The Straight Man - Roger L Simon

by Roger L. Simon

  "It was a disaster," she said.

  I nodded sympathetically.

  "Worse. A catastrophe. I'm quitting right now. It's all over. Never again. Only a self-destructive moron does something they're no good at. Did you know I used to be a laboratory technician? I was once a photographer. Also a disc jockey in Gaspé. Why I decided to be a comedian, I'll never know."

  Then she bent over and tried to throw up again, but nothing came out. "Jesus, do you have a Certs or something?"

  "Sorry, I-"

  "Don't worry about it .... God, you're standing in the bull's-eye. Another depressed comic bites the dust. I'm not superstitious or anything, but if I were you, I'd get the hell out of there." I stepped out of the circle toward her. "What a mess!" she continued. Her accent was much fainter offstage, but she had the same slim hips and gorgeous red hair.

  "Comedians really are total nut cases. They'd be pathetic if they weren't such clichés. It's just like Pagliacci. 'Ridi del dual che t'avvelena il c0r!' "

  "What's that mean?"

  " 'Laugh at the sorrow which is poisoning your heart!' I told you I was a disc jockey. What a job that was—midnight to four A.M. playing opera for lumberjacks. Maybe I just don't stick to things."

  "Maybe you're restless."

  "You know what I should be?" She nodded with conviction. "A private detective."

  I burst out laughing.

  "What's so funny?"

  "You wouldn't like it."

  "How would you know?"

  "Oh, I know."

  "What makes you so sure?"

  "I probably know more about it than anybody you've ever met."

  She eyed me cooly. "I see .... Well, good-bye."

  She started off.

  "Hey, where're you going?"

  "I don't like people who make assumptions about other people, even if they are private eyes, which you must be, because if you're not, you're the most egocentric person I've ever met. Besides, you're obviously here looking into Mike Ptak's death."

  "Assumption on your part."

  "Furthermore," she continued without bothering to contradict me, "if you were any good at what you did, you'd want to interview me."

  "I would? Why's that?"

  "I was standing right here when it happened."

  "You were?"

  "That's right. I was pacing around back here before going on, trying to remember my jokes, or maybe trying to forget them, when I heard someone scream something and then I saw him come flying down."

  "Scream something? Scream what?"

  "I'm not sure. Something like 'nestral' or 'nestron' or 'neuter'."

  " 'Neuter'?"

  "Weird, huh? Anyway, it was something like that. My English sounds good, but it isn't perfect. Did you ever try to perform in a foreign language? It's no picnic. Of course it's not half so bad as seeing somebody's guts splattered across the asphalt like yesterday's chicken salad."

  "Did you tell the police about this?"

  "Yes, of course. It's no secret. I've told the police and now I've told you, Mr. . . ."

  "Wine. Moses Wine."

  "Yes. Mr. Wine . . . good night." She started off again.

  "Wait a minute."

  "I really need some Certs, Mr. Wine."

  "I'd like to see you again."

  "What for?"

  "I don't know. The usual thing. Single divorced male seeks attractive redhead with sense of humor and checkered employment history for fun and—"

  "Oh." She looked disappointed. "I thought it was because you might need help with your case. I was serious about being a private detective. I'm even taking a course at the Learning League. Good-bye."

  She disappeared into the club.

  I decided to extend Sonya's comedy education a bit longer and pay a visit to the Albergo Picasso.

  I entered through the front door and crossed directly through the main lobby, past some imitation African masks and a full-size reproduction of Guernica, to the concierge's desk. A tall blond guy in his late twenties wearing a dark suit with the traditional crossed keys was standing behind it with a bored expression. He looked like a surfer who went to finishing school.

  "How do you do? My name's Mark Burg," I told him.

  "I'm co-owner of Second Skin Leathers down in Redondo Beach. Do you know it?"

  He didn't open his mouth.

  "I guess you don't. Anyway, we specialize in quality leathers like this." I gestured to my own jacket, which I had picked up on sale in the Mexico City flea market. "Also lizard skins, ostrich, and other endangered species. Did you ever see an anaconda belt?"

  "No." He seemed slightly more interested.

  "They look great with our skintight virgin fawn pants. Some people get their own turquoise Navajo buckle to go with it, but I think they're a little passé. Don't you agree?"

  "Yeah."

  "Anyway, we've got some very important vendors coming in from Milan with all the latest styles and—you know Redondo Beach—it's not exactly happening down there. So we naturally thought of a bungalow at the Beverly Hills, but my partner said I just had to see the penthouse at the Picasso."

  "The penthouse is closed."

  "Really? Until when?"

  "Further notice."

  "Remodeling?"

  "Police matter."

  "Ah-ha. Well, look, these guys are gonna be here in six weeks. Surely it'll be open by then. And they need a nice large suite. Somewhere they can keep all their samples. They always have a lot of extras lying around. And they love to give them away to the staff. It makes them feel like big tippers. And you know Europeans—they think the concierge is a big deal." I let that sit there, but not too long. "What's your name, sir?"

  "Edward Lomax."

  "Do you think I could have a look at the penthouse, Mr. Lomax? If the police have it locked up, there's no one in there now."

  "Yeah, I suppose," he said, trying to suppress a smile at all the great gear he'd be collecting. First Koontz, now this one. Everyone in Los Angeles had gone berserk for clothes or food.

  He rang for the bellhop. "Nastase!"

  A squat man with a shaven head and a mottled body alternately layered with muscle and fat instantly materialized from behind a pillar. A crucifix dangled from his neck and his breath smelled faintly of garlic, giving him, despite the requisite "Blue Period" tunic, the appearance of a refugee from a photograph of some old Greco-Roman wrestling competition. He seemed so outrageously out of place in this determinedly with-it environment that I had to be careful to restrain myself from laughing.

  "Show Mr. Burg the D'Avignon Suite," said Lomax, handing him the key.

  Nastase didn't say a word until we were halfway up in the elevator. "Is you a religious gentleman, mister?" He had a thick Eastern European accent.

  "Funny, you're the second guy to ask me that tonight. No, I'm not particularly religious but I see you are." I nodded to his crucifix. "I bet you're Romanian Orthodox."

  "Yes, yes!" he said proudly. "How you know that, mister?"

  "Nastase, like Nastase, the great Romanian tennis player."

  "Yes, yes. Very great. He Ilie Nastase. I Vasile Nastase."

  The elevator opened on the penthouse suite. "Vasile Nastase from Moldavia. Near place you Americans know very good—Transylvania!" He laughed as if this were a huge joke, then suddenly looked grave as we took a step forward into the foyer of the D'Avignon Suite. Not surprisingly, a reproduction of Picasso's famous Demoiselles was staring us straight in the face as we entered. Nastase dropped to his knees and crossed himself. "This sad place, mister."

  "Yeah," I said. "I heard. Some comedian committed suicide here the other week." I walked into the living room while Nastase lurked in the doorway. It seemed as if the police investigation had been completed. The usual warnings about evidence-tampering were gone and everything was meticulously turned out like a normal hotel room between guests. If there had been any indications of struggle, they were long gone. I continued into the bedroom, Nastase shuffling
reluctantly behind me as if Dracula's own curse were in the air. "But I'm not superstitious, are you?"

  "The Romanian Orthodox Church is autocephalous, mister."

  "Autocephalous?"

  "Not under jurisdiction of other church. Has own bishop in Bucharest even under Communists?"

  "What does that have to do with superstition?" I walked out onto the balcony.

  "No. Don't go there. Is bad place."

  I ignored him and went over to the balcony rail, glancing up from Ptak's grim destination to the glittering view that went straight down La Cienega past Baldwin Hills to the airport. Then I turned back to Vasile, whose bull-like Greco-Roman presence was lurking at the balcony entrance.

  "Where were you when it happened?"

  "I not here," he said flatly.

  "Well, that's good. Fellow like that falls off a building, I imagine the police would ask a lot of questions."

  "They ask, but so what?"

  "Yeah, so what? If you're not here, you're not here. Where were you then?"

  "Why you ask?" He took a step toward me.

  "Curiosity. I'm in the leather business and I'm interested in people's motivations. For sales."

  "Well, I not here. I tell you. I not like your questions, mister. How you know so much about Romania?"

  "I don't know much about Romania. All I know are Nastase and Nadia Comaneci."

  Vasile didn't look appeased. He took another step toward me. I walked past him back inside, just to be on the safe side.

  "One other question. My business partners—they're very nervous about fire. How do you get out of here, in case of an emergency?"

  Vasile came back in and unbolted the fire door without comment. It led down a dark industrial stair.

  "Pretty spooky in there," I said. "Suppose you're playing around back there, you know, just for fun, and you get stuck. Can you get back in?"

  "Then you stupid," he said.

  5

  "The French-Canadian? Her name is Chantal Barrault."

  "Barreled?"

  "Not Barreled, you illiterate. Bah-row.

  Like Jean-Louis Barrault, the great movie star from the Golden Age of the Cinema."

  "Before Cheech and Chong?"

  "Smart guy. Always a smart guy. Maybe you should be in therapy, the way you always mask your aggressive feelings in a wise remark." I had been driving Sonya back to the senior citizens center, listening to her evaluations of the various comics. "That's what the rest of them do, attack the audience like that dreadful Rivers woman or make stupid jokes about cocaine. Cocaine has replaced mothers-in-law as the major source of humor. Whatever happened to Lenny Bruce? Now, there was a man. By the way, you might be interested to know there's a big competition between the Fun Zone and that other comedy club, Joysville."

  "I think we're being followed."

  "Really?" Sonya brightened. I knew she'd like that. What the hell—at seventy-three you might as well have a little action in your life. There aren't that many more chances.

  "How do you know?"

  "The car behind us has its right headlight out."

  "Yeah? So?"

  "At the last stoplight it had its left one out."

  "You mean they switch 'em back and forth?"

  "With a little gizmo under the dash. It's kind of a rolling disguise."

  "Clever, clever."

  "Not clever enough for us, though, was it?" I pulled into a mini-mall, parking right in front of a brightly lit 7-Eleven.

  "Sit tight."

  "Sure thing, Bull Drummond."

  Bull Drummond? That was from the Golden Age of the Nickelodeon. I got out of the car and walked into the liquor store, then went straight out the back way without even a sideways glance at the irritated clerks. Outside, I quickly pulled an old baseball cap out of my hip pocket and a pair of nonprescription horn-rimmed glasses and moved quickly around the block, crossing the boulevard at the next light. As I expected, a somewhat battered cream-colored Toyota was parked about forty yards down at the proper vantage point to see all the exits from the mini-mall. A hefty dark-haired guy in his fifties, probably an ex-cop, was seated in the driver's seat, tapping impatiently on the steering wheel.

  I approached casually, made a mental note of his license plate, then crossed the street about thirty feet from his car, returning to the back of the 7-Eleven, where I took off the hat and glasses, bought a sixpack of Harvey Weinhard (with a receipt for Emily Ptak), and returned to the car. The Toyota followed me all the way out to Venice and then back to West Hollywood after I had dropped off Sonya. It remained outside my apartment for a half hour. By then it was one-thirty. I turned off my lights and went to sleep.

  The next morning I called my DMV contact to check out the Toyota. It usually took him about fifteen minutes to get back to me with his packet of information, so I made myself some coffee and stared out my kitchen window down the Strip past the same billboards for AIDS and the California Hunger Project. About a mile off, the Astro House glowed gold in the morning light. A classic Art Deco mini-scraper from the twenties with a spire like the Chrysler Building and a site that dominated half of Los Angeles, it had fallen on bad times, its original bas-reliefs flaking and its ornate windows boarded up or smashed. If someone ever bothered to fix it up, it would've been a masterpiece. But in this era of dying gays and starving Africans, I wouldn't have given it top priority.

  The Toyota, a 1973 Corolla, was the fully owned and sole vehicle of one Stanley Burckhardt. He had one moving violation for running a stop sign in 1984 and was listed on 2380 Sixth Street in Los Angeles. I dialed him straight off. The phone answered: "Peace of Mind Insurance. Can I help you?"

  I hung up immediately. Peace of Mind Insurance. Obviously one of my colleagues and, just as obviously, a specialist in unsavory domestic matters—divorce, adultery, X-rated motel surveillance—everything, in short, that makes a private eye feel like a seedy schmuck. This was going to be easier than I thought.

  I pulled up in front of Burckhardt's office about a half hour later. It was on a run-down part of Sixth just shy of the Miracle Mile district, as if whatever saint decreed such matters had said, "The miracle stops here!" and the blocks and blocks of shiny mirrored high-rises were suddenly interrupted by a 1915 vintage lump of neo-Victorian sooty brick called the Fallbrook Arms. My son Simon and his buddies could have improved it with a little graffiti.

  I ignored the flaking plaster and urine-scented corridors and marched directly up to Burckhardt's office on the fourth floor, barging in on him so quickly he didn't have a chance to get his maple bar out of his mouth and put away his copy of Penthouse Forum.

  "What's the matter?" I said. "Couldn't you afford someone for your morning run or were they just better than you are? You know, some of us work in the daytime. In fact, some of us work at libraries or at the courthouse or the registrar of voters or the Hall of Records. Of course, some of us don't work at all!" I was pouring out a lot of vitriol at this small-time loser and I didn't particularly like it. It had the acrid smell of self-hate.

  "I don't know what you're talking about," he managed.

  "Oh, c'mon, Burckhardt, you know exactly what I'm talking about. Now, who put you up to this or do you want to be slapped with an invasion of privacy suit?"

  "Oh, Jesus. Give a guy a break. You're in this business too. Of course, lookin' at that car you drive, you must be makin' out a lot better than I am."

  "That's last year's car. Now look, I don't know what you know about this, but this isn't some Armenian deli owner trying to juggle three mistresses and an ex-wife. Someone could have been murdered here and I'm sure you don't want to be mixed up in a capital crime, particularly on the killer's side. So I'm going to make you a simple proposition: you tell me who hired you to watch me and I'll pretend it never happened . . . and I'll pay you besides."

  "How much?"

  "Two hundred dollars." What the hell, it was Emily's money.

  "Not enough. You can't buy me, mister! Who d'ya think I am?"


  "Two-fifty."

  "All right." He looked away quickly in embarrassment. I was almost embarrassed myself. "Only I don't know the guy's name."

  "You don't know your client's name?"

  "I was about to close up last night ..." Close up, I thought. It was the safest bet in California that this guy slept on the couch behind me. . ." when this kid comes in all nervous and excited. He must've been about twenty-two, twenty-three, and real skinny, but I don't think he was a hype." For a moment I didn't realize he meant an addict. This guy was back in the 1940s. "He's got this car what's parked around the Fun Zone he wants me to follow—a BMW with your plate numbers—and tell him everything about who owns it and whatever. He offers me sixty-five on the spot and a hundred more when I got the information and tells me to send it all care of B and B, post office box such and such in Glendale."

  "B and B, like the after-dinner drink?"

  "Yeah, that's what I thought. Only the minute I mention it he gets all upset, like he wouldn't have nothin' to do with alcohol, as if I was gonna offer him a swig of my Gordon's Extra Dry over there." He nodded toward a half-empty bottle of generic gin on an end table. "Anyway, I had it wrong. It was B for B, not B and B."

  Great, I thought. That clarified matters.

  "So the kid just slips me the sixty-five and runs out of here like a scared coyote on Wilshire Boulevard. Ever seen that—a coyote on Wilshire Boulevard? I did once. The day before Eisenhower was elected. So that's my story, Maury. More than that I can't tell you. I guess it's not worth the full two-fifty, but . . ."

  I stood there a moment before continuing. Somehow just being in this room was giving me a headache. "Stanley, you're a professional in this business."

  "Uh-huh. Sure. Twenty-six years."

  "You and I both know getting a P.O. box identity out of the Glendale post office is about as easy as doing a tooth extraction on a Bengal tiger."