Читать книгу Reason To Kill - Andy Weinberger - Страница 11

Chapter 4

THE NEXT MORNING, on my way out the door, I stop at my mailbox. Still no check from Bleistiff, but I’m not discouraged. The way the mail works, someone told me once, the only reason you get anything at all, is that in the end it’s easier to just deliver it instead of dumping it down a manhole. And that was a guy who worked for the United States Post Office.

I climb into my ancient blue Honda Civic, and with the brown paper shopping bag they gave me at Peet’s I spend a few minutes scooping up the dental floss, the Post-it notes, the dry-cleaning receipts, the old gum wrappers, and other debris scattered around on the floor and on the passenger seat. I’m a tidy fellow at home, but somehow here in the car I let myself go. Don’t know why this always happens, but it does. Every month or so I poke my head in, frown, and vow it will never happen again.

There’s a parking space in front of my local pharmacy on Third, which is a minor miracle. The store is air-conditioned, and some kind of plaintive electronic Mexican music is being piped in, not quite loud enough to hear but not soft enough to ignore, either. I go all the way to the rear where they’re filling prescriptions. There’s a tall, gorgeous Ethiopian clerk in a powder-blue smock standing behind the counter. I ask her if they have that brand-new drug that’s supposed to help with memory loss. “You know what I’m talking about?” I ask. “The one on television?”

Last time we met with Dr. Ali, he mentioned it, thought it might do Loretta some good. You could give it a try, he said. No promises, of course. The medical profession in general, and Dr. Ali in particular, have long ago backed away from that kind of blanket assurance. They mean well, but beyond a certain point it’s just a guessing game; they’re shooting in the dark. My friend smiles broadly. She has such beautiful white teeth, I think. Beautiful cheekbones and astonishing deep green eyes. In the olden days, when I was single, a woman like this could lead me into trouble, or out of it, for that matter. I wouldn’t care. Now she leads me down the aisle, past the aspirin and the allergy sprays and the sleeping remedies, right to it.

“It’s very expensive,” she says with concern, scanning the label, “but even so, we can’t keep it on the shelf. I think it’s made from jellyfish. Something like that.” She’s just being honest, not trying to sell me. If anything, it’s a warning. I know that, which only makes me want to buy it all the more.

Traffic is light along La Brea. A stiff breeze has been blowing all night and now it’s one of those magnificent crystal-clear days ad men used to write about when they sold plots of Los Angeles to the world. I turn west on Beverly. It’s the middle of the week. The sushi bars are closed until later, as is the boutique ice cream parlor and L.A. Eyeworks. A gaggle of tourists in baggy shorts and sweatshirts has started queuing up outside the cyclone fence at CBS. Me, I’ve never cared enough about television to want to sit in an audience, let alone stand in line for hours for the privilege. Otherwise it’s quiet. I count just half a dozen Orthodox Jews on their way to shul with their beards and black suits and Borsalino hats, and to my happy surprise, there’s not a single homeless body lying on the sidewalk. Things are looking up, Parisman.

I make a right at Crescent Heights which turns into Laurel Canyon at Sunset. Soon I’m climbing a long, winding hillside framed in shadows. Scrub oak and eucalyptus on either side. Famous people used to live in the remote corners of this place, and maybe some still do. Just not the famous people I know anymore. That’s the problem. You get older. Certain celebrities you resonated with—we called them stars back then—certain comedians make you laugh when you’re a kid, certain actors you always go to see. They’re your family, your tribe. You collect them, one by one. Then, after a while, you stop. You say that’s it, what’s the point? But other people—younger people—they’re coming along, too, and they don’t know your kin. They have their own favorites. Singers and comics and stars you never heard of. And pretty soon there’s this great chasm between the generations. Nothing you can do. If I say Milton Berle or Jackie Gleason to Omar, for instance, he’ll just look at me.

At the top of Laurel Canyon is Mulholland Drive, a spectacular road with views of Hollywood and beyond. Weekend nights, we’d come up here as teenagers in our parents’ Plymouths and Oldsmobiles. It seemed remote from the city back then, and more to the point, it was a great place to fool around in the back seat with girls. None of us knew exactly what we were doing. We wanted: That was obvious. We wanted so much, it hurt. But I can’t say how much we really achieved on those dates. Of course, you could always brag. You could walk into chemistry class Monday morning and say anything you liked—no one would know. No one would ever call you a liar. I took a bunch of charming ladies up there. I always had high hopes, and what I recall now is that, though I tried my best, I rarely hit the ball out of the park. It was a different time, maybe. Toni Funicello told me once—after I had worked my way painstakingly through two layers of her clothing, plus a girdle—that she wanted to, she really did, but she just couldn’t. She was a good Catholic girl, she said; she was saving herself for her wedding night. Anyway.

Pincus Bleistiff’s home is not too hard to find. Like most places around here, it’s a mini fortress. I have to halt at the wrought-iron gate. I lean out of my car window and press a red call button that activates a plastic box fitted onto a post by the driver’s side. I don’t recognize the voice that answers, but it doesn’t matter because the gate slowly swings open and I proceed down a one-lane cobblestone path, past a cluster of wild oaks toward the main house. It’s a two-story affair with reinforced stone set back behind a well-trimmed, very green lawn. Kind of like a castle, but minus the moat and the turrets and those tiny cutout places where archers used to crouch. That’s my first impression, anyway. The slate roof is pea green and way steeper than it needs to be for Southern California. A good roof for Norway, I think. That’s one explanation. Or maybe the architect thought we were due for another Ice Age, I dunno. The front door is made of solid oak. It’s painted dark blue and has a big black metal knob in the shape of a bear claw. Which adds still another layer of unease. That’s my second impression. It’s like I’m caught in the middle of Hansel and Gretel and Little Red Riding Hood—all those dark Teutonic fairy tales that used to keep me up at night.

Bleistiff swings open the door, sees who it is, smiles. “Parisman!” he says. He grabs my hand, pumps it. He’s wearing gray jeans and a lavender T-shirt that’s one size too big for him. Across the chest, in gold block letters, it reads Hydrogen is in the air.

I look at it. “What are you trying to say, Pinky?”

“It’s a joke,” he says. “Hydrogen is in the air.”

“Right.”

“But the minute you point that out,” he says, “some people—people who don’t read, don’t think, don’t know anything—they get nervous. Trust me. I’ve seen it happen a thousand times in my life. You want to mess with someone’s mind, you know what you do? Just tell the truth.”

“You pack a lot into one line,” I say. “But yeah, okay, I get it.”

“I thought you would.”

He puts his arm around me and we go inside. He’s got a large cushy living room with a bay window that looks out over Hollywood. Two plum-colored couches on opposite sides with spotlights streaming down from the ceiling. Lots of fluffy throw pillows and other chairs and small tables scattered around. It could hold two dozen people, easy. There’s a white baby grand piano facing the windows and a young woman working it over diligently with a dust cloth. I spot another one who looks just like her, maybe it’s her mother, stouter, shorter, in sweatpants and sneakers, standing in the kitchen looking on. She’s holding a plastic bucket and a mop.

I point to the piano. “I thought you don’t play any instruments.”

“Oh that? No, I don’t. I bought that at an estate sale years ago. Someone said it belonged to Liberace. That he practiced on it. No proof, of course. What I was told.”

He points out some of the other rooms, including the practice room downstairs. There’s a full drum kit and music stands, another piano, anything a musician could want. Then we go back up to the living room. He offers me coffee and I shake my head. “I just came by to chat about the case,” I say.

“Hey, that’s great,” he says. “Because I have some news, too. Last night Dark Dreidel had a practice and guess who showed up? Markowitz, the drummer, and Art Kaplan, my lead fiddle.”

“So they’re not missing after all,” I say. “That mean you’re reducing my fee?”

“No,” he says. “Of course not.”

“So where’d they disappear to?”

“The drummer said he was stuck in jail in San Diego. Held incommunicado. Between you and me, I don’t believe him. I bet it was Tijuana. He could have called from San Diego, wouldn’t you say? Even from jail. In America, you always get a call, right? Don’t they let you call?”

“Maybe, yeah. In America. But maybe he just didn’t call you.”

“Yeah, well, he should have. He has a little drinking problem. I guess it got away from him. I’m thinking about finding a replacement. We can’t have a shicker like that in the band. That won’t work.”

“And Kaplan?”

“Kaplan? Kaplan was just a mix-up. His mother had a stroke and died in Brooklyn. Nobody expected it. He rushed back home to be with her, which I understand. But then there was the funeral. That took some time. He told his roommate to let us know.”

“And?”

“And that guy’s a flake. The roommate. He dropped the ball.”

“So that leaves Risa Barsky,” I say. “Which is what I came here to talk to you about.”

“You found her?” He leans forward. His eyes are fixed on mine. “Is she okay?”

“Haven’t found her yet, but as of last night, she was alive and well.” Then I tell him a little bit about my encounter with Lola Emery, how she let me walk through Risa’s battered apartment. “Clearly,” I say, “somebody’s out there who doesn’t like her.”

Pinky shakes his head. “I don’t get it,” he says. “Everyone loves Risa. Everyone. She walks in, the whole room lights up. You know what I’m saying?”

“Maybe an old boyfriend didn’t have the same opinion,” I offer. “You know anyone she dated?”

He shakes his head again. “She hasn’t been in California very long. A year or so. And we never talk about that stuff. Just, you know, music gigs. Like I say, everybody liked her.”

He rises slowly from the couch, goes to a nearby desk, and returns with some small glossy black-and-white headshots of Risa. “I forgot to give you these,” he says. “They’re from a few years back. From when she was working the clubs in New York. She’s put on a little weight since then. We were going to make a record and—”

“Thanks.”

“And well, maybe they’ll do you some good.”

He hands them over to me. There are six photos in all; I glance at them one by one, then tuck them into my jacket pocket.

“Here’s the thing, Pinky. This isn’t just a missing person case anymore. I’m happy to keep hunting for her, but now that somebody’s out there threatening her, or at least scaring her half to death, well, the cops are going to be involved. At least the Van Nuys cops. There’s probably no way around that.”

“I understand,” he says. The mention of police has darkened his mood. He checks his wristwatch and makes a slight grimace, like he just remembered an appointment he has with a federal prosecutor. He walks me to the door. He reminds me of what he said the other day at Canter’s. That he’d promised to call the cops if it wasn’t resolved. “But now Markowitz and Kaplan are back, right? So we’re getting somewhere. And they can play without her for now. They’re pros.”

“I’m sure they can,” I say.

His arm moves tentatively to my shoulder. He leaves it there for a few seconds. It’s a tiny gesture, so tiny and harmless it almost didn’t happen, except it did. I’m not offended, but it does make me wonder. Maybe he’s thinking I’m as overwhelmed as he is inside, or maybe everything is naturally personal in his world, or maybe he’s one of those touchy-feely Hollywood guys who’s been around so long he doesn’t know any other way to express himself.

“I just want her to be safe,” he mumbles. “That’s the long and short of it, Parisman. Really, that’s my only interest. You want to call the cops, you go ahead.”

I don’t tell him about my conversations with Lieutenant Malloy. I tell him I’ll keep on it and get back to him as soon as I learn anything else. I settle into my car and turn the key. And I’m halfway down the cobblestone driveway when I realize that I completely forgot to ask whether or not he mailed my check.

By the time I get down from Laurel Canyon, my stomach is telling me I’m hungry. I stop at an organic cafeteria on Sunset near Cahuenga. It’s right across the street from the mom-andpop bank I used to go to before they got big and forgot who their customers were. The cafeteria has a line out the door, but it moves quickly. It’s full of twentysomethings lost in their cell phones, which doesn’t surprise me since that’s what most of LA looks like. Everyone is friendly, or distracted, or both at once somehow. I check out the handwritten overhead food menu. I’ve been here before. It’s a place where they specialize in hummus and couscous and tahini and fresh-squeezed lime drinks infused with ginger and a few other mysterious ingredients. I play it safe with the hummus platter, a small Greek salad, and a large iced tea. This is how I’m trying to eat these days, or rather this is how Dr. Flynn would like me to eat. He’s also told me a dozen times that he’d prefer it if I chose some safer line of work, too, but that’s not going to happen.

I eat half the salad and about a third of the hummus platter before I lose interest altogether. Then I call Lieutenant Malloy. He seems in a better frame of mind. Maybe he’s had lunch. Yeah, maybe that’s it.

“You can forget about two of the missing musicians, Bill. I’ll bet that’s a load off your head.”

“Which two?”

“The drummer and the fiddle player. They both turned up for rehearsal. The drummer claims he was locked up in San Diego but my client thinks it was Tijuana.”

“Locked up where? For what?”

“Locked up? Where—I don’t know, probably a county facility. For what? Try drunk and disorderly. David Markowitz.”

“That should be easy to track down,” he says. “And the fiddle player? What jail was he in?”

“Went to Brooklyn for his mom’s funeral, apparently. But forget about him. The problem—and it’s a real one—is Risa Barsky, the singer. I went through her apartment.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says. “Somebody trashed it. You told me already.”

“Sorry, I’m an old man, an alte katchke. I repeat things. You will, too, someday.”

He ignores my little jab. “And still no sign of her, huh?” he asks. “Nothing?”

“Well, not nothing. Looks like she came back after it happened, grabbed a few schmattes, and left. The neighbor saw her come back last night for five minutes to collect a few more things, but she didn’t stick around the second time, either. What do you think?”

Malloy doesn’t speak for a while. “I think you should call the Van Nuys Police, let them handle it. Not my bailiwick, is it?”

“No, it’s not. But that’s not what I mean, Bill.”

He clears his throat. “No, of course not. You want me to tell you what I think, which you’re hoping comports with what you think. Okay, so here’s our working hypothesis: Risa What’s-her-name is a beautiful, talented singer. Everything would be coming up roses for her except for one little detail. She has terrible taste in men. She is drawn—kind of like the proverbial moth to the flame, if you get my drift. She may not even be aware of it, but she finds strong, jealous, even violent men, irresistible. And if you ask me, she just found one.”

“All that came to you just because someone broke into her apartment and trashed it? That’s impressive, Lieutenant. You deserve a raise.”

“I’m just giving you the obvious scenario, Amos. What any rookie cop from Van Nuys would come up with. No more, no less.”

“Does that mean you don’t think that’s what’s happening?”

“It could be. Whoever got in had a key. He—and I’m fairly sure it was a he—didn’t have to climb a ladder or jimmy open a door, so she knew him well enough to let him have a key. To me, that says, boyfriend or father or brother. Someone close. And unless her father or her brother have mental health issues, well, I would toss them out of the mix.”

“I don’t know, Bill. You’re right, it comports with my thinking, but now that I hear it coming out of your mouth, well, it’s just another theory.”

“Right. And you never want to get too comfortable with your own ideas,” he says, “even if they make perfect sense. Criminology 101.”

He tells me again that he’ll look into the true whereabouts of Markowitz and Kaplan to see if their stories are on the up-and-up. I ask him if he could also run a check on Pincus Bleistiff as well. “I’d like to know who I’m dealing with,” I tell him. “Just as a precaution.”

“He’s like you, right—a member of the tribe? And you don’t trust him?”

“Sure, sure, I trust him. I even like him. He’s funny. But he still hasn’t paid me what he owes me.”