Goodbye Natalie

Chapter Five: The Lonely Hunter

     As Fallon Dawn Hunter made her way through the busy Hollywood streets, finally turning off into the twisting and confusing labyrinth of the North Hollywood Hills, she was losing confidence. It was in fact draining from her like brake fluid from a rotting hose in a neglected and abused rental car. Not only was she having trouble finding the address that Vivian Valentine scribbled on a worn linen envelope yesterday, she was in peril of losing her nerve. Doubts were beginning to cloud her mind. The police had shown up at the office, asking what they termed ”routine” questions, and had attempted to gain entrance to Alan Rassmussen’s office. She informed them that the A-1 Detective Agency door vas always locked and she didn’t have a key. Detective Nick Bonetti and partner Harry Tong briefly considered forcing their way in, but wisely decided if it became necessary to search the office they’d get a warrant first. Fallon Dawn helpfully suggested that maybe the office partner, Burl Barnes might have a key, but he was out to court at the moment. She would check with him and be sure to call the detectives if he did. The detectives thanked her, but considered the whole thing probably not worth the trouble, as Rassmussen’s death was an apparent suicide.

     They had determined that Fallon Dawn didn’t even know the deceased first hand, but showed concern with the ”poor girl’s feelings” and were both empathetic and sincere in their condolences. The fact that Harry Tong couldn’t keep his eyes off Fallon’s legs the entire time, and Detective Bonetti was a little too earnest in insisting that, ”...should you think of, or NEED anything, don’t hesitate to call him.” as he handed her a business card, left little doubt as to their primary interest...it wasn’t Alan Rassmussen’s death. Fallon Dawn wondered if all cops were horny all the time, or was it the entire male species. Then she began wondering if the correct term was sub-species, or genus and decided to table the digression till a later time.

     She spent the night with her nose buried in books from Alan’s library. A previous brief speed-reading course proved invaluable, as she made her way through every detective and police manual that her dead boss had collected. If she was going to track Vivian Valentine’s son, she needed to have some idea of how to begin and the information in the pages she devoured hungrily, late into the night. She discovered that detective work was largely practical, logical, linear thinking. Step-by-step, meticulous note taking, intuition and patience appeared to be the key to successful police work. You interview witnesses, relatives and persons closest to the subject in question, then work your way out in concentric circles. If nothing shakes, you work your way back and retrace your steps. There’s forensic and testimonial evidence, and most times it’s the person with the motive who’s the main suspect.

     In the matter of Vivian Valentine’s son’s disappearance, she would gather all the information she could from the mother, compile a list of witnesses and known companions and hang-outs, and go from there. Not that complicated. What was complicated, however, and thus troubling her ceaselessly, was that she knew her old boss had been murdered, the murderer knew who she was and that she could identify him. Not only that, he had felt confident enough to threaten her to keep quiet, and it had worked. Poking around for the runaway son of a former movie star was one thing, being involved in homicide and lying to the police was quite another altogether. One night of detective 101 wasn’t going to arm her adequately for that type of danger.

     Before leaving the office, she had packed Alan’s brass knuckles, mace and retracting baton into her faux Gucci handbag. Along with her own .25 Colt, she had a formidable little arsenal. She decided to hang onto his old hat also, if nothing else it shaded her eyes from the harsh L.A. sun and masked her face a bit. Nobody takes someone who looks like a J.V. cheerleader very seriously.

     She didn’t like wearing heels either, but the extra few inches in height gave her a little boost of ego, she needed all the help she could get if she was going to pass herself of as a P.I. Fallon checked her reflection in the rearview mirror, ”Yeah, right...Fallon Dawn Hunter, P.I.” She allowed herself a slight grin, ”Gimme a break.”

     She found the elusive address that Vivian Valentine had given, the entrance was blocked by heavy wrought iron gates. They were rusted badly and brush had grown wildly from all sides. Leaves and debris cluttered the driveway. She got out of the car and wiped a half-inch of dust off the antique intercom, she pushed the button but found it wasn’t working. A test of the gates found them to be unlocked and they opened with a nerve-rattling creak as they skidded across the cracked pavement. As she drove the forty or so yards to the main house, it was apparent that the gardeners hadn’t been there for a very, very long time. Years perhaps. Rose bushes had grown haphazard to dangerous heights, the heavy vines leaned precariously over the car and scratched the hood with their thick, untended thorns, as if to either warn a visitor to beware or perhaps they were standing a silent guard...the last layer of protection between the world and the old movie star. With no body guards or gate keepers, the grounds themselves risen up for one last attempt to drive out invaders.

     Fallon Dawn rolled to a stop at the top of the circular driveway and cautiously stepped toward the rustic doors. She pounded the tarnished brass knocker and waited. Huge maples and poplars shaded the large mansion and surrounding grounds, giving the place a dark, cool atmosphere. At the side of the house, a drained, cracked pool lay, still and dead, a corpse of a once vital and inviting playground. On the other side, a broken garage door revealed a once proud, vintage limousine parked therein. Living out it’s final years in dusty solitude, the house and adjuncts resembled their owner, old and forgotten.

     The house was weather-beaten and everything was in dire need of paint. The varnish on the dark cherry or mahogany doors was worn away in spots, leaving the expensive wood to split and rot. Fallon Dawn felt sick at the neglect and waste. A place like this, if well tended, would be worth millions. As it appeared, she thought maybe Vivian Valentine might be in some financial trouble, the property taxes alone on a location and lot this size would be devastatingly expensive. She imagined Vivian pawning an Oscar to get the money needed to hunt down her son. Suddenly she felt a twinge of regret for having cashed the check. She had no idea if she’d be able to find the son, but she was determined to give it her best shot.

* * *

     A few miles away from North Hollywood, but eons separated from the mansions and wealthy elite denizens of the cultured, Frankie Valentine was running for his life. Across Western Avenue he dodged traffic and darted between buildings to a cluttered alley. He panted heavily as he made his way south two blocks and crossed Wilshire Boulevard into Koreatown. If he could just make it a few more blocks he might have a chance of living to see another day. He figured his odds were about ten-to-one...against. Not the toughest odds he’d ever faced. His heart was pounding furiously, sweat soaked the soiled Polo pullover and he was damn glad he’d traded the leather Ferragamo loafers for some Nike high-tops. He could still clearly hear the heavy footsteps of his pursuer and the stream of cursing as the stalker tore open some skin on a protruding, rusty nail as he rushed past a heaping trash bin. Frankie smiled inwardly and marveled he could maintain a sense of humor in such desperate circumstances. One thing he did have going in his favor was, he knew these streets and back alleys well, extremely well. He’d actually surveyed and pre-scouted escape routes for just these scenarios. In his line of work, you had to be prepared.

     Frankie Valentine was a gigolo. A true to life, real deal, American Gigolo. As glamorous as Richard Gere may have made it seem in the movie, most times it wasn’t anywhere nearly so. There’s a lot of drama and intrigue and hurt feelings that goes along with dealing in the flesh and heart trade, and you can find yourself walking into some very serious situations...involving some very dangerous people. One of whom was hot on Frankie’s tail right this moment and he knew that one stumble, fall or wrong turn would result in instant death. He hoped it would be instant anyway. Mississippi Mudcat Jones wasn’t anybody you wanted mad at you, and he was livid with Frankie. Frankie and Mudcat had designs on the same girl and Frankie had swooped in on the down low and sealed the deal with Joanie Kwan while Mudcat was tending other business.

     Joanie Kwan was a dancer at the Dragon Lady bar, a hole-in-the-wall on Sixth Street near Normandie. They’d both laid eyes on her about the same time but it was Frankie who was the most determined. Not that he needed another girl, he barely had time for the ones he was working. Three of them lived in the same apartment complex, but luckily, all had different work hours so he was able to migrate from one apartment to the other on shifts. His cardiac surgery nurse worked the midnight shift at Kaiser Hospital, the beautician worked days and went to school nights, and the administrative assistant to some big-wig in insurance in the Equitable building that towered over mid-Wilshire and Koreatown, also worked days but traveled on business a lot. They each thought Frankie lived with them, and it amazed him that none of them ever caught on. He told them all that he was in the movie business, a production assistant, which explained why he’d have to disappear for long stretches or in the middle of the night or all weekend, on ”shoots” or various other TV or film adventures. The fact that he was getting money from each and every one of them was explained convincingly by advising them that P.A.’s don’t actually get ”paid” in money, they get screen credits which lead to other work. He had them all convinced, and himself partly, that the big break was going to come, a time when he himself would be calling the shots on a movie or TV show, and when that happened the money would be pouring in. For the most part, all the ladies seemed to be satisfied with that, as long as Frankie was attentive and loving and enthusiastic in-between the sheets. He made sure his targets were all within his wheelhouse of who he was attracted to, that way, the love-making wasn’t a chore. He enjoyed his work and he was good at it. Unfortunately, he got bored with his conquests rather rapidly and was always on the lookout for new game. When he saw Joanie Kwan, he zeroed in.

     Kwan was extraordinarily attractive. A Filipino mother and Chinese father gave her all the qualities it took to attract the opposite sex. Within days of her arrival at Dragon Lady, Mudcat had come sniffing around. When he heard that Frankie had pulled her, you could actually see the steam coming out of his ears. He tracked Frankie to the cardiac nurse’s apartment and when Frankie heard the front door burst in, he barely had time to grab his clothes and jump through the second floor window. Now he was running for his life and Mudcat was closing. Frankie made it across Normandie and ducked into a triplex of office buildings. He knew the stairs behind the elevators lead to a basement hallway that ran the length of the three buildings. He’d cut down the passage and hide out in a seldom used and non-descript gym, owned by the health club that was housed in the triplex. Nobody ever went in the tiny, one room gym... he figured to lay low till Mudcat lost the trail. He made it to the gym, locked the door behind him and caught his breath. He noticed he’d cut himself pretty badly, jumping through the window to escape, his leg was still bleeding.

     Mudcat saw Frankie enter the office building. He threw open the glass
doors and eyed the elevator bank. No, no way he’s gonna get in an elevator... Mudcat was stalking with a sharp tracker’s eye. He’d hunted down plenty of coons and rabbits and bigger game in his time. He eyed the back doorway, it’s possible, but let’s not be hasty. He noticed the only other door in the foyer, behind the elevators. He noticed something else also, on the floor just outside the doorway, a single drop of blood. He leaned his six-five frame low and touched the droplet. He rubbed it between his fingers, still wet...he sniffed and smiled evilly, then he tasted it...White boy blood.