Made to Kill (17 page)

Eva didn’t say anything but she shook her head a little. I don’t know if that meant I was wrong or I was right and she was merely shaking her head in admiration of the deductions my electromatic brain was capable of.

Professor Thornton would have been proud. That I knew.

“Do what’s going to happen on Friday?” I asked. “Charles David talked about a phase three and a phase four. I assume you know what they are. This is the point where you can start talking, and start talking fast.”

That was when Eva pulled to the curb sharply and stopped. She left the engine running and looked at me and then pointed out the window. I turned to look.

We were on Sunset Boulevard. We’d stopped outside a door that was black with a gold number on it and underneath the number was a Chinese character.

I turned back to Eva and she nodded at the door. “Fresco will be inside. He can fill you in on the plan and what we need you to do.”

“Me? Have you been listening to a word I’ve said, lady? I’m not looking to be part of any Soviet masterplan.”

“You already are,” she said. “We all are.”

We stared at each other for six and three-quarter seconds. “You’re coming in too,” I said. Eva nodded.

I reached for the door handle and opened the door and stepped out. I closed the door.

Then Eva drove off. I frowned on the inside and watched her go.

And then I watched as a black car with soft suspension driven by a man in black hat came down the street and followed her a couple of car lengths back.

I was supposed to kill Eva.

And now I wondered if someone else was going to do the job for me. Her own organization, most likely. They’d used me to find her and now they figured they could finish the job themselves.

Ada wasn’t going to like giving them a refund, even a partial one.

I turned to the black door and looked for the handle, but there wasn’t one. No bell, no knocker. No window.

Not that any of that mattered when it was opened by a Chinese girl wearing a black silk dress with red trim. She held the door open and she bowed low and gestured for me to enter.

So I did.

The Temple of the Magenta Dragon might have looked swell at night with the lights down low and the air full of smoke—I didn’t remember of course, I just had Ada’s word that I’d been here before—but during the day it was a dump. Every surface was painted black, that kind of flat matte black that the backstage of theaters were painted so they didn’t reflect any light. The ceiling was a mess of pipes and buttresses and the walls weren’t much better. The black paint made everything look cheap, tacky, especially because the place was lit with harsh fluorescent strip lights that somehow stained the flat black walls a sort of dirty gray. There were no windows. You could lose time in a place like this.

What wasn’t black-painted pipework was Chinese decoration. Fake bamboo. Fake clouds. Fake dragons. Under the strip lights they looked rough. Just another set of stage props. Nestled among these disappointing features were other lights set at various angles. Theater lights, their apertures controlled by metal slats, some of them with their bulbs obscured behind what looked like red cellophane. Of course, with the main lights off and the special lights on, the place would look different. The walls and the ceiling would disappear and you’d be in an Oriental wonderland.

Just not before six pm.

The main room was filled with round tables and there was a bar at the far end. The bar itself was a deep reddish wood, carved in swirls and loops as the contours of an elaborate Chinese dragon took shape. It looked like the bar had been brought in from somewhere else and the surroundings hacked into shape to match this centerpiece.

The far wall was done out in red studded leather and there were some private booths against it, the tables shielded by the pierced Chinese folding screens that looked like they could be moved around at will.

There was no sign of the woman who had let me in but at the far end of the bar was another Chinese woman. She was standing behind the bar, her arms folded. She was wearing a sleeveless black tunic with a high collar and her hair was pulled back and held in place by some fancy Chinese woodwork. She had silver bracelets wrapped around her biceps and she didn’t look amused so I left her to it and headed toward the one booth that was occupied. The man stood up and held his arms out like he was welcoming his new wife home from work.

“Sparks, how you doing? Why don’t you come join me, big fella.”

Fresco Peterman was wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a big dirty napkin tucked into the collar. There was something colorful folded on the seat next to him—it took me a moment to realize it was a casual jacket—and on the table was an open ledger book and a bowl of noodles. The noodles steamed. He had a set of chopsticks in one hand.

I took a seat. Fresco sat down and gestured at his bowl.

“Don’t mind if I eat, do you? Bit of a working dinner, you know how it is.”

I glanced down at the ledger Fresco had next to his elbow. I didn’t need Ada’s help to see it was some kind of accounts, lots of columns of numbers and simple math.

“Doing the books?”

Fresco dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “Gotta keep up with the books.”

“You run this place?”

He nodded. “I
own
it. Bit of a hobby, I must admit. Actually I’m co-owner. One of eight.”

I glanced up at the matte black ceiling and the strip light that was directly over our booth. The light was flickering fifty thousand times a second, the same as the frequency of the mains power. To most people it produced nothing but a flat white light. For some people, that flat white light became irritating after a while. That was the flicker. They couldn’t
see
it, but it had an effect all the same.

I
could
see the flicker. One twist of my optics and the fluorescent bulb flashed and flashed again like lightning glimpsed beyond a distant horizon. With a little adjustment, I managed to match the flicker of the light with the clicking of my Geiger counter. I returned my attention to the source, which was right in front of me: Fresco Peterman, famous actor, part-time nightclub co-owner.

“It takes eight people to run this joint?” I asked.

Fresco shrugged. “Less for each of us to do. Like I said, it’s a hobby. You know this place used to be a fruit market. Pineapples and peaches, can you believe it? On Sunset Boulevard? I mean, come on. Who likes pineapples?”

I couldn’t answer that nugget so I didn’t. Fresco took my silence as agreement. He nodded and the leather of the booth’s bench seat creaked under his famous ass.

“Anyway, we bought it, did it up. Turned it into this little joint.”

I looked around again. “Why?”

Fresco cocked his head. “Why?”

“Why a nightclub?” I asked. “Hollywood must be full of them. Who needs another?”

“Ah,” said Fresco. He rested his elbows on the table and brought his hands together in a triangle in front of his nose. “Absolutely right, Sparks. But what we needed was a place to call our own. See, those other places, you’re always someone’s guest, on someone’s list, have someone’s invite. And as soon as you arrive people are all over you. All over you!” He chuckled to himself. “Okay, sure, so they’re just being nice and doing what they think they should be doing, keeping the rich and famous happy while extracting as much cash out of their wallets as possible. Which is fair enough. Business is business.”

“Business is business,” I said. I thought Mr. Fresco Peterman and Ada would get along like a house on fire.

Fresco made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Right. So. We opened this place. It’s still a club but one where we control the guest list. It’s a place we can come and not worry about anything. We can come and have a drink and not be bothered.”

“Or come and get an early dinner on the tab,” I said.

Fresco made a pistol shape with his fingers and pointed it at me and mimed his imaginary gun going off.

“There’s the detective,” he said, his grin picture perfect and worth a thousand bucks to the right buyer. “I knew I liked you. Sci-fi, I’m telling you. Sci-fi.” Then he went back to his food.

“I’m here for a reason, Mr. Peterman. I’ve just been talking to Eva McLuckie.”

Fresco pointed his chopsticks at me. “We can count on you for Friday, right?”

I would have raised an eyebrow at that. Honestly, I gave it a good try but it didn’t work.

“You’re going to need to tell me who “we” are and tell me quick.”

Fresco nodded and chased noodles in his bowl. He waved his free hand at his jacket.

“Inside pocket,” he said as he chewed. His hand kept waving.

I sat and reached around the table and lifted his jacket. I flipped it over, felt a lump in one pocket, and pulled out a big long wallet. The man watched me and nodded so I opened the wallet. Inside was a driver’s license with his grinning mug shot and the name
FRESCO PETERMAN.

So that was his real name. Well I never.

There was also five hundred dollars in one hundred dollar bills and a slim envelope that had already been torn open. I ignored the money and took out the envelope and looked inside.

“Tickets to the
Red Lucky
premiere on Friday,” said Fresco. He paused in his mastication. “You
can
come, right? The world isn’t going to know what’s hit it, Sparks! You just gotta be there, okay?”

Noodles tamed, Fresco laughed and knocked me on the shoulder with his knuckles. Then he winced and shook his hand and flexed his fingers. Then he laughed again.

“You’re swell, Sparks,” he said. “Real swell.” He gestured across the table with his chopsticks. “You and me, we’re going to get on real well. There’ll be some important folk there on Friday too. They’re dying to meet you. Dying to.”

“Does that include the late lamented Chip Rockwell?”

Fresco sat back with his chopsticks resting in the bowl and a faint glisten on his chiseled jaw. He ran his fingers through his hair but I didn’t see the hair move any and Fresco Peterman didn’t seem to notice either.

Then he nodded, then he clicked his fingers at me and returned his attention to the bowl of noodles.

“So how long have you been a Soviet agent, Mr. Peterman?” I asked using what we call in the business the direct approach. “And tell me, how much does the KGB have to pay to buy a movie star’s loyalty? Must be steep. You must be richer than your friend Charles David and I’ve seen his house.”

Fresco’s eyes narrowed a little as he looked at me over his bowl. His appetite seemed to be diminishing by the moment. I worked to diminish it further.

“Did you know your buddy was working for the opposition? He was about to bust you wide open.”

Fresco smiled a sickly smile and he spread his arms wide as he sat back in the booth. “I don’t see Charles David anywhere,” he said.

“Charles David might not be here, but I am.”

“And I suppose that’s supposed to frighten me, Sparks, is that it?” The smile stayed just where it was on Fresco’s face.

My turn to shrug. “Can’t say I care one way or the other. But I’m going to take a look in your basement. That’s where you keep him, right? In fact, that’s why you and your friends bought this place, isn’t it? A private place to gather with a cellar just right for good sized secret or two.”

Something strange happened to Fresco’s face. His smile froze and his expression became as solid as his pompadour. I could see the knuckles of his clenched hands go white as he squeezed them.

I think he was thinking.

“Fine, let’s talk,” he said, and he flicked his head like he was trying to shake it without shaking it. The smile was still fixed over all those Hollywood teeth. “Friday. Phase three. I need you to be ready.”

I shook my head. “Tell me about Chip Rockwell. Last chance before I go take a look for myself.”

Fresco didn’t say anything.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll just call the police and then we’re going to take a little look in your basement.”

“Wait,” said Fresco. “Fine. You want to look in the basement, you look in the basement.” Fresco stood.

“Hey! Rico! Get over here.”

I turned on the seat as three men came out of a door by the bar. All three of them I recognized from the secret meeting, thanks to Ada’s helpful playback of my memory tape.

Parker Silverwood. Bob Thatcher. And in front, Rico Spillane. Three actors, A-list movie stars.

Three lieutenants of the Soviet cell.

“Rico,” said Fresco. “Show Sparks around. Give him the tour.” He turned back me. “You’re my guest. Just promise me you’ll be ready Friday. I need you to be there, okay?”

I didn’t answer his question. Instead I looked Rico up and down and left and right.

“You feeling better then, Mr. Spillane? Re-transfer good for the soul, right?”

Rico Spillane said not a word. Instead he jerked his head sideways which I took to be an invitation.

I stood and walked towards the door by the bar. I didn’t wait to see if my escort was following.

Two hours later I stepped out onto Sunset Boulevard. The black door of the Temple of the Magenta Dragon closed behind me with barely a click.

The basement was a bust, of course. Cleared out. Not even the big round table was down there. Rico and Parker and Bob had given me full access, opening any and every door. But they hadn’t spoken a word once.

Which was fine by me because I was busy listening to my Geiger counter and it had quite the story to tell. Whatever had been in the basement—Chip Rockwell, or what was left of him—had left a hot trail, one that ended in a loading bay out of the back of the club. I stood there with Rico and Parker and Bob and had kept my thoughts to myself.

When we got back up top, Fresco was gone. The nice Chinese lady let me out. I looked down the street and then I looked up it, and then I remembered my car was still up on a country lane several miles out of town.

And Eva McLuckie? Who knew.