The Straight Man - Roger L Simon (20 page)

"
Thanks, but no thanks."

"Don't mention it."

He hung up just in time for the doorbell to ring. It
was the messenger for Global Pictures with the deal memo.

"Mr. Steinway wants me to wait while you sign
this."

"My lawyer likes to see these things first."
I said, opening the envelope. I could just see myself being dragged
into court by a bull terrier like Steinway over a noncompliance
issue.

"I'm not supposed to leave without it," he
said, handing me a pen. He planted himself inside the doorway as if
he were a process server for the IRS. I would be the one needing a
restraining order to get him out.

"
Look, this isn't—" I started to say,
when the phone rang.

"Hello."

A voice whispered: "The money is moving."

"What?"

"The money is moving."

"
Who is this?"

"A Christian."

"A Christian. Great. Look, hold on a second
here." I turned to the messenger. "Al1 right. All right.
Here. Take it." I scrawled my signature on the bottom line of
the memo and handed it to him. "Now, if you'll excuse me, this
is a—"

"You didn't date it," he said.

I quickly wrote out the date and handed it back to
him. The messenger nodded and left.

"Hello, Mr. Christian."

Silence.

"
Hel1o."

"Look for the medicine."

"Medicine? What medicine?"

No response.

"Hello? . . . Hello? .... "

A click.

Christian. Medicine. Bibles for Bucharest.
Burckhardt, I thought. Two minutes later I was in my car, heading
down La Cienega toward~the Miracle Mile. It was raining hard, the
first rain of the year, and cars were skidding all over the place
from the fresh road oils. L.A. drivers never remember how to drive in
wet weather from one year to the next, and it was like a game of
bumper cars all the way to the dismal facade of the Fallbrook Arms.

I climbed the stairs quickly with the sudden urgency
of a man who is afraid of the inevitable. This increased when I found
Burckhardt's door locked. I banged on it a few times and then,
smiling at the Chicano delivery boys who were loitering in the
corridor, let myself in with my lockpicks. The way they didn't bat an
eyelash, they were probably there for the same thing.

No one was in the office. Much to my relief no one
was in the bathroom or the closet either. Of course, he could have
been off in the woods someplace. Or at the bottom of a garbage heap.
Burckhardt was the kind of guy who could have been dead for five
years and no one would ever have known it.

I rummaged around in his desk for a while, finding
nothing but some unpaid utility bills and an amazing collection of
candy bar wrappers. Then I sat down and borrowed his phone. Luckily,
it was still connected. I called information for the number of Cosmic
Aid headquarters in Ojai and dialed them.

"Eddy Sandollar, please," I said.

"Mr. Sandollar isn't here at the moment,"
said the receptionist. "Is there someone else who could help
you?"

"I'd like to speak with Mr. Sandollar directly.
This is kind of an emergency. Is there somewhere I can reach him?"

"Does he know you?"

"Yes, he does. My name is Moses Wine."

"
Hold the line, please."

In a few minutes she was back on the line asking for
my number. Eddy would call me directly. I hung up and the line rang
inside of a minute.

"Hello, Moses."

"
Hi, Eddy. Thanks for calling."

"No problem. God, that was some zoo the other
day. I don't think I'll ever forget it."

"I don't think any of us will. Look, Eddy, are
you still in LA.? Because I think you could help me figure out a few
things."

"Jeez, Moses, I'd like to help you, but I'm on
my way back to Ojai in half an hour. I'm going to Ethiopia in three
days to supervise the delivery of some Land-Rovers. If you don't do
it yourself, they'll use them to invade the Sudan or something. You
know how it is over there—the poorer the country, the bigger the
army."

"
So I heard. Where are you right now? Maybe we
could meet for just a few minutes. lt's very important."

"Sure, Moses. Sure. You know Ben Franks on
Sunset? Meet me there in fifteen minutes."

Sandollar was sitting at a table in Ben Franks with
his head buried in Billboard when I got there.

"Still reading the old bible," I said,
sitting down opposite him. He didn't look as if he had slept much the
last couple of nights. I could hardly blame him.

"
It's a hard habit to break. Got any
suggestin's?"

"
No. Is there anything wrong with it?"

"I don't know. It feels like an addiction. And
I've got more important things to do with my life now than worry
about which group is number one with a bullet."

"I guess you do. But speaking of Bibles, ever
hear of an organization called Bibles for Bucharest?"

"Bibles for Bucharest?" He laughed. "As
in Romania?"

He rolled up the Billboard and tapped it on the
table.

"Sounds like one of those old organizations that
used to smuggle Bibles behind the Iron Curtain. I think there was a
guy once who made millions that way."

"Millions?"

"You get an eight-hundred number, get on one of
those cable networks, and say you're going to bring God to the
atheists. It starts rolling in so fast you can't count it."

"What about a Korean reverend? Would he have had
anything to do with that?"

"I wouldn't know." He smiled. "There's
always Reverend Moon."

"Anyone less well known than that?"

"Probably. The Koreans are very evangelically
minded. What's all this about?"

"
I'm not sure. But somehow I think it relates to
the deaths of Mike Ptak, Vasile Nastase, and probably Carl
Bannister."

"Well, that's interesting. I hope you're right.
I sure hope Otis and his brother aren't responsible."

"How would I find out about a Korean reverend?"

"Well, I'm not exactly sure. That isn't really
my line. Cosmic Aid tries to keep a nonsectarian profile. Besides,
these religious organizations are pretty well protected. The
government can't even get into their books. It's really quite a
scandal. I've heard a lot of stories."

"Like what?"

"Re1ief organizations collecting small fortunes
and then sticking them in the bank and living off the interest. Or
using them to build multi-zillion-dollar headquarters to rival small
corporations. Hell, even Live Aid didn't know how to spend its money.
They had millions in the bank for over a year before . . . But, hey,
Moses, look, I wish I could help you some more, but like I said, I do
have to get back. Good luck with this, huh? And keep me posted. If
there's anything I can do to help Otis, it'd mean a lot to me."
He stood. "And, frankly, it doesn't look so great for Cosmic
Aid, if you know what I mean. That wasn't our most  successful
fund raiser. Check you later." He shook my hand and started out.

"One last quick one."

"Sure."

"What about medicine? Are there any scams to do
with medicine?"

"
Why not?"

"Bad medicine?"

"Not bad. Outdated. You know the drug companies.
The world's biggest overproducers. They've got to get rid of the
stuff somehow."

"So they sell it to relief organizations at a
discount."

"
You got it."

"And the charity pockets the difference."

"Makes everybody happy, doesn't it?" He
checked his watch. "Now I've really got to go." He suddenly
noticed the Billboard stashed under his arm and handed it to me.

"You'd better keep this. Bad karma, you know.
'Bye." And he was out.

Christians, Bibles, and outdated medicines. I sat
there rolling over that Holy Trinity and wondering if they connected
in some way to Ptak and his so-called twenty-five million. That was a
lot of aspirins, even at today's inflated rates. But then, Elmer
Gantry never had cable access.

Five minutes later I was on the road myself, heading
downtown. Given the restraining order, I would have to pass up Otis's
bail hearing, but there was nothing to stop me from checking the
fictitious business names index for Bibles for Bucharest. And also
for something like "nestor" or "nestron," the
word, according to Chantal, Mike Ptak had bellowed from the penthouse
of the Albergo Picasso as he plummeted to his death. And if that
index happened to be in the civil court building on Hill Street, only
just around the corner from the criminal courts on Temple, well, I
had no control over that.

But I hadn't gone more than half a mile when I picked
up a blue Dodge in my rearview mirror. Its driver was the same Scott
Glenn look-alike who had been pursuing me all over New York. In the
eighties, I thought, even the killers were bicoastal. I didn't waste
any time. I pulled into the parking lot of a Burger King, walked over
to the most public pay phone I could find, dropped in a quarter, and
dialed.

"Parker Center," came the voice on the
other end.

"Commander Koontz, please."

"Line's busy. Can you hold?"

"No. Get me John Lu at the Asian Squad."

The phone rang. "Lu here."

"Hello, John. Moses Wine."

There was a slight pause. I looked down the street
for my New York friend but couldn't see him. "Hello, Moses."
Lu sounded about as happy to hear from me as a physician from a
malpractice attorney.

"Listen, uh, John, could you answer a small
question for me? It's about those Chu's Brothers. They seem to be
adherents of some rev—"

"Sorry, Moses. I'm not supposed to talk to you."

"I see. But this is—"

"I can't."

"All right. That's the way it is, huh? Get me
Koontz."

"
I'll try."

This time the line was free.

"Koontz here."

"Wine here."

"What now?"

"I'm being followed."

"What're you doing out?"

"I'm serious, Koontz. You've got to lift that
restraining order. I'm being followed by a hired killer from New
York."

"That's not surprising at all. This is a DEA
case. Now get inside where the guy can't shoot you, shut your door,
and don't open it. Or do I have to put you under arrest? Didn't you
read the papers this morning? There's massive evidence of continued
rise in coke use in this city. Everybody's embarrassed and the
commissioner's trying to run for mayor. Somebody's going to take the
heat for it and I don't want it to be me."

"Look, you guys don't have the right line on
this case. There's something very different going on."

"Dream on, white boy."

"I'm not sure what exactly, but it has something
to do with a giant rip-off in the world of international aid or
Christian relief."

"Do you have any evidence of this'?"

"No, but——"

"Look, Wine, let me be frank with you. Ever
since you've been seeing that psychiatrist of yours, I think you've
been going a little bit off."

"That's the problem. He's one of the people I
suspect."

"
See what I mean? I don't consider myself an
expert, but I took a shrink course at the academy and I know they
call that acute paranoia. Go home."

He hung up.

I looked down the street for the New Yorker, but I
still didn't see him. I got back in my car and drove slowly downtown.
I wasn't feeling comfortable. In fact, I was feeling as lonely and
alienated as I had ever been. I didn't have a real case, I didn't
have a partner, and what client I had would undoubtedly renege when
he found I was legally incapable of performing my duties. It was the
pathetic summation of fifteen years of private investigative work.
Mean streets had become empty streets. Maybe Koontz was right. Maybe
I didn't have as firm a grip on reality as I thought.

I wasn't feeling much better when I pulled into the
parking lot across from the Temple Street courthouse. Mobile units
from the three major networks as well as from a couple of the local
stations were positioned out front behind a police barricade that
cordoned off an unruly crowd of courthouse groupies, winos, and bag
ladies. Despite the rain, they were all obviously waiting for Otis,
and I walked quickly past them into the entrance of the civil court
on Hill.

The record bureau was downstairs and I hesitated only
for a second before I signed my real name with the clerk. It didn't
take long to look up the two names. Not surprisingly, there was no
listing in California for a Bibles for Bucharest. There was no
Nestral either. But there was a Nestron on Sixth Street. It was
listed as a distribution company. But with no indication of what it
distributed.