by David Chill
“Bank loans or private party?” I asked.
“Bank. Don’t worry, nobody’s going to try and break my thumbs here. Not that anyone could. But it’s all above board. That’s the hard part of all this. I’ve been a success my whole life. Football’s been a big part of it. Got me where I am today. Made a couple of movies, too. And the restaurants did well at first. Life was good. Then, not so much.”
“Okay. And your new marriage isn’t working out well.”
Starr shot me a glance. “No. Obviously not. My first wife died of cancer.”
I nodded soberly. “You re-married quickly.”
“Yeah, maybe too quickly. Not fair to Lauren. Not fair to me either. I was trying to replicate something special. I thought I could. She even looked a little like my first wife. Blonde, beautiful, kind of flashy. I guess that’s my type.”
“Uh-huh. Tell me more about your new wife.”
He looked away, got the attention of the bartender, and tapped his glass knowingly. He was quickly handed a fresh drink. After taking a long swig, he turned back to me. “You don’t think Lauren was out to get me, do you? We’ve been having problems, but that’s nuts. She was in the Jacuzzi with me when those shots were fired. And she was up in Van Nuys when Anna was killed.”
I thought of something. “What about Lauren’s sister, Jacquie?”
“What about her?”
“Did Jacquie know about your affair with Anna?”
Curtis shrugged. “I doubt it. I don’t even think Lauren knew. We were discreet.”
I felt like shaking my head. Something didn’t add up. If the construction foreman at Yunis’s property knew about Anna, and the waitress was spending time at their house, there was a good possibility Lauren had some awareness, too. And if Lauren knew, there was a good chance that Jacquie did, too. Sisters, especially twin sisters, often shared their hopes. And their fears.
“What you think? My hillbilly sister-in-law was cooking something up?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Sometimes family members get more upset about things than the person themselves. Family is once removed, and they only see one side of things. That her sister’s husband was cheating might have put ideas in her head. Jacquie didn’t strike me as the most down-to-earth person.”
“Yeah,” he mused. “Sometimes I can hardly believe that her and Lauren popped out of the womb two minutes apart. Twins. Go figure.”
I pondered that for a minute, but filed it away to consider later. “How about that neighbor of yours. Gavin Yunis.”
Starr nodded. “I think you’re getting warmer.”
“Why would Yunis want to kill you?”
“We’ve had some nasty words, him and me. He thinks he’s a tough guy. He’s threatened me, I’ve threatened him. He’s sued me. I’ve sued him back.”
“Those lawsuits ever get resolved?”
“They were dismissed,” Starr said, a little bitterly. “Yunis can keep building.”
“You’re mad about some noise?” I asked.
“I’m mad that he’s building a three story monstrosity that overlooks my backyard. I don’t like people invading my privacy. What am I supposed to do? Build a roof over my backyard? The whole thing stinks.”
“You said he threatened you.”
“Yeah,” he responded.
“Threatened you how?”
“Said he’d take me apart. What a joke. I said I’d put him in the ground if he tried.”
“Ah,” I said. “Might he have taken that to mean you were actually going to kill him? My understanding is you have a bunch of guns in your home.”
Starr took a long time before responding. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “Maybe he got concerned. Maybe he thought he should take me out first. I didn’t think he was that type of guy. But you never really know who you’re dealing with.”
“When was the last time you interacted with him?” I asked.
“Last week,” he said. “Seems like he’s lying low. Makes me suspicious. Makes me wonder what he’s up to now.”
“You think he’s planning something?” I asked.
“I think something’s not right. I can just feel it. I can feel these things. I really can.”
*
Roper drove all the way back on Sunset, and despite my numerous requests to drop by the Yunis property in Mandeville Canyon, he blew right past it. He rambled on about the draft, his clients, my unwillingness to serve as a body man for Curtis Starr, and the upcoming election. Roper said that since Yunis hadn’t shown up on the property for the past few days, there was scant likelihood he’d be there now, and finally, I found something we could agree on.
I spent the next hour in my office, combing through the internet, trying to find out anything about Gavin Yunis. Except for the fact that he owned three houses in addition to the Mandeville home in development, there was not much else about him. He was unmarried, 31 years old, did not appear to have held a job or owned a business, and he did not have any siblings. He graduated from Palm Springs High School, then UCLA, and his late father had been a real estate developer in the low desert. From what I could gather, Gavin had earned his fortune the old-fashioned way. He inherited it.
With little else to do, I gift-wrapped Marcus’s birthday present for Jake, and then I drove home. Marcus was with our nanny, playing with Legos. He had just watched a cartoon filled with superheroes and wanted to build some of his own tools. A purple and orange creation, looking suspiciously like an AR-15 was partially completed. Our nanny, Marta, seemed happy to be relieved, and she told me as she left the house that she had no idea her job would involve developing toy weapons. Neither did I, and following a talk with Marcus, we agreed to redesign his toy blaster gun into something more like a rocket ship for the superheroes to fly.
We heated up the last of the lasagna for dinner, saving some for Gail, who arrived home at 8:30, looking weary. Her day included a few public events and a staff meeting with her campaign workers. It was in the last throes, the final stretch run, and she felt if she was going to win the election, it would have to be because of effort, not money. In politics, as in much of life, that sometimes worked.
The next day was Saturday, my day to look after Marcus, as Gail headed out early for a breakfast with her campaign advisors. After Marcus finished his cheerios, I gave him part of the rainbow sprinkle doughnut, we went to the park to throw a nerf football around, and then headed out to Chuck E. Cheese for Jake’s birthday party. I tried to keep my mind off of work, figuring some fresh thinking on Monday might help me figure out just what on earth was going on with Curtis Starr.
Our local Chuck E. Cheese outlet was just north of LAX, near that odd strip of La Tijera that intersected with Centinela and La Cienega. It was technically part of L.A., although two blocks east was Inglewood, and a few blocks north was the start of Culver City. It was a marginal blue-collar neighborhood, generally fine during the day, but not always so fine at night. Nice homes stood blocks away from ramshackle apartment buildings, and gang presence was always hovering nearby.
Chuck E. Cheese had, incredibly, been around for decades, even employing a rat as its mascot, which no doubt enthralled many a mischievous child. The arcade games were the hook, the below-average pizza serving as little more than an excuse for a short break in between blasting aliens into another galaxy. The added selling point was the availability of alcohol to parents, which even at the tender hour of 11:30 am was doing a brisk business. A glass partition separated the excited children from their mildly intoxicated parents, many choosing to take only an obligatory glance at one another at increasingly fewer intervals.
There was a fairly long line to get in, but by showing our invitation to Jake’s birthday party, we were whisked past what served as velvet rope, and into the odd establishment. A few cold stares followed us from those still in line. We found Jake’s parents who were busy giving out cards the kids would use to access any video game, and drink tickets for the parents to cash in at the bar. Pizza
and cake would be served at noon, in a separate section. It was all well organized, which as it turned out was due to Jake being the third of three children, his parents thus being experienced on this journey.
I took my drink coupon to the bar and slid onto a stool. I ordered a Coke, and as I sipped it, I tried to keep one eye on Marcus as he romped from rolling balls into a Skee-ball machine, to shooting mini-basketballs into a hoop that kept moving back and forth. That he hadn’t found the violent video games yet only meant he was just starting out. Throughout the arcade were framed drawings of Chuck E. himself, a rat that looked happy and approachable. As I watched Marcus, a man slipped onto the stool next to me and ordered a Bud Light. When it came, he took a big gulp.
“Rough week?” I inquired politely.
“Rough year,” he replied. “Glad my kid got invited today. I really need this.”
I nodded and took a sip of my Coke. “What line of work are you in?”
“Construction,” he said. “I’m a general contractor. Built two houses last year, but that was last year. This year I’m more of a handyman. I do whatever. This and that.”
“Sorry to hear.”
He waved a hand. “We’re doing okay. That’s just the business. Up and down. My dad was a contractor, I know the life. Fortunately, my wife has a steady job. Nurse over at UCLA Medical Center.”
“That where she is today?”
“Yeah, they don’t work standard hours. My other kid’s on a sleepover. You?”
“I do this and that.”
“Come on,” he laughed. “I shared.”
“Okay. I’m a private investigator, and my wife’s running for L.A. City Attorney. She may win.”
He was taking another gulp of beer, and it looked like it was about to come back up. “For real?”
“Never more real.”
“She sounds perfect.”
“I’m living proof she’s not.”
He laughed. “Shoot. I hate city government. Everything is an issue with them. Pulling permits, getting inspections. I know who to slip an envelope to, which means I can usually get stuff done quick. But I hate it. Damn government. They’ll just rob you blind.”
“I guess it must feel that way sometimes,” I said, showing as much compassion as I could muster, which probably wasn’t much.
“Your kid’s here for Jake’s birthday party, too?” he asked.
“He is. They know each other from preschool.”
“Is that Mar Vista Preschool? My son Drew goes there, also.”
I nodded. Marcus had never mentioned a Drew.
“Where are you going to kindergarten?” he asked. Whenever two parents in L.A. get together, the talk always drifts to schools, like moths to a flame. It was unavoidable.
“We got accepted at Crossroads,” I said. “Still trying to decide on that or Mar Vista Elementary.”
“Mmm-hmm,” he mumbled. “My oldest goes to Crossroads. Good school, a little snooty, but the contacts are worth it. For me anyway. I got my last two remodels from Crossroads parents. Worth the tuition just for that.”
“Worth it otherwise?” I asked, leaving out the fact that I had no intention of using my kid to pimp my business.
“If you have the money, it’s worth it. If you don’t, it’s not. That simple.”
I let his words hang in there, and I wanted to frame them. If Gail were here, I would stop and point to what he had just said. Gail was a civil servant, albeit a nicely paid one. I still had some money in the bank from my coaching days. This man’s general contracting business may have its ups and downs, but mine was even more unstable. I had tried advertising, but that turned out to be money down the drain. I survived on referrals, and repeat business, and whoever happened to walk into my office. My income was hit or miss. Gail and I had managed to support our family, but I never stopped to analyze just how or where or when the money would materialize. It was better now than when I was single, but the idea of shelling out $40,000 a year, every year, on private school was enough to make me blanch. Gail always said we’d find a way. Maybe we would. Maybe we wouldn’t. My neighbor’s half-empty glass of beer started to look tantalizing, but I refrained from ordering one, and took a swallow of Coke instead.
I got up and walked into the arcade and found Marcus. He was busying himself at a video game machine shooting down asteroids. I watched him for a while before Jake’s mother called us over for pizza and cake. The pizza looked interesting but tasted bland and uninspired. Marcus, on the other hand, thought it was fine, and had two slices. I didn’t even bother with the cake, a white-frosted rectangle with a remarkably clear design of Chuck E. himself along the top, attired in a red-and-blue t-shirt with a big “C” in the middle of it. There were about fifteen kids at the party, all energized and excited, fueled all the more with added carbs and sugar. The parents stood behind them and kibitzed, I mostly avoided any further discussion. The kids then engaged in another 45 minutes of arcade game play before Jake’s mom told us their time allotment had run out. We were free to stay, of course, but the party itself had ended. It took a few minutes trying to convince Marcus it was time to go, but I finally got through. In the end, however, I wished I had let him play longer, because the ugly events that were about to transpire were the kind that no child should ever have to witness.
We exited the arcade and walked toward my Pathfinder. The line to get into Chuck E. Cheese was at least as long as before, if not longer, and certainly testier. There were kids and parents queued up, many appearing restless, and none looking happy. The kids were fidgeting, and the parents looked like they wished they were somewhere else. And as we passed a kid who looked like he was at least 7 years old, an ugly boy with a chubby scowl on his swarthy face, the boy reached out with his leg and tripped Marcus, sending him sprawling to the ground.
“Hey!” Marcus yelled, and scrambled to his feet. “What’d you do that for?”
“Shut up,” he snarled.
With that, Marcus raised his arms and shoved the boy backward. Before the boy could react, his father, equally chubby, grabbed Marcus by the arm, and jerked him aside.
“Don’t touch my boy!” he yelled.
I am not fully certain how quickly I moved, it was as if time had been suspended. I advanced toward the man, breathing sharply through my nose, my mouth curled as tight as it’s ever been curled, my eyes wide and glaring, a red rage erupting from me, emanating from a place I did not know existed. I led with my right hand, but only to force the man to move his face directly in the path of my balled left fist, which was coming at him with every ounce of strength I had. The punch hit him squarely in the mouth, and I felt his teeth rattle against my knuckles.
He stumbled backward but did not fall, his legs trying to maintain balance as he raised his hands to his face. I wasn’t sure if he was gripping his mouth or preparing to do battle. I feigned with my left again and he moved awkwardly to one side. I snapped off a right cross, which landed hard on his left cheek, just below the eye, but the force of the blow was so strong it seemed as if my hand went right through his face. He dropped to the sidewalk in a heap, and was in no position to defend himself, but I was in no mood to back off. Whatever this triggered in me, whatever beast had been unleashed was not about to stop.
I kicked him in the ribs twice before someone tried to wrap their arms around me. I used an elbow to the solar plexus to release the grip, and then grabbed the person by the shirt and flung him to the ground. A third man charged at me, hands raised like a boxer, dancing for a second, before throwing an overhand right at my head. I tried to sidestep the punch, but it caught me just over the left ear. I slammed my right fist deep into his midsection and he doubled over. I hit him with two chopping punches on the sides of his temple, and then an uppercut left which landed on his nose. He grunted and collapsed to the ground.
By now, the crowd had spread out, as many wanted to avoid getting engaged in the violent mix. I saw another man move toward me, but his palms were up in a display that
I somehow managed to interpret as not intending to inflict harm. I kept my fists raised in front of my face because I couldn’t see for certain what his true intentions were, and also because there were enough onlookers in the crowd who could have construed a lull in the brawl as an opportunity to jump into the mix.
“Whoa, cowboy!” said the man with the palms raised. “Let’s calm it down.”
My breathing was deep and fast, and my heart was racing. I tried to process what he was saying. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out my fake badge. This usually ended any fracas and caused most people to retreat. If people think you’re part of law enforcement, they become reluctant to engage you. They know that someone with a badge is also likely to be someone with a gun, and someone with the authority to use it. I didn’t see a need to draw my weapon yet, but I tried to remember if it was strapped to my ankle or by my hip. As it turned out, it did not matter.
“Police officer,” I yelled. “Back off.”
“Hold on, pal,” the man with the raised palms said.
“You hold on,” I declared. “Move back.”
“You’re on the job?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I answered hotly. “I am.”
“Hang on pal,” he said, moving his right hand slowly into his pocket. “I want to show you something.”
The man kept his left palm visible as he continued to drop his right hand into his jacket pocket. I moved my own hand inside my jacket to my hip, and felt the butt of my .357. I wrapped my hand around it, but did not brandish it. The tension in the air was thick. The man slowly brought his right hand out, and I could see it was a leather case. He flipped it open and there was a shiny gold shield visible. The words on the badge seemed to spell out “Culver City Police Department.”
“Me, too,” he said. “I’m on the job. What do you say to you and me having a little talk?”
I felt a trickle of sweat slither down my ribs. “Okay,” I managed.
“And we can also discuss just what law enforcement agency you work with,” he said, motioning me to follow him. “I’ve never seen a badge like that before.”
