Los Angeles Noir (24 page)

Roger waved at Dorothy, one of his long-time neighbors, walking her Chow mix. He choked up, but pulled it together and moved on; there was no time for cheap sentimentality. After making a turn at the signal, he picked up speed heading east on Olympic, nearing L.A. High where he’d gone his junior and senior years, lettering in basketball and track. His folks—his dad had worked for the county as a bus dispatcher for the then Rapid Transit District, and his mom a legal secretary—had saved enough to move from what they called the east side in those days, South Central now, and bought a tidy one-story on Norton just south of Pico.

His father had died in ’99 and his mother, still active and working part-time at a senior center, had moved back to Oakland where she was from. How would what he was about to do affect her? Would it age her? Would she hate him? Blame Claudia? Take it out on Janice? No, his mother was a rational, strong woman. She’d probably denounce him from the pulpit of her church and pray for his lost, misguided soul. There’d be a round of “amens” and shaking of heads and comforting their troubled sister by the congregation. She’d done what she could to raise him right, some people are just born to be bad, they’d commiserate.

To get his mind off his mother’s pending disappointment, he turned on the radio. He was pleased to hear that the forecast was sunny and breezy, a typical day in L.A. At Highland, he went north.

At the office he reconciled the inconsistency with the Carlson financials after one phone call and a subsequent fax from his buddy at the County. In deference to his friend Wayne Wardlow, he’d also stolen money from his foundation. If he hadn’t, then Wayne would have come under suspicion and scrutiny. And that might disclose his friend’s continuing relationship with his paramour, and that would surely weigh on Roger’s conscience.

“Happy birthday, Rog.”

“Thanks, Gabe.” The son had stepped into Roger’s office.

“Just want you to know, it’s all downhill from here.” Gabriel Nathanson was twice divorced and fifty-four.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Nathanson clapped him on her shoulder. “I’ll see you over at the Bounty, I’ll buy a round.”

“That’s great, Gabe.”

“I tried to get that drip Marty to come along, but you know how he is.”

Roger dredged up a camaraderie chuckle it had taken him years to perfect. “Yes, I do.” Martin Nathanson’s idea of cutting loose was putting ketchup on his scrambled eggs.

“And next week, let’s you, me, and sourpuss sit down, okay, partner?”

“Sure, Gabe. I look forward to it.”

The son left, whistling.

There it was. Roger was going to betray a firm with a reputation for spotless honesty and forthrightness of, well, of more than sixty years. Would they recover from the taint his theft would smear them with, or sink under a sea of accusations and blame? That and the avalanche of lawsuits sure to come. And though Roger was not much of a standard-bearer for the race, there was that too. A black man, albeit middle class and middle-aged, married for over twenty years to a white woman, but a black man nonetheless, who had gained the trust of his Jewish bosses and in effect stolen from them. What would be the fallout from that? Strenuous finger-pointing at the next CPA convention, for sure.

And what of the betrayal of his wife and daughter? Wasn’t that the biggest crime of all? Running off with a younger black woman, fine as she may be? His stomach gurgled as he admonished himself. This was a time to keep his mind focused, not a time for butterflies and second-guessing. He wanted to call Nanette, wanted so desperately to hear her say how much she loved him, how she’d never felt this way about a man before.

He suppressed the urge and went about his tasks, forcing himself not to watch the clock, not to mentally count down the hours till he started anew. Never again the same old 9-to-5, mortgage-paying, block-club-going Roger. The hours eked by and finally he was sitting in the back room of the Bounty on Wilshire in what was becoming part of the growing Koreatown.

The HMS Bounty was a time warp steak-and-booze emporium left over from the days of pounding down a couple of Scotches over lunch, when
cholesterol
sounded like the name of a new hair color line. It was where you could find a booth named for L.A. native Jack Webb, and across the street from the ghost of the Ambassador Hotel where presidential candidate Robert Kennedy had been assassinated in 1968. The hotel was no more, and a high school and shops were being built on the grounds.

“Here’s to my ace, Roger. May the next fifty be yours for the taking,” Wayne Wardlow toasted after they’d sung an off-key but effusive “Happy Birthday.”

The waitress brought out a chocolate cake, his favorite.

“Of course, we only used five candles for symbolism’s sake, since we didn’t want to torch the joint,” Wardlow joked, getting a round of guffaws.

“Here’s to you, Roger,” Gabe Nathanson echoed.

“Thanks, gents.” Roger clinked his glass against the others’ and drank. This was his second gin and tonic and it was going to be his limit. It was seventeen past 6:00 and it was getting harder for him to laugh and seem at ease. He had to go home and find out about his daughter, a last intimacy with Claudia, he owed her that, and then Nanette.
One foot right before the other, Roger.
Just like walking across the street. Though you could get run over.

“What’s up, champ?” Wardlow sidled up next to him. “Looks like you got something on your mind.”

“Being fifty.”

Wardlow had more of his whiskey. “I hear that. But things change, yeah? Don’t want to look back and have a trunk full of regrets.” He upended his tumbler and signaled for another. “Getting this age, too old to be innovative but just enough juice left in the tank to try something different, it hits you, doesn’t it? You can keep doing what you’re doing, stay in that rut till you maybe make retirement, and hope you can still manage to wipe your own butt and have enough to buy a few beans and tortillas. Or take a chance on something.” He looked off, beyond the walls.

“Exactly,” Roger agreed.

Later, after the goodbyes and a promise to play nine holes with Wardlow and a couple of the fellas, Claudia called him on his cell as he headed home.

“Janice isn’t here.”

“What? She turn around and go back?”

“No. Her cell phone is suddenly disconnected. I couldn’t leave a message, and I haven’t heard from her.”

“You just now telling me this?”

“Don’t yell at me. It’s just a little past 7:30, the time I figured she’d be here.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. Think she’s at one of her friends’ houses? Could she have stopped on the way and maybe dropped her phone and broke it?”

“Then why wouldn’t she use their phone to call?”

“Look, it’s not dire yet or anything. We should be calm.”

“I am, I’m just, you know, could it have something to do with why she came down?”

“I don’t know. We have some of her friends’ numbers. Girls from high school.”

“I’m going to call them.”

“Okay. I’ll be home shortly.” He hung up and rang Nanette to fill her in.

“Why didn’t you tell me she was coming to town?”

“I didn’t think it was going to be a big thing.”

“So what are you going to do?” she asked.

“I can’t take off till I know what’s going on with Janice.”

“I know that, I’m not the unfeeling ho,” she barked.

“That’s not what I meant. I can’t stop the virus. Anyway, everyone’s gone home, it would be my code and time stamp registered on the alarm pad if I went back to the office now.”

Her tone softened. “What about the money in the accounts? We can access the funds at any time, right?”

“Theoretically, yes. But once the hard drives are probed, I can’t be sure there won’t be traces. When they attempt to resurrect the files, they’ll dig deep. The virus was merely a way to give us the time we needed to get to the islands.”

“Then find your daughter, darling, and call me back. It still won’t make a difference if we leave tonight, tomorrow, or next week. Those computer files won’t be recovered that fast. In fact, when they go down and you’re around being all concerned, that will be even better, less attention on you.”

“Okay. Talk to you soon.”

“Okay, baby.”

Roger arrived at his house and was surprised to see his wife’s car wasn’t there. She called him on his cell as he unlocked the front door. “Janice had some car trouble, I went to pick her up. Should be back in half an hour.”

“Fine, I’ll be here.” Roger went inside, checking the time and gauging his next moves. The virus had launched, it was real now. He was elated. He was getting aroused as he fantasized about the money and his woman. Giddy, he took out his BlackBerry and punched in a code. The results on his screen sobered him. He put in more numbers, and again got the same results.
Zero
.

Reeling like he’d been hammered by a heavyweight’s blow, Roger dropped to his knees, fighting for air. He dropped the BlackBerry before him, as if it were a totem he could invoke favor through. The accounts in the Swiss banks and the one in the Caymans were empty. He kneeled there, blinking and kneading his hands. There was only one other person who knew about them. He rose, a man with renewed purpose.

Not fifteen minutes later, Roger Crumbler was surprised when Nanette answered her door. She lived in a duplex near Motor he’d helped her rent under a false name.

“Hi, Rog,” she said as he rushed inside.

“Well?” He held the BlackBerry in front of her face.

“Well, what?”

“The money, Nanette, the goddamn money I risked everything to steal. For us.”

“I don’t have it. Obviously.”

“Really?” He stalked through the apartment, not sure what he’d find or do as he looked in the bedroom and the closets. “You’re full of shit, baby. You must have the money. No one else knew about the accounts but you.”

“Keep your voice down, Roger.”

“Fuck that.” He was breathing hard, sweat glazing his brow. Fists balled, he blared, “You’re playing some kind of game with me, aren’t you? Think I’m stupid.”

“Roger, if I had the money, why would I be here waiting for you?”

He grabbed her arm. “You tell me.”

“Let go.” She jerked free. “So let me get this straight, you’re claiming the money is gone all of a sudden? The money from the accounts you set up, the money from the accounts you created passwords for?
That
money?” She glared at him, nostrils flaring.

“Oh, I see. Very clever. Make it seem like you’re the innocent here. When it’s perfectly clear you’re trying to pull some shit on me.”

“What about this, asshole. What if you planned this all along, come storming in here pretending you can’t find the Benjamins, and be all outraged and get me sucked in. Then send me off to look for the money and you take off with it. Shit,” she said, disgusted. “Without me giving you the backbone, you’d never have stolen that money. You’d keep being a glorified bookkeeper until you got your gold watch and your once-a-week handjob from your wife.”

“Shut the fuck up. I need to think.” He wanted to beat the truth out of her.

“
You
shut the fuck up.” She shoved him. “And get out of here. Now that I see what a pussy you really are, I wouldn’t go to the corner liquor store with you.”

He was shaking in anger. “Now you hold on.”

“Get out of her before I call the cops on your useless ass. You probably got all nervous and hit the wrong key, sending our money to some South American dictator’s account.” She laughed hollowly. “How the fuck could I have seen a future with you? You’re pathetic, Roger.”

“You’re not getting rid of me. We’re going to find that money together. This is my only chance, Nanette.”

“You’re unstable.” She moved to the door and held it open. “Leave.”

“I’m not going until I get my money.” He stalked toward her. “My fuckin’ money, understand me, bitch?”

“Oh, okay.” She slapped him hard. “Now get to steppin’. I don’t want to ever see you again. We’re through—get it, motherfuckah?” she yelled. “We’re through! Fuck you, your money, and your sorry little dreams.”

He popped her on the point of her jaw and she rocked back, dazed. He grabbed her arms with both of his hands and shook her. “I want my money!” he screamed.

She lunged forward and bit his ear as he reflexively turned his face away. He yowled in pain and let her go. Nanette ran and grabbed a screwdriver out of a kitchen drawer. “Get the fuck out of here or so help me, Roger, I’ll gut you.” Red washed her teeth and mottled her lips. The lips that all day he’d longed to kiss.

“Look, let’s—”

“Hey!” a voice called from below. “I’ve called the police on you two!” An approaching siren punctuated the warning.

“Get out of here,” Nanette repeated.

“What are you going to tell the cops?”

Her eyes were pitiless. “Get going, Roger.”

He ran from the duplex and ripped away in his car. The downstairs neighbor was out on the lawn, watching Roger go. Blood congealed in his eardrum, and some of it had dripped on his jacket and shirt. His cell phone rang, and he recognized his daughter’s number on the screen.

“Daddy?”

“Janice. Where have you been?”

“Waiting for you and Mom at the house. Aren’t we supposed to go out to dinner with your friends?”

“What?”

“Mom called me last Wednesday and said it would be good if I came down this weekend because it was your fiftieth birthday and she was having a party for you at this fancy restaurant.”

“She …” he began, but didn’t finish. “You didn’t have car trouble?”

“No. Mom told me to be home around 8:30. I got in town earlier and went and saw Ruthie and them, you know. I called her and told her that.”

Roger looked at his watch. It was 9:01. “And your mother’s not there?”

“She isn’t. I called her cell and got her answering message. Are you on your way home?”

“Yes, dear. I’ll see you in a few minutes.” They severed the connection. Roger was heading toward his house but pulled over on Venice and parked. He called their mutual friends. Nothing. Hadn’t seen or heard from Claudia. He called her friends. Again nothing. She was gone. He was sure of it. Took the money he worked so hard to steal. Roger got out of his car, dizzy and disoriented. He retched, vomiting into the gutter.