Eats to Die For! (14 page)

“If something does comes in, delete it immediately,” I said.

“I shall. Don't be late.”

Jack hung up.

An hour would be plenty of time to make it to the Santa Monica location of
The Hound and Badger
—a place that always sounded to me like it was run by a collection agent—and even though I was not addicted to pubs in the way that Jack was, or at all, his offer to pay simply could not be refused. The only problem was…

“So what's the story?” Ricky asked.

“I'm meeting a friend who says he can help you out.”

“Oh, am I going to stay with him?”

“No. For the time being, why don't you just stay here? There's a little bit of food in the kitchen, but not much, and the bathroom, as you already know. I even keep a cot here for emergencies.”

“Like if your apartment gets flooded?” he asked.

No, like that time a few years ago when I was so far behind on my rent that I was evicted
, I thought, but didn't say so.

“Something like that. I have a spare set of keys in my desk you can use. Hopefully it won't—”

Then came one of those moments when seven times thirteen equals twenty-eight. Like the old Abbott and Costello routine, things weren't adding up.

There was one key question I had overlooked up to this point…and I mean
key
question.

“Ricky, where were you when the cops tried to arrest you?”

“In Louie's building. I was going up to Klemmer's place, and they were already there.”

“How did you get in?”

“What do you mean?”

“You gave me your key to her apartment, remember? I still have it. But that key doesn't work on the front door of the building, so how do you get inside?”

“Well, in the past I always buzzed Louie and she let me in, but when she's not there I either wait for someone to come out or I try other apartments until someone buzzes me in. Since I'd already met Klemmer, I buzzed him today and he—”

He stopped talking and, after a three-count, frowned. “Wait a minute, how could he do that if he was already dead?”

Ah, now we are getting somewhere! Inspector Clouseau said in my cranium.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Unfortunately, we weren't really getting somewhere. We were only sinking deeper in the mire.

“You look like you don't believe me,” Ricky Sandoval said.

“Well, here's the problem I'm having. You buzzed Avery Klemmer's apartment and someone let you in, but it couldn't have been Avery, because he was dead. And it couldn't be the killer, because—”

CEASE
! W.C. Fields bellowed in my head, cutting me off mid-sentence, before I blurted out that it couldn't have been the killer because I believed the killer had fled the apartment some time earlier, after bashing me on the head in Avery's place, which I was not yet willing to let Ricky, or anyone else, know.

“Why couldn't it have been the killer?” he asked.

“Because the killer would never have buzzed back. He would have run,” I ad libbed. “So it had to be the police who let you in. But there's a problem with that, too. You wouldn't be buzzing for Avery unless you thought he was still alive enough to let you in, so why did the cops make you the prime suspect if you believed he was still alive?”

“Maybe they didn't know I believed he was still alive.”

“Did you say anything like, ‘Hi, Avery,' when they answered the call?”

“No. I pushed the button, and then the door buzzed open. That was it.”

“And then you went upstairs and the police were there.”

“Right.” His brow furrowed as though he was thinking very, very hard, and it hurt him. “You know, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe they didn't try to arrest me for killing Klemmer. Maybe they tried to arrest me for punching that officer in the face.”

“You punched an officer in the face?”

“Hey, I don't like being hassled!”

“So you belted a cop and then ran away?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

I wondered how stupid each of the hundred-million sperm who
didn't
make it to his egg had to be.

“Okay, let's start over again, Ricky,” I suggested. “At any time, did the police ever identify you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you give them your name or your ID?”

“No.”

“So all they've got is your description.”

“I guess. Unless I left a knuckle-print on that one cop.”

“Okay, fine.”

I dug through my desk until I found my spare keys. Tossing them to him I said, “I'm leaving now, after which I'm going straight home. You'll be here alone. But you should be all right. Go out if you need to, but try to stay inconspicuous. There's a little market down the street if you need something. I'll be back tomorrow morning. Okay?”

“You don't have a TV, do you?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“Do you have any games on your computer there?”

“Um, no, and it doesn't work anyway.” I picked it up and stuck it under my arm. “I have to get it fixed.”

“Well, I guess I could go see a movie. I mean, I've still got my car.”

“Fine,” I agreed. Anything that could keep him in the dark and unrecognizable for a few hours would be a good thing. “I'll be back about eight-thirty tomorrow.”

“All right, Mr. Beauchamp.” This time it came out
Boo-SHAM.

“You can call me Dave, Ricky.”

“Thanks. And you can call me Ricky.”

I said nothing. I just left.

My delay in getting away from the office plus the usual problem parking in Santa Monica meant that I was a few minutes late getting into
The Hound and Badger
. Jack, who was seated at a front table with a half-empty pint glass on the table before him, waved me over.

“Sorry I'm late,” I said.

“Not a problem. I've already opened a tab, so order whatever you like, David. Not only that, but I come bearing gifts.”

He put a book on the table. “My new one, not even in stores yet.”

The title was
Double Agent, Double Death
, and upon opening it up I noticed that it was also double the price of the last book of his that I had actually bought.

“This is really great, Jack, thanks,” I said. “I'll start it at once.”

“And here's to your finishing it at once as well,” he toasted, then took a large gulp of his British-brewed bitter, which I knew from experience was his beer of choice. I had tried it once, and while it wasn't particularly bitter, neither was it a taste I was anxious to acquire.

“Now then, my boy, what kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into?”

“It's not me, Jack, it's someone involved in a case I'm working on.”

The English-accented waitress (who was either genuinely from England or a very skilled actress) came over to the table and I ordered a bowl of the
Hound and Badger
's excellent clam chowder and a glass of cider, which was more to my taste, while Jack got the Happy Hour bowl of banger bits and chips, and another bitter.

When she was gone I went on: “Someone involved in the case has…what's that phrase you like…really stepped in it? Anyway, he's in trouble and has to hide from the police for a while.”

“What has he done?”

“Nothing except punch a cop.”

“For most people, that would be enough.”

“Yeah, well, that's probably still going to come back and bite him in the butt, but for some strange reason, I'm trying to save his butt until then.”

“And I might have something that will help you,” Jack said, reaching down and grabbing a book-sized box, which he set on the table with a flourish.

Opening it, I thought for a brief second there was an animal inside. Instead it turned out to be a wig. There was also a moustache, a beard, a jar of theatrical spirit gum, some sponges, a tube labeled
Nose Plastic
and a lot of small discs of color.

“This looks like a makeup kit,” I said.

“That's because it is,” Jack said. “I've had it for years, but never used it.”

“I never knew you were an actor.”

“An actor? Good god, no. I have enough problems as it is.”

The waitress returned with our drinks and food, and I closed the box and set it down under my chair.

We ate in silence for a minute—and however this place made its clam chowder, it was spectacular—before Jack went on:

“As to that kit, many, many years ago, right after I had completed my first novel, I managed to acquire an agent who told me that I was going to be huge.”

“I guess he was right,” I said.

Jack smiled. “Lee Child is huge, David. James Patterson is huge. Michael Connolly, John Grisham, huge and huger. The best I can claim is slightly overweight, but I'll gladly accept it. The point is, I believed this fellow, and thus went out and bought that kit, assuming that if I ever went out in public I would be mobbed.”

“And were you?”

“No, but it turned out the agent was… mobbed up to his hairline, in fact. Before he had the chance to sell my book he took a business trip to New Jersey from which he never returned. I think he's feeling
pier
pressure. Under an actual pier.”

“You mean swimming with the fishies?”

“If not feeding them. Anyway, the short version is I got a new agent who eventually sold the book, and it did well, and here I am today, but the very idea that I would become so famous that I needed to go down to the corner liquor store in disguise is now almost embarrassing to admit. That only happens to writers on television, like Jessica Fletcher, who could go to North Korea and be recognized on the street.”

“So you think this will work for my guy?” I asked.

“Without a doubt. Instant disguise, just add sunglasses.”

“Really?

“Absolutely, because the two most distinguishing characteristics of a face are eye color and the philtrum. You do know what a philtrum is, don't you, David?”

“Yes, I know what a philtrum is,” I replied, tracing the vertical indent between the bottom of my nose and my upper lip with my finger. “I do know a few things.”

I was expecting Mitchum to weigh in, but instead I got Bogie, not chiming up to insult me, but to chuckle that the only reason I knew what a philtrum was is because his costar from
In a Lonely Place
, Gloria Graham, was so obsessed with hers that she underwent multiple plastic surgeries to make it more pronounced, only to end up looking like she had an ashtray groove under her nose.

Jack went on: “The philtrum can be covered by a moustache and eye color can be disguised by contact lenses, or if one is cheap, sunglasses.”

“What about the ears?” I countered. “I thought Sherlock Holmes once said that the shape of the ear was the only feature that could not be disguised.”

“He never said that to Leonard Nimoy, did he?”

“Point taken.”

“
Touché
, David. If not
toupee
. Wait, that was the other fellow, wasn't it? No matter. Tell me about this friend of yours who's in trouble.”

“He's the brother of a client who might also be in trouble, so it's in my client's best interest to keep him out of jail.”

“Wasn't your last client murdered?”

“Yes, and I really don't want to see that happen again.”

“And you don't think this fellow, the brother, can keep out of trouble on his own?”

I sighed. “Jack, left to his own devices, this fellow is capable of accidentally starting a nuclear war with Canada.”

“If it would keep them from exporting teenage pop stars, I'd be all for that,” Jack said, signaling the waitress with his empty pint glass.

We continued to chat for another half-hour or so, by which time Jack was on his sixth pint, though I was not particularly worried about him, knowing that he lived close enough to the
Hound and Badger
to walk home, or if that proved difficult was well off enough to hail a cab. After thanking him for the dinner, the book, and the silly makeup kit, and bidding him goodnight, I got up and left.

The scent of the ocean permeated the cool darkness that had descended on Santa Monica. I liked the city at night, but I doubted I could live here. That's the aspect of L.A. that its haters simply don't understand: no matter what environment you want, it's out here somewhere. You only have to find it.

As long as you're searching for what's yours, see if you can find your brain
, Robert Mitchum said.

I really should know better than to have attempt thoughts.

Despite my original plan to simply head home, part of me wanted to go back to the office to check in on Ricky Sandoval. But I fought it. I was not Louie's brother's keeper. I'd worry about him tomorrow.

But after a predictably long, congested drive from Santa Monica, I suddenly had another idea. Changing course slightly, I headed to Edendale Video and Poster, which is to old movie buffs what Rick's
Café Americain
was to European
émigrés
.

It was named after the small, hilly, one-time suburb of L.A. that housed the first movie studios in Los Angeles, including Mack Sennett's Keystone operation, one building of which still stands today as a storage facility. Countless people stashed their skis in the exact location where Charlie Chaplin twitched his first moustache, without realizing it.

As a suburb it is long gone, having been absorbed into the voracious city of L.A. as the northern extension of Echo Park. Its namesake, Edendale Video, however, remains a thriving business, even in the wake of the download age.

When I walked into the store I saw the owner, Brian McLiamore, a sturdy, balding guy known to everyone as “Mac,” behind the counter.

“Hey, Mac, how's it going?” I asked.