Runaway Heart

THIRTY-SEVEN

Halfway to Bel Air, Susan opened the glove box and started searching around inside. "Whatta y'doing?" Jack asked.

"I want to see who, exactly, is gonna be charging you with grand theft auto." She pulled out the registration and read it. " 'Baxton Hammond Jr.' " She looked at Jack. "I think I've heard of him."

"You're kidding, right?" Jack said. "And the hits just keep on coming."

"Who is he?"

"Bax Hammond. The Orange County D.A. "

Suddenly, Susan started laughing. Whether it was just a release of tension or she thought it was really funny, Jack couldn't tell, but her laughter was infectious, and soon he was roaring as well. He had tears in his eyes. Hopefully they'd still see the humor after completing their two-and-a-half-year GTA sentences in Soledad.

Jack continued down Sunset. "That's it up ahead."

They were both still smiling as he turned into the Bel Air entrance. After driving for about six blocks up into the foothills they found 264 Chalon Road.

It was an impressive Spanish mansion, and there was some kind of a high-profile party going on. Black-suited security was checking every invitation at the foot of the pillared driveway. Valets in red coats scurried back and forth, jumping into arriving cars, pulling away fast, and racing them up the hill to park. A truck from Along Came Mary Catering was parked across the street.

Jack pulled up to the nearest attendant. "Is this the Goldbergs' party?" he asked a teenage boy, who looked like he had probably just started driving about a week ago.

"No sir, this is the Ibanazi house. Invitation only." The valet wrinkled his nose in distaste. Jack's wardrobe was finally dry, but it must have fallen well below the guest profile.

"Wrong blast. I'm going to Whoopi's. Sorry!" Trying for some payback.

Jack put the Jag in gear and pulled up a side street away from all the valet madness. As he looked for a place to pull over, he handed Susan the car phone. "Call 411 and see if he's listed."

She dialed Information and asked for Russell Ibanazi's phone number on Chalon Road. She scribbled it down and hung up.

Jack mulled options. Then he picked up her cell phone.

"What're you gonna do?" she asked.

"Gonna get us invited to this party." He dialed the number.

"Ibanazi residence," a pleasant-sounding woman said.

"Good evening, this is Mr. Wirta. Project supervisor for Along Came Mary? To whom is it that I might be speaking?" Saying it like he had a broom handle up his ass.

"This is Mrs. Dorsett. I'm Chief Ibanazi's record company vice president."

"Good. Right-o. I was in the neighborhood, just wanted to make sure all of your catering choices were delivered exactly as planned." Adding a tinge of Limey accent now for flavor.

"Yes, I guess. But I'm not the one who made the catering arrangements."

"Did the smoked-duck empanadas with caviar centers arrive?" Jack breezed on.

"Uh… I don't… did we order those?"

"Three trays. I specifically told John to have those over by five."

"Uh… John?" She seemed confused.

"How 'bout the Roma tomato bruschettas, and the brie en croute with raspberry walnut sauce?"

"Uh… well… I think I saw some shrimp scampi and some spinach quiche."

"Can't be. The quiche was for Warren and Annette's pool party. Don't tell me the cold octopus pie didn't make it?" Just sort of screwing with her now.

"Uh… cold octopus?"

"It seems there's been a horrible flummox. To begin with, please tell that wonderful Chief Ibanazi that we are absolutely not charging him for any of the things that he didn't order, and I will personally deduct twenty percent from the invoice for this horrible mistake. I'm going to dash right over to check into this personally. I'd appreciate it if you might notify your security people at the gate, that Mr. Jackson Wirta and Ms. Susan Strockmire from Along Came Mary will be along directly. In the meantime, could you be a dear and make an inventory sheet of what's already out so we can get this mess unscrambled?"

"But the catering was handled by Louis. I didn't arrange for any of this." Ass-covering, pure and simple.

"Not your fault, Mrs. Dorsett and it's not Louis's either-it's ours. And we can thank the Queen's butler, you and I caught it in lickety-split time." Jack almost said "Tallyho," but thought he was already over the top, so he just hung up.

"That Brit accent really stunk," Susan grinned.

"It got us into the party."

They waited a few minutes for Mrs. Dorsett to make the call, then pulled down within sight of the security/valet station. Jack waited until the first valet he'd spoken to whizzed off to park a Porsche Targa. Then he put the Jag in gear and pulled up.

"I'm Jackson Wirta," he said to another teenager as they both got out. "This is Ms. Strockmire. I think Mrs. Dorsett rang you up." Still using the phony accent.

"Right," the security goon said. "With the caterers. She just called. Go on up."

Jack took a valet ticket and then headed up the long, winding brick driveway toward a sprawling Spanish mansion with a red-tiled roof. There were at least four acres of manicured lawns with an Olympic-size pool and seventy-foot palm trees that swayed overhead, waving their giant fronds like skinny, fan-wielding eunuchs. Fountains gushed and spurted. Young Beverly Hills trophy wives clutched their geriatric keepers and mingled competitively.

Jack and Susan skirted the growing crowd of about a hundred and fifty guests. Across the pool, holding court under the cabana, sat the Indian chief.

Russell Ibanazi was a remarkably handsome man who, as Shane had mentioned, was only thirty years old. His dark good looks and Hollywood dress gave him a definite nouveau tilt. He laughed at something one of the women near him said, and when he did his smile sparkled like bone china. He was wearing an Armani suit with Gucci sunglasses hanging off his top shirt button. An Amstel Light was clutched casually in his right hand.

"Groovy-type Indian," Jack said.

"What were you expecting, a loin cloth?" Susan frowned.

"No, but I was hoping for a couple of hair feathers."

Jack began circling Chief Ibanazi like a reef shark scoping prey.

"He's so young," Susan said.

"He's also listed. In Beverly Hills, you're only in the book if you're still hoping people will call you. Sure sign of social insecurity. Could be a sucker for my Daily Planet thing."

"Your what?"

"Just play along," Jack said, and strolled toward Russell, pulling a pen out of his pocket along with his small spiral detective notebook. He waited for a hole in both the conversation and the swirling entourage, then stepped neatly through both.

"Mr. Ibanazi? Clark Lane, with 213 Magazine. This is one of the nicest events we've been to in months." 213 was the first area code assigned to Beverly Hills and was also the name of a slick magazine that featured its rich and famous.

Russell Ibanazi's head snapped up like he'd just been hooked with a twenty-pound test line.

"213?" the Chief grinned. "You guys thinkin' about doing a story on me?"

"Maybe… maybe… could be… could be," Jack mused. "This is our society editor, Lois Kent."

"Hi," Susan smiled, seductively.

From that point Russ Ibanazi was hooked like a Baja game fish. He shook Jack's hand energetically. He smiled at Susan longingly.

"I just started my own record label. That's why we're having the party. To promote Miracle Records." He exuded charm.

"Watch out for the critics on that one," Jack warned. "They're sarcastic bastards. You don't wanta give them an easy shot."

Russell's face scrunched up into a confused frown.

Jack spread his hands. " 'If it's a good song, it's a Miracle.' Easy slam. See the problem?"

Ibanazi's face fell. "I never thought of that. I see your point. We just went in business. Maybe I should come up with something else?"

"I love this record angle, Clark," Susan enthused. "I think we could be talking cover."

"Maybe… maybe… could be… could be. If you can get Mimi to go for it."

Russell smiled broadly, trying to close them. "We just finished our first week in the studio. Next week we do slap backs. My songs mostly. I compose my own stuff."

"This record producer thing is definitely our angle," Susan gushed.

They had him. Just reel the boy in, Jack thought. So he looked skeptical and sang the chorus. "Maybe… maybe… could be… could be."

Russell steered them away from the cabana and his guests, heading toward his house. Jack guessed he wanted privacy so he could nail down the cover without interruptions.

Chief Ibanazi led them through a patio door into his study, then locked it behind him.

"When my songs come-my inspiration-I always work in here. Once I'm in the zone my shit slams." He opened a wall cabinet and produced a sound system and a keyboard.

"I see some wide shots in here, Clark," Susan enthused, framing the room with her hands. "All this equipment… Russell at the piano." She was really getting into it.

"It's not a piano, Lois, it's a Yamaha Sound Machine," Russell corrected her. "I design sounds by sampling everything from automobile horns to bagpipes."

"Mimi's gonna flip, Clark. This could be perfect for the cover story on the 'L.A. Sounds' edition," Susan said.

"Maybe… maybe… could be… could be."

Russell was drooling. The cover of the "L.A. Sounds" edition. Does it get any better than that?

"Look, Russell…" Jack started.

"I go by Izzy." Off their puzzled looks, "Short for Ibanazi."

"Right. Very cool," Jack continued. "So Izzy, if we're going for the 'Sounds' cover, Mimi is gonna demand all her usual cover profile and background stuff. She's a stickler for facts. If we bring this to Mimi we gotta really sell it. A take-no-prisoners approach always works best with her. You with me?"

"Right. Of course."

"So I'm gonna need the whole soufflé-why you're living in Beverly Hills and not out on the res. I need the old mystic music from the native soul rap. See where I'm heading, Lois?"

"It's fantastic," Susan said.

Izzy's face actually fell. "Do we really need all that? The reservation stuff, I mean. It's so… Dances With Wolves."

"Oh no, Izzy, you misunderstand," Susan jumped in. "It's not for the magazine. We don't want the reservation material in the body of the story. 213, as you know, is very high-profile. A Beverly Hills society magazine. But Mimi absolutely demands full backgrounds on all cover subjects."

They watched his handsome face scrunch up again, like a squirrel trying to crack a walnut. The last thing Izzy wanted was a 213 cover shot of him with a peace pipe sitting in front of a rusting trailer on an Indian blanket. He saw himself in an Armani jacket and Gucci shoes, maybe some cool leather pants.

" 'Course, if you'd rather not…" Jack stood and put his pen away.

Izzy actually lunged across the desk and caught Jack's arm. "No, no. It's okay. No problem. If it's just for Mimi, what's it gonna hurt?"

"Exactly," Jack nodded. He had his spiral pad and pen back out in a flash, and licked the end of the ballpoint for effect, leaving a little streak of ink on his tongue. "You're the current chief of the Ten-Eyck tribe?" Jack asked.

"Yes. Ibanazis have been chiefs going back two hundred years."

"Mimi'll probably want to know exactly where the reservation is located," Susan prompted.

"It's way out past Indio," Russell said, and now he was wrinkling his nose, as if he could almost smell it all the way from Bel Air. "But it's nothing," he added quickly, "just seventeen hundred acres of old truck tires, cactus, and jackrabbits. It's worthless land."

"I see. Okay," Jack looked at Susan, then back at Izzy. "If it's so poor, how do you afford all this?"

"Oh… now I see where you're heading."

Jack was glad Izzy got it, because he wasn't sure he did.

"I lease the reservation out," Izzy continued. "I mean, the tribe leases it to the federal government."

"You do?" Jack looked at Susan, who smiled.

"Yeah. It's a great deal, too," Izzy went on. "Each month the government pays us about two thousand dollars an acre on seventeen hundred acres. There're only thirty-two members in our tribe, so once we cut it up, the annual take comes to over a million dollars apiece. My end, for instance, covers the payments on this place, living expenses, and my monthly recording studio fees. In return, we had to vote in a non-Indian administrator that the government chose for us. He just deals with the day-to-day running of the reservation. We moved out. Now most of us live around here or on the far West Side."

"Who's the administrator?" Jack asked, guessing it was Paul Nichols's brother or cousin.

"Scott Nichols," Izzy replied, confirming Jack's suspicion. "But, like I told you, it's just a pile of rocks and gopher holes. Seventeen hundred acres of nothing. Your magazine wouldn't care about it. Dingy, y'know… few old buildings an' shit."

"Right… right." Jack sounded disappointed. He made a few notes and furrowed his brow theatrically, like this story was about to get up off his notebook, stagger around the room, then fall over dead with a spike through its heart.

"Something wrong?" Izzy leaned forward anxiously.

"Well… I just…" He let it hang there.

"What? You just what?" Izzy was actually wringing his hands now.

"Well, I was wondering why the federal government would pay the Ten-Eyck tribe almost forty million a year for seventeen hundred acres of cactus and gopher holes. Doesn't seem to make sense."

"Oh," Izzy actually sighed in relief. "I can tell you that. That's easy: EPA standards."

"EPA standards?" Susan and Jack did that one together. Pretty good harmony, too. Maybe Izzy would give them a recording contract.

"Yeah. See, Indian land isn't subject to the same state and federal laws that the rest of the country is. Each tribe in the U.S. is like an independent nation, and we can make our own laws. The federal government has big toxic waste dumping problems for both nuclear and chemical gook. They don't have enough EPA-sanctioned sites to handle it all, so they started renting a few remote reservations where they could dump it cheap, without all the EPA hassles. It's a good deal for them and for us. Right after we signed the lease they started to dig a huge waste pit. Started even before we left. A hole to pump all that toxic shit into. On the res there's no EPA inspection, so the feds don't have to worry about tests to check for pollution of the groundwater. Nothing. As long as the Tribal Council votes an okay, then it's done."

"Which you obviously did," Jack said.

"You bet."

"So that's how you end up living like this," Jack motioned toward the garden and smiled. "Pretty cool."

"Right." Then Izzy wrinkled his handsome brow as it finally occurred to him that maybe he was telling too much. "But please keep this confidential. I mean, all the EPA stuff and everything. That gets out, it's really gonna cause problems. This has to be just between us."

"Right, us and Mimi," Jack nodded.

"For background," Izzy repeated.

"Don't worry," Susan chipped in. "213 does stories about celebrities, Marvin and Barbara Davis fundraisers, stuff like that. Nobody on our staff wants to write about a dumb old toxic hole in the ground."

Izzy looked relieved. "Thank God." Then his smile lit him up. He really was a great-looking guy. "You guys wanna hear some of my new sides?"

"God, wouldn't that be a gas," Susan said, shooting a do-we-have-to look at Jack.

They had to.

Izzy's music was hard to describe. He had the Yamaha Sound Machine on gargle mode, or maybe it was on cats fighting. It lingered between muffled screeches and something that resembled a four-car traffic accident. The rhythm section sounded like drunks pounding ash can lids with hammers.

People outside were banging on the door, adding to the racket, but Izzy was in the zone, lost in his tunes. Somebody out there was shouting about there being some kind of problem with the catering, but Izzy didn't care. He was slamming.

An hour later Jack and Susan managed to shake away, but before they left, Izzy gave them both business cards.

Sure enough-Miracle Records.

Jack shook his head and frowned as he looked at the card. "How 'bout Orgasm Music? If it's good music, it's an orgasm."

Izzy smiled. "God… I love it. If you don't mind, maybe I'll use it."

"My gift."

As Jack and Susan headed toward the front door, she smiled at him. " Clark Lane and Lois Kent?"

"Just trying to keep things interesting," Jack said. Then they turned a corner and ran into two uniformed cops who had just arrived and were asking who owned the green XKE parked up the street. Jack grabbed Susan's arm and diverted her up the hall. "Shit. When I was on the job a car theft hardly ever got solved."

"Maybe it's because they weren't out looking for a pissed-off D.A.'s classic Jag," Susan observed.

When they reached the end of the hall, Jack smiled at the coat-check girl. "She had the red fox with the snakeskin collar and cuffs," Jack said, adding, "I lost her ticket."

"The what?" the coat-check person said, wrinkling her nose at the description.

Susan smiled and nodded. She didn't know what the hell he was doing, but she was playing along as instructed.

"I don't think I saw anything like that," the girl hedged.

"Can I look?" Jack asked. "It's got her initials in it."

"I guess."

She led Jack into the coatroom and watched him like a prison guard while he went through half a dozen coats. He found what he was looking for in the side pocket of a nicely tailored gray gabardine.

A blue valet parking stub.

He deftly switched tickets.

"I don't see it… maybe it's in the hall closet," he hedged, then pulled Susan out of there.

They sauntered past the cops, down to the driveway. Jack handed the new blue claim check to one of the snooty red-jacketed valets, who sprinted off to get the car.

"I can hardly wait to see what we'll get this time," Jack said.

"If it wasn't a class-A felony, it would be more fun," Susan complained.

A beautiful, royal blue Rolls Royce Corniche convertible with a champagne interior rolled down the hill and stopped. The valet opened the door and looked at them with appreciation. Jack got behind the wheel, handing the guy a folded-up one-dollar bill, then pulled away fast before he could unroll the bill and throw an orange or something.

Susan began digging in the glove box for the registration. "Ever heard of anybody named James K. Hahn?" she asked.

"You're shitting me? Our luck can't be that bad. This is Mayor Hahn's car?"

"Just kidding," she smiled. "It belongs to Carlos Ibanazi."

"See. Not even stolen. Purchased with our very own tax dollars," Jack said, already feeling better about the theft. "We're gonna have to ditch it, though. Too obvious. We better get a rental, like your dad suggested." Then, to get her off the theft, he changed the subject. "I can hardly wait to see your dad in court. All dressed up, leaning on the rail, representing a chimp."