by David Chill
I didn’t really know who to talk to next, so I stopped off at a Starbucks in downtown Culver City to mull things over. Every table was filled. I took my grande Italian roast and strode down the street, winding up in the lobby of the Culver Hotel. A nicely dressed bellhop in a gray outfit asked if I was checking in, and I told him I was just waiting for someone. He said all right and walked away. I strolled to an overstuffed couch and sat down. The couch was big and comfy, with a number of soft pillows tossed about, and it faced a series of large bay windows where a rush of sunlight poured in. The ceiling was twenty-five-feet high, and a half-dozen elegant chandeliers hung from it.
The Culver Hotel has been around for nearly a century and was built by the same Harry Culver after whom the city was named. The hotel was a big deal back then, when the nearby MGM studios hit their heyday. The place wound up having many owners, and legend had it that a previous proprietor, Charlie Chaplin, once lost the establishment to John Wayne in a poker match. The Duke was so impressed with his newfound status as a hotel squire that he immediately donated the building to a charity. Over the years the hotel, not surprisingly with its varied and uninvolved ownership, had fallen into disrepair; some people even whispered it was haunted. But a few years ago, new buyers purchased the place, fixed things up, and it suddenly experienced a renaissance as a trendy boutique hotel.
Sipping my coffee, I worked my iPad. Through LinkedIn, I learned Wyatt Angstrom was a senior vice president with Fox Television. The specifics of his position were vague, something about aligning digital strategies and new technologies into a revenue-based marketing platform. I took that to mean he had a rather boring career, because my mind began to wander halfway through reading his job description. He had graduated fifteen years ago from a university in Florida that I had never heard of.
I called the Fox general number, and was rerouted a half-dozen times. I finally got through to Wyatt Angstrom, who, after placing me on hold for five minutes, came back on and said he would be able to see me first thing in the morning. I asked what first thing in the morning meant in his world and he told me nine-thirty. I called the Fox number again and asked for Grady Pinn, the college football broadcaster, but the transfer put me straight to voice mail. I left a message and wondered if he would ever get it.
I continued to cruise the internet, finding little more about Wyatt Angstrom, but there was a treasure trove of slinky photos and salacious gossip about Amanda Zeal. The photos were the standard swimsuit shots, but the scuttlebutt ranged from romantic involvement to testy altercations with a number of current pro football players. The one name that jumped out at me was Xavier Bishop, a former USC football player I had met a few years ago. X was now playing for the Buffalo Bills, which meant his season was now over, as the playoffs had begun. I did a search on him and saw that he lived in nearby Baldwin Hills, noting the address. I called the phone number I had, and left a message.
It was now almost four, and I had run out of things to do today for Phil Zellis. I drove home to an empty house, empty only because Gail was still at work and Marcus had a play date at the Hartnetts, our new neighbors who had a son Marcus’s age. I strolled into their backyard and watched Marcus kick a soccer ball back and forth with his new friend, Brendan. After a couple of minutes, he managed to notice me.
“Daddy!”
“Good kicking, Marcus,” I said, giving him a hug when he ran up to me.
“I think we got a pair of future strikers here,” said Will Hartnett, walking over and shaking my hand.
It goes without saying that my preference for Marcus’s athletic future would have been to strike down opposing ball carriers, or to dart downfield, plucking a tight spiral out of the air. It seemed, though, he’d rather simply kick a defenseless soccer ball. I regularly got him to play catch with me in our backyard, throwing a football back and forth, but I think I got more fun out of it than he did. Kids often decide what sport is right for them. In our case, however, the decider might be my wife, Gail, who exhibited little interest in seeing Marcus don a helmet and delve into battle.
“I’m glad they’re enjoying themselves,” I managed. “Thanks for taking him after school.”
“Not a problem,” he said. “I work from home, so this is a nice break.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a day trader.”
“Ah,” I said, thinking that job was not far removed from being a professional gambler. “How’s the market?”
“Down for most of the day. Recovered in the last hour, so I made some money. Good day overall.”
“Beats a bad day.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Hey, I read a few minutes ago that there’s going to be an opening in the City Attorney’s office.”
“Oh?” I said. Will Hartnett was well aware Gail worked as an Assistant City Attorney. “Someone get caught with their hand in the cookie jar?”
“Nah. Mayor’s office is open. The City Attorney, Jay Sutker. He’s announced he’s going to run. I don’t know if he’ll win, but it means the City Attorney job is going to be vacant. Gail going to throw her hat in the ring?”
I gave the standard palms-up sign to signify I had no idea, which was about as honest a reaction as I could muster. Gail and I had never talked directly about this, but I knew she had an interest in politics, and I knew she would be terrific at most anything she set her mind to do. I also knew I would be an albatross around her beautiful neck.
“She’s good, my friend. Let me know if she’s running. I’m happy to volunteer.”
“I’ll remember that,” I said, and signaled to Marcus that it was time to go home.
“Aw, do I have to?” he said, glumly.
“Well, I thought maybe you could help me surprise Mom with dinner.”
“Oh, yeah? What are we having?”
“Maybe we can barbecue some hamburgers.”
“Yay! I love those!”
Will Hartnett laughed at Marcus’s exuberance. “Enjoy them. Nothing beats L.A. in January. Back home in Chicago, we don’t break out the barbecues until May. Otherwise, we’d be brushing snow off the lids.”
“I can only imagine,” I said. Marcus and I headed across the street into our house and then out onto the back patio. I pulled the cover off of our grill and piled some charcoal briquettes into a metal cylinder, stuffing a few pieces of newspaper in the bottom and lighting it with a match. Gail always chided me for not buying a gas barbecue, pointing out that charcoal took too long to get hot, and created too much smoke. I would listen politely and smile to myself. The complaining always stopped when she bit into dinner. There are benefits to being old-school.
After I insisted that he wash his hands thoroughly with soap, Marcus helped out with dinner by throwing a carefully measured handful of seasoning into the pile of ground beef, mixing it up, and then trying to mold the meat into patties. The shapes invariably looked nothing like a hamburger. After he was finished with his handiwork, which better resembled a few bizarre dinosaurs than anything close to conventional food, I took over and smacked the concoction back and forth in my palms, bringing them into burger-like form.
We were getting ready to place the meat on the grill when Gail arrived. She swept Marcus up into her arms and gave him a kiss before setting him back down. She then wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me.
“I’m second now, huh?” I said with a hint of petulance.
“You’re both first,” she smiled. “Marcus is just easier to lift.”
“True.”
“And I love that my boys are making dinner.”
“You know the secret to making good barbecued burgers?”
“Do tell.”
“You never push the hamburgers down with a spatula. I’ve seen lots of people do this. The grease squirts into the coals and it sparks a fire which chars the meat. But all the juice leaks out that way and you end up with a dry burger.”
“Funny how you never mentioned that before.”
“I have to hold some
things confidential. Keeps the spark in a marriage. That way, you’re always learning new things.”
“I certainly am,” she smiled. “And what else are we having besides burgers?”
I looked down at Marcus and he looked up at me. Neither of us said a word, although the expressions on our faces probably spoke volumes. We looked over at Gail simultaneously. “I guess we hadn’t gotten that far planning the menu.”
“Let me see what I can scrounge up,” she said and walked into the house.
By the time the burgers were done, Gail had already made a salad and microwaved some tater tots. The burgers came out juicy, and as we dug in, we asked Marcus about his day, mostly learning all about his soccer practice and a girl in his preschool class who kept bothering him. I told Marcus it was because the girl liked him and wanted his attention, and I smiled at his vehement denials. After we finished, Marcus went off to watch TV, and Gail and I began to do the dishes.
“I understand there was some news today.”
Gail turned to me. “You heard about Sutker.”
“I did. Have you known about this?”
“I heard the rumors a few days ago. But he’s mostly kept it under wraps.”
“What do you think?”
“I think he’s got a chance to be mayor.”
I rubbed my eyes. “Who do you think will replace him in your office?”
Gail dried her hands and turned toward me. “I sense what you’re thinking.”
“Okay. Please tell me, because I’m honestly not so certain myself.”
Gail watched me for a long moment. Her clear gray eyes, the eyes that always reminded me of soft, spring raindrops, no longer looked very clear and no longer looked very soft. Her eyes, of course, didn’t really change, but rather the expression around them, the unspoken communication that sometimes reveals a person’s soul. There was a stirring inside of Gail, something different, an anxiety perhaps, a sense that her world was not as assured as it had been.
“This is an opportunity that may not come again for another eight years,” she started. “Maybe longer.”
“I know. Running for City Attorney is a big deal.”
“If I run and win, our lives will change.”
“Yes,” I agreed.
Her lips closed tightly for a second. “I can’t do it if you’re not for it. And if you’re okay with the scrutiny this will bring on us.”
It was my turn to take a long pause. “I don’t want to hold you back. But I don’t want you to get tarred with the same brush that took down my career as a police officer. That will come up in the campaign. It’s almost guaranteed. Politics is a dirty business. Especially in L.A.”
“I have no problems with your past. You know what really happened and so do I. You did nothing wrong.”
“But you’re aware of the business I’m in. I sometimes have to investigate some nasty people. And it can occasionally get in the papers. It hasn’t been a big deal before this. A few people you work with probably know, but most don’t. That will change.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“And I think that’s why you never took the name Burnside. You still go by Gail Pepper.”
“I didn’t do it because of what I was afraid people might think,” she said. “I did it because it’s how I became known in law school and as a young attorney. I didn’t think it was important to take your name. But we never discussed it. I never brought it up and neither did you. So let me ask you now. Do you think it’s important?”
I shook my head. “Of all the things in the world to worry about, that’s way down on the list. Probably at the bottom.”
“Good,” she sighed.
“And just so you know, the name Pepper describes you well. Pretty hot.”
Gail smiled for what seemed like the first time in an eternity, although it probably was just a few minutes. “You know, there will be a lot of attorneys dipping their toes in the water here. Seeing if they want to jump into the race. And there are certainly no guarantees I’ll win. I very well might lose.”
“Life is full of uncertainty. But better to know than to not know. Maybe that’s why Sutker is running for mayor. You only get a few shots at the brass ring. If you decide to wait, the opportunity might not be there later. If it’s your time, you want to seize the moment. You don’t want it to pass.”
“True.”
“Sutker may have some trouble getting elected mayor, as well. I’ve heard Arthur Woo is planning to run.”
“How do you know this? Local politics isn’t really your thing.”
“You recall I met with Arthur recently. I had a few questions regarding that case I worked on, the one featuring our dearly departed city councilman. The late Colin Glasscock. Arthur casually mentioned the mayor was termed out this year. Arthur’s ambitious. He said you were, too.”
“Oh?” Gail said, eyebrows raised. “I didn’t think he’d remember me. We’ve only met a few times. The first time was at that debate where his brother was up against Rex Palmer.”
“You made a lasting impression apparently,” I said, thinking it was interesting how some women had an ungodly lack of awareness of the impact they had on men. Gail was one of them. Beautiful on the outside, but not really cognizant of her beauty. She just didn’t seem to think about it much.
“I guess I have some goals for myself. But it’s not really about career advancement or acquiring power. The City Attorney’s office could be run a lot better. Less infighting. More technological progress. And I’m not sure the other candidates who’ll run for the job have an interest in doing that. To some people, it’s a stepping stone to the next level.”
“Like being mayor,” I observed.
Gail tried to push back the smile. “Perhaps. My boss has made no bones about the fact that he’d like to be running things at City Hall. For him, the mayor’s job has always been in his sights. And maybe statewide office after that. He’s not a bad guy, but there have been some ugly rumors about him. And he often makes decisions that are aimed at improving his public profile, not what’s best for prosecuting criminals.”
“Mommy,” came a voice from behind us. We turned and looked at Marcus.
“Sweetie, how long have you been listening to us?” Gail asked.
“I dunno,” he said. “But what’s a mayor do?”
“A mayor,” Gail answered, “is like the leader of the city. He makes important decisions.”
“Does he own the city?”
“No,” she said. “He just tries to help people. My boss is going to try and be mayor. Don’t you think that’s exciting?”
“Brendan’s dad says the mayor’s a crook. Is your boss a crook, too?”
Gail looked at me and I shrugged in response. I decided to let the silver-tongued politician respond to that one, and she took Marcus aside for a chat. My suspicion was that might take a little while. I opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of Blue Moon, and walked into the den. Marcus had been watching a cartoon featuring two characters battling each other with light sabers. I changed it to a sports channel that featured a group of former football players arguing and yelling about who would be playing in the Super Bowl in a few weeks. The difference between the two shows seemed minimal at best. I sat back to watch, but found myself listening more to Gail and Marcus.
“I wouldn’t call him a crook, Marcus,” Gail said slowly, her tone being careful and measured. “Not exactly.”
Chapter 3
Mid-January in Los Angeles can bring forth a wide range of weather, but it is rarely bad weather. We’ve had occasional hot days that get up into the 90s, and torrential rainstorms where the water practically comes down in sheets. We can even get temperatures that dip into the frigid range, although for Los Angeles, frigid is mostly defined as slipping below 50 degrees. We rarely get snow and we never get blizzards. What we normally get in January are days like today. Cool mornings that start in the mid-50s, evolving into mild afternoons that settle pleasantly into the high-60s. Gai
l calls it sweater weather. I would too, except I don’t wear sweaters. A jacket does a far superior job of camouflaging the .357 tucked surreptitiously into the nylon mesh holster underneath my armpit.
I arrived at the Fox lot on Pico at ten after nine. My name was on the invited list of guests, which meant the security guard was friendly when he directed me toward the garage. There had been instances when I entered a studio lot and was not treated so friendly. Even with an LAPD badge, security was reluctant to allow me in without my name appearing on the special list. A brief discussion about the jail time waiting for those interfering with law enforcement duties often finished that conversation.
Another security guard waved for me to stop as I pulled up to the garage. He instructed me to pop the trunk of my Pathfinder, but knowing the handle was notoriously difficult to locate, I got out and walked around to show him personally. Lifting the back door up, I pointed to the empty gasoline can, jumper cables, a half-full gallon of windshield washer fluid, and the earthquake bag Gail packed and then repacked each year for me. It was an unremarkable pile of gear that would likely injure no one, except possibly myself.
“Everything look okay?” I asked.
The guard reached over and unzipped the earthquake bag and briefly rummaged through it. Finding little more than a blanket, bottled water and some canned food, he re-zipped it and nodded approvingly at me.
“You’re good,” he said.
“Still getting terrorist threats these days?”
“We get threats, but they’re almost always just that. I doubt they’re from terrorists, though.”
“Who are they from?”
“Probably screenwriters,” he smiled, giving me a wink. “And the occasional studio exec that’s been fired. Lots of guys that talk tough. But that’s all it normally is. Talk.”
