She used her thumb to invite me in.
I stepped into a spacious foyer. She told me to wait while patting her Taser. And off she went.
The foyer had marble floors and oak-paneled walls. On one side there was a Greek-style statue of a discus thrower. I liked that. Classic feel to all the money. On the other side was another sculpture, this one also in the Greek style. Two naked men in what looked like gladiatorial combat. Neither of them was Jewish.
Presently the muscled one returned and motioned for me to follow.
I was led past a living room the size of Union Station and a kitchen that could have hosted the Ice Capades. Through a window to my left I saw a large, kidney-shaped pool with an enclosed lanai and a barbecue pit a small family could live in.
We turned right and entered a room of red cedar, like a hunting lodge. A stone fireplace dominated one wall, and in the middle was a huge desk fashioned out of a slice of redwood tree trunk. It was free-form on the outside edges, horseshoe-shaped on the inside.
There were two computer monitors on the desk.
Behind one of the monitors, so I couldn’t see his face, was a man who said, “Welcome, Mike Romeo.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Be with you in a second. You want something to drink?”
“I’m good.”
“Okay. Sid, you can go.”
My escort made the now-familiar Taser pat and walked out.
I heard the clacking of keys and saw fingers moving under the monitor.
“Bam,” he said as he finished off his symphony with one peck of his index finger. Then he stood and walked out from behind the desk to offer me his hand.
He was six feet tall, lean with a good grip. His hair was the color and thickness of steel wool. He wore a red golf shirt untucked over khaki trousers, and no shoes. His body seemed charged with electricity, lighting up his blue eyes from behind.
“I’m Zane,” he said.
“Hi,” I said.
“What do you think of the place?”
“Nice,” I said.
“I’d say so! It was designed by Elmer Grey, same guy who did the Beverly Hills Hotel. You know who used to own this place?”
“Ringling Brothers?”
“Max Baer. Heavyweight champion of the world. You a fight fan?”
“A little.”
“Max had a right, boy. He would’ve beat Joe Louis if he hadn’t cracked his hand against Braddock.”
“You’re old school,” I said.
“That’s the only school. I want to bring it back. Honor. No fixes. And a gambler could make an honest buck.”
It was hard to get a read on this man. He talked like he’d been born in 1920 and missed watching Friday Night Fights on a black-and-white TV set.
“Jimmy tells me you’re one of his fighters.”
“Jimmy exaggerates,” I said.
“You look like a prospect. You’d do well to hook up with Jimmy. He knows the game.”
“I’m not a fighter.”
“Of course you are. We both know it. I can tell just by looking at you.”
“You don’t believe in that book and cover thing?”
“Not at all. I have judged many books by their covers. It’s one of the reasons I am where I am today.”
“And where is that exactly?” I said.
“So you see.” He spread his arms wide. “This is only where I work. I own a house in Malibu and another in Rancho Santa Fe.”
“We’re practically neighbors,” I said.
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Information is the most valuable thing you can have in my business.”
“I’m not sure what that business is.”
“Let’s go out by the pool,” he said. “I insist you have a drink with me. What’s your poison?”
“Lemonade.”
“Bourbon it is.”
HE PUT ON shades and we went out to his pool.
“It’s the same shape as when Max owned it,” he said. “I wanted to keep everything the way it was. As much as possible.”
“Did the statues come with it?”
“In entrance hall? No, I commissioned those. I think we need to bring back that kind of art, don’t you?”
“Old school again.”
“Anything past 1960 should be outlawed.”
We sat under the lanai and Donahue tapped something on his phone. Then: “See over there?”
He pointed across a large back lawn at some eucalyptus trees.
“On the other side is Riviera Country Club,” he said. “I’ve watched Tiger, Phil, all the rest. What do you think of that?”
“I think you’re very happy with it.”
He frowned. “That’s a strange answer.”
“I’ve been accused of that.”
“You had some information that you wanted. Is that right?”
“I would appreciate it,” I said.
“I don’t operate on an appreciation basis,” Zane Donahue said. “I’m sure you can understand that.”
“Businessman of sorts?”
“All business. We can work on a cash basis, or figure something else out.”
“Let’s try to figure something out.”
The woman who’d opened the gate came out with a silver tray and a couple of drinks on it. Donahue and I took a glass and the woman returned to the house.
“I’m serious about you being a fighter,” Donahue said. “I’d like to try you out.”
“You’re in the fight game?”
“I call it entertainment. You did some cage fighting once. I looked you up. There’s not much else about you.”
“I’m not that interesting,” I said.
“Oh I don’t think so,” he said, smiling. “I don’t think so at all. You have new identity written all over you.”
Donahue took a sip of his drink. And I began to know two things about this guy. First, his power was legit, based on intelligence and insight. And second, behind the drinks and the smile was someone not to be messed with.
“Let me put it to you this way,” he said. “I specialize in helping people who have, you know, questionable pasts. I can find employment for them, ways to make some good money. Ways to come back to life, so to speak. You might be one of those people I can help.”
“Maybe I can help you,” I said.
“And just how can you do that?”
“A little legal advice.”
He laughed. “I got lawyers out my proverbial wazoo. Anything else?”
“Yes,” I said. “Ancient wisdom.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The wisdom of the Greeks.”
“You are kidding me, right?”
“Not at all,” I said. “And you like information. Greek wisdom is some of the most valuable information we can have in this life.”
“And you are some kind of expert?”
“I’ve done a lot of reading, thinking about it.”
“You fascinate me,” he said. “Go ahead. Dazzle me with your brilliance.”
I put my drink on the glass table between us, laced my fingers together and cracked my knuckles like a pianist. “One of the lessons of history is that powerful men fall because of hubris. It’s a Greek idea that means outrageous arrogance. When the Persian Empire rose to prominence in the fifth and fourth centuries BC, it was an awesome thing. Eventually a king named Cyrus presided over a large and stable slice of Earth. But hubris overtook him. He tried to take over the land of the Scythians, what is modern day Afghanistan. He engaged in what we would call a preemptive war. It did not work. He overreached.”
“Too bad for the Persians.”
“In World War II, Hitler tried to take Stalingrad, not figuring on the fighting spirit of the Russian soldiers and the biggest kick in the butt, the Russian winter.”
“Are you comparing me to Hitler?”
“I’m talking about hubris, which applies to everyone. Especially those w
ith power. What I would suggest is that you fight that urge within you. Because power itself is not satisfying. There is never enough. You must find satisfaction in life elsewhere.”
“You are the craziest person I’ve ever met, you know that? Who talks like this?”
“Now I’ve given you wisdom,” I said, “maybe you can give me a name.”
Zane Donahue smiled. “You’ve got some good attitude. How would you like to work for me?”
“I’m good where I am.”
“Living like a bum at the beach?”
“Free from the encumbrances of wealth is how I put it.”
Zane Donahue shook his head as if amused. “Money is a very nice thing to have.”
“It’s better than hives,” I said, “but worse than contentment.”
“Man, you crack me up,” he said. “What if I hired you to do some freelance work for me sometime?”
“I’m not hanging out a shingle or anything.”
“Sure, sure. Just hypothetically. Would you consider it? I pay top dollar, and you must have expenses.”
“I’ll consider it,” I said.
“Good.” He slapped his thigh. “Now what is it you came to me about?”
“There’s a bartender who works at Kahuna’s in Malibu. His first name is Kalolo. Big guy, has a Marine tattoo on his left forearm. I’d like to know who he works for.”
Donahue took out his phone and tapped something out. Notes, I presumed.
“Anything else?” he said.
“That’ll do for now.”
“Where can I reach you?”
I gave him my phone number.
“You’ll hear from me before too long,” Zane Donahue said. “I’m not a guy who likes to put things off. And I’m not a guy who likes to get turned down.”
“I don’t guess you are,” I said.
He nodded. “We’re going to have a good working relationship, I just know it.”
SINCE I WAS already over on the Westside, I drove into Beverly Hills where the agency representing Lindsay DeSalvo was located. It was called Burlinson-Bainbridge on Canon Drive.
The first trick in Beverly Hills is to find a place on the street where you can park without paying a ransom or get a ticket for not having the right sticker in your window.
The building was two stories, flat and gray on the outside, with some sort of clinging vine around the door. Or maybe it was an actor trying to get in.
I pressed the buzzer and a woman’s voice said, “Burlinson-Bainbridge.”
“Yes, I have a question for you about one of your clients, Lindsay DeSalvo.”
Pause. “What is this regarding?”
“I’m an investigator. I need to ask her a few questions. I can show you some ID.”
“Is this a police matter?”
“Private.”
Pause.
“Can you wait just a moment?” she said.
“I’ve got nothing but time,” I said.
I leaned against the building and nodded to an older woman in a large, floppy hat as she walked her ferret of a dog. The fur ball paused to smell my foot and did not find it of interest. I could have told him that and saved him a sniff.
The voice came back.
“I’m sorry, sir, but we cannot give out any information to you.”
“Are you taking your orders from Burlinson or Bainbridge?”
“Sir.”
“Tell ’em I work for a lawyer,” I said.
Pause.
“If you like, I can give you the number for our legal counsel.”
“Who will give me the same runaround,” I said.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“How about this,” I said. “I give you a message for Lindsay, and you can get her the message, and she can call me.”
Pause.
“I’m sorry, but that’s all I can say at this point.”
“You’re sure that Burlinson or Bainbridge won’t see me?”
“I’m really sorry.”
“I’ll audition,” I said. “I’ll do Hamlet’s soliloquy. O what a rogue and peasant slave am I.”
Nothing.
I said, “Are you still there?”
She wasn’t.
IT WAS NOW late morning and I was at the vortex of Los Angeles existence. Outward from Beverly Hills, in any direction, if you go far enough, you reach a dead end. Or the ocean. And in so doing you’ll pass through a neighborhood with its own particular stamp. Ethnic or old money. On the way up or on the way down. Streets with potholes or newly paved. Free parking or metered. Strip malls or shopping plazas. Hopeless or hopeful. Angry or afraid or happily left alone.
And all of it run by chuckleheads with a private club in City Hall.
What a system.
I was about to head in a random direction when I got a call from Zane Donahue.
“What did I tell you?” he said. “Did I say soon or what?”
“What took you so long?”
Pause.
“Kidding,” I said.
“What a guy,” he said. “Where are you now?”
“Beverly Hills.”
“Phony baloney.”
“Help me find the real baloney.”
“Gonna do it,” he said. “Take PCH to Topanga Canyon. There’s a place there where you’re going to meet a guy.”
“WELCOME TO THE Home of the First Heaven,” the waitress said. She had perfect teeth in a smile inside a fresh, open face. She could have stepped out of a Norman Rockwell painting.
The Home of the First Heaven was an organic-only restaurant in the in the heart of Topanga Canyon. Zane Donahue sent me here, said I’d be provided with the information I was seeking. But it had to be done live and in person at this place.
Which was only fifteen minutes from the Cove.
The waitress said, “Can I start you off with some kale chips? A glass of wheat grass?”
“What do you like to eat here?” I said.
“My personal favorites?”
“Sure.”
“I really love the four-bean mélange with tofu bread.”
“Sounds great,” I said. “Can you put some bacon on it?”
She reacted as if I’d slapped her.
“Kidding,” I said.
“I’m glad,” she said. “Do you know how bad that is for you?”
“Probably not,” I said.
A quizzical look this time.
“I’m new in town,” I said.
“From where?”
“Back east.”
“Don’t you just love it here?” she said.
“So far, so good,” I said. “No earthquakes.”
She giggled. “We’re pretty safe here in the canyon.”
“Maybe I should move here.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Maybe you should.”
“Tell you what,” I said. “Bring me a cup of the four-bean thing. I’m also due to meet someone.”
“No problem! Anything to drink?”
“I don’t suppose you serve martinis.”
“No alcohol.”
“The moderate intake of alcohol is healthy,” I said.
“You’re kidding, right?”
I shook my head. “It cancels out the bacon.”
She squinted.
“I’ll just have some water,” I said.
“Awesome sauce,” she said.
“I’ll have some of that, too.”
She squinted again.
“Don’t mind me,” I said.
After she left I looked around at the other patrons in this first heaven eatery. Interesting name. The ancients had a view of levels of heaven, the sky being level number one. Behind that, who knows?
When I was a kid I used to look at the sky and the stars and imagine that instead of flaming gas they were alien search lights, looking for intelligent life and, spotting the earth, deciding to skip us.
I gave Sophie a call. The call went to voicemail. I left another message.
The waitress came back with my soup and water. I thought I was in a Warner Bros. prison movie from the ’30s.
But I’ll admit, the soup was heavenly. Maybe the place had a good rep for a reason. If they’d ever incorporate fried pork, they’d really be in business.
It was about five minutes after that when the guy arrived.
HIS RED BEARD was trimmed as neat as a toothbrush. He was in his thirties. He wore expensive black shoes and black slacks, a blue Oxford shirt open at the collar, and a dark-gray sport coat. He could have played the part of hipster lawyer or modeled for an Old Spice ad.
He sat in the chair opposite me. “I’m Robin,” he said. He didn’t offer his hand.
“Mike.”
“I have some information for you.”
I nodded.
“But first, something for you,” he said. He took a white business-size envelope out of his inner coat pocket and handed it to me.
I looked inside. Five crisp $100 bills.
“A retainer,” Robin said. “From the man we both work for.”
“I don’t work for him.”
“Eventually, you will,” Robin said.
The waitress appeared like a forest nymph and asked Robin if he’d like to see a menu.
“No, thanks,” he said.
“You ought to order the awesome sauce,” I said.
He looked at me. The waitress giggled.
“Some coffee,” Robin said.
Off she went.
“I don’t want to take any money,” I said. “I did not agree to anything.”
“But you’ll want what I have to give you,” Robin said. “This is a simple business transaction.”
Five hundred bones was hard to ignore.
I said, “I retain the right to turn down a job I don’t like. And return the money.”
Robin nodded. “Mr. Donahue said that’s exactly what you’d do. He’s good that way.”
“Apparently.”
Coffee delivered, we were alone again. Robin took out his phone and thumbed it and looked at it, and occasionally at me, as he spoke. “The man you’re interested in is Kalolo Tuputala. He tends bar, as you know, and hires out as private security. He’s thirty-four years old, served four years in the Marine Corps. Did two tours in Afghanistan. Had a wife, Cecile, who committed suicide eight months after he came back. He got arrested and charged with felony vandalism a couple weeks later.”
“When was this?”
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