The Midnight Show Murders (2) (11 page)

Chapter
TWENTY-ONE

Thanks to my nicks and scratches, I looked like my barber was Sweeney Todd. They stung. I was tired. And thirsty. And as always, I was hungry. More than that, I had zero interest in meeting with “women from the network.” That would most likely be Carmen Sandoval and her attentive slavegirl Whisper Jansen. And probably Vida Evans. Dedicated network employees, eager to discuss Worldwide’s response to the tragedy. That was the last thing I needed after experiencing what I could accurately describe as the worst night of my life.

Knowing the company mind-set, I suspected the first question could easily be a paraphrase of the old joke about Mrs. Lincoln: “Other than that, Billy, what did you think of the show?”

I’d have to meet with Carmen et al. sooner or later. But later was better.

I rolled up the probably ruined tux I’d been wearing and stuck it into my overnight bag, along with the other utensils I’d needed for the show.

I’d learned through experience to turn off my cellphone before leaving the dressing area. You don’t want an incessant ringtone annoying people backstage. I clicked it on and quickly scrolled through the calls it had registered. Apparently, once you’ve survived a fatal explosion, it seems everybody wants to talk to you. That included, among others, Cassandra, Carmen, Vida, Harry Paynter, and Kiki. Even Stew.

I’d return the calls later, when I’d settled in at a hotel. I slipped the phone into my pocket, picked up my overnight, and left the room.

Standing in the hall, I steeled myself and headed for an exit.

The LAPD had slapped an official yellow keep-out tape across the entrance to Des’s dressing room. Though the tape was adhering to the closed door, one end of it was torn and hanging free.

Somebody had broken the police seal.

Just as I was contemplating this breach of the law, the door opened and Fitz exited the room.

“Billy!” he said, jerking in surprise. “Jasus. You nearly put the heart crossways in me.”

He was still wearing his white tux pants and green T-shirt, but he’d dumped the coat and hat. I didn’t see any cuts or abrasions, but his eyes were red, and he had, past the slightly matted beard, the pasty-faced, frazzled look of a man who’d been through the mill.

He was carrying something. A bulging soft leather man-purse.

“Aw, but it’s awful, ain’t it?” he said. “Des … poor goddamned Des.”

“Poor Des, indeed.”

“You look like you took some damage,” he said.

“Nothing too serious. What about you?”

“The blokes and me, we were pretty far back from the blast. An’ that screen in front of us … it blocked the soot and crap that was flyin’ about. I jus’ keep wishin’ … aw, hell, if only he’d listened to me.”

“Des? If he’d listened to you about what?”

Fitz shook his head. “Nothin’. Not important now.” He was starting to edge away.

“The police talk to you?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah. Tall black lady. Detective … Campbell. It was kinda weird.”

“Weird how?”

“I figgered the chin-wag would be all about Des. And there was a lot of that. But she also wanted to know about
you.
”

I suppose that figured, since Brueghel believed I’d been the target. “What kind of questions?”

“How long I’d known you. Did I know any of your friends? Had anybody been askin’ me about you? Like that. T’wasn’t much I could contribute. Like I told her, we just met last week. Ah, Billy, I better be runnin’…”

“Running because of that?” I asked, pointing to the broken tape.

He stared at me. “I didn’t harm nuthin’.”

“What’s in the bag?”

He hesitated, then sighed and said, “Medicine.”

“Drugs?”

“Nuthin’ heavy. Jus’ some oxy, Percocet, Ecstasy. A little pot. Some white.”

The man was carrying a portable drugstore. “Just light stuff like that?”

“Yeah. Still, I wouldn’t want people sayin’ Des was, you know, an abuser.”

I considered asking him what he planned on doing with the stash, but in truth, I just didn’t care.

“You’re not gonna play the informer?” Fitz asked.

“Just because you broke a police seal to remove drugs from a murder victim’s room?”

Even half hidden by beard, his face registered dismay.

I shook my head. “I won’t say anything unless the detectives make it an issue. And that doesn’t seem likely.”

“You’re a good egg, Billy,” he said, relieved. “I better get out of here with this stuff.”

He headed toward the rear of the building.

“Hold up,” I said. “Where are you going?”

“To the alley exit,” he said. “I sure as hell ain’t gonna carry this past a line of coppers.”

He started walking again, and I was walking with him. It felt like the thing to do. The other direction seemed a little crowded.

“What makes you think there won’t be police in the alley?” I asked the big man.

“ ’Cause I just came in that way. Nary a one.”

He was right. The alley was clear, except for his Hummer, parked with the engine running. As he was about to get in, he asked, “You headed out to Malibu?”

“No. I’m staying in town.”

“Need a lift, then?”

“Thanks, Fitz. I’m okay,” I said. The way the night was going, I didn’t want to risk riding in a pea-green Hummer with a scofflaw Irishman behind the wheel and a bag full of illegal drugs resting between us.

“Later, then,” Fitz said, and rolled away down the alley, heading east. I walked off, heading west.

Chapter
TWENTY-TWO

I followed the alley to Cahuenga Boulevard and headed south to Fountain to see for myself how bad things were in front of the theater.

It was worse than I’d imagined. A great clog of humanity and noise and bright lights, featuring police and parked patrol cars, emergency vehicles, paramedics and EMTs, media and TV news vans, a bomb squad transport, pedestrian gawkers, and street people. A bumper-to-bumper traffic line crept by until it reached Cahuenga, where, faced with nothing more to see but several blocks of dark industrial buildings and a black man standing on the corner with an overnight bag, the vehicles drifted off into the night.

I spied my lovely leased Lexus—try saying that five times in a row—sitting nearly alone in the lot. Most of the others had been removed before the drivers of a Channel 12 news van and an LAPD patrol car decided that they needed a parking space more than we unlucky few would be needing an exit for our cars.

Considering Brueghel’s warning, maybe
lucky
was more accurate in my case. Any bomber expert enough to demolish only one single victim on a small, moderately populated stage could probably wire a device to a car in jig time.

I considered and then decided against bumming a ride in a patrol car. Going back to the theater would mean risking a meet-up with Carmen and Whisper or, worse, the FBI. It wasn’t that far a walk to Sunset, where, if there were no cabs, I’d at least find a restaurant or bar where I could drink or eat or, better, drink and eat, then call a cab.

I was about a quarter of a block away when I heard a car behind me. Moving slowly along Cahuenga. I quickly scanned the buildings to my right, searching for a nice narrow pathway to race down on my sprained ankle.

The car stopped. Its driver tapped the horn.

I didn’t turn to look. Instead, I walked faster. Limped, actually. Limped faster.

The car started up again, engine roaring. It was a pale blue Mercedes-Benz with a black convertible top. Not new. Probably not worth more than sixty grand. It cut into the driveway in front of me.

I was about to do a bolt when I saw Vida behind the wheel. She bent across the seat to pop open the passenger door. “Get in, Billy. This isn’t Manhattan. People don’t walk here. Definitely not at night.”

I tossed the bag behind the seat and got in, giving her a grateful grin. My ankle was grateful, too, temporarily rid of all that weight. But my butt was telling me that I was sitting on something other than Mercedes leather.

Vida watched me with a raised eyebrow as I groped between my legs. When my hand emerged with an iPhone, I hoped still in one piece, she said, “Sorry, I’ll take that.”

She put the instrument in a little black beaded bag, saying, “What a horror show that was. The explosion was bad enough, but the panic. People screaming and crawling over one another. Hitting and kicking. A woman I respected, a VP at Sony, was smashing people with the spiked heel of her Roberto Cavalli.”

She stared at my face. “A detective told us you were okay. But I see cuts.”

“Scratches. I’m okay.”

She continued to study my face. “Don’t you have a car?”

“In the lot next to the theater, trapped.”

She put the Mercedes in reverse and backed out into the street, then roared forward toward Sunset. “You have to tell me where we’re going,” she said.

“You wouldn’t be hungry, by any chance?”

She smiled. “Oh, wouldn’t I?”

Her suggestion was Meals by Genet, a small establishment with an exterior resembling an unassuming French café. But before you leap to any conclusions about the menu, as I did, I should add that this Genet is a local chef and caterer, and not the late French existentialist and ex-con playwright. And the restaurant is located on a block of South Fairfax Avenue known as Little Ethiopia, or as some purists would have it, Little Addis Ababa. Tucked between an eclectic home-furnishings shop and an adult day-care facility, it shares the neighborhood with other restaurants, markets, coffeehouses, and stores selling various products, predominantly imported from the horn of Africa.

The restaurant’s dining room is elegant, softly lit, and, when you’re lucky enough to be accompanied by a smart, beautiful woman, extremely romantic. And the food? Well, the first bites were so delicious they almost made me forget that I was accompanied by a smart, beautiful woman. But not even manna from heaven could pull that off.

I watched Vida glide past the other late diners as she returned from the powder room. She was quite a vision in her aqua dress, and I told her so. “You are an instant reminder that there is still romance in the world,” I said. “Especially in that dress.”

“This little Versace?”

“It’s a knockout,” I said. “But it’s gilding the lily.”

“My goodness, Billy. That kind of talk, combined with food and wine, can lead to … almost anything.”

“I like this version of you,” I said. “During all the days we worked together, you seemed a little …” I was searching for a word.

“Distant,” she said. “Cold. Unapproachable. Bitchy. Stop me before I begin to hate myself.”

“ ‘Businesslike’ is how I’d put it,” I said. “But ‘unapproachable’ works, too.”

“ ‘Businesslike’ is a good one, Billy. These days, I live by a specific set of rules. One of them is: When I work, I work. When I play …”

“As I recall, I asked you out to play once or twice.”

“As I recall, I said I was busy. Which I was. You gave up pretty quickly.”

“I didn’t want to be a bore.”

“That should be the least of your worries.” She took a sip of wine and changed the subject. “Now, does this or does this not meet your restaurant criteria?”

I had asked for a place where the food was tasty and the décor tasteful. And possibly more important, one that was off the
TMZ
grid, where we wouldn’t be bothered by young geeks in baggy pants and backward baseball caps, sticking cameras in our faces and shouting, “Tell us about the big blowout, dudes.”

“You know damn well you knocked it out of the park,” I said.

She smiled. “This is very naughty of us. Carmen wanted desperately to talk to you about the show tomorrow night.”

“The show? How can there be a show without a star? Excuse me for going all Monty Python on you, but the show is dead. Kaput. Finito. It’s an ex-show.”

She shook her head. “This parrot is alive. New York has decided that the show must go on. They’re doing the Craig Kilborn thing. Remember when he pulled the plug on
The Late Late Show
? CBS held several weeklong on-the-air tryouts for the host slot, and Craig Ferguson got the nod. That’s worked out very well.”

“They got lucky,” I said. “Ferguson’s a natural. And the name,
The Late Late Show
, stayed the same. WBC won’t even have that much continuity. It’ll mean starting from scratch. New name. New host. Probably new theater. New everything.”

“That’s what Carmen wants to talk to
you
about,” Vida said.

“Me? They’re not thinking about me hosting the show?”

“Not host. Just to continue as announcer until a host is found.”

“That could take forever,” I said, trying not to panic.

“There are a lot of very funny people who’d jump at the chance,” she said. “It shouldn’t take that long.”

“I’ve got too much going on back in New York.”

Some of my desperation must have surfaced, because she said, “Okay. My bad. I didn’t mean to spoil the moment by mentioning the show. Erase. Rewind. Beep. We’re back to being just a couple on a first date, checking each other out and enjoying an excellent meal.”

“I’ll drink to that,” I said, lifting my wineglass and trying to subdue my apprehension. The “first date” concept intrigued me. It suggested more to come. Even more dates. And as I already mentioned, the meal was splendid, too much so to be soured by thoughts of late-night television. Or murder.

There were many Italian dishes on the menu (supposedly a nod to Italy’s short rule of Ethiopia in the thirties), and I’m sure each of them was excellent, but I could get my pasta fix almost anywhere. It wasn’t often I had the chance to glut myself on
yebere siga tibs
, a mound of tender steak chunks sautéed in Ethiopian butter, onions, green chilies, and several unidentifiable but heady spices and served on a pancake-like bread called
injera
. At Genet, it’s accompanied by a pot of
awaze
, a hot chili purée that will leave you with tears in your eyes and a smile on your face.

I should mention that in lieu of eating utensils, you’re provided with extra
injera
. You tear off a piece and use it to scoop up the food. It may sound messy, but it isn’t. On the other hand, it adds a certain sensuality to the meal. Especially when you’ve moved on to a second bottle of Picket Fence pinot noir and your tablemate suggests you sample each other’s dishes.

I waited for Vida to remove a few cubes of my steak, then watched her close her eyes as she savored their taste. We both took a drink of wine, and I tried some of her
dorowot
, a sort of chicken stew with a sauce of … what the hell was it? Maybe ginger, clove, and a few other things, none of them obvious and all mingling to form something beyond description.

I grinned at Vida. She grinned at me. We took another sip of wine.