by John Decure
“Hey, Deshaun, I’ve got some Kings hockey tickets for tonight that I can’t use, and I’d like you to have them.”
Hah! Real slick operator, I’m thinking, as if a black man has much use for hockey tickets. I’ll just give them to that kid who mows my lawn, lives around the corner, Miles Davis Saunders the Third. Fine boy. He can ride his motor-scooter over to the SC campus, find a few white kids with trust fund money burning a hole in their pockets, and scalp them for a discount.
“Thank you, Mr. Leyes. That’s very kind.”
By this point I know for certain he isn’t the man who hired me before, back when. No, the man who hired me, he was talking to a lawyer about a lawsuit, about suing his wife’s doctor, her shrink. Not a lawyer, the man who hired me, not a slick operator like this one. No… the man was involved, in deep. He was… the husband, that’s right! Sad and still in shock and talking too much, telling me all about his wife, and she sounded like a head case to me. To make matters worse, her shrink was putting it to her, doing the dirty deed—right there in the shrink’s own office, right on the couch. Saturday afternoons, the late late shift, I guess, right as the sun was going down. This husband who hired me, he wanted his, uh, suspicions confirmed, was what he said, but what he really wanted, even if he didn’t come out and say it, was to get the goods on his wife, who sounded to me like a lost cause, you know, a real basket case. But he wanted me to get the goods on the well-known Doctor Don, Doctor Do-Ya, or whatever the doc’s name was—the last name, it escapes me, now—so he could confront his wife, deal with her, then sue the doc six ways to Sunday.
“Doctor Don. You remember Donald Fallon, MD, of course?” Mr. Leyes asks me.
There went the suspense of piecing this together.
“Sure, I remember.” And I did.
Dr. Don. Big shot TV shrink, supposed to help people with their problems when they called in. Think he even had his own show—I can’t recall that detail for sure—but the man? I did not like the man. Donald Fallon. The kind of man who looks at you, sizing you up?—it can make your skin go cold. Like Bulldog—and I’m not just saying that. I mean, they’re both the kind of person who gets weird pleasure out of someone else’s pain. Torturers. Tormenters. Cruel damn people.
I remember more, now. The man who hired me, the husband, he put up a good front when he was hiring me but cried like a baby just ten feet outside the door. Ida Mae saw it, saw his legs crumple on the sidewalk, so I brought him back in, gave him a glass of water, sat him on down for another half-hour, gave him another glass a water, just let him get it off his chest. The grief and pain, I mean.
As usual, I got the dirt for this husband that hired me. Damn shrink, he may be a big-shot MD everybody’s heard of, and even Ida Mae said she’d seen him on TV, but he turned out to be either wildly careless, or have a self-destructive streak in him, or both, leaving the blinds to his second-story office window tilted open, I figure so they could catch the late-afternoon light just so, catch the sunset. Well, that’s not the only thing that got caught through those blinds. Mind you, I thought about asking the husband for a bigger budget, considered renting a cherry-picker, using it to get right up there into position with a camera, catch the doc on film. But it turns out I didn’t need any custom set-up like that, not with that window-blind view. Instead, I go up in the parking structure across the lot from the shrink’s building, went for a simple set-up, Nikon, six-hundred telephoto, stuck right on a tripod, ready to point n’ shoot. Couldn’t see a thing at first, but then the minute the sun started going down, sinking behind the top of that same parking structure, the shade comes creeping over the shrink’s window and it is Lights! Cameras! Action! After that, I just waited to see what’d happen. Half hour or so they’re just talking, nothing but sitting and talking. Then next thing you know, in the time it takes to rub my tired eyes a little, I look back in the lens and he’s on her, grabbing hard, like he’s wrestling an animal, tearing her clothes off, then takes her over to the couch and he’s on top of her, going at it. Man moves fast, like time’s a wasting.
I moved fast, too, shot three rolls in a matter of minutes. Got everything I needed. Aside from the obvious impropriety of what was going down, there was… an aggression about it, the way that man cornered my client’s wife, like a wild animal taking down helpless prey. Left my stomach turning and churning, long after I’d stashed the camera equipment and headed back to the office.
Loberg, that’s the husband’s name, the man who hired me. Arnold, or Andrew. Yeah, Andrew.
He liked my work one time before, another, earlier job when he had this problem down at his chopper shop in Long Beach—inventory problem, he called it. A bike was stolen off a loading dock, turned up for sale by one of his employee’s cousins? Yeah, now I remember. I did good work on that, moved fast on that one, too quick to get to know the client. Well, I did the job for him one more time on the Dr. Don thing, not that it made me feel good, to see the look on Loberg’s face when I showed him the evidence. That day, he was so upset he couldn’t drive. Taxi had to come and get him. After that, we had to wheel his big, expensive Harley Davidson into the office for the night.
Paid me everything and took all the pictures and negatives, didn’t ask for a report. In fact, he told me not to write one.
So, why was the possum-faced lawyer here now?
Mr. Leyes, he thought we were getting along fine, but I was playing along, nothing more.
“I’ve heard you’ve got an interesting background, Deshaun. Tell me a little about it.”
People usually ask this before they hire me, so I complied with Mr. Leyes’s request.
“I’ve been doing this twenty-eight years, Mr. Leyes, since I left the Marine Corps, came home after Nam to no-job, long-hairs spitting on me outside the VA. My first wife, she left me for a man who owned two car washes on Imperial, the neighborhood honcho, or so he thought.”
“That’s tough,” Mr. Leyes says. “Some thanks for serving your country.”
There was nothing tough about the man, so how would he know to comment? But I let it go.
“I had to fall back on the skills I learned as an MP, sir.”
“Please, call me Mitch.”
“Okay, Mitch. It took a long time and lots of moonlighting penny ante little side jobs till I built up the business, but I did it.”
“Very nice,” he says—or he might’ve said that. Don’t know for sure; I was mighty distracted, thinking about the times I’ve had to sit down to sift through the piles of dirt I’ve found, showing a man the mess his wife had made of their marriage. Or vice versa, more often than not. No matter how many times I’ve done it, it never gets any easier to do. Mr. Loberg was a decent fellow, and I felt bad for him, same as all the others. Truly I did.
By now I was getting tired of talking with Mitch Leyes, who now wanted to chat about basketball and the Late Show, to be precise. He was getting on my nerves a little, wouldn’t have known Kobe Bryant from a Kobe burger or Magic Johnson from magic beans. So I put a question to him outright, asked him what was his precise connection to my client.
That stopped the bullshit on a dime.
He didn’t say anything the least bit specific. Claimed to be a friend, an interested party who wished to remain in the background.
“My client is Mister Andrew Loberg,” I tell him, “and—”
“Deshaun—”
“—you’re not him. You’ve heard of confidentiality with clients and their business? The way I see it, that means I’ve got no business to discuss with you. None at all.”
“That’s all in the past,” he says, like I’m the one who doesn’t get it. “You and I need to discuss the results of your investigation. But only in the abstract. The fact that you gathered evidence, and that evidence exists. That’s all.”
“You’re not the client.”
“No, I’m not but we both want the same thing. We both want the results to remain very, very confidential.”
“Confidentiality doesn
’t have a shelf life on it. Once a secret, always a secret. But that starts here. I don’t take orders from you, sir.”
He almost snickers, looks around at my place as if we’re in a pigsty and he isn’t about to get dirty.
“What? I say something funny to you?”
“This is so… unnecessary. Really, if money is what you want, rest assured—”
“Sir, I’ve got half a mind to throw your ass outta here.”
Then he cuts to the chase—hard.
“No, you’ll hear me. I will talk and you will listen.”
“I’m asking you politely to leave. You refuse, it’s at your own risk.”
Mr. Leyes just keeps smiling. “You’re not the only investigator here. I know things.”
“Such as?”
“Oh, that you’ve got family back in Louisiana.” He takes a tiny stroll in a circle, appraising my office again. “And I know something about all the hardship they’ve been facing. You’re a kind man, Deshaun. A generous spirit. You’ve been sending money to them ever since Katrina, to help them get back on their feet. Very commendable of you, Deshaun. Very… noble.”
“You getting into my personal business is not, sir. That’s crossing a line.”
The phony smile is gone. “Nobility is not one of my strong suits in life. I dare say I’m jealous.”
“What do you want?”
He takes his time, letting me know he’s in control. “Go and see them,” he says finally. “Help them out the way you only wished you could before. Show them a good time. Make it a vacation.”
Then he hands me a blank white envelope, thick and heavy. I don’t need to peek inside to know what’s in there. If it’s twenties, maybe a couple grand. If it’s hundreds, maybe five or ten times that. Leyes’s black-as-night suit is lined with tiny white pinstripes. I hadn’t noticed that detail until now. That suit probably costs more than every suit I own put together. To my private shame, he has me thinking.
“A vacation.”
“Yes. An extended vacation.”
“Just how extended are we talking about?”
He tells me Dr. Don’s medical license is in trouble. Tells me how long he wants me to visit the kinfolk. When I say nothing in return, he smiles as if he just purchased my soul, and I want to slap that grin right off his possum face. But I don’t. That envelope is too heavy.
The Lincoln pulls out onto La Brea and is gone.
I don’t have to open that envelope to know what’s inside. But I look. Hundreds, with bands binding them. First thing I’m thinking about is counting, thinking how maybe I can break some off, a little Hollywood Park fund jus’ for today. Next, I’m wondering how I’m gonna break it to Ida Mae that we’ve gotta scoot, and right now, in the midst of Sadie’s time of need, what with her situation with Bulldog. But then I stick my thumb farther into that envelope and see there’s more than a few stacks, but three, no four, each of them shaped like slender, perfect bricks. Machine probably did the binding—something a supposed expert on bank operations like the great Uncle D should know. Man oh man, I said too much at breakfast with the girl, pontificating like I’m the last word on relationships. Now, I’ve gotta live with the regret of knowing I went too far. But then I thumb back those perfect stacks of Franklins, and like that, I see Sadie’s situation is no problem, we can jus’ bring her right along with us. Girl’s got no real prospects at that bank, anyhow.
A reasonable solution, but before I can congratulate myself on solving the Sadie Problem… holy Jesus and the Lord have mercy—I’ve got another visitor! And whoa, boy, hold on to your hat, Deshaun, this one’s not a walk-in, either.
“Mr. Fellows?” says this tall, black-haired, very fine white woman.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say like my face is rubber.
Sounded like I said “it’s ham.” Trying not to stare, but she’s got a special look. Nice tan, slipping off her shades with one hand, other one stretched out for a handshake. Wow, coming in closer she looks like she’s from a rock band or something with her black eye makeup and long eyelashes, a chiseled body to go with a chiseled face. And attitude, too, like she’s not afraid to kick ass and take names if it comes to that. But wait, something… I dunno, a little off about those eyes, though, as if she’s in two places at one time. I shake her hand and she gives me a card.
“Department of Justice, Office of the Attorney General,” I say. “How nice of you to drop in.”
“You gave me no choice, Mr. Fellows. I’ve tried you by phone, but you haven’t returned any of my calls.”
“Oh, right, well, I’m very sorry about that. Been very, uh, busy lately.”
She watches me as I roll up the Hollywood Park race card, and damn, I could feel my hind-end puckering. Like all that money sitting in the envelope I was still holding was stolen or something.
Damn, gotta plan your retirement soon, ’cause this kind of shit’s gonna give you a heart attack one of these days!
When she comes straight out and asks about the investigation I did for Andrew Loberg, the one involving Dr. Donald Fallon, I damn near fall out of my chair.
Naturally, I play dumb, but she reads my face. Smart girl. Instantly she wants to know about why I didn’t cooperate with the Medical Board of California when they investigated the matter.
I tell her I’m sorry, but my investigations are confidential, I couldn’t say anything even if I wanted to. She says sure, that’s fine, but she needs me to know what this is about. She’s going after the doc who took advantage of his patient, Rue Loberg. Sexual misconduct, she calls it. Gross negligence. Doctor Don, a hot-stuff shrink. A man who hurts women. A man who has to be stopped or he’ll just do it again to someone else, and I could take that to the bank.
Bank. She says the word and boom! My brain is stuck on that money again, no helping it.
“Love to assist you, Miss Aames, but I’m retiring this month. Twenty-eight years and I realize I’ve finally had enough.”
“How nice,” she says through tight lips.
“Going back to Louisiana, ma’am, got family there.”
“Just like that.”
“Yes, ma’am, just like that.”
“I need to call you as a witness,” she says, handing me a paper. “Testify for me. Then you can retire.”
“I told you, Miss Aames, what I did on that old case was confidential.”
She shrugs, brushing off my logic. “Rue Loberg and her husband sued Doctor Fallon. They waived that confidentiality when they made public their allegations back in the civil case. You were hired by Mister Loberg, which means your client signed that waiver.”
Why I take the paper she gave me, I do not know. Maybe because she seems like the kind of woman you don’t defy. Of course, it was a subpoena. Witness. Medical Board. Matter of the Accusation against Donald Fallon, MD. A court date coming up fast on the calendar. A Fourth Street address, downtown LA, sixth floor.
I hand it back. “Like I say, I’m retiring, ma’am, going to Louisiana.”
“You have been served. Be there or be square.”
By this point my boxer shorts are chapping. First that snake Mr. Leyes, and now, this pushy young woman with her precious case for the state.
“I will be in Louisiana,” I say firmly. “This piece of paper can’t touch me there.”
“You don’t get it, do you?”
“Go to hell.”
“Watch me go,” she says, real calm. “First, I’ll go to Superior Court, get a judge to issue an order of contempt due to your failure to appear. Then he’ll issue a warrant for your arrest.”
“That’s just fine and dandy,” I say. “But a warrant won’t reach out of state.”
“Well, guess what? The governor of California is my former boss, the Attorney General. He gets along swimmingly with the governor of Louisiana, who, when he hears about you, won’t like the idea of a California law-breaker hiding out in his state. You’ll be expedited, sir. And you’ll foot the bill, which will be enormous.”
> This young lady seems to know her stuff, leaving me with nothing to say in response.
This is some kind of battle shaping up. The visit from the possum-face lawyer with all that cash—no coincidence. The state of California wanted Dr. Don’s ass, and his hired hacks weren’t rolling over. It all made sense. But my next move? It wasn’t shaping up so quickly here.
A beer-delivery truck snorts out on La Brea, prompting the lawyer lady to peek her head inside the open door to my office. She looks about, seems to be noticing everything in its usual place, right down to the ceiling fan that needs dusting, the pencils in an Auto Club can, the Jackie Robinson bobblehead on the shelf.
“You don’t look like you’re going anywhere, Mister Fellows. What changed so suddenly?”
I wanna fire off a powerful comeback, but before I even open my mouth to speak, I remember the money—and like a dead bang idiot I stare right down on the envelope in my lap.
She’s staring down there, too, and now at my head, her eyes like laser beams. She laughs quietly, like whistling.
“They bought you off.”
“This?” I say like the world’s worst actor. “No, no, this is rent money!”
“You’re a coward.”
Right then, I didn’t know what I might do, but I was tired from last night and confused from my visit with Mr. Leyes being followed so quickly by the State of California, attorney general and all, n’ that tiredness and confusion was makin’ a bad brew inside me. ’Cause I gotta say, jus’ physically throwing her ass into the gutter did come to mind—and then, like that I was moving toward her, and she looked scared, still a little crazy and setting herself to make a stand, but scared, and I could see the fear and conflict in those black eyes of her.
“I’ve had about enough of you.”
Then I hear a scream.
“Deshaun Fellows!”
Ida Mae, of course.
“Not now! I will speak to you in just one minute!” I tell the wife.
The woman is half my size, Ida Mae, but when she puts her hands on those sweet little hips? It’s like she doubles in height.
