The Straight Man - Roger L Simon (8 page)

"I thought I was supposed to be the comedian."

"No joke. There were four cartons of Bibles
sitting in the corner of the lab."

"That's pretty strange for a drug dealer."

"Yeah. And on top of that they were laying on
some bullshit about some reverend."

"
You know something else strange—Nastase went
to Trieste every three months."

"On a bellhop's salary? How'd you find that
out?"

"The elevator operator at the Albergo Picasso.
He's a Greek. They go fishing together every Sunday off Cabrillo
Beach."

"Cood luck," I said. "The fish down
there are dead before you catch 'em." Then I clutched my side.
The pain transmitters around my rib cage were suddenly making a
frontal assault on my nervous system.

"Here," said Chantal, reaching into her
purse for a tightly rolled joint. "This should help."

"Thanks," I said.

I tried to suck on it, but the pain was so severe, my
lungs weren't letting anything in. I didn't start to feel better
until we got to emergency at Queen of Angels, where they gave me a
couple of Percodans, X-rayed me, and taped my sides. The X ray showed
one broken rib and a mass of bruises. The cause of accident was
listed as "fall." By then the Percodans were working pretty
well.

I woke up late the next morning to the sound of
someone unlocking my apartment. I jumped out of bed, immediately
wrenching the right side of my body with an unbelievable pain,
grabbed a robe, and went into the living area. Chantal was heading
into the kitchen with a bag of groceries.

"Good morning," she said, pulling out a
carton of eggs, cheese, croissants, and coffee. "Do you like
omelet gruyére at la Mere Poulard?"

"A la Mere Who? Sure .... You didn't have to do
this, you know. It doesn't come with the job description."

"No problem." She broke some eggs into a
bowl and began beating them with a whisk. "By the way, this
twelve dollars an hour you're paying me, when does it begin and end?"

"We'll have to talk about that." She poured
the eggs deftly into a sizzling pan, swirling it back and forth the
way I had seen Julia Child do it on television. "You're very
good at this. You know, no woman's really made me breakfast since my
ex-wife joined a consciousness-raising group in 1971. Usually they
suggest we go out to Duke's or something." I looked at her. She
was wearing tight-fitting jeans and a white T-shirt that said VIVE LE
QUEBEC LIBRE on the back. "The first Mr. Chantal, the shrink,
was pretty lucky. What happened to him, anyway?"

"I wasn't ready to settle down, but he was. I
didn't have the courage to tell him, so I started fooling around with
other guys. Soon . . ." She shrugged and slid the omelet onto a
plate. Then she added a couple of croissants and carried them out to
me at the dining table. "You work out of your home?"

"
lt's cheaper that way."

"Did you ever think it presents a less than
professional image?"

"Yeah. I've been thinking of moving out . . .
starting an agency . . . but I'm waiting."

"For what?"

"I don't know. A lottery win." I didn't
know how to answer better than that and I was grateful when I was
interrupted, almost immediately, by the phone. I picked up. It was
Bannister and he sounded upset.

"Mr. Wine, uh, Moses, I mean, I hate doing this
on the phone, but I've got an emergency on my hands."

I glanced up at Chantal, who was pouring some coffee.

"It's the Grand Shrink," I said, cupping
the phone in one hand while stabbing a piece of omelet.

"Are you alone?"

"Enough."

"What do you mean 'enough"? Can I be direct
with you?"

"You're a psychiatrist. You're supposed to be."

"Don't be cute with me, Wine. This could be a
calamity."

"Go ahead."

"Yes, well, uh, Otis disappeared last night. He
got up when he and my son were watching a tape of Terminator and
never came back."

"How'd he get out?"

"He took the louvers out of the jalousie window
in the bathroom. He must've gone straight across the tennis court to
the Coast Highway. I have reason to believe he took the red-eye to
New York."

"How do you know that?"

"
He told my son some mysterious person called
him in the middle of the night to say his brother was in grave
danger."

"Do you believe him?"

"I don't know. Otis is capable of making up
anything if by it'll give him an excuse to get near the powder. My
son I wasn't sure either. He said Otis was acting pretty crazy."

"Where were you at the time?"

"Attending to another patient. I can't be six
people ....Moses, I'd like to hire you to go find him. It's very
important that he be back as soon as possible, both for his own
protection and because it would be disastrous for his career if the
studio found out he was gone."

"Not to mention yours."

"Yes, mine too." There was a pregnant
pause. I looked over at Chantal again. She was watching me with the
same intensity with which she had studied the Xerox sheet at the
private eye course. I realized this woman could learn all she needed
to know about being a detective in about four days. I also realized
my omelet was getting cold and swallowed another bite. "This has
to be done right away, Moses. By Saturday." Bannister
interpreted my silence as acquiescence.

"
Why Saturday?"

"Because Otis is scheduled to be master of
ceremonies for the Comedians and Chefs Benefit for Africa at Matthew
Rodman's mansion in Bel Air. The whole entertainment community will
be there."

"
Comedians and chefs?"

"Yes. You know, chefs—Wolfgang Puck of Spago,
that Waters woman up in Berkeley. They're the biggest thing going
today. And now Sandor Romulus of Bistro Vega she's catering the
affair. And for obvious reasons they wanted the hottest young black
comic to headline the show. They've already sold five hundred tickets
at a hundred and twenty-five apiece. Most of the major studios are
buying blocks."

"Look, Doctor, I'd like to help you. But as you
know, I'm working for Emily Ptak and there might be a conflict of
int—"

"Don't worry. I've already talked to Emily about
this. Besides, she's one of the sponsors of the benefit. It's
important for her, too."

"The Cosmic Aid Foundation."

"Right. We've agreed to handle all your expenses
in New York, of course. I suggest you get on the next convenient
flight."

"
So I'm to be working for you now, as well as
for Emily."

"No, no. You'd still be working for Emily
primarily. There'd just be this one overlap."

I told him I'd call him back in a few minutes and
hung up. I needed to think this over. I shoveled in a forkful more
omelet while Chantal waited impatiently for me to fill her in on what
was happening.

"So we're going to New York," she said
before I had barely finished my explanation.

"Not you, me. And not New York, the Bronx. If I
don't miss my guess, that's where Otis'll be hanging out. It's a
waste of money for two of us to go."

"No problem. I have friends in the Bronx.
Montrealers who wanted to open a pétisserie on the Grand Concourse
until they realized it was a Puerto Rican neighborhood. Now they run
a laundry. I could stay with them."

"
It's still a waste of money."

"I'll fly People's I don't mind arriving in
Newark. It's easier than——"

"And I don't want to have to worry about you in
the Bronx, unless, among your other undiscovered talents, you're a
fifth-degree black belt in something or other."

"And I suppose in your condition you're ready to
deal with--"

"I'll be the judge of that. Now, as far as I
know, you're working for me and I need you to stay here."
Chantal was starting to look pissed. I recognized the symptoms from
long experience and I moved on quickly before I was accused of
sexism. "For one thing, I'm waiting to hear from an aging shamus
named Stanley Burckhardt about a post office box in Glendale. I want
you to stay on top of that. I'll give you the details. Also, I'd like
you to go out to Malibu and keep your eyes on the comings and goings
at Carl Bannister's shrinkery. Let me know if you find out anything
interesting." I figured that last would mollify her for the
moment.

"What about the Chu's Brothers?"

"I'll call a friend on the LAPD Asian Squad and
see if they have anything. You can follow up on that. And rent all
the video cassettes you can find of Mike Ptak. I doubt they'll tell
us much, but you never know. Also stay tuned for further developments
at the Fun Zone and keep in touch with your Greek elevator operator
at the Picasso. That sounds like a full calendar, doesn't it'?"

"I love New York," she said forlornly.

"We're not operating a travel agency here. And
as far as I'm concerned, your meter's running forty hours a week at
twelve dollars per. That makes four hundred and eighty dollars
weekly. You can add reasonable expenses to that. But don't go
overboard. I don't think Emily Ptak would like you taking elevator
operators to Spago, even if she does. Save your receipts."

And with that I finished my omelet, picked up the
phone, and made my calls: Emily, who verified what Bannister had told
me and said she had no idea why Otis called her a "mind-fucking
cunt" other than because he was paranoid and hated all white
people uncontrollably "when it suited his purposes"; John
Lu with the Asian Squad, who wasn't  in (I left Chantal's
number); Nathanson's service, to say I'd be missing my next
appointment; and, finally, Bannister again.

"Any idea where I should look?" I asked.

"He has a girl friend named Della who lives in
one of the projects."

"What's her second name?"

"I don't know. He always just called her Della.
She's half Puerto Rican and has a three-year-old kid. But she told
him she wouldn't see him until he kicked coke. That freaked him out.
Then there's his manager, a real dumbbell lawyer named Purvis Wilkes
who has an office near Yankee Stadium. Otis is absurdly loyal to him.
And, of course, his brother, King."

"King?"

"King King."

"
Where do I find him?"

"No idea. But if you do, I'm sure the DEA would
like to know. From what I hear he controls half the drug trade for
the South Bronx."

9

I got out of the gypsy cab on the Grand Concourse
with a strong sense of
déja vu
.
I hadn't been in this neighborhood very often since I was a little
boy and went to Yankee games with my father. The area had gone
through several changes since then, down to the bottom and halfway
back again, but it was the earlier period of my childhood that was on
my mind as I crossed the street to Purvis Wilkes's office, passing a
deli that had been Jewish, Puerto Rican, and was now some weird
mixture of Latino and Arabic, serving, I imagined, chorizos on pita
with canned pina coladas and Turkish delight for dessert. The place I
had gone to before the games for pastrami sandwiches with my father
had disappeared, replaced by an Off-Track Betting parlor. Not that we
would go there that often. Usually we went to the Stadium Club
because my father and his lawyer friends, season ticket holders, were
members and that was what a man did, had a steak lunch at the Stadium
Club and then sat in a box on the third base line, while his son
stared with a combination of curiosity and envy at the black and
brown people in the bleachers.

There was nothing Wall Street about Purvis Wilkes's
office. Actually, it was more reminiscent of a credit dentist,
nestled like a bomb shelter into the dirty-yellow brick courtyard of
one of those soot-ridden Concourse apartment buildings in which all
the first-floor windows are honeycombed with steel grid antitheft
wire. Wilkes's window looked as if it had been smashed a few times
anyway. The name on the door read Feinstein & Wilkes, Attorneys
at Law, but Feinstein, I later found out, had defrauded a couple of
clients and skipped for Minneapolis some time ago, ending this
supposedly ecumenical partnership.

Wilkes himself was a tall, slightly paunchy man in
his early thirties with light sepia skin and a neatly cut Van-dyke.
He was reading the paper and listening to an old Thelonious Monk
album on the radio when his secretary introduced me. The way he
acted, he didn't seem over-eager for clients. He seemed even less
eager when I told him what I wanted.

"
Hey, I'm Otis's manager. If I told some private
dick where he was, think how long I'd have that job."

"But as Otis's manager you should have his best
interests at heart. The show business community is one tiny hornet's
nest of gossip. Word gets out Otis went bye-bye and you can say
sayonara to the fat movie contract. The people out there are getting
supersensitive to drug publicity."