Romeo's Town (Mike Romeo Thrillers Book 6)

by James Scott Bell

  “Ho-ly cow,” Mandi said. “Who on earth are you? Quoting Greeks, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Have I persuaded you to answer a few questions?”

  “You have bought yourself a little more time. Have a seat.” She sat in one of the plush chairs and crossed her legs like an Egyptian queen. I sat like a Roman senator.

  “Go ahead,” she said.

  “How does Shane figure into Gavin’s life?”

  “More homework, eh?”

  “Shane is a pretty well-known actor.”

  “Was.”

  “Maybe will be again.”

  “Narcissists never believe their time is over.”

  “I take it you’re not on good terms with him.”

  “He’s a child. And he likes to throw tantrums. Ever try to talk to a narcissistic child throwing a tantrum?”

  “I’m not on Twitter, so no.”

  That brought another easy smile to her face.

  “But you still go by McGuane,” I said.

  “I built my brand on that name,” she said. “Can’t change it now. I’ve got a dozen bus stop benches around town.”

  “Sensitive question. Have you ever thought Gavin might be doing drugs?”

  If it was sensitive to her, she didn’t show it. “No,” she said.

  “Even with the high-school-boy-keeping-things-from-his-mother bit?”

  Her pleasant expression gave way to tight cheek muscles and narrowed eyes. “This is starting to feel like an interrogation,” she said.

  “It’s no news flash that drug use has spiked among kids, what with the lockdowns and all. My case has a drug angle, and I thought maybe Gavin might have something to tell me, seeing as he’s with my client’s old girlfriend, and they go to the same school. Make sense?”

  “A little. But there’s nothing I can tell you.”

  “Maybe you can tell me how Gavin got his car.”

  “What?”

  “Did you buy it for him? His dad?”

  “What are you fishing for?”

  “It’s expensive machinery. Somehow I don’t think Gavin is a top producer.”

  That brought her to her feet. “I think we’re finished here.”

  I stood. “Just doing my job. You’re a professional. You can understand that.”

  She gave me a long, lingering look. Was it the look of a fellow professional, or more like a lion sizing up a zebra? “I’ll have a chat with Gavin. If I think there’s something you should know, I’ll call you.”

  “If I wanted to chat with Shane, how would I go about it?”

  “Ha. Get a cattle prod. He’s not the talkative type.”

  “That’s compulsion,” I said. “I can try persuasion.”

  She folded her arms, just like in the flyer. “You know, I think you could. Ever think of going into real estate?”

  “Never,” I said.

  “I could train you.”

  Visions of me jumping through a hoop flashed into my mind. “Thanks for the offer, but—”

  “Just think about it,” she said. “Now, as for Shane, he’s a little boy. Be prepared for that. He’s not likely to talk to you over the phone. I could tell you where he lives, but he won’t open the door for you.”

  “Any suggestions?”

  “He likes to hang out with a group of guys, stuntmen mostly. Makes him feel studlier. I know they’ve been having lunches at Tab’s Hot Dogs in Canoga Park. They have outdoor tables there. Can’t tell you when, but it’s a shot. You have a picture of him?”

  “Only what I’ve seen on the net.”

  “Look for him to be wearing shades and a backward baseball cap. I swear, he’s eight years old.”

  She took a silver card holder out of her pocket, opened it, and handed me a card. It had her picture on it and her realtor info.

  “Buy or sell,” she said.

  “Everybody’s a potential client, eh?” I said.

  “That’s how you make it in this business.”

  “I’ll follow up with you in a few days,” I said.

  “That's not going to work for us,” Marco said.

  It was getting toward lunchtime anyway, so I drove back to the Valley and pulled into the shopping plaza where Tab’s Hot Dogs was located. It was in the corner, next to a Ross Dress for Less store. There was a lone muncher at an outdoor table.

  I went in and ordered an L.A. Street Dog, bacon-wrapped with mayo, mustard, grilled peppers and onions, jalapeños, diced tomatoes. All the finer things in life. I added fries and a Coke to the order, just to make sure I was eating a balanced meal.

  Outside, I took a table by the door. There were five other tables, empty except for that one guy. I munched and watched the cars going in and out, and thought about Sophie Montag. I thought about how my life might have been if I’d gone into academia, where I belonged. And what it would have been like to meet Sophie then, and settle in with her and teach at some midwestern college.

  But then again, had I stayed back East and pursued a doctorate, I wouldn’t have met Ira Rosen, wouldn’t have ended up in L.A., and wouldn’t have gone to the bookstore where Sophie worked. It’s all a game of chance and you don’t control the wheel.

  But at least there is the hot dog to make wherever we sojourn more bearable.

  In the time it took me to down the entirety of my meal, several people had entered the place and left with take out. Only one other person sat down at a table, a young guy in an Amazon delivery vest. He ate like an escaped convict. He had a schedule to keep.

  As my stakeout was turning into a bust, I gave Ira a call to update him on my doings. I got his voicemail, which was odd. He always picks up for yours truly. Then I remembered today was the hearing where Clint Cunningham was going to try to get us fired so he could represent himself.

  And if that happened, what then? I’d stop questioning witnesses, sure, but there was still a great big question mark hanging out there. I hate hanging question marks. I want to smash them.

  I wanted to know who tried to intimidate me off the case. I needed to find that guy who showed up at my place with Nick, and who put him on to me. I did not want anyone coming back to my house and stepping on my petunias.

  As I was walking back to my car, a Jeep SUV with tinted windows almost splattered me on its grill. It pulled into a space and four guys got out. They didn’t so much as glance my way. They were laughing about something. One of them wore sunglasses and a backward baseball cap. They all wore masks.

  They chattered into Tab’s. I walked back to the table I’d been sitting at and sat again. The Amazon delivery guy was gone. So when the four of them came out with their dogs and picked the table next to mine, we were the only customers. They were still laughing about something. From the words and gestures, I got the impression it was something about a woman.

  The guy in the backward baseball cap was definitely Shane McGuane. Research told me he was 49, which made his cap wearing more than a bit ridiculous. His companions were younger, occupying an age range somewhere between thirty and forty. They had different builds, but each was solid in its own way. Like stuntmen.

  I watched them for a few minutes. They had moved their masks to Abe Lincoln chin-beard position. The conversation turned from the unnamed woman to the Lakers. An argument broke out about LeBron, and much cursing ensued. Not exactly a meeting of the Socratic Debating Society.

  When there was a space in the talk I said, “Shane McGuane?”

  He looked over at me. He gave me one of those chin-up nods that communicates How you doin’?

  The stuntmen all looked at me with varying degrees of annoyance.

  I said to McGuane, “Wonder if I could have a word with you.”

  He spread his hands and spoke around the food in his mouth. “Having my lunch, bruh.”

  “It won’t take long,” I said.

  One of the stuntmen, the one with the baldest head, looked at me and said, “He’s having his lunch, didn’t you hear?”

  “It’s about
Gavin,” I said.

  The three stuntmen looked at McGuane, as if awaiting orders. McGuane asked me who the eff I was.

  “I work for a lawyer,” I said. “There’s a—”

  “What’s she up to now?” McGuane said.

  “Who?” I said.

  “My ex,” he said. “That b—”

  “Nothing to do with your ex,” I said.

  “Then how’d you know to find me here?”

  “I did talk to Mandi,” I said. “But it was about Gavin.”

  One of the other stuntmen, who had a noticeable scar on his cheek said, “You want us to show this guy to his car?”

  McGuane didn’t say anything for a long moment. The three stunts seemed almost vibrating with anticipation.

  “I’ll give you a minute,” McGuane said, getting out of his chair and taking the other one at my table. His friends looked deflated.

  “Well?” McGuane said.

  “I’m an investigator for a lawyer. We’re representing a classmate of Gavin’s. He’s been arrested on a drug dealing charge. I was hoping to talk to Gavin about all this.”

  “You think Gavin’s involved?”

  “I wanted to talk to him because he might have information helpful to our client.”

  McGuane told me what I was full of.

  “That’s not helpful,” I said.

  McGuane gave me a two-word dismissal and returned to his table.

  I said, “You do know we can issue a subpoena to you and Gavin both, right?”

  McGuane told me where I could shove my subpoena.

  At which point the noticeable scar stuntman stood up and walked over to me and said, “Man wants to eat now.”

  “Yes,” I said, not moving. “A man needs to eat.”

  “Take off.”

  “Go on back and enjoy your hot dog. Which one did you get?”

  He slapped me.

  Now, I am a reasonable man. I will engage with anyone on important matters in a rational, loquacious fashion.

  Slaps are another matter. I don’t usually talk after a slap to the face. I do think about one of my rules. Do unto them before they do unto you. He was definitely looking to do something more unto me.

  I shot up out of my chair and gave him a web strike to the throat. That’s the webbing between thumb and forefinger, aimed at his thyroid cartilage. It’s not as bad as a hard strike to the trachea, which can be lethal. But it’s enough to shut a guy up.

  Scar grabbed his throat with both hands and dropped to his knees, sucking for air, eyes bulging.

  Of course the two other stuntmen had to come to his aid. Which meant after me.

  A metal chair makes a nice weapon, but you have to know where to aim it. If you go for an overhand to the head, a smart fighter will duck and charge. The force will be dissipated and you’ll have an adrenaline-laced bull taking you down to the ground. If you try for a side swipe, you may land a blow, but if at somebody who’s in shape, they’ll come at you with a fist from the other side.

  But the knees are another story. One good clout to the prayer bones and you can take a guy out for a good long time.

  That’s what I gave to Bald Guy.

  Which left number three, who was lean and mean. The stringy-muscular type. This kind can give you the most trouble. They’re wiry and fast and pack more of a punch than you’d suppose just by looking at them.

  It had taken me five seconds to dispatch the first two, who were now moaning on the ground. That gave Stringy pause for a second.

  But only a second. When he pulled out a knife he looked ready for action.

  I was still holding the chair like a lion tamer.

  “Put that thing away,” I said, “or I’ll make you eat this chair.”

  Stringy tossed the knife to his other hand then back again—an old-school gang move meant to intimidate.

  I shook my head. I was already planning my first couple of moves when Shane McGuane piped in.

  “Put it away,” he said.

  “What?” Stringy said.

  “Put that knife away. Now!”

  After a moment’s pause, Stringy slipped the knife back into the side sheath he wore.

  “I don’t need this kind of publicity,” he said, both to me and his boys.

  The young woman who worked behind the counter came out to the patio, her eyes wide over her mask. “Oh my God! What’s happening?”

  Shane McGuane got to his feet. “Nothing.”

  The woman looked at the two stuntmen who were on the ground, then at me. I was still holding the chair.

  “Just moving to another table,” I said.

  The poor woman didn’t know what to do. She stood there, holding the door open with one hand.

  “I should call the police,” she said.

  “No!” Shane McGuane said.

  I put the chair down and said, “No need for the police. These gentlemen were just leaving,” giving McGuane a nice, firm glare. Now I had leverage over an aging actor trying to make a comeback and fearing he’ll show up on TMZ or some viral phone video.

  “Come on, come on,” McGuane said, helping his friends to their feet. Scar was just starting to get his wind back. Baldy had a noticeable limp. Skinny stared at me the way guys do when they imagine blood spurting out of your neck.

  They left their food on the table and shambled toward the Jeep.

  The woman looked at me as if asking what she should do.

  “It was just an unfortunate misunderstanding,” I said. “No real harm done.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “They come here a lot,” she said.

  “I’m sure they’ll come again.”

  “What about you?”

  “I like your fare,” I said. “I’ll be back.”

  “But maybe not when those guys are here, okay?”

  I drove over to Jimmy’s to see if he had any info on finding San Dae-Ho. When I got there two guys were fighting in the ring. Not sparring or boxing. Street fighting.

  Jimmy was outside the ropes screaming at them to cut it out. When they grappled to the mat, Jimmy climbed through the ropes and tried to separate them. They held together like two pythons trying to choke the life out of each other.

  One fighter was white, the other black. Their face coverings were long gone.

  Jimmy was having no luck breaking it up. Black Guy was on top of White Guy, pressing his forearm into White Guy’s throat. White Guy had his legs wrapped around Black Guy, but clearly was running out of oxygen.

  Jimmy kept screaming.

  The pythons kept coiled.

  I went in and grabbed Black Guy’s forearm so White Guy could breathe.

  “Let loose,” I said.

  Black Guy issued a two-word retort.

  White Guy called him the name that shall not be named.

  Black Guy went berserk and broke free of my grip. He rammed his elbow into White Guy’s face.

  I threw a bicep squeeze around Black Guy’s neck and pulled, prying him off like a layer of sheet metal from an airplane fuselage. We rolled back and I flipped him, transitioning to a full nelson and complete submission.

  He tried to reverse me. Didn’t work.

  “Cool off now,” I said.

  He repeated his two words.

  Jimmy yelled, “Get outta here! The both o’ yuz! I don’t want you around here no more!”

  “Hold it!” I said. “I don’t want these guys going off and killing each other.”

  I let go of Black Guy and got between him and White Guy, who was sitting up and bleeding from the nose.

  “Get him a towel, Jimmy,” I said.

  White Guy touched his face, looked at the blood on his hand and got up ready to fight.

  I said, “Either of you tries anything I’ll lay you out until Tuesday.”

  “I didn’t do anything!” Black Guy said. “He started in with the name calling.”

  White Guy said, “Snowflake can’t take it.”


  Black Guy started to charge. I pushed him back.

  “Let me take him!” Black Guy said.

  “Bring it!” White Guy said

  “Stop!” I felt like a teacher’s assistant on an elementary school playground. “Cool off.”

  “I want ’em outta here,” Jimmy said.

  “Go help him clean up,” I said, indicating the nose bleeder. To Black Guy I said, “Come talk a minute.”

  “Nothing to talk about,” he said.

  “Humor me,” I said.

  With one more withering glance at his erstwhile opponent, Black Guy came with me to the far corner of the ring.

  “What was it all about?” I said.

  “You heard it,” he said.

  “The names?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know this guy?”

  He shook his head. “We just decided to spar. I got in a couple good shots and he starts throwing shade.”

  “Speaking of names, mine’s Mike.”

  He paused. “Chris.”

  “So what do you want to do about this?”

  “Do?”

  “What do you want to see happen?”

  Chris waved his hand. “Ah, nothing. De minimis non curat lex.”

  I smiled. “The law does not concern itself with trifles.”

  “You know Latin?”

  “I’m pretty good with it. You?”

  Chris shook his head. “Just a few legal phrases. Res ipsa loquitur.”

  “The thing speaks for itself,” I said.

  “Exactly,” Chris said.

  “Law student?”

  “Guilty.”

  “Where?” I said.

  “UCLA,” Chris said.

  “What year?”

  “Third.”

  “Got a job lined up?”

  “Public defender’s office.”

  “Criminal defense, huh?”

  He nodded. “I want to be in a courtroom.”

  “Man,” I said, “I wouldn’t want to be a baby DA going up against you.”

  “You a lawyer by any chance?”

  “I work for one. As an investigator. In fact, we have a criminal matter right now, a juvenile case.”

  “You still do any fighting?” Chris asked.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “What you did to me,” Chris said. “A full nelson, right? It was like the jaws of death.”