by Eve Goldberg
I watched the plane ascend over the ocean, get smaller and smaller, until it disappeared into the milky blue sky. Then I hopped down from the car. I knew what I had to do.
CHAPTER 30
I drove out Wilshire Blvd. to Steve Sutton’s office. The morning fog had burned off, and the sky was a clear, blazing blue. It was a notable improvement to be headed this way without a gun jammed into my ribs.
Sutton wasn’t expecting me, which was all the better. I didn’t want him to prepare some b.s. answer to what I planned to ask.
“Well, this is a surprise,” my client greeted me.
He was wearing his tennis whites. The Bekins moving boxes had disappeared from his office. In their place was a leather couch, two steel frame chairs with leather hammock seats, and a bookcase holding several tennis trophies. On his desk was a crisp new blotter, a telephone with buttons for two lines, and a heavy cut-glass ashtray. Next to the ashtray, a paperback version of How To Win Friends and Influence People lay open.
The picture window behind Sutton’s desk looked out on the Hollywood Hills. At the right edge of my view was the circular Capitol Records tower up on Yucca and Vine. Whoever thought of designing a building to look like a stack of records on a turntable was genius in my book.
“So what brings you out this way?” my client asked. “I hope it’s better news than last time.”
“I’m fairly certain Leon is still in L.A.” I said.
“What?”
“My neighbor saw him down in Venice.”
“That’s ridiculous. Anyway, how in the world would your neighbor know what Leon looks like?”
“He described him and the description fit. Leon is unique. Also, I went by his place in Norwalk. His clothes—”
“Damn!” Sutton interrupted. “I almost forgot.”
He pulled a notepad towards him and picked up a pen. “That woman in unit two has been pestering me about her bathroom sink. I’ve got to get another manager in there now that Leon is gone. And the Flower place, I need to rent out unit three. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. I can’t tell you how much I look forward to getting out of the rental business.”
Sutton scribbled something on the notepad. I could make out the upside-down words PLUMBER and FLOWER and the number 3.
When he finished writing he turned his attention back to me. “Now what were you saying?”
“Leon’s clothes, at least some of them, and a bunch of other stuff is still there at his Norwalk apartment. And the mail’s piling up.”
“So?”
“A guy goes on a long trip — you even suggested he may never return — he would close up his place, cancel the mail, pack up his stuff. And Yugoslavia? He didn’t even take his jacket.”
“We’re talking Leon here. Leon isn’t like other people.”
“What’s he like?”
“Just . . . different. Possessions wouldn’t mean anything to him.”
I thought about that. Who didn’t care about possessions? I couldn’t think of anyone. Possessions were exactly what everybody did care about. To some it was the Buick in the garage. To the Gas House gang it was their berets and bongos. To me, my stereo and surfboard. I thought about Doc Flynn. What about Doc Flynn? Did possessions mean anything to him?
“Who exactly is Leon?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” Sutton said. “Leon is Leon.”
“I mean what’s his story? How did he come to work for you?”
“Oh, that. I picked him up hitchhiking. About ten years ago. He looked lost, this oversized oaf with white hair and ragged clothes standing by the side of the road. His arms were scratched up. I felt sorry for him, so I took him home, got him cleaned up, let him stay rent-free in one of my apartment units down in San P for a while. Leon isn’t much of a talker, but eventually, little by little, he told me about his background. His mother and father had been killed during the war. He wandered around Europe by himself, stealing to survive, living in bombed-out ruins. Ate rats. He finally caught a break when some save-the-war-orphans outfit set him up with a family in the U.S. Turned out to be a sham. The outfit was bringing kids over and putting them to work in the agricultural fields, locking them up in a basement at night. Eventually Leon escaped. He roamed around L.A. He worked in bars, on the docks, in the fields. Found trouble. Anyway, my real estate business was just taking off, so I put him to work.”
“I can see why he’d be loyal.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. You said he was loyal. I can see why, after everything you’ve done for him.”
I wondered to myself if there wasn’t more to the story, more to the bond between Sutton and Leon. But I figured that wasn’t any of my business. It wasn’t anybody’s business but theirs.
What was my business, however, was to find out why was Leon hanging around my apartment. And why his boss and savior seem to know nothing about it.
CHAPTER 31
It was late afternoon by the time I reached my next, and in my mind at least, most important stop: Pacific Palisades. I walked up to the Flynn’s front door and rang the bell. This being a weekday, I assumed Mrs. Flynn would be at work. At least I hoped so. I knew what Lou would have said about me checking on Joey, about letting a case get personal, about being here at all. But it didn’t really matter what Lou would have said, because I was here anyway.
I rang the bell a second time. Waited. Nobody answered. So I walked up the street to the Ackerman house. Someone was playing cello scales inside. As soon as I rang the buzzer, the cello scales were drowned out by the yapping of Buster the poodle. A minute later, Mrs. Ackerman, holding Buster, inched the door open. The cold cream was gone, but the same suspicious eyes greeted me. The dog growled.
“Hello, Mrs. Ackerman . . . Hi, Buster.”
I showed the dog my hand. He sniffed it and began wagging his tail.
A flash of recognition crossed Mrs. Ackerman’s face. She pulled the door open a few more stingy inches.
“Oh, it’s you Mr. . . . Mr. . . . .”
“Zorn. Ryan Zorn.”
“That’s right. Ryan. Don’t tell me Joey has run away again.”
“I don’t think so, but he wasn’t at home so I thought he might be over here.”
She shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not. We’ve forbidden Nicholas to play with Joey for the rest of the summer.”
“Why’s that? I thought they were best friends.”
“Maybe we should talk inside.”
I followed her into the kitchen. The cello scales had stopped.
“Keep practicing, Nicholas!” she shouted. “You still have fifteen minuets to go!”
The cello started up again. Not scales this time, but a slow, somber melody. I sat across from Mrs. Ackerman at the white Formica table.
“So what happened with Joey and Nicholas?” I asked.
“It wasn’t an easy decision, but my husband and I decided Joey is a bad influence on Nicholas.”
“Why?”
Mrs. Ackerman leaned towards me and lowered her voice. She obviously delighted in spilling the beans.
“We caught Joey stealing. And that’s not all. We found out that Nicholas helped him run away — the time when you went looking for him. He took my husband’s car in the middle of the night and drove Joey to the Greyhound bus station.”
“The one in Santa Monica?”
She nodded.
“That’s a ways away. Your son must be a pretty good driver. Most 11-year-olds can’t even see over the steering wheel.”
“Nicholas isn’t 11. He’s 14.”
“Oh.” I was surprised, but kept a neutral tone.
“It’s not Nicholas’s fault. I blame my husband for all this. You see, Nicholas is . . . different. Not stupid. Just different. He gets teased by other boys in school. Never by Joey, though. Anyway, my husband has been letting Nicholas drive around in our church parking lot when it’s empty. He says it helps Nicholas feel more grown-up. I don’t like
it, and I’ve told him as much, but you can’t fight every battle, now can you?”
“No, you can’t.”
“Anyway, I think Nicholas will be just fine. Did you know that children develop at different rates? And he’s very gifted, musically.”
As if on cue, the cello music stopped and a large boy, probably five-eight but still hanging on to some baby fat, appeared in the doorway. His brown hair was cut in a bowl shape. He had large dark eyes and a blank expression on his face.
“I heard you talking about me,” he said.
“Go go back to practicing, Nicholas. This is adult talk.” Mrs. Ackerman spoke to her son as if he were a small child rather than a teenager.
“I heard my name,” Nicholas said.
“I don’t know how . . . if you were concentrating on your music.”
“I don’t want to play anymore.”
“Fifteen more minutes.”
“That’s not what I mean. I don’t want to play anymore — ever. No more lessons.”
“Not now, Nicholas. We have company.”
“I want to switch to drums.”
“We’ll see what your father has to say about that when he comes home.”
“He thinks the cello’s for sissies.”
“I’m not going to argue with you about it. Now go.”
The boy remained standing in the doorway. He didn’t look defiant, or angry, or much of anything at all. He just looked blank. And now he was staring right at me.
“Hi, Nicholas,” I said. “I’m Ryan.”
“The one who brought Joey back,” he said.
I nodded. “Do you know where Joey is right now?”
Nicholas started to say something, but bit down on his lip and remained silent.
Mrs. Ackerman turned to me. “I told you, Nicholas and Joey no longer play together, so he wouldn’t know—”
“He’s probably at our fort,” Nicholas blurted out.
“Where’s your fort?” I asked.
“By the creek.”
“What creek?”
“The bottom of the hill behind Joey’s house.”
“Nicholas,” his mother broke in, “why don’t I know anything about this fort?”
The boy shrugged. I thought I detected a faint smile.
“We talked about this, Nicholas,” Mrs. Ackerman lectured. “No lies, no secrets. Honesty is the key to a happy family life.”
The boy stayed blank.
“Nicholas, are you listening to me?”
“Yes.”
Nobody said anything for a moment.
“Nicholas,” I said finally, “do you think Joey’s at his fort right now?”
“Maybe.”
“Really, Nicholas,” his mother said, “I don’t want you sending this man on a wild goose chase down that steep hill back there.”
“That’s okay, Mrs. Ackerman. I’ll take my chances.” I turned to the boy. “Thanks, Nicholas. You’ve been really helpful.”
“You’re welcome.” His voice was flat.
“Okay, Nicky, now go. You have fifteen more minutes of practice. Don’t think I forgot.”
The boy waited at the door a moment longer. I thought he was going to say something, but he turned and left the room. A few seconds later, I heard a door slam. I didn’t hear any more cello music.
“Mrs. Ackerman, you said something about Joey stealing.”
“He took my husband’s gun.”
“What? When was this?”
“My husband noticed it missing last week. He asked me about it, but of course I didn’t know anything. Why would I? I’ve told him a hundred times that I don’t want a gun in my house. It all started after that dreadful Cuban missile crisis. My husband wanted to build a bomb shelter and stock it with canned food and water and crackers and some complicated air filtering system. Oh, and a pool table and wet bar. Why waste the space in the meantime, he said.” Mrs. Ackerman shook her head and sighed. “Men. Anyway, once he found out the cost he gave up his ridiculous bomb shelter idea, but he absolutely insisted upon purchasing a gun. I mean really! What’s he going to do, shoot the whole Russian army if they invade?”
“So this gun, how do you know Joey took it?”
“Nicky broke down and told us everything. We marched right over to the Flynn’s to get to the bottom of it. Cora refused to believe that Joey had stolen it, but she finally let us search his room. And there it was, just like Nicholas said, under the mattress. And don’t for a minute think my son isn’t being punished for all this. We believe in consequences.”
“Where’s the gun now?”
“Locked up securely, I can assure you.”
“May I take a look at it?”
“Well . . . I don’t see why not.”
Mrs. Ackerman dug a set of keys out of her purse. She fanned through them until she found the key that she was looking for. I followed her to the den where a television in a fancy wood console faced a small couch and a Naugahyde Reclina-Rocker. Next to the TV was a closet. Mrs. Ackerman opened a step stool that was stored in the closet, stood on the top rung, opened a metal safe that sat on a high shelf in the closet, and brought out a small pistol. She held the butt of the gun tentatively, between her thumb and forefinger, as if she were dangling a dead rat by its tail.
She handed me the gun. It was a black Smith and Wesson .22 pistol with a wooden grip. I sniffed the muzzle, catching the faint but distinct metallic odor of gunpowder.
“What about ammunition?” I asked her. “Was any missing?”
“I don’t know. I suppose my husband would.”
I gave the pistol back to Mrs. Ackerman and walked back to Joey’s house. I went around to the backyard where a couple of faded canvas chairs sat on a neglected, parched lawn. I stood at the edge of the yard and looked down into the canyon below.
CHAPTER 32
I saw no creek, no fort, not even a footpath. Only a dense tangle of creosote and sumac and sage brush. I cupped my hands and shouted.
“Joey! You down there!?”
The air was still.
I walked along the lip of the canyon. In one corner of the yard was a sycamore tree with a rope swing hanging from a branch. Just past the sycamore, I spotted a break in the chaparral. I pushed aside the woody shrubs that hid a narrow path snaking down the hill.
The brush scratched against my arms and legs as I made my way down. At the bottom of the canyon was a dry creek bed. Across the creek was a cluster of oaks. Where would a couple of kids build a fort? When I was Joey’s age, my buddies and I didn’t build forts. We stole beer off the back of delivery trucks, built bonfires on the beach at night, and ran like hell when the cops arrived. On the other hand, not one single time did any of us get our hands on a gun.
“Joey!” I called out. “It’s me, Ryan!”
I stood very still and waited. Then I saw something move in the brush beyond the oaks. It might have been a bird, or a rabbit, or a boy hiding out. I kept my eye trained on the spot where I had seen the movement, and walked toward it.
Just past the oaks were a couple of manzanitas with smooth red bark, twisty branches, and a low canopy of grey leaves. The leaves on one manzanita started to shiver. Joey crawled out from beneath the tree.
“Hi,” he said.
Joey sat on the ground, cross-legged, in a way that immediately reminded me of his father sitting cross-legged in the dark mountain cabin. I sat down so we’d be eye to eye.
“How you doing, Joey?”
“Okay. Why are you here?”
“I was worried about you.”
“Why?”
“I guess because it’s summer and I know you’re here alone a lot, and everything that’s happened in the past few weeks. I wanted to see how you’re doing.”
“I’m okay.”
I motioned to the manzanita thicket. “This your fort?”
Joey nodded.
I pictured a kid’s fort to be some kind of Swiss Family Robinson tree house like you see in the movies.
/> “You got stuff in there?” I asked.
“No.”
“So, what do you do in the fort?”
“Just sit. Watch the animals and birds.”
“What do you see?”
“Squirrels. Jays. Sometimes a jack rabbit or a deer. Skunks. Owls at night.”
“You come down here at night?”
Joey shrugged.
“I just came from Nicholas’ house,” I said. “His mother told me about the gun.”
“Yeah, big deal.”
“Why’d you take it?”
“To protect my mom.”
I nodded. “I get that.”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Okay?”
“Okay. One more question though.”
Joey kept quiet.
“Did you fire it?”
He shook his head.
“Did Nicholas?”
“No.”
“Not even to shoot at a tin can or something like that?”
Joey shook his head again.
“So what’d you do with it?”
“Put it under my mattress.” Joey scratched at the hard-packed ground with his fingernails. “Just in case.”
“When did you take it?”
“Last week.”
“What day?”
He shrugged again. We were quiet for a while. A scrub jay landed on a nearby branch, squawked a few times, and flew off.
“Have you talked to your dad since you got back?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You have his phone number.”
“I’m only supposed to call if it’s an emergency.”
“You called him when you ran away. Of course, that qualifies as an emergency in my book. A creep hit your mom and you bashed him.”
