Hit on the House (10 page)

“It's essential,” Joe assured her. “Location means a lot in how a film looks. You know directors these days—everything's got to look just right. If he's got mountains in the script, you can bet he's got an idea what those mountains look like, right? So I find the right mountains.”

“Oh, right. Or a house.”

“Or a house, or an office building. Usually I can find everything I want right here in the LA area, which is why they like to hire me. But I go all over the country. Out of the country, too, and not just to Mexico. Europe, Asia . . . I was the guy who first found Vietnam in Guatemala, for instance, for
Saigon Saga
.”

“
Saigon Saga?
With Corey James? Gol, I loved that! Well, it was
kinda violent, . . . but Corey James! Do you go on location? . . . Gol, what am I saying? But, I mean, . . . while they're shooting?”

“Sometimes, but I don't usually hang around much once they've started shooting. I did get to know Martin Shell pretty well, on
Saigon
.”

“Neat! He's so great!”

“A great actor,” Joe solemnly agreed. “But the point is, Miss . . . uh, what, uh . . .”

“Gisela,” she said promptly. “Jizzy, actually. Jizzy Kazaka.”

“Mmm, pretty name. Yours?”

“Of course! You goof!”

They laughed together.

“Well, it could be a stage name,” Joe said.

“Oh sure,” she joshed back, “like I'm a giant star or something. But no, really . . . everybody calls me Jizzy.”

“Everybody? Your husband, too?”

“Hey, it's like my mom, my dad, my brother . . . it was like some kind of joke at first, right? My gram, she's Jewish, used to call me Jizzelika or something. I think it's Yiddish or something, you know? And then the rest of the family made it even shorter.”

“You're Jewish? I thought you were, maybe, Japanese.”

“Both,” she said, “and don't say anything that involves the word
princess
.”

“Never crossed my mind,” Joe said. “So, what are you, the manager, Jizzy?”

“Me? Are you kidding? Gina's the boss. She doesn't own it, though. We're like a chain. She's not in today, though.”

“Do you think I could look at your operation, Jizzy?” Joe lifted the hinged section of the counter and stepped through.

The woman looked alarmed momentarily, but then she said, “I guess so. What was it you wanted to see? There's just Martie and Donna on the board right now.”

“I'm always interested in locations, Jizzy,” Joe said. “Who knows? One of these times I'll have to find an answering service for Cindy Williams.” There was a wall immediately behind the counter, painted pink with a couple of doors in it. Service opened one door and peeked inside. There were a half-dozen telephone consoles, only two of
which were being used at the moment, by two women wearing headsets. A computer terminal was built into each console, presumably so that the operators could call up, and/or enter data for, their customers.

Joe closed the door and turned back to Jizzy Kazaka. She was a doll, he thought, getting the full view. “Very interesting,” he said. He eased Jizzy's tension by stepping back behind the counter.

“One thing I'm concerned about, Jiz,” he said, leaning on the counter, “is security.”

Miss Kazaka leaned on the counter. She was almost Joe's height, and their heads were fairly close. “Like what?” she said. “We're very security conscious here.”

“I can see that. But one of my biggest headaches is these directors—every one of them likes to think I'm working strictly for him, or her. I notice on my machine they never call without saying first thing, ‘Where are you?’ And that, of course, is exactly what I don't want them to know.” He laughed. “I mean, say Steven calls and I'm in Thailand for, oh, Sly. Not only do I not want Steven to know I'm doing Sly's new flick, but I don't even want him to know that I'm not in town.”

“Oh, right. No prob. We tell them whatever you say.”

“Jizzy, some of these guys—Bob Redford is one—can get anything out of anybody. If Bob calls and you're on the board and he says, ‘Where's Joe, anyway?’ I mean, it's not so easy to tell Bob you don't know. It's Bob Redford! Have you ever talked to Bob?”

Miss Kazaka was lost in wonder. “Ah, no. I talked to Robin Williams once.”

“Jiz, Robin's a sweetheart, I love him. But he's always jiving. He's no problem. Bobby is a whole ‘nother show. What Bobby wants Bobby gets.”

Miss Kazaka looked Joe straight in the sunglasses very seriously and said, “Bob, er, Robert Redford is old. Anyway, we wouldn't tell anyone anything you said not to.”

Joe Service had a feeling she meant what she said, but he summoned up a righteous tone to say, “Let me give you fair warning, Jizzy, Bobby's not all that old. I've seen him charm the pants off plenty girls younger than you.”

She arched a heavy black eyebrow and said, “Not mine.”

“I hope not. So, you run the board sometimes?”

“When Gina's here.”

“This is twenty-four hours, right?”

“Around the clock.”

“How many people do you have on at night?”

“Usually three, until ten; then one or two the rest of the night.”

“What happens when there's a call at night? Some of my clients call from Europe or Asia or Australia. They don't care what time it is here. How do you answer?”

“You mean after normal business hours? Any way you want. For instance, if you want, we can just give the number and say, ‘Can I help you?’ Then, when they ask for you, we say, ‘Mr. Humann's office is closed now. May I take a message?’ “

“I guess that'd be all right.” Joe looked thoughtful for a moment, then smiled and said, “You working tonight?”

“No,” she said innocently.

“Well then, let's have dinner.” He grinned.

Caught off guard, she laughed outright. “That is soo sneaky!”

“I know. I'm terrible. But I'm overcome. Also, I'm just in town for the night. I'm outta here tomorrow—Brazil. That beach house of mine is too big and lonely. What do you say?”

“Serious?”

“Of course! What time do you get off?”

“Not till six.”

“I'll pick you up.”

“Not here,” she said. “Actually, I've got kind of a date.”

“Oh, well, . . . I understand.”

“But I think . . . I mean . . . what did you have in mind?”

“I know what you're thinking,” Service said with a rueful grin. “You're thinking I'm trying to drag you out to the beach, et cetera, et cetera. I'm not that kind of guy, Jiz. Well, I am that kind of guy, come to think of it. But I'm not in that much of a hurry. We're young, right? We got lots of time to get better acquainted. How ‘bout I pick you up at your place and we can catch dinner at Radio Ranch and then . . . let's
see . . . Hey! Ronny Howard's having a party tonight. We could cruise that, and if it's too boring, we could maybe catch Sal at the Comedy Shop, or something. OK?”

Fifteen minutes later Service was talking to Detroit. “I need a beach house, in Malibu, just for the night. Got anything along those lines?”

I
t was a huge place and right on the beach. Service spent an hour removing photographs of a man and his family and other items that might give the lie to his enterprise. He locked them all in one of the kids’ bedrooms. The bikes and trikes and that sort of stuff he locked in the garage. He pushed the husband's clothes back in the closet and hung up his own stuff from his bag and set out some shaving gear in the bath off the master bedroom, after removing the wife's cosmetics.

Jizzy Kazaka didn't complain when Joe suggested they have dinner at the beach—he'd cook. She loved the lobster ravioli he made with the help of the fancy pasta machine. The sauce was Joe's speciality, a
beurre manié
with zinfandel and finely chopped shallots.

It was too bad Ronny Howard had called off his party—he had to go out of town, Joe explained. They listened to music, strolled the beach, and came back to make a Ere in the fireplace—it was chilly by the sea. Joe fixed a couple of vodka tonics and then suggested they do a line of coke.

“No way,” Jizzy said. She looked at him rather sharply.

Joe looked grateful. “Thanks, Jizzy. I hate the stuff myself, but anymore people seem to expect it. I'm glad you don't.”

For the next fifteen minutes they smugly described to one another how loathesome dope was. They agreed, however, that marijuana was a different matter. Two joints and a couple more vodka tonics brought Joe to the launching pad. He suggested they go into the. Jacuzzi.

Jizzy demurred with a sad look. “I mean, I'd kinda like to, Joe, . . . I really like you a lot, but ... I just can't.”

Joe looked down at her, frowning but nodding in agreement. “All right. It's all right. I can dig it. Hey,” he looked up with a laugh,
“everybody strikes out once in a while. But I respect your attitude. I really do.”

Jizzy seemed pleased, and they got back into a conversation about women and sexual harassment. Finally she said, “Oh, darn! It's two. I've gotta get going.”

“What's the hurry? The fire's still going. Let's have another drink. No? Another joint?”

Jizzy refused. “I have to be at work in about six hours.”

Joe slumped back on the couch, his chin on his chest.

“What's wrong, Joe?”

“Nothing.” He got up and said with a sigh, “All right, I'll take you home.”

“Joe? You're not mad?”

He stared down at her. She was beautiful, he had decided several hours ago, with her shiny black hair, a heart-shaped face, and precise pink lips. He liked her a lot.

“Yes,” he said, “I am mad . . . mad with desire. But don't take that seriously.” He smiled reassuringly. “Can we go out on the deck . . . just for a minute? Here, put on my sweater.” He tugged the blue cashmere sweater over his head and helped her pull it on.

The sea was only a hundred yards away, rolling in as passively as a lake, under a quarter moon. The surf glimmered with an unconvincing luminosity.

He took her by the arms and kissed her gently. He knew that was all she would permit. Her lips were cool and noncommittal but soft. He looked down into her dark eyes, catching the glint of the moon. A chilling breeze encouraged their warm embrace.

“I lied to you,” he said.

Jizzy shivered. “Can we go back in?”

Inside she asked, “Lied?” She sat with her legs tucked under her, on the hearth rug, the blazing fireplace flickering behind her.

“I'm not a location scout,” Joe said. He tossed down the last of his drink. “I'm a federal agent.”

Jizzy was shocked. “Is this your house?”

“No,” Joe admitted candidly. “I borrowed it. Don't ask me the details. I can't tell you.”

Jizzy stood up. She looked like a child in the oversized sweater. “Are you a narc?”

Joe shook his head impatiently. “It's another service, one you haven't ever heard about—very few people have. I feel stupid about this . . . I meant to keep it . . . aw, crap! Jizzy, I want you to know that I really like you.”

She stared up at him from the flagstones of the fireplace. “I believe you, and I'm glad, Joe. I'd hate to think . . .” She tossed her long black hair out of her eyes. “What is it you want?”

Joe sat for a long moment, staring into his empty glass. Finally he looked up and said, “Jizzy, this is a miserable business I'm in . . . Occasionally, we have to involve people who . . . but it doesn't concern you. It's not about you. Forget it.”

“Joe, what is it? Tell me.”

He looked glum, sighed, and finally, with resolution, said, “All right. I have to get into the answering service.”

Jizzy sighed. “I was afraid it was something like that. So, you weren't really interested in me?”

“Jizzy! Don't believe that. The problem is I do care about you. I had lots of other plans for getting in there, but then I met you, and, . . . well, I couldn't resist asking you out here.”

She sat down next to him on the couch, and they each thought about the evening. At last she said, “Well, it was nice. I don't hold it against you. Thanks for being honest anyway.”

Joe looked at her sadly. “Jizzy, I really do like you. Look, let's forget all this crap. Forget I came in there today. Couldn't we just . . . I mean, let's do something crazy.”

“Tonight?”

“Sure. How about we drive down to Del Mar and watch the sun come up, and then we'll go play the horses.”

“I have to go to work!”

“Forget work,” Joe said. “Call in sick for once.” He fell to his knees before her, seizing her arms above the elbows and looking into her eyes. “I can get this stuff some other way. Be a little crazy with me . . . just this once!” And then they kissed again, a real kiss this time.

“What is it you're looking for?” she asked after a while.

“Forget it,” Joe said. “I've got a million resources. I don't need it. The important thing is I found you. Tomorrow the races, then one of those little seafood restaurants around Oceanside.”

“Joe,” she said after another long kiss, “what are you looking for?”

Joe sighed and sat back on his heels, squatting before her. He looked at her face for a long time, then said, “You ever talk to your grandmother much?”

“My grandmother? What-”

“She ever say anything about . . . Nazis?”

Jizzy stared at him. “What about Nazis?”

Joe shrugged. “There's a guy. A camp official . . . he got out in the confusion after the war. We think he's a client of Hello Central. I think you have a client named Hal Good?”

“Mr. Good? Yes . . . I remember him. Why?”

“The name is Gutekleist actually,” Joe said, “Good is an alias.”

“Mr. Good? A Nazi?”

“I need his next number, Jizzy.”

Ten

“H
ey, who's this prick?” Tupman asked. He and his four companions were standing near the elevator in the basement parking lot of his apartment building.

The prick was a person in a bulky tanker jacket and jeans and a woolen ski mask covering his face. He had just stepped out of the shadows when the Tupman party reached the elevator. The five men peered at the strange figure, who was fumbling with something that had a long string, or perhaps a leather strap, attached to it. One of Tupman's two burly bodyguards suddenly realized that the strap was attached to the barrel of an automatic pistol.

“That's a gun!” he shouted. He almost got his own pistol out, but a half-second late can be eternally late.

The masked man had finally got the strap unraveled so that it was draped from the barrel of the .45 to his left fist, which he held tightly against his left thigh. When his arm was fully extended, making the tether tight, the gunner squeezed the trigger. The .45 began a raucous coughing roar, bucking and fighting against the tether. The gun swung through a limited arc. It had an extralong clip, and in very short order it was empty. The slugs ripped through the little group of men by the elevator, knocking them flying in a spray of blood and screams. All the men went down, tumbled in a pile of bloody cashmere and tweed overcoats. The ejected cartridge cases continued to ring and ding off the concrete floor of the parking garage in the deafening silence.

Halfway into the firing of the clip, the rapid back-and-forth movement of the barrel housing had caused the leather restraint to slip free. The pistol had begun to climb wildly, sending half the bullets up the walls and, finally, deflecting off the concrete ceiling.

The shooter stared at the leash unbelievingly and then threw it down. In a panic he hastily ejected the clip and flung it aside. Anxiously he fumbled out another clip and jammed it home. Some of the victims were groaning and writhing. One man had clambered on hands and knees toward the elevator call button. The gunner stepped forward, and holding the pistol with both hands, squeezed off another bellowing roll of thunder, spraying the sprawled bodies and ending with a fortuitous shot that caught the man at the call button.

The gunner inserted a third clip, and this time he stepped among the bodies, treading on some of them, squeezing the trigger spasmodically, turning the gun on one or another of the victims as he saw them move, their bodies jumping on the concrete and bullets ricocheting dangerously in a spray of chips when a shot missed. When that clip, too, was exhausted, the killer stared down at the pile, blinking rapidly through the eyeholes of the mask, chest heaving wildly, gasping noisily. He squeezed the trigger spasmodically, but nothing happened, and he finally grew aware of this. He turned and ran to the exit.

The mesh gate that served as the garage door had automatically descended and locked when Tupman's car entered the garage, an eventuality the killer had evidently overlooked. He craned his neck frantically, then jammed the pistol into a jacket pocket. He knelt and grasped the mesh with his bare hands, heaving upward mightily. It lifted a quarter inch, but that was all. The cold metal cut into the palms of his hands painfully.

“God
damn!
” he roared in frustration and panic, looking about wildly. Nobody had come as yet—it was four o'clock in the morning—but it could only be a matter of seconds before a guard of some kind, a night watchman, a passing motorist—anybody!—would come to investigate the horrendous volley of gunfire that had been unleashed.

“Stop it,” the killer said aloud, fighting for calm. He stood and walked over to the man who had been driving the Mercedes and rolled him over. The body turned without difficulty. The killer fished out the
man's wallet and calmly but quickly found the plastic card that would open the gate. He took the wallet with him and inserted the card into the locking device. The mesh slid obediently upward. When it was halfway up the killer ducked under it and walked swiftly away. He had gone some thirty feet before he stopped and returned to take the plastic card, smeared with bloody fingerprints, out of the machine and stuff it into his pocket. Something caught his eye. He ran across the bloodied concrete and snatched up the two empty ammo clips. The gate had closed again, of course, when the card was removed. The killer swore and got out the card again, inserted it, and then withdrew it. The gate descended behind him as the killer walked calmly away.

A
bunch of cops stood around in the cavernous garage. In the early morning it was as cold as the seventh level of hell. Mulheisen recognized a young detective who had started out in the Ninth but was now downtown. “Who is it, Kip?” he asked.

“Hi, Mul. How ya doin'? Didn't you know? It's Tupman, and is he frosted.” He grinned like a cheerleader and pointed to the sprawl of dead men. Then he caught Mulheisen's grimace and said, almost apologetically, “Well, he won't be missed.” He stepped aside as Laddy McClain hove up.

“Sorry to get you out of bed, Mul,” McClain said in a tone that belied the statement, “but I thought you'd want to see this, being as you're still on the Big Sid case. This could be related.”

“Technically, I'm on Sid,” Mulheisen conceded, “but nontechnically and in every other way there isn't any Big Sid case. Oh, Jimmy's running down a lead in Iowa, but that isn't looking too promising.”

“Well, you might get something out of this. Anyway, you asked for Big Sid, and it's yours, . . . and so is this.” McClain was friendly, but he was making a point. “If you want any help, my boys will be glad to, you know. C'm'ere.” He led Mulheisen over to the carnage.

Marty Tupman had been a thirty-two-year-old white male, until about an hour earlier. Then he had become a pasty blob of inert matter that couldn't do any of the things that differentiate an animate mass of cells from an inanimate one. Tupman's cells were in a different state at
the moment, in transition toward some other form. Frosty Tupman had never been attractive in life and now looked awful. He was wearing a blue cashmere overcoat that had been pierced by at least three heavy-caliber bullets that had blown out the back side of the splendid garment. He had a doltish expression on his flabby face, his eyes staring, though now clouded, and his mouth hanging open.

He half-lay on a younger white man, also in a nice coat, tweed, that had been ruined by a single shot. Against the wall, by the elevator, another young man, this one black, stretched an arm toward a call button that he'd never reach. His face was flattened against the fake brick effect of the concrete. Blood congealed in a very large puddle underneath him.

A fourth man lay on his back a few feet away from the others but sharing the great lake of blood. He was young and black and, like the others, wore a fine overcoat. His coat and jacket were open, and there were bloody smudges of hands and fingers on his white shirt. A pistol was visible in a shoulder holster.

There were footslip smears in the pool of stiff blood, and the reversed logo ????? was clearly visible on two of the footprints leading toward the open mesh gate of the garage. The Crime Squad had erected protective barriers and done a lot of chalking and posting of temporary signs to protect the crime scene. Lights were set up and cameras still flashed. A man with a video camera was directing another officer with a portable rack of lights.

A Crime Squad technician brought a curious item over to Mulheisen: a long leather strap, bloodied and dirtied, with a loop on one end. He dangled it from a pencil, like a dead snake.

“What's this?” Mulheisen asked. The technician had no opinion. He suggested that it might be some kind of dog leash; perhaps it had been lying there, innocently lost, when the killing had begun. Mulheisen told him to bag it and log it.

“There was another guy,” McClain said, “still ticking. They took him to Grace. The guys said he didn't look like he'd make it there. You wanta go look at him?”

Mulheisen surveyed the remaining corpses with a calm eye. “Not yet,” he said. “How many shots do you figure were fired here? Fifty?
Not that many? Let's say thirty.” He wandered around, examining the bodies and the pockmarks made by bullets in the concrete. “You think maybe it was a team?” he said to McClain. “What I want to know,” he added, “is why you think this is related to the killing of Big Sid.”

“Tupman was a pal of Sid's,” McClain said. “Andy tells me they may have been into this coke rip-off together.”

“Yanh,” Mulheisen conceded, “but they sent a lone guy to get Sid and Mickey, who was probably just in the way, but would they send the same guy to get Tupman and . . .”—he gestured at the sprawled bodies—“all these guys? The artist who cooled Sid was a Rembrandt compared to this. He used a .22-caliber brush. Whoever stilled these lives . . . I don't know, they were more the Jackson Pollock type. Maybe it was only one guy, but he didn't have the same attitude.” He gestured at the bloody footprints. “That looks like one guy, but maybe he was the only one who approached the bodies.” He shook his head, “It's not the same at all, Mac.”

“Well, Mul . . . one guy, two guys, a dozen guys. So what?” McClain asked.

“Well, if it's one guy,” Mulheisen said, “even if he's got a tommy gun, he's standing here facing five guys, all of whom he has to expect are armed . . . and he's going to take on the whole crew? He got lucky, obviously, but that isn't the way they work, Mac. They send ten guys to take out five. You know that. Also, they know their ground better than this. They know how many there will be. Good, the guy we think took out Sid, he knew he only had to deal with Sid and Mickey, and he was perfectly set up. Waiting by the gate.” He thought for a moment, then conceded, “Well, this is almost the same deal . . . But I'll tell you this much, whoever did it was lucky to get out of here alive.”

“Let's go talk to the survivor, Mul,” McClain said, “if he's still with us. He might be able to say something.”

Mulheisen gazed around at the garish lights, the crumpled bodies, the lake of blood. It might be an abattoir, a medieval torture dungeon, or a Nazi execution cellar—not an inappropriate site for the business done here. “Maybe the medical examiner can make them speak,” he said.

On the way to Grace Hospital, McClain briefed Mulheisen. “Two
of the guys with Tupman were lawyers. The other two were Frosty's heat. One of them almost got his gun out. It looks like the killers took one guy's wallet . . . don't know why. It obviously wasn't robbery. Tupman was carrying a wad.”

“Petty theft but not grand larceny,” Mulheisen said wryly. “What's that old Beatles song . . . ‘She could steal, but she could not rob.’ “ He half-sang the line. “I suppose he took it so we wouldn't have it.”

McClain said, “So you think it was one guy.”

“I don't know,” Mulheisen replied. “But I don't think it was the same guy. One new guy, or a handful.”

“Group art,” McClain said, “by the Three Stooges.”

Mulheisen pictured those manic dopes with buckets and whitewash brushes, and he smiled. They were riding in a cruiser, behind a uniformed driver and McClain's assistant, Joe Greene. McClain said, “The guy they hauled away was one of the lawyers. Name is Benesh. He had about an ounce of cocaine on him.”

“Is this Benesh a mob lawyer?”

“I never heard of him,” McClain said. “You?”

Mulheisen hadn't heard of him either. “And Tupman had a lot of cash on him? A buy?”

“Could be. Benesh looked kind of straight to me, a regular yuppie. A client, maybe.”

“Any other witnesses?” Mulheisen asked. He drew out a cigar but didn't light it. He had an idea that the hospital people would object, and they were almost there. He put it back in the leather case.

“No, as usual,” McClain said complacently. “The guard was in the lobby upstairs. The driver must have let them into the parking garage with an ID card—which is missing. Probably with the stolen wallet. The door would have closed automatically behind them. The shooter was either waiting or had ducked in behind them as they drove through.”

“And the guard didn't hear anything?”

McClain snorted. “The guys picked up eighteen .45-caliber empties. Say there were twenty or more shots fired down in that echo chamber, . . . and Rentacop didn't hear a thing. He had a radio going.”

“Loud enough to drown out shots at that time of night?”

McClain looked disgusted. “He had on a headset. He said he didn't, but it was lying on the desk next to the radio, plugged in. He's just a kid, twenty years old. Works part-time for Pape Protection. That's the way they do things these days.”

Benesh lay on an operating table, festooned with wires and tubes and surrounded by blinking electronics. An intensely bearded young man in a white smock and the blue turban of a Sikh raised his hands fatalistically when Mulheisen asked if it was all right to talk to the patient. “I cannot be optimistic that he will be capable of responding, but I see that you are determined. Do what you must.”

Mulheisen bent close to the patient and said, “Benesh. Benesh.” The patient's eyes struggled open. Mulheisen looked into the dullness of those eyes and felt he was looking into the beyond. “Benesh,” he said, “did you see the killer?”