“You’re the manager?”
“I’m the owner, dude. What, I don’t look like landed gentry?”
Reaching into one of the cargo pockets, she produced a card of her own. Same vegetative green as her boots. Outsized silver lettering.
DEE N. MARTOLO
REAL ESTATE INVESTMENTS
A P.O.B. that told you nothing about its location.
“Pleased to meet you, Dee.” I extended a hand.
She pretended not to notice, looked back into the apartment. “Jo-Jo?”
An older Asian man stuck his head out. Swiffer broom in his hand.
“Take five.”
His look was uncomprehending.
“Take a break, J. Be back in ten minutes.”
The man smiled and left, taking his broom with him.
Dee Martolo said, “Yeah, this palace is mine. Courtesy Olea europaea. That’s olive trees — ever hear of Martolo Oil? Don’t lie, you didn’t. We have groves in Stockton but we don’t brand our own. We send it to fancy supermarkets and they put their own labels on and jack up the price. Great-Grandpa planted the groves, Grandpa made it a business, et cetera.”
“Interesting—”
“Think so? Then you’ve obviously never been to Stockton. Actually, the rest of the family agrees with you. I yawn when they start discussing fertilizer so they pay me to stay away by saddling me with Grandpa’s cache of ‘original Hollywood real estate.’ Meaning this dump and a bunch like it. Anyway, where can I find Chelsea Morning?”
“Don’t know.”
“Then why are we wasting my time?”
“Could I have a look inside?”
“I’m supposed to just let you snoop around?”
“You could give me the extended guided tour.”
She laughed. “What’s in it for me, Psychologist Dude?”
“The court hears from her, you could be notified.”
“You’re here because she stiffed you, too?”
“The court paid me in full.”
“Well, bully for you, maybe I should’ve gone to shrink school. Got a sociology degree from Fresno State, figured on joining the Peace Corps or something. Then I realized all those Third World types would probably view me the way I view my family — don’t ask. Anyway, our business is finished here, I’m calling my collection agency.”
I said, “Just a second inside?”
“Why? What the hell are you after?”
“Follow-up’s part of the process. I need to document everything.”
“Oh, man,” she said. “Bureaucracy — okay, just for a sec, but there’s nothing to see.”
True to her word, the apartment had been emptied.
I said, “What did you put in storage?”
“Shitty furniture, shitty clothes. The crap in the medicine cabinet got thrown out. Same for food in the fridge.”
“What about baby stuff?”
She thought. “Guess there wasn’t any.”
“No crib?”
“Nope.”
“Playpen, diapers—”
“I just told you, none of that. No secret-code messages or UFO photos, either, okay? And no papers to tell me where she went, which sucks big-time.”
“Her car—”
“Gone, what do you think, she’s walking the streets toting a rug-rat and a box of Pampers?” Another snicker. “Though I guess that could attract a certain type of customer.”
“You figure her for a prostitute?”
“Nah,” said Dee N. Martolo. “I’m just being mean. That’s my thing. So they tell me.”
She had no idea when Ree had left and when I asked if I could talk to some neighbors, she said, “Already done it, no one has a clue. I figure she probably cut out in the middle of the night, ’cause that’s Deadbeat 101.”
“Any idea who her friends are?”
“I don’t socialize with the tenants.” She brightened. “Just thought of something, one time she gave me a flyer, some of her friends were playing a club. Shit, can’t remember the name, too bad I tossed it.”
“Was the band Lonesome Moan?”
“Yeah! Thank you, Doctor Dude … what was the name of that dive … something with an astrology thing … Pisces? No. Not Scorpio … I don’t know. But if she’s doing the aging-groupie thing maybe I can find her backstage and nail her for what she owes. Be gone, Court Shrink Dude, I have no more use for you.”
CHAPTER 21
Lonesome Moan. The only moaning in question is that which arises upon being assaulted by the noise they create.
Connie had also sneeringly dropped a couple of names, certain that one of the musicians was Rambla’s father. Citing them again in her deposition, as evidence of Ree’s lack of fitness.
Winky something … Boris …
Winky had babysat Rambla the first time Ree came to see me, so not a stretch for him to help her clear out.
I sat in the Seville and played my iPhone. The band had a website, big surprise. The banner photo qualified as vintage, portraying four long-haired, bearded, love-beaded men in their twenties trying to look purposeful and tough and falling far short on both accounts.
The paragraph below boasted that Lonesome Moan’s original members were still together and that the band’s longevity was “proof of the soulful integrity of their music. L.M.’s sounds echo the pulsating heartbeat of a nation that lives to party and loves to rock. We breathe fresh life into Skynyrd, Atlanta Rhythm Section, Blue Öyster Cult, Foreigner. Even choice Doo Wop or juicy Hendrix when the stars are aligned.”
The site’s Management link brought up a crudely drawn caricature of a howling wolf. “We now manage ourselves. Nothin’ like freedom!”
Sample Our Tunes was “under construction” but Who We Are served up some content:
Marvin “Chuck-o” Blatt: drums, percussion
Bernard “Boris” Chamberlain: bass guitar, saxophone, vocals
William “Winky” Melandrano: rhythm guitar, vocals
Spenser “Zebra” Younger: lead guitar
Maybe the nation had lost its pulsating urge to rock because Lonesome Moan’s Tour Schedule page was blank but for a single line in red type: “Virgo Virgo, Ventura Boulevard, Studio City, Monday Nights, 8 p.m. to 1 a.m.”
Slowest night of the week, some clubs choose to go dark. This one put a middle-aged cover band on stage so maybe the management was all about maximizing cash flow and opened early for Happy Hour.
Time to party.
It was just late enough to make the drive to the Valley a test of patience. The traffic mire began within yards of turning north on Cahuenga. I phoned Robin, told her I’d be late and why.
She said, “Her sister’s murdered, she splits?”
“Yeah, I know. And I told Milo she didn’t have it in her.”
“Maybe she doesn’t but one of her friends does. Be careful, hon. What’s the name of this dive? Is it a biker joint?”
“Virgo Virgo. Don’t know about the clientele.”
“Pair of virgins,” she said. “Maybe someone’s into John and Yoko. How late is late?”
“I might get there in forty if I’m lucky. Depending on what I learn, another hour or two.”
“Studio City — okay, got the website right here … Ventura B. a couple miles east of Coldwater. Doesn’t look too ominous … that’s right near the spaghetti place we used to like. I could meet you for dinner.”