Death Walks Skid Row Page 5

  She turned to see a blond, bearded stranger. Her mouth opened to say, “Do I know you?” but she stopped when she saw his slight smile, and one of his baby-blue eyes narrow at her. It was not quite a wink, nothing so obvious that could be seen by the check-in woman, but she took the gesture to mean ‘just play along’.

  “Oh, hi,” she said cheerily. “Yes, I have a problem. My name’s not on the list.”

  The man shook his head. “I told them,” he said. “Don’t worry, I think we can straighten this out.” He stepped up to the desk and said, “Ken Corder, Hollywood Reporter. My editor was supposed to put Ms. Rios on the list, too, but I guess they forgot.”

  The woman checked the list and then said, “Corder, you said?”

  “Ken Corder, Hollywood Reporter. And yes, I know it rhymes. I’ve been told enough times.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Corder, but I don’t find your name either.”

  “Oh, for … I’m going to kill Ozzie when I get back to the office! This isn’t the first time he’s screwed up like this.”

  “Hey, can we move this along?” snapped a man in line behind them.

  “I don’t believe this! But I guess there’s nothing I can do, is there? Come on, Ramona, let’s go back and have a talk with Ozzie.”

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “So he forgot to call in your name. When was the last time Adam Henry was covered in the Hollywood Reporter?”

  Turning to the woman at the table, she added, “Would Assemblyman Henry really turn down coverage on page one of a magazine everybody in his former industry reads because some assistant forgot to call in our names?”

  “Ramona, I don’t think …” Corder began, but she ignored him.

  Now growing wary of the long, and increasingly vocal line forming behind the two, the woman at the desk asked, “Page one, you said?”

  “This is major breaking news involving a movie star, isn’t it? If that’s not page one headline news, I don’t know what it.”

  “Look, Ramona, we need to talk …” Corder said, trying to ease her away from the table.

  “Let me ask you this,” Ramona said to the woman. “Are you the one who will have to tell him and his campaign manager you turned us away?”

  “Okay, here,” the woman said, handing him and Ramona stick-on press badges. “Go ahead. Sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  As they walked toward the press seating, Corder said, “I can’t believe you did that.”

  “We’re in, aren’t we?” Ramona said. “Now, Mr. Corder, but I have to ask … have we met?”

  “No, and my name isn’t really Ken Corder,” he said quietly. “It’s Danny Speakman.”

  “What is this about?”

  “I’m a writer, and I’m working on an investigative piece about the plight of the homeless.”

  “The Hollywood Reporter cares about the plight of the homeless?”

  “No, that was just a bluff. I’m doing this on my own, but I want to sell it to a big publication like The New Yorker or Vanity Fair. I’m trying to get the real story of what goes on in places like Skid Row. I could come down here with my tape recorder and try to interview people, but I’m not really going to get their stories unless they think I’m one of them. For the last couple of weeks, I’ve been out here living on the streets like they do – trying to blend in.”

  “I’m not sure it’s working,” she said.

  “Well, I’m not trying to blend in now,” Speakman declared. “In fact, I spent an hour under the shower this morning to wash off the streets. And, truth be told, I was outed by this old guy down here they call the Governor.”

  “The Governor?”

  “Yeah, and it’s a pretty good description because in a strange way he seems to be in charge of everybody. It’s like he takes care of everyone else, but invisibly. Anyway, he saw through my cover but I don’t think he’s ratted me out to anyone else.”

  “Okay, Danny Speakman,” Ramona said, “I know you now, but how did you know who I was?”

  “I’ve seen you on television. See, I’ve only been out here in L.A. for a few months. I’m from the Bay Area, but during my stay here I’ve been reading papers and watching all the local TV channels for reportage on the homeless situation. I don’t mind telling you there is precious little of it. But your live report last week, where you called out that developer, really impressed me. And you were right about the homeless being bused out, because I was on one of those buses myself. The reason I decided to bluff my way in here was, frankly, because I figured you’d be here and I wanted to meet you. I was rather surprised that your name wasn’t on the press list, though.”

  “Yeah, well, my bosses weren’t as impressed by my report as you were,” she said. “I was canned. I think the station management was leaned on by someone in the city. Wait, did you just say you were put on a bus and shipped out of Skid Row?”

  “Yeah, or at least Aspen was. That’s my street name.”

  “Then you’ve got to come forward. You’ve got to make a statement and validate my report. Back me up. Then maybe I can file a wrongful termination suit.”

  “I’d love to, Ramona, but I have to stay undercover, at least for a little while longer.”

  “It looks like the circus is about to start,” she said. “Henry’s just arrived.”

  She started toward the rows of folding chairs that had been set up to contain the members of the media, and Speakman followed her. Up at the podium, Adam Henry was getting fitted for a radio microphone. Smiling broadly, he was waving to the crowd, few of whom were waving back.

  Once most of the reporters were seated, Henry began by asking, “How are you all today? Thank you for coming out for this. I know all of you have busy schedules, so I appreciate it. And I don’t want to take advantage of those busy schedules, so I will get right to the point. The city of Los Angeles, the city we love, is balancing on a teeter-totter even as we speak.”

  He mimed the motion of a teeter-totter going back and forth, which prompted a reporter seated behind Speakman and Ramona to comment, “I wonder if he can do trapped-in-a-box or eat-peas-from-a-can, too?”

  Ramona chuckled.

  Henry held the pose for a few seconds, waiting for cameras to flash, instinctively knowing that this would be the shot that appeared in the newspapers, and then went on. “Our fair city can either go down, becoming a place of greater crime, greater traffic congestion, greater inconvenience to our citizens and greater problems for our businesses, or it can go up. I would like to see it go up. I would like to see a reduction in crime. I would like to see more police officers on the streets protecting us. I would like to see a free and open environment for small businesses. I would like to see the city of Los Angeles thrive and become the envy of every other major metropolis in the country. It will never do that under the failed leadership of Alberto Soto. L.A. needs a real leader. I am therefore announcing my candidacy for mayor of the great city of Los Angeles.”

  Henry paused for applause, but upon receiving barely enough to register, continued his announcement.

  “I am willing to make this promise to the people of Los Angeles,” he proclaimed dramatically. “If I am elected your mayor, I will do everything in my power to push this city into the twenty-first century by upgrading and modernizing the city itself. There are far too many areas like the one in which we are now standing, areas that have gone to seed, areas that are blighted and unsightly, area that have failed to live up to any semblance of potential, areas that have been allowed to devolve into slums. There are too many areas such as this in the city of Los Angeles, and it is time we did something about it. This will be my first priority, fixing these terribly broken parts of an otherwise outstanding city. The development you see behind me is only the first of what I hope are many, many revitalization projects that will only improve and beautify Los Angeles here in the Downtown district and elsewhere. If I am entrusted with the job of mayor, I will work each and every day of my term to foster this kind of revitaliza
tion.”

  Henry offered to answer questions, and a dozen hands throughout the rows of seats shot up simultaneously. The questions those reporters shouted out were lowball to the point of being embarrassing.

  “How much will your Hollywood career help you in your campaign?” asked a woman Ramona did not recognize.

  “Is this the first step toward possibly running for national office?” inquired a youngish man who was also unfamiliar to her.

  Jesus, they’re plants! Ramona surveyed the group in front of her and realized that all of the legitimate reporters who had their hands up were not being called upon. Some finally tried shouting out their questions, but these went ignored.

  This entire thing has been staged! she thought, and then wondered why it surprised her.

  Ramona Rios had had enough. “Give me some balance, Danny,” she said, standing up and putting a hand on his shoulder so she could climb up on top of her seat.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked.

  “Assemblyman Henry!” Ramona shouted at the top of her lungs, waving her free hand. “Back here!”

  Startled, Henry looked back at Ramona, and a frown crossed his face. “What the hell are you doing here?” he muttered into the microphone. “I was told they threw you out.”

  At that, every reporter in the crowd turned around to see who he was referencing. Only then did Adam Henry realize what a blunder he had just committed.

  “What did you say?” Ramona shouted back. “Who told you I was thrown out of my job as a news reporter?”

  Madeline Vega from KBNE television was two rows in front of Ramona. “Is it true, Ramona?” she called back. “Were you fired?”

  “I am no longer at KPAC. But you didn’t know that, did you, Maddy? None of you knew that.”

  “Ms. Rios, I don’t know what you think you are doing here, but—” Henry shouted ineffectively.

  Ramona ignored him. “So how did he know? Who told him I had a confrontation with my station manager and left as a result? And why did he need to know that?”

  Several of the reporters turned back to Henry and began asking just that, but Henry ignored their questions and motioned towards two security guards, who nodded and immediately started towards Ramona.

  “They’re not going to run us out of here, are they?” Speakman asked.

  “I don’t know,” Ramona replied, suddenly feeling frightened. The two guys coming toward her were coming fast and they were not smiling. She stepped down off the chair as the first one, an Hispanic with a shaved head who stood well over six feet and must have weighed in the range of two-fifty, started pushing his way past the reporters in Ramona’s row, reaching for her. Ramona started speaking to him in Spanish, but she made no effort to run away. The man took her by the arm and yanked her toward him, nearly knocking her off of her feet.

  “Hey, take it easy, Jack!” Speakman shouted, trying to help her up.

  By now the other reporters had abandoned their seats, and were scrambling for position to watch or videotape the altercation. Some were clambering over the folding chairs, and at least one had fallen or been pushed over them. Some of the faces looked frightened, others excited. As the Hispanic security guard pulled Ramona out of the crowd, the other guard, this one Caucasian but only slightly smaller, made a barrier with his arms to keep the other reporters away.

  “What the hell are you thugs doing?” Speakman screamed.

  “Our jobs!” the white guard shouted back, holding his beefy hand over a camera lens.

  Over the commotion came Henry’s nearly frantic voice calling for order and shouting, “For God’s sake, don’t hurt her, just get her to shut up!”

  “Are you telling a news reporter to shut up?” someone else yelled back.

  “Well, she’s been fired! She shouldn’t be here!”

  “How is it that you do know that, sir?” another voice called. “Who told you?”

  “I … I …”

  Realizing that the story was no longer the race for mayor of Los Angeles, Adam Henry slipped off the platform and dashed to his waiting limo. Several reporters followed him, still barking questions, while others remained in their seats.

  They were not being paid to ask real questions.

  Despite his age, Henry was still fit enough to outrun the members of the press with ease, though he did not bother to consider what it would look like on camera. All he wanted was to get away. Upon reaching the limo, he ordered the driver to get him out of there as quickly as possible.

  As the limo disappeared down the street a siren announced the approach of a black-and-white police cruiser, which pulled up at the curb on Sixth, lights flashing, having appeared seemingly out of thin air. A plainclothesman and a uniformed officer got out and started jogging toward the commotion. Ramona did not recognize the plainclothesman as Detective Darrell Knight, but Speakman did, having met him in his Aspen persona.

  He couldn’t be recognized now.

  Stepping back from the guards who were still holding onto Ramona, Speakman managed to drift back into the crowd until he was able to slip away completely.

  Ramona, meanwhile, was shouting to the uniformed officer. “I am being assaulted!” she cried.

  A second cruiser now pulled up and two more uniforms got out.

  Flashing his badge to the men holding Ramona, Knight said, “Let her go … now.”

  The two guards did, but they continued to glare at the much smaller detective in an intimidating way.

  “Okay,” Knight said, “anyone want to tell me what the hell is going on here?”

  Ramona began. “I’m a reporter and I was trying to get the attention of Assemblyman Henry to ask a question at this press conference—”

  “You’re not a reporter and you weren’t invited,” said the large Hispanic guard.

  “Back off, tiny,” Knight said, returning the guard’s withering glare. “Of course she’s a reporter, I see her all the time on Channel 8. Ramona Rios, right?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she replied, smiling.

  Knight then noticed that he was being filmed by anybody who had a camera. “Shut those things off or lose ’em!” he shouted. “You guys know better than that.”

  The photographers complied, though most of them reluctantly so.

  Flushed, almost shaking, Ramona went on with her testimony, including her meeting of Danny Speakman, whom she turned to bring into the conversation. Only then did she realize that he had gone.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Knight said. “You’re telling me that you met someone here who told you he was a writer working on a book who was posing as a bum for research? And the two of you simply bluffed your way in?”

  “Yes, that’s what he said.”

  “Did anyone else see him?”

  The other reporters had to admit that they had really not paid attention to the man seated next to Ramona.

  “Is it important?” Ramona asked.

  “It might be,” Knight answered casually. He was not about to let a pack of newshounds onto the fact that he was following the trail of a possible homeless serial killer, and someone – unknown – who was pretending to be a street bum, and who suddenly lams out when the authorities show up, had just made it to the Challenge Round of Who Wants To Be A Prime Suspect?

  CHAPTER 6

  The howl that came from Nick Cantone’s office was more extreme than usual. It froze his administrative assistant Delores in her tracks. She had heard him make a sound like that only once before, and that time it had been accompanied by the sound of a clock being thrown across the room against a wall, and the shattered pieces of it clattering to the ground. That tantrum had been prompted upon the news that a junior stockbroker at Smith Barney had mistakenly bought 100,000 shares of a stock that Cantone had intended to dump, costing him in the final accounting over two million dollars. It had also cost one of the local branch’s partners, who happened to be the father of the junior stockbroker in question, his membership in L.A.’s exclusive Harrison Club w
hich Cantone virtually ran.

  Delores assumed that her boss’s sudden rage had something to do with the call that had come in just a few minutes earlier from Devin Ronan, the city’s District 16 council member, who was also Cantone’s eyes and ears in L.A. government. Ronan called on average once a week, though this time, Delores did not even get the chance to put the call through to her boss’s office. Ronan simply told her, “Tell him to turn on Channel 5 and brace yourself,” before hanging up. Knowing that the plasma television in Cantone’s office was almost always on and usually tuned in to Fox News network, she relayed the message immediately. What followed was one minute of silence and then the explosion.

  “Sonuvabitch!” Cantone screamed, and Delores detected the sound of another hard object colliding with the wall. The developer then nearly tore his office door of its hinges and marched into the outer office. “You’d think that Hollywood moron could do a press conference competently, wouldn’t you?” he shouted.

  Delores’s tried to keep the panic out of her voice as she replied, “Yes sir, I would think so.” She had absolutely no idea what she was agreeing to, but knew that agreeing first and then gently raising questions later was the safest course.

  “You’d think something as simple as declaring yourself a candidate for office could be accomplished without creating a frigging riot, wouldn’t you?”

  Ah, Delores thought, we must be speaking of Adam Henry. “Yes sir, I would think so, absolutely.”

  “God!” Cantone bellowed again, returning to his office. Delores desperately wanted to know what was being broadcast on the news, but she knew better than to walk into Cantone’s office without being invited. So she sat it out, listening to the faint sound of the television and the occasional expletive. Finally Cantone reappeared. “Do you believe this, Delores? I mean, do you frigging believe it?”

  She shook her head. “It’s truly unbelievable, Mr. Cantone.”

  Whatever it was.

  He retreated once more to his office, stepped over the trash can that he had dropkicked, stepped over to his enormous mahogany desk, picked up the phone and jabbed in a number. The phone at the other end rang five times before the voice answered, “Mr. Hulme’s office.”