You're nobody 'til somebody kills you

Thirty-five

When we got in the car Jerry asked, “What’s the address?”

I read it off for him.

“How do we get there?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“We could ask directions.”

“We’re from Brooklyn,” I said, “we don’t ask directions.”

“Well, then … how are we gonna get there?”

I looked at him. “We’ll ask for directions.”

After we stopped at a gas station for help we drove to an apartment building on the outskirts of Brentwood.

“I thought Brentwood was all rich people and movie stars,” Jerry said, parking in front of the building.

“So did I.”

“So where did this block come from?”

“This must be the Brentwood slums.”

“I’m glad I have my gun,” he said.

“You do?” I asked. “But … in the police station …”

“I left it in the trunk.”

“The trunk?” I said. “Of my car?”

“Well, I didn’t think they’d search your car,” he said. “Why would they?”

“Yeah,” I said, “why would they?”

Trying a second look at the building, I decided it probably was a good thing that Jerry had his gun.

We opened the trunk and he dug the.45 out of the wheel well, stuck it in his belt.

“No holster?”

“That would’ve looked suspicious,” he said. “I mean, if I was wearing an empty holster?”

We started toward the building, and I put my hand on his arm to stop him.

“When exactly did you put the gun in the trunk?”

“Before you drove to the police station.”

“Why?”

“I had a bad feelin’.”

“A bad feelin’?”

“Yeah, that they was gonna pick me up. I figured those assholes from Palm Springs was gonna squeal.”

We walked to the building. There were doorbells, but only a few had names on them.

“Jerry.”

“Yeah, Mr. G.?”

“The next time you have a bad feelin’ will you let me know?”

“Sure, Mr. G.”

We tried the front door and it was unlocked. In fact, the lock was broken.

“Mr. G.?”

“Yeah.”

“This is it,” he said. “I got a bad feelin’ about this.”

“Mmm, me, too.”

We went in. The urine smell was enough to make my eyes sting.

“What apartment?” he asked.

I looked at the index card.

“Two-C.”

“Second floor.”

We went up the steps, walked past only one apartment that seemed to be occupied. A radio was playing, and a child was wailing. When we got to 2C Jerry drew his gun.

“Me first, Mr. G.”

I nodded.

He reached for the doorknob and it turned easily.

“This has got to be a phony address,” I said.

“Why?” Jerry asked. “When the guy got the job at the motel why would he give a phony address?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe …”

He pushed the door open and went in quickly with the gun held out in front of him. I waited until he waved me in.

I left the door open and looked around. There was a sagging sofa with one broken leg and an armchair with half the stuffing sticking out. Off to the left was a folding table with a slightly limp fourth leg.

“Nobody even bothered to try and make it look lived in,” Jerry said.

“There’s a kitchen, and another room. Bedroom?”

“We better check,” he said.

I nodded.

“You take the kitchen, Mr. G.”

“Right.”

No body, I thought, thank God there was no body.

I entered the kitchen. Cabinet doors were hanging off their hinges or missing completely; there was a kitchen table but no chairs. The stove was minus two burners. I opened the oven and looked in, found it empty and dirty.

No bodies. I went back into the living room.

“Jerry?”

“Yeah?”

“Anything?”

He came out of the bedroom, tucking the.45 into his belt.

“Nothing, Mr. G. There’s a chest of drawers, but nothing’s been in them for a long time.”

“So it’s a phony address.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “Who gets a job at a fleabag motel and gives a phony address?”

“When was he hired?” Jerry asked.

“Oh, yeah,” I said, remembering the index card. “He was hired … a week ago.”

“Before Danny got to L.A.”

“Yeah.”

“Odd,” he said.

“I think so.”

“Can we get out of here now, Mr. G.?” he asked. “My eyes are burnin’ something bad.”

“Yeah, let’s go,” I said, “before a body falls from the ceiling.”

We stopped at a Chinese takeout and brought two greasy bags of food and a six-pack back to Marilyn’s guesthouse.

“Before we go inside,” I said, “we’ve got something to decide.”

“Like what?”

“Whether or not we believe the house is bugged,” I said. “And if the house is bugged, is the guesthouse bugged?”

“What do you say?” he asked.

“I think if they bugged the main house there’s no point in bugging the guesthouse.”

“I agree.”

“You do?”

“Well, no … but I want to eat this Chinks hot. I gotta think if one house is bugged, so’s the other one, Mr. G.”

“Good point,” I said. “We’ll just have to watch our p’s and q’s then.”

“Sure, Mr. G.”