Romeo's Town (Mike Romeo Thrillers Book 6)

by James Scott Bell

  “Okay, okay,” Nick said. “Can I go home now?”

  Nick barely fit in Spinoza. But with the top down and the fresh air blowing, he seemed okay with it. As we started up Topanga Canyon, I said, “What did you do when you got out of the joint?”

  “I got a job washing dishes at a restaurant in Sherman Oaks. Nice couple owned the place. Spent all this money putting in Plexiglas and doing what they were told so they could open up, remember that?”

  “Unfortunately,” I said.

  “So they do, and then the mayor closes ’em down again. They lost the place. The wife killed herself.”

  “Collateral damage.”

  “What?”

  “Casualty in a war that’s been bungled from the start,” I said.

  “I got mad when it happened,” Nick said. “Kinda crazy mad. That’s when I started doing some hurt work.”

  “Through your parolee guy.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Who I’m going to talk to,” I said.

  “That’s not a good idea, man.”

  “I’ll try to work it out.”

  “I seen the way you work,” Nick said. “San works that way, too.”

  “San?”

  “San Dae-Ho. That’s his name.”

  “Sounds Korean.”

  “I don’t know any of that stuff.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “That he’s bad.”

  “I’ve dealt with that before,” I said.

  “He’s not tall, maybe five-eight or nine. But he’s ripped. He’s into some kind of martial arts.”

  “Yeah? Which ones?”

  “Tackado, something like that.”

  “Taekwando?”

  “Yeah, I think that’s it. You into that stuff?”

  “I was,” I said.

  “Not anymore?”

  “Only when I need to be.”

  Nick snorted. “Like when you got a statue in your hand?”

  “No, Nick. That was the ancient art of grabbo.”

  “The what?”

  “Grab whatever you can to smash a guy before he puts a boot on your face.”

  I caught a glimpse of Nick smiling.

  “So where can I find this San Dae-Ho?” I said.

  “I don’t know. I only met him a couple of times on the outside, in places he picked.”

  “But he’s some sort of contact for freelance enforcers?”

  “I guess so. I’d stay away from him if I was you.”

  “Into the valley of death rode the six hundred,” I said.

  “Man, why do you talk funny?”

  “Funny?”

  “Yeah, what you just said, and philosophers and Latin and all that.”

  “I did some time in college,” I said.

  “Where?”

  “Yale.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I was serious about it at the time.”

  “So why aren’t you a lawyer or something?” he said.

  “Why aren’t you an Eagle Scout?” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “Things happen out of our control. With domineering hand Fortune moves the turning wheel.”

  “There you go again!”

  “It’s from a guy named Boethius,” I said. “He wrote it when he was in the joint.”

  “He was in the joint?”

  “In Northern Italy, around 523 A.D.”

  Nick shook his head.

  I said, “So what he meant was that things move, out of our control, and all we can do is respond. A guy dies, and you go to prison. How do you respond? My parents die, and I…”

  A pause lingered, then Nick said, “Your parents are dead?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you’re not that old.”

  “The wheel turns.”

  We didn’t speak for awhile after that. At the top of Topanga you could look down at the Valley. It was clear that day. You could see the green hills dotted with expensive homes, down to the valley floor and the jut of tinted glass buildings in Warner Center, all the way across to the Santa Susana mountains. From here the Valley actually looked inviting—placid, sunny, the kind of place that drew swarms of returning soldiers after World War II, buying tract houses on the GI Bill and stuffing them with wives and kids. There were jobs, too, from the local filling station to the burgeoning aerospace industry. Chicken ranches and orchards gave way to shopping centers and industrial parks. The public school system was actually good in those days, as in, they actually educated the kids and enforced self-control in the classrooms.

  But drop down into the mournful details of lockdown L.A., and you got the feeling the place had been gutted. The sense of optimism sucked out. Big industry is no more, and public education has had a long, slow, painful decline. The Valley was about survival now, without the beauty and insouciance of former times.

  Reseda is one of the older neighborhoods, with the old homes to show for it. Nick lived in the garage of one of those homes. It was on Hemmingway (two Ms) Street. It was a scruffy looking house, dirty beige with a flat roof. It desperately needed some care. The lawn was patchy, the asphalt driveway cracked, and the front window had white plaster patching around it. At the side of the house was a wooden gate, the bottom of which was warped by water damage. Whoever said it never rains in Southern California was probably on mushrooms when he wrote that.

  Through the gate was the garage where Nick was living. He told me the guy who was renting the house was the nephew of the owner, and both of them were ex-cons who knew how to cut breaks for their fellows. The space was pretty drab. A mattress with a couple of blankets, a little refrigerator, a Coleman stove, a small TV, and boxes with clothes spilling out of them. I told Nick to lie down and rest. He didn’t fight me on that. He spread out on the mattress like a beached whale.

  “I’m going to step outside and make a call,” I said.

  “You don’t have to stay,” Nick said.

  “I promised Dr. Murray.”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  “Be right back.”

  I went out to the driveway and called Ira. “I got a visit this morning. At the Cove. Some joker telling us to back off of the Cunningham case.”

  “Joker?” Ira said.

  “Nattily dressed. He had muscle with him.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Yeah. I had to take him out.”

  “Michael…”

  “No worries. I’m here with him now.”

  “The joker?”

  “The muscle.”

  Pause. “Please explain yourself.”

  “He’s a rather large fellow. We had a fight in my petunia garden. You know how I love my petunias.”

  “Get to the point, please.”

  “I had to bash him in the face with my Poseidon statuette.”

  Nothing from Ira. I could imagine him rubbing the bridge of his nose.

  I said, “As that was going on, the joker took off, leaving his hired thug in my care.”

  “Care did you say?”

  “We talked it out,” I said. “I had Artra take a look at him.”

  “Wait a second. You took your latest victim to see Artra? And he went?”

  “Life is funny that way,” I said. “Then I brought him home. I’m in Reseda. What I’m trying to find out is who that joker is. Nick—that’s the muscle—doesn’t know. He only knows he was hired for this job by a guy named San Dae-Ho. I’ll need to talk to him.”

  “Talk?”

  “An expansive definition of talk I’ll admit.”

  “Michael, when you get this way—”

  “I’ll be charming,” I said.

  “Just hold off. I got a call from the court. Clint is moving to go pro se. There’s a hearing on Thursday. We may be off this case.”

  “You may be,” I said.

  “Michael…”

  “I don’t like people showing up at my house and messing up my flowers,” I said.

  “There is a Jewish sayi
ng, Michael. May God protect you from bad people and save you from yourself.”

  “Ira?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m not Jewish.”

  “More’s the pity,” Ira said.

  I went back inside the garage. Nick was staring at the ceiling.

  “How you feeling?” I said.

  “Bad.”

  “Headache?”

  “More of a face ache.”

  “Does it hurt when you laugh?”

  “Huh?”

  “Give me your phone number. I’ll check with you later.”

  “You going?”

  “Problem?”

  “I dunno,” he said. “I don’t know what’s going on anymore.”

  I squatted next to him. “You’ve had a shock to the system. You need rest. Just take the next couple of days and do as little as possible. Take aspirin for the head.”

  “Like I’ve got anything else to do.”

  “How about reading a book?”

  “What?”

  “A book. You know, with pages and a cover.”

  “I don’t like to read.”

  “Maybe we can change that,” I said.

  “Whatever.”

  “You just relax now, okay?”

  “Whatever.”

  “And stop saying that. That’s a word for losers.”

  “Yeah? Look at me.”

  “Nil desperandum,” I said.

  Nick groaned.

  “Never say die,” I said.

  I drove over to Jimmy Sarducci’s gym. Jimmy is a short, talkative fight trainer who runs a nice boxing and MMA facility. He lets me work out there for nothing, in part because I helped him in the past, and in part because he wants to put me back in the cage. He thinks he can make me a star. I need that publicity like I need an extra belly button.

  I parked on the street because the parking lot behind the gym was covered with a canopy. At the height of the L.A. lockdowns Jimmy had been forced outside to his parking lot. He was keeping it there, not trusting a city that said to restaurants You can open. Oops, no you can’t. Sorry you spent all that money on prep… There was a mat and a rope ring around it for sparring, a heavy bag, a couple of punching dummies, and a weight station.

  Jimmy was sitting on a stool watching a couple of guys sparring in the ring.

  “Hey, Mike!” Jimmy said when he saw me coming.

  He held out his fist.

  “Really?” I said.

  “We gotta do what we gotta do.”

  “Jimmy,” I said, “if masculine grips are outlawed, only outlaws will have masculine grips.”

  He thought about it for a second, then opened his hand. We shook.

  I looked at the ring. “Contenders?”

  “Tomato cans,” Jimmy said. “Maybe I can turn ’em into pugs.”

  “It’s good to have a goal.”

  “You here to work out?” Jimmy said.

  “I’m here with a question.”

  Jimmy looked at his fighters. “Stick and move! Stick and move!”

  I said, “I’m trying to locate a martial arts guy by the name of San Dae-Ho.”

  “What kind of name is that?”

  “Probably Korean. He’s about five-eight, jacked. Anybody like that come around?”

  “Not here.”

  “Maybe you could make a call or two to some of your contacts,” I said. “Guy like that is sure to stick out somewhere.”

  “Do I look like an information service to you?” Jimmy said.

  “Whoa,” I said.

  “Ah, I’m just grumpy about everything. Open, not open, open again, but you gotta wear this, stay away from that. I’ll make some calls.”

  “You’re a prince,” I said.

  Jimmy uttered an Italian phrase that sounded like a curse or a dinner order. Then, “When you gonna get in the cage again? You’re wasting your prime. We could make some real money, you and me.”

  “Haven’t you heard? Love of money is the root of all kinds of evil.”

  Jimmy cursed—or ordered food—again.

  I took my leave.

  I drove out to Simi Valley to see if I could catch Gavin McGuane at home.

  Simi Valley, unlike its much bigger cousin to the east, is a bedroom community known for its placid pace and relatively safe existence. It has its own police department, but a lot of L.A. cops live there, too. Controlled growth keeps the sprawl contained.

  The McGuane house was on a winding street where homes approaching mansion size dotted a hilly landscape. The house was Mediterranean in style with a fancy stone exterior and long driveway leading up to a three-car garage. A medium-sized liquidambar tree was the showpiece of the front yard. Almost barren of leaves at this time of year, in the fall its shiny, maple-like leaves would bring an explosion of vibrant red and orange. Two points for whoever designed the yard.

  There was one car in the driveway, a metallic-blue BMW Alpina sedan. As I walked by the car I glanced in the passenger-side window. On the seat were some flyers. They had a picture of a beautiful home with a large SOLD banner across the top. On the left side of the flyer was a woman. She was model-gorgeous, posed with arms folded and a confident smile. Below the picture was printed Mandi McGuane. Call Mandi and Start Packing! At the bottom of the flyer was the logo for Keller Williams Realty.

  I rang the bell at the front door. A moment later a Hispanic woman opened the door and waited for me to say something. I’d come to talk to Gavin, but switched my intro to, “May I speak with Mandi McGuane, please?”

  The woman gave me a quick scan dripping with uncertainty. I couldn’t blame her. I handed her one of Ira’s cards and said, “This concerns Gavin.”

  She frowned, then said, “Please wait,” and closed the door.

  I whistled a merry tune and looked out at the view. I could see a good portion of Simi Valley. They used to shoot Westerns out here. Now the place is covered with homes and stores and offices. No elbow room anymore for John Wayne or Clint Eastwood. And that means the end of the frontier spirit. We’ve packed ourselves in on each coast and grown soft and spineless.

  The door opened and the woman said, “Follow me, please.”

  She led me through a massive foyer with a cathedral ceiling, into a formal living room with wood flooring, luxury furniture, ornate fireplace.

  “Just one moment,” the woman said, and walked out the other side of the living room. I wandered over to a wall of windows looking out at a backyard with a pebble-tech pool and four rock waterfalls.

  I heard a scuffing sound. It came from a big cage with a big bird in it. A macaw. Blue-and-gold head, green feathers, hooked black beak, and beady eyes that glared at me with suspicion. I stared right back. No bird was going to make a monkey out of me.

  “That’s not going to work for us,” the macaw said.

  Unsure how to respond, I said, “And why not?”

  The parrot moved an inch to the right on its standing perch. “The comps don’t support that price.”

  A voice behind me said, “That’s Marco.”

  I turned and saw the woman from the flyer. The photo had not done her justice. She was five-eight or nine, with lustrous tawny hair billowing over her shoulders. She wore a black pencil skirt with matching coat over a white blouse. She had on a jade necklace that was just this side of ostentatious. In one hand she held a smartphone, in the other Ira’s card.

  She stopped six feet away from me, looked at the card, then back at me. Her sea-green eyes looked like they could laser through a bank safe.

  “What’s this about?” she said.

  “My name is Mike Romeo,” I said.

  “Who is Ira Rosen?”

  “The lawyer I work for.”

  “What do you want? What’s this about Gavin? Is he in some sort of—”

  Her phone played a tune. It sounded like the first vibrant notes of David Benoit’s “Freedom at Midnight.”

  “Excuse me, I have to take this,” she said. She pressed the phone to
her ear and said, “Hello, Sanjay,” and walked out of the room. I heard her fading voice say, “No, no, the HOA fee is included… yes, I explained that…”

  So I looked around the living room some more. At least she had a bookshelf with actual books in it. More and more homes don’t have bookshelves. Game consoles, yes. Wall-mounted TVs, check. But fewer covers with paper pages between them.

  “Lush views from every room,” Marco said.

  I turned to the cage. “I’ll give you ten thousand dollars for it.”

  “That’s not going to work for us.”

  Mandi came back in. “Sorry about that. But I’ve got five deals going and have to be on call.”

  “You must do it pretty well.”

  “I’ve worked hard to become a top producer,” she said.

  “The American way.”

  “I thought so, too. But they want to tax me into oblivion. That’s what you get for being successful these days.”

  “I try to hover just around the poverty line,” I said.

  She smiled. It was an easy, self-assured smile. At the same time, her eyes changed from polite to interested. She knew how to use those eyes. If they ever got seductive, most men standing where I was would start biting their fists. I kept my hands loose.

  She said, “What about Gavin?”

  “I’m an investigator for Mr. Rosen. We’re representing Clint Cunningham.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know that name.”

  “Clint had a girlfriend named Bianca Aiken.”

  “I don’t know that name, either.”

  “Oh? Because I think Gavin is seeing her.”

  “I’m not up on everything Gavin does,” she said. “You know how it is.”

  “I’m not sure I do.”

  “High school boys. Living with their mother. They keep things to themselves.”

  “Does he go to Elias?” I said.

  “How did you know?” she said.

  “Clint Cunningham and Bianca both go there.”

  “You’ve done homework,” she said. “I like that. Information is the key to negotiation.”

  “I’m not here to negotiate,” I said.

  “Oh, I don’t know. You want me to answer questions. I could tell you to take a flying leap, and you can try to convince me. Everything’s negotiation.”

  “Or compulsion.”

  She cocked her head.

  “Themistocles,” I said. “Ancient Greek politician. He said, ‘I have two gods—persuasion and compulsion.’ ”