Robert Crais - The Monkey

I rang the bell. No answer. I knocked. Still no answer. Across the street a woman in pink frou frou slippers and a pretentious silver housecoat watched me from her drive as a Yorkie sniffed at the thick ivy in front of their house. I nodded at the woman and smiled. She nodded back but didn’t smile. Probably too early to smile. Can’t smile when you’re still in the housecoat.

There was no car in the motor court, no way to see into the garage, and nothing parked on the street but my Vette. Cleon drove a black ’83 Trans Am. I didn’t know what Garrett Rice drove. I went back to my car, climbed in, and thought about it.

Poitras said the cops had tried to see Rice two days ago. That meant the little call-back note had been posted for two days and Rice hadn’t seen it. Or maybe he had, but wanted the cops to think he hadn’t, and left it there.

Or maybe Garrett Rice, who was so scared he asked Cleon Tyner, not the most social of people, to move in with him, had blown town. That made sense if he had had the dope, and then moved it. Cashed in and ran from Duran. He’d still be scared enough to want a muscle like Cleon along so he could sleep at night. He’d sport for the plane fare and head for parts unknown. Sure. That made sense. But Cleon being part of it, that didn’t. Betty had once chased the dragon with a lounge owner from Riverside. Cleon found out when she ended the chase in the Riverside ER. The lounge mysteriously burned. The lounge owner’s Caddie mysteriously blew up. The lounge owner himself mysteriously disappeared. Cleon Tyner suffered neither dope nor dopers. So. Dilemma, dilemma.

The woman in the silver lame housecoat came out into the street and stared at me with her hands on her hips, then pointed at a little sign planted in the ivy by her drive. Every house on the street had one, a little red sign that said Bel Air Patrol-Armed Response. I stuck my tongue out at her and crossed my eyes. She gave me the finger and went back into her compound. Another close brush with dangerous, affluent-class life-forms.

I took a deep breath, let it out, and started my car. I was tired of sitting and thinking and getting nowhere. I also didn’t want to lose time hassling with a Rent-a-Cop with the kid still out there. I blew the horn as I swung around the cul-de-sac-twice-then drove away.

Scared hell out that Yorkie.

At the bottom of Sunset Plaza I parked behind a gelato place and used the pay phone to call Pat Kyle at General Entertainment and ask her if she’d heard anything more about Mort or Garrett. She asked if she could call me right back. I gave her the number on the pay phone, then hung up, bought a cup of double chocolate banana, and enjoyed the extra butterfat.

The minutes ticked by, slow and heavy. I took small bites of the gelato and thought about the girl behind the counter to keep from thinking about Perry Lang and Ellen Lang and Domingo Duran and a guy named O’Bannon. She caught me staring and stared back. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen, pretty despite yellow and black eyeshadow, yellow lip gloss, and yellow and black paint in her hair. The hair was spiked and stood out straight from her head like thick fuzz. The bumblebee look. She had a nice even tan and large breasts and probably two parents who wouldn’t think kindly of a thirty-five-year-old man wondering what their baby looked like without clothes.

I said, “I’m John Cassavetes.”

“Who?”

I said, “Tell me the truth, do I look more like John Cassavetes or Tony Dow?”

She cocked her head. “I think you look like Andy Summers, only bigger and more athletic-looking.”

“Nah, I don’t look like Andy Summers.”

“I bet you don’t even know who Andy Summers is.”

“Useta play lead for The Police.”

She grinned. Her teeth were even and white. “Yeah,” she said, “You look like him. Thoughtful and smart and sensitive.”

Maybe if everyone wore yellow and black makeup the world would be a better place. I sat up straighter and was considering marriage when the phone rang. Pat said. “Sorry. I had someone in the office.”

“It’s okay. I fell in love during the wait.”

She made her voice cool. “Perhaps I should call back later. Give you time to consummate the relationship.”

“It’s as consummated as it’s going to get. What’s the word?”

“I didn’t hear anything new about Mort, but I did confirm those rumors about Garrett Rice. He’s a glad-hander with the weasel dust. He gets invited to parties because he always brings along a little something and he’s willing to share it.”

“Gosh, you mean what I hear about those Hollywood parties is true?”

“No. I mean what you hear about some of those Hollywood parties is true.”

“How’d you confirm it?”

“Friend of a friend at another studio. Someone who is very much involved in that world and who knew firsthand.”

I said, “Patricia, if I had two kilograms of pure cocaine that I wanted to sell and I was around the studios like Garrett Rice, who would I call?”

She laughed. “You’re talking to the wrong person, Elvis. I’m into health and the perfect body.”

“Would your friend of a friend know?”

“I can’t tell you her name.”

“Would you ask for me?”

She sighed. “I don’t know. She might be scared.”

“It’s important, kid.”

She said okay, then hung up. I went back to my seat at the table and looked at the counter girl some more. She said, “What’s going on?”

I said, “Can you keep a secret?”

“Sure.”

“A mobster from Mexico is holding a little kid ransom for two keys of cocaine. I’m trying to get the cocaine back so I can trade it for the kid and maybe nail the mobster at the same time.”

She laughed. “What bullshit,” she said.

“No bullshit. I’m a private detective.”

“Yeah.”

“Wanna see my gun?”

She put her hands behind her and gave me a look. “I know what you want to show me.”

Such cynicism. Two women who were probably Persian walked in and the counter girl went over to them. The phone rang and I picked it up. Pat said, “My reputation may be ruined. I was just invited to a freebasing party.”

“You get a name?”

“Barry Fein. He’s probably the guy Garrett dealt with.”

I thanked her, hung up, and called the North Hollywood PD. The same tired voice said, “Detectives.”

“Lou Poitras, please.”

“He ain’t here.”

“How about Griggs?”

There was a pause, then Griggs came on. “Griggs.”

“It’s Cole. You guys got anything on a guy named Barry Fein?”

“You got some nut, you know that. We don’t run a goddamned library service here.”

“Considering what I saw this morning, it ain’t much of a cop house, either.”

He hung up. I took a deep breath, let it out, called back. A different bored voice answered this time, “North Hollywood Detectives.”

“Let me have Griggs, please.”

“Hold on.”

A minute, then Griggs picked up. “Griggs.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have said that. It was dumb, and I apologize. I know you guys don’t like it any more than I did, and I know it’s tougher for you than it is for me.”

“You’re fuckin’-A right it is, bubba. Lou’s downtown raising hell right now, goddamnit. Even Baishe is down there, that sonofabitch. So we don’t need any bullshit from you.”

“Can you give me an address on Fein?”

“Hold on.”

While I waited, the counter girl gave one cup of something light-colored to one of the women and a cup of something so brown it was almost black to the other. They took their gelato to a little table at the front of the shop and spoke to each other in Farsi. Two men entered, one wearing a conservative gray Brooks Brothers, the other something resembling a pale orange pressure suit. The spaceman looked intense, and snapped his fingers at the girl. I didn’t like that.