Angel Eyes

by Ace Atkins

  “Maybe some Irish coffee?”

  “Why not,” I said. “True to my heritage.”

  We moved out of the theater and into the bare-bones lobby, a wide, empty space of scuffed black-and-white linoleum tiles. The walls showed off dozens of posters of plays the Bloom troupe had put on. Glengarry Glen Ross. True West. Deathtrap.

  “Eclectic,” I said.

  “I like to challenge the students,” he said, reaching into a cluttered roll-top desk and extracting the largest bottle of Jack Daniel’s I’d ever seen. He could have served half the state of Tennessee. I opened my cup’s lid in an effort at solidarity and let him make a generous pour. Technically, the coffee was about as Irish as the Grand Ole Opry.

  Bloom sat down at the edge of his desk. He offered me a seat, but after being on a plane all night, I told him I preferred to stand. There were so many framed handbills and head shots on the wall that they formed a jigsaw puzzle of the man’s life.

  “So,” he said, guzzling the whiskey from his mug. “What the hell happened to the poor girl?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Any idea?”

  “Nope,” I said. “I was hoping you could tell me something.”

  “So very sad,” he said. “So very L.A. I’d like to tell you this was the first time this has happened to a student. But it’s not. Not by a long shot. It’s drugs or boys. Or girls. Or both. Or money. Or power. Most often it’s drugs. Did she have a habit?”

  “Only one I know about is shopping,” I said.

  “You know, heroin is very chic again,” he said. “Very cool. I thought all that went out of vogue when River Phoenix overdosed at the Viper Room. He was a brilliant kid. So much potential. One of my very closest friends produced Mosquito Coast. I knew Harrison long ago. When he worked as a carpenter.”

  He poured out some more whiskey. I thought about asking him if he needed help with the heavy bottle. It looked like I could do a set of one-armed curls with the jug.

  “Was Gabby friends with other students?”

  He shrugged. “Probably,” he said. His cheeks brightening, eyes becoming a bit glassy. “Many of the kids go out for beers after class. I don’t know which ones, but I’d be glad to ask. As far as my relationship, it was professional only. After five wives, I’ve learned to stay far and away from these hungry young creatures. Some of them are actually convinced I can help them with their careers.”

  “And you can’t?”

  “I tell them from day one,” he said. “I can help you become a better actor. I can help you develop your craft. But I am not a businessman. You must separate the art from the business.”

  “Sounds like sleuthing.”

  “Are you not good with business, Mr. Spenser?”

  “I’m a genius with money,” I said. “But I spent it all on gambling and women. The rest I spent foolishly.”

  “George Raft.”

  “No one tossed a coin better,” I said, toasting him with my Tennessee coffee.

  “I have a class tonight,” he said. “I’ll ask about Gabby. How long has she been gone?”

  “Twelve days.”

  “And nobody has seen or heard from her?”

  “No one I’ve spoken to yet.”

  “That’s disturbing,” he said. “Highly disturbing.”

  “Yep,” I said.

  I shook hands with Bloom and let myself out.

  Standing under the old marquee, I saw the rain had returned again, patting the little pools and turning the pavement slick. A lovely vision along Ventura Boulevard and out into the expanse of the Ralphs parking lot. I placed my hands in my pockets and waited for an opening in traffic. Back in Cambridge, it would be dinnertime. Susan would be done with her patients, probably opening up a nice bottle of Riesling and settling in with Pearl for the night.

  I pulled the cap I was sporting that season, the Greenville Drive, down in my eyes. The coffee and whiskey sat heavy in my stomach.

  I headed back to the hotel and waited for a call from Z.

  4

  Back at the Loews across from Z’s office, I changed into gym clothes and did a series of push-ups and sit-ups. A hundred of each. Not my best effort, but better than nothing. After I got a little sweat going, I decided to journey out in the rain for a little jog. I often did my best thinking pounding the pavement or on a barstool. As it was not yet five o’clock, I laced up my running shoes.

  I followed Highland a block over to Hollywood Boulevard and headed for the curved neon sign of the Roosevelt Hotel, passing the Egyptian Theatre and then the Tam O’Shanter, where Walt Disney enjoyed a frequent Scotch Mist. Two men asked me for money. A woman tried to sell me a tour of the stars’ homes. Another man tried to sell me either drugs or sex. He was so smashed, I couldn’t understand him through his broken teeth. I was delighted to see Hollywood was as I’d left it.

  I slowed as I ran past Madame Tussauds. A sign promised up-close-and-personal experiences of replicas of Michael Jackson, Madonna, and Shrek. The time-traveling DeLorean from Back to the Future was parked outside, surrounded by tourists taking selfies. Everyone had a camera. Everyone was smiling except for the homeless people sleeping in empty doorways.

  Rain puddled all along the Walk of Fame. I ran over stars for James Garner. Steve McQueen. Kermit the Frog. I thought about something Gabby’s mother had told me at Harvest. She said Gabby had always been a seeker. I wondered exactly what she’d meant. I should have asked more questions. But at the time all she knew was that her daughter was missing and she’d been unsatisfied by answers from LAPD. Sometimes you headed right into something and figured it out on the fly.

  When I got back to my room, my clothes were soaked from sweat and the rain. I took a hot shower, shaved, and brushed my teeth. I pulled on a pair of 501s, a gray Henley shirt, and a lightweight navy blazer. It would do nicely to cover the shoulder holster and .38.

  I picked up my phone and checked in with Z. He didn’t answer but texted that he’d dropped off the MacBook in K-town. He could meet me later tonight at the Mirabeau on Sunset.

  I sat in the chair by the window and dialed Susan. After several rings, she picked up.

  “Let me guess, you’ve already found Gabby and are headed home,” she said.

  “How did you know?”

  “No soap?”

  “None whatsoever,” I said. “But I did spend some quality time with her ex-boyfriend-turned-agent and her current acting coach.”

  “And?”

  “They knew less than me.”

  “What about the woman she worked for?” she said. “Gabby was her dog walker.”

  “Next on the list,” I said. “Maybe I’ll interview the dogs, too. You know I’m good with animals.”

  “It’s part of your innate mind.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Is there any chance this is a misunderstanding?” Susan said. “Maybe she just went off for a long vacation. Or in a new relationship? And maybe forget to tell anyone?”

  “I went to her apartment this morning,” I said. “Someone made a real mess of it. On the upside, Z knows someone in Canada who can pinpoint Gabby’s cell within a city block.”

  “Is that even legal?”

  “Probably not,” I said. “I don’t want to know.”

  “Have you had any luck with the police?”

  “I have a call in to Samuelson,” I said.

  “This is so awful,” she said. “No parent should ever go through this.”

  “This is Hollywood,” I said. “I’ll search for a happy ending.”

  “You do that.”

  “Love,” I said.

  “Love.”

  5

  Iwish I could help you more, but Gabby quit working for me six months ago,” Nancy Sharp said. She was a trim, athletic-looking woma
n with premature silver hair, shoeless, in black yoga pants and a loose purple shirt that hit her right above the knees. Behind the door, dogs barked and made a lot of racket, Sharp having to shush them and push them back with her hands. Their names were Nanook and Willy.

  “I’ll take what I can get,” I said. “Right now Nanook and Willy know more than me.”

  “And her mother?” she said.

  “Worried sick,” I said. “Can you help?”

  “Of course.”

  She invited me into a classic 1930s Spanish bungalow with stucco walls and a barrel-tile roof. Outside, the landscaping was bougainvillea, lavender, oleander, and some interesting-looking big orange flowers. Some other stuff I could not identify, but knew would never make it through a Boston winter. West Hollywood seemed as exotic as a trip to Bora Bora.

  As I entered, the dogs charged me and began to sniff my legs and hands. I got down on my knees and offered my hands, petting an old brown dachshund with a graying muzzle.

  “That’s Willy.”

  “Hello, Willy,” I said.

  Nanook was much more suspicious, a big Siberian husky with the trademark mismatched eyes, who stood on a couch, barking at me. It wasn’t a mean bark, just a courteous warning. I let her sniff my hand, too. Whatever my smell, it seemed to satisfy her as I took a seat nearby, Sharp still standing.

  It was a pleasant little house with what looked to be original hardwood floors and a small kitchen with an arched entrance framed in Spanish tile. A cup of hot tea sat on a coffee table in front of the leather couch and a television showing the local news was on mute. A small wooden bookshelf overflowed with meditations on Eastern philosophy and best-selling self-help authors. A medium-sized gong had been situated before a large brown sitting pillow.

  The room smelled like the inside of a Cambridge tea shop.

  “Her mother said Gabby mentioned you often.”

  “I liked Gabby a lot,” Sharp said. “I’m sorry. Would you like anything to drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I have some good local beer.”

  “When in L.A. . . .”

  She walked off into the kitchen and returned with an Angel City IPA. She popped the cap and handed it to me. I could see why Gabby Leggett liked Nancy Sharp. The woman liked dogs and had a fridge full of good beer. I decided she was a good and decent person.

  “What can you tell me about Gabby?”

  “What do you know?” she said.

  “I know she worked as a model and wanted to be an actress,” I said. “She was beautiful and some say talented. And I know she has many fans on Instagram wondering why she hasn’t posted in a while.”

  “How many is she up to now?”

  “Forty thousand and some change,” I said.

  “She only had about five or six thousand when she started working for me,” Sharp said, taking a seat by Nanook and tucking her bare feet up under her. “She’s moved up in the world.”

  Sharp reached for the hot tea while I sipped the beer. On the television, the news headlines scrolled 4.0 QUAKE STRIKES NEAR ALTA VISTA.

  “Did something change?”

  “Gabby became a lot more aggressive with her social media,” she said. “She cultivated famous people to follow her and repost. She did a lot of stuff in bathing suits. Some seminude. Not that I’m some kind of prude. Lots of nice trips down to Mexico with beautiful friends and a beautiful life. Parties on the beach. Cocktails at the best clubs.”

  “I often drink mimosas in a thong,” I said.

  “Ha,” she said. “I bet. But for this generation, your life is not fully lived unless you’re sharing it with the world.”

  “I prefer just to be.”

  “Exactly,” she said. “I’d rather just experience what I’m seeing without a buffer, be in the moment rather than recording it for everyone else.”

  “I only take pictures when people are doing very bad things.”

  “Cheaters.”

  “Sometimes,” I said. “But I prefer to eschew divorce cases. Unless money is really low. Or the money they offer is really good.”

  “And who hired you to search for Gabby?”

  “Her mother, Amanda,” I said. “Three days ago the police got involved, but her mother wasn’t satisfied with what they knew or had learned. She asked me to come out here.”

  “And your services don’t come cheap.”

  “Nope,” I said. “They don’t. Although I did fly coach.”

  “You look too big for coach.”

  “Premium economy,” I said. “I need the legroom.”

  “Have you been to Los Angeles before?” she said. She held the tea in one hand and brushed back her straight silver hair with long fingers. Willy pawed at her legs to get up on the couch, his diminutive legs not quite able to make the leap from the floor. She pulled him up and he found a comfortable place in Nancy’s lap. The two dogs continued to eye me with suspicion.

  “A few times,” I said.

  “Know people?”

  “A few,” I said.

  “And do you fear the worst?”

  “I don’t have much to go on,” I said. “But I’ve come across a few details that cause me some concern. Did she ever mention a boy named Eric Collinson?”

  “I know Eric,” she said. “He was an agent of some kind at one of the big ones. ICM. Or maybe Endeavor. One of those Ivy League hipster types. Always backpacking in Argentina or heading up to wine country. He lives quite a curated, beautiful life, too.”

  I named the agency and she nodded.

  “I know they had a rough breakup,” she said. She had to lift her chin and hold her mug high as Willy tried to lick her face. “Eric was completely obsessed with her and wouldn’t let her breathe. After they broke up, I told her to find a new agent.”

  “And why didn’t she?”

  “Apparently Eric is very good,” she said. “And very connected.”

  “Was he abusive?”

  “Not that I know of,” he said. “But he called her all the time. She had to draw some boundaries between the personal and professional.”

  “Eric let me into her apartment today,” I said. “I can’t say we hit it off. He was reluctant to discuss Gabby.”

  “Eric was smitten,” she said. “Gabby was beautiful and very popular. She went from a gee-whiz kid from the East Coast to a big-time player on the party scene.”

  “I doubt dog walking is that lucrative,” I said. “Even in L.A.”

  “She made a decent amount making commercials,” she said. “I seem to recall something for Carl’s Jr. where she had to eat a cheeseburger in a string bikini.”

  “We’ve all been there,” I said.

  She laughed and reached over Willy to put down the tea. I smelled curry coming from the kitchen. Several brown bags of groceries waited on a table near the stove.

  “Did you know any of her other friends?”

  Sharp shook her head. “Other than Eric, I couldn’t tell you,” she said. “When she was here I was at work. We had some pleasant conversations, but often just in passing or when I was paying her for watching these guys.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “I do on-set publicity for film and TV,” she said. “I volunteer a little for a nonprofit.”

  “Eric mentioned she had a new boyfriend, but didn’t give me a name.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” she said. “Have you talked to her friends?”

  “My associate is on that,” I said. I had drained the beer to the halfway point. “He has more cred with the young people.”

  “That happens fast,” she said. “Doesn’t it?”

  “‘Rage, rage against the dying of the light . . . ’”

  “There can’t be that many literate detectives out there.”

  “Only one that I
know,” I said.

  “I guess you want to find the new guy?”

  “Yep,” I said. “We’re going to a place called the Mirabeau tonight. Eric mentioned a friend of Gabby’s named KiKi worked there.”

  “Are you on the list?”

  “Nope.”

  “I can help with that,” she said. “One of the perks of being a publicist. I can open a few doors.”

  I finished the beer and stood. I thanked her for her time, left the empty bottle on her kitchen counter, and bent down to tell Willy good-bye. I scratched his long, soft ears. Willy licked my hand.

  “They’re good judges of character.”

  I smiled. “The best.”

  “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

  “Thank you,” I said. “But duty calls.”

  “Perhaps later, then?” she said. Sharp walked me to the door and leaned her bare shoulder against the frame. Like Gabby, she was quite lithe and had large green eyes.

  “I would,” I said. “But my girlfriend and dog back home might get jealous. Especially the dog.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t see a wedding ring. And you sounded like fun.”

  “More than a barrel of monkeys,” I said.

  6

  If Andy Warhol and Marie Antoinette had gone into the interior decorating business together, they might’ve come up with a place like Mirabeau on Sunset. Big crystal chandeliers, purple velvet sofas, oversized framed photos of famous people, many as naked as jaybirds, and random neon signs reading THE NIGHT IS YOURS and LET THEM EAT CAKE. No detail left unfettered, no extravagance too silly. The clientele was decidedly less beautiful than promised. Women in tiny dresses and six-inch heels and the men in slacker T-shirts and tight ripped jeans. I still remembered when a coat and tie were required at the best clubs. Now it seemed proper grooming would earn you a place at the back of the line.

  “See what I mean,” Z said. I ordered him a Coke while I worked on a Bulleit Rye on the rocks. “Your kind of club.”

  “My pants aren’t torn.”

  “And we’re both wearing jackets.”