Laugher Page 6

  “Wha?”

  “Yeah, see her over there?” I pointed to a waitress walking the floor with a tray of drinks. “She’s been looking at you all night.”

  He checked her out. “You fuggin’ wi’ me?”

  “No, man, I promise. I was just talking to her, she asked me if I know you. Thinks you’re hot. Said you’re the hottest guy she’s ever seen come in here.”

  He smiled, big. “Can’t blame her.” He laughed. “Why you tellin’ me this?”

  “I’m a good Samaritan,” I said. “If every guy looked out for each other like I am for you, we’d all be getting laid more often.” He looked at me like I was crazy, then started laughing hard. I forced a fake smile.

  We were both staring at the girl and I waved her over and patted my friend on the shoulder.

  “She’s coming over,” I said. “Ooh, she has nice legs. Good luck, buddy.” I left fast and headed for the front doors.

  Outside I passed Fred without saying a word. But when he saw me he shouted “I hope you and Mr. Grossman had a nice meeting!” I didn’t say anything, just went to my car and got inside. My lock picking kit was inside a small leather pouch with a snap. My only other occasions to use it were in locking myself out of the house. I grabbed it out of the dashboard and stuffed it in my jacket pocket, then watched Fred standing out front, hoping what I did would work. Then the commotion started.

  I could see people inside turning their heads, including Fred. There were shouts, then a crash like a tray of drink falling over, and Fred sprang to action.

  I burst out of the car and closed the door hard, sprinted for the entrance praying Fred wouldn’t come back till I was clear. If he did, I may just have to tackle him ‘cause God himself couldn’t have stopped my running.

  Made it. I slipped back in and immediately removed my jacket and walked calmly among the crowd, keeping my eyes off the bouncer removing a drunken college kid who was groping a bikini-clad waitress. Poor girl, I thought, and thanked her quietly.

  When it was clear, I made my way back to the hallway and up the stairs.

  I put my jacket back on and pulled out my tools, knelt down to eye level with the lock on the door and went to work. The half-diamond went in first, but when that wasn’t working I switched to the hook and it gave me better luck. The lock clicked and the door cracked open. I stepped inside and closed it behind me.

  I pulled my handkerchief from my jacket and felt around on the wall until I found a light switch and flipped it on. The floor was covered in maroon carpeting. There was a desk with a computer, a small couch, file cabinet, all the usual paraphernalia of an office. I expected to find the source of the muffled shouting, but the room was empty and all I heard was the pulsing music from downstairs. I scanned the room for places to stuff a human body. In the back of the office was another small door, maybe a closet. I turned the knob with the hanky.

  Lying on the bathroom floor was a black slug the size of a man: An occupied body bag.

  “Hello?” I said. “Are you alive?”

  Nothing. No movement. No sound. I crouched and took the zipper in my hand. When I pulled it down, I was immediately hit with the smell of excrement. I winced and turned my head for a breath of clean air to keep myself from vomiting, then lowered the zipper enough to see the face of a middle-aged Mexican man inside. His mouth was tightly wrapped in plastic, but waves of blood still managed to seep out of it and down his chin and neck. So much blood.

  After a moment, I recognized him -- Silvio. Slavas’s employee. He mixed me a tumbler and now he’s dead. Tied up and forced to choke in a body bag full of his own blood and shit. And I was too late to save him.

  Before I let him rest, I noticed something near Silvio’s mouth, protruding from behind the plastic as if he had been trying to push it through with his tongue.

  I reached in with my bare index finger and pushed the plastic into Silvio’s dead skin, then used two fingers on each side of the point until it popped through.

  It was impossible to tell what it was it was so soaked in blood. I threw my handkerchief over my shoulder and gripped the thing between my index and thumbnail and, after a few attempts, was able to pull whatever it was through the tiny hole, through which more blood seeped through like Niagara Falls with red food coloring. What the hell did they do to him?

  Looked about the right size for a business card, though it was crumpled and chewed up. I let it drip inside the bag for a moment until it was dry enough to take to the sink without spilling any drops on the floor. I unfolded the card. Blood had wiped off half the ink, and the hundreds of little creases made it near impossible to read, but it was a business card. There was a logo of a sky scraper with a pair of wings.

  The name was just runny letters: a t n o s e

  The phone number and e-mail address were wiped out.

  I wrapped the card in a few paper towels and stuffed it in my jacket. I rinsed off my hands and went back to Silvio, looked him in his dead, tortured eye.

  “Lo siento,” I said and zipped up the bag.

  The clock behind Grossman’s desk read 9:54. Damn. Grossman would be back any minute. I headed for the door and locked it behind me.

  In the hallway I heard voices at the bottom of the stairs. One of them was that of a burly bouncer. The other was wheezy, as if the speaker was using every breath to get the words out.

  “When was he here?” the wheezy voice said.

  “Left about ten minutes ago,” said Fred.

  “What’s his name?”

  “I, uh...I don’t know.”

  The wheezy voice suddenly became twice as threatening and I heard the sound of fists grabbing a collar. “What the fuck do you mean you don’t know?! Nobody knows me unless I know them first! Is that fucking clear?!”

  “Yes, Mr. Grossman. I’m sorry, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “I should bury you right now, you stupid fuck!”

  “He doesn’t know anything, sir.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “How could he? The room is locked. The guy is dead.”

  Footsteps started ascending and I almost panicked for half a second. I dodged to the opposite side of the stairs with my back to the wall and held my breath.

  Luck is a concept I’ve never understood, but if there is such a thing, it was paying me a favor tonight. When Grossman and Fred entered the hallway, neither one of them bothered to look to their left and see a private detective with dirty hands.

  Grossman was bigger than his voice, but still a runt compared to the brute he was with. I waited till they were both in the room before quietly descending the stairs.

  ---------------------------------------

  I got home to find a manila envelope lying in my foyer inside the front door. Somebody slipped it through the mail slot, but there was no stamp, no postmark. On the back was written in black marker: “One for two – Gordy.” I opened the envelope and inside was a copy of the police report from Denny’s arrest. There was also a note that said he was unable to get the flight manifest. I’d look over the report later.

  The paper towels were stained with moisture. Could’ve been water, or could’ve been Silvio’s blood. I couldn’t take the chance of having a murdered man’s blood on me, but thankfully the moisture hadn’t bled through to my pocket lining. I unwrapped the card, now dried and washed in a pink hue, and threw the paper towels in the sink and burned them with my lighter. Look at me, a Stanford Law graduate, former criminal defender, upholder of federal and California state law, now burning evidence in my sink. I pulled a plastic sandwich bag out from its box in the cupboard and slipped the card in there and returned it to my jacket pocket.

  My bottle of scotch was still sitting on the desk in my office. I took it down to the kitchen and drank a glass straight up, then another...and another. I was thinking about Charlotte. Now that the commotion was over I actually had time to consider what it would be like to lose her, and it scared me more than Fred and Grossman ever could.

 
; Maybe it was the alcohol seeping in, but my mind was moving at a thousand miles an hour, scanning through my future as a lonely, miserable old man. “Sad Sap Santone” they’ll call me. I’ll sit in a rocking chair and chase neighborhood kids off my porch. The scotch kept flowing and so did my mind. It turned backwards now -- to my past, my childhood, my school days, my ex-wives. And blood.

  Before I knew it, I was on the ground with my hands on my face. I’ve always treated alcohol as a friend, but sometimes it turns on you; brings up old memories you drink to forget, just to remind you of why you need it.

  I didn’t get around to reading Denny’s report that night. Instead I passed out on that kitchen floor and dreamt of things I don’t care to remember. Things much worse than Silvio in a body bag.

  Chapter 6

  I was propped at an angle against the cabinet when sunrise woke me. My neck was rusty steel and my head was full of jackhammers.

  I mustered all my strength to stand up only to discover my stomach was stirring. I threw open the cabinet doors beneath the sink and vomited into the garbage bin.

  The shower came down like a thousand nails on a thousand chalkboards. I could barely stand.

  I didn’t have the energy today for a hot monkey suit, so I went with the much more comfortable blue jeans with button up and sneakers. My neck was still tweaked and head still throbbing and I knew it would be like this all day. Great.

  My jacket was sprawled out on the bed, wrinkled from a night on hard tile. I picked it up to put it in the closet and remembered what was in the inside pocket: The business card. I took it out and slipped it into my wallet.

  Denny’s police report was in my hand when I went out the door. I decided to go out for breakfast. The hustle and bustle of a local diner on Saturday morning would make my headache worse, but something about being alone in a busy crowd helps me concentrate. Plus I was out of coffee.

  -----------------------------

  Sunnyside was a little hole-in-the-wall joint on Washington Place, a couple of blocks from Teffeson Park. The sunlight poured in so bright I kept my sunglasses on inside. While I waited for a seat, I scanned the newspaper for a story about the body of a Mexican man found in the river or a dumpster, but didn’t find one.

  I sat at a booth and ordered the ham and cheese omelet with extra toast and coffee as black as charcoal.

  Denny’s police report was now open and in my hands. Routine assault case:

  Los Angeles Police Department

  Page 1 of 1

  Report created on 4/22/2004

  by OFFICER MICHAEL SHANNON

  On 4/21/2003, Officer Dawson and I were on patrol in Sherman Oaks. We received dispatch to The NoHo Lounge at 5010 Lankershim Ave in North Hollywood at approximately 12:34 AM.

  We arrived on scene and found the suspect repeatedly punching and kicking the victim curled up on the ground. Suspect was identified as Dennis Granger, 19 years old. Victim was identified as Nathan Roscoe, 36 years old.

  “Roscoe,” I said out loud. The happy young couple in the booth across from me flashed me a look, then giggled to themselves.

  Witnesses reported a verbal argument between Mr. Roscoe and Mr. Granger prior to the fight. Mr. Roscoe was transported by ambulance to North Hollywood Medical Center and treated for a broken nose and minor head trauma. Mr. Granger was remanded at the scene and brought into custody on charges of assault and battery.

  Food arrived. I ate the toast first to soak up the alcohol, then sipped too much coffee and burned my tongue. It was gonna be one of those days.

  The rest of the report was nothing unexpected. Denny went in, he confessed, judge slapped him with a $2,500 fine and four months in the slammer. No appeal. I put it back in the envelope and continued my meal.

  The door opened and closed behind me. The hostess asked, “Two?” and a voice said, “We’re meeting someone here. Mind if we look around?” The hostess said, “Go on in” and a minute passed.

  Halfway through cutting a bite off my omelet, the same voice from up front said, “Santone!” and the jackhammers in my head fired up.

  Standing over me was Detective Grayson with Detective Marber at his side. “Small fuckin’ world,” said Grayson and they both sat across from me.

  “You should watch your language. This is a family place,” I said and took a bite.

  “In my family we say ‘fuckin’ all the time.”

  The manila envelope was on the table. Gordy’s note face-down.

  “What’s that?” said Grayson.

  “A letter from my mother.”

  “Can I read it?”

  “No.”

  I took the envelope off the table and placed it next to me on the bench and slid closer to the partition. Grayson gave his signature smile. Marber hadn’t said anything yet, but I knew that when he did, it would be important.

  “How’d you know I was here?” I asked.

  “We didn’t. Just bumped into you.”

  “Doesn’t seem that way from what you told the hostess.”

  “Jesus Christ, Santone. You must have the ears of a fuckin’ dog.”

  “Bat, actually. And stop cursing. I like this place and don’t want to be kicked out. How’d you know I was here?”

  Grayson helped himself to a piece of toast. “Well...we went to your house, you were gone. Neighbor said you sometimes come here on the weekends.”

  “Ned’s a good guy. I hope you were nice to him.”

  “I’m nice to everyone.”

  I sipped my coffee the way you do when someone’s lying.

  “You don’t look so good, Santone. Rough night?”

  “You could say that,” I said. “What do you want?”

  “Coroner’s report came back from Jack Slavas.” This was said by Marber. He reached into his overcoat and grabbed an envelope full of pictures.

  “And?”

  “You were right,” said Grayson. “He was murdered.”

  See? Important.

  “What a surprise,” I said.

  Marber slapped the pictures down.

  Grayson continued, “The bruises on his neck were too far down his throat. If he had hung himself, the rope would have cut up beneath his chin. These were below his Adam’s apple.”

  I sifted through the pictures. Close ups of the neck, the bruises. “But he was hanging when he was found, so the rope still would have cut under the chin.”

  “It was pulled tight enough that it stayed in place. So tight that there’s no fuckin’ way Slavas could have tied it himself. In fact, he was probably strangled before he was strung up.”

  “The rest of the club was in ship shape,” said Marber, “Which means there wasn’t a struggle that took place there and wasn’t where Slavas was killed. Just planted. Somebody wanted us to find him.”

  The happy young couple across the way put their silverware down and left. Maybe it was the cursing, but I think it was the talk of murder.

  The next picture was of Slavas’s hip, of the small clotted hole. I showed it to Grayson and he knew what I was asking.

  “Gamma hydroxybutyric acid,” he said.

  “Liquid ecstasy.” My eyes were back on the picture.

  “Very good, Santone. Should I be worried you know your drugs so well?”

  “Had a case a while back. Father suspected that his daughter wasn’t going to after-school tutoring, and he was right. She was out taking this stuff.”

  Marber spoke up, “It’s a club drug. Easily accessible. We think the killer shot him up with it to make it easier on himself.”

  “So Slavas wouldn’t fight back.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And he could mask it as suicide.”

  They nodded. Marber said, “This guy’s obviously not a professional. Any moron would know the drugs would be found in him.”

  “Maybe he wanted it that way. Could be a frame job, making it look amateur.” I said, but neither of them seemed to believe that. I handed the pictures back to Marber. “Why you telling
all this to me?”

  “We need to find Denny Granger,” said Grayson. “We need to know what you know.”

  “Is Denny a suspect?”

  “Not officially, but he’s important to us right now.”

  “Why?”

  “Come on, Santone. The guy’s brought out here to do a show at Slavas’s club, mysteriously disappears and that same night Slavas is killed. It’s pretty fuckin’ suspicious.”

  “That mouth of yours,” I said as I took a sip. The hangover was far from over, but at least the jackhammers had stopped. “I thought my investigation was over.”