Laugher Page 4

  “I’m not allowed to let anyone in when no management is present.”

  “Maybe he’s already here and you just didn’t see him. Is there a back entrance?”

  She was caught off guard. “Well...yes, but he never uses it. He always walks down from Sunset and uses the front doors.”

  “Maybe today he was feeling adventurous. Would you mind checking?”

  “I have to stay at the phones.”

  “If Slavas isn’t back there, I promise I’ll be on my way and leave you alone. But if you don’t go check, I think I might stay here all day. It’s nice out.”

  She gave me a dirty look and grumbled a dirty word as she turned and went inside the building.

  After about a minute, the phone inside the window rang. I would’ve answered if it wasn’t behind glass. It rang three times, but the fourth ring seemed louder, as if another sound was behind it. When the ring stopped, the unhinged screams of a teenage girl continued.

  I sprang to the door and tried both knobs. Locked. Another distant scream from within. I shook the doors violently to no avail. I ran to the box office and slipped my arm through the round slot at the base and reached for the phone. I was in up to my shoulder and knocked it off the hook. A muffled voice asking “Hello? Hello?” was cut off when I grabbed the phone and ripped it out through the slot.

  I hurled the phone head on into the glass of the doors, but it didn’t break. I tried again, this time using the phone like a hammer, hitting the door over and over before finally making a hole sizeable enough to fit my arm through. I reached in and felt for the latch on the inside of the door, turned it and burst inside.

  The cement wall met me at the end of the hall and so did the box office girl, grasping onto it so she wouldn’t fall. Her eyes were wide and rapidly blinking, her lip trembling, her breathing staggered and staccato.

  I was about to ask what happened, but didn’t need to. I saw what she was screaming about.

  A thick wooden beam ran along the ceiling above the stage. It was creaking because, from the rope tied to it, Jack Slavas was dangling by his neck.

  Chapter 4

  Damn, I thought as I pulled out my empty pack of cigs. There was a gas station just down the block, but I was at the scene of a crime and would have to ask permission to leave. Policemen swarmed around me, cameras flashed, a forensics team hovered over the body which had been carefully taken down and laid on a large sheet of plastic. The box office girl’s parents sat with her at a table in the corner as a detective interviewed her. She was still trembling.

  I sauntered over to a square-faced man standing by while the M.E. examined the body. He was chewing gum. It surprised me that the old cliché of cops chewing gum at a crime scene actually had substance.

  “Excuse me, Officer?” I said.

  “Detective,” he said.

  “Sorry. I’m out of cigarettes. You mind if I run down the block and pick up some more?”

  He looked at me for a moment, then gave me a grin, but I picked up on the sarcasm of it. “Is that a Yes?” I asked.

  “Santone, right?”

  “And you’re Detective...”

  “Grayson.”

  “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “You used to be at Demreau and Associates. Criminal defense.”

  “Used to be, yes.”

  “And now you...snoop on cheating housewives and track down missing jewelry.” He scoffed.

  I nodded at the corpse. “You forgot discover dead bodies. May I please go pick up some cigarettes?”

  He looked me in the eye for an hour, or maybe it was just a few seconds.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” He said.

  “I don’t remember a lot of things.”

  “Nine years ago. I got busted on a robbery charge. Just barely eighteen. My father brought me to you, but you refused to take the case for our price. I was forced to go with a public defender and got nine months in county lock-up. Worst nine months of my life.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You seem to have turned out pretty well, so...you’re welcome.”

  “I was innocent.” He smiled again with so much smug I had to pocket my hands to keep from punching him.

  “Detective, I asked you a question and you still haven’t answered it.” I said.

  “I’m sorry. Uh...no. No you may not go pick up a pack of cigarettes right now. In fact, I’d like you to come down to the precinct for further questioning.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Further questioning, I said.”

  “I don’t have any further answers. I told the officer what I saw and what my affiliation with Mr. Slavas was. That’s all I know.”

  “I really don’t like you private eyes, Santone. You all seem to think you’re somehow above the law. Somehow the rules don’t apply to you.”

  “Not all of them, Detective.”

  “And there’s the other thing. Always making those fuckin’ wisecracks.”

  “Well, we are in a comedy club.”

  He wasn’t smiling anymore. The M.E. stepped up behind him and said: “Sir? Sir, I think you should see this.”

  Grayson ripped his threatening gaze from me and shifted backwards on his feet. “What is it?” He asked the Medical Examiner. They hovered over the body and I listened in.

  “He died early this morning. About six hours ago.”

  “Suicide?”

  “Most likely. But his neck isn’t broken which means he died of ligature strangulation. Maybe didn’t give himself enough slack on the rope.”

  Grayson nodded.

  “Also...” The M.E. crouched down. The body had been turned over and his shirt was pulled up. “Look at this.”

  He pointed to a small black dot placed on the back side of Slavas’s left hip.

  “What is it?” Grayson asked as he crouched down beside him, “A needle?”

  “Looks like it. The blood is clotted and there are no traces of it on his shirt, which means it was dry before he put his shirt back on.”

  “Or somebody else put his shirt on.” I chimed in. They both glanced at me with disdain.

  “Was this guy an addict or something?” said Grayson.

  “Unlikely. He doesn’t have any tracts on his arms or anywhere else we can see. We’ll have to wait for the autopsy.”

  “Kind of a funky place for him to stick it himself.” I loved annoying cops. They didn’t want it to be murder. Suicide was easier, less work.

  Grayson stood. “Well unless the autopsy proves otherwise, everything points to suicide. No forced entry into the club, no struggle, plus the overturned chair at the side of the stage. Had to be the one he stood on to get up there. And no witnesses.” Grayson turned to me. “I want you at the precinct, Santone.”

  “I told you I already explained everything. The girl found the body, not me. I’m nobody in this.”

  He gave me a look only Charlotte could rival. Then smiled.

  There was a cringe inducing scent in that interview room; a bitter combination of coffee and sewage. Must have been near the bathroom. I’ve been in my fair share of interview rooms, but none that ever smelled like this.

  Grayson came in after about ten minutes, along with another detective who was taller than him and skinnier. I made a bet with myself: Grayson as bad cop, the other guy as good.

  “This is Detective Marber,” said Grayson as he turned the blinds closed.

  “How do you do?”

  “Sir,” said Marber. I couldn’t gauge which was which yet.

  “You know why you’re here?” Grayson provoked.

  “No. Please. Enlighten me.”

  “You better cut the shit, Santone.” This came from Marber and that upset me. I lost my bet.

  “If there was any shit, detective, believe me, I wouldn’t be cutting it. You’re the ones who dragged me here so why don’t you tell me what it is you want with me?”

  Grayson spoke up. “We traced Slavas�
��s calls on his cell. He called you. Twice.”

  This caught me off guard. “Twice?” I said. “I only talked to him once yesterday to set up the meeting.”

  Grayson opened a folder on the table. “First call, yesterday, 2:30 PM. Called again this morning. 3:18 AM.”

  “My phone was off. Would’ve sent him to voicemail without reading it as a missed call.”

  “He leave a message?” Marber asked.

  “No.”

  “Where were you when he called?”

  “Dreamland.”

  “And this morning?”

  “Police administration building. Catching up with an old friend. Check my name on the register, if you’d like.”

  “Any idea why Slavas would call you in the middle of the night?” Grayson asked.

  “Anxious for news, I suppose. That’s why I went to the club today. To report on the case’s progress.”

  “What is the case?”

  Naturally, my reaction to that question was, as it always was, “I’m not at liberty to discuss,” but since the guy was dead, I wouldn’t be breaking any rules of confidence.

  “He wanted me to find someone. A comedian named Denny Granger. He was supposed to perform at his club tonight.”

  “A comedian?” Grayson asked.

  “Yes. A comedian. He tells jokes.”

  “You find him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Yet? You mean you’re gonna continue the investigation? Your client is dead.”

  “He put down a deposit. I might as well work it off.”

  Grayson smiled that sardonic smile again. “How much did you know about Mr. Slavas?”

  “Almost nothing. He was about to lose his club to the bank. Denny was his last resort to bring in some dough.”

  “Why did he need you to find him?”

  “Denny disappeared yesterday morning. Flew into LAX and a few minutes later went AWOL.”

  “Where to?”

  “No idea. I’ve only been on the case for sixteen hours, most of which I was asleep.”

  They both paused. Maybe they were thinking of their next question, or maybe they were waiting for me to speak up. I went with the latter.

  “It wasn’t suicide and you know it.” I said.

  “Why not? The guy was desperate, broke, about to lose his club, his work. Perfectly understandable motive,” said Grayson.

  “Why hire me if he was gonna off himself anyway? Why pay me up front?”

  “You really are a lawyer, aren’t you?” He said and smiled again. This guy was getting on my nerves. “In that case, if Slavas was murdered, did this Denny person have any reason to kill him?”

  “I don’t know. But maybe I would if I was out doing my job!” I kicked the leg of the table to make a point.

  “You better watch your temper, Santone” said Marber. “You wouldn’t want us to get rough with you.”

  “What was in the needle poked into his hip?” I asked.

  They didn’t know. And if they did, they didn’t say; only looked at each other and came to a silent agreement. Grayson looked back at me.

  “We have your number, Santone.” He pulled out a card. “If you remember anything, please give me a call.”

  I took the card and stood up.

  “Santone.” Grayson said, and I stopped. “Just go home,” he said, “Your investigation is over.”

  Hell, I thought. It never got started.

  -------------------------------

  A black and white dropped me off at my car and I drove over to the Rashi. Nora Massey was not in her room. I went back down to the lobby to look around; the big plants with big leaves and the sound of splashing water from the fountain permeated my search. I made my way down the north hall, which was where the pool was. There was a young family with small kids there, but no one else. I wanted to check the sauna, but I needed a key card to get in, which I didn’t have.

  Beyond the pool was the entrance to the exercise room. The doors were large panes of glass with silver handles. They also required a key card. I stepped up to the glass and cupped my hands around my eyebrows to peer in. All I saw was a bunch of machines and bench presses, and a long row of free weights, unused. But there was a mirror on the back wall that I thanked God for, because in the reflection of the mirror I saw a row of treadmills that stretched down a separate corridor. On the first treadmill was Nora Massey, wearing a jump suit and running with the form of an Olympian. Her hair was pulled back in a pony tail and she had buds in her ears, listening to the iPod clipped to her hip. No makeup, of course, but she didn’t need any. She could be dragged half a mile through mud and still look like she stepped straight out of Vogue.

  When I rapped on the door, it startled her so much she almost tripped. She stopped the treadmill, pulled out the ear buds and wandered to the door. Her mind searched for who I was, this familiar face knocking on glass. “Marshall Santone,” I said.

  She remembered and then cordially opened the door.

  “I’m sorry.” She said. “I didn’t recognize you.”

  “In my work, that’s a compliment. May I come in?”

  “Actually, I was just about to shower. Could I meet you upstairs at my room?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll be right up.”

  She stepped away from the door and went back down the corridor and out of my sight.

  My eyes glanced at room 510 as I passed it walking down the hallway and I remembered spotting James Lawson in the sedan just down the road from the club, his face beat to shit. While I was waiting, I figured I’d find out what happened.

  I knocked on the door to 510 and waited. A muffled buzzing noise came from inside. “Mr. Lawson. If you’re in there, this is Marshall Santone. We met in the elevator yesterday evening, if you remember. Listen, I’ve changed my mind. I’d like to show you around town a little.” I knocked again. The buzzing noise stopped and the sound of the bolt unlocking came from inside and the door opened, revealing a thin woman in a maid's uniform standing in front of me. Her skin was dark. Middle Eastern. She held a vacuum cleaner.

  “ وهات؟” She said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” I said. “Is Mr. Lawson still staying here?”

  “إ دونات كنو! بليس! إ موست ورق!” She exclaimed rather annoyed. “ليف!” She tried closing the door. I stopped her.

  “إس مر. لاوس ستيل ستينج إن ذيس روم؟” I said.

  Her face lost color. It caught her completely off guard that this forty-three year old white guy from Ohio could speak legitimate Arabic. Caught myself off guard too, actually, having hardly spoken it since...well...since a long time ago.

  “Mr. Lawson check out last night,” she said, in English.

  “What time?” I repeated.

  “I not know.” She said, then proceeded to shoo me away like a stray dog. “Please. I must work. Please.”

  I stepped away from the door and she closed it hard. The vacuum cleaner roared back to life.

  A phone hung by the elevators. I dialed the concierge.

  “Yes, my name is Marshall Santone. We met last night when—the private detective, that’s me...Oh, the case is going just fine, thank you, but I was hoping you could help me with something. A Mr. James Lawson was staying in room 510. The maid told me he checked out last night and I was wondering if you had any information on where he went...Uh-huh...Oh. I see. I’ll be down in about twenty minutes if you wouldn’t mind waiting for me. Thank you.”

  Nora’s hair wasn’t quite dry when she stepped off the elevator. It glimmered with a damp shine. I was eating a bag of peanuts from the vending machine.

  “Good workout?” I asked.

  “Is there such a thing as a bad one?” She smiled.

  “I suppose not.” I ate the last peanut and threw the bag in a nearby trash can.

  “You don’t smile much do you, Mr. Santone?”

  “Only on the inside.”

  She pulled her room key out and slid it i
n the door. We entered the room.

  “Please have a seat. I’m going to freshen up.” She said and disappeared into the bathroom.

  “Any news about Denny?” She called.

  “Not yet.”