City of the Lost (2 page)

Frank Tanaka is smoking at me.

He’s on his third Kool since sitting down across from me in one of the interrogation rooms at the North Hollywood police station on Burbank Boulevard. They did a crappy job with the soundproofing and I can hear the traffic on the 170 Freeway a block away.

I look over at the NO SMOKING sign plastered on the wall. Frank catches my gaze. Blows smoke in my face.

“Suppose you want one,” he says. I do, but we both know he won’t give me one, and I wouldn’t take it anyway.

“Menthols are for pussies.”

Frank Tanaka’s one of those little Japanese guys martial arts students get warned about. He’s small and wiry and I have no doubt he can kick my ass, however much he smokes.

He presses a button on the small recorder sitting between us, tells it the date and time.

“So, Sunday, why’d you kill Julio?”

“Talk to the bartender,” I say for the fifth or sixth time. “He’ll tell you the same thing. Julio killed himself.” By the time the cops got their act together enough to talk to me, it was already four in the afternoon. I’ve managed to clean up a little, but there’s a stickiness on my hands that won’t come off no matter how many times I scrub. My shirt’s caked with Julio’s blood, and my knee’s swollen from where I twisted it at the bar. The damn thing throbs if I look at it funny, ever since I tore it wrestling in high school. These bastards could have given me some Advil.

At least they gave me Band-Aids for the glass cuts on my hands.

“Don’t bullshit me, Sunday.” Frank glares at me, the sleeves of his salmon oxford rolled up to his elbows, his Mr. Miyagi mustache twitching. “Julio Guerrera’s not the kind of guy to kill himself.”

He’s got me there. Four hours ago I would have agreed with him. Hell, I agree with him now. Julio and suicide are not two things that go together.

“I dunno. Couldn’t cover his bets, maybe?”

Frank knows I’m holding something back. He knew Julio almost as well as I did. God knows he’s arrested both of us enough times: suspicion of murder, aggravated assault. Tried to grab me on jaywalking once just to get me in the station. He’s never had enough to make anything stick though.

We go back and forth like this a couple more rounds, as if he thinks repetition’s going to get me to change my story. Then he drops a grenade into the conversation.

“So what’s the deal with Sandro Giavetti?” I almost jump when he says it, but I’ve been in rooms like this since I was selling pot down in Venice twenty years ago, and I’m not about to slip now.

“Sandra? Never heard of her,” I say. “Julio’s wife’s gonna be pissed.”

“I know Julio was with Giavetti last night.”

“Don’t know who you’re talking about.” Frank shuts up and does The Stare. Every cop’s got one. Look hard, say nothing. Most folks will spill their guts just to fill the void and get the conversation going again. I’m not that easy. He’s been using The Stare on me for years.

A minute later there’s a knock, and a uniform sticks her head around the door. “Counsel’s here to see him,” she says. Frank and her glare at each other with a look that screams bad breakup. Lucky me. She ushers one of Simon’s faceless lawyers into the room before Frank can so much as open his mouth.

The man’s got on a gray Armani suit, conspicuous Rolex. His haircut probably cost as much as my shoes. “Detective,” he says. He gives Frank a look like a nun catching a boy in the girls’ bathroom. “Good to see you again.”

“Counselor,” Frank says. He knows he’s got nothing on me. This interview’s over. He stands, pulls a business card from his pocket, scribbles a number on the back, and hands it to me.

“You see anything weird. Anything. Call me.” He walks out the door. Slams it behind him.

“You certainly know how to make friends, don’t you, Mr. Sunday?” the attorney asks. He sits down in front of me, places his calfskin briefcase on the table, pops it open. “Sorry to hear about your associate,” he says with as much emotion as if he’s ordering a sandwich.

“Yeah,” I say. “It sucked.”

Of everything that’s happened today, Frank giving me his card spins me the most. Arrest me one minute, give me his phone number the next. Reminds me of a bad date. I stick it in my jacket pocket just to get it out of my sight.

“Did you kill him?”

“Christ, not you, too.”

He holds his hands out, placating. “Just have to ask,” he says. “I take it that’s a no, then. The bartender gave the same story, after he was sedated enough to stop screaming. Seems to think Mr. Guerrero was trying to eat him or something. We should have you out in no time, considering that you haven’t been formally charged with anything.”

“How long is ‘no time’?” I ask.

He looks behind him at the door. “From here on out it’s just paperwork. But it’ll be easier if we sit here a few minutes. The detective’s pretty pissed.”

Simon’s got a house north
of the Palisades overlooking the ocean and Pacific Coast Highway. The sound of the waves mix with the traffic, a low-grade static that drowns out the noises in my head.

He’s called a meeting here, a place he uses for entertaining D-list Hollywood celebs, producers, the occasional fresh-faced ingénue. He’s behind a lot of money in L.A., though he doesn’t advertise it. You won’t see his name in
Variety
, and he likes it that way.

Of course, he’s late, but since he’s the boss that means I’m early. I let myself in with a spare key and an alarm code. Julio and I used this place occasionally to regroup after a job, so we always had a key.

Christ. It’s hard to think of Julio in the past tense. I’d headed home after they released me, iced my knee, rebandaged the worst of the cuts. Cleaned myself up. Spent the whole time wondering what I was going to tell Julio’s wife.

Don’t know if the cops will do it, but I know Simon won’t. She’ll be taken care of, though. Simon’s got this thing about loyalty. Once you’re in, you’re in. But no way is he going to talk to her. That’s going to be my job, like it or not.

She won’t take it well. Julio never told her what he did for a living. She thinks he’s a manager for a construction company in Hollywood. Julio met her back in Manila where she grew up thinking she couldn’t do anything by herself. Still thinks she needs a man around to make things happen. Surprised she gets out of bed when he’s not around.

Julio told me once that she made him feel necessary. Special. I told him it was fucked up.

I called her on the way over to Simon’s. Got the answering machine. Julio’s gravelly voice told me to leave a message, so I did. Started to say that Julio killed himself, but it felt weird telling a dead man’s voice what it should already know. Told Mariel to call me later.

I’m on my fourth Marlboro and third Tecate when the front door opens. Simon I’m expecting, but Danny’s a surprise.

Danny Harrison is Simon’s—hell I don’t know what to call him. Administrative assistant? Foreman? Operational manager?

Bald guy, slick talker. Lots of tattoos. Always wears this goddamn porkpie hat makes him look like an extra in
Swingers
.

Simon owns a club in Hollywood where he does most of his business. Shakes up the theme of the place every couple nights. Fetish crowd one night, swing dancers another, headbangers when he can squeeze them in. Simon likes to diversify.

Danny runs the club and handles some of the less-than-legal business dealings. A real up-and-comer that Danny. I hear Simon lets him run some prostitution out of there as a sideline.

The times I usually deal with him directly are when I’m picking up a clean gun or Julio and I pull bodyguard duty for Simon at the club.

“Joseph,” Simon says, coming out onto the deck with Danny in tow. “Wasn’t sure if you were going to make it. Danny, get the man a drink.” I raise my beer, and he nods. “Then get me a drink.”

Simon’s built like a fireplug, squat and solid, but a good twenty years older than he looks. Thinning hair. Likes boiled British food a little too much for his doctor’s comfort, but he doesn’t care. Man’s got so much money he’s immortal. He can afford to live large.

He claps a thick hand on my shoulder. “You all right, lad?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Just been a long day.”

He hangs his head, nods. “It has been at that,” he says, peers up at me. “Going to be longer still. This isn’t over yet, Joe.”

“What’s not over, Simon?” Something in me threatens to snap. I don’t get angry. It’s unprofessional, gives the other guy an advantage. I force myself to relax as best I can, but it leaks out the edges, anyway.

“Do you know why he did this?” I step in closer, show him my hands. Julio’s blood still under my fingernails. “He tore his own fucking throat out.”

Simon steps back slowly, and it’s then I realize he’s got a blade millimeters from spilling my intestines to the floor. It’s easy to forget how fast he is with a knife.

“Calm yourself, Joseph. That’s what we’re here to discuss, innit?” He looks around, peering into the hazy shade of blue that passes for a dark night in Los Angeles. “But not out here.” He heads back into the living room. I hang back a moment to pull myself together, then follow him in.

He slides the door closed. Locks it. Draws the curtains. “I don’t know if that’ll help,” he says, more to himself than to us. Danny hands him a scotch and soda. He tosses it back like water, throws himself into one of the leather Manhattan chairs.

“Give us a rundown on what happened,” Simon says.

I give them the details. But when I get to the part about Julio going to retrieve the stone Simon gives me a shut-the-fuck-up look, and I bounce past that detail.

Danny doesn’t seem to notice the omission. I wonder if Simon’s told him about it. And wonder why he wouldn’t.

“Giavetti killed Julio,” he says. Holds up a hand when I open my mouth. “Let me finish. Please. I don’t know how, but I know he did it. Me and him, we go back quite a ways. When he came in to see me I nearly shat myself. I’m sixty-four now. Met Giavetti when I was eighteen. He looked just as old then as he does now. You following me?” He pauses to let it sink in. It doesn’t.

“I saw the guy when he first came to see you,” Danny says. “He’s got to be in his eighties.”

“I said the same thing back in 1959,” says Simon.

“You sure it’s the same guy?” I ask.

He laughs. “Oh, yes,” he says. “Man like Giavetti, you never forget. Did odd jobs for him. Had his hands in a couple of brothels in London, horse racing, poker clubs.”

He pauses, takes a deep breath. “Bloody queer thing. Spent a lot of time at libraries.

“One night,” he says, “pal of mine gets the bright idea to bump him off. We’d been drinking, and we both knew Giavetti was loaded. So we figure we’ll hide in a closet, strangle him in his sleep. My job was to get him in the house. I’ve got keys, I know when the ol’ bugger goes to bed.”

“You tried to kill him?” Danny asks.

“Not tried. Tied him up good, beat him to death with a cricket bat. Let him bleed out on his Persian rugs and laughed the whole time. Stuffed our pockets with as much as we could carry. Set the place alight. He was dead, all right. I watched him burn.”

I look over at Danny to see if he’s buying any of this.

“Bullshit,” he says.

“I’m with Danny on this one,” I say. “You’re saying Giavetti’s ghost is back, and he somehow got Julio to kill himself? Come on, Simon. Don’t lose it now. You killed Giavetti, what, almost fifty years ago? It’s somebody else. What about your partner?”

“Lost his nerve,” he says. “Talked about going to the police.” Knowing Simon that means he’s at the bottom of the Thames. Scratch that lead.

“Who else knew?”

“Besides you two, I’ve never told a soul. Back then Giavetti had connections. Word got out we’d done the deed, we were good as dead. No one else knew.”

“Somebody’s screwing with you. The guys you hooked him up with were in on it. Have to be. The dead one lost his nerve, the others took him out.”

“The missing bullets?”

“Vests,” Danny says, getting into it. “The bullets are stuck in their Kevlar.” Starting to make sense, pieces all lining up. Simon’s nodding slowly at the scenario.

“Then why’d Julio kill himself after meeting him?” he says.

“Okay, enough,” Danny says. “This is a nice chat around the campfire telling ghost stories and all. Maybe later we can roast s’mores and sing ‘Kumbaya.’ But right now you’ve got some fucker impersonating a guy you killed fifty years ago. It’s that or you’re going senile, and I’m betting that ain’t your problem.”

“So you think this is just a trick, then?”

“I’ll admit it’s a weird angle to play,” I say. “But yeah. He’s got a point.”

When Simon grabs onto an idea he doesn’t let go of it. Most stubborn man I’ve ever met. He’s got that tone that says we’re in for a long night of arguing.

He thinks for a long moment. “You’re right,” he says finally.

“Come again?”

“I said, you’re right. Has to be an impersonator. The man’s dead. Years now.”

Something’s wrong. Simon never gives up a point this easily. What the hell is he playing at?

“Danny’s got a point. It doesn’t matter,” Simon says. He nods at Danny, who gets up to fix him another scotch and soda. “Somebody’s fucking with me. I want him gone.”

“Hallelujah,” Danny says. “He sees the light.”

Simon gives Danny a cold smile. I don’t think Simon’s going to quickly forget that senile crack.

“When?” I ask.

“Tonight,” Simon says. He raises his empty glass. “Danny, would you get me another?” Deflated at being his serving boy, Danny goes to freshen his drink.

Simon opens a drawer in the table next to his chair, pulls out a Glock 30 with a threaded barrel and a silencer.

“Use this,” he says, handing them to me. “They’re clean.”

Danny comes back with a new glass. Simon slams it back. “I’m heading out of town,” he says. “Going to San Diego for a couple of days. Bit of a holiday. Maybe do some fishing.” The calm Simon shows the world is cracking. He doesn’t drink this much, doesn’t sweat this much.