To Die in Beverly Hills (16 page)

"I used to see him on TV," Della said.

Prince Nikola of Serbia strode from the kitchen carrying bottles of red wine. He wore a form-fitting T-shirt and butcher-style apron. His eyebrows were sprinkled with gray, and he looked heavier than in the championship photos. "Charlie, long time no see!" He flung an arm around Carr's shoulder, almost throwing him off balance.

Carr introduced Della Trane.

"Welcome to Nick's, beautiful lady." He dragged them through a swinging door into a spotless kitchen. "Look who comes to see us!" Nick said. A woman with hefty arms and shoulders turned from a stove. She had strong features and wore her hair braided and pinned closely to her head. Wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, she rushed to Carr. After bussing him on the cheek, she scolded him for not visiting more often.

Nick hustled them back into the restaurant, seating them in a corner booth that Carr knew was reserved for family. He rushed about setting the table with plates of French bread, green onions, garlicky black olives. "I'm so sorry about Jack," he said as he uncorked a bottle of wine. He shook his head as he filled wineglasses, then rushed off to the kitchen.

Della Trane took a big drink of the wine and set the glass down, licking her lips. "My first husband was Nick's size. He was a motor cop. We had a big wedding in the Police Academy rock garden. Chief Parker himself came." She took another sip. "It seems like such a long time ago," she said, wistfully. Having taken another healthy sip or two, she excused herself to the ladies' room.

Nick of Serbia came to the table with an appetizer plate of goat cheese and crackers. Carr asked him to sit down. He slipped Bobby Chagra's mug shot out of his shirt pocket and handed it to him.

The wrestler stared at the photograph. He snapped his fingers. "Beverly Hills Athletic Club," he said. "When I work there as a gym instructor, he work in bar. He used to work nights. This is six years ago, maybe seven. He worked there for just a little while. His nickname is Bones. I can't remember his real name."

"What kind of a guy is he?" Carr said.

"Sunnabitch is no good. He's a garbage can. I tell you truth."

"What's he into?"

"He used to set up crap games at the club. All the big shots would -play in the locker room on Friday nights ... big money ... hundred-dollar bills. Judges, doctors, movie stars, they all used to play. Once I see Frank Sinatra in the game. He stayed for just a few minutes, then leaves. I ask him why he didn't play longer. He say to me, 'Nick, you ever seen the magician pull rabbit out of a hat?' That's when I first knew something was wrong. The big shots played every week. They'd lose five, maybe ten thousand without batting eye. Finally, somebody figured out that the game was fixed. It was a big scandal. Grand jury investigation, stories in the newspaper. Big-shot movie producer lost hundred grand in one night -and called the cops. Bones got fired."

"Any friends?"

Nick of Serbia shook his head. "He always had lots girl friends, though. He always talk about how he fucks them, you know ... she did this to me, I did that to her. It's all he talks about. He's like a little boy. He was always trying to fuck the daughters of movie stars. He met them at the Bel Air parties catered by the club. Once the sunnabitch asked me if I wanted to help him steal one of the Rolls-Royces parked outside. He is a garbage can ... a big damn phony like everybody else in Beverly Hills. The people who really have money aren't that bad. It's the rest of the goldbricks, the ones who use ten towels to dry off. They all want special treatment. I tell you truth: the peanut seller at the Olympic Auditorium, where I wrestle, makes more in tips in one night than I made in the five years I worked in Beverly Hills. I tell you truth." Nick laughed uproariously. "Now I'm big shot. When customer give me shit, I put 'em in hammerlock and toss their ass out front door." Another burst of laughter. "I break their damn neck with the Boston Crab!" With catlike speed, he interlaced fingers and leaned back. His biceps flexed.

Carr chuckled.

"This Bones," Nick said, "what did he do?"

"I just need to ask him some questions," Carr said. "Is Bones the kind of person who'll answer questions?"

Nick of Serbia shook his head. "I would say no," he said. "When the cops came to the club to ask about the dice game, he told them to go to hell."

"If you hear anything about what Bones has been up to recently, I'd appreciate a call," Carr said.

"I check around for you." Nick excused himself as more customers came in the door.

Della returned to the table and immediately hoisted her wineglass. "Here's to ya," she said, and tossed back half a glass. Carr noticed that she had reapplied makeup. She dabbed her lips with a napkin, leaving a lipstick stain. "My third husband loved wrestling," she said, gazing at one of the wrestling photos on the wall. "He knew it was phony, but he loved it anyway. Isn't that crazy?"

Carr nodded. "I haven't seen you at Ling's lately," he said, trying to change the subject.

She sipped again. "Too much shoptalk in there. After my last divorce, I used to go to a lot of the cop hangouts, but everyone I met seemed to know one of my ex-husbands. So I started hitting the places in West L.A. I met nothing but creeps with gold chains and open-collared shirts. All they could talk about was skiing or buying property. I stopped going out all together. Finally, when I couldn't stand it anymore, I started going out with this divorced guy who lives across the street from me. He turned out to be a real butt. He's one of those people who keeps a budget. He actually makes a note of every dime he spends. If he buys a pack of cigarettes he actually makes a note of it on a little calendar in his kitchen. I think he's a neurotic." Della picked up the wine bottle and filled her glass close to the rim. "Oops." Hefting the glass with both hands, she drank off a half inch or so.

Nick brought a steaming platter of fried fish, bowls of boiled potatoes, string beans and salad. Carr ate heartily as Della pushed food around her plate and finished the bottle of wine. By the end of the meal her lips were purple. "I just love this place," she said. After dessert, Carr went through the ritual of trying to pay for the meal while Nick threatened to crush him with a bear hug if he left money on the table. Finally the men shook hands and Della took Carr's arm on the way out the door. Once in the sedan she slid next to him, kissing him on the cheek.

"Would you mind too much if we took a drive along the coast? I haven't done that in years." Her words were slurred and the wine had flushed her cheeks. Somehow, the color in her face made her look younger.

"Sure," Carr said. Carr found his way through some side street to Pacific Coast Highway. He turned north and they drove for a while without saying anything. The air was comfortably cool and there was the sound of waves breaking along the rocks.

"Funny," Della said. "I'm willing to make commitments in a split second, and you wouldn't commit yourself to someone at the risk of the death penalty. You've never been married, have you?"

Carr shook his head.

"I guess that's just the way it is between men and women."

"Men and women are at war these days. It's a game of who can rip off who first."

Della nodded in agreement.

In Malibu, they passed a restaurant whose exterior was covered with synthetically weathered wood and decorative anchors. A coiled rope over the door spelled The Galley.

"Let's stop in there for a drink," Della said. "Please."

"I don't think you need any more to drink."

"Don't be an old klutz," she whispered in his ear.

Inside, the floors and walls were bare planks. There were lots of cheap oil paintings of sailing ships and a few diver's masks lamps for decoration. Because of the hour, there were empty tables next to the windows. A young man wearing a sea captain's cap seated them. Della ordered a rusty nail with double scotch. Carr asked for coffee. Outside, in the ocean's blackness, a silhouette of what looked like a cruise ship moved slowly along the coastline beyond a well-lighted offshore oil rig whose metal structures had been camouflaged with painted partitions in an attempt to make it look like a tiny, palm-treed island.

"It almost looks real," Della said.

"The ship or the oil derrick?"

She slapped his hand playfully.

"No matter what it looks like," Carr said, "it's still an oil derrick ... an oil derrick built right smack in the middle of the ocean view so somebody could make a buck."

The waiter brought drinks. "Pretend it's not there," she said, taking a couple of sips.

Impulsively she put her hand in his. "Thanks for not being crazy. All the men I've been out with lately seem crazy.

A few minutes later the maitre d' walked by them leading three women to a table. One of the women was Sally Malone. She stopped and stared at Carr for a moment, her lips quivering. She said something to her friends, then turned and quickly headed toward the door.

Carr excused himself from the table and followed Sally out the door. Jogging a few steps, he caught up with her in the parking lot as she fumbled for car keys. He grabbed her by the arm.

"Don't touch me," she said as if he were a leper.

He turned her toward him. Her eyes were closed tightly in anger. "You humiliated me in front of my friends," she said through gritted teeth. "I told them that you had broken our date tonight because you were working."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I mean that, Sally. I'm very sorry."

She pulled away from him and unlocked the door of her sports car. Having swung the door open, she climbed in. As she started the engine, he saw tears on her cheeks. She slammed the car into gear and raced out of the lot onto the highway.

Carr rubbed his temples for a moment, then returned to the table. Della Trane had finished her rusty nail. She stared out the window as she fiddled with a swizzle stick. "She may never forgive you," she said to the window. "I know I wouldn't."

Carr gestured to a cocktail waitress, who took his order for a round of double scotches. The waitress made frequent trips to the table until closing time. Della Trane told and retold her marriage stories.

On the trip back to her apartment she fell asleep on Carr's shoulder. When they arrived, he nudged her awake and helped her up some steps to her front door. He helped her find keys and unlock the door. Pulling him inside, she threw her arms around him. They kissed until Carr pulled his lips away from hers. "You drink too much," he said.

She pushed him away. "You cops should talk. If it hadn't been for cops I would never have started drinking in the first place." She covered her face with her hands and cried. Carr put his arms around her again. "I really like you," she said, crying. "Now you'll probably never ask me out again."

"I will."

"Promise?" She looked up at him, tears welled in her eyes.

"Promise." He touched her cheek with the back of his hand and walked out the door. Carr drove the speed limit along a deserted Pacific Coast Highway toward Santa Monica, keeping on the alert for Highway Patrol vehicles. He knew a drunk-driving incident would give No Waves enough ammo to have him transferred again. Finally, he reached Santa Monica. On the way to his apartment, he passed by the street Sally Malone lived on. Her car was parked in front of her apartment complex. He made a couple of turns around the block as he considered her possible reaction if he stopped. "The hell with it," he said out loud, and continued the flew blocks to his apartment. He parked the sedan in a carport, locked it and made his way up the steps to his apartment.

After fumbling with the key, he unlocked the front door and went in, flicking on the light. The place looked as it always did: neither messy, spotless nor particularly lived in. The brown leather sofa and recliner chair (Sally hated both) showed few signs of wear. On a bookcase the stacks of outdated criminology and police journals, as well as the James Jones and Graham Greene novels, needed dusting. The Miró prints on the wall were a Christmas gift from Sally. She always said the place looked like a motel room. Carr flopped down on the sofa. Hell, he thought, he might as well live in a motel room.