“How did you know I was in town?”
“A little birdy told me. One of those official-type birdies.”
Tony remembered the Mexican policeman watching him unload. Dobyns always did have great connections. Then again, a guy like him would need protection to survive down here.
The bathroom door opened and Fay Hubley emerged. She’d dressed in a short denim skirt and skimpy purple tank top.
“I did interrupt you,” said Dobyns with a lewd smirk.
“This is Fay, my new partner,” said Tony.
Fay crossed the room, entwined her arm in Tony’s. “I’m his girlfriend, too, but he’s too afraid of commitment to admit it,” she said. Fay nuzzled Tony’s neck, gently bit his earlobe.
Dobyns’s smirk widened. “I’d say get a room but you already got one.”
Tony gently pushed Fay away. “Get back to work.”
Fay tossed her long, curly blond hair and strolled over to the desk, Dobyns’s eyes following her every move. “Lucky man,” he said.
“Want to go get a drink?” Dobyns asked.
Tony shook his head. “Anything you have to say to me you can say in front of Fay,” he told the man.
“Fair enough,” said Dobyns. “Last week I lost a shipment. Prada handbags. Fourteen thousand units — fuckin’ Feds snapped them up on the border. The goddamn line wasn’t moving anyway—”
Tony cut the conversation short. “What’s this to me?”
Dobyns’s eyes moved from Tony to Fay, then back again. “I was wondering if you’ve got room on your score for a third party. Things are getting tough down here. The gangs are muscling in on all the action— MS-13, Seises Seises, the Kings — that’s one of the things I came here to warn you about.”
Tony sighed and rubbed his neck. Fay pretended to study the monitor in front of her.
“This grift is marginal, not much left to go around,” said Tony. The man’s face fell. Tony figured it was time to throw him a bone. He placed his arm around Dobyns’s shoulder. When he spoke again, it was in a conspiratorial whisper. “Hey, listen Ray. Maybe I can cut you in on one piece of action.”
Dobyns grinned. “Speak, kemosabe.”
“There’s a guy down here, showed up in the last two or three days. He’s another con man who uses computers, just like me. His name’s Richard Lesser and he owes me a lot of money. If you can steer me in Lesser’s direction, I can promise you a piece of action.”
Dobyns stared at Tony through watery green eyes. “How much cash are we talking here?”
Tony pretended to consider the question. “I guess it’s worth a grand up front. Ten more if you lead me to Lesser.”
Dobyns blinked. “This guy must be into you big time. You got a deal, Navarro.”
Tony reached into his chinos, pulled out a thick wallet. He peeled off ten crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, stuffed them into the man’s sweaty hands. Then he pushed Ray Dobyns toward the door.
“I’ll be right here, waiting,” said Tony. “But only for a couple more days. Locate Richard Lesser and tell me where he’s hiding, and there’s more bills just like those coming your way.”
Lonnie snapped up the receiver on the first ring. “This is Nobunaga. Speak.”
“Up and at ’em, samurai. I can’t believe you’re still at home. You’re burning daylight, dude. This is your big day, and opportunity only knocks once.”
Lon greeted his editor by name. Even if hadn’t recognized Jake Gollob’s voice, he’d have recognize the man’s style of discourse. Gollob spoke fluent cliché.
“Been up for hours, Jake,” Lon replied. “Getting ready to go now.” He pulled another delivery uniform out of the closet — this one from Peter’s Pizza — and tossed it, hanger and all, on top of a pile of shirts and overalls already on the bed.
He caught sight of his own reflection in the full-length mirror. At five-eleven he was tall for a Japanese-American. Thin, bordering on scrawny from lack of sleep and a lousy diet. Black hair askew. By his own assessment, Lon didn’t really look much different than he had during his sophomore year at UCLA — the year he’d dropped out.
“The cameras are all packed and I’m heading downtown in fifteen minutes,” Lon told his boss, “just as soon as I settle on the appropriate camouflage.”
He yanked a pair of overalls out of the closet. The tag read Pacific Power and Light.
“What do you think?” Lon asked. “Should I go with the Peter’s Pizza delivery man outfit, or stick to House Dynasty Chinese Restaurant disguise?”
“You got a Singapore Airline uniform in your closet?”
Lon paused. “What’s up?”
“A stringer for Reuters spotted Abigail Heyer boarding an airplane in Singapore.”
“Yeah, so? She’s giving out an award at the Silver Screens tonight. It’s on the schedule, man.”
“Listen, Lon,” Gollob was almost whispering now. “My guy said she was pregnant. Maybe six months or more. She was showing, for sure.”
Lon dropped the overalls on the floor. “No shit? Do you think the father’s that Tarik Fareed guy, the Turk she was dating in London? Or that Nikolai Manos guy she was seeing on that last movie shoot in Romania?”
“How the hell should I know?” Gollob shot back. “I just found out the bitch was knocked up five minutes ago. I know something else, though—”
Oh shit.
“I want a picture of Ms. Heyer on next week’s cover.”
“Jesus, boss. Wait ten hours and you’ll have photos from every wire service to choose from.”
“If I pay a wire service for my cover photo, why the hell am I paying you?” Gollob barked.
“Good point.”
“Listen, Lon. Abigail Heyer’s flight lands at LAX in an hour and a half, if it isn’t delayed. Get out there and get me a photo.”
“Come on, boss man—”
But the line was dead. His editor had hung up already. Angrily Lon punched the phone number of Midnight Confession magazine on Sunset Strip. Then an idea sprang into his mind and Lon cancelled the call.
Why the hell should I drive all the way out to the airport, get into a shoving match with fifty other paparazzi, all to get essentially the same freaking shot as everyone else? That’s just nuts, especially when I have a better way to get a picture…an exclusive picture.
Lon snatched up his bag of tricks — a large garment bag stuffed full of clothing collected over the years. Then he draped the camera bag over his shoulder.
For luck, Lon touched an eight-by-ten color glossy on his way out the door.
Lots of folks identified with movie characters. For some it was Batman, others adored tough guys like Humphrey Bogart. Lon’s hero was hanging on the wall near the light switch — a photograph of actor Danny DeVito from L.A. Confidential.
Detective Frank Castalano could barely hear his partner’s transmission. The LAPD helicopter he rode in was cruising at top speed, at less than six hundred feet over the city’s northern suburbs. At that low altitude, the roar of the engine and the sound of the beating rotors bounced off the ground, magnifying the deafening clamor inside the aircraft.
“Say again,” Castalano roared, clutching the headset tightly to his ears to shut out all other sound.
“I said everyone’s in on the manhunt now,” Detective Jerry Alder replied. “The uniforms, the State Police, the sheriff’s office, even the goddamn Park Rangers. There’s a ring around Angeles National Park the Rams couldn’t break through, and a chopper is tracking the Jaguar—”