Metzger's Dog

6 Chinese Gordon pulled the car over to the curb in front of an old white stucco apartment house with a high, narrow, wooden door. Wrought-iron grillwork covered the glass of the windows on the first floor. The flower boxes on the sills had potted azaleas sitting in them.

Kepler said, “If this is it, I’ll stay with the car. That building belongs in Hollywood. They probably stole it.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Chinese Gordon. “The car is safer here than in the parking lot at the Federal Building.”

“It’s your car,” said Immelmann.

At the steps they could see that the lintel over the door was once inscribed “The Mont St. Michel,” but the letters had been plastered over with clean white cement. Chinese Gordon rang the bell and there was a buzz to unlock the door. Kepler and Immelmann hung back to let Chinese Gordon enter first.

Inside was a tiny foyer decorated with pots and baskets, a pair of horns from a longhorn bull, and a few yellowing photographs of old caballeros with drooping moustaches. There was an open door with a brass plate engraved “Grijalvas Enterprises.”

The receptionist at the desk said, “May I help you?”

Chinese Gordon said, “Mr. Gordon to see Mr. Grijalvas. These gentlemen are my colleagues, Mr. Kepler and Mr. Immelmann.”

“Please be seated and I’ll let him know you’re here. He’s in a conference at the moment.” She walked around the corner and they could hear the sound of her spike heels for a distance of thirty or forty feet before a door opened.

Kepler stood up and paced around the room, looking at plaques, framed newspaper clippings, photographs. “Look at this,” he hissed, and the others joined him before a frame that held a laminated article from a magazine. The headline read, “Los Quatros Gros Años of Jorge Grijalvas: Janitor to Millionaire in Four Years.” Beside it were a certificate from the Chamber of Commerce “awarded to Jorge Grijalvas for his efforts in renovating low-income housing in the Los Angeles Barrio” and a black plastic sign that said “Member, Better Business Bureau.”

Immelmann said, “Chinese, we’re out of our depth.”

“Right,” said Kepler. “Not only owns real estate, but a man with ‘Four Fat—’”

“Quiet,” said Chinese Gordon. The receptionist’s heels could be heard approaching up the long hallway. The three men sat down on the long leather couch. She reappeared, still smiling, and directed them to the door at the end of the hall.

Inside, a short, stocky man with a smooth, almost luminous tan complexion smiled and held out his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Gordon,” he said, and ushered them to chairs along the wall opposite his desk. “Can I offer you a drink?”

Chinese Gordon said, “Mr. Grijalvas, this is Mr. Immelmann, Mr. Kepler.” Out of the corner of his eye Chinese Gordon saw Kepler nod, and then he heard him say, “Just beer.”

Grijalvas pressed a button on his desk and snapped “Cerveza” into the intercom, then sat back and smiled, his hands folded on his stomach. “So, what can I do for you gentlemen?” he asked.

“We’re looking for a chance to make a small investment,” said Chinese Gordon. “We felt that you, with your business connections, would perhaps be interested in helping us in exchange for a percentage.”

“Perhaps,” said Grijalvas, staring above their heads.

The door opened and a young man entered carrying a tray of beer bottles and tall glass steins. “Oh, the beer. Excellent, Juan. Thank you very much.” Juan was thin at the waist but had the bulging arm muscles and thick neck of a weight lifter. As he turned his expressionless face toward them they could see a small blue tear tattooed below one eye, on his high cheekbone.

Grijalvas continued, “What sort of investment did you have in mind? Money for commercial property is extremely scarce at the moment—”

“Oh, no,” said Chinese Gordon. “It wasn’t real estate we were thinking of. We’re expecting an embarrassingly large inflow of capital in the near future and we’d like to try something more speculative. Although we have confidence in the long-term value of real estate, the turnover is so slow.”

“Well, then,” said Grijalvas, sipping his beer, “perhaps a partnership with someone who is willing to take on the risks of entrepreneurship.”

“That’s right,” said Kepler. “We’re in, we’re out, everybody does his part, and we all have a beer.” He poured the glass of beer down his throat without swallowing and grinned.

“What we were thinking of,” said Chinese Gordon, “was something like financing a venture in pharmaceuticals—imported pharmaceuticals.”

Grijalvas slammed down his stein like a gavel. “Good day,” he said.

“Huh?” said Kepler.

“Get out.”

“Wait,” said Chinese Gordon.

“No, gentlemen,” said Grijalvas. “It’s ridiculous. The entrapment you people stoop to is so crude it’s insulting. You come in here like you were born yesterday and try to get me to say something you can take to a grand jury. You don’t even have the sense to take the gun out of your boot. Do you realize who you’re dealing with? See that?” He pointed to an ornate western saddle with hammered silver studs that hung on a stand in the corner of the room. “I’ll be sitting on that to ride in the Rose Parade before you make lieutenant.”

Kepler whispered to Immelmann, “He’ll need three more for his Four Fat—”

Grijalvas was still speaking. “You want to bust somebody for drugs, go out to ULA. Here,” he shouted. “Take it with you.” He tossed a folded newspaper on Chinese Gordon’s lap.

Juan held the door open, so they stood up and went out. Kepler held onto his beer, which he finished as he walked down the hallway. When he set the stein on the receptionist’s desk she smiled at them in confusion.

At the car Chinese Gordon said to Immelmann, “You drive,” and sat in the back seat.

They drove in silence for a few minutes until Kepler said, “That was a hard way to get a free beer, Chinese.”

“Shut up and listen,” said Chinese Gordon. “‘Drug Research at ULA Campus,’” he read. “‘Spokesmen in the office of the president of the University of Los Angeles announced today that the controversial research on the effects of various controlled substances would continue in spite of resistance from alumni groups and even some members of the board of trustees. “The issue here is academic freedom,” said Dale Crollett, Assistant Vice-President for University Relations. “Professor Gottlieb and his colleagues have secured the grants, the necessary approvals and licenses, and it is the position of the University that there will be no internal interference with scientific research.” The controversy was touched off on Wednesday when the Drug Enforcement Administration turned over to the researchers one pound of the purest cocaine, which will be used in experiments to treat migraine headaches. Officials estimated the street value of the cocaine at over one million dollars when it was confiscated in a raid in East Los Angeles last July.’”

“Interesting,” said Immelmann, “but not meaningful.”

“Don’t you see?” yelled Chinese Gordon. “He was taking us up on it! We have a deal!”

Kepler turned to Immelmann. “This man’s optimism is getting on my nerves.” To Chinese Gordon he said, “Do you think he sent Tiny Tears in there just to bring us a couple of beers?”

“No,” said Chinese Gordon. “Actually, the tattoo just means he’s served time. Probably that’s where he got hooked on doing pull-ups. If he thought we were cops, would he even let us see an ex-convict in his office?”

“Probably,” said Immelmann.

“This is a terrific opportunity,” said Chinese Gordon. “If they confiscated the cocaine in East L.A., it probably belonged to Grijalvas. He’s given us a challenge. He wants to buy back what was taken from him, that’s all. If we get it, we have a deal—the start of a long and profitable relationship.”

“What do you think?” said Immelmann to Kepler.

Kepler opened another beer can. “I think,” he said, “that once upon a time there was a helicopter pilot in Viet Nam who got a bit off course and got shot down. As he climbed from the wreckage he said, ‘What a break! Now we know where the bastards were hiding.’”