by Michael Lion
“Li called me Friday and confirmed that Song was with her all day Thursday,” I interrupted. “In Santa Monica. She had nowhere else to go, Caz, and therefore no reason to leave. She’d opened up to her sister. She was home, and comfortable. And she thought she was safe.”
Caz picked up the ball and ran with it. “But the pros don’t know that she’s moved. They pick her up on the street somewhere, kill her for whatever reason, which is another problem by the way, and then dump her in her known neighborhood.”
“True enough, I don’t know why they’re killing their own whores, but that’s not my problem, it’s yours. And there’s going to be another body, Sarge, because if Song had had the information they needed, she’d have disappeared, not turned up dead.” As I finished that sentence, three Asian kids maybe twelve years old came around the corner, casually glanced up at me and Caz, then went in the cafe, jabbering at each other in Vietnamese. They were dressed in surf gear and skateboards. Several tables noticed them as they strutted into the cafe itself.
“And where’s the connection to the Ming bitch?” Caz was asking.
“Have you gotten the DNA print results from Song’s fingernails?” I asked, still watching the kids.
“Saw ’em this morning. They—”
I held up a hand. “Let me guess. Negative.”
She gave a tired nod. “Just some traces of nylon fibers, like they make those fuzzy mountaineering jackets out of.”
“And car upholstery,” I added. “Somewhere in this town, there’s a back seat with a bloodstain and some nasty nailtracks in it.”
Caz shrugged. “Maybe. But what about the redhead? How does she tie in?”
“Like I said, I don’t know the why’s, only the how’s, and she’s the clincher. But let me guess something else first. When you searched Song’s body, you found nothing bearing the name Naomi, no ID of any kind, right?”
A nod.
“Funny, because according to Li she’d been on her own almost two years, using that name. Why no ID?”
Caz was incredulous. “I bet you’re gonna tell me.”
“Because I think “Naomi” was a stage name. I think she was known as Naomi on board the Azure Mosaic.” I paused long enough to smile a little bit. “When she was screaming at me in the street last Thursday night, she said the most interesting thing. She looked at me and said, ‘Do you know who I am?’ I mean, what kind of a question is that from somebody that young? It’s one thing for someone older to say that, but a teenager?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s the kind of question that comes from someone with heavy connections. The kind of connections that can kill—and get you killed.”
That got no reaction from Caz. “Like I said, Bird, thin. But interesting. You’re not expecting to get paid for this, are you?”
“Wouldn’t have bought the coffee if I did. If something pans out, though, I’m gonna get some love, right?”
“Naturally. But what about the redhead? You said she was the clincher.”
I took a last deep breath. “The class ring on her finger? Take it to any catalogue jewelry store and try to match the design to any known high school ring for Corona Del Mar High, ever. I’ll bet you six lunches you won’t find it.”
“You’re on. Why not?”
“Because I don’t think the letters “CDM” on that ring stand for Corona Del Mar, Sarge. I think they stand for Cynthia Dazhai Ming.”
Chapter 10
Caz left first, and I followed ten minutes later after killing another cup of coffee. Everything was, thankfully, all in her lap now. I had told her what I could, and now all I had to do was sit back and wait for something to come of it that would mean a profit for me. I felt that she would, in time, pay me well for that information.
As I stepped out of the alley and onto the main street, I casually glanced behind me. No one followed. When I got to my bike and started it up, I checked my rearview mirror for a long minute. Nobody turned out of the alley. No car pulled away from the curb as I left. The extra dose of caffeine didn’t help my nerves any, but the more distance I put between me and the E-Bar, the more I relaxed.
I zipped in and out of traffic, hopping lanes and breaking the speed limit, counting up the loose ends. Bob Waterston, who I was sure I’d never see again, wouldn’t be able to identify me even if he saw me. Caz had all the information I did, and was currently scrambling around downtown trying to piece it together—I was no longer involved. Sheff still owed me big for getting him out of Song’s room with his head on his shoulders and not in his hands. Song...well, that wasn’t directly my fault, although if I had put two and two together a little earlier she might still be around. I felt a twinge in my chest at the thought of her in the morgue. I couldn’t help thinking how stupid she had looked in the foyer of that apartment building Thursday morning. Stupid and magnificently innocent.
I accelerated the bike and moved away from emotional images and back into cold assessment. I had no idea who the redhead was and no longer cared. If Double F came up with something, I might make a profit. But I doubted he would show up with anything more interesting than a case of the clap. And, most importantly, Li had been passed over by this execution squad, whoever they were.
Yep, I had it all figured out.
I was wrong.
The sun was cruising over the noon mark as I finally wound my way uptown and hunkered down around a double bacon-and-Swiss burger from the All American. I was in an unhurried and unburdened mood. I figured I had done enough in the last five days to justify such a mood for the next month or so. On the tail of that thought came two others: first, I would sell what I knew about the chemist in Little Tokyo, who was now almost certainly dead, to whatever Asian connections I could scare up—it was probably worth two month’s rent to someone; second, I had earned an evening of partying on a Roman level. With those comforting thoughts, I ate slowly and sloppily, entertaining visions of alcohol and perhaps an ideal body with no brain, or at least no memory, to keep me company. Just then Tom Bellwood walked past the front window and stepped into the place.
Tom is the quintessential Southern California Lost Soul, a subspecies of human being that is getting rarer, but by no means extinct. As far as I can tell, his mailing address is a sandbar somewhere between Point Magoo and Malibu, inside of a ’73 VW Van, usually with some giggling fellow Lost Soul and a dog whose name is, of course, Sandy. His sole possessions beside the van are a surfboard and a wetsuit, several pairs of shorts and t-shirts, none of which were purchased new, and an uncanny ability to convince the people at the state unemployment office that yes, he is indeed looking for gainful employment. I’d never seen him wearing shoes.
He flashed me a peace sign, staring through hair that was brown about an inch out from the roots and then went suddenly, shockingly blond. Tom never seemed to want anything and never seemed to know anything, so I considered him a good friend. Although, for those willing to pay, I might mention his ability to obtain the best weed in the free world, at a bargain.
Sandy beat him to the table, and I scrubbed the old dog’s head and let him lick my face. Several people around me seemed to lose their appetites. “What’s up, Bird?” he started, in that always-glad-to-see-you tone that is the trademark of Southern California’s eternally unencumbered. “Ain’t seen you in forever, man! Whatchya been doin’?”
“This and that, man. How’re the swells?”
“You know, babe, some days I don’t think I’ll ever do anything else but surf, and when I feel like I want to, I lie down ’til the feeling goes away.” He laughed at this piece of wit and stuck his hand out, which I slapped. Talking to Tom was like hanging out in a singles bar in the late 1970’s. Unfortunately, his personality was also so infectious that you often found yourself saying things like “groovy” and “cosmic” if you talked to him for more than three minutes. “By the way, isn’t this an early hour for you, babe? I don’t think I’ve ever seen your face before the sun went down.”
>
I nodded until I could get a mouthful of burger down. “Yeah. I just finished a very long, potentially very lucrative weekend, and I’m planning out my vacation.”
“Sounds like a plan, dude. Whatchya got in mind?”
“I’d gotten as far as drinking heavily when you walked by. Why?”
“Perfecto, dude! There’s a little...oh, shall we say, soiree tonight that just might be what you’re after.” He pronounced ‘soiree’ so that it rhymed with ‘sorry.’
“Really?” I said. “I was just thinking about finding a party.”
“We’re all bonded together, man, in the—”
“Where is it?” I interrupted, before he could really get going. “And am I invited?”
“Fuckin’A, dude, a course you’re invited!” He rolled his eyes comically. “You remember Dorine Hall? Lives in that big ol’ house above the beach a little ways up from Venice?”
My mouth was full. I nodded vigorously.
“That’s where it is, man. Show up whenever.”
I swallowed. “Who’s gonna be there?”
“Shit, dude, who isn’t! Every time Dorine opens her front doors, half of fuckin’ Hollywood shows up. You know her, when she throws a party, you better duck!”
I told Tom I would show up around ten, because I did know Dorine. The party wouldn’t even get going until at least that time, and probably much later. In high school her parents had left for a weekend in Baja, and she and one hundred of her closest friends stayed drunk in the house for three days. I was looking forward to it.
Tom got his burger and a large order of fries to go, gave me a hang loose sign on the way out the door, and skipped down the sidewalk teasing Sandy with the fries. I finished my burger and was still hungry, so I ordered another single cheese with a Coke. I couldn’t get enough. It was well past two in the afternoon when I finally finished my stress-relieving meal and slurped up the last of my drink on the way to my bike. The day was warm and hazy, so I draped my leather jacket over the seat and sat on it. I didn’t want to go to sleep, and therefore didn’t want to go home, so I got onto Pacific Coast Highway, flipped a coin and went north.
P.C.H. is a beautiful stretch of ribbon that meanders up the coast of California from Baja all the way into Oregon. It is made for being by yourself on a motorcycle at fifty miles an hour. From Los Angeles up into Ventura the scenery remains unchanged: quaint little towns and wide spots in the asphalt do little more than provide a stoplight and break the monotony of being close to the ocean but unable to see it. Once in Ventura, though, the stoplights disappear and so do the speed traps, and the road itself gets pushed out to the cliffs so that it’s blue water and thundering surf and gorgeous green hills all the way to San Francisco. I rode for an hour or so, soaking up beauty, and then pulled into a little gas station that, except for the surfers sitting on the porch smoking cigarettes in neon wetsuits, would not have been out of place along a back road in Arkansas. Behind the little clapboard garage was an ancient wooden phone booth with a shiny new touch-tone in it. I dropped some coins and buzzed my place.
The answering machine came on and I pushed the 8 button to get messages. There was one. It was from Delores Markham, and she’d remembered to leave her number. I committed it to memory and smiled at the surfers on the way back to my bike. They looked at me like I’d gone insane.
I drove back south for another hour or so, and then pulled over and called Del. She asked me what I was doing. I described the sunset to her.
She said she’d love to go to a party.
Her address was a tiny efficiency apartment in Westwood, two blocks up from Mario’s Italian Restaurant. I pulled up and almost honked, then thought twice and decided to be at least informally gentlemanly. I was just off the bike when the door overhead opened and she bounded down the stairs, hit the bottom step, looked at me and said, “Hi.”
I couldn’t melt so I said, “Hi. I was about to come up and see your place.”
“On the first date?” She put a French-manicured fingernail to her smiling teeth.
“You’re right. Let’s go. Have you got everything?”
She looked at me coyly, ignoring my question. “It really isn’t anything much.” She turned and started back up the stairs. I didn’t move. “Well? C’mon.” She gestured with her index finger, smiling.
The place was tiny but comfortable. I didn’t have to go in—I could see all of it from the front porch. The bed was a single. “If I may be so crass, how much do you pay for this comfy little hole in the wall?”
She told me. She paid the same rent I did for a place five times as big.
“You definitely have to see my place,” I said, starting back down the stairs. “You don’t mind riding on motorcycles, do you? I have a helmet at home it’ll take me fifteen minutes to get if you want.”
“Oh, no, I love bikes. I used to have one way back. A little Honda Rebel.”
There were several things I could have said to that. I didn’t say any of them.
Del had let her hair down from the roll style I’d seen on her at Larry Parker’s. She had on a pair of evenly faded jeans that were snug and friendly, a black cotton shirt that accented her shape without trying to squeeze her out of it, and black espadrilles with no socks. We straddled the bike and I waited for her hands to come around my waist. I glanced back to find her looking for the handles under the seat.
“There aren’t any,” I said, smiling. “Hold on to me. I don’t bite.”
She slid her hands around me and clasped them snugly against my stomach. As we pulled away from the curb she squeezed me and said in my ear, “Sure you don’t.”
By the time we got to the gigantic stucco edifice that Dorine Hall facetiously called a home, she was already letting it go like a Vietnamese cathouse. There was a huge, noisy bubble of bodies clamoring on the porch, and it stopped us just shy of the top step. The Psychedelic Furs were yelling their surreal blather over the noise of the crowd, and a peek inside the front door revealed alcohol and cocaine-laced mirrors floating all over the room. I said over my shoulder, “Are you sure you’re completely into this?”
She had her mouth open to answer when a voice from inside the throng said, “Del! Hey Del!” A lone arm was waving from just inside the door. The body it belonged to was gradually squirted through the crowd and landed next to us on the top step. “Whoa, hold up there! What? Unh! Just a second, alcohol impairment. Hold on.” The stranger put out a hand and used me for support.
Recognition and a little aversion or resentment crossed Del’s face. “Hey, Charlie,” she said without enthusiasm.
Charlie made up for both of them. “Hey Del, I didn’t know you were comin’!”
Del shrugged. I waited to be introduced. Charlie jumped the gun. “Charlie,” he said, pumping my hand. “Charlie Smith.”
“Definitive name,” I said, prying myself loose. Del smiled and brushed her nose with her hand.
“Yeah,” Charlie said, and burped.
“Call me Bird.”
He stared at me blankly, looking for a pun using my name. We would’ve waited all night. Del leaned in and said, “Who else is here, Charlie?”
“Oh, let’s see,” he said, leaning back on his heels, “Jim is in the back with Jennifer, and Becky’s here somewhere. Tam’s in the kitchen, I think. And some other people are milling around.” Then his eyes got big and stupid and he added, “And Dennis Hopper’s in the basement shooting pool!”
Del leaned over and said, “Thanks. See you inside, Charlie.”
Amazingly, Charlie took his cue instantly and kneaded himself into the mess at the door.
Del didn’t wait for me to start teasing her. “From years ago, in the dorms,” she said sharply. “A real winner.”
“Dennis Hopper?” I asked. Del just shrugged.
An arm that didn’t seem to belong to an immediate body snaked out of the group and grabbed me by the belt. It belonged to Tom, and it pulled me into the chaos of the room. I was inside and talki
ng to him before I felt Del’s hand in my own. I held onto her as Tom yelled, “What the fuck is up, dude!?” over the blaring music and conversation. She didn’t seem to mind me touching her.
“You promised me alcohol,” I yelled back. “Where is it?”
“Hard or soft?”
“Hard!”
“In the kitchen!” He pointed an unsteady finger down a hallway. “Beer’s in the back!”
He nodded to Del, and she smiled and nodded back. I kept hold of her hand as I leaned to her ear and said, “This is Tom Bellwood. An interesting guy, if you take the time.”
Tom smiled. Del said she was going to get a beer and say hello to some of her friends from school. I drifted down the hallway to the kitchen and picked up a bottle of tequila. I tipped it up and it burned in that good way all the way to my feet. The music was less intrusive in the kitchen, and Tom spoke normally. “She’s a score, dude.”
“Time will tell,” I said, shrugging and drinking. “But I’m not expecting anything. Whatever happens happens.” I drew another long one from the bottle. Then I put it back. “Got anything civilized in this place? Like a glass, maybe?”
Tom reached past me and opened a cabinet full of crystal. I took down a squat highball and poured it full of tequila, added a little ice, and squeezed a lime into it. Tom looked around in mock appraisal. “What a spread, huh?!?”
The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was huge. The sickeningly modern appliances, all done in brushed stainless steel, along with white enamel counters and a black marble floor, took me back to the morgue and Song’s staring, cloudy, peaceful eyes. “Yeah, fantastic. Let’s get outta here.”
I knew a few people at the party but not as many as were yelling me greetings as I worked my way across the room. At any party on the scale that rich California kids throw them, small groups form like nervous countries, defined by the disposition of their citizens. In one corner you’re going to have the Valley Girls, sipping wine and beer and maybe doing a little coke with their boyfriends, who think proving their manhood means getting an ear pierced. A little farther away there might be an intellectual group, usually older and drunk as nine lords, talking about everything from the Seventy Biblical Fallacies to what they would do if a million dollars suddenly hit them on the head.
