Private Vegas (12 page)

“You need a nice new suit of clothes, nephew. That will cheer you up.”

The traffic was clotted with flashy high-ticket autos, and wealthy residents and tourists strolled into the designer stores.

Gozan parked the Bentley in a no-parking zone, waited for Khezir to get out, and then locked up. Khezzy called out to his uncle, “You think shopping is going to cheer me up? I don’t think so.”

“Think again,” said Gozan.

A peachy type of woman and a woman who looked just like a younger version of her were heading into a high-end shop called Mariah Koo. Each woman wore tight jeans, a blousy silk shirt, and high heels. The older one had a deep neckline with her bosoms almost spilling out.

The Sumaris walked through the front doors of the shop, and Gozan was impressed by the scent of flowers, the upbeat techno music, and the elegant decor. The walls were seamless black lacquer, and the clothing was displayed on individual stands that were spotlighted islands of color against the black marble floor.

A young man came over to where Gozan and Khezir stood inside the doorway. He was handsome, with blue eyes and thick black hair. A gold stud winked in the lobe of his left ear.

He said his name was Brian and he asked how he could help them today, and would they like coffee or champagne?

Gozan said, “Coffee, please. With milk and sugar.”

Gozan saw that men’s clothing was to the left, and the women’s area was on the right. The two juicy ladies he’d seen going into the store were grazing among the clothing displays. He could tell at a glance that there would be a sparse selection for curvy women, so he and Khezzy would have to strike quickly, before the pair left the premises.

Brian went off to get coffee, and Gozan and Khezir worked out a plan. It was one of their best yet.

WHILE KHEZIR TRIED on sports coats, Gozan took possession of a silver-leather club chair in the ladies’ section. He was reading the
Financial Times
, smiling at the peachy women, when he got a call and was forced to get up from his fine catbird seat and have a conversation behind a rack of coats.

The voice on the other end of the line belonged to someone he knew well, a man who was not in charge of him but still made demands.

Gozan spoke into the phone, keeping his voice very low.

“You worry too much. I understand. And you should understand whom you are speaking to.”

He signed off, put his phone away, and took a moment to return to his earlier mood. Soon he was back in the fine leather chair, nodding approval when the daughter came out of the dressing room to spin in front of the tall, silvery mirrors.

The women were brown-haired, and he preferred blondes, but their full figures were very choice. The daughter’s in particular, with its rounded buttocks and narrow waist. She was complaining about her thighs as she twirled in the skinny-girl dress.

Gozan wondered how hard it would be to close the deal. He eased into a conversation with the mother, telling her that he was in the diplomatic corps and that he and his friend were on holiday.

Gozan’s subtle accent and the cut of his clothes made a good impression, and soon this lady was telling him that her name was Susan, she was going through a divorce, and she lived in Ann Arbor, Michigan.

She said that her daughter, Serena, was in law school and would be graduating next year. This trip to LA was a birthday present to her.

During the conversation, Khezir came over a few times to get Gozan’s opinion of the various jackets in combination with shirts and ties. But now, Khezzy was flirting with Brian, and the flirtation wasn’t lost on the women.

When Khezir returned to the men’s section, Gozan said, “Susan, it would give me pleasure to take you and Serena out to dinner tonight. A birthday celebration. Khezzy and I are here on business and he is very homesick for good conversation.”

Susan said, “Oh, we shouldn’t. We have an early flight tomorrow and should really pack and get to bed.”

“I understand,” Gozan said, looking very disappointed. “I understand that you don’t know us. We could be very boring dinner companions.”

“No, no, I’m not saying that,” said Susan.

“Good. Let’s have an early dinner,” Gozan said. “I’ll find the best restaurant within ten minutes’ drive of your hotel. If we pick you up at seven, you will be back in your room by nine thirty. Khezir is a very funny man. You will be glad you had a chance to meet one of the outstanding young heroes of Sumar.”

The daughter said, “Please, Mom. It would be fun.”

At that moment, a salesgirl said to Serena, “Let me take these for you.” The three women went to the desk, and Gozan joined them.

When the purchases were tucked in tissue and bagged in black, Gozan called to his nephew, “Khezzy, please help these ladies put the shopping bags in their car.”

KHEZIR HAD BEEN trying on a jacket, and he said to the salesman, “Brian, wait just a moment, won’t you? I’ll only be a minute.”

Brian said, “Absolutely. I have some shoes I want to show you, Mr. Mazul. You will just
die
.”

Gozan held the door open for Susan and Serena, then he and Khezir followed the ladies out to their rented BMW that was parked across the street. Khezir, still wearing the three-thousand-dollar lavender-silk jacket, went to the rear of the car, and when the trunk was opened, he put the bags inside.

Gozan opened the driver’s-side door for Susan and said, “You can trust me on the choice of restaurants, Susan. I have researched the best of the best and I have some good ideas already.”

Khezir said to Serena, “I am eager to be celebrating your birthday with you, young lady.”

The girl tittered nervously, likely thinking what a shame it was that Khezir was gay. He stood on the street with Gozan and waved good-bye to the females as they drove up Rodeo toward Wilshire. Then the two men proceeded to the Bentley at the curb.

Gozan ripped up the parking ticket and said in Sumarin, “This place is starting to stink.”

Khezzy grinned and waved toward the black glass of the storefront. He was turning toward the Bentley when he felt a touch on his arm. He jerked around and saw the young salesman called Brian standing on the sidewalk, his mouth quivering and his eyes frightened.

“Mr. Mazul. Would you like me to ring up that jacket for you? Or will you want to see some other things I’ve put aside for you?”

“I want you to kiss your ass,” said Khezir. “No joking, I really want to see you do that.”

“You can’t do this, Mr. Mazul. Please don’t do this.”

Brian reached out again for the sleeve of the shimmering jacket, and Khezir knocked Brian’s arm away. Brian had just enough time to look surprised as Khezir let fly with a blow to Brian’s gut, followed quickly with a kick to the thigh.

Brian expelled air, then sucked it in and screamed before he took a chop to the back of his neck and dropped to the ground, squirming in agony.

“You have the keys, Gozan?” Khezir asked.

Gozan held them up and waggled them.

The two men were inside the Bentley when three more boys ran out of the store; two fell to the ground to attend to Brian, while the third raised his phone and shouted, “I have your license plate. I’m on the phone with the police. Give me that jacket, and maybe we won’t press charges.”

Khezir got out of the car and went toward the salesman, who backed up, screaming into the phone, “I need the police. Mariah Koo, Rodeo—”

Khezir grabbed the phone from the young man’s hand, threw it at the store window. Then, as onlookers screamed, he dropped his fist down on the back of the boy’s head.

The salesman’s knees buckled and he fell.

Police sirens could be heard coming up Wilshire, but the Sumaris had the advantage of time.

Khezir said, “I left my jacket in the store.”

“Leave it. This one is better.”

Khezir nodded, then said, “Which do you like more? The mother or the daughter? I want the daughter. She is closer to my age. Maybe she can keep up with me.”

“Anything you want, Khezzy. Anything at all.”

CAPTAIN LUKE WARREN arrived on Rodeo Drive at 3:18 that afternoon and found five squad cars double-parked and uniforms keeping the tourists away from the entrance to the ritzy boutique Mariah Koo.

The first responder was Officer Fox Welky. Welky was from the Wilshire Division, Warren’s precinct, and was waiting for him at the curb. Warren opened his car door, and Welky walked him to the sidewalk, talking the whole time.

Welky said, “Why I called you, Captain. There were these two guys, one maybe fifty, the other about thirty, foreign accents, sounds like the guys who mugged those women at the Beverly Hills.

“These foreigners were in the store for about a half hour then left with a couple of women plus a jacket that had a ticket price of two thousand nine hundred ninety-nine dollars plus tax. They didn’t pay.

“Brian James Finnerty, he’s a salesclerk here.” Welky indicated the store with his thumb. “He ran out to get the crooks to come back in and pay up. He put his hand on the younger one’s arm and the guy turned on him and used some kind of karate. Really hurt the kid. Broke some of his ribs, for sure.

“Then the same thirtyish guy beat up on this other kid. Ravi Hoffman. Hoffman is on his way to the hospital to be checked for head trauma.

“Hold on, Captain, I got the goon’s name here.”

Welky took out his notebook, said, “Khezir Mazul. I think I said that right. He’s the one did the beatings, and Finnerty can identify him. Said he had a lot of weird tattoos over most of his body. And he also had tattoos circling his arms that looked like writing.”

Warren said, “Is the Finnerty kid okay?”

Welky said, “I think so, Captain. He’s hurt, but he’s talking. Ambulance is on the way for him.” Then Welky went on. “Mazul and the other one were last seen driving toward Santa Monica in a midnight-blue Bentley with rental plates. Those are the guys you’re looking for, right, Captain?”

“Nice work, Welky. Very good job.”

Sirens were singing up Wilshire.

Welky said, “Thanks, Captain. Finnerty is still inside, and we also got other witnesses who were watching through the door.”

Captain Warren went through the black glass doors into a slick clothing store that didn’t appeal to him at all. Too much black. Looked like the walking dead shopped here.

Warren found Finnerty lying in a fetal position on a checkered rug, squirming and crying and rocking himself. A bunch of twenty-something salespeople were clustered around him.

“Brian? Are you Brian Finnerty? Brian, the ambulance is coming now. Anyone else see what happened here?”

A salesgirl with white-blond hair identified herself as Angela Lanzadoro. Ms. Lanzadoro said she’d helped a couple of women tourists, sold one of them a Nicole Miller dress.

“They’re mother and daughter. Susan and Serena Stanley from Ann Arbor. The older man, his name was Gozan? He friended them? He and his boyfriend.”

“What makes you say they were boyfriends?”

“I’ve got excellent gay-dar, Officer. Anyway, I think they made plans to have dinner with Susan and Serena tonight.”