  Disco nodded.

  “Show us.”

  Disco started dancing down the corridor in little circles, left arm out, saying, “Dancing with the lovely Leslie Caron! Mumbuddy.”

  It was hard to imagine him dancing with Leslie Caron to the tune-stew of gangsta rap and Tony Bennett. But by this time I knew Disco had his own inner band. The question was, could he communicate with the outside world? Meaning me.

  The boy with the fire engine looked at us with suspicion. The mother—I assumed she was his mother—just stared, not focusing.

  At the end of the corridor was a window and an exit door. Out the window was a fire escape. The window itself was locked. Didn’t look like it had been opened since the fifties.

  I pushed the bar on the exit door, opened it to the stairwell. “Are these doors locked on the outside?”

  “No,” Oscar said. “Some secure building, uh?”

  “So this guy you saw,” I said to Disco, “was he going out or coming in?”

  “Dancing!” Disco said.

  “He was dancing?”

  “Everybody dances in Disco’s mind,” Oscar said. “Some are just better than others.”

  I watched Disco bow, back away, then do what can only be described as a Bizarro World buck and wing. He shot his legs out at the same time, his arms akimbo.

  Then he winced and fell to the ground, grabbing his groin.

  Oscar grunted, shook his head, then knelt down to help Disco up. “Fred Astaire pull a muscle?”

  “Mumbuddy,” Disco said.

  “That’s right,” Oscar said.

  “Is there anything else you can tell us, Disco?” I said.

  “Owweee.”

  “I’m gonna take him to his room,” Oscar said.

  “I’ll be in touch,” I told him.

  Oscar held Disco’s arm and the star of the Lindbrook ballroom limped off with him.

  I went through the exit.

  91

  I TOOK THE stairwell all the way down, then pushed open the door. It opened up to an alley that ran behind the hotel, emptying out into Sixth Street to the right. The door locked and denied access from the alley.

  So what was accomplished? Not much. If Disco Freddy had indeed seen the killer, it was likely he’d seen the guy on the way out. The question would then be, what was he doing on the second floor?

  Or, the guy could have been coming in, which would mean having access from the alley.

  Or Disco Freddy could have been on his own little dance floor in his own little universe, taking us all along with him.

  Whatever it was, it wasn’t much. Not anything you could go to the cops with.

  I went back to the entry and this time the Munchkin didn’t do a thing. I went back up to the second floor. The woman and child were gone.

  I knocked on a couple of doors and talked to a couple of guys—one a young actor from Iowa, the other an ex–city parks worker. Neither one saw anyone in a Rasta hat. Both told me Disco Freddy was not the most reliable source.

  Like I needed to be told.

  92

  ON MY WAY out I found Oscar back in the lobby, frowning at a newspaper.

  “Oscar, you loved being a cop.”

  “I did.”

  “Then do me a favor. Question folks. Casual. See if they saw anyone come in or go out with a Rasta hat on. Would you consider doing that for me?”

  He smiled and tossed the paper aside. “I been looking for something to do besides this Sudoku, which is from the pit of hell.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Good to be back in the saddle.”

  93

  I DROVE TO Inglewood and talked to James Kingman’s brother, Silas. He was a teacher at Inglewood High, history. I met him at the school, where he was expecting me. He had a fifty-minute break. We sat in his room and, with Washington and Jefferson and Lincoln looking down from posters, I grilled him.

  I had to grill him. I had to ask him about the times he was with James and the other people who could provide that information.

  The nice part was that Silas would make a very credible witness for his brother. The not so nice part was that might not be enough. James spent Wednesday night at his brother’s house. There were witnesses to that. But on Thursday Silas was teaching. There was a long stretch James would have to account for.

  I didn’t think James killed Avisha. But I had to get some good alibi evidence together.

  That or find the real killer. Because my thought, the one that wouldn’t go away, was that the killings were related.

  Reatta. Avisha. Same guy maybe did both.

  94

  AMONG THE THINGS I care least about in this world are the travails of Britney Spears, sumo wrestling
, and being seen in the hottest clubs in L.A.

  If NASA engineers could design the greatest waste of human time and energy, it would be a lot like trying to look cool enough to be seen as not trying to look cool.

  Even though here it becomes a battle of hip, and there’s nothing sadder than being an unhip hipster in L.A. Sort of like showing up at the prom with an unzipped fly you never notice.

  So people stress over the hippest clubs to go to.

  Sunset Strip used to be hip but has fallen on hard times. It’s “maturing,” some say, which, to hip, means death. Now Hollywood is giving the Strip a run. The dive bars have been cleaned up and the architecture is cooler, so it’s getting a younger crowd these days.

  On the Strip, even thrash metal venues get the yuppies in button-down shirts, which the rockers deplore. They migrate east to avoid yuppie cooties.

  They go over to Hollywood, join a crowd that considers itself more authentic, outfitted in true rock-punk-hip-hop-new-wave-techno-glam style. Avoiding the open fly at all costs, for to lose an ounce of hipness here is to die a little.

  Todd McLarty, Sister Mary managed to find out, preferred the Cahuenga corridor to the Strip, even though he was now pushing forty. Going Hollywood was a way to keep the edge for him, I guess.

  And his favorite hangout was the Ninth Circle, just off the boulevard.

  So that’s where I went, fighting the crush of cars and getting into a parking lot near Franklin. Clubbers everywhere. All trying hard to look as if they know what’s going on.

  The line was long, but I wasn’t going to wait regardless. I went to the velvet rope where a wrestler with a dome for a head stood with his earpiece and look of practiced venom.

  He gave me withering look #4.

  “That’s good,” I said.

  “What is?” Withering voice #3a.

  “You. You’re good at your job. Ben and I need to see a guy.”

  “I need to see Ben.”

  I gave him the hundred. He asked me to open my coat. Looked me over and then let me into the Ninth Circle.

  95

  THE BEAT WAS fully amped. There was dancing and grinding and the smell of the hormonal. Booths lined two walls, lit in low copper color. I went to the bar and squeezed between two stools and ordered a Coke. I wasn’t here to party or loosen up or get warm.

  The first sip didn’t make my lips. It made the front of my shirt. A woman on my left had snorted a laugh and reared back, hitting my elbow.

  To her credit, she immediately turned around and, with the laugh still passing from her face, said, “Sorry!”

  “Must have been a good one,” I said.

  “What was?”

  “The joke.”

  “Oh that.” If she was twenty-one, it was barely. She had short dark hair and olive skin. “We were just talking about that vid on YouTube, the CEO who dropped his pants during the board meeting. Seen it?”

  “Darn, I missed that one.”

  “Oh, it is out there.”

  “Note to self.”

  “You’ll love it,” she said. “So what do you do?”

  “I’m a weaver of dreams.”

  “Huh?”

  “Lawyer.”

  “Cool.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “When is it not cool?” She leaned her head in her hand and put her elbow on the bar top.

  “Well, you know what a lawsuit is, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s where you go in a pig and come out a sausage.”

  She stared at me. “Really?” It sounded like “Rilly.”

  “Metaphorically.”

  “You talk funny.”

  “I’ve been told.”

  “I want to go to law school someday.”

  “Rilly?” I said.

  She nodded.

  “That’s one thing this society needs,” I said. “More lawyers. You can never have too many lawyers.”

  “How do you do it? How do you get to be a lawyer?”

  “Well, first you have to go to law school. Have you graduated yet?”

  “Yeah. Three years ago.”

  “Pretty young for college, weren’t you?”

  “High school.”

  “Ah. Where are you doing your undergrad?”

  “You mean college?”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “I have to go to college first?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Rilly?”

  “Rilly.”

  “That is not fair.”

  I took a sip of Coke and considered my answer carefully. I am a weaver of dreams. “You’ll make a good lawyer someday.”

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Buchanan. What’s yours?”

  “Nora.” She stuck her hand out. I shook it.

  “You know this place pretty well?” I said.

  “I come here all the time.”

  “You ever see Todd McLarty here?”

  “Oh yeah. And Heather and Brit and Brad and everybody.”

  “Let me buy you a drink,” I said. “While I wait.”

  “Are you Todd’s lawyer?”

  “Not yet, but who knows?”

  “You’re the leaver of dreams,” she said.

  That seemed to be a better fit, so I let it stand.

  96

  I BOUGHT NORA a martini and she made me talk about being a lawyer, which I can do even without alcohol. Five minutes after that she looked at the door and said, “There he is.”

  McLarty was with his retinue—a blond mannequin model type hanging on to him, almost wearing a tight black dress. Another couple of the same ilk was with them, laughing it up as they got shown to a booth.

  A large African-American male with a proportionally large head full of hair, dressed all in black, stood near the booth, scanning the crowd. I watched him for a minute. A couple of giggling young ladies scurried up to the booth and the large man put up his hand. It was the size of a canned ham. He talked to them and they looked like they were pleading. He shook his head and talked a little more and the ladies hung their heads and walked away.

  “He’s always got the big guy with him,” Nora said. “You never know.”

  “I left my bodyguard at home,” I said.

  “You have a bodyguard?”

  “Doesn’t everybody?”

  “You’re funny. What’s he look like, your bodyguard?”

  “She. A nun.”

  “Now you’re just playing me.”

  “Only a little,” I said. “I think this nun can take care of herself. I play basketball with her.”

  At McLarty’s table a server came by with a silver bucket and champagne. McLarty started on the cork.

  “Nice meeting you, Nora,” I said.

  She slipped me a card. “Call me.”

  That hadn’t happened in a while. I tucked the card in my pocket and made my way across the dance floor and up to the large man with the hair. I nodded at him. He glared at me. I handed him my card. He looked at it, handed it back. Said nothing.

  “I need to talk to him,” I said. Shouted actually.

  The man shook his head.

  “He’ll want to talk to me.”

  Shook his head again.

  “Let’s ask him,” I said. I didn’t even get a full step in before the big hand thumped my chest and pushed me backward.

  “Let the man have a good time,” he said.

  “I have some news. Very important to him. Tell him.”

  “Tell him what?”

  “Just say Tawni.”

  He pulled back and looked at me without comprehension.

  “Tawni,” I repeated. “Go ahead.”

  “What’s Tawni?”

  “He’ll know.”

  Behind the guy I could see the champagne being poured. It was Cristal.

  The big man shook his head again. He was really good at that.

  “Trust me,” I said. “He will want to know.”

  The guy t
urned around and gestured at McLarty. Then he leaned over and talked into his ear. As he did, McLarty looked at me. He did not look happy. He said something to his bodyguard. The guy turned back to me and said, “Let’s go outside.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “You can talk out there.”

  “You can break my fingers out there.”

  Then he smiled and nodded. He could nod, too. “Not gonna, though. He’ll talk to you out there.”

  McLarty downed his champagne in a big gulp and started talking to his mannequin.

  The big guy encouraged me with a hand on my arm. It felt like a skip loader.

  97

  THERE WERE SOME smokers out in the back, and another big guy at the door checking on those who went out. The big guy at the door nodded at the big guy who was with me. They were probably in the same union.

  A minute later McLarty came out and immediately lit a smoke. He seemed nervous. He had an ex-addict look to him. His forearms were a little too thin, sticking out of his striped polo like, well, a couple of thicker stripes.

  “So what’s this all about?” he said.

  “You want to talk with your man here?” I said.

  McLarty thought about it. “Maybe you better let me take this alone.”

  The big guy said, “You sure?”

  “It’s okay.”

  The guy went back to talk with his twin at the door.

  “So,” McLarty said to me. “You got my attention. What do you want?”

  “Then Tawni rings a real bell with you.”

  “I didn’t say anything like that. Who’s Tawni?”

  I smiled. “You’re a good actor but not that good.”

  He eyed me through a haze of smoke. “I repeat, why am I listening to you?”

  “The name Tawni must mean something to get you away from the Crissy for half a second and out here with me.”

  McLarty sucked smoke, blew it out fast. “You got something to say to me, let’s hear it.”

  “I’m looking for information,” I said. “Here’s what I know. I know you and Tawni were kind of tight for a while.”

  “Who’s Tawni?”

  “You want me to just go to the blogs with the information I have?”