by Jesse Miles
“How friendly were Cinnamon and Lillie?”
“They were never great friends, it was sort of off-and-on with them. Back a few years ago, Cinnamon was actually better friends with Lillie’s sister.”
I wasn’t sure I heard that right. “You mean . . .” My voice cracked, and I had to fake a cough and clear my throat to maintain my tough-guy persona. “Which sister? Zara Manning or Arden Manning?”
“It was Zara. I didn’t know there was another sister. I never met Zara, but I heard about her. Back a few year ago, Zara wanted to do some slumming, and Cinnamon was the girl for that. She knew all the dive bars.”
“Tell me all about Zara and Cinnamon.”
Dewey’s voice was losing its muscle. “Cinnamon used to always tell the story about the time they went to a male strip club. Zara went to the bank first and got a thousand dollars cash, all tens and twenties. She already had some fifties and hundreds in her purse. They got in the front row and got drunk and shoved money into the dancing boys’ privates all night while all the other women screamed their heads off. The way Cinnamon told it, they took the place over completely. That was Cinnamon’s favorite story.”
“What else did they do for fun?”
“They went to dive bars in bad neighborhoods, and they used to shoot guns. They thought it was fun, for some weird reason.”
“Where did they do their shooting?”
“They used to shoot pistols at a place called The Olympic Gun Club, over by downtown. Something bad happened, a gun accident or something. Not at the club. I think it was in . . . Glassell Park, I think it was. Probably outside some shitty bar. I think Cinnamon might have shot at some guy that tried to rob her, or maybe he just came on to her too rough. I’m not sure. And when that happened, Cinnamon was pissed off about Zara’s car—something Zara did with her car. I didn’t get any details on that.”
“When was the shooting incident?”
“Had to be . . . five or six years ago. I only heard Cinnamon talk about it that one time. She was drunk and spouting off to Lillie. I didn’t really hear the whole story. They never knew I heard them talking.”
“What ended the friendship between Zara and Cinnamon?”
“I think Zara just got tired of Cinnamon and dumped her. Zara used to hang out with movie people and rock stars, very high-level people. I don’t think Cinnamon was able to keep up with those kinds of people.”
“When did Cinnamon start hanging out with the middle sister, Lillie Manning?”
“I’m not exactly sure of when it was. Maybe a year or two ago.”
Dewey sagged forward and stared at the floor. His voice was little more than a whisper. “I used to have a poster of Cinnamon on my wall when I was in high school. I couldn’t believe it when she showed up at Latigo Alliance and came on to me. What was I supposed to do, say no? She hated the rehab program, said she had lots of friends who did a little coke now and then, never got strung out, stayed in control of their lives. She said she could do that too, but she got manipulated into going to drug rehab. Long story short, I snuck her a few lines . . . we got caught . . . I got fired, but it was worth it. I can’t believe she’s dead, and the way it happened was . . .” His voice trailed off. Dewey Rubens was played out.
37
4
During the drive to the Olympic Gun Club, there was a lot to think about. When Zara was in my office two days earlier, she said Cinnamon Strauss was only a bit player in the Zara Manning social pageant. That didn’t square with what I’d just heard. Dewey could have been making it all up, but I didn’t think he had enough wind in his sails to construct a plausible lie, not after he learned of Cinnamon’s red-hot demise. I wondered what Zara and Cinnamon might have been up to.
The owner of the pistol range was a tall, thin black guy named Grant Greenwood. He started out as a Certified Public Accountant and amateur target shooter. He got tired of balancing the books all day, and he turned his avocation into his profession. His specialty was aerial targets. You could toss beer cans into the air and watch Grant hit them using a variety of pistols. Gabe and I had known him for about ten years.
I stepped into the pistol range, and the thump of muffled gunfire greeted me, along with a familiar smoky, metallic odor. There were three shooters on the other side of the glassed-in control area. Grant was behind the counter, wearing jeans and a red polo shirt sporting the motto OLYMPIC GUN CLUB – WE AIM TO PLEASE. He said, “Hey, it’s the philosopher. What’s going on?”
“Not too much.”
“Not too much, other than you being the private dick who stumbled across the stiff body of that Manning girl last week. I saw it in the news.”
“Where did you see it?”
“Channel 11.”
“They drop my name?”
“They said the name Jackson Salvo, and I believe that’s you.”
“Whoever said there’s no such thing as bad publicity was full of shit. Did you also see Cinnamon Strauss in the news?”
“Yeah, the arson fire in Brentwood. I couldn’t believe it.” His face shifted from friendly to suspicious. “You’re not telling me those two events are connected, are you? Cinnamon used to come in here with Lillie’s big sister Zara. Who are you investigating?”
“Zara and Cinnamon. How well do you remember them?”
“How can I forget? They were the most larger-than-life girls I was ever around. They got the full attention of all my guys and most of the regular shooters. What’s going on, Jackson?”
I gave him a brief, scrubbed version of my search for Lillie, some of the subsequent events, and my interest in the target-shooting activities of Zara and Cinnamon.
Grant said, “It was at least five years ago when they first showed up, and they showed up in a big way. I will never forget the moment Cinnamon Strauss came strutting in the door, tight blouse with no bra, big tits out in front. She was always joking around, and she was funnier than hell. Zara was a little more on the conservative side, but she was a dish. Sort of like the princess sneaking out of the castle to see how the peasants live.
“They started out shooting a little SIG P238 Zara carried in her purse. She didn’t have a permit, but she seemed to think the law only applies to the little people like you and me. They both turned into good shooters in a very short time. When you told them the correct shooting technique, they listened, they understood the concepts, and their groups got tighter and tighter, real fast. If Cinnamon Strauss had been more disciplined and more focused, she could have been a really good shooter. That girl had talent. Excuse me for a minute.”
Grant took time out to help a pair of young women who wanted to rent pistols, buy ammunition, and punch holes in paper targets. After turning them over to one of his employees, he continued his tale.
“What was funny was the way the girls hated loading the SIG’s 7-shot magazine, especially if they just had their nails done. They might load it with only five or six cartridges, to minimize the damage to their fingernails. Sometimes they would split the workload. Cinnamon would insert a round or two, then Zara. Cinnamon would put in another round or two and say, ‘What the fuck. We put bullets in it.’ Then they would laugh it off and start shooting. They made it a standard joke that they were never sure if the pistol was going to be loaded with five, six, or seven cartridges.
“At first, they only shot Zara’s SIG. Later, they got tired of loading the magazine. Some of the time they would shoot rented .38 revolvers. That was a better gun for them. A medium-frame .38 with a small grip fit their hands just right, and there wasn’t much recoil, especially with a light load. Cinnamon was the wilder of the two. She sometimes had to be reminded of the range safety rules. She had a slight tendency to wave the gun around.”
A muscular Asian boy wearing a red shirt identical to Grant’s had been listening to us. “Hey, boss, did you tell him about Lloyd and his van?”
A wide grin spread across Grant’s face. “I was just getting to that. I had this young kid working for me part
-time, a freshman at LA City College, eighteen years old at the time. Anyway, Cinnamon took a shine to him, and a relationship blossomed. When Lloyd was off-duty, sometimes he would park his van in the far corner of the lot. Cinnamon would go out and entertain him in the van when Zara was inside shooting.”
I said, “Did Lloyd feel like he was being victimized by this older woman?”
The Asian kid slapped the counter and laughed.
Grant said, “Lloyd came by the range couple of months ago, just to say hi. Now he’s in a PhD program at UCLA, in the engineering school. He said Cinnamon gave him the best education he ever got.”
38
4
Sitting in my car outside the pistol range, I looked at a phone call that had come in during my visit with Grant. The number was unfamiliar, and there was no message. I returned the call.
A resonant male voice said, “This is Marty Trask.”
“This is Jack Salvo. Did you see on the news about the arson fire in Brentwood?”
“I’d like to talk to you about that. Where are you now?”
“In my car, near downtown.”
“Can you drop by the club?”
“Can we meet at a neutral site?”
“You call it.”
“Musso and Frank.”
“What’s a good time for you?”
“Five o’clock.”
“I’ll see you there.”
Twenty minutes later, I parked in the lot behind the Musso and Frank Grill. It’s one of the oldest restaurants in Los Angeles and the oldest in Hollywood. The interior is pretty much the same as it was in 1919. Lots of dark wood and red leather.
I took a booth, and Marty walked in two or three minutes later. He was wearing crocodile loafers, black denim pants, and a gray, long-sleeve polo shirt. From the way the shirt fit, it was apparent Marty spent some time at the gym. I didn’t see any hired muscle around, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. Marty ordered swordfish. I went with the salmon.
As soon as the waiter left, I said, “So we have a new question today. What happened to Cinnamon Strauss?”
Marty said, “Saturday night, you were trying to find her. Last night she dies in a suspicious fire. I’m wondering what you might know.”
“I found her address and went to her house Tuesday. She wasn’t home, and I left my business card in her mail chute. Yesterday afternoon she walks into my office. I asked her what she knew about Lillie’s final days, and she started out friendly and cooperative, but as my questions probed deeper, she clammed up and walked out. A few hours later, she was dead.”
“How did you find her address?”
“From someone she fleeced.”
“Have you been in touch with your police friends?”
“They got in touch with me. When I saw the news about the fire, I drove straight there. The detectives were already at the scene. They said the fire was suspicious, and they were also suspicious about my being there.”
Marty took a casual sip of water. “That’s too bad about Cinnamon. I saw her TV show years ago, and I met her a couple of times, but I didn’t really know her. You called me this morning. What did you want to discuss?”
I pulled my “hunch table” of arson suspects out of a jacket pocket, unfolded it, and slid it toward Marty. I kept my voice down. “This is my list of suspects for the arson fire.”
He ran his finger down the sheet and stopped at his name. “I like the way it’s laid out. It’s logical. I agree on Cal Lamont. He’s a nothing. He’s out.” He tapped his finger on Richard Halliday. “Is Richard Halliday the one with Halliday Real Estate, in Brentwood?”
“The same one.”
“Why is he on the list?”
“He’s the son of a ninety-year-old man Cinnamon was scamming for money.”
“He gave you Cinnamon’s address?”
I nodded.
Marty said, “I own income properties in Brentwood, and I know about the Halliday family. They’re the kind of people who get out of the shower to piss. I wouldn’t pay much attention to them.” He went back to the list. “Who is Dewey Rubens? I never heard of him.”
“A part-time, younger boyfriend of Cinnamon’s. She would keep him on the back burner when she was working on older men who had money. Every time she got rid of Dewey, he would wait in the background, then come back for more. I tracked him down and talked to him face-to-face. During the time I was with him, some of which he spent on the floor, I became convinced he had nothing to do with Cinnamon’s death.”
Marty turned his attention back to the document. “Who is Dr. Mirabeau? Or have I heard that name before?”
“He’s a personal injury quack, specializing in automobile accidents.”
“Oh yeah, I heard of him. He has offices all over town. How did he know Cinnamon?”
“He knew her quite well. She was shacked up with him for six months. She got tired of living with him, swindled some money out of him, and took off. Mirabeau is the sort of blowhard who goes to charity events and pretends to be sympathetic toward the poor and downtrodden. He was embarrassed by Cinnamon’s dumping him and ripping him off, and I’m sure he would have liked to dish out some payback, but he’s not the sort to dirty his hands.”
Marty tapped his finger on Rod Damian’s name. “And Rod might think Cinnamon could have called the paramedics for Lillie, but she didn’t. Something you said at my party stuck with me. The main goal in Rod’s life was to be on the Lillie Manning gravy train. I think you got that right, and now that Rod doesn’t have Lillie, he’s off the train, just another asshole with a pretty face. And that brings us to me. I’m an asshole with a not-so-pretty face.” Marty’s slightly misaligned eyes bored into me. “I did a little research on you. You’re teaching logic at Coast College. What logic put me in the number one spot on this list?”
“You were attracted to Lillie, and you did her a favor by fronting the initial inventory for her business endeavor. You suspected Cinnamon was the last person to see Lillie alive, or maybe recently deceased, or maybe both. You thought Cinnamon might have been responsible for what happened.”
Marty’s otherwise authoritative voice held more than a trace of anguish. “All I have to say about Lillie is she had great potential. If she could have toned down that spoiled brat routine of hers and ditched her boy-toy friend Rod Damian, she could have been something. When you talked to Rod, what did you think of him?”
“The male equivalent of a dumb blonde.”
Marty chuckled to himself, but there was no humor in it.
During the meal, Marty didn’t bang his silverware on the table or chew with his mouth open. He didn’t discuss religion, politics, or anything that might be considered gauche. He discussed his favorite restaurants, the return of the Rams to LA, and the decline of personal style in youth culture. I asked for some details on his Radiobar restoration project, and he responded with clear, enthusiastic answers. He seemed grateful that the project interested me. I wondered how a welfare kid from a trailer park learned such good manners.
When we were in the parking lot, his manners lost their luster. He gave the parking valet a twenty-dollar tip and turned back to me. “You strike me as a very capable fellow, Salvo. You have a good head on your shoulders. You need to keep it attached.”
Marty slipped into his big black BMW sedan, carefully fastened his seat belt, and eased the car out of the lot. While the attendant was getting my car, I knew I needed to go somewhere, but I couldn’t pin down the location.
I drove west on Sunset for a mile or so, stopped at the curb, and pondered the day’s events: Cinnamon Strauss’s being roasted in the arson fire, my being grilled by the detectives, my friendly chats with Rod Damian and Dewey Rubens, and the revelation that Zara Manning and Cinnamon Strauss had been drinking-and-shooting buddies. There were a lot of pieces to the puzzle, but none of them were interlocking.
I continued west on the Sunset Strip through heavy traffic, with no idea where I was headed. The traffic was
courteous, for a busy LA thoroughfare. No horn-honking, no vehicular assaults, no fistfights in the street. On the Strip, most of the drivers are preoccupied with angling their best features toward the audience.
In Beverly Hills, the traffic thinned out, and I cruised along with it. At the intersection of Sunset and Beverly Glen, I instinctively turned right.
39
4
There was no sign of life at Rod Damian’s house. I backed my car all the way up the driveway and sat with my engine running. No lights came on, and nobody came out the back door shouting at me. I cut the engine, waited a few seconds, and stepped out onto the concrete. Rod’s Porsche was in back, with the top down. The engine was cold, the alarm not set. By the light of the crescent moon, wind-blown leaves were visible on the seats. A city boy who cleans his car with Q-tips would rarely leave it in such a defenseless position.
The back door to the house was unlocked, not quite closed. I opened it a little farther and spoke softly, “Hey, Rod.” No response. I called out again, louder. No response.
I invited myself in, turned on a kitchen light, and stood perfectly still. The air was stale, as though the residents were on vacation and the house had been sealed tight for a month. The kitchen, dining area, and living room looked the same as before. The closet with the expensive wardrobe and the room with the expensive sports equipment looked the same. On top of the bedroom dresser were a thin leather wallet containing credit cards, a gold IWC wristwatch, the Porsche key, and about eight hundred cash in a gold money clip.
Back in the kitchen, I felt a strong urge for fresh air. I leaned over the sink, raised the shade, and started to slide the window. A flash of color stopped me. The attention-grabber was a cookie tin sitting behind a clock radio on top of the refrigerator. The tin’s graphic design was the same Christmas tree motif I had seen in Cinnamon Strauss’s kitchen.