Boulevard (28 page)

“I'm ready to vote no just on the basis of this truck,” Erin said.

“Why doesn't he go into Beverly Hills and screw up traffic up there,” Jimmy said.

“Casinos? That's a headache they're smart enough to skip.”

Suddenly, Jimmy was transfixed on the truck. The wipers slammed back and forth and all he could see were those big letters screaming at him—
YES ON 120—WE NEED IT
.
The skinny truck finally started to make the turn and Jimmy watched it go. Only now he was back at the SR club, having a Sam Adams with the kid who wrote the awful horror film scripts and spent every night down at the poker tables …

A rib-shattering honk blasted behind him. He wasn't moving, and a cement truck on his bumper was giving him a 500-decibel reminder. Jimmy hit the gas and shot through the intersection.

He looked at Erin, “What you just said—”

“What?”

“That's a headache they'll skip. You're absolutely right. But what about here?”

“Here the city needs the money,”

“Right,” Jimmy said, “I got a buddy who drives down to Gardena every night to gamble. There's tons of people just like him. If 120 goes through it's great for them. Great if you own a casino. But would you want one of them on your block?”

“No. Who would?”

“No one would, if they could help it … so if you want it, you better pull out every stop. And where did we see a giant stack of casino contracts?”

Jimmy looked ahead. Traffic had cleared.

60

J
immy ran into Circus-Circus. He figured he'd skip the gay porno and just pick up the
LA Times
. He got back to the car and it took them all of five seconds to find a full-page ad for LA's favorite proposition. At the bottom of the page, in microscopic print was a telephone number.

Erin dialed her cell, and Jimmy could hear a lady answer, “Yes on 120, how may I help you?”

“Yes, my name is Maria Abraham from the
Los Angeles Times
. We have a question regarding tomorrow's advertisement. Can you tell me who's your legal counsel?”

“One moment, please.”

Jimmy wrapped his hands around the back of his neck, meshed his fingers together and squeezed them tight. He slowly exhaled, praying he wasn't about to bloody his nose again, smashing into one more brick wall.

The lady clicked back on.

“That would be Miller and Lodge. Do you need their number?”

61

M
iller was standing arms-crossed and leaning against the front edge of a battleship-sized desk. He was wearing a pink shirt, and dark blue suspenders decorated with grapes, wine bottles, and naked, dancing nymphs. His Century City office was so high that the storm was nearly below them. Jimmy and Erin were standing up too, and Jimmy made sure they were close enough to make Miller uncomfortable.

“You can spend shovelfuls of money on ‘Yes on 120',” Jimmy said. “Run the TV ads for months, put billboards at every bus stop, make it so you can't turn on the radio or drive down the street without hearing why it's so goddamn good for you. Get everyone to think having casinos in West Hollywood is the secret to funding the schools, firemen, and God knows what else. And get people to vote for it. But there's going to be lots of other people pissed as hell about it. Maybe they don't think modeling LA on a shit-hole like Gardena is such a great idea. And the day after it gets voted in, there's guaranteed to be court challenges. And as sure as the sun's gonna shine, a lot of people at the top of the LA food chain are gonna do whatever they can to prevent LA from turning into some kinda Vegas wannabe. And if you wanted to make sure the proposition still flew, despite the shitstorm guaranteed to follow, what would you do?”

“Tell me,” Miller said.

He looked directly at Jimmy, his eyes flat and cold. He wasn't giving anything up.

“You know what I'd do? I'd make sure that I had a situation where when LA's powerful started talking morality, going on the news and saying gambling isn't the magic potion to solving the city's problems—I could call that person, and say, 'Guess what? You're so moral? How about if we let the world in on the pictures we have of what you do in you spare time? Or if its not you personally, maybe it's your law partner, your best friend, or maybe one of the guys you play golf with. And what's that hobby?—sex with kids. Somewhere, there's a hell of a book of those pictures.”

“You're joking,” Miller said.

“I'm not.”

“Then you're delusional. You and your partner were asked—no, make that
told
—to solve a brutal murder and when you can't do it, you come up with some horse shit theory with nothing to back it up.”

“Nothing?” Erin said.

“Nothing I've heard.”

“We have a sixteen-year-old hooker who told us Lodge set her up so he could take pictures of her with the johns?”

“You expect me to believe that? Please.”

“I wouldn't believe it myself,” Erin said, “Except for one thing … Lodge had a taste for kids himself. He
liked
doing the dirty work. And he did the exact same thing to a girl he was setting up. Only no one was there taking pictures.”

Miller shook his head. “So you've got teenage hustler with a crazy story. Great source.”

“Yeah? Well, we got another source,” Jimmy said. “Someone who's not a teenage hustler. Someone who went to Dartmouth, followed by UCLA Medical School—that respectable enough for you?”

Nothing from Miller. Not even a hint. Man, he was tough.

“Who?” Miller said.

“How about the deputy medical examiner.”

A flash in the eyes. Jimmy was getting somewhere.

“What did he say?”

“He didn't say anything—he's too much of a political animal to give up something like that. But the records on his computer said plenty.”

“What?”

“That there was another body down the hall from where they found your partner. You're following me, right?”

“If you say so.”

“I say so. Way I see it—this hustler, a seventeen-year-old boy named Paul McCloskey actually dies in the
same
room as your buddy. He commits suicide. But someone moves his body to another room, and big surprise, the boy's not discovered till the next day. You don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to know something happened in there—something that led to the murder. You still following me?”

“I'm trying. But I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about.”

“Jesus. You're denying knowing anything about this?”

Miller stood silently.

“You gonna deny it under oath? I mean, we still got a job to do. And as dumb as it sounds, I still want to know who killed your buddy. I still think murderers should go to jail. And you're not giving me shit!”

Miller turned towards the window, wrapped by gray storm clouds. Not a word came from him.

“Know something—” Jimmy said. “This is your basic high-profile case. Maybe someone like KCBS or KTLA would be interested in what we've already got.”

Jimmy saw Miller's hands tighten around the rim of the desk.

“Or Fox,” he continued, “or KNBC. One thing we got in this city are lots of news stations, who all have three hours of news to fill every night. They'd kill for this story.”

“We got the sixteen-year-old to turn,” Erin said. “She may be a prostitute, but she's believable, cute, and looks her age. And she'll tell anyone we ask what Lodge had her do.”

Miller's fingers let go of their grip. He pushed himself away from the desk.

“This conversation,” Miller said, “it's off the record?”

“Your buddy's dead, the boy is dead, and the killer's still out there—and you're worried about the record? Is it off the record? Fuck the record! Yeah, it's off the record. Just tell me what you know about the boy and the night Lodge was killed.”

“I'm telling you this strictly off the record …” Jesus, Jimmy thought, the goddamn record again. “… Because this is a tragedy that involves a prominent member of the community, and I'd like to save his family any embarrassment.”

“I get it. Now, the boy was working for Lodge, right?”

“The kid's job had certain risks.”

Miller was dodging.

“
Was
he working for Lodge?”

“He worked for whoever had fifty bucks. That's Hollywood.”

Miller walked over to the widows. Pellets of rain drummed across the glass.

“Look,” Miller said, “Mark was having some sort of trouble with the boy. Someone drove Mark to the hotel and waited in the car. When Mark didn't come back, that someone may have had to go upstairs to find out what happened.”

“And who might that someone be?”

“I can't say, of course.”

“Who are you covering for now?” This guy was unbelievable. Then Erin jumped in.

“Could that someone be professionally involved with underage girls?” she said. Good call, Jimmy thought.

Miller gave a barely perceptible nod.

“And does that someone supply these girls out of a strip club he owns?” she said.

Another nod. Thank you. Sleazy Sean thought he was in business with the one guy in LA who would never yak. Think again, buddy.

“Then what happens up there?” Jimmy said.

“There may have been a situation.”

“A situation? What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that some money may have changed hands to facilitate a result that was the best that could be expected under the circumstances.”

“Speak English,” Jimmy said.

“I have no firsthand knowledge of this, of course …”

“Of course.”

“But five thousand dollars may have went to the desk clerk …”

Mr. Nehru jacket, Jimmy thought, the man who remembered nothing about Lodge.

“… As it could have been embarrassing for Mark's family if the other body was found in the room. You can understand that, can't you?”

“How about the boy's family?” Jimmy said. “Anyone care about them? Anyone care that your partner was running teenage hustlers?”

“No one's completely clean.”

“Completely clean? This is about underage kids!”

“And this is reality. Once people found out he had this connection, his phone was ringing all the time.”

“So it wasn't his fault at all,” Jimmy said. “He was just a prince among men. Helping LA neediest.”

“You know something,” Miller said, “I'm not going to take morality lectures from a cop with a crackhead kid.”

Jimmy could feel his whole body tighten up.

Miller bashed on. “The story I heard is this detective's kid and his crackwhore girlfriend are up to all sorts of illegal activity—dealing the crack, using it, pulling armed robberies to pay for it. But somehow they never get arrested. The kid clearly has protection.”

“That's complete bullshit.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Miller plucked his cell phone from his desk and scrolled through the stored numbers.

“Know who's on here?”

“Tell me.”

“The mayor, the police chief, the president of the city council, the publisher of the
LA Times
, the owners of the Lakers and Kings, and the presidents of two television networks and three movie studios. You find out who killed Mark, and you won't just be a detective any more. You'll be on your way up the ladder. You and your partner. I can
guarantee
it. You'll deserve it.”

This guy had his balls in a vise and was cranking the handle. Jimmy felt like throwing his arms up in the air and screaming, ‘Hey, I'm just a lowland-fucking-gorilla compared to you guys. You win!'

Instead, he said, “We gotta go.”

As they headed for the door, Miller called after them, “You're still on the case. The mayor wants justice. And he wants it soon.”

62

T
hey waited in the car in the Beverly Center parking lot. The sun had just gone down and Robin could show up in five minutes or in five hours. Erin was sleeping, her head resting on Jimmy's chest. Jimmy hoped like hell Robin had the killer made. They'd pop the perp, and that asshole, Miller, was right—he, Erin, and probably Robin too, would get their promotions. And this would all be behind him.

He was exhausted. And his head was spinning with the case. All the lies, all the sleaze, and the fuck-over-everyone bulldozer of LA money and power were never clearer. He felt like a protester standing in front of a line of tanks—you can hold them, but sooner or later, they're gonna roll. But at this minute and in this place, he loved the feel of Erin sleeping against him, a wisp of her hair brushing his face. Robin could take five hours. She could take twenty-five hours.

Casey sat alone on a bus shelter bench on the Boulevard, her hands tucked between her legs, trying to keep them warm. It was getting dark. Dragon was long gone, running off once she escaped from the Fountain. She wondered how she could have been so stupid, not figuring it out about Dragon. She hated Dog-Face and Jumper and the other guys. Well, not really, she loved them—but trying to kill Dragon—that was crazy.

She was shivering and wet, and didn't know what she was going to do. She had twenty-six dollars. Where was she going to sleep? Maybe on the loading dock at Thrifty's. It would be freezing, but at least it would be dry. In the morning she'd go down to Santa Monica. Sleep on the beach for a while. Warm up. And even though she hated the idea more than anything, she'd go back to Sunset and do some dates. Just the thought of it made her want to puke. But no money, no Paul, can't go back to the squat, cops still looking for her. Gotta make enough to get out of Hollywood. She felt like there was a hundred-pound barbell laying on her chest, and every breath was packed with pain.