The Detective & the Pipe Girl (9 page)

15

I
was sitting in the restaurant when Clay ambled in. That’s what he did, he ambled. His jolly, friendly countenance was still there sort of, but it was hidden underneath concern and fear. He’d tamed his Afro a bit. And he was wearing a stylish, slightly snug, ill-fitting blazer. It’s like he had prepared for hipster court. I was sipping a cup of coffee.

“Hey, Clay.”

“Hey, John.” And then, “You know, I knew you weren’t a casting director.”

People always,
always
, tell me later they knew I was bullshitting them earlier. And those same people never,
never
question me in the moment.

“Right,” I said flatly. And then, “Thanks for talking to me.”

“Sure. I don’t know what I can tell you that I didn’t already tell you.”

A waitress came by and Clay ordered a coffee.

I said, “Well maybe you’re right. But let’s try. Tell me something about Suzanne that’s, I don’t know, unusual.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just tell me a story about her that you thought
defined
her in any way. Anything. Could be tiny.”

He thought for a long time—which I also appreciated. “Man, Suzanne was a mystery. ’Member I told you, she was always friendly, always nice. But it was different coming from her. Like she was so nice to all these guys who weren’t really in her league. It was cool. But the thing was, she had this
air
about her. Not like she thought was better than you. More like she was
actually
better than you, but she didn’t ever want you to think that she thought that. And she probably
didn’t
think that. It just
was
. She kind of seemed to sit on higher ground than us. Than everybody. But, still, she was like sweet to the core.”

“Did she ever indicate to you that there was some trouble in her life?”

“Man, I didn’t know her that well. Like I told you. Class, auditions, occasionally a bar.”

“Okay, but think about those times. Did she ever indicate that there was or might be any trouble in her life?”

“Man. No. I don’t think.”

“Where else did you see her? You ever run into her randomly?”

“Um. Once, I think. At the Newsroom, in Santa Monica. She was having lunch with a friend, this girl Jenny who was like a news producer or something. She was cute too. Not like Suzanne. But I mean still pretty cute. A totally attractive girl, just not Suzanne level.”

Clay was losing focus.

“So what happened when you ran into her?”

“Nothing much, man. I’m just trying to remember
anything
. But I do remember thinking it was kind of cool to be in the same place as her, but like a place she went in her
real
life. Not a place connected to, like, class or an audition or after-class drinks or whatever. You know what I mean? I felt cool that I was in the same place as Suzanne.”

Hey, not everything you get in my business is earth-shattering. It’s part of the job. Listening, oftentimes, to drivel.

The waitress came by and delivered Clay’s coffee.

I switched gears. “Did you ever see Suzanne with Jimmy Yates?”

He laughed for some reason. “No. Why? Did she know him? Was she dating him? That guy owns this town.”

“I don’t know if she knew him. That’s why I asked.”

“I know Jimmy’s married but it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if he was into her. One time when we were out after class Will Percy came up and tried to pick her up. She politely declined.”

Will Percy. Movie star. Not Jimmy Yates level, but pretty big. Comedy guy.

“Suzanne gave him some love, but in the end she politely blew him off. That made me feel good. Because it’s like even movie stars get turned down, you know?”

“Yeah.”

“It was kind of empowering. But believe it or not, I actually do okay with the ladies.”

Not sure why he was telling me this.

“I know, I know, I’m not exactly ripped. With my hair, my shadow looks like two circles on top of each other. Like a freakin’ snowman.”

Ah, I see. He was setting himself up for his routine. It was mildly entertaining.

“What about smaller stuff, Clay? Anything she ever said to you, in class, whatever. Anything you ever heard about her that was odd, mysterious, interesting?”

“Hmm. Man, I wish I could help. I wish I could be like the guy in the movie that helps, but I just don’t know what to tell you. I’m sorry.”

L.A.
I wish I could be the guy in the movie who helps
. That’s how people here think.

And then he said, “You know, one time she got dropped off at an audition and I was standing right there when she got out. And for some reason I looked into the passenger side window to see who she was with. It was like involuntary. You know, just general curiosity about anyone being
with
Suzanne. At first, I thought it was another girl because I got a quick glimpse of the driver’s hair as they pulled in and it was long and blond. But anyway, so I looked in and it wasn’t a girl. It was this wild-looking dude. Like a good-looking guy, cool-looking, but from like a seventies cop show or something. He had a beard and like I said long blond hair. He smiled, but it was a strange smile.”

“And then?”

“Nothing, really. We just walked to our audition. But . . . Well, Suzanne made a joke, so it’s probably nothing. But she did say: ‘You weren’t supposed to see that.’ And then she laughed. Like she was making a joke about cheating on her boyfriend or something. But she was clearly kidding.”

“She had a boyfriend?”

“No, that’s not what I meant. I’m just saying the way she said, ‘You weren’t supposed to see that’ was playful. Coy. You know? Like pretending the situation was something that it wasn’t. You know, being funny.
You weren’t supposed to see that
.”

“Right. But just to be clear: To your knowledge she didn’t have a boyfriend.”

“No. Not to my knowledge.”

“And did you ask Suzanne who the guy was?”

“Yeah, I think I did. But it was totally casual. She just said he was a friend. And I said, you know, cool.”

“And did you ever see the guy again?”

“No.”

Afterward, outside. “Thanks, Clay. Thanks for talking to me.”

He nodded. “Think the cops will call me?”

“No idea.”

“What should I do if they do?”

“Talk to them. Answer their questions. Tell them everything you know.”

He nodded again.

I said, “Hey, what kind of car did the dude with the long hair have? You remember?”

“Black Merc. Four doors. Fat. Loaded.”

This time I was the one who nodded.

We shook hands and went our separate ways.

16

I
got back in the Cobalt. Mountain Gray. Not fat. Skinny. Not loaded. Unloaded. Time to hit up another connection. His name is Jose Villareal. Real name: Joe Villareal. Of Mexican descent but one hundred percent American. Why did he go by Jose, then? Well, he told me why. He said girls liked Jose better so he changed it.

I told him: “Makes sense.”

Jose’s entire life centers around what will get him more girls. If he needs to change his name to get more girls, he does. If he thinks listening to some horrible band will get him more girls, he does. He’ll cover himself in cologne. Wear cheesy designer clothes. Listen to talk radio deejays who dispense surefire tricks to pick up the babes. And yet, he never has a girlfriend. You know people like that? You know people like that.

Jose’s a tipster for the gossip rags and Web sites. His life is knowing where stars live, where they are going, where they are hiding out in times of trouble, and where they were last night. He doesn’t take pictures really, he’s not a photographer. He does sometimes, but rarely. He’s just a tracker. That job exists. Can you believe that? Now. Before you pass judgment on Jose’s profession—actually, go ahead and pass judgment, but let me tell you this. I’m okay with what he does. You know why? Because he helps me.

“Jose, it’s John Darvelle.”

“John Darvelle,” he said, pretending to be glad to hear from me.

“Jose, how are the ladies treating you?”

“John, you have no idea.”

“What’s your latest tip for how to get them?”

“I’m thinking about adopting a baby. Girls love babies. Even ones that aren’t theirs.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little insensitive to the child? Wouldn’t that be filed under: Doing Something for the Wrong Reason?”

“Hey, if it works I do it.” And then, “I’m just fucking with you, John. Not even I would do that. Plus I’m too selfish for a kid, you know that. Jose only cares about Jose.”

Well, at least he can admit it. And, yes, he talks about himself in the third person from time to time.

He dropped the act. “What’s up, John?”

“What do you know about Jimmy Yates?”

“Nothing. Clean. Nice too. Well, nice when the cameras are on. I’ve heard he can be a prick, but I’m not sure about that.”

“Yeah? He’s married, right?”

“Come on, John. I know you’re a cool guy, I know you’re off the grid and have all these crazy concepts like worshipping Mar Fucking Vista. And I know you don’t watch TMZ and read
People
magazine like the rest of us. But you know Jimmy Yates is married. And you know who he’s married to. She’s a huge fucking star.”

I did know that. I was hoping my question might trigger Jose to tell me something about Jimmy having marital problems.

“Oh yes, right. Leslie Aaron.”

Beautiful woman. Big star. Not as big as Jimmy. He wouldn’t like that. But big nonetheless.

“Yes,” he said. “Leslie Aaron.”

“And they’re one of those annoying happy couples in Hollywood, right?”

“They stay out of the rags. But like I said, I’ve heard he was a prick. And I’ve heard he’s got a wandering eye too. But that’s super down low. Like suggest it and get sued down low. No one’s ever reported it.”

Jose’s tone shifted to one of professional interest. He inserted a little charm into his tone. “Why do you ask, amigo?”

“I can’t tell you. You’ll tell your contacts.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I would. It’s called My Fucking Job.”

“Tell me this. Where does Yates live?”

“Now that I can tell you. But which house? He’s got a few.”

“All of the ones in L.A.”

“Just two here. Beach compound in Malibu and the main house in the Sades.”

Jose meant: Pacific Palisades.

He gave me both addresses. And then he said, “You know, John. You helped me out once big-time. But when does that run out? When do you have to start paying me for info like everybody else does?”

“Tell you what. You want to go to a taping of
Sally and Ally
? Might be some babes there.”

Sitcom about college girls. Gary directs a ton of them.

“Oh god, yes,” Jose said in a slightly disturbing way.

“Done,” I said. “Your pants are still on, right?”

“Not for long.”

Jesus. I hung up.

I drove to Jimmy Yates’s
house. The Sades had become the most chic address in L.A. Spielberg lives there. Hanks lives there. Jimmy Yates and Leslie Aaron live there. The elite. Beverly Hills still had cachet, for sure, but it was a little too old-school Hollywood, too old fogey. Larry King. Shit, Arthur Vonz. And a lot of it was nouveau tacky. Lots of those plastic surgery freaks walking around with orange-colored skin and cream-colored Bentleys. Hancock Park still had class, still had a little bit of a chic thing happening. Old mansions, traditional suburban layouts, “nice” people whose children went East for school. People who understand that going to boarding school doesn’t mean you’re a problem child. But Hancock Park lacked that California pizzazz. It was inland, boring, East Coast-y.

But the Sades. The Pacific Palisades had it all. It was in the hills, in the mountains,
and
near the beach. So the houses crested canyons but also had ocean views. Yeah, I know, views. And rather than the somewhat claustrophobic quality of the Hollywood Hills, it felt open and free because all you had to do was look to the west and there was the Pacific.

Now don’t get me wrong. In my opinion, it was still too inaccessible. You’re still looking at an ordeal to get to, say, Venice. You’re still locked into a corner of L.A. Sure, you can drop down to the PCH easily, but what does that get you? It gets you an enormous hassle. And to go east, to Hollywood, you’ve really only got one option: Sunset. Which for massive sections is a huge drag. I mean, let’s be honest, I would not live there.

Look, the Sades is
just
west of Brentwood. Right? And fuck Brentwood. But the people who did choose the Sades? Who had the dough to choose the Sades? Who didn’t have to leave their house during the hours that most people operate? It was the promised land of L.A., for sure.

I found Jimmy Yates’s house. It was in the nicest section of the Pacific Palisades—The Huntington. That was what the neighborhood
within
the neighborhood was called. The Huntington. See, once you got to the Sades, you still weren’t quite
there
yet. There was still room to grow. You had to step up the down payment just a little bit more to get to The Huntington.

Jimmy Yates had clearly done just that. I was outside his colossal house now. More specifically, I was outside of, you guessed it, his big old gate. Another goddamn gate. Ten yards away from it, off to the side of the road, listening to Dinosaur Jr.’s
You’re Living All Over Me
.

Nothing happened for an hour. And then something did. Jimmy Yates himself appeared. Slid out a little iron door next to his big iron gate. He probably could see my car but he probably couldn’t see me. The Cobalt didn’t seem to cause any alarm in him. In his eyes I was a maid or a worker or a servant of some kind tending to one of the mansions on the street.

I was tucked under a tree, a shadow covering the Cobalt’s windshield. Yates was walking toward me and he wasn’t alone. He was walking a real-life bloodhound, the dog attached to Yates by one of those retractable leashes. The dog marched along inspecting everything, his DNA, his biology, rearing its head. The dog was looking for action. Just like me.

The dog had a nice shiny coat. Big old ears. A face with character.

Jimmy Yates wore weekend celebrity gear. Four-hundred-dollar faded jeans—faded is back—a long-sleeved T-shirt with a short-sleeved T-shirt over it, baseball hat, beard.

I thought, I wonder if that beard is detachable? And he just puts it on during the weekends to look casual and celebrity-like. He and the dog marched toward me. They were getting pretty close. They’d be able to see me soon, even with my trusty shadow hiding me.

Hmm. Not the best place to talk to him. All he has to do is tell me to fuck off, then go back behind his gate. It’s better to confront unsuspecting people in public. They just naturally don’t want to make a scene. But I was about to open my door and get out anyway, didn’t have much choice, when they flipped a U-ey and starting heading back home. Not a very long walk. The bloodhound’s face revealed some misery. He clearly wanted to keep going. You could just feel the pent-up energy. I thought, well, maybe Jimmy has something else to do. Or maybe he’s just an egotistical movie star who only has time for himself and doesn’t really even like the dog. Too bad if that’s the case. Because that dog is tremendous, that’s just simply not in question.

So. Had I missed my chance? Should I have just gotten out even though it wasn’t the greatest location to ask him a few questions? Didn’t think so. And, thankfully, I was right.

Five minutes later, Jimmy Yates came out of his driveway, driving this time, not the Maserati I’d seen him in before, but a black Chevy SUV with tinted windows. He drove right past me. I could see him behind the tint. I didn’t like him. I’m not sure why, but I just didn’t like him. I picked him up. He went to Sunset, then down to the PCH, then into Santa Monica, to Fred Segal. Fred Segal. Fancy hip clothing store that housed various boutiques and designers within it. Also had a café or two where you could get a twenty-dollar turkey sandwich or, you know, some wheatgrass. He went into one of the restaurants. I waited outside. Six minutes later he came out holding a big smoothie and sat at one of the outside tables. Three tables away from where I sat.

Stars drink a lot of smoothies.

That’s a fact.

I got up and joined him at his table. Sat right down. He looked initially startled, then suddenly calm.

“Can I help you?” he said.

He was an interesting-looking, okay handsome, guy. Skinny. These guys are always really skinny in person.

“I hope so,” I said.

“What, you want an autograph?” He slurped, showing me some smoothie in his mouth, displaying he could give two shits about me.

“No, I don’t want you to write your name on a piece of paper and give it to me. I have no idea why anyone would want that.”

He smirked and said, “Then, what’s up?”

“My name is John Darvelle. I’m a private detective. I want to know why you were in Suzanne Neal’s building three days ago.”

Casually, too casually, he said, “How do you know where I was three days ago? Are you following me?”

He didn’t say what a lot of people would have said.
Who is Suzanne Neal?
He deftly avoided telling a lie if he did in fact know her. Clever.

“What were you doing, Jimmy?”

He gave me a big I-have-no-idea-what-you’re-talking-about smirk and said, “I think you should leave me alone.”

“You went into her condo on Ocean Avenue three days ago. I saw you. You parked your Maserati in front of her building and went inside.”

He pulled out his phone.

“Let me know if you want me to call the police,” he said.

“Be my guest. I’m sure they’ve already talked to you.”

“Actually I don’t want the cops here. TMZ is probably watching all of this. What do you want?”

“Suzanne Neal is dead. But I bet you already know that.”

“I don’t know what you’re doing. And I don’t know why you’re pestering me. But I’m leaving.”

“Did you know Suzanne Neal, Jimmy?”

He looked at me, standing now, but didn’t say anything.

I said, “She’s dead. Why don’t you help me find out what happened?”

He turned to leave. But before he did he shot me one more look. For a second an emotion ran across his eyes—sorrow. He began walking away.

“Just answer this, Jimmy. Did you know Suzanne Neal?”

He turned back to me. “Quit following me. Whatever you think happened didn’t happen. I didn’t have anything to do with anyone dying.”

He was pretty smooth, not really saying anything. But then he went off script for a beat, usually not smart for an actor, and said, “I swear.”

“You swear? What are we, in fifth grade?”

But I was glad he said it, because it was emotional. It was an accident. Unintentional. And that’s a good thing in my line.

“Pretty clever how you never actually answered anything, Jimmy. I’ll be seeing you again, pal.”

He shot me another look. This time he looked annoyed. But still hurt. He hopped in his SUV and stomped on the gas. My blood was pumping. I was revved up. I hadn’t had a game plan with Jimmy. I was just harassing him a bit. But I got what I wanted. He knows something. He must.

I stormed into one of the Fred Segal clothing boutiques and looked around. I saw a shirt I liked. I’m six-one, two-hundred. So I grabbed an extra large and went into a dressing room to try it on. I couldn’t get the buttons to meet each other in the middle. I literally could not button it. I put my other shirt back on and exited the dressing room. I said to a beautiful saleslady, “Does this come in XXXXL?”

“No,” she said vapidly. I don’t think she knew I was being a smart ass.

“Is there anything bigger than this here?”

“That shirt is enormous. It’s one of the biggest ones in the store.”

“Who shops here? Like, skinny sixties rock stars? Do the surviving member of the Kinks frequent this establishment?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“How can this shirt be an extra large? It’s literally tiny. It’s not even an extra small.”

She looked at me blankly. I didn’t think this woman had ever smiled.

“Do you want to buy it or not?”

“No. But how much is it?”

She looked at the price. “Six hundred and twelve bucks. It’s on sale.”

“Well, that’s six hundred bucks I won’t have to spend. Say, is there a Marshall’s around here?”

“What’s that?”

“I’ve got to go.”