Dream a Little Death, page 11
Just then my phone rang. The number was blocked. And I wasn’t in the mood for surprises.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Dreama.”
Uncle Ray. Jesus.
“How about a late lunch at Philippe’s?”
I shot a glance at the vintage neon sign just up ahead. “Philippe the Original. French Dipped Sandwiches.”
“Come find me after you park,” he said. “I’m already in line.”
I pulled into the lot.
“There are spaces to your left,” Ray said. “But be careful. You don’t want to put another dent into that car.”
The man had eyes in the back of his head.
“You do realize,” he said, “that pedestrians always have the right of way. Especially tourists in bucket hats.”
That was it. “Don’t you think you’re enjoying this a little too much?”
“I’m just getting started,” he replied.
I whipped open the door to the restaurant so fast I almost whacked myself in the face. Uncle Ray waved me over to where he was standing.
“We can’t keep meeting like this,” he said.
“I wonder if I know what you mean,” I said, channeling Barbara Stanwyck in Double Indemnity.
Ray didn’t miss a beat. “I wonder if you wonder.”
“Did you know that Billy Wilder and Raymond Chandler almost killed each other working on that script?” I asked. “Chandler thought Wilder was smug.”
“And Wilder thought Chandler was arrogant,” Ray answered. “Because when it came to movies, Chandler was an amateur.” He looked at me pointedly. “And amateurs are the first ones to get hurt.”
“Afternoon, Ray,” said our favorite server. “What about it, Dreama? He behaving himself today?”
I gave Ray a sidelong glance. “Hard to say.”
Ray tucked his phone into his back pocket, then ordered two beef dips, two pickled eggs, and one nacho cheese Doritos. After the server loaded our items onto the tray, we found a quiet booth in the back. I slid into my seat, and nonchalantly slathered my sandwich with hot mustard. Ray watched, trying not to laugh, as I washed down my first bite with an entire cup of water.
“You okay?” He reached across the table and started thumping on my back.
“I’m fine.” I squirmed away. “Look, why don’t we lay our cards on the table?”
“Great idea.” He ripped open his bag of chips. “Why are you following me?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“I’m not following you,” he said.
“On Instagram, you are,” I said. “Don’t bother denying it. You’ve also kind of been around me, my house, the places I go, you know, a bit more than usual.”
“Well, that’s pretty vague.”
“You want me to get specific?”
Ray shook the last of the Doritos into his mouth. “Sure.”
I cut my egg into four quarters, then each quarter into halves. Out with it, Dreama. “Did you visit me the other day?”
“Yes,” he said. “We had coffee. I brought a cherry pie from Du-par’s. You ate three pieces. Ring any bells?”
“After that, I’m talking. Maybe when I wasn’t home?”
Ray frowned. “How could I visit you if you weren’t home?”
This conversation wasn’t going exactly as I’d planned. I paused, then blurted out, “It’s about the $40,000. Look, I just need to know if you took it. It’s okay if you did. I just want to know.”
“Stop right there. Please.” Ray shook his head. “I don’t believe this. That asshole has crossed the line.”
“Which asshole?”
“Lieutenant Hepworth. I know you spoke with him.”
“You see? You have been following me!”
“That’s ridiculous. I haven’t been following you. I just know how the man operates. He’s a good talker, I’ll give him that. I’m betting he played with your head, made you doubt me, but he’s wrong. I need you to understand. I am not a dirty cop.”
“Ray—”
He held up his hand. “He scared you, didn’t he? Made threats. Maybe he even told you it would go easier for me if you gave him some information he could use. What a piece of shit, dicking around with my family.” He leaned forward. “Do you hear that? I called you a piece of shit, Doug.”
Oh, my god.
He thought I was wearing a wire.
“Ray,” I said. “I am not recording this conversation. I would never do something like that to you. I do not for a second believe that you took a $40,000 bribe. Or kickback. Or whatever.”
He put his head in his hands, then looked up at me, his eyes red. “Then why are you asking me about the money?”
I stared at him. It was obvious he had no idea what I was talking about. I didn’t know who broke into my house and stole that money, but it wasn’t my uncle Ray.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so confused about everything these days. My career’s in shambles, my love life’s a complete mess—”
“Join the club,” he said. “Scoot over, okay?” He got up from his seat, slid in next to me, and gave me a hug. He smelled like cigarettes. So much for breaking old habits. “I’m really sorry for what I said. It was out of line. I know you’d never do anything like that. It’s the stress getting to me—everybody asking me questions, putting me on the defensive. It wasn’t fair to assume you were part of it. You can ask me anything you want, anytime you want. As far as you’re concerned I’m an open book.”
I smiled. “That goes both ways.”
“I am so glad to hear you say that. Because I’d really like to know what you were doing in South Central today.”
Damn, he was good. “I want to know what you were doing in South Central today.”
“I’m a cop, Dreama. I go places. I check on things. It’s my job.”
“You’ve been suspended.”
“I’m going to repeat my question,” he said. “What were you doing in South Central today?”
“I was looking for someone,” I said.
“I gathered. And who exactly were you looking for?”
“A guy named Lucius Ramsay.”
He slammed his fist on the table. “Goddamn it!”
“What?”
“This is exactly what I’m talking about. What the hell did Hepworth ask you to do?”
“I told you! Nothing!”
“Are you crazy? Do you have any idea who Lucius Ramsay is?”
“He’s some kind of rapper,” I said. “I needed to talk to him. He’s a friend of a friend of mine, Destiny D-Low.” That was 100 percent accurate, if not the whole story.
“Might I suggest that your friend Destiny get herself a new friend? Because Lucius Ramsay is a criminal and extremely dangerous. Do you understand me? I don’t want you anywhere near him.”
Just then Ray’s phone rang. He looked at the number and something dark passed across his face. When he picked up, a woman started yelling at him.
She didn’t sound like Gram.
He hung up after a minute, then rose to his feet. “I have to go. So please listen to me. I love you, but I’m worried about some of your choices. You need to stop and think, Dreama. Think before you act.”
Easier said than done.
I finished my food, and ate the rest of the sandwich Ray had left behind, then I looked at my phone.
One text from Teddy. He was checking up on me.
Another missed call from Lieutenant Hepworth.
And a text from Cat, all in caps: WHERE ARE U? MEET ME AT 11345 SUNSET BLVD. IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU!
Experience suggested that I did not, but I was absolutely open to new approaches. The 10 was backed up, but I got there within the hour. It wasn’t until I pulled up right in front, however, that I realized where I was.
And that Cat’s days were numbered.
Chapter 21
“Tell me this is a coincidence,” I said to Cat. “That you are standing in front of this particular establishment.”
Low Key Social Club.
L.A.’s number one tattoo shop.
Owned and operated by one Clayton Key.
And in case you were wondering, rebound sex is always a mistake.
“I prefer to think of it as serendipity,” Cat said. “How often do you find an open parking space on the Sunset Strip on a Saturday evening?”
“Show-off,” I said. “I had to pay fifteen bucks, and it’s not even dark yet.”
Cat looked up. “The sun is going down. In any case, I like to get to parties early. Before everything goes to hell.”
I pulled a Colgate Wisp out of my basket and ran it over my teeth. “You could’ve warned me.”
She studied my white eyelet camisole and black and white striped hip-huggers. “You look great.”
Though not as festive as she did, in a rainbow-striped satin pencil skirt, a baby tee that read, “KATE MOSS AND SOME PIZZA SLICES,” and Birkenstocks that I think used to be mine.
“Oh, no,” I said. “Across the street. Don’t look.”
Outside the Roxy box office there was a group of conservatively dressed twenty-somethings pointing their phones at us.
“Could be a church group,” I said.
“Ooh,” Cat said. “They’re jaywalking.”
One of the girls came right up to me. “Excuse me, but—”
“She is, and she doesn’t mind,” said Cat.
We posed for pictures. By then I needed a coffee. But Cat was anxious to put her plan into action before her meter ran out.
“What exactly is your plan?” I asked.
Cat said, “We go inside, you lock eyes with Clayton, realize what you threw away, and move in together. I need you settled.”
“When did you become such a Clayton fan?”
“He’s a good guy, in spite of the artful stubble. And like I said, he’s pining for you. Here.” Cat handed me a black eye pencil. “You look washed-out. Do an Amy Winehouse eye.”
I shook my head, then rifled around in my purse until I found some sparkly highlighter, which I rubbed onto my cheekbones. “I’ve already been down this road. It’s not going to work.”
“Didn’t you once tell me that Clayton was the one that got away?”
“We were together for half a second,” I said.
She took my hand, and pushed open the door. “My point exactly.”
Inside, the lights were off.
“Where is everybody?” I asked. “Do you smell smoke?”
Cat sniffed the air, then nodded. “Mark my words. Someone threw a joint into the trash last night and started a small fire.” She walked over to the front desk and pushed the service bell.
A voice came from the back. “We’re not open yet!”
“Let’s go,” I whispered.
Cat poked me in the ribs. “Say something.”
“Fire marshal,” I cried. Oh, my god.
A chair scraped against the wooden floor. Then footsteps. Half a second later Clayton Key appeared—shirtless, I might add—backlit against the office doorway. He still looked good enough to eat.
“Hi,” I said. “Cat and I were in the neighborhood, so—”
“What took you so long?” He broke into a grin.
I’d totally forgotten he had dimples.
Cat said, “Uh, Clayton? You might want to—”
He looked down at his bare chest, then grabbed a Low Key T-shirt off the desk and tugged it on. “Sorry about that. Air conditioner’s messed up. So, Dreama. Man. You look amazing. How have you been?”
“Good,” I said.
Cat interrupted, “Is that smoke I’m smelling?”
Clayton nodded. “Somebody tossed a joint into the wastebasket last night and started a small fire.”
Cat turned to me. “How totally weird.”
Clayton put his hand on my shoulder. “So you changed your mind.”
“Changed my mind?” I asked, heart pounding.
He nodded. “About that tattoo.”
“Oh, that.” In spite of myself I was disappointed. “No, I haven’t changed my mind.”
“Too bad,” he said. “I was kind of looking forward to leaving my mark on you.”
“You left your mark,” Cat said. “Trust me on that one.”
I glared at her, then turned to Clayton. “Do you have a minute to talk?”
He led me over to a couch in the back of the shop. We sat down next to one another. “You have my full attention.”
I felt myself blush. Stupid. You are not a schoolgirl. You are a mature woman. Mature women know what they want. Proceed. “I wanted to ask about your tattoo signature. A key, right? Pretty cute.”
“Yeah,” he said cautiously. “That used to be my signature. But I had some legal issues recently, and I don’t sign my work anymore.”
“What happened?”
He sighed. “I did this awesome Thor tattoo. Covered this guy’s entire back. Took an entire month. On the last day, after I finished up the cross-hatching, I put a key on the handle of Thor’s hammer. The guy okayed it, but I guess he was wasted at the time and didn’t remember, so he took me to court.”
“And?”
“I got lucky. The judge dismissed the case. The guy was a loser. Whatever. It’s part of the job. Right, Cat?”
“Yup,” she said. “People change their minds all the time.”
“It’s usually women,” Clayton said. “No offense.”
“Actually, I wanted to ask you about a woman,” I said. “You gave her a tattoo. Anything you could tell me would help. Her name is Maya Duran.”
“Doesn’t sound familiar.”
I said, “Very beautiful, with pale, short dark hair, tall. A dancer. Young. Early twenties?”
“What kind of tattoo was it?”
“A pink lotus flower, on her arm. Large-ish.”
“I do a lot of large-ish pink lotus flowers.”
I closed my eyes and visualized the tattoo on Maya’s arm. “This one was special. It was black with a wash of pink, kind of like a veil, and these abstract black whorls of water. Like bull’s-eyes. No other colors. And your signature was embedded into the seedpod at the center of the flower.”
Clayton nodded. “I remember that one.”
He got up from the couch and went over to a large black book tucked behind the front desk. I followed, watching over his shoulder as he thumbed through the pages looking for the right sheet of paper.
“Here it is,” Clayton said. “She came in last May. A little less than a year ago. She brought a picture. She wanted me to copy it. This is how it came out.”
There was a Polaroid clipped to the sheet of paper. Clayton handed it to me and Cat.
Cat immediately recognized the tattoo. It was a carbon copy of the one she’d given several years ago to Carmen Luz.
I immediately recognized the girl. It was Maya Duran, proudly showing off her brand new tattoo. Only in this photograph she wasn’t a pale, edgy beauty with a dark glossy bob.
She was a California dream girl, with masses of long, blond hair.
“She was really nervous about the whole thing,” Clayton said. “It was her first time.”
“Anything else you remember?” I asked.
Clayton frowned. “She was with this older woman who seemed to be running the show. She was pretty much covered in ink, so maybe she thought she was some kind of expert. Anyway, she gave me a really hard time, standing over me, barking orders, intimidating the girl.”
“I’m surprised she let you sign your work.”
Clayton looked at me. “She didn’t.”
Cat raised an eyebrow.
“The older woman left for a while,” Clayton explained. “So I asked the girl if it would be okay. I mean, it was her body, right?”
Cat turned to me. “The man’s a feminist.”
Ignoring her, I asked Clayton if there was anything else.
He took a breath. “I don’t want to be rude, but the older woman had these huge—” He cupped his hands over his chest. “And this wild hair.”
I should have seen this one coming a mile away.
“Was it the color of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos?” I asked.
Clayton laughed. “Sounds like you know her.”
Cat looked at me.
“I do,” I said. “Her name is Pee Chee Lowenstein.”
Clayton looked down at the piece of paper. “Nope. Definitely not Pee Chee Lowenstein.”
Impossible.
“What is it then?” Cat asked.
“Phyllis,” he read.
“Phyllis?” asked Cat.
“Yeah,” Clayton said. “Phyllis Dietrichson.”
Of course.
Cat asked, “Who the hell is Phyllis Dietrichson?”
I punched the name into my phone and up came the iconic film noir image: Barbara Stanwyck in dark sunglasses, dark lipstick, and a garish blond wig. A garish blond wig chosen by director Billy Wilder to complement her character’s garish nameplate anklet.
I turned my phone so Cat could see the picture.
“Phyllis Dietrichson is the name of the femme fatale in Double Indemnity,” I explained.
And Double Indemnity is the story of a murder that—at least on first inspection—looks like a suicide.
Chapter 22
Clayton’s assistant showed up with a couple of six-packs of Corona and some paper towels, and Cat and I stuck around and helped them clean the place up. By that time there was already a crowd milling around outside. After Cat took off, the assistant starting signing people in, and Clayton walked me back to my car. We didn’t say much, but he took my hand and I didn’t pull it away. I can’t say it felt right, but it didn’t feel wrong.
On the ride home, I had a lot to think about.
Start with the obvious.
Pee Chee Lowenstein (sorry, Pee Chee’s alter ego, Phyllis Dietrichson) and Maya Duran (a blonde at the time) had showed up last May at Clayton’s shop wanting a tattoo for Maya. Not just any tattoo, though. An exact replica of the pink lotus flower Cat had given Carmen Luz.
That would be Carmen Luz, whose photograph I’d taken from Miles’s wallet, and who’d been raped and left for dead by Big Fatty.
That would be Big Fatty—rapper, ex-felon, and close personal friend of Destiny D-Low.
