The two of them exited the reception hall.
Black Suit’s luggage was among the first to bounce down the ramp onto the carousel. A pair of midsized valises in that same expensive-looking ebony leather. Probably calfskin. First Class tags. Once again Black Suit rebuffed Dugger’s attempt to tote, swinging the strap of the carry-on over his shoulder and hefting a suitcase in each hand with no apparent strain. I’d hovered at the neighboring carousel, well concealed among a group of arrivals from Denver. Keeping Dugger and Black Suit in steady view—trying, without success, to read their lips.
Very little conversation anyway. Mostly one-sided: Dugger made an occasional comment while Black Suit chomped his gum and played Sphinx.
I stuck with them on their rapid march to the parking lot, was two minutes behind the Volvo as it left the airport. Back on the 405 freeway. North. Return to L.A.
This time Dugger took the Wilshire west exit and drove into Brent-wood, and I assumed he’d be heading for his L.A. office—soon to be the exclusive headquarters for his alleged consulting group.
But once again he proved me wrong, passing the black-and-white office building and continuing into Santa Monica. Back to the Ocean Front high-rise? Then why hadn’t he switched to the 10 west? No, he was swinging a quick right onto Nineteenth Street.
I turned too, in time to see him hook another right.
Nosing into an alley that fed into a parking lot behind several storefronts. Stationing the Volvo in an empty slot behind a rear door.
Red, white, and green sign: BROOKLYN PIZZA GUYS. Plastic pie above the lettering.
I stopped, backed up to the mouth of the alley, the Seville’s grille barely extending past a drive-up dry cleaners, just close enough to see the white car.
Dugger stepped out of the Volvo, looked at his watch yet again. Black Suit was more relaxed than he’d been at the airport, swinging his legs out with unexpected grace, looking up at the sky, stretching, yawning. Still chewing like mad.
Dugger made for the door to the restaurant, but Black Suit just stood there, and Dugger stopped.
The thickset man squeezed his eyes into slits. Scratched his head. Buttoned his suit jacket and rolled his neck. Working out kinks after the cross-country flight. But other than this gesture showing no signs of discomfort. No anxiety, either, on his broad, brown mask of a face. Mr. Tough Guy.
He said something to Dugger, who returned to the car and produced a white tissue. Black Suit extricated his gum, wrapped it in the paper, placed the paper in his pocket. Then he nodded, waited as Dugger held open Brooklyn Pizza Guys’ back door and passed through with an imperial air.
Gourmet lunch for a goombah? The guy had Brooklyn all over him.
The way she was hog-tied and head-shot tells me this was all business.
Central casting goombah. I was willing to bet the pizza joint sported checked tablecloths and straw-wrapped Chianti bottles hanging from the ceiling. Sometimes people defy stereotypes. Mostly, they lack imagination.
Goombah traveling first-class with expensive luggage.
High-priced specialist. A guy who lived well when a well-heeled client was paying the bills.
I drove up the alley, exited at Twentieth Street, drove to the drugstore where Bugger had bought goodies for the church-school kids, and bought a cheap camera. The wonders of technology—for a few bucks you could get one with a zoom.
Then back to Nineteenth, where I parked on the street and returned on foot to Brooklyn Pizza Guys’ alley entrance. Stationed myself behind a dumpster and hoped no one would spot me. I was lucky. The neighboring businesses were a hearing aid store and an employment agency, and neither seemed to be meriting any rear-entrance traffic. But the dumpster reeked of rotten produce, and it was thirty-three smelly minutes before Bugger and Black Suit reemerged.
The restaurant’s air conditioner chugged away, more than loud enough to cover the sound of my click click click.
Nice, clear medium shot of the two of them, side by side.
Close-up of Bugger, biting his lip.
Then one of Black Suit’s impassive face and flat, dark eyes.
I kept the camera going as they made their way back to the Volvo, filling the roll with side- and rearviews. Caught them walking in step. No amiability. All business.