Self-Defence

37

"Everything's surreal," said Lucy.

It was 9 A.M. and I'd finally reached her at the Brentwood house.

"In what way?"

"One moment I'll be talking to him and it feels so real. Then I'll wake up and realize I've been dreaming and the truth hits me… I guess that's normal."

"Very much so."

"I've been doing nothing but sleeping. Can't help it, I feel drugged. Every time I try to get up, I just want to crawl right back. Should I force myself to stay awake?"

"No, let nature take its course."

"God, I miss him!"

She started to cry.

"I'm not angry at him, he couldn't help it. Getting hold of such strong stuff, not knowing… When he was hungry for it, he couldn't think about anything else."

More tears.

"Such pain… what a waste. My heart feels as if it's really breaking- I don't know if I'll ever feel totally good again."

"Everything takes time, Lucy."

"I can't do hypnosis, can't focus on anything- I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for."

"Later. We'll do it later. All I can do now is cry and sleep- I don't even want to talk. I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Lucy."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she mocked herself. "Sorry for the world. For Carrie Fielding and the others. And Puck. And Karen. I haven't forgotten her. I won't forget."

Three psychopaths in the forest.

Barnard learning something about it. Dead.

The Sheas, living on the sand.

Doris Reingold, alive and poor. Gambling away her payoff?

Spirited out of town by Tom Shea. Into hiding, or something more final?

I played with it some more. Barnard kept popping up in my thoughts, like one side of a loaded die.

If he'd been murdered because he was a blackmailer, the conspicuous nature of his death made sense: A corpse on a motel bed had plenty of educational value.

Who'd done the shooting? The murder had taken place a full year after Karen's disappearance. By then, Mellors- or whatever his real name was- was working for App, and Trafficant had vanished.

And M. Bayard Lowell was living in splendid isolation in Topanga Canyon.

I didn't see the Great Man risking a meeting at a sleazy motel.

And why that particular dirty-sheets dive?

Because it catered to hookers? Mo Barnard had described Felix as a womanizer. Had he been lured there with the promise of another payoff- the bigger one he'd pressed for? Happy to enjoy a quickie while he waited?

I pictured him, pants down and happily expectant, on a narrow gray bed in a darkened room, porno on video, booze on the nightstand.

A woman in hotpants and spike heels. She smiles and ducks into the bathroom with a wink and a "One minute, honey."

The toilet flushes. Water runs. Barnard concentrates on the movie, oblivious to the door opening.

Someone rushes to the side of the bed and begins squeezing off rounds.

Someone with a key. The clerk paid off? The hooker in on it, too?

But, still, why that motel? Three miles east, Hollywood was crammed with mattress palaces.

Maybe because the killer knew that place well enough to set up an inside job.

The police had never suspected. According to Milo, the motel was a chronic trouble spot, so one more felony- even a homicide- would be no great surprise.

Barnard had led a pathetic life, spending his days prying into other people's secrets, taking money to look into cold cases.

Twenty years later, his own file was stone cold.

An inconsequential man. Had the papers even bothered to write up his death?

This time I stayed closer to home and used the main Santa Monica library on 6th Street. Barnard's name wasn't listed in the computers for that year or any other. But a search under homicide struck gold in the newspaper files:

Motel, homicide at. Police say the Adventure Inn on the Westside is site of numerous crimes, the latest the murder of a retired private investigator.

The full article was tucked into a bottom corner of the last page of the Metro section.

HOMICIDE PROMPTS IRE ABOUT MOTEL

The early morning shooting death of a retired private investigator in a Westside motel has prompted increased citizen concern about the hostelry. Police confirm a history of criminal activity at the Adventure Inn on 1543 South La Cienega Boulevard, including numerous arrests for prostitution, narcotics, disorderly conduct, and assault. Despite complaints by neighbors, police claim they are legally powerless to close the business down.

The victim, Felix Slayton Barnard, 65, of Venice, was found dead of multiple gunshot wounds in Room 11 by the motel's clerk, Edgely Sylvester, during a morning room check. Sylvester reported hearing and seeing nothing, and by the time police arrived all other residents had vacated the premises. "No surprise," said a bystander, refusing to be named. "They register by the half-hour."

Sylvester denied any personal knowledge of prostitution at the motel. When asked how he could have failed to hear three gunshots, he said, "There's a lot of traffic."

Questioned about why steps couldn't be taken to close the motel, Captain Robert Bannerstock of the LAPD's Westside Division said, "It's a free country. All we can do is go out and investigate occurrences. People need to be careful about where they spend the night."

Ownership of the motel is registered to a Nevada corporation, The Advent Group, and attempts to reach the manager, Darnel Mullins, were unsuccessful.

Darnel Mullins.

Denton Mellors.

Inside job.

Meet me at the Adventure Inn, Felix. There'll be a room reserved for you- have a whore on the house.

I looked up Darnel Mullins in every Southern California phone book the library owned. No Darnels; over a dozen D's spread around various counties. Thirty-five minutes on the pay phone in the entrance eliminated most of them. The rest weren't home.

Roadblocked again.

I sat at a library table, drumming my fingers until I thought of another route.

The clerk. Edgely Sylvester.

Thank God it was an unusual name- and listed in the Central L.A. book on the 1800 block of Arlington.

I took Pico east, toward the center of town. La Cienega was a couple of miles before Arlington, and I veered south and drove to 1543.

Still a motel, now called the Sunshine Lodge and painted turquoise blue. Three arms of cinder block around a dipping, pitted parking lot.

Two pickup trucks in the lot. I pulled in next to one of them. Room 11 was in the northwest corner, catercorner from the office. A DO NOT DISTURB sign hung from the doorknob.

I went into the office. A Korean man sat behind the desk, watching Korean language TV. A wall dispenser sold pocket combs and condoms, and a wire rack on the desk was stuffed with maps to the stars' homes. Robin had shown me one last year, given out by a record company as a party favor. Marilyn Monroe was still alive and living in Brentwood, and Lon Chaney was haunting Beverly Hills.

The clerk eyed me and said, "Room?"

Not knowing what to say, I left.

Edgely Sylvester's neighborhood was just past the old Sears store near La Brea, not far from the Wilshire Division police station. The house was a two-story brown craftsman bungalow subdivided into apartments. The front lawn had been turned into parking spaces. A rusting Cadillac Fleetwood and a twenty-year-old Buick Riviera shared it.

Two black men in their sixties played dominoes at a card table on the front porch. Both wore short-sleeved white shirts and double-knit trousers, and the heavier of the two wore stretch suspenders. He was bald and had moist mocha skin. A cigar dangled from his lips.

The skinny man was ebony-toned and his features were sharp, still handsome. He had all his hair and it had been pomaded. He could have been Chuck Berry's less talented brother.

They stopped their play as I came up the walkway. The dominoes were bright red and translucent, with sharp white dots. I had no idea who was winning.

"Gentlemen," I said, "does Edgely Sylvester live here?"

"Nope," said the skinny one.

"Know him?"

They shook their heads.

"Okay, thanks."

As I walked away, the heavy one said, "Why do you want to know?" The cigar was between his fingers, wet and cold. He was sweating a lot, but it didn't look like anxiety.

"Reporter," I said. "L.A. Times. We're doing a story on old unsolved crimes for the Sunday magazine. Mr. Sylvester worked at a motel where an unsolved murder occurred twenty years ago. The victim was a private detective. My editors thought it would make a great piece."

"Lots of new murders all the time," said the skinny one. "City's falling apart, no need to talk about stupid old stuff."

"The new stuff scares people. The old stuff's considered romantic- I know, I think it's ridiculous, too. But I just started out, can't buck the boss. Anyway, thanks."

"Is there money in it?" said the skinny one. "For talking to you?"

"Well," I said, "I'm not supposed to pay for stories, but if something's good enough…" I shrugged.

They exchanged glances, and the heavy one put down a domino.

I said, "Did Mr. Sylvester tell you something about the unsolved case?"

Another look passed between them.

"How much you paying?" said the heavy one.

How much cash did I have in my wallet? Probably a little over a hundred.

"I really shouldn't pay anything. It would have to be something good."

The heavy one licked the end of his cigar. "What if I could find Mr. Edgely Sylvester for you?"

"Twenty bucks."

He sniffed and chuckled and shook his head.

"Finding him's no big deal," I said. "How do I know he'll talk to me?"

He chuckled some more. "If you pay him, he will, my man. He likes his money." Eyeing my Seville. "What's it, a seventy-eight?"

"Seventy-nine," I said.

"Paper don't pay you enough to get some new wheels?"

"Like I said, I just started." I turned to leave.

He said, "Forty bucks to find the man."

"Thirty."

"Thirty-five." He stretched out a palm. With a pained expression, I took out the money and gave it to him.

Curling his fingers over it, he smiled.

"Okay," I said, "where's Sylvester?"

He gave a deep laugh and pointed across the table. "Say hello, Mr. Sylvester."

The skinny man closed his eyes and laughed, rocking in his chair.

"Hello, hello, hello." He held out his hand. "Hello from the star of the show."

"Prove you're Sylvester," I said.

"A hundred bucks'll prove it."

"Fifty."

"Ninety."

"Sixty."

"Eighty-eight."

"Sixty-five, tops."

He stopped smiling. His skin was as dry as his partner's was moist. His eyes were two bits of charcoal. "Thirty-five for him just for fingering me, and I only get thirty more? That's stupid, man."

I said, "Seventy, if you're really Sylvester. And that's it, because it cleans me out."

I took all the bills out of my wallet and fanned them.

Frowning, he reached behind and pulled out a mock-alligator billfold. Flipping it open, he showed me a soiled Social Security card made out to Edgely Nat Sylvester.

"Anything with a picture?"

"No need," he said, but he flipped again to a driver's license. It had expired three years ago, but the picture was of him and the name and address were right.

"Okay," I said, giving him a twenty and putting the rest of the money back.

"Hey," he said, rising out of his chair.

"When we're finished."

The heavy man said, "We got ourselves a dude here, Eddy. Street dude, knows what it is."

Sylvester looked at the twenty as if it were tainted. "How do I know you're righteous, man?"

"Because if you complain to the Times and my boss finds out I paid you, my ass is grass. I don't want any hassles, okay? Just a story."

"Fair is fair, Eddy," said the heavy man, with glee. "He gotcha."

"Fuck your mama," said Sylvester.

The heavy man laughed and wheezed. "Why should I do that, Eddy, when I already fucked your mama and she squeezed all the juice outa me?"

Sylvester gave him a long dark stare, and for a second I thought there'd be violence. Then the heavy man flinched and winked and Sylvester laughed, too. Picking up a domino, he slapped it on the table.

"To be continued, Fatboy," he said, standing.

"Where you goin, Eddy?"

"To talk to the man, stupid."

"Talk here. I wanna hear what kind of seventy-dollar story you got."

"Ha," said Sylvester. "Ask my mama about it." To me: "Let's go someplace where the atmosphere ain't stupid."

We walked down the block, past other big subdivided houses. An occasional palm tree skyscraped from the breezeway. Most of the street was open and hot, even as evening approached. The air smelled like exhaust fumes.

When we got near the corner, Sylvester stopped and leaned against a lamppost. A brown-skinned woman in a brown-flowered dress walked past. Several small children trailed her, like goslings, laughing and speaking Spanish.

"They come here," said Sylvester, "taking jobs for crap pay, don't even wanna learn English. Whynchu write about that?"

He patted his empty shirt pocket and studied me. "Smoke?"

I shook my head.

"Figures. Now, what murder is it you wanna hear about?"

"Was there more than one at the Adventure Inn?"

"Could be."

"Could be?"

"That place was no good- you know what it really was, don't you?"

"What?"

"Whorehouse. Nasty one- tough girls. I only worked there 'cause I had to. My day job was cleaning gutters on houses and that's irregular- know what I mean? When it rains, you get your clogged gutters and your leaks coming right through the window seams into the house, people start screaming, Help me, help me! No rain, people forget their gutters; real stupid."

"The motel was your night job."

"Yeah."

"Tough place."

"Real bad place. The people who owned it ran it stupid- didn't give a damn."

"The Advent Group."

He gave me a blank look.

"Guys from Nevada," I said. "That's what it said in the original article."

"Yeah, that's right. Reno, Nevada; my check used to come from there. Pain in the took-ass because it didn't clear for five days. Stupid."

"The murder I'm talking about is a guy named Felix Barnard. Ex-private eye. The article said you found him."

"Yeah, yeah, I remember that. Old guy, bare-assed, his pecker in his hand." Shaking his head. "Yeah, that was bad, finding that. He got shot up in the face."

He stuck out his tongue.

"What else do you remember about it?" I said.

"That's about it. Finding him was disgusting, I wanted to quit the stupid job after that. I was working too hard anyway. Used to get off at five in the morning, get home, try to sleep for a couple of hours before going off to clean gutters. I had four kids, I was a good daddy to all of them. Bought ' em stuff. The best shoes. My sons wore Florsheim in high school, none of that sneaker stupidity."

"You inspected the rooms at 5 A.M.?"

"I finished by then. Started at a quarter to, so I could finish and get the hell out of there by five. If a room was empty, I'd tell the Mexican girl to clean it. If someone was still in it, I'd put a mark in the ledger for the day clerk. Day clerk's job was easy, no one used the damn place during the day."

"You looked in Barnard's room. Does that mean it was supposed to be empty?"

"Supposed to be. He only paid for a short time- couple of hours, I think. He shoulda been out."

"You didn't check the room before?"

"Man," he said, "I didn't do more than I had to, it was a nasty place. Someone else didn't want to use the room, what did I care if some stupid idiot stayed twenty minutes longer? People that owned it didn't give a damn."

"A two-hour rental," I said. "So Barnard wasn't there to sleep."

He laughed. "Right. You must be a college boy."

"What'd you do when you found him?"

"Called the po-lice, what else? You think I'm stupid?"

"What about the manager? Mullins. Darnel Mullins."

He frowned. "Yeah, Darnel."

"You call him, too?"

"Nah, Darnel wasn't there. He was never around except to kick me out of the office."

"Why'd he do that??"

"Thought he was some kind of writer. Showed up every once in a while, looking down his nose at me and kicking me out so he could use the typewriter. Fine with me. I'd go get something to eat- no drinking, don't put in that I drank, 'cause I didn't. Only ale, once in a while. In the privacy of my own home, not on the job."

"Sure," I said. "So Darnel considered himself a writer?"

"Yeah, like you- only he was writing a book." He laughed at the absurdity of that. "Stupid."

"He wasn't a good writer?" I said.

"How would I know? He never showed me nothing."

"Did he ever get anything published?"

"Not that I heard, and he sure woulda told me; he liked to toot his own trombone."

"Well," I said. "I could ask him if I could find him. Been trying to reach him but haven't been able to. Any idea where he is?"

"Nope. And don't waste your time. Even if you find him, he won't help you."

"Why not?"

"He was an uptight dude."

"Uptight how?"

"Uptight and uppity. And mad. Always mad about something, like he was too good for everyone and everything. Looking down his nose. And telling stories. Like he'd went to college, too good for this damned job; he was gonna write his book and get the hell outa here."

He looked at me.

"Like he had somewhere to go and the rest of us didn't."

"Do you remember where he said he went to college?"

"Some place in New York. I never paid attention to any of his stupid stories, all the man did was bitch and brag. His daddy was a doctor; he worked for some movie hotshot, met all these movie stars at parties." He laughed. "Writing a book. Like I'm stupid. Why would a brother who could do all those things be working at a hole like the Adventure? Not that he admitted he was a brother."

"He didn't like being black?"

"He didn't admit it. Talking all white. And tell the truth, he was light as a white man." Laughing again, he pinched the skin of his forearm. "Too much pale in it. And his hair was yellow- nappy, but real yellow. Like he'd been dipped in eggs- Mr. French Toast."

"Did he have a mustache?"

"Don't remember, why?"

"Just trying to get a picture."

His eyes brightened. "You gonna put my picture in the paper?"

"Do you want me to?"

"Gonna pay me for it?"

"Can't do that."

"Then forget it- aw, okay, if you want- lot better than Darnel's picture. He was an ugly dude. Big and strong- said he played football in college, too. Wouldn't admit he was black, but his nose was flatter than Fatboy's back there. Yellow hair and these wishy blue eyes- like yours, but even wishier. Yeah, come to think of it, I think he had a mustache. Little one. Fuzz. Weak, yellow fuzz. Stupid."