“Nothing but,” said Itatani. He glanced around the room. “Sorry there’s no place to sit. There’s some bottled water, if you’re thirsty. Too hot to be cleaning up, but summer’s prime rental time and I want to get this place squared away.”
“No thanks,” said Milo. “What did Orson do?”
Itatani pulled a square of tissue paper from his shirt pocket and dabbed a clear, broad forehead. No moisture on the bronze skin that I’d noticed. “Orson was a bum.
Always late with his rent; then he stopped paying at all. Neighbor complained he was selling drugs, but I don’t know about that, there was nothing I could do. She said all kinds of cars would show up at night, be here a short time, and leave. I told her to call the police.”
“Did she?”
“You’d have to ask her.”
“Which neighbor?”
“Right next door.” Itatani pointed south.
Milo’s pad was out. “So you never talked to Orson about selling drugs?”
“I was going to, eventually,” said Itatani. “What I did try to talk to him about was the rent. Left messages under the door-he never gave me a phone listing, said he hadn’t bothered to get one. That shouldI’ve warned me.” Another swipe at the dry brow. “Didn’t want to scare him off with any drug talk until he paid the rent he owed me. Was this close to posting notice. But he moved out, middle of the night.
Stole furniture. I had his first and last and damage deposit in cash, but he trashed more than was covered by the deposit-cigarette burns on the nightstands, cracked tiles in the bathroom, gouges in the wood floors, probably from dragging cameras around.”
“Cameras?”
“Movie cameras-big, heavy stuff. All sorts of stuff in boxes, too. I warned him about the floors; he said he’d be careful.” He grimaced. “Had to refinish a hundred square feet of oak board, replace some of it totally. I told him no filming in the house, didn’t want any funny business.”
“Like what?”
“You know,” said Itatani. “A guy like that, says he’s making movies but he’s living here. My first thought was something X-rated. I didn’t want that going on here, so I made it clear: this was a residence, not a budget studio. Orson said he had no intention of working here, had some kind of arrangement with one of the studios, he just needed to store some equipment. I never really believed that-you get a studio contract, you don’t live here. I had a bad feeling about him from the beginning-no references, he said he’d been freelancing for a while, working on his own projects.
When I asked him what kind of projects, he just said short films, changed the subject. But he showed me cash. It was the middle of the year, the place had been vacant for a long time, I figured a bird in the hand.”
“When did he start renting, sir?”
“Eleven months ago,” said Itatani. “He stayed for six months, stiffed me for the last two.”
“So it’s been five months since he left,” said Milo. “Have you had other tenants since?”
“Sure,” said Itatani. “First two students, then a hairdresser. Not much better, had to evict them both.”
“Did Orson live alone?”
“Far as I know. I saw him with a couple of women; whether or not he moved them in, I don’t know. So what’d he do to get you down here?”
“A few things,” said Milo. “What did the women look like?”
“One was one of those rock-and-roll types-blond hair, all spiky, lots of makeup. She was here when I showed up to ask about the overdue rent. Said she was a friend of
Orson’s, he was out on location, she’d give him the message.”
“How old?”
“Twenties, thirties, hard to tell with all that makeup. She wasn’t tough or anything-kind of polite, actually. Promised to tell Orson. Nothing happened for a week, I stopped by again but no one was here. I left a note, another week passed,
Orson sent me a check. It bounced.”
“Remember what bank it was from?”
“Santa Monica Bank, Pico Boulevard,” said Itatani. “Closed account, he’d only had it for a week. I came over a third time, looked through the window, saw he still had his stuff here. I could’ve posted right there, but all that does is cost money for filing. Even if you win in Small Claims, try collecting. So I left more messages.