Death Walks Skid Row Read online

  “This is Nick Cantone. Get him on the line. Now!”

  In the next second, though, he realized there was nothing Jason Hulme could do for him. Hulme had already lost control over the situation, and was therefore useless to him.

  Cantone slammed down the receiver.

  Whatever Ramona Rios was up to, and whoever she was really working for, simply being fired was not going to stop her.

  It was time to call in a professional.

  “Delores,” he called out, and his secretary rushed into his office.

  “Yes, Mr. Cantone?”

  “Take the afternoon off.”

  The secretary was startled. “Um, I still have a few more letters to transcribe—”

  “It doesn’t matter. You can do them tomorrow. Go on, go.”

  “Yes, sir. See you tomorrow.” Rushing back out, she quickly gathered up her purse and sweater, turned on the answering machine, and hustled out of the office feeling she had managed to dodge a bullet.

  Once she was gone, Cantone unlocked the bottom drawer in his desk and withdrew a cell phone. Punching in a number, he waited five rings before a man answered.

  “Hello, sir,” the voice said.

  “Meet me at the club at 4:45.”

  There was no point in asking the man whether or not he was available. He’d be there.

  ****

  The Harrison Club was not identified by any signage on the street. One either knew what the three-story brick building tucked in between high rises in Downtown L.A. was, or they didn’t.

  There were people in the city who were under the belief that the billionaire businessman’s club no longer existed, which was fine with most of the members. The Harrison was where Southern California’s most affluent citizens, plus a few resident aliens, could meet to plan a deal, exchange funds, or hide a body, all while enjoying the best filet mignon or lobster to be found anywhere in the state.

  Since Nick Cantone’s guest was not a member, he was forced to enter through the secret guarded entrance that was accessible only from a private elevator in the back of an antiquarian bookshop located next to the club. Cantone had informed the guard his guest would be coming.

  He, however, did not have to resort to any such subterfuge. He drove into the underground parking lot off of Flower Street and went straight to his reserved spot. A sensor on the concrete wall in front notified the staff inside that Cantone had arrived, which is why the club manager was waiting to greet him as soon as the elevator doors opened in the building’s common area.

  “Good evening, Mr. Cantone,” the manager said.

  “Evening, George. Is my dining room ready?”

  “Always, sir.”

  Nick Cantone made his way up the wide, ornate, oaken staircase to the third floor, where three executive dining rooms were situated. They were mini-restaurants that were ready and waiting at all hours for their customers.

  And if no customers happened to reserve on any given day, the five-star meals were simply deposited into the trash. One time a kitchen worker had once attempted to take some of the food with him and was caught. He was never seen again on the premises.

  Cantone seated himself in the Calhoun Room, the most intimate of the dining suites, and ordered a bottle of Lafite-Rothschild bordeaux.

  Both the wine and his guest arrived at the same time.

  “Have a seat,” Cantone said, and the other man did, setting a leather satchel down beside him. “Wine?”

  “I’d prefer a scotch, Mr. Cantone,” Gunnar Fesche said, “if that’s all right.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  Cantone signaled for the waiter again and ordered a bottle of Dalmore, which arrived within seconds. Fesche sipped the liquor like he was tasting the nectar of the gods.

  “Leave us now,” Cantone told the waiter. “I’ll signal for you when I need you.”

  “Yes sir,” the waiter said, then hurried out.

  “Now, then, Gunnar,” Cantone went on, “we have something of a problem.”

  “Your friend the movie star?”

  Cantone laughed mirthlessly. “Problem doesn’t begin to describe Adam Henry, but him I can handle myself. I’m talking about Ramona Rios.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A former reporter who turns up at all the wrong times, making all the wrong comments, and inciting all the wrong people to follow her leads into my affairs. She destroyed Adam Henry’s announcement that he was running for mayor this morning, just like she turned the Phoenix Terrace press conference into a debacle. I will not have either Phoenix or the Henry campaign torpedoed, let alone by some beaner babe who thinks she’s La Lois Lane.”

  Fesche took another sip of his scotch. “You want the ultimate package?”

  “If that’s what it takes, yes.”

  “Do you have a photo of her?”

  “I have better.”

  Nick Cantone checked his Rolex and then pressed a small button on the side of the dining table. Instantly, the waiter entered the room. “Albert, bring in a television, would you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The waiter left again and returned a minute later with a television on a rolling cart. After plugging it in, he hooked it up to a cable access wire that was hanging on one paneled wall, and asked, “What channel?”

  “Channel 5,” Cantone said.

  Taking the remote, the waiter selected the channel, and then passed the device to Cantone. The television popped to life. “Will you be dining this evening, sir?” he asked.

  Cantone turned to Fesche, who said, “I had kind of a late lunch.”

  “Some other time, then,” Cantone said. “That will be all, then, Albert. I’ll ring when I need you again.”

  Once the waiter had gone, Cantone added, “I’m not sure my stomach could handle dinner after watching this twice, anyway. I saw it earlier this afternoon, and there’s no way they’re not going to repeat it now. It’s news.”

  He pronounced the word as though he was describing a sickening body expulsion.

  The five o’clock news came on and the two watched in silence for only a minute before the top local story appeared – the disastrous roll-out of the Henry campaign. It came complete with close-ups of Henry’s befuddled expression as he attempted to grasp the situation and field unexpected questions, but was topped by shots of his running for his limo like he was on fire, with field reporters chasing him.

  “God almighty,” Cantone sneered. “Why didn’t they put the Benny Hill music over this! My candidate. L.A.’s best hope!”

  “Why don’t you run for mayor yourself, Mr. Cantone?” Fesche asked.

  Cantone snorted. “I am not a public man, my friend. Neither would I care for a demotion. There, that’s her, the dark-haired one with the mouth.”

  “Quite a looker,” Fesche said.

  “Feel free to make her less so, if you like.”

  Cantone’s hands tightened into fists as he watched the coverage being given to his puppet candidate’s incompetence.

  Fesche suddenly sat up straight. “That blond guy next to her, who is he?”

  “I have no idea. Why?”

  Reaching down to get his satchel, Fesche said, “Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think so. That old black bum you asked me to keep a watch on, the one all the other bums look up to? The one you thought might be some kind of undercover cop, trying to catch you shipping all the other good-for-nothings out of the area?”

  “What about him?”

  From his satchel, Fesche pulled a couple 8x10 photographs and laid them on the table. “The old dude I think is legit. I mean, he’s really a bum, not a cop. But take a look at this guy.” He pointed out Aspen in the photograph. “Clean him up a little, put some decent clothes on him, and you’ve got—”

  “The man standing next to Ramona Rios at the press conference,” Cantone said. “Good spotting, my friend. Check him out, too. Find out what he’s up to, who he’s working for. And if necessary …”

  “It’ll
cost more.”

  Nick Cantone smiled like a snake looking at a hamster.

  “Gunnar, if you haven’t learned by now that money is no object, you never will.”

  CHAPTER 7

  It was nearly six o’clock before Ramona Rios got out of Parker Center, the Downtown police headquarters. Detective Knight had held onto her until the two security guards had been released, just in case there was additional trouble. For Knight’s taste, the guards enjoyed their jobs just a little bit too much, but since Ramona had opted not to press assault charges against them, there was nothing on which he could hold them. Like the soldiers they believed themselves to be, they gave little information except names, ranks and information relating to the firm they worked for (some outfit based in Orange County called Monster Security). After a call to those offices to verify that they were correctly representing their employment, Knight sent them on their way.

  Neither was Ramona charged with anything, since Knight was hard pressed to come up with any city ordinance that forbade one from impersonating an employed journalist. He cautioned her though that repeating such actions as she had taken that day could result in even more trouble, maybe even the accusation of stalking, a suggestion that first made Ramona swear out loud, and then laugh.

  For her part, Ramona had actually been surprised by the questioning she had received from the detective. Most of it had pertained to Danny Speakman. She confessed that she had never met him before and had been more than a little annoyed by his sudden David Blaine disappearing act during the press conference. Most surprising was the fact that Knight had taken her to the police sketch artist to provide an official description of Speakman. She had asked what he was being suspected of, but of course the detective revealed nothing.

  But she could not help wondering why, if the man really was a writer with a book deal, he would be so difficult to locate.

  Just then Ramona realized she had answered her own question by using the word ‘if’.

  Her news alarm was working overtime. If something was up regarding this guy Speakman, it was a story waiting to be uncovered.

  By her.

  And to hell with Channel 8.

  Ramona had done her best to work with the police artist, watching as the talented woman interpreted her description. The first version was very close, though Ramona offered subtle corrections until the image was perfect. Every nuance of the face had been captured.

  It was the best likeness of her ex, Lonnie, that Ramona had ever seen. And she hoped he got picked up, too.

  As for Danny Speakman’s face, she planned to keep that to herself, at least until she learned what he was really up to.

  Announcing that she was free to go, Knight assigned a uniformed officer to walk out with her and drive her back to her car, which remained parked at the press conference site … if it hadn’t been towed yet.

  Outside of the station Ramona was gratified to see that there were still a good dozen reporters hanging around the back exit. One she recognized from the Daily News, and another two were from competing television stations. All shouted her name as though they were old friends and tried to shove microphones and tape recorders in her face.

  Never having been on this side of a story before, she did not particularly care for the experience. The policeman tried to brush the reporters away but Ramona said, “No, it’s all right, officer, I’ll talk to them. These are my compadres, after all.”

  “I guess you know what you’re doing,” he said, hanging back.

  “Why did they keep you here so long, Ramona?” asked Suan Kim from Channel 2, whom she barely knew. Now it was “Ramona” like they were classmates.

  “I don’t know, Suan,” she replied, “maybe for my protection. If you’re asking was I made uncomfortable during my time here, the answer is no, absolutely not.”

  “So have you in fact been fired by KPAC?” asked another reporter, one she did not recognize.

  “I was demoted to a lesser position within the news operation, which I had no intention of accepting,” Ramona.

  “So you resigned?” Suan Kim asked.

  “My position is that I was maneuvered into resigning. I had no intention of leaving my job otherwise. As to why I was backed up against the wall by management to the point where I felt leaving KPAC was my only viable option, you will have to ask Jason Hulme, the station manager.”

  “Why did you show up today at the Henry press conference?” the reporter from the Daily News asked.

  “Look, I might not have a home base at present, but I’m still a reporter like all of you. I felt there were questions that deserved to be put to Assemblyman Henry that were not being asked. But for now, the biggest question remains how Mr. Henry knew I was no longer at the station when no announcement had been made. Who told him, and why?”

  “Who do you think it was, Ramona?” Suan Kim asked.

  “Maybe Jason Hulme can help you with that,” she replied. “And while you’re asking him, you might also want to ask what he meant when he suggested I get on my knees in front of him, after which he suggested I could use my contract as a … as feminine protection.”

  “Whoa!” an African American woman from Channel 7 shouted.

  “And if he claims he never said that, ask who else was in the room who heard him.”

  Even though Robert Bauman had done nothing in her defense, she was not quite ready to throw him under the bus as well.

  “Now guys, you’ll have to excuse me,” Ramona went on. “I’ve had a pretty strange day and I’d like to go home.”

  Turning to the uniform, who had faded into the background, Suan Kim said, “Officer, is there anything you can add?”

  “No ma’am,” the cop said, taking Ramona lightly by the arm and escorting her past the reporters. When they got to the cruiser, he asked, “Where to?”

  Ramona gave him the Downtown cross streets, and then got in the back of the car.

  The drive to Skid Row took place in silence, broken occasionally by the squawk of the police radio. Remarkably, if not miraculously, her Mustang was right where she had left it – untouched, un-ticketed and untagged.

  Seeing it intact made her happier than she would have thought possible.

  Thanking the taciturn officer, Ramona got out of the cruiser and unlocked the door to the CRV, then waved back at the policeman who drove on. Once the black-and-white had turned the corner and disappeared up San Pedro Street, an elderly street man was on the sidewalk, having appeared out of nowhere as though he just beamed down from the Starship Enterprise.

  “Heyyyyy, sister,” the old man said, giving her a toothless grin, “I watched your car for ya. Made sure nobody messed wit’ it. How ’bout some change?” He walked toward her and Ramona tensed. “Kept it safe for you,” the street man said, holding out a filthy hand to her.

  “I’m sure you did, but …” she began, but then another man appeared on the other side of her, and this one’s appearance startled her even more.

  “Here,” Danny Speakman said, slapping a $5 bill onto the old homeless man’s hand.

  “Whoooo, God bless ya!” the man said, shoving it into his soiled pocket before anyone else had the chance to see it.

  As he shuffled away from them, Speakman said, “I was actually the one who kept an eye on your car.”

  “You know, Mr. Speakman, you’re like some roach, scurrying into and out of the light,” she said. “And how did you know this was my car?”

  “The vanity plate really isn’t that hard to decipher.”

  Ramona’s plate read ‘ARRIOS’, an otherwise nonsensical Spanish word that phonetically turned into ‘R. RIOS’. “Okay, I’ll give you that one,” she said. “Now would you mind explaining to me why you ran like Dracula from a cross earlier today, leaving me to deal with the police alone?”

  “Oh, come off it, you loved it,” Speakman said. “You loved the attention back there, and you probably relished getting pulled into the station. And clearly they did not arrest you, because you�
��re here.”

  “No, they did not arrest me, but they’re sure interested in you, amigo.”

  “In me?”

  “Yes, and you haven’t answered me. Why did you disappear?”

  Danny Speakman sighed. “Look, how about we go somewhere and talk this over, like maybe a restaurant?”

  “You want to take me to dinner?” she said accusatorially, but in truth, Ramona was starving. She was also perfectly willing to have this man spring for a meal in return for his abandoning her.

  “I will buy you dinner,” he said. “Then we’ll talk.”

  Ramona gave him her best ‘but-you’d-better-watch-yourself-buster’ look, before unlocking the Mustang and saying, “Okay, get in.”

  She suggested the Spence for dinner, an old wood-paneled steak house on Figueroa that boasted of never having closed its doors, even for earthquakes, for most of the 20th century.

  The place was crowded and noisy like usual and the aroma of searing meat permeated the dining area like a mist. The restaurant’s walls were covered with old paintings and signage that were coated in a brown nicotine glaze still left from the days when smoking was allowed in public places.

  “If this place is always open, when do they clean?” Speakman asked.

  “You’d have to ask the county health department,” she replied, “though since this place is owned by a former L.A. mayor, who is very, very rich, my guess is they’re not that concerned about it.”

  “You suspect everyone of something, don’t you?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Ramona and Danny took a booth near the back. She immediately began looking over the menu, seeking out the most expensive item, which appeared to be the prime rib. Since she did not particularly care for prime rib, she selected the tenderloin filet. Once the waiter, who appeared almost as old as the surroundings, had taken their order (and Speakman had given her a wry grin when she announced her selection – he was getting a sandwich), Ramona started to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.