by T. T. Monday
Back in the alley, I try the rear door. Every off season for the last ten years, I have resolved to learn lock picking, but every year something comes up, and I arrive at spring training just as ignorant as the year before. I must say, it’s a real handicap in this line of work to be stymied by something as low-tech as a lock. Then it occurs to me that maybe Simon Fine has tools. I pop the trunk of the Porsche and find … the engine. Fucking Germans. I walk around the front of the car, pop the other trunk—the frunk?—and discover a tire iron nestled next to the spare. I shoulder the rod like a bat. It makes noise, but in fewer swings than it takes to strike out, I’ve got the springs of Bam Bam’s security door bouncing down the alley.
Bam Bam’s office is just as Marcus described: half a dozen flat-screen TVs suspended from the ceiling, a couple of desks littered with greasy debris from Taco Bell and Jack in the Crack. One wall bears the evidence of Bam Bam’s demise, an ugly splatter painting of brown blood. A dark stain on the carpet and a long smear from there to the door answer one of the questions that have been nagging me—namely, how Marcus managed to carry all three hundred pounds of Bam Bam Rodriguez from here to the Caddy. Forensically, this is a Sesame Street case. A police detective could figure it out in thirty seconds; an actor playing a police detective would require only slightly more time. The good news is that, without any witnesses, it will be nearly impossible to pin the deed on Marcus. Common sense suggests he wiped his prints off the door. I’ll assume Natsumi’s little pistol wasn’t of the licensed-and-registered variety. I make a note to ask Marcus about the gun, but for the moment I’m reasonably satisfied that, although this job was regrettable, it was safely done.
As I scrutinize the room more carefully, it occurs to me that, except for the blood on the wall, you might not find evidence of a murder here if you weren’t looking for it. Such is the state of disarray in Bam Bam’s lair. Next to the desk is a seedy couch stained from God knows how many casting sessions. You know those TV shows where they shine black lights to reveal hidden stains and spills on upholstery? This thing would glow like a float in Disneyland’s electric parade. Next to the couch is a mini-fridge filled not with rotten leftovers but with drug paraphernalia—coke spoons, empty baggies, glass pipes, a butane torch—the makings of a healthy after-school snack. I am not sure what I’m looking for, but there are some conspicuous absences. I discover that the video monitors are not connected to anything—the cords all lead to the desk, where two squares in the dust suggest there were once a couple of computers. I recall that Bam Bam showed videos to Marcus on these monitors. Someone besides me has been here since the murder. Someone with a key.
Before I leave, I run my finger quickly along Bam Bam’s bookshelves. Beside the titles you might expect to find in an operation like this—HTML for Dummies, Professional Lighting for Home Video Shoots, a Xeroxed volume called The Pussy Pages, 2011 Edition—there are some odd inclusions: for example, half a dozen investment prospectuses. The white plastic binders have spine labels like “AG Partners Blank Check Corporation” and “California Restaurant Finance, LLC.” I only know what these are because Bethany sometimes has them in her bag. They contain financial statements and business plans prepared by entrepreneurs looking for money. They’re generally as dry as dirt, but as clues go, they are the best I’m going to get. I choose the newest-looking binder, one proposing a chain of low-cost OB/GYN clinics. I slip it under my arm. After wiping down the doorknobs one last time, I am back in the arousalmobile, one binder richer but no more enlightened than I was an hour ago.
On my way back toward Santa Monica, I get a call from George Luck.
“Hey, George.”
“Johnny?” He seems surprised to hear my voice, even though he is the one who called me. “Are you hiding your phone? I was expecting voice mail.”
It takes me a minute to understand that he thinks I am in San José. I look at my watch. It is almost noon. The game up there is about to start. How soon the vacationer forgets his office.
“Yeah, I came down to L.A. a day early. Family trouble.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Listen, if you could sneak away for even half an hour, I would really appreciate it. I have a favor to ask you.”
“How about now? When do you have to be downtown?”
“It’s a seven-thirty start, but I pitched last night.”
“I saw that. Sorry about the loss.”
“What could I do? Two runs a game, that’s what they’re giving me this year. Two point one, something like that.”
“Rough. But that’s Dodger baseball, right?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Are you still in Manhattan Beach?”
“Yeah, same place. You remember how to get here?”
My watch says it is two o’clock in the afternoon when I park the Porsche on the concrete incline next to Luck’s house. Thanks to traffic and a couple of nonnegotiable pit stops—gasoline, In-N-Out Burger—the trip took longer than I expected. George is waiting for me, and I see right away that he is on edge. He sticks his head out the door and looks left and right like he is expecting someone else.
“I got here as fast as I could,” I say.
“Come in, quickly—”
He grabs my shoulder and pulls me inside.
“Easy, buddy. That’s my career you’re yanking.”
He slams the door behind us. He is breathing hard, almost hyperventilating. His eyes are puffy, raccoonish, like he has not slept in days.
“What’s the matter with you, George? You feeling all right?”
“Was anyone following your car?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“George—relax. I’m sure.”
He gives it a good effort, breathing deeply, closing his eyes. George has never been a handsome man. Ginny used to call him Skellington, on account of his gangly limbs and dead-white complexion. He has a long, arched nose, a pointy chin, and sandy hair that settles over his forehead like feathers. Also a nice smile, if you’re lucky enough to see it. Normally, his expression is about as blank as vanilla ice cream. He is a control pitcher, a guy who makes his living staying cool. I almost don’t recognize him strung out like this.
“What do you keep looking at?” I say.
“The Mexicans.”
“What Mexicans?”
“The guys who—You are sure you didn’t see anybody out there?”
“Sit down, George.”
His house is small, compared with what he could afford these days. It’s a two-story town house on a side street, facing away from the beach. I lead him to the cream leather sectional sofa, make him sit on one end. His eyes are still glued to the door.
I order him to tell me everything.
“I have a girl,” he says. “A Mexican girl. We’ve been together two years.”
“That’s great, man. I had no idea you were seeing someone.”
“Nobody knows.”
“There is nothing wrong with having a girlfriend, George.”
“Yeah, I know. But the thing is …” He pauses, puffs out his lips. “The thing is, I pay her.”
“I pay my ex. What’s the big deal?”
“This isn’t a joke, Johnny. She’s a hooker.”
“You’re dating a hooker?”
“Not exactly. No, wait—yes, I’m dating a hooker. Her name is Ana Velásquez. She’s from Sinaloa, real nice family. They are mango farmers. We’re in love.”
“How did you meet her?” I ask.
“We were introduced by a mutual friend.”
“Anybody I know?”
Luck lowers his eyes. “No, no …”
“So now you have friends who deal in—Never mind. Let me guess, you tried to stop paying, and her pimp came calling?”
George shakes his head. “I don’t expect you to understand this,” he says, “but I prefer to pay. It is less complicated this way. On any given day I know exactly where we stand.”
Now I remember that Luck used to bri
ng a manicure kit on the road. No doubt, if I were to walk into his bedroom right now, I would find his closet organized by color.
“The guy who’s following you isn’t her pimp?”
For the second time, I see him recoil at the word “pimp.” I begin to see how deep this girl has sunk her hooks.
“First of all, I don’t recognize the guy following me. And second, Ana doesn’t have a pimp. A man named Miguel takes care of her and the other girls who live in her house. He’s like an older brother to them.”
“A brother, huh? I am sure he takes good care of his sisters.”
“Actually, he does. You can ask Ana, he does. He pays the girls their salary, pays for a house in Redondo Beach, gives them clothes, jewelry, everything.”
“Green cards?”
“Well, no.”
“But the guy on your tail isn’t him.”
“No.”
“Does the pim—I mean, does Miguel know anything about this?”
“That’s the thing. I haven’t been able to reach him. I have called about a hundred times.”
“And the girl, has she seen him?”
“I haven’t told her that I’m being followed. She is out of town this week. I am going to tell her when she gets back.”
“I think I know what’s going on here.”
“You do?”
“It’s king of the hill. Your guy Miguel has been replaced.”
“By ‘replaced,’ you mean—”
“Gone. Ana has a new boss.”
“Somebody just came in and killed him?”
“Don’t act surprised, Luck. He wasn’t running a lemonade stand.”
“I know.” Luck hangs his head like Charlie Brown. I am sure that on some level he already knew. “What does he want from me?” he asks.
“Money. It is time to renegotiate your girl’s contract.”
“Fine, as long as he doesn’t hurt her …”
I take a deep breath. I see what my role in this drama is supposed to be.
“Let me look into it,” I say. “Give me a couple of days.”
I don’t normally take two cases at once, but for Luck I will make an exception. Poor guy. When you are mourning your girlfriend’s pimp—that’s rock bottom by anyone’s standards.
21
After Luck leaves for the stadium, I go back to the car and watch his house. To pass the time, I tune in the pregame program on the Dodgers’ AM station. The host is a guy named Jesse Ursino, a former reliever who played for half the clubs in the National League before realizing what everyone in baseball knew all along—that he was better with his mouth than his arm.
“Our caller, Joseph, wants to know how we think the death of Frankie Herrera, the Bay Dogs’ backup catcher, is going to affect the race in the NL West. Did I get that correct?”
“That’s right, Jesse.”
“Well, off the top of my head, I’d have to say that it won’t affect the race at all. I can’t think of a time when a team’s backup catcher made any difference at all.”
“Yeah, that’s a good point, Jesse, but it’s not quite what I’m getting at. I know that tragedies like this can damage a team’s morale—”
“And you played for how many major-league teams?”
“Uh …”
“Joseph? Are you there?”
“None, Jesse. I never played for a major-league team. In fact, I haven’t played baseball since grade school.”
“Right. So you have this psychological insight about the inner workings of a major-league clubhouse how?”
“I was just … I think I read it somewhere.”
“A scholar, folks. We have a scholar on the line.”
Ursino was always a dick. The most famous incident was at the start of the 1988 season, the year Kirk Gibson hit that epic home run off Eckersley in Game 1 of the World Series. Ursino and Gibson were both new to the Dodgers, and in spring training, Ursino thought it would be funny to smear black shoe polish inside Gibson’s cap. Gibby flew off in a rage, castigating Ursino and basically setting the no-nonsense tone for the rest of the year. The usual moral of this story says that Gibson’s ethic prevailed; he went on to be the National League MVP. An alternative moral is that assholes have their uses.
“You know, Jesse, it wouldn’t hurt you to treat the deceased with a little more respect.”
“What is this, the AARP info line? We’re talking baseball here, Joseph.”
“Frankie Herrera was a model citizen. He was involved in youth programs in Mexico, for example.”
“Why should I care about youth in Mexico?”
“Aren’t you Mexican?”
“Father was Italian, mother was Puerto Rican and Irish. Where’s Mexico in that?”
“Forget it, Jesse, just forget it.”
“You bet I’ll forget it—next caller!”
Around this time, I hear a noise in the alley. I jump out of the car to take a look around. Behind Luck’s house, a young Latino man in Dickies and a plain white T-shirt has fallen on his ass, surrounded by recyclables: empty soda cans, bottles, newspapers, magazines. An overturned blue trash can rests by his side. At first I think he’s a canner—but, then, nobody stealing cans out of trash bins would bother to hustle like this. When he sees me, he picks himself up and tears off, flat-bottom sneakers clapping the asphalt like pimp slaps.
I believe we have found our man.
He turns right on Twelfth Place, heading toward the beach. When I round the corner, I see that he is already halfway down the block, almost to Ocean. The streets here are narrow and steep, and the sidewalk is grooved perpendicular to the road for traction. I gallop down the concrete incline as fast as I can in long, knee-crushing strides. There are coaches who swear that pitching is a lower-body phenomenon—that the torque of the hips provides the force that propels the ball, and the arm is just a little whip at the end. Could be. For my own sake, I hope they’re wrong.
At Ocean, the punk turns south for one block, then cuts left, away from the beach. I follow, almost losing my footing in the sandy intersection. He runs behind a public bus, and for a minute I fear I have lost him—that he has paid his buck fifty or whatever and given me the slip. But when the bus pulls away, I see him disappearing through the front door of a Mexican restaurant called El Dingo. I push my way into the restaurant, filled at that hour with lunchers from the nearby office buildings, men and women in pressed khakis with magnetic badges clipped to their belts and blouses.
“Where is he?” I say to the room.
The diners go silent, the cowards, before a chunky gal in an asymmetrical coral dress points to the kitchen door and says, “He went that way.”
I nod my thanks and charge on. The kitchen is bright, hot, and steamy. It smells strongly of beans and cumin. One of the cooks’ cell phones is playing a norteño love song, something about a heart as big as the moon. Everyone stops what they are doing. Peppers burn on the grill. Fajitas sizzle in cast-iron skillets.
“Who the hell are you?” says a bald man in a stained white apron. Like everyone else in the kitchen, he is Latino, but he is not my guy.
“Give him up,” I say, “or I’ll close you down. I’m the health inspector.”
There is a crash behind the dishwasher—one of those tall rack-load jobs—and our guy squirts out into the room. I reach to grab him, but the floor is wet, and I am standing in the only spot in the room not covered by a black rubber mat. I go down hard. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the suspect climb out the window onto the roof of the next building.
“He’s not the fucking health inspector,” the pudgy cook says in Spanish. “Look at him.”
I look at the bastard and say, in Spanish, “Maybe I’m not the health inspector, maybe I’m from Immigration. You want to try me?”
This silences the room. Can someone please tell me why it is always such a shock to Latin dudes when I speak Spanish? The language is only spoken by—what?—half a billion people worldwide? If they are looking for a secret co
de, they would do better to learn Lithuanian.
“Tell me who he is,” I say.
Nobody says a word for a minute, and then one of the line cooks, a skinny kid with a fuzzy lip and enormous, satellite-dish ears, says, “I saw him once at Redondo Beach Pier. He’s a gangster.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“He is! Drugs, guns, girls—business.”
“A businessman, huh?”
“Yeah.”
I scrape myself up off the kitchen floor. My ass is wet and my left ankle hurts. I hobble through the swinging door into the dining room and walk straight to the exit, avoiding eye contact. Years ago I would have said something to the people in the room, made a joke, something to save face. Now I know better. More often than not, the best strategy is to get the hell out, fast.
I walk up the main drag a few blocks, heading back toward Luck’s street. I am not sure if I believe the cook’s assessment of our little friend. He may have stolen George’s girl from her last pimp, but drugs and guns are something else entirely. Something like 95 percent of the drug trade is controlled by a handful of Mexican syndicates. Same with guns, which run north to south, opposite the stream of drugs. Both are economies of scale. The flesh trade does not work that way. Pimping is still a mom-and-pop business. Each girl needs to be turned out individually, broken like a horse, and that takes time. You cannot simply land an unmarked 737 on an airstrip in Colombia and fill it up with hookers.
I turn onto Luck’s street and walk downhill, slowly this time. My ankle might be fine, or not—it is hard to tell. There are no nerve endings in cartilage.
I find the Porsche where I left it, the radio still blaring. Jesse Ursino raises his voice with the caller: “The root problem—are you listening?—the root problem is not that the McCourts got divorced. It is that they were married in the first place! Marriage is a time bomb, people! Major League Baseball should never allow married couples to own teams. Owners should be bachelors, widows, or faceless corporations, period.”