Goodbye Natalie

Chapter Twenty: What Price Peace

     ”CUT!” The director yelled out to the crew. Everyone froze in their tracks. ”Who the HELL are you?!” All the blood left Fallon Dawn’s face, who was conspicuously poking around the corner of the old brick warehouse. She slipped the Colt pistol back into her raincoat pocket before stepping out.

     ”I’m terribly sorry...I didn’t know you were shooting here.” She said apologetically. The director’s stress was not allayed.

     ”Well, we WERE.” He said sarcastically. Fallon looked around and took in the scene. An actor lay on the ground with stage blood dripping from his chest, another stood over him with a prop gun. Obviously, that was the shot she had heard and this was the pick-up scene the guard back at Heartline Productions had described.

     ”All right everyone, take five...we’ll try it again.” The director called out to the small crew, then to Fallon. ”That is, if it’s alright with you.” He stared at the diminutive girl in the raincoat and man’s hat. ”What is it exactly that you require Miss?”

     Fallon was familiar with high-strung, mid-level types. She calmly replied. ”I’m here to see Mr. Dearing, is he on the set?” She looked around, thinking that if the snippy director wasn’t Dearing, he likely wasn’t there. The only people on the set besides herself, the two actors and the director, were the cameraman, one lighting/sound man and a make-up/script girl.

     ”He’s not here.” Snapped the director.

     Fallon didn’t move and continued her investigation. ”Where can I find him?”

     The director had his own questions. ”And who are you again?”

     Fallon presented a business card. ”My name’s Fallon Hunter, I’m a private investigator.” It felt good saying that, she was embarrassed that was so, but was beginning to understand the benefit of getting to the point.

     The director asked quizzically. ”What’s this in reference to?”

     Fallon answered deliberately. ”That’s not your concern. If you would just tell me where I might find Mr. Dearing, you could get back to your...” She looked around dismissively. ”...filming.”

     ”You can check at the Broadway office, he’s probably there.”

     ”Broadway office?” Fallon said.

     ”North Broadway...Chinatown. He works out of there mostly, closer to his home.” The director searched his pockets and produced a Heartline Productions business card with the Broadway address and phone number. ”Call first.”

     Driving back across the bridge to the city, Fallon thought over the events of the day and tried to analyze the fear...terror really, that she had felt after hearing that gunshot. She rationalized that it was a natural reaction and probably enhanced by the surge of adrenaline that followed the shot. What she couldn’t quite wrap her head around was why she had made the decision to proceed toward the sound of the gunfire. Was she beginning to become brave? Or was her judgment warped by the compelling desire to find answers to the increasingly mounting questions? She was just starting to understand that she was getting into situations that might become potentially dangerous and she had better learn quickly which instincts to trust. There’s a thin line between paranoia and perceptiveness, she wasn’t aware of exactly how far over the line she treaded, nor which side to which she leaned.

     Two car lengths back, Mudcat Jones and Cherry Bomb followed in the Monte Carlo. Cherry kept busy by constantly filling and relighting Mudcat’s crack pipe. She was taking her own hits too and as long as the dope held out, she didn’t mind tagging along. He had gotten her high on weed, heroin, a little pcp and now crack and she had spent the night handcuffed in the backseat. It was a minor inconvenience to pay for staying lit, and Cherry estimated her chances of slipping away unscathed were, at best, minimal. She’d seen the big piece Mudcat carried in the shoulder holster, and the one on his ankle, not to mention the assortment of knives he had at hand. It wasn’t the weapons that worried Cherry however, it was the look in Mudcat’s eyes. She’d seen that look before, in her line of work you get experienced at picking out the dangerous ones, the ones who can hurt you. What she saw in Mudcat she didn’t like to think about. She knew she was dealing with a straight, cold-blooded killer. The kind that’d cut your throat or choke your neck or bash your head in without remorse or reckoning. No, running wasn’t the answer to this situation, at least not until she was absolutely certain of a clean getaway. Plus, he was flush with an ample supply of mind-altering drugs, the next best thing to an easy trick with a fat wad of cash was a heavy dope sack. One way or the other, the end of the line was gonna come hard and sudden to Cherry anyway, she knew that. Might as well go out with your head right.

     The steady rain tapped at the windshield and car roof, keeping time with the mellow jazz on the radio. Cherry hummed along with the riffs and relit Mudcat’s pipe, holding it to his lips. She looked down at the bandages that covered several seeping wounds that bled through his shirt. She wondered how that might have happened and what kind of violence Mudcat must’ve been a part of. Hopefully, the wounds would keep him sedated a bit, and the dope might help. She studied his worn face. Deep lines etched grooves beneath his eyes; he hadn’t shaved in awhile and the whites of his eyes had turned yellow. He had a massive head with wiry, thick hair. His hands were calloused and large and dangerous. Cherry knew the best thing for her to do was to follow instructions and stay quiet. She knew Mudcat was easily capable of killing, and she wondered how recent the last one was...she pitied his next victim. Apparently, the skinny white girl in the green car was next in line, that poor girl.

* * *

     At Hollywood Police headquarters, Harry Tong hung up the phone and wearily trudged into Detective Nick Bonetti’s office through the open door. Bonetti looked up from the case files he was studying.

     ”What you got Harry?” Bonetti asked.

     ”Prints are back on the John Doe behind A-1 Detective Agency boss. His name is Hannibal Petway, a drug dealer from South-Central. I ran an associates-accomplice-records search on him...there is one interesting little nugget I think you might like.” Harry said.

     ”Go on.” Bonetti urged.

     ”Petway’s got a long list of arrests, mostly drug-related. In one of those busts, he got pulled in with a cohort by the name of Robert Ervin Jones.” Harry waited a beat. ”Nickname, Mudcat.”

     Bonetti connected the dots immediately. ”Mudcat Jones? Our bus station informant’s lead.”

     Harry continued. ”Right boss. Somehow, Petway ended up with his throat slashed, dumped in a trash bin behind A-1 Detective’s building, where our girl coincidentally works. He’s tied, loosely perhaps, but none-the-less associated with, a Mudcat Jones, implicated by an anonymous informant, to a murder scene on Alexandria Avenue, one Emma Cuenca, where the Hunter girl just happened to be present immediately following the killing. Her alibi, that a friend lives there, who we haven’t been able to locate as of yet.” Tong waited for a response.

     Bonetti rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. ”So, what’s the implication here Harry?” He asked.

     ”Don’t know yet boss. We gotta check out this Mudcat guy though, last known address is Nickerson Gardens. Want me to sent a car?” Harry asked.

     ”Yeah, let’s try and bring him in for questioning. Meantime, they brought in the phone and bank records on the Cuenca apartment. I was just going over it.” Bonetti continued. ”A lot of calls to a Hollywood Hills address, and there are several checks in varying amounts paid to a Frankie Valentine. I tried the phone number and keep getting a recording, the machine says, ’You’ve reached the residence of Vivian Valentine, please leave a message.’ That name is hugely famous, and my reckoning is, there’s not that many Vivian Valentines in North Hollywood.” Bonetti finished and looked at Harry Tong.

     ”You mean, the actress? Vivian Valentine the movie star?” Harry asked.

     ”Gotta be.” Bonetti answered. ”So, the checks to Frankie Valentine, the phone number traced to North Hollywood, the residence of Vivian Valentine. Logical reasoning suggests the Cuenca girl is wrapped up in some romance or scheme with some relative of Vivian, son or grandson or something...Either way, whoever this Frankie Valentine character is, we gotta locate him fast.”

     ”I’ll run a make on him.” Harry said.

     ”Good. Then how about you and me take a drive up to the Hills and pay a visit to a famous movie star?” Bonetti said.

     ”She’s still alive?” Harry wondered aloud.

     ”She must be in her seventies or eighties by now.” Bonetti said.

     Harry was thinking deeply. ”So, how’s Fallon Hunter linked to all this boss?”

     Bonetti was gathering his papers and dumping them into file folders. As he grabbed his hat and coat, he responded. ”I don’t know Harry. On our way to the Valentine place, let’s check on the apartment and see if she’s made it home yet. I really don’t know how she’s tied into all this, but let’s hope she hasn’t gotten herself into something she can’t get out of.”

     Harry offered. ”Her car’s still at the office boss. The Chinese girl never went back to pick her up from the Glendale Mall that I can tell. Officers on the scene at the Hollywood office told me the car hasn’t moved and there’s no sign of either of ’em.”

     Bonetti didn’t say anything, just checked his gun before sliding it into the holster. Harry asked. ”You think she’s alright boss?”

     Bonetti looked up gravely. ”I don’t know Harry...I don’t know what the hell she’s doing or what the hell she’s gotten herself mixed up in, but whatever it is, let’s hope she knows what she’s doing.”

* * *

     When Fallon exited the bridge from the east bay, back into the city, she drove west several blocks and turned east on O’Farrel. One more stop before heading back to the hotel. She found a parking spot around the corner from the Magic Carpet Massage Parlor that didn’t have a meter, and walked the half-block to the entrance. She took one last look around the street and then up at the tacky neon sign with the naked Asian girl suggestively licking her stiletto heel, before ringing the doorbell that would take her into a world she knew nothing of. She trembled slightly, whether it was from the rain and cold or simple physical and mental anxiety, it didn’t matter. She had a lead to follow up and that’s what she would do. Just like Alan’s detective manuals said to do, step by step, follow the leads.

     Magic Carpet Massage was on the first floor of a four-story, simple brick building, one of many on O’Farrel. Fallon thought the upper floors might house studio apartments or rooms for rent. The street level windows were painted over in a dark, blood-red and when the door buzzed open, Fallon stepped in to a small waiting room area, not unlike a doctor’s office waiting room. It was furnished with red velvet and plastic wood-grain sofas. A little sliding window opened and a middle-aged, pretty Asian woman eyed Fallon up and down before speaking in broken English.

     ”Ma-sage, thirdee dolla, thirdee minute.” She spoke loudly with a stern, direct manner. Fallon stood with her mouth agape, motionless and stunned.

     ”Oh no, I don’t want a massage...I’m looking for someone.” Fallon said.

     The Asian lady squinted her eyes. ”You lookee for job?” She asked.

     It was the second time today that Fallon had been mistaken for a prostitute. Although she normally would have been offended, she was getting used to it. ”No, no lookee job. I’m trying to locate someone. I wonder, could I speak with your manager?” Fallon asked.

     The lady blinked hard and didn’t appear to be comprehending. ”Ma-sage, thirdee dolla!” She repeated louder.

     Fallon insisted. ”You don’t understand, I just want to talk to your manager.”

     ”You talk, you ma-sage, no matter...thirdee dolla!” The lady was firm.

     Realizing she was defeated, but not willing to give up, Fallon dug in her wallet for a twenty and a ten and handed them to the now smiling lady. The side door immediately buzzed open and she was ushered in hurriedly by the little woman. She personally escorted her down the hallway and led Fallon in to a small room that had a mirror and a shower, she pushed her in and shut the door. Perplexed, Fallon stared at herself in the mirror. She called out to the lady. ”May I speak with your manager now?” There was no answer. In a few minutes, the lady returned with a fresh towel, a bathrobe and slippers.

     ”You take shower now! Hurry, hurry, thirdee minute, thirdee dolla!” The woman pointed emphatically at her wristwatch.

     Fallon soon realized that she had just paid for a thirty-minute Oriental massage and after giving herself another blank stare in the mirror, decided to go with the flow. Maybe she could get some information on Jake Barnes from the masseuse. She stripped off her wet clothing and stepped into the warm, inviting shower. It was quickly hot, and felt extremely good. The lady returned again and helped her towel off and slip into the robe, she was then led to another room.

     The little room was dimly lit with a side counter filled with lotions, candles and towels. In the center was a padded table; the lady instructed Fallon to disrobe and lie down on her stomach. She laid her clothes and purse on the side counter and complied. The lady covered her with a fresh towel and another girl quietly entered, this one younger and quite beautiful. The older lady gave directions in Chinese and one started at the toes, the other at the head, rubbing Fallon’s tense muscles with care and deliberateness.

     Slowly and rhythmically, the two experienced technicians worked without words spoken. The deeply relaxing kneading of Fallon’s tense muscles soon had her in mild ecstasy. The younger began at her toes and worked up the feet to the calves, knees, hamstrings, buttocks. The elder made her way from the scalp to the neck, shoulders, arms, back, lower back, and met simultaneously with the other girl in the middle. Just when Fallon began to become uncomfortable, she was turned over and they began anew from the start. By the time they met again in the middle, she wasn’t sure where this was going, or if she for certain, knew what her reaction would be. As the young one worked her upper thighs, and the older one applied oil to her breasts, Fallon felt a heat rising inside of her belly that was unusual, but not unpleasant. At the peak of her anticipation, a timer quietly sounded, signaling the thirty minutes were up.

     The girls both immediately halted their motions and dried their hands on towels, also toweling off Fallon. She had to admit, she was impressed with their professionalism, and a bit disappointed it was over. Across the room, on the side counter, Fallon’s clothes, purse and shoes lay, a testament to her identity. It was the armor with which she shielded the outside world, that fortified her from all that she encountered. Her identity, comfort, security, lay in neatly folded piles, while the real Fallon Dawn Hunter lay naked and relaxed on a table in an Asian whorehouse.

     In that quiet moment, she gained a significant revelation...that her own true essence, who she was and the things that she stood for and believed in, weren’t tied to outside things and forces. For that moment, she felt complete and confident and perfect as she was. By giving up control of the outer trappings of the world, the inner struggle had been calmed as well... if only for this one moment. What price could be put on such peace?

     The younger girl leaned in close and whispered. ”You want more?”

     ”What?” Fallon asked.

     ”More ma-sage...thirdee dolla.” The girl said sweetly.

     Fallon looked deeply into the pretty girl’s dark eyes. She wondered if all the Asians possessed those fathomless, onyx eyes. Just like Kwan’s.

     ”Hand me my purse please.” Fallon knew that all the paper and ink in her wallet wasn’t a match for what she was experiencing and what she had gained. She pulled out a hundred and handed it to the young girl. The two workers spoke briefly in Chinese and began to work in earnest. It was the best money Fallon had ever spent.

* * * * *