Angel’s Gate Page 4

  “Not yet. I thought you might want to buy me dinner.”

  I liked her immediately. “It so happens, I do.”

  “You and I could get along.”

  “We just might.”

  Our waitress, Pat, a disagreeable old crab, whom I enjoyed very much, arrived. “What’ll it be?” she inquired gruffly, tapping a sneakered foot. She’d given up on humanity several decades earlier. Just my style. I extended an open hand toward Devi.

  “Reuben, pastrami, well-done, so the cheese melts, fries, and a Heineken,” said Oriental Arm.

  A woman who knew exactly what she wanted. Wow!

  “And you, sir?” asked Pat.

  “I’m going to have exactly the same thing, including the Heineken. And can we have a plate of pickles?”

  “Plate of pickles.” Noted. “Is that it?”

  “It’s a start.”

  With a grunt, Old Gruff snapped her little book shut, made for the deli counter in a resigned trudge. The deli counter was where it all began.

  I looked at Devi. On second look, a lot prettier than Eileen. “I love this place.”

  “So do I.”

  “The best Reubens in L.A.”

  “Hands down.” She studied me. “You didn’t order just what I did to make me comfortable, did you?”

  Her question could have been considered a fastball right down the middle. I swung for the fences. “I don’t care if you’re comfortable. Yet.” I smiled an oily smile.

  “Touché!” Devi put up a high five and we banged palms. “How long have you known Myron?”

  “Fifteen years, around there.”

  “He likes you a lot.”

  And why not? There’s only one Dick Henry in this world and that’s me, baby. “Myron’s a good man.”

  “That’s what I think.”

  The Heinekens arrived on scene with the pickles. “Glasses?”

  I looked at Devi, she shook her head.

  “No glasses, thank you.”

  Pat sighed, departed.

  Devi and I clinked bottles. “Good day today?”

  She thought about it, nodded. “You betcha, Red Rider.”

  “You’re an optimist.”

  “Four days out of seven.”

  Which was what an optimist was all about. A preponderance. We sat in a comfortable silence for a bit. I took a bite of a crisp pickle. She set her bottle down. “So what did you want to know?”

  “I’m looking for somebody. Somebody who may have been part of the Ivanhoe system.”

  “Actress or a mattress-thrasher?”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Occasionally.” Her eyes had a sharp, perceptive glitter. “So she was a mattress-thrasher.”

  I spread my hands. “Well, probably. Maybe. She came down ten years ago.”

  “That’s an eternity around here. I’ve only been at Ivanhoe four years.”

  “I’m just taking a shot in the dark.”

  “Shoot. What was her name?”

  “Ellen Arden.”

  Devi put some beer down the wrong pipe, choked. Finally she recovered. “Ex-excuse me. Jesus.”

  “You alright?”

  “I’m okay.” She massaged her throat. “I know I’m going to die. One day.” She sipped her water. “But I don’t want to die in public. At Canter’s.” She sipped more water, sat back. “Ellen Arden. You can’t mean the lady from Our Miss Brooks?”

  “That was Eve Arden. And she’d be a hundred and three by now. This woman would be about . . . about thirty.”

  Devi cleared her throat again, shook her head. “Sorry. Never heard of her.”

  EIGHT

  King Sunny, Considered

  Devi was a liar. She’d heard the name Ellen Arden before. Dick Henry may be stupid but he isn’t blind. I reevaluated her reaction. She’d been surprised . . . surprised but not frightened. Not freighted with guilt. My gut said Ellen Arden was at least alive. And Devi’s recall was instantaneous. Ellen Arden was probably not too far off. In space, in time, or both. Then why lie? I didn’t know, but there was nothing further I could deduce. I’d let the question roll around, let my subconscious work on it.

  I hadn’t questioned her further at Canter’s. There was no point in making her an adversary. I liked her and could always go back. Using our first conversation as a basis, calling on her reasonableness, her obvious knowledge. As it was, I’d had a good time.

  We talked movies and music. Was I familiar with King Sunny Adé? Of course I was. Juju music, Nigeria.

  In fact, I’d been to one of King Sunny’s early concerts in America. At the Music Box in Seattle. I’d gotten to the venue very, very early. So early, everyone assumed I was with someone else. No one asked for a ticket. They were still setting up and I sat close. The band was huge, nineteen pieces or so. Trap drums, congas, percussion, talking drum, bass or basses, two or three guitars, a steel guitar, various keyboards, singers.

  They talked easily, laughing and joking in whatever language Nigerians spoke in. Some black Americans walked in from the street, same as I had. They, too, took positions stageside, silently watched the setup.

  I watched both sets of people, the great-grandchildren of American slavery and the great-grandchildren of the free peoples of Africa. I wondered what each thought of each other.

  I’d heard many variations on the get-over-it, it-was-a-hundred-fifty-years-ago argument advanced by current white America. Intellectually, that argument held water. But emotionally, if my family members had been ruthlessly destroyed, sold, and exploited by your family members, I would be carrying around a cold, lethal spike of pure hatred. Right next to my heart. Today. This moment.

  That my country had condoned slavery, the absolute rejection of another’s humanity, and by extension my own, shamed me deeply. To this day. That various churches condoned and blessed that evil made me want to burn them all down. Burn them today. In beautiful, raging, avenging flames.

  So I watched the Americans checking out the Nigerians.

  That’s why the most important aspect of humanity is the ability to forgive, said Devi.

  That’s hard to do.

  Yes. But it must be done. It must be done.

  She was right.

  But was there anything more flawed than a human being? Craven, selfish, greedy, self-important, oblivious. But then there was Beethoven, Newton, Curie, Ellington, Holiday, Rembrandt, Shakespeare, Didion, Picasso, Kahlo. Muddy Waters, John Coltrane, Django Reinhardt, Etta James, Nina Simone.

  So, yes, there’s potential for heaven, along with my personal expectation of hell. It’s all a bloody mess.

  Which is where the Shortcut Man comes in.

  • • •

  Devi and I had yakked for a good while that night. We saw Mick Jagger. We saw Hale Montgomery. Then we parted. I gave her my card, told her to call if the need arose. Even just a need for a Reuben.

  I crossed Sunset at Crescent Heights, headed up into the canyon. It was late and quiet and I reached up into the passing airflow. Cool and hopeful.

  My house was quiet and dark. Through the screens crickets held their rhythmic sway. I flopped down on the couch in the living room. Just for a second.

  Next thing I knew . . .

  NINE

  A Call in the Night

  The house sagged out of square, you could tell in any room, up in the corners. Sky-blue paint, faded, blistered here and there, gave evidence that the walls had once been very wet, that the underlying plasterboard had swollen, though now it was dry and chalky.

  She was going up a crudely framed staircase, every step a different size and a different height from the previous. The top step was two and a half feet wide, a normal height from the one before, but only three inches deep. There was no door after the last step; one pushed up, then turned a hundred eighty degrees and stepped a long step into a dim, hot room over the staircase itself. It was an attic. Old furniture, cobwebby lamps, cardboard boxes left open. It smelled hot and forgotten.

>   She walked across the plank floor to a highboy with a mirror on top. In the mirror her face was very long and high, grossly misshapen, very white. Slick and sweaty like old turkey. She had no eyes, just sockets puffed to slits. Around and depending from her neck were thick ropes of darker flesh. She grasped the loose flesh, it filled her grip. She watched herself pull on the ropes of flesh. She was not afraid. A bell began to ring . . .

  Devi woke up from her dream. Uggghh, disgusting. The cell phone on her bedside table was playing its rising tone. She looked over at the clock. 2:09. Who in hell would be calling this time of night?

  She ran a hand over her face as the dream fell to shards, then to dust. She picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  An unintelligible voice, breathing with difficulty, said unintelligible things.

  “Who is this?” Some creep. She’d known a few.

  “Wronga. Ith Wronga.”

  “I’m not understanding you. Who is this?”

  “Wronga.”

  Wrong-uh. Who was wrong? Or what was wrong?

  “I’m sorry, I’m not understanding you. Who is this?”

  “Wronga. Wronga Carlin.”

  Wronga Carlin . . . wait, Rhonda Carling? “Is this Rhonda?”

  “Yeth. Help me.”

  “Are you at home, Rhonda?”

  “Yeth. Help me. Pleathe.”

  Then the call clicked off. Rhonda Carling. Where did she live? On Wilshire? On Rossmore? Yes, Rossmore. The El Royale.

  Devi threw herself into the clothes she’d just taken off. What was with Rhonda? Please, not too many downers and a broken heart. Though she’d journeyed out in the middle of the night for lesser things.

  In the garage, her copper Lexus LS started right up. As it should. You don’t sell your soul for nothing. She was backing out when she realized she hadn’t brought the keys. She slammed the car into Park, ran back into the kitchen, opened the drawer by the refrigerator. There they were. A big, heavy, jangly ring of keys. Twenty-eight of them.

  • • •

  South on Canyon Drive, right on Franklin, past Scientology, south on Gower. What had Dick Henry said earlier about Scientology? Something about its quintessential American charm. The can-do spirit. Like the race to the moon. Based on the writings of a writer who couldn’t write. Could things be more divine?

  Objective: God. Method: Technology. Result: Scientology.

  And, like god-systems anywhere, when you got to the nitty-gritty, God insisted on a hefty fee. In this case, a fortune. And somewhere, she had to agree with Dick, probably in that very building, Scientological altar boys were lifting their skirts for the One. The Big One. Yay, God!

  Right on Yucca. Left on Vine. Pedal to the metal.

  She had no sooner crossed Hollywood Boulevard on the yellow when a bum stepped directly into her path. She slammed on the brakes and things went slo-mo.

  The old man turned his head to see her car and halted his forward progress. Devi wrenched the wheel to the left as tires screeched. The man passed on her right, went down. Something thumped against her car. The car stopped.

  She was out of the Lexus in a second. No one was on the street except the old man, getting to his feet. She ran to help him. “I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”

  The old man brushed himself off. “I’m okay. I think.”

  “Did I hit you? What’s your name?”

  “Dave.”

  “Did I hit you, Dave?”

  “No.” The old man shook his head, pointed at a dirty white shape thirty feet in front of the Lexus. “You didn’t hit me. You hit my dog.”

  Devi was filled with horror and remorse. This old man had nothing, probably lived nowhere, ate out of garbage cans. Had nothing but the love of his faithful companion. And wasn’t that the thing? Regardless of position in life, queen of England or laundry queen, all humans were flattered and ennobled by the affection of animals. Like her cat, Felonius Monk, had made her a better human being.

  Devi looked toward the shape on the pavement. Large, flattish, yet lumpy. Dirty gray. What had she done? Ohh. A blanket. The old man carried his dog in a blanket. A filthy blanket. She lifted the edge. The dog was clearly dead. A Chihuahua. Smelled as bad as his master. She picked up dog and blanket, carried it, albeit at arm’s length, to the old man. She placed the bundle in his waiting arms.

  “I’m so, so sorry. Your dog . . . it’s dead.”

  Dave sorrowfully nodded his head.

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “That’s okay, lady.”

  She should give him something. Taking away a boon companion. Ripping away a boon companion. For eternity. From someone who had nothing. She glanced at her copper Lexus. He probably thought she was a rich lady. “Can I give you something, Dave? And I know that no amount of money will make up for—for him.”

  “Little Dave.”

  Little Dave. Her eyes filled with tears. “Can I give you something, Dave? For Little Dave? I’d like to.”

  Dave shrugged.

  It was the shrug, so nonaccusatory, yet so decently human, so honest, that made her change a twenty to a fifty. Hell, she’d give him a hundred. She opened up her Coach bag, Christ, the bag cost six hundred at Barney’s, dug around, found her wallet. She opened it up, reached in to count, then thought why am I counting, his dog is dead. She proffered the entire wad of bills.

  The old man didn’t even put out his hand. She reached for his wrist, pulled it toward her, put the bills in his palm. “I’m sorry, Dave.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “I mean it. I’m really, really sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” said Dave. “Little Dave died last Thursday.”

  Devi shrieked in disgust.

  Dave just stood there, blanket in his arms, blinking.

  Devi turned, strode for her car, her hands high in the air. What horrible loathsomeness was all over her hands? She wiped her hands on the pavement of Vine Street, climbed into the Lexus, then climbed right back out.

  Dave was still looking at her.

  “Bury that fucking dog, mister.”

  PART TWO

  A Crime

  TEN

  An Evening at the El Royale

  Winston Peckham was thirty-seven years old and didn’t want trouble. He’d come to Hollywood thirteen years ago joy-riding an enthusiastic theatrical review in the Seattle Times. Winston Peckham was superb. His narrow, ascetic face with piercing dark eyes shouted Character Actor. He’d been the night man at the El Royale for three years now. He maintained a neat and tidy OxyContin habit. Never used a needle. Well . . . rarely.

  When he told the lady with the one arm full of tattoos that she couldn’t park out front for longer than ten minutes, she told him to fuck off. He watched her disappear into the elevator.

  Pride suggested he follow her up and kick her ass. OxyContin suggested a little more OxyContin. He ground up half a tab and snorted it. Bitch.

  • • •

  Devi stepped out of the elevator on the fourteenth floor and turned left. At 1414 she stopped, knocked softly.

  No response.

  She knocked again. Nothing. She turned the handle, it opened. She shut it silently behind her.

  The lights were dim. After a moment she remembered the layout of the apartment. The entry passageway, in which she now stood, extended both right and left, to the kitchen, to the den and the bedrooms. But each arm of the entryway also gave into the very large living room, with golden parquet flooring, with a wide stone fireplace. She took ten quiet steps and turned to peer into the living room.

  “Rhonda?” she whispered, “Rhonda?”

  There was a moan from the couch. Devi’s eyes grew accustomed to the light. A solitary candle burned on a low table. Devi tiptoed over.

  Rhonda sat huddled at the end of the couch, knees drawn up to her chest, hands over her face, turned away from the light. Fetal.

  “Rhonda?”

  Rhonda moaned but didn’t move.

  “Honey, are you a
lright?” Devi reached for the lamp, pulled the little brass chain. Rhonda turned toward her, removed her hands from her face.

  Jesus H. Christ. She barely recognized the girl. Matted blond hair surrounded a face battered and swollen, nose pushed to one side, eyes puffy slits. Blood had run down from her mouth, open to breathe, stertorously, and had soaked the pink fleece bathrobe. The bathrobe hung open. There were cigarette burns on her nipples.

  Devi felt an animal rage rise within her. “Jesus Christ, Rhonda, who did this to you?”

  Rhonda whimpered, shook her head.

  On the table was a huge gun. A handgun. It was gold. The barrel was covered with blood. Terminal Velocity—Eli Nazarian—from Howard Hogue. She reached for it, then drew back her hand. Maybe it would be evidence.

  She looked at Rhonda. “You’re going to be alright. I’m going to call the doctor.”

  Rhonda moaned again. Devi pulled her bathrobe closed.

  • • •

  In the thirteen hundred block of N. Alta Avenue, Beverly Hills, in his seven-thousand-square-foot home, Dr. Ulbrect Wolf lay sleeping in his blue silk pajamas. The window behind his bedside table was open, exactly ten inches, as he prescribed, and crickets could be heard. A cool breeze, but not too cool, blew over him. Half-conscious, he adjusted the light blanket and linen sheet to just past his doughy waistline.

  Then the phone rang. His dream dismantled itself gently, like a dandelion in wind. He realized who he was, where he was, that the phone was ringing. With a grunt he pushed himself up.

  “Hello?”

  “Dr. Wolf? This is Devi Stanton. We have a problem.”

  Devi Stanton. Devi Stanton. Oh, the smartass girl with the tattoos. Gradually his mind was coming online. That girl. He checked the bedside clock. 2:42, the middle of the night. “Can’t this wait until morning?”

  “No,” said tattoo smartass. “I need you over here right now. I’m at the Royale. The El Royale. On Rossmore. Apartment 1414. Come now. Somebody’s been hurt.”

  “Can you describe the injuries?”

  “Broken bones, burns. Who knows what else. Get over here. I didn’t call you for nothing.”