Authors: Jonathan Kellerman
M
r. Dmitri folded his reading glasses, slipped them into his shirt pocket along with Aaron’s expense accounting. Taking a bite out of his kebab pita, he studied Aaron.
“Wish there was more to report, sir, but these things take time.”
“Russian trains take time, Mr. Fox. Sometimes they don’t arrive.”
“This train will arrive.”
Dmitri sipped orange soda through a straw.
Aaron eyed his own lunch. Billed as a burger, looked like a burger, how could you go wrong? But the seasoning was weird, cumin or something, smelled like an old person’s closet.
Dmitri’s secretary had woken him at seven a.m., calling for a lunch appointment with the boss. Some place called Ivan’s, Burbank Boulevard, North Hollywood.
Aaron put on a good suit for what he expected to be some Russian hangout, thick-necked guys in black leather jackets listening to balalaika music, feasting on blinis, caviar, whatever those types liked.
Ivan’s turned out to be a take-out falafel joint with two outdoor benches for seating and now Aaron was looking out to a pigeonspecked
parking lot as clunkers drove in and out. The air was hot and noxious, reeked like a snot-clogged nose.
The good old Valley. He wondered if Moe ever ate here. Nah, not healthy enough.
Dmitri said, “You think this actor could be involved.”
“It’s worth pursuing.”
“Because there is nothing else.”
“The timing of the suicide attempt and the fact that the boyfriend now works for Book is suggestive.”
“Maybe the actor and
maybe
Dement’s son.
Maybe
the son is a nasty bigot like his father.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” said Aaron.
“But that is maybe not relevant, the girl was white.”
“At this point it’s hard to say what’s relevant and what isn’t.”
Dmitri chomped, got hummus on his meaty chin, swiped himself clean. “Five hundred dollars for ‘special communications.’”
The bribe for that weasel O’Geara at the cell phone company. Two-year relationship and the lowlife ups his rate fifty percent.
The excuse: Mario Fortuno’s bust had “kicked up the danger level.”
Aaron said, “I don’t think you want to know the details.”
Dmitri was amused. “You are engaging in KGB tactics?”
Aaron laughed. Dmitri’s pudgy forefinger nudged the waxed paper beneath Aaron’s burger. “You don’t like All-American food?”
“It’s great.” Aaron bit down to demonstrate, earned himself a moldy-laundry tongue. “Sir, has Mr. Frostig talked to you since I started on the case?”
“No. Why?”
“For the time being, I’d keep him out of the loop—not give him any details.”
Dmitri’s brow furrowed. “You suspect him of something?”
“No, sir, I just want to be careful—truth is, when I talked to him he seemed … almost ambivalent. Like he wasn’t sure how he felt about reopening the investigation. In my experience, that’s an unusual response.”
Dmitri tented his fingers. “Okay, we will keep him out of the loop.” Tiny smile. “Perhaps the loop will turn into a parabola. Or a hyperbola. Or a Fibonacci series.” Rising to his feet, Dmitri waddled to his Volvo, drove away fast.
Leaving Aaron to clean up.
Merry Ginzburg had told Aaron to meet her at a place on Hillhurst, near her office at the ABC studio on Prospect. He got there on time. Fifteen minutes later, she still hadn’t shown.
The ambience at Food Tube made up for all the self-conscious I’m-so-hip vibe Ivan’s had lacked. Lime-green walls inlaid with glass tiles listed at weird angles. The ceiling was crimson vinyl, the floor was chartreuse cement. Aaron felt trapped in the guts of some giant reptile.
Gaunt, black-clad servers huddled in a corner, trying to avoid three middle-aged women tackling food that looked as if it had been reclaimed from a compost heap. Aaron and the trio made up the lunch crowd.
No one had offered to seat him, so he picked a corner table, waited a good five minutes until a six-two redheaded girl deigned to come over. His mint tea order made her grimace.
“Something wrong?”
“I just hate all kinds of that stuff.”
“Tea,” he said.
“Yeah.”
He sat there for another seven before the mug of hot dishwater arrived. Not his day for cuisine. Boredom was cramping his head.
When out to pick up women, he played coy if they asked what he did for a living, then dropped the truth strategically. What he
never
let them know was how much of the job was phoning and schmoozing and waiting around.
He wanted to get out there and
do
something.
Maybe he’d call someone tonight, go out for a decent meal.
He was still trying to figure out who the lucky girl would be when Barret O’Geara phoned from a number Aaron didn’t recognize.
“Prepaid, what do you think? I’m gonna leave a trail?”
“What did you learn?”
“That maybe Mason Book’s got social problems.”
“What kind of problems?”
“Stud like that,” said O’Geara, “you’d think he’d be texting, getting texted nonstop by chicks, the studios, producers, whatever. What I got for the last ninety days is he calls Movie Line, Blockbuster, Beverage Warehouse. And, oh yeah, he does communicate with Dement’s kid’s cell. Ax, huh? Chop chop. Ax calls for lots of takeout, likes Italian and Thai. Book’s only other high-frequency contact is someone named Rory Stoltz who I first thought was a chick but then I looked him up because he’s also got an account with us—paid for by Book’s business manager, as a matter of fact, and the middle name listed on the account is Jeremy. So that’s three guys yapping. We talking gay?”
Aaron said, “How often do Book and Stoltz talk?”
“Once, twice a day, sometimes as much as six. Sometimes late, like three, four a.m. Let me in on it, Foxy, we talking Queerios in a bowl with milk and sugar?”
“What else you learn, Barret?”
“Holding back, huh? Meaning Book really does bat for the other team, all that studly stuff is pure bullshit? Oh, man, there’s nothing to believe in anymore.”
“You’re way off.”
“Then what’s the deal?”
“You don’t want to know. Look up Rory Stoltz for the last year and get back to me A-sap.”
“Whoa whoa whoa,” said O’Geara. “First of all, you know I never trace past ninety days because after ninety everything’s encrypted and sent to a separate data bank at our headquarters so the Feds can snoop on anyone they damn well please. Second, another romp is gonna cost you another five C.”
“Cut the comedy,” said Aaron. “It’s all part of the same assignment.”
“Who’s joking? Everything’s recorded here, man, it’s worse than
the CIA. Each time I log in, I’m putting my job in jeopardy. Not to mention my nonfelony status and subsequent ability to vote in national elections for the sleazeball of my choice.”
“It’s the same gig, O’Geara.”
“Says you.”
“A hundred more, period.”
“Five brings it alive.”
“Hundred fifty,” said Aaron. “You jerk me around, we’re through.”
“Hear that sound?” said O’Geara. “It ain’t rain, it’s my tears.”
“Suit yourself,” said Aaron, clicking off.
Three minutes later, Merry still hadn’t shown up when O’Geara called from a different number. “Two seventy-five or it’s splitsville and I demand alimony.”
“Two even and get back to me yesterday.”
“Two twenty-five and would you settle for right now?”
“You’ve already got it?”
“Two twenty-five says I might—”
“Spit it out, Barret.”
“I managed to go back four months, don’t ask how, but the picture doesn’t change much. Back then Book’s still getting a few calls from CAA, but then the agent yak dies. Stoltz and Book keep chatting regularly and, guess what, Stoltz sometimes calls Ahab Dement, I knew this was some faggot thing. Because the only other high-freq number for Stoltz is at the Peninsula Hotel in B.H., the three of them are obviously surfing the chocolate pipeline in some fancy suite, right? Am I gonna read this on Drudge tomorrow, meanwhile you sell the info and get a Ferrari?”
“No and no,” said Aaron. “Do one more thing, no charge.”
“Oh, sure—”
“Look at it this way, Barret: seven fifty in cash is coming your way unless something goes wrong with the mail.”
“You’re threatening me? I did the match, you owe the scratch.”
“Bye, Barry.”
“Getting overly familiar,” said O’Geara. “Why do I sense you’re intending to screw me over?”
“There’s no reason for conflict, Barry, just do something simple. Seeing as you work so fast, I’ll stay on the line.”
He spelled out the assignment. Cursing, O’Geara relented. Just as the info came back, Merry Ginzburg stepped into the restaurant, saw Aaron, waved.
Aaron said, “Check’s in the mail,” cut the connection, switched off his cell. When Merry reached his table, he got up, did the double-cheek-peck bit.
Merry was thirty-seven, short and curvy and pretty with luxuriant auburn hair and the saddest blue eyes Aaron had ever seen. Once a Calendar reporter for the
Times
, she’d been hired by the network affiliate to cover the Industry, delivered occasional gossip bits at the tail end of slow-day news broadcasts. Budget cuts had led to a buyout of her contract in eight months. She hadn’t been on camera in ages.
Which explained the pink Juicy Couture sweats, no makeup, hair tied up with a scrunchy.
“Sorry, handsome. Sudden meeting with suits.”
“Back in business?” said Aaron.
Merry’s headshake was long and mournful. “Just the opposite, they’re trying to whittle down my buyout. You believe that? Three months of negotiations just to get to the current state of being reamed and now they want to start all over again.”
“Bastards,” said Aaron.
“What is it about the Industry that attracts sociopaths? I know why they’re doing it. They figure I’ll have to hire a lawyer, which will chew up most of the money, so I’ll cave.” Jabbing a middle finger in the air, she said, “Think again, corporate assholes.”
The redheaded stick ambled over. “Everything okay, Ms. Ginzburg?”
“Everything sucks. Bring me the albacore on sprouts, medium rare, on a multigrain roll, no mayo, no mustard, no any other crap. But I do want a ramekin of blackened tempeh bits and some soy sauce on the side.”
The redhead pouted. “I’ll have to get my pad.”
When she was gone, Merry said, “Like that’s so hard to remember? We should’ve gone to Mickey D. So what’s up—hold on, Ectomorpha’s returning.”
Red said, “Okay.”
Merry repeated the order. “And throw in some avocado.”
When they were alone again, Aaron said, “Ax Dement.”
“Probably an utter shithole like his daddy.”
“Probably?”
“He’s not even Z list, Aaron. He’s a waiter so why would I care?”
Aaron said, “Which restaurant?”
Merry cracked up. “Not as in wannabe actor, darling. As in waiting for Daddy to die. Trust-fund baby?”
“Big trust fund?”
“I don’t know, dear, I’m theorizing. Daddy pulled in half a bill on that blind-faith abomination. Unless he hates his kids, why wouldn’t he dribble a little into their grubby little waiter palms?” She looked over at the klatch of idle servers. “Hey skinny folk—yeah, you. Can a person get some
water?”
Puzzled stares. No one moved.
“Wa-ter?
H-3-0? Oh, Jesus.” She got up, filled a glass from a pitcher.
Whispers among the cabal. When Red emerged from the kitchen, they said something to her and Red frowned and approached the table.
“Still or sparkling, Ms. Ginzburg?”
“Tap. And more hot water for Denzel Washington.”
The cabal began buzzing, as if plugged into a socket.
Red stared at Aaron. Aaron grinned. “She’s kidding.”
Red’s frown said she wasn’t sure who to believe.
Merry said, “Hot? Wa-wa?”
When the fluids arrived, Aaron said, “What do you know about Dement Senior?”
“He’s richer than God because of that holy-roller crapathon, but no one will work with him.”
“Because of the anti-Semitism?”
“You know, honey,” said Merry, “Hollywood wasn’t started by the Irish. That said, if the upside was big enough, Dement could be Hermann Göring and someone would rationalize a reason to finance his next flick. Lem’s problem is he considers himself an
artiste
. Now that he’s rolling in dough, he wants to be
creative.”
“Uncommercial projects.”
“Wacky projects, from what I hear. As in a Druid musical. Or more pseudo-documentaries on sexy topics like colitis—I’m kidding about that, but the Druid thing could be true. Bottom line, if Dement had come up with anything marketable in the last three years, he’d be shooting right now.”
Merry’s sandwich came, arranged sloppily on a plain beige plate. Redhead turned to leave. Merry barked: “More water.”
The girl whined something inaudible.
Aaron said, “H-3-O?”
“In-joke, dear. Heavy water, they use it in nuclear reactors. The implication being I’m going to blow this place up unless someone leases a working brain.”
“I’m impressed.”
“I was a chem major, premed at Duquesne, for about three days. Decided honest labor wasn’t my thing. Everyone said I’d have a shot at national anchor. Now the suits are dumping me and I’ve got as many prospects as Lem Dement at Wilshire Temple.”
“Sorry,” said Aaron.
“Maybe I’ll go back to Pittsburgh, live with real folk.”
“Don’t, I’ll miss you.”
“Sure you will.”
“Anything else you can tell me about the Dements?”
“Don’t know the kids but I’ll bet they’re a nasty bunch. Just look at that movie. Violence for its own bloody sake couched in piety. Bad role-modeling, too. Talk is Lem pounds on the little woman.”
“Really.”
“Can I prove it?” she said. “But she’s got that look, you know?
Long-suffering? And a friend of mine did some camera work on the Jesus flick swears the one time she showed up on the set, he saw bruises on her neck. He was thinking I could use that, but
A
, all they let me do was happy news and
B
, without something close to proof they’d never run it.”