by Ace Atkins
“Not this,” he said. “Mr. Yamashiro is missing and I was hoping you could help me find him.”
“Why me?”
“Because I think he went to find that little piece of tail,” he said. “Gabby Fucking Leggett.”
I got dressed and headed back toward the city.
Traffic wasn’t a problem at one a.m. I met Miller back in Hollywood, outside Z’s office. I left my rental and crawled in the front seat of the Lincoln. His windows were cracked and he was smoking a cigarette. “Took you long enough,” he said. His silver hair was barbered into geometrical precision.
“I would’ve flown, but I left my cape back in Boston.”
“Christ,” he said, flicking the nub of a cigarette out the window and starting a new one. “I don’t know where the fuck Jimmy went. I heard his car start and watched him drive off outside my window. I called him three times. The third time he picked up and said he had important business and not to bother him. When I asked him if this had something to do with the girl, he just hung up on me.”
“Gallant,” I said.
“Stupid,” Miller said, trying to blow smoke outside the window. The wind cast it back into the car. From where we parked, I watched two men enter the all-night massage parlor for what I assumed were therapeutic reasons. A crick in the neck. Misaligned vertebrae. A big upcoming playoff game. The bright red-and-green neon in the window buzzed in the darkness along Highland.
“Did he mention any of this to you?”
“Nope,” he said. “None. What about the chick? I thought she denied she was trying to shake Jimmy down.”
“That’s what she told me.”
“That’s bullshit,” he said. “I knew her before she joined up with that freak show. She was just another dumb party girl. Cooze and cocktails. Another skirt for Jimmy to chase until he got bored. Did you ever see the tape?”
“I did.”
“Tell me this, Spenser,” he said. “Man to man. Did that girl look like an unwilling participant?”
“Not at that exact moment,” I said. “She looked like a jockey riding the Triple Crown to the winner’s circle. All that Yamashiro lacked was a saddle and a bit.”
“That’s the way Jimmy liked ’em,” he said. “Big and strong. Won’t date a girl unless she’s taller than him and can make him feel weak. What the hell’s that about?”
“Let’s find him and ask him.”
“How the fuck are we supposed to find a man that doesn’t want to be found in a city of four million?”
“The old-fashioned way,” I said.
“Drive around and look for his red Mercedes coupe?”
“Nope,” I said. “You give me his phone number and I’ll call a friend who can track down his cell phone within a quarter of a mile.”
“Bullshit.”
“You would think,” I said. “But you’d be wrong. We may be the same age, but I’m the very model of a modern major PI. The only reason I couldn’t use it on Gabby is that she’d turned off the phone. If Yamashiro has his with him and it’s on, we’ll find him.”
Miller gave me his number and I called Jem Yoon. She was less than pleased to hear from me at the witching hour and told me it was going to cost me double. Since I didn’t know what the daylight rate was and figured on charging Yamashiro anyway, I happily agreed.
Twenty minutes later, she called back.
“Griffith Park,” I said.
He cranked the ignition, made a wide, sweeping U-turn in the strip mall parking lot, and we took Franklin over to Western, up to where it became Los Feliz, and entered the park. It was almost three now, and we wound around the gentle curves, headlights sweeping over the hills as we drove farther up. A few cars were parked around the entrance to the trails to the observatory. None of them were a red Mercedes coupe.
“Yamashiro is one of the toughest businessmen in the city,” he said. “But he’s pussy blind. Protocol says he shouldn’t even go to the john and take a leak without me and J.J. But fuck, man, there he is, heading high into the hills in the pitch-black night for a fucking blowjob.”
“Maybe it wasn’t Gabby.”
“If it wasn’t Gabby, ten to one it’s another piece of tail.”
“Gee,” I said. “You seem to hold women in high regard.”
“You live in Los Angeles as long as I have, seeing the way these girls work their assets, tossing it in men like Jimmy’s faces, then talk to me about it.”
“I understand Yamashiro made some promises he didn’t deliver.”
“Oh, yeah?” Miller said. “Show me a contract. These girls think he’s gonna snap his fingers and make them goddamn Meryl Streep? Your girl Gabby knew this was a short-term deal. If she couldn’t take it, she shouldn’t have jumped on the carousel.”
“How about you be quiet and look for Yamashiro’s car,” I said. “We don’t share a similar worldview.”
In the passing half-light, Miller looked poised to respond with a smart remark but shut his mouth as we both spotted a red Mercedes coupe, top down, parked across from the Trails Café. “Christ Almighty.”
He parked. We got out.
Griffith Park was very dark and very quiet at night. Miller walked over and looked into the front seats of Mercedes. He checked the glovebox and then met me at the mouth of the trail.
“Maybe he’s out for some fresh air,” I said. “Healthy living.”
“Ordering room service is Jimmy’s idea of exercise.”
We headed onto a well-worn path over a small wooden bridge and past a playground. There were picnic tables and porta-potties and an old brick structure that looked to be in renovation.
“It’s about a mile to the top.”
I shrugged. “Want to race?”
“Don’t kid around,” he said. “This ain’t good.”
Along the curve of the trail, we saw a man walk from a brick building. We stepped back into the shadows. A dull glow shone from the streetlamps along the road.
I heard a car winding its way up the hill and then slowing and idling by the Trails Café. I looked to Miller. In the glow of the security lamps, he looked unshaven and worn out. His black suit was wrinkled and his dress shirt fanned out crooked on the jacket’s lapels. I heard the sound of men talking and then feet on the gravel. The closer the men got, I could tell they weren’t speaking English. Or Spanish. Or even pig latin.
I reached for the gun on my hip. Miller pulled what looked like a Sig from under his coat and we moved into the shadows behind a rock wall.
“A fucking setup.”
“Of whom?”
“Whom?” he said, under his breath. “Christ.”
The man from the building joined two figures I immediately recognized. One of whom Chollo had taken at gunpoint outside the meeting with Mallory Riese. We watched them walk, the bald man grunting out some orders, walking stiff-legged toward the porta-potties. He called out someone’s name, sounding to me like Nishan. He called the man again.
They started opening the doors to the porta-potties. More yelling and pointing. They seemed frantic to find something or someone.
Miller looked over at me, taking careful aim at the figures in the dark. I wondered who had set up whom and what Miller hoped to achieve. I knew I’d be the perfect witness to a justified shooting of some men who’d wanted to shake down his boss. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I figured Gabby Leggett wasn’t within twenty miles of Griffith Park.
Miller closed his left eye, raised his gun, and fired off a warning shot. The Armenians turned, asking no questions, fanning out and into the woods and shadows.
“Never shoot unless you mean it,” I said. “Now they see us.”
I took cover and duck-walked behind the wall, watching two of the figures crouching and moving with stealth in the darkness. They had their guns out, communicating with hand signal
s, going from tree to tree, seeking what little concealment they could find. I, on the other hand, was behind a rock wall and could stay there all night long. At best and in daylight, the short barrel had a range a little less than a football field. I began to wish I’d packed my Browning. And I began to wish I’d invited Chollo along.
Someone was going to be shot. And I didn’t want it to be me.
Miller followed me down the rock wall as the third man came up fast beyond the playground. If Miller could actually shoot, he could drop him cold and hard right by the swing sets.
Miller moved with the steady determination of a man who’d only threatened a gunfight but had never been in one. None of these guys were going to throw up their hands and turn tail back to the road. I felt my adrenaline begin to surge.
The two men were getting closer and closer to the rock wall. If they kept that close, I could come right behind them. I wouldn’t need a hundred yards. I might not need five.
Before I heard the shot, I had it all worked out. Two more shots. Quick cracks and a brief light in the darkness.
I glanced over for just a moment to see Miller drop halfway over the rock wall. The two Armenians ran toward where he fell. I aimed at them both, and one spotted me, raising his gun. Before he could fire, I dropped him at about twenty yards.
The other fired toward me and I felt a chunk of rock fly against my face. I fired two more times and dropped him as well.
The third man, the one who’d shot Miller, ran up into the hills. I ran after him but soon stopped. I caught my breath and noticed I was bleeding down the front of my jacket. I wiped it away and headed back to the playground.
One of the men looked dead. The other looked well on his way. I took both of their guns and walked toward Miller. His body was bent over the rock wall like a sock puppet. His eyes and mouth were wide open, a little bubble of blood on his lips.
I set down the guns and reached into his pocket for the keys. As I did so, I noticed the door to the small brick building wide open. I couldn’t be too sure there weren’t more of them, and headed toward the light, ducking under construction tape. I heard the sound of water running in the bathroom and stepped inside, searching for a light switch that worked. The water continued to run and I felt my Nikes splash through the water as I held up my phone to offer a little light.
In the second stall, I found another man, also very dead. Blood colored the water from the overflowing toilet. His head was cocked in a very unnatural way, with black eyes staring straight ahead and reflecting the light from my cell phone.
The body was dressed in a baby-blue polo shirt and white jeans.
It was Jimmy Yamashiro.
37
How ’bout I drive you over to Anaheim and you can shoot some more people at Disneyland?” Samuelson said. “I think that Donald Duck and his smart attitude has really been asking for it.”
“That’s nice of you,” I said. “But I think I’ve done enough shooting for the night.”
“I’m so glad you’re satisfied, Spenser,” he said. “That makes my life easier.”
It was early morning, nearly eight, and I sat on one of the picnic tables in the park, the entire recreation area taped off as a crime scene. The techs had finished up doing their work in the old bathrooms and two guys from the coroner’s office had unceremoniously loaded Yamashiro’s body on a stretcher and into a black van.
“How’s the guy I shot?”
“You mean the not-yet-dead one?” he said. “You shot him in the stomach. Don’t you remember the Westerns? Gut shot ain’t good.”
“Will he live?”
“Don’t know,” Samuelson said. “I’ll let you know where to send roses. Maybe you can visit him and ask him to forgive you.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“You had a fucking choice the moment you were offered the job,” he said. “You know we have an entire police department who does these kinds of things? Blackmail, missing persons, homicides, we offer it all. By the way, after you found the girl, why didn’t you catch a flight back to Beantown?”
“My work wasn’t done.”
“Is it done now?” Samuelson said. “You got two guys with more ink on them than fucking Rand McNally. Are they the ones who shot Sixkill?”
“Yeah,” I said. “The bald one.”
“You mean the dead one,” Samuelson said. “Are you all even now? You can blow the smoke from that .38 and ride off into the sunset.”
“Your officers took my gun.”
“Good.”
“And my phone.”
Samuelson shrugged. “And what’s next you won’t really like. But I can’t do a goddamn thing about it. You will be transported to headquarters and then county lockup, where you’ll be spending the next few days. That’s unless you know someone who knows a real hot-shit lawyer.”
I shrugged. “I just might.”
“That’s on you,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket and handing me his cell. “Here’s my phone. Fucking call them. But you have presented me with a fine shit show in a very popular and well-known part of the city. Did you know the chief takes a hike here with his wife most mornings? Now he’s going to have to track through this goddamn mess, wanting to know just how in the fuck I’m acquainted with frigging Wild Bill Hickok.”
“Old pals?”
“We were never pals, Spenser,” he said. “Let’s get that straight.”
Several vans from the television stations had parked out on the road. The cameramen taking close shots of Jimmy Yamashiro’s cherry-red Mercedes coupe being loaded up onto a flatbed. The man I’d shot and Miller were still out in the playground, covered in sheets. A crime-scene tech walked by them and marked brass casings with numbered tags. It was all very efficient.
I pushed myself up from the picnic table and called Susan.
“Thank God,” she said.
“Don’t thank him yet,” I said. “I’m going to be a while.”
I told her about what had happened after I met Miller at Z’s office.
“Would it be rotten if I say better him than you?”
“Not at all.”
“And Gabby?”
“Nowhere to be seen,” I said. “I asked Samuelson about Yamashiro’s cell phone, but he was reluctant to pass along details.”
“But he’d gone to meet her.”
“That’s what his man Harvey believed,” I said.
“Will the police talk to Gabby?”
“You bet.”
“And that will be more time before I can speak to her.”
“I need you to call Z and tell him what’s going on,” I said. “Tell him to reach out to Chollo. I need a top-notch lawyer.”
“Sorry,” she said. “I heard Johnnie Cochran is dead.”
“The kind that Victor del Rio has on speed dial.”
“Are you okay?”
“Fine and dandy.”
“You don’t sound it.”
“Call Z,” I said. “I’ll call you when I’m out.”
She told me she loved me. And I told her the same. I handed the cell back to Samuelson. He stood with his back to me, arms crossed over his chest, surveying the scene behind his tinted glasses. What was left of his hair fluttered about in the wind.
“A mess,” he said. “A goddamn mess.”
38
After a long morning and a longer afternoon of questioning, a sharp-dressed attorney named McLaughlin argued for my release. When he joined me in the interview room, he passed along a thick business card with a font you didn’t so much read as feel. I felt for the name, rough and bumpy over my thumb, recognized its legitimacy, and placed it in my jacket.
The lawyer had on a navy pinstripe suit with a white dress shirt and red power tie. His hair was long and slick, combed back into a modern pompadour, and seemed to make the two
cops pressing me seem uneasy. I liked him immediately.
By early evening the cops let me go and McLaughlin offered me a ride in his spiffy silver Audi a few miles away to a plaza that bridged the space between Chinatown and Olvera Street. When he stopped the car, the lawyer pointed out a silver-headed figure in a white linen suit sitting on a park bench. Nearby, a group of children raced around a gazebo on scooters.
I shook his hand, left the Audi, and walked toward Victor del Rio. Del Rio didn’t move his eyes from the children, sitting with his right arm relaxed over the park bench. “Sit,” he said.
I sat.
“You should have brought Chollo,” he said.
“Live and learn.”
“One would think you would have learned by now,” he said. “You are lucky they missed, my friend.”
I touched the wound on my head and decided not to explain it came from a rock fragment. Being grazed by a bullet offered more credibility among criminals. I looked over at del Rio. He’d aged a bit since I’d seen him last, his mustache and heavy eyebrows showing more silver. His hands shook, tracing the head of a hand-carved cane.
“Maybe next time bring Bobby Horse, too.”
I looked around the plaza. I saw Bobby Horse on the opposite side of the gazebo. The big man had on a black leather jacket over a black T-shirt and black jeans. I waved at him. He nodded slightly in my direction. Bobby Horse was thick-bodied and thick-necked, with long black hair starting to turn white. He had on an enormous silver belt buckle that glinted in the fading sun.
“Thanks for getting me out.”
“It’s nothing,” del Rio said. “Nothing at all. We have a long past together.”
“Back to Jill Joyce,” I said.
We sat under the wide sprawling branches of a fig tree. Chinese lanterns had been hung from wires over the plaza, rocking in the fading gold light. Somewhere down Olvera Street, a mariachi band began to play. At that exact location, I was pretty sure I could smell egg rolls and fajitas. Perfect L.A. fusion.
