by Dan Vining
“I’ve been working on Jimmy Miles for years,” Angel said. “Ask him. I don’t go away. Jesus don’t go away, I don’t go away.”
The kid’s name was Luis.
“This is Luis.”
Jimmy nodded at the kid again.
“Gimme some money,” Angel said to Jimmy.
Jimmy dug in his pocket and took out a folded sheaf of bills. He handed it all to Angel.
Angel peeled off two fives and gave them to the kid. “Go ask that chica over there why she’s been looking over here at you,” Angel said. There was a pretty girl on the steps, drinking a Coke, as young as the hooker on Sunset. “Take her up to Tommy’s. We all run out of food. Take my truck.”
Luis went away to talk to the girl.
“I’m trying to get him in an Art Magnet,” Angel said to Jimmy.
Angel shook Jimmy’s hand and pulled him down onto the bench beside him.
“Tell me something good.”
“I made the run to Tecate the other night,” Jimmy said.
“You shoulda called.”
“Stopped at that little fish fry place.”
“I was probably busy.”
“Next time,” Jimmy said, to hit the ball back over the net.
“Yeah, next time.”
Angel stood and put his arm around him. “I got something sweet to show you.”
In the garage, a half dozen young men dressed like Angel and with beers in their hands gazed reverently upon a chopped and lowered ’56 Mercury, a work in progress ground down to shiny steel.
Angel came in singing, “Baby loves a Mercury, crazy ’bout a Mercury . . .” He snatched a handkerchief out of the back pocket of one of the men, mimicked wiping off the hood. The men laughed. Maybe it was a joke about working in a car wash. Jimmy liked the people Angel drew to him, kids struggling to stay in school and men in their twenties and thirties and even forties struggling to stay in or out of any number of things. They looked like killers, but they weren’t.
“What’s the mill?” Jimmy said and ran a hand along the smooth fender.
“You don’t want to know,” Angel said.
Jimmy reached into the downturned mouth of the chrome grill and found the latch and opened the hood. There was no chrome on the engine. It was functionality writ large, wedged in its space like an iron fist.
The men stepped closer. Nobody said anything.
“A 427,” Angel said. “Holman-Moody built it for Freddie Lorenzen in ’66. Come by in the daytime, I’ll light it up for you. It doesn’t have very good manners.”
One of the kids repeated the last in Spanish for the man next to him.
Jimmy lowered the hood, pushed gently until the latch clicked.
“You all right?” Angel said. “You seem a little down.”
Jimmy didn’t answer. He stared at the bare metal curve of the car, old and new at the same time.
“Come on,” Angel said. “Say it out loud.”
“You know how sometimes you forget about it?” Jimmy said.
Angel nodded.
“And then you remember.”
“What happened?”
“A girl kissed me on the cheek,” Jimmy said. “And she knew.”
“What girl?”
“Girl on Sunset. A hooker. Jumped in my car.”
Angel waited a minute and then he said, “They see a lot of dark shit. They get tuned in to it.”
“Maybe she saw what’s really there. You ever think about that?”
“Not about you,” Angel said.
A few hours later, the moon had set, the women were gone, the men were lifting weights. Angel stood over the bench press spotting a fearsome man grinding out a last rep. Jimmy was up on the deck. The Hollywood Freeway was a half mile away and the traffic, even late, threw up a sound like the ocean. When you first heard it, it was exciting in a way, the sound of energy, of motion, of intention. But, like the kids out wild on Sunset, ten seconds later it felt like something else, something to turn away from before it pulled you down. He watched Angel and the men for a minute, listened to them teasing each other in Spanish, and then put down his beer, went down the steps to go.
He waved to Angel, started up the side of the house.
“Let’s make a run to Tecate some night,” Angel called after him. “Eat at that fish fry place.”
Jimmy walked up the sidewalk alongside the white house. He brushed aside a branch of trumpet vine that arched overhead. He looked at his fingers.
Wet, from the leaves.
A little TV offered up the first newscast of the morning. The sound was down but the visuals said enough: the school picture of the missing boy giving way to a live shot of helicopters combing brown hills somewhere in the Inland Empire, Verdugo or San Bernardino or Riverside. Jimmy sat at one end of the long table in the big dining room, eating toast, wearing the same clothes from last night.
The weather came on. Jimmy turned up the sound in time to hear, “A surprise trace of rain last night in parts of Hollywood . . .”
He left it on, walked away from it.
The bedroom was stark, a large room with expensive furnishings out of the past, huge pieces carved from some rain forest hardwood, dark, almost black. Jimmy stood at the tall windows, looking down at the backyard as the daylight burned off the dew. He yanked closed the blackout drapes and lay back on the bed, still in his clothes.
THREE
Jean Kantke’s office was in an industrial building just east of downtown on a street of rag trade shops, down where they made bathing suits and neckties, kiddy backpacks and knockoff men’s jeans and underwear. The office was on the third floor, the top floor, and it was crisp and clean and high style, metal frame windows, old-style wide silver Venetian blinds dicing the morning light, and a desk that was silver, too, all curvy, looking like it came out of the purser’s office of an ocean liner.
An assistant showed Jimmy in.
Jean kept her eyes down, busied herself with some papers on the desk. She wore a light blue suit, a blue the color of iceberg ice.
“What changed your mind?” she said, still not looking up. She was treating him like an employee. He was used to it. He understood it. People hated to need help, especially in daylight.
“My mind is in a constant state of change,” Jimmy said. “Is that an oxy-moron?” He was still trying to impress her. And still noticing it.
He looked around. “Nice office,” he said.
“Perfume,” she said. “I do very well.”
“And you smell good, too.”
Jimmy inspected a collection of perfume bottles from the past in a tall glass case, all the shapes and colors, cut glass and crystal. On the highest shelf, all by itself, was a black cat. Down low there was a shelf of goofy Avon cologne bottles, VW bugs and banjos and little businessmen with briefcases and black plastic stingy brim hats that unscrewed, a riff on the ordinary people and what they splashed behind their ordinary ears.
Jean was used to getting answers to her questions. “What made you change your mind?” she said again.
Jimmy picked up the black cat bottle. “It rained the other night,” he said. “Somebody told me it did, and I didn’t believe her.”
Now she looked at him. “I don’t understand.”
“Me either.”
Jean pushed back from the desk and stepped to a file cabinet. She found a folder, opened it, glanced at it, closed it. She offered it to Jimmy.
He didn’t take it.
“You were five.”
“Yes.”
“Where’d they send you?” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“You were five. They sent you somewhere.”
“I grew up in my grandmother’s house.”
“In L.A.?”
“San Francisco. Tiberon, actually.”
“Is she still alive?”
“No.”
“You said you had money. Did it start with her?”
“She had money. But I have my o
wn.”
“Any brothers or sisters?” he said.
“A brother, Carey. He lives in Arizona.”
Jimmy didn’t say anything else. Sometimes when you let silence rise up, people will fill it and some people will say things, sometimes more than they meant to say.
“I left my grandmother’s as soon as I could,” she said. “A boarding school in Atherton and then Stanford. When I was sixteen.” She added the last with an impossible combination of pride and embarrassment.
“That doesn’t sound like much fun,” Jimmy said.
“I never thought it was supposed to be,” she said.
“I didn’t exactly make it to college,” he said.
She didn’t have anything to say about that.
“Can you tell?” he said.
“I don’t really know what to think about you,” she said.
“But that could be a good thing, right?” he said.
They both listened as “La Cucaracha” was played on the horn of a truck in the parking lot below. Jimmy went over to the window and spread the blinds. It was a lunch truck, chromed up, fancy. When you started your shift at five in the morning, you had lunch at ten-thirty. A Mexican man with a coin belt around his waist set up a folding table as the workers came out, all women as far as Jimmy could see. At least now she was talking to him like a person and not like a servant. Or a doctor. Or a priest. But he could tell she wanted this to be over, maybe was wishing she hadn’t even thought of this, had never had these questions about her father and murder and a time out of time, or at least had not given in to them.
“Why me? Why do you want me to do this?” he said.
“I asked a few people to recommend someone. I asked Joel—”
He turned away from the window and looked at her. “Joel said he didn’t put me up for this. He said you came to him, asking about me. Not about investigators. About me.”
She just stood there. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to say it.
He held out his hand. She gave him the file.
“Do you need a retainer or—”
“Kiss me on the cheek,” Jimmy said.
She just waited.
“At the party at Joel’s,” he said, “before you revealed your ulterior motive, I thought you liked me a little. It’d be nice if it all wasn’t just a smart girl’s trap.”
The phone buzzed. She didn’t look at it.
“I don’t see—”
“You have to kiss me,” Jimmy said.
She kissed him on the cheek. There was a kind of defiance in it, as if she’d made herself believe that it was her idea.
She didn’t recoil like the girl on Sunset.
Jimmy opened the file.
“One Ten Rivo Alto Canal,” he said aloud.
There was a gunshot stretched over a long second and the fla sh that came with it, flaring in the white bedroom like lightning from a little localized storm. Elaine Kantke, late twenties, as pretty as a model, fell back onto the satin sheets on a circular bed, blood already leaking from the hole in her jaw.
Her silk pajama top fell open. She wore nothing else.
In the same second, a meaty blue-collar man named Bill Danko crumpled where he stood beside the bed as the same bullet which had passed through her tore away his cheek. He wore baggy suit pants and a loud shirt. There was a hi-fi on the nightstand, playing an LP.
Elaine Kantke was already dead. A second shot finished Bill Danko off, caught him in the V just above the bridge of his nose.
Jimmy wondered if they had a name for that.
He stood in front of the microfiche machine in the library at the Long Beach Press-Telegram. The killings were played up big, a four-column story and two sidebars. There were pictures of the two-story Spanish style house on Rivo Alto Canal and interior shots of the bedroom, the covered bodies, the bed, the hi-fi. There were arrows and dotted lines and X’s and hyperventilated text in the cutlines, all of it under a thirty-six point headline full wide:
TWO SLAIN IN NAPLES
Jimmy put in a quarter, hit the button, pulled a copy.
On the inside slop-over page, beside the rest of the story, there was an ad for a VW bug at $1,995. He smiled as he looked at it, that old familiar shape. He pulled a copy of that, too. He rolled through another week of microfiche. Time whipped past like a dramatic effect in an old movie.
He stopped on:
D.A. ARRESTED, DENIES SLAYING WIFE, MAN
After a week or two, the evidence had been assembled. You took your time when your murderer was an assistant district attorney. The case they had against Jack Kantke was only sketchy at this point, at least what was in the papers, but it was enough to arrest, enough for another banner headline.
And enough for most people to make up their minds about Jack Kantke. There he was, if you needed something more, in a shot on the steps of the downtown Criminal Courts Building, his hands cuffed in front of him, an odd half smile on his face. One side of his mouth was grinning, the other wasn’t. It was like those tragedy and comedy masks in one man.
He had short hair, shiny, combed left, a white tab collar shirt, a skinny black tie, a style more sixties than seventies. He looked a little like Jack Webb, not the face, just the gray suit and the ramrod backbone.
Or maybe Rod Serling.
They had arrested him at his office. Of course they knew where he lived—he was still living there, in the murder house on Rivo Alto Canal—and they could have done it yesterday, Sunday, when he was home, probably sitting in the sun out front, but they showed up downtown on Monday morning, came right in and walked past his secretary and opened the frosted glass door with his name in gold on it. They would have yanked him right up out of his swivel chair if he wasn’t standing already, waiting for them, for it. Everybody knew this was high drama.
On down the page were the first pictures of Jack and Elaine Kantke in, as they say, better days, alive, smiling, chic, attractive. Party people, yacht clubbers. The shots were from what used to be called the Soc section of the paper, Society. Where were the piña coladas? One shot was from some official function, the assistant D.A. and his designer wife, Jack in a tux, Elaine Kantke in a black shoulderless gown wearing a loose watch with diamonds on it and diamonds at her ears. This being Southern California, they were probably overdressed.
And then there was a pretty picture of Elaine Kantke they hadn’t used in the first go-around, a glamorous headshot with highlights in her hair and angled lighting, maybe a George Hurrell shot. It made Jimmy wonder if she’d been an actress, or had tried to be. When she smiled, at least for this, she smiled with everything. She looked young and happy and healthy. But she wasn’t anybody’s girl-next-door. She had what used to be called sophistication, not always meant as a compliment. She looked a little French. She looked like she smoked.
Jimmy tried to find something of Jean in her mother’s face but didn’t see it.
He didn’t look for Jean in Jack Kantke’s face. Jimmy didn’t like him. That didn’t take long. It wasn’t the murder so much as the hurt he’d caused a little girl.
And that he couldn’t seem to wipe the other half of that smile off his face.
Jimmy sped through to December, a year-end wrap-up, another banner headline:
1977 . . .
A MERGER A MURDERER A MONARCH
Cute.
Jimmy looked over at the Queen Mary across the harbor as he drove down Ocean Boulevard. He was in his Mustang, a dark green 1968 GT 390 fast-back. It was a big sky day, all blue except for a few clouds trying to build into something out over the shipping channel. The Catalina boat cruised toward the end of the breakwater, white as a wedding cake in the clear light.
Long Beach changed block by block, sometimes cleaned-up and rich and then the next street tired, sad, sorry. In one block, it’d be bright white BMW convertibles with blue tops, like they were little ski boats. The next block, left-behind grocery carts. Jimmy couldn’t get the pictures of the murders out of his head. It was always l
ike this. It always came to life right in front of him and stayed there until it was over. Death came to life. Funny. He tried to find something on the radio to splash a little light his way but it was all talk, talk about money and violence. When he was working, the world seemed made up of nothing but grief and greed and malice. Maybe it set him up to do the job, to see what he had to see, to go where he always had to go. He didn’t like it, but when he wasn’t on a case, there was something in him that missed it, wanted it. It put him at risk, body and soul, and there was something in him that wanted that because it made him feel more alive.
A narrow thirties-era concrete bridge humped up and over a twenty-foot-wide canal into the “Naples” area of Long Beach. That was what the real estate people called it, since the thirties when it was thought up and built, ten or twelve short blocks of big houses on narrow lots on finger canals, sailboats and harbor cruisers tied up in their “front yards.” No abandoned grocery carts here.
Jimmy cruised down a skinny one-way lane. The houses had garages opening in the back onto the alley. It was a Monday but the neighborhood had more signs of life than most moneyed L.A. neighborhoods in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday. The people who lived here now were retired people or widows or people married to widows. You got a coffee and went by the broker’s office in the village around ten, read the Times outside somewhere and then killed a couple hours before a late lunch. If you had a wife, she laid out your clothes on the bed in the morning, the bright slacks, the knit shirts, and sometimes they matched hers. You stayed away or out in the yard cutting back the bougainvillea long enough to keep her happy. The first drink of the day usually came at about four, unless you counted lunch.
There wasn’t a 110 Rivo Alto Canal anymore. The ceramic plaques on the garages skipped from one oh eight to one twelve, probably more out of respect for property values than for the dead.
But there was the house.
Spanish-style, two-story, fading pink. It looked abandoned. Could it have sat empty all these years? Jimmy parked where the intersecting street dead-ended at the canal. Across the lane of water, a man hosed off a twenty-two-foot day-sailer. He was close enough to say something friendly, but didn’t. A gull wheeled and dropped, threatening to land. The man flicked the hose in its direction.
