by Tony Bulmer
‘I cannot leave Max. He will pine for me.’ I said, playing the forlorn dog owner just a little bit too well.
‘Aw, pur-leeeese, Max is in love with me.’ Inez tossed another biscuit. Max snapped it up, shot a furtive look at me, then turned away quickly.
‘Traitor,’ I said accusingly, as I headed for the door. I paused—‘I don’t suppose you guys want to come with me?’ Max and Inez exchanged glances then turned back to me. ‘Hmmm, I guess that is a no then?’ I headed for the door, paused again. ‘I got an idea, Big Al in HR likes Chowsey and Chowsey likes Big Al.’
‘Big Al keeps snakes,’ said Inez.
‘Yeah you are right,’ I said, ‘The snakes would never be safe.
THE SEX NET 20
As I cruised out to West Hollywood in the Dodge, roadside palms flapped an idle rhythm in the morning breeze. I drove west, through a zoo of tourists, and street people hustling for bucks, past neon liquor store fronts and promises of spiritual salvation pounding out along every inch of the drag. I cruised down Sunset towards Laurel Canyon Boulevard. Maybe for a brief period some time in the nineteen-twenties, or early thirties, this had been the most glamorous place in the world, a home to film stars and movie moguls. Now the tired glamour was fading fast in the desert sun, the rich and famous having long since departed to gated communities in the moneyed enclaves of Bel-Air, Malibu and Pacific Palisades.
The West Hollywood glamour vacuum had left a tortured populace jockeying for position, in their crazy money condominiums. It was an anonymous world, where a high rising tide of death and sleaze washed in from the downtown sewers. It was here, in this toxic milieu that Louanne the beauty therapist had sought her refuge, of that I was convinced.
The first address on my list, was a seventies style city-view duplex, located just north of Hollywood Boulevard. Parking was a problem: narrow roads, blind bends, every available parking space taken.
I cruised the block.
It was a party central neighborhood: flaking paint and earthquake damage, tumbling overgrown gardens and landslip subsidence cracking open the road. I parked on a concrete incline, adjacent to a graffitied garage. I perused the seedy frontage, examining the swirling aerosol hieroglyphs, but their purpose and meaning defied interpretation. I shrugged and walked back down the hill to the house. An undisciplined collection of shrubs thrust themselves upon the cracked stone path, leading to the doorway. Picking my way past the tangled foliage, I rang the doorbell and waited.
No answer.
No signs of life.
Nothing.
I pressed the doorbell again. Double pressed it. Maybe they were out to work? I looked at my watch. 11.30am, virtually the middle of the night for any self-respecting West Hollywood denizen.
I peered through a frosted window that ran adjacent to the door. Big lobby. Nice. An outsized marble table, with a giant neo-classical centerpiece on top dominated the space. I pumped the bell. Movement.
A shambling figure heading towards me. A pause behind the door, a rattling door-chain, a hacking cough… the door cracked open. A chemical smell rushed out to greet me, and a grey face, with dark, troll like eyes peered suspiciously through the narrow gap. The guy had messy black hair and three days facial growth, early twenties, looked like a musician, or a low echelon studio gofer.
‘Louanne home?’ I asked pleasantly.
The face looked confused. ‘Louanne’s not here man, do you know what time it is?’
I was tempted to say, “lunch time”, instead I said, ‘How do I know?’
The confusion furrowed deep now, ‘What are you saying man?’
‘How do I know she’s not here?’
A look of fear shrouded the grey face. ‘Are you the cops?’
‘If I was, do you think I would be chatting through a crack in the door?’
‘I guess not man,’ looking more reassured now.
‘So do you know where she is?’
‘You been by Rudy’s place?’
‘Rudy’s place?’ I gave him a stoner stare, made like I knew what he was talking about, but needed to be reminded anyway.
‘Yeah, over on Marmot.’ Prompted the grey face helpfully.
Bingo. The address corresponded with the answer phone list. I told him thanks. Said I was about to drop by Marmont, thought I would try here first. I told him he looked kind of peaky. Asked, him if he was taking vitamins. I said he should try a multi-complex with iron—it would pep him up, guaranteed.
The vacant eyes wandered thoughtfully, ‘Multi-complex? Thanks man.’
‘With iron, check ’em out dude.’ I bid the grey face behind the door a cheery farewell. Then walked smartly down the pathway past the tumbling plants towards the roadway beyond.
Rudy’s place was a double-fronted twenties style deco low-rise—expensive—with the kind of corporate kerb appeal that would have every realtor from Century-City to Pasadena creaming their jeans. A driveway had been gouged in the hillside, out front of the building. The driveway was steep. I gave the Dodge some revs and pulled in tightly, behind a white Hyundai that looked like it had seen better days. Foreign cars. The bumper of the Hyundai was plastered with inane stickers, environmentalism and schmaltzy cuteness being the major themes. A big white sticker read, “I heart cats”. This was the right place, no doubt about it. I moved fast, a thrill of adrenaline pulsing through me, as I mounted the steps to the house.
No bell, just a horse head knocker, in glorious faux gold. Rudy was obviously a man of taste and discernment. I rapped hard and stood back, waiting. I turned, looked out across the valley—saw downtown Hollywood sprawled grey and steaming like a skid-row derelict—still no reply. I took a walk around the front, peering into windows for signs of life, nothing, just the dark shapes of post-modern furniture wallowing in the gloom. I sneaked around the side of the building. A blue sign read, “Armed response you have been warned” Yikes.
The back yard was small, but the pool was large. A girl with curly auburn hair lay prone on a white sun-lounger. She was listening to an iPod, humming along tunelessly, swinging her tanned legs in time to the beat. I walked over. A plump ginger cat with inscrutable eyes watched my arrival soundlessly.
As my shadow approached, the girl looked up, ‘Rudy’s not in,’ she said brightly.
‘Thanks, but I was hoping to speak with you Louanne.’
‘Huh, what you saying?’ She frowned. Reluctantly unscrewing one of her earplugs, so she could hear better.
‘I am a friend of Corin and Mimi,’ I told her.
‘I haven’t seen them in a while,’ said, Louanne dreamily. She was pretty, Twenty-five tops, with a cascade of all-American freckles across the bridge of her nose.
How did you find me anyway? She asked, almost shyly, Pale blue eyes looking up at me now, over the top of designer sunglasses. She was cute, looked just like her sister
‘No big thing Louanne, I’m just smarter than most of Mimi and Corin’s friends.’
Louanne played sulky, her bottom lip pouting down, like it would get her somewhere. ‘Corin told me to lay low. She told me not to talk to anyone.’
‘She tell you why?’
‘She said there had been some trouble,’ pouted Louanne.
‘She tell you what happened to Mimi?’
The curly auburn hair bounced left and right, as Louanne shook her head. ‘She, called me up a couple of days ago, said there had been some trouble and Mimi had to stop over in New York, which is a real drag, as we were going to this new club in Beverly Hills called Crystal, we had VIP passes and everything.’ The disappointment in her voice was almost tangible.
I nodded thoughtfully, ‘So you haven’t seen either Corin, or your sister since…’
‘Last Saturday, we went to this great new place on La Cienega, she batted her eyelashes, ‘You should come out with us all some time,’ she said, then looked shy, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t even ask your name.’
I told her and as I did so, I looked into that big open face and felt sad
for her. She didn’t know her sister was dead. Her so-called best friend hadn’t bothered to tell her. I asked her if she knew what her sister did for a living. She told me her sister was a flight attendant, working transnational.
‘I didn’t mean that,’ I said.
‘Oh,’ said Louanne brightly, then she said, “Mimi did work for some very bad people, but you have to make a buck right?”
‘So you know. Frank Rothstein do you?’
The shy blue eyes turned downwards and she picked at her nails with her thumb, her lips twisting with indecision. ‘Corin told me that I shouldn’t speak to anyone. She said I was in danger.’
‘Where is Corin exactly?
‘I can’t say and that is the honest truth,’ said Louanne, her voice jerky now.
I knew then I would have to tell her everything. There was no easy way out. Unless Louanne knew the truth about what happened to her sister, there was no way that she would tell me the whereabouts of Corin.
I asked her if she minded, then sat down on the lounger next to her. I breathed deep then started the story at the beginning. I told her about the double date on Venice beach with Corin and Mimi. I told her about Frank Rothstein and the Uzi toting gangbangers. I told her about the diamonds and the Cops and lastly, I told her how I had found her sister dead at the house on Lakeridge Drive.
The girl let out a primal wail, her hands balling tightly. Then came the tears. I reached out to her, but she pulled away, shielding her face with her hands. She held herself sobbing quietly. It was some minutes before she turned back towards me.
‘I don’t know where Corin is.’ sobbed Louanne, her blue eyes wide with tears. And I wouldn’t tell you if I did, for all I know you could be a friend of Rothstein, you could be tricking me,’ she broke off, took a deep unsteady breath.
I nodded, feeling like a louse for having told her. ‘Some one murdered your sister because she wouldn’t tell them where the diamonds are. I think that some one is Frank Rothstein, or the goons that work for him. These people are never going to quit until they get what they want, so why don’t you just tell me where Corin is hiding out and let me clear this whole thing up.’
‘Corin owes me, she owes my sister,’ whispered Louanne bitterly, her voice still unsteady with grief. She dabbed at her trickling mascara and sobbed.
‘The police are looking for you and your sister’s gangster friends. You are the last living connection to Corin Cabrillo. Rothstein and his pals may be dumb, but they are going to track you down eventually.
‘I’m not leaving town Mr. Costello, Los Angeles is my home, my whole life is here.’
‘If the people who killed your sister find you, you won’t have a life,’ I told her matter-of-factly.
Louanne gave me a bitter smile, ‘Why would I be harmed Mr. Costello, I don’t have Rothstein’s precious diamonds, nor do I know where Corin is.’
You are guilty by association Louanne. I don’t doubt your innocence, but Rothstein and his pals won’t run any risks, especially now they’ve killed your sister. As far as they are concerned you will blab all you know to the cops. Which might not be such a bad idea.
‘If I go to the cops, I will never be safe,’ sniffed Louanne, with a truculent stare. ‘You don’t know Rothstein, he has connections.’
‘From what I know, Rothstein is pretty well known in these parts, that means the cops are wise to his dealings too, you can be certain of that. So if you know anything that the police could use to put him and his crew away, you should tell the cops and soon, before his goons come knocking.’
‘You make it sound so easy Mr. Costello.’
‘It is. Either that, or run—and if you are going to run, I don’t think West Hollywood will be far enough,’ I rose to my feet. ‘I am sorry about your sister Louanne, I really am.’ I reached inside my jacket and drew out a CCP business card. ‘I hear San Diego is nice this time of year. You should check it out.’ I handed her the card. She took it, turned it over in her fingers looking puzzled. ‘Cobra Close Protection?’ she said.
‘Yeah, I said, ‘How cool is that?’
Louanne looked puzzled, I thought you were some kind of private-eye or something?’
‘Do I look like a private-eye?’ I asked.
‘I guess not,’ she said, ‘Though you are kind of cute for an older guy.’
“An older guy?” Fantastic. The drop kick coup de grace to every middle aged singletons dating ego. ‘I ain’t that old,’ I said, ‘Honest injun.’
The girl gave me a sad smile, tucked my business card underneath her towel and settled back in the sunshine.
I pointed at the card, ‘You hear from Corin, or think of anything at all that might help me find her—you give me a call.’
Louanne sniffed, replaced her sunglasses and said, ‘Sure Mr. Costello, I will give you a call.’
THE SEX NET 21
The high school hot-rodders burned past. Who gives a teenager a Mercedes or a Corvette? I sat in the Dodge, watching with disapproval as the kiddies freewheeled down the street. Maybe Louanne was right; I was an “Older guy?” Jeezus. The thought was enough to kill a fellah off.
I slunk down in my seat, watching the bright-faced hilarity and uproar flood past, as the pupils streamed out of school. Guys wearing mop-top haircuts like they thought they had invented them, a bonanza of sloppy trousers and far-out fashion cues. I imagined what my father would say. The old man always popped a gasket, when he saw anyone under twenty-five, knowing the Rolling Stones generation had turned the world to this. I caught myself. The very fact that I had compared myself to Pops surely proved I was ready for a home-knit cardigan and a life of self-righteous anger against daytime television? I cringed. I had never been a rebel. Joe and Ryan had taken care of that, back in the days when it seemed that rock music was actually going to change the world.
A sharp rap on the widow. A pale face outlined with ragged bangs staring in at me impatiently. I popped the lock. Dakota Costello, 15 going on 21 swung into the passenger seat beside me.
‘Hi Dakota, good day at school?’
‘Give me a break dad. This place is a happy-clappy prison camp and you know it.’ Dakota slumped next to me, staring out the window evasively.
‘So that’s a no then?
‘Whatever.’ Dakota playing with her raven hair now, twisting her bangs, her gaze fixed sullenly.
‘No need to be so non-committal honey, you are speaking to daddy now’ I offered pleasantly, knowing she hated the dreaded D-word, using it anyway to get a rise. Tradition.
‘Yeuch! You know I hate that word,’ gagged Dakota, raising her eyes heavenwards, as she expressed finger down the throat disapproval.
‘Non-committal?’ I goofed.
‘You know what I mean, now let’s get out of here before some one sees us and thinks we are related.’
‘Where’s your sister,’ I asked.
‘She’s riding home with her pukey boyfriend.’
‘That’s not the arrangement, she knows Friday’s is our day,’ I said, feeling my voice amp up a notch. She is out of order not ringing me to get the OK first.’
‘Hey, get off my case Pops, I’m just delivering the news.’
Pops. The name I use for my dad, but not until he got too old to chase me. Dakota testing the boundaries again. I looked at her, in her skinny-legged jeans and black shirt. What the hell did they call this look these days, Goth, Death-metal, extra terrestrial-nihilism? Some parents, the well adjusted ones in therapy, who had read all the psycho-babble self help books, would call it “going through a phase”, others would see it as evidence of some deep seated propensity towards satanic worship, and prescribe an extended stay at Christian summer camp to expunge the demons.
‘You fancy a stay at Christian summer camp this year?’ I asked tentatively.
Dakota flipped her head towards me, like it was going to spin off her shoulders. ‘You been talking to Mom?’
‘I don’t talk to your mom Dakota, as I think you know, she talk
s to her lawyer who talks to my lawyer who…’
Dakota scowled suspiciously. ‘That creep Steve is a Beverly Hills Holy-roller, he gives money to the church, can you believe that? Actually gives money to those Jesus-freaks. Religion is ruining the world, you know that dad, don’t you?’
Steve the boyfriend, Steve the younger man, Steve the Bel-Air trust fund heir-head, with nothing to do all day but stay tanned and play tennis. I gave a sigh, ‘Didn’t someone once say something about not judging people unless you are prepared to be judged yourself?’
‘Ozzy Osbourne?’ asked Dakota, innocently.
‘Hilarious,’ I said, ‘and anxious though I am to talk over the merits or otherwise, of your mother’s god-bothering boyfriend, you are changing the subject here, regarding the whereabouts of your sister.’
‘What am I, her keeper now? She drove over to Mom’s with that jock-boy loser she is seeing. Said she had to pick up some things for the morning.’
I gave Dakota the hard eye. ‘You lie to me, I will melt down your Marilyn Manson albums and make a giant black crucifix to go on your coffin.’
Dakota tossed her head in exasperation, ‘Albums dad? That is sooooo old school it’s fossilized.’
I gave her a knowing look. ‘How about I come around your house and hard wire your cable TV so it only picks up Christian channels?’
‘You wouldn’t’ said Dakota, ‘That would be Illegal.’
I smiled. The horrified look on her face was enough. She knew I wouldn’t do it, but she also knew I could if I wanted to. ‘You know what, this might work to our advantage,’ I said happily.
‘How so?’
‘I thought we might take a ride out to Malibu, grab ourselves some dinner.’ I started up the Dodge, blasting revs out the tail pipes. The roar of the V8 drew looks as we pulled out into traffic.
‘Malibu at this time of day, are you kidding me? That’s miles away,’ groaned Dakota.
