The Middle Sister

by Jesse Miles

  Rocky and I ended the call, and I phoned a Mexican restaurant on the next block and ordered chicken quesadillas to-go. Walking back to my office, I ate some of the chips out of the box and thought about my next move. Back at my desk, I turned on the wall-mounted television, finished my dinner, and watched the news. There were reports of police activity in the Castellammare neighborhood, but no mention of Lillie Manning. I wondered if Rod Damian had been watching the news or if he needed to.

  10

  4

  All the windows in Rod Damian’s house were dark. I parked in the same spot as the day before and walked back up the hill toward Damian’s driveway. The security light bulb I had loosened during my first visit shed no light when I walked past it. The concrete deck in back was empty. The garage door was closed. I looked through a small window in the side of the garage. No car.

  The back-door lock slowed me down for a minute or so. For this occasion, I was carrying my SureFire tactical flashlight rather than my trusty little penlight. I set the light on low-output and followed it through the service porch and galley kitchen and into the living room. An L-shaped sectional sofa and a round metallic coffee table were across from a roll-top desk and matching wooden chair. The front door was straight ahead, central hallway to the left. I closed the window shutters in front, clicked on the hallway light, and set my flashlight on high-output.

  The master bedroom was furnished with a hastily-made king-size bed, a tall dresser, and a television on a wall mount. The walk-in closet was packed. The highlights included Brioni and Armani suits, a dozen boxes holding Berluti shoes, and a full-length fur coat that was too warm for the coldest LA weather. If I were a thief, and I were Rod’s size, I would have grabbed two of the bomber jackets.

  On the wall opposite the closet were three smallish framed prints: reproductions from Monet’s “Rouen Cathedral” series. Cheap-ass prints you would normally find taped to the wall of a college dorm room.

  The other bedroom was full of sports equipment, including skis, scuba tanks, and archery gear. Two skeet shotguns were locked into a wall-mounted rack: a Beretta and a Perazzi. Everything in the room was top-quality, unscratched, and apparently unused.

  The living room desk held a landline phone, but no computer. I played back the phone messages while searching the desk and finding nothing of interest. The only notable message had come in at 5:12 p.m. A firm, gentle male voice said, “This is Marty. I can see you at the club at nine. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume you’ll be there.”

  I was looking through the kitchen, wondering who “Marty” was and which club he was referring to, when the deep-throated purr of Rod’s Porsche sounded. I turned off my flashlight and killed the hallway light. When the Porsche was in back, I opened the living room shutters and slipped out the front. I moved my car down the hill and waited for Rod to depart for his nine o’clock meeting. My watch said 8:22.

  Ten or fifteen minutes later, Rod’s headlights came out of the darkness, and he turned south. I let three cars go past me and joined the traffic. We all turned east on Sunset and cruised toward the Strip.

  About ten minutes later, Rod turned into the lot of a nightclub called ShangriLA. I had never been there, but I knew it catered to a stylish, well-heeled clientele. And the usual poseurs.

  I cruised past the club, turned into the next lot, and paid the flat rate. For an extra twenty, I was allowed to back my car into a space near the sidewalk and keep the key. Inside ShangriLA, I paid the cover and took a stool at the dark end of the bar, where I could see and not be seen.

  The bartender was a sleek blonde, around fifty. She might have been an actress or model in her younger days, which put her in the same category as a half-million other local women.

  She said, “What’ll it be?”

  “Wild Turkey rocks.”

  She had a quick, honest smile. “Tasty.”

  Rod Damian was in a corner booth, talking to the club owner Marty Trask. I knew about Trask, a retired drug dealer who had laundered his loot through real estate, ShangriLA, and an exclusive men’s clothing store on Robertson Boulevard. He was mid to late thirties, dark hair, tall forehead, long straight nose. He was wearing a light-gray suit and a dark shirt with no tie. For a gangster, he had a noble bearing. It seemed odd that a major Sunset Strip figure like Marty Trask would be rubbing elbows with a parasitic pipsqueak like Rod Damian.

  The body language between Rod and Marty was tense, as though Rod was trying to sell a big-ticket item and not closing the deal. During the conversation, Rod was writing on a paper napkin while two well-built gentlemen were watching Marty’s back from an adjacent booth. The larger torpedo had a big square head. The smaller one had a full beard.

  A waif of a girl came onto the stage, carrying an acoustic guitar. She wore a black satin top and low-cut, severely distressed jeans. One more hole in the jeans, a leg might fall off. An amplified voice announced, “ShangriLA presents . . . Francesca!”

  The audience ranged from fresh-faced kids to gray-ponytailed, burned-out hippies. They gave Francesca spirited applause and carefully modulated little whoops and yelps that were supposed to sound spontaneous. I listened to two songs while watching Rod and Marty. The girl’s voice had strength and vulnerability, but halfway into the second song, it all started to sound the same. She needed to cover material written by real songwriters.

  Marty studied the imprinted napkin, dropped it on his plate, and stared off into the distance. Finally, there was an exchange in which Marty did the talking and Rod did the nodding. Marty leaned back toward the hired help in the next booth and said something. The quartet slid out of their booths and walked toward the front entrance, all in the same casual rhythm. A busboy scooped the dinnerware from both tables into a plastic tub.

  I left my barely-touched drink on the bar, followed the busboy into the kitchen, and watched him set the tub on a bussing cart. Nobody was paying attention to me, and the busboy was gone, so I grabbed the napkin Rod had been using for stationery.

  I screwed up. The busboy wasn’t gone.

  “It looks like I caught you with your finger in the pie,” he said in a strong Spanish accent. He had a triangular face and a military buzz-cut.

  I said, “Would you believe my hobby is collecting paper napkins from fine restaurants?”

  He frowned and shook his head.

  “Would you believe it for fifty dollars?”

  He was motionless and silent.

  I looked around to make sure nobody was watching and showed a hundred-dollar bill. “Final offer.”

  He smiled gently. “For a hundred, I would believe in the virgin birth.”

  I introduced Ben Franklin to the debate winner, pocketed the napkin, and took the nearest exit. Marty Trask was easing a big BMW sedan out of the lot. Rod Damian was in the passenger seat. Behind the BMW was a white Chevrolet SS carrying the two torpedoes. I trotted down the sidewalk, retrieved my car, and horned my way into the westbound traffic. The BMW and Chevy turned south on Doheny. I squeaked through the yellow and ended up two cars behind them.

  The target vehicles went straight down the hill and crossed Santa Monica Boulevard. The other cars turned right. I moved close enough to note the plate on the Chevy, then I backed off a little. Both vehicles took a quick right, then another, into a short residential block of condos and apartments. I turned into the next alley and parked behind a construction site, next to a portable toilet. I stepped lightly between the construction and an older Spanish apartment building on my left, stopping behind a Bobcat excavator near the sidewalk.

  Rod, Marty, and one of the torpedoes were walking across the street, toward my side. Their destination was a bungalow court on the other side of the Spanish building. The guy with the beard stayed behind the steering wheel of the Chevy, engine off, windows down. I double-timed back to the alley and the rear of the bungalows, where I slipped around the carport and stood in a dark shadow.

  Five ground-level bungalows were laid out in a straight line.
Marty Trask and Rod Damian stood at the front door of the middle bungalow. The other man trailed behind, slowly looking around. Rod Damian tapped on the bungalow door, which opened. There were low voices, and the three visitors went inside. Voices floated out from a side window with half-open curtains. I moved into the shrubbery outside the window. I couldn’t see inside, but I could hear what was being said.

  The voice of Rod Damian said, “Cal, I’d like to hear about your visit with Lillie Tuesday morning at ten o’clock—when you went to pick up the blow.”

  A shaky baritone responded, “I didn’t actually go and see Lillie. I let Cinnamon go instead.”

  “You what? You let her go in your place? After you told me you were going to see Lillie and buy an ounce? You changed the deal without telling me? You don’t change the deal after you make the deal.”

  “I just did her a favor. She wanted . . . “

  There was a slapping sound and a whimper. I took a chance and slipped closer to the window until I could see inside. Rod and the torpedo had another man pressed against the wall. The guy getting the treatment had a thin face and long sideburns, with his hair flopped over to one side. He was no more than five-six. The guys running the show averaged over six feet. Other than the drama, all I could see was a bed, two wooden chairs, a desk, and a table covered with serious-looking photography equipment.

  The little guy talked fast. “I was just doing Cinnamon a favor. She hasn’t seen Lillie for a long time, and she wanted to visit her. What’s this all about?”

  Rod said, “Why didn’t Cinnamon contact Lillie directly or through me?”

  “I didn’t understand the exact nature of Cinnamon’s relationship with Lillie, and I didn’t ask for an explanation.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t want to be intrusive.”

  Marty Trask’s voice was a resonant blend of warmth and menace. “Cal, I can appreciate your desire to be gentlemanly, but fifty thousand dollars in cash and coke was ripped off from Lillie at just about the same time you were supposed to be with her. How did she look when you saw her? Did she look well?”

  Cal said, “I told you, I never saw her. After I gave the address to Cinnamon, I threw away the sheet I wrote it on. I don’t know anything about ripping off anyone for anything. And I’m sure Lillie looked great, but I wasn’t there to see her. I never saw Lillie Manning when she didn’t look great. I’m really, really sorry if I caused a problem for anyone. I just wanted to do Cinnamon a favor.”

  Marty said, “Are you saying Cinnamon took the goods?”

  “No, absolutely not. I’m not saying anything like that.” He coughed out a stiff chuckle. “Cinnamon wouldn’t do anything like that.”

  Rod said, “Listen, you little piece of shit, you’re going to tell us where you hid it, and everything else you know, or you’re going to have to loosen your collar to wipe your ass after we get finished with you.”

  Cal said, “Search my place. Search my car. I didn’t steal anything. I don’t have any money. I can hardly pay the fucking rent. I just wanted to help Cinnamon.”

  Marty said, “Where’s your car?”

  Cal took a car key out of his pocket and handed it over. “In the carport. Black Mazda. It’s a small SUV.”

  Marty handed the key to Rod without looking at him. When Rod turned toward the door, I crept to the back of the bungalow and waited around the corner, next to the trash bins. I was too far from the open window to hear the voices inside.

  Three or four minutes later, Rod’s feet sounded on the sidewalk. He went back inside, and I resumed peeping. When my nose was level with the window, the acidic smell of vomit hit me. Cal was bent over with his hands on his knees. His butt was against the wall, and his dinner was on the floor. Marty and his helper were quietly searching the apartment.

  Rod said, “I couldn’t find anything in the car, not without taking it apart.” He looked at Cal and grimaced.

  Marty pointed at Cal. “Stand up straight.”

  Cal straightened up.

  Marty said, “Clean up the mess.”

  Cal retrieved handfuls of wet paper towels from the kitchen and started the clean-up. During Cal’s trips back and forth to the kitchen, the torpedo followed him to make sure he didn’t duck out the back. When Cal finished his task, he sat down on a wooden chair by his desk with his knees pressed together and his hands folded on top of his thighs.

  Marty said, “Where does Cinnamon live?”

  Cal sat perfectly still and spoke carefully, measuring his words. “I don’t know. She has an apartment somewhere. I think it’s in Brentwood, maybe Santa Monica. I don’t know the address. She used to have an apartment in West Hollywood, up on Shorham Drive. I knew where that place was, but I don’t know where she is now. I only have a phone number and her email.”

  Marty found a cell phone on the desk and handed it to Cal. “I want you to call Cinnamon and tell her you need some blow, and it would be greatly appreciated if she could peel off some of what she got from Lillie during the meeting that you so kindly arranged. Tell her you want to pay for it, you’re not looking for a handout. Where would you normally conduct such a transaction?”

  “If she says yes, we could probably do it at Whole Foods in Brentwood.”

  “Make sure she says yes. Schedule it for tomorrow, ten a.m. or later. Do it now.”

  “How much blow?”

  “Make it an 8-ball, and if she wants to sell you more or less, whatever she wants is okay. Just arrange the meeting.”

  “I don’t have the money.”

  “I’ll cover it.”

  The little guy made the call, spoke to someone named Cinnamon, and arranged a meeting. When he finished, he set the phone on the desk and said to Marty, “Okay, I did it, but it’s going to be five hundred dollars. Ten o’clock at one of the tables in front. She said she ended up not going to the house where Lillie was staying, but she said she could spare me an 8-ball.”

  Marty said, “So she’s going to do this as a favor, out of the goodness of her heart?”

  “I’ve done a lot of favors for her, mostly free photography.”

  Marty pulled a wallet from his suit jacket and handed some money to Cal. His voice mellowed. “Here you go, Cal, you get an extra two hundred for your trouble. You do your part, you can keep the blow, you owe me nothing, we part as business associates.” His voice mellowed further. “You don’t show up, or you cross me in any way . . . we will break your cameras, and then we will break your right hand. You are right-handed, aren’t you?”

  “You won’t have to break anything.”

  Marty’s voice tightened. “I asked if you were right-handed.”

  Cal’s voice weakened. “Yes.”

  Marty looked over at his hired helper. “Corey, you get that?”

  Corey’s big square shoulders complemented his head. His voice was a calm Midwestern drawl. “You say the word, he’ll be jackin’ off left-handed.”

  Marty turned back to Cal. “Now let’s make sure we have this straight. You will meet her tomorrow morning at ten o’clock at the sidewalk tables at the Whole Foods in Brentwood. You will engage her in small talk and discreetly make the exchange. After you and Cinnamon go your separate ways, your obligation is fulfilled. You do your job, you’re home free. You got it?”

  Cal nodded sharply and put a little strength in his voice. “Got it. I promise I’ll come through for you.”

  “I think you will, Cal, and I appreciate it.”

  Marty, Rod, and Corey started for the door. I hid around the corner again and waited until I heard their cars driving away. I noted the plate on the black Mazda in the carport before driving my car to the front and noting the street address of the bungalow court.

  A half hour later I was in my home office, with my nose in my computer. Cal’s actual name was Chesley Alden Lamont. He seemed to prefer the moniker Cal Lamont. He had grown up in the Boston area and attended college there. For the past three or four years he had been trying to sell h
imself as the photographer-to-the-stars, but his two-year-old bankruptcy and lack of celebrity endorsements said otherwise.

  The plate on the torpedoes’ Chevy turned up a corporate name as the registered owner and lienholder. I suspected the corporation was under Marty Trask’s control. Trying to run a background on Marty Trask was like trying to run a background on a movie star. The significant information was buried.

  The paper napkin over which Rod and Marty had been conducting business was hand-printed with the following:

  I took “oz” to mean “ounce,” and “8b” to mean “8-ball” or quarter-ounce. TH, S, and M could mean days of the week, and $K was a thousand dollars. In the first three rows, the money increased as the inventory decreased, apparently an accounting of cocaine sales. The meaning of the bottom row was up for grabs. I scanned the chart into my computer, and came to a few conclusions, some of them more conclusive than others.

  I had to go on the assumption Lillie had been selling coke to get some quick cash after her mother cut her allowance. Her boyfriend Rod Damian would have been helping her with the sales effort, but I wondered where she got the initial inventory. I put my money on Marty Trask. He was a retired drug dealer, he had deep pockets, and he had probably retained connections with his old business associates. It would be easy for him to buy a kilo on short notice. He also seemed to have a special interest in Lillie Manning.

  The main topic of conversation in Cal’s apartment had been the theft of cocaine and money. Marty and Rod had accused Cal of stealing the goods, but Cal couldn’t be the only suspect. If Lillie had died of an overdose and Rod was on the scene, he might have taken the bulk of the cash and the cocaine. And there was the mystery character named Cinnamon. I was looking forward to her meeting with Cal Lamont.