by Tony Bulmer
To Inez, her role in the US Marshall’s service had been good preparation for the long grinding hours she spent at CCP. Big name Judges weren’t so different from celebrity entertainers, or big cheese financial figures come to think of it. They thought they ruled the world, and expected to be treated accordingly. Tough customers never got any easier. no matter what your line of work.
Her mom thought Inez’s job was a breeze, mixing it with celebrities everyday, it couldn’t be real work could it? Inez told her mom that working for CCP was very similar to working at a big brand convenience store—hours of mindless drudgery, followed by frenetic peaks of adrenaline charged chaos, when some crazed street-robber runs up to the till with a cheap revolver, demanding the nights takings. Her mom just gave her a glazed look, asked her about the stars she read about, in the trash-talking tabloids. Moms are there to be proud, they don’t have to understand, and quite often they don’t. The fact that her mom couldn’t figure out the personal protection business was a disappointment that Inez had long since come to terms with.
Inez lived for the frenetic peaks of her job. What she never got over was the voracious and self-righteous nature of the tabloid media, who dogged so many of CCP’s clients. It seemed that they actively encouraged their representatives to intrude into the private and most sacred space of anyone they considered to be a saleable commodity. The media could be a real problem in the personal protection business—their presence providing the perfect cover for the legion of truly malevolent cranks and stalkers. Inez knew how to play nice with the media when she had to, but she also knew how to kick ass when they crossed the line. As far as she was concerned, the intrusion into the Barrington compound was a major infraction of trust.
She immediately doubled up on perimeter patrols. The teams assigned to the grounds were more than just regular security guards, they were special services professionals, the kind of guys who would have no compunction in dealing with tabloid news hacks, and their sleazy antics. Between patrols, she had the irrigation system switched on, so that a drifting wall of water hosed out, towards the perimeter. As the sprinklers burst into life the assembled ranks of the guerilla press corps were forced to decamp, to find a dryer viewpoint. Then, as the sun sank westwards, Inez had the halide security lights angled away from the building, shining them directly outwards at prying eyes. If that wasn’t enough, she also organized a fast moving loop of decoy cars, who drove into and out of the Barrington property on a 24-hour basis; their aim to confuse and confound watching eyes. The press corps ogled the impenetrable black windows, as the cars passed by; sometimes they even gave chase on motorcycles. But a hard core would remain at the front gate, jostling and plotting as they smoked endless cigarettes and vied for highly prized vantage points, that might yield them an exclusive picture worth thousands.
Watching the gates from her position behind the darkened blinds, Inez heard footsteps.
The pungent aroma of marijuana and cigars circled in around her, ‘When will this end?’ asked Sly Barrington.
Inez didn’t look around, ‘It is never going to end.’
‘Bullshit I been here before girl, this shit always ends sometime, it is the nature of the beast.’
‘Welcome to the next level,’ said Inez quietly.
‘What are you talking about—the next level, what kind of bullshit is that Santos?’
‘Up until now you were just another hip-hop mogul, the public get to see a lot of that, but this Saquina thing, the scene at the Oscars, now the desecrated funeral, you got the question on everybody’s lips Barrington. They think you had a hand in her death.’
‘Bullshit, that bitch was a screwball drug addict, what she did on her own time wasn’t none of my damn business.’
‘What is your business Sly?’
‘Making money—you got a problem with that officer friendly? Because if you have, I can go rent myself some other back-talking motherfucker to keep those damn freaks at the insurance company out of my corporate business.’
‘Uh–huh, working this gig is a big thrill for me too.’ Inez lowered the field glasses, turned slowly to face Barrington. He was standing there silhouetted in the doorway, a heavy stuffed cigar smoldering between his fingers.
‘I couldn’t have saved her, not even if I had wanted too. That girl had a problem with being saved.’ He raised the cigar slowly to his lips, took a puff. Thick clouds of smoke billowed. Light from the corridor filtered in around him, a black shadow in profile.
‘It isn’t just that, you owned that girl—everything she did, everything she sung, all those million selling records. The money came to you, didn’t it—you want to know how that makes you look?’
‘You think I give a damn about that? Folks have been slandering me since I was in the seventh grade. Truth is Saquina Johnson didn’t have the talent to write those hits. Sure, she had a sweet little voice, looked cute in a short skirt—but that was all she had—the chick couldn’t read a score if her life depended on it. The only thing that made her think she was a musician, were the drugs. That chick was a walking cliché, the more she got the more she needed, not only that, the crazy little dyke had no idea about public image. She was a walking liability to herself and everyone around her. The songs, the image, everything about that girl was created by me, so I deserve every damn cent she owed me and more besides—working with that little Prima Donna was a living nightmare.’
‘Problem is, people think you had her killed, you know that don’t you? And now the press are going to hound you—you are the bad guy, the face behind the tragedy.’
‘End of the week Slycorp is going to the top of the Fortune 500 baby, those cranks in the media can talk all they like, and when they done talking, their billion words will translate into dollars, everyone of them going into my pocket—fuck ’em, and their opinions too.’
‘So, now you find yourself getting shot at in public, by some crank who blames you for the girls death.
Don’t you watch the news, girl? Turns out those so-called gunshots were nothing more that a car back firing,’ laughed Barrington throatily.
We both know different, so does everybody who was there. We got two bulletproof cars full of fifty-caliber holes to prove it.
Barrington laughed, took a pull on his cigar, ‘When my people catch up with that shooter, he’s going to be nothing more than a grease stain on the pavement. So don’t you worry your pretty little head about it Santos, you are here as window dressing, nothing more. Go ahead—take a look out the window with your fancy binoculars and see what you can see, because end of the week you will be back to your boring little life with Danny Costello and those-low budget Hollywood types you like to suckle money out of.
Barrington blew a cloud of smoke and stalked out of the room. Inez heard his footsteps receding down the marbled corridor, slow and easy like he didn’t have a care in the world. Inez knew different. The hitter with the military grade fifty-cal was no casual crank, he was a hardcore killer, had to be with that kind of weaponry. Right now the killer would be burning that he had missed his mark. He would be looking for another opportunity to make a kill, which meant he would try again and soon.
Dead Famous 37
After reviewing the Peninsula tapes, there was one person I wanted to talk to. Unfortunately I couldn’t find him anywhere. Shaquil Johnson had gone to ground, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to zero in on his whereabouts.
I figured he would run back to the Barrington place, with his acolytes, full of bullshit bravado as to the events at the graveyard. A quick call to Inez revealed that Shaqi-J was a no-show at Casa Barrington, which seemed suspicious. Where the hell was he—in hiding? What did a nasty little street weasel like Shaqi-J have to hide from anyway? His gangland persona glorified the culture of guns, drugs and casual violence. The way he rapped in his so-called songs, you would think he got shot at every day, and twice on Sundays. What did he have to fear?
Getting shot at is no fun. I should know. I have bee
n shot at more than most. I figured Shaqi-J for a pretender, a soft-core street boy made good. It is hard to go back into the world of street politics, after the easy life of big bucks stardom has taken hold. It seemed to me, that faced with such an unthinkable fate, the first thing a phony little weasel like Shaqi-J would do, would be to hold up the white flag.
I knew from the events at Club Zoo, that Shaqi-J had Southside connections. It made sense therefore, that he would head down town to Long Beach, to visit his buddy Myron Chimola, head of the Southside crew. Chimola was the kind of gangster who could call shots and catch them too. If there was a hit out on Shaqi-J, Myron Chimola was just the kind of guy to nix it—for a fee of course.
So I got in the Dodge and headed south.
Heading down the 405 for Long Beach, I gave City Attorney Cheyenne Wallis a call, strictly in the spirit of co-operation you understand. Five maybe six rings, and she picked up, her voice smooth like smoked-beech wood.
‘Danny, how are you? I hear you had problems over at Forest Lawns, I trust you weren’t injured in anyway?’ her voice purring now like she was asking if I wanted cream and sugar in my coffee.
‘Commissioner Jardine told me the fifty-caliber bullet holes in my vehicles were caused by a car backfiring, so I feel much safer now, as must the City of Los Angeles.’ Heading South on the 405, I skirted through the Artesia badlands, past Inglewood and Compton and the area that used to be called South Central. ‘I figured I would give you a call in the spirit of co-operation, let you know my movements.’
‘Very gracious of you Danny, where are you exactly?
‘Heading south to Long Beach.’
‘A wonderful part of our fair city, do you have relatives down there?’
‘I am on the way to visit Myron Chimola.’
‘I wouldn’t advise that Danny, he is not known for his sense of humor, he might misinterpret your very unique style of doing business.’
‘I am shocked that you would even suggest that.’
‘In the spirit of co-operation, I have to advise you that you are heading into trouble, big trouble—the kind of trouble you might not come back from.’
‘Anyone ever tell you, you got one voluptuous speaking voice miss Wallis?’
A brief pause, then, ‘I don’t believe anyone ever said that about my voice Danny.’
‘That’s the problem, most people don’t notice things like that.’
‘This is exactly what I mean about your sense of humor Danny.’
‘Much as I would like to debate that, I think it would be better to discuss the matter over dinner.’
‘Are you asking me out Danny—on a date?’
‘That sound crazy to you miss Wallis? I figured I waited around for you to make the call, you would keep me waiting ’til a blue moon Tuesday.’
Cheyenne Wallis gave an amused snort, ‘You assume a lot Danny.’ She paused. Thought. Said, ‘You got a deal, but this time I get to choose where we go.’
I said, ‘You got it, long as I don’t have to wear a coat and tie, those sort of places give me the heebie-jeebies, but getting back to business, there is something you can help me with.’
‘Now you hit me with the ulterior-motive, friends don’t hit up friends for favors unless they are prepared to give favors in return.’
‘Real deep, you read that off a Snapple cap?’
‘I cannot give you information about Chimola Danny. It would be quite illegal.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of forcing you to do anything illegal, far from it, all I was looking for was a confirmation.’
‘A confirmation would be quite different, as would a hypothetical question.’
‘An interesting point of law your worshipfulness, I will take care to remember that whenever I need to pry secrets out of you.’
‘What do you need Danny? I got work to do. If you are looking for an address on Chimola, I cannot give you that, but it is public knowledge he has a property in South Wrigley, a lot of Property. He also has a record company called Anyang entertainment—they have an office on the Boulevard north of seventh. I hear it is something of local landmark, so it shouldn’t be too hard to find.’
‘Well thanks for that, you are sweeter and more personable than Google, or any of those other inter-web search thingumies, I will be sure to give you a call if I need any further assistance in the future.’
‘Take care Danny, we got dinner to think about, how does pizza sound, I know a very sweet Italian place just off Santa Monica, real home cooking and the nicest people you could meet, I think you’ll like it.’
I told her that idea sounded just fine.
Fine and then some.
I closed the phone with Cheyenne Wallis, and headed into the dark industrial hinterland of Long Beach. As I rode the 710 Freeway, monstrous oil refineries and container terminals that served the giant port, rose up around me, like giant black skeletons in the dusk. I had a real short time to find Myron Chimola, but I needn’t have worried south Long Beach was the kind of hood where strangers asking questions about gangsters got answers and fast.
Dead Famous 38
The low-rise boulevard in Long Beach was shabby and nondescript. As I drove through the Westside, the neighborhood showed the scars of recessionary times. Headline retail attractions were strictly low-brow: a string of grimy auto-repair shops, a shoe-value warehouse, and a host of downbeat liquor stores lined the strip. As the evening turned to night, the nocturnals emerged from the dark apartment hinterland of Wrigley and the surrounding neighborhoods. Groups of street corner toughs, hanging out with friends; blue-collar folks heading back from their day; a smattering of jangling teenagers, some on bikes, some not. South Long Beach wasn’t so different from a thousand neighborhoods just like it; a little threadbare, and grey around the edges? Sure it was— welcome to the new urban America—a place untroubled by the utopian dreams of yesteryear, a place tuned instead, to the hard-bitten realities of the now.
Cruising south Wrigley block by block, it didn’t take me long to find Anyang Entertainment. The building was a trim seventies refurb, between a tattoo parlor and an all hours liquor mart. A giant neon crocodile crawled down the front of the building, within its body, the glowing legend Anyang. A group of shaven headed youths loitered out front. The fashion cues of the moment were wife-beater singlets and over-length shorts. Gang tattoos and attitude abounded, one old guy sat out front of the building in a battered orange armchair. As I approached I noticed he was clutching a tight wrapped can of booze, like his life depended on it. He shot me a red-eyed gaze, as I pulled to the kerb. ‘Looking for ink homes?’ he croaked, in a rasping down home tone so booze addled it was barely intelligible. The boys in the wife-beater vests shambled up to my Dodge pick up and regarded it with interest.
‘You the man to see pops?’
The old man let out a guttural cackle, ‘Hell no sonny, my goddamn hands ain’t good for shit except drinking whiskey, you want ink step right inside and see my boy Armando, he’ll fix you an arm like you never seen before.’
I folded out a fifty, smoothed it lengthwise, then folded it in half, held it in the light so the old man could see, ‘I’m looking for Myron Chimola—you seen him around?’
The old man stared up at me with bloodshot eyes, said, ‘Hell, yes, I seen him, but he don’t take kindly to visitors, specially the anemic variety, if you know what I am saying.’
I gave the old man my most charming smile, ‘Two things pops, I lay this fifty on you I expect to see wheels on my truck when I come out; second, I want you to promise me you will use this money to grab yourself some healthful eats, none of that greasy fried crap they peddle down here. I lowered the bill within snatching range and it disappeared pronto, like a Vegas card trick.
The old man laughed, said, ‘You better watch out for that Chimola sonny, he’s a real motherfucker. He will light up like you like you wuz a Roman-Candle, you don’t watch yourself. He’ll torch a motherfucker, just so as he can see them burn to death in the stre
et, I am telling ya!’
I flipped the old man a wink and a cheeky pistol finger, ‘Watch the wheels.’
The old man just cackled, tucked his newfound wealth inside his pants. They don’t call it filthy lucre for nothing.
Walking in the front door of Anyang entertainment was a surprise. I was expecting a pimped out office with computers and photocopiers and bustling staff members speaking into phones. None of that—the reception area, if you could call it that, was a dark corridor, lit by a buzzing black light. A thick, prison-style gate partitioned the corridor at the entrance, at the other—a heavy, steel riveted door loomed menacingly in the gloom. A fly fizzed and burned, as it flew into the black light. A buzzer sounded and the prison gate door swung open. The heavy painted metal was pockmarked with years of careless usage. I stepped through the gate, and it swung closed behind me with a resounding clang. Walking forwards, I noticed I was passing through the loops of an airport style security detector. A pause. The distant throb of heavy dance music. I stared up at the steel riveted door, noticed a domed security camera mounted in the ceiling. Myron Chimola wasn’t taking any chances. With these kind of security measures, no one was entering, or leaving Anyang entertainment without the management’s say so.
