To Die in Beverly Hills (27 page)

"You're taking a chance at this time of night."

"I can't live my life worrying about such things," she said, this time looking at him. "I was going to ask why you haven't called me. But if I did, you would tell me you've been busy. Then I would get angry. So I won't ask."

"Would you like a drink?"

She shook her head. "Are you aware you're still wearing your gun?"

Carr looked at his side. Hastily he unclipped the inside-the-belt holster and went into the bedroom, opened a dresser drawer and shoved the gun in it. He closed the drawer and returned to the living room. Sally stood in the middle of the room with her hands clasped together behind her neck, doing torso-twisting exercises. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. When she didn't respond he moved away, letting his hands rest lightly on her shoulders.

"Our relationship has been a sexual one right from the beginning," she said. "We get along in bed. I sometimes wonder if there is anything... I mean anything beyond sex between you and me. Even when you tell me you love me I'm not sure that you really mean it."

"I mean it," he said softly.

She pushed his arms away. "I have to do my hair and nails tonight. I've got to go. It's late and I have an early-morning deposition. She jogged to the door and opened it. Having blown him a kiss, she jogged down the steps and into the darkness.

Carr shut the door and locked it. He thought of his first date with Sally. They had gone to a jazz club in Studio City ... was it nine or ten years ago?

After a search, he found a container of liquid hand soap under the sink in the bathroom. Using it as a substitute for dishwashing detergent, he washed and dried the pile of dishes and glasses in the sink, then put them away.

The telephone rang. It was Sally.

"You're having second thoughts about marrying me, aren't you?" she said.

He didn't answer.

"I know you are," she said, her voice cracking. "I can tell."

The phone clicked.

****

FOURTEEN

AFTER A wrong turn or two in the hilly residential area of Beverly Hills, Carr noticed a curbside sign that spelled out Beverly Hills Revolver Club in delicate type. He turned right and followed a driveway that led up a slight elevation to the club's parking lot. In the corner of the lot was a small building with a canopied entrance. He parked his sedan and got out. The view from the lot was of the Santa Monica Freeway, which guarded the southern perimeter of Beverly Hills like a moat.

On the other side of the freeway was a bank of gray apartment houses that Carr recognized as one of the many L.A. neighborhoods populated by Mexicans who had fled their cardboard houses in Tijuana for the high life of loud mufflers and garment district piecework. All things considered, Carr thought to himself, even cramped quarters in a run-down apartment house with a greenish-tinted swimming pool was better than cardboard city.

He entered a lobby and showed his badge to a red-haired receptionist with a bouffant hairdo. She wore a tan safari blouse. He told her what he wanted.

"Artie can probably help you," she said as if she were interested. "He's on the range right now." She pointed to a glass door. "You can wait for him inside if you like."

Carr thanked her and went over to the glass door. She pressed a button. The lock clicked and Carr went inside, making his way down a hallway to a glass-enclosed viewing area behind an indoor firing range with four firing positions.

Three middle-aged women stood at positions on the firing line holding loaded revolvers. They each wore ear protectors and jogging outfits. Artie, the rangemaster, a flyweight-sized man with a safari jacket similar to the receptionist's, checked the ladies' weapons and stepped back. Using a microphone, he gave firing instructions. Target lights came on and the targets (man-sized gorillas pointing guns) faced front. The women fired, turning the targets sideways. Without conversation, the women reloaded. At the end of the firing set, Artie retrieved the women's targets and gave shooting advice. The women chattered and giggled with one another on the way out.

Carr left the booth and strolled onto the firing line. He showed Artie his badge.

"I could tell you were a cop," Artie said, offering a jockey-sized hand. They shook hands, and Artie made a salesman's grin.

"I recovered a thirty-two revolver during the course of an investigation," Carr said. "It's registered to you."

"No lie? Where'd you find it?"

"It was used during the commission of a burglary."

"I have nine or ten thirty-twos registered to me ... or to the Revolver Club I should say. We used them on the firing line. They're small. The ladies love 'em. Purse size. Personally, I like automatics. I fired a new style Beretta last week that was a dream." He made his hand into a gun. "Bap bap bap bap. People in this town are scared shitless. Muggings, burglaries. The scumbags from Watts drive through like marauders ripping off whatever or whomever they see. They thrive on weakness. Everybody thought I was crazy to open a gun club in Beverly Hills. They said the rich folks would never go for it. Well, I've made enough money in the last year to open another one in San Marino. Wealthy people believe in self-preservation. Have no doubt. Did ya see the women who just walked out of here?"

Carr nodded.

"Anyone who tries to rob one of them is a goner. They're not great shots, but they know how to pull the trigger. Fuck with any of those grandmas, and they'll scatter your brains." He laughed.

"How did you lose the thirty-two?" Carr asked.

Artie shrugged, bent down and picked up a few expended shells off the floor. "Don't really know."

"When did you first notice that the gun was missing?"

"Hard to say," Artie said as he reached for a light switch, turning off the target lights. Carr followed him out of the range area and down the hallway to an office. The wood-paneled walls were covered with shooting certificates. Trophies decorated the top of a desk. Artie motioned Carr to a chair as he sat down behind the desk in a swivel chair that made him look even shorter than he was. "Ever had to shoot anybody?" he said.

"Yes. How do you keep track of the guns you have here?"

"What's this all about?"

"A burglar ended up with one of your guns," Carr said impatiently. "I'm here to find out how he got it."

Artie stood up, closed the door and returned to the desk.

"What if I was to tell you I didn't know what happened to it?"

Carr said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

"I had it in my car one night," he said. "I was barhopping... I must have hit every place on the -West Side of town. I got arrested for drunk driving about two in the morning. I bailed out that night. It wasn't until two or three days later that I realized the gun was missing. Yes, I know it's illegal to carry a loaded gun around in one's car. My answer to that is that I'd rather be safe than sorry. I'd rather be tried by twelve than carried by six. I'm ready to kill to protect myself and I don't care who knows it."

"Where?..."

Artie raised his hands and shook his head at the same time. "I have no idea where I lost it. It could have been stolen from my car at any one of eight or ten bars we hit that night. I had it in the glove compartment."

"Where were you arrested?"

"Right here in the city. On La Cienega. I was driving south on La Cienega. I'm pretty sure it was south. I was bombed, man. Three sheets to the wind. Soused. My girl friend was with me. She said I drank twenty grasshoppers during the course of the evening. If you so much as showed me a bottle of crème de menthe right now, I'd throw up right on this desk. Since it happened I drink only vodka on the rocks. You wanna know why? It's because I hate vodka. I drink less. For me it's the answer."

"What happened to your car after you were arrested?" Carr said.

"The police impounded it I guess. My girl friend picked it up for me the next day. The hangover was so bad I couldn't get out of-"

"Do you have a copy of the impound receipt?"

Artie pulled open the center drawer of the desk and rummaged through a mound of papers. "My lady friend stops by now and then to help me with the paperwork around here. Great gal. Just divorced from Trent Beckwith, the producer. She bought me a Rolex for my birthday ... here it is." He pulled a blue receipt from the drawer and handed it to Carr. It was a receipt from a police contract tow service.

"May I keep this?"

"Sure," Artie said.

Charles Carr stood up to leave.

"You should stop by sometime when you have time to fire. I like to have cops around."

"Thanks," Carr said, moving to the door.

"The women around here all have lots of bucks. Lots of bucks and lots of time on their hands."

Carr opened the door, paused briefly. "Why didn't you report the gun missing?"

"I was embarrassed to tell the police I couldn't remember where I'd been that night."

"Thanks again," Carr said. He walked out the door.

It was Saturday morning.

Three weeks had passed since Jack Kelly had been shot. With the single exception of Carr's trip to Las Vegas with Sally, he hadn't taken a day off. As he parked at the curb in front of the auto impound yard, Carr realized that for the last few days he'd been waking up tired and staying that way all day ... and he'd been drinking more than usual. He rubbed his eyes and got out of the sedan.

He walked past an open chain link gate into a lot filled with cars. A doorless shack that served as an office was next to the gate. Most of them were luxury cars; a few were smashed up, including a purple Maserati that looked like it had been crushed with a steamroller. All the vehicles bore grease-penciled numbers on the windshields.

Carr showed his badge to a puffy-eyed heavy woman whose feet rested on a grease-covered table in the shack. She wore a dingy mechanic's shirt and trousers and a smudged baseball hat that covered her closely cropped gray hair. She was reading race results.

"What can I do ya for?" she said in a nasal voice that reminded Carr of male comedians who imitated women.

Carr handed her an impound receipt. "I'm tracing a gun," he said. "The man whom the gun is registered to told me that he was arrested for drunk driving a couple of months ago, about a mile from here. The Beverly Hills Police booked him and impounded his car. He says the gun was missing from the trunk of his car when he checked it out of this lot."

"Did he make out a theft report?" she asked.

"He didn't report the gun missing because he didn't notice it was gone until a week or so after he'd bailed out and picked up his car. He figured making a theft report wouldn't help him get the gun back."

"People say things like that all the time," the woman said. As she spoke Carr noticed snuff between her lower lip and gum. She examined the impound receipt.

"May I see your copy of the impound receipt?" Carr said.

"It'll be the same as this copy except for the arresting officer's signature." The woman slung her feet off the table and got up, moving over to a cardboard box in the corner of the shack. Squatting down, she flipped through folders full of receipts. A short time later she stood up holding a blue copy of an impound receipt, handed it to Carr and returned to her chair.

Carr held the paper to the light of the grease-covered window. The signature line on the bottom of the printed form read: