Blues in the Night (3 page)

‘Bayou Royal.'

‘And didn't I put some dough aside for you every year you were at Pel?'

‘That you did.'

‘So now I ask you for a little help and you bust my balls?'

Mace moved to the window and frowned out at the bright morning. ‘What's with this Lowell woman anyway?'

‘Since when you start asking questions like that?'

‘Since I started sitting around an empty apartment with a dim-bulb kid, peeping in windows like some bathroom idiot.'

Lacotta got to his feet, pouting a little. ‘Yeah, well, like Bobby D used to say, we all gotta serve somebody.' He shifted from foot to foot. ‘Aw, hell. Angie and me . . . it's personal, OK? I wanna know what she's up to. Can you handle that?'

‘What are you expecting her to do?'

Lacotta shrugged and shook his head. Not much of an answer.

‘You wanna grab some breakfast?' he asked.

‘No, thanks. I don't know what I do want, but it's not breakfast.'

‘Well,' Lacotta said, ‘you find out, you let me know.'

THREE

N
ight two.

Wylie was at the window of the darkened room, presumably on guard. ‘Damn,' he said, ‘bitch dropped the blinds on me.'

Mace was in the kitchenette, washing down a cold Mexican dinner with a bourbon and water. He placed a half-eaten taco on its Styrofoam bed and hurried to the window, picking up his binoculars.

The subject was clearly visible in her apartment, standing before an easel, painting. ‘What the hell are you talking about?' he asked Wylie. ‘She's right there. No blinds.'

‘Yeah, I know. She's cool. I was clockin' the naked biatch one window over. Full frontal, doing her Pi-lat-tease.'

Mace sighed and walked back to the kitchenette. He dumped the remains of his Tico Taco dinner into the dispose-all. ‘Where's that list of places she went today?' he asked.

‘Why? It's just bullshit stores.'

‘Humor me.'

Wylie plucked a small pad from the pocket of his flowery shirt and held it out with thumb and forefinger.

Mace took it into the bathroom, closed the door and turned on the lights. He flipped the pages of the pad until he found what he wanted. Even in Wylie's crabbed handwriting, the names of three business establishments were clear enough.

He turned off the light and went back into the darkened bedroom. ‘Tell me again what went on,' he said.

‘Nothing went on. She had her errands. She parks the 'Tang and runs in. Comes out with her stuff. Cruises to the next place. Parks the 'Tang, goes in. Like that.'

‘And you didn't see what she did inside the shops?'

‘Christ, no. She was in and out like The Flash. I barely had time to park. Why you making such a big fucking deal of it?'

‘Don't mind me,' Mace said. He pulled his jacket off the back of a chair and headed for the door.

‘Were you goin'?' Wylie asked.

‘I need some fresh air.'

‘Fresh air? In
this
fucking city?'

‘Keep watching the window,' Mace said. ‘Hers.'

‘Where you really goin'?'

‘Cigarettes. You need anything?'

Wylie shook his head. ‘You gonna be gone long?'

‘Hour, maybe. You know what to do if the subject leaves her apartment?'

‘I gotta tell ya. I'm so raked by your “the subject” bullshit. Use her fucking name or call her a bitch or whore or what the hell.'

‘You don't want to use names,' Mace said. ‘And you do want to keep it impersonal. So, with your permission, she's “the subject”. OK?'

Wylie shrugged. ‘It's so fucking
spy movie
.'

‘Call her what you want,' Mace said. ‘Just keep your eye on her.'

‘Yeah, yeah,' Wiley said.

FOUR

A
lthough walking seemed to be frowned on in LA, Mace thought it preferable to getting the rental out, bucking traffic and then trying to find a parking place. Actually, the Sunset Strip had changed so drastically since he'd last seen it, he didn't even know where you could or couldn't park any more. Too many signs. ‘One Hour Parking, 8 am – 6 p.m.' ‘No Parking 6 pm – 10 p.m.' ‘No Parking Anytime.' The address he wanted wasn't more than five or six blocks away.

He moved with purpose down the Strip, maneuvering around the late-night dawdlers – hookers, pimps, members of the glitterati who'd dined fashionably late, tourists looking slightly lost and anxious, slackers with nothing better to do.

He put himself in the tourist camp.

His destination was an address in the middle of the block. Nine years ago, when he'd been a resident of the city, it had been home to a vegan health restaurant called ‘The Elegant Eggplant'. Now there was nothing elegant about it. Or remotely healthy. The building had been painted black long enough ago for wind and weather to have softened the color to an ugly mottled gray. A red neon sign identified it as ‘Honest Abe's Coffee Empourium'. A cardboard sign, stuck in the display window added, in hand lettering: ‘Tonight: Jerry Monte, Saturday: Super Slam.'

A youthful crowd, mainly female, formed a line that continued down the block as far as he could see, not too many of them listening to the poetry and jazz blaring from a pair of speakers attached just under the club's roofline. Thanks to a groping couple, Mace found a narrow gap in the queue and headed to the entrance where a closed door was being guarded by a giant with arms like tree trunks hanging from his muscle T-shirt. He was the standard-brand bald bouncer except for the five precious stones weighing down his right ear lobe and the heavily mascaraed eyes, which he turned on Mace with some suspicion.

‘I'm an old friend of Abe's,' Mace said.

‘So are they,' the bouncer said, indicating the queue.

‘Tell him Mace wants to see him.'

The bouncer studied him for a beat. He took a few extra seconds to look past him to prove he was no pushover. Then he turned, opened the door and ducked inside the club.

The people in line glared at Mace. He ignored them and did his best to ignore the blather coming from the speaker.

When the bouncer reappeared, he said, ‘Abe's at the rear.'

The night air had been cool enough, but inside the shadowy club it was freezing, even with the place packed with young customers. They didn't seem to notice their chattering teeth as they stared reverentially at a pale poetess who was sharing the tiny stage with a poodle. The poetess was rapping about the beauty of watching dogs fuck.

Mace headed for a table at the far end of the room where a gaunt man sat grinning at him. Back in the day, Honest Abe Garfein had pushed his resemblance to the sixteenth president of the USA to the max by wearing chin whiskers, a stovepipe hat and a black suit. Having moved past Lincoln's longevity by at least a dozen years, with the sagging flesh and wiry gray hair to prove it, Abe had evidently decided to drop the im–personation. Clean shaven and wearing a Tommy Bahama shirt that provided nearly all the color in the room, he had morphed into another familiar figure, the crazy neighbor from the old
Seinfeld
TV show.

He held out a nut-brown hand that Mace assumed was for shaking. Instead Abe used it to slap Mace's hand, a gesture that surprised and annoyed him.

‘High five,' Abe said, trying to explain the slap.

Mace shrugged and took a seat at the table. ‘A little chilly in here, don't you think?' he said.

‘Some like it hot,' Abe said, ‘I like it cold. Anyway, it's a coffeehouse, Mace. People drink more coffee when it's cold.'

‘Looks like it's working for you.'

‘I always knew being a history buff would pay off. Welcome back to the Fifties.'

‘I'd heard the Strip was dead,' Mace said.

‘Not if you can give the customers something TV and movies no longer provide.'

‘That would be . . . ?'

‘Literary pretension,' Abe said. ‘It's bringing in the green. I'm thinking of expanding the brand a bit. Remember the old Brigston Studio? It's been sitting there collecting dust and rats since Brigston shuttered it back in the Nineties.'

Actually, Mace not only remembered the studio; he and Paulie Lacotta had crashed the party old man Brigston tossed on the lot, the night he pulled the plug. But he didn't feel the need to mention this to Abe, who, in any case, was more interested in telling his own story.

‘Well . . . this . . . guy I know just bought the studio. Laid down the hard cash with the idea of turning out pornos for the on-demand and home video markets. And, of course, the Internet. I thought I might just buy a little piece of his action and try the Cecil B. DeMented trip, produce a few myself.

‘There are a couple of flies in the ointment, of course. Hi-Def and, worse, Blu-Ray. The few performers whose skin can stand that kind of scrutiny demand more money than Julia Roberts. It costs almost as much to have the warts and pimples and the goddamned tats removed by CGI. The government is starting to demand the use of condoms. Hell, disease has everybody so spooked you can't even get a decent anal penetration shot these days.'

His watery eyes must have registered that Mace had tuned out. ‘But you didn't drop by to hear about pen shots. What can I do for you, old friend? I'm still serving the body as well as the mind.' He nodded toward the bar where a young woman, dressed like a freshly scrubbed high-school student, was looking their way, expectantly. She smiled at Mace and placed her thumb between her lips, pushing it in and out.

Mace turned to Abe. ‘What I need is information,' he said. “I've been out of the loop awhile.'

‘Heard you went to live in the bayous with your old man after Pel. Guess that Katrina thing was pretty rough?'

‘People forget the Rita thing came first. What that didn't wipe clean, Katrina took care of. And then came the BP oil spread.'

‘Jesus. Bet you wished you'd been back high and dry inside Pel, huh?'

‘Not really,' Mace said. ‘You'd know if you'd ever been inside.'

Abe's face registered embarrassment. A fleeting gesture. ‘How can a humble whoremonger be of help?' he asked.

‘I'm hoping you're still the go-to guy when it comes to what's going down in the city.'

‘A living, breathing Google on El Lay, that's me. Enjoying the fruits of the age of information.'

‘I need some background on a woman.'

‘Ah, romance.'

‘Not exactly,' Mace said.

‘If she works the city I'll know her.'

‘She's no pro. At least, I don't think so. Her name is Angela Lowell. Blonde, twenties, trim. Lady exec type.'

‘Tits?' Abe asked.

For some reason the question annoyed Mace. ‘A pair, would be my guess,' he said.

Abe furrowed his brow and stared at the cup of coffee in front of him. After a few beats, he unfurrowed and shook his head. ‘Don't think I know the lady. Sorry.'

Mace took Wylie's pad from his pocket. ‘You familiar with these places: The Leather Derby, The Honeymoon Court Drugs, The Inpost?'

‘Dress shops, shoe shops, a drug store. What about 'em?'

‘I was hoping you could tell me,' Mace said, pocketing the pad. ‘Legit? Fronts? Connected in any way?'

‘It'd help if you told me what's on your mind.'

‘Only confusion,' Mace said.

A waitress in short skirt, black stockings and a baggy sweater approached their table.

‘Something to drink, Mace?' Abe asked. ‘Coffee, cider, Perrier?'

Mace shook his head, no.

‘Nothing for us, honey,' Abe said to the waitress. ‘But ask Teddy to keep an eye out for Jerry Monte. He's late as usual.'

‘Who's this Monte?'

‘Jerry Monte? Jesus, Mace, welcome to the world. He's the new Justin Timberlake.'

‘Who?'

Abe blinked. ‘Let's try the new, white, hetero Michael Jackson, may God rest his soul. Jerry Monte's music gets millions of downloads. His movies top the lists and his computer games are everywhere you look. He created Captain Combat.'

‘
That
Jerry Monte,' Mace said. ‘Never heard of him.'

‘Well, he's why this place is packed. The kids don't come out to hear Miss Dirty Knickers over there.'

Mace looked at the poetess who was carefully enunciating every word of an excruciatingly amateurish piece of poetic self-exploration. Buried in her doughy face was his faint memory of a rosebud-mouthed starlet.

‘If this Monte guy is so big time, what draws him here? The girls?'

‘Most of the showbiz cretins come in to read because it makes them feel intelligent,' Abe said. ‘But Jerry's got money in the club, not that that removes him from the cretin list.

‘So, do you want me to try and turn something up on Miz Lowell?'

‘You get a line on her, you can reach me at The Florian. I'm registered there under Wylie.'

‘You still on Paulie Lacotta's team?' Abe said.

‘Why do you ask?'

‘The rumor was you took your fall for him.'

‘You know how rumors are,' Mace said.

Abe had a comment but forgot it when the club went suddenly silent. His eyes shifted to the entrance where two very black walking slabs of beef had just moved past the bouncer. ‘And heeeeere's Jerry,' Abe said, standing. ‘I gotta go meet and greet. Stick around for the show. He'll probably be reading from Charles Bkowski or maybe Rod McKuen. One of the greats.'

‘I've gotta run anyway,' Mace said. ‘I'm susceptible to frostbite.'

‘Mind leaving by the rear?' Abe asked, pointing to a back door. ‘Jerry sees you walking out, he'll take it personally.'

‘What'll he do? Cry?'

‘No. He'll probably get his two associates to make you cry.'

Mace glanced at the two bodyguards.

‘Actually, he's not that big an asshole. But it'll probably piss him off and he'll vent out on me.'