In the Ink Well Teitz was alone at his desk in the office he shared with Stuckey. He had taken off his tie and it sat on his desk like a motionless butterfly, blue spotted with white polka dots. With his shirt open at the neck, Teitz looked older. He was pouring Four Roses bourbon from a pint bottle into a coffee mug when Nessheim knocked on the open door. Teitz’s hand jerked and a slurp of whisky hit the desk. ‘Shit,’ he said without emotion, then added a steadier half-inch into his mug.
‘Starting early today?’ asked Nessheim mildly. It was only four o’clock.
Teitz stared at him. ‘What’s it to you?’ he asked.
‘Not much,’ said Nessheim.
Teitz softened. ‘Sorry, Jim. Bad day.’
‘Something happen?’
‘The powers that be don’t seem to share my sense of self-worth,’ he said grimly. ‘My contract’s up at Thanksgiving. They’ve renewed me –’ he began, then paused.
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘—until Christmas,’ said Teitz. He sang, cheerfully, in a decent imitation of Bing Crosby:
‘Come the New Year
I’ll be out on my ear.’
He stopped and said, ‘Pearl’s got great ambitions – hell, you must know that, Nessheim. He has this FBI movie in mind that’s supposed to carry the place into the big time.’
‘Can’t you work on this big picture?’
Teitz dropped his chin and looked at Nessheim dolefully over the tops of his glasses. ‘I think it’s a little late to recast me as a lead writer, Jim.’
‘Maybe, but they’re bound to need some rewrite men. They always do.’
‘The Count has never been a fan of my work.’
‘It may not be the Count directing. Let me put my ear to the ground and find out.’
‘Would you? That would be swell,’ said Teitz, without sounding hopeful at all.
‘There’s something you can help me with in the meantime. I’m still looking for that kid Osaka.’ Teitz looked at him without interest. ‘I’ve been round the houses, but no luck. I remembered you said he had an eye for the girls.’
‘Yeah?’ Teitz said cautiously.
‘Older women. I distinctly remember you saying that.’ He ignored Teitz’s shrug. ‘You made it sound like he’d had a couple of close calls. With husbands, I mean.’ He laughed, hoping it didn’t sound like a phoney guffaw.
Teitz perked up. ‘He never got caught red-handed, if that’s what you’re asking. If he had he wouldn’t be breathing today.’
‘I don’t know if he is breathing today.’
Teitz looked shocked as this sunk in. After a moment Nessheim said, ‘What I was wondering, if you don’t mind my asking, is how you knew this. I mean, were you friends with the guy?’ Teitz seemed about to protest when Nessheim raised his hand, ‘Don’t tell me. Everybody knew Billy. I understand that. But I didn’t realise you knew him well.’
‘I didn’t. Not well. But we used …’ He waved an arm towards the hall. ‘You know the Ink Well.’
‘What does Billy Osaka have to do with the Ink Well?’
Teitz looked at him. ‘But I’m sure I told you. He worked here.’
‘Here? At AMP?’
‘Yeah,’ said Teitz, a little flustered. ‘It was three or four years back. He was just a runner on the set – he’d fetch water and take messages. Nice guy. Everybody liked him. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.’
‘Was he active on the older lady front while he was here?’
Teitz shrugged, but it was an evasive movement of his shoulders. ‘I’m not going further than that, Jim. Could be more than my job is worth.’ He gave a quick, grating laugh. ‘Not that my job’s worth two bits come Christmas.’
‘Your luck will change,’ said Nessheim, realising where he had to go next. ‘Where’s Lolly by the way?’
‘Studio Two as of yesterday, my friend.’ He looked accusingly at Nessheim. ‘I’d have thought you knew that too, pal. She’s got a role in the mice movie.’
He didn’t want to know. No doubt the Count was directing.
He said, ‘I forgot.’
* * *
On his way home he stopped at Latham’s, a grocery store on Hollywood Boulevard. After his trip to Santa Barbara he was short on supplies. He bought a small porterhouse steak from the meat counter, figuring he might try and barbecue at the weekend. A barbecue for one, he supposed, since he didn’t think Lolly was going to want to see his house after all. It didn’t bother him now; instead he kept thinking about Elizaveta, wondering if she would be in touch with him soon. She had been friendly but formal when he said goodbye on Sunday, maybe because her husband had been standing next to her, watching them with what seemed to Nessheim a careful eye.
He also picked out some fresh broccoli and leaf lettuce and a bag of mixed fruit (oranges and grapefruits and peaches), amazed as always by the produce you could buy in California year-round. At home there would be apples, more apples, and pears – if they’d kept that year. The only other fruit would be preserved – he thought of his mother’s tutti-frutti, summer fruits put in big glass jars with brandy, and pickled peaches in sugared vinegar with cloves and cinnamon sticks. For vegetables, there would be cabbages for sauerkraut, and maybe an acorn squash or too. And that was it. Yet something about this Californian cornucopia seemed awry, like Christmas in the southern hemisphere.
When he got home he put his groceries away and opened a bottle of beer. He was about to go out to the garage to find the barbecue when the phone rang.
‘Is that Agent Nessheim?’
‘None other,’ he said as the line crackled, then he tensed as he understood it must be a long-distance call.
‘It’s Marie in Assistant Director Guttman’s office.’
‘We’ve met, Marie.’ As you well know, he thought. ‘How is Harry?’
‘He’s still in a special ward, but they’re talking about moving him any day now. They let me see him today for the first time.’ She seemed to relax a little over the transcontinental line.
‘Is someone looking after Isabel?’
‘Oh yes. Miss Ryerson goes over and calls to let me know. His wife’s fine. Well not fine, if you know what I mean, but not any worse.’
He was glad someone was looking after Isabel, but discomfited that it was Annie, though he didn’t know why.
‘There was something else I needed to speak to you about, Mr Nessheim.’ She sounded nervous again.
‘Call me Jim,’ he said.
‘Okay, Jim. The thing is, when Mr Guttman had his … accident, he’d been typing up some notes. They were for you. He asked me today to make sure you got them.’
‘Why don’t you mail them to me?’
‘That’s the thing – he doesn’t want them to go by any normal route. He gave me strict instructions about that.’
‘Oh,’ he said, baffled.
‘He wants you to go see Agent Devereux next week.’
‘Devereux?’ A friend and fellow agent at the San Francisco Field Office. Nessheim hadn’t seen him since he’d come to LA. A good guy, straight as a die, but with a sense of adventure – and a love for a party that meant he wasn’t going to make SAC while Hoover was in charge. He’d got engaged last time Nessheim had seen him, but Nessheim hadn’t heard if he’d got married yet.
‘Mr G said, “Tell him to make any excuse he has to, but to make sure he goes and sees Devereux.” And Mr G said you were to take your other driver’s licence.’
‘Other driver’s licence?’
‘Yes. Those were his exact words. I hope that makes sense.’
‘It does, Marie,’ he said finally. Not again, he thought, since he knew all too well what this could involve.
In the Ink Well, Lolly’s replacement had left three messages on his desk, all scrawled at a left-hander’s curious angle, all telling him to call a Mrs Mooksigh. He dialled the number with a mix of apprehension and excitement. Down boy, he told himself.
‘Elizaveta, it’s Nessheim.�
��
‘You got my messages?’
‘Yes.’
He waited awkwardly, not sure what he was supposed to say or do. After the late-night swim in the pond he’d realised she was interested in him, but he couldn’t gauge how much was personal and how much he was meant to be her conduit to the US authorities, who might let her stay if her husband went back. Whatever their difficulties it was hard to see how Nessheim could insert himself as a third party to their domestic arrangements and still try to sort out Elizaveta’s status as … what? Another informant. A defector – that was the term, he thought.
She broke the silence. ‘It would be lovely to see you, Nessheim.’
‘Likewise.’
‘I have a lot to tell you. Have you mentioned our conversation with your superiors?’
‘Yes,’ said Nessheim. It was only a white lie, he told himself. He would have told Guttman if he’d been able to speak with him.
‘And what was their reaction?’
‘They want to know a bit more. You can understand their caution. Your country may soon be an ally in a war, and relations with the US are friendlier than they’ve ever been before. There’s even a rumour Roosevelt is going to extend Lend Lease to your country.’
‘So the last thing they want to hear is bad things about a new friend.’
‘I wasn’t saying that, but they need to know a little more about you.’
‘About me or about the information I’d bring?’
‘Both,’ he acknowledged.
‘I see. Is this what you Americans call B.S.?’
She was miffed, but he had nothing more tangible to offer. Not professionally at least. He said, ‘You know I’m not like that, Elizaveta.’
He could hear her exhale. ‘I know. It’s not why I was calling anyway.’
‘Oh,’ he said, wondering what could be more important to her.
‘I was hoping to see you. Privately, I mean. Not about business. The Willems are still away – but they do like those horses to get exercise.’
‘When?’ he asked, ignoring the mental red flag that was trying to catch his attention. I’m not a fool, he told it.
‘I was thinking next week. How would Thursday be? If you took a day or two of your vacation, we could stay through the weekend.’
‘Elizaveta, I’m sorry but I’m going to be away then.’
‘Anywhere nice?’
‘Could be,’ he said elliptically, not that he knew himself. Damn, he thought. He could not think of anything much nicer than two nights alone with her at that beautiful ranch. Fleetingly he considered postponing his trip, but then dismissed the idea. He could get up north and back in a couple of days max. He was going to tell her this, but something restrained him. He had better see Guttman’s instructions before he promised to be anywhere else. With Guttman you never knew; Nessheim might find himself travelling to Washington or Chicago or even Alaska before he saw LA again.
29
A ROW OF pepper trees lined one side of North Bentley Avenue, with low branches that hung over the sidewalk like a riverbank willow. Nessheim parked further down the hill, then walked and waited under one of them, shaded from the descending sun and from view, resting against a drystone wall that bordered the front of one of the big Bel Air properties. He heard a shout and, turning, saw two kids there, throwing a football on a lawn the size of two gridirons.
He tried to be patient as he waited now, his back turned to the playing kids, telling himself this was unfinished business he needed to wrap up before he went north to San Francisco. But it was another twenty minutes before he saw the small, dark-haired figure moving down the hill. She really was very pretty, he thought, as he watched her again, striding on strong brown legs in the sunshine down the hill from the tree-shaded edge of Pearl’s property. He thought of Elizaveta, her sudden touch in the pond.
She was only ten yards away when she saw him. She started at first, then looked straight ahead and kept walking. He pushed off from the drystone wall.
‘Anita, I need to talk with you.’
She kept going.
‘I don’t work for Mr Pearl, Anita. I’m with the FBI.’
This time she stopped. Peering in under the overhanging branch, she regarded him with distaste.
‘Why are you bugging me then, G-Man?’
‘Just a couple of questions. It won’t take two minutes.’
Her sigh was undramatic, but sounded heartfelt. He sensed he was in a long line of white men who had pushed her around. She ducked under the branch and joined him. ‘I don’t want to be seen talking to you. I’m on thin ice already.’
‘Because of TD? Is he still … bothering you?’
She snorted. ‘Is that what you call it – bothering?’ She laughed again, without inviting him to laugh as well. ‘But the answer’s no – TD’s got himself a girlfriend now. Some actress.’
‘Good for TD. But that’s not what I wanted to ask you about. His father was looking for a guy – suddenly he’s not looking any more. I need to know why.’
She gave him a fierce look. ‘How would I know about that? You think Mr Pearl told me his secrets while he was breathing heavy in my ear?’
He took the photo of Billy from his jacket pocket. ‘Was this the guy?’
He could see at once that she recognised the picture.
‘Does Mr Pearl know?’ he asked.
‘About what?’
She looked at him with a pretence of innocence, but there was something in his gaze, fixed and not willing to be deterred, that seemed to sink home.
Eventually, she nodded.
‘And he went bananas?’
She nodded again, more quickly. ‘But Missus denied it and Mr Pearl couldn’t prove it.’
He thought about this momentarily. ‘Listen, Anita, I think Pearl was after this guy. I know the fella. He’s not a bad sort.’ Then he added softly, ‘All I want to know is whether Pearl found him.’
‘I don’t know. All I know is that all summer long Pearl and his wife were arguing, but now they’re lovebirds again. If you ask me I think something’s happened to make it okay between them. He keeps talking about a big picture he wants to make.’
I bet he does, thought Nessheim.
‘You want a ride home?’ he asked, trying not to look at any part of Anita except her eyes.
She looked at him as if he’d said something comical, then shrugged. ‘You think there’ll be something at the other end?’
‘I’m just offering you a ride,’ he said and she smiled sceptically.
They stepped out together on to the unshaded pavement and he motioned towards his car down the block.
She nodded knowingly, then suddenly her almond- shaped eyes widened and she jumped back under the overhanging branch. He looked up and saw a blue convertible speeding down the hill. It was flying and at the wheel he glimpsed a handsome woman in sunglasses, a scarf knotted round her throat. Mrs Pearl.
He watched as the car went down the hill.
‘You can come out now,’ he said cheerfully.
Anita looked shaken as she emerged into the sunlight again.
She said, ‘I think I’ll take the bus home.’
30
SATURDAY MORNING HE worked in the yard, since he was taking the train north to San Francisco the following day. He raked leaves and lit a bonfire of them – the wind was favourable, blowing the smoke away from Mrs Delaware and down the hill towards Hollywood. He went in and showered but didn’t shave, then changed into light khaki trousers and a blue-and-white cotton short-sleeved shirt – it was already in the high seventies according to the radio.
He got the car out and drove to Hollywood Boulevard, where he parked down the block from the barber shop. As he approached it on foot, he saw there were two squad cars outside, and a crowd gathered in front of the rotating candy-cane barber’s pole. A tall cop stood in the doorway of the shop, barring the way. Peering past him, Nessheim could just make out a figure in the nearest chair, the one where Ness
heim had been planning to get his shave. Whoever sat there had been covered down to the waist by a barber’s sheet, which was soaked in big splotches of darkening blood. The floor around the chair was slick with it.
Outside on the sidewalk he saw Albert and the other barbers standing with a policeman, who was taking notes. Seeing another cop, standing by a patrol car, he went up to him.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Read the paper tomorrow and you’ll find out.’ The cop raised both hands to shoo him away.
‘I’m with the FBI.’
‘Sure, and so’s my sister.’
‘I work with your sister. So now will you tell me what happened?’
‘You got a badge?’
‘No, I’m off duty. I was coming here to get a shave.’
The cop seemed to relent slightly. ‘Be glad you weren’t here earlier, then. Anyway, Homicide’s arrived. He can tell you what happened.’
They were joined by Dickerson, the same detective whom Nessheim had seen at Mrs Oka’s apartment.
Dickerson said, ‘We meet again. You here for the Bureau this time too?’
‘Nope. I was just coming for a shave.’
‘So was the stiff. Guy named Lapides – did you know him?’
‘We both came here on Saturday mornings. That’s about it.’
Dickerson said, ‘Kind of strange, don’t you think?’
‘How’s that?’
‘Any way you look at it, this spells a mob hit. I mean, a guy comes into the barber shop and sits down, even though there’s a chair going. Says he wants to wait for Albert, who’s busy with a shave for another customer.
‘Then a minute later another guy comes through the door, carrying a .45 the size of your arm. He covers the room, while his friend gets up, takes the razor out of Albert’s hand and slices the throat of Mr Lapides like a butter pat. Then they both stroll out of the place, cool as cucumbers.
‘This Albert fellow – he’s the owner – says the stiff worked in insurance. Lapides lived two blocks away – a couple of kids, nice wife, not much money but they got by. So why does he get his throat slit?’
The Little Tokyo Informant Page 26
