The Detective & the Pipe Girl (4 page)

Not a judgment. Look, I’ve pulled that move. More than once.

I looked on the back of the headshot, where Clay’s résumé was stapled. He’d done a few things. Couple sitcoms, some commercials, an indie flick or two.

All right, Clay, time to introduce myself.

I walked in King’s Road Café, pretending not to see him, but getting a look at him. Already seated, and now noticing up-close his wardrobe. Big old cargo shorts and a massive T-shirt. He was kind of gazing off into space. Contemplating his audition. Or maybe thinking about what porn site he was going to go to later. Or maybe picturing himself in a perfectly fitted tuxedo, with a sharp part in his curly hair, entering and then winning a tap-dancing contest. I really didn’t know.

I grabbed a cup of coffee and walked over to his table.

“Clay?”

He looked up at me, smiled, sort of eager.

“Yeah.”

“Hey, man. I’m Tim.”

He smiled. He was polite. Nice. He really, really didn’t want me to know that he had no clue who I was.

I continued, “I work at Raleigh. I’m one of the casting directors. Came in at the end of the
Friendship
call.”

He stood up and said, “Tim! Nice to see you, man.”

“Yeah, you too. Nice going in that Bud Light spot.”

“Dude, that dog could actually ride that bike. There was no CG.”

“Ha!” I screamed. “So how’s things? What else is going on?”

He started to give me the life-as-an-actor-in-Hollywood spiel. How you never know. How you just keep going day to day. How Johnny Depp was living in a tiny apartment one day and driving a Porsche the next. My eyes began to glaze over. Actually, that’s not true. It was much worse than that. I almost killed myself. I swear I did. I almost just ran out onto Beverly and threw myself in front of a bus. And let it rumble over me and tear me to shreds.

I said, “Well, I hope you get the
Friendship
gig. Good to see you, man.”

I started to bolt and then, casually: “Say, do you know Suzanne Neal?”

“Yeah. God. She’s . . . Man, she’s just so hot.”

I laughed. It was so honest. It’s like he couldn’t
not
say it.

“I mean it’s just not fair,” he continued. “It hurts me. It hurts me to think about her.”

Probably true, but moving into routine-ville now.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “No doubt. I needed to talk to her after her audition today, but missed her.”

“I didn’t see her today. I heard she was in though.”

“What’s she up to these days? She working?”

“You’d know more than me probly.”

That’s how he said it. “Probly.”

And I didn’t say anything. Sometimes that’s the best way to get someone to keep talking.

It worked. He went on, “But I really don’t know. A bunch of us used to all be in the same acting class. Suzanne would show up every now and then. Man, she skipped a lot of classes. But we’d all hang out with her some. You know, go have beers after class or whatever.”

“Where, the Prince?”

“Ha. Yeah, once actually. She likes that place.”

See, Clay, see, I really
do
know her.

“But we’d all see each other at auditions too. People from that class. But that was a while ago, man.”

And then, like he was having a fond memory, “
Suzanne
 . . . She was always cool. Nice, I mean. Even though she was, you know, so totally hot. We’d be at a bar and like ten guys would ask her out. Celebs and stuff too. So who knows what she’s doing. I did hear she bought some sweet condo in Santa Monica like right on the ocean.”

“Good for her,” I said. “Maybe she got a big part or something.”

“Yeah, maybe. I don’t really hear from her much. I wish I did, but I don’t.”

“Well, I need to talk to her. Possible print shoot for her. You don’t have her number, do you? I’ve got one but it doesn’t seem to work.”

“I don’t have her number, man. And she never got into Facebook. I’ve checked. She doesn’t need it, you know what I’m saying?”

I nodded.

And then he said, “Sorry, dude, I definitely recognize you, but what did you say your name was again?”

I had no clue. I stood there looking at him. A long time seemed to go by. I was looking right at him and he was looking right at me. It was a universe of time, and it was the universe that did me a favor by dropping my fake name back into my memory bank.

“Tim,” I said.

“Right. Cool.”

We shook hands.

And I split.

And I knew what I had to do.

And it scared me.

5

W
hat scared me? I had to call my real estate connection Linda Robbie. Linda Robbie is a fifty-one-year-old master of Westside real estate. She’s buxom, brunette, and sports a perma California tan. She’s definitely not afraid of a lift, a tuck, or a pull. And that’s just her sexual exploits. Sorry. Sorry about that. But it’s true. In that she’s known for some bedroom acrobatics. She’s also very open about her self-improvement, which, of course, disarms the situation completely and makes her beautifying downright charming. And let me say this: She gets it done right. She doesn’t look like some freakish Frankenstein-ian creation. She looks pretty damn good. But, if I’m being honest, and I am, she looks a little
unreal
.

She’s also not afraid to get married. Four husbands in her past. But currently single. I’ve helped her out quite a few times over the years. And she’s helped me out quite a few times over the years too. You’d be surprised how often she and I need each other’s services. I think it’s fair to say we use each other. It’s a full-on you-scratch-my-back-I’ll-scratch-yours deal. Although, unlike Ken Booth, Linda seems highly interested in a more personal relationship.

“Linda, it’s John Darvelle.”

“Please tell me this isn’t a business call and you want to take me to a fancy hotel in Palm Springs and have your way with me.”

Linda is direct.

“Where’s the subtlety, Linda? Where’s the innuendo, the coyness, the old-fashioned suggestion?”

“Oh shut up, John.”

“Hey, I’m just asking a question.”

With some sexual topspin she said, “I’ll give you something to question.”

Sometimes Linda tries to find double entendres in regular sentences. Actually, she does that pretty much all the time. Sometimes she hits: rarely. Sometimes she misses: often. I think that was a miss. In that I had no idea what she meant.

I said, “Babe, I got a real question.”

“All right, hurry. I’m about to sew up a deal on a three-point-fiver in the Canyon.”

Three-point-five-million-dollar house. Santa Monica Canyon. That’s what she meant.

“You are good at your job, Linda.”

“I know. So are you.”

“Listen. Have any condos been sold to a Suzanne Neal in the last three months? In Santa Monica. I’m thinking Ocean Avenue, but I guess check the PCH too.”

“There aren’t many condos on the PCH, John. Not that are technically Santa Monica anyway.”

“Okay, let’s go Ocean Avenue.”

“I need twenty minutes.”

“All right. Please also check for Arthur Vonz. If Arthur Vonz bought anything.”

Linda’s voice changed. It got serious, intense, you could hear the focus. “Is Arthur Vonz in the market? Was he looking recently? I didn’t hear that.”

Linda, irritated that she hadn’t gotten the listing—if there had indeed been one. I mean, look, she’s good at her job. She’s a millionaire many times over, by the way. A real estate machine.

“I don’t know if he was in the market. This is something I’m looking into. But please also check if he’s bought a condo. Same location.”

Again with a sexual twist: “What do I get in return?”

She always says this. Even though that’s not how we operate. We just do whatever the other person needs. Within reason.

I moved on. “Call me when you get something.”

“I’ll give you something to call.”

Having absolutely no idea what she meant, I hung up.

She called me back twenty minutes later. She had said twenty minutes. She called, I think, exactly twenty minutes later. Love that. I didn’t love her news though. No one by the name of Suzanne Neal had bought anything in Santa Monica in the last year. And then:

“Nothing by Arthur Vonz either, doll.”

“Do you know if he—”

“Already owns one? He does not. I checked.”

“How many condo sales on Ocean Avenue have there been in the last six months?”

“Somewhere between twenty and thirty, I’d say,” she said without missing a beat.

A lot. And very hard to tell, even with the names attached to the sale, who exactly they were for. Especially if it was a purchase that the person doing the purchasing didn’t want others to know about.

Hmm, I thought. What to do? Linda answered that for me.

“Look,” she said. “There’s a relatively new building on Ocean. They just sold it out this past month. A few of the recent purchases were there. Four or five. 78630 Ocean. Maybe that’s not a bad place to start.”

“Yeah. You’re right. That’s not a bad place to start.”

6

I
drove over to the condo. Nice. White. Tall. New. Not really my style. It was fancy and probably had some Lakers living in it or something. But for some reason I pictured a really rich old lady with a face-lift sitting high up in one of the condos, looking out at the sea, sad-eyed, by herself, and then saying out loud, “Yeah, yeah, I remember . . .” to no one in particular and then walking back into her bedroom and going to sleep.

I have no idea why.

I parked at a metered spot across the street from the tall, bright white condo. It was right on Ocean Avenue, thus the address. But Ocean Avenue isn’t quite accurate. Ocean Avenue is actually a road that runs parallel to the Pacific Coast Highway, but up a big cliff. And then, on “Ocean Avenue,” up the big cliff, all the condos and buildings are on the east side of street. On the west side of the street is a long park that runs essentially the whole of Ocean Avenue.

I thought, you know, even though these condos are really expensive and desired, you’re not
really
on the beach. The beach was across the street, down the freaking cliff,
and
across the Pacific Coast Highway. So, yes, on most floors you had the view, and you had the nice park right across the street where you could watch lovely ladies jogging and stretching and stretching, but you didn’t really live
on
the beach. You lived up a cliff and across a street from the beach, with a
view
of the beach. I mean it’s okay if you’re a “view person,” which I’m definitely not, but it’s almost a tease. You know what I’m saying? To get to the actual beach, you’re going to have to walk basically just as far as someone who lived two, three blocks inland on a regular old street with a regular old name like Second Street. Or Third Street. Or the appropriately named Fourth Street.

Jesus, man, why do I give a shit where someone else lives? Why am I wasting mental energy on this?

Let me just say one more thing before I move off this point. People who are obsessed with “views” or “the view” from a particular place are just generally irritating. You ever have someone show you their pictures from a trip and there are a bunch of shots of “the view” from their deck or whatever? You know what I say, eyes half lidded, after the third shot of the lake? I say: Listen, dude. Or lady. Please go grab a shovel, come back, and hit me in the face with it as hard as you can. Please. Please do this.

Let’s get back to the story.

I exited the Cobalt and walked across Ocean Avenue and went in the main door of the new building. There was a security guard sitting there, reading a paperback novel. He had a glazed look on his face and his mouth hung slightly open.

I thought: I want this guy’s job.

He lowered the book and offered me a slightly awake expression.

“Can I help you?”

“Hey, has Suzanne come back?”

“Suzanne who?

“You know who I’m talking about. She’s like a ten.
Suzanne
.”

He gave me a flat look.

“Suzanne Neal. That’s her name.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

And now he gave me a long, glazed-over, mouth-breather stare. Sometimes dumb people can almost throw you off your game. They can betray a certain calm, or behave sort of unnaturally, or just stare at you blankly and interminably. You can mistake it for wile and gamesmanship. I had a feeling, though, this guy just simply didn’t have much going on upstairs.

He said, “Let me look her up.”

“Cool,” I said. “Thanks.”

He started to look her up on the building’s computer directory. “Suzanne who again?”

“Neal.”

“Don’t see her,” he breathed.

“Maybe it’s under S. Neal.”

I thought to myself: Sneal. That would be a hip last name.

“Yeah, good idea, I’ll check that.”

I thought, yes, it was a brilliant idea.

“Don’t see that either, guy.”

He shot me a bizarre, crooked smile. “You sure she lives here?”

I looked right at him. “Positive.”

“Well, I don’t see her.”

“Maybe it’s under someone else’s name. I think her parents helped her with the down payment.”

“Wouldn’t that be the same name, though?”

Chalk one up for the mouth breather.

“Stepdad,” I shot back, now in a completely unnecessary mini-war. Time to let this one go. “I’ve got to run. I’ll just call her.”

“You want me to leave a message for her in case I figure out she lives here?”

I thought: Does what he just said even make sense? Actually, I think it does . . .

He continued, “What’s your name?”

I repeated, “I’ll just call her.”

I left, went outside, crossed Ocean, and stood next to my car. Now, right next to my car, in the park, a yoga class had started. It was a tan, attractive woman teaching a group of mostly tan, attractive women to twist into lots of lovely shapes. I watched for a moment. My bottom lip curled involuntarily and I stared with what I knew instinctively was a transfixed, trancelike expression.

You ever sneak a little steak to a dog under the table at a dinner party? And then, hours later, I mean
hours
later, the dog catches your eye from across the room and he gives you that look of hope, desperation, and longing all rolled into one? That look that says: Whatever you need me to do, my man, I’ll do it.

That’s how I looked right then.

I got in the Cobalt. I drove a little ways south on Ocean toward Venice, flipped a U-ey, and parked. I had a clear view of the building I’d just exited ahead of me. I had a second Ocean Avenue condo right next to me. And a third right behind me, across a little side street, visible in the rearview. Maybe, I thought, she lives in one of the three. It’s all I had for now. And, yes, if you must know, I could also see right across Ocean to my left, the yoga class, the ladies bending this way and that.

So that was nice.

Looking at the building I’d been in and sort of the yoga class, I called my friend Gary Delmore. Gary’s a TV director who’s been out here a long time. Wanted to be, basically, Arthur Vonz when he first arrived. And he got off to a great start. Directed a small indie movie that got a lot of attention. The lead actress got nominated for an Academy Award. Gary was hot. He quickly signed on to a big, big movie to direct and almost just as quickly it failed spectacularly. Not entirely his fault. It happens. But he never really got another chance for big-screen success. He had the failure connected to him like an appendage. But Hollywood let him into the TV world—Hollywood will do this—and he did well. Worked well with the studios. Made some friends. Directed some episodes of big shows that won some Emmys. Now, years later, he works in TV all the time. Directing sitcoms, dramas, dramedies, comedramas, sci-fi, sci-com, sci-dram, everything. If it’s got a freaking script, Gary gets a call. He makes a shitload of money, lives in a big house, has dyed white teeth, a perma tan, and big eighties hair. He dates a different actress each week. And, of course, drives a mid-life crisis–style sports car.

But he knows who he is. Embraces his cheese. Hugs his shallowness. Makes out with his vapidity. And that’s why he’s great. Gary’s one of my connections. But he’s also become a friend. He loves Ping-Pong. He comes over to my office from time to time and we drink a few beers and hit around. And, yes, he sets me up with an actress or two occasionally. Guilty. Guilty as charged.

“Gary, John.”

“The Darv. How’s life in the exciting world of P.I.-dom?”

“Not too bad. Have a quick question for you.”

“Yeah.”

“You ever come across—sorry, bad choice of words for you—you ever
meet
a beautiful actress named Suzanne Neal in your many experiences as a director or as a dater of young-will-do-anything-to-make-it actresses?”

“It’s hard to remember all their names,” he said in a faraway tone. He wasn’t kidding. He really meant that. “Hmm. I really don’t think so. Suzanne Neal . . . Hey, but let me tell you this story. So this past Saturday I’m at a party in Marina del Rey . . .”

“I gotta go,” I said, and hung up.

Something unusual, interesting, something, something caught my eye. And that’s what we do in the P.I. biz. We look for stuff that catches our eye. Our private eye. A guy in a brand-new Maserati pulled into a spot five spots ahead of me, same side of the street. He got out of the car and walked over to the parking meter. Fumbling around. He looked like he didn’t know what he was doing. He looked like he’d never paid a parking meter before. Staring oddly at the meter, looking at his change like it was currency from another planet. But that’s not really what caught my eye. This guy, this rich guy, was trying really hard
not
to be seen. Trucker hat pulled low, glasses, head pointed down, moving around quickly and frantically.

And nervously.

Why did this interest me? Well, it was either be interested or sit and stake out three buildings at once that Suzanne may or may not live in. See what I’m saying?

I got out of my car and walked toward the guy. His glasses were just huge. Not Vonz-style, not old-school movie producer, more modern, more ironic. Big ski glasses. Hiding a face that was handsome. I could tell. I got nearer, then right next to him. I walked straight on by. Not whistling this time. I stopped, casually looked back. He figured out the parking meter, paid it, then turned and walked toward the middle condo. Not the one I’d been in, the one next to it, the one right next to my car. Also nice, pretty new. Also quite a snazzy address if you didn’t have the problems I did.

Walking down the hill, across the PCH, all that bullshit.

He went in the building. I followed, ten, maybe twelve seconds behind him. I walked up to the entrance, opened the door, went in, caught him getting in an elevator. He hadn’t stopped at the doorman character—this one an old man, maybe sixty. No way. He wouldn’t be at the elevator if he had. Been here before, I thought. I turned around and walked back outside.

An hour and a half later the guy walked out. I was now on a bench in the park across the street. The yoga class had ended about a half hour ago. It had made the waiting time fly.

The guy walked over to his car. Not as nervous, as fidgety, more of a glide to his step. He’d gotten a parking ticket, I’d seen it go down, hadn’t put enough dough in the meter. The guy didn’t react, didn’t seem to give a shit. Grinning, he snatched the ticket off his car, got in, buckled up. In a moment of recklessness, and vanity, he removed his shades and his hat and looked at himself in the rearview. And then he turned quickly toward me, not looking for me, but looking to see if anyone was watching him. I was. I looked right at him.

And I made him.

Jimmy Yates, one of the biggest movie stars in the world. I smiled and waved at him. He covered himself up, quickly all hat and shades again. He cranked up the Maserati and roared out of there.

All right, folks, let’s look at some possibilities. One, Jimmy Yates has nothing to do with my story. Very possible. He’s just a famous guy sneaking into a building incognito. Maybe for some extramarital activity. Jimmy’s married. To a famous actress. He’s one of those guys. He’s famous and so is his wife and they’re just
so
happy. And you can tell they’re
so
happy by the numerous pictures snapped by gossip photographers which capture them walking through airports with their children who are wearing classic rock T-shirts and mini Chuck Taylors.

I can be cynical.

Or maybe it’s not about having a girlfriend on the side. Maybe he’s got a meeting he doesn’t want anyone to know about. Could be—happens all the time. He’s sneaking in to read a script. Meet with a director. Set up a project. Why would he sneak around to do that? Because these guys take themselves really fucking seriously. That’s why.

But that glide to his step. That no-longer-nervous thing. That I-just-got-laid vibe. Looked to me like, with these two aforementioned options, possibility A was more likely.

Or.

Or maybe it
is
about getting a little something on the side in a way that
does
fit into my story. Let’s get crazy here and connect some dots. Arthur Vonz is an A-lister. Jimmy Yates is an A-lister. These guys know the same people. And the big shots have a tendency to fall in love with the same women. What’s that girl’s name, Pattie Boyd? Who dated, like, every rock star in the seventies? Broke up a couple marriages and, let’s not kid ourselves, inspired some good shit while doing it. All right, getting off track. But maybe Vonz bullshitted me and the truth is he’s just suspicious that Suzanne’s hanging out with somebody else? Somebody who’s also a player with a ton of influence
and
who’s handsome and not pushing seventy.

This is what you do in the P.I. business. You guess. You guess a lot.

I looked at my picture of Suzanne. This girl might possibly have two Huge Shots tied in knots over her. I don’t know, man. Like I said. Attractive, sure. But I wasn’t seeing anything I hadn’t seen in a thousand headshots, in a thousand faces wandering the Grove. You know, the hottest babe in high school who came to L.A. to get famous. That’s what Suzanne looked like.

So what.

I walked across the street, put some more change in the meter, and stood next to the Cobalt. Now what? This is another thing you do a lot as an investigator. You say: Now what?

I didn’t want to walk into building two, the Jimmy Yates building, and pull my bullshit-the-doorman routine. But I wanted to see if Suzanne lived there. I thought, maybe I’ll pull the info out of a neighbor, switch it up a bit. I got in the Cobalt and sat there.

Even though I’d just put more money in the meter, I moved the car again. Restless. Parked again. Still had a line on all three buildings. But now there was no yoga class and no movie stars awkwardly parking and giving me hope. There was a dead, empty feeling in the air. Like maybe I had made literally zero progress.

I thought: Let’s let this empty feeling grow. I put on a playlist I’d made of some of my favorite Lou Reed songs. I found “Lisa Says,” the Lou Reed solo version, not the Velvet Underground version. I listened to it four times in a row, then let the playlist ride. Lou’s strange, interesting phrasing, his unusual, exotic melodies took me away from the case. The music took me on an hour-long emotional journey. I thought about my life, some epic college moments, one of the actresses Gary Delmore had introduced me to, my six-month marriage. It felt good. Introspective. A little melancholic. But good.