8.

The Left Coast

The next morning, I met with Tom Sullivan in his office. I told him about my current working theory of the case and said I wanted to go to Santa Monica to see Scooter Lowry.

“You going to straight out ask him if he killed his uncle?” Sullivan said.

“I hope to be a bit subtler than that,” I answered. I was going to add, “That’s why you pay me the big bucks.” But I didn’t want to remind him, in case things didn’t work out, and he might not want to cut me a check.

“Okay, Jack,” he said. “But fly coach, don’t stay in a Ritz-Carlton, or order any menu item that says market price.”

“I can live with that,” I said.

Too bad though. I was looking forward to an expense-account surf-and-turf dinner at some fancy restaurant with a view of the Pacific.

I boarded a plane for the flight from Fort Myers to Los Angeles for a face-to-face session with Scooter. I brought Bill’s manuscript to pass the time editing.

I didn’t want to violate my agreement with Sullivan by flying first class, but I did opt for a main-cabin upgrade to a seat with extra leg room and priority boarding. The airlines had squeezed more seats into their coach cabins to the point where a man my size could barely fit. If that was a problem, Sullivan could take it out of my Christmas bonus.

I hadn’t been to California in more than ten years, when I was after a murder suspect. I didn’t find him, by all accounts he’d crossed into Mexico, but I did succeed in angering the Los Angeles Police Department by intruding upon their territory without permission. They found out I was there when I happened upon a three-car accident on the 405 Freeway and stopped to help. One of the motorcycle patrolmen on the scene took my report. For some reason, maybe to be collegial, I told him I was a detective from Chicago, and I was busted, resulting in a complaint to my supervisor, who said, “Serves you right for being a Good Samaritan, something I never do.”

Once again, I decided not to tell local law enforcement I was coming. Explaining who I was and why I was there would be a hassle. If someone needed help, I’d call 911 anonymously.

The flight was full. I had an aisle seat. Looking out a window reminded me that we were up in the air, the province of birds, not people. A man next to me in the middle seat resembled the John Candy character Del Griffith in one of my favorite flicks, Planes, Trains and Automobiles. I didn’t ask what he did for a living, but shower-curtain-ring salesman was a definite possibility. When he asked me, I told him I was an insurance salesman, a sure-fire conversation stopper. No one wants to be trapped into a comparison of whole-life versus term-life policies. That allowed me to get some editing done.

At LAX, I rented a black Dodge Charger GT muscle car with a 3.8-liter engine, a real beast, so I could hold my own on the freeways. It cost more than a Toyota Camry, but Sullivan seemed like a guy who understood the California car culture. If not, he could also deduct the upcharge from my bonus.

I drove to Santa Monica, daring anyone to get in my way, but no one did. The locals drove fast, but, for the most part, skillfully, probably because they’d been trained to navigate the congested roadways like Indy 500 racers, running wheel to wheel, hell-bent for leather. Chicagoans drove fast, too, but not as well, and Floridians mostly ran into one another, on the streets and in parking lots.

I checked into the Wyndham Santa Monica At The Pier at four o’clock local time, settled into my room, and thought about how best to approach Scooter Lowry. Given his background, it wasn’t likely he’d flown to Naples, snuck into the Wilberforce house, and shot his uncle. But a hired gun could do that for him.

Google Maps told me Scooter lived in a house on Hart Avenue, a short walk from the beach. I drove over and found that the house was a tidy, tan-stucco bungalow with a red-tile roof. I pulled into the driveway, went to the front door, and rang the bell. If I’d brought a Bible, I could have told Scooter I was a Jehovah’s Witness, asked him for permission to come in to talk about Jesus and then turned the conversation to homicide. Or I could have told him the truth about why I was there and observed his expression. Like the old gambler in the Kenny Rogers song, “I’ve made a life out of readin’ people’s faces.”

But Scooter didn’t answer his door. I decided to drive back to the Santa Monica Pier and have a look around. I didn’t imagine I’d spot Scooter on the Ferris wheel, but if I cruised the bars, I might find him prepping for another DUI arrest. At minimum, I could locate something for dinner. It wasn’t dinnertime in Florida, but I wasn’t in Florida.

Strolling around the beach area, taking in the sights, I came upon a place called The Misfit Restaurant + Bar on Santa Monica Boulevard. Scooter’s kind of watering hole, I figured. I walked inside, found an open barstool, and ordered a diet root beer and a sandwich.

The bartender was a young woman wearing a pink bikini top and skimpy white shorts. That wouldn’t be a good look for my bartender, Sam, but I might suggest he wear a muscle shirt to increase his tips from the ladies. She had short blonde hair, a body that went well with her outfit, and a full-sleeve tattoo on her left arm, all colors and swirls, with a dragon’s head spewing fire. Scary.

When she served my food, I asked, “Do you know Scooter Lowry?”

She scrunched her nose, as if she smelled an unpleasant odor, and said, “Are you a cop?”

“Not in California,” I answered.

“Huh,” she said. “Never heard of him.”

True or not true, that was the question. They made portable lie-detector machines, but I didn’t have one with me, so I tried another tactic: “Do you know that, under the California Penal Code, it’s a felony to lie to a law enforcement officer?”

“I thought you said you weren’t one here.”

“That’s in your favor,” I said.

I went with a backup plan that always worked. I took a fifty-dollar bill from my wallet, put it on the bar, and said, “I’m known as a generous tipper when someone helps me out.”

I turned in the direction of a commotion at the far end of the bar, two men wanting to hustle the same woman, apparently. When I looked back, the fifty-dollar bill had disappeared. If the bartending gig didn’t work out, the young lady could put together a Vegas magic act, opening for Penn & Teller.

“Actually, now that I think about it, that name does sound somewhat familiar,” she said.

I wanted to ask her where the fifty was hidden, but that would have been ungentlemanly.

I showed her a driver’s license photo of Scooter on my cell phone. Tom Sullivan knew someone who knew someone at the California DMV who e-mailed the photo to me.

“Does he come in here?” I asked.

“Actually, he was here last night.”

I produced another fifty, asked her for a pen, wrote my cell phone number on the bill and asked her to call me when he came in again.

“I can do that,” she said.

This time, I watched to see where she put the bill. It went inside her bikini top. Neither Penn nor Teller had a hiding place like that. I finished my sandwich and went out into the balmy California night.

I was immediately knocked onto the sidewalk by a young woman on Rollerblades. She had brown hair done in braids and was wearing a white tee shirt and white shorts. The tee shirt said, “Don’t Make Your Problem My Problem.” An appropriate message for what had just happened.

She skidded to a stop, took out her earbuds, looked down at me, and said, “Oh geez, like, I’m soooo sorry, sir. Are you, like, hurt?”

When a young woman called you sir, she thought you were her father’s, or maybe grandfather’s, age. I stood up as agilely as I could and told her I was fine. If I needed to go to the ER, I’d wait until she was gone to preserve a shred of my virility. I didn’t want her telling her friends, “Like, I totally plowed into this old dude and he, like, broke, like, lots of bones, and had to, like, be taken to the hospital where he, like, maybe was DOA, for all I, like, know.”

Kids today. At least she could have, like, called the hospital to, like, check on my, like, condition.

I told her I was fine and she smiled and skated away. Discovering that I remained ambulatory, geezer that I was, I went into five more bars without finding Scooter, so I walked back to my hotel, called Marisa to say hi, and asked about Joe, because she was taking care of him in my absence. Joe always enjoyed staying with Marisa because she made gourmet cat meals for him such as poached salmon, diced roasted chicken, and, his favorite, hamburger gravy, which I also was partial to. It was always difficult to reacclimate Joe to my cooking, which mainly involved a can opener.

Then I killed some time by continuing my editing of the manuscript of Stoney’s Downfall. I made only a few minor edits, nothing to do with grammar or punctuation because Bill was better with the native tongue than I was. Usually I just wrote some notations in the margins about police procedures or handgun calibers and the like. I suspected that Bill made those errors purposely, just to give me something to do.

After an hour, I put the manuscript aside, went to the hotel’s exercise room, ran on the treadmill and lifted weights, trying, mostly unsuccessfully, to not stare at a young woman in yoga pants and a tank top climbing a StairMaster, and then ordered room service and watched one of my favorite sports movies, Bull Durham, on TV before drifting off to sleep.

The next morning, I asked the hotel desk clerk for a good place for breakfast.

“We’ve got a free buffet,” the clerk, a skinny young man with a shaved head, earring, and runaway case of acne, told me. His name tag said Lester. “But if you want some decent food, and are willing to pay for it, I recommend Mazie’s Café over on Pico.”

Lester gave me directions and I walked to Mazie’s. I could tell before going in that it was my kind of place. It was one of those classic diners that looked like an Airstream trailer, with shiny aluminum siding and colored neon tubing around the front door, like The Baby Doll’s jukebox in Bill’s novels and in real life. The name of the place was spelled out in flashing red neon in the window near the front door, along with the statement, “We Never Close.” Hopper could have used Mazie’s as a model for Nighthawks.

I walked in. There was only one open stool at the counter. All of the booths and tables were full. You walk into a restaurant at meal time and you’re the only one there, beat feet out of the place.

I slid onto the stool. A middle-aged waitress with dishwater-blonde hair and the build of a WWF wrestler came over immediately, filled my coffee cup, and put a menu on the paper place mat in front of me. The menu had stains on it that looked like ketchup and gravy. Another good sign.

“Specials this morning, darlin’, are biscuits with sausage gravy, rib-eye steak with eggs and hash browns, a western omelet, and a blueberry belgian waffle. Need a minute with the menu or are you ready to order?”

“Born ready, ma’am,” I told her. “I’ll take the biscuits with sausage gravy.”

“You want fries with that or fruit?” she asked me.

I just smiled at her and she said, “Fries it is, sweet pea. And save room for the pecan pie à la mode.”

I did as I was told.

After breakfast, I drove back to Scooter’s house and rang the doorbell again. Same result as before, so I decided to head for the beach where I could show Scooter’s picture to a girl or two or three sunning herself or playing volleyball. In the detecting biz, we call that canvassing a neighborhood. A less kind term would be voyeurism.

It was seventy-two degrees and sunny, with low humidity, according to the weather app on my cell phone. Ragged, wispy scud clouds scurried overhead. I was wearing a white polo shirt, jeans, running shoes, and Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses. As I strolled along the beach, I noticed that everyone else was wearing Oakley sunglasses and bathing suits. Guess I didn’t get the memo. Many of them had their sunglasses pushed up onto the top of their heads, a fashion statement that always seemed the height of foolishness to me. If you did that, you should be wearing a second pair to protect your eyes.

I didn’t notice him come up behind me. Not Scooter Lowry, but a bodybuilder wearing a sleeveless tee shirt and cargo shorts, with his sunglasses on top of his bald head. I decided not to mention that. If I had biceps like his, I too would cut the sleeves off all of my tee shirts. Maybe my dress shirts too.

The man, who had a gold ring in his pierced left ear, studied me, tilting his head like a dog, in his case a pit bull, trying to make out what you’re saying, and asked, “You the detective who’s looking for Scooter Lowry?”

I said yes. I had no idea how he knew who I was. Maybe it was the Ray-Bans. Or the fact that I was several decades older than everyone else on the beach. Or maybe he knew that girl bartender at The Misfit. Or all of the above.

I guessed that he wasn’t carrying a weapon because, given his outfit, I would have noticed the bulge in his shorts. Actually there was a bulge in his shorts, but not pistol-shaped. Guys like him didn’t need to carry a weapon. He looked like he could bench press a Volkswagen.

“Scooter’s a friend of mine,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me what this is regarding.”

What this is regarding. He sounded like the receptionist at Alan Dumont’s law firm in DC.

“I just want to follow up on a phone conversation we had,” I said. “About his uncle.”

He folded his massive arms over his chest and looked at me as if deciding whether to believe my story or to pick me up, flip me upside down, and pull apart my legs like a turkey’s wishbone. Snap.

Then he slipped a cell phone out of the back pocket of his shorts, made a call, had a brief conversation I couldn’t hear over the sound of the surf, and said, “You can meet with Scooter in twenty minutes at the Starbucks on Ocean Avenue.”

Then he walked down the beach, his calf muscles bulging.

What a show-off.