by Alan Russell
Most of the houses on the street had backyards that extended up into the hills. Italian cypress trees bordered both sides of el casa de boxeo, effectively blocking off the neighbors from being able to see into the backyard.
I left Javier and Sirius in the car and walked up a flagstone pathway to the front door. After ringing the doorbell, I waited for half a minute before ringing it again. The second ring also went unanswered. Turning around, I motioned for Javier to join me; Sirius crashed the party by slipping out of the car before Javier closed his door.
Javier made his way up the flagstone pathway, and I said to him, “I want to make absolutely sure this is the right house.”
He looked around. “I think so,” he said, “but I was inside. We take the path to the back.”
Javier pointed out a gate to the right of the garage. We walked over to it and found it was locked. On tippy-toes the two of us looked over the gate and fencing. Sirius wanted to see what we were staring at and got up on his back legs for his own look. He wasn’t tall enough to see over the fence, but maybe he had another purpose in mind. Sirius tried working the lock mechanism with his nose. During the past six months, my partner had learned all on his own how to turn door handles with his teeth and open windows with his nose.
“That’s not going to work, Houdini,” I told him. “It’s locked from the inside.”
“He open doors?” asked an amazed Javier.
The first time I’d seen Sirius work a knob with his teeth and open the door, I had been round eyed as well. But now I was used to the manipulations of my escape artist. I had thought to document my Houdini’s efforts, but when I went to YouTube I saw that dozens of people had already posted videos of their dogs opening everything from front doors to windows to car doors.
Who really needs opposable thumbs?
“He’s a police dog,” I said, as if that should explain it.
The pathway extended along the side of the house; flanking it was fencing. As an additional privacy measure there was a canopy of mature cypresses.
“Look familiar to you?” I asked.
Javier nodded, but not emphatically enough for me. “Let’s see if we can get a better look at the backyard by walking next door,” I said.
We made our way along the border between the two houses, following the line of trees until we were stopped by the neighbor’s fence. Javier pushed aside foliage and we were able to get a partial view of the backyard. There was no boxing ring, no animals, and no costumes to be seen. Despite the absence of all those things, Javier now seemed certain that this was the right place.
Since we were already well into the neighbor’s yard, I decided to trespass a little more. I told Javier to take Sirius back to the car, and then I cut across the lawn and made my way up to the neighbor’s house. I pushed the doorbell, but instead of hearing it ring, I saw the reflection of lights turning on and off in the house.
Those who are hearing impaired often eschew a doorbell in favor of lights turning on and off. I heard movement from inside the house and held up my wallet badge so that it could be seen through the peephole. It must have passed inspection, because a few seconds later a woman opened the door. Before I could identify myself, she raised her hand in a gesture that told me to stop. Then she handed me a card that read: Today is a nonverbal day for me. Please do not invade my silent world. If you feel that communication is necessary, apply pen to paper.
In her hands were a notepad and pen. I reached for them, and then considered my words before writing.
What is your name?
She took the pen and notepad back and wrote, Jillian Booker.
It was my turn. TY, Jillian. I am Detective Gideon. Please tell me the name(s) of your neighbors. I pointed to the house I’d come from.
She took the pad and wrote, Dory Cunningham.
It was my turn with the stylus: Does Dory have a son who lives with her?
I studied Jillian while she wrote her answer. She was attractive, probably mid-fifties, with long, pulled-back hair that was mostly gray. Her garb was plain but stylish: an untucked men’s button-down white oxford shirt, blue jeans, and sandals.
Jason has his own place, she wrote, but occasionally spends time at his mother’s house.
Jason Cunningham? I wrote, and she nodded. Then I wrote, Do you happen to have Jason’s or Dory’s telephone number?
Jillian continued with our Quaker meeting, tapping her finger on Dory’s name. Then she raised a finger and retreated into the house. Half a minute later she returned and wrote down Dory’s home phone number.
I wrote down another question: Good neighbors?
Jillian took the pad and jotted: We live in different worlds with little contact.
I had the feeling my silent friend lived in a world different than most, but I didn’t write that. Instead I took the pen and inked, Thank you.
Jillian concluded our Carmelite interaction by bringing her hands together above her chest, nodding slightly, and then writing the word namaste, making little hearts out of both A’s.
I nodded back and made my silent escape.
Chapter Fifteen
It Is Not Always the Bull Who Loses
I dropped Javier off at the Home Depot. He was happy with our arrangement, telling me that it shouldn’t be hard to pick up a second shift that day. If he could be that motivated to work, so could I. Instead of driving away, I went into the home improvement store. There were plenty of items I should have picked up for my house, but instead I bought a few handfuls of copper piping.
Before leaving Woodland Hills, I decided to search for the artist known as Diego Rivera. I had been told his house wasn’t far from the Woodland Hills Country Club, and that it had a view of the golf course, but that didn’t prove to be much help. As I drove around, I found a number of residential streets with homes overlooking the course.
I was just about ready to give up on my search when I saw a middle-aged woman with a ponytail threaded through her Dodgers cap walking her female Australian shepherd. Judging by the woman’s pace and the defined musculature of her legs, she was a serious walker. Sirius suddenly perked up as I pulled up next to her and lowered my window. Before I could say anything, he extended his muzzle and offered a little “woof,” which got their attention. My partner is an incorrigible flirt.
“Excuse me,” I said, showing the woman my badge. “I’m sure this sounds strange, but I’m looking for a house that’s supposed to be nearby.”
“What’s the address?” she asked.
“That’s the rub,” I said. “I have a description of the house, but no address.”
“Good luck with that,” she said.
“I was told there were some unique statues out front. If my information is accurate, there’s a statue of a little boy, a little girl, and a dog.”
That didn’t spark any sign of recognition.
I had to continue, even though I was afraid the woman might think I was some kind of pervert. “I was told all of them are peeing.”
“Oh,” she said, “of course. That’s the peeing family. They all have names, I think, but I don’t remember any of them except for Toto. He’s the peeing dog, and he’s the nearest to the sidewalk, so you can imagine he’s a favorite target for all the dogs around here.”
“Where can I find this peeing family?” I asked.
“Two blocks over,” she said. “Just continue up this street, and then make your first left and go to the end of the cul-de-sac.”
“Thank you so much,” I said.
“Thank you for what you did,” she said.
By that time Sirius and I were sharing the window space. He woofed again, and the woman said, “Yes, thank you, too.” She looked at me and said, “Is he friendly?”
“To the point of being forward,” I said.
She stroked the side of his head, and then in a quieter voice asked, “Is this the same dog that went into the fire with you?”
Even though it happens with less frequency now, the peop
le of LA still surprise me by remembering our encounter with Ellis Haines.
“Same old dog,” I said, “same old human.” And same old story.
She must have detected my reluctance to talk about the subject, and stepped back to the sidewalk. “I just want you to know that everyone around here slept a lot easier because of the two of you.”
I nodded and said, “Thanks again for the directions.”
The peeing family wasn’t the only garden statuary; there were pink flamingos and garden gnomes, including a gnome mooning the world, a cat eating a gnome, and a gnome with a cleaver standing over a beheaded pink flamingo.
“Gnome, sweet gnome,” I told Sirius.
He ignored me, as he was busy peeing on the peeing dog. I couldn’t help but think the locals should have come up with a better name than Toto; the statue dog definitely looked more like a retriever than a terrier.
I followed pavers up to the front door, passing fountains and wind chimes and planters full of colorful sages that I wasn’t alone in appreciating; humming bees were going from flower to flower.
Pressing the doorbell brought on the four notes from the Westminster Chimes; all that was missing was the clanging of the hour. The door opened just as the chimes concluded, and the painter known as Diego Rivera greeted me with a cautious “Hello.” Other than being heavy, the painter bore no resemblance to Rivera. He was an older man, probably late sixties, who wore white linen pants and an expansive Aloha shirt.
I displayed my wallet badge and identified myself. “I’d like to ask you a few questions,” I said. “I’m investigating the disappearance of Mateo Ramos.”
The man started shaking his head. “I don’t know any Mateo Ramos.”
“He’s a day laborer,” I said. “I’m told you painted him more than once.”
The artist began wiping his chin with a nervous hand and regarded me with an ambushed expression. “I—I’m not—”
I interrupted him before he expressed any qualms about talking with me or decided he needed a lawyer. “The only reason I’m here,” I said, “is to see if you can tell me anything about Mateo.”
He thought about that and finally said, “I’ll help if I can, but I can’t be certain I even know who he is.”
“I have some pictures of him,” I said. “Would you mind looking at them to see if he’s familiar to you?”
The artist nodded, and I handed him my cell phone. After studying the two pictures Luciana had given me, he said, “I think he modeled for me two times, possibly three.”
“Nude?” I asked.
He let out some air and did a series of small, nervous nods.
“As I said,” I told him, “I am only interested in what happened to Mateo Ramos. I’m not here trying to roust you.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” he said. “When I was younger the police were not kind to people like me.”
“Both of us can be glad those days are in the past. How well did you know Mateo?”
He shook his head and said, “To be honest, I didn’t even know his name.”
“Speaking of names, I’d appreciate you providing me with yours.”
For a moment he looked too surprised to respond. Finally, he said, “If you didn’t know my name—which is Scott Harrelson, but everyone calls me Hal—how did you find me?”
“Those who have been to your property remembered your statuary,” I said.
He flipped up his hand, shook a finger, and said, “Of course.”
“I’m told the locals even have names for them.”
“They do,” he said, “even though they aren’t the names you’d hear in Brussels, where the original statues can be found. Manneken Pis was the first and most famous of the Brussels statues; its translation is Little Boy Pissing. But then the world became more egalitarian, and along came Jeanneke Pis, the little girl squatting. So I suppose Het Zinneke, the statue of the urinating dog, was inevitable.”
“What prompted you to put those statues, and your other pieces, out front?”
“I don’t have any kind of twisted fetish, if that’s what you’re asking. But I’ve always had what you might call a warped sense of humor. There are plenty of replicas of Manneken Pis around the world, but I think I’m the first to unite all three pieces in one spot.”
“Maybe if you get tired of the three statues, you can sell the lot to a urological practice.”
“I know they’re tacky,” he said, “but they’re also good fun. People are always pulling over to the curb to see the pissing family. Little kids of all ages stop and laugh. And like the original statues, people are always dressing them up in costumes.
“Every Valentine’s Day, Little Dickie Leak—that’s what I call the boy—is dressed up as Cupid,” he said. “And he’s been a leprechaun, and a jolly elf, and dozens of other characters.”
“So you’re the fun house on the block.”
“I’ve always believed it’s better to be over-the-top than boring.”
It all felt friendly enough, I thought, but so had John Wayne Gacy when he dressed up as a clown. Still, Sirius seemed to like Hal, and my partner is usually a good judge of character.
“How about we go inside where it’s more comfortable, and you can ask your questions there?” said Hal.
“Thank you,” I said, and then turned to Sirius and said, “Sitz und bleib.”
Sirius complied with my commands to sit and stay, but not without pouting. His acting ability didn’t go unnoticed, or unrewarded.
“Oh, your dog doesn’t have to stay outside,” Hal said. “He’s welcome in the house.”
Sirius understood the invitation and didn’t need to be told twice; he hurried inside. “Geh voraus,” I said to his disappearing tail, which means “go ahead.”
Hal motioned for me to enter. Sirius rejoined me at my side and expertly heeled as we walked down the hall. He was good at making others believe I was in charge.
We were directed into the living room, where I took a seat on a comfortable leather chair. The walls were covered with at least twenty canvases. “Your paintings?” I asked.
“Mostly,” he said.
The majority of Hal’s paintings were colorful abstracts, although there was the occasional landscape or portrait.
“Not many nude day laborers portrayed,” I observed.
“No nudes at all,” he said. “Some people aren’t comfortable looking at the human body, so my living room is sans nudes.”
It was an interesting prohibition for a man who had the peeing family on display. Without any further preamble I asked, “What do you remember of Mateo Ramos?”
“I thought of him as ‘the guerrero.’ Do you know the word?”
I shook my head and he said, “It’s Spanish for warrior. He was always tense when he modeled, and I used to have to ask him to unclench his fists. I guess his body language was supposed to ward me off from making advances.”
“Did it work?”
“I have never forced myself on any of my models.”
He hedged his answer, but I didn’t want to back him into a corner, at least not yet. “Do you sell paintings of the nude males who model for you?”
“The gallery I paint for has had some success with them,” he said, “but in most cases the subjects end up clothed, although sometimes just barely. Last year I did a series of paintings showing different facets of Aztec culture. The slaves wore only loincloths, as I tried to be accurate in portraying the clothing of my subject matter.”
“Not to be rude,” I said, “but I’m more interested in Mateo than the subjects of your paintings. And I specifically need to know if the two of you had any kind of sexual relationship.”
He shook his head and said, “No, we didn’t.”
“What do you imagine was his motivation to be your model?” I asked.
“He had the same motivation as do most of my models: money. Would you rather be doing backbreaking work in the hot sun or striking a few poses in an air-conditioned room?”
/> “I checked with Mateo’s fiancée: she never knew about his modeling for you.”
Hal smiled. “Should I be surprised? Machismo is part of the Mexican culture. Who’s going to want to talk about posing naked for a gay artist? Even a gay model would be unlikely to talk about it, as most gay Mexicans I know are closeted. It was clear that the guerrero was never exactly comfortable with my sexuality.”
“But he still posed without clothes?”
“He was well aware that I pay an extra ten dollars an hour to my models if they agree to be unclothed.”
“When was the last time he modeled for you?”
“I would guess at least three months ago.”
“Did the two of you talk much?”
He shook his head. “Very little. I don’t think he approved of my lifestyle. That’s why I typically put in requests for models who aren’t so judgmental. I had enough disapproval and guilt growing up. Can you understand that?”
“I was raised Catholic,” I said.
He laughed, and then said, “I should have offered you and your dog something to drink, Detective.”
“We’re both fine, thanks,” I said, “and we’ll be leaving shortly. I’m not sure how to broach this question, so I’ll just come out with it. I was told that sometimes the guys running the workforce like to do a kind of initiation prank on the newer and younger workers. Their main target is a nudist, but I wonder if you’ve also been singled out.”
Hal nodded. “On a few occasions they’ve sent naïve newcomers,” he said. “Those boys always react with shock when the fat, gay, sixty-something gringo artist asks them if they would like to pose nude instead of work.”
“I imagine that’s awkward.”
“Not as much as you’d think,” he says. “Many of them are happy to model, especially for the extra money, and those who prefer to keep their clothes on get assigned to weeding or pruning or digging. I have a big yard and there’s always lots of work that needs doing.”
