I looked up Darnel Mullins in every Southern California phone book the library owned. No Darnels; over a dozen D’s spread around various counties. Thirty-five minutes on the pay phone in the entrance eliminated most of them. The rest weren’t home.
Roadblocked again.
I sat at a library table, drumming my fingers until I thought of another route.
The clerk. Edgely Sylvester.
Thank God it was an unusual name—and listed in the Central L.A. book on the 1800 block of Arlington.
I took Pico east, toward the center of town. La Cienega was a couple of miles before Arlington, and I veered south and drove to 1543.
Still a motel, now called the Sunshine Lodge and painted turquoise blue. Three arms of cinder block around a dipping, pitted parking lot.
Two pickup trucks in the lot. I pulled in next to one of them. Room 11 was in the northwest corner, catercorner from the office. A DO NOT DISTURB sign hung from the doorknob.
I went into the office. A Korean man sat behind the desk, watching Korean language TV. A wall dispenser sold pocket combs and condoms, and a wire rack on the desk was stuffed with maps to the stars’ homes. Robin had shown me one last year, given out by a record company as a party favor. Marilyn Monroe was still alive and living in Brentwood, and Lon Chaney was haunting Beverly Hills.
The clerk eyed me and said, “Room?”
Not knowing what to say, I left.
Edgely Sylvester’s neighborhood was just past the old Sears store near La Brea, not far from the Wilshire Division police station. The house was a two-story brown craftsman bungalow subdivided into apartments. The front lawn had been turned into parking spaces. A rusting Cadillac Fleetwood and a twenty-year-old Buick Riviera shared it.
Two black men in their sixties played dominoes at a card table on the front porch. Both wore short-sleeved white shirts and double-knit trousers, and the heavier of the two wore stretch suspenders. He was bald and had moist mocha skin. A cigar dangled from his lips.
The skinny man was ebony-toned and his features were sharp, still handsome. He had all his hair and it had been pomaded. He could have been Chuck Berry’s less talented brother.
They stopped their play as I came up the walkway. The dominoes were bright red and translucent, with sharp white dots. I had no idea who was winning.
“Gentlemen,” I said, “does Edgely Sylvester live here?”
“Nope,” said the skinny one.
“Know him?”
They shook their heads.
“Okay, thanks.”
As I walked away, the heavy one said, “Why do you want to know?” The cigar was between his fingers, wet and cold. He was sweating a lot, but it didn’t look like anxiety.
“Reporter,” I said. “L.A. Times. We’re doing a story on old unsolved crimes for the Sunday magazine. Mr. Sylvester worked at a motel where an unsolved murder occurred twenty years ago. The victim was a private detective. My editors thought it would make a great piece.”
“Lots of new murders all the time,” said the skinny one. “City’s falling apart, no need to talk about stupid old stuff.”
“The new stuff scares people. The old stuff’s considered romantic—I know, I think it’s ridiculous, too. But I just started out, can’t buck the boss. Anyway, thanks.”
“Is there money in it?” said the skinny one. “For talking to you?”
“Well,” I said, “I’m not supposed to pay for stories, but if something’s good enough . . .” I shrugged.
They exchanged glances, and the heavy one put down a domino.
I said, “Did Mr. Sylvester tell you something about the unsolved case?”
Another look passed between them.
“How much you paying?” said the heavy one.
How much cash did I have in my wallet? Probably a little over a hundred.
“I really shouldn’t pay anything. It would have to be something good.”
The heavy one licked the end of his cigar. “What if I could find Mr. Edgely Sylvester for you?”
“Twenty bucks.”
He sniffed and chuckled and shook his head.
“Finding him’s no big deal,” I said. “How do I know he’ll talk to me?”
He chuckled some more. “If you pay him, he will, my man. He likes his money.” Eyeing my Seville. “What’s it, a seventy-eight?”