“Where did you get your tattoos done?” I said. Again he smiled and nodded and I said, “Dónde?” and pointed to his arms. His face lit up, and he spoke rapidly in Spanish while pointing in the direction I was headed. I smiled and nodded.
It took almost an hour before I found the next studio. The building was tall and skinny and looked like a converted three-flat. It stood alone between a used-car joint and the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse. I thought of fire-bombed cities where a lone chimney was all that remained. My lemonade and ice long gone, I urgently needed a bathroom. I stood outside the glass door and saw four white guys barely in their twenties. One was in the back working on the lower spine of a young woman. The other three were hanging around up front, leaning on the glass countertop. Their haircuts were either high-and-tight or crew cut. Each wore a light blue oxford cloth shirt and jeans. When I walked in, they straightened up in unison and looked at me as if I had caught them watching porn.
“Hi, guys,” I said.
“Can we help you?” one of them said.
“You’d help me big-time if you let me use your bathroom.”
Three smiles and three arms with pointed fingers directed me to the back. When I returned, I thanked them and asked if they knew an artist called L.A. They looked at one another and shook their collective heads. “She’s short with long black hair? Blue eyes?”
One of them coughed and then said, “Who did she apprentice with?”
His question surprised me. “You guys go through an apprenticeship first?”
They all kind of chuckled, as if they had a moron in their midst. Then one of them said, “Yeah, unless you’re just a scratcher.” They all laughed for real.
“And you guys don’t want to be a bunch of scratchers,” I said.
“Dude, our ink guns cost six hundred dollars apiece. That sterilizer? Five grand. The apprenticeship, ten grand—”
“Whoa. You paid someone to apprentice you?”
“Hell, yes. You’re paying to learn from a master who has the knowledge to pass on. It’s sacred shit. Have you ever heard of Hiroshima?”
“The city that got nuked?”
Loud laughter. “No, man. Hiroshima is a world famous tattoo artist in Japan. That’s who we apprenticed with. He gave us the knowledge to open up our own place.”
“You got cash, you get some knowledge, you got a career,” I said.
“Their parents are investors,” the girl shouted from the tattoo table and giggled.
There was an uncomfortable pause, and then I said, “You guys gonna do piercings, too?”
More loud laughter. “We are tattoo artists,” they said. “No blow-job studs or eyebrow rings.”
“That reminds me,” I said. “This L.A. woman. I forgot to say she has red eyebrows. Long black hair, blue eyes, and red eyebrows.”
The three guys still came up blank, but the guy in the back yelled, “I think I know her. She hangs out at that Adinkra Arts place.”
I walked to the back. He was coloring a winged heart just above the girl’s ass-crack. “How well do you know her?” I said.
“I don’t know her. I’ve just seen her around. Those red eyebrows are a trip. She hip-hops at this club we go to. She hangs with black guys. The guy she dances with is an artist at Adinkra Arts.”
“Is it far from here?”
He pulled a tissue from a plastic box of sterilized wipes and aggressively cleaned the excess blood off the winged heart. “It’s just down the street. Maybe half a mile. But the neighborhood changes. Not necessarily dangerous as long as you don’t act like a tough white guy.” The girl got up off the table, and they walked to a full-length mirror. She stood in front of it while the guy held up a small mirror behind her. She smiled and then threw her arms around him.
“What do you think of my tramp-stamp?” she said to me and then revealed her backside.
“Lovely,” I said.
“You got a ride waiting for you?” The guy pointed to the front where the red sedan was parked.
I could just make out a silhouette behind the wheel. “I’m not sure,” I said and wished the guys luck. I ran out the door straight into a hailstorm of dust and debris as the car peeled out down the street. Part of me welcomed the chicken-shit game being played. It gave me an excuse to lose my temper and act tough.
As I continued down the street, the red sedan appeared again, blazed past me, and turned sharply onto the next side street only to reemerge minutes later to perform the same maneuver. Block after block the car taunted me, and with each pass the routine became more juvenile than sinister—which pissed me off even more.
A hundred yards ahead I saw a large wooden circle above a storefront covered in strange black-and-white symbols. As I neared the façade of the building, I recognized the silhouette of the African continent. This time the red sedan sped by and turned onto the street that bordered the far side of Adinkra Arts. It was time to act out. I ran to the opposite side of the building, picked up a chunk of broken concrete, and waited behind a half-dead sumac tree. When the car turned the corner and raced to the stop sign at Sunset, I ran to the rear window and threw the concrete as hard as my aching ribs would allow. The pain was torturous, but the satisfaction of seeing the rear window explode into shattered glass eased my suffering.
Out jumped the driver, a skinny white boy with black-rimmed glasses and a pile of dark hair. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he shouted, and in that instant I recognized Ellis Knight, the reporter from The Partisan.
“Knight? What the hell are you doing?”
Knight locked his hands together behind his head and looked back and forth from me to the smashed window. He had an expression of wide-eyed panic. Then he let his hands drop and said, “You’re a terrible detective. I followed you all the way from Chicago, and you didn’t even notice!” He started giggling, and it occurred to me he might be nuts.
“You’re following me?”
“For the story! Don’t you get it? I got ten thousand words, dude. We’ve got meth, murder, incest, dark-tattoo-world shit, twisted-daddy-complex sex. And then there’s you, the detective from a family of crooks going back to the bad old days. The possibilities, dude. They’re endless.”
For a moment I felt vulnerable, as if the success of my investigation was at the mercy of this little prick’s recklessness. “Who’ve you been talking to?”
“Sources.”
“Did your sources tell you to drive like a goddamn maniac?”
“I thought I’d sprinkle a little drama into the mix.” Knight looked at the destroyed window as if for the first time. “C’mon, man, why did you do that?”
“Some lunatic in a big red car follows me around driving like a psycho, and I need a reason to smash his window? You’re lucky I didn’t smash your face. You think you can act like an asshole and not suffer the consequences?”
Knight looked puzzled. “You’re not getting it, are you? You’re not seeing the opportunity here. Dude, this is your chance to really make a name for yourself. You’ll be the guy who busts it wide open, and I’ll be there to get it all down—as it happens!”
“You’re a joke, Knight. Stay away from me.”
I walked toward Adinkra Arts expecting him to follow, but he stayed put. Once inside, I saw several African American men of varying ages in cargo pants and T-shirts. Two of them were working on clients while the others were either drawing or performing mundane cleaning tasks. The space was long and narrow with recently constructed drywall in the back, creating an area hidden from view. A teenager behind the counter paged through a magazine. “Hello, sir,” he said, drawing the attention of three others, one of whom was built like an offensive lineman and would be their spokesman. “How can we help you today?” the big man said in a gentle voice that defied his appearance.
“Hi, guys, I’m looking for a girl named L.A. I was told she works here.”
They all looked as if they misunderstood. The big man said, “L.A. like Los Angeles? I never heard of
no chick named L.A.”
“Yep. Long black hair, blue eyes, red eyebrows.”
A few quick, sideward glances from the others and then he said, “We never heard of anyone named L.A.”
“I just want to talk to her. She knows me from Chicago.” I handed a card to the big guy. Movement in the back distracted me, and I caught a glimpse of what I thought was a short black-haired woman disappearing around the corner.
He looked at the card, mumbled “Private investigator,” and then with one hand started dragging the edge of the card along the tips of the other hand’s fingers. “What brings you to L.A., private investigator?”
“Murder.”
They all laughed. “You think this L.A. chick killed someone?”
“You mean the chick you never heard of? She didn’t kill anyone. But this chick you never heard of has a friend who might know something about killing.” I took out a hundred-dollar bill. “The dead man was a close friend.”
The big guy looked at the money and then back to me. “Put the cash away, bro. We know someone with those red eyebrows. But her name ain’t L.A.” Still strumming his fingertips, he walked to the back and disappeared behind the wall. The kid behind the counter returned to his magazine, and the other two drifted around in the immediate area talking quietly to each other. After ten minutes the big guy reemerged from the back. He handed the card to me and said, “She never heard of you.”
“What do you mean she never heard of me? I just spoke with her a couple of days ago. Let me just see her—”
“Sir, she said she never heard of you.” My ribs ached just looking at the big man’s glare.
“It took the two of you ten minutes to decide she never heard of me?”
“Sir, Audrey said she never heard of you. That’s really all we got, so unless you’d like a tattoo—”
“Audrey never heard of me?”
“Goodbye, sir.”
I stood on the sidewalk outside the door. Then I walked onto the asphalt parking lot and looked around. There was no sign of Knight or the red car.
49
The next morning I lay in bed staring at the popcorn ceiling, wondering why I had chosen this path in life. Scumbags, morons, and dopers messing with your head, laughing their asses off while you run around like a crazed hamster searching for crumbs. That giggling schmuck Ellis Knight, using me to achieve some tabloid-journalism fame fantasy. Two little girls pretending to be grown-ups, telling stories while my friend’s body lies on a pile of debris. And then the professionals—politicians, lawyers, hoods—smacking you around like the neighborhood idiot. He’s not a cop, after all, who cares?
I called Kalijero. “You got any connections at The Partisan?” I asked.
“Landau? Where the hell are you?”
“Los Angeles. You know anyone at The Partisan?”
“That alternative rag? What the hell are you doing in L.A.?”
“There’s a punk named Ellis Knight who’s trying to write a story on Snooky’s murder. He’ll include all possible angles while enthusiastically blurring truth and fiction. He’s hinted at knowing everything we’ve talked about. And I mean everything—get it?”
In the ensuing silence, I imagined Kalijero swallowing a few times then taking a deep breath. “Yeah. What do you want?”
“Anything. We’ve got to figure out who or what his connection is to all of this.”
Kalijero agreed in that grudging way of someone who knows they have no choice.
* * *
I dialed Tate’s number. “Where does your ex-wife work?”
“Why? What did you find out?”
“Nothing. But there’re a couple of dozen Prenevosts in the phone book.”
“It’s a closed chapter. I don’t see how opening—”
“Who’s opening anything? Maybe someone has been in touch with her. I swear, Tate, for a man who knows he’s being framed for murder and drug dealing, you always seem to be holding back, like there’s something you’re not telling me. Does she have something on you, Tate? And by the way, how did you know she and your daughter were living in L.A.?”
“We still have a few friends in common.”
“Chancellor, can you tell me where she works, if only as a nice gesture—just in case you need a character witness down the road?”
“She’s a public defender,” he said then hung up.
I called the main number for the Los Angeles public defender, asked for Jane Prenevost, and was connected to the Compton branch where the receptionist asked, “And what is this regarding?” I gave Tate’s name. “If Mr. Tate needs representation, he must first complete a financial statement to verify he cannot afford a private attorney.”
“Jane is expecting Mr. Tate’s call—just ask her!”
“Hold, please.”
“What do you want, Jerry?”
“Do you know Chancellor Tate is being investigated for murder, extortion, bribery, and conspiracy?”
“Who is this?”
“I’m a private investigator from Chicago. I’d like to ask you some questions.”
“We’ve been divorced ten years. I don’t know what he’s into, and I don’t care. There’s nothing I can help you with.”
“Your ex-husband’s being framed for murder.” I waited for my words to sink in and said, “I’m sure you work with investigators, Ms. Prenevost. You never know what kind of information could help solve a case.”
I could hear her breathing and tapping something on the desk. “Someplace public. Bring ID. I’ve never known a private eye who wasn’t a jerk. And don’t tell me to call Jerry to verify anything. That’s not going to happen. And don’t give me a lot of details. I don’t want to know anything. Whatever he did or didn’t do is his problem.”
An hour later, I sat waiting in the Thai restaurant near my motel with a pot of tea and a couple of egg rolls. It was the post-lunch period when the remaining guests sat around talking, and the waiters didn’t give a damn. But even if it had been high noon on Michigan Avenue, I would’ve immediately recognized the woman who walked in holding a briefcase as Jane Prenevost. Tall with brown hair braided to the middle of her back and younger than I expected, she would’ve been perfect for television’s next beautiful district attorney avenging the unfortunate victim of sociopathic behavior, or the law school professor dedicated to proving the innocence of a death row inmate. She walked directly to my table and, without saying a word, sat then opened her briefcase.
“Can I help you?” I said.
“Cut the crap. You’re the only one sitting alone and the only man under fifty.” I nodded and waited for her to finish whatever she was doing and close her briefcase.
“Okay,” she said. “Prove to me who you are.” I handed over my driver’s license, my FCC card, and my PI card. One at a time she examined them with a penlight. “Where’s your FOID?” she said.
“I didn’t bring my gun.”
“Really? I thought you guys all liked carrying your guns around.”
“It gets complicated bringing a handgun into California. You must’ve been very young when you met Tate.” I poured her a cup of tea.
“I was twenty; he was forty. That shouldn’t be a surprise. Are you new at this? You’re pretty young. I’m from Chicago, and I recognize that affluent North Side accent. Why would an educated person choose to be a private investigator?”
“You’re an educated woman, Jane, you went to law school. Why would you choose to defend killers, rapists, and child molesters?”
We locked eyeballs a few seconds, and then she looked away before sipping her tea. “I assume Jerry hired you?”
“No. The man your ex is accused of killing was a good friend.” I explained my relationship to Snooky and where I was in my investigation. “I’m working purely on assumptions right now. I don’t think Tate’s a killer. But there seems to be a conspiracy against him by individuals who have no logical connection to each other.”
“What exactly do you want from me?”
>
“Just give me a character reference with a little context.” I thought of Audrey. “Tell me a story, like how you met, et cetera.”
Jane picked up a fork, cut off a chunk of egg roll, and chewed while staring at a tall glass of water. “I met him at a park in Chicago with my two-year-old daughter, Lisa. I had gotten pregnant my senior year of high school. My boyfriend decided he wanted to live in California and open a bicycle shop. So he moved out here while Lisa and I stayed with my mother and waited for him to get settled. You can probably guess the rest. Then one day I was pushing Lisa on the swing when a handsome older man approached us and started talking.”
“A prince to the rescue.”
Jane smiled faintly. “Even though he was wearing a nice suit, he got down on his knees and let Lisa pull his hair in all directions. She laughed and laughed, and then we were all laughing.”
“I can guess the rest.”
“Okay, here’s some character context. I was surprised he wanted a child with me. Lisa was about five when her sister was born. She had a hard time adjusting to not being the only kid and started acting out. First she would just say mean things, like she hated us and hated her sister. Then she became destructive, broke lamps, vases, glasses. We ended up shipping Lisa off to live with her biological father.”
Jane’s expression defined the word “guilt.”
“Do you blame Tate for that?”
“Yeah. But I blame myself, too. Jerry’s a sick guy, but he’s not a killer.”
“Elaborate on the sick part.”
“He already had a lifetime of younger women under his belt by the time I came along. At age forty, he tried to change. I was his experiment. I give him credit for lasting twelve years with a woman who had the audacity to continue getting older.”
Maxwell Street Blues Page 18