Blues in the Night

by Dick Lochte

  ‘Nothing fatal,’ Mace said.

  ‘You might ask your paparazzo about them,’ Abe said.

  ‘My paparazzo?’

  ‘Symon,’ Abe said. ‘I saw his name on your picture of Lowell.’

  Mace took the photo from his pocket. Simon S. Symon’s name was stamped on the back.

  ‘Colorful odd characters in a yellow limo? Symon lives for that kind of photo op. He’s the west coast Diane Arbus.’

  ‘He’s a scumbag.’

  Abe shrugged. He settled down in his chair and began to readjust his reflector. ‘These days, who isn’t?’ he said.

  TWENTY

  At the stucco duplex on Orange Avenue, there was no sign of the fat woman with the baby. She’d probably already had her morning tobacco fix. Mace moved quickly to the rear of the building where he took the wooden stairs two at a time, not giving a damn how much noise he was making.

  Past the screen door, the door to the apartment stood open.

  There was no sign of life.

  He opened the screen door and stepped in.

  The worn couch and chairs were still there. The people, the projector and even the yellow beanbag chair weren’t.

  He moved through the small apartment. The bedroom was in semi-darkness, old-fashioned paper shades blocking the sun, except for a torn edge that let in a shaft of light. A stripped, stained mattress rested on a metal frame. There was sand or grime on the floor that crunched when he walked.

  The single bathroom was damp and smelled of soap perfume. There were no towels, nothing in the medicine cabinet, not even a roll of toilet paper.

  Nothing in the apartment for him.

  As he headed for the front door, he felt something under his shoe that was neither sand nor grit. A couple of coins; a quarter and a nickel. He guessed they’d fallen out of The Beaver’s pants while he was lying on the pillows.

  Thirty cents didn’t buy much. The departing tenants hadn’t felt the coins worth the bending over.

  Mace left them, too. But they reminded him of something.

  He reached into his pocket and looked at the strange coin he’d taken from a dead man’s mouth. He decided it was time for a visit to old friends.

  TWENTY-ONE

  There was a sign indicating that the Santa Monica Pier was celebrating its hundredth year of operation, which explained why it had had at least one makeover since Mace had last visited. The Merry-Go-Round in the old Hippodrome building, which was providing music and entertainment for a group of gleeful children, had been recently painted. The restaurants and shops looked much less seedy. There even seemed to be more tourists than homeless people, though Mace had to admit the distinction was not always apparent.

  He paused in front of a brightly colored electric blue storefront displaying the drawing of a human hand. An unlit neon sign read ‘MADAME SUZY’ and in smaller letters, ‘By Appointment Only.’

  He tried the bright blue door and found it open.

  A bell tinkled as he entered a small room with indirect lighting. As was the case with the rest of the pier, obvious improvements had been made. The walls had been painted aqua and the room refurnished with retro 1950s’ couch and chairs, chrome based with aqua-colored, vinyl-covered seats. They surrounded a coffee table with a laminate top on which were artfully scattered books and pamphlets with titles like, The Key to Your Sixth Sense and The You Beyond the You.

  Mace remembered a door in the wall directly across from the entrance, but it seemed to have disappeared with the remodel. He was searching for some way to move on into the rest of the house when he heard a familiar voice exclaim, ‘Well, I be goddams.’

  A section of the wall opened and an elderly woman entered the room smiling at him. She was dressed in blue denim trousers and a paler denim shirt. Though she had to be in her seventies, her hair was jet black, piled up on her head with what looked like a fresh magnolia pinned to it.

  Before he could say a word she rushed across the floor and began hugging him.

  ‘Hey, you goddamn galoots, you,’ she said against his chest.

  ‘Hi, Suzy.’

  She pulled back and stared at him, putting on a fake pout. ‘Hi Suzy. Hi Suzy. Nine years and it’s “Hi Suzy”, huh?’ She patted her hair. ‘Drop in like this, no warning. No time to fix myself up.’

  ‘You look great,’ he said.

  She grinned. ‘I look like what I am, an old voodoo. But you, David . . . you some hunk of man, sugar. Damn, it’s good to see you.’

  ‘You, too, Suzy,’ he said. ‘The Marquis around?’

  ‘Whea else he be?’ she replied. ‘We was so sad to hear about yo’ daddy. It didn’t sound like he suffered, no?’

  ‘No. He just got beat down by the hurricanes and tough times.’

  ‘Oh, God, yeah. The hurricanes, the oil spill and the floods. And that po’ goddamn city o’ New Ah-leens. So tragique. Ah always figgered we’d go back some day, the Marquis an’ me. But no more. We got this place fixed up nice, no?’

  He looked around the room. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Looks great.’

  ‘I see you on the spy cam,’ she said, pointing at the flat lighting fixture in the center of the ceiling. ‘We hi-tech, no?’ Mace could see a tiny object, like the tip of a pen, pointed directly at him.

  Suddenly, she was hugging him again. ‘It’s been so long. Damn, but I miss you Masons.’ She took his hand and stepped back. ‘It don’t seem that long ago yo’ gran’daddy and Hildy and the Marquis and me were playing a club on the Gulf Coast and this big son-bitch shrimper come in . . .’

  ‘And accused granddad of cheating at poker?’ Mace said.

  ‘Aww, I tole you that story, huh?’

  ‘Not more than fifteen or twenty times,’ he said, smiling. ‘Honey, I have to see the Marquis.’

  ‘Oh, sure, Davey,’ she said. ‘I get too sentimental.’

  ‘I love your stories about the old days. But I’m a little pressed for time right now.’

  ‘You got trouble?’

  ‘Trying to avoid it.’

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘But –’ lowering her voice to a whisper – ‘the Marquis ain’t the same, you unnerstand. Not since the . . . sickness. Come.’

  She lead him through a small dining room with peach-colored walls, a polished oak table and six chairs, to a short hall and, finally, to a small, dimly lit room at the rear of the building where an old man sat in a wheelchair before a large flat-screen TV, watching a game show in which the contestants were given the answer and had to provide the question.

  The Marquis continued his concentration on the monitor, apparently oblivious to their arrival. On the wall were posters featuring him and Suzy in their salad days. The billing read: ‘The Marquis, The Man Who Knows Everything. With the Beauteous Suzy.’

  ‘Hey, look who dropped out of the sky,’ Suzy almost yelled at the old man.

  The Marquis spun his chair around and stared at Mace. His face, which Mace remembered as strikingly handsome, was narrow and deeply lined. And old. His intelligent eyes were almost comedic, magnified by thick glasses.

  A wide grin of recognition erased some of the years. He tried to stand, pushing himself up, then remembered he was in a wheel chair for a reason and slumped back down.

  ‘Sorry, David, but you catch me at a disadvantage,’ he said, his voice still deep and rich.

  ‘You look fine to me, Marquis,’ Mace said.

  ‘I look like George Burns a year after they put him under the sod. Please sit. Don’t make me strain my neck. It is the one part of my body that hasn’t failed.’

  Mace dragged a chair near him and sat.

  The old man used his chin to indicate the TV. It was a game show Mace knew:Jeopardy. ‘Television should be the last great art form of a civilization teetering on the brink of extinction,’ the Marquis said. ‘But of all its vast resources and possibilities, we get only five brief half-hours a week that ask us to use our memory.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I’m interrupting . . .’ Mace said.
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  ‘Not at all. It’s being recorded. I can watch it anytime I care to. Ah, technology. We are your slaves.’

  ‘I think Davey needs yo’ help, Marquis,’ Suzy said.

  The old man nodded and smiled at Mace. ‘You were never one for small talk. Business over badinage, just like your grandmother, God rest her soul.’

  Mace reached into his pocket and took out the coin he had pried from Tiny Daniels’ mouth. The old man raised his right hand to receive it, then winced in pain, and lowered his arm with a grimace of self-disgust. ‘What fun,’ he said.

  Using his thumb and forefinger, Mace held the coin up for the Marquis to observe through his thick glasses. The old man gave it a curious glance and, continuing to rest his arm on the chair, turned his hand palm up. His long fingers resembled a spider’s legs as he wiggled them impatiently. ‘Let me feel it.’

  Mace placed the coin on his palm.

  ‘Light weight, eh? Odd material. Not metal. Not plastic. But what?’

  ‘Any idea who’s picture it is?’

  ‘That’s easy,’ the Marquis said. ‘Basil Zaharoff.’

  ‘What team did he pitch for?’ Mace asked.

  ‘Google him and you’ll get the full story.’

  ‘As long as I’m here . . .’ Mace said.

  The Marquis grinned. He closed his eyes and began speaking as if he were reading from a text. ‘Basil Zaharoff. A Turkish-born Frenchman who, in the early nineteen-hundreds, became a leading dealer in guns and armament for Great Britain’s Vickers Co. A liar, a cheat, a schemer who bartered fluently in at least eight languages. He supplied weapons to both sides in the Boer War, the Balkan conflicts and the First World War. Became one of the wealthiest men in Europe and bestowed upon himself the title of Sir Basil Zaharoff. But he was more widely known by his nickname, The Merchant of Death.’

  He opened his eyes and grinned.

  ‘Bravo!’ Suzy shouted and clapped her hands. ‘You still got it up here, ba-bee.’

  ‘Zaharoff couldn’t still be alive?’ Mace asked.

  ‘He was born in eighteen forty-nine. You do the math, Davey.’

  Mace smiled and took back the object ‘Any idea why somebody would put his face on a fake coin?’

  ‘I suppose it must have something to do with weaponry. You might want to put the coin under a microscope, see if it has any tales to tell.’

  ‘I’ll do that, Marquis,’ Mace said, standing. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  Suzy looked disappointed. ‘You not stayin’ for coffee? I use chicory. Taste like home.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. Thanks again, Marquis.’

  ‘A breeze. Come back soon and I’ll give you my theory about this so-called age of information and our obsession with the life and times of such crucial figures as Kim Kardashian and Charlie Sheen.’

  The old man spun around and returned his attention to the television monitor.

  Suzy took Mace’s arm and led him back through the building.

  ‘Is it cancer?’ Mace asked.

  ‘No, hon. The MS,’ she said softly. ‘Started slow, but it’s got the upper han’ now. You come back soon, before it takes him away.’

  Mace promised he would.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Mace spent the next hour or so at a public library in West LA, using the computers to Google everything he could about Basil Zaharoff. There was an abundance of material, but nothing to suggest why his countenance might have been engraved on a coin.

  Annoyed and frustrated, he returned to the Florian where he angled the Camry into its slot. Angela Lowell’s Mustang was not in its space. But, he discovered with both alarm and anger, Wylie’s car was still parked.

  Fast-walking past the pool, he looked up to see that their apartment curtains were drawn.

  He took the stairs two at a time, then paused at their door.

  He heard bedsprings and a moan.

  Furious now, he unlocked the door, rushed in and closed the door behind him.

  He crossed the dark apartment to stand beside Wylie’s bed. It was occupied. More moaning. Mace reached for the bedside lamp and turned it on.

  There was only one person in the bed, covered by the spread. Mace pulled it back. Wylie lay in a fetal position, his face battered and bleeding, shivering in a combination of sickness and fright.

  He looked up at Mace, as spooked as a horse facing fire.

  ‘I . . . I . . . oh, Mace. Thank you, Jesus,’ Wylie said.

  ‘Keep still. I’ll get a doc.’

  ‘No!’ Wylie forced himself into a sitting position, moaning in pain. ‘I . . . left word with Mr Lacotta. Gotta wait . . . for his OK.’

  ‘Screw that,’ Mace said. ‘You’re hurt bad. You need help now.’

  Wylie swung his legs around and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Not . . . so bad.’

  He coughed. There was blood on his lips. ‘I was . . . on the bitch, Mace . . . truth. They caught me downstairs . . . in garage . . . big fucking bastard . . . Elvis, jus’ like you said . . . Bear hug . . . broke inside.’

  ‘Sit down, man. Stay still.’

  ‘They wanted . . . you. Bullshit about . . . a coin. I didn’t know . . . what the fuck?’

  The quarter-sized counterfeit in Mace’s pocket seemed to be getting heavier.

  ‘I’ve seen . . . the big bastard . . . before . . . King C-hole . . . Kid Gal-I-Had . . . Roust-a-butt.’

  Mace thought Wylie was hallucinating. Spouting nonsense. He saw the kid’s cellular on the bedside table and picked it up.

  ‘Yeah. Call Mr Lacotta,’ Wylie yelled, more blood spilling over his lips. ‘Tell him . . . not my fault.’

  ‘You got internal bleeding, son,’ Mace said. ‘No time for Lacotta. You need a doc.’

  ‘No.’ Wylie pushed off the bed and staggered to the door. ‘Can take care of . . . myself.’

  He opened the door and stumbled out.

  ‘Shit,’ Mace said and tossed the phone aside. He ran after the kid.

  By some magic or adrenaline surge Wylie had already cleared the stairs.

  Arriving at the patio, Mace saw him weaving toward the garage. The last two sunbathers, men in thongs, had just left their poolside chairs and were walking toward the main building carrying lotions and iPhones and rolled scripts.

  Mace was distracted by them, watching to see if they noticed Wylie. They were too absorbed in their conversation to notice anything but themselves. Once they’d entered the building, Mace shifted his attention to Wylie, saw him stumble forward and fall face down on to the pool deck. By the time he arrived, blood was forming what looked like a large, dark-red jigsaw piece under the kid’s head.

  Mace searched for a pulse and discovered Wylie was beyond his help.

  It was time to help himself.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Mace tossed his gear into his canvas bag. He searched the room, stuck Wylie’s cell phone and car keys into his jacket pocket and grabbed the bottle of bourbon, adding that to the bag, along with the two sets of binoculars. He went over the apartment, more carefully this time. When he was convinced that he’d left nothing obvious, he zipped the bag shut.

  He was not unmindful of the fingerprints and DNA samples he’d left behind. There just wasn’t anything he could do about them.

  He stood at the window, pulled the curtain back and looked down on Wylie’s body. As best he could tell, it hadn’t attracted any attention, but it wouldn’t be long before somebody started screaming. He didn’t want to be around for that.

  He raised his eyes for one last look at Angela Lowell’s draped windows.

  He left the apartment and moved quickly to the Lexus Wylie had been using. He unlocked the door and gave the interior a quick search. Satisfied that the laptop that Wylie had been using to track the Mustang was the only thing worth taking, he grabbed it. He was backing out of the vehicle when he saw an odd-looking black box, the size of a thin cigarette pack. Curious, he studied it for a beat, discovered it was nothing more than smartly pac
kaged chewing gum and slipped it into his now bulging jacket pocket.

  Then he got the hell away from the Florian.

  A block down Sunset, he pulled over to the curb and used Wylie’s phone to put in a call to Paulie. After a couple of rings, voice mail kicked in. Mace broke the connection and tried the office.

  ‘Mr Lacotta is unavailable,’ a pleasant female voice informed him, ‘but if you’d just give me your—’

  ‘Tell him it’s Mace and it’s important.’

  ‘I’ll be happy to give him the message, Mr Mace. If you’d—’

  ‘No message. I need to talk to him now.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but Mr Lacotta is in a meet—’

  Mace hung up on her.

  He tossed Wylie’s cellular and computer on the passenger seat, put the car in drive and, forcing himself to stick to the pace the traffic was setting, headed west. Twelve minutes later, he was descending into the sub-basement parking facilities beneath a building on the eastern edge of the Century City complex of business offices and high-end retail stores.

  Four minutes after that, he joined the throng of mainly smartly dressed young men and women who seemed happy to be returning to work after lunch at a time of more than ten percent unemployment.

  Mace ignored them as he pushed through the revolving doors and entered the astringent-scented, chilly lobby. Two security officers, manning a desk as long as a wild west saloon bar, seemed to be performing the useful service of mentally undressing the continuous parade of attractive females. He strolled past them to join a crowd waiting at a bank of elevators.

  In front of him, a thin young man wearing a two thousand dollar suit and a Dodgers cap backward on his head was regaling a similarly garbed but capless corporate turk with a tale of the marketplace. ‘So I told the towel-head to take a hike and

  he says, “Why get upset? This is business.” And I say, ”Cause the B’nai B’rith wouldn’t understand, you Arab bastard.”’

  ‘Holy shit! Then what?’

  ‘The son of a bitch has the brass to raise the ante to eighty thou.’