Corner Blitz (Burnside Series Book 5)

by David Chill

  I zipped my jacket as I walked outside. It was October and the sky was overcast; a cool breeze was blowing and the temperature was a brisk 55 degrees. This was about as cold a day as we get in the City of Angels. Why people lived in frigid climates was beyond me. The fall colors could be very pretty back east, but they also signaled cold weather was coming. Parts of Los Angeles had some maple trees whose leaves changed colors as well, but that usually didn't happened until January. And cold weather never followed.

  I strode into One Wilshire, the glass and steel high-rise overlooking the Harbor Freeway, and took the elevator up to Jeremy's 22nd floor office. His receptionist had me wait close to half an hour before ushering me in for an audience with Mr. Hoffman. He was already standing as I entered the plush, spacious suite with a panoramic view of the city. On a nice day, you could see forever; today you could barely see the La Brea Tar Pits.

  "And a good morning to you, Burnside!" he exclaimed. "I had a funny feeling you might swing by!"

  Jeremy Hoffman was tall and debonair. His had a tanned face that bespoke many hours on the golf course. Jeremy had been a successful attorney for decades and had the type of reputation that made many high-profile clients seek him out. Independently wealthy, he was in the unique position of picking and choosing the work he did. And it was hard to walk into his office without feeling just a little bit envious.

  "I was in the neighborhood."

  "Yes, I would imagine. Rex called me last night, under the auspices of discussing Coliseum renovations for the hundredth time. He weaved in that he needed a good private investigator. That revealed the true purpose of his call."

  "Is the Coliseum ever going to be renovated?"

  "Sure, as soon as SC takes it over and we get the government out of the way. The Coliseum Commission has lost nearly every major sports team in this town over the years, from the Raiders and Rams to our charming UCLA friends. Not to mention driving the Lakers and Clippers into building their own arena. The commission's been wildly successful at one thing: alienating every single tenant. Except for our alma mater of course."

  "You've chaired that commission, haven't you?" I poked at him.

  Jeremy Hoffman smiled a rich man's smile. It was the smile of confidence and relaxation and cosmetic dentistry. Despite a busy law practice, Jeremy also managed to find time to serve on various boards and foundations. His energy was boundless and his enthusiasm infectious.

  "Indeed," he acknowledged. "And I've had to deal with every incompetent politician who's held office around here. You know, there are times you have to be stuck in the mud for a while before anything can move forward. The failure to upgrade the Coliseum since the '84 Olympics has finally gotten everyone totally frustrated. Enough to hand day-to-day responsibilities over to USC."

  "And let me guess. You're on the SC planning board that will oversee the renovation."

  "That would be a conflict of interest, sir," he said. "However, one of my junior partners happens to be serving on that board."

  I shook my head. "No footprints. You'll have influence without being obvious."

  "Sometimes the best way to get things done is to avoid taking any credit."

  "Speaking of the Coliseum," I said.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Who's in charge of concessions there?"

  "Why that would be the Barry M. Steele Company," he said.

  "Who's in charge over at Barry M. Steele now?"

  Jeremy sorted through a very large Rolodex sitting on the credenza behind his desk. He pulled out a small card. "The Chief Executive Officer is Tony Longley. Not a real savory guy, not the type you'd expect to find as CEO. Has a police record too, if I remember correctly."

  The name brought back a flood of memories. Before today, I hadn't thought much of my own days as a vendor, or about Dodger Stadium or Tony Longley in quite a while. The memories were bittersweet, maybe more bitter than sweet, and I didn't like dwelling on them.

  "Thanks," I said. "So you know about the governor's daughter."

  "I do. I've known the Palmer family for a long time, Buster and I go way back, we've done a few real estate deals together. So I guess Rex felt he could confide in me. In fact, my granddaughter was a year ahead of Molly at Stone Canyon. We helped get Molly accepted into the school. Very disturbing situation. I hope you can find her."

  "I hope so, too. But I'm curious about what you just said. I didn't think the governor would need any help getting his daughter accepted into a private school."

  Jeremy shrugged. "Some schools don't want that responsibility. Or the publicity. It's a double-edged sword with celebrity kids. The media circus can be a problem. But the family wanted Molly to go there. It's got a good reputation and it's not far from their home. So I put in a good word with Loretta Moss, the Head of School."

  "I'm sure your word carries a lot of weight."

  "Yes. Being a big donor affords me that luxury. But getting back to your other question. Why the focus on the concessions people?"

  "One of Molly's friends works at the Coliseum as a vendor. Molly was last seen at the game on Saturday. I'm just following up on leads."

  "I see," Jeremy nodded, waiting to see if I would say more.

  "At this point, that's all I know," I told him. "But I thank you for the referral. I can always use the business."

  "Happy to help out a fellow Trojan," he beamed. "You know, there's one other thing I was hoping to discuss with you."

  "There always is."

  "Yes," he agreed and took a deep breath. His smile vanished. "It's related to the football team. One of Johnny's players was picked up by the police late last week."

  I sat back and crossed my legs. Now I knew why my name was passed along to the governor. Tit for tat. It was what greased the wheels in Jeremy's world. He started by doing me a favor. When I was on the job with the LAPD, we called that doing someone a solid. But accepting a favor often came with a price.

  "Tell me about it," I said.

  "Xavier Bishop. The police brought him in after his girlfriend was assaulted. That's why he didn't play on Saturday. That's why Norris Colby started at right corner."

  "It was announced Xavier had severe migraines."

  "Um, yes. A little white lie to divert the media. Johnny doesn't like to do that, but he obviously couldn't let on what was happening to X yet. Not until we know more anyway."

  Johnny Cleary was the head football coach at USC, and a former teammate. We had been good friends for more than 20 years. I was brought in occasionally to help when players got into trouble. As was Jeremy.

  "Xavier's absence was noticed. All-America players usually find a way to play in most games, even if they're hurting. Migraines can be a big problem. But you do what you have to do," I said, thinking back many years ago to when I was a player on the Trojan football team. Getting an injection with a painkiller, strapping yourself to an IV at halftime, fighting through injuries. Those were just a few of the rigors a player went through to make sure he got into a game.

  "Yes, well, I'd rather not hear all the details about that," Jeremy said, looking down at his desk. "Sometimes the less an attorney knows about certain things, the better."

  "So how can I help here?" I asked.

  "Xavier was overheard having a loud argument with his girlfriend in her apartment. It sounded like there was a ruckus. And the girlfriend wound up with a swollen jaw and needed medical attention. She said Xavier hit her. When the paramedics heard this, they alerted the police."

  "And what's his version?"

  "He says he didn't hit her."

  "Tough one," I observed. "It becomes a he-said-she-said thing. But nine out of ten times, the girl is telling the truth."

  "Maybe. I'll admit things don't look good for him. If this case goes to trial, Xavier could get jail time. And see his prospects as a pro football player go up in smoke. The NFL is taking a big stance against domestic violence now. Xavier's in his junior year. That means he could enter the NFL draft after this season. Bad t
iming."

  "Never a good time for this to happen," I pointed out. "You think he was planning to forego his senior year in school?"

  "Probably. He was a lock to be a first-round draft pick. The agents are starting to circle, they smell money. And the type of money he stands to make is hard to pass up."

  "So what's his explanation for what happened?" I asked.

  Jeremy grimaced. "He won't tell me. Xavier had a swollen hand, but he's adamant he didn't hit her. There's obviously something more going on here. But for whatever his reasons, he's keeping it to himself."

  "And you want me to find out what really happened."

  "Look. We both bleed cardinal and gold. We want the best for USC. And for the kids who play football. They're helping the university, we try to help them. If it weren't for the football team, USC would have a much lower profile nationally."

  "Sure," I agreed. "So would a lot of schools. A good football team is good for PR. Also good for bringing out the big donors writing checks to the university."

  "That's how it works. And the team is having problems. They're thin at cornerback now. Lots of injuries. But we still have a shot at the Rose Bowl. I'd like to see Xavier back in a Trojan uniform in Pasadena come New Year's Day. Obviously so would Johnny."

  "You sound like you belong on the coaching staff."

  Jeremy sighed. "You know the old line. Trojan family. This is when we pull together, when things get tough. Whatever you can do to help out would be appreciated. Technically I'm not hiring you, but I'll see to it you're compensated for your time. The governor's daughter comes first, that's certainly far more urgent. But I'd like you to look into this."

  "Johnny knows you're talking to me?"

  "Oh, sure," he acknowledged. "Johnny knows pretty much everything regarding his players. The head coach is always in the loop."

  *

  The business offices for the Los Angeles Coliseum were located inside a decrepit venue called the LA Sports Arena, south of the USC campus. At one time, the Sports Arena was home to everyone from the Lakers and Clippers to the Trojan basketball team. All had subsequently left for nicer digs. In my four years as a college student, I went to exactly one game there, and only then because one of my football teammates was moonlighting on the SC basketball team. On my way out after that game, I noticed a small rat crawling next to a trash bin. I hadn't been back since. The surroundings did not look like they had improved much.

  The Barry M. Steele Company ran concessions in most of the local stadiums, and was headed by a knucklehead named Tony Longley. He was gruff, overweight, and always in need of a shave. On certain men, a little facial stubble was cool; on Tony it just looked slovenly. His assistant, a bored-looking woman with a weight problem herself, shrugged when I asked to meet with Big Tony. She directed me toward his office by jerking a thumb over her shoulder, before going back to chewing her gum and looking down at her phone. I thanked her for not bothering to get up. I yanked open a brown plywood door that and entered the office of the CEO.

  "Mr. Longley, I presume."

  "Who the hell are you?" he asked bluntly.

  "Name's Burnside," I answered, and pulled out my wallet. Flashing my P.I. license, I told him I was doing background work on an investigation. He stared at me.

  "Lemme see that ID again."

  "I already showed it to you," I told him, and slowly pulled my jacket back to reveal the .38 special tucked into the nylon ballistic holster under my armpit. People like Tony Longley sometimes needed a strong message to get them to cooperate.

  "How about I show you this?" I said.

  Longley stared at me for a long moment. "Okay," he said. "Have a seat."

  I glanced uneasily at a pair of faded orange cloth chairs facing his desk. They might have been in style 40 years ago. Or they might have appeared as cheap and tacky as they did right now. The chairs had stains on them and looked as if they might collapse under too much weight. Above us was a ceiling light fixture that had about 50 dead flies resting in it.

  "I'll stand."

  "Suit yourself," he said, eyeing me closer now. "You seem familiar. I don't know why."

  "I get that a lot."

  "No, there's something about you."

  "I used to work for you," I told him. "Long time ago. You were running concessions at Dodger Stadium."

  Longley leaned back into an overstuffed chair, the belly fat oozing over his belt. He studied me closer, and a glint of recognition appeared. "That was a million years ago. Lots happened."

  "Yeah. You're now in charge of the whole operation. The Coliseum, Dodger Stadium, Staples Center. You're big-time."

  "I am."

  "You should get a nicer office," I remarked, looking around. "Or at least clean it once in a while."

  Longley emitted a dry laugh. He was a man who could laugh without smiling. He didn't seem happy and he didn't seem to care. "I think I remember you now. Burnside. You were one of the big mouths."

  "Sounds like me."

  "I remember one time you were messing around. Stopped working your shift, sat down behind the dugout to watch the game."

  "That's right. But it wasn't like I was hurting anyone."

  "It was against company policy."

  "I didn't know you had any policies. Except for the ones you made up on the spot."

  "We had a business to run," he scowled. "We couldn't have vendors sitting in the season boxes acting like they owned the place."

  "You didn't need to send your goons around to try and rough me up."

  "Talking to you didn't work. But those were a couple of big fellas you took on. They needed three or four stadium cops to break it up. The whole stadium was watching. Even some of the Dodger players saw it."

  "I wasn't about to just stand there and let them attack me," I said. "They picked the wrong guy to mess with. And the wrong time as well."

  "You're lucky I didn't have you arrested."

  "And you're lucky I didn't tell your boss you were skimming off the top."

  We stared at each other. I didn't want to relive these memories, because the further back we went, the more painful they would be. The summer before I started at USC was one of the hardest and most awful periods of my life. Everything was shattered, in ways I could not have ever imagined.

  "You were quick at picking up on things," he said slowly. "Guess that's why you're a cop. Or whatever it is that badge says you are."

  I eyed him cautiously. There was no point in pretending any more. Longley knew something was suspicious, and it wouldn't take him long to find out. "I was a cop for 13 years," I told him. "LAPD. Been on my own for a while now. Private investigator."

  "So if you're not a cop why should I pay any attention to you?"

  "I still have a lot of friends on the job."

  Longley considered this. "So what the hell do you want?"

  "I need information about one of your employees."

  "Who's in trouble now?"

  "Look, I just need to find out a few things. It's about Diego Garcia. He's a vendor at the Coliseum."

  "Name doesn't ring a bell," Longley shrugged. "But I don't know a lot of the guys working there these days. I moved up awhile ago."

  "Were you at the game on Saturday?"

  "Sure. I always go to the SC games. I get there early, show my face. Make sure my crew knows the boss is looking over their shoulder. I yell at a few people to get their attention. Then I go watch the game."

  "You ever yell at Diego Garcia?" I asked.

  "Probably. I yell at a lot of people."

  I guess everyone has their own management style and Tony Longley was no exception. I wouldn't say it was a good management style, but given the type of people who worked concessions, it was probably still effective. Decades ago, this was called Theory X. It said managers should never trust their employees, and they should provide negative reinforcement to inspire fear and hard work. That management style had largely disappeared with the emergence of a new demographic. People today r
espond better to feel-good managers who allow employees a certain amount of latitude. But in the rough-and-tumble blue-collar world in which Tony Longley lived, you never gave employees an inch.

  "Close game on Saturday," I said.

  Longley shrugged. "I bet on SC and gave the points. They won the game but didn't cover the spread. I lost a few hundred."

  "That's a crying shame," I said with a straight face and very little sympathy. The only people who came out on top in sports betting were invariably the bookmakers and the casinos. Gambling on sports was a sucker's bet.

  "Yeah, well, the upside was the game wasn't decided until the last minute. It's always good for the concessions business when things go down to the wire. Most people stay to the end and keep buying things."

  "So you don't know Diego Garcia."

  "Nope."

  "Can you find out if he was working Saturday?"

  Longley turned toward his computer, an old desktop dinosaur with a bulky monitor that was outdated 15 years ago. The unit had coffee stains on the top and had a fan that made a whirring sound when he clicked the mouse. Everything about this office, including Longley, made me want to go take a shower afterwards. And I hadn't even touched anything.

  "Yeah," he finally said, scanning the flickering screen. "Garcia worked the Oregon State game. Sold peanuts. Did a good job."

  "Anything else you can tell me. What time he clocked out? Who his friends are here?"

  "We don't have vendors punch a clock any more. They're just paid on commission now. And like I say, I don't know the kid."

  "Can I get his contact info?" I asked, knowing the campaign staff had provided me with something, but I also knew that people moved and changed phone numbers.

  Longley looked over at me. "I'm not authorized to give that out."

  I pulled the jacket back again to show him the .38 special. "Now you're authorized," I said.

  Longley gave me a dirty look, but finally decided he had little to gain by digging his heels in, and everything to gain by getting me out of his office. He jotted a street address and a phone number onto a slip of memo paper that had curled in one corner. The phone number matched what the campaign had provided, but the address was different. This one was about a block away.