by M. Z. Kelly
“Guy can’t help seeing what’s in front of him.”
Charlie tossed his paper plate in the trash can. The radio was playing, the station slightly off dial. Frank Sinatra did a fuzzy version of “Stardust.” Maybe my partner had never heard of iPods? Then I remembered he did have an iPhone.
“Drake was meeting with Jankowitz,” Charlie said, sucking a tooth. “Probably letting him know one of his officers is under investigation.”
I ran a fork through the rice on my burrito plate. My working relationship with Captain Jankowitz was probably history. Jank was a good guy, one of the few. He’d been supervising the unit while we waited for a promotion. A couple of more bites and I pushed the plate over to Charlie.
“Pearl Kramer agreed to help out,” I said quietly.
His mouth-loader, a fork full of cheese and beans, stopped in midair. Daddy death said, “Don’t suppose I can talk you out of this?”
“No, and by the way, thanks for talking to Bautista. He called Kramer.”
“Didn’t think it would do any harm to let him know what’s happening.”
The mouth-loader dumped. Charlie ran a hand across his day-old stubble. It looked like he was wearing the same shirt he’d changed into after the Harry Wiener shuffle a couple of days ago.
“You need to think this through again, Kate. You know as well as I do the kind of shit you’re gonna be in if IAD finds out.”
“There’s only one kind of shit, Charlie. The kind that stinks until you wash it off.” I blotted my lips with a paper napkin. “I can’t stand by and let an innocent cop be set up.”
More burrito and a head shake, then a pink message slip came across the desk. “Kramer called for you an hour ago. He wants you to meet him at the Marquee Manor at nine tonight.” He set his fork down, looked me in the eyes and said, “Do me a favor and be careful.”
I put the message in my purse. “Save your worrying for your teenage daughter, Charlie. I’m all grown up, remember?”
***
It was just after nine when Natalie and I pulled to the curb a block up from the Marquee Manor. Mom gave me a Hollywood history book for Christmas once, so I knew that the hotel was built in the former strawberry fields of West Hollywood in the late twenties. It housed east coast stars who worked under contract on the first talkies of the era.
The stars and talent agents were long gone. Another kind of contract was now being negotiated at the Manor.
Pearl got out of his Forerunner and greeted us, commenting on Natalie’s attire.
“Thought I should try to fit in,” Natalie offered. “Wouldn’t wanna look like a radish in a meat market.”
I’d done a pre-Manor lecture with Natalie, ending in, “We’re only going to the hotel to ask a few questions.”
It fell on deaf ears. My youthful snoop sister was wearing an ultra-tight semi-transparent blouse tied at the midriff, a chartreuse micro-mini skirt, and a pair of knee-high Pajar boots. Her clothes and makeup screamed, Fuck Me. No chance this girl would be mistaken for a vegetable.
As I was trying to make sure Bernie was comfortable in Olive, he bolted. Fur and lust ran down the street and hopped over a fence. I gave chase and found my hairy partner in a backyard doing a Jessica Barlow-Marvin Drake nose bob with a border collie. Like a parent with an out of control teenager, I marched him back to the car. After a proper scolding, I put him in the backseat and locked the door.
“He’s hornier than a dog with two dicks,” Natalie said.
“Must come with the territory,” I said, referencing the parade of johns and working girls.
Pearl lifted his gaze up the street to the dimly lit gray-and-brown Spanish colonial hotel. “Worked this area with vice back in the nineties. The place hasn’t changed much from what I understand. Some of the rooms still rent by the hour.”
“Do you think the killer’s here?” Natalie asked. “Maybe I shoulda brought Clyde’s pistol. I shot it once by accident, almost parted Clyde’s hair. Blew out a window.”
Pearl shook his head. “I don’t think we’ll find any killers tonight.” He smiled at me. All I could do was shrug.
“According to what Bautista told you,” Pearl said to me, “we know Cassie Reynolds was working for a pimp named Maurice Simpson. From what I’ve learned, Simpson and his girls spend time here as business warrants. If his girls are working out of the Manor, we can ask them about Cassie.”
We walked up the street, stopping about thirty yards from the hotel. The walkway leading to the manor was bordered by palms and dead grass. Several ducks floated in a pond near the entrance.
Pearl removed his overcoat and said, “A couple of Simpson’s girls are meeting us in room 213. Give me ten minutes, then come on up.”
We tried to keep our distance as the skin parade circled the hotel. I’d tossed on a pair of old jeans and a sweater before leaving home, a concession to the cool, foggy evening. Natalie, on the other hand, stuck out like a red flag at a bullfight.
In no time, a matador rolled up; his window came down. He asked for something other than a bull. Natalie, mustered all her tact and said, “Take your limp pecker over to the pond and hump a duck.”
Another customer followed. I held Natalie back and walked up to his open window with my badge. “Drive yourself over to the Hollywood Station and turn yourself in to the desk sergeant for soliciting prostitution from an undercover cop.”
Our john was in his early thirties, well-dressed. His voice cracked, “What is this, some kind of setup?”
“You’re on the LAPD sex cam.” I pointed to a white van parked up the street. “The camera is in the van over at the curb. They’ve got everything on video, including your license number. An undercover officer will follow you to the station.”
He pulled away from the curb and made a U-turn, slowing down as he passed the white van.
“Maybe we could do one of those reality TV shows,” Natalie suggested as we walked into the hotel lobby. “Call it, Peek-a-boo-Pecker.”
Figuring enough time had gone by, we moved up a stairway that encircled the mezzanine, and had two more offers before we got to room 213.
The room Pearl rented was small and furnished with the latest in Goodwill castoffs. A single table, laminated dark mahogany, held a lamp that cast a dull glow across the room. The shades were drawn beneath dirty blue tie-back curtains. The bed was a Spartan affair with a dark-brown cover. No headboard. If it had one there would have been a two-word advertising slogan: Jiffy Fuck.
Pearl was in a chair across from two women who were in pre-attack mode. He offered money for information. As it turned out, information was harder to come by than sex. The older of the two women, heavyset, black, and in gold spandex, came off the bed.
“Mo,” Pearl said by way of introduction just before the prostitute turned on the retired detective.
“I knew this was some kinda bullshit setup the minute I laid eyes on you.” Mo waved a hand toward Natalie and me. “Looks like they can keep you busy without our help.”
The other girl, named Hoover, took up where Mo left off. “They’re fucking cops.” She stood, walked around the room, simultaneously throwing her arms and obscenities into the air. The prostitute was dressed in a plaid schoolgirl outfit, but I doubted this girl had ever made the honor role.
“Just so you know,” Hoover went on, “I don’t fuck no senior citizens, I don’t fuck no cops, but…” She stopped, walked over to Natalie, hands on her hips. “…if you want the lesbo virgin to fuck me I might consider doing a freebie.”
Natalie smiled in her disarming way, politely saying, “I don’t mean to lace into ya or anythin’, but just so you know, I’m not a virgin. Dropped me cherry in a schoolyard—not the best experience, by the way.” Pearl and I covered smiles as she added, “And while I don’t wanna go bustin' a payday and I don’t got nuthin’ against it, just for your information, I don’t lick the lettuce.”
I gave Natalie a head shake. She clamped her lips shut as Pearl said, “We just wa
nt to ask you both a few questions. Only take a couple of minutes.”
Mo sat back on the bed, but Hoover wasn’t having any part of it. She tried to push past me to the door. “Outta my way, I gotta make rent.”
I blocked the exit, my irritation rising. My hands came up and I pushed her back, just above two very large breasts; silicone desperately seeking air.
“I know a place where the rent is free,” I said. “It’s over on Wilcox Street. Maybe you’ve seen it. There’s a bunch of black-and-white cars in the parking lot.”
Pearl stood and spoke up again, “I’ve got a hundred dollar bill, ladies. All I need is ten minutes and some information.”
Mo was off the bed faster than a cat under a rocking chair. “Hundred bucks get you five minutes. That’s all.” She motioned to Hoover. “Let her go and we’ll have a little chit chat.”
A protest followed, Hoover probably thinking that she’d just missed out on the easiest payday of her life. It was too late.
Natalie already had the door open. “Have a great evening, pet. Sorry ‘bout getting you all into a paddy over nuthin’.”
The young prostitute turned back to Pearl before she left. “Hundred bucks—that booshit.” She cut her eyes back to Natalie and ran a tongue over her ruby lips. “I can make that in less than five minutes.”
“Fraid the poor girl’s full of the malarkey,” Natalie said after she was gone.
Mo sat down and stuffed the bill into her bra. Her voice was softer than before. “Hoover’s a good kid with a bad attitude. But she’s right about the five minutes. The girl can suck the chrome off a Buick.”
Pearl sat back down. His chair came closer to the bed. “We just need a little information, Mo.”
“You pay, I talk.”
It was a 360 attitude shift. Maybe the anger had been an act for the younger prostitute.
I handed Mo the photograph of our victim while Pearl explained why we were there. “We know you work for Maurice Simpson. The girl’s name was Cassie Reynolds. She also worked for him.” The heavyset prostitute studied the photo then handed it back to me. Pearl continued, “We have reason to believe that Cassie was killed because of information she had about the murder of her father.”
“Heard it was a cop that blew her away.”
“The investigation’s ongoing. We need to know if Cassie ever confided in you or any of the girls she worked with, maybe told them what she knew about her father’s death?”
Mo picked at a red nail, glanced at her watch. “Your five minutes is up. Don’t know nuthin’ bout her.”
Pearl tossed two twenties on the bed. “Five more minutes. Save yourself a long night in a holding cell.”
Mo wadded up the bills. “Cassie was hanging with some guy named Roger. Don’t know his last name, but Maurice didn’t like him.”
“You think Maurice had something to do with Cassie’s death?” I asked.
The prostitute shook her head. “Maurice take care of business, but he ain’t no killer.”
“Where can we find Maurice?” Pearl asked. “We need to ask him a couple of questions.”
“Maurice around, but he finds you if he want somethin’.” Mo inhaled, Spandex straining. “But I can guarantee he don’t want nuthin’ from you two.”
“What can you tell us about Roger?” I asked.
“Cassie wanted into the Hollywood scene. Thought Roger could help her get into the movies.”
“Did Roger have connections to the movie industry?”
Mo shrugged. “He was in one of them soap operas. Cassie wanted him to get her a part.”
Natalie chimed in, “Was it that one about the girl who always wants to drop the doctors’ knickers? I like that episode where they’re in the operatin’ room after hours and…”
“Natalie.” I gave her a look. She made a zipping motion on her lips.
“I think it’s on channel three,” Mo said. “Beautiful Lies or some shit like that. Roger had a small part off and on. Saw it once. He sucked.”
“Did he get Cassie a part in the show?” Pearl asked.
“Roger said he would only get Cassie a part if she agreed to be in a movie he was producing over in the valley.”
“They make X-rated films in the San Fernando Valley,” Pearl said. “Is that what you’re talking about?”
Mo gave a little snort, her tone grew impatient. “Listen, Cassie thought Roger might be her ticket to a new life by getting her into the movies. As it turned out, he had only a certain kind of movie in mind for her.”
“Do you think Roger had something to do with Cassie’s murder?” I asked.
The prostitute’s heavy shoulders shrugged. “All I know is that if they gave out an Oscar for the biggest dick in Hollywood, Roger would win. And, believe me, I seen a lot of dicks.”
***
Back on the street, Pearl told us he would see if he could rundown the cast of Beautiful Lies...try to get a lead on Roger. Natalie offered to track down Maurice Simpson. We tried to dissuade her, but my snoop sister was insistent.
I dropped Natalie at home after giving her a lecture about the Hollywood street scene and being careful. As she opened the car door I said, “What do you think Clyde will say when he sees your outfit?”
“Clyde goes to bed at 8:30, but I might just wake him up and play a round of gobble the geezer.”
“You’re going to give Clyde a stroke one of these days.”
Natalie tapped a finger to her temple as she closed the door. “Life insurance is a wonderful thing.”
When I got home it was a glass of wine for me and The Dog Whisperer for Bernie. The episode where Cesar Millan gets bit by a little mutt is Bernie’s favorite. As the show was ending, my phone rang. It was the night watch commander, Sam Ballick.
“Kate, we’ve got a customer down here who says you sent him our way.” I was drawing a blank when Ballick said, “The guy says he spent the evening starring on LAPD’s sex cam.”
I laughed, said to Ballick, “Send him home to his wife. Tell him he has to let her know what happened because we’ll be sending her the video.”
Before we called it a night I said to Bernie, “Ever wonder what kind of trouble guys would get into if they didn’t have a penis?”
I got the silent treatment. I guess there are some things guys just won’t talk about.
Chapter Nine
“Hi, my name is Roger.” The man pulled up a chair and sat down at my table. Could this be the part-time soap star—the Roger who was involved with Cassie Reynolds?
A second glance told me this Roger was no actor. He was a drink-drooler, a beanpole who looked to be about thirty-five with greasy hair and bad teeth. Got Meth?
After a day of training that ended at the shooting range, I’d left Bernie at home and gone to Club SUK to watch The Divas. Now there was Roger trying to make butthole-brown bloodshot eyes look sexy.
“So what’s your name?” Roger asked.
Clever. Why me? There were other single women in the club. I was enjoying The Divas. They were a big hit with the crowd. A flash of inspiration. Natalie would be proud.
“Bob Fredericks,” I said, motioning to the stage. I tried to make my voice sound like Barry White. “Got a cold. Can’t perform tonight.”
A testosterone-neuron vapor lock left Roger speechless. His mouth fell open long enough to catch a fly. Maybe he was a frog and…no way.
Roger finally vibrated his vocal cords, “Damn, you’re a fine looking woman.” His eyes lingered on my white open collar blouse. You’d think I was dressed like Natalie.
Roger fished a baggie of white powder from his pocket and placed it on the table. At least it wasn’t a condom. He picked up the baggie and dangled it in front of me.
“I don’t think you’re a guy, but I do think you’re in need of a good time.”
I rechanneled Barry White, “Believe me. I’m all makeup and hair. Get lost.”
Roger put the baggie away and smiled. The teeth were worse than my initial impr
ession, a bad Jack-O-Lantern carving—typical tweaker dentition.
“I’ll get us a room. We can party all night.”
Now I had two problems. I was getting aggravated and my throat was hurting from doing the Walrus of Love growl.
“Sorry,” I barked. “I don’t believe in cross-species dating. Do the world a favor, take your dumb ass back to Big Ugly, Mars where you were born.” Ouch! I sipped water. I mean, I took a gulp. Man-talk ain’t easy.
“Fuck you,” Roger snapped. His face turned Martian red.
Guess I’d hit a nerve. Maybe a more cerebral approach was in order.
“Since I’m a man,” I woofed, “that wouldn’t be possible, at least not in the conventional sense.” I smiled in a manly way. “Then again, maybe you’re gay.”
“I’m not a queer and you’re not a guy.” Roger was a persistent, if bigoted, asshole. He went on, “Let’s get a room. You can show me your package, if you’ve got one. If you’re a guy we can make a call, get some chicks. Party.”
I started to flip out my badge, ending the charade. I hesitated. Maybe Roger did deserve a package.
“Okay, meet me in the parking lot in ten,” I said.
A snaggletooth grin followed. “Don’t be late or I’ll come looking for you.”
I dialed my phone while The Divas ended the performance by showcasing their ample derrieres and singing “Bootylicious.” There were big cheers—a standing ovation.
“Thanks, John, I appreciate it,” I said, ending my conversation as Robin and Clark stopped by my table.
Wigs came off. Martinis were ordered all around. Even in their evening attire and theatrical makeup, Robin and his boyfriend made a handsome couple. Clark’s blue eyes and brown skin were striking against his white sequined evening gown. He’d also bronzed his skin. Why didn’t I bronze? Then remembered, I’m broke.
“No Bernie tonight?” Robin asked.
“Home dreaming about chasing border collies.”
“Bet it’s a doggie-style dream,” Clark said.
I smiled, then turned back to Robin. “I talked to Mom yesterday. I’m having lunch with her and Sis day after tomorrow.”
