Angel’s Gate Page 6

  “Fourteenth floor,” he volunteered, “that’s where all the action is.” He was Winston Peckham. Winston Peckham knew where shit was packed.

  I nodded. Rode up to twelve, walked up the rest of the way. The place was old, with thick walls. I didn’t hear a sound from anywhere. I knocked at 1414.

  Devi opened up. “Thanks for coming.”

  “No problem.” I looked over my shoulder, right and left, entered. She took me down the entryway into a big living room. “Whose place is this?”

  “Rhonda Carling’s.”

  “Have I heard of her?”

  “If you saw Police Academy 9.”

  “Missed it.”

  “So did everyone else.”

  Devi looked freaked out, but not frightened. Maybe I would be surprised. Someone was not dead.

  “What’s the problem?”

  She led me to the couch. It had been made up as a bed, sheets, blanket, pillows. A woman lay on her back. Was she breathing?

  “She’s alive, right?”

  Devi nodded.

  “What happened?”

  “She had an evening caller. Beat the shit out of her. Shoved a gun up inside her.”

  “Nice.” Not unheard of, but nice just the same. “You know who?”

  “Eli Nazarian.”

  “I’ve heard that name.”

  “He directed Terminal Velocity.”

  “That made money, right?”

  “Three hundred mil.”

  “You call the police?”

  “No.” She took a deep breath. “There’s a situation.” She exhaled.

  Things were hooking up in a general way. Devi worked for Ivanhoe. Terminal Velocity was an Ivanhoe picture. Eli Nazarian was Ivanhoe property.

  “You know where Nazarian is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going to call the police?”

  “No.”

  No. Because this was Hollywood, after all. “Where is Nazarian?”

  “He’s in the closet.”

  “In the closet?”

  “Yes,” said Devi. “He’s dead.”

  Goddammit. I’d known somebody was dead.

  She led me to the closet. There he was. Curled up for eternity in a disorderly nest of boots and shoes.

  “How’d he die?”

  “A left uppercut.”

  Obviously I was going to get fed one crumb at a time. “How’d he get in the closet?”

  “I dragged him.”

  One fucking crumb at a time. “How do you know it was a left uppercut?”

  “I threw it. He went down, hit his head on the fireplace.” She pointed at the wide stone fireplace.

  I waggled my fingers, beckoning. “Just tell me the whole story, okay?”

  “I got a call from Rhonda. A little after two. I came over here, thought we were alone. I called the doctor. Then I heard the toilet flush and asshole came in here. Then he saw me, saw what I’d seen, decided to kick my ass.”

  “Then he caught the streetcar.”

  “All the way to the beach.”

  I looked at Rhonda. Battered, but cleaned up, bandaged. “And I waited at the Dunkin’ while the doctor was here.”

  “Exactly.”

  Then someone knocked on the door.

  A wave of involuntary fright chicken-skinned me. And I’d known better. I’d known someone was dead. Why was I here? Why? Because Dick Henry was stupid.

  I gestured at Devi—where do I go?

  She put a finger across her lips, grabbed my shoulder, led me to Nazarian’s closet.

  I’m supposed to go in there? I mimed.

  Devi spread her hands. What else?

  Another knock sounded on the heavy wooden door. It was insistent, authoritative.

  I stepped into the closet. She shut the door behind me. I heard her walk to the front door.

  “Who is it?” she asked quietly.

  I heard the mumble of a male voice, heard Devi draw the door back.

  Devi admitted Melvin Shea. Devi carefully shut the door behind him.

  “What the fuck is going on here?” Melvin walked toward the light, toward the living room.

  “How did you know to come here?”

  Melvin looked around. This place was nicer than Bambi’s on Harper. “Our favorite Nazi called.”

  “Someone was here and beat the shit out of Rhonda.”

  Melvin walked over, inspected her. She was messed up, yeah. But the ramifications of the situation. He’d have to be careful.

  He looked over at Devi. “I’ve seen worse. Any idea who was over?”

  “Don’t play innocent with me, Melvin.”

  “What does that mean?”

  In the closet, I could hear everything pretty clearly. I listened as if my life depended on it. Because it did.

  “You know who was here. Your end was probably a grand or two.”

  Melvin felt the slow, hard squeeze of the situation; his stress turned to anger. “I do a favor for a girl every now and then. Works for her, works for me. Every girl who goes out knows the game.”

  “Rhonda didn’t know the Nazarian game.”

  “I thought he’d been for the cure.”

  “You don’t cure psychopaths. He put a gun up inside her.” Melvin said nothing. There were levels of danger here.

  First, Howard. He wouldn’t dig someone fooling around with what was his. And Rhonda. Though she was owned, what would she want?

  He couldn’t let that happen. Rhonda must be placated. With some restoration, some vacation, some money. And—ahh, yes—promised a part in a forthcoming movie. A horror movie. That wasn’t funny.

  Then the Nazi doctor. No doubt he’d submit an extortionary bill. And his bill would have to be paid. Or he might leak to Howard.

  What was it about the Nazi doctor? On his high horse. The bills he submitted to Howard, that Melvin had seen, were extraordinary. But never questioned.

  The doctor obviously knew the ways of power. He’d been stuffing Stephanie Waters.

  Starlet-stuffing. An art in Hollywood. At least a science. And in order to keep stuffing her, he’d trolled out a small part in a Hale Montgomery movie. Melvin had laughed upon hearing rumor of the doctor’s tactic. But America’s favorite granddad had acceded to the doctor’s request. Stephanie, as stiffly implastic as Pinocchio, was cast in a Mideast oil thriller as a doomed spy/prostitute. Cruelly drowned in a vat of hummus.

  • • •

  Devi stood with hands on hips. Obviously, Melvin-the-scum was trying to figure out how to save his own rancid bacon.

  “Melvin, did you hear me? He put a gun up inside her.”

  “Yeah. I heard you. Did he pull the trigger?”

  Devi was incredulous.

  Melvin spread his hands. “Did. He. Pull the trigger. Yes or no?”

  “No.”

  “No. He didn’t pull the trigger.”

  “Are you excusing his behavior, Melvin?”

  “No. I’m parsing it.”

  “This is a police matter.”

  Melvin sniffed the air. “Something stinks around here.”

  “Stinks?” Was Nazarian rotting already? Or had he voided his sphincter?

  Melvin faced her, coldly angry. “Yeah. It’s the smell you smell when assholes get religion, when they start developing a conscience.” He pointed at her. “That’s dangerous at your age.” Police matter. Was she nuts? Had she not seen that she was in as much shit as he was?

  “If this isn’t a police matter there aren’t any.”

  She couldn’t be serious. This was a bluff. She was playing an obtuse extortion angle. Fuck her. Greedy bitch. He’d play stupid. “Are you insane? Howard gets wind of this we’re both out on the tiles. This is classic Hollywood under-the-covers.”

  “Your friend’s got to pay.”

  “That’s something different and he’s not my friend. And I’ll figure something out. We’re both in this mess.”

  “How am I in this mess?” Besides sending your ani
mal friend directly to hell. If there were a God, Nazarian’s eternal torment had already begun.

  “How are you in this mess? Don’t play fucking innocent lamb, Devi. Shit goes down. And you know it goes down. This is the Hollywood Christmas parade. And you just got a turd for Christmas, house-mommy. You’re in this just like me. Sorry this shit isn’t your flavor.”

  • • •

  Meanwhile, in the closet, I listened to strangers argue. I didn’t know this woman any better than a sandwich at Canter’s. And it seemed that her housemother position was a little more involved than she had made it seem.

  A murderous housemother, an evil pimp, a sociopathic director, a woman severely beaten. All I needed was the police, slavering at the opportunity to put me away for a while. I thought of that horrible picture on my driver’s license. Yet, right now, one might legitimately conclude I was as stupid as I looked.

  Devi and Melvin, whoever he was, started in again. I was trying to find who was the good guy. Maybe there wasn’t one. Like Lynette.

  Not for a day had I forgotten her. Broken doll on the rocks. I paid for a little patch of grass in Holy Cross off Sepulveda with some of Artie’s money. There was no one to claim her ashes, or at least no one did, so I pulled some strings and the small, greenish, reinforced cardboard box, containing a heterogeneous mixture of bone fragment and gray sand in a tied-off plastic bag was given to me. Now she was planted with the Catholics. Who knows, might do her some good.

  I didn’t visit often but I knew where she was. After a while, all the bad shit had dropped away and I was left with recollections of happiness. Hello, darling, I would say. And then I would see those green eyes, brimming with love for me, hear her laugh, feel her holding my hand as we walked the streets of Ojai. If only I had known those few hours were the apogee of my joy on this earth.

  • • •

  “Lemme make a call,” said Melvin.

  “Who?” returned Devi.

  “None of your business, bitch.”

  There was a silence. I imagined him thumbing the tiny keyboard. Then we waited. All three of us, both of them, and me, the half-secret sharer. Then, in the darkness of the closet, a phone rang. Melvin, whoever he was, had called the man at my feet.

  Well, I was about to meet Melvin face-to-face. Like a jack-in-the-box. Or did I mean pop-goes-the-weasel?

  “What the fuck?” I heard Melvin say. A voice of gathering incredulity and outrage.

  In the living room, Melvin looked at Devi. “Is there something I don’t know?”

  Yes, there is, I thought. And I think you’re about to find out.

  I heard the tread of angry feet and I saw two shadows occlude the light coming under the closet door. I felt that tingle in my fist. I crouched for action. He was right outside. Then one shadow withdrew and I heard a kamikaze shout and the door was ripped open.

  I had aimed my overhand right straight out at shoulder level and planted my right foot. Force was transferred from right to left foot as I pivoted and I caught him right on the point of the chin.

  The punch was picture perfect. He flew back, unconscious in the air, landed with a bang, on his head.

  “Jesus,” said Devi, looking down on the prostrate form, then up at me. “You know how to throw a punch.”

  I shrugged. I guessed she’d never been to the Thirteenth Naval District when I’d been in my prime.

  Devi was trying to put all the pieces together, I could see it on her face. “Jesus. Jesus.” She looked up at me. “Have I fucked you up totally.”

  “Yeah. I guess knocking your friend out kinda puts me at the scene of the crime.”

  She looked at me. “You’re awfully calm about it.” She paced in a tight circle. “I’m going to have to call the police. Which means this is going to be a huge fucking mess. You don’t know. This whole thing is a house of cards. Going way high.”

  She looked in the direction of the closet. “You think I could go justifiable homicide?”

  “No.”

  “Manslaughter?”

  “No.”

  She looked at me, the future looming blackly. “I didn’t commit murder, Dick. That wasn’t murder.”

  “You’re getting ahead of yourself.”

  “What else is left?”

  I pointed to the closet. “He isn’t dead yet.”

  Seldom had I been the bearer of better news. Her eyes went wide, filled with tears. Deliverance.

  She pounced on Nazarian, dragged him out of the closet by his shoulders, laid him beside Melvin. She put two fingers to Nazarian’s carotid artery.

  She looked up to me, eyes still full, full of joy. “He’s alive. He’s really alive.”

  I’d already leapfrogged to the next problem. “Yeah. Now what do we do with ’em?”

  But I knew she would have no answers. When you’re in a dangerous nest of snakes you don’t need an ophiologist. You need the Shortcut Man.

  I reached for my phone. Time to call Rojas.

  • • •

  Over on the 700 block of Gage Street, in downtown L.A., in a small house, in the kitchen, six Hispanic men played poker. Enrique Rojas was winning, enjoying himself. Winning meant one had sized up one’s opponents accurately. And the luck of the gods was with you.

  Beto was a novice, Sleepy had been cooking the tar, Popeye squinted every time he had a hand. Basically the game came down to himself, Kiko, and Little Franky. And Little Franky was betting wild, trying to catch up.

  The last card was turned over. Little Franky threw his hand in, disgusted. Kiko displayed a full house, taking the pot after Rojas’s two pair came up short.

  Then a phone rang. Rojas looked at the display, Dick Henry, picked up. “Buenos noches, motherfucker.”

  Actually, Rojas loved Dick. Dick was a friend and a stand-up guy. Who paid in cash. A call from Dick, aside from beer, barbecue, or a covey of loose women, usually meant cash money. And Dick didn’t mind if Rojas did his own thing. In fact, Dick had even set up independent actions for him a few times. Like that dickhead chapel-crier. What was his name? Morton Cockey. Cockley. Brown-shoe crybaby motherfucker. He’d have to give Ravenich a call one of these days, jiggle his handle. And that one gig had led to others.

  Rojas listened as Dick explained what he needed. He was required immediately. Good. End of the poker game. With the best excuse in the world, paid employment. Rojas disconnected, rose to his feet. “Hasta la vista, my brothers, duty calls.”

  Losers grumbled, but not too vociferously. Sleepy was on the nod. Rojas said his goodbyes, split.

  Once he reached the sidewalk, Rojas called Tavo.

  Tavo didn’t mind. A call from Rojas meant business. Estella tried to pull him back but he shook her off. Always leave ’em wanting more. That’s the ticket.

  • • •

  The battered green Dodge van, the perfect anonymous vehicle, proceeded east on Wilshire passing MacArthur Park. Tavo Gonzales took a long hit on the blunt, passed it over to Rojas. “What the fuck he want with a refrigerator box?”

  “Shit.” Rojas shook his head. He’d pondered that question himself. A refrigerator box and a bag of plastic ties. A refrigerator box by itself meant the disguised transport of unknown items. Like bodies. But the ties . . . the ties meant something was to be restrained. Kidnapping. Well, there were special kidnapping fees.

  The pair drove for a while and there was Rossmore. Rojas made a right and soon passed Beverly Boulevard, where down the street Jews had not been allowed to play golf.

  What was it with the fuckin’ white man? Not allowing Jews to play golf? Segregated drinking fountains? What sense did it make? The bullshit over illegal immigration. Pretending to surprised by the numbers. Everyone knew they were coming across. By the millions. To work. To support their families. To bus dishes, to mow lawns, to frame up buildings. At least for a generation or two. Till they went to school and wised up and America hired newer immigrants.

  Man, if they wanted the Jews not to play golf, make it mandatory that
they do. Then the greens would be clean as a whistle, as clean as illegal immigrants could make them. Every once in a while, here and there, a red-faced, potbellied, white-headed Methodist in plaid pants shouting oh shit in the wilderness.

  But it wasn’t the Methodists that fucked things up. It was the effect of breathing that rarefied air at the top of the heap. You got to the top, whatever color you were, then you breathed your own farts and declared them indispensable for others. Human nature was the problem. Whatever brand of humans was on top—bingo—the will of God had, at long last, been achieved. Here was the El Royale.

  “Here we are,” said Rojas. “Right on,” said Tavo, slowly.

  • • •

  Winston Peckham eyed the two cholos with the refrigerator box. Maybe the planets were in negative alignment or something. Whatever. Something was going on the fourteenth floor and he was getting left out. Yes, the doctor had slipped him a Grant. But that was because he’d known the doctor’s name. Dr. Wolf. Underground doctor to moneyed Hollywood. The fifty wasn’t given him for remembering, it was given him to forget. To forget the doctor had ever been here. What doctor?

  Peckham had looked over the fourteenth-floor tenant list. An author, an actress, some agents, an ancient songwriter who didn’t talk right, an insurance dude, a gay couple. But who would need a doctor? He’d bet on Rhonda Carling. Actress. Starlet.

  Starlets were trouble. Nobody treated them right. They were always on the cusp of a fame explosion and of course it never happened. After a while, they got to be bitches.

  The cholos reached the desk with the box. Peckham indicated the clock over his shoulder with his thumb. “Sorry. No deliveries after hours.” This approach usually resulted in retreat or a twenty.

  The older man stepped forward, his eyes cold. He tapped the counter. “That’s why we’re here before hours, ese.”

  The second man just stared at him.

  The standoff continued for about ten seconds. Fuck it, thought Peck-ham, I’m not going to lose my teeth over a fucking box. “Up to the fourteenth floor, turn left.”

  “Right on,” said the second man.

  Peckham watched them go. He’d squeeze the starlet later. Something was going on.

  • • •

  Rojas looked down on the two bodies on the floor. At least they were breathing. He turned to me, shook his head. “Do I want to know, dude?”