“What do you want?” the woman said.
“I’m trying to talk to anybody who might have seen the man who hurt your neighbor, Desiree Parks.”
Long pause.
“Please go away,” she said.
I thought I heard a voice, a smaller voice—a child?—in the background. Then the woman’s voice saying, “Be quiet.”
“I work for a lawyer,” I said, which was becoming my new mantra. It was the only thing that gave me a whiff of legitimacy.
I heard the small voice again.
Then the woman. “Would you mind backing away from the door?”
“Sure.” I took two steps backward.
The woman opened the door and stepped out. She was around thirty, I guessed, black, wearing blue jeans and a red, pullover blouse.
And she was not alone.
Holding her hand was a boy, probably eight. He was in jeans and a Rams T-shirt and tennis shoes.
“My son says you talked to him before,” the woman said.
It clicked. To the boy I said, “Are you the security guy, with the periscope?”
The boy nodded.
“We did talk,” I said to the mom. “I’m an investigator, trying to find one of your neighbors, Brooklyn.”
“I know her name.”
“Do you also know Desiree?”
The woman nodded.
“Someone beat her up,” I said. Off her look, I added, “It wasn’t me.”
“I know,” she said.
“You know?”
“Better come inside,” she said.
THE WOMAN CLOSED the door and faced me.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” she said, “but I want it to stop.”
“I’m not sure what’s going on either,” I said. “And I want to find out. May I know your name?”
“I’d rather not say,” she said.
“Okay,” I said.
“I mean, I know how this can go down.”
“You’re afraid of retaliation.”
She nodded.
“I get it,” I said. “I won’t reveal anything you tell me.”
“Not even to the police?”
“Not even.”
“You said you’re investigating?”
I took an Ira lawyer card out and gave it to her. “This is the lawyer I work for. We’re trying to locate Brooklyn. When I came here I met Desiree, and talked to her. Then today a crazy man fired a shotgun at me.”
“Mr. Stalboerger,” she said. “He’s a piece of work. Is that how come your pants are ripped?”
“A little ventilation,” I said. “It could’ve been worse.”
The boy said, “Tell him.”
The mother said, “Eric was using his periscope out the window. He saw a big man go into Desiree’s apartment, and then come out later.”
“A big man?” I said.
The boy nodded.
“How big?” I asked.
“Like you,” the boy said.
“Did you notice anything else about him?” I said.
The boy tugged on his mother’s sweater, motioned for her to bend down. When she did, he whispered something in her ear.
She straightened up. “He had dark skin. Not like yours.”
The boy tugged again, the mother listened again.
“He had a picture on his arm,” she said. “I guess he means a tattoo. He says it was a dog in a hat.”
A little memory flashed. “Do you have a computer or tablet handy?”
There was a laptop on the kitchen table. The mom gave me permission to do a search. I typed in USMC bulldog tattoo and came up with a page of images. With Eric at my side I scrolled slowly. He stopped me and pointed to one.
“That one,” he said.
I stood. “That’s all I need. Thank you. You’ve been a great help. And everything we’ve done is confidential.”
I put out my hand for the boy. We shook.
“Good work, Eric,” I said.
The woman offered her hand to me. “My name’s Lynette,” she said.
WE ALL CARRY monsters around inside us. One of the main questions philosophy asks is, can we kill our monsters? If not, can we tame them?
I was thinking about that as I drove away from Brooklyn’s building. I knew, the way farmers sense a storm coming, that I’d better be prepared to exercise some serious self-control. Because I was burning to have a talk with a certain bartender at Kahuna’s.
Which is why I decided to head to a boxing gym in the Valley. Jimmy’s is a traditional prizefighting space. I discovered it shortly after getting to L.A. It’s a place I can go and work on the heavy bag, the speed bag, jump a little rope, work up a sweat and watch the younger fighters going through their paces.
I had some gym clothes in the back of my car. I checked out a pair of mitts at the counter and went over to start on the heavy bag. Jimmy’s has a boxing ring in the middle, and workout stations all around.
I’d been giving the bag something to think about for five minutes when Jimmy himself came over.
Jimmy Sarducci is a short, stocky, third-generation Italian-American who was a Golden Gloves flyweight champion back in the day. He’s gotten a little large around the belt, but his gray hair is thick and held in the grip of about half a canister of mousse.
We greeted each other and I kept at the bag. Jimmy does that, wanders the gym and watches the guys—and the occasional woman—as they work out.
After I peppered a few more punches, Jimmy said, “You got the look.”
“The look?” I said.
“You are a Greek god.”
I snorted and hit the bag with a solid right.
“Which one?” I said.
Jimmy cocked his head.
“There’s a whole pantheon of Greek gods,” I said. “Which one do you think I am?”
“It’s just a way of talking,” Jimmy said. “I don’t know from Greek gods. One of those guys throwing lightning or something?”
“That would be Zeus. He’s the king. But he’s a jerk. I don’t want to be Zeus.”
“I don’t really care who—”
“Then there’s Heracles.”
“There’s who?”
Bap, bap. A combination. I said, “Heracles is the Greek name for Hercules. I don’t want to be Heracles either, because he was only half a god and he was a jerk, too.”
“All I was talking about—”
“What about Hermes? Now he was a smart kid. They say that by noon of the day he was born he crawled right out of his cradle and invented the lyre.”
“What’d he lie about?”
“The lyre is a stringed instrument, Jimmy. Hermes was a herald, a messenger, and had wings on his heels. That would be something good for a boxer to have, wouldn’t it?”
“I think so, but I’m—”
“I don’t want to be a Greek god at all, Jimmy. I go for the Norse. If I have to be somebody, let it be Thor.”
“I saw that movie!”
Pop, pop, pop. Right, left, right to the bag. “I’m not talking about some Hollywood beefcake. I’m talking about the real Thor. The guy with the hammer. The god of thunder.”
“Wait a minute!” Jimmy said. “That’s how I’ll bill you. The Hammer!”
I stopped punching. “Bill me?”
“When you fight for me,” Jimmy said.
“You want to manage me?”
He grabbed my wrist. “Make a fist,” he said.
I did.
He held my fist in the air. “That’s your hammer.”
“Let me finish my workout, Jimmy, and then maybe we can talk.”
I had no intention of fighting for anyone.
“Okay, Hammer,” Jimmy said.
I DID ANOTHER twenty minutes on the heavy bag. Jumped rope for ten minutes, did some push-ups and crunches.
Midway through the crunch set something occurred to me. When I was done I grabbed a towel off the shelf and ran it over my face and arms then hung it around my neck. I we
nt over to the ring where Jimmy was watching a couple of young fighters pretend they were raging bulls.
“There he is,” Jimmy said. “The Hammer!”
“Can we step into your office a minute?” I said.
“To sign a contract?”
“You may not want to manage me after you hear me out.”
“There’s nothing you can say to me that would get me to forget we have invented a legend here.”
“Your office, please.”
Jimmy’s office was cubical size. Every square inch of wall was covered with photographs of boxers, framed items from newspapers, a few motivational sayings done in fancy font and held up by yellowing tape:
Keep punching. You always have a puncher’s chance.
Defeat is not when you fall. It’s when you don’t stand up again.
Work hard, think fast—and then you’ll last.
Jimmy’s desk was a sea of detritus. Stacks of papers, fight magazines, nubs of pencils—I liked it that somebody still used pencils. Jimmy sat behind the desk, settling into a squeaky, wooden executive-type chair, something you would’ve found in a lawyer’s office around 1954.
The only other furniture in the place was a corner stool from a fight ring. I sat on it, sinking to Jimmy’s eye level.
“So what do we have to talk about?” he said.
“How long you been in the fight game in L.A.?” I said.
“Oh, thirty years now,” he said. “I came out from New Jersey to be a consultant on a boxing movie that Mickey Rourke was gonna do. But he couldn’t get it funded. I decided I liked the warm weather and set down some roots. Also there were some guys in Jersey wanted to kill me, so it seemed like a good time to start over.”
“Kill you?”
Jimmy shrugged. “Sometimes in this business you get on the wrong side of people. Blame it on the Bossa Nova.”
“The who?”
“You remember the song, don’t you?”
“What song?”
“Blame it on the Bossa Nova,” he said. “Eydie Gormé.”
“Before my time,” I said.
“My time is your time,” he said. “What’s up?”
“You’ve probably run into a lot of muscle,” I said. “The kind who do things to people for a price.”
Jimmy leaned toward me. His chair squeaked like a haunted house door. “I don’t know if I like where this is going.”
“It hasn’t gone anywhere yet,” I said.
“Keep punching.”
“I work for a lawyer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“And I’m looking for a woman.”
“Join the club.”
“A woman who’s gone missing,” I said. “There’s a punk who beat up another woman, a neighbor of the missing one, and I want to know why. I thought I might ask if you know anything about a bartender in Malibu by the name of Kalolo.”
Jimmy steepled his fingers and looked at one wall of fight photos.
After a beat or two, he looked back t me and said, “I got your word this conversation stays here?”
“You’ve got my word,” I said.
“ ’Cause to most people, word don’t mean jack. I still got some honor. I want to know if you got honor.”
“Aristotle said the two greatest virtues were courage and honor.”
“Aristotle, huh?” Jimmy smiled. “He ever go back on his word?”
“He always paid his toga bills on time. You have my word that this conversation remains confidential.”
“I’m gonna trust you then. But don’t stick me. You do, I never forget.”
“Fair deal,” I said.
Jimmy picked up one of the nubby pencils and started bouncing the eraser end on his desk. “I don’t know the name of this guy that you just said. But I know a guy who might know a guy who might know. Only this guy, the guy who might know, he doesn’t like to be asked questions. There’s got to be something in it for him of a monetary nature.”
“How monetary?”
“Four or five yards.”
“The return on that investment is too risky,” I said. “But maybe we can barter something.”
“Like what?”
“I have no idea. Maybe the guy could use some legal advice. I think it would be worth a meeting.”
“You want me to try to set something up?”
“It would be mighty nice of you, Jimmy.”
“And you want to find this bartender, right?”
“I already know where the bartender is. What I want to know is if he works for someone.”
Jimmy ran his hand over his face. He had the knuckles of an ex-fighter. Gnarled, like a row of walnuts.
“I’ll arrange something,” he said, “but what do you give me? Let’s talk about that little arrangement.”
“How about a big hug?”
“How about you fight for me?”
“Jimmy, you can’t be serious. You want somebody who’s younger and will be around a while, who you can develop.”
“You seen the tomato cans I got around here? Guy who looks like you, shaped like you, you’re box office, baby. The fans you could draw!”
“I don’t do things for fans.”
“The money would be killer.”
“How about you arrange this meeting, and then we’ll have this conversation again?”
“You give me your word on that?”
“You have my word.”
“Bossa Nova,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
AT A LITTLE after ten the next morning I drove up to Kahuna’s. I parked on PCH and put on my Dodgers hat and kept on my shades. I crossed the street and went in through the far door that takes you directly to Kahuna’s outdoor patio where there’s self seating. Here you can sit and watch the ocean through a Plexiglas wind barrier as you sip your beer and make movie deals. Or dream of making them.
And if you get the right table, you can also see inside to the bar area.
I selected the right table.
A waitress came over and placed some silverware wrapped inside a paper napkin on my table, along with a menu. She asked if I’d like something to drink. I ordered a Corona.
Kalolo was at the bar, jawing with a customer. ESPN was on the TV. The sun was shining on the sea.
The waitress returned with my Corona. I pushed the lime wedge through the bottle opening, put my thumb on the top, and turned the bottle upside down. The lime floated upward. I turned the bottle back over and let the fizz out by slowly releasing my thumb.
It made a refreshing hiss. We all need our rituals.
I sipped and watched Kalolo work the bar. A guy came in and sat at the corner. He looked faux low-pro. That’s a celeb who dresses up to look low profile. He usually has a two-day shadow, faded jeans, and a T-shirt that is supposed to look casual but is somehow without a wrinkle. And a baseball hat worn straight. The backward look is so 1999.
This guy had it all.
Kalolo knew him and they exchanged a clumsy dap so they could indulge the illusion of being cool.
I sipped and watched.
I got my fish taco. It was Cajun-crusted with ceviche on top. A few more people had joined me on the patio. The bar stayed pretty much the same.
Then Kalolo stepped out from the bar and headed down the corridor toward the bathrooms. I put a ten dollar bill on the table and followed him.
KALOLO WAS AT a urinal when I entered. I saw that the two stalls had open doors.
We were alone.
He glanced at me.
“Don’t let me stop you,” I said.
In rather colorful terms, he inquired as to my presence.
“I know about Desiree Parks,” I said.
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, man.”
Wrong answer. A guy like this, if he really was ignorant, would have told me to do something awful to myself. But there was that hesitation, that little worm of fear wiggling around inside him. He knew I knew the truth now and he could not for the
life of him figure out how I knew.
“Got you, Kalolo,” I said.
He flushed the toilet. Zipped up. Came toward me.
“Don’t forget to wash your hands,” I said.
One more step, and then he threw a smoked ham fist at my face. His bigness was not an advantage. The trajectory of his blow had more ground to cover and that hair of a second was all I needed to pull my head back. Pacific Island knuckles breezed past my chin.
My reaction was instant, instinctive, and a setback for American-Polynesian relations. I plowed my fist into his right kidney. Pain burst in his eyes. His groan was deep.
I placed my right hand behind his head and slammed his face into the mirror.
The mirror cracked.
From there it was a simple matter to get him to the floor. I held him down by putting my left knee on the back of his neck and a hammerlock on his arm. With my free hand I removed a thick wallet from his back pocket.
Kalolo moaned.
I was glad Kahuna’s preferred loud music. I could hear Billy Joel telling everyone not to worry, ’cause he was all right.
I pulled out the cards he had stuffed in his wallet.
“Mwwaww …” Kalolo said, his face pressed into the floor.
I held him down.
With my free hand I looked at a well-thumbed card for a car mechanic. A black-and-gold card for Kandy’s Attic, A Gentlemen’s Club. An Ace Frozen Yogurt card with eight holes punched in it. He only had four more to go for a free cup.
Then one that seemed out of place. A neat, white business card.
For Dr. Gary Pasfield, UCLA. The guy from the rally.
Funny, but Kalolo didn’t strike me as the scholarly type.
I put the cards back in the wallet and tossed it aside.
“How you doing there, Lightning?” I said.
“Mwawww …”
I had to get out of there before somebody came in. I said, “I know you put the hurt on Desiree Parks. I can prove you did. So if you want to call the cops, you go ahead and do it. Tell them I’ll be watching you from now on.”
Kalolo finally managed to say something coherent.
But it was not nice what he said.
I grabbed his hair, pulled his head up, and hammered the bathroom floor with his face.
He went to sleep.
I walked out.
WHEN I GOT back to my place I went into the bathroom. I took some deep breaths and looked at my grill in the mirror.
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