The Murder Book (26 page)

“Okay,” said Milo, taking a very low bow. “Thank you
very much
.”

As he left, he heard the man utter something in a language he didn’t understand.

He drove to the Cynthia Street apartment of Mr. and Mrs. Irwin Block, pretended to be a census taker, and enjoyed an affable five-minute chat with the possibly hundred-year-old Selma Block, a blue-caftaned, champagne-haired pixie of a woman so bent and tiny she might very well have fit into one of the mailboxes. Behind her sat Mr. Block on a green-and-gold sofa, a mute, static, vacant-eyed apparition of similar antiquity whose sole claim to physiologic viability was the occasional moist and startling throat clear.

Five minutes taught Milo more about the Blocks than he’d wanted to know. Both had worked in the Industry — Selma as a costume mistress for several major studios, Irwin as an accountant for MGM. Three children lived back East. One was an orthodontist, the middle one had gone into “the financial world and became a Republican, and our daughter weaves and sews hand-fashioned—”

“Is this the only address you keep, ma’am?” said Milo, pretending to write everything down but doodling curlicues. No chance of Mrs. B. spotting the ruse. The top of her head was well below the pad.

“Oh, no, dear. We keep a post-office box over by the Healthy Foods.”

“Why’s that, ma’am?”

“Because we like to eat healthy.”

“Why the post-office box, ma’am?”

Selma Block’s tiny claw took hold of Milo’s sleeve, and he felt as if a cat was using his arm for a spring post.

“Politics, dear. Political mailers.”

“Oh,” said Milo.

“What party do you belong to, dear?”

“I’m an independent.”

“Well, dear, we like the Green Party — rather subversive, you know.” The claw dug in deeper.

“You keep the box for Green Party mailers?”

“Oh, yes,” said Selma Block. “You’re too young, but we remember the way it used to be.”

“The way it used to be when?”

“The old days. Those House UnAmerican fascists. That louse McCarthy.”

Refusing the invitation to stay for tea and cookies, he extricated himself from Mrs. Block and drove around aimlessly, trying to figure out his next move.

Playa del Sol. Alex was right, it did have that real estate ring, so maybe the Cossacks did have their hand in this — assisted by LAPD.

The fix. Again.

Early on, he’d looked up Cossack Development’s address, found it on Wilshire in Mid-City, but he hadn’t retained the numbers in his head — those days were gone — so he called Information and fixed the placement between Fairfax and La Brea.

The sky was dark and traffic had started to thin and he made it over in less than a quarter hour.

The Cossack brothers had headquartered themselves in a three-story pink granite, ziggurat-dominated complex that occupied a full city block just east of the County Art Museum. Years ago, this had been junk real estate — the fringes of the pathetically misnamed Miracle Mile. Back in the forties, The Mile’s construction had been an historic first: a commercial strip with feeble street appeal but entry through the rear parking lots — yet another symptom of L.A.’s postwar infatuation with The Car. Twenty years later, westward flight had left the central city area a sump of poorly maintained buildings and low-rent businesses, and the only miracle was that any part of The Mile survived.

Now, the current cycle: urban renewal. County Art — not much in the way of a museum, but the courtyard did offer free concerts and L.A. didn’t expect much — had spawned other museums — tributes to dolls, folk art, and most effectively, The Car. Big, glossy office structures had followed. If the Cossacks had gotten in early and owned the land under the pink granite thing, they’d made out well.

He parked on a side street, climbed wide, slick granite steps past a huge, shallow black pool filled with still water and dotted with pennies, and entered the lobby. Guard desk to the right, but no guard. Half the lights were off and the cavernous space echoed. The complex was divided into east and west wings. Most of the tenants were financial and showbiz outfits. Cossack Industries took up the third floor of the east wing.

He rode the elevator, stepped into an unfurnished, white-carpeted, white-walled space. One big abstract lithograph greeted him — yellow and white and amorphous, maybe some genius’s notion of a soft-boiled egg — then, to the left, double, white doors. Locked. No sound from the other side.

The elevator door closed behind him. Turning, he stabbed the button and waited for it to return.

Back on Wilshire, he continued to study the building. Lot of lights were on, including several on the third floor. A couple of weeks ago, the state had warned of impending power shortages, urged everyone to conserve. Either the Cossacks didn’t care, or someone was working late.

He rounded the corner, returned to the Taurus, reversed direction, and parked with a clear view of the building’s subterranean parking lot. Fighting back that old feeling: wasted hours, stakeout futility. But stakeouts were like Vegas slots: Once in a great while something paid off, and what better basis for addiction?

Twenty-three minutes later, the lot’s metal grate slid open and a battered Subaru emerged. Young black woman at the wheel, talking on a cell phone. Six minutes after that: a newish BMW. Young white guy with spiked hair, also gabbing on cell, oblivious, he nearly missed colliding with a delivery truck. Both drivers traded insults and bird-flips. The streets were safe, tonight.

Milo waited another half hour, was just about to split, when the grate yawned once more and a soot gray Lincoln Town Car nosed out. Vanity plates: CCCCCCC. Windows tinted well past the legal limit — even the driver’s pane — but otherwise nice and conservative.

The Lincoln stopped at the red light at Wilshire, then turned west. Traffic was heavy enough for Milo to obtain cover two lengths behind, but sufficiently fluid to allow a nice, easy tail.

Perfect. For what it was worth.

He followed the gray Lincoln half a mile west to San Vicente Boulevard, then north to Melrose and west again to Robertson, where the Town Car pulled into the front lot of a restaurant on the southwest corner.

Brushed steel door. Matching steel nameplate above the door, engraved heavily:

Sangre de Leon.

New place. The last time Milo had taken the time to look, an Indonesian-Irish fusion joint had occupied the corner. Before that had been some kind of Vietnamese bistro run by a celebrity chef from Bavaria and bankrolled by movie stars. Milo figured the patrons had never served in the military.

Before
that
, he recalled at least six other start-up trendolas in as many years, new owners refurbishing, grand opening, garnering the usual breathless puff pieces in
L.A. Magazine
and
Buzz
, only to close a few months later.

Bad-luck corner. Same for the site across the street — the bamboo-faced one-story amorphoid that had once been a Pacific Rim seafood palace was now shuttered, a heavy chain drawn across its driveways.

Sangre de Leon.
Lion’s Blood. Appetizing. He wouldn’t take bets on this one enduring longer than a bout of indigestion.

He found a dark spot across Robertson, parked diagonal to the restaurant, turned off his headlights. The rest of the decor was windowless gray stucco and sprigs of tall, bearded grass that looked like nothing other than dry weeds. An army of pink-jacketed valets — all good-looking and female — hovered at the mouth of the lot. Stingy lot; the seven Mercedes parked there filled it.

The Town Car’s chauffeur — a big, thick bouncer type nearly as large as Georgie Nemerov’s hunters — jumped out and sprang a rear door. A chesty, puffy-faced guy in his forties with sparse, curly hair got out first. His face looked as if it had been used as a waffle iron. Milo recognized Garvey Cossack right away. The guy had put on weight since his most recent newspaper photo, but not much else about him had changed. Next came a taller, soft-looking character with a shaved bullet head and a Frank Zappa mustache that drooped to his chin — little brother Bobo, minus his slicked-back hairdo. Middle-aged sap doing the youth-culture thing? Cranial skin as a proud badge of rebellion? Either way, the guy enjoyed mirror time.

Garvey Cossack wore a dark sport coat with padded shoulders over a black turtleneck, black slacks. Below the slacks, white running shoes — now there was a touch of elegance.

Bobo had on a too-small black leather bomber jacket, too-tight black jeans and black T-shirt, too-high black boots. Black-lensed shades, too. Call the paramedics, we’ve got an emergency overdose of cool.

A third man exited the Lincoln, and the big chauffeur let him close his own door.

Number Three was dressed the way businessmen used to dress in L.A. Dark suit, white shirt, undistinguished tie, normal shoes. Shorter than the Cossack brothers, he had narrow shoulders and a subservient stoop. Saggy, wrinkled face, though he didn’t appear any older than the Cossacks. Miniscule oval eyeglasses and long, blond hair that shagged over his collar fought the Joe-Corporate image. The top of his scalp was mostly bald spot.

Mini-Specs hung back as the Cossacks entered the restaurant, Garvey in a flat-footed waddle, Bobo swaggering and bopping his head in time to some private melody. The chauffeur returned to the car and began backing out, and Specs walked past the pink ladies’ expectant smiles. The Town Car turned south on Robertson, drove a block, pulled to the curb, went dark.

Specs remained out in the lot for a few seconds, looking around — but at nothing in particular. Facing the Taurus, but Milo caught no sign the guy saw anything that bothered him. No, this one was just full of random nervous energy — hands flexing, neck rotating, mouth turned down, the tiny lenses of his glasses darting and catching street light, a pair of reflective eggs.

Guy made him think of a crooked accountant on audit day. Finally, Specs ran his finger under his collar, rotated his shoulders, and made his way to the pleasures of leonine hemoglobin.

No additional diners materialized during the thirty-seven minutes Milo sat there. When one of the untipped valets looked at her watch, stepped out to the sidewalk, and lit up a cigarette, he got out of the Taurus and loped across the street.

The girl was a gorgeous, little red-haired thing with blue-blue eyes so vivid the color made its way through the night. Maybe twenty. She noticed Milo approaching, kept smoking. The cigarette was wrapped in black paper and had a gold tip. Shermans? Did they still make those?

She looked up when he was three feet away and smiled through the cloud of nicotine that swirled in the warm night air.

Smiling because Milo had his latest bribe visible. Two twenties folded between his index and tall fingers, backed by a freelance journalist cover story. Forty bucks was double what he’d paid the Pakistani POB clerk but the valet — her tag said Val — was a helluva lot cuter than the clerk. And as it turned out, a lot easier to deal with.

Ten minutes later he was back in the Taurus, cruising past the Town Car. Mt. Chauffeur was snoozing with his mouth open. A shaved-head Latino guy. The redhead had supplied Mini-Spec’s ID.

“Oh, that’s Brad. He works with Mr. Cossack and his brother.”

“Mister Cossack?”

“Mr. Garvey Cossack. And his brother.” Blue-eyed glance back at the restaurant. “He co-owns this place, along with…” A string of celebrity names followed. Milo pretended to be impressed.

“Must be a jumping place.”

“It was when it opened.”

“No more, huh?”

“You know,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“How’s the food?”

The parking cutie smiled and smoked and shook her head. “How would I know? It’s like a hundred bucks a plate. Maybe when I get my first big part.”

Her laugh was derisive. She added: “Maybe when pigs fly.” So young, so cynical.

“Hollywood,” said Milo.

“Yeah.” Val looked back again. All the other girls were loafing, and a few were smoking. Probably keeping their weight down, thought Milo. Any of them could’ve modeled.

Val lowered her voice to a whisper: “Tell the truth, I hear the food sucks.”

“The name can’t help. Lion’s Blood.”

“Ick. Isn’t that gross?”

“What kind of cuisine is it?”

“Ethiopian, I think. Or something African. Maybe also Latino, I dunno — Cuban, maybe? Sometimes they’ve got a band and from out here it sounds kind of Cuban.” Her hips pistoned, and she snapped her fingers. “I hear it’s on its way out.”

“Cuban music?”

“No, silly. This place.”

“Time for a new job?” said Milo.

“No prob, there’s always bar mitzvahs.” Stubbing out her cigarette, she said, “You don’t happen to ever work for
Variety
, do you? Or
The Hollywood Reporter
?”

“Mostly I do wire service stuff.”

“Someone’s interested in the restaurant?”

Milo shrugged. “I drive around. You’ve got to dig if you wanna find oil.”

She looked at the Taurus and her next smile was ripe with sympathy.
Another L.A. loser
. “Well, if you ever do
Variety
, remember this name: Chataqua Dale.”

Milo repeated it. “Nice. But so is Val.”

A cloud of doubt washed over the blue eyes. “You really think so? ’Cause I was wondering if Chataqua was maybe, you know, over the top.”

“No,” said Milo. “It’s great.”

“Thanks.” She touched his arm, let the cigarette drop to the pavement, ground out the butt, got a dreamy look in her eyes. Audition fever. “Well, gotta go.”

“Thanks for your time,” said Milo, reaching into his pocket and slipping her another twenty.

“You are
soooo
nice,” she said.

“Not usually.”

“Oh, I bet you are — let me ask you, you meet people, right? Know any decent agents? ’Cause mine is an asshole.”

“Only agents of destruction,” he said.

Puzzlement lent the beautiful young face temporary complexity. Then her actor’s instincts cut in: Still not comprehending, but recognizing a cue, she smiled and touched his arm again. “Right. See you around.”