Los Angeles. My gut told me I had to make the trip, if only to talk with someone who knew Tate in a context removed from Chicago politics, and to see what the girl called L.A. was like two thousand miles away from Audrey. Unexpectedly, I now had a story of my own. Once upon a time there were three women. Two were from Los Angeles, two were tattoo artists, and two had direct connections to Tate. What were the chances that a third connection would give the story the ending it deserved?
47
I still didn’t know where Audrey lived, but I had a hunch. “You just figured that out?” Susie said after getting over the shock of my eye. We were splitting a vegan meatball marinara sub at the diner across the street from Taudrey Tats.
“So in the back, there’s a full bath?”
“You ever wonder what that cinderblock wall was for? Behind it is a cozy suite the owner of the building put in to cheat on his wife during business hours. Definitely a building code violation.”
I asked if she had seen Audrey’s friend and described L.A. to her. “She shows up every few weeks,” Susie said. “I’ve never met her.”
Susie finished her portion and excused herself to open the boutique. I remained at the table and watched for signs of life at Taudrey Tats. As noon approached, Susie propped open the door to her store, and soon after Audrey turned over the “Open” sign. I paid the bill and crossed the street.
“You grimace with each step,” Audrey said as I walked in. She was sitting in The Kitschen chair sipping coffee while paging through a magazine on her lap. She looked somber. Maybe she was human after all.
“Cracked ribs don’t heal in four hours,” I said and sat on a drafting stool. I looked around. The place was spotless. “Was there a party here last night or was I dreaming?”
“You’re angry. I don’t blame you.”
“Where’s L.A.?”
“She takes the cheap overnight flights. We cleaned until her ride picked her up around three.”
“Home to Los Angeles?”
Audrey held her gaze on me and nodded. “She’s barely legal, Jules. The perfect age for the over-thirty crowd.”
“Tell me about Voss.”
She hesitated. “Who’s that?”
“A few days after the murder, you called me and said a cop stopped by. He wanted to know if I had Snooky’s payoff book. I referred to him as Detective Kalijero, and I told you there was no book. The next day you gave me a description of the man. It wasn’t Kalijero; it was Voss.”
Audrey shrugged. “He was a cop. That’s all I know. Since you acted like you were sure you knew who it was, I assumed you knew what you were talking about.”
“Did Snooky tell you that Voss wanted information from him to use against another cop named Kalijero?”
“I never heard of Voss before that day he just showed up.”
“You’d never seen Voss before that day you called me?”
“I just said that.” She had an edge in her voice. Any residual feelings of guilt had disappeared. She returned her attention to the magazine as if I had left the room.
I laughed and said, “Did you ever see Snooky’s Steuben Glass animal collection?”
Audrey closed the magazine and walked to the display rack. She stared at the drawings until I saw a smile creep onto her profile, and she said, “He was very proud of it.” Just like that, the coquettish little girl returned. “The ‘Mouse and Cheese’ was my favorite.”
“Mine was the ‘Contented Cat.’ ”
“Are you going to keep the collection? I’m sure Snooky would approve.”
“The house was ransacked. Everything was smashed to pieces, including the glass animals.”
Audrey turned to me with a genuine look of sadness. “I didn’t know that. But why? I mean, even if they were looking for something, why destroy those figurines? Obviously nothing could be hidden in them.”
“Bad guys like to send messages. Although one of the animals survived—the glass elephant. I took it home.”
Audrey thought for a moment and then giggled. “I remember it. It was cute but out of place with the rest.”
“Why?”
“It was just a cheap imitation. It wasn’t crystal like the others.”
“I think you’re wrong,” I lied. “It refracts beautifully on my wall, just like lead crystal.”
Audrey rolled her eyes. “So when you’re not solving murders, you’re an expert in crystal? Trust me, it’s a fake.”
“Trust me, Audrey. I knew Snooky. He didn’t buy imitation anything.”
“The elephant was given to him, smarty-pants. He didn’t buy it.”
Audrey had swallowed the bait. Voss would never have spent good money on lead crystal to send as a message. She knew it was fake because she knew Voss sent it to Snooky. Audrey took one of the drawings off the rack, laid it on the light box, and started to draw. I walked over to her and watched as she worked on the texture of saliva drops falling from a wolf’s fangs.
“Audrey, who gave Snooky the elephant?” I said, knowing the answer but giving her some more rope.
“One of those police detectives.”
“Who?”
Audrey turned to me. “Voss. Or maybe the other one you mentioned—” She caught herself and returned to the drawing.
“You don’t know Voss, but you chatted long enough to know he gave Snooky a glass elephant. Did you make a deal with Satan, Audrey?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Why would you want to help Voss get information on Kalijero? What did you get in return? Was it worth Snooky’s life?”
Audrey dropped her pencil and turned to me. Her eyes had become narrow black slits. “You’re making up crazy stories because you don’t know how to figure it all out. You’re at a dead end. Well, that’s not my fault. Stick with the facts!”
“How about this fact: Voss told me he gave Snooky that elephant. If you knew it was a gift, then you must’ve known this fact before Snooky was dead. Since you said you had never heard of Voss until after the murder, it’s a fact you’re a liar.”
Audrey shook her head wildly. “You’ve got me all confused. I don’t know who gave the elephant to Snooky. Why don’t you just get out of here!”
“Another thing. Tate told me you’re not his daughter. He said you picked him up at that sugar-daddy bar.”
“He’s a liar!” she said and shoved me in the chest. I stumbled in agony toward the door, cursing loudly, employing every vile word I had ever learned regarding females. Before leaving, I glanced back and saw Audrey sitting in the tattoo chair crying into her hands. I didn’t pretend to know why.
Bent over on the sidewalk, I breathed through the pain. At some point, I was aware of a hand resting lightly on my back. I looked up and saw Susie’s face.
“I heard the shouting, and here you are,” she said. “What can I do? Do I need to take you to the hospital?”
“There’s nothing to do. I just have to avoid getting shoved around.”
“You want to come in and sit awhile?”
“No,” I said but didn’t like the sound of my voice. I took her hand. “I mean, I would, but I better get home and lie down.” I told her I would be going out of town and asked if she would take care of Punim. She agreed and we made plans for her to come over that evening for a meet and greet.
“What’s in Los Angeles?” she said.
“It seems to be a common denominator for some characters in my investigation, including an ex-wife, Audrey’s red-eyebrow friend, and a Partisan writer who knows more than he’s telling me.”
48
Parked in front of my apartment building was Frownie’s beloved 1935 Lincoln Model K Roadster convertible. He sat behind the wheel, reading a newspaper.
I rapped my knuckles against the rumble seat before coming up to my mentor on the driver’s side. “Are you lost, mister?” I said.
Frownie turned his head and looked in horror. “My god. Your face is all fucked up again?”
“It�
�s not as bad as it looks. What brings you here?”
“Why you holdin’ your side like that? Someone hit you in the ribs, too?” Frownie shook his head. “I’m here to take back what I said about not wanting to hear from you again.”
“I didn’t take you seriously,” I said, which wasn’t completely true.
“You see, when you get old like me, you sometimes decide you don’t want to deal no more with your friends and such gettin’ hurt.” He stopped and then said, “I got guilt, too. I knew your old man didn’t want you doin’ this kind of work. But I liked that you wanted it and were so enthusiastic and all. And I thought, it’s your life, why the hell not learn the gumshoe business?” Frownie reached out and grabbed my arm. “Anyway, I’m here for you, kid. While I’m still aboveground, I’m always here.”
I took Frownie’s hand in both of mine. “I’ve got to go to Los Angeles for a couple of days. For the case.”
Frownie nodded. “Got enough money?”
“I’m fine.”
Frownie took his hand back and stared through the windshield. I could tell he was recalling some friends or associates from long ago. “I used to know a lot of people in L.A.,” he said. “I wish I could make a few calls for you, but they’re all dead.” Frownie laughed. “I’ve outlived my usefulness.”
“Bullshit,” I said. “I’ve got a lot more use for you if you’ll just stop worrying.”
Frownie looked at me and smiled. “Okay,” he said. “I’m glad I saw you.” Then he started up the roadster and drove off.
* * *
Susie came over at five-thirty with two orders of vegetable chow mein. Punim displayed a passing interest in our guest then disappeared.
“Maybe she’d like to meet a lovable orange tabby guy,” Susie said.
I discouraged the idea, explaining that Punim had reached the point where personal space was her highest priority and that one male in her life was enough. I showed her the container of organ meat. Susie pretended not to be revolted.
We sat on the couch eating out of containers, making small talk, Susie purposely avoiding any discussion about my trip to L.A., which I appreciated. I asked about her life and she described a New England prep school education topped off with four years at Bryn Mawr. “I lived a WASP stereotype,” she said, “then I moved here and opened a business.”
“Your parents must’ve been proud.”
Susie almost spit out her food. “Oh, my god, no,” she said. “Opening a secondhand clothing shop in my family ranked just above running off with the circus.” That one sentence told me a lot about her life. I anticipated she would then ask for my story; instead she looked at her watch and said, “I gotta get back to the shop.”
We stood in the doorway anticipating each other’s body language. I wasn’t sure who made the first move, but my hands found their way to her waist and we kissed. “Call me when you get back,” she said and I watched her walk down the stairs.
* * *
I could see the setting sun as we landed. Through the smog it looked like a giant egg yolk. I had never been to Los Angeles, but I was used to navigating freeways, and I remembered L.A. had once mentioned her sea turtle tattoo would be the “envy of Echo Park.” The neighborhood was easy to find, as was a cheap motel on Sunset Boulevard called The Jenny, where I guessed, among other things, rooms could be rented by the hour. With a creepy yellow neon sign and purple stucco walls, how could I resist? Forty bucks a night sealed the deal. I slid three days’ worth of cash under the thick plastic window to an old man who said nothing as he pushed back a key.
Apart from some chipped paint and the graffiti on the small dresser, the room wasn’t that bad. A few blocks down the street, I found a vegan Thai restaurant and had a “tentil loaf” for dinner—the best tentil loaf I’ve ever had. A mix of white hipsters, Latinos, and Asians filled the sidewalks and neighboring streets, which bustled with bars, nightclubs, and music venues of every kind. A funky hip-hop-soul sound caught my ear. I followed the music across the street to a small club where a band from Seattle called Theoretics wowed the crowd. I leaned against the bar and ordered a Guinness on tap. I could nurse a Guinness for an hour and look like I belonged there.
A few minutes passed before I thought how absurd it seemed to have the feeling of being watched. Everyone watched everyone in a crowded nightclub. From the periphery, I thought I glimpsed a face and turned my head to see no one in particular. I moved to the other end of the bar, but the distraction continued. A pint of Guinness later, I was buzzed enough not to care about any trickery being played, imaginary or otherwise, and for a couple of hours enjoyed the idea of being a private investigator visiting Los Angeles.
The next morning I noticed my eye was turning greenish yellow. I had a late breakfast at the same Thai restaurant. From there I walked around the neighborhood looking for tattoo shops or perhaps a friendly tattooed person. The Los Angeles sunshine revealed the drastic contrasts of the area. Clapboard houses shared streets with craftsman bungalows and modernist lofts. Tacos and burritos lived alongside Maine lobsters and wasabi-marinated yellowfin tuna.
Finding a tattoo studio on Sunset Boulevard didn’t take long. A small business between Manny’s Laundromat and a newspaper/smoke shop was my first stop. From the sidewalk, I observed a Latino boy organizing ink cups and needles and putting tubes in a metal device I assumed was for sterilization. Two Latino men in white tank tops were examining drawings on a display rack. Both were covered in tattoos from the elbows to the wrists. I walked in and waited at the glass counter. Neither man seemed to notice me until the boy walked over to them and whispered. They glanced my way and continued talking. A couple of minutes later one of them approached me.
“How can I help you?” he said.
I asked him if he knew a tattoo artist called L.A. and he said he didn’t. Then I described her as short with long black hair, and he laughed since I had just described his sister and all his friends’ sisters. “How about with red eyebrows?” I said.
The man thought for a moment and then yelled something in Spanish to the other man who shook his head. “Sorry, man. Can’t help. You a cop or something?”
I faked a laugh and said, “I’m just trying to find someone.” Then I handed him a card. “If you get any info or see this girl, there’s a hundred-dollar bill in it for you.” The man seemed unimpressed but took my card anyway. I thought two hours of pay was generous, but what did I know?
I stepped outside and, like the previous evening, a figure caught my attention from the corner of my eye. I turned my head to an empty sidewalk and just when I thought I might have developed some type of optical affliction, I noticed an old red sedan with tinted windows parked at the end of the street in the direction I had been drawn. I started a fast walk toward the car only to see the tires disappear in a cloud of dust before squealing onto Sunset Boulevard. Not yet twenty-four hours in Los Angeles and things had already gotten complicated.
Who knew I was in Los Angeles? Frownie, Susie, perhaps Tate. I continued walking. Four blocks farther I found another tattoo studio, Indra’s Tats, between a dental clinic and an unnamed restaurant with the words “Giant Tasty Burgers” on a banner hanging from the gutter. The façade of the clinic was decorated with a mural of smiling Anglo and Latino teens holding up the earth. The studio was modern and enormous with a dozen or so artists, each with their own work space enclosed in movable glass and aluminum walls. In addition to artwork, huge trophies lined shelves and countertops.
I was greeted by a pleasant young woman behind the glass counter who said an artist would be with me shortly and invited me to relax on one of the leather couches that surrounded a large glass table covered with copies of Illustration Magazine and a hardbound volume of The Tattoo Encyclopedia. After I sat, she offered a variety of coffee drinks. I declined and quickly explained the reason I was there. She smiled, nodded, and told me she was sure an artist would help me in just a few minutes. The staff was a United Nations of white, Asian, and Latino art
ists, all neatly groomed and dressed in sport shirts and khakis. Surprisingly, none had exposed tattoos. I began paging through the encyclopedia, stopping at the section dedicated to symbolism. In particular, the ancient Greek utilization of moon phases interested me.
Nick, a husky Polynesian-looking guy, appeared. He shook my hand and sat on the couch across from me. “I’m sorry for bothering you,” I said. “I’m not interested in a tattoo. I’m just looking for a woman tattoo artist called L.A.”
Nick told me I had no reason to apologize. “People come in here all the time to chat, use the bathroom, ask directions. We’re not just artists; we’re part of the community. All are welcome anytime. As for this woman you’re looking for, I don’t know her. But it’s possible one of the other artists might. Why don’t you come back later when I have had time to ask around?”
I thanked Nick, and he walked me to the door as if I had been an honored guest in his house. If he had been any friendlier, I might have gotten a tattoo out of guilt. In the next two hours, I found four more studios. No one had heard of anyone named L.A. At each location I spotted the red sedan somewhere in the vicinity, either parked or passing by. Whoever was driving wanted me to know they were hanging around.
At the intersection of Sunset and a narrow, tree-lined side street, I was lured away from my present task with the promise of scenery that didn’t include murals of Jesus holding sparkling balls of light. The street bordered the top of a steep grade and was lined with garages underneath homes that must have commanded a fabulous view of what I thought was the park in Echo Park. I followed the street until the slope was shallow enough to easily traverse into an area of mature deciduous trees. From the shade, I looked over an empty parched landscape of brown grass that extended to the freeway at one end and a baseball stadium at the other.
Although I didn’t see any signs of life in the park, I felt uncomfortable, as if I had walked into a crowded room full of strangers. Back on Sunset Boulevard, I stopped at a lemonade cart. Both arms of the Latino man behind the cart were covered in tattoos. Within the collage, I could make out a skeleton wearing a sombrero, a bandito-like character riding a motorcycle, and the Virgin Mary. I pointed to the largest-sized cup, and the man smiled and nodded. I watched him cut a bunch of lemons in half and squeeze them into the juicer. Then he dumped in a sugary concoction, cold water, a scoop of ice, and turned on the blender. I said, “Muchas gracias”. He smiled and nodded. I turned to walk away and stopped.
Maxwell Street Blues Page 17
