Romeo's Town (Mike Romeo Thrillers Book 6)

by James Scott Bell

  “Can I go now?”

  I made a sign of the cross at him. I got back in Spinoza, did another U, and parked in my original spot.

  Then I went over to chat with Gavin and Bianca.

  “Hi, kids.”

  Four eyes flashed at me. Half-eaten chicken sandwiches lay on wrappers on the table.

  Gavin said, “Hey, what—”

  “Nice day,” I said.

  “What are you doing here?” Bianca said.

  “You know this guy?” Gavin said.

  “He’s some kind of lawyer.”

  “I will not be insulted,” I said. “I only work for a lawyer.”

  “What do you want?” Gavin said.

  “I like to see young couples in love,” I said. “Gives me hope for the future.”

  Bianca shifted nervously, gripped Gavin’s arm.

  “Just wanted to ask a couple of questions,” I said.

  “We’re eating,” Gavin said.

  “And a nice repast it seems,” I said.

  “Huh?” Gavin said.

  “He talks funny,” Bianca said.

  “I’ll keep it simple,” I said. “Your classmate, Clint Cunningham, is in trouble for dealing. I just wanted to know what you might be able to tell me about that operation at Elias.”

  “Operation?” Gavin said.

  “Drugs,” I said.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” he said.

  “Surely you’ve heard things. A school as small as Elias doesn’t have many secrets.”

  Gavin tried to eat a waffle fry with practiced coolness. It was too obvious.

  “What about it?” I said. “If I was a student at Elias and wanted to get in on some Vector Dust, who would I talk to?”

  He stopped munching. Swallowed hard.

  “Look, man, I’m not into any of that,” Gavin said. “I wouldn’t mess up my future. I’m going to Harvard.”

  “Is everybody in your school hung up on going to Harvard?”

  “I’m gonna be a lawyer,” Gavin said.

  “Be a plumber.”

  He seemed unable to process that thought.

  “What do you want from us?” Bianca said. “My dad isn’t going to like this.”

  “You don’t think Clint is dealing on his own, do you?”

  Gavin stuffed another fry in his mouth. “I told you we don’t know anything about drugs. Clint is a freak.”

  “Is that what you say, Bianca?”

  She looked at the table, a sad expression on her face.

  Gavin said, “Look, sorry for Clint, but he shouldn’t have been dealing.”

  “Give me a name,” I said, “and I’ll leave you to your repas—your lunch.”

  “We don’t know any names,” Gavin said.

  “Yes, you do,” I said. “Tell you what. You give me a name, and I won’t report an underground traffic in homework.”

  That got their faces twitching.

  “Yeah, I had a little chat with your latest client, right over there.”

  “Come on,” Gavin said. “That’s nothing.”

  “Cheating is nothing?”

  “Everybody does it.”

  “Great training for a lawyer,” I said. “Have you heard of the Canons of Ethics?”

  “The what?”

  “Never mind. Would the administration at Elias take the same view?”

  At this point Gavin spouted a four-syllable word that was not flattering to mothers.

  “Wait,” Bianca said.

  I waited.

  “Can I talk to him?” Bianca asked.

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll watch your lunch and make sure the squirrels don’t get it.”

  Bianca got up and Gavin followed. They went a few yards away and jawed. It looked like Bianca was trying to convince her boyfriend to say something. He shook his head. Bianca said some more. Gavin frowned. More talk.

  They came back to the table.

  “Look,” Gavin said, “this is serious. If it ever got out we told you, it would be bad, really bad.”

  “He’s not joking,” Bianca said.

  “Listen kids, I am a professional working for a client. I know how to keep confidences. I’ve never given up anyone in my life. No one will ever know you talked to me.”

  Gavin looked at Bianca. She nodded.

  “Okay,” Gavin said. “There’s a guy, graduated from Elias a couple years ago. He is one bad guy. I don’t know how much business he does. Please don’t let him know it was me—”

  “He won’t know.”

  Gavin took a breath. “Danny Durant.”

  “Where can I find this Danny Durant?”

  “I don’t know,” Gavin said. “But I did hear if you want to score, he’s got guys on Hollywood Boulevard, near the Scientology building.”

  “They’ll see you coming a mile away,” Bianca said.

  “Then they won’t see me,” I said.

  “Can we eat now?” Gavin said.

  Feeling a bit peckish myself, I picked up a carnitas burrito from Poquito Mas. Easy to eat on the trip back to Paradise Cove. I parked in my driveway and immediately walked over to C Dog’s place. I heard rock music thumping inside. And through the screen door I saw Carter “C Dog” Weeks doing push-ups.

  “How many is that?” I said.

  He stopped, looked up. “Mike!”

  “Mind if I come in?”

  “Come on!”

  He was wearing red swim trunks and nothing else. He jumped up and extended his arm. “Feel that. Right there.” He tapped the lateral head of his tricep.

  I gave it a poke with my finger. “Nice,” I said.

  “Push-ups!” C Dog said. “You were right.”

  “That should not surprise you,” I said.

  “Man, I’m gonna be a Greek god.” He put his hands on his hips, Superman style.

  “Then we shall have to pick a name for you,” I said.

  “Let’s go for it,” C Dog said.

  “How about Doggerel, god of rock lyrics?”

  He thought about it, nodded. “I like it.”

  “All Greek gods need a task,” I said.

  “They do?”

  “Sure. Like Hermes. He guided dead souls to the River Styx.”

  “What is that?”

  “The river of the underworld,” I said. “There the souls would wait for the boatman, Charon, who could ferry them across the river to Hades, but only if they had the fare.”

  C Dog now seemed supremely interested. He lowered himself to the floor, sitting cross-legged. “You mean you had to pay to get into Hades?”

  “That’s right. If you didn’t have the fare, you had to wander the underworld until you could find the pauper’s entrance. That’s why when a man died his kin would put a coin under his tongue.”

  “Crazy.”

  I sat on his futon, so I was looking down at him like a king on a throne. “And now, O Doggerel, I have a task for you.”

  The god of rock raised his eyebrows.

  “I want you to buy some drugs,” I said.

  “Whoa!”

  “There’s a seller who works Hollywood Boulevard around the Scientology building. I want you to go down there and wander around—”

  “I get it. Wait for a mad hatter.”

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “What’s he selling?”

  “Vector Dust.”

  “Whoa!”

  “A packet’ll go for about—”

  “Fifty,” C Dog said.

  “I’ll give you the money.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’ll be across the street. I just want to ID him. We’ll meet up later.”

  “What if there’s a cop around?”

  “I will get you out of any trouble, my son.”

  “What’ll I do with the drugs?”

  “You will give them to me.”

  “Whoa! Isn’t that like illegal evidence?”

  “This isn’t about evidence. I want to get to a guy name
d Danny Durant. A hatter usually makes periodic deposits during the night. I’ll follow him.”

  “Whoa!”

  “You’ve stopped several horses tonight.”

  “That’s dangerous.”

  “But your part’s easy. You just play the old C Dog. Think you can do that?”

  He paused, then puffed out his chest. “I am Doggerel! I can do anything!”

  “Good,” I said. “I’m going to check into a motel in the Valley. I’ll contact you from there.”

  “How come?”

  “A couple of unfriendly guys found me here. I don’t want to be found right now.”

  “Why don’t you stay with me? We could—”

  “Thanks anyway, Doggerel. We’ll be in touch.”

  Moving in darkness, I got some clothes from my unit. I drove back to the Valley and checked into a Motel 6 in Canoga Park. It had a lovely view of a Valvoline Instant Oil Change next door. Tourists must come from all over the world to admire its architecture and delightful color scheme. But I kept the curtains closed and read The Long Goodbye until I fell asleep.

  “He doesn’t want to see you,” the desk deputy said.

  It was morning and Ira and I were back at central juvi. Ira said, “He’s a minor and I’m his lawyer, acting in loco parentis. He is to be treated like a boy who has taken a cookie before dinner and doesn’t wish to see his father. Here’s a copy of the order.”

  Ira handed him the emergency order from the court.

  “Even so, we have a responsibility here,” the deputy said. His nameplate read M. Gonzalez. We all wore masks like obedient citizens.

  “As do we, and who has the greater? The jailer or the parent? I don’t want to make a stink, but I will if this order is not honored.”

  “He’s under restraint.”

  “We won’t be long.”

  The deputy told us to wait.

  “He’s going to talk to his supervisor,” Ira said.

  “Like a car salesman talks to his manager?” I said.

  “Almost exactly like that. We are living in a time when justice takes a back seat to covering one’s backside. It can almost tempt one to cynicism.”

  “Come on in,” I said. “The water’s fine.”

  “Cynicism’s waters are too polluted,” Ira said. “I suggest you get out while you can.”

  “And give up all this angst?”

  “It might make you human,” Ira said.

  “We can’t have that.”

  “Shmendrik.”

  “I love it when you talk Yiddish to me.”

  “Be happy I talk to you at all,” Ira said.

  The deputy returned to talk to us both. “Here’s the way it is,” M. Gonzalez said. “Ten minutes. But if he gets out of control, the interview is over.”

  “Agreed,” said Ira.

  “Follow me.”

  The infirmary in central juvi is not an inspiring place. Dull yellow walls, the faint smell of urine under the more powerful scent of disinfectant. A couple of beds with scratchy blankets. Clint Cunningham was on one of the beds. His right wrist was shackled to the rail. He was the only one in the room.

  “He refuses to wear a mask,” Deputy Gonzalez said. “Stay ten feet away.”

  “Why not six?” I asked.

  The deputy shrugged, then went out to the hall.

  Clint looked at us. “I don’t want to see you.”

  “We won’t be long, Clint,” Ira said.

  “I said no!”

  “How are you feeling?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Your mother wants to know,” Ira said.

  Clint shook his head, then looked at the wall.

  “She’s understandably upset,” Ira said. “Can you talk to her, through me?”

  “Go away,” Clint said.

  “They won’t let her in to see you,” Ira said. “Let me take something back to her.”

  Clint didn’t move.

  “Clint?” Ira said.

  No answer.

  “This is useless,” I said.

  Ira snapped a look at me.

  “Kid has no guts,” I said.

  “Michael!”

  “Treating his mother that way,” I said.

  “Shut up!” Clint said.

  “What’s TBD?” I said.

  “Michael—”

  “We found the skull drawing in your notebook,” I said. “I want to know what TBD means.”

  For a second nobody moved. Then Clint went nuts. He screamed, pulled on the bed rail, kicked, kept screaming, his body writhing as if possessed.

  Deputy Gonzalez shot into the room. “What goes on?”

  “As you see,” Ira said.

  “Interview over,” Gonzalez said.

  Clint kept up his antics. It was a pure tantrum, or an audition for an exorcist movie.

  “Observe closely,” Ira said to Gonzalez. “We asked a couple of questions, and this is what happened.”

  “You have to go now,” Gonzalez said.

  Outside, Ira said, “Your bedside manner needs improvement.”

  “So send me to charm school,” I said.

  “That would be a disaster… for the school. But you may have blundered into giving us more time.”

  “Do tell.”

  “The deputy is a witness to Clint’s mental state. His screaming fit is evidence of incompetency should he attempt to replace us. He’ll likely recover, so our time is not unlimited.”

  “Someone needs to tell his mother about the visit.”

  “I’ll do it,” Ira said.

  “Good,” I said. “I’ve got a few cages to rattle.”

  “What’s that mean?” Ira said.

  “You know, my bedside manner.”

  “What are you cooking up this time?” Ira said.

  “I got a lead on a dealer who may be working Elias. Thought I’d try to have a little talk with him.”

  “You know where he is?”

  “I know how to find out.”

  Ira sighed. “My usual admonition applies.”

  “Which is?”

  “Don’t get killed and try not to kill anybody,” Ira said.

  After that tender scene at juvi I was anxious to see Sophie. She lived in an apartment in North Hollywood, near what they call the NOHO arts district. This was a corridor that was supposed to be pulsating with art, theater, restaurants, clubs. It had at one time been advertised as having a “hip, Millennial, bohemian vibe.” Now much of it was shuttered like the rest of the city—restaurants closed, theaters dark, and people moving around with all the joy of Mojave dung beetles.

  Sophie’s building was two blocks away from a new “tiny homes village.” These were 64-square-foot dwellings put up by the city to get the homeless off the streets until they could transition to more permanent housing. The city had no problem moving people in. It was the moving out that was stickier, and of course had demonstrators on both sides of the issue shouting slogans at each other.

  At least it was quiet when I picked Sophie up. I buzzed her from the entrance and she said she’d be right out.

  I’ve faced killers with guns and knives. I’ve been tied up, beaten up, messed up, and fed up. Which is why I couldn’t believe how nervous I was waiting for Sophie. A squadron of butterflies did combat exercises in my stomach and chest.

  When Sophie came out they went into tailspins.

  She was wearing a light gray T-shirt tucked into blue jeans. Casual, but on her it was killer. To top it off she wore a white panama hat, which few people can really rock. She was one of those people.

  “Nice day for a drive,” I said.

  “Let’s ride with the top down,” she said, and took my arm.

  “Spinoza likes that idea,” I said.

  “I love it that you named your car for a Dutch philosopher.”

  “I love that you know he was Dutch,” I said.

  “But why not Aristotle or Socrates?” she asked.

  “For one thing, the clever pla
y on words. Spin. That’s what we take a car for, right?”

  “Ah.”

  “Spinoza’s also challenging, and I like challenges.”

  “You’re something of a challenge yourself, Mike.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  I opened the passenger door.

  Sophie didn’t get in. “I like challenges, too,” she said.

  I should have kissed her then. She was expecting it. But there was something I had to tell her first, and I wasn’t ready.

  “Duly noted,” I said. What a charmer.

  She got in.

  I got in and started the car. “Where shall we go?”

  “I have an idea,” Sophie said. “Get on the freeway.”

  She guided me into Hollywood and then up to Rustic Canyon. She had me pull to a stop where we could overlook the city. The skyline of downtown was so clear you could almost touch it.

  “It's a pretty view from up here when the air is clear, isn't it?” Sophie said.

  “First time I've been to this spot,” I said.

  “Not the first time for me.” She smiled.

  “I am picking up some subtext here.”

  “Charlie Winkleblack,” she said. “He brought me up here the night of our senior prom.”

  “Dare I ask?”

  “Ask what?”

  “What transpired between you and Mr. Winkleblack that romantic night.”

  She laughed. “Mr. Winkleblack happened to be gay. We were in theater together. He was a good friend. We just sat here and looked at the lights and talked about our futures. I was going to UCLA and he was off to CSUN. He wanted to be a Broadway musical star.”

  “And what did you want to be?”

  “I hadn't figured that out yet.”

  “Not theater?”

  “Maybe a little,” she said. “After all, I had my big triumph that year. I was Rosalind in As You Like It.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “If I were to pick any role you were made for, it would be Rosalind.”

  “Really?”

  “She’s the greatest of Shakespeare’s heroines. The wittiest, the most gifted. She’s the equal of Falstaff, and even better because she’s not a fat drunkard.”

  “Thank you for making that clear.”

  “And she is unique in that she woos Orlando instead of waiting to be wooed by him.”

  “Come woo me, woo me, for I am in a holiday humor. What would you say to me now, and I were your very very Rosalind?”