It was Julie.
“About dinner,” she said. “I forgot to ask, anything you don’t eat?”
I didn’t hesitate.
“Pork,” I said.
CHAPTER 13
My neck was killing me. I lowered my binoculars, rotated my shoulders and head, and steeled myself for stage two of my observation plan. It was already midafternoon. Except for a handful of raw almonds, I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I’d already spent several hours standing on a hill, studying from afar the outfit that caused such olfactory distress for the Children of Paradise. Fortunately, the wind was blowing east, so I was spared the full effect of nastiness.
Here’s what I’d learned so far. This wasn’t much of an operation. By my count, there were about 20 employees, mostly Hispanic, mostly just hanging around. Occasionally, someone would be doing the things you’d expect workers on a hog farm to be doing: feeding hogs; dealing with the inevitable aftermath of feeding hogs; waiting around to feed them again. Some of the men wore surgical masks. Others, mostly the older workers, went without. Maybe you got used to the smell after a few years. I found that a scary thought.
The moment had come. I had to drive closer to glean anything further.
Even safely sealed inside my car, it was bad. When I reached the entrance, I braced myself and rolled down the window. I instantly experienced two things-a burning sensation in my eyes, and a gust of empathy for the neighboring cult. The powerful blend of foul-smelling excrement and pungent garbage, topped by a nostril-stinging high-note of urine, was almost unbearable.
I caught myself: Here I was complaining about a strong smell, without giving any thought to the suffering of the poor animals inside. Their rebirth into the animal realm was already a form of slavery, and their present living conditions were horrific. I tried to balance my revulsion with an equal amount of compassion for these highly intelligent animals.
Window raised again, I took shallow, acrid gulps of oxygen through my mouth as I steered the Toyota up the entry road to the farm. The main building was set well apart from the actual operation. No surprise there. The far side of a parking lot held a dozen or so cars and pickup trucks. One car stood out-a shiny black Mercedes, an E550, top of the line. A classic midlife-crisis car. The sexy two-door convertible hardtop still sported dealer plates-a Pasadena dealership.
At least one person here was bringing home a lot of bacon.
I parked. I stretched. I strolled to the front door, as if I hadn’t a care in the world, which is hard to do when your gullet is spasming in protest at the stench. I entered, and was hit by a blast of cold air. They must keep the air purification and cooling system cranked up high to keep the pig smells out. Everybody in the office was wearing a sweater.
I took a tentative sniff. Not bad.
A dazzling bottle-blond young woman in a tight, low-cut pullover manned the front desk, so to speak. Her head was lowered as she tapped away at her computer keyboard. Behind her, a couple of young men and women sat at their own desks, staring at screens, talking quietly into headsets. At the far end of the room was the only closed door.
Low-Cut flashed a bright smile at me. “May I help you?”
I decided to aim for humble and disarming. “I sincerely hope so, ma’am. I’m a private investigator, looking into the Children of Paradise community next door.”
A sour little look rippled across her face. She caught herself, and quickly snapped the smile back into place.
“Yes? And?”
“And, I know that your company had some problems with them a while back. I was wondering if I could talk to your boss about it.”
She shook her head. “Mr. Barsotti is unavailable right now.”
Good. A name.
“I’m guessing Mr. Barsotti will want to know about this,” I said. “When do you think he’ll be available?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “It could be a while.”
“No worries. I can wait.” I looked around in vain for a place to sit down.
“We don’t get a lot of visitors.” Her voice was clipped.
“I can’t imagine why,” I said, testing for signs of humor.
No response, except that immovable smile.
I moved to the corner. Just stood there, waiting. She eyed me for a minute or two, nibbling on a hot-pink finger-talon, then went back to clacking away on the computer.
I turned my back to her and stepped close to some old framed photographs of what looked like prize-winning hogs on the wall, as if I were admiring their girth and blue ribbons. Actually, I was adopting the time-honored but effective secret-agent trick of using the reflection off the glass to spy on her. She glanced at my turned back, picked up her phone and had a short, whispered conversation punctuated by a couple of more quick peeks in my direction.
Fortunately, I was also half-facing the window into the parking lot. Within moments, a man exited the back of the building and hustled toward the new Mercedes, shrugging a sport coat over his dark lavender shirt and matching tie as he trotted. He looked to be in his mid-40s. His longish hair was uniformly dark, except for suspiciously perfect little flags of silver at the temples. Prominent nose. Fairly fit body, though his somewhat loose jowls hinted at a recent weight loss. I was too far away to see, but I was betting on manicured fingernails. All in all he wasn’t bad-looking, in that “I’m determined to look younger than I am” way.
It had to be Barsotti, in a rush to get out of there. I wondered why he was so anxious to leave.
My gut twanged. A man in a hurry is a man with a secret. Follow him.
I turned to Low-Cut. “Sorry. Just remembered something I should take care of. I’ll have to come back another time.”
“Okay,” she chirped, without looking up from her work.
I decided to double-check I had the right guy, just in case. “By the way, how does Mr. Barsotti like his Mercedes?”
“Oh, he just got it, and he loves it.” She wasn’t too bright. I suspected Barsotti hired her for what was below her neck, not above it.
I popped out of the door just as Barsotti was smoothly reversing out of his parking place. Engine purring, the sleek machine glided toward the exit.
I sprinted across the lot and jumped into my jalopy. I reached the main road just as he was accelerating, maybe a quarter-mile ahead. I goosed my hard-working engine, willing it to catch up. I felt like a mutt chasing a greyhound. Soon Barsotti reached the freeway entrance.
He turned onto the ramp heading south on the 14 toward Los Angeles. Thank goodness. I didn’t want to restart things with Julie by canceling our dinner.
For once, heavy traffic was my friend. If both the 14 and the 5 hadn’t been jammed with stop-and-go traffic, his wheels would have left mine in the dust. As it was, we surged and slowed our parallel ways back into town.
Just north of where the 5 and the 170 meet, the lanes inexplicably cleared, and I almost lost him. I floored my Toyota, pushing the tachometer to redline as I merged onto the 170. Every nut, bolt, and belt in the car rattled and howled in protest, but I managed to just keep him in sight as he suddenly zipped off the freeway at Roscoe. I felt a niggle of recognition. I’d been in this part of North Hollywood before, but I couldn’t say why. Then Barsotti again turned, this time onto Coldwater Canyon Boulevard.
I was confused. Coldwater Canyon serves as a back way into Beverly Hills, that famous playground of the rich, where shiny new luxury sports coupes feel most at home. But if that was his destination, he should have taken the later Coldwater exit, made a left at the bottom of the ramp, and climbed over the hill to the high-rent side of town. We were a far cry from there.
As I turned onto Coldwater myself, I realized why this area seemed so familiar. I was a stone’s throw away from Wat Thai, the ornate Theravada Buddhist temple located, incongruously, right off the freeway. Two turns and you think you’re in Bangkok.