Black Orchid

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  Forty-five minutes after McMahon had explained what they had learned to Angela, she met them in the parking lot of a big box store. One look at her and Traynor was certain that she was at best reluctant to offer help. “You got no business pursuing this,” she said. “It’s an LAPD case.”

  “C’mon, Angela, if it wasn’t for us, you’d still be looking at a Jane Doe. Gimme a break on this, okay?” It was apparent to Traynor that groveling was not one of McMahon’s strong suits, but he was certain that if anyone could make him do so, it was Angela Engle.

  She sighed and looked at Traynor in exasperation. “I’d quit any job that made me work with this reprobate,” she told him.

  “Hell,” Traynor said, “compared to some of the people I come in contact with he’s a pillar of respectability.”

  “Those people,” she quipped, “must have the intellect of a one-celled animal.”

  What could he say to that? Anyone who has been a cop long enough believes that they’ve come in contact with people who scraped the bottom of the gene pool—then along comes some idiot you’re sure is a new life form.

  Engle leaned back against the fender of her police car, crossed her arms across her chest, and sighed. “Okay, I’m in.” She extended a finger and pushed it to within an inch of McMahon’s nose. “But if you pull some crap that is gonna jeopardize my career, I’ll do time for murder—yours.”

  Traynor wasn’t sure about McMahon, but he believed her.

  She settled back and asked, “What do you need?”

  “Who you know that works vice?” McMahon asked.

  …. successful detectives are catalysts. In an investigation they can cause reactions on the part of the other individuals involved.

  —Private Eyes: A Writer’s Guide To Private Investigators

  12

  Traynor thought that Dick Lebow looked like anything but a vice cop. Rather than a sloppily dressed burnout, he was—like Manuel, Cyril Hollis’s body guard—a clothes horse. His suit must have cost him a month’s pay and the creases in his trousers were sharp enough to make a Marine drill instructor proud. Lebow looked as if he visited the barbershop each morning on his way to work. He must have seen the questioning look on Traynor’s face because he offered unasked, “The Department pays for my suits. Times have changed. Drug dealers try to look like businessmen today—hell, since the dot-com craze of the nineties, they dress better than most.”

  They sat in an upscale coffee shop near Hollywood Boulevard and sipped on five-dollar coffees. Lebow looked across the table at McMahon and Traynor and said, “I hear that you guys are interested in Vincent Beneventi, but can’t find him. Well, that ain’t a surprise. He doesn’t exist. I guess you could say that like all would-be players in the movie biz, it’s a stage name. You should be asking about Vernon Skidgel—a small-time piece of garbage who wants to be big-time.” He took a photo—a mug shot—from his inside jacket pocket and slid it across the table. “We busted him for soliciting once, but it didn’t stick.”

  “What about the Mexican producer?” McMahon asked. “You got a line on him?”

  “I can’t be certain, but you’re probably looking for Giuliano Olivas Toledo. We usually refer to him as Holy.”

  Traynor could not help but ask, “So, how would one go about finding Holy Toledo?”

  Lebow chuckled. “I got to confess … you go asking for him that way, all you’ll get will be a painful exit from this world. One of his flunkies made the mistake of calling him that where Toledo could hear him. They found the guy crucified head-down to a cross in the desert. He must have been out there for over a week. Wouldn’t surprise me if Toledo didn’t film the entire thing—he’s into that type of shit. He’s psychotic and sadistic.” Lebow drank some coffee and watched a couple of young women in short skirts parade by the window. “Only way you’ll find him is to go south. The closest to the US he’s ever been—at least to our knowledge—is Tijuana. You want to do business with Toledo, you go to his backyard. That way he’s in control.”

  “Next question: where should we look for Skidgel?”

  “Anywhere you can find unsuspecting young girls. You might want to watch the Greyhound bus station on South Los Angeles Street and of course, the workout joints. Personally, I’d hit the bus station first.”

  McMahon nodded to Traynor. “Looks like we’ve got a lead.”

  They stood up and Lebow said, “Guys, if you kill the bastard, dump him outside of LA County. Orange County would work—that way we won’t have to waste any more time and energy on the scumbag.”

  It was late afternoon when they arrived at the Greyhound bus station. It took them less than ten seconds to identify Vernon Skidgel, a.k.a. Vincent Beneventi, and it didn’t take them much longer to figure out why he was so successful at luring women into his trap. He looked like the hunks you see on the covers of romance novels. He was muscular—most likely from spending hours on the machines at the Body Boutique—and his long brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail. “He looks like he can handle himself in a brawl,” Traynor commented to McMahon.

  McMahon never took his eyes off Skidgel. “I wouldn’t worry about him. He’s a pretty boy and a con artist—those muscles are for show. In a fight, he’ll be as useful as a tire pump in a canoe.”

  They observed Skidgel as he prowled the waiting area, weaving through the room, in search of susceptible young women. The announcement of a bus arriving from Denver came over the public address system, and like a hawk diving at a rabbit, Skidgel headed for the door through which the arriving passengers would enter.

  “Look at him,” McMahon said. “He’s like a jackal following the scent of a carcass.”

  “It’s no wonder he preys on the young and inexperienced,” Traynor commented. “Anyone who’s been around the block at least once should be able to figure out his act.”

  “Obviously,” McMahon said, “he’s not with the times. These days, these assholes use the social websites to lure their prey.”

  “Social websites?” He’d have to ask Charley about that when he got back east.

  “Yeah, Craigslist is one of the best known. You can reach thousands of these young, innocent girls online. The odds of meeting some sweet, tender thing are much greater there.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it. What’s our plan?”

  “I’m curious. Let’s watch the scumbag work.”

  Skidgel looked like a throwback to the seventies. He wore a blazer, no tie, and the top three buttons of his shirt were open. He leaned against the wall beside the door, eyeing each of the passengers. When two attractive but obviously very young women (Traynor doubted that they were of legal age) entered and stared at the room with wide eyes, he pounced. They looked warily at his approach. Skidgel was smiling like a movie star as he closed in on his prey. First, he spoke to the blonde and then to the brunette for a few seconds. He reached into his shirt pocket, handed each of them a business card, and then guided them to seats that were away from the main flow of traffic, wasting no time going into his spiel.

  “You know,” McMahon said, “he belongs in Hollywood as a character actor.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Traynor said.

  “Oh, I’m serious all right. Whenever he shows character, he’s acting …”

  “You know, Jack, you do have a way of putting things in perspective.”

  “Okay,” McMahon said, “I’ve seen enough of this sitcom …” He crossed the room with Traynor on his heels. As he passed by Skidgel, McMahon stopped, stared at him for a few seconds, and then exclaimed, “Vernon? Vernon Skidgel! Hell, man, I haven’t seen you in years.”

  Skidgel looked at McMahon as if he were a madman. McMahon, however, was not to be deterred. He grabbed Skidgel by the hand and began pumping it like he was trying to get water from a dry well.

  The girl with light brown hair looked at Skidgel with obvious suspicion. “I thought your name was Vincent?”

  Skidgel became flustered and said, “It is. I ain�
��t got a clue who in hell this crazy man is …”

  McMahon lifted him by the arm and pulled him away from the girls, saying, “Of course he does. You always were the joker, Vernon.”

  Traynor decided it was time for him to get in on the act and he grabbed his other arm. “Yeah, Vern. Next you’ll be saying you don’t remember me.”

  They ushered Skidgel across the waiting room and down a corridor to the men’s room. As soon as they were inside, Traynor released his grip and looked around for something to secure the door with. He didn’t find anything. As he turned back, Traynor thought, I hope nobody walks in on us.

  Meanwhile, McMahon pushed Skidgel the length of the restroom, opening stalls as he went. They had the place to themselves. At the end of the room, McMahon shoved Skidgel into the cinder block wall. “You were right, Vernon, you don’t know me. However, in the immediate future, you and I are going to be more intimately involved than you are with your proctologist.” McMahon spun him around and buried his fist in Vernon’s gut.

  Skidgel grunted, wrapping his arms around his midsection, and lurched forward. But McMahon grabbed him by his chin and raised his head until he could look him in the eye and through clenched teeth, said, “Now, do I have your undivided attention?”

  “W-what the hell? Who the fuck are you guys? Vice? I’m gonna file charges against you for excessive force.”

  McMahon grinned. “Go ahead—for all the good it will do you.”

  Skidgel looked quizzical.

  “We aren’t cops.”

  Skidgel deflated. “Then why the fuck are you pushing me around?”

  “Tell us about Mindy Hollis.”

  “Who?”

  Traynor stepped forward and thrust Mindy’s picture at him. “Maybe this will jog your memory. You picked up the wrong one this time, Vernon—or should I call you Vincent?”

  “I ain’t got any idea what you’re talkin’ about.”

  “I think you do,” Traynor said. “If you don’t tell us what you know, I’m going to let my friend off his leash—and believe me, you don’t want to be a part of that.”

  “Okay, so I went out with her a couple of times. So what?”

  “She’s on a slab in the morgue, that’s what,” McMahon said. He slammed Skidgel against the wall with each word. A hollow clunk sounded each time his head hit the cinder blocks.

  “Now, before my partner spreads your pretty nose across your face, you better tell us about your producer friend, Toledo,” Traynor said.

  Skidgel paled and his knees seemed to go weak. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  McMahon looked over his shoulder at Traynor. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t think this is going to get us anywhere. Why don’t you step outside and let me and Vernon have a chat? When I get through with this pretty boy, he won’t be able to pay a hooker for a blind date.”

  “I’ll wait outside the door.” Before turning away, Traynor said, “Well, Vern, it’s been real …”

  Sweat was dripping from Skidgel’s forehead, and he reminded Traynor of a lost child. Unable to keep from getting in a last word, Traynor waved and said, “Be seeing you, Vern.”

  Traynor stepped into the corridor just as a man was approaching. He held up his hand and said, “Sorry, closed for maintenance. I think there’s another restroom that way.” He had no idea if this it was true or not, but he pointed toward the main waiting area. The poor guy paused as if he were about to have an accident, then spun around and trotted in the direction Traynor had pointed.

  Behind him he heard McMahon speak, immediately followed by a muffled voice. He assumed that they were pleas for mercy from Skidgel. There was a brief commotion and then McMahon walked out of the restroom with his prisoner in tow. “Vernon has offered to let us look at his place.”

  “Sounds as if that might be interesting.”

  “Yeah, especially his DVD collection.”

  As they guided Skidgel past the two young women, Traynor stopped before them. “Do you ladies have anyone in town?”

  The one who had been suspicious said, “No.”

  “My best advice is that you catch the next bus home.” They gave him a doubtful look, and he knew they were not going to take his advice. He pointed to Skidgel, who had lost his male-model look and was cowering at McMahon’s side. “Let me guess,” Traynor said, “you want to try and make it in the movies …”

  The blond nodded.

  “And ole Vern there told you he was a producer …”

  Another nod.

  “Well, in his own way, he is … but mostly he’s a pimp. In no time you’ll be working the streets. Oh, he might get you into films—but not the kind you’ll ever see in the front of your local video store. They usually keep the adult films in the back.” He was not sure this would be enough to convince them—after all, there was a segment of society that would want to star in any type of movie, even a porno.

  Their eyes were as big as Frisbees and their mouths dropped open.

  “Go home, girls. If you stay here with no jobs or friends, another pimp like that will latch on to you.”

  They looked at each other for a few seconds, and then the blond said, “We don’t have enough money for return tickets.”

  “If you can’t even afford bus fare, how do you expect to live?”

  Again they looked at each other and he knew that they had never thought about it.

  “Come on,” Traynor said. “The trip home is on me.”

  “Why would you do that?” The brunette was suspicious again.

  “Because I’ve seen this scam played many times.” He handed each of them one of his business cards. “If it will make you feel better, you can pay me back. Mail it to the address on the card.”

  Still suspicious, she looked at the card and said, “Portsmouth, New Hampshire—where’s that?”

  Traynor wanted to make a wisecrack, something like, go east until you smell it, then turn north until you step in it, but didn’t—this was not the right time or place. “It’s about an hour north of Boston,” he said. “We have our share of predators like him there, too. Now what’s it going to be?”

  They got up and followed him to the ticket counter where he bought two one-way tickets to Colorado Springs. He handed each of them a ticket, then reached into his pocket and took out a fold of cash. He peeled off four twenty-dollar bills and handed two to each of them. “That should be enough for you to eat on. Don’t be foolish, girls, get on the bus and go home, before you regret it.” Having done his good deed for the day, he turned toward McMahon and their prisoner. As they herded Skidgel toward the exit, McMahon said, “That was touching.”

  “Yeah, sometimes I even surprise myself.”

  “But don’t be surprised if they return those tickets and keep the cash …”

  … bodily reactions and postures occur as a subconscious protection mechanism and are generally more consistent with deception than truthfulness.

  —FM 3-19, Law Enforcement Investigations

  13

  Skidgel lived in one of those apartment complexes that were as common in the San Fernando Valley as cactus in southern Arizona. The apartments formed a square that enclosed a patio area with an empty in-ground swimming pool, in which various types of detritus drifted with the breeze. They followed a portico that led from the parking lot to the patio area. Skidgel’s apartment was on the first floor to the right of where they exited the short breezeway.

  He unlocked a door beside a large sliding door in which the glass was shielded from the sun by long plastic louvers and stepped aside to allow them to enter first. McMahon grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him inside, saying, “You think we’re stupid?”

  Skidgel stood in a small living room, rubbing his shoulder. “Hey, man, cool it. You ever consider anger management?”

  McMahon pushed his way past him and said, “Don’t need it—not as long as there are people like you I can take out my frustrations on.”

  Traynor entered the apa
rtment and stood at the threshold, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. He wondered if Skidgel housed his prey here. The cheap discount-store furniture was not what one would expect from a successful movie producer. In fact, even an unsuccessful one would live better than this. The couch had a plastic finish, similar to naugahyde, only cheaper—the cuts and tears that were spread across the seat and back were repaired with duct tape, which did nothing to diminish the tawdry look. Even the chairs were garage-sale quality: plastic, scratched, and scarred. The coffee table was not exempted and was a collage of cigarette burns, round scars from moisture off beer cans, and crusted bits of food.

  McMahon roamed down a short hall and stopped before a closed door. “What’s in here?”

  “Bathroom,” Skidgel said.

  McMahon looked at the state of the living room and then at the filthy kitchen—which was in even worse condition than the living room. He looked at Traynor and said, “I think I’ll take a pass on the shithouse.”

  Traynor turned to Skidgel and said, “Does the Board of Health know you let the young women you con live like this?”

  Skidgel shrugged.

  Then Traynor noticed the one exception to the array of cheap furniture—a state-of-the-art entertainment system, complete with Blu-ray player, amplifier with 7.1 surround sound, and a fifty-two-inch flat-panel TV. “You watch a lot of TV?” he asked.

  “Mostly I watch movies.”

  Traynor snorted and said, “I don’t think I have to ask what type of movie you like.” Along the wall opposite the couch were shelves constructed from two columns of cinder blocks with two-by-six boards suspended between them. The shelves were filled with DVDs, the majority of which were the sort most people hide. “I don’t think I’ve heard any of these movies mentioned during the Oscars,” Traynor said.

  Skidgel watched as Traynor trailed his finger along the spines of the DVD cases, pretending to read the titles. As he approached the middle of the second shelf, Skidgel suddenly became agitated and got to his feet—all the time keeping a wary eye on the DVD shelf along which Traynor’s finger slid. Seeing his sudden interest, Traynor began to search the titles in earnest. When he saw one titled The Black Orchid, he recalled the tattoo on Mindy’s thigh. It was of a woman’s sexy legs with a tattoo of a black orchid on her right thigh. The tat was similar to the one Deborah Hollis had on hers. He handed the case to McMahon, who studied the picture and then, without warning, punched Skidgel so hard Traynor thought he had broken the scumbag’s jaw.