Lemons 02 A Touch of Danger (14 page)

Yep. The old Archie had finally returned.

It’s good to be back, folks!

24.

We showed up at Daniel Mayweather’s address a little after two in the afternoon. Like I said, it was a slow starting day. The address consisted of a small grouping of little apartments. There looked to be about four, I could see the lettering on the buildings labeled A through D. Unfortunately, we had no idea which is the one we were looking for. We looked around the small parking area and on the street. The New-Bug was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps my hunches have been a little off lately. We decided to knock on apartment A. An old lady answered.

“Hi ma’am,” I said. “My name is Mr. Pairatestees. First name Harry. This is my friend Anita Goodlay. We’re from Mandalay Pictures, ya know, the movie company? We were sent to this address to deliver some pretty exciting news for a Mr. Daniel Mayweather about a script he recently submitted to our studio. We don’t have the apartment number though. Does he happen to live here by any chance?”

“Oh my, no he doesn’t live here. He lives behind me in C,” the old lady tells us. “He’s a great neighbor though, always quiet, never any problems. You say it’s good news you have for him?”

“Yes ma’am, good news indeed. Thank you for your help. Next time you see Mr. Mayweather I am sure he will tell you all about it. Thank you for your time.”

“Oh, before you go. You look like such a strong young man. Would you mind taking this trash to the dumpster for me? I’m old.”

Before I could answer “fuck yeah I mind, that’s gross,” she shoved a trash bag towards me and I had no choice but to grab it. “Um, thanks?”

“You’re welcome,” she says to me, totally ignoring poor Elise, and then closes the door on us.

Elise shoots me a look. “Anita Goodlay and Harry Pairatestees? Really Archie?” We leave the old lady’s front porch and head towards the dumpster, trash bag in hand.

“Hey,” I said, “they’re as good of names as any. Sorry I couldn’t think of any more names from Adventures in Babysitting like you used the other day.”

Elise cracked a little smile.

“Yeah,” I continue, “I knew what the name was, Ms. Chris Parker!”

“At least that is a real name. Harry Pairatestees, give me a break.”

“Oh she was old anyway, who cares. She didn’t know what was going on.” I give the little trash bag a shake and hear glass bottles clanking around. “She doesn’t even recycle her bottles.”

“Well, like you said, she’s old.”

“Yeah, but I bet she doesn’t realize that she could score ten cents for each of those.”

“Oh well, she’s old, remember, what does she need money for?”

“Well, she needs to start saving up for her funeral next week.”

“Archie!”

“Just sayin’.”

We reach the dumpster and I chuck the trash bag in, hearing a few bottles break as they hit the metal bottom. We turned and headed towards apartment C.

We quickly realized that with all the time we spent driving, relaxing and eating, we never really formed a plan on what we would say to this guy if he were home. Elise decided that she would take the lead on this one. Apparently, she was none-too-thrilled with how I handled the last house.

We reached the apartment and Elise knocked. No answer.

“Okay, well now what, Miss. Lead?”

She knocked again and said she didn’t know.

“Well,” I said, “we didn’t drive down here for nothin’.” I reached into my back pocked and pulled out my wallet. That’s where I keep my small lock picking kit.

“Oh no,” Elise said. “We’re not going to break into his house! No way!”

“We have no other choice, unless you want to just drive back to Shell Beach, get our shit and go back home?”

“God, don’t you remember what happened the last time we broke and entered?”

“I do. We escaped and got the license number that lead us here. The choice is yours though. Make the call.”

Elise let out another one of her little sighs and closed her eyes to think for a moment. After about twenty seconds of total silence, she finally told me to go for it.

I pulled out my pick and had the door open in less than a minute. I was getting good at this illegal breakin stuff, I must admit.

“Broke and entered?” I ask her. Was that the right terminology? Didn’t sound right.

We entered the apartment and took a quick look around. The place was a shoebox. The entire apartment appeared to be about the same size as my living room back home. It was furnished quite sparingly, too. At first glance, it appeared that someone without a lot of money lived here, but expensive touches around the apartment seemed to contradict that, like his amazing home theater set-up, all his video game systems and the sweet movie memorabilia on the walls.

“If you had the money to buy all this expensive shit, wouldn’t you move into a bigger place? This place is tiny yet it’s filled with ridiculous shit like this TV that is goddamn bigger than mine! What the hell?!”

“Well, some people like small places. They’re cozy. And maybe he would rather spend his money on stuff like this than a higher rent. This is Hollywood, remember.”

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Let’s hurry up and take a look around. I don’t want to be here long.”

Elise starts riffling through her drawers and I went through a small stack of papers on his coffee table. I came across two pay stubs, each for under twenty-five dollars from a place called the Husky Bar. I took a picture of the checks with my phone and continued looking.

“Hey Arch,” Elise called out to me. “Come here.”

I walked over and joined her by the kitchen where she had discovered several bound scripts, all claiming to be written by Daniel Mayweather. None of the titles sounded familiar at all. They were probably all rejects. I took pictures of all the title sheets then Elise returned the scripts to their drawer and we continued our search for any clues.

I walked in to the bathroom where there was nothing of interest then peaked in to the bedroom. It was cluttered with clothes and shit (not literal shit) and I really had no desire to go digging through that mess. I noticed several women’s clothing items amongst the mess on his floor, which means he probably has a girlfriend. We would need to track her down if we came up empty with him.

I went back into the bathroom to check for typical girlfriend items…cotton balls, curling iron, the dreaded tampons, shit like that. I opened the medicine cabinets and the drawers and came up empty handed, save for a few things of cheap make-up. I figured, with the lack of such important items, it was safe to assume he didn’t have a steady girlfriend, but that didn’t really jive with the clothes on the floor. This bothered me. I let it go, though.

“Come on, E, I think we’ve got everything we’re going to get from here. We should go.”

“Yeah, I agree.”

“I found a pay stub for a bar. I’m guessing that’s his real job. We need to go there.”

“Is it close?”

“Actually, it’s kind of near our hotel. Off of Vine.”

I did a quick check in his kitchen then joined Elise back in the small living room. We did one more look around then turned to walk towards the door. On our way out I noticed something hanging near the entryway. It was a framed article from Variety.

In Development:

Brad Jackson and his production company Striped Panther just purchased the rights to a script written by Daniel Mayweather. The movie is said to be about a pair of women who were wrongly convicted of killing a man who attempted to rape them, and their struggles adjusting to prison life. No word yet on when production will actually begin.

“Okay,” I said, “well this is interesting. There is our connection between the two people, and really, the movie is about women falsely convicted and in prison? What?!”

“We already had the connection though. This guy’s car is in Brad Jackson’s garage. What we really need to find out is if this guy is the same guy that Emma Ricks saw at the Hollywood house and in court. We need to find a picture of this guy and take it to Emma.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t see a single goddamn picture in this place. Did you?”

“No, not a one. Damn it.”

“You know what would make this a whole shit-ton easier for us?”

“What?”

“If we actually had Annette Jackson’s murder book!”

A murder book is a binder that police put together for every single murder reported. They’re usually quite thorough and include pretty much the entire paper trail of the murder from the moment it was reported until the very end. There are crime scene photos, witness testimonies and statements, autopsy reports, anything and everything related to the crime is usually in the books. The only problem is, they are usually well guarded. Only people directly related to the case usually get to look at them and civilians, private eye or not, usually never to get to get a peak. And that sucks. The murder book on Annette Jackson would come in very handy right now in identifying Daniel Mayweather. We would have to figure out some other way to get a picture of him and verify him with Emma Ricks.

I cleaned the top of my Redbull can with my shirt, then popped the tab and took a big, refreshing sip. Ahhhh.

“Where the hell did you get that?” Elise asks me.

“I stole it.”

“From the apartment?!”

“Yeah. Fuck him, I earned this. Let’s go.”

Our next stop was the Husky Bar on Vine St.

25.

We arrived at the Husky Bar about two hours later. We got caught in some crazy Los Angeles traffic. It was not a good day for me to decide to stop taking my pills. I was so frustrated I was yelling at other cars. Not the people driving the other cars, mind you, I was literally yelling at the actual automobiles. Sigh. My life is not very easy.

Anyway, the bar was a blink-and-you-miss-it place on Vine Street, probably less than three miles from the hotel at which we were currently staying. We drove by it three times before Elise finally spotted it. We parked two blocks away and walked.

The bar was loud, especially for so early in the night. The sun had barely gone down and this place was a-hippin” and a-hoppin”! It was a nice looking place though, much nicer than the outside suggested. There was a fair share of people there, too. The music seemed like an odd choice for such a modern bar, but who am I to complain about a little C&C Music Factory?! I could feel a smile forming on my face, like two strings were tied to the corners of my mouth and some giant was tugging them upward. I looked at Elise so she could share in my enjoyment but her face didn’t have a smile…Nope, no smile at all. Her mouth was slightly open and her brow was furrowed.

“What’s the matter, Butthole?,” I ask her.

“This place doesn’t seem a little strange to you?”

“Kinda. I thought bars played that awful techno, dance music horseshit. This place is A-Okay to me.”

“Ooooookay then,” she says and rolls her eyes at me. Again. She’s been doing that a lot lately. Am I missing something? “Let’s go talk to the bartender, then. You sure nothing seems fishy to you here, Archie?”

“No. Quit being weird. I mean, that guy’s mesh shirt with his nipples pouring out of the little holes like a squished tube of raw cookie dough is a little ridiculous, but come on, we are in Hollywood. That kind of shit is totally normal here.”

We headed for the door while Robert Clivilles, David Cole and their Music Factory rapped about the things that make you go hmmm.

Yeah, that’s right; I know the names of both of the main people in C&C Music Factory. What of it? I even know that David Cole is dead now. So is Vanilli. Or maybe it’s Milli. Not like it matters, anyway, I guess. Blame it on the rain. Yeah yeah. Do you remember when Milli Vanilli got busted on their lip-syncing and then they tried to prove that they really could sing on like, some news show or something, but it was terrible and they had accents and when they sang it was like “BLAME…IT ON…RAIN. YAHHHH. YAHHHHH!” Maybe I am remembering it wrong, but it sounded like a parody of Arnold Schwarzenegger trying to sing a shitty pop song. I’m pretty sure I’m remembering it correctly though. No wonder Milli…or Vanilli killed themselves. I would have, too. Thanks for doing the world a favor. Wow, I’m getting off track.

We took a seat at the bar and waited for the bartender to help us. It must get hot as shit working back there because he had taken off his shirt.

“Work your magic, E. Get this asshole over here,” I say to her.

“I don’t think that’s going to work.”

“Come on, he’s practically asking for you to hit on him, with those ripply abs and hard nipples. Work it, girl!”

Apparently, I offended her and she once again rolled her eyes towards me and spun on her stool, facing away from me. Fine then.

“Excuse me, sir,” I call out to the bartender and give him a friendly little wave. I catch his attention and he makes his way down the bar towards us.

“Hey there, Handsome,” he says. “What can I get for ya?”

I give Elise a little nudge. He obviously thinks we are together; otherwise, he would quit joking with me and flirt with her. Elise lowers her shoulders and shakes her head.

Seriously, what is her problem?

I turn back to the bartender and give him a friendly smile and a look that shows him that I’m well aware my friend is just playing hard to get.

“Hello, my good man,” I say to him. “My name is Christopher Peter Bacon and this is my associate Wilma Fingerdoo. We work for Mandalay Pictures. The movie company.”

I sat and waited for any recognition on his part. I got nothing.

“Anyway, we have some very good news for an employee of this establishment. It seems our studio is interested in a treatment submitted by a Mr. Daniel Mayweather…”

Still, I got nothing. Salt N Pepa’s hit What a Man started playing over the speakers now. This bar is kinda badass, I have to admit.

“Ok, well, um, is he here?” I ask him.

“Who?”

“Seriously? Fucking Daniel Mayweather, is he here?”

“Nope.”

“Well, can you tell me if he will be in tonight, please?”

“How ‘bout you go fuck yourself?’

This caught Elise’s attention. She spun back around on her stool and was ready to be a part of this conversation.