“Joan! You sleepin’?”
“Hello, Gus. No, I’m awake.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine, just a headache.” I pressed my hand flat across my forehead hoping to hold the pain in place.
“I called to see if you wanted to have breakfast. You know where.”
“Sounds great,” I said.
Within a half hour, I had showered and combed my short wet hair straight back from my forehead. Springy curls sprout from my skull without my even touching it. My morning routine is simple as boot camp. I dabbed a small amount of clear gloss on my lips.
I remembered to strap on my watch, a gold Gucci with a brown leather band. The Cubans had given it to me when I graduated from the police academy a million years ago. It was not an unpleasant memory. I decided on a rich brown Dana Buchman suit for the day. It was about half the price of an Armani and the fit caressed my body. I thought of my grandmother, who would have appreciated the fine tailoring. She could sew anything I thought of. Once, she made me the most beautiful fringe skirt out of a soft suede. Loved that skirt, wonder where it went? Funny how things just disappear when your life changes. Gramma would have approved of the watch as well.
•••
I PULLED UP TO the twenty-four-hour diner located in Beverly Hills and found a parking space right in front. The diner was painted barn-red and had large storefront windows so that you had a view of whoever was sitting at the counter and a number of the booths. Gus liked this joint. Probably because a large supply of pretty Beverly Hills hussies frequented it. They were the kind of women who enjoyed the aspect of exhibition that permeated the place, actresses and models. There weren’t too many women on display this morning. It was a bit early for all that.
Heads turned as I entered the familiar diner, a small reassurance that I wasn’t entirely a washout. Gus was sitting in a booth, surrounded by red leather. For a brief moment, the color sunk into me, rushing into my pupils, saturating my insides. Red stains slid and slipped all over my body. I swallowed and kept walking toward Gus and fought it off. The taste of salt filled my mouth. If I could just get to his gray form and hear his voice, I’d be okay.
Gus had his elbows set solidly on the thick wooden table and he held a coffee mug in one hand. His kind gray eyes looked up when I entered. Seated in his usual booth in the back, he was engulfed in the warm golden glow of an ornate hanging lamp above the table. He was wearing a gray suit. He always wore gray; had a suit in every shade of gray invented.
He gave me a knowing nod as usual. I focused on his eyes and moved toward his comfy warm image, slid across the red leather and basked in his sardonic smile.
“So, how do you like being back?” he asked.
I answered with a wan smile and a furrowed brow. Gus never greets me. He always acts as if we’ve never parted and so there’s no need for “hellos” and “good-byes”, “see ya laters” or “how ya doin’s.” He signaled to the waitress.
“Hey, somebody bring another cup of black water over here, huh?”
People usually did exactly what Gus asked of them and in a hurry. Coffee was steaming under my nose in nanoseconds. My head was still throbbing.
“Gus, you got any aspirins?”
He reached into his pocket, smooth as silk, and pulled out one of those tin holders with six aspirins in it. I took three of them, downed them with the hot coffee, nearly scalding my throat, and handed him back the tin. “Listen, I got you this for your birthday,” he said.
He handed me a new cell phone. One of those fancy iPhones. It wasn’t my birthday. He just said that so I wouldn’t refuse it. Gus lit a cigarette.
“Thanks Gus,” I said, a little overwhelmed. “This is good.”
Gus was trying to tell me, in as many ways as he could, that he was there for me. Even if everyone else turned on me, he’d be behind me. I looked at him sitting before me, pulling another deep drag on his cigarette and giving me the eagle eye.
“Your work was excellent yesterday. I was proud of you,” he said, blowing smoke up into the air.
I grabbed the big diner coffee cup just like the one I had at home and took a big gulp to avoid his gaze. I wanted to buy a couple more of these cups for my house. It’d be good to have a matching set and even one or two extra for guests. I glanced back up at Gus. He was taking another hard drag off the cigarette. Jesus, he was a chain-smoker. I watched the end of the cigarette spark up a bit. Then the curl of smoke, caught in a current from an air vent, did a fierce dance above his gray head. How had he convinced this diner to let him smoke? I smiled at him and spun the coffee cup round and round in nervous agitation.
“I need to use the head,” he said. “Be right back.”
He got up, took a couple of long-legged strides, and was gone.
Somewhere a busboy threw dishes into a sink. I winced with pain and kept my eyes closed for a moment. If I could get rid of this headache and get some protein in my system, I’d be okay. I pulled out one of the blue-and-white cards and reviewed the information. I made a point to memorize Gus’s cell phone number. Three one oh, five six eight, three nine six seven. I have an excellent memory. It ain’t photographic but damn close.
Gus had ordered for me. Kind brown hands set scrambled eggs, sausage links, hash potatoes, and a bagel with fluffy white cream cheese before me. The hands belonged to a light-skinned young black woman in a plain white uniform dress with two big pockets on the hips. She was charming and pert with expectant golden brown eyes. Her bronze-colored hair was styled in a wild cut that shot out like a small explosion on her head. I stared at the simple beauty of the meal for a moment before I plunged in, enjoying each bite, washing it down with the black coffee. The food was warm inside me and took some of the nervous edge off my thoughts.
The edgy-hot waitress wore a nametag that said “Tia.” My eye was curiously drawn to her as she filled sugar containers, then pulled a small compact from her skirt pocket. She deftly applied a blood-red lipstick.
That was when I remembered where I had seen the dead beauty, Autumn Riley. It was here in this restaurant.
On that day, a few months ago, two high-spirited young women had entered the diner laughing. They were manicured, pedicured, puffed, and powdered. They brought with them high-octane energy. My nose recalled the vanilla fragrance as they slinked by and I smelled it with my mind.
I replayed their self-conscious insolence, how they had strutted and dazzled, then slinked into their booth. They sat in the one next to the window where their pretty thighs would be picture-window fare. Tia, the waitress, had talked with the girls as if she knew them.
I stared at the window booth where they had sat and saw each moment before me like a movie. Theirs had been the latest in gauche fashion: the blond in a red vinyl miniskirt and the redhead in yellow hot pants. They both wore pastel fishnets, high chunky heels, and bright neon colors of crushed velvet stretched across their breasts. Their haughtiness told you that they were not available even if they did look like demented street hookers.
The redhead, long full hair and creamy skin, was Autumn Riley. She had thrown her hair from side to side, having an impossible time deciding which she was comfortable with. The other, a reed-thin blond with short wispy hair and pointed, delicate features must have been Dani. Her fingernails were painted an electric blue. The young women were tropical birds—light, happy, talking about boyfriends. Autumn said hers was a “total control freak!” The women, girls actually, giggled nervously. Their lips moved nonstop. They both wore the bright red lipstick. It was as if they had gone shopping together and both liked the same color of blood red.
I waved to Tia and she came over. “You know an Autumn Riley?”
“Yeah, I do. She’s an actress, used to come in a lot, we talked.”
“Do you know her boyfriend? Any of her other friends?”
Tia was looking at me with apprehension now. “What’s going on? Is she in trouble?”
“You could say that. She’s dead.�
�
“Oh, no! What happened?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. When was the last time you saw her?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Her freshly red lips pursed as she thought about it. “Maybe a month ago?” Gus slid into the booth. “You know anything about her friend, the blond?” I asked.
“A blond?”
“A blond with short hair, thin.”
“Oh, yeah. Dani.”
“Got an address for her?” I asked.
“She stays at the Villa Elaine on Vine. Number eleven.”
•••
I WAS NUMB AS I walked behind Gus and we made our way out the door of the diner. The dream from the night before was haunting me. In my mind, I was covered in hot red blood. Carl’s blood, my mother’s blood. I looked down at the floor avoiding eye contact. A pool of red was left by each step I took, exactly the same color of Tia’s lipstick.
We took separate cars. I followed Gus. He drove straight down Wilshire Boulevard to Rossmore Boulevard, took a left, and sped through Hancock Park, a high-rent area of midtown Los Angeles that moved into a not-so-high-rent part of town. Hollywood, to be exact. Tia didn’t have an address for Dani, only the name, Villa Elaine. Gus said he knew it well and said it was referred to as “The Villain,” a haven for drug lords, porno stars, call girls, and a few aging actors.
The building was a leftover from the thirties. The architecture was extravagant, reminiscent of Art Deco and high glamour. It had been quite the place to live during the heyday of Hollywood. Though neglected to a great measure, it maintained its beauty and charm. It appeared to be the proper place to house the left-behinds with their broken dreams and crushed spirits. The gigantic wrought-iron gate had a damaged lock on it, so we went right in. Dry leaves crunched under our feet. We found apartment eleven without much trouble.
The door was askew with only a screen door as a barrier. I easily recognized Dani, the reed-thin blond, sitting in her front room smoking a joint. She was listening to punk music coming from a cheap plastic radio when we knocked. It was seven forty-five in the morning. She quickly put out the joint, lit some incense, and came out on her front landing. She didn’t let us in. We talked to her on her front stoop. While Gus questioned her, I took a long peek through the screen door into her place. There wasn’t much furniture, no television, a few clothes on the floor, empty fast-food containers, and a small array of cosmetics on the kitchen table.
Dani wasn’t in the mood to give us much information. Her thin form indicated to me that she had health issues or wasn’t getting proper nutrition. Maybe she had a drug problem. With her short hair and in the right clothes, she could have easily passed for a young boy. All eyes and legs, she reminded me of a sick white colt my uncle Robert had given me. It was skin and bones with huge sorrowful eyes. I had called the vet who promised to come the next day, but the colt had died in my arms before she even got there.
I can’t tell you what despair I suffered over that poor colt or how angry I was at whoever it was that hadn’t cared for it before it came to me. I had never been comfortable with my uncle again. Thereafter, I looked upon him with suspicion. Dani focused her big eyes on me and finally confided that she and Autumn were friends and had tried to get a big-paying modeling gig but they had heard nothing definite. She desperately needed the cash for rent, etc. When we told her Autumn was dead, she didn’t believe it.
“Blow it out your ass. Don’t give me that crap. Look, I don’t have time for you fuckers, I got a very important appointment.” Her strong Australian accent was suddenly pronounced.
“Let’s see your visa,” insisted Gus.
“Fine.” She sullenly went inside, her skinny legs stomping around as she searched for her purse. Several neighbors peered out of windows, stepped out onto the balconies.
The couple next door came out on the stoop and stared blatantly at us. A different style of neighborhood watch.
“Can we come in?” Gus asked.
“Fuck no!” Dani shouted. She came back out and handed Gus a neon-green faux-alligator wallet. “Have at it,” she said. “Then get the fuck out of here. Don’t give me any more crap about anyone being dead.”
“Why don’t you believe us?” I asked, curious as all hell.
“Cuz,” she said. “Autumn Riley ain’t fuckin’ dead. And that’s all I got ta say ‘bout that.”
“We’re investigating her death,” I said.
“Wull, have a good time.”
Gus quickly inspected the wallet. Inside was a California driver’s license and Dani’s green card. “You’re good for a while longer,” Gus said.
“That’s right,” she answered, “and I’m gettin’ on the line to my lawyer. You can bet your ass on that!”
How come all these low-renters could afford all this top-notch legal advice?
“We’ve got your friend, The Barb, in a cell right now,” I lied. “Maybe we can arrange one for you.”
“You coppers are bleedin’ liars. Wull, if you got The Barb in jail, I fuckin’ wonder how I’ll get any modeling gigs.”
“What’s The Barb got to do with you getting jobs?” I asked. “The Barb your new agent?”
“Manager. So what?”
“What kind of modeling jobs? You know, there’s models and then there’s models.”
“The Barb is a professional. He used to be an independent music producer in Australia, he knows people. He gets us jobs that pay, okay?”
“Oh yeah?” I said. “He was a producer? Name some bands he produced, one song.”
“Damned Demons, Lords of Excess, and Heavy Accessories.”
“Heavy Accessories, that’s funny.”
“They did the song, ‘Dysfunkshun,’ it had a good beat.”
“Never heard of it,” I said. “I guess I just don’t get what that has to do with modeling. Can you explain that to me? Just pretend I’m retarded. I mean, what do you model exactly? Clothes? Or more like heavy accessories?”
“Oh, wull, you’re hilarious.”
“Answer the question, will ya?”
“Wull, if you must know, he did get me a few intimate apparel jobs. But he gets some real class stuff sometimes. You know Hollywood sort of likes the rough trade. It gets attention.”
“Yeah, I heard that.”
“I know better but…I’m sure if you have The Barb in jail, like ya say, he won’t be there long, so I’m not too worried about it. Like I said, I got somewhere to go. Is this fun conversation over now?”
“Does The Barb also get you drugs?” I asked.
“What is this?”
“It’s a question.”
“Wull, the answer is no.”
“So, if we take that pot you were smoking when we arrived it wouldn’t match up with the ganja that Dewey, The Barb’s friend, smokes?”
“No, it wouldn’t.”
“How ’bout ecstasy, roofies, or more exotic stuff?” I asked.
“No. Nuthin. The Barb gets me gigs, that’s it. Are you going to bust me?”
“We’re kinda busy,” I said. “Maybe some other time.”
“Where’s your meeting?” asked Gus. “Who’s it with?”
“Nunya your fuckin’ bidniz. If you want to know so bad, get a subpoena.”
“We’re concerned about you,” I said. “We’re trying to resolve your friend’s death. Don’t these things mean anything to you?”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks for your concern. Good luck with your investigation, officers. I gotta go.”
“Here’s my card,” said Gus. “Call if anything comes to mind.”
He carefully placed the card in her hand. She flicked the card away and it fluttered to the ground.
•••
GUS AND I DROVE over to the airport to see the techno guys and check out the video before we went into Parker Center. I amused myself by imagining how glamorous the same scene would be depicted on television. I’d have slimmer hips and thighs and Gus would have bigger biceps. The inner working
s of the tech department would be all hip and glossy with mood lighting and an amber glow. We parked our respective cars and walked up to the dingy-looking office building as an airplane roared by overhead. The air was thick with smog that burned my eyes. We knew exactly where we were going, having been there at least a hundred times, and we headed up the stairway because we knew the elevator was slow. Then we headed down the bleak hallway lit with long florescent bulbs toward the video suite. Gus followed me, breathing heavily, probably due to all that cigarette smoke. I desperately hoped the video from the morgue would offer up some kind, any kind of clue. The techno guys had helped us out a number of times before.
“How’d you know she was so damn close with The Barb?” asked Gus.
“I didn’t,” I said and used my new cell phone to call surveillance. Anthony Sauri answered. “Hey, this is Joan. Get anything off Autumn Riley’s place?”
“Nope, just a jogger and a dog,” said Tony.
“Where’s that dog from, anyway?”
“The dog? I don’t know. You want me to find out?”
“Exactly, thanks. Anything on Mason Jones?”
“The guy is clean as a whistle.”
“No way.”
“I never watched anyone so boring in my life.”
“Keep on him. The guy was always slick.”
“Will do.”
“When we put him away last time, he was working as a janitor at a Sunday school. His alibi was the church deacon. We interviewed Mason’s present landlord and he informed us Mason was taking a class. I want to know more about that.”
“All eyes and ears are upon him.”
“Thanks, Anthony.”
I put my new cell phone away as Gus moved out ahead of me and opened the crooked door on the video department. Jonathan, a tall, lanky computer geek, stood and greeted us with a strange smile and indicated that we should have a seat in his room of computer monitors, video equipment, and television screens.
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