Tribulations of the Shortcut Man Read online

  I could tell he liked being a celebrity; he would turn to a glance like a pansy to the sun. We small-talked about baseball. The Dodgers had played a doubleheader and pulled a triple play or something. Big bucks, free-agency, and the new, greedy owners had worn down my loyalty to the team. Vin Scully, I loved. Everybody loved Vin.

  After a bit, Judge Glidden felt comfortable enough to start in on the subject he had come for.

  “People say you’re a man who, uh, can handle unusual problems.”

  As long as they weren’t my own. “Some people say that,” I corrected.

  “I’m hoping you’re a man of discretion.”

  I waited.

  “The bottom line is . . . I need a painting”—his rich baritone fell to just above a whisper—“I need a painting reproduced.”

  “Reproduced. You mean copied—in its original medium.”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “I know some people. Think we can do that.”

  “What kind of money are we talking about? Ballpark.”

  “What kind of picture? What level of quality you want?”

  The judge leaned forward. “You ever hear of Kostabi?”

  Kostabi took his place on the long list of celebrated persons I knew nothing about. “Who’s he?”

  “A modern surrealist. I own a piece of his called Kostabi Number Five.”

  “What’s the copy for?”

  “You need to know?”

  “No. But it may help.”

  Glidden went silent for a second, acknowledged someone with a flash of his expensive teeth. “What do you know about me, Mr. Henry?”

  I’d looked him up. “You’re a Superior Court judge. I see you on TV every once in a while. You’re married to an actress.”

  The judge shrugged his padded shoulders. “That’s not inaccurate, but I sum up a little better than that. I’m also an author, a producer, and an entrepreneur.” He smiled at the busboy. “I was also married before. In the divorce settlement with Patricia, Patricia got the Kostabi.”

  I waited.

  “But I never gave it to her. I held off.”

  I began to get an inkling of where this was going. “Held off, or you’re holding off.”

  “Holding off.”

  “How long?”

  “Four years and some.”

  “Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

  “But now it’s down to that ten percent. I haven’t given it to her because she didn’t really want it. She just wanted me not to have it.”

  “But now she wants her property. For spite.”

  “For spite. Pure, cold, and bitter.”

  “Married a long time.”

  “Years too long.”

  “Your first wife.”

  “My first wife.”

  “So you want to surrender a copy. So she’ll gloat over a phony.”

  He smiled coldly. “That’s exactly what I want.”

  “How would you characterize your wife’s knowledge of art?”

  “Trivial.”

  “I mean your ex-wife’s.”

  The judge laughed. “Trivial.”

  “How good do you want the copy to be?”

  “Beyond casual professional suspicion.”

  “What’s the painting worth today?”

  “Neighborhood of thirty.”

  A name had leapt immediately to mind. Dennis would do it for . . . uh, for three or four grand. He could copy anything. I was never able to tell the difference. Which didn’t say anything at all.

  “I’m thinking ten grand. Around there.”

  “That’s expensive.”

  “Kinko’s’ll do it for a dollar fifty.”

  This Dick Henry was a smart-ass. But he couldn’t let Patricia have that picture. Fuck it. Money was money. He’d make more.

  He pulled out his wallet, slid the Shortcut Man his card. Wonder where he’d gotten that moniker. “Call me, please, Mr. Henry. When you’ve got a firm figure. Thanks for your time.”

  We stood, shook hands.

  I rolled down Figueroa, picked up 10 East. The freeway was sluggish but I was in a sunny mood. Kostani—or was it Kostabi?—whoever he was, I’d look him up on the net later. The nice thing was, through the unfathomable labyrinth of chance and circumstance, he would cause money to flow into my pocket. Sometimes it was good to be alive.

  Then a call came in from Jack at World Book. A few more messages. Would I like to stop by?

  Jack had three leads for me. “One of ’em a very pretty woman,” he said with a pirate wink. “And that kid. He’s been back.”

  “What does he not understand?” A rhetorical question. I don’t work with children.

  By the way. How do you turn your girlfriend into a pirate? Come in her eye, kick her in the shin. Then she’s squinting and hopping. Peg-leg Pete.

  “There’s the kid, now,” said Jack.

  Don’t try the pirate thing with your wife.

  “Mr. Henry?”

  “What did I tell you before?”

  “That you don’t work with kids.”

  “That’s right. That hasn’t changed.” Though I did hire children. My Laurel Canyon Irregulars. They ran errands, followed people, climbed fences and trees, took pictures. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Latrell Scott.”

  An alarm bell rang in my chest.

  “My mother is Nedra Scott.”

  My heart dropped through the floor.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A Judge, a Doctor, a Priest

  Mort Feinstein turned from the dramatic view of Los Angeles afforded by his nineteenth-floor office. He’d seen this happen many times. To actors, to producers, to stupid, pierced, green-haired musicians. But not often to a judge. Judges were supposed to be sober. But Glidden had mixed categories. Dangerous. You didn’t want to hear Eddie Murphy sing. Glidden was now a celebrity judge.

  The judge was looking for good news but there wasn’t any. Mort held up two fingers.

  “Peace?” asked Glidden, confused.

  “This is not peace, Harry. This is two words.”

  “What two words?”

  “You’re broke.”

  A rainy night had fallen. The Charthouse on PCH was usually one of his favorite hangs. The staff knew him, always greeted him like an old friend. His picture up behind the bar.

  Watch your step. Hangin’ Harry Glidden.

  In the photo he pointed his finger at the viewer like a pistol. One of those Western lawmen. One of those tough Western lawmen with veneered teeth.

  He and Ellen were drinking Bloody Marys. He’d broken an amended version of Feinstein’s comments to her. She wasn’t taking it all that well.

  “Are you broke, Harry? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “No, dear. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying that our circumstances will be a little straightened for a while, that’s all.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “You might have to get used to the sound of that.”

  “I won’t get used to it. I didn’t marry you for straightened circumstances.”

  What had Benjamin Franklin said? What you wanted in times of stress: an old dog, an old wife, and ready money. An old wife. One who wouldn’t be relentlessly demanding he pop a chubby and perform like a nineteen-year-old. “That’s Christian of you, Ellen.”

  “Christian?” returned Ellen. “Who ever said I was a Christian?” She’d have to call that asshole Feinstein, see what really went down. She polished off her Bloody Mary. The bartender didn’t know how to pour. She’d have to have another. She needed another. Then she remembered. “By the way, Ed Huff called.”

  “Fuck Ed Huff.”

  “Who is Ed Huff? A doctor, right?”

  “He’s a doctor who likes to play golf with celebrities.”

  “Why does he want to play with you?”

  Bitch. “Thank you, dear.”

  “Jesus, Harry. Your skin is getting awfully thin. Tell m
e about Huff.”

  “One day we were playing a round at Riviera. I got interviewed on the green by Bill Devers of Channel Nine about ticket fixing for college athletes. Huff got a little airtime and someone gave him a blow job. He’s been white on rice ever since.”

  Which reminded him of that interview with Constance Whitmore of Channel 13. About fairness and the Supreme Court. He’d pointed out the court didn’t have to be fair, the laws just had to apply to everyone. He’d flashed his teeth and bingo, she’d sucked his dick.

  He drank off his Bloody Mary. “That fucking Art Lewis. With one stroke of his pen he could’ve set us right.”

  “He’s too carried away banging that stripper in the can.”

  “He bangs her in the can? She told you that?”

  “No. But I can tell.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  Ellen laughed, but then put a serious hand on his arm. “What if I told you a way we could get our hands on a lot of money.”

  The invitation to evil always came smoothly. Ah, for an old wife. “What’s a lot of money?”

  “Fifty million dollars.”

  “That’s a lot of money.” A shot of nausea ran through him. Maybe it was the bivalve mollusks on the half-shell. “Sounds wrong already.”

  “Wrong is an opinion.”

  “I’m paid for my opinions.”

  Harry was broke. She could feel it. She smiled in that pissed-off way, shrugged her shoulders. “Fine. End of subject.” She picked up her menu, pretended to study it. “I’ll have the surf ’n’ turf, dear. If we can afford it.”

  She knew he couldn’t take a lot of this.

  He couldn’t. “Okay. Tell me your idea.”

  She shook her head briskly. “No. You’re right. Love of money is the root of all evil. Forget I mentioned anything. Judge. Maybe you can get a paper route.”

  “Goddamnit, Ellen, just tell me.”

  She set down her menu, looked into his eyes. “We get it from Art Lewis.”

  “Art Lewis? He’s not parting with a nickel.”

  “I’m not saying we ask.”

  His mind suddenly experienced a peculiar vacancy. If you don’t ask . . . what did he not understand?

  “We take.” She paused, stared into his soul. “We take what otherwise will be lost forever.”

  Conspiracy. Plain and simple, this was conspiracy. He’d sent bad men to prison for this. Exactly this.

  “Lost when Art pops a tire fucking that slut. I’ve seen his will, Harry. All that money is going to bullshit. Libraries, colleges, UFOs, ESP.”

  “H-how do you know about the will?”

  “A legal secretary at Kleinman Moscovitz.”

  He needed more to drink. “For Christ’s sake, Ellen.” The words came out as a parched whisper. “I’m a Superior Court judge.” He waved his empty glass in the air.

  She had him. “A judge is the first thing we need.” She smiled brilliantly. “The second is a doctor. The third is a priest.”

  “A p-priest?”

  “Of course, a priest, darling. When you can drag them off the altar boys.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  What Latrell Said

  “You know my mother?” Latrell had instantly read my fibissedah face. Like everyone did.

  “Maybe I do.” I looked into his eyes. If he was half as smart as his mother I’d be in trouble. “Okay, kid. You got two minutes. What’s up?”

  “I come ’bout my mom. She’s in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “People are comin’ ’round. Telling her stuff. Bad stuff.”

  “What kind of people?”

  “Low people.” Latrell stared at me. “Low people. They don’t want us livin’ there no more. Say we gotta get out.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “A Hundred Sixty-ninth and Hindemith.”

  “Bledsoe Park.” Same place Nedra had lived back then. With her dad and brother. Reverend A. J. Scott and his fire-breathing son, Charles Scott, known nationally as Charles Ransom. Pay the ransom for the black man.

  “They don’t call it Bledsoe anymore.”

  “What do they call it?”

  “It’s what they want to call it. Azure Gardens.”

  “Nice name.”

  “They’re gonna put in a lake.”

  “A lake?”

  “They want to. They ain’t gonna. ’Cause my mom ain’t sellin’.”

  Latrell had five hundred dollars in cash.

  “Where’d you get this?”

  “Never mind where I got it. Here it is.”

  The start of any great journey is, of course, a single step. He pushed the money into my hand. My fingers closed around it. “I’m promising nothing. Your mother’s going to have the last say, understand me?”

  He nodded that he did.

  “I’ll come visit her.”

  “Thanks.”

  Now a little background. “Where’d you hear about me, Latrell?”

  “Archie Deakins.”

  “Archie.” I couldn’t help smiling. “How’s he doing?”

  Latrell showed off his fade with a brush of his long, thin fingers. “He be cuttin’ hair every day. And talkin’ a mile a minute.”

  That was Archie. A font of wisdom, wit, and folklore. More commonly known as horseshit. One of the diamonds Archie had imparted to me: the mystery of the barber’s phantom scissors.

  Silk-clad Archie, weighing in at a stylish three-twenty, had come to me reluctantly. He had a barbershop in Lennox. In a strip mall. For fifteen years. But new people had come to call.

  “Now I run a clean place, Mr. Dick, but its more than just a barbershop. Everybody come my place.” He paused. “And I’m sure things go on that I don’t know nothin’ about.” His eyebrows lifted. “Know what I mean?”

  I could guess.

  “So this man be threatenin’ everybody. And everything. Through me, see? Gonna be talkin’ I set ’em all up.”

  “He says he’s a cop?”

  “He say he got the man in his pocket.”

  “How do you know he’s connected at all?”

  “I don’t. But he be threatenin’.” He studied me again. “They say you the man.”

  “What does he want?”

  “Thousand a month. For starters.”

  Blackmail. Plain and simple. “This man got anything solid on you?” In other words, do I negotiate.

  “No. I run a clean operation. But like I said, everybody come my place.”

  In other words, things go down, but nothing too serious. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to kick his fuckin’ ass down the street.”

  “Want me to kill him?”

  Archie’s mouth dropped open. Which was enough for me.

  “No, no,” said Archie, looking at me, the cure worse than the disease. “Maybe you the wrong man.”

  “I just had to check. I don’t kill people.”

  He stared at me, distrustingly. “Whatcha gonna do?”

  “I’ll have a talk with the man. Your question is, how much does Dick Henry charge?”

  “How much do Dick Henry charge?”

  “That depends on what I have to do. But let’s say five hundred up front, and we’ll see.”

  Archie nodded, gauging me. Five hundred was bad news. But bad news he’d been expecting. “Okay, then.”

  “And one other thing.”

  “I knew it. I knew it. Always one other thing. And that’s where the trouble be. What?”

  “I know a kid who needs a job.”

  Archie, another fibissedah face, had practical concerns. “He gonna fit in ’round here?”

  “He’s black, Archie, if that’s what you mean.”

  Archie showed me a wide expanse of teeth. In both gold and enamel. We’d been friends ever since.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Dennis Donnelly, Etta James

  I was back in Venice again. But memories had been stirred up. Like a snow globe. These w
ere streets I’d explored with Nedra.

  Back then.

  I rolled past the Peach Cat & Dog Hospital. No one out front. Good. Loman London was off pursuing easier economic opportunities. I made a left, then a right at Electric Avenue. I pulled over and parked.

  I was looking at a purple house hung with a hundred mobiles and wind chimes.

  Dennis Donnelly opened the door and I was ushered into a complete mess. An artist’s mess. Pots of paint, canvases, rolls of tape, buckets of brushes, smoldering cigarettes. And somewhere a lost, lit joint. But then Dennis found it.

  “Hey, Dick,” he said, sucking in the good bud, “you know my old lady, right?”

  I waved at Violet. She waved back. We knew each other. Hell, I know everybody. I’m the Shortcut Man.

  “Hi, Dick,” she said. She had long black curly hair, a bounteous chest, and, reaching her mid-thirties, a comfortable plumpness. “Can I roll you a fattie?”

  “You can roll it for yourself.”

  “Good idea,” said Dennis. “So what’s up, Dick, my man?”

  I found a vacant corner of the couch. “I have an interesting proposition for you.”

  “I’m ready for an interesting proposition,” said Violet.

  “She’s ready for an interesting proposition,” said Dennis, smiling.

  Violet rolled a fattie with a flourish. A perfect cylinder.

  I’d gone on the net and checked out Kostabi. Kind of a cool, detached, sci-fi vibe. Good color. “You know who Kostabi is?”

  Dennis nodded. “Sure. Mark Kostabi. New York City dude. What about him?”

  “Can you do a Kostabi?”

  “You’re talking about a painting.”

  “Yeah. A painting.”

  “He does music, too.”

  “Didn’t know that.”

  “Of course Dennis can do Kostabi,” said Violet, eye on the prize.

  “Of course Dennis can,” said Dennis, glancing at Violet with a smile. “She said so.”

  We laughed. “You know Kostabi Number Five?”

  Dennis nodded. “I do know that painting. How much you offering?” The Oldsmobile’s rear end had started fucking up. Violet wanted to drive to Portland for the Festival of the Roses.