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  Chapter 1

  “Perhaps I know best why it is man alone who laughs; he alone suffers so deeply, he had to invent laughter.” - Friedrich Nietzsche

  At the red light I popped in a cigarette and fished the lighter out of the pocket of my jeans. I had seven minutes until my appointment, though I knew I’d be late. I hadn’t made an appointment on time in three years, but lucky for me, private detectives don’t have to punch time cards.

  My BMW was a black ’08 coupe. I parked it at a meter on Santa Monica and headed up the street with my briefcase in hand. On the way I finished my cigarette and lit up another and turned up La Cienega.

  I’m not much of a laugher, never was, not even when I’m drunk. That’s why I thought it ironic that my next client was the owner of a comedy club.

  A large picture of a young guy was posted in a display window surrounded by light bulbs. Underneath it read: “THIS WEEKEND – DENNY GRANGER! FRI, SAT, SUN - 8 PM & 10 PM!!!” The guy was good looking with a thick head of wavy black hair; the kind that abandoned me long ago, leaving me with nothing but a horseshoe. He was big too. Muscular. I’ve been in my share of fights in my life, but I’m glad none of them were ever with him.

  The front doors of the place were blacked out from the inside, and locked. In the box office, a black girl no older than seventeen was behind the window wearing ear buds. She was texting on her cell phone and giggling. I spoke into the circle cut into the middle of the window.

  “Excuse me.” I said and took off my sunglasses. She didn’t hear me. “Excuse me!” I waved my hand in her face.

  She looked up at me with a mixture of surprise and annoyance as she pulled out the ear buds.

  “Yeah?”

  “I have an appointment with Mr. Slavas. Is he in?”

  She sighed, grumbled “Let me check”, and dialed an extension on the land line. She dialed quickly, wanting to get rid of me and continue her friendly flirtation.

  “There’s someone here and he says he has an appointment with you...Hold on.” She held the phone away from her. “What’s your name?”

  “Marshall Santone.”

  She repeated it into the phone. I heard a muffled voice mutter something on the other end and she hung up.

  “I’ll open the door for you.”

  “Thanks.” I blew a plume of smoke and tapped the ashes. When she opened the blackened doors from the inside I dropped the cig on the sidewalk and stamped it out.

  “You go down the hall and turn left.” She said.

  “Much obliged.” If I had been wearing a hat, I would have tipped it to her. Instead I disappeared into the hall.

  The walls were cement and the pale yellow lights above illuminated the cracks and crevasses in them. They were decorated with framed headshots of comedians who had come through there in the past; Jerry Seinfeld, Adam Sandler, Rodney Dangerfield, Richard Lewis, etc. I only knew the names because they were printed below each of the pictures, and each one of them was autographed in marker.

  “Mr. Santone!”

  A round, dark-skinned man with a comb over and crooked nose approached me from the showroom on the left. He was smiling. He took my hand and gave me such a vibrant handshake you’d think I’d just given him a winning lottery ticket.

  “You must be Jack Slavas,” I said.

  “Yes, sir. That’s me. Have a seat. Thank you for coming on such short notice.” I sat down at one of the small round tables and set my briefcase at my feet.

  A stage with a microphone stand was positioned at the other end against the back drop of a brick wall with the words “Chuckle Hut” scrawled in red graffiti font. The place was empty, filled with a quiet mustiness. I had never been to a comedy club before. At night, perhaps the place was full of life, but at that moment, it felt more like a tomb.

  “Would you care for a drink?” Slavas said.

  “Sure. How ‘bout a scotch?”

  “And soda?”

  “No.”

  He smiled. “Scotch it is. Silvio!”

  A middle-aged Mexican man stepped out from the door to the kitchen at the far end of the room. “Two scotches!” Slavas called then sat down across from me. He gave me a curious look.

  “Something bothering you?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry, it’s just, uh...you don’t look like how I pictured.”

  “How did you picture?”

  He paused then laughed. “Well, you know, all the private detectives I’ve seen wear suits.”

  I was not wearing a suit, but jeans, sneakers and a short sleeved button-up with my sunglasses hanging from the collar. Admittedly not very professional looking. Couldn’t blame the man for expecting the cliché.

  “Have you seen a lot of private detectives?”

  “Well...”

  “Detectives in movies always wear a suit. Are those the ones you’re thinking of?”

  “I guess so. They always wear fedoras too.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  He laughed again and said I was a funny guy. That was a first for me. Then the drinks came. Silvio brought them to the table.

  “Thanks.” I said and took a sip. Silvio gave me a dirty look as he walked away. “Friendly guy.”

  “Oh, don’t mind him. He’s only bitter because I asked him to come in early. It’s open mic tonight.”

  Whatever that meant. It didn’t matter. From my back pocket I removed a small notebook with a pencil jammed into the spirals. I had this notebook with everywhere I went, even if it wasn’t on business. “What is it that I can do for you, Mr. Slavas?”

  The friendly look on his face dissipated and was quickly replaced by one of anxious desperation.

  “I’m in trouble,” he said.

  “I figured.”

  “This has been my club for twenty-four years. I don’t want to lose it, but I’m this close.” He held his thumb and forefinger a few centimeters apart. I sipped my drink.

  “The bank gave me till the end of this month to pay back the loan. I’m almost there. It’s my last payment. This weekend is gonna be my final push, what puts me over the top.” He searched for more words, but had to gulp his drink first. “My act for the weekend, my headliner, was supposed to be here by now. Did you see his picture outside?”

  I nodded. “Sounds like he’s a big deal.”

  “He sold the place out. All six shows for the weekend are full, but if he doesn’t show, everything is wasted.”

  “You’ll have to refund the tickets?”

  Another curious look crossed his face, but different from before. This was more a look of regret than intrigue.

  “I made an exception in Denny’s case. Normally a comic gets paid at the end of a weekend. They take in a hundred percent of the cover charge, and I make my money on drinks and food. That’s how it’s done everywhere. That’s why there’s a two drink minimum for every club and it’s no different here. But for Denny...he wanted an advance. The deal was I’d pay him five grand upfront plus sixty percent of the cover. I wouldn’t have done it if I wasn’t desperate. But now I’m out five grand, and if Denny doesn’t perform, there’s no show and I don’t make shit.”

  I nodded again, my eyes on my notebook as I jotted all this down. He wiped the sweat of his forehead on his sleeve. “I flew him in from New York. His
plane landed at LAX this morning, but he wasn’t there.”

  “What do you mean? He wasn’t on the flight?”

  “That’s the thing. He was. Denny’s manager came here with him. They were on the plane together. But after they landed, his manager went to use the head and when she came back, Denny was gone. Looked everywhere we could think of, but zilch. I don’t have any time to waste, that’s why I called you.” Slavas took a big swig and choked it down, finishing it off. “If he’s not here by tomorrow night, I’m through. I need you to find him.”

  I still had a few sips of my drink left, but I was too busy fingering the rim of the glass. There was something that concerned me.

  “Mr. Slavas.” I inched forward in my chair. “You brought me here to find this Denny Granger fellow, which is fine. But it’s not because you’re worried about Denny’s well-being or safety. Rather because you lose money if he doesn’t show up?” Slavas adjusted himself in his chair. “Now what that says to me,” I continued, “is you’re putting dollar signs in front of the guy. Denny is just your leverage. And that makes me wonder if I can trust you--”

  He smacked his glass down with a thud – I heard it crack - and stood from the table. “I am deeply, deeply, concerned with Denny’s safety! How dare you? If I thought that Denny was in any real danger, I wouldn’t be talking to you, I’d be talking to the police!”

  “All right—“

  “I do care about Denny! But he’s a grown man who can take care of himself. And he’s notorious for causing trouble like this. Now, I’ve put everything I have on the line to get him here. I’m risking my club. My livelihood. I’m in a desperate situation with no time to waste. Isn’t that your job? To get people out of desperate situations?”

  I casually picked up my drink and handed it to him. “Here,” I said, “you need this more than I do. So just sit down and calm yourself, will you?”

  He looked at me hard, but soon sat back down and drank the last of my scotch. “I wasn’t trying to offend you, Mr. Slavas, and I’ll take your case. But I require knowing the intentions of my employers.”

  “...I understand. I’m sorry I lost my temper.” He composed himself by adjusting his shirt and wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

  “It’s all right.” I grabbed the briefcase from my feet and clicked it open. The contract was sitting on top, fresh off the press and hungry for a signature. I presented the contract on the table and handed Slavas a pen. “I’ll stop by tomorrow to give you an update on my progress. My fee is three hundred and fifty per day, plus expenses. The rest of today will be pro-rated at one hundred. Is that all right?”

  “Yes. Yes of course.” And he leaned over to sign.

  “But...” I said. He stopped and looked at me. “I require a seven hundred dollar retainer up front. That covers you for two days. If I find Denny before then, I reimburse you the difference. Is that all right?”

  “Yes. Anything. Anything.” He signed his name on the contract. Then pulled a check book from his pocket and made it out to Santone Investigations for seven hundred even. We stood up.

  “I’ll provide receipts of anything I’ll need reimbursement for,” I said as I slid the check into my wallet.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  He walked me back down the hall to the bottom of the stairs. “I’ll need to speak with Denny’s manager. Where is she staying?”

  “At the Rashi Hotel on Sunset. You want the address?”

  “I know the place. What’s her name?”

  “Nora Massey. And Mr. Santone?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Please. Don’t let word of this get out. You know how buzz spreads around this town. I don’t want anyone to know anything about this.”

  “Not even I know anything about this, Mr. Slavas.”

  He smiled. We shook hands and I left. The girl in the box office was back at the texting, just like when I’d arrived.

  On my way to the car I thought about what I said. Maybe I was a bit out of line, accusing him of putting dollar signs in front of the guy like that because, hell, who doesn’t? After all, I took his case because I needed the money. Not because I personally wanted to help Slavas or find Denny Granger. It’s like that line says in the Bible about throwing stones. “Let the man without sin throw the first stone” or something like that. Doesn’t matter. This wasn’t the time for religious pondering. I had a job. I had to find this missing funny guy.

  I reached the Beemer and on my way to Sunset Boulevard, my Blackberry rang. I pulled it out and saw the caller ID. It was like a steel-toed boot to the head. How could I forget about Charlotte?

  When I handed the keys to the valet, I asked him if he’d noticed a red-headed woman inside sitting alone. He had and she’d been there for half an hour.

  “How’d she look?” I continued.

  “Um...angry.” He said as he got behind the wheel. I knew I was in for it. Remember I said I hadn’t made an appointment on time in three years? That included dates with Charlotte.

  “Thanks.” I said and slipped him a generous tip.

  The restaurant was a fancy sushi place in Santa Monica. Inside were men in suits and women in backless dresses, and there I was like some schlub who just woke up from a nightmare. Then I saw her, at a table near the bar, looking as elegant and radiant as ever. But that hot Irish blood of hers was boiling beneath porcelain skin, and my heart dropped.

  We’d been together almost four years, but we’d known each other for six. She worked as a paralegal in the firm where I practiced before breaking out on my own. I can’t say that getting together was simple. Office colleagues weren’t allowed to date, but we were both rule breakers and I’d had it with that place anyway. Charlotte was the motivation to go into business for myself in the first place. She still worked there, however, and was climbing her way up the ranks. We took things slow and I liked that. Rushing into marriage never works out. At least not for me. At least not both times I tried when I was younger.

  I gingerly approached the table and she didn’t make eye contact with me once. We sat in silence as she stared into her Zinfandel.

  “I’m sorry.” I said and waited for an answer I didn’t receive. “I met a client. Took a case.” Still nothing. The waiter came over. “Something to drink, sir?”

  “What she’s having.”

  “Certainly. And are you ready to order or do you need a few minutes?”

  “I think we’ll need a lot of minutes.” I said, keeping my eyes on Charlotte.

  “Yes, sir.” He said and walked away. It was obvious he knew I was in trouble. I could almost hear him thinking “That bastard screwed up big time.”

  “I’m surprised.” I said, pretending to peruse the menu.

  She looked at me with fire in her eyes, similar to the look Slavas gave me. “You’re surprised?”

  “I’m surprised you’re surprised I’m late.”

  She looked away again and took a sip of wine. “You weren’t late. You forgot.” Then she snapped open her purse and dropped some cash on the table. She stood up and headed for the door. I sat for a few moments, longing for another scotch, and then followed her.

  Back outside, I caught her just as the valet was bringing around her Mini Cooper. I put my hand on her shoulder, expecting her to shrug it off, but she didn’t. She didn’t even acknowledge me. That was worse.

  “Charlotte. Charlotte, please.” The valet stepped around, handed her the keys. “Char--” The door shut hard. She switched gears and drove away. I watched till she was out of sight, then lit up a cigarette.

  Chapter 2

  The Rashi Hotel was a swank little place on the Sunset Strip. But first things first, I went to the Chase ATM next door and deposited Jack’s check. Amazing. I remember when checks had to be signed by a bank manager to be cleared.

  The Rashi had an exotic atmosphere. Lots of big plants with big leaves and big flowers. A fountain made to look like a waterfall occupied the center of the lobby and over the check-in desk hung a Cha
gall painting which felt oddly out of place. I went to the concierge’s desk. Showed him my license and asked him to phone Nora Massey’s room and tell her Jack Slavas sent me. He sent me up to room 507.

  The doors of the elevator were about to close when a man’s hand reached in and stopped them. The doors re-opened and in stepped a wiry, middle aged man wearing a tie-dye button-up and curly brown hair. I was standing by the buttons. Number five was lit up.

  “What floor?” I asked.

  “Oh, uh, five.” He smiled. He had a southern drawl as thick as Faulkner. “Small world.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”