by Maisie Dean
“I was afraid you’d say that. Is there any name in particular that pops into your head?”
“Hannah Otto,” she said. “That crazy woman was spouting some nonsense at the party about taking a chainsaw to her paintings.”
“A chainsaw?”
Portia waved a hand. “You know how those artist types are. Everything has to be so dramatic. They simply must be the center of attention at all times.”
“Was she talking about taking a chainsaw to Leo’s paintings?”
“She did mention his name.” Portia shrugged, making her glittering outfit catch a wave of light. “You should pay her a visit at her studio. The neighborhood alone is worth the price of admission.”
“Maybe I will pay Hannah Otto a visit,” Lucky said. “With my trusty assistant, of course.”
CHAPTER 6
Lucky thanked Portia for her tip about Hannah Otto threatening to use a chainsaw on her own paintings, and we left Portia to her day.
When we got back to the car, there was a parking ticket waiting for us. I plucked the paper from the windshield wiper and waved it at Lucky. He avoided eye contact, whistling a snappy tune as he got in the driver’s side.
Once we were on the freeway, Lucky snatched the parking ticket from my hand, unrolled his window slightly, and let the ticket flutter away.
“Fly away, trouble,” he said.
“Your brother’s going to kill you,” I said.
“He hasn’t killed me yet.” He shot me a quick glance and a grin. “Don’t worry about the ticket, Chance. I’ll log in and pay it online.”
“If you say so,” I said. Just like all the other tickets Harrison had been freaking out about that morning.
A few minutes passed. Lucky didn’t find anything he liked on the radio stations, so he asked me, “What are you stewing about over there? You’ve gone silent on me.”
“I’m not stewing. I’m thinking.”
“What are you thinking about?”
I had been imagining how I’d look in a skimpy French maid uniform, cleaning houses for LA’s finest perverts. But I wasn’t going to tell him that.
“Random life stuff,” I said nonchalantly.
“Leo Fitz is our best client,” Lucky said. “I would never pad the hours to rip him off. What you saw back there in the penthouse, that was all an act, to get information out of Portia.”
“Sure,” I said. “If you say so.”
“As a matter of fact, I was going to demand that she show me the painting before we got any further. For real. But then you came out of the bathroom with that look on your face, and I knew something was up.”
“Me? Oh, please. I have a poker face.”
“If you say so,” he said with a teasing tone. “If you say so.”
* * *
We pulled into the parking lot shared between the agency and Doyle’s Diner. Lucky pulled the car into a spot marked Booker Brothers Client Parking.
Lucky turned to me with a mischievous smile. “Do you know what I’m going to say?”
I looked at the sign, then at Lucky’s sparkling eyes. “Don’t tell Harrison?”
“You’re catching on! Not bad for an actress. We’ll make a detective out of you yet.”
We got out of the car, and he led the way around the side of the building and along the front. Lucky slowed as he passed the diner’s windows. He leaned in to look through the reflections on the glass. Then, instead of entering the building through the door leading to the office, he swung open the door to the diner. The intoxicating scent of fried potatoes wafted out.
“Lunch time,” Lucky said. “Come on. My treat.”
“Shouldn’t we go up and check with your brother?”
“He’s not the boss of us.”
“Not you, but he’s technically the boss of me.”
Lucky waved me into the diner. “Come on. We could have ordered by now. Don’t make me stand here with the door open. I’m letting all the flies out.”
“Don’t you mean you’re letting the flies in?”
“It’s a joke, Chance.” He slipped ahead of me, letting the door hit me on the butt. Message received.
Lucky strode through the restaurant, past Formica tables and cracked vinyl chairs. The interior had a pink glow. There was a cherry-red neon sign on the far wall, spelling out the name of the place: Doyle’s. The place had a classic fifties feel. The floor was checkered, red and white tiles, and roughed up from several decades of customers. The dining area was split from the kitchen by a long counter with bolted down, circular stools. The perimeter was lined with cozy booths. Glass bottles of ketchup and chrome napkin dispensers sat on every table. At the kitchen window pass, a waitress was picking up several huge burgers and fries. She stacked them skillfully on her arms before delivering them to a table of men in plaid shirts. They must have been construction workers. Their hard hats and safety vests were stacked on the seat of the empty booth behind them.
Lucky greeted two waitresses, both wearing khaki-brown, short-sleeved dresses. As far as uniforms went, the dresses were cute. Better than a French maid outfit suitable for, as Susan had so quaintly put it, “a filthy mistress.”
“Looking good, Andrea,” Lucky said, then, “Molly, you are rocking that new haircut.”
Andrea was blonde and pixieish, about thirty, with bright green eyes. She returned his greeting with an easy smile then got back to restocking a cooler. Molly, who looked about forty, giggled and patted her hair. She had a dark-brown bob flipped out around her shoulders. The haircut did flatter her soft, round face. She was, indeed, rocking it.
“Anything to get a compliment from you, Lucky,” Molly said.
Andrea pulled her head out of the cooler she’d been restocking and rolled her eyes. “Get a room, you two,” she quipped.
“Gladly,” Molly said eagerly, eyes flashing. “What do you say, Lucky?”
Lucky pointed a finger gun at Molly. “Naughty girl,” he said. “You’d break the bed, and probably me, too.”
This sent the two waitresses into a tizzy of laughter.
Lucky continued walking to a large corner booth. The table was already occupied, by two men. The older man had gray hair, and the other one had dark hair and a mustache.
The gray-haired man looked oddly familiar, although I was certain we hadn’t met. My memory for faces was excellent, which had come in handy in the film world. I stared at him. Who was he?
The dark-haired man was less mysterious. I’d never seen him before, but he wore a green apron over a chef’s shirt. He worked at the diner, I guessed.
Lucky introduced us. “Kacey, these two troublemakers are Doyle Keaton and Frederick Fitz.” Both of the names rung bells in my head.
I shook Doyle Keaton’s hand. “Doyle as in Doyle’s? This must be your diner.”
“Guilty as charged!” He gave me a firm handshake, pumping my arm vigorously. I had to grab the edge of the table with my free hand to steady myself.
Doyle of Doyle’s Diner had thick, dark-brown hair, and an equally thick mustache He had high cheekbones, and large ears that stuck out well beyond his hair. He had a look that, if he’d been an actor, would get him typecast as the well-meaning but dimwitted father in a sitcom.
I pried my hand from Doyle’s tight grasp and turned to the older man. “Your last name is Fitz?” He nodded as he shook my hand. His handshake might have been normal, but it felt weak after Doyle’s. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Fitz.”
Lucky interjected, “If Fitzy’s mug looks familiar, it’s because you met his brother this morning.”
“Ah,” I said. “You’re Leo’s brother.”
“Call me Fitzy,” the man said. “And yes. I’m Leo’s less successful but better-looking brother.”
This made Doyle guffaw loudly.
Was Fitzy better looking than his brother Leo? His hair was more salt-and-pepper than Leo’s, not entirely gray. Like his brother, Fitzy had a trim, athletic build, and a likable face.
Fitzy asked L
ucky, “What’s my brother bothering you with now?”
“You know that’s confidential,” Lucky intoned seriously.
Fitzy snorted. “It’s probably a waste of time, as usual. Leo should learn to take good advice when it’s given. If he’d come to me with his problems, I’d get them sorted out. But no.” Fitzy gave me an apologetic look and explained. “My big brother’s mission in life is to take a small molehill of a mess and turn it into a giant mountain of trouble.”
Lucky shrugged. “Molehills don’t pay the bills. I need to get paid so that you get paid. It’s the circle of life in LA.”
Fitzy leaned back and stretched his arms across the back of the booth. He took a breath and resumed talking as though he was just getting warmed up and could rant about his brother all day. “That Leo, he said, scoffing. “It really is a mystery to me why my brother is known as the rich one when I’m the one with all the talent and the brains.”
Doyle guffawed again.
Fitzy continued. “Leo wastes more money than most people will ever see. With him, everything has to be big and extravagant. But big is boring. Like all of his Hollywood parties. They’re too big to be interesting. He had another one last weekend. I didn’t have anything better to do, so I went, and for one reason only.” He puffed up his chest. “The one thing that makes Leo’s big parties bearable is the catering company he uses. They make the most wonderful shrimp puffs. In fact, Leo assured me there would be shrimp puffs at the party. And you know what?” He paused for drama. Doyle leaned in, lips parted under his thick mustache. “No shrimp puffs,” Fitzy finished. “None.”
Doyle pulled back his head and made a raspberry sound with his rubbery lips. “He shouldn’t promise shrimp puffs and then not deliver. That’s not right.” Doyle lifted his chin. “Tell your brother to hire us to do the catering next time.”
Fitzy, who still had his arms outstretched along the booth, let one hand fall forward to clap Doyle on the back. “People want shrimp puffs, Doyle, not food poisoning.”
Doyle’s head whipped back, and his arms crossed over his torso. He shot a hurt look at me before dropping his arms at his sides and letting out a sharp, “Hah! Good one, Fitzy.”
Lucky, who’d been standing next to me, stepped forward and rested his knuckles on the table so he was practically leaning over Fitzy. In a low tone, he said, “That must be why you stole Leo’s beloved painting. To get back at your brother for being richer than you, and for not serving shrimp puffs.”
Fitzy sputtered and tilted his head to the side. “What? You think I...” He ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “What?” He looked at Doyle, at me, then at Lucky again. “Someone stole a painting?” He scratched the back of his head. “From Leo?”
“That’s right.” Lucky leaned forward another inch. “What do you know about it? You were there when it happened. You must have seen or heard something.”
Fitzy sputtered again. He held both of his hands out, palms up. “First of all, I don’t appreciate what you’re insinuating, Mr. Booker. Second of all, I don’t know anything about a painting. How would I? These days, Leo runs straight to you boys whenever he has a problem. He doesn’t ask me for my help.”
Lucky slowly pulled back, dragging his knuckles along the table before they dropped off. “That’s too bad you didn’t see anything,” he said, his arm dropping limply at his side. “I shouldn’t have broken confidence. Can I trust you two gentlemen to keep this information under your hats, so to speak?”
Fitzy waved a hand. “It’s already forgotten.”
Doyle rubbed his thick, dark-brown mustache. “What painting?” He gave us a goofy grin, then patted the red vinyl seat next to him. “Are you going to take a load off or what? You’re making me nervous, standing there like a couple of health inspectors.”
“Sit,” Fitzy commanded. “It is lunch time.”
The two men shifted around the corner table to make room. Lucky slid in next to the diner owner, and I took the spot on the end.
Doyle asked me, “Is this your first day, Kelly?”
“It’s Kacey,” I corrected.
Doyle guffawed. “That’s not a name,” he said. “That’s just two letters. K and C. Where’s the rest of your name?”
My jaw clenched. “I’ve never heard that one before,” I lied.
Doyle’s laugh boomed across the diner. Then he wrinkled his nose, sniffing audibly. He turned to Fitzy and said, “Would you mind letting me out? I smell something burning in the kitchen. I’d better get back there.”
Fitzy slid over and let the man out.
Lucky said, “Nothing’s burning back there, Doyle. That’s just how it always smells in here.”
“Ha ha,” Doyle said. He made a gesture like he was tipping a hat, and he headed toward the kitchen, refastening his apron strings as he walked.
* * *
We ordered lunch from one of the waitresses, and the other one brought us our order. I had a grilled chicken burger with fries, extra pickles. Lucky had a toasted BLT and potato chips.
The three of us chatted, and I found out that Frederick Fitz—Fitzy—was the owner of the building that housed both the diner and the detective agency. He had a number of rental properties around the city. That was why Lucky had cited the “circle of life in LA.” Fitzy’s brother Leo would be paying the Bookers so that they could pay rent.
Our landlord had already eaten with Doyle, so he used the opportunity of us eating to talk. He regaled us with tales of his unparalleled brilliance and wit. According to Fitzy, he could easily get twice as much rent from his tenants due to his excellent negotiation skills. Instead, he chose to give small businesses a break on their rent, since he was such a decent guy. He understood how hard it was to make honest money in LA. Besides, the real value was in holding the real estate long term. He didn’t get to enjoy his brother Leo’s lavish Hollywood lifestyle, but he didn’t waste his money on parties, either. Every dollar Fitzy made was reinvested in property holdings. He suggested that he might technically be the wealthier Fitz brother if you took into account future asset values.
Toward the end of our meal, Doyle returned to ask how the food had been.
“Best chicken burger I’ve ever had,” I said, and it was the absolute truth. The guys had teased Doyle so much about the diner that I’d had my doubts, but the chicken had been fresh, high quality, and perfectly cooked. Even the tomato and lettuce had been flavorful and juicy. As for the fries—well, it was hard to screw up fries, but they had been excellent.
Doyle beamed with pride. “You’re my new favorite customer,” he said. “I’d love to stay and take more compliments, but I have to get ready for the big event.” He rubbed his hands together. “It’s coupon night!”
Fitzy groaned. “Doyle, not the coupons again.”
Doyle pointed a finger at his landlord. “Oh, I’m running the coupons, and it’s going to be a huge success. Just you wait and see. There’ll be a lineup down the block.”
Fitzy shook his head. “Why don’t you use my suggestion instead? The gumball machine prize?”
“Coupon night is a proven winner,” Doyle insisted.
Fitzy kept shaking his head. “You’re going to stain the reputation of the address itself. When you go out of business, as you inevitably will, I’m going to have a terrible time finding another tenant for this place.”
“You’ll see.” Doyle bounced his eyebrows in a comical way as he grabbed my empty plate.
“I’ll take a doggy bag,” Lucky said, handing over his barely touched sandwich.
“Sure thing.” Doyle took both plates away.
As soon as Doyle was gone, Fitzy resumed the role of chief talker.
Most of Fitzy’s real estate holdings were commercial buildings. He always gave his tenants advice to improve their business, so that they might be able to pay more rent in the future. “That’s the genius of cooperation,” Fitzy said, rapping his knuckles on his temple. “It’s called synergy.”
One of hi
s most genius plans involved a flower shop. They’d had a tough year trying to compete against the giants in bouquet delivery. Fitzy’s solution was for the florist to develop one of those new apps everyone was using. They could use phone apps to outsource the delivery service to people who were already in their cars making those trips. It was actually a good idea, just not appropriate for a tiny, family run flower shop. The scale was off.
Some of his other ideas weren’t as good. He often tried to get two unrelated businesses who rented space from him to work together in ways that weren’t logical. He wanted his second-run movie theater to partner with the tire shop Fitzy rented a garage to and print advertisements for tire rotation and new tires on the side of popcorn bags. He was so blinded by the brilliance of his own idea that he didn’t realize movie theaters were dark, and people were unlikely to see ads on popcorn bags, let alone read them.
At last, when I couldn’t take another one of Fitzy’s stories about his brilliant business ideas without screaming, it was time to leave the diner. Lucky and I headed upstairs to report to Harrison about the visit to Portia’s penthouse and see if he had any leads.
CHAPTER 7
We found Harrison Booker sitting at his desk, exactly where he’d been when we’d left hours earlier. His tie was now loosened, and the top button on his shirt was undone. His hair, which had been neatly combed, was now tousled. His hair looked cute, tousled, like he had bed hair. He glanced up at us briefly before resuming his task without comment. He thumbed through a stack of paper while using the end of a pen to tap on a calculator. I could hear the clack of the pen on the calculator buttons from the front entrance. He wasn’t making much noise, but he was communicating frustration.
The reception desk—my desk—now held several stacks of files that hadn’t been there when we’d left.
I asked Lucky, “Should I try filing these? Or are they on my desk for some other reason?” He seemed amused by my question, so I asked, “This is my desk, right?”
“It’s yours now,” he said. “And sure. You can try filing those if you can figure out where they go.”