Angel Eyes

by Ace Atkins

  “Isn’t that so cute?” said the young man behind the register. He was blond and lean, wearing the logo of the store on a black T-shirt. He reached down to pat the head of a Great Dane that lay on an oversized pillow.

  “Too cute,” I said, my right hand moving away from the gun.

  The front door was propped open and I could smell the rain. The big dog was sound asleep, snoring deep.

  “Want me to ring that up?”

  “Too small for my dog.”

  “What kind of dog do you have?”

  “A brown German shorthaired pointer,” I said. “Her name is Pearl.”

  “Perhaps a raincoat, then?” he said. “I bet Pearl would love a slicker. We have some new ones in stock on the rack over there.”

  “She likes to get wet,” I said. “She also likes mud.”

  “We have booties,” he said. “That way your dog doesn’t track mud in the house. My dog just loves ’em.”

  “I can hardly imagine,” I said, acting as if I were interested, checking out the canine footwear and glancing out onto the sidewalk and across the street. I saw two women pass, one old and one in her twenties. The younger woman was pushing a stroller. I didn’t see the other man in the raincoat.

  I didn’t see Chollo, though I knew both to be out there.

  A woman in tall heels, wearing a Western fringe jacket, walked in with two leashed Siberian huskies. She began to talk to the guy at the register about how to stop constant shedding.

  The trick was to follow one of the men, or both, without them knowing they’d been spotted. Or at least that was the plan. If I could separate one from the other, so much the better. I might be able to appeal to his better nature and find out exactly why they wanted me to stop looking for Gabby Leggett. And perhaps who had sent them.

  I headed back in the rain. The clerk thanked me for dropping by. I continued to walk south on Robertson. As I turned, I looked in the opposite direction but didn’t see anyone. I put my hands in my jacket pockets and continued to move. I had on an Under Armour zip-up workout shirt that hung a few inches below my belt line. I could reach for my revolver faster than Killer Miller. Although shooting someone so close to Beverly Hills might be viewed as tacky.

  While I walked along the tree-lined street, I spotted Chollo a block over, heading in the opposite direction. The rain had picked up and he darted into a large glass-front specialty store called Kitson. I ran across the street and joined him inside the shop, which sold novelty items for L.A., including hundred-dollar T-shirts that proclaimed Bloody Marys to be the Breakfast of Champions.

  “I followed him up to Third Street,” Chollo said. “There was a car waiting for him. Silver Mercedes SUV. He got in and headed West. I would have followed, but I parked near you.”

  “The other one?”

  “I only saw one,” Chollo said. “Maybe the other was the driver?”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “Or maybe the other one is still out here.”

  Chollo nodded.

  I picked up a terry-cloth robe with I’M KIND OF A BIG DEAL embroidered on the back. “For Hawk?”

  “Hawk doesn’t need to be reminded.”

  I looked at the price tag and set it back on the table. Chollo headed out the front door. I waited a beat and then followed, walking in the direction of my rental. I got in and started the engine, the windshield wipers going back and forth. A block over, I watched as Chollo walked into the plaza between the office building and The Henry.

  Five minutes later, he reappeared, trailing the bald man. I drove out into traffic and U-turned toward the sidewalk. Chollo opened the door and pushed the man inside. He had an aggressive face with beady eyes and a hooked nose, and the stubble on his face was slightly longer than the hair on his head. Under the raincoat, he had on a denim shirt unbuttoned low, showing off the edge of a colorful tattoo. Everyone out here seemed to have tattoos. I was starting to feel left out.

  “This him?”

  “Yep,” I said.

  “You always shop with a Glock?” Chollo said. “You afraid one of these rich old ladies going to take you down, ese?”

  The bald man didn’t answer as I pulled into traffic.

  “This one stinks,” Chollo said. “Too much cologne, my friend. Just a touch. A touch.”

  I headed back toward Z’s office and my hotel. I wasn’t sure if the men knew where Z worked or if we’d just been tailed from earlier that day. When I’d brought up the issue with Z the day before, he’d outlined the many security measures in place to stop someone from getting inside his office. The front door was locked at all times and a multitude of video cameras kept watch on his floor and down in the alley beside him. He promised he had more ammo than the Bolivian Army when they cornered Butch and Sundance.

  “Where to?” I said.

  “Somewhere quiet,” Chollo said. “Where we might have a pleasant chat.”

  A few miles down Sunset, I pulled in behind an empty strip mall. I killed the engine. Rain tapped at the windshield. Chollo was right, the bald man had been generous with the cologne. I started the car again and cracked a window. I breathed in the sweet smell of the back alley.

  I glanced into my rearview. No one said a word. Then the man jumped for the door handle and Chollo cold-cocked him with his gun. The man held his head, a respectable goose egg beginning to form, a trickle of blood zigzagging down his face.

  “Although it would give me great pleasure,” Chollo said, “I don’t want to shoot you.”

  The windshield wipers cut on, slapping once to clear the glass. The back of the strip mall was crowded with overflowing dumpsters and busted delivery crates. Nearby stood what looked like some kind of lean-to fashioned with trash bags and old grocery carts. When I flicked on my high beams, it looked to be abandoned.

  “Why do you want to harm this man?” Chollo said, nodding toward me.

  The Armenian didn’t answer.

  “Why does Sarkisov care about a missing girl?” I said.

  Again no answer. The bald man shuffled in his seat. He glanced up to the rearview with his black eyes.

  “We didn’t want to shoot your friend,” he said. “That was your problem.”

  “Why don’t you want us to find Gabby Leggett?” I said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Does Sarkisov know her?” I said.

  “It’s just a job,” he said. “Just a job. They say nothing to me.”

  “Do you know a man named Jimmy Yamashiro?” I said.

  He didn’t answer. Harpo Marx, Marcel Marceau. He was up there with the great ones.

  “You know that woman I met today? Were you there to watch out for her?”

  He looked over to Chollo and then again at me in the rearview. He finally gave a quick and easy nod and smiled. He had very bad teeth. Small, sharp, and yellow. “You don’t know who you fucking with, man. Sarkisov will eat up your assholes.”

  I looked to Chollo. “Yikes.”

  “Not so appetizing,” Chollo said, speaking with a lot of force. “But I’m not so afraid.”

  “Me either,” I said. “Although it did make me tighten up a little.”

  “What do we do with him?”

  “Take his gun,” I said. “Leave his cojones.”

  “Get out,” Chollo said, pocketing the man’s pistol. “And don’t look back. Unless you want to get shot.”

  The man walked away briskly. He did not look back.

  22

  Imet Z at the Frolic Room later that afternoon. I drank a Dos Equis as he sipped on a Coke, waiting for Jem Yoon. Z had sent her over to a HELIOS outreach center in Echo Park, hoping she’d gather some useful information.

  We sat along the long vintage bar, staring at the multicolored liquor bottles and framed black-and-white photographs. Behind my back, Hollywood legends scowled at me from a Hirschfeld mura
l.

  “I heard this is where the Black Dahlia had her last drink,” Z said.

  “That’s not a good omen.”

  “Or maybe she wasn’t here at all,” Z said. “Never know what’s real in Los Angeles.”

  “Those Armenians were real.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Z said, lifting his Coke with his right hand. He wore his black leather jacket over his shoulders and arm sling like a bullfighter’s cape. “Glad you brought Chollo today.”

  “Now we know HELIOS sent them to watch us.”

  “Are we sure?”

  “Pretty sure,” I said. “Although that guy we picked up may have just wanted out of the car.”

  “With Chollo holding a gun on him?” Z said. “A more-than-distinct possibility.”

  I ordered another Dos Equis with lime. I figured after a hard day’s work I deserved it. The old jukebox played Louis Armstrong singing a duet with Louis Jordan. “Life Is So Peculiar.” One of my all-time favorites.

  “Is this what you’d call real music?” Z said.

  “Louis and Louis?” I said. “Would you like me to sing along?”

  “Would you be offended if I said no?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Should we talk with LAPD?” Z said, absently stirring his Coke with the straw. “About what you suspect with the Armenians and HELIOS?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “We only have a possible connection to HELIOS through a very disreputable thug with a horrible dental plan.”

  “And what are we?”

  “Reputable thugs with good teeth,” I said. “Trying to stay one step ahead of the bad guys and the cops.”

  I drank more of the beer, trying to prolong the second cold bottle.

  A half-hour later, Jem Yoon walked in through the front door. Her hair was blue today, pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore big black sunglasses along with her black biker jacket. Her T-shirt read THE RUNAWAYS. Without a word, she tossed down a handful of pamphlets and a few DVDs onto the bar. “They fucking loved me,” Jem Yoon said. “Wanted me to sign up for an executive leadership course right away.”

  “That hair screams success,” I said.

  “Was it okay to put the five grand on your credit card?” she said. “I lifted your numbers online last night.”

  “She’s kidding,” I said, looking to Z. “Right?”

  Z shrugged, hunkered over his Coke, glancing down the bar toward a flat-screen television playing highlights from last year’s Super Bowl. Sony Michel scoring the only touchdown in the entire game. The whole thing what they called a defensive battle, no one scoring a touchdown until the fourth quarter. I’d watched the entire game with Hawk at Vinnie Morris’s bowling alley.

  “These people are very intense,” she said. “They asked me a lot of personal questions. They wanted to know where I’d heard of them. I said I’d read some good things online.”

  “Jem is the best at bullshit,” Z said.

  “Excuse me?” she said. “I was prepared and ready. I made up a brand-new life. I have several online identities I use from time to time. One is a rich L.A. socialite with more money than brains. I acted that one up. I played very ditzy. Very curious about personal growth and all that. I told them that I yearned for a deeper philosophical meaning to life. I did that whole bullshit vocal-fry thing. You know what that is? Right?”

  “Can I buy you a drink for your efforts?” I said.

  “Jack Daniel’s, double,” she said. “Water back.”

  “Wow,” I said. “My admiration for you only grows.”

  “Even at the height of my boozing,” Z said, “this woman could’ve drunk me under the table.”

  I flipped through the reading material, much more detailed than the pamphlets I’d found at the center on La Brea. They were slick and bold and offered dates and times of courses being taught in Los Angeles and New York. Many of the pages highlighted big pictures of Joseph Haldorn with words like visionary and genius in the cutlines. Women encircled him as he raised his hands and offered what I assumed were nuggets of wisdom. In most shots, he intently looked at the camera with his pale blue eyes.

  The bartender laid down Jem Yoon’s whiskey on a cocktail napkin.

  “Did they talk much about Haldorn?” I said.

  “They pretty much only talked about Haldorn,” she said. “According to the two women I met, his success programs can change my meaningless life. They said he’s figured out a system to hack into the human brain.”

  “And then?” Z said.

  “And then we don’t know,” Jem Yoon said. The jukebox now playing some Lee Hazlewood with Nancy Sinatra singing “Some Velvet Morning.” I figured Hazlewood and Sinatra were an acquired taste, too. I needed to stick with them longer.

  “When can you start?” I said.

  Jem Yoon smiled. “First, we must discuss my hourly rate.”

  I turned to Z. “Is she worth it?”

  “Every nickel,” he said.

  “You boys don’t have a choice,” Jem Yoon said, draining her glass and motioning to the bartender for another. “I got the impression that it’s women only. Unless you and Z want to go deep undercover. Wigs, makeup, the whole nine yards.”

  “I’m confident in most things,” I said. “One being that I would make a very ugly woman.”

  Z nodded in agreement. I flipped through the guidebooks and worked the second half of the beer. I continued to read and scan through the pictures. I looked at picture of Haldorn on a horse. Haldorn playing volleyball. Haldorn being adored by a huge audience. Haldorn shaking hands with the Dalai Lama at a private reception. I kept on reading until I spotted a familiar face in a crowded photograph.

  I lifted my chin at Z and pointed to a group photograph of the HELIOS executive board. I tapped at one face at the far end. An attractive middle-aged woman with a silver bob. I tapped at the photo with my index finger.

  Z looked down at the page, reading the names. “Nancy Sharp.”

  “Gabby’s old boss,” I said. “The one who knew so little about her life. I’d never even given her a second thought.”

  “I know I’m still new at this,” Z said. “But I take it we’ve found a clue.”

  Z and Jem Yoon looked over at me from down the bar. I took a dramatic pause to lift my beer and drain the rest of the bottle.

  “Good work?” Jem Yoon said.

  I nodded. And ordered her another drink.

  23

  Iwaited with Z outside Nancy Sharp’s bungalow for nearly three hours until she finally showed up. We were parked across the street and watched as she let herself in a side door and began to turn on the lights. The front door soon opened and she had both dogs on leashes and looked to have changed from heels into running shoes.

  The moon was high over Hollywood, coating the perfect square lots and sprawling hills with a bright silver glow.

  I got out and met her on the sidewalk. Z remained in the passenger seat and watched me through the open window. Sharp still had on her dress clothes, wide-legged black slacks with a gray sleeveless velvet top. When I walked up, she seemed genuinely glad to see me.

  “Hello, stranger,” she said, brushing away her silvery bangs. “A little late for dinner.”

  “I was in the neighborhood,” I said, squatting down to pat her old dachshund on his head. He licked my hand as the husky eyed me with great suspicion. Willy and Nanook. Nice animals. But then again, Hitler loved dogs.

  “Of course,” she said. “Anything on your mind?”

  “How about HELIOS?”

  Her face changed very little, a little softening around the mouth, as if I’d just hurt her feelings. “Of course,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Gabby was a member.”

  “Where exactly did you hear that?”

  “A woman she tried to recruit,” I said
. “Were you the one who brought her in? Or is that how you met?”

  She stared at me, gathering the leashes into one hand. “I really must walk these dogs,” she said. “They haven’t been out all day. And it’s very late.”

  “I understand,” I said. “I’ll walk with you. I’m good with animals.”

  We walked for a bit along Orange Grove Avenue, block after block of small mod houses and classic California bungalows. Her dogs seemed to accept me tagging along for their nightly routine as they sniffed at hidden messages along walls and mailboxes.

  “I hope you understand why I didn’t mention Gabby’s involvement in the group.”

  “Not really.”

  Nancy Sharp cut her eyes over at me briefly as we walked. Nanook strained at his leash, choking and panting, while Willy seemed content hobbling along.

  “I don’t know why you’d waste your time wanting to know about an executive training course while Gabby is out there still missing.”

  “The devil resides in the details.”

  “What is it you wish to know?”

  “Quite a bit,” I said. “How long has Gabby been a part of your group?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “Again, what does it matter?”

  I didn’t answer as we waited for Nanook to take care of some very important business. The suspense of will he or won’t he was killing us both. She reached for a large plastic bag in her pocket. Speaking with Nancy Sharp, I felt I needed to prepare the same way.

  “The whole time she’s been in L.A.?”

  “Oh, God, no,” she said. “She was really new at this. She’d just gotten started. A real newbie in the program. Gabby had a lot of issues that she wanted to work through. Very deep and very emotional issues. I believe she was making a lot of progress when she disappeared.”

  “Did you mention your group to the police?”

  “They didn’t ask,” she said. “HELIOS is an executive training program with branches all across the country. I know hundreds of women in L.A. who’ve benefited from the seminars and online classes. Actresses, executives, multimillionaires. They say it saved their lives. This dealt with her professional life. Her career. And had nothing to do with whatever happened to her.”