PAUL THE BARTENDER’S true name was Charles Paul Skleener. Once they had his name, Stemms obtained a copy of his DMV photo and last known address, which was a two-story courtyard apartment building in the mid-Wilshire area, not far from K-Town.
Skleener’s building was old, needed paint, and the ground-floor windows and entrance were protected by rusty security bars.
Harvey eyed the entry with disgust.
“You know what they call places like this?”
“Don’t start.”
“A shitbox. A shitbox like this doesn’t have air-conditioning. I wouldn’t live in a place, it didn’t have air.”
Stemms wanted to confirm that Skleener still lived at this address, so Harvey got out. Stemms waited in the Chrysler. Engine running. Air on. Tired. He popped an Adderall and half a Ritalin.
Harvey was back a few minutes later.
“No answer, but his name’s on the box. What do you want to do?”
“He’s sleeping. Bartenders get home late.”
“I rang the bell five times.”
“Earplugs.”
“Whatever, Stemms. You want to wait, see if he comes home?”
They were moving too fast to wait. Paul the bartender could give them Alec the waiter, and keep them out front, but only if they found the bartender quickly.
Stemms took out his phone.
“Hang on.”
“Who are you calling?”
“Shh.”
Stemms called Jade House, and asked for the manager. The manager wasn’t available, but an assistant named Walder came on the line. Walder pronounced his name like it was spelled with a V.
He said, “This is Valder. May I help you?”
Harvey shook his head, and stared out the window.
Stemms made his pitch.
“Hey, Valder, Jerry Leach, over at Paramount. Listen, man, I’m calling with rave kudos for one of your bartenders, a guy named Paul, mm, his last name might be Skleener? Anyway, listen, I took a few buyers to your place the other night, and, man, your guy Paul rolled out the red. He could not have treated us better, so I’m sending a little something-something, know what I mean? Would you do me a favor? Would you pretty please make sure he gets it?”
Harvey rolled his eyes.
Stemms gave him the finger.
Walder said, “Of course. It vould be my pleasure.”
“Thanks, brother, really. Now, listen, is Paul working tonight? If he works tonight, I’ll have my assistant send it right over.”
Walder had to check the schedule.
“No, I am sorry, Paul is not scheduled until the day after tomorrow.”
“Oh, bum! What’s up with that? Is he working a second gig somewhere?”
Harvey sat up, interested in the answer.
Walder said, “He has the acting. The school. Rehearsals. The auditions.”
“Got it. Thanks, Valder. I’ll call back in two days.”
Stemms lowered the phone.
“Actor.”
Harvey smirked.
“Actor, my ass. He’s a bartender.”
“Auditions. Rehearsals. Actor shit. If we knew where he was, we wouldn’t have to sit here all day.”
Harvey slumped low in the seat, and closed his eyes.
“He’s a bartender.”
Stemms studied the building.
“Anyone see you?”
“Nobody sees me. Ever.”
“Cameras?”
“Are we seeing the same building?”
Stemms opened his door to get out, but Harvey’s hand flicked like a striking cobra across the width of the car, and stopped him.
“I’ll go. Make sure the guy doesn’t surprise me.”
Harvey got out, and returned to the building. Twenty-six minutes passed, during which Stemms became antsy, then irritated, then angry. He was five heartbeats from getting out of the Chrysler when Harvey swaggered across the street. Stemms couldn’t tell from the swagger if Harvey felt smug or sour.
Harvey slid inside, and pulled the door hard.
“Nobody home.”
Stemms frowned.
“You were gone all this time, and that’s all you’ve got?”
“I was looking around. That’s why I went in, right?”
“Well? Did you find something?”
“Scripts. Scripts everywhere. Scripts, plays, all these pictures of himself. This dude has almost as many pictures of himself as you do.”
Stemms wondered if this was a joke.
Harvey suddenly grinned, and waved a slip bearing an address.
“Yes, I found something. Actor’s workshop in Valley Village. Noon until four. He’s doing a scene.”
Stemms checked the address, and fired up the Chrysler.
“He’ll be inside by the time we get there. We’ll get him on the way out.”
“Of course we will, Stemms.”
Harvey settled back, and closed his eyes.
“Harold Pinter.”
Harvey smiled.
“A bartender.”
Stemms glanced at Harvey, and smiled along with him.
Stemms felt like a surfer riding the peak of domino waves, skimming his board from wave to wave as each behemoth toppled the next, picking up more and more speed, building up more and more energy, each wave joining the next until they became an unstoppable force.
Paul would lead to Alec, and Alec would lead to the barfing girl. The barfer would give them the boy in the picture, and everyone and everything they wanted to find.
They were ahead of the curve again, and pulling further away. They were so far in front of everyone else, Stemms could smell the kill.