Try Darkness (3 page)

And he’d probably make more than I would for the foreseeable future. There are lots of ways to make more than I do. A woman once tried to sell me some gravel from Michael Jackson’s driveway. She didn’t need my green. I knew she’d find someone else who’d give it to her.

This land of dreams never lacks for schemes, and quick thinking to go with them.

Once, outside the Galleria, a guy in a dirty fatigue jacket with a gas can asked me for a few bucks. I said I’d go with him to fill up the can. He said no.

Three weeks later I was there again, and the same guy came up to me. I said, “Your car sure runs out of gas a lot. You hit me up last time I was here.”

He blinked a couple of times. “That was my other car,” he said.

In many ways, this town is an inspiration.

I guided my silver Cabriolet to the 101 Freeway. Fought the traffic downtown. Got to Sixth Street and Main around four-thirty. I parked at an overpriced meter and walked a block to the Lindbrook Hotel.

The Lindbrook was one of many single-room occupancy hotels for people on the economic fringe. It had a facade that looked like a movie theater from the twenties. It was six stories and had a fresh coat of dark gray paint. The fire escapes were candy apple red. Somebody’d had some fun.

Several of the windows that looked out on Main had little American flags taped on them or stuck in window planters. That told me that this was home to some vets. Viet Nam and Gulf War guys who never made it all the way back. There were a lot of them around the city.

The inside of the Lindbrook did not have a fresh coat of paint. As I walked into the lobby, I got a whiff of an odor no human being should have to endure. The nearest thing to it was the time I sat downwind of a three-hundred-pound Jabba at Dodger Stadium one fine summer night. He plowed down four Dodger dogs with onions and relish before the first inning was over. By the bottom of the second, my row was engulfed in a noxious cloud that could have bleached our shirts.

That was bad, but this was worse. A struck match would have blown the place up. The source had to be either the collection of old men sitting on old furniture in the old foyer, or a sulfur manufacturer next door burning down his factory for the insurance.

Afternoon light filtered in through the front windows, throwing weak beams of yellow on the black and white Chiclet floor. An old chandelier hung from a dark green chain in the beamed ceiling. A brown moisture stain spread out from where the chain was attached.

I was making for the reception desk, enclosed in Plexiglas like a bank teller’s window, when I heard “MumbuddynomakenomubbamindGeneKelly” behind me.

I turned around. A tall, thin guy, maybe seventy years old, with beard stubble and a blue scarf around his head, made wild eyes at me.

“MumbuddynomakenomubbamindGeneKelly,” he said.

“Sure,” I said, and went back to my business.

The guy ran around in front of me. “Disco Freddy,” he said.

“What?”

“Disco Freddy! Mr. Gene Kelly!”

His arms started whirligigging and his head shook like he was having a fit. Then he spun around three times fast and put his arms out in a “Tahdah!” gesture.

“Gene Kelly!” he said.

An older gentleman in one of the chairs in the lobby clapped his hands.

“Terrific,” I said and tried once more to go by him.

He jumped in front of me again. “Disco Freddy! Mumbuddynomake-nomubbamindFredAstaire!”

“Oh, I get it. Now you’re going to imitate Fred Astaire.”

Disco Freddy smiled and went into the same helicopter routine with his arms, spun around three times, and finished just as before. It was not an imitation that would have been recognized as a dancer in any known universe.

“Mr. Fred Astaire!” he said.

“That’s just great,” I said. “You do Donald O’Connor?”

“Disco Freddy!” he shouted.

“Paula Abdul?”

I tried again to get past him. Disco Freddy was too quick. He put his hand out.

“You want me to pay you for that?” I said.

“Disco Freddy,” Disco Freddy said.

“Got to pay the man,” the old gentleman in the chair said. He looked like James Earl Jones. Big, with a booming voice. Not bad for a guy who must have been seventy-five.

“Do you do birthdays?” I asked Disco Freddy. “Bar mitzvahs?”

“Disco Freddy!”

I fished out a dollar just to save myself some time. Disco Freddy took it, pocketed it, spun around three times.

“Mr. Rudolf Nureyev!” he said.

7

THROUGH THE HOLES
in the Plexiglas I said, “I represent the tenant in room 414.”

The fortyish man in the booth was about a hat taller than a Munchkin, with a slanted mouth that reminded me of the Lollypop Guild. His long hair was stringy and dark brown, like wheat pasta. He squinted at me like he didn’t understand. A sign taped to the window said,

Rent Payable in Advance.

Check Out On Time.

No Refunds.

I pulled out a business card, which Sister Mary had lasered for me a couple of days before. All it said was
Ty Buchanan, Lawyer
, along with the p.o. box I rented from McNitt and a cell phone number. I put it in the metal tray. The Munchkin took it and squinted even more.

He shrugged. Turned to a big flat book on the table in front of him, like something out of Dickens. Opened it, flipped to a page, ran his little finger down the side, closed the book, and shook his head.

“Moving out,” he said.

“Change of plans,” I said. “They’ve decided to stay. I’m going to write you a check.”

He shook his head.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m going to give you the check for 414.”

“Won’t take it.”

“You don’t take it, you’re in violation of the law. You understand that, right?”

His eyes opened wide and he gave me a steady look. Not friendly. Not wishing to welcome me to Munchkin Land. Like he knew more than he was letting on but wasn’t going to let on that he did.

“You wait,” he said, then scurried through a door next to the mailboxes.

I turned around and surveyed the lobby again. Disco Freddy was by the front window, sitting on the floor, his knees at his chest and arms around his knees. Resting before the next big show.

There were a lot of shows in L.A. these days. Especially down here near Skid Row. Hospitals were coming down at night, dumping mentals out on the street so the missions and private facilities could deal with them. That was also illegal, but the dumpers were good at picking their spots.

What it did was put more mentals on the streets of the city, to fend for themselves. Most preferred the street, where they could get drugs. This was a world far removed from the one I used to run around in.

That world was a big litigation firm on the west side and a nice house in the Sepulveda Pass.

And a woman I was going to marry.

Then she was killed. And I got set up for murder.

Suddenly I was one of the shows. You stay in this town long enough, it happens.

The man came back into the booth. He shook his head and slid a card through the tray to me.

When I looked at it I almost spun around like Disco Freddy.

8

IT WAS A
business card. For a lawyer. The Lindbrook’s lawyer.

Al Bradshaw.

My former colleague at Gunther, McDonough. We came up the ranks together. He used to be one of my best friends. Used to be.

I called him. His assistant put me right through.

“Ty? Is it really you?”

“Really and truly and in the flesh and wandering through downtown Oz.”

“Howzat?”

“It’s very strange here, Al.”

He paused. “Boy, how are you?”

“Peachy,” I said. “There’s a karma thing going on.”

“You coming back? You know McDonough would love—”

“I’m talking good karma. Like dragging your sorry client into court and stepping all over his face.”

Pause.

“You’re kidding, right?” he said.

“No,” I said.

“You want to explain?”

“I’m in the lobby of the Lindbrook Hotel.”

Pause.

“Can’t say much for the bar here,” I said. “But the floor show is aces. They got a guy here does Gene Kelly.”

“You’re at the Lindbrook right now?”

“Right now. And they’re trying to give my client the twenty-eight-day bum’s rush. You ought to tell them they can’t do that.”

Pause.

“Ty, this is really weird. How’d you get involved in this?”

“I have a client. I’m setting up shop on my own.”

“Solo?”

“My bar dues are all paid up.”

“Why don’t you come on down and we’ll talk?”

“Why don’t you tell the management to take a check or the next stop’ll be superior court?”

Pause.

“You’re not being real congenial here, Ty.”

“Why should I be? It’s not complicated. Now I’m trying to think which client would be the one to own the Lindbrook. It must be one of yours, or Longyear’s. I’m trying to remember. Would it be Orpheus? Somebody like that?”

Snort from Al. “Tyler, my friend, what are we doing, huh? What is all this? We’ve been through too much together. Let’s go to Sombrero
.
Now. Just like old times. I’ll buy.”

“Al—”

“We’ll work it out. The way all legal matters should be worked out, over a couple maggies and some chips.”

“Al—”

“One hour.”

9

ON THE DRIVE
over I called Sister Mary. She works the office and is the best nun on the computer. She has a cell phone, too. St. Monica’s is making a pilgrimage into the twenty-first century.

“Hello, Mr. Buchanan.”

“Ty. Please.”

“How can I help you?”

“What is this, Jack-in-the-Box all of a sudden?”

“Is there something you need?”

“I need to apologize for this morning. I got a little competitive out there. Didn’t mean to get all March Madness on you.”

“That’s quite all right. I allowed myself to . . . I was partly to blame.”

“But I saw a little of that Oklahoma stardom. You should’ve played college ball.”

“Mr. Buchanan—”

“Ty.”

“How can I help you?”

“I need you to look something up for me. The Lindbrook Hotel downtown. Find out about Orpheus Development Group, an LLC. My old firm handles them, through an associate there named Al Bradshaw. I don’t know who the players are. But I recall a lawsuit filed against them about two years ago that may have named the parties. I want to find as many names associated with Orpheus as I can. Try the name Rood, too. You may not be able to turn anything up but—”

“Mr. Buchanan, I was programming computers when you were working on a manual typewriter.”

“Sister Mary, may I remind you I’m not that much older than you? That they actually had real computers when I was a kid?”

“Oh yes. I saw some of those machines in a museum once.”

“You’re a credit to your religion, Sister.”

“As you are to yours.”

“You’re a sweetheart.”

“We don’t often hear that one,” she said, and hung up.

10

SOMBRERO ON PICO
. A place Al and I used to frequent to get frequently hammered. Al because he was not happy at home. Me for a variety of reasons that didn’t apply anymore.

It’s the place where I first met Jacqueline Dwyer. And where things started that I couldn’t stop. Where life fell off a cliff. Which is why my nerves were on high alert as I went inside.

Al was waiting for me at a table, his coat off and tie loosened. Already working on his first margarita.

“Hey, look at you,” he said, offering his hand. “No work clothes for you, huh?”

“These are my work clothes,” I said. “I’m working right now.”

“For a tenant at the Lindbrook. A woman calls herself Reatta.”

“Well
too shay,
” I said
.
“You actually did some work for a change.”

“Love you, too. What are you drinking?”

“Straight Coke.”

“Come on.”

“With lemon.”

Al motioned for the waiter, who came over in his white shirt, black vest uniform. “A large Coke with lemon slices,” Al said. “Chips and guac.”

The waiter scurried away.

“How you making out?” Al said.

“Like the Lincoln conspirators.”

“Huh?”

“Hanging in there.”

“Good,” Al said. An embarrassed pause thudded into his margarita. “I know this place has a lot of memories for—”

“Let’s talk about Orpheus Development Group,” I said.

Al tried not to flinch. “You guessing or telling?”

“Educated guess. Orpheus has plans to gentrify the Lindbrook. Am I right?”

“You know I can’t say anything about that.”

“Then why’d you get me down here? Ply me with chips? You think I’d lie on my back and let you rub my tummy?”

“No—”

“Who’s the guy, the front man for Orpheus? I’m trying to remember the names, but I never worked with them. Somebody named Rood or Rod or something.”

“Ty, you know I can’t talk about that.”

“You’d be yapping loud if I filed and got to depose him.”

“Come on! You’re not threatening to file now, are you?”

“Why not? I have to keep fresh. Seems to me a good way to do it is to pierce the sham corporate veil and get some people before a judge.”

“We could get you bounced like that.” He snapped his fingers, but the sound was pretty limp. “You have a classic conflict of interest, having worked for the firm.”

“I’d still have it before a judge.”

“You’re taking this awfully personal, Ty. Why?”

I ate a chip.

“You want me to tell you why?” Al said.

“No.”

“Okay, here it is. You got shaken up pretty bad when Jacqueline died. I know that. Everybody knows that. You wind up in jail and you almost get killed yourself. It’s like being in war. You have post-traumatic stress. You’re not supposed to have your midlife crisis for another ten years or so. But you take it on early because of what happened. You wonder if you’re doing the right thing at Gunther, McDonough. Maybe now—”

“Why don’t you catch a breath.”

“. . . maybe now you think you have to go out and rep the”—Al made quote marks with his fingers—“downtrodden. That’s fine for a while, but sooner or later you have to come back to reality and common sense and shuffling the cards around on the table so everything works out.”