Harbor Nocturne

by Wambaugh, Joseph

  “Yes,” she said. “A man help me. I pay him, and after we cross, we see cars that wait and they drive me to the bus station in San Diego. And I take the bus to Los Angeles.”

  “Have you phoned your mother in the past four months?” Brigita asked.

  “She do not have the telephone,” Lita said. “But I make the calls to the lady who is living in the rooms above my mother and brothers. She always runs to get my mother for us to talk. I do not wish to trouble the lady, so I only call maybe one time each week. My mother says she is okay and my brothers go to school and they are okay. But my mother has the diabetes and the weak heart, so I must send money when I can. That is why I come here. To make more money than I make in Guanajuato.”

  “Lita,” Brigita said, “how did you earn money in Mexico?”

  The young woman lowered her eyes and said, “I dance in the club. Same like the one in Wilmington.”

  Dinko thought the interrogation had gone far enough, and so did Brigita. When Dinko asked, “Are we ever gonna get brunch?” Brigita said, “We certainly are. Lita, how about squeezing those oranges?”

  “Yes!” Lita said with enthusiasm. “I am very good making the orange juice.”

  Early that Sunday evening, at about the same time that Lita Medina and Dinko Babich were being stuffed with the third meal of the day, a homeless octogenarian derelict known as Trombone Teddy was sound asleep in a dumpster just off Hollywood Boulevard near Vine Street. He’d had a successful Sunday morning panhandling on the boulevard and had managed to get himself so lubricated in the early afternoon that he needed a nap in his favorite summer snoozing spot. Trombone Teddy was having one of those heavenly dreams of the days when he was a good sideman playing in several West Coast jazz spots, including at legendary drummer Shelly Manne’s famous nightclub, Shelly’s Manne-Hole, on Cahuenga Boulevard. As far as Trombone Teddy was concerned, those were the days when real music ruled, and he knew they would never return.

  Teddy, who was known to many of the cops at Hollywood Station, was an extremely sound sleeper, especially after so much afternoon imbibing, and while he slept, a Honduran janitor working an overtime job at a nearby commercial building carried a trash can loaded with office detritus to the building’s seldom-used dumpster. He heard the buzz of circling flies, and when he opened the lid immediately leaped backward, dropping the trash can, but not before getting a good scare from the grizzled countenance of Trombone Teddy, who looked and smelled very dead indeed. As the lid slammed down, the janitor ran back to the job site to phone the police.

  The midwatch had just cleared from roll call, and at 5:45 p.m., 6-X-76 got the call. The janitor, who spoke English well enough to explain what he’d found, led Mel Yarashi and Always Talking Tony to the last resting place of Trombone Teddy, who was not known by either cop.

  When they were still fifty feet away from the dumpster, Mel Yarashi turned to his younger partner and said, “Whoa! We got a stinker, all right. The dude’s deader than a lawyer’s conscience.”

  Except that when they raised the lid, Teddy snorted and tried to roll over on the trash pile for a more comfortable repose.

  Mel Yarashi told the janitor, “This is either Lazarus or the old bum ain’t dead.”

  “Dead drunk, maybe,” A.T. said.

  Then the older cop said, “Jesus, the smell!”

  That’s when Teddy’s sleeping partner revealed herself. Teddy’s rolling movement had put his face on top of her extended hand, her flesh the palest of gray, and supple, rigor having come and gone.

  “Goddamn!” Mel Yarashi cried, and he shoveled away some crumpled newspapers and cardboard boxes, seeing that the hand was attached to the clothed body of a woman. “Call for a homicide team!” he told A.T. “And notify the watch commander!” Then he shook Teddy, yelling, “Get the fuck up!”

  Teddy threw up his hand to shield his eyes from the low-angled solar rays, and blinked uncomprehendingly at the Asian cop staring slack-jawed at him while a black cop talked excitedly into a hand-held radio.

  “Good day, Officer,” Teddy said. “Am I preventing access to the dumpster this afternoon? If so, I’ll be glad to move to—”

  “Get outta there!” Mel Yarashi sputtered, and he grabbed Teddy by the front of his greasy coat, lifting the scrawny derelict out onto the asphalt.

  Still stunned, the cop blurted, “What’d you do to her?” Then he calmed himself, drew his handcuffs, and said, “You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. You—”

  Teddy interrupted the Miranda warning by saying, “But this dumpster is almost never used, Officer! They pick it up once a week, and it’s never more than half full. I woulda picked another one if I knew the people in the office building cared this much. They often wave to me and give me doughnuts sometimes. I’m sorry, Officer. If I’m trespassing, I won’t sleep in this one no more.”

  Mel Yarashi ceased Mirandizing. He looked at Teddy’s watery blue eyes and childlike expression, and then at the extended arm of the dead woman in the dumpster, whose smell made him want to retch. He put his handcuffs back on his Sam Browne and said, “Tell me something. Did you know you went to bed with a corpse?”

  Trombone Teddy blinked again, scratched his belly, and asked, perplexed, “Are you talking about that time last year when the guy next to me at the homeless shelter croaked during the night?”

  The moment the crime scene criminalists had finished their preliminary work, and the coroner’s body snatchers had lifted the dead woman from the dumpster and placed her on their corpse cart, she was identified by her nickname and place of employment. The strip club dancer was wearing a Club Samara silver anklet, engraved with her professional name, “Daisy”—a gift that each of the dancers had been given with their holiday bonus in December. The second team of detectives at the scene drove to the nightclub, closed on Sunday, and got the head bartender’s phone number from one of the Latino busboys doing a cleanup prior to the Monday lunch opening.

  Leonid Alekseev, the Russian bartender, was called. He drove to the club, where he met the team of detectives and quickly identified their death photo of the Korean dancer known as Daisy. He provided her employment name, Soo Jeong, and her Social Security number and driver’s license information, along with the address of her apartment in east Hollywood. Violet, aka Li Pham, Daisy’s roommate, was interviewed, but she could provide no information other than that Daisy had gone missing for unexplained reasons earlier in the week, and Violet claimed to be unsure of the exact day. She implied in broken English that such was the topsy-turvy world of exotic dancers, who did not always sleep at home.

  By early evening, a sixty-two-year-old Georgian immigrant and retired pawnbroker, Bakhva Ramishvili, whose name appeared on the liquor license and the building lease, was sitting inside an interview room at Hollywood Station, perspiring noticeably. He assured a woman homicide detective that he was a minor investor in Club Samara but that the nightclub’s management was the responsibility of the Russian bartender, Leonid Alekseev. When pressed as to who else was an investor in the club, the Georgian gave the name Pavel Markov and an address on Mount Olympus.

  After dark, a very weary Hollywood Division D2, Albino Villaseñor, drove alone up Mount Olympus, where local realtors claimed there were more Italian cypress trees per acre than anywhere else on earth. Bino Villaseñor was very familiar with Mount Olympus, a section of the Hollywood Hills preferred by well-to-do foreign nationals. There were plenty of residents from Israel, Iran, Russia, Armenia, and many Arab countries. The number of Bentleys and Rolls-Royces attested to that.

  The detective had been hoping to spend Sunday evening watching a video of his granddaughter trying her hand at lacrosse. Instead, he’d been called from his home thirty minutes after Trombone Teddy had been found alive and well, but with a dumpster partner who was not. And Bino had been hard at work ever since.

  He’d received another call that evening, from Sergeant Hawthorne of the Hollywood vice unit, who’d told him that the Club Sam
ara dancers were being “serviced” by a dirtbag named Hector Cozzo, who was an unofficial facilitator for this nightclub and for a massage parlor that was an upscale brothel. The vice sergeant said there might also be a Korean named Mr. Kim who was connected to the nightclub as a provider of entertainment. Then Bino had been given a short version of the extraordinary undercover operation that had gone awry at Hector Cozzo’s Encino home.

  After parking in front of the Mount Olympus address he’d been given by the license holder and part owner of Club Samara, the detective studied the house from the street. It wasn’t particularly impressive, not like some of the view homes near the top, and the detective was fairly certain that the house would turn out to be leased rather than owned by the resident. That, too, was common around these parts.

  Bino Villaseñor examined his wardrobe after he got out of the car—an automatic response, he believed, to being in Hollywood Hills neighborhoods where his Mexican immigrant grandfather had actually worked as a gardener back when Bino was a child. His three-year-old brown gabardine suit was good at hiding coffee spills but was looking pretty sad of late, and he made a mental note to call tomorrow and see if they had any sales going on at Men’s Wearhouse. He adjusted the knot on his salsa-stained maroon necktie before ringing the bell.

  The door was opened by a rather flamboyant-looking older man with a black Elvis hairdo, obviously dyed, wearing a pearly jumpsuit that had gone out of style in the 1980s or earlier. The resident looked with some disappointment at a bald, rumpled Latino with a bushy white mustache who was holding a large notepad in his hand. It seemed as though Markov might’ve been expecting someone more impressive and formidable.

  Bino pulled his coat back to reveal the LAPD shield on his belt and said, “I’m Detective Villaseñor, the one who phoned you. If you’re Mr. Pavel Markov.”

  Markov said, “That’s a name I use in business, Detective. My correct name is Pedrag Marcovic. It seems more profitable in Hollywood these days to be from Russia rather than my homeland of Serbia, so for business reasons I have adopted a name that implies I am an ethnic Russian, even though my poor grasp of the Russian language usually gives me away. Please come in.”

  Bino entered the foyer and sized up the house in a glance, thinking, Leased for sure, with rented furniture. The guy was not wealthy, but was trying to be a player among those who were.

  “What business are you in, sir?” Bino asked.

  “Mostly real estate investment and entertainment,” Markov said. “Why don’t we have a seat in the living room? Can I get you some iced tea?”

  Bino shook his head, saying, “No, thanks, I’m fine,” and followed Markov into the living room, thinking, Yeah, rented furniture. He’d seen identical sofa and love-seat combos in other homes in the Hollywood Hills. Bino Villaseñor figured that if he had an Andrew Jackson for every Hollywood player who claimed to be in real estate investment or entertainment, he could afford to retire to that little condo he and the wife dreamed about, down in Seal Beach, only two blocks from the ocean, where he could forget murder and teach the grandkids to build sand castles.

  The detective said, “I understand you’re a part owner of Club Samara?”

  “I am an investor,” Markov answered reluctantly, never wanting any of his nightclub or massage parlor connections to be publicly known. “I want you to know that I seldom go to the club except on certain occasions when I have to approve a new act, and I have never, to my knowledge, seen the unfortunate dancer you have come about.”

  “Her name is Soo Jeong, as far as we know, but around the club she was known as Daisy,” Bino said. “Does that nickname ring a bell?”

  Markov shook his head. “I do not think that I have visited that particular investment in nearly two months. I do not know any of the entertainers by name.”

  “So, for the record, I guess you wouldn’t know who might’ve killed her and thrown her body in a dumpster?”

  “Of course not. Was she perhaps killed by someone who ambushed and raped her?”

  “I have no idea,” Bino said. “We’ll wait for the postmortem before learning that sort of thing.”

  “I imagine that in the nightclub business the dancers meet a certain element, who seduce them into compromising situations with money offers. And then, who knows what can happen? Am I correct in thinking that?”

  Markov used his expressive hands when he spoke, and Bino thought they were graceful, like a dancer’s hands.

  The detective said, “You’re the one in the nightclub business, so you tell me.”

  That dropped Markov’s hands quietly to his lap and made the Serb remind himself not to talk too much, and only in response. He said, “I guess I watch too much television. I think I am trying to be a detective.”

  “Do you know a man named Hector Cozzo?” Bino asked, looking down at the legal pad on which he was making notes. “I believe he works for that particular investment of yours?”

  Markov hesitated for just an instant, then decided not to be too clever, saying, “Well, yes, of course. Hector Cozzo is a kind of handyman who runs errands, takes the dancers for fittings, that sort of thing. I am not sure exactly what he does with each of the two business investments I have in Hollywood. I am also invested in Shanghai Massage, but you may have already discovered that.”

  “Is Hector Cozzo on your payroll?”

  “Heavens, no,” Markov said. “He is the type of person who enjoys to be in the company of beautiful girls. Leonid Alekseev is the manager of Club Samara, and I believe he repays Hector by giving him free meals, or rewards him with an occasional cash payment. Nothing significant, just what you might call a tip for service. I can assure you that if Hector were on the nightclub payroll, he would be given a W-2 and we would report his earnings to the IRS. I am a grateful immigrant to this country and have no wish to cheat my Uncle Sam out of taxes.” He smiled when he said that, as though the detective should be amused.

  “Did you know that Leonid Alekseev has a police record?”

  “Yes, but a minor one,” Markov said. “He used to manage another nightclub owned by one of his countrymen, and he had to get physical with unruly customers on a few occasions.”

  Bino said, “My understanding is that the last time he got physical, the customer ended up in the hospital with two broken arms.”

  “Leonid was a lumberman back in Russia,” Markov said, “and does not know his own strength. But he is a splendid maker of drinks. He loves working behind the bar and never flaunts his authority as manager of the club. He makes sure that things run smoothly and that moneys are properly reported to my accountant. That sort of thing.”

  “And is there a Korean who does managing duties?”

  The hesitation lasted a bit longer before Markov said, “No, we have no Korean employees. There used to be a Mr. William Kim, who was kind of a talent agent. He would bring girls to the club for auditions. I am not sure if he does that anymore. I have not seen him in over a year, but maybe Leonid still deals with him from time to time. I am not certain.”

  Bino said, “Did you pay Mr. Kim for his services?”

  “No,” Markov said. “We never had to pay him for his service. I believe he received a percentage of his client’s pay, like any talent agent. I believe that Leonid can verify that. Once again, I would not try to escape paying my taxes for any moneys earned at Club Samara or Shanghai Massage.”

  “Do you have Mr. Kim’s address and phone number?”

  “No, I do not. I doubt that Leonid does, either. These self-styled talent agents who deal with exotic dancers just come and go.”

  Bino looked Markov in the eye and said, “What do you know about the Encino house that Hector Cozzo lives in?”

  Markov said, “Ah, yes, I neglected to mention that as a further reward for his services as an errand boy and handyman, Hector subleases the Encino property from me at a favorable monthly amount.”

  “So you don’t own it?”

  “No, I lease it from a gentleman named
Garo Seropian, who owns a real estate company in Little Armenia.”

  “Do you own this house?”

  “No, I lease it. Why do you ask?”

  The detective surprised Markov when he said, “You lease your businesses from property owners, as well as this house and Hector Cozzo’s house. You lease everything and own nothing. Is that how it’s done these days? I’m just a midlevel civil servant with little understanding of current business practices.”

  “I think the Great Recession has taught us that leasing is the wave of the future,” Markov answered affably. “Easy in, easy out. My cars are also leased. The only thing that I own and can actually sell is the goodwill generated by my customers. I am a kind of modern-day Gypsy traveler.”

  “Which means you fold your tents and jump on the caravan and are gone by morning, huh?” Bino said.

  Markov tried to chuckle, but it didn’t work. He said, “Have you spoken to Hector Cozzo about this terrible incident?”

  “Your Russian manager gave us his home address in Encino and a cell number, but the number’s no longer in service. I told Leonid Alekseev to inform Hector Cozzo that I need to speak with him, but if he doesn’t call soon I’m going to have to drop by his house in Encino. Or should I say your house in Encino?”

  “In point of fact,” Markov said, trying another chuckle, “the house of Garo Seropian.”

  “Yeah, I almost forgot,” Bino said. “You own nothing but goodwill.”

  “I see how peculiar our way of doing business must seem to you,” Markov said. “I think it is because we immigrants have trouble adjusting to the meticulous American ways. We come from places where record keeping is . . . slapdash, if that is the correct English word.”

  Bino said, “Hector Cozzo is not an immigrant. If he doesn’t contact me soon, I’m going to start wondering about his slapdash ways. And speaking of slapdash, the other investor, Mr. Ramishvili, whose name is on the building’s lease and the liquor license, doesn’t know any more about the managing of the club than I do. So now I’m wondering how handy your handyman Hector Cozzo really is, and exactly what he does to help Leonid Alekseev. You have a lot of people between you and your investments, don’t you?”