Kingdom Come Page 4

  “I never said Tad was dead.”

  “I know,” she said, suddenly serious. For the first time, it occurred to me she might be hopped up. (She wasn’t merely drunk. I know drunk when I see it. This was something else.) “I was just fucking with you. I don’t think Tad’s dead. At least I hope he isn’t.” She opened her arms wide, indicating the house. I was supposed to take it she needed Tad around to pay her bills. Maybe that’s why I had cool jets. The whole gold digger thing. Although I had no idea, really, if that’s what she was. Maybe Tad deserved to be divorced. I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to know. Still, her transactional attitude in the face of her ex-’s apparent disappearance was off-putting. Scarlett put her glass down and leaned toward me. “So, Taylor, you’ve got a client who wants all of this—whatever it is—kept quiet. That’s his deal, it’s not mine. What if I say we should go to the police? Aren’t they the ones should be handling a missing person’s case? What if you keep it under wraps and, while you’re doing that, Tad gets eighty-sixed? I mean isn’t that illegal or something? You’ll have to forgive me: I don’t know all the ins and outs of the P.I. trade.”

  I shrugged. “It’s a fair question,” I said. “I am looking out for the best interests of my client. If you were to go to the cops, you’d probably be in the right. I’m asking you not to. As a favor.”

  “A favor? For a guy I just met? Who’s client’s interest aren’t by any means my interests?”

  I shrugged.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” she said. “I’ll tell you some stuff I think’ll help you, but you gotta keep those things to yourself. They’re potentially reputation damaging, and that’s definitely not in my best interest.”

  “Tad’s reputation?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.”

  She started counting on her fingers. “So, a) you don’t share what I’m about to tell you with anyone, b) I give you two days and then I go to the cops, and c) before you leave, you do me a favor.”

  “What’s the favor?”

  “Never mind. Are my terms acceptable?”

  “They are, except if I don’t like the favor, I’m not doing it.”

  “I think you’ll like the favor. Here’s the info… Tad’s a big fag.”

  I crinkled my nose. “That’s an ugly word.”

  She shrugged. “He’s a gay, and he neglected to tell me before we wed. Apparently, I was to be a beard. A little arrangement made for him by the Aetheric Concordance.”

  I started to say “Are you an airhead?” airhead being a slur for adherents of the Church. Instead, I said, “Are you… one of them?”

  She nodded. “I am. I was hand-selected by Patrick himself. Only the best for their prize stallion. Only they didn’t tell me he wasn’t so much a stallion as a gelding. And I’m way straight. But we’re getting offtrack. Tad’s got a boy that lives in WeHo. Noah’s his first name. I don’t know his last. He lives over there somewhere. I have no idea where. If anybody’s gonna know where Tad’s at it’s that guy. The two of them’re thick as thieves. And by that, I mean they fuck and suck one another.”

  “I got that, yeah.”

  She stood up and looked down at me. “Speaking of filling in blanks…”

  I looked up at her, not catching her drift. I’m funny that way sometimes.

  “That’s the favor,” she said, and she took the wife beater off. She wasn’t wearing a bra and her big breasts rose then fell with the retreating cotton. Above her right breast, she’d tattooed a scarlet letter “A”. Somewhere, Nathaniel Hawthorne was smiling. She also slid off her gym shorts to reveal a vagina with a blond landing strip. “I want you to fuck me.”

  I blinked at her twice. Maybe I shoulda had that whiskey. “Is this because Tad Albright’s a gay?”

  She laughed. “Hell, no. The divorce was a long time ago. I can and do catch a dick whenever I want. And right now I want. Not because Tad’s a gay, but because I’m horny and bored.”

  Like I said, she hadn’t fired my jets before she disrobed, but the disrobing did it. A man is a simple creature.

  We fucked as Gonzo from the Muppets looked on.

  I left about an hour later, tired and sore, but happy. Was I concerned about betraying Ava and, by proxy, Hailey? Not really. With Ava, since she rarely spoke, it was hard to gauge her expectations, and Hailey was, I’d convinced myself, a thing of the past. My conscience—if I still had one—wasn’t flaring up.

  Funny thing is, I didn’t start out a prick. I started out a well-meaning, conscientious guy. If you’d asked anyone I knew in high school, they’d’ve said I was polite and inoffensive. Only when I hit my mid-thirties did the gloves come off. I’d spent a lot of time walking the Golden Rule Path, and I tired of it. Although, that makes it sound like I just woke up one morning and said, “From now on, I’m looking out for number one”. It wasn’t like that. I don’t remember ever making a conscious decision.

  Maybe it was a psychotic break. Who knows?

  West Hollywood was incorporated in 1984, but it was around much longer than that. Though it’s the home of the fabled Sunset Strip, it’s better known for being maybe the most prominent gay community in the United States (outside of maybe the Castro in San Francisco). When the Spanish got to what would become L.A. in the late 18th century, the Tongva Indians inhabited WeHo. No word on whether they were gay, but I suspect somewhere between five and ten percent of them probably were. The Tongva were a hospitable lot since they canoed out to greet their European visitors. Of course the Europeans didn’t respond in kind. Diseases for which they had no defense ravaged the tribe. Opportunists and vampires destroyed the well-meaning and the thoughtful, setting a precedent for the region for generations to come.

  Gambling was illegal in Los Angeles proper for many years, but not illegal in nearby Los Angeles County. That’s why WeHo was a holdout for incorporation for so long—casinos and other shady operations dotted the Strip for a good while. I suspect it was this more permissive atmosphere that attracted homosexuals to the area. Anyway, I’ve seen references to “Boy’s Town”—one of West Hollywood’s nicknames—as far back as the nineteen-forties and -fifties, so I guess the LGBT set have nested there for a while. Which is whatever as far as I’m concerned. I’m not what the kids call an “ally”, but if people wanna cavort with other people of their same gender, that’s their own business. Nobody needs my permission to do anything.

  I parked the Jeep in front of the Troubadour. I always got good vibes from that place since it was the rock club where seminal sixties and seventies acts cut their teeth. I’d only seen a show there a handful of times, but knowing the place continued to persist in a town without much persistence comforted me. It also helped that the Troubadour, for me anyway, marked the entrance to West Hollywood. I figured I’d start on one side of Santa Monica Boulevard and eke my way down the other once I got to the far end. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take that long to turn up Tad’s buddy Noah.

  As I walked past a big outdoor florist, I went over what I had so far. That didn’t take long since what I had so far was bupkis. Keith and Callie had been at Lake Arrowhead when Tad disappeared—and Keith had a great alibi in the form of his injuries. The two of them had directed me to Scarlett, and she had given me a ticket to WeHo and an erotic workout. I guessed I should send Keith and Callie a fruit basket. Not only had the former Mrs. Albright treated me to some sex, she hadn’t made fun of my one tiny ball. Which is nice.

  I looked at my watch. It was about lunchtime and I was starved. (Actually, I was making good time. Two interviews and a roll in the hay before noon was a new record for me.) It was also still raining, so I ducked into the first casual dining place I came to. Counter service tacos which was exactly what the doctor ordered. As soon as I walked in, an effete but friendly man behind the counter picked up a pad and pencil and eyed me expectantly. I was a little put off by the menu hanging from the ceiling. Sure, it was tacos, but it was fancy tacos. Too many garnishes and avant garde ingredients. “What�
�ve you got that isn’t froufrou?” I said.

  The taco man smiled. “There’s a non-froufrou version of everything on the menu. I can tell Raul to hold the frou.”

  “You’re a gentleman.”

  “And a lady.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. Gimme the tacos al pastor. Hold the sprouts and the curds.”

  “Comin’ right up.”

  I paid the dude and sat down at one of the joint’s four tables. I took out my phone and started to playing solitaire—which is about the only thing I use my phone for. Sure, modern technology is grand, but I don’t need maps in L.A. and almost no one ever calls me. It was fifty bucks a month I probably could’ve done without, but I do love me some solitaire.

  I didn’t have to wait long before the taco man brought my three tacos in a little red basket. “Bon appétit,” he said, placing a fork and napkin at my left hand.

  Before he could get away, I grabbed his elbow and took a big whiff of the food. It definitely passed the smell test. Then I picked up a taco and took a big bite. With my mouth half full, I said, “My compliments to Raul. These’re dynamite.”

  His eyes lit up. “Thank you. The missus and I do what we can.”

  “That you do. While I have you here, can I ask a question? I’m looking for a guy supposedly lives here in WeHo. Goes by ‘Noah’. Unfortunately, I don’t have a last name.”

  Taco man’s eyes narrowed in a cryptic way. Just a flash of recognition followed by a suppression. Was it my imagination or was he being cagey? “I don’t know a Noah, but you know who you should ask?”

  I shook my head.

  “Ivory Snowden. She runs the door at Thatsa Spicy Meatball. She’s a trans person. Big, but frilly if you know what I mean. You can’t miss her.”

  “You think she might know Noah?”

  Raul’s better half shrugged. “Could be. Ivory seems to know everyone. She’s the resident expert on the main drag.”

  “No pun intended…” I said with a smile.

  “Huh?” he said.

  “Drag. Trans. Frilly. A little joke.”

  Taco man burst into an affected laugh designed to shame me. I wasn’t shamed, but I got the message. I finished my lunch and continued my trek up Santa Monica. Thatsa Spicy Meatball had been there forever, although I wasn’t acquainted with Ivory Snowden. He and or she sounded like a good person to know. I wasn’t hip to the culture a lot of times. Especially since it’d changed so fast. I made a mental note to use feminine pronouns when I talked to my next lead. I’ll call you whatever you want as long as you’re straight with me. Straight in the tradition sense, I mean.

  Meatball was directly across the street from a now defunct lesbian bar called Slumberland, a place I knew from a prior case. It was now a tapas and drinks place called Nick and Nora’s. Progress, I suppose. I appreciated the Hammett reference. Manning the hostess stand at the Italian place was a burly figure in a red Victorian-style wig and a velvet jacket and pants. Her shirt cuffs poked out of her jacket. Big and lacy. Ruffles at the throat and chest. Mozart via a bad acid trip. “Are you Ivory Snowden?” I said.

  She looked at me for the first time with penetrating blue eyes and a hard-to-tame five o’clock shadow. “Bingo. Who might you be?”

  “I might be a lot of people, but I’m gonna stick with Ryan for now. Ryan Gosling.”

  She stuck out a huge, manicured hand for me to shake. “You’re not Ryan Gosling,” she said. “If you were Ryan Gosling, I’d be having an orgasmic coronary right now.”

  “I’m not that Ryan Gosling. I’m a different Ryan Gosling. Women—and sometimes men—hear I’m coming and get themselves into a state. Imagine going through life the cause of nothing but disappointment.”

  Ivory winked at me. “I cannot even begin to envision it,” she said. “I mean look at me.”

  “I can’t. It’s like looking into the sun,” I replied.

  She pulled her hand out mine and gave me a gentle smack. “Careful. Flattery will get you everywhere. Including my underwear.”

  With no offense meant to Ms. Snowden, that thought caused my tacos al pastor to smack at my stomach lining. Different strokes for different folks.

  She pulled a menu out of the wooden bin attached to the side of her lectern. “Are we dining alone, Ryan Gosling?”

  “Actually, we’re not dining at all, Ivory. I mean I would if I hadn’t just had tacos down the street.”

  “At Ronnie and Raul’s?”

  I nodded. “Ronnie sent me. I’m looking for someone and Ronnie said you know absolutely everyone.”

  “Ronnie’s a smart one. Serves a good taco too. I do know absolutely everyone. Although, I don’t share my information with just anyone. Not unless they’re willing to pay the price.”

  I dreaded the answer but asked anyway. “What price is that?”

  She looked both ways down the sidewalk, then back at me. Leaning forward, she said, “You gotta tell me why you’re looking—and I’ll know if you’re lying. People here, they got a right to their privacy and folks—whack jobs mostly—don’t wanna give it to them.”

  I nodded, catching her drift completely. “It’s not like that. I’m not even looking for who I’m looking for because they’re the person I’m looking for. I’m hoping they can turn me on to someone else. Someone I’m actually looking for. Someone who’s gotten themselves missing.”

  “You a cop?”

  “Nope.”

  “A reporter?”

  “Nope.”

  “A—?”

  “Look, I’m just a concerned citizen. A concerned citizen on a short leash. I promise you, though, I’m on the up and up.”

  “And that’s supposed to be enough for me?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve got client privilege to think about.”

  “Client privilege? Lawyer client privilege or private investigator client privilege?” she said, growing tired of our dance.

  “What about clergyman client privilege? Or doctor client privilege?”

  “You don’t look like either of those. Here’s what I’ve decided: You’re a P.I. and you’re covering someone’s ass.”

  I shrugged again. “If that makes you happy.”

  “I get it,” she says. “I have… clients. And they have a right to privacy too.”

  I extended a hand by way of emphasizing my, “There you go.”

  She nodded. “Okay. Who’re you looking for that might know where the other person you’re looking for is?”

  “All I got is a first name. I don’t have the last. Noah. Supposed to be a friend of a certain movie actor.”

  “Is it the movie actor that’s missing?” she asked, hip to my drift.

  “Don’t take it amiss if I plead the fifth.”

  “Alright, alright. I know when I’m licked.” She looked over her shoulder and with a booming voice yelled, “Jenny! Jenny, get out here! I need ya!”

  She looked back at me and smiled a business-like smile as we both waited for Jenny. Jenny appeared finally, and she was a lot like Ivory Snowden. She wore a dress and cha-cha heels, but had the same basic vibe. As is in a not altogether female vibe.

  Ivory said, “Ryan Gosling, may I introduce Jenny Tailya. Jenny, this is Ryan.”

  Jenny held out another big hand for me to shake. I shook it and Jenny looked at Ivory. “You need me to watch the front?”

  Snowden nodded. “I’ll be back in a jiff. Come on,” she said to me. “Let’s discuss this under more discreet circumstances.”

  I nodded and followed as soon as she stepped around her podium and took to the sidewalk. Jenny slipped into her spot. Ivory went to the end of Meatball’s outdoor seating and hooked a left. Soon she was leading me through an alley between her restaurant and the one next-door. Soon, we were behind Meatball—to the surprise of two Mexicans in t-shirts and jeans catching a smoke break.

  “Angel, Miguel… Give us a little room, would you?”

  The two guys flicked away their cigarettes and went back inside.

>   “So, where can I find No—?” A monster-sized fist covered with rings stopped my question. I went down onto my ass. Unfortunately, there was a puddle there on the cement. A brackish puddle that smelled of garlic and sweat. My hands went reflexively to my nose. It wasn’t bleeding, but it was throbbing like a motherfucker. Turns out Ivory Snowden had a wicked jab.

  When she spoke again, all of her feminine affectation was gone. Her voice reminded me of Vin Diesel’s. Not as deep, but just as meat and potatoes. “Noah doesn’t want to talk to you,” she said.

  “Are you sure? I mean I just—“

  She interrupted. “Get up off your ass. You’re sitting in a puddle.”

  “Are you gonna hit me again?”

  “No, I’m not gonna hit you again.”

  I stood up, and she hit me again. The same jab to the snoz. The same backward drop onto my butt. My hands went up, and this time I could feel the blood trickling between my fingers. “You said you weren’t going to hit me again!”

  “A little white lie. A fantasy. A confection. A touch of Hollywood.”

  My vision was doubling. “You’re losing me,” I said. “Are we still in the same conversation?”

  “No. We’re in a new conversation. Nobody knows Tad Albright’s a gay man. Well, almost nobody. Thanks to his own efforts and the efforts of the cult he’s in. If he wants to play games with his persona that’s his right. Believe me, I get it. But, truthfully, I don’t give a fuck about Tad Albright. I care about Noah Nguyen. I think you’ll find a lot of that in WeHo. He’s like the kid brother some of us never had, or some of us lost. We don’t like people sniffing around trying to get into his and Tad’s business. You got no idea how relentless some of these people can be. How parasitical. Or maybe you do.”

  I took my hands away from my nose and held them out, palms outward. “Honest to God, Noah’s nothing more than a lead to me. I just wanna ask him a couple of questions and get out of his life.”

  “Someone else said that to me once. Almost those same words verbatim. He was a reporter. Me and a couple of the other girls sent him out of the neighborhood like Nicholson in Chinatown.”