Billy Straight

51

Wil Fournier had changed into his best suit for the date with Leanna the Macy's model from Ethiopia. He didn't want to get close to the Russian; the guy oozed sleaze.

Selling T-shirts, tourist crap, the outward trappings of a legit business; but those eyes, that demeanor. Wil had worked Wilshire Bunco and Fraud for two years, collaborated with West Hollywood Sheriff's on lots of Russian scams. The weirdest case was five years ago, an immigration racket, strong-arming new arrivals. Wil and a sheriff's D making a call to the apartment of one of the suspects, the guy opening the door, covered with blood, holding a carving knife. He'd just dismembered another Russian. What had he been thinking, answering the door like that?

Sharing the bust, Wil found out he liked Homicide, transferred.

He was sure the souvenir vendor had run angles.

The way Zhukanov had leaned over his counter giving him the eye, all that junk hanging from every inch of the stall. Trying to stay cool, like the whole thing didn't matter to him, he was just a citizen trying to do his civic duty. But Wil's mention of the twenty-five grand raised sweat on the Russian's pitted nose.

Absolutely certain he'd seen the kid. It sounded to Wil like he'd practiced all day convincing himself. Because how could he be that sure? Petra's drawing was good, but to Wil the kid didn't look that distinctive.

He smiled to himself. All white kids looked the same, right?

He was noncommittal with the Russian, took notes as Zhukanov pointed north, up Ocean Front, where the kid had supposedly disappeared. But when Wil traipsed there, showing the picture to café owners, none of them knew a thing. Most of the other businesses were closed for the evening, so he supposed a revisit was called for. But he doubted it would produce anything. This whole case had a futile smell to it.

He retraced his steps and the Russian was still there, way past closing time, waving as Wil passed him and headed toward his car. Leanna was due at Loew's in twenty minutes- five-course dinner, wine. He'd met her at a club, those huge brown eyes-

“Sir!” Zhukanov called out.

“Yes, Mr. Zhukanov?”

“I will keep my eyes open for you. I call you when I see him again.”

Just what Wil needed, some Moscow mafioso playing junior detective.

Now here it was, the next morning, and all he could think about was the sun on Leanna's shoulders. Beautiful morning.

He'd arrived at seven on the dot, energized. A bunch more crank tipster messages on his desk, but the Russian hadn't called, so maybe the kid was gone from Venice or, more likely, he'd never been there.

Those two tips from Watson interested him a lot more. Two righteous-sounding old women both thought they might have seen the boy in town. He was still waiting for a callback from the Watson sheriff.

His phone rang. A new day dawns.

“Hey, Dubba-yew, it's Vee.”

“Vee, long time.”

Val Vronek was a D-II Wil had worked Narcotics with at Wilshire, now handling hush-hush major crime stuff from downtown. Vronek loved undercover- his favorite thing, posing as a biker meth dealer. Big and heavy, he'd grown his hair shoulder-length, raised a beard that looked like a health hazard.

“Guess what, Wil, I'm in your neighborhood.”

“Oh?”

“Can't discuss details, but if you guessed outlaw biker crank empire I wouldn't contradict you. Just happened to be spending time in some shithole called the Cave.”

“Right up your alley, Vee, white-trash roots and all that.”

“You bet. Daddy rode high, Mama ate bugs,” sang Vronek. “That's an old country tune. Blue-eyed soul.”

“Blue-eyed soul is the Righteous Brothers.”

Vronek laughed. “The reason I'm calling is, in the course of said assignment to said shithole, something happened I thought you should know about. Late last night, some guy came in showing around the picture of that kid you've been looking for, implying anyone who could help him would get a cut of the reward.”

“Why would anyone do that?” said Fournier. “Least of all, leather-scum. If they knew where the kid was, they'd turn him in themselves, take the whole twenty-five.”

“Didn't say the guy was smart, Wil. Just there. And none of the assembled patrons jumped on the offer. It was like, ‘All those who give a shit step forward.' No big boot ballet. I pretended to be one-quarter fascinated, tried to get a feel for the guy. He came across big-time stupid.”

“Got a name?”

“Nope, the situation didn't call for that level of intimacy. Here're the vitals: white male, twenty-eight to thirty-five, brown and blue, wavy hair, reddish muttonchop sideburns, my height, add at least fifty pounds.”

“A big boy,” said Fournier.

“He came on like some heavy-duty Angel, but no one knew him. I told him I'd look out for the kid, where could I reach him? He said he'd be stopping by again tonight, around eight. You want me to, I'll come out to the sidewalk when he shows and let you know.”

“Deal, Vee. Thanks.”

“Anytime. Too bad I won't be able to buy you a drink. They don't like colored folk.”

Just as Fournier hung up, Schoelkopf called. “You're there. At least someone on Ramsey is.”

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“You don't read the paper?”

“Not yet-”

“You should, this is a public case. They found the girl's car. Burned out in Venice, I had to learn it from the damn paper. Read it, then get in here.”