“Picture of a homicide victim,” I said. “An LAPD detective would like it run, but his superiors don’t think it’s got enough of a hook for you.”
“Well,” he said, “I certainly can’t promise anything.”
“Should I bring it by?”
“If you choose.”
*
Times headquarters was on First Street, in a massive gray stone building that studded the heart of downtown. I got stuck in freeway mucus, trolled for parking, finally scored a space in an overpriced stacked lot five blocks away.
Three security guards patrolled the Times’s massive, echoing lobby. They let several people pass but stopped me. Two of the uniforms made a show of staring me down as the third called up to Jack McTell’s office, barked my name into the phone, hung up, and told me to wait. Ten minutes later, a young, crew-cut woman in a black sweater and jeans and hiking boots emerged from the elevator. She looked around, saw me, and headed my way.
“You’re the person with the picture?” A Times badge said Jennifer Duff. Her left eyebrow was pierced by a tiny steel barbell.
“This is for Mr. McTell.”
She held out her hand, and I gave her the envelope. She took it delicately, between thumb and forefinger, as if it was tainted, turned her back, and left.
I blew another twenty minutes waiting for the parking lot attendant to move six other cars and free the Seville. I used the time to leave Milo a message that the Times had the photo, and it was up to the editors’ good graces. By now, he was downtown, too, reading microfiche at the Hall of Records, just a couple of blocks away.
Cars were queued up at the 101 on-ramp, so I took Olympic Boulevard west. Avoiding another jam wasn’t all of it. That route took me past Mary Lou Koppel’s office building.
I made it to Palm Drive by three-thirty, hooked a left, and swung around into the back alley. Gull’s and Larsen’s Mercedeses were there, along with a few other late-model luxury cars. Next to the handicapped slot, a copper-colored van was stationed. A white stick-on sign on its flanks read:
THRIFTY CARPET AND DRAPERY CLEANING
A Pico address near La Brea. A 323 number.
The rear glass doors had been propped open with a wooden triangle. I parked and got out.
The corridor smelled like stale laundry. The polyester beneath my feet seeped and made little sucking sounds. At the far end of the hall, a man pushed an industrial shampooer in lazy circles.
Two doors of the Charitable Planning suite were propped open the same way. Mechanical groan from inside. I had a look.
Another man, short, stocky, Hispanic, wearing rumpled gray work clothes, guided an identical machine over the thin, blue indoor-outdoor felt that covered Charitable’s floor. His back was to me, and the din overrode my footsteps.
To the right was a small office. A swivel chair had been lifted and placed atop a scarred steel desk. Off in the corner was a rollaway typing table that hosted an IBM Selectric. On the desktop, next to the chair, were five rubber-banded bundles of mail.
I checked out return addresses. United Way, Campaign for Literacy, the Thanksgiving Fund, the Firefighters Ball. I flipped through all the bundles.
Everyone wanted Sonny Koppel’s money.
The rest of the suite was one enormous room with high, horizontal windows covered by cheap nylon drapes. Empty save for a couple of dozen folding chairs stacked against the wall. The Hispanic man flicked off the machine, straightened slowly, as if in pain, ran his hand through his hair, reached into his pocket for a cigarette, and lit up. Still with his back to me.
He smoked, was careful to drop the ash in his cupped hands.
I said, “Hi.”
He turned. Surprise, but no con wariness. He looked at his cigarette. Blinked. Shrugged. “No permisa?”
“Doesn’t bother me,” I said.
Resigned smile. No hardness around his eyes, no sloppy tattoos. “Usted no es el patron?”
You’re not the boss?
“No,” I said. “Not today.”
“Hokay.” He laughed and smoked. “Mebbe tomorrow.”
“I’m thinking of renting the space.”
Blank stare.
I pointed to the wet carpet. “Nice job—muy limpia.”