Try Fear (32 page)

We got to my car and I angled for the freeway. “What’s your favorite food?” I said.

“My favorite, or what I can eat?”

“Your favorite.”

“I had me this steak once, I don’t even know what it was, but it was like all melt in your mouth. But I don’t think I can
chew nothin’.”

“Can you suck through a straw?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

There’s a place on Alvarado that makes old-fashioned chocolate milk shakes. Family business since 1948. Started by one Frank
Lonegger a few years after he came back from the war. One shop. None of that franchise surrender. The grandson runs it now.

Daryl actually seemed excited when the shake with the whipped cream and cherry was put in front of him.

“When’s the last time you had one of these?” I said.

“I ain’t never had one of these.”

“No way.”

He shook his head. “Not like this.”

“Dig in,” I said.

He did.

I called my doctor friend, George Mazzetti, a guy I used to use a lot back in my Gunther, McDonough days.

“How’s the celebrity lawyer?” he asked.

“Don’t believe everything you read,” I said. “I’d like to ask you a favor and count on your professional discretion. A guy
I’d like you to look at, who for certain reasons doesn’t want to be in the hospital. Would you mind, and then send me the
bill?”

“For you? Of course. You almost doubled my practice with that one accident case your firm handled. The school bus on Western.”

“I remember it well. Thanks. Can I bring him over?”

“Bring him.”

I drove Daryl to the office, which was in a two-story professional building on Los Feliz. I shot a little breeze with George.
Then I said, “Give him a good look over and call me when you’re finished.”

“Where you going?” George said.

“Yeah,” Daryl said. “Where?”

“A little tourist shopping,” I said. “I’ll be back.”

I
DROVE DOWN
Hollywood Boulevard. As I crossed Western I became aware of the song playing on the radio. It was right in the middle of
Eric Marienthal’s rendition of the Beatles’ tune “I Will.”

Nobody blows a smoother sax than L.A. boy Marienthal, if you like smooth, and right now I did. I remembered Sister Mary listening
to the Beatles’ version at the shooting range.

I liked Marienthal’s treatment, but was glad the words weren’t there. The forever words. The words that would have cut me.

So I just drove and listened to the music. And realized I was wishing that Sister Mary was in the car with me and we had no
trial happening. That we were just cruising around town, listening to jazz. Then I pushed the thought right out. I had to
not think that way anymore.

Because this would have to be the last case I worked with Sister Mary. She liked it too much, and I liked her liking it. If
there was a God I didn’t want to be responsible for tearing a soul away from him.

I turned the music off and cursed and hit the steering wheel a few times.

Finally I parked about a block and a half from where I had first seen Sonny Moon. I walked down until I could see him and
his disciples passing out literature. A guy playing guitar. Knuckle Face wasn’t there, as far as I could see.

In hiding maybe. He was my number-one suspect and I had to find a way to prove it.

I popped into a novelty store and bought myself four Indiana Jones hats, paying the typical tourist freight. I put a hat on,
then my sunglasses, and rolled up my sleeves. Then I went out to hang out on the boulevard of dreams. I would fit right in.

I waited around about half an hour, watching the moonies across the street harass passersby. Pretty boring show.

Batman walked by me, on his way to the Kodak to pose for pics with the tourists. “Nice hat,” he said.

“Nice mask,” I said.

I got a call from my doctor friend. “He’ll be all right,” he said. “But he’s going to be in a lot of pain for a week. I can
prescribe something for the pain, and I suggest he not hit things with his face for a while.”

“Good advice,” I said. “I follow it myself.”

“Where do I send the bill?”

“I’ll tell you when I come in.”

“And when will that be?”

“Give me another hour or so. Tell Daryl to sit in the lobby and read a magazine.”

“I think I’ve got the latest AARP mag.”

“He’ll love it.”

A
BOUT TWENTY MINUTES
after the call a blue Lincoln pulled up to the curb across the way and parked in a loading zone. The big guy, Knuckle Face,
got out. He high-fived a couple people and sat down next to the guy with the guitar.

I went to the corner and crossed the street. I pulled the Indy hat low over my eyes, slouched a little, and, holding the other
hats under one arm, ambled toward the quasi-religious gathering.

A girl with a fistful of flyers got to me first, handed me one. The title was
The End of the World and the Dirty Little Secret Your Goverment Won’t Talk About.

Goverment
was spelled that way.

She said, “Would you like to take our survey?”

“No thanks,” I said, with a gravelly
Sling Blade
voice. “I want some Gover Mints.”

“Huh?”

“Want a hat?”

“Um, no, but they’re pretty cool.”

I touched the brim of my hat, the way the old cowboys used to do when meeting a lady on the street, and continued on. Since
I already had my flyer, nobody paid me much attention.

I stopped next to the guy with a guitar and Mr. Knuckle Face. I held out one of the fedoras and said, “Anybody want to buy
a hat?” Then I quickly shoved one onto Knuckles’ head.

“Looks good,” I said.

Knuckles ripped it off his head and threw it at me and told me to get out of his face. I never wanted to do anything more
in my life. I took the hat, turned, and slouched on, memorizing the license plate of Knuckles’ car.

When I got to the corner of Hollywood and Highland I saw two boys, twins, with their mother. They were eight or nine, and
pointing across the street at the El Capitan Theatre. The latest Disney spectacular was about to suck them in.

“They are a couple of fine-looking Harrison Fords,” I said. “Would they like to have two hats? Free?”

The mother said, “Oh, no thank you.”

One of the tykes said, “What’s a hairy man Ford, Mommy?”

“Great question,” I said, holding out the fedoras.

The mother looked at the kids. She looked at me. I smiled. She grabbed the kids by the hands and hurried across the street.

You just can’t trust a man in a hat anymore, I guess. I made a mental note to tell Pick McNitt about this. His hat theory
was taking a beating.

I crossed the street. On the other side was a homeless guy talking to no one in particular. He was saying, “Try to get a date
if you don’t have money. Try to get a date if they say you’re a sex offender.”

He didn’t have anything on his head. So I handed him the hats, except the one with Knuckle smell on it. He took the hats.
Maybe it would help him find a date.

I hoped not.

I
TOOK
K
NUCKLES’
hat back to the doctor’s office.

Daryl was glad to see me. “Man, I’m bored! Where you been?”

“Trying to figure out who beat you up. Smell this.” I held the hat up.

Daryl pulled his head back. “You crazy?”

“Just do it.”

He looked at me, eyes narrowing, then grabbed the hat. He gave it a tentative nose. His eyes widened. “Man, I think that’s
it. Where’d you get it?”

“You got a place to stay?” I said.

He took in a long breath. “Yeah, sure, a fancy hotel.”

“You on the street?”

“I was gonna sleep at the house tonight.”

“Not a good idea. I’ll get you a room.”

“With TV?”

“Oh yeah. I’ll make sure you got a TV.”

I did. At the Hollywood Motel 6. I prepaid for a week’s stay. Daryl thought it was heaven. He looked like he needed heaven.
I gave him twenty bucks and wrote the room phone number down in the margin of a jaunty
Welcome to Motel 6
card.

“I’ll check back,” I said.

“Where you goin’?”

“To get some religion,” I said.

I
DROVE BACK
to Hollywood and had to park on Las Palmas, near the church at the end of the street. I walked back to the boulevard and
hung out between the Scientology building and the Believe It or Not Museum.

I kept wondering if I believed what I was doing, or not.

Mostly not.

In the same place across the street was Sonny Moon and his hangers-on. Minus Knuckles. Minus the Lincoln. Great. Now I had
to make like a real live PI and be bored waiting around for somebody who could be long gone. We had a couple hours of daylight
left. This was not my idea of a good time.

My idea of a good time was nailing the scumbag who shot Sister Mary. And I wasn’t too particular about how I’d do it. Various
options kept auditioning in my mind. I was leaning toward the ones with the most pain.

A half hour went by. Then a full. I ducked into the Mickey D’s next to the Guinness World Records Museum and used the oval
office, snagged a Filet-O-Fish, went back to my post.

Still no sign of Knuckles.

As I was munching, an old man with Fred Mertz pants and two days’ growth of beard came up to me and said, “Wyatt Earp died
here.”

His eyes were watery and grasping. Like he needed to talk to somebody. Like he was chiefly known for being ignored.

I wasn’t going anywhere, so I said, “Is that right?”

“Advised the movie business, he did. And one of the Dalton Gang died here, too. Emmett Dalton. He moved to Los Angeles in
the 1920s, after serving fifteen years in prison for attempting to rob a Kansas bank. Guess what he did here?”

“Tell me.”

“Became a real estate agent.”

“So he followed the money.”

“Darn tootin’,” the old man said.

I looked across the street and saw Knuckles walking past Frederick’s of Hollywood. It wasn’t hard to spot the ape in front
of a window of skimpy lace. He had come from the Las Palmas side, so I had to figure he’d parked his car on the same street.

Now was my shot.

“Where you from, son?” the old man said.

“Been nice talking to you,” I said, turning.

“Wait,” he called out. “John Wayne’s real name was Marion!”

I gave the man a wave, then crossed the boulevard. I started looking for the Lincoln. I walked past the Las Palmas Hotel,
not seeing the car. I got to the corner and that’s where I spotted it, parked on Yucca, in front of the community center,
with its gaudy orange, red, and turquoise buildings. Four hours’ free parking here. A good spot for a guy wanting to save
some quarters.

I thought it fitting that he’d parked right in front of the sign on the fence that read
Dog defecation must be removed immediately by owner under penalty of law.

The spot where the car was parked was perfect for me. I could go back and watch the little group pass out their pamphlets.
That would be exciting. Then whenever Knuckles decided to leave, I’d have time to get my car, get across the street, and tail
him.

It did turn out to be one great snooze-fest. When the highlight of your day is seeing SpongeBob in front of the Kodak Theatre,
and Captain Jack Sparrow walking up and down the sidewalk hawking maps to stars’ homes, you know you’ve pretty much reached
the abyss.

No wonder people were looking for a new way of life. No wonder Sonny Moon over there could get people to take his stuff and
give him money in return.

A
FTER AN HOUR
more of hanging out with Sonny Moon, Knuckles finally headed back toward Las Palmas. I went for my car and got across the
boulevard in time to see him pulling away from the community center. His Lincoln wouldn’t be hard to follow, as long as I
didn’t get caught at a light.

I didn’t get caught.

And didn’t have far to follow.

It was a duplex on Beachwood, with a straight-on view of the Hollywood sign. A sago palm in front, twin cypresses on the sides.
Well kept.

Friendly. Like I wasn’t.

Knuckles turned into the driveway and went all the way back. I parked on the side street, got the tire iron from my trunk,
and walked up the same drive.

I knocked on the oak door in the back unit. I held the tire iron behind my right leg.

Knuckles opened up.

“Where’s the rifle?” I said.

He just looked at me.

“You have any felonies you want to tell me about?”

He started to slam the door, but I was ready. I kicked it flush with my right foot. It flew open and Knuckles stumbled back
a few steps.

He recovered and the look in his eye told me he wanted to pounce. I held up the tire iron and said, “Hold it, Sparky.”

He held, then asked me, in very uncivil language, what I was doing.

“Get on your knees,” I said.

Knuckles didn’t move.

“This thing makes dents,” I said. “I will dent you. Get on your knees.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Now!” I brought the iron down on a little table by the door. It smashed in half.

Knuckles, gape mouthed, just looked at me. I gave him a Jack Black stare-down. Crazy eyes.

He lowered himself to his knees. The place had a hardwood floor. Good.

“Now lace your hands behind your head,” I said.

“You can’t just come in here. This is my house.”

“You own it?”

“Come on, man. What do you want?”

“A confession.”

He said nothing, but didn’t look confused.

“I’m going to search the place,” I said. “And to do that, I have to incapacitate you. Or you can just tell me where it is
now, and we’ll be done.”

“You’re whacked out, dude. The cops are gonna love this.”

“What, you’re going to turn me in? There is no criminal conduct here. You opened the door, I came in, we talked.”

“You have a tire iron!”

“Do I? And you can prove this how?”