Blues in the Night

by Dick Lochte

‘Bingo!’ Paulie said. ‘She’s gone over there on buying trips before. I figure I’ll send her to Corrigan’s to pick out some art for my place. Corrigan can put the formula in with the canvasses for Angie to mule here.’

  Mace casually slid his hand into his pocket and touched the coin. He was surprised that it comforted him, like a talisman. ‘Why so complicated?’ he asked. ‘The deal was all above board, right?’

  ‘It was and it wasn’t. See, the CEO of Commingore started hemming and hawing, so we had to find another partner. I can’t get into the specifics, but our new associate is . . . well, the government has used him to supply weapons and armament in Iraq and Afghanistan, but . . .’

  ‘But it’s been on the QT, because he’s not a good guy,’ Mace said, ‘and the public probably would not approve this country being in bed with him.’

  ‘Right. The idea was to keep the whole thing on the down low. At least until we get into production.’

  ‘OK, you wired the money to Corrigan. Why didn’t he just wire the formula to you?’

  ‘Well, in the first place, the genius who came up with the formula used it to make a coin and then engraved the formula on it. Not so easy to wire.’

  Mace shook his head. ‘This genius sounds like he’s on the weed. The world isn’t fucked up enough, he’s got to make it even more complicated? And Corrigan. Why didn’t he just copy the formula off the coin and wire that to you?’

  Paulie looked uncomfortable. ‘He says it’s too easy to compromise digital formats. He’s old school. Like you, Mace. He still uses couriers, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Why didn’t he use one of his couriers?’

  Paulie winced in embarrassment. ‘He wanted to. That’s where I screwed the pooch. I . . . thought Angie might like a couple days in Paris.’

  Mace stared at him. If Paulie was being straight, which was always doubtful, he’d put an incredibly valuable item at risk just to send his girlfriend on a trip. This was business in America? No wonder the economy was in such fucking bad shape.

  ‘Did she know the real reason for her trip?’ he asked.

  ‘Not from me.’

  ‘What went wrong?’

  Lacotta shrugged and showed Mace his palms. ‘I sent a limo to LAX for Angie and a truck for the crates. She got back to her place OK, but the truck just disappeared. The coin. The paintings. My three guys. All gone. Never to be heard from again.’

  ‘What did she have to say about it?’

  ‘She made sure the crates got through customs. Waited till my guys rolled ’em into their truck. Then she took the limo home.’

  ‘But you don’t quite trust her.’

  ‘I put one of my guys on her,’ Paulie said. ‘That’s how I found out she was spending time at Tiny’s beach house. She said it was business. He hired her to appraise his art collection.’

  Mace remembered the paintings, worth twenty million. He also remembered a dead pretty boy whom Lowell had called Carlos and wondered if she might have been appraising more than the art.

  ‘Before you ask,’ Paulie said, ‘she claimed she didn’t see any of the missing paintings out there.’

  ‘Who knew the formula – the coin – was coming in with the paintings?’

  ‘Just me.’

  ‘And Corrigan,’ Mace said.

  ‘He’s straight.’

  ‘He’s a former spook who sells weapons,’ Mace said. ‘Not exactly a candidate for sainthood.’

  ‘Maybe not. But he’s solid.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he get the inventor to scribble out the formula again?’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing,’ Paulie said. ‘Corrigan says the inventor isn’t around anymore. He’s pretty pissed about the whole thing. That’s why he and his leg-breaker are here.’

  ‘Why should he care? He got paid.’

  ‘I . . . to make sure that the auction went our way, I cut him in for profit points. And he’s on the warpath.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m so fucked.’

  ‘Why’d you drag me into this mess?’ Mace asked.

  ‘I was hoping you’d be able to figure out if Angie set me up. Then maybe I could get her to tell me what happened to the coin. As soon as Uncle Sal comes back from his business trip down south, he’s gonna want a report. His first move will be to drag Angie in and start cutting her fingers off until she talks. I’d sincerely like to avoid that.’

  ‘You in love with her, or what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. Probably not.’

  ‘You’re hopeless,’ Mace said.

  ‘Tell me something new.’

  ‘OK. Since nobody sends a hit man to steal a coin, I think we can assume that whoever sent the Brit wasn’t just after the formula; he wanted Tiny dead.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So Thomas’s employer was miffed with Tiny. Sound like anyone we know?’

  ‘You think it’s me? Christ! I don’t do murder. And the first I heard of this guy Thomas was when you mentioned him. You said he was with the guy who tried to kill me.’

  Mace nodded. ‘Who else might have had it in for Tiny?’

  ‘You knew him. The guy was a sewer rat. Nobody likes sewer rats.’ He leaned his head back in his chair. ‘I put Angie in the sewer with him.’

  ‘How do you figure?’

  ‘If I hadn’t been hot for her, Tiny wouldn’t have gone after her.’

  Mace wasn’t sure if it had been the nuns who’d done a state-of-the-art guilt trip on Paulie or if it was middle-age paranoia, the belief that the whole world revolved around him. ‘You ought to be more concerned about yourself,’ Mace said. ‘Montdrago might figure you for the sell-out.’

  ‘Thanks for keeping it optimistic,’ Paulie said. ‘Maybe we grab this Thomas, we get the coin.’

  ‘I don’t think he had time to find it,’ Mace said. ‘The shooting couldn’t have taken place too long before I got there. The bodies were still warm. Tiny’s socks were off, which suggests Thomas might have been getting ready for a little torture to find the coin. But something happened and he wound up shooting everybody instead. Something – probably the arrival of the security guards – distracted him. And when he’d finished with them, I showed up. And he ran.’

  ‘Then where’s the fucking coin?’ Paulie asked. ‘I need the damn thing. I paid for it.’

  ‘Have your toy gun analyzed,’ Mace said.

  ‘I tried. They can break down the elements, but not the process.’

  Mace looked at his old pal slumped in the chair and thought about reaching into his pocket and handing Paulie the precious coin. But that was always an option. There was too much Paulie wasn’t telling him. The more pressure, the more truth.

  ‘Who were the other two buttoned-down types in your meeting with Corrigan?’

  ‘They’re, ah, with Tideland Security.’

  Mace shook his head. ‘Mercs? The same Special Forces dropouts who were paid a fortune to fuck up in Iraq?’

  ‘They’re working for our other business partner—’

  ‘The one you won’t name.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s better you don’t know. He hired Tideland to check me out, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘When exactly did Corrigan blow into town?’ Mace asked.

  ‘A couple hours ago. He and his shadow came to the meeting directly from the airport.’

  ‘What does that tell you, Paulie?’

  Lacotta looked at him blankly.

  ‘He’s not here because you were ripped off,’ Mace explained. ‘That happened weeks ago. He’s here because Tiny was killed and the coin’s gone south.’

  ‘You could be right,’ Paulie said. ‘But that still leaves us with the question of who sent the hitman to kill Tiny and get the coin?’

  A name suddenly popped into Mace’s head. He’d been hearing it ever since he arrived and it had been on the pill bottle in Angela Lowell’s bag. ‘What do you know about a Jerry Monte?’ he asked Paulie.

  ‘A Jerry Monte? Like he’s not the current king of show biz and if not king m
aybe a crown prince on Wall Street. I love you, Mace.’

  ‘Other than the hype what do you know about him?’

  ‘A Jersey guy. Everybody likes him. Women love him. A real talent and he’s smart as hell. A genius, really. Computers. Electronics. He’s into all that shit. Why do you ask?’

  ‘He was at Abe’s. They were lined up around the block to see him. Olympus own a piece of him?’

  In spite of his mood, Lacotta smiled. ‘He could own a piece of us,’ he said. ‘You don’t get it, do you? This guy is big. He’s up there with Oprah and Spielberg. But, as a matter of fact, we are investors in that exercise environment thing I showed you. Simureal. That’s his company.’

  ‘Would Angela Lowell know him?’ Mace asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. A lot of people do. The guy’s pretty accessible. Throws these weekend parties at his place in Cabrillo Canyon. My uncle’s been to a couple.’

  ‘You know the address?’

  ‘Not offhand. You’re not thinking Monte is mixed—’

  He was interrupted by a buzzing sound. His desk phone. He picked up the receiver. ‘Yeah?’

  He listened for a beat and said, ‘Shit. Keep her on hold for a minute.’ To Mace, he said, ‘It’s Wylie’s mother and she’s all fucked up. I gotta take it.’

  Mace stood. ‘Good luck with that. When you’re finished, maybe you can get somebody to book me a hotel room. Any place but the Florian.’

  ‘Stay at my place,’ Paulie said.

  ‘Sure. Why not?’

  ‘You think Jerry Monte’s fucking around with my deal?’ Paulie asked.

  ‘I’ll let you know,’ Mace said.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Mace decided the best way of getting a fix on Jerry Monte was through Angela Lowell. At least that’s the rationale that found him parking down the road a bit past the Florian. He got out of the car and walked back to the apartment hotel, probably the last place in the LA area where he’d want the police to find him. Well, maybe the second to last place, next to Tiny Daniels’ bloodstained beach house.

  He walked only as far as the garage. If Angela Lowell’s yellow Mustang was there, he’d hang out parked on the street, keeping his eye on the driveway from a safe distance until she left the hot area.

  But the Mustang was gone.

  He was annoyed with himself for not having bothered to figure out how to use the tracking device that had been planted in the Mustang. Maybe he could get Paulie . . . no, bad idea. Paulie would pimp him about being too old school to use a computer. And then he’d start quizzing him about the Angela-Monte connection.

  There was an easier way to locate Monte. And probably Angela Lowell.

  As he walked back to his Camry, a black van zoomed past him and screeched to a stop, parking across the street from the Florian. The guy behind the wheel had shoulders like a linebacker. He was wearing a black T-shirt, Ray-Bans and a blinking blue beetle in his ear. The name on the van was Beverlywood Cleaners.

  Mace figured Lowell was lucky to be gone. Otherwise she’d be entertaining Tideland Security. In lieu of interrogating her, they’d probably clean her apartment, but not in a way that would leave it nice and tidy.

  He got into the Camry, started it up and made a U-turn to head back to Sunset.

  Passing the van, he saw that the driver had exited and was waiting for another buffed up guy who was leaving the vehicle via its back door. The last Mace saw of them in his rear-view mirror, they were strolling casually toward the entrance to the Florian.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Honest Abe groaned when Mace’s image appeared on his security camera, stopping to talk to the idiot who was setting up the tables and chairs. The idiot pointed up toward Abe’s office.

  Abe looked around the room, saw nothing that needed to be put away and settled back behind his desk. At the knock, he said, ‘Come on in, Mace.’

  The big man entered, scanning the office. ‘Nice,’ he said. ‘And it definitely smells better than your old one.’

  ‘Take a chair. Coffee?’

  Mace accepted the chair and refused the coffee.

  ‘You’re getting to be a regular,’ Abe said. ‘I may have to put you on my speed-dial.’

  ‘Tell me about your pal the poet,’ Mace said. ‘Jerry Monte.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘What’s he into besides poetry?’

  Abe laughed. ‘Anything and anyone.’

  ‘A little more specific.’

  Abe sighed. ‘He makes movies. He sings. He dances. All of which gives him a fortune in entertainment buckos. And he’s the brains behind an electronics company that’ll probably make Sony look like dog shit one of these days.’

  ‘What about off camera and out of the spotlight?’ Mace asked. ‘Perv? Goofy religion? Drugs?’

  ‘I gather he covers the waterfront when it comes to sex. Religion, not so much.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘This is Hollywood, Mace. You musta heard the joke. “I don’t like cocaine. I just like the smell.” Jerry doesn’t overdo, but he’s an excellent host. By that I mean he and some other heavy-hitters own a drug store.’

  ‘Honeymoon Drugs?’ Mace asked.

  Abe nodded before remembering that Mace previously had asked him about the Honeymoon. In connection with what . . . ? Aw, shit. Angela Lowell.

  ‘I hear Monte throws parties at his place in Cabrillo Canyon,’ Mace said.

  ‘He’s a party animal, for sure.’

  ‘Got one tonight?’

  ‘The usual. Hot cooze and cold vodka.’

  ‘Where in Cabrillo Canyon, exactly?’ Mace asked.

  Abe wondered if he should bullshit or play it straight. The scowl on Mace’s face made up his mind for him. He mentioned an address on Cabrillo Canyon Road.

  ‘Can you get me an invitation to the party?’

  Abe shook his big head, his features showing sincere regret. ‘We’re friends, Mace. And we go back a ways. But, frankly, you’re a little . . . unpredictable? I can’t afford to have Jerry pissed at me because somebody I recommended started slugging his party guests. Or him.’

  ‘I’ve mellowed, Abe.’

  ‘So you won’t manhandle anyone. You’ll just piss in the punchbowl. You’re gonna have to find another way in.’

  ‘You’re more afraid of Monte than you are of me?’ Mace said. ‘Good to know.’

  Abe felt a chill, but he said, ‘I respect you more. But he’s got money in this place.’

  Mace smiled. A rare thing. ‘You’re OK, Abe. Thanks for the address. I’ll work something out.’

  He stood and lost the smile. ‘But if I hear that you tipped Monte to be watching out for me, it’ll be the end of our beautiful relationship.’

  Abe followed Mace’s departure on his security monitor. It wasn’t until the big man had cleared the front door that he remembered to exhale. He reached out a hand to the phone, then thought better of it. Let Jerry fucking Monte handle his own problems.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Mace had driven just a few blocks west on Sunset when he spotted a black Bentley sedan several cars back that seemed to be pacing him. He speeded up and so did the Bentley. He slowed and the Bentley fell back, too.

  He continued along Sunset until Charing Cross Road where he took a sharp left. Then a right on Hilgard, which he followed to Westholme where he drove on to the UCLA campus. Not for the first time, he wondered what the designer of the campus had been smoking when he laid out the streets. He took rights and lefts as if he had some destination in mind. Eventually he had to stop a jogger to find out how to get to Sunset. Then another student.

  Rejoining Sunset Boulevard at Westwood Plaza, he checked his rear-view mirror and saw that the Bentley was no longer following. Of course, the tail could have been passed to any of the other vehicles lined up behind him.

  There were only two cars trailing him when he turned right off Sunset on to Cabrillo Canyon Road. According to the address Abe had provided, Jerry Monte’s party c
entral was way the hell up Cabrillo. A tenth of a mile before he got there, Mace took a road to the left that doglegged up the canyon.

  His Camry was the only car on that narrow road.

  He kept driving until he arrived at a lip that provided a nice view of the lower Canyon. He parked the Camry as close to the protected side of the road as he could. There was barely enough space for another car to pass, but he didn’t think that would be a problem unless a driver came barreling up or down and was surprised. The odds of that were slim. People using that road had to be careful drivers or they wouldn’t still be alive.

  He opened the trunk, unzipped his bag and pulled out a pair of binoculars. He took them to the edge of the road and scanned the area below. Some of the homes beneath the steep cliff were big enough to pass as principalities, but there was no problem spotting Jerry Monte’s. It wasn’t just because his estate was at least three times the size of his neighbors’. His face was on a large flag that snapped in the breeze beside a huge man-made lagoon, complete with waterfall. It fed several other smaller faux ponds and pools. All that in a city whose mortal inhabitants often suffered the depravations of drought conditions.

  The estate’s main building was huge, a sandstone, three-story, castle-like affair. It was separated from the Canyon Road by a high stone wall bordering a bright green rolling lawn that could have served as an eighteen-hole golf course. A metal gate – presumably operated from the house – allowed approved vehicles entry to a wide flagstone driveway that traveled the hundred or so yards to the main building. There was a second gate and drive, further up Cabrillo Canyon Road at the far edge of the property. For the help to use, probably.

  A matching flagstone walkway surrounded the house and branched off through a series of landscaped, verdant terraces, past fountains, redwood decks and a cabana, near the fake lagoon, from which two naked young women emerged, towels wrapped around their hair, drinks in their hands.

  They were both Hollywood pretty, Mace thought, as he focused the binoculars. Very comfortable in their surgically enhanced and bikini-waxed skin. They blissfully strolled along the brick road, much to the amusement of workers who were putting together a white tent that was large enough for a two-if not three-ring circus just below the mini castle.