A Man Named Doll by Jonathan Ames (rocket ebook reader .txt) 📕

Lou’s blood was on the couch, but he was gone. I didn’t feel him in the house anymore.

I fed George and took him for a quick walk.

Then I gave myself a sponge bath, so as not to wet my bandages, got dressed, and headed back out. With George. I didn’t want to leave him alone in the house. Dodgers Hat knew where I lived.

I had Lou’s gun and diamond and everything else I had grabbed last night.

I got in my Caprice and glanced in the rearview mirror at my face with its new bandage. I put on dark glasses and looked like the invisible man.

But at least you couldn’t see the goose egg hidden in my scalp from where Lusk Sr. had kicked me. My hair covered it up and it felt pulpy, like a piece of bad fruit, and my whole head pounded and I dry-swallowed a Dilaudid. I had a lot of ground to cover and wasn’t going to let a concussion slow me down.

But what did I think I was going to do? Make things right? Lou was already dead. The time for making things right had passed. There was really only one thing to do now: get to them before they got to me.

8.

I had two things to work with: the house on Belden and the diamond.

I started with the house.

It was clear and cool out, and I parked the car where I had left it the night before and walked back toward 2803 with George, which was nice cover: a man walking his dog.

In the sunlight, my shoes on the pavement sounded less ominous, and the butterflies were out again, flying drunkenly, impossibly. They filled the air like locusts turned silly.

We went past 2803—there was no police tape or any activity—and we went a little ways down the hill and then doubled back.

The isolation of the house, alone on the edge of the S curve, was more apparent in the daylight. On the side of the road, just before the house, there was an old metal railing. It was meant to keep cars from plummeting over the edge. Since it was a long way down. For a car. Or a body.

We walked past the driveway again and then ducked through the hedges to the front door. The Ken Maurais FOR SALE sign still leaned against the house, but the door was locked. I took out my doohickey, worked the lock, got Lou’s gun in my hand, and went inside.

Blondie was gone and there was no blood on the floor. George and I went out to the balcony and looked down. The second blonde was gone, too. Dodgers Hat and the vulture-faced man driving the car—or someone else altogether—had been busy cleaning up. And the cops had been kept out of it.

I looked out over the city. The wind was blowing right, and with all the rain lately you could see clear through to the port of Los Angeles, thirty miles away. You could see the cranes and the tanker ships and the ocean, which was glinting like a strip of silver.

George and I got out of the house and nobody saw us. No cars passed.

Back in the Caprice, I drove over to a side street in Lake Hollywood and parked. It was 8:45. I called a friend, a realtor named Rick Alvarez, who’s in his early fifties. A few years ago, Rick’s elderly father had bought a bogus coin from a scam artist for fifty thousand cash and the cops didn’t do anything about it.

So Dr. Schine sent Rick and his father to me.

It took me a little while, but I found the scam artist in San Diego, my hometown, and I was able to squeeze thirty-eight thousand out of him. The rest had been spent.

Rick was beyond grateful that I had recovered as much as I had, and we’ve stayed friends since. He’s one of those guys who, once you do them a good deed, they’re always there for you, and as a licensed realtor he has access to a lot of databases, which can be very useful to a private investigator. He’s also what I call a good googler. Some people have a knack for it. Not me.

So more than once since I took care of things down in San Diego—though I don’t abuse the privilege—I’ve asked Rick for his help, which he doesn’t mind at all. The way he’s constructed he acts like he’s in debt to me forever, but he also finds the work exciting. Realtors, I’ve observed, are natural gossips and snoops, and so detective work comes easy to them.

He picked up the phone right away, which is another realtor trait: always available, always working. “Hank,” he said. “It’s been forever, buddy. I’ve missed you.”

“I know,” I said. “It’s been a while.” Which was true—with my business having slowed down, it had been a long time since I called him.

“Hey, I saw the paper,” he said. “You okay?”

“Yeah…I wish it hadn’t played out the way it did.”

“I’m sorry. Anything I can do? You know I’m here for you.”

Rick talks fast and moves fast. He’s a neat little dark man, built like a bullfighter.

“It’s not related to what you saw in the paper, but I need some information on an address: 2803 Belden, in Beachwood Canyon. Can you find out for me who owns it? I think it’s for sale or was for sale. Realtor is Ken Maurais.”

“Sure, buddy, I got it—2803 Belden. Maurais—sounds familiar. Listen, I gotta meet somebody—a client—in, like, a minute for a coffee, but then I’ll get on it and get back to you.”

“Perfect,” I said. “Talk to you.”

We hung up, and George and I got out of the car. It was 8:50, and at nine was my analysis. The side street I had parked on was in front of Dr. Lavich’s house. Her office used to be the garage but got renovated forty-plus years ago. She’s in her early eighties,