A Good-Looking Corpse (12 page)

“Nothing was missed, sir,” he assures me, too wily to easily be swayed. Either the guard's a hard-ass diamond in the rough or the Fox security team is used to people playing angles to gain access to the building.

“Look, hoss,” I say, switching back to dismissiveness but upping the swagger. “I appreciate you keeping a lookout for me, but there's a reason I do what I do and you do what you do. I can appreciate that a lot of big business goes on here but I just need to check the grounds here and upstairs and get the hell back to my side of the tracks and have a cold one.” They are his side of the tracks too, I'm guessing.

“I hear that,” the guard says, finally cracking, and he scans a badge to pull open the door slightly for me to come on up and enter.

He inconvenienced me though and so I want to play this out further. “Couple seconds more, hoss.” I say and get right up to the support beams for the awning, checking close. “Yeah, looks good here. Okay, let's see the upstairs.”

I bound up to the doors and give him a courteous nod as I pass. The receptionist at the broad curved desk out front has witnessed our interaction and caught at least a part of the conversation through the glass doors. Along with my truck and its side panel decal, and she's already accepted my presence. “Thirty-fourth floor,” I say to her, not bothering with the intro. She points to the elevator bank just beyond the lobby and I make my way to them.

A series of business offices in an air-conditioned and upscale hallway with thick commercial carpeting are waiting for me when I step off the elevator onto the thirty-fourth floor. Impressed at the quickness with which it scurried me up into the air, I look back and give it an appreciative nod, much the same as I did the security guard. Everything in the building has an efficiency to it. I find Brandon Craig's talent offices easily; they're the ones right at the front of the building, exactly where Alan went down from.

Barging in through the front door of Craig's office like I run the place, I catch the receptionist, a pretty brunette circling open audition calls in Variety. Just another wannabe actress, struggling to get that brass ring. It reinforces my stance on Hollywood eating its own.

“Can I help you?” she asks, sheepish, as if being caught with her panties down.

“I think so,” I say, skipping the dismissive tone to go right into the slight grin.
I too can be mechanical and fake, Hollywood.
“I'm here to see Brandon.” I throw a glance around the office, instantly bored by the neutral tones and framed movie posters that seem to be a constant in all Hollywood decorating motifs. It's as if they have to remind themselves that they were involved in the pictures.

“Is he—” she begins, but I cut her off, smooth.

“Expecting me? No, but I'm here on behalf of Mikey Echo.”

As anticipated, Mikey's is a name that opens doors here. And windows. “I'll let Brandon know you're headed back,” she assures me, blushing. I push on through the tan office door and into the offices. There is a conference room to my right, and I look past the expensive boardroom table and out the broad picture windows that offer up a view of the Los Angeles skyline in the distance. It's an impressive view and under different pretenses, I would love to sit and stare out the window at the city some time. It looks deceptively serene from far away.

Brandon's door is closed, but I push on through, confident. The talent agent is at his desk, just hanging up his phone and fixes me with an uncertain smile.

“Hello?” he says, inquisitive. He's young—late twenties/early thirties like Mikey and Ramen, and like Mikey, polished and handsome. His hair is starting to thin, but he's got it slicked down with product to hide the widow's peak. His phone sounds a short buzz—the receptionist—and he snatches it up. “Yes, Jessica,” Brandon says, shaking his head and gesturing to the phone for me. “I see the man; he's clearly standing in my office already.”

When he drops the receiver back in its cradle, I make a point to close the door with a hard click, instilling a sense that we are closed in together.

The two floor-to-ceiling windows that adjoin his desk look undisturbed, each with a healthy ficus in front of them to give the office a green look. The window on the right has recently been replaced though—its molding the fresher of the two.

“I'm Tom Tanner,” I say, sitting down at one of the chairs in front of his desk.

“Okay…” he continues, unimpressed, wanting more.

“I'm checking into Alan's homicide and I wanted to see what you know about it.”

“Wait—homicide?” he asks, momentarily caught off guard, but still well rehearsed.

“Spare me the act,” I say, leaning forward to put my two closed fists together on his desk. I am just unkempt enough in life to appear capable of being insanely violent. “Mikey told me Crozier dropped him. What I want to know is…what's your part in it?”

“Mikey told you that?” Brandon sputters, more confused than ever. “Who did you say you were again?” He glances at his telephone but seems afraid to reach for it.

“I'm Tom Tanner.” I force my knuckles together to make them crack. A guy I was in prison with used to do it. Done correctly, the quick ripple of sharp pops is intimidating as fuck. And judging by Brandon's face, the sound works. “What do you think about Mikey killing your star client?”

“I-I don't know,” Brandon stammers, his short glances toward the door betray his fear that the police will come busting in any moment.

“Mikey is untouchable, you know that. But you don't have Mikey's status, do you? So start playing ball with me, or I start talking to the cops about what you do and don't know.”

“They have it sorted as a suicide,” Brandon bleats, his last salvo of resistance.

“You want to waste my time? Fine,” I say, and don't even have to stand before he starts spilling his guts.

“Look, I was furious, okay? Alan wasn't just a client, he was a friend. A good one. I was furious when Mikey told me what was gonna happen. But what could I do? He's Mikey-fucking-Echo! I just went into the conference room and cried while that gorilla of an assistant Mikey has went about slicing out my window with a switchblade. They called Alan from my office. There was nothing I could do or they were gonna throw me out too. And you know how Mikey spins things, right? All the papers would read about me and Alan as ‘star-crossed lovers' or something. My granny would drop dead over that, believe me.”

“If he was your friend though, why didn't you make a stink about it?”

“You said it yourself, Mikey's untouchable. It's all about his father. His father owns this town.”

“So that's it? Mikey wants to kill your client and you let him? Not a great business model.”

“Mikey promised me that he'd give first look to my other clients for his pictures. It's about as sweet an offer as I could hope for, considering that it was a take-it-or-feel-your-brains-mash-down-on-concrete thing. Real
Godfather-
type stuff.”

“A man dies and a whole town knows the truth and no one cares?”

“Welcome to Hollywood. We all sold our souls a long time ago. It should be stamped on the fucking city limit sign.” Brandon is exasperated now, and the sweat is making the gel from his hair leak down toward his face, where he has to continue swiping it away before it stings his eyes.

“You can change that,” I offer, handing him a tissue from the corner of the desk. He takes it. “You were there when Alan died, you know the truth. Go outside the Hollywood media. The public loves dirty gossip, right? Let them know what happened. Make them aware and Mikey will have to be held accountable.”

“You really don't know anything about this town, do you? We like Mikey—Mikey makes this town interesting. Without Mikey, this town would be nothing but neurotics, Jews, and the flamers.”

“Don't forget the narrow-minded assholes,” I point out.

Finally, realizing I ain't a cop or anyone of particular power, Brandon regains his moxie. “Not for nothing, pal, but when Mikey hears we had this conversation—and he's gonna hear—you're as good as fucking dead.”

Now I don't have to worry about getting ahold of Mikey, I think as I head back to L.A. proper.
He'll probably want to get ahold of me
.

“Well, that was a bust,” I say aloud. I close my eyes in the dead-stop traffic and concentrate on the faces of the people I saw surrounding his fighting pit that night. Brandon Craig was among them, cheering. So was fat Doug, the media guy. He was also there during Alan's murder. But do I risk paying him a visit? He seems like he's drinking the Mikey Echo Kool-Aid pretty hard and getting laid for his troubles.
No, if I'm going to bring Mikey down, I need Ramen
.
If the producer is even alive still…

The SUV driver behind me lays on her horn hard, blaring it, shaking me alert. I open my eyes, and realize the traffic ahead has moved forward roughly six feet. I pull forward the tiny bit and this satisfies her. She goes back to her cellphone, cigarette, and grande Starbucks iced coffee, still giving me the stink eye.

I'm just nearing the office when I get a call. I expect Mikey, but it's the service, informing me of a call back at the Roosevelt Hotel—a nonfatal stabbing. The Roosevelt is back up in Hollywood. I sigh and make for an exit. Life would be simple in Los Angeles if only you could pull a U-turn on the freeway.

I leave my phone in the truck and go deal with what amounts to a hell of a bloodbath on the fourteenth floor. Both queen beds and their linens down to the carpet are stained in a trail that leads out into the hallway and along the walls where the guy had evidently staggered and collapsed. One long train of crimson-colored biohazard, so thick I even have to reaffirm that the man didn't die.

“He was alive when the paramedics loaded him into the ambulance,” the bellhop assures me before asking if I'm hiring. I consider it for a moment, based on the sheer amount of work it will take to lug the two mattresses and carpet down the service elevator and out to the truck. But the kid's got a necklace with an atheist symbol on it—an “A” inside a circle. Which means he's pretty outspoken about his beliefs. Which means I'd probably have to listen to that shit. I don't believe in God either, but I don't rub it in people's faces. The hard-core atheists are about as annoying as anyone who is hard-core religious. And the sweet part of me owning my own business is I don't have to work with anyone I don't want to.

“Sorry, man,” I say. “If you're looking for a new job I'd be happy to pray about it with you? The answer lies in Jesus.” Awkward, the kid mumbles a “no” and leaves me to my work.
That sounds like something Ramen would have said
, I realize.
His schtick is rubbing off on me
.

When I finish and climb into the truck, sweating and exhausted, I am almost alarmed to see I have no missed calls.
Still no Ramen
. But also none from Mikey, which might be a good thing right now.

Ivy is at work still but since I'm in Hollywood and her office is just up the road, I decide to pay her a visit. With the truck bed loaded with big black trash bags designated “Biohazard,” I eschew street parking on Selma, and drive into the private parking lot that bisects the property. I've never dropped in before but Ivy's silver Eclipse convertible is nestled in the tiny lot so I know she's in. I take a vacant spot beside her car, risking that I won't get towed.
If there's one thing the city of Hollywood is on top of, it's towing cars
.

The offices of Don Tart, Private Eye take a bit of time and effort to locate. I find myself wandering around a European-style courtyard, impressed by the amalgam of cultures built into the architecture. From a Russian turret to a wishing-well fountain and a lighthouse straight out of fairy tales, the offices don't fit the typical sleek corporate design of Hollywood. It's like this quiet little oasis of offices was built into a sort of theme-park location. Next door, a church bangs out four o'clock from its bell tower. I almost expect colorful peasants to come streaming out of the building and burst into a spritely song.

On the other side of the parking lot, near the Sunset Boulevard side of the complex, I find the private eye's office in a Mediterranean-themed facade with old-world tiling around the windows. It's in the shadow of a thirty-foot-high edifice with an enormous spinning globe atop it reading
C
ROSSROADS OF THE
W
ORLD
. Really it all seems perfectly suited to Don Tart, Ivy's PI boss. I'd never met the man personally but Ivy's tales of him were colorful. “Lush,” “horndog,” “egomaniac” and “self-promoter” were just a few of the descriptives Ivy has used in conjunction with her boss…and if Ivy is aware of these traits in a person, I know it's serious. Especially the “horndog” one—Ivy typically has the most amazing ability to be completely oblivious to the manner of dress she chooses and the attention she receives because of it.

But I didn't need to know Ivy to know the name Don Tart. “The Private Eye to the Stars,” he endlessly promotes his services on his many, many corny billboards across town. Full of goofy sayings like “Have A Hubba Hubba Hubby?” Or “Let Don Tart Nail 'Em Like They're Nailing Their Secretary,” the private eye has his picture splashed over Southern California, dominating the landscape like the Offramp Inns used to. As far as fame-whoring goes, it seems like he's replaced the local '80s celebrity Angelyne as the billboard poster child of Hollywood. And not to mention his obnoxious late-night commercials that run seemingly nonstop on channel 5. Now even Ivy turns the TV off when they come on.

But for all her grousing about Don, she loves her work. Our nights in bed together are frequently me listening as she recounts the stories from her day—cheating husbands busted, bail jumpers located, process-serving jobs gone wrong or even straight debt collecting, which, the way Ivy tells it, had Don's hired henchmen basically doing loan-sharking. Sometimes I even get the unsolicited details about what little chippy Don was bribing to fuck him that week. Yeah, “The Private Eye to the Stars” seemed to have his fingers in a lot of pies.
Who the fuck even calls themselves a “Private Eye” anymore?
I wonder as I enter the little office.

“Tom?” Ivy exclaims, startled, forgetting that we parted on bad terms. It's almost comical to see her at a desk—her big porn-star tits nearly popping out of a low-cut blouse that's nowhere near “office casual” anywhere else, her sleeve of colorful foliage and spider tattoos running the length of her right arm, and her blonde hair piled into a professional bun with two chopsticks piercing it at extreme angles. For all the eye rolling I mostly do at every fucking thing she has to say, it still gives me a little jolt of excitement to see her.

“Hey you,” I say, approaching her faux chic wooden desk that is easily a continuation of her messy home habits. An absent front panel allows me and anyone else walking in to get a look far up her bare legs and into the blackness of short skirt beyond. At least she has the sense to cross her legs when she sits. “So this is it, huh?” I glance around the office which seems like it stopped updating itself around the time
Miami Vice
was on. The front space is tight, but mostly open with only a couch and some Us Weekly magazines on a coffee table sharing space with Ivy's desk. By the front door, a little coffee bar is set up for the customers who aren't currently visiting.

The electric-green door back to the rest of the offices is ajar, destroying any sense of privacy Ivy and I could hope for.

“Don't say some asshole comment,” she warns, now remembering that she's cross with me still. But she's also a little touched that I'm standing before her, as I've dodged numerous offers to come visit in the past. “What are you doing here?”

“I had a thing at the Roosevelt,” I explain when she pretends to be interested in something on her computer screen, her little pouty lips pushed out in manufactured frustration. I blurt out, “I shouldn't have made fun of you last night.” She doesn't bite. I want to ask if she sees herself—psychically—forgiving me anytime soon, but I don't. It's weird—a big portion of our relationship is in the little back-and-forth jabs at each other; she usually gives almost as good as she gets, but this one struck a nerve for whatever reason.

The phone on her desk abruptly rings, making it easier for her to ignore my half-assed apology. “Office of Don Tart, private eye to the stars,” she says pleasantly into the receiver as if nothing bad has ever happened in her life.

I debate whether I should leave, regroup, and attempt a more heartfelt mea culpa back at the apartment later tonight, but she puts the call on hold to yell back into the recess of offices: “Don, line one! We got a live one!” Returning the phone to the cradle, she looks me square in the eye so I can witness the hurt welled within and says simply, without luster, “Forget last night, it's fine.”

“It's not fine,” I protest, recognizing that I have to step into caring mode before this festers into something bigger. “You're really upset. And I want to fix that. Or at least try.”

“How?”

“What do you know about Travel Town?”

“Absolute zilch.”

“Okay, good. It's this old park my parents took me to when I was little. It's full of old abandoned trains that you can climb around on. It's for kids mostly, but like you said, you wanted to see what I liked as a kid. We can go this Saturday.”

“Halloween is this Saturday.”

“Sunday, then.”

Ivy slowly sizes me up and in her eyes I can see that Travel Town isn't the answer. “I want to meet your parents,” she says.

“What? No! No way,” I exclaim louder than I should and we both look back toward the open door that hints at the back offices. “They were right to disown me after the Holly Kelly thing, but it still hurts.”

“If you're serious about making it up to me, this is what I am asking for.”

“Look, it was a couple dumb jokes about psychic shit, you're asking for the fucking moon here.”

“I think it would be good for both of us.”

“You clearly don't understand…I haven't talked to my parents since my trial. Because they didn't want to. Ahh, can we not have this conversation here?” She'd managed to catch me off guard, something that's normally hard to do. I am sorry I've dropped in.

Disappointed, she drops back into her chair and crosses her arms, silently staring back at me with her little mouth bunched into a condemning pucker. She isn't gonna budge on this one.

“Ivy, doll,” Don Tart yells from the back rooms, breaking up the heavy air that has filled the office. “For chrissakes, don't bust the guy's nuts too bad. You might need 'em for something some day.” Don Tart, a squat, instantly familiar white-haired man with a cancer-baiting tan comes bowling out of the back offices in his equally energetic Tommy Bahama shirt. A borderline impractical gold chain mingles amidst the rolls of furry gray chest hair puffing out of his shirt top. He's been polished by brazenly inserting himself into the drama of strangers for the last several decades, and if he has any shame about eavesdropping on our spat, he doesn't show it in the slightest.

“Don Tart,” he says, jovially extending a hand for me to shake, which he then yanks back before I can shake and runs the hand alongside his hair, not actually connecting with it. “Too slow,” he snickers. He then offers it again and I reach for it, reluctantly, but he just retracts it again. “Can we make it three?” he asks gamely, putting it out once more. This time I ignore it but he leaves it hanging out there while staring at me earnestly. Mildly irritated, I give him the benefit of the doubt this time and reach for it. “Zoop,” he says, darting his hand away. Finally, fully irritated, I snatch his hand out of the air with my left and hold it in place so I can shake it. “You got me,” he agrees happily, not bothered by my frustration.

There's something off about the smoothness of his face in contrast with the wrinkles of his hands and it occurs to me he's had work done on his mug. It doesn't look bad, just unnatural. “You must be Tom,” he continues as if all that handshake madness didn't just happen. “Most days, Ivy thinks the world of you. Makes me jealous.” He gives me the up and down that Ivy gave me a moment earlier. “No offense, Tom-bo.” He chuckles quickly and steamrolls to the hard truth. “But you came up in the deal. This little trixie,” he jerks his thumb aggressively back in Ivy's direction, “is a knockout. You're a lucky guy. Quite possibly the luckiest guy.” He pretends to brush some lint off my shoulder, pretends to straighten the collar of my shirt and then slaps his hands together, excited for no real reason.

I look past the little man and over to Ivy, meeting her eyes. For the moment, a sort of embarrassment has replaced the hardened stone. “I agree,” I say and tack on a “Most days,” to get the PI to laugh and clap excitedly.

“I'm high on it, today,” he assures Ivy, but looks between us both, apparently unable to talk without gesturing wildly. “I just got a call from Esteban Morales's lawyer. She wants to file a missing persons on him!”

“Esteban Morales…Why do I know that name?” I ask suddenly, the wheels spinning up in my brain.

“You probably don't,” Ivy speaks up. “He's a TV producer, not exactly ‘your thing.' ”

“He puts out every minority sitcom you see these days; he's worth a mint! And he's missing, can you believe such a thing?” Don exclaims, shifting his energy from one leg to the next.

“I know him!” I yell, realizing. “Well, not really, but he lives next to Mikey Echo.”

“Echo? Christ! There's a name I hate to hear. Yeesh!” Don chirps, quickly pacing the office now as he relays the details. “Too soon for the police to take a missing persons themselves, Esteban only disappeared yesterday afternoon. Gardener says he saw Morales's car leaving the house around three-thirty. A matte-brown 7 Series. Gardener didn't see the driver. The lawyer says his daughter found his cellphone in the street outside his house when she went by that evening. So that's a bad sign.”