Glass Houses (18 page)

thirty-four

Birdie changed clothes in
the backseat of her Taurus. No dress and high heels needed where she was headed. She shimmied into jeans and laced the steel-toed Wolverines, pulled on a white tank top, buttoned a tatte
red denim shirt. She pulled back her long hair and quickly braided it, securing the end with a #16 rubber band. She swiped a makeup remover sheet gently across her eyes, removing most of the eye shadow and mascara, but not all of it. Then she took off the blush and added a bit of translucent powder. She wrapped white medical tape around the joint that connected the intermediate and distal phalanges of her right and left hands then dirtied the tape by rubbing the cleansing cloth across its bright whiteness. She flexed her fingers, used tweezers to pull out a
few threads of the tape—the small details of the blue collar costume.

She opened the trunk and removed a hardhat covered in stickers denoting the reserve, rig, and other affiliations of the oil drilling business. She had once lived on an offshore oil platform to get an insider's view of the business and write a feature about drilling off the California coast. She may be left of center in her politics, but she was all for ocean drilling and against fracking and those positions were proudly stated on the skull cover—with the required equipment: a pair of safety glasses perched on top and a pair of earplugs dangling from a yellow cord down the back. She shoved her phone into a fake leather holder that was at least ten years old and attached it to her waist, stuffed a pair of work gloves into the back pocket. Lastly, she picked up the battered Grainger aluminum storage clipboard and made sure the steno book was fresh, the pencils sharp, and the digital recorder had fresh batteries. She tossed in her press credentials for good measure.

Finally, good to go.

She started footing west. She could've taken the Metro to get a bit closer, but walking would work up the necessary sweat to make it appear like she'd been working all morning. Every now and then she'd walk across a dirt patch and made an extra effort to kick up dust. In one empty lot an abandoned bag of redi-mix lay nearly hidden in yardstick-high mustard. She kicked it open and ran through the billowing white powder. By the time she arrived at the construction site she felt like the cartoon character Pig-Pen, complete with the requisite dust billowing around her.

Once upon a time, in the alcoholic version of her life, Birdie was filled with cocksure bravada. She could sweet-talk her way into (and out of) nearly any situation. Not so much today. Sobriety had knocked the stuffing out of the what-the-hell adventurer. Take right now, for instance. She had to get into character. A persona. In a city of wannabe actors, where people ran lines at the corner coffee shop, it wasn't that hard to visualize what she needed to become. But her hands shook so hard she almost asked some random dude for a cigarette. And that was another vice she determinedly avoided. Besides, he looked at her like some junkie so she stuck two pieces of Juicy Fruit in her mouth and started smacking.

If caught, the worst thing that could happen was that she'd be escorted off the premises by some Taser wielding, overzealous security guard. Or they could call the cops. That would've been a good thing six months ago. All she had to do was figure out which station patrolled the area she was in and drop one of many names: her father, uncle, cousin, or any number of Whelan boys. She probably knew at least one cop in every division. Still did, but she was pretty certain that she had become an eight-point buck in the laser sights of the LAPD first liners.

Birdie frowned and popped gum at the security guard patrolling the chain-link gate and gave a disgruntled wave as if she were late as hell and
had
to work another day at this shithole. Once in, she hid behind a stack of rebar and mapped the terrain. She'd been told that the man she wanted to see would be here today.

But where?

She considered the construction offices. A series of singlewide trailers with umbilical electrical. But if he were “inspecting” as she'd been told, he wouldn't be holed up in an office. No, he'd be at the site of the newest construction. Considering high-rises are built from the ground up, she figured he'd be “up there.” She looked at the towering height, and got instant vertigo just by squinting skyward.

Birdie decided on a course of action when a line of beat-up food trucks rumbled past the gate and parked in a semicircle. These weren't the kind of trucks L.A. foodies followed with zeal from one location to another. The ones that sold twelve dollar
hamburgers. These were the barely legal ones that spewed grease into the air. A horn blew and a sudden swarm of men poured out of the tower. Birdie stood her ground and inspected every person, looking for the one she wanted. The man she had once interviewed would never miss a meal. This seemed the perfect opportunity for an impromptu, totally unplanned meeting.

The rebar provided the perfect spot for reconnaissance. From where she stood, she had a great eyeline at the lift cages. They went up and down transporting more men to ground level and she had a great view of their faces. They peeled off gloves and jackets and lined up at the trucks. She waited patiently and continued to search the men, but the one she sought had not materialized.

Finally, a gaggle of suits wearing hardhats exited the cage. She swallowed the anticipation and tried on a fake smile then promptly wiped it from her face. She was a worker bee. They didn't smile. She casually strolled their way to catch the conversation. They were all talking at once; like at a dinner table when all the diners knew one another and were telling tales and finishing each other's sentences and laughing. She could barely keep up. Geez. She rolled her neck. To think what she had put herself through just to get here. She determined not to be so wasteful with her time from now on. She had better things to do than to
accidentally
run into a man who—in all likelihood—wouldn't give her the time of day anyway.

That's when she heard one of the suits ask where
he
was.

Another one thumbed behind his head and said, “Doing lunch up there.”

The suits cleared off into the construction trailer and slammed the door. Birdie headed for the lift. She'd never been in one before and was surprised by four things: first, the cage door slid much easier than anticipated. She threw her weight into the closing and it slammed shut with a metal on metal shudder that shook and clanked and caught the attention of a few men. Second, it actually had a panel with floor numbers. She pressed the dirty one, the one that had been pressed the most. Third, it was fast. As it lurched upward so went Birdie's stomach. Fourth, it had a grated bottom. She looked down at her boots and beyond to see the ground shrinking from view and quickly turned her view inward, away from the surrounding high-rises and the bottom far, far below.

The lift passed floor after floor. The innards of modern buildings became a blur of concrete, ducting, electrical conduit, plumbing, insulation, and lots of plastic scrim. She'd catch glimpses of pallets of glass, drywall, tile. And just when she thought she could no longer hold down her breakfast it stopped.

She crossed herself. “
Glória Patri, et F
í
lio, et Spir
í
tui Sancto
.”

Birdie's knees went weak and she stumbled off the lift and fell onto the cold concrete. The wind, jetting in from the Pacific, blew chalky dust and debris into some kind of net, whipped her braid. She hadn't prepared for the wind and now realized why the crew coming down all wore jackets.
Great planning, Birdie. Almost thought of everything.
She crawled away from the edge until she was in the middle of the floor and had the courage to stand.
Be still my heart
.

A man sat on top of a stack of moving blankets sipping something steamy from a thermos. At his feet sat a hard hat and a metal lunch pail. He turned to look in her direction, seemed to recognize her, but said nothing. Birdie wasn't sure he was the man she sought. She remembered an obese eccentric, always shoeless, who wore cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt so short his belly stuck out. His hair, typically long and greasy, was always pulled back in a thin, straggly ponytail, and he wore a beard that grew in tufts around his chin.

The man before her was much, much thinner, wore a pinstripe suit, and had a clean-shaven head and face.

“Mr. Moysychyn?” she said.

“Who wants to know?”

“My name is Elizabeth Keane. We've met before.”

“I remember you. You're that print reporter that said I was a slumlord.”

“No, I reported what someone else said about you. The thing about journalism is that I don't get to express personal opinions.”

“That the way of it?”

“Yes, sir. Do you mind if I sit? Have a chat?”

“Since you have the balls to sneak onto a secured job site to accost me, I suppose I can give ya a few minutes.”

She gingerly moved toward him until she was at his side and sat down on an adjacent blanket, crossed her legs and looked up at him. She wanted him to perceive her as the weak one. She wanted him comfortable in his power and arrogance.

“There's no wind here.”

“It's called the eye. There's always some sweet spot where it's calm. Like the inside of a hurricane. That's why the blankets. I like to sit, be comfortable, and eat lunch while admiring the view.” He regarded her. Up and down. “I don't remember the scar.”

“Car accident.”

“Why do you want to see me?”

“Excuse me, sir, I just have to confirm. You are Todd Moysychyn. Yes?”

He harrumphed. “You haven't seen me since I've lost weight. Nearly two hundred pounds. I have a wife now, too. She picks out the clothes.”

“Congratulations. You must be proud to have accomplished such a feat.”

“Don't stroke my dick.”

“Now that's something the old you would say. Can't the new you just say thank you?”

He laughed. “You're alright Elizabeth. My wife's a new fan, you know. Read your article on Sunday. Today's, too. Went out and bought your books. Goes on and on about you. You should come to dinner. I'd get laid every night for a week straight if I brought you home.”

“I'd do dinner if you agree to an interview.”

Birdie retrieved the tools of her trade and turned on the recorder, placed the press credentials around her neck.

“What now? Didn't you get your fill last go round?”

“I want to talk to you about the housing meltdown. See how your business weathered the storm, so to speak.”

“There's a worthwhile topic. I did better than most. The majority of my portfolio was in rentals, not retail. When the crash occurred, people stopped buying consumer goods. Store owners couldn't pay rent. Shops closed up and retail space emptied. But people still needed to live somewhere so I still got my rents.”

“You said,
was
, past tense. Are you still in the rental market?”

“Oh, yes, it's very lucrative, especially now. Housing prices fell so far that those of us with cash scooped up the bargains. It's trending our way. Inventories are declining and rents are going up. I'm buying and holding for short-term profit and long-term appreciation. I'm doing extremely well. I'm also branching out some.”

“This building for example? A hotel? Right?”

“Mixed use. Retail, offices, apartments.”

“Luxury apartments?”

“Mid-price. The economy hasn't recovered enough to fill the luxury inventory still out there. I'm not making that mistake. I want my tower filled to capacity. When it's done I'll have the top two floors with wraparound observation decks. An indoor pool. You should see the engineering required for that sucker. My wife is looking forward to living here. She wants out of the Biscuit.”

The Biscuit Building was a five-story bakery located on the edge of downtown's industrial area and a stone's throw from the north side of the I-10—commonly known as the Santa Monica Freeway. It got its name because biscuits were made there about ninety years ago. After the plant closed it sat empty for decades. Whenever Birdie drove past, she always wondered about that building with its beautiful brick façade and yellow glass windows. She often wondered what it looked like inside. She'd have dinner with them just to tour it.

“You live there?” said Birdie.

“Me and the missus.”

“I heard the place got converted into lofts.”

“Never got that project off the ground.”

Todd screwed the cap back on his thermos and placed it into the metal lunch pail. He removed a sandwich wrapped in aluminum foil.

“So … dinner? An extended interview?”

“Tonight at six. My place. The missus will be mighty happy.”

“Great. Since I'm here may I broach another newsworthy topic?”

“Make it quick. I don't want my colleagues catching you here.” He bit into a bologna and cheese sandwich.

“Have you heard that Dominic Lawrence and his family were murdered?”

“Couldn't avoid that news.”

“In a house you own.”

“Yeah. The Nobel house, up in the Hills.”

“Any thoughts?”

He talked while chewing. “I didn't like the SOB. But I'll miss Rach.”

“Have the police talked to you?”

“Why would they? I was his landlord, not a golf buddy.”

“But you were trying to evict him.” This was a bluff that paid off when …

He threw his sandwich down. His neck reddened and the vein in his forehead pulsed. “You know how much that house is worth on the open market?” he said. “But I can't compete with my own damn house! Back in '79 that house got arbitrarily swept up into rent control shortly after Dominic started renting it. Some coincidence right? Then the greedy bastard used a frickin' loophole, applied for, and got a section eight voucher. You know how much he pays in rent? Eight-hundred dollars! For a house in the hills with an epic view. I can sell that sucker, as is, for three-point-five mil. Easy. But no, I can't because the schmuck has used his political influence to keep me from doing so 'cause he don't want to lose his view. It's a great frickin' house! Once, it looked real good, too. He used loophole after loophole to stay where he was and never spend more than eight in rent. Rent for that place should be thirty-three a month. At the low end. Maybe four. SHIT. I made my mistake way back in the eighties and nineties when my real estate holdings were growing. The Nobel house fell through the cracks and I forgot to raise the rent by four-percent annually as allowed by the stabilization law. He took advantage of my forgetfulness. So yeah, I was trying to get him out, and you know what that sucker did? He stopped maintaining the place and let it go to shit and blamed it on me. Man … I sure was stupid in the beginning. But I'm a lot smarter and wiser now. Most times, renters just pack up and go when they're getting evicted. But sometimes you come across a guy like that Dominic prick that twists the law of ownership around so that he has more rights than I do.” He picked up his sandwich, blew on it and continued eating.