The Detective & the Pipe Girl (20 page)

“Danny, have you said anything about this to anyone?”

“Not until now. And it feels . . . good.”

“Go back inside and don’t say anything to anyone unless you feel your life is in danger. If you truly think you are in trouble call the cops. If you don’t, if you don’t, Danny, listen to me, keep your mouth shut.”

He looked at me, confused, even desperate. I had no sympathy for him. I had disgust for him.

“For how long? How long until something’s going to happen?”

“The weekend. This will be over before the weekend is.”

He nodded and said, “Okay.”

I walked back around his house, across the lawn, down the little hill, and got into the Cobalt. I cranked her up and drove back to my office.

34

S
o I thought: First, does it track? And then: Is it real—even if it does track? Hmm. Let’s see. Maybe Neese flew off the handle. Maybe after Danny Baker talked to him he thought: At this point it doesn’t matter if Suzanne talked, I’m not going to risk it. Yeah—maybe he was like Sam Spade at the end of
The Maltese Falcon
. Thinking: I don’t know if what you’re telling me is true or not, but I’m not going to be a sucker either way. So I have to assume the worst.

Or maybe Danny’s performance triggered another kind of rage within Neese. And he was mad, whether or not she’d squealed, that Suzanne had fallen for a client. So the whole thing, in his eyes, was a big mess, a big mess that he needed to get rid of.

I didn’t think Danny Baker had killed her. I didn’t feel it. Truth is, I was closer than ever to putting the killing on Neese, for sure. Problem was, I still needed the proverbial smoking gun or there would always be at least a sliver of speculation.

And that’s when I thought about it:
Yes
,
the gun.

The gun.

The gun from my hike that day. The gun that Crowbar Guy and White Streak had held in my face. In that moment they had had a thought, a thought that maybe prevented them from killing me. Crowbar Guy had given White Streak a look. A look that I think said: Don’t do it. Not now. And, possibly, yes, possibly, not with
that
gun.

Here’s the thing. A lot of criminals, hit men, thugs aren’t that smart. They’re not exactly t-crossers, i-dotters. You know what I’m saying? So sitting there back at my office, back at my desk, looking out the slider into darkness, it occurred to me that maybe those two guys weren’t sent to scare me, they were in fact sent to kill me. But they couldn’t kill me because the gun they had was the same gun they, or Neese, had used to kill Suzanne.

And
that’s
why they didn’t pull the trigger that day. Shit, it was silenced by the towel and ready to go. They weren’t screwing around. But just before trigger time they backed off.

See—it’s very possible that Neese had them kill Suzanne, or he did it himself, then told them to get rid of the gun. But because they were lazy, or stupid, or both, they didn’t do it. And then they got their next assignment, to kill me. But when it came time to do it they realized: We can’t use this gun. The bullet will match the bullet that killed Suzanne. And we don’t know what this guy Darvelle has told the cops. Once the bullets match, they’ll go straight to Neese and we’ll all go to prison.

So instead of whacking me, he just whacks me on the head, and I don’t die.

I called Marlon the Marlin.

“Hey, it’s John Darvelle.”

“I know who it is, pal. I’ve got caller ID. Just because I’m a seafaring gentleman doesn’t mean I’m totally fucking out of it.”

“Who is that?” I heard his wife scream.

“It’s John Darvelle. Probably wants another favor.”

Then to me, “You do want another favor, right, John?”

“Yeah, Marlon, I do.”

“Hey, what did you ever find out about that thing we were talking about?”

These guys refer to everything as “things.”

“I’ll tell you later. But, for now, I need some help.”

I described the two guys who had kicked the shit out of me and held me at gunpoint. And then I told Marlon I needed to know where the one with the white streak in his hair, the one who held the gun, hung out. Where I could find him.

“I need some time, kid. Could be an hour, could be a day. I’ll get back to you.”

“Thanks, Marlon. I’ll be with my phone.”

Turns out it was an
hour. Because fifty-seven minutes later, he called me back.

“John, here’s what I got.”

“Great, what?”

“You ever heard of a place called Jumbo’s Clown Room?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, sure.”

“I understand the gentleman with the white streak goes there quite a bit, lives in the neighborhood. His name by the way is Donny Greer.”

“Marlon, you’re the best. Thank you.”

“So what is it, Jumbo’s Clown Room? Sounds kind of twisted.”

“It’s a gentlemen’s club of sorts.”

“Oh yeah? Would I like it? Hot women?”

“I’m not exactly sure I’d describe it that way. Women, yes. Hot? Well, I guess that depends on your taste. I’ll take you there sometime. But right now, I’ve got to go. Thank you again.”

“You bet, kid. Just promise to tell me the whole story when you have it.”

These guys always want the story. I can’t blame them.

“Aye aye, Captain.”

I hung up.

I drove to Hollywood. To
Jumbo’s Clown Room. Like I told Marlon, it’s a gentlemen’s club, a strip bar. Sort of. It’s really just a dive bar deep in Hollywood where the owners decided, hey, let’s bring a topless dancer out every now and then.

This isn’t a high-level, high-dollar, Vegas-type operation. We’re not talking a bunch of beautiful, manicured porn star–style women parading in and out, dancing around, molesting a golden pole in the middle of a big, lit-up stage. No. At Jumbo’s there’s a small stage, or really a flat, wide, wooden box raised about a foot, that sits opposite the little bar. And every so often, to the thrilling sounds of Foghat, Kiss, or Molly Hatchet a dancer comes out, rips her top off, and “dances.” Sometimes the dancers are attractive in a rough-around-the-edges kind of way. And sometimes, well, they aren’t.

Scars, botched tattoos, active pregnancies, and rashes absolutely do not get you banned from performing. On some nights, you’d think they were a requirement.

But don’t get me wrong, it’s a great place.

A random, wild, anything-goes spot. A fun, unexpected joint to sit and have a cocktail or seven in should you ever find yourself deep in Hollywood. I go there not infrequently. I like to take friends from out of town there especially. Every one of them, every last one of them, says to me afterward: We’re going back there, right? I was in there once, by myself, having a beer, enjoying a considerably overweight dancer whose arm was in a sling, and the guy next to me was shirtless, wearing a purple wig and karate pants and licking his glass rather than drinking out of it. And no one gave him, or her for that matter, so much as a bemused glance. Including me.

That’s a true story.

I parked on Hollywood Boulevard. I put a black trucker hat on and pulled it low. I walked in. It was late. And crowded. And a bartender I knew, Terry Forte, was working. Good. I tucked myself in at a table toward the back wall, away from the bar and the “stage.” Terry didn’t see me. Nobody did. I had a view of the whole place. I sat there, had a Bud and a shot, looked around for White Streak. No sign.

I watched a couple dancers. Marveled at a woman gyrating around to Deep Purple. Attractive but with a long scar on her leg. Looked like a knife or ax wound.

And then, Mr. White Streak walked in.

Marlon the Marlin. The guy is money in the bank.

White Streak snagged a seat at the end of the bar near the entrance. Almost as far away from me as possible.

I flagged my waitress.

“Yeah, sweetie?”

“Hey, babe. I’m friends with Terry, the bartender. I need to talk to him back by the bathrooms. Could you send him my way?”

I slipped her a twenty. “My name is John Darvelle.”

She smiled and headed toward the bar. I slipped off my stool and walked over to the bathrooms in the back corner.

Forty-five seconds later Terry Forte came marching down toward me, big smile on his face. Terry is six-three, bald, and about forty pounds overweight. He has an unusual and intimidating physical presence. But being large and reasonably menacing and working the bar at a legendary L.A. establishment isn’t what he’s mainly known for. What he’s mainly known for is his beard. A while back, Terry grew a long, ZZ Top–style beard. It came down past his chest, past his stomach, right to his belt. And then, and
then
he shaved all of it off except for one hair. So he has one three-foot-long hair that comes out of his chin. It blows in the breeze caused by his movement, it dances in the air in front of him when he walks, looking almost like a magic trick. Looking almost like it’s
alive
. Terry protects it with his life so it doesn’t accidentally get snagged on something and break off. And if you try to investigate it too closely or touch it he will fend you off with force. I’ve seen him level a guy with a fist to the center of the chest simply for moving in for too close of a look.

I would definitely not want to be around if someone accidentally politely touched it and ended up with it in his hand looking hopelessly at a furious, homicidal Terry Forte.

“Hey, Terry.”

“Darvelle, how’re you doing, buddy?”

“Great, we’ll catch up another time.”

He nodded and his face twisted into an expression of business.

“There’s a guy at the end of your bar. He has a white streak in his hair, like a birthmark.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen him a bunch. He comes in.”

“Yeah, listen. I need him to be hammered tonight. Blotto.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem.”

I gave Terry a hundred-dollar bill and said, “I’ll explain later. Gotta go.”

“You got it, John.”

I walked back into the main room. White Streak was still at the bar. Despite there being a dancer on stage, he was facing forward, staring straight into the mirror behind the bar, like people do. Drinking and staring. It’s amazing how popular that is.

It was pretty crowded. I thought I could get out of there reasonably easily without him seeing me. I yanked the hat down even lower, and hugged the backside of the crowd around the bar. White Streak kept his position. It looked good for me.

And then it didn’t.

It looked like White Streak was paying his bill, was going to get out of there. Yeah, he threw down some money, shifted in his seat, started to get up. If he turned around now, right now, he’d make me. I was stuck right behind him basically. With the stage blocking me on the left, and people in front and back of me.

Fuck. Don’t turn around, White Streak. Don’t turn around.

Terry appeared, magically, right in front of him, holding a shot of whiskey and wearing a big smile. White Streak took it, threw it back.

Terry stuck out his hand for White Streak to shake. White Streak took the bait. Big handshake for Terry.

He sat back down.

And I got out of there.

35

I
sat in the Cobalt on Hollywood Boulevard across from, and with an eye on, the Clown Room. I looked around, taking in the happenings of east Hollywood Boulevard. It’s not something most people ever do. Just sit in a bleak, but interesting and real, section of a town and just
watch
.

I do it a lot.

There was a little strip mall across from Jumbo’s that had some junk stores and a Thai massage place called Nuch. Pronounced “nuke.” I’ve been. It’s good. And aboveboard, legit. No happy endings. So it’s not perfect. But it’s good.

And the people. Rough-looking characters just appearing from the side streets walking around. Not exactly homeless, but close, I think. Where did they come from? Where were they before they appeared out of nowhere slowly walking down the street? And where were they going?

I looked at the cars lining the street with mine. A real mix. Just like the crowd at Jumbo’s. A jalopy. Then a Porsche. Then a Hummer.

A Hummer. Did those still even exist? Who would buy one of those? Who would want one of those? I actually knew a P.I. once who had one. One of those guys with a fancy car to complete the P.I. image. We talked about these guys. It makes absolutely no sense.

And then, two and a half hours later, White Streak stumbled out.

Stumbled. Literally stumbled.

He looked like a drunk guy in a movie where you say: No way is that guy
that
drunk. People can’t get
that
drunk.

But White Streak was that drunk.

It was like he’d been drugged. Or hit in the head with a crowbar like he and his buddy had done to me. He was zigzagging down the sidewalk.

Good job, Terry. Well done. You one-hair-beard-having badass.

White Streak got in his car. This could be ugly. This could really not work out. This was a risk. Not just because my plan could end quickly and in a very messy fashion. But because someone else could get hurt. Or killed. Yeah, I know, obvious.

He cranked up his Tahoe and pulled out onto Hollywood Boulevard. People drive drunk in L.A. a lot. But not usually
this
drunk. White Streak was weaving something fierce. It was as if his truck was the drunk one now. I tailed him, right on him; he wouldn’t notice, no way.

He didn’t have far to go. About a mile west of the Clown Room. A building three blocks in from the Formosa Café to the south, three blocks in from a nicer stretch of Hollywood Boulevard. We’re not talking an Arthur Vonz– or Richard Neese–level neighborhood, but a nice enough little area filled with decent, sometimes charming apartment buildings and houses. White Streak lived in a Spanish-style eight-plex with vines crawling up the white exterior. He somehow got the Tahoe into a garage that was attached to the building.

He stomped up a set of stairs in the front of the building and barreled into his apartment. This guy was hammered, shit-faced, trounced. He vanished into the apartment and slammed—slammed—the door shut.

I waited twenty minutes and then walked up to his door. I listened, carefully. No movement, nothing. I knocked very lightly. Again, nothing. He was passed out, had to be. The door was unlocked. I turned the knob and slowly, quietly, carefully walked in. He’d left a light on in the living room, which poured in a bit to the bedroom and the kitchen, but only a bit. I could just barely see the things that make a bedroom and the things that make a kitchen sitting beneath the darkness.

I pulled my gun, then moved quickly into the darkened kitchen. Then, from there, I could look more carefully at the expanse of the apartment. One bedroom. Living room. Kitchen with an alcove for a dining table. My eyes adjusting, I could now make out the shape of his legs on his bed. The rest of him was cut off by the bedroom door, by the angle from where I looked. He looked to be totally dressed. His legs weren’t moving. They were totally, completely still. Dead. Yes, this man was properly tanked. I focused back on the main room. The apartment was quite nice. Well kept up, some nice, if generic, artwork on the wall. Amazing. This is how a hit man lives. He spends his days with another sub-mental hitting people in the side of the head and neck with a crowbar and then spends his evenings making sure that his lovely painting of a blue jay is sitting at just the right height above his charming sofa.

I checked the kitchen first. The drawers, under the sink, the cabinets. Nothing. I moved into the main room. Doubtful it would be here. I looked through all the drawers. In the sofa. Under the sofa. On top of some tall shelves. Nada. I checked the bathroom. Under the sink, the cabinets, tucked behind the toilet like in
The Godfather
. You’d be surprised. People copy that stuff.

But still, nothing.

Then I went in the bedroom. I was stepping very, very lightly. To my adjusted eyes, the bedroom had a dark gray glow. I could see White Streak’s total form on the bed now. He was on his back lightly snoring and, other than his chest moving, he was still. Paralyzed. Cemented onto his bed. I looked in his closets. Drawers. Under his bed. This man was a bit of a minimalist, thankfully, but even without a lot of clutter I still couldn’t find a hidden gun.

Shit, nothing.

The last place in the bedroom I looked was the bedside table, right next to White Streak’s head. I slowly pulled the drawer open.

And: Nothing.

It was empty save for a nice-looking gold watch. I shut the drawer and looked over at the drunken man on the bed.

And then: He popped up, sat almost straight up, and looked directly at me.

I pointed my gun right at his face, right between his eyes.

We were both frozen. Him: glazed-looking, staring at the gun. Me: heart pounding, looking at a man with the barrel of a gun three inches away from his face.

I did not know where this was going to go.

And then: He went right back down, just like he had popped up. The man was still asleep. He’d never woken up. He’d just jerked up and opened his eyes.

Within seconds, White Streak began snoring again. My heart, currently in my throat, began to make its way back to where it belonged. And I moved out of the bedroom.

Now, back in the dark kitchen, I stood there.

And then as if it were the way I’d planned it all along, I went over and opened the oven. Inside the oven were two pots, one big, one small. White Streak stored them there when the oven was off. I myself had used this system. I grabbed the big pot, opened it, and saw a gun sitting right there. The deadly object fitting in the pot just right. Bingo.

It’s not that easy to get rid of a gun. It’s not. But beyond that, the human condition often gets in the way. People get an assignment and they sit on it. That’s what White Streak had done. He’d gotten an assignment and he’d sat on it.

I put on a leather glove, got a Ziploc bag out of my pocket. I housed the gun, shut the bag, replaced the pot, shut the oven, and walked out the front door.