Two for One Page 8

  It was the eyes that gave him away. Black and dead. This was a man who could ‘do’ charm but didn’t feel charm. Knowing a little of his background, I put him down as one of those who can smile and smile and be a villain. Such men, I knew from experience, are dangerous.

  “Heard a lot about you, too, Nick,” I said, as we matched macho handshakes. A draw.

  “You having any luck finding Kane’s Bird? That ditzy daughter of his seems to think I’ve got it for some reason and won’t take no for an answer. One more scene like this evening and she’s barred from here. She can take her elegant ass somewhere else. She’s a classy lady but who needs the hassle?”

  Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much.

  “A few leads, yeah. We’re getting there,” I lied. The royal ‘We’.

  “Glad to hear it, cause I’d really like to make this thing go away. If there’s anything I can do, short of dealing with Miss Trouble, you let Nicky know, you hear? I got plenty of friends I can call on …”

  I just bet you have, I thought, and I bet most of their names sound like a form of pasta.

  He turned his attention to Linda, who was now checking her makeup in the mirror and having trouble seeing over the row of bottles. Time for beddy-byes, Miss Grace…

  Nick obviously shared my estimate of the situation.

  “Hey, c’mon, Miss Movie Star,” he said, taking her by the elbow, “you’ve got to look that camera in the eye first thing tomorrow, so you’d better be bright-eyed and bushy tailed. Time you hit the road to Dream Land …”

  Or Clichéville.

  But before he got a reaction from La Grace, I spotted Holmes hovering at my shoulder and indicating the door. Perlman had just entered looking distinctly uncomfortable.

  Without taking in my presence—my back was, after all, turned to him—he approached Nick and began talking to him in an audible whisper.

  “Jesus Christ, Nicky, the most terrible thing just happened. I’d unloaded the stuff and that mad woman rushed out and backed the damn car over the lot. It’s ruined but I couldn’t help it, Nicky!”

  “Mr. Parmentieri to you, Perlman, and I’m sure Mr. Watson doesn’t want to be bored by our domestic affairs. I suggest you wait in my office.”

  White Suit—once again a little grubby round the edges—couldn’t wait. He scooted off like the White Rabbit in heat. Oh, my fur and whiskers!

  Nicky pointed a smile my way that lacked any real conviction and I helped him hoist Linda into an ambulant posture. As he walked her towards his office, she sketched a queenly wave over her shoulder.

  “Caio. Domani.”

  To which Nick added—

  “Any time, Jack. Any time.”

  Then to Linda—

  “Come on, duchess—time to powder your nose.”

  Holmes and I were alone with our mirror images.

  “Well, Holmes, did you ‘case the joint’?” It did, indeed, sound a strange phrase.

  “Undoubtedly Mr. Parmentieri intended a play on words there but he touches upon the essence. This place is a powder keg in every sense. On the surface, Watson, this is somewhat gaudy tinsel tavern, no better and no worse than its Victorian equivalents that housed the riff-raff of London. But for some of his wealthier and louche customers it is an exchange and mart for any drug they can afford to purchase.

  “Oh, there is nothing overt about it, old fellow,” he added, seeing my questioning expression. “The transaction is conducted in the simplest possible way. As I made my peregrinations around the room, I was able to see everything that transpired. If only I had been able to sit at the elbow of my suspects in the past, how much easier it would have been to bring those felons to justice! However …

  “Certain patrons—presumably those previously cleared by the management—would order from the menu and ask for ‘Today’s Special’. The waiter would then ask them—‘What number Special?’ According to their answer, they were specifying the nature of the drug they required. He would then ask whether they required a ‘starter portion’ or an ‘entrée portion’. They would then be served a perfectly normal meal but, when they had paid the bill and were leaving, they would be handed—along with their receipt—one of friend Mallory’s ceramic birds, ‘as a token gift from the management’. From what I could determine—and I may be inaccurate in some of the detail—a dove contains marijuana, a blue bird something they referred to as ‘LSD’—which in my day was a term that referred to currency but so be it. The bird of paradise was cocaine …”

  “And the phoenix?”

  “Heroin, without a doubt. The harbinger of death. Or should I say—‘the kiss of death’? Perlman was the conduit for both the contents and the containers. I find it difficult to believe he did not know what they were used to contain. Hence the little difference of opinion we just witnessed.

  “And you, Watson—what have you discovered?”

  “Only that our friend Nick enjoys both the ladies of the Kane household. He and Linda are clearly what we would call an ‘item’ and I suspect that Nana Kane is now well aware of the fact that Nicky’s affections are, shall we say, diluted and that he has his hands on both birds. Furthermore, my knowledge of the fair sex—which you seem determined to overstate—tells me that someone as tightly strung as Nana is not likely to take that well. A storm warning is imminent.”

  Holmes nodded thoughtfully.

  “And what is more I do believe we have worn out our welcome in this hostelry, old fellow. I gained the distinct impression that Master Nick did not take kindly to what he perceived as your trespassing on his domain. I would be inclined to recommend a dignified retreat, followed by a short detour to the Cheeky Chicken to placate Mike … and then as good a night’s sleep as we can contrive. Tomorrow, I fancy will not be without incident.

  Seven

  That night I slept like a log—though why a log sleeps any more soundly than a brick or a bag of plumber’s tools beats me.

  Somewhere along the way I began to dream. I was standing outside the Pearly Gates and banging on them for dear life. Though, come to think of it, if I was at that particular location, I was most probably dead.

  Try as I might, I couldn’t get anyone to open up. St. Peter was probably on his cell phone giving the Big Boss an update on yesterday’s intake and the rest were watching daytime soaps, for all I knew.

  Then I realized that the knocking was coming from the other side of the gate. St. Peter wanted to be let out.

  Eventually it penetrated my befuddled brain that the knocking was at my front door and, if it hadn’t had the desired effect on me, it was driving Mike apeshit. I clawed my way to the surface of sleep and staggered over to the door.

  Standing there was a sandy little man in a suit that was so creased it made my pajamas look like permapress. Screwed into his mouth was the chewed butt of an unlit cigar.

  “I thought a Private Eye was ever open?”

  “Christ, McNulty—what do you want this time of the morning?”

  “No, not Christ, Jack. Simple Lieutenant McNulty will do fine. And this time of the morning is damn near noon.”

  He pushed me gently but firmly aside, came into the room and looked around him. I thought the slight curl of the mouth at its somewhat bohemian appearance was good coming from a man in a suit like that.

  Mike rushed up to him and pranced about on his hind legs like one of the chorus girls at Birdland. The dog was shameless.

  “I could run you in for starving a great dog like this. Lucky for both of you I brought some emergency supplies.” And from a baggy jacket pocket he pulled a handful of dog biscuits that had somehow got themselves entangled with his handcuffs. Mike whisked them off McNulty’s palm like a croupier removing your losing chips and retreated to the settee.

  The sight of the cuffs seemed to remind McNulty that this was more than his usual social visit. With a s
igh he sank into the good chair, quite unaware that he was sitting on top of Holmes, who reappeared—looking a little ruffled, I thought—in the only other chair. Which left me standing.

  Sean McNulty and I go back a long way—right back to the time when we were both sergeants in the L.A.P.D. Two of L.A.’s finest we were back then but somehow the routine and the toeing of lines wasn’t for me and a couple of cases that had to be solved a certain way for ‘political reasons’ did it and I quit. By now I’d be like McNulty, streetwise, world weary and with a wary eye peeled for the pension—as long as some punk kid with a home made pistol and a head full of fantasy dust didn’t decide to pop me one some night in a dark alley. Sure, that could happen in my business, too, but I’d be the one who made the decision to walk down that mean street.

  In my line of business sometimes you walked—mostly you didn’t. But the great thing about being self-employed is that you can be self-unemployed without the accompanying social stigma.

  Our ways had parted but McNulty and I—in all these years I’d never learned tocall him Sean and I was still ‘Watson’ to him—we kept in touch on an occasional basis. He was divorced and I was a widower, so what the hell. When the dark clouds overwhelmed the silver linings for either of us, we’d find the lowest dive in the neighborhood and get shit-faced. We’d show them.

  But somehow I didn’t think this was a social call.

  “You know Brent Perlman.”

  It was a statement not a question.

  “Guy in the white suit. Sure. Works for my client, Osgood Kane.” Where was this going?

  “Worked. Washed up on the shore at Santa Monica in the early hours. A floater.” “When did you see him last?”

  No client confidentiality problem here that I could see, so I told him about our various sightings, ending with the incident at Birdland.

  McNulty got up and started to pace the small room—no mean feat—rubbing his hand on his thinning pate. When you get to be a lieutenant you have to be able to do two things at once.

  “That checks.” Then he turned and peered at me. “Shouldn’t tell you this and I’ll deny it under oath—see, my fingers are crossed—but we’ve had you followed ever since you took Kane’s shilling. No, don’t worry, it’s not Kane we’re after.

  For once we don’t give a shit about Kane. It’s Perlman we’ve had our eye on.

  He’s got another scam going with Nicky Parmentieri. Drugs. Big time. And we think our friend in the white suit has been the middle man for bringing in the happy dust and whatever else Nick is pushing.

  A thought seemed to strike him and he sketched a smile.

  “You know a funny thing? Word on the street is that old man Kane used to have this turf and Nicky has edged him out. And that’s not the only thing of the old man’s he’s got his hands on.”

  “You mean the daughter?”

  “Right. And through her he’s got the run of the Kane place. You could park Concorde in the garage and the old man’d never know. The girl’s probably in on it and Perlman keeps her quiet with a few free samples …”

  Yes, indeed, that would account for a lot.

  “… takes it over to Chez Nicky, who dispenses it to the happy campers. Everybody comes out ahead. Except those who get a little too happy with it and end up dead. And talking of happy … call us chintzy but we don’t like it on our patch. Well, it looks like the bag carrier just dropped the bag on his foot—or rather, somebody dropped it for him. Any ideas?”

  He sank back into the chair.

  “Well, Perlman wasn’t exactly top of Nicky’s hit parade at the last count …”

  “Yeah, I guess ‘hit’ just about sums it up. See, something else you need to know about young Nicky. Birdland didn’t just turn up in a Christmas cracker. It ain’t even Nicky’s at all. He was put in to manage it by the Pomona Family from St. Louis. Kind of a marker on Californian turf for them. The kid’s a kind of son to the old man, Alfredo Pomona. Some people will tell you he is a son. Sort of freelance effort, if you know what I mean. Nicky makes it here and he’s a made man—on the fast track. He can’t afford to fuck up. You don’t make it with one of the families and you’re not only just a made man—you’re a dead one wearing concrete Guccis. Even if you are sort of family.

  “Best guess is Nicky had one of his guys bump off Perlman. There’s a single bullet hole in the back of the neck—execution style. Then they’d take him in one of their delivery vans—which has now been hoovered to a fare-thee-well, you may depend—and dumped him. There’s just one thing that doesn’t fit the pattern …”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a business to these guys. They don’t screw around. Bump. Dump. Thank you and goodnight. Why would they cut his finger off?”

  “His finger. The finger.” And he demonstrated with a graphic gesture which finger he meant. “Nothing personal.” A wry thought struck him. “Yeah, they gave him the ultimate finger. Funny, no—in a sick sort of way?”

  McNulty levered himself to his feet, sighed, and made a desultory effort to smooth the creases out of his suit.

  “Let me know if you find anything, Watson. And don’t forget—the eyes of L.A.’s finest never sleep! We’ll get that little squirrel Parmentieri. You have the word of the Pride of the McNulty’s.”

  The door slammed behind him and Mike gave a small yip of farewell.

  “Your friend reminds me of no one as much as our old friend, Lestrade, Watson. Small, ferret-like but no doubt tenacious as a bulldog, when pointed in the right direction.”

  Holmes had returned to his original chair.

  “Something about the mouth, too, the closeness of the eyes—and, of course, the mangled syntax.”

  He tapped his long fingers together thoughtfully.

  “So drugs are one thread that runs through this tangled skein. Perlman was supplying Nana Kane to buy her silence and co-operation. I suspect it was becoming a moot point as to who was in charge of whom. And then Perlman over-played his hand …”

  “You mean he had too much on Nicky?”

  “Precisely, old fellow. If by that you mean incriminating information. He was now the weak link and people like Mr. Parmentieri—with his, shall we say, strict upbringing—do not like to be so beholden to a mere supplier. Friend Perlman was becoming potentially dangerous. His concern now must be to secure an alternative source of supply.”

  “But the severed finger?”

  “That, I confess, is a piece of the puzzle that presently does not fit. Perhaps more will be revealed to us at your place of business …”

  I don’t know how chlorine combines with smog but the two seemed to be doing battle over The Century Building as we arrived. Mike and Mrs. Plack went through their usual routine but it lacked its usual ‘edge’, for the good lady seemed a mite preoccupied. Having polished the lobby, she seemed to be contemplating tackling the sidewalk outside. I’ve heard of ‘house-proud’ but ‘sidewalk-proud’?

  The sight of me snapped her out of it.

  “I had no idea you were such a Chinese food fan, Mr. W.” she shrieked, the twin ‘f s’ giving her dentures a little trouble. “I told him you weren’t in yet but he insisted on leaving it outside your door. Wasn’t wearing one of those little white coats today,” she added wistfully, “I suppose they only leave those with first time customers.”

  She was wasting her time with the last part. Holmes, Mike and I were ankling our way up the stairs.

  Mrs. P. was incorrect in only one regard. The delivery boy had decided on door-to-desk delivery and he had achieved it by kicking the door in. Admittedly, it was a feat that could have been achieved by the most lissome member of the corps de ballet while executing his entrechat, but even so it meant more work for Troy.

  There in the middle of my desk was the by now familiar brown paper bag. The three of us stared at it intently—two of us for professi
onal reasons, the other out of sheer greed. I opened it and tipped out the contents—a waxed cardboard box and the inevitable fortune cookie.

  First the box. Nestling in a bed of bamboo shoots was a single spring roll. Before I could stop him, Mike had turned his head sideways and scooped it up. Now he had it hanging out of his mouth but instead of chomping it in his usual vigorous fashion, he turned to me with a puzzled expression. I could see why he might. Chicken or shrimp he was used to in his spring rolls. A human finger he was not.

  Protruding from the end of the roll—rather as though the dog was putting his tongue out at me—was the tip of a male finger.

  I have to admit it was an elegant finger, the nail neatly trimmed with a clear polish. The last time I had seen it was making up a set of five at the end of an arm in a white suit.

  “It might be of minor interest to see what the accompanying message has to say, Watson.”

  Pausing only to retrieve the rest of Brent Perlman from Mike who, for some strange reason, seemed to have temporarily lost his appetite, I cracked the cookie and extracted the rice paper …

  “HE WHO TOUCHES THE FORBIDDEN

  LOSES THE POWER TO TOUCH”

  —Confuscius (trans.)

  I picked up the phone and dialed a number I knew by heart. When he picked up, I said—

  “McNulty. I seem to have something you were missing. Afraid I don’t do deliveries. You want to pick it up? Or shall I send it by FedEx?”

  His answer almost melted the phone line. He’d pick it up and I wasn’t to leave until he got there.

  No sooner had I put the receiver down than it rang again.

  “Good morning, Mr. Watson. We really must stop not meeting like this. But that, of course, is very much up to you.

  “We are patient people, Mr. Watson. After all, we have waited many hundreds of years to reclaim what was ours to begin with but time, alas, is running out. The Bird’s millennium is rapidly approaching and it must be returned to its ancestral home by that time for its symbolic rebirth, so you will appreciate our sense of urgency in this inconvenient matter.