Death Walks Skid Row Read online

  “Oh, it’s just been a hell of a week,” she said. “First, I get fired. Then I get manhandled at a press conference for a mayoral candidate. Then I get pulled in by the cops. Now I’m on a date with a homeless guy. It’s just all hitting me.”

  “This isn’t exactly a date and I told you I’m not really homeless,” Speakman said.

  “Okay, I’m out with a fake homeless guy,” Ramona giggled. “I can’t even get a date with a real one.”

  “It’s symptomatic of an increasingly strange world. But now that your mood is clearly improving, maybe you could tell me why you think the police were so interested in me.”

  “Sure, if you tell me why you were so interested in staying away from them,” she shot back.

  “That one’s easy, and innocent, too. I’d already met the policeman who showed up at the press conference once before, only it was when I was in my bum disguise. I didn’t want him to recognize me from that and blow my cover.”

  The waiter reappeared and placed a plate of French bread down on their table, and Ramona immediately took a slice and buttered it, then popped into her mouth and chewed. “That’s really all there is to it?” she asked through the mouthful of bread.

  “That’s really all there is to it.”

  “Okay. Now I feel even better about misleading them.” She described how she had dealt with the suspect sketch artist, which made Speakman laugh out loud.

  “I hope I never get on your bad side,” he said.

  The food then came and they spent the next few minutes simply eating in silence. The filet was the best Ramona had had in ages, though she ignored the flat, thick fries that came with it. The steak was nearly gone when she noticed Speakman watching her eat. “What?” she asked defensively.

  “You seem unusually hungry, that’s all,” he said.

  “Latinas can’t be hungry?”

  “No, I mean you’re eating like people I saw out on the streets, like you haven’t eaten anything in quite some time, and might not again for a while.”

  “Well, I did miss lunch, and … ”

  “And?”

  “I guess I haven’t been eating much in the past week.”

  “Depressed over getting fired?”

  “Technically I wasn’t fired. Technically I quit, even though I was forced to. But yeah, you could say I’m bummed. No pun intended.”

  “Are you having money problems?”

  “Don’t worry about me, okay?”

  “All right, how about this … why did you get into the news business?”

  “Why not?”

  “Come on now, stop lobbing defensive answers back at me,” Speakman pressed.

  “I suppose you wouldn’t accept because it’s what I wanted to do, would you?”

  “There still has to be a reason.”

  Ramona sighed. “Okay, look, where I come from it’s all about taking whatever opportunities are offered when they’re offered. I started getting offers when I was thirteen years old, but they had nothing to do with journalism. I was developing, but not as a reporter. In middle school I joined the staff of the school newspaper because we often stayed late to turn out an issue. It was safe. By the time we were finished, everyone else was gone and I could walk home without being hassled by boys, and even a couple of grown men. But I discovered I liked working on the paper. I liked finding things out about people. One time I even got in trouble for something I wrote. I hadn’t brought drugs to school, or a weapon, or even dressed provocatively, like some of my friends did, but I still got threatened with a suspension … I’d learned about how our gym teacher was abusing kids and wrote it up without checking with our faculty advisor first. But damned if the gym teacher didn’t quietly go on a sabbatical and not come back. That was when I learned the most powerful force in the world was truth.”

  “So you became Ramona Rios, PI … which stands for paranoid idealist,” Speakman said.

  Ramona was about to protest, but stopped. After thinking it over, she grinned and said, “Maybe that should be the title of my autobiography. Anyway, I continued with journalism in high school and a year of community college. While I was there I managed to get some videotape of myself. My teacher told me that local stations were always on the lookout for minority reporters, and he even had a few contacts in town that I could approach. So here I am.”

  “Maybe your teacher can help you rebound,” Speakman said.

  She shook her head. “He died not long ago. Cancer.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why? You didn’t know him.”

  “No, but I don’t like hearing about people dying. Like that bum I found dead in the alley. I didn’t know him either but I hated to see him lying there murdered.”

  Ramona snapped into reporter mode so quickly that she nearly dropped her fork. “What bum lying murdered where?” she demanded loudly.

  “Keep it down, okay?” he said, glancing around. Nobody was even looking in their direction – not even the waiter. “I stumbled on some guy’s body down on Skid Row while I was in street man mode. He’d been stabbed.”

  “When was this?”

  “Five days ago.”

  “How come I haven’t heard about this before now?” she demanded.

  “I can’t answer that,” he replied. “I’m not from here, remember? Maybe the murders of homeless people aren’t reported in L.A., I don’t know. You should have asked Detective Knight when you had the chance.”

  “I didn’t yet know about—” A light suddenly went on inside Ramona’s head. “Wait a minute. Knight is the one handling the murder case?”

  “I told you that. That’s why I skipped when he showed up this afternoon.”

  “You didn’t say anything about murder, you only said that you had met him.”

  “Oh. Well, I talked to him after I found the body. I guess Skid Row is his beat. “

  “I think I should talk with him again,” Ramona said.

  “If you do, see if you can find out exactly why he’s interested in me.”

  “I’ll try. In the meantime, what are you going to do now?”

  “Well, I was thinking of going back home and working on my article, but if the police need to talk to me some more about Jimmy’s murder, maybe I should stick around in L.A. for a few more days.”

  “Jimmy was the victim?”

  “That’s what the Governor called him.”

  “Do you know his last name?”

  “No. Even the Governor said he didn’t know that.”

  “Did the Governor have any idea why someone would murder a homeless man?”

  “Nothing specific, but from what I’ve been told it doesn’t take much. Someone has food or a new pair of shoes, and someone else wants it, so … ”

  Ramona Rios shook her head, sending her dark tresses swaying back and forth. “God, that sucks on so many different levels,” she said. “How many pair of shoes and hamburger combos could be bought for the price of Phoenix Terrace? But Nick Cantone and the other rich bastardos who come into depressed areas and spend millions putting up monuments to their dirty names wouldn’t spend a cent to help the homeless. Instead they want them gone.”

  She stopped talking and stared off into the distance before repeating, “They want them gone. Oh, my god, you don’t think … ”

  “What, that developers are killing off the homeless instead of busing them out?” Speakman said. “That seems pretty extreme.”

  “I need to find out more about this Jimmy.”

  “If you’re planning on poking around on Skid Row, I can tell you first-hand it won’t be very pleasant,” he said.

  “I’m not going to do it undercover, like you. I’m not that stupid. Oh … I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that like it sounded.”

  Speakman only smiled. “It’s all right. I understand it would be harder for a woman. Particularly an attractive woman.”

  Ramona looked up at him and narrowed her eyes. “Uh huh,” she uttered. “I was wondering when you were going
to make your move.”

  “I’m not making a move,” he protested. “I’m simply saying the women I’ve seen on the streets don’t look like you. You’d never pass. And please don’t try to tell me that you’re unaware of your looks. Nobody on television is unaware of their looks.”

  “All right, I’ll accept your point.”

  The waiter reappeared to take away any empty dishes, and Ramona asked for her leftover steak to be put into a container.

  “Do you have a dog?” Speakman asked.

  “No, but I also don’t have a job at present,” she replied. “I can’t afford to waste food.”

  After Speakman received the bill for the dinner, the two walked up to the upright cage by the front door that housed the cashier. Speakman handed over three twenties and took only a few ones in change back.

  Outside on the street, people were queued up halfway down the block, waiting to get into the Spence.

  “I love L.A. at night,” Ramona said, looking around at the illuminated buildings, standing like pillars of light against the blue-black sky. “That’s when it’s at its best.”

  To Speakman, the city at night looked like an experienced whore who puts on her finest jewelry to go out in the evening, knowing that the dark will obscure most of her hardness and age. “You’re smiling,” he told Ramona.

  “Am I? Well, I like it here, that’s all. Do you want me to drop you off at whatever five-star hotel you’re calling home away from home?”

  “Yeah, right. I’ll walk and see the city at night, on your recommendation. Thanks, though.”

  “You’ll be okay?”

  “I’ll manage. Maybe I’ll try to figure out your buses.”

  “Good luck with that.” She held up her Styrofoam take-home container. “Thanks for dinner.”

  “How can I reach you if I need to?” he asked.

  Ramona gave him her home phone number.

  “All right. And if the next time you see me I look like a hard case on the streets, pretend you don’t know otherwise, all right?”

  “I’ll do that,” she said. “Though I am curious to see how you dirty down. Night.”

  Ramona headed for her car at the small lot across the street from the restaurant.

  Danny Speakman watched her until she got in and drove away.

  Once she was gone, he pulled out a cell phone and punched in a number.

  When he heard the voice on the other end, he said, “It’s me. I think our problem just got bigger.”

  After explaining it to the man, he waited for instructions, which were slow in coming.

  “All right, I’ll keep an eye on her,” said the man who called himself Danny Speakman, Ken Corder and Aspen, “but I won’t hit her. Hitting women is your specialty anyway.”

  He lowered the cell phone, but could still hear the voice yelling: “Don’t ever say that again! You understand!”

  That made him grin.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Governor couldn’t help but smile at the sight of a fellow homeless man across San Julian Street urinating on a soft drink advertisement painted onto the side of an abandoned store, while a pearl grey dove flew up over his head. The sign of peace over a sign with piss, he thought. Skid Row occasionally revealed its poetic side.

  A police car suddenly appeared and screeched to a halt. There had been more police presence in the last week than the Governor had seen in the last six months. For some reason, the cops had decided to take the murder of Jimmy very seriously.

  An officer leapt out of the cruiser’s shotgun seat and headed for the urinating man who, upon seeing him, unleashed another stream, this time of invective.

  “You’re breaking the law, sir,” shouted the policeman, who looked barely out of his teens.

  What happened to Velasquez? the Governor wondered. Maybe he got promoted to an office job. Or maybe the worst happened to him. You just never knew.

  The street man started shouting back, and waved his arms like a windmill. The Governor saw the cop reach for his holster and decided he’d better get involved.

  Before he could, though, he heard a voice call, “Stand down, officer!”

  Detective Knight was now heading across the street. “Holster it, patrolman,” he said, flashing his badge.

  The young officer straightened like a cadet and the street man finished fastening his pants, while glaring at the two of them with everything he had.

  “He might have had a weapon, sir,” the junior officer protested.

  “What’s your name, officer?”

  “Monroe, sir.”

  “Monroe, the man had something in his hand, but I promise you it wasn’t a weapon,” Knight said, which caused the street man to laugh raucously. “I saw it, more’s the pity.”

  “He was still breaking the law, sir. Violation of code six-forty-seven.”

  “Monroe, go on about your patrol. I’ll deal with Whiz Kid, here.”

  The uniformed officer turned and strode back to the car.

  The detective waited until the cruiser had pulled away before turning to the homeless guy and saying, “Use the back of a building from now on. No weenie-waving on the street. Now, beat it.”

  The street man shouted something unintelligible, then shrugged, turned around and shuffled away.

  After surveying the street in both directors, it took Knight only a few seconds to spot the Governor. He started to walk toward him, calling, “Sir, I’d like to speak with you.”

  “Sir?” the Governor said as the policeman approached. “That’s something.”

  “Well, you didn’t tell me your name the last time we talked, did you? You are one of the witnesses to finding that body, aren’t you?”

  “Old Jim? Yeah. As for my name, folks down here call me Governor.”

  “What was your name before you were elected?”

  The Governor smiled. “Sharlton Grosvenor.”

  “Charlton? Like Heston?”

  “No, with an S. Giving me that name was the worst thing my mama ever did to me, too. In the old days I used to go by Charlie. As for my last name, it looks like it should be ‘gross-venor’, but it’s pronounced ‘grove-ner’. I think that’s how I ended up getting elected, as you put it. Grosvenor sounds like Governor when you’re drunk or addled.”

  “All right, Charlie.” From his pocket, Knight pulled out a folded sheet of paper, opened it and handed it to the street man. It was the composite sketch made from Ramona Rios’s description. “Seen this guy around?”

  The governor studied the sketch, admiring the artist’s skill. “Nope, sorry,” he said. “Never saw this man.”

  He handed the paper back.

  “Hang onto it,” Knight said. “If you think of it, show it around to some of the others down here. If anyone knows him, I’d appreciate it if you’d contact me.” After giving the Governor a card, he shook his head and smiled. “What am I doing?” the detective muttered. “I’m so used to passing these things out to everyone I talk to, I didn’t even consider you probably don’t have access to a phone.”

  “Oh, I think I might be able to find one if something’s really important,” the Governor told him, taking the card. “What do you need this guy for?”

  “Seems there’s been somebody down here who doesn’t belong here, somebody posing as a street guy, but he isn’t really.”

  “Is that a fact. What is he?”

  “Some kind of journalist or writer. His name is Speakman, Danny Speakman.”

  The Governor frowned and looked at the sketch. “And this is him?”

  “We got a description of him from another journalist.”

  “And you think he has something to do with the murder of Jimmy?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is a lot of things aren’t adding up, and that’s why I want to talk to this guy.”

  “What’s happened to ol’ Jim anyway,” the Governor asked. “His body, I mean.”

  “Officially he’s still a John Doe, though we’re calling him James Doe. We
can’t ID him. So far, his prints haven’t turned up in any file. You’ll contact me if you learn anything, right?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Even if you suspect anything.”

  “If it will help find Jimmy’s killer,” the Governor said. “Hey, as long as you’re here, did something happen to Officer Velasquez?”

  “Yeah. He’s in the hospital.”

  “Damn. Wasn’t in a shoot-out, was he?”

  Detective Knight rolled his eyes. “He was trying to install a room air conditioner at his home and fell off the ladder. Busted his leg. That’s the story, anyway. Some of us think he took a dive to avoid working with his new partner. I’ll tell him you send your regards.”

  “Just say they’re from the Governor, though. No need to pass my real name on to him.”

  “Do I need to worry that you’re a wanted man, and that’s why you don’t want your name revealed?”

  “Detective, if any of us were wanted, we wouldn’t be on Skid Row.”

  “If you say so. Keep out of trouble, Governor.”

  “Always.”

  As Knight strode back to his car, the Governor studied the drawing again. The part about someone who was pretending to be a real streeter seemed to fit what he had learned about Aspen, but even the worst artist in the world would not come up with this face based on hearing the man’s description.

  Something was going down on Skid Row, some mystery with a thousand pieces, all of which were swirling around like discarded papers in the wind.

  ****

  As the Governor stood in the hot sun thinking, a woman named Sally came up to him. She was rumored to once have been a television executive, but the Governor wasn’t sure he believed that. Then again, he wasn’t sure he didn’t.

  “Hey, what happened to that movie?” she demanded.

  “What movie, Sal?” the Governor asked, pretending he didn’t know.

  A film company had come down last month to do location shooting, and after futile attempts to herd the homeless away, the producer opted to pay them as extras. The Governor was assigned the roles of casting director and paymaster, handing out $20 to each person who ended up in a scene.

  “That was weeks ago, Sal,” he told the woman. “They’re long gone.”