"Tomas? As in Carlucci? That is interesting."
"Yeppir. I see that little light burning behind your eyes. I agree that it's a good setup, but—there's something I don't like about it."
"What's not to like? It explains everything. Jenna builds up a drug tab longer than her shapely left leg, but as long as Z can do his musical magic for Candy, Candy lets it slide. Z kills his girlfriend in a coke-induced rage and Candy protects him to keep the music deal safe. When Carlucci stumbles on the scene, Candy warns him off, and now he does the same thing to us."
"It's too obvious.” Malone furrowed his brow in thought. “Look, I don't like Zeno Duke any better'n you do, and sure as Shinola, he's lying to us about something. But why'd he hire us if he's got Carrasco in his corner? Makes more sense if Candy wants Z to go down."
"Okay. Why?"
"Maybe Candy's behind the murder. Maybe he's the one who set Duke up in the first place.” He lifted a manila file out of his in-basket. “This is Jackie's report on his coffee klatch with the local posse. It seems that when pressed to explain why he was in the neighborhood when Jenna Wells was killed, Z claimed he was with an A&R rep from his new label, Wirld Records—spelled W-I-R-L-D, for some reason—checking out a new Rock en Español band's gig at a club on the Strip."
"What's ‘A&R'?"
"Stands for ‘artist and repertoire.’ They're the guys who sign and develop new acts."
"And I'm guessing that the alibi didn't work out for him."
"No, indeedy. Turns out that particular scout was on a business trip to Grand Cayman that weekend with Duke's partner in the venture, Kenneth Keller—and the club in question that night was featuring a Goth girl group about as Latin as chicken-fried steak."
"Stupid of Z to lie about something so easy to disprove,” I said, shaking my head.
"Exactly, Red—well, we know he's one jelly doughnut shy of a dozen, but that's too stupid even for him. He must have said the first thing that came to his mind. He's hiding something all right."
"Any angle on this Keller character?"
"Clean, so far as any rainmaker can be called clean. He's the investment side of the house.” Malone stood up from behind his desk and stretched. “I'm going to take Jessie Zavala off that workers’ comp case, and have her do a little snooping to find out exactly how Candy's been meddling in the music biz."
* * * *
Los Angeles is not only the Mecca of the cult of celebrity, it's the Mecca, Jerusalem, Rome, Lhasa, and Salt Lake City all wrapped up into one. My girlfriend Andie says it's a sign of the unwholesome American veneration of the entertainment industry that we apply such words as “idol,” “icon,” and “diva” more often to movie stars, TV personalities, and pop singers than we do to idols, icons, and goddesses.
Organized religion is itself steeped in celebrity. The Church of Scientology, notorious for its recruitment of film actors, is headquartered in an old hospital building that looms over Hollywood like a haunted hotel in an old Universal monster movie. Aimee Semple McPherson built her Church of the Foursquare Gospel right here in L.A., the first religious organization to operate a radio station, and so became the godmother of today's slick Bible Belt televangelists.
More traditional religions are hardly immune, either. Our new multimillion- dollar Roman Catholic cathedral, looking like a hip college campus cross-pollinated with a hip movie studio office building, is cynically referred to as either the Roger Mahal or the Taj Mahony after the camera-ready cardinal who built it. The glass and steel nondenominational Crystal Cathedral, an institution firmly based on mainstream American Protestantism, which, like Disneyland, is located in urban Orange County rather than L.A. proper—everybody knows that “the O.C.” is really nothing more than the south L.A. ‘burbs, try as its denizens might to deny it—anyway, the Crystal Cathedral actually advertises all the stars who show up to participate in its nationally televised services.
But the real old-time religion, the one true creed in sunny SoCal, is not, as you might expect, Fame. It is certainly not God. It is Greed.
The recording industry is, or was, a big part of the mighty entertainment money machine. In the last decade, though, it has gone through a meltdown. The reasons for this are many, not the least of which is internet piracy, but one side effect has been a wholesale scramble to exploit new markets.
The fastest growing ethnic demographic in the U.S. is Latin American. They are already the largest minority in the country, and it is estimated that one in four U.S. citizens will share Latino descent in fifty years. And that, my friends, means that the Latino sector of the music business is not exactly playing with chump change. It is the one vital branch of an otherwise moribund industry.
Organized criminals are attracted to fast money like vampires to virgins. Gangland glam is not exactly new in the music game, either. I keep a picture of my man Frank Sinatra mugging with Carlo Gambino on my desk to remind me not all that glitters is gold. The connection between violent street gangs and hiphop, a la Death Row Records, is another case in point. The Senator's suspicion that Candélio Carrasco was somehow mixed up with the career side of Zeno Duke's life only made sense.
As did his choice to investigate the matter. Jessica Zavala is our only homegrown op—her pop Enrico ("Hank” to Malone) had been Malone's partner in the Texas DPS during his patrol days, and with teachers like Moon, Stowicz, Jett, Malone, and myself, she's had about the best investigative training you can imagine. Plus, not to be sexist or anything, she wouldn't look out of place clad in a bikini on the cover of Lowrider magazine. Let's face it: Appearance counts in the P.I. racket, and though we usually try to keep it low key so as not to stick out, it's a simple fact that lots of men will tell a beautiful girl things they'd never dream of spilling to anybody else.
Zavala's brain could light up the Rand Corporation, and she's one hell of an actress who knows exactly how to play the wide-eyed less-than-brilliant kitten, hanging on a man's every word like he's the most important dude this side of Christ Jesus. Finally, any inquiry requiring fluent Spanish is either her beat or Malone's, and the Senator realized he'd look just slightly out of place in a salsa palace.
I should mention, too, that Jessica had no strong objection to clubbing in a city famous for clubbing on an expense account. She's young and attractive, after all.
But not lazy. Four days after getting this plum assignment, she glided into our Pico Boulevard office bearing a CD in her well-manicured hand. The cover depicted a colorful skeletal figure, like something from el Dia de los Muertos, the Mexican Day of the Dead, but sporting a lit joint between its grinning teeth and brandishing a Mack 10 submachine gun in its bony hands while dancing on the hood of a tricked-out Hummer in front of a background of oversized marijuana and coca leaves. I noticed it was on the Wirld Records label, the same company Duke had mentioned in his alibi.
"This is what Zeno Duke has been up to,” she said, popping the disc into the DVD drive on Malone's fancy new computer.
It sounded like nothing I'd ever heard, or rather, it was a strange yet arresting combination of many things I'd heard before. Try to imagine a mariachi band with an urban edge. The main track vocals sounded like your usual husky, vibrato-filled Mexican folk singing. But there was a lot of what they call sampling—multiple overlaid tracks of heavily processed instrumentals and voices, repetitions of catchy phrases in unexpected syncopations, all spread over a bouncy waltz or polka rhythm. Nothing I'd ever buy myself, of course, but something I could easily imagine thumping out of a mega sound system in a metal-flake green cruise machine, rattling the neighborhood windows as it slid by on its way to nowhere.
"Are you catching the lyrics?” she asked.
"Uh, no,” I confessed. “Maybe if they were singing in Italian—"
"They're singing about drugs and guns,” Malone said.
At that moment, Jackie Jett entered Cus's office, consternation glowing from his face.
"What the hell are you guys listening to?"
; He was used to Asleep at the Wheel or Hank Thompson issuing forth from Malone's office, and Puccini or Sinatra from mine.
"Narcocorridas," said Malone, raising an eyebrow.
"That's right,” Zavala said, and she hit the pause button. “Look at the title."
The record was called Los Contrabanditos.
I frowned. “And that means what, exactly?"
"Trouble,” Jett said.
"It's a kind of music. Narcocorridas are about the most popular songs in México these days,"—Jessica always pronounces the name of her ancestral land in Spanish—"so it can be very lucrative to play and record them. But they're usually very old-school, not like this. You know, lots of trumpets, fiddles, and accordions—you can almost imagine Donald Duck, Joe Carioca, and Panchito singing along."
"I love that picture,” I said. “ ‘The Three Caballeros,’ right?"
Jessica arched an eyebrow. I guess she's not into cartoons. "Narcocorridas are ballads, and I don't mean love songs—I mean the old-fashioned kind that tell stories. Only these ballads are about drug smugglers. Lots of poor people look up to them like they were Robin Hoods, if you know what I mean, the same way Americans admire Jesse James or Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. But this—this is like Pete Seeger meets 50 Cent. Weird but brilliant."
"Weird is right,” Jett said. “I don't know about brilliant. Did you know that when Duke Ellington broadcast from the Cotton Club in the twenties, the radio announcer called it ‘jungle music'? Now this is what I call jungle music."
"Not really. Jungle's a kind of dance music. You might hear it at a big rave,” Jessie said casually, but after catching the look on Jett's face, she hastily added, “but I can see what you mean."
"So Zeno Duke has found an updated sound, aiming for the urban gangbanger hawking the goods in the dark alleys behind Main Street, U.S.A.,” Malone said. “No wonder Candy was interested. It's a masterpiece of public relations for the cartel."
"I told you Z didn't give a damn about the music,” Jett said.
"You won't find this record at Wal-Mart, though,” she said. “I got it at a club where Los Contrabanditos were playing a set."
"What does the name mean?” I asked.
"It's a pun,” Malone replied. “The Spanish word for smuggler is contrabandista. You already know what a bandito is. Very witty.” He didn't sound like he thought it was witty.
"Right. Anyway, after the show, I got to talking with the front man,” Jessica continued. “His name is Julio Jurado. Kinda cute, in a bad-boy sort of way. Think Ricky Martin with a buzz cut and tats. He's from Culiacan."
"Where's that?"
"It's the capital city of one of the Mexican states, Red,” Malone explained. “In fact, it's the capital of Sinaloa. What a coincidence."
"Well, hell, he must be guilty as snot,” I said. “I mean, I'm an Italian from New York, so that must make me a Mafia wiseguy."
"Chill, boss,” said Jessica. “Julio's not here on a work visa. He's visiting his uncle."
"Wait. Don't tell me."
"His Uncle Candy.” She smirked and her face lit up like an imp's. "Mamacita's brother. Candélio Carrasco."
I let her have her moment of triumph before speaking again. “All right. So it's not such a coincidence. But one thing I don't get. What's a high-end player like Z, who's brought in millions to every major record label that ever pressed vinyl, doing producing a disc that's only for sale at a bar?"
At that moment, the computer's speakers erupted with a sound like a robot tomcat having rough sex with an elephant cow.
"Damn!” Malone reached down and pulled out the plug from its surge protector under the desk. “I hate these things."
"Must be that Windows Vista,” Jessie said.
"Get Benny to fix it, whatever it is. Getting back to the matter at hand, kids, maybe Z owed Candy a favor,” said Malone.
"Or maybe—” Jett started to say something then shut his mouth.
"Or maybe what?"
"Well, maybe Zeno Duke wasn't given a choice."
* * * *
That same afternoon I got a phone call from Jake Burroughs.
Tommy Terrific had been shanked in the right kidney in the O.C. jail's exercise yard by a member of MS 13. You've heard of them, no doubt: Mara Salvatrucha, the Salvadoran Army Ants, the most brutal gang in the world. They got a lot of press a few years ago for nearly decapitating a pregnant seventeen-year-old girl in Virginia. The FBI has arrested almost 700 of their members all over the U.S. for a whole catalog of crimes ranging from murdering witnesses to drug and human trafficking.
But they're Los Angeles homies. The gang was formed in Pacoima back in the seventies by a group of Salvadoran criminals eager to protect themselves from Mexican criminals.
I love L.A.
Tommy had dropped like a steel barbell slipping from the hands of an Olympic weightlifter, dead before he could blink. Considering MS 13's penchant for inflicting pain, he'd been lucky.
"Tommy wanted me to give you something in case he didn't make it out of jail,” Jake said.
"Sounds like he knew he was in danger."
"I just can't understand it. Why would a gangbanger knock off a celebrity private investigator? It makes no sense,” Jake said. “Anyway, Tommy wanted you to have his keys—I don't have a clue why. I'll drop by later and leave them with your receptionist."
He hung up.
"Poor ol’ scuzz bucket,” Malone said. “I knew he'd get it in the back someday.” He paused, and then lowed like a steer getting branded. It took me a moment to realize he was attempting to sing. “Oh, beat the drum slow-lee, and play the fife low-lee . . . “
I stared at him.
"It's from ‘The Streets of Laredo,’ Red. That's a song about a murdered cowboy."
"I know what it is,” I retorted. “I just don't know why you're trying to sing it."
"I was reminded of Laredo, Red. Or more precisely, Nuevo Laredo."
"More like Tijuana in this case."
"TJ, too,” he said mysteriously. “You know, for the first time, I get the impression that Zeno Duke really is innocent."
"I thought we liked Candy Carrasco for it."
"Not anymore."
"Why not?"
"I think we'd better find out if young Julio Jurado was getting it on with Jenna Wells. Ask Zavala about it, why don't you."
"Right.” There was no point in quizzing the Senator about what he was thinking. When he got like this, he was more inscrutable than a poker champ shuffling his chips. But I did it anyway.
"If it's not too much trouble, maybe you can tell me how that could possibly help. If true, wouldn't it give Z a motive?"
"A motive to keep his mouth shut, sure."
That was as much as I was going to get out of him. “All right, I'm on it. And since you seem to know so much, maybe you can tell me why Tommy left his keys to me."
"I'd say he wanted you to unlock something, wouldn't you?"
"There is a recording somewhere."
* * * *
Jett was in his office arguing with Zeno Duke over the phone when Burroughs dropped off the keys. The ring contained the keys to Carlucci's red Porsche Cayenne Turbo—leave it to him to drive an expensive Porsche SUV, a flashier car I can't imagine. (At Cal Ops, in keeping with our low-profile philosophy, the company cars are silver-grey Toyota sedans, except for Malone and his monster truck.) There were also keys to Tommy's Century City office, keys to his Newport Beach waterfront house, and a little red plastic fob with an enamel Porsche logo glued to it.
I headed to his home address in Orange County first. I figured law enforcement had already done a pretty thorough job on his office looking for evidence, so my hunch was that whatever I was looking for would be in his car.
Traffic on the 405 is at a crawl at the best of times and it was late afternoon by the time I got there.
I was only going to look around a little. I don't usually go armed—there's no reason unless you're expecting trouble, so I
'd left the Beretta at the office.
Turns out that was a mistake.
The garage was a detached building dating from the twenties with room for three limos big enough to tootle Norma Desmond around in, and even had chauffeur's quarters above the coach house. I looked on the key ring for the electronic remote that would open the doors, not imagining for a moment that Carlucci would ever condescend to manually swing them open, but there wasn't anything there that worked. I though maybe the little fob might be it, but there wasn't any kind of button on it at all.
So I let myself in through the side door intended for people, taking just long enough to figure out which key fit in the doorknob. I walked in, leaving the door open behind me because it was dark inside and I didn't see a light switch on the wall.
There was only the one car and a home weightlifting gym featuring both free weights and a couple of expensive machines.
A shadow moved across the floor, cast from the open door behind me. I turned and looked.
At first I thought he was probably a cop. He was dressed in black parachute pants and a black tee that stretched across pecs the size of hubcaps. There was a pistol—I found out later it was a Heckler & Koch USP Tactical .45, a gun designed for Special Forces—strapped to his thigh in a nylon holster. He was just removing silvered aviator shades from his eyes. I didn't like his face. His black hair was cropped short, high and tight, but not like a cholo's skinhead shave. It was a military cut.
"Hey, you got somethin’ for me?” he asked, coldly smiling. His voice was high and hoarse and he spoke with a Spanish accent.
"Who are you?"
"El muerte." And then he landed a stiff one right in my solar plexus.
I dropped hard on my face and the keys flew out of my hand, jingling as they hit the concrete floor. I couldn't breathe. I heard him kick the door shut, and then he flicked the lights on. My eyes felt like they were being bleached, whether from having the wind knocked out of me or because of the sudden brightness I can't say. But I remember thinking, He's been waiting here long enough to know where the lights are.
EQMM, June 2010 Page 3
