by David Chill
Xavier shook his head. "That's what I need you to find out. All I know is it wasn't me. I went over to her place, we had an argument and then I left."
"What'd you argue about?"
He shrugged. "Stuff."
"You're not giving me much to go on here," I told him.
"Yeah, I know. But I heard you're good."
Sitting back in my chair, I took a long drink of strong coffee. It had a nice bite to it. The temperature had cooled sufficiently, hot enough to be satisfying, but not so hot that it burned going down the throat.
I considered Xavier's situation. Things weren't adding up here. People who came to me were all too eager to spill their guts and tell me about their problems. They often gave more information than I needed or wanted to hear. But for a young man facing expulsion from college, possible jail time, and a potential fortune hanging by a thread, Xavier Bishop was parsing his words far too carefully.
Suddenly things became even stranger. Xavier Bishop rose abruptly, shook my hand, and quickly said that any help I could provide him would be appreciated. He mumbled something about the radio interview and I watched him walk quickly out the door. Across the plaza I caught a glimpse of a familiar face, albeit not one I expected to see, nor was eager to see. But some things began to fall into place. After nodding ever so slightly at Xavier, the man strolled into the coffee house and approached my table.
"And isn't this a coincidence," said Cliff Roper, taking a look around the room before sitting down in the same chair Xavier had just occupied. "I was just thinking about you."
"That's funny," I said. "I haven't been thinking about you."
Cliff Roper pulled out his iPhone and did a quick scan of his messages before responding. "That's not a nice thing to say. Especially after I gave you such a generous bonus a few months ago."
"If I remember correctly," I said slowly, "I helped get you off on a double murder charge. I'm still waiting for a thank you."
Roper waved his hand. "Twenty grand should be plenty of thanks. You should stop being so sensitive."
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. Cliff Roper was a sports agent with whom I had had a number of interactions, and none were savory. He had hired me earlier this year to investigate the shooting of his business partner. Roper was the primary suspect in that case, which ultimately spiraled into double murder. The year before, I needed to twist his arm to get him to stop pressuring a freshman football player into signing with his agency before he was eligible for the draft. Of all the coffee houses in LA, this is the one I had to be in this morning. But of course, it was hardly a coincidence. And it now explained why Xavier Bishop was talking with me, and why he was on his way to do an interview. As it always was with Cliff Roper, unanswered questions hovered close to the surface.
"So you've been advising Xavier on things," I said.
Cliff Roper shook his head. "Absolutely not. A college player working with an agent is a violation of NCAA rules. You ought to be ashamed of yourself for even thinking such a thing."
"I'll give myself a strong talking to later," I said dryly. "What are you doing here?"
"Me?" he asked, seemingly startled. "I'm just a guy getting a hot beverage. Saw an old friend and decided to sit down and have a chat with him."
"We're not old friends," I pointed out, "or even new ones."
"You need to relax," he said. "You're going to be a dad soon. Heard you slipped one past the goalie."
"You still have such a charming way with words."
"Incidentally," he continued, "Honey sends her regards. She says congratulations on your upcoming addition."
Honey was Cliff Roper's daughter, and probably the only thing in the world that kept him human. "Thanks," I said. "I guess she and Gail stay in touch."
"Your wife's a smart cookie that way. I know you have a thing for Honey. This helps remove any temptation you might have. You know the old saying: Keep your friends close and your enemies closer."
I shook my head. "Maybe Gail and Honey simply like each other. You have a warped way of looking at the world."
Roper narrowed his eyes. "It's worked for me. Damn nicely, if I do say so myself."
At that point, a young woman wearing a green Starbucks apron came over and placed a cup of coffee down in front of Roper. He gave her an appreciative nod and took a small sip. I stared at him and shook my head.
"Most people have to pay for their own coffee," I remarked. "And also have to stand in line to get it."
"What can I say?" Roper responded with another wave of the hand. "People just like to do nice things for me. Which is why I'm glad I ran into you this morning. Coincidentally, of course."
"Go on," I said slowly, not entirely sure I wanted to hear what nice thing Cliff Roper might want from me. When I got the double murder charges dropped earlier this year, he sent his appreciation in the form of a large check, with the vague hint he might ask for a favor one day. I guess that day had come.
"So here's what you need to do for me," he said, leaning forward and lowering his voice.
"I don't need to do anything for you," I said evenly.
"Sure you do. I'll explain that in a minute. You need to get rid of those charges. X didn't hit his girlfriend. Start by talking to her and push her to tell the truth. You're persuasive."
"No one's told me what the truth is. And I'm not pushing an assault victim to do anything. She's already given the police her story, which is that Xavier hit her."
"Look, you're good. If anyone can unravel this, you can. X wasn't the one. Trust me. "
"Trust you?" I asked. "You're as trustworthy as a three dollar bill."
"Hey, hey, hey. Don't get smart with me," Roper said, pointing a finger in my face. "If you don't want to do it for me, do it for that USC family thing you Trojans like to brag about."
I stared at him with as much incredulity as I could muster. "That doesn't include twisting the arm of a young woman with a bruised jaw just so a kid can go off and make millions."
"Then do it because it's the right thing to do."
I shook my head. "And you know the right thing to do."
"Look, would a big-time attorney like Jeremy Hoffman be taking X on as a client if he thought he did it? Jeremy's not going to embarrass himself like that."
"You know Jeremy?" I asked, eyebrows raised.
"I know everyone in this town," he said. "Everyone who's worth knowing, that is. Who do you think steered Xavier to Jeremy? I know who the movers and shakers are around here."
I thought for a moment. "So that's how Jeremy came to call me."
"I knew you picked things up quick," Roper smiled, leaning back in his chair. "That's why I wanted you on my team. You'll get to the bottom of this. You're my go-to detective. You're my guy here."
"Your guy," I repeated. "Look. I'll see what I can do. But not because of you or Jeremy or even SC. When I joined the LAPD, one of the first things they taught us was it's just as important to exonerate an innocent person as it is to convict a guilty one."
Roper shrugged. "Hey, if that works for you, it works for me."
"I'll tell you something though. If Xavier's lying, I'll find that out, too. And no amount of money is going to get him off."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he said. "You know, for a former cop, you really don't know how the system works here."
"I know exactly how it works. I just don't like how it works. But before you run off, let me ask you one last thing. Xavier's going on the radio to discuss this incident. How does that help him at all?"
Roper shook his head as if he were speaking with a small child. "It'll help to get the NFL to take a more balanced view of things," he said slowly. "And we're playing the long game here. If you do your job, the charges will get dropped. If X does his job this morning, the public -- and therefore the NFL -- will turn a more sympathetic eye toward him. So he'll be back to playing football and all will be right with the world."
"And if you do your job, Xavier will get a multi-million dollar deal
next year. For which you'll get a percentage."
Roper smiled broadly. "Everyone should be compensated for their work," he said as he rose and walked out of the coffee house. I stared out the window as he merged with the various people walking along the plaza of L.A. Live. So I was Cliff Roper's guy now. Lucky me.
I had 45 minutes before I needed to meet Virgil for lunch. Pulling out my iPad, I opened the online version of the L.A. Times and scanned it. I didn't expect to see any news about Xavier Bishop and none was there. But there was an article, buried down the local news page, near the bottom, written by a staff reporter named Adam Lazar. It told of what appeared to be a drive-by shooting in the Rampart district, possibly gang-related. A student at the prestigious Stone Canyon School had been murdered. No suspects. But at the end of the article was a note about the slain young man, Diego Garcia, being romantically linked with the daughter of a high profile public official.
Before I left, I walked back to the counter for a refill on coffee. I handed the barista a five, but she told me there was no charge.
"My lucky day?" I asked.
"Maybe, I guess," she said. "That gentleman you were sitting with gave me a $20 bill earlier and said your drinks were on him. Strange he didn't mention it to you."
Chapter 6
I took a walk around Staples Center and the Nokia Theatre before heading off to lunch. I thought about Xavier Bishop and his new friend, Cliff Roper. Nothing made sense here, except maybe Roper being involved in yet another distasteful situation. Xavier Bishop clearly punched someone, but wouldn't say who it was, only who it wasn't. On my drive over to lunch, I heard Xavier on the radio, saying largely the same thing he told me. The host pressed him about his scraped hand, but Xavier would only say it was an unrelated injury. I flicked the interview off after a few minutes.
My destination was on the edge of Chinatown, across the street from Union Station, and down the block from Olvera Street. Skid Row was not far away. I arrived at the restaurant a few minutes before noon, which meant the long lines were already forming. I found Virgil Hairston already waiting to place his order, and I apologized as I cut in front of a number of unhappy customers. At Philippe's, there was always a line and it always moved slowly. Their counter people also sliced the meat and assembled the sandwiches, and they were folks who had pride in their work. They took their time, but they served the best French-dipped sandwiches in town.
"I'm glad we could forge a compromise on lunch," I said.
"You have good taste," Virgil said. "Although I was more in the mood for a Hollenbeck burrito."
"You'll live longer eating here," I pointed out.
A short, chunky man standing next to Virgil spoke. He wore a plaid shirt with a black tie, had an olive complexion, and his brown eyes were deeply set. "I don't believe in all that. Mexican food is the best."
I glanced at the little man and then back at Virgil. "Friend of yours?"
"One of my reporters. Burnside, Adam Lazar. Adam Lazar, Burnside."
"Ah, I just read your article," I said as we shook hands. His handshake was limp and obligatory. "Good journalism. I can't wait to hear your sources."
"You won't," he snorted. "That's why they talk to me."
I turned back to Virgil and spoke. "I take it you brought him along to lighten the mood."
Virgil looked at us. "I thought you two might be a good match. He's a lot like you. Finds a way to piss people off and get them to say things they wouldn't ordinarily say."
"Just what the world needs," I observed wryly. "More people like me."
I ordered a French-dipped beef sandwich and a baked apple. Same thing I had been ordering since my USC days. Virgil ordered a lamb sandwich, a beef sandwich and a number of side dishes. Lazar asked for a side of coleslaw and two orders of pickled pig's feet.
"You don't see that everywhere," I remarked as we found space at a communal table in the back. "In fact, I don't think I've ever seen another restaurant that serves pig's feet. Or anyone here who's ever ordered it."
"See," Virgil pointed at him. "He's like you. Old school. Just like this place."
Old-school certainly described Philippe's, an LA institution that had been operating for over 100 years. They claimed to have invented the French-dipped sandwich by accident. As the legend goes, when a police officer stopped by for a roast beef sandwich on a roll, the counter man accidentally dropped the roll into a pan of beef drippings. The officer said not to bother making a new sandwich, he'd take it that way. The next day he went back and specifically asked for the roll to be dunked in the drippings again. The idea caught on, and the sandwich soon became the biggest seller at Philippe's. Oddly, another restaurant nearby also claimed to have invented the French dip. The truth, like so many things in life, was buried a long time ago.
"So tell me about your new job," I said to Virgil in between bites of my sandwich. It was moist and warm and good.
"Political editor for the Times," Virgil responded. "My dream job. I oversee everything about state and local politics, including campaigns. Especially campaigns."
"You've got a good one going now," I said. "The gubernatorial race is getting very interesting."
"Last night's debate was a godsend for the media. The polls are close, but when a politician sticks his foot in his mouth, things get ramped up in a hurry. Justin Woo's already cutting an ad featuring Rex Palmer mimicking the way he pronounces California. The next two weeks are going to be vicious."
"I'm sure you'll be busy," I said and turned to Lazar, who had picked up a pig's foot with his hands and was busy gnawing away at it. "How's that thing taste?"
"Very good. But it's the texture I like. Nice and chewy. Want one?"
"No, I 'd prefer to watch you enjoy it. From a distance."
"You have no idea what you're missing," Lazar declared and looked up at me. "None whatsoever."
"Ignorance is bliss," I said. "Especially here."
"Suit yourself."
"So tell me about Diego Garcia."
"You tell me," Lazar responded. "You were one of the last people to have talked with him."
I turned to Virgil. "This might not go as swimmingly as you had hoped."
Virgil shrugged, finished his first sandwich and glanced to his left. A grubby man with a tattered beard sat down at our table, his tray holding only a cup of hot coffee. The coffee here still cost just a dime. He carefully poured a generous amount of cream in and added two spoonfuls of sugar before stirring it for a good five seconds. He took a sip and smacked his lips satisfactorily.
I turned back to Lazar. "Your story mentioned the daughter of a high profile public official. I take it you know who that is."
"Of course I do," Lazar said as he continued to gnaw on the pig's foot, trying to get every speck of meat he could reach. "I'm not releasing that morsel yet. Saving it for a little while. The governor is making all the news we need right now."
"Not a shining moment for him last night," I remarked.
"Rex Palmer is an idiot. He doesn't deserve to be in office. He got there through his family name and family money."
"That describes half the politicians in America," I scoffed, starting to get annoyed. "So who do you like, Justin Woo?"
The young man stopped eating and put what was left of the pig's foot down. "I don't like either of them. They pander to Latinos. Every four years they come and ask us for our vote. Then they forget about us. I would have loved for a serious Latino candidate to be in this race."
"You're Latino?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Lazar's not a Latino name, is it?"
He smiled for a brief moment. Very brief. And it wasn't really much of a smile. "My family name was originally Salazar, but my father changed it. He earned a college degree, but nobody would hire him. Wouldn't even give him an interview. When he changed the name to Lazar, doors started to open. He wound up being director of marketing for a large toy company."
"The world's different now," I offered.
"
Not so much."
"Have you experienced the type of prejudice your father did?"
"Oh, yes."
"How so?"
"I grew up in the Valley. Van Nuys. Played soccer in high school. We'd sometimes have games with private schools. Played Stone Canyon in fact. I got a few red cards."
"You were ejected from soccer games?"
"Yeah. Those kids called us everything from beaners to wetbacks to spics. They didn't like us and we didn't like them. I kicked a few of those snooty, rich kids in the nuts. The refs told me to knock it off. I told them I just had bad aim."
"You've still got a lot of anger in you."
"I call it passion."
"The same type of passion Diego Garcia had?" I asked pointedly.
He gave me a blank look. "What do you mean?"
"Diego struck me as a passionate guy. Think that's what got him killed?"
Lazar eyed his pickled pig's feet for a long moment. "You raise an interesting question."
"You think Diego's death was a random drive-by?" I asked. "Gang-related?"
He took a long breath. "I don't know. You can't rule it out. But I think the campaign played a role here. There's no other explanation. Not with Molly involved. Too coincidental."
Now it was my turn to take a long breath. "That's quite a leap. Why would the campaign want to kill a teenage kid?"
"It's an angle I've been thinking about. That may find its way into my next article."
"Maybe you should think harder."
Virgil wiped his mouth carefully with a napkin. "Now this is what I hoped for. Progress. I was wondering the same thing. We heard Diego had been approached recently by people from the Palmer campaign. But we can't run with hasty conclusions, Adam. I need more substance before this gets into print."
"What are you suggesting?" Adam asked.
"I'm suggesting maybe the two of you take a drive up to Stone Canyon together. Poke around. I'll try and set up something with the Head of School there. You'd probably want to talk with her anyway, about Molly. You should try and find out more about Diego. The two of you might work great as a team, synergy and all that."