Angel’s Gate Page 9

  She grinned at me. “You know, I have heard of you. Before yesterday.”

  “Yeah? Don’t believe everything you hear.”

  She grinned again. “Oh, yes. Now I do remember.”

  Something in her manner rang that little gong in my brain. I was going to end up in bed with this girl. Sooner or later. I looked over at the clock. Later. I needed more than four hours’ sleep to think correctly. But the gong reverberated down a long and pleasant corridor and I couldn’t help myself. “What exactly do you remember?”

  “I remember who I was talking to.”

  I didn’t feel like pulling teeth. “Look. I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. I don’t want to play twenty questions.”

  “I was talking to Puss.”

  “Puss?” Had I heard correctly? For fuck’s sake, oh, dear.

  “Pussy Grace,” Devi replied.

  “Well, Pussy Peach.”

  They say it’s a small world. And it is small, like Steven Wright said, as long as you don’t have to paint it. But I guess Devi did know Puss. Penelope Peach. “I don’t know what Pussy told you, but, as you must know, Pussy is a famous liar.”

  “I recognize the truth when I hear it.”

  “Do you.”

  “Yes. Puss said you were an ass man.” She paused for deliciousness. “Is that true?”

  Gong.

  Yes. I was an ass man. Dyed in the rut. I pointed a finger at her. “Don’t fool around with me, girl.”

  Instead she turned away, but looked back at me over her shoulder. The blanket wrapped around her was suddenly captured by gravity. It slipped to the floor with a sigh.

  What I saw thickened my vision, set my pulse thudding in my neck. A black thong delineated superior geometry at the corner of attitude and intention.

  “I love rainy mornings, Dick.” A velvet whisper.

  Sleep? I’ll sleep when I’m dead. I looked into her eyes and I smiled, lifted up the sheet in welcome. “Come here, girl. Come talk to Papa.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Monopsony

  Huntington Derian had been shown into Dempsey’s back room. He gazed upon the expensive fools, Nazarian and Shea. They’d been whacked around pretty good. Like they’d gone a few rounds with Iron Mike. When he’d been Iron Mike. Served them right. But they were each a little ripe to go public. Not with the Hollywood TattleTale already on their tail.

  He would cut a check to the TattleTale for $5,000 as it was. Because TattleTale had restrained itself from naming names. Of course, the TattleTale had done so in the hopes of reward. Any further mistakes, however, on his part, or the fools’ part, would be fair game.

  The director stared up at him with swollen, purple malevolence. “What happened to me?”

  “You were found naked in a soggy refrigerator box behind Dunkin’ Donuts, attached to Mr. Shea, both of you stinking of gin. With a dead dog lying between the both of you in a dirty blanket.”

  “Attached?” The director spoke through clenched teeth.

  Derian had considered medicine in his college years but had reconsidered. He knew his bedside manner would be found insufficient. But he could see Nazarian’s jaw was broken or dislocated. Painful. “You were attached with tie wraps. Those plastic things. To Mr. Shea. Ankle to ankle.”

  Nazarian turned to Melvin. “Where the fuck did you come from?”

  Melvin shook his head. This was delicate ground. He didn’t know how he got to Dunkin’ Donuts, but he remembered the initial scenes at Rhonda Carling’s. “Where the fuck did you come from, Eli?”

  Derian watched both of them. Shea knew more than he was pretending. Hmmm. There was a story here. Maybe he’d lean on Shea later.

  Shea was a pimp and drug dealer. Among other things. With one client. Hogue. There was a word for that . . . the opposite of monopoly . . . uh, uh, monopsony. That was it. A business that relied on a single client.

  Shea had shown up on the scene as a fast-talking producer. Gotten a few things made. His name in the trades. Boinking starlets. Then, smoothly, Hogue had transformed him into a Stepin Fetchit. Very well paid, but on the hook, on the book. Yes, he’d lean on Mr. Shea for his answers if need be.

  The only thing that honestly bothered him was the dog. Cruelty to animals. People, generally, could take care of themselves. But animals? Though the dog in question was long dead. Ants. “So which of you gentlemen killed the dog?”

  Both men were suitably, if blearily, outraged. Assholes, the both of them. Hope it ruffled their feathers. Their stinking feathers.

  Derian checked his watch. “There’re two large towels behind you, gentlemen. Put them over your heads, and Officer Gundy will lead you to the van that will take you to see Dr. Wolf.”

  “Who’s Dr. Wolf?” asked the Hollywood golden boy, teeth clenched.

  “Dr. Wolf is one of Howard Hogue’s personal physicians.” An off-duty officer poked his head in. “Everybody ready?”

  EIGHTEEN

  Redolent of Nature

  Dr. Wolf had struggled beneath a thick blanket of fatigue but the Modafinil had finally kicked in. Once the body got used to eight or nine hours of sound sleep, three or four wouldn’t do. Fuck Melvin Shea and tattoo-girl. The little bitch walking out and leaving him with punching-bag girl bad telling him to give Shea’s phone back to him. Shea leaving him orders! Dr. Ulbrecht Wolf didn’t take orders from pimps.

  But actually, he felt pretty good. Pretty darn good. His mind was clicking like an abacus. The golden gun. It had been moved. Which meant Devi or scum-Shea had moved it. The magazine on top of the gun on his first visit. He was the first visitor after the attack. The gun was not hidden by the perpetrator. Therefore, Devi, at least, was cognizant of its being moved from where he had seen it.

  He had searched the entire apartment while Rhonda lay sedated. The gun was gone. Unless there was some secret hiding place that Rhonda’s guests would know. Not probable.

  No. The gun was gone. But he had discovered Rhonda’s underwear drawer. She liked green silk. So did he. He reached in the pocket of his suit. There they were. Crumpled up alongside the ones he’d plucked from beside the bed. Black and redolent of nature and an expensive scent. Barely enough material to cover the palm of his hand. His cock twitched. One saved and savored one’s erotic experiences. For recall and use later.

  • • •

  The one good thing had been the time to arrange the convalescent situation. Moncrief at Fairfax Convalescent was reliably incurious. Had maintained his indifference as he, Luis, and Ernesto trundled Rhonda out of the anonymous van and into Moncrief’s shadowy back entrance.

  Then the call from Derian this morning. Wolf had been on the verge of complaining about long hours when he realized Derian did not know the full scope of last evening’s events.

  Vell, vell, vell. A tangled veb ve veave. When first we practice to deceive. And now weasel Shea and psychopath Nazarian were being delivered to him. After their mysterious midnight misadventures. Fees. Fees! There were going to be fees involved.

  Wolf exited his kitchen into the garage, and through the garage, into the private office/urgent care facility he operated on his property. Not that the county zoning commission was any the wiser. None of their business, anyway.

  Besides Hogue’s people, he served a wide celebrity clientele. Actors, musicians, athletes, the rich and private. The Hollywood elite. Those who wished to avoid the scrutiny of the TattleTale. Knife fights, acts of battery, overdoses, sexual assault. Even the Tattletale’s son had paid a visit. He had broken an arm illicitly entering a pharmacy after hours. Radial fracture.

  He found Carol Stanleigh at the autoclave.

  “Good morning, Carol.”

  “Good morning, Doctor.”

  Carol had become too fond of pain medication when she had worked for Kaiser years ago. He had made her an offer she did not refuse.

  “Two visitors will arrive shortly, Carol. A Mr. Shea and a Mr. Nazarian. I’m told they’ve been battered quite severely. So, possible X-r
ays, extensive first aid. Then they’re going to need clothes. And probably makeup.”

  Carol nodded. This was the usual, give or take a contusion or a laceration. She reflected. “Do you mean Nazarian the director?”

  Only the director who’d rammed a pistol up the vagina of a battered woman. Wolf shrugged, don’t know. What he knew was useful. He wouldn’t squander it. “I don’t know the name.”

  “I bet it’s him,” said Carol. “He’s got a reputation.”

  “Reputation for what?”

  “For partying pretty heavy. Hurting people. How long until they arrive?”

  Wolf checked his watch. Patek Philippe. White gold. Twenty grand. “Fifteen minutes.” He’d often wondered how accurate the watch was. The fact that it was called a chronometer, not a watch, quintupled its price immediately. But, as far as time was concerned, how could he check it? A watch that counted the same seconds could be had at Burger King for $1.99. And it came with a sandwich.

  • • •

  The police van bounced and jounced. Which made everything hurt. Nazarian stared at weasel-pimp with hate. “I still can’t figure it, Melvin. How did you and I end up together?”

  Melvin had spent the journey thinking about that exact circumstance. It wouldn’t be prudent to level with this out-of-control asshole. “Dr. Wolf called me. So I got there, saw you lying on the floor, on your back, and then something hit me. Then Dunkin’ Donuts in that fuckin’ box.”

  “Did you see the bitch?”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “Who are you talking about?” returned Nazarian, peering at him.

  Melvin realized he’d fucked up. Talking about Rhonda, implying Devi. Then he saw a way out. “I didn’t see any bitches at all.”

  “The coked-up whore made me lose my temper.”

  “She made you lose your temper?”

  “That’s what she did.”

  Melvin was incredulous. “Made you lose your temper.”

  Nazarian was furious. His face was screaming, spikes of jagged glass. “Fuck you . . . and fuck her.”

  • • •

  Officer Gundy pulled into the driveway on Alta Drive. As he approached the garage the door went up. The garage was empty—neat and clean to a nosy neighbor’s squint. The door shut behind him.

  Shit rolled downhill. Fine with him. He’d made these runs for Captain Dempsey before. His cut would be five hundred dollars. Protecting and serving had its rational limits.

  And those assholes in the back. Hollywood shitheads. In the box with the dead dog. There was a story here. But he’d learned nothing of value. The two shitbirds hadn’t exchanged fifty words the entire journey. They didn’t like one another. He’d settle for his five clams and be done with it. Curiosity and greed got you in trouble.

  Gundy watched a nurse take the men through the garage’s back door. He peered after them, saw nothing. The door shut, and behind him the garage door rose. Dismissed. Fuck it. He’d gotten his five.

  • • •

  Wolf studied Nazarian’s jaw. It wasn’t supposed to look like that. Carol had cleaned him up, given him fifteen stitches in the back of his head, but there was only so much you could do at a clinic. “How did this happen, Mr. Nazarian?” he queried innocently, Hippocrates himself.

  “I don’t know,” said Nazarian. He remembered that initial long rail from the first eightball of coke. As if Roman trumpets, grand and deserved, were introducing him, Eli Nazarian, to the feast. The Feast of Nazarian.

  Then what had happened?

  He’d fucked the whore. Unremarkable. Big tits. Black panties. Then he’d played around with that—had he brought that golden gun? To the whore’s house? Why? He couldn’t have. And then—then when his blood, viscous with chemicals, then—came that other girl. Was there another girl? Yes . . . there was.

  You responsible for this? This is my business. That’s what she’d said. Something like that. He’d moved forward, to give the bitch a swift kick in the cunt—then nothing. Nothing until that stinking, wet blackness, the pain all around his head, then light, rain, cops snickering, and a bunch of gawking low-lifes. Derian said there’d been a dog. A dead dog. That had to be bullshit.

  But this was no time to tell this doctor anything. Who knew what side he was on? “I don’t know what happened, Doctor. I went out for a few drinks—that’s all I remember. Now, what have you found?”

  “You’ve broken your jaw, first thing. It’s going to have to be reset. A taxi will take you to Century City Hospital. Dr. Merritt will see you. He’s part of the team and your privacy will be taken care of. Secondly, you’ve suffered a concussion, and a good-sized laceration on the back of your head. And I see you asked Carol to shave your head.”

  “May as well.” He was beyond personal vanity. He didn’t need it. He had power. Moths to flame, starlets to cock.

  “Thirdly, you’ve got various scratches and bruises. All over, and all attended to. And, finally, it appears someone has plucked a patch of your pubic hair. And you remember nothing?”

  “Nothing,” said Nazarian.

  Wolf nodded. His hand settled into the pocket of his white smock. Something silky.

  Panties!

  • • •

  Meanwhile, behind the parking garage of the Hillside BonContempo Luxury Apartments, near the Dumpsters, Tavo Gonzales studied the ficus tree in the large yellow pot. Estella had become unenchanted with Rojas and the midnight adventures in which Rojas had invited Tavo to participate. It was a case of ruffled feathers. Jealous feathers. And nothing unruffled feathers like a gift. Especially if it looked expensive.

  Tavo turned to Osvado, who worked for the Tavares Gardening Service and had seen a sweating Italian stallion heave it where it now leaned. “What kind of tree is this?”

  “A ficus,” said Osvado.

  “Are they expensive?”

  “The pot is expensive.”

  Tavo nodded. He needed an adjective. El Dorado. The Seven Cities of Gold. That might work. It would have to. Estella would be charmed. She better be. Tavo looked over at Osvado.

  “Let’s do it.”

  NINETEEN

  Nine Ball

  Wolf now examined Shea’s face. Circumstances dictated he could be more forthright with the liddle veasel. “You’re going to be in pain for a while. Who hit you?”

  “I’m not sure.” Melvin’s head felt like a bell that had been rung by a gorilla with a sore dick. “But I’m going to find out.” Other primates didn’t have big dicks. “Devi Stanton knows.” Only humans did. There must be a reason.

  “But you ended up, without pants, at a doughnut shop—”

  Melvin pointed a warning finger at the doctor.

  “—with your finger up a dead dog’s ass.” The doctor allowed himself a giggle. Fuck the pimp.

  Melvin glared. His recollections of the box had been from the outside looking back. Against the wall, near the water meter. Soggy. The rain, the pain, the looky-loos, the grinning cops.

  “The situation is delicate, Mr. Shea. It needs to be contained. And tattoo-girl must be handled as well.”

  Suddenly Melvin remembered standing in front of that closet. Then the closet had burst open . . . and a man had come out like a jack-in-the-box ninja. Why was he standing in front of the closet . . . his phone, his phone, no . . . he’d called someone and it was ringing—from the closet. That’s right! He’d called asshole Nazarian, author of all this fucking mess.

  Where was his phone? He patted himself down, it wasn’t there. Had he left it at Rhonda’s? That could be trouble.

  The doctor was grinning at him.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You looked like you were looking for your phone.”

  Melvin patted himself down again, then looked up at the Nazi. “You have it?”

  Wolf handed it to him.

  “Where was it?”

  “Up the dog’s ass.”

  “That’s real funny, Doc.”

  “You left i
t over there.”

  Melvin went to the all-calls register. “What’s your number, doc?”

  Wolf handed him his card. From a tray.

  There it was. “You called at 3:38.” And the next call. At 4:17. Eli Nazarian. Yes. Meaning that at 4:18 the guy stepped out of the closet and clocked him. That asshole would pay.

  Was it possible that Devi didn’t know someone was in the closet? Possible. But not fucking probable. He’d lean on her. She’d give.

  “What about your friend?” How does he fit into the occasion?”

  “I’m not sure. And he’s not my friend.” He’d have to be careful around the doctor. Always snooping for a payday.

  “Well, whatever he is. I just put him in a taxi. To Century City Hospital. He’s going to have his jaw wired shut.”

  “Serves him right. But it’s his mind that’s the problem.”

  “We must be careful. Let’s hope this whole thing does not attract . . . official curiosity.”

  The doctor was fishing. With his little needle Nazi-hooks. “This whole thing.” Melvin stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “You think I’m stupid, Mr. Shea?”

  “Listen, here. The El Royale and me and him have nothing to do with one another.”

  “Nothing.”

  “I mean it. Nothing to do with each other.”

  “Nothing. Fine. I just hope Howard’s position is not threatened.”

  Where was Mengele Jr. going with this? “What are you saying, exactly?”

  To clarify a threat is to limit its power. The doctor strategically retreated. “Well, if your friend had nothing to do with the girl—then—then he had nothing to do with the girl. But I would hate Howard to get the wrong idea.” Then, a stiff jab to the pimp’s face. “Should I send her bill to you?”

  “Are you suggesting you might send it to Howard?” The doctor was playing games with him. It was time to root him out. From behind that chilly platinum facade. “That sounds like a threat, Ulbrecht. Of course, you send that bill to me. To my office. You threatening me?”