L.A. Confrontational Page 9

  Heading to the bar after every shift made me feel like a rebellious teenager. The social networking helped build camaraderie with my fellow officers, but left the full responsibility of raising our child to my wife. Over time, my alcohol dependency took such a firm hold only the shock of a complete breakdown stopped me at the brink of destruction.

  Leaving L.A. had saved me, but for what I wasn’t certain. With those ponderous thoughts, I headed downtown to find a hooker.

  Chapter 13

  I exited at 3rd Street and cut back underneath the expressway to Figueroa, where the less classy prostitutes worked in the shadow of the high-rises and highway underpasses. I cruised along, looking for Paula, a prostitute with whom I’d once had a non-sexual professional relationship. Her leads had assisted me in breaking open several cases, although I lost her trust after getting embroiled in an investigation to bring down her pimp.

  Paula could have been working the higher-class Hollywood area. She was pretty. I hoped to get a glimpse of her or one of the other girls who would know where to find her. Seeing a familiar figure, I pulled over in front of a tall woman with ebony skin and massive breasts spilling out of her white halter-top. She wore thin, tight red pants that left little imagination as to what the client would be buying.

  When I pulled up and rolled the window down, she came over and leaned in, the impact of her breasts in the seat cavity should have set off the passenger-side airbag. “Hi Casey.”

  It took a second for the recognition to register. “Holy shit, man. You ain’t been around in a while.”

  “Yeah. I don’t live in town anymore and I no longer work for LAPD. I’m looking for Paula. Have you seen her around tonight?”

  “No, man. I think she over working in the ‘wood’ area.”

  “Okay, thanks. Here’s my card just in case I miss her. It has my cell number. I’d appreciate it if you give it to her and ask her to call me.”

  She read the card and laughed. “You a private dick now?”

  “Yeah, good one Casey. Please give that to her.”

  She nodded and lifted her chest from the car, easing my claustrophobia. She was getting up there in age, and I wondered what would happen to her when she could no longer turn tricks. Her rough life had begun to show. There would be no 401K plan offered by her boss, a man I had unsuccessfully tried to put away. I had a lot of respect for women like Casey. They risked their lives every day like the cops on the beat. Most of the women had no other way to pay the bills.

  I drove through some of the familiar little ethnic neighborhoods I worked as a young officer out of the LAPD Olympic Street Station. Chinatown, Filipinotown, Little Bangladesh, Koreatown— the streets adorned with pawnshops, cheap hotels, auto repair shops, and questionable hole-in-the wall eating establishments. I looked for a familiar one identified by a neon sign poised over the corner of Olympic and Vermont. I’d eaten there a few times before and it had a good chance of not giving me food poisoning.

  I found the Singing Palace and parked in the alley out back. I’m not sure how it got its name, but I didn’t care as long as my stomach didn’t launch into a heavy metal concert after eating the food. I donned a Dodgers baseball cap, and walked out of the alley to the main intersection to peer into the window. I wanted to make sure no former colleagues were present. Since not all the tables were in view, thanks to a wall of fake plants and a large aquarium filled with exotic fish, I had to accept the risk.

  The dark lobby, lit by a tall black floor lamp and the bulb of the aquarium, featured an antique cash register resting on a glass case filled with gums and candies. The place smelled like fried fish. The owner came over and immediately recognized me as an important customer despite my prolonged absence. He led me to a table, but I asked for a booth in the shadowy corner away from the window.

  The owner’s wife made a joyful production out of seeing me again as she handed me a menu. My last meal had been somewhere in Arizona. Hunger spasms now rocked me. The enticing aromas like the siren voices of Greek mythology lured me to my potential culinary peril.

  I ordered a familiar dish: the mixed vegetable Udon soup with thin strips of mystery meat floating among the broccoli, cabbage, and bean sprouts. I bet on the boiling of the soup to kill any potent intestinal invaders. The flavor proved to be delicious and I headed through Little Tokyo satiated by the warm broth.

  I drove down Spring Street past City Hall Park and scanned the streets for Paula. I parked in the lot across from The Edison, a former power plant built in 1910, now a modern-day speakeasy located in the basement of the historic Higgins Building. I deposited my gun into the glove compartment and added a jacket and tie to my outfit.

  Luckily, there was no line to get in. The bouncer admitted me after a quick glance at my attire. I descended into a dark gothic industrial interior and walked through a brick-canyon hallway to the main bar. I ordered a Chimay White beer at the bar that wrapped itself around the length of the red and brown brick wall like a coiled copper snake. The shine on the polished redwood bar surface was crisp enough to see my reflection. The recessed lighting in the high ceiling doused the walls and highlighted the white mortar.

  A modest crowd of well-dressed men and women gathered in small groups. I had only been to the club once, but it had a reputation for attracting the most enticing escorts in the city. With no sign of Paula, I searched the rest of the building, passing through a large open cathedral space with leather couches and chairs tucked into dark corners—the only light came from tall elaborate candelabra chandeliers. Another room contained the original power plant generator. I dodged the people sitting on assorted ottomans scattered across the floor. The walls included sketches of burlesque dancers. There seemed to be an endless number of rooms, many small, dark, and dingy. I managed to find my way back to the main bar. No sign of Paula. She could be turning a trick at this late hour, making her return to the club unlikely.

  I returned to my car and circled the neighborhood. Paula’s unmistakable contours appeared ahead on 2nd Street—her shapely frame, and long black hair tied into two long pigtails slid all the way down to the top of her short colorful paisley skirt. The tie-dyed blouse, bunched in a knot at her sternum, exposed her flat stomach. She resembled a psychedelic Judy Garland from Wizard of Oz. Apparently done for the night, she shopped the windows of several closed vintage clothing stores.

  A handful of quarters deposited in a meter slot bought me about an hour of parking time. I popped a stick of gum in my mouth and hustled back down to where she stood outside a jewelry store.

  “Hey gorgeous. How about I buy you some ice-cream?”

  She turned and screamed, “Arch. Oh my God.” I received a kiss on the cheek and she held me at arms-length. “I haven’t seen you since….I don’t know how long.”

  “How are you Paula? Are you staying healthy?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I? You serious about buying me some ice-cream?” She released me and smiled.

  “Absolutely. You done for the night?”

  “Yes, I did good. I left Fig Street permanently. Much nicer clientele around here and I can charge more, which makes you-know-who happy.” She stepped closer and lightly brushed my cheek with her hand.

  I held her hand. “I’m glad. It wasn’t safe around there.”

  “I know. We lost several girls this year, probably murdered. We need you back on the force, Arch.”

  I laughed. “Not likely. And I didn’t have much success anyway.”

  “Not for lack of trying. Wow, I can’t believe it’s you.” She slipped her arm inside mine and we walked the three blocks back toward downtown like lovers out for a late evening stroll. It was nice to have some female companionship, even from a friend who happened to be a prostitute.

  “You like my costume?”

  “Yes, I can hear the sitar from “Strawberry Fields” ringing in my head.”

  She punched me in the arm. “Oh, Arch. I’ve missed you.”

  We made it to the Mikawaya Ice Crea
m Parlor a few minutes before it closed. A car swung by and honked several times before continuing down the street. It rattled my nerves until I saw it wasn’t the Hummer Paula’s boss and my former nemesis drove. I wasn’t ready for my encounter with him.

  “One of your customers?”

  “Probably, I don’t care. I like being with you, Arch. You know you wouldn’t have to pay.” She squeezed my arm.

  “Thanks, Paula. But I think of you as a friend.”

  She glanced up at me with a tired smile. “I know. I had several clients tonight.”

  I nodded my understanding. Even if willing, I figured the last thing she needed was another man inside her. She was a pretty woman whose full lips, penetrating eyes, and light complexion would tempt most men. Perhaps if things were different I might have been attracted to her, but her being a prostitute was difficult for me to overcome.

  “I like having you as a friend, Arch. I heard your wife left you during the investigation.”

  “Yeah, she moved to Vegas with Josie.”

  Paula hugged my arm tighter. “She obviously didn’t appreciate you.”

  “No, Paula. It was the other way around. I didn’t appreciate what I had enough to clean up my act.”

  “Is it too late?”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  She pulled me in through the doorway of the shop. “Come on, we could both use some ice cream.”

  The bright track lighting inside the ice cream parlor nearly blinded me as we peered at the variety of frozen treats in the chest freezers. The fresh iced smell drifted through a slit at the bottom of the glass case. She ordered a chocolate hazelnut mochilato, and I opted for the mango ice cream mochi. We sat at one of the small square cafeteria tables.

  “You gonna tell me why you came back? I know this isn’t a social call.”

  “A guy hired me to find his daughter.” I pulled the picture of Sarah from my jacket pocket and showed it to her. She took it with her other hand moving the ice-cream cone away from it. She rotated the picture trying to maximize the overhead lighting to get the best view.

  “Whew. She’s a doll, but young.”

  “She’s seventeen and I think Junky has her. I was hoping you might recognize her.”

  She peered at me intently. “Is this an excuse to go after him again?”

  I smiled hoping to convince her that the fury of those days no longer gripped me. “No, those days are over. This is legit. I just want to find the girl and take her home.”

  “You know it isn’t going to be easy.”

  “I know but I’ve got a plan.”

  “I hope it’s a good one.”

  “Hopefully it’s good enough. Have you seen her?”

  “No, but I hear things.”

  “You’ve got the best hearing of anyone I know.”

  She laughed. “She might be up in Redondo Beach. Junky likes to use the young ones for his more distinguished clients.”

  “I need to get to Junky before he spots me. Does he have an office up there now?”

  “It’s hard to say. He moves around a lot, but I know a guy who might be a lead. He’s a waiter at the Seafood House on the Pier. You know it?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been there a few times.”

  “His name is Emilio. But you didn’t hear it from me, Arch. Seriously, I don’t need any shit coming down on me.” She grabbed my hand for emphasis.

  “I know, Paula. I promise. Junky will never know I got this tip from you. I’ve always protected you. Nothing’s changed.”

  She tightened her grip on my hands and nodded but without the trusted expression that used to come automatically. I knew she didn’t want me upsetting the recent balance and financial stability in her life.

  That night I found a cheap hotel near the airport. I had a hard time falling asleep, anticipating the possible confrontation with my ex-partner. Seeing Benny would rekindle bad memories. I resisted going out for a drink as my thoughts turned to my daughter. My catharsis had been rocky, but it might get a boost if I could survive my return to L.A and save another young girl’s life.

  Chapter 14

  “Hello Benny. How’s my ex-partner?” A prolonged silence on the phone greeted my question. “What? You’re not happy to hear my voice after all this time?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m in town and thought we might meet to discuss some business.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see you.”

  “We’ve got nothing to discuss.”

  “Well, that’s where you’re wrong. I drove all the way to L.A. just to see you and this is the response I get?”

  “I’m not meeting you unless you tell me what it’s about.”

  “No can do, my friend. But, I will tell you that ignoring me would not be in your best interest. If you know what I mean?”

  “No, I have no idea what you mean.”

  “Meet me today at the old abandoned car lot below the one-ten overpass. Five o’clock, and don’t be late.”

  “What abandoned car lot?”

  “Don’t be stupid, Benny. You know exactly what lot I’m talking about.” The location had served as a rendezvous spot for Benny and his cronies. They met there in the old days, picking the spot because of its isolation and noise from the passing overhead traffic. A place where important decisions were made and big money exchanged hands. My choice for the meeting place represented my first shot across the wave-battered bow of Benny’s comfortable lifestyle.

  He agreed to meet me after work. Following his initial indignation, we launched into a banal conversation lobbing false pleasantries tinged with tension. I hung up after warning him again not to be late.

  I had no sympathy for Benny. He’d made his own bed, and the truth was my silence had kept him from prison. Despite the suspension and subsequent re-assignment, he must have still been as crooked as the jagged peaks of the Sandia Mountains back home; otherwise, Junky would have had a bullet put in his gut. He probably hoped to coast into a comfortable retirement supported by his illegal activities. But my sudden unwelcome reappearance put his impending solace in jeopardy.

  Chapter 15

  I arrived at the junkyard two hours early and parked my rental car around the corner. The poor, mostly minority neighborhood consisted of decaying houses. The boarded up windows and disrepair suggested abandoned residences. I wondered how many contained hidden meth labs. Rusted trash cans, empty beer bottles, plastic bags, and paper cups littered the street, likely forgotten by the Streets and Sanitation Department.

  A lone dog barked from one of the adjacent yards overgrown with weeds. I slipped through a break in the perimeter fence under the whoosh of cars passing overhead on the highway. Signs of the homeless were everywhere. No one knew who owned the junkyard, an inheritance battle had erupted after the death of the previous owner during my LAPD employment. The city threatened for years to foreclose and take ownership, but without the necessary funds, they continued to ignore the property.

  The yard’s isolation made it an ideal place to conduct shady business. The dirty cops, who valued the location for its privacy, used to run off the homeless to eliminate potential witnesses to their crimes. I had investigated murders of homeless men and local prostitutes, who I suspected had been killed in the junkyard, their bodies dumped elsewhere. Like a dog unwilling to soil its cage, the cops didn’t want dead bodies where they conducted their sordid business.

  The junkyard reeked of grease, motor oil, and transmission fluid. The engines, carburetors, and radiators had ceased to function long ago. Car hoods stood raised as if in surrender after being scavenged for parts. Toward the old operation center, entropy ensued and the rusted metal carcasses became scattered randomly as if the operator had run out of the patience needed to maintain order. A covey of piled car skeletons, likely the next victims of the compactor when the operator received a pink-slip, sat abandoned next to an old crane that must have dropped the cars into a pit to creat
e steel Rice Krispie bars for transport.

  The dilapidated office tower, where I was to meet Benny, hovered behind the crane. Near the tower sat a silver Impala, a model from the 70s, the finish now having faded in the California sunshine to a matte dolphin gray. Leprous rust patches had begun to devour the metal exterior. A tall dump trunk with the driver’s side door intact stood next to the Impala, fifty feet from the tower. The higher position of the cab would provide a good vantage point to see Benny’s approach across the littered landscape and see if he kept his word about coming alone. The door also faced east so the late afternoon sun would be setting behind me, making it more difficult for Benny to see me in the glare. I suspected the choice of this location had caused him much consternation. He might act irrationally.

  On the opposite side of the truck, the passenger door hung like an old scab, dangling from a single rusted hinge. I climbed into the cab, and lying across the black, torn vinyl seat, I kicked the door just below the hinge. The truck frame groaned. After several more strikes, the door ripped loose with a screech and fell to the ground with a soft crash. The driver’s door would provide cover, while the open door would allow me to easily disappear into the maze of rusted cars.

  I checked the view through the open windowless frame, the glass having been long-ago shattered, the pieces now glimmering amongst the sluggishly decomposing sand, dirt, and human paraphernalia. Amazingly, the still intact rear-view mirror afforded a clear view of the area around the operator’s tower from a prone position in the truck. My stomach growled with hunger, but the filth, bird excrement, and rat turds in the cab depressed my appetite. The sickle-shaped remnant of a bird’s mud nest clung to the upper corner of the cab where a sun visor had been attached. Small pieces of dried dark brown mud littered the dashboard along with a thick layer of grayish dust. I shivered and stuck my head out the vehicle’s window to escape the grime.