Devil's Waltz (33 page)

“Hour or so. Figured I’d make it over there after midnight, when the scene just starts. I want to catch him in his element, but before it gets too intense. Anyway, enjoy your bliss.”

“Wait. I’ve got a few things for
you
. Got time?”

“Sure. Nothing here in this alley but us cats. What’s up?”

“I got buttonholed by Grandpa Chuck today, just as I left the hospital. He gave me a one-big-happy-family speech — defending the clan’s honor, just like we discussed. Topped it off by offering me a job. The implication I got was I should behave myself, not dig too deeply.”

“Not very subtle.”

“Actually, he managed to do it quite subtly. Even if it had been taped, he could never have been pinned down. Not that the offer was worth much, because a job at Western Peds isn’t likely to have much security.”

I recounted Plumb’s newspaper interview, and the financial-scheme hypotheses that had led me to look further into Laurence Ashmore’s research. By the time I got to the Ferris Dixon Institute, Robin had put her puzzle down and was listening intently.

“Virginia,” said Milo. “Been there a couple of times for fed training seminars. Pretty state, but anything down there always spells government to me.”

“The institute’s listed in a roster of private agencies. I figured it for some kind of corporate front.”

“What kind of grant was it?”

“Pesticides in the soil, Ashmore analyzing his old data. Way too much money for that kind of thing, Milo. I thought I’d call the institute tomorrow morning, see what else I can learn. I’m also going to try to contact Mrs. Ashmore again. Find out if Huenengarth the Mystery Man’s dropped by.”

“Like I said, Alex, keep your distance.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t get any closer than the phone. Afternoon I’ll be doing what I went to school for over at Chip and Cindy’s. Who may
not
be in a state of domestic bliss.”

I reviewed my suspicions, including the caveats Robin had raised. “What do you think?”

“I think, who the hell knows? Maybe she did have a leaky faucet, or maybe she’s the Hester Prynne of the San Fernando Valley. Tell you one thing, if she is stepping out on the Chipper, she’s being pretty sloppy about it, wouldn’t you say? Letting you hear Lover Boy’s voice.”

“Maybe she didn’t mean to — I caught her off guard. She sounded antsy — covered the phone almost immediately. All I actually made out were a few low tones. And if she’s a Munchausen type, flirting with another kind of danger would be right up her alley.”

“Low tones, huh? Sure it wasn’t the TV?”

“No, this was a real-life conversation. Cindy talked and the guy answered. I assumed it was Chip. If he hadn’t called me later, I’d never have known it wasn’t.”

“Hmm,” he said. “So what does it mean? In terms of Cassie?”

I repeated my motive theory.

He said, “Don’t forget Chip’s dough — that’s one hell of an incentive.”

“One hell of a family embarrassment, too, if it blows wide open and there’s a nasty divorce. Maybe
that’s
what Chuck’s trying to keep me away from. He talked about Chip and Cindy creating something solid — called Cindy a lovely girl. Even though she doesn’t seem like the girl a guy in his position would have wanted for his only daughter-in-law. On the other hand, from the look of his teeth, he came up the hard way himself. So maybe he’s not a snob.”

“His teeth?”

“They’re crooked and discolored. No one ever shelled out on orthodontia on his account. Fact is, his entire manner’s pretty rough.”

“Self-made man,” he said. “Maybe he respects Cindy for doing the same thing.”

“Who knows? Anything on why she left the army?”

“Not yet. Gotta press Charlie on that… Okay, I’ll check with you tomorrow.”

“If you find out anything from the bartender, call me first thing.”

There was a strain in my voice. My shoulders had bunched again.

Robin touched them and said, “What is it?”

I covered the phone and turned to her. “He’s found a lead to something that may or may not be related to the case.”

“And he called to invite you along.”

“Yes, but—”

“And you want to go.”

“No, I—”

“Is it anything dangerous?”

“No, just interviewing a witness.”

She gave me a gentle shove. “Go.”

“It’s not necessary, Robin.”

She laughed. “Go anyway.”

“I don’t need to. This is nice.”

“Domestic bliss?”

“Mega-bliss.” I put my arm around her.

She kissed it, then removed it.

“Go, Alex. I don’t want to lie here listening to you toss.”

“I won’t.”

“You know you will.”

“Being alone is preferable?”

“I won’t be. Not in my head. Not with what we’ve got going for us now.”

I tucked her in bed and went out to the living room to wait. Milo knocked softly just before midnight. He was carrying a hard-shell case the size of an attacheé and had on a polo shirt, twill pants, and windbreaker. All in black. Regular-guy parody of the L.A. hipster ensemble.

I said, “Trying to fade into the night, Zorro?”

“We’re taking your car. I’m not bringing the Porsche down there.”

I pulled out the Seville; he put the case in the trunk, got in the passenger seat. “Let’s roll.”

I followed his directions, taking Sunset west to the 405 south, merging with hurtling trucks and the red-eye crowd heading out to the airport. At the junction with the Santa Monica Freeway, I hooked over toward L.A. and traveled east in the fast lane. The highway was emptier than I’d ever seen it, softened to something impressionistic by a warm, moist haze.

Milo lowered the window, lit up a panatela, and blew smoke out at the city. He seemed tired, as if he’d talked himself out over the phone. I felt weary, too, and neither of us said a word. Near La Brea a loud, low sports car rode our tail, belched and flashed its brights before passing us at close to a hundred. Milo sat up suddenly — cop’s reflex — and watched it disappear before settling back down and staring out the windshield.

I followed his gaze upward to an ivory moon, cloud-streaked and fat, though not quite full. It dangled before us like a giant yo-yo, ivory mottled with green-cheese verdigris.

“Three-quarter moon,” I said.

“More like seven-eighths. That means
almost
all the nuts’re out. Stay on the Ten past the interchange and get off at Santa Fe.”

He kept grumbling directions in a low voice, taking us into a broad, silent district of storehouses, foundries, and wholesale jobbers. No streetlights, no movement; the only vehicles I spotted were penned behind prison-grade security fences. As we’d traveled away from the ocean, the haze had lifted and the downtown skyline had turned chiseled and crisp. But here I could barely make out the shapes, miragelike against the matte-black stasis of the city’s outer limits. The silence seemed glum — a failure of spirit. As if L.A.’s geographical boundaries had exceeded its energy.

He directed me through a series of quick, sharp turns down asphalt strips that could have been streets or alleys — a maze that I’d never be able to reverse from memory. He’d allowed his cigar to go cold but the smell of tobacco stuck to the car. Though the breeze streaming in was warm and pleasant, he began raising the window. I realized why before he finished: A new smell overpowered the burnt-cloth stink of cheap leaf. Sweet and bitter at the same time, metallic, yet rotten. It leaked through the glass. So did noise — cold and resonant, like giant steel hands clapping — scraping the night-lull from somewhere far away.

“Packing houses,” he said. “East L.A. all the way down to Vernon, but the sound carries. When I first came on the force I drove a cruiser down here, on the night watch. Sometimes they slaughtered the hogs at night. You could hear them howling, smashing into things, and rattling their chains. Nowadays I think they tranquilize them — Here, turn right, then immediately left. Go a block and park anywhere you can.”

The maze ended on a skinny block-long straightaway bounded on both sides by cyclone fencing. No sidewalks. Weeds erupted through the tar like hairs on a wen. Cars lined both sides of the street, pushed up close to the fence.

I pulled into the first space I saw, behind an old BMW with a
K
-
ROQ
window sticker and a rear deck piled high with trash. We got out of the Seville. The air had cooled but the slaughterhouse smell remained — dribs and drabs of stench, rather than a constant assault. Changing wind, probably, though I couldn’t sense it. The machine scrape was gone, replaced by music — electric organ elf-squeaks and a murky bass, middle-range tones that might have come from guitars. If there was a beat, I couldn’t sense that either.

“Party time,” I said. “What’s the dance of the week?”

“Felony lambada,” said Milo. “Sidle up against your partner and rifle through his/her pockets.” He shoved his hands in
his
pockets and slouched forward.

We began walking up the street. It dead-ended at a tall, windowless building. Pale-painted brick walls that a couple of red lights turned pink. Three stories — a trio of successively smaller cubes stacked atop one another. Flat roof, steel doors asymmetrically placed under a random assortment of shuttered windows. A tangle of fire-escape ladders hugged the facade like cast-iron ivy. As we got closer I saw huge, faded letters painted above the dock: B
AKER FERTUKUZER AND
P
OTASH
C
O
.

The music got louder. Heavy, slow, keyboard solo. Voices became audible in between notes. As we got closer, I saw a line of people S-curved in front of one of the doors — a fifty-foot ant-trail that dipped into the street and clogged it.

We began passing the line. Faces turned toward us sequentially, like animated dominoes. Black duds were the uniform, sullen pouts the mask. Boot chains, cigarettes — legal and otherwise — mumbles and shuffles and sneers, an amphetamine jerk here and there. Flashes of bare flesh, whiter than the moonlight. A rude comment harmonized with the organ and somebody laughed.

The age range was eighteen to twenty-five, skewed toward the lower end. I heard a cat snarl at my back, then more laughter. Prom from Hell.

The door that had drawn the crowd was a rust-colored sheet-metal rectangle blocked by a slide bolt. A big man wearing a sleeveless black turtleneck, green-flowered surfing shorts, and high-laced boots stood in front of it. He was in his early twenties, had clotted features, dreamy eyes, and skin that would have been florid even without the red bulb above his head. His black hair was trimmed to a buzz on top and engraved with lightning bolts of scalp on both sides. I noticed a couple of thin spots that hadn’t been barbered — downy patches, as if he was recovering from chemotherapy. But his body was huge and inflated. The hair at the back of his head was long and knotted in a tight, oiled queue that hung over one shoulder. The shoulder and its mate were graveled with acne. Steroid rash — that explained the hair loss.

The kids at the head of the line were talking to him. He wasn’t answering, didn’t notice our approach or chose to ignore it.

Milo walked up to him and said, “Evening, champ.”

The bouncer kept looking the other way.

Milo repeated himself. The bouncer jerked his head around and growled. If not for his size, it would have been comical. The people at the head of the line were impressed.

Someone said, “Yo, kung-fu.” The bouncer smiled, looked away again, cracked his knuckles and yawned.

Milo moved quickly, stepping up nose to nose with him while shoving his badge in the meaty face. I hadn’t seen him remove it from his pocket.

The bouncer growled again but the rest of him was acquiescent. I looked over my shoulder. A girl with hair the color of deoxygenated blood stuck her tongue out at me and wiggled it. The boy fondling her chest spit and flipped me the bird.

Milo moved his badge back and forth in front of the bouncer’s eyes. The bouncer followed it, as if hypnotized.

Milo held it still. The bouncer read laboriously.

Someone cursed. Someone else howled like a wolf. That caught on and soon the street sounded like something out of Jack London.

Milo said, “Open up, Spike, or we start checking IDs and health codes.”

The lupine chorus grew louder, almost blotting out the music. The bouncer crunched his brows, digesting. It looked painful. Finally he laughed and reached behind himself.

Milo grabbed his wrist, big fingers barely making it around the joint. “Easy.”

“Op’ning it, man,” said the bouncer. “Key.” His voice was unnaturally deep, like a tape played at slo-mo, but whiny nonetheless.

Milo backed away, gave him some space, and watched his hands. The bouncer pulled a key out of his surf-shorts, popped a lock on the bolt, and lifted the bar.

The door opened an inch. Heat and light and noise poured out through it. The wolf-pack charged.

The bouncer leaped forward, hands shaped into what he thought were karate blades, baring his teeth. The pack stopped, retreated, but a few protests sounded. The bouncer raised his hands high in the air and made pawing movements. The light from above turned his irises red. His armpits were shaven. Pimples there, too.

“The fuck back!”
he bellowed.

The wolfies went still.

Milo said, “Impressive, Spike.”

The bouncer kept his eyes fixed on the line. His mouth hung open. He was panting and sweating. Sound kept pouring out of the door crack.

Milo put his hand on the bolt. It creaked and stole the bouncer’s attention. He faced Milo.

“Fuck him,” said a voice from behind us.

“We’re going in now, Spike,” said Milo. “Keep those assholes calm.”

The bouncer closed his mouth and breathed loudly through his nose. A bubble of snot filled one nostril.

“It’s not Spike,” he said. “It’s James.”

Milo smiled. “Okay. You do good work, James. Ever work at the Mayan Mortgage?”

The bouncer wiped his nose with his arm and said, “Huh?”

Working hard at processing.

“Forget it.”

The bouncer looked injured. “Whaddya say, man? Seriously.”