Kingdom Come

by Paul Neuhaus

  “I’m only telling you the little bits I’ve overheard and glimpsed from a distance.”

  “You’ve seen her? Arsen’s girl?”

  “Yes,” Narzani replied. “She’s beautiful. High cheek bones. Honey-blond hair. Poised.”

  “Hmm. Wow. I came in here ‘cause I had nowhere else to go, and I’ve hit the jackpot.”

  Lee grinned. “Plus, you got matnakash.”

  “Plus, I got matnakash. If you were me, what would your next step be?”

  The Yousefians looked at one another and said the word, “Kohar” together.

  “‘Kohar’? What’s a Kohar? Is it anything like an odar?”

  Narzani smiled. “It’s not a what, it’s a who. Kohar Gasparyan. Arsen’s grandmother. She lives two streets over.” The little woman went back to the counter and wrote the address onto the back of a business card.

  “Be careful,” Lee said with amusement. “Kohar is…” He turned to his wife. “How would you describe Kohar?”

  Narzani was similarly amused as she mulled the question over. “Kohar’s in her eighties,” she said. “She’s been a fixture in the neighborhood the whole time. When were little, us kids called her ‘Mrs. Satan’.”

  “Oh, boy,” I replied. “Something to look forward to.” I held up the plastic bag Lee had given me earlier. “Any chance I could bribe her with matnakash?”

  Lee bristled. “Don’t you dare! That’s for you and Hailey!”

  I left the Jeep parked where it was and walk over to Kohar’s place. I put in the matnakash, locked up and set out on foot. (Actually, I left thinking to myself, Did I lock the car? I was pretty sure I had.)

  When I reached the intersection where I needed to turn, I looked both ways. To the left, a couple of blocks away from Yousefian's Bakery, there was a 7-Eleven. Standing in the parking lot of that 7-Eleven was a man eating one of those red, white and blue rocket-shaped popsicles. His defining characteristic was his thick mane of gray hair. My first thought was that film director David Lynch was enjoying a snack and looking in my direction. My second thought was that Noah Nguyen’s killer was enjoying a snack and looking in my direction. I didn’t hesitate at all. I immediately started walking in the direction of the convenience store. Unfortunately, the crosswalk light was against me and I nearly bought it on the grill of a big American car. The near-death experience and the car’s loud horn convinced me to back up and wait. Mr. Graymane saw the whole thing and dropped the popsicle into a wastebasket. He then got into the car he was standing next to. It wasn’t the forest green SUV (possibly a Porsche Cayenne) I’d seen him in West Hollywood. It was a Tesla. Not one of the cheap ones.

  By the time the light changed in my favor and I was across the street, he’d backed out of the 7-Eleven lot and driven off in the opposite direction to the one I was heading. There was no way I would catch him on foot, so I quickly slackened my pace and gave up, heading back toward the bakery.

  Was I one hundred percent certain it was the same dude I’d seen in WeHo? No. More like ninety-eight.

  I barely needed Narzani’s directions. The Gasparyan house was easy to find—it even matched the old lady’s supposed persona. Well-kept and the plants were all in check, but it had a dark color scheme. Not exactly inviting. In the front yard, there was a lawn jockey. A little black guy holding the ring for a lamp. I hadn’t seen one of those in I don’t know how long—mostly because people in the twenty-first century (and, hell, most of the twentieth) considered them to be in bad taste. That notwithstanding, I nodded a “hello” to the tiny guy on my way up the front walk. I didn’t quite make it to the porch before I heard the screen door creak and a woman appeared. Kohar was…not exactly what I expected. Sure, she was ancient, but she had an unusual build. Like a fireplug. Like a weight lifter. Very low center of gravity. Very dense. I imagined someone trying to carry her off of her property—and failing badly. Her expression (under a tangle of gray hair) wasn’t what I thought I’d see either. It wasn’t overt or cartoonish the way mean old broads look in movies. It was malevolent, but it wasn’t an affectation. It looked innate. Like Kohars—when you met them in the wild—just naturally exuded Evil. “Mrs. Satan” indeed.

  “Who the fuck’re you?” she said. “I don’t know you.”

  “That’s right, Mrs. Gasparyan. You don’t know me. But I wonder if I—“

  “I’m not a missus.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m not a missus. My husband died thirty years ago. I stopped being a missus when that happened.”

  “I see. No, that makes sense. May I call you ‘Kohar’?”

  She laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “Fuck, no. Call me ‘Mrs. Gasparyan’. What’s the matter with your face?”

  “My face?”

  “You face. It looks like someone hit you with an oar.”

  I crossed and uncrossed my eyes. “That’s right. Yachting accident. Listen, this is about Arsen. Your grandson. I—“

  As she came down the porch steps (betraying no frailty), she interrupted. “Arsen? ‘My grandson’? Did you think I didn’t know Arsen was my grandson?”

  “No, of course not. It’s just a way people talk.”

  “What people?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

  “What people talk the way you’re talking? Pay attention.”

  I was sweating. Kohar Gasparyan reminded me of the nuns from Catholic school. And I’d never even gone to Catholic school. Laser-focused. Relentless even. It didn’t help that she’d stopped right in front of me as was looking up with penetrating brown eyes. “Look, you’re right. Forget that I reminded you your grandson was your grandson. It’s just that I—“

  “I despise imprecision.”

  “Yes, I can see that about you.”

  “Say what you’re saying in the clearest way possible otherwise you’re wasting both of our time.”

  I took a deep breath and let it out again. I could feel the perspiration running in a narrow rivulet down my spine. I was hot, but the sweat was cold. “I’ll try to do better. I could use your help. Arsen’s gotten himself into some trouble and I really want to talk to him.”

  She cocked her head to one side. “Arsen’s gotten himself into some trouble?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Her head tilted the other way. “Again with the imprecision. Arsen got himself into trouble years ago. He’s been there ever since.”

  “Okay, sure. But this is some specific trouble. I don’t know Arsen—we’ve never met—but I’m guessing this is worse trouble than he usually delves into. This is trouble with Federal charges.” I desperately wanted to take a step back, but I knew Mrs. Gasparyan would read it as a sign of weakness. Because it was.

  “Federal charges? Mail fraud? Aircraft hijacking? Carjacking? Lynching? Bank robbery? Child pornography? Credit card fraud? Identity theft? Computer crimes? Federal hate crimes? Animal cruelty?”

  “No, ma’am. None of those.”

  “Because you know he’s already done some of those, right?”

  “No, ma’am. I don’t know what he’s done. I’m not a cop, and I haven’t seen his rap sheet. Honestly, I’m not so much interested in the past as the present.”

  “That’s good. That’s a good attitude. The past is the past.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I noticed about the only federal crime you didn’t list was kidnapping…”

  “Is that the one you’re interested in? Kidnapping? Are you saying Arsen pinched somebody?”

  Phew. I hadn’t gotten such a workout in a long, long time. “No. Arsen was—according to a witness—seen with someone I’m looking for. Whether there was coercion, I can’t say. If you wanna put a fine point on it, I’m not looking for Arsen so much as the guy Arsen was seen with. If I found that guy, and I never heard the name Arsen Gasparyan ever again I’d be okay with that.” I thought that might placate her. If she understood my intentions better. And I wasn’t snowing her either. I don’t carry a gun. I don�
��t enjoy tangling with people. If I can get through with my only weapon being my mouth, I’m a happy camper. I sure as hell didn’t need to get on the wrong side of the Armenian mob.

  “How do you know this witness is reliable?”

  “I don’t. The witness could easily be mistaken. However, I’ve gotten corroboration since the witness. Does Arsen drive a silver sedan?”

  “He does. Let me ask you a question, though: How many people in Los Angeles County drive silver automobiles?”

  “I don’t know the answer to that, ma’am, and I take your point, but—“

  “I bet it’s a lot. In fact, I bet silver is the most popular color of automobile not only in Southern California but also the continental United States.”

  “I’m willing to back your play. I also humbly suggest that you missed your calling. You clearly should’ve been an attorney. But—“

  Kohar spit on the ground next to my right foot. “Ach,” she said. “You come onto my property, asking a lot of unfounded questions about my grandson, and then you have the nerve to insult me. I don’t think I want to talk to you anymore.”

  “I understand, I understand. Let me just point out one thing: I don’t know Arsen. I don’t know his rap sheet. His owning a silver sedan does not make him a criminal. But… I have to go with what I have. You’re trying to argue my approach could be faulty because everything is open to interpretation. The flaw in that argument is that, if everyone trying to learn anything ever could’ve been persuaded in that frankly cynical and self-serving way we’d all still be living in caves.”

  She uncocked her head and looked at me directly. It was hard to tell whether she thought she’d been underestimating me or whether she thought I was some kind of bug she should step on. Hell, the two things weren’t necessarily mutually exclusive.

  Since she didn’t immediately hit me with another rejoinder, I seized the conversational high ground. “Have you seen Arsen in the company of or has he mentioned a new associate? Someone who, if you saw them, you might recognize?”

  “That was a very circular sentence construction. What did I tell you about precision?”

  Forget attorney. Kohar Gasparyan could’ve been the world’s sternest English teacher. “Have you seen Arsen associating with someone with whom he has not previously associated? This would’ve been in the last couple of days.”

  “Arsen associates with many people. Male or female?”

  “In this case: male.”

  “And you say this person—this mysterious male—would be someone I might recognize?”

  “That’s right. From the movies or the television.”

  “I don’t see movies. I’ve never seen movies. I don’t own a television. I read books. A thing which, if more people did, the world would be a better place.”

  “I don’t disagree. How about this man I mentioned? Forget whether you recognized him.”

  “Did I see him?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. I haven’t seen Arsen since early this week. He lives here in the house. His father is dead. His mother is in a sanitarium. He comes and goes as he pleases and I make no demands upon him.”

  Well, that was new information, anyway. That Arsen lived in the same house as Kohar. But I wasn’t about to give up. I changed gears. Over to the shiksa. “I’ve heard it through the grapevine that Arsen has a beautiful girlfriend. A WASP-y girlfriend. Refined, maybe. Blond.”

  The head cock returned. “Are you writing my grandson’s biography?”

  “No, ma’am. I—“

  “You’re not a cop. You’re a journalist. If you’re a journalist, at least tell me you’re from the Times and not from the Glendale Independent. Because that’d be embarrassing for you.”

  “You’re right, ma’am. It would. I’m not a journalist.” For expediency’s sake, I decided again to come clean. “I’m a Private Detective. Like I said, I’m looking for someone who’s missing. Someone who either Arsen kidnapped or who Arsen is palling around with. Like I say, I don’t care which as long as I turn him up.”

  “You’re a P.I.? What’s your name.”

  Ha! Like I’d give someone with ties to the Armenian Mafia my real name. “My name’s George,” I replied. “George Clooney.”

  Kohar Gasparyan closed the gap between the two of us and did something I wasn’t prepared for. She grabbed me by my genitals. She grabbed me by my genitals and leaned in so I could smell her breath (which smelled of animal crackers). As she spoke, she applied more and more pressure to my junk. By the time, she was finished, I was nearly out cold. The whole time I felt like a fox in a trap, desperate and willing to do almost anything to escape (and yet frozen with fear and pain). “The company my grandson keeps—be it with gentlemen I do not know and wouldn’t recognize, or with lovely ladies outside his race—is his own business and no concern of any two-bit shamus. Unless you can implicate him in a real crime and do it with the aid of policemen armed with a warrant, I don’t want to see you on this street or in this neighborhood again. I keep a rifle in the front room and I can part a midget’s hair in full darkness. That notwithstanding, I much prefer to get my hands dirty in these situations. So, if non-functioning genitalia is your aim, you know where to stick your nose.”

  With that, she let go of my groin and I fell to my knees on her sidewalk, expelling a lungful of terror-flavored air.

  Even if I’d wanted to engage her more, I couldn’t have. By the time my vision cleared, she was back in the house.

  The walk back to my Jeep was longer than I remembered. I limped the whole way, and I felt Kohar’s death grip with every step. I have a grandmother in her eighties and I doubt seriously she could muster the force the old Armenian had. But it wasn’t just about power—Kohar was practiced. Mine weren’t the first meat and two veg she’d crushed in her time.

  I hoped Tad Albright would turn up soon. My body couldn’t take much more.

  When I got back to my vehicle, it was my brain’s turn to suffer. Sitting in the Jeep was a woman with jet-black hair and raccoon make-up. She was eating my matnakash. I didn’t bother addressing her through the passenger-side window. All I wanted to do was sit down. As soon as I sat down, I regretted it. My boy bits throbbed when they met the faux leather of my seat. I cocked myself sideways and rested most of my weight on my right thigh. Looking amused—and chewing all the while—my guest watched me. One of us needed to break the silence, and she did the duty. She held up the bag of flatbread to show what she was talking about. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “I missed lunch.”

  “If I minded, it sure as hell wouldn’t do me any good now.”

  She shrugged with her shoulders. I wasn’t wrong, but she didn’t consider it a big enough deal for me to get bent out of shape. She tried to placate me by holding the open bag toward me. I surprised myself by taking a piece of the bread and putting it into my mouth. It was delicious. “I wish you had something to drink,” she said.

  “Sorry, I didn’t know I was having company.”

  The woman—in her late twenties or early thirties—was Goth. The dark hair, the pale skin, the heavy eye make-up. Her ensemble completed the look. It was a simple shift dress ending about mid-thigh, a leather-studded belt, tights and what I can only describe as mini-Doc Marten’s boots. Every bit black. She turned and put her weight on her left thigh, pointing her knees toward me. ”If you knew I was coming, you could have baked a cake,” she said.

  I took out another piece of flatbread, rolled it and shoved it into my mouth. “That’s funny,” I said. “I’ve never heard that before. You’re going to have to settle for matnakash.”

  “Is that what this is? Mat—matkan—met… Say it again?”

  “Matnakash. Armenian flatbread. From in there.” I pointed at Yousefian’s.

  “Oh, shit. There’s a bakery right there. I didn’t even notice.”

  “How long have you been sitting here?”

  “Ever since you disappeared around the corner.” She smiled around the bre
ad. Her lips were black. Ordinarily, her whole vibe wouldn’t have been my thing, but she was working a coquettish Halloween appeal that woke something in me. Unfortunately, that awakening was a painful one. I wouldn’t be knocking any boots for the foreseeable future.

  I sighed, still unable to get comfortable. “I’m going to say something now, and I think it’s gonna surprise you: Who are you and why’re you sitting in my car?”

  “Guess…” she said, batting her eyelashes playfully.

  “Do you see my face?” I asked.

  “I do. Looks like you went a round with Manny Pacquiao.”

  “Close. An evil old shrew with mitts like a car crusher got ahold of my Netherlands.”

  She giggled at that and leaned into me. “Aw, poor baby. Want mama to take a look?”

  She was already working at my belt buckle, so I slapped her hands away. “No, I do not want mama to take a look. I want mama to tell me what she’s up to OR I want mama to scram and leave me alone so I can go home and give my pimentos a good soak.”

  That struck her as especially funny and she didn’t stop laughing for a while. Her mirth annoyed me, but at least it brought some color to her China doll face. “My name’s Evelyn,” she said finally. “I’m looking for someone.”

  “So?” It didn’t come out as angry or as disinterested as I’d hoped.

  “I’m looking for someone and you’re a detective,” she said, as if that clarified anything.

  “Oh, I see your problem,” I replied. “You’ve got me confused with the police. See, when you tell the police you’re missing someone, they have to do something about it. Or at least they have to pretend to do something about it. Me, I’m an independent contractor. You come to me, and you say, ‘I’m missing someone,’ I can and do say, ‘tough break, now get lost’.”

  She put the bread down in her lap and leaned away from me. “Does that seem like something you’re liable to say?”

  “It does.”

  “Huh,” she said.

  It was my turn to be confused. “‘Huh’? What do you mean, ‘huh’?”