by David Chill
"Not exactly what you think."
"You know me and you know where I'm going with this," I said, my imagination starting to move into one of those dark places that feels all too comfortable at times.
"Yes," Gail said, eyeing me closely. "You do tend to assume the worst in everyone."
"Sorry. I'd say it's an occupational hazard but you also know my history."
"Yes, and I wish you'd work on it. You're a good guy who could be a great guy."
"Could be?"
Gail's mouth tightened. "No. You are a great guy. I'm sorry for saying that, I was a little annoyed. And just to set the record straight, yes, my professor likes me and wants to work closely with me. Her name is Hester Goldstein. And she's happily married and has two kids. So you might want to rethink your assumptions."
I smiled to myself and felt the darkness dissipate. "Point taken."
"I do know you well."
I sat back and gazed into those lovely, clear gray eyes. Gail and I had met four years ago and became deeply involved. Instead of taking a toll, the long separation bonded us even more strongly. The time we spent with each other now was special and something we cherished. She had been offered a scholarship to Berkeley Law School, and the opportunity was too good to pass up. We were leading parallel lives in some ways, but still felt very close. I knew that at some point we would need to make a decision regarding our future. Complacency being what it is, this was a subject I was more comfortable putting off than in dealing with head on.
"So tell me about your new client," she said.
"I actually may have two clients, but I'll tell you about Miles and Clara first."
"Now those names sound like they're from another century."
"Mmm-hmm. So are their attitudes. Miles Larson owns a business, very successful, but he's also incredibly bullheaded and suspicious."
"Seems to go with the territory."
"When you have a lot, you have a lot to lose. He thinks someone at his company is stealing from him. He wants me to go undercover and find out what's happening."
"And then what?"
"And then I have to keep Miles from chopping up the body."
Gail smiled. "This might be a good stretch case for you."
"How so?"
"It might help in your, ahem, mediation skills."
"Are you saying I'm too much of a combatant?"
"Not exactly, honey. In fact one of the reasons I'm drawn to you is because of your tenacity and sense of righteousness."
"But?"
"No buts, amigo. I just think you have other talents that could surface."
I sat back and took another long swallow. My usual modus operandi was to instigate conflict and then clean up the mess later. By poking and prodding people, I often got them to reveal things they hadn't planned on revealing. Now I was saddled with a client who operated in seemingly the same manner, except getting others to reveal things was not high on his agenda. Getting others to bend to his will was more like it. Miles' actions came from a place of anger and retribution; mine came from a sense of wanting to put the world in a better order.
"A stretch case," I mused. "Might not be so bad."
"It's an idea. What's your other case?"
"That would be Amanda Hertz, a homeowner up in Mandeville Canyon who was swindled out of some money. She paid a contractor to install air conditioning in her home and he disappeared after taking the deposit."
"Interesting."
"Very much so. The contractor calls himself Billy the Fixer."
"Wow. That's a great name for a political operative."
"True, although Billy is more of a con artist."
"The difference?"
I laughed. "Only in terms of clientele. The guy's full name is Billy Ray Fox. He installs HVAC systems. Air conditioners, heaters, central ventilation systems."
"Sounds legit on the surface."
"Yeah, and apparently he's capable of doing that type of work. But he discovered it's far easier to get the job, take a large deposit from the homeowners, and then disappear."
The waiter came by with our dinner: two steaming plates of blue corn enchiladas stuffed with chicken, alongside piles of black beans and Spanish rice. During the summer, El Cholo served green corn tamales, a wonderful dish made with fresh corn and cheese, roasted in corn husks. By November, the fresh corn season was over and we had to make do with their standard menu, which was pretty good on its own. El Cholo was an L.A. institution. The original restaurant was located not far from USC, and I spent many a happy night there when I was a student. A second El Cholo opened near my home in Santa Monica years later, and I rediscovered how much I liked their Mexican food. The margaritas weren't bad either.
"That contractor sounds like a lovely guy," she said. "Wonder why he went down that route."
I cut open an enchilada to let it cool and scooped up some black beans. "Not sure why anyone goes that way. I guess it's easier than working for a living. Amanda said she was a little skeptical but finally agreed. He seemed to know what he was talking about. And she said he was very convincing."
"So she gave him her money?" Gail asked.
"Yes. A good con artist makes you feel comfortable. Hence, the word con is short for confidence."
"And your client wants her money back."
"And also seeing Billy get what he deserves: to go to jail for a long time. Apparently she has a lot of money and wants to see justice done. She called the State Contractors Board, but they're moving too slow for her taste."
"How much did she lose?"
"A tidy sum of $3,000," I said.
"On the surface, that's a good bit of money. But if she owns a home in Mandeville Canyon, then $3,000 isn't that big of a loss."
"You wouldn't think, would you? Sometimes it's just the principle of the thing. You don't always know what's important to people."
"Sounds like she has a Miles Larson streak in her."
"Maybe," I pondered, taking a bite of enchilada and marveling at how good it was. "Maybe in some ways we all do."
Chapter 2
The entrance to the Broadway Division was actually around the corner from Broadway, near 76th Street in South Los Angeles. The area used to be referred to as South Central; the name was changed to South L.A. a few years ago in an attempt to disassociate it with the stigma of urban decay and crime. The exterior of the Division featured an alternating pattern of pink and beige stucco slabs, and the complex filled an entire city block. The area held a courthouse and a police station, and there were some bail bond outlets around the corner. Across the street was a hodgepodge of apartment buildings, churches and retail storefronts. Unless you knew the area, the Broadway Division could easily be mistaken for a series of nondescript inner city offices.
It was a bright, sunny morning when I knocked on Juan Saavedra's door. Juan was welcoming the new day with an apple fritter and a grande cup of Starbucks. He wore a light blue button-down shirt and a green and blue striped rep tie. Juan's silver hair was cut short, and while he was close to my age, his craggy features made him appear a few years older.
"Now that looks a treat for the taste buds," I started, "although it may shorten your life a bit if you make deep fried dough and heaps of sugar your main morning staple."
"And a good morning to you too, Burnside," he managed, as he chewed slowly and intently on his pastry. "I was hoping to enjoy my breakfast. Then you show up."
"You think I'm here because I need something?"
"That's usually the reason."
"Your ability to size up a situation is nonpareil my friend. And you shouldn't take umbrage at that."
"Still with the funny talk."
I shrugged. "For me, it's sometimes easier to use big words than small ones."
"You ought to recognize your audience."
"Hey, you're a bright guy," I protested. "And by the way, congratulations on getting bumped up to lieutenant. Nicely done."
"Thanks," he smiled. "I appreciate that."
I
had known Juan Saavedra from my 13 years on the job at the LAPD. He had been a detective at the Purdue Division for years, and he was a good one. Juan had just recently earned his promotion and was now in charge of a staff of detectives at the Broadway Division, which encompassed a large swath of South L.A. He was also not above helping me out here and there, in exchange for some free tickets to a ball game. And I was sure he knew the USC-UCLA game was coming up in a couple of weeks.
"What are you working on?" he asked, as he took another bite and chewed slowly.
"A couple of cases, actually. The first one involves employee theft at a company called Malco. Ever heard of them?"
"You think I just eat doughnuts all day? Years ago at Purdue we popped a few of their employees for burglary over at Cheviot Hills. They send technicians into the home to install cable. But a few of them developed a second career, putting cash and jewelry in their pockets before leaving. Most of the people they hire are honest, but there's always some that slip through. This still happening?"
I shook my head. "Haven't heard about that one. The owner is concerned about his employees stealing from him though. Seems that some set-top boxes aren't making it past the loading dock. It's an ongoing problem."
"That sounds like a few people might be involved. What does he want you to do?"
"I'll be going in undercover, posing as an employee and trying to unravel what these guys are doing. If they're actually doing anything. The owner seems a tad paranoid."
"I remember the owner. Tough guy, but a real hothead. When we nabbed those employees of his, he wanted a few minutes alone with them. I told him this wasn't the 1940s."
I gave a small laugh. "Miles is over 70 now and hasn't changed much."
"He's not retired yet? Figured he'd let his kids take over the business by now."
"Haven't delved that deeply," I said. "Some people have trouble letting go. He fits the profile."
Juan tossed the last bite of the apple fritter into his mouth and savored it. "Just keep me informed. I don't like seeing people take the law into their own hands. Gets messy."
"Sure."
"What else you up to?"
"I'm also working with a homeowner in Mandeville Canyon. She hired an air conditioning contractor to put in a new HVAC system. He took her deposit and then disappeared."
"That sort of thing happens more often than you think."
"Have you collared many?"
"A few, but the City Attorney considers those things business disputes. He's got bigger fish to fry."
"Explains why my client came to me. Her other option is the State Contractors Board, and they don't have the resources either. Budget cuts. You know."
"Yeah, I know. We're in the same boat. Sounds like this guy's found a niche. How did your client come across him?"
"Greg's List. Apparently he started out legit, so he's got some good client reviews. Managed to leverage that into getting new customers to hire him."
"Got a name?"
"Billy Ray Fox. His business name is Billy the Fixer."
"I'll run his rap sheet. There may be some others who filed complaints. What's your plan here?"
"Basic sting operation. I'll pose as a new client to get him to come out of the woodwork. Once he presents his offer, I'll nab him."
Lt. Saavedra rolled his eyes. "Gee, and then what are you going to do with him, Mr. Private Police Officer?"
I gave a small chuckle. "That's where you come in my friend. Having a real police detective nearby would help to put another bad guy out of circulation."
"Oh that sounds just dandy. I just love the idea of working for you. So you'll call me when you want me to come and arrest this dirt bag? Is that your grand plan?"
"Well ... I was hoping for a little more enthusiasm here, Juan."
"Keep going."
As they say, everyone's got their price. "I'm sure you're aware that the Bruin game is coming up in a few weeks. A good Trojan fan like you wouldn't want to miss it."
"That does sound about right. Both schools have really good teams this year."
"And the Rose Bowl's on the line. Now that Johnny's head coach, I might be able to arrange for a pair of very good seats with your name on them. Good way to re-bond with your teenager."
"Yeah, he'd like that. Maybe close to the 50-yard line stripe? Two seats sound good. Four would sound better. You know, my wife went to UCLA. Her brother, too."
I nodded. "I'll see what I can do. I forgot you were in a mixed marriage."
Juan smiled. "It's only a problem one day a year."
*
Malco Industries was located not too far from the Broadway Division, in a more blighted section of South L.A. that had never seen better days. It was off of Florence Avenue, a neighborhood littered with check cashing stores, nail salons, cigarette retailers, and second-hand clothing shops. Many signs and storefronts looked hand painted. There were no supermarkets, no brand name stores, no parks. A few fast food joints popped up here and there. After the 1992 riots, later downgraded to an "uprising," there was much talk of large chains opening retail outlets in neighborhoods like this. Bringing well known stores in would add convenience and help the local economy with jobs; it was also considered a good way to help re-develop the inner city.
But it never happened. Lots of talk and promises, ending with large companies seeing more risk than reward, more threats than opportunities. So local residents remained forced to drive or take a bus to do most of their shopping, and the neighborhood continued to decay. I spent part of my career nearby, working out of the Broadway Division and saw firsthand how the lack of pride in their surroundings affected residents. People became used to the graffiti and decrepit buildings; to them it was just how things were. And some rarely left the neighborhood at all. They never got to see that there was a better world not far away. If someone went just a few miles west on Manchester Boulevard, they would see the expanse of LAX and the blue Pacific ocean in front of them. Gateways to another land.
The Malco building itself was a one story structure, nicely kept up. It looked like a fresh coat of paint had been applied recently. There were a few windows facing the street, but they were covered with iron bars as a security precaution. Around back was a loading dock with a number of white vans parked haphazardly on the lot. The vans did not identify Malco, but rather called out Eagle Cable. I pulled into an open parking space near the main entrance that had "visitor" spray painted in green lettering.
The lobby area was non-descript, with a few metal folding chairs set out for visitors, and clipboards holding job applications sat on the front counter. A gold coffee cup filled with a slew of cheap pens was placed nearby. And a large sign over the front desk warned that anyone carrying a weapon onto the premises was subject to immediate dismissal and prosecution to the fullest extent of the law. I assumed the .38 special I had tucked in the holster under my armpit would be considered an exception to the rule.
"May I help you?" asked a tired looking woman in her 50s, wearing a headset. She had puffy ash blonde hair that did not quite match her dark eyes and olive complexion.
"I'm here to see Miles."
"And your name?"
"Burnside. One word."
She smiled briefly and clicked a button on her phone. "A Mr. Burnside is here to see you, Miles," she said, and then waited a beat. "Oh, all right."
Getting up, she motioned for me to follow her.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"I'm Gladys. Nice to meet you."
"Likewise."
I followed Gladys through a narrow hallway. She waved her badge in front of a square gray panel, we heard a click and the door magically unlocked. Walking into a large open area lined with cubicles, we passed people who were speaking rapidly into phones and moving about the office with a sense of urgency. Gladys led me to the corner office with the name "Miles A. Larson" in gold raised lettering, framed on the door. Inside, Miles was standing in front of a large maple desk and wore an intense expressio
n on his face. Two people were with him, a man and a woman, both middle aged, and both looking equally earnest.
Miles' office was spacious and loaded with USC memorabilia. From posters of famous Rose Bowl scenes to pennants to autographed footballs, the office was a virtual museum of Trojan sports. A full size cardinal colored replica USC helmet, complete with a tinted-glass visor, sat on a shelf next to a row of sports books and framed photos. I half wondered if my own likeness was contained somewhere in this treasure trove of collectibles.
"Come on in, Burnside," Miles said, extending a perfunctory handshake, albeit a strong one. "These are my kids, Peter and Isabelle."
We sat down on a burgundy leather couch, with Miles moving behind the largess of his impressive desk and putting his feet up on it. Both "kids" were roughly my age, in their 40s. Peter was a little taller than his father, about 5' 10" with thinning blond hair and light blue eyes. But he had the same big boned structure and looked like he worked out with weights. Both he and Miles wore white shirts and conservative ties. Isabelle was blonde as well, with brown eyes. She was shapely and attractive, but more in the way your junior high school English teacher might be considered attractive. Not flashy, but not matronly, either.
"So what do you two work at here?" I asked.
"I'm senior vice president of operations," Peter said, in a haughty manner that only a corporate executive could pull off without laughing.
"Chief financial officer," Isabelle offered. "But we're both involved in all aspects of the company. It's a family business."
"So I see."
"And I believe," Isabelle said with a small smile, "that we were at SC around the same time. I remember your exploits on the football field."
I smiled back at her appreciatively.
"And off the field, too."
Uh-oh. My smile began to dissipate and I wasn't sure I would like where this was going. "How's that?" I managed.
"I was in a sorority. DG. Delta Gamma. You dated a few of my sisters."
I nodded warily. "Long time ago."
"I know," she smiled. "They said you didn't exactly treat them like princesses."
