To Die in Beverly Hills

by Gerald Petievich

  "Was anyone else there when Lee was ... sharing his secrets?" Bailey said, keeping his eyes on the road.

  "Of course not."

  They passed a Polynesian restaurant that Bailey knew as a hangout for movie stars. Situated on a corner lot in front of a large parking lot, the restaurant's entrance was covered with banana plants and other Pacific foliage. A walkway leading to the front door was lined with brightly colored island flowers that had been the subject of more than one California Living article in the Sunday paper. Like an oasis, palm trees leaned from the corners of the building toward a flora-filled atrium in its center. Bailey remembered answering a burglar alarm call at the restaurant one night when he was working a radio car. As he shined his flashlight into the kitchen area, wharf-sized rats had scurried out from under the sinks and work counters.

  "Why didn't you come in the bedroom tonight?" Amanda said. She smiled pertly.

  He shrugged.

  "I'm very open about sex. The only thing that turns me off is doing it with another woman. A complete turnoff. You don't like to talk about sex, do you?"

  He stared at the road.

  "Some people are like that." She pointed to the right. "You should have turned there to go to my place."

  "Would you mind if I made a quick stop? I need to drop off a copy of a report right up the street. It'll just take a sec."

  "Sure," she said blankly.

  A block later they passed a large furniture store that Bailey knew marked the Beverly Hills city limits. Illuminated by mobile spotlights, an enormous helium-filled clown holding a sign that read Close-Out Sale floated above its roof.

  Bailey slowed down. He turned right and pulled down the alley behind the deserted pizza house where he used to meet Sheboygan. He maneuvered the sedan under a canopy and turned off the engine. His heart raced. The tips of his fingers tingled.

  "This place isn't open," she said. "Why are you stopping here?"

  Travis Bailey pointed out the passenger window. "Who's that?"

  Amanda Kennedy turned her head. Swiftly, he swung his right arm around her neck and wedged her throat in the crook of his arm. Using his left arm as a lever, he squeezed with all his might. Her fingers scratched his forearm as he pulled her toward him. Her hair was in his face. She made frantic guttural sounds and her fingernails dug deeper into his arm. She kicked desperately. Her feet wedged against the passenger door. In a violent paroxysm, she pushed off the door. His head slammed against the driver's window and they slipped down onto the seat. He maintained his grip and squeezed harder. Finally, her lips made a bubble-blowing sound and her body relaxed completely. She felt heavier. He readjusted his grip on her neck and maintained steady pressure for a long time. Out the passenger window he could see the inflated clown. It stared at him.

  The headlights of a car illuminated the windows.

  "No," he muttered aloud without releasing pressure on the woman's neck. He held his breath as the automobile drove past without slowing down. He felt wetness and realized he was soaked with Amanda Kennedy's urine. He wanted to push himself free of the contamination, but forced himself to hold on. He had to make sure she was dead. Exhausted, he released his hold. He shoved her body off him. Taking care not to make any unnecessary noise, he opened the driver's door and went to the trunk of the sedan. The air was cool and because of a slight breeze he felt a sensation of coolness on his urine-soaked trousers. He had the urge to strip off the wet clothing. He opened the trunk and removed a plastic tarp from an evidence kit. Quickly, he spread the tarp in the trunk.

  At the passenger door, he looked both ways down the alley, then dragged and pulled Amanda's body off the front seat. Staggering, he carried it to the trunk, dropped the body inside and closed the trunk carefully. After a few deep breaths, he returned to the driver's seat, started the car and drove out of the alley. In a few minutes he was heading east on the San Bernardino Freeway, which, because of the hour, was clear. He opened the windows because of the odor on the front seat.

  After traveling ten miles or so from the city limits of L.A., he swung off the freeway and headed north on surface streets, past an endless blur of one-story commercial buildings and stucco homes that could have been anywhere in Southern California. Finally, he made his way up a steep grade toward the San Gabriel Mountains. At the top of the grade the road took a sharp right turn and Bailey found himself on a two-lane mountain road that hugged the chaparral-covered mountain area as it crept slowly to a higher elevation. Below him on the right side was a steep cliff that provided an unhindered view of the city lights below. At the first turnoff he stopped and parked the car.

  Bailey climbed out and walked to the edge of the cliff. Below, there was only inky blackness. He headed back to the car, unlocked the trunk and flipped it open. As the trunk light came on her hand reached out for him. Startled, he jumped back, jerked his revolver from his waistband and pointed it. The sleeve of Amanda Kennedy's blouse had caught on a portion of the trunk lock, lifting her hand with the trunk lid. She was dead. As he shoved his gun back in its holster, he realized his hand was shaking. He lifted the body by the arms and pulled it out of the trunk. He lost his grip and it fell to the gravel head first. Heart racing, he hoisted the body to the edge of the cliff and slung it over, then rushed back to the car and slammed the trunk shut. He flew to the front seat, started the engine and made a U-turn. He drove down the hill slowly and listened to the squeaking of his brakes. Retracing his route, he traveled south to the freeway and headed east. In a gas station in downtown Los Angeles, he washed the front seat carefully with wet paper towels.

  By the time he reached his apartment, he had stopped shaking.

  ****

  ELEVEN

  THE ANCIENT courtroom was a museum of symbols, high ceilings, marble, rich wood and leather. Above the judge's bench was a large American-eagle plaque, fashioned of brass and wood. As usual, the air conditioner was on too high. Carr's hands felt cold.

  Carr thought that everyone-judge Malcolm with his crooked toupee, the court clerk who stuffed counterfeit money into see-through evidence envelopes as if on an assembly line and Sally Malone, the court reporter-looked bored. Everyone, that is, except the defendant, who sat on the witness stand. A tall black man, he alternated between touching the witness-stand microphone (which made it hum) and cracking his knuckles. He wore white trousers and a purple, long-sleeved shirt. Come to think of it, Carr thought to himself, it was the same outrageous outfit he wore the night he and Kelly chased him into a backyard clothesline.

  "I thought it was narcotics in the briefcase," the black man said with his head turned toward the judge. "I threw the briefcase and runned away because I didn't wanna get caught carrying no dope. A man asked me to pick up a load of dope for him and that's what I did. I went to the apartment and a lady handed me this briefcase. When I was walking away from the place, these two Federal men came up on me. I threw the briefcase on the ground because I thought for sure it was filled with heroin."

  The defense lawyer, a wiry young man with a bristling black moustache and unmanageable hair, removed his thick glasses and wiped the lenses on his necktie. He put them back on. "I have no more questions for the defendant, Your Honor."

  "If you have nothing, Mr. Green, then the defendant may step down," Judge Malcolm said.

  The man ambled off the witness stand. As he passed by the prosecution table, he glared at Carr.

  Carr only looked at Sally Malone and smiled. She stenotyped as the judge announced a recess. Everyone in the courtroom stood up and, like a pharaoh, the judge exited the courtroom through a special door.

  The defense attorney slid his swivel chair to the prosecution table in order to confer with the assistant United States attorney, a man who, by appearance, could have been his slightly older brother.

  Carr went over to Sally.

  "He has all his clients say the same thing," Sally whispered. "They always claim they thought they were carrying narcotics instead of counterfeit money."

&
nbsp; "I know. And with good old Mushhead Malcolm, it works."

  "Nick called while you were testifying. He wants you to meet him at the Olympic Auditorium tonight. He's refereeing. I guess that means that I get stood up again, right?"

  "Unless you like wrestling matches," Carr said amiably.

  "No thanks."

  There was the sound of a buzzer. The court clerk said, "All rise." The judge came in his door and went to the bench.

  The defense attorney called Carr to the witness stand and swore him in.

  "Agent Carr," he said, "you previously testified that you watched the defendant enter the front door of the address in question and, watching through the window, you saw a woman remove money from a refrigerator and hand it to the defendant. Then you saw him remove some money from his pocket and give it to her. Is that right?"

  "That's right."

  "What denomination were the bills?" the defense attorney asked.

  "I don't know. I was too far away to tell."

  "But you could tell it was money?"

  "It was money."

  "Could you tell whether it was counterfeit or genuine money?" Green said.

  "I was too far away to tell, but an informant had told me that a woman was selling counterfeit money at the address. After the man entered the door I saw her give him a large amount of money and he gave her a smaller amount of money in exchange. To me, that meant that a counterfeiting transaction had probably taken place."

  "Your Honor," Green said, "the answer was not responsive. I ask that the answer be stricken from the record."

  "So stricken," the judge said.

  "Agent Carr," Green continued, "when the defendant departed the residence carrying a briefcase and you approached him, what did you say?"

  "I identified myself as a federal officer and informed the defendant I wanted to speak with him."

  "I take it when you approached him, the briefcase was closed, You could not see what was in it, is that right?"

  "That's right."

  "So in actual fact, as you approached the defendant, you had no idea what he had in that briefcase. Isn't that right?"

  "I didn't know for sure, but I would have bet a paycheck or two that it was counterfeit money."

  The lawyer looked beseechingly to the judge.

  "Mr. Carr, I'm going to have to ask you to limit your answers," the judge said. "Please don't make any more conclusions."

  "And when the defendant threw the briefcase on the ground and ran away from you, you and your partner chased him," Mr. Green said. "Is that right?"

  "Yes."

  "You gave chase immediately, without stopping to see what was inside the briefcase. Is that right?"

  "Right."

  "So, therefore, when you were chasing him down the street you still didn't know what was in the briefcase. For all you knew at that point, it could have been heroin or anything else for that matter. Isn't that right?"

  "I thought the briefcase contained counterfeit money," Carr said.

  "As a matter of fact, isn't it true that you can't really be sure that the briefcase that you recovered from the street after you apprehended my client was the same briefcase you saw him leave the apartment with?"

  "I guess someone could have switched briefcases by the time we returned," Carr said. "I once saw a Charlie Chan movie where it happened." He smiled.

  "Please move on, Mr. Green," the judge said. "I'm getting tired of this line of questioning."

  "If it please the court, Your Honor, the defense rests," said Green.

  "Mr. Carr, you may step down," the judge said, shuffling some papers. "The defense motion to suppress evidence in this case is based on the defense's contention that the prosecution has failed to show evidence of specific intent on the part of the defendant. Possession of counterfeit Federal Reserve notes, which is a violation of United States Code Title Eighteen Section four-seven-two, and the offense charged in this case, requires that specific intent on the part of the defendant be shown. The statute requires that the government prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant possessed the counterfeit money with the intent to defraud. The court finds that a reasonable doubt exists as to whether the defendant then and there well knew that he was in possession of counterfeit money as opposed to any other type of contraband at the time of his arrest. This case is dismissed and the defendant's bond is exonerated."

  The defendant smirked at Carr as Attorney Green congratulated him.

  Later, the courtroom was clear except for Carr and Sally Malone. She arranged her notes in a briefcase. "All Green's clients have the same story. They all say they thought it was narcotics rather than counterfeit money in the package or box or briefcase. Malcolm always falls for it every time. It makes me sick."

  "How about lunch?"

  "I know you're angry. You're angry about losing the case, but as usual, you won't express your feelings."

  "If I was really angry I would have lied and said I saw him fill the briefcase with the money when he was inside the apartment. That would have convicted him."

  Her jaw fell open. She gave him a slap on the hand. "Charlie," she said in mock disapproval.

  "And if judge Malcolm would have found him guilty, he would have sentenced him to straight probation anyway. The whole system is perverted and Mushhead Malcolm is one of the chief perverts. Just the sight of that ex-ambulance-chasing shyster sitting on the bench makes me think of retirement."

  "See, you are angry," Sally said.

  Charles Carr parked his sedan in a pay lot behind the Olympic Auditorium. The rear of the three-story cement structure bore an enormous faded mural of boxers facing each other with dukes up. A security guard in a blue uniform stood beside a graffiti-covered door.

  Carr showed his gold Treasury badge. The officer unlocked the door and let him in. Inside the ancient arena, which had the odor of dank cement, cigar smoke and hot dogs cooking in oil, most of the seats were filled. The crowd noise was deafening. In the middle of a regulation-sized ring was a shiny, circus-style steel cage. From each of its four corners, steel cable stretched to a hook extending from the ceiling.

  An anxious crowd filtered between seats and refreshment stands. It was mainly made up of shabbily dressed people of retirement age, Mexicans wearing cowboy hats and shirts, black teenagers with funny hats, fat women and men casually dressed in old T-shirts and Levi's. At ringside was a group of raucous college-age men and women wearing USC sweat shirts. A paper plane constructed from newspaper floated down from the balcony and landed on the cage, which drew a murmur of appreciation.

  Carr made his way through the crowd and along a corridor to a locker room. He showed his badge to another security guard. The guard nodded and opened the door. Carr wound around banks of rusty lockers. He found Prince Nikola of Serbia standing in front of an open locker in the corner, pulling a referee's shirt over his head. "That sunnabitch Bones is tending bar at place in Beverly Hills. It's called the Blue Peach," Nick said on spotting Carr, "...a private club for movie people. Costs lots of money for membership. You know, one of those clubs all the big-shot phonies join because all the other big-shot phonies belong. Next year same sunnabitch that owns it closes up and opens under different name. Everybody pays new membership fee." Nick looked at his wristwatch. "I have only coupla minutes before first match." He tucked in his shirt.

  "Does Bones have anything going on the side?"

  "They tell me he still has the crap game." Nick sat down on a bench and pulled black wrestling shoes from a locker. He tugged one on. "But he keeps it away from where he works. He does conventions, bank openings, yacht parties... wherever the big shots go." He yanked on the other shoe and laced it up. "He's supposed to have a game at a bank opening this week. Some savings and loan in Beverly Hills ... grand opening. If you go there you catch him easy."

  "I appreciate the help, Nick," Carr said. He pointed his thumb in the direction of the ring. "Why the cage in the ring?"

  "Tonight is grudge match," Nick said.
"GI Joe against the Masked Phantom ... no holds barred." He chuckled. "The cage was GI Joe's idea: a fight to the death ... wonderful idea. The auditorium is complete sellout. You should stay and see the match. GI Joe is a nice Hungarian boy from Pittsburgh. I teach him everything, including Boston Crab."

  A muscle-bound young man wearing olive drab wrestling trunks and an army fatigue jacket with corporal stripes lumbered over from behind a locker. Nick introduced him to Carr.

  "I gotta ask ya something," GI Joe said to Nick in a discreet tone. He glanced suspiciously at Carr.

  "Charlie is my friend," Nick said to the young man.

  GI Joe nodded.

  "Could you go over it once more for me," he said. He had a worried look.

  "Which part?"

  "The ending."

  Nick stood up, put an arm around the wrestler's shoulder and spoke fervently in his ear. "Cage is lowered back into ring. I unlock door. You and Phantom wrestle out of door. I pull you apart from Phantom and walk you towards a corner. Phantom sneaks up and gives you judo chop. Go to your knees and do slow burn. Then you get mad and chase him around the cage. On the third circle around, you grab him by the mask. He goes down and you pin him with the Boston Crab. I give the one, two, three, and you are the winner. Got it,"

  GI Joe rubbed his chin. "I hope so."

  "Not to worry."

  An intercom on the wall came alive.