by Phil Swann
But it wasn’t a game. With one harsh and very personal slap in the face, I had been reminded of a truth about my job. When people died, others suffered, the way I was suffering at that moment over the loss of Miriam. And that led me to another uncomfortable truth. What made me think I was so special? Why was my grief more exceptional than someone else’s? Did Tiffany St. James have a family, friends, people who cared about her? Did Lionel Benbrook? Did Frank Jennings? Did I ever ask if they did? No, I never even considered it.
Clegg hung up the phone. “Okay, I’ve got an address for Cabaneri.”
“Colson give it to you?” I asked.
Clegg shook his head. “Still haven’t located him. But I’ve had the boys and girls back in D.C. digging into all things Cabaneri since we got roped into this mess, and they found a house in Beverly Hills that’s being leased through a company, owned by another company, that’s owned by yet another company. The last company, surprise, surprise, is owned by—”
“Anthony Cabaneri,” I said.
“Care to hazard a guess as to the name of the company?”
“Everfresh,” I said.
Clegg cocked his head. “Go figure.”
Tonto returned from wherever he had run off to.
“You get it?” Clegg asked.
“Yes,” Tonto replied.
“Get what?” I asked.
Tonto said. “That car you drove in from the desert, it’s a rental.”
“Who rented it?”
“Somebody named Robert Johnson from Portland, Oregon.”
“Most likely bogus,” Clegg said.
Tonto nodded. “Probably. But I sent a couple of our people over to the rent-a-car company anyway. Maybe we can get a description of the guy.”
Clegg nodded. “I won’t hold my breath.”
Square Head came out of the adjoining room. “We’ve found Gabriella. She and her father are both registered at the Beverly Wilshire.”
“Is she alive?” I blurted.
“The desk clerk saw her get on the elevator not even an hour ago.”
“I need to go see her,” I said, jumping to my feet.
“No,” Clegg responded.
“But, Clegg, she probably doesn’t know what happened. Her father was in that recording studio, for Christ’s sake.”
“I said no,” Clegg ordered. “We don’t know what her involvement is. You two,” he said, pointing to Carson and Stevens, “get over to that hotel. Confirm she’s still in her room. She doesn’t leave without you knowing about it. If she does leave, follow her. And take radios. I’ll check in with you from the car.”
Both men nodded and headed for the door.
“What are we going to do? I asked.
“You and I are going to go pay a visit to Mr. Anthony Cabaneri.”
I’d been to Beverly Hills once before. My first week on the Galaxy Studios’ movie, the orchestra was invited to the director’s home for an afternoon mixer. I was taken by how exceptionally normal the neighborhood was. Upper crust, for sure, and utterly oozing with wealth and prosperity, but not nearly as lavish as I had always imagined it would be. I was expecting castles, I suppose, and although all the houses were large, with immaculately manicured yards, I saw no moats—most didn’t even have gates. In truth, I was a bit underwhelmed. I thought the houses were built a little close together for my Indiana farm boy taste. But still, I wouldn’t have turned one down if offered to me.
With Clegg piloting the Caddy, we veered off Santa Monica Boulevard and made our way up the palm tree-lined street known as Rodeo Drive. He made a series of turns until we got to Walden Drive. He drove like he knew where he was going, but he always tended to do that. Not just when driving but in life in general. Clegg was a man never in doubt, and when he was, he didn’t show it.
We came to a stop in front of a large two-story Spanish style home, with a tile roof and a stately brick archway over the front door. A driveway extended down the side of the house to what appeared to be a detached garage. The garage door was shut, so we couldn’t see if there was a car in it or not.
We got out of the Caddy, and I followed Clegg up to the house. He showed no sign of apprehension as he rang the doorbell. When there was no answer, he knocked, using the knocker on the door. When there was still no answer, he pounded on the door with his fist.
“Appears nobody’s home,” I said.
Clegg looked around and then said, “Come on.”
“Where to?”
He didn’t respond.
We took off around the house and down the driveway toward the garage. Clegg glanced in all the windows along the way but didn’t slow down. Once we got to the garage, we came upon a wrought iron fence protecting a pastoral backyard that included a flower garden, waterfall, and kidney-shaped swimming pool. Without giving it a second thought, Clegg climbed over the fence and trotted off toward a veranda attached to the back of the house.
Clegg made it to the veranda before I had even gotten over the fence. By the time I caught up to him, he was at a door that obviously led back into the main house. I was taken aback when I saw he had his gun drawn.
He turned the nob, but it was locked.
“Here, hold this,” he said, handing me the gun. He kneeled, took out a small pocketknife, and began working on the lock.
“Aren’t you worried about an alarm?” I whispered, not knowing what to do with the gun.
“I checked. There is no alarm,” he answered.
“How about illegal entry? Doesn’t this qualify as that?”
“There’s a hole in the ground in Hollywood where there used to be a recording studio. I’d call that probable cause.” A second later, I heard a metallic click. He turned the nob. “Follow me,” he said, pushing open the door.
We entered a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment back in Vegas. I couldn’t help but think of Luther and the delicious magic he could whip up in such a place. It was even larger than the kitchen at The Jam Jar, and to my eye outfitted with considerably more appliances and gadgetry, most of which I hadn’t the foggiest what they did.
“You look around in here,” Clegg said. “I’ll check the rest of the house.”
“What am I supposed to do with this?” I asked, holding up the gun.
“Hang on to it, just in case,” he answered. “We’ve already lost you once.”
Before I could respond, he was gone.
Clegg hadn’t specified what I was looking for, so I didn’t know what was important and what was not. I just assumed everything was important.
The kitchen was basically a perfect square with an island in the middle and more cabinets than I could count. Some of the cabinets had glass doors, displaying an impressive assortment of plates, bowls, cups, and such. I wasn’t an expert on dinnerware, but I had a feeling it wasn’t the kind of stuff one could simply order out of the Sears and Roebuck catalog.
I opened the refrigerator—because why wouldn’t I?—and looked in. Given the size of the kitchen, I was surprised to see the fridge sparsely stocked. There was an opened bottle of wine, some meat in one drawer, some cheese in another, and a covered dish I didn’t take time to examine. There was little else.
I shut the refrigerator and then spotted something vaguely familiar on the counter. It was a gourd. It was beside a spice rack and a sealed canister. I walked over, opened the canister, and sniffed the contents.
“What’s that?”
“Jesus!” I yelled, nearly dropping the canister as well as the gun.
“Sorry,” Clegg said, walking into the kitchen.
“Here, take this thing,” I said, giving Clegg back his gun.
“House is clear, upstairs and down,” he said, holstering the weapon. “There’s nobody here. Nothing appears out of the ordinary, but I’ll have a team come by later and toss the place for good measure. So again, what’s that?”
“Proof Gabriella spent time here. It’s called maté. It’s a—”
“Tea,” he interrupted. “I know
what maté is. It could belong to the old man? Everybody in Argentina drinks that stuff.”
“No, I’ve seen this gourd before. It’s Gabriella’s.”
Clegg nodded.
“Now what?” I asked.
There was a phone hanging on the wall next to a calendar. Clegg picked up the receiver and started dialing.
“Who are you calling?” I asked.
“Washington. I want them to check the manifests of all flights out of L.A. today, especially the ones heading out of the country.”
“You think Cabaneri is leaving the country?”
He didn’t respond. The call was answered, and Clegg started talking to the person on the other end of the line. As he did, I strolled out of the kitchen and into the humongous dining room.
There were a few paintings on the wall—they looked to be oils—and a heavy dark wood buffet with drawers. There was also a dining table with eight chairs. The table and chairs were constructed of the same dark wood as the buffet, and though the table was simple in design, it was long enough to land a small aircraft on.
I went to the buffet and opened the top, middle drawer. It was empty. Then I opened the one beside it. It wasn’t. It contained a book of matches, two small candleholders, and a piece of cloth that looked to be a handkerchief. I removed the handkerchief and discovered it wasn’t a handkerchief after all, but a yarmulke. I studied it for a long moment and then put it back in the drawer. I opened the other drawers, but they were all empty.
I walked out of the dining room, but then stopped and looked back in. I studied the paintings on the wall. One in particular got my attention. I looked at it for some time before what I was seeing, and what it meant, hit me.
I rushed back into the kitchen. Clegg was off the phone and on his knees going through the trash bin.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
He looked up. “You know how you’re always quoting things your father said? Well, mine used to say stuff too. And one of the things he liked to say was, If you want to know who a man really is, check his garbage.”
I chuckled, “Yeah, sounds like Pop. So, are you finding anything?”
“No,” he answered. “Unfortunately, this can’s been emptied recently. All that’s left in here is some old tissue and toothpicks that didn’t make it out.”
“Toothpicks?” I said, more to myself.
“Yeah, what about you? You came in here like you had something to say. You find something?”
“I didn’t find anything, more like I learned something about Cabaneri I didn’t know.”
“Like what?”
“He’s Jewish,” I answered.
“What makes you say that?”
“I found a yarmulke in the drawer in the dining room. I also found two small candleholders, which I’m pretty sure are called Shabbat candlesticks. And then there’s those paintings on the wall. Very old testament stuff. I think they’re originals, Clegg. And one is by Chagall, some say the greatest Jewish painter of all time.”
“Maybe he just likes Jewish art?” Clegg replied.
“Maybe. But then there’s this,” I said, pointing behind me.
“The phone?” Clegg responded.
“No, the calendar beside it. Did you look at it? It’s a Jewish calendar. The days of the week are even in Hebrew. And look at this kitchen. In the refrigerator, the meat and dairy are meticulously separated. The bowls and plates are all very organized, with two sets of everything. I think this is a kosher kitchen. Which means Anthony Cabaneri isn’t just Jewish, he’s practicing.”
“Okay. So he’s Jewish. How does that matter?”
“It might matter a lot,” I replied, my brain going into overdrive.
“What are you thinking, Trip? Spit it out.”
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t?”
I was getting frustrated. “It’s not all there yet!” I shouted. “I can’t put it into words, Clegg. It’s just a feeling. Just give me some time, will you?”
Clegg nodded, and his voice became calm as if he was talking me off a ledge. “Okay, Trip. I get it. What do you need? Is there something we should be doing? Some place we should go?”
I knew Clegg was handling me. I even think that was what he was officially called, my handler, but I didn’t mind. The G-man was very good at it.
I thought for a second. “Yes. We need to go to Local 47.”
“What’s that?”
“The musician’s union.”
“The musician’s union. Why?”
“There’s something I need to check out. Trust me.”
Clegg nodded. “I do, Trip. Okay, the musician’s union it is. Let’s go.”
On our way back to Hollywood, Clegg fielded two calls on the Caddy’s cool car phone. One was from Carson who reported he and Stevens had set up camp on Gabriella’s floor at the hotel, and that she hadn’t left the room. The other call was from the Los Angeles coroner. When he hung up from that call, Clegg’s usual poker face was giving off a big tell. Something the coroner said had rattled him. Clegg didn’t get rattled.
“You still have the keys to that rental?” he asked.
“I do,” I answered.
“Good. You need to go to the musician’s union by yourself.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to go see the coroner.”
“Why? What did he say?”
He shook his head. “I’ll tell you later. Just…trust me,” he said, echoing the same request I had made of him.
“Okay,” I replied.
Chapter 12
The sign next to the building featured an eighth note festooned with a 47 ribbon, and the words: PROFESSIONAL MUSICIANS, LOCAL 47, AMERICAN FEDERATION OF MUSICIANS, AFL-CIO. Located on Vine Street near Waring Avenue, the two-story concrete structure was perhaps one of the most important locales for music in all of Los Angeles. It was colloquially known as Local 47, and the number of legendary players who had passed through its glass doors to pay his or her union dues, or to make use of one of its many rehearsal rooms, or to just congregate and tell tall tales about gigs gone wrong or gigs gone right, was mind-boggling. For many a young musician like Yours Truly, the place wasn’t just a building, it was a tabernacle.
I walked into the sprawling marble lobby and went straight to a small window where a young woman wearing glasses was sitting at a desk reading a paperback novel. The cover left little doubt it was a romance.
“Hi,” I said, as if apologizing for the interruption.
“Hi,” the woman cheerfully said back, putting down her book.
“I’m looking for a couple of musicians.”
“You came to the right place,” the woman said. “You looking to hire?”
“Yes,” I answered, without hesitation. “I am. I want to hire them.”
“Anyone in particular? Or just—”
“Yes. Daniel Glass, trombone player. And Sidney Bern, he plays drums.”
She typed the names on a keyboard, looked up at me, and then smiled. She got up and walked back to a machine clinking and clacking away. She returned a few seconds later and handed me two small index cards.
“Here you go. I’m sure they’ll be happy to hear from you. Thanks for hiring union players.”
“Always,” I replied. “Nothing but the best.”
I looked down at the cards. One had the name Daniel Glass printed on it, his instrument, and a phone number. The other, Sidney Bern, his instrument, and his phone number. But something was wrong.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I think there’s a mistake. Both these cards have the same phone number.”
The woman took the cards back from me and studied them. She typed the names, again. “Huh! You’re right. What are the odds?” she asked, rhetorically. “Must be roommates. I guess that makes your life easier, doesn’t it?” she said, handing me back the cards.
“I guess it does. Well, thank you for your help.”
“Thank you, sir. Anything els
e I can help you with?”
“No, this is all I need. Thank you.”
“Have a good day,” she replied, and went back to her book.
I looked down at the two cards again. Perhaps I’d been working with Clegg too long, but I tended not to believe in coincidences. I distinctly remembered asking Daniel the first day we met at the television studio if he knew the other players in the band who weren’t a part of Gabriella’s regular tango band. His response was, “We’ve played some gigs together.” Not, “Yeah, the drummer’s my roommate.” Was he just being ironic? Was he making a joke I wasn’t in on? Or did he intentionally hide the fact?
Then, I remembered how Daniel and Sid always seemed to leave together after every rehearsal. And how Square Head and Tonto saw them arrive together at the recording studio. And how, even though it was obvious from the start that Daniel had the hots for Miriam, he never hung around after rehearsal to talk to her. Was I making something up that didn’t exist? Or was I finally putting pieces together I should have put together days before?
“I’m sorry,” I said, causing the young woman to look up from her book. “There is something else. Would you have a phone I could use?”
“Local call?” she asked.
I didn’t want to flat-out lie to the woman, so I just held up the cards with Daniel and Sid’s name on them.
She smiled. “I suppose you can use the one in the lounge by the vending machines, but don’t tell anyone. It’s supposed to be for musicians only.”
It took everything in my power not to take out my union card and proudly wave it around the room. Being a professional musician was something I’d worked hard to become and was always happy, if not honored, to proclaim. But this time I didn’t. I stayed on task. “Thank you,” I said. “I won’t be long.”
I walked around the corner and found the musicians’ lounge. The phone was sitting on a table by a candy machine. I picked up the receiver, dialed zero, and told the operator what I needed. Then I waited.
This time, when Sam answered, he accepted the charges immediately.
