Killing Time In LA

Table of Contents

Blurb

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

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By Victor J. Banis

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Copyright

Killing Time in LA

By Victor J. Banis

A Tom and Stanley Mystery

No matter how Stanley tries, he and Tom can’t seem to get away from bodies.

On vacation in LA, Stanley’s visit with a friend at a popular Mexican restaurant owned by La Paloma, the flamenco dancer, leads to meeting a couple from Mexico. When the woman is found dead, Tom and Stanley work with LAPD Detective Betts—a recovering alcoholic who lost his son to a child murderer—to find the young man. The bodies pile up as Tom, Stanley, and Betts race to solve the puzzle of a Russian agent, drug smuggling, illegal immigrants, and police corruption.

Stanley might hate bodies, but Tom can’t resist a mystery. While killing time in LA, will a killer set his sights on Stanley?

Chapter One

HE WAS running as hard as he could, legs churning, arms pumping. His breath was like a burning ember in his chest. He ran as if his life depended on it.

And it did.

SEÑORA?

La Paloma paused on her way through the dining room of her club.

"Sí?" She turned to find her nephew, Pepe, standing just behind her.

There is a man at the back door asking for you, he said.

At the back door? But please, bring him inside.

I have asked him to come inside, Pepe said, but he insists on remaining there. He asks if you might come to him.

How strange, she said. But of course. The back door, you said?

Yes. He is standing just outside.

"In the darkness? Qué peculiar," she said again and went to the door beyond the kitchen. It was dark outside. At first she saw no one. She took a step beyond the door, then saw a man standing in the shadows. He came forward, just enough that the dim light from inside showed his face.

"Sobrina? he said. My niece?"

I…. She hesitated. Surely this man was a stranger to her, was he not? Am I? she asked. Your niece?

"Ah, then you do not recognize your old tío, he said. Tío Jorge. How sad."

Tío Jorge? Then you must be the brother of my mother or my father? Which is it? Her mother, gone now, had left behind two sisters. Her father had only a single brother, her Tío Ramon. She held her breath, awaiting his answer.

He smiled, revealing teeth in need of dental care. But it is neither one. Which you would know if you remembered me. I can see that you do not. Again I say how sad that makes me.

But I do not understand, she said. How can you be my uncle, if you are not related to either of my parents?

I lived next door, when you were only a small child. There was a fire at the casa where I lived. My wife and my children perished in it. Your parents were very kind to me. They took me in. I lived with them, with you, for a year. No, it was closer to two years, I believe. They taught you then to call me your uncle, perhaps only to save confusion. In time, I was able to move on, but I always continued to think of myself as your Tío Jorge. I had hoped you did also.

Ah, I see, she said, nodding, though in fact she remembered none of this. She looked around. Out front, the restaurant—her restaurant—opened onto Olvera Street, a popular tourist destination in the City of Los Angeles, but here there were no cobblestones, no quaint shops, no tourist restaurants or bars. It was only a dark alley. A garbage can rattled nearby. Rats searching for food, she thought. She shivered, although the night was not cold.

But what brings you here? she asked. And why do you stand out here in the darkness like a man hiding from the light?

It is not the light from which I hide, he said.

She raised an eyebrow. But what, then?

The authorities, he said. Immigration.

She sighed, her ample bosom rising and falling. Then I understand. You mean to say, you are here without papers?

Sí. Yes. I am an illegal. As they like to say in Mexico, my back is wet.

But why do you come here? To my club, La Comida? There are sometimes people who come here, authorities, the immigration people, others of their sort. The very people you wish to avoid. Here you may not be safe.

He took a step closer to her. She could see his eyes now, dark and very intense. They belied his servile manner. However he pretended, this was not a humble man, she thought. This was a man used to having his way. Used to making his way.

In Mexico, he said, pronouncing it Mehico, in Guadalajara, where I have been living, it is said that the famous entertainer, the great dancer, La Paloma, offers assistance to wetbacks. Help in moving beyond this city, papers, whatever is needed. Except money. I have plenty of money already. I do not ask for that.

That is fortunate, she said. But the rest of it. It is not easy, what you seek. You must know that.

Certainly. Those dark eyes seemed to be weighing her. Please, he said. I throw myself at your feet, at your mercy.

Which sounded appropriately humble, but she thought again, he did not seem to her a humble man. If anything, she sensed an overwhelming arrogance about him. Over many years, she had learned to trust her instincts. This man unnerved her, whoever he was.

Still, she could not say for certain that his story was untrue, and if he was who he said, how could she turn him down in his time of need? She took a step back, into the open doorway. Another step and she was inside, in the shadowy hallway that ran past the open door to the kitchen. She could make out very clearly the clatter of pots and pans, chatter as the kitchen crew prepared for the soon-to-arrive dinner traffic.

Come in, please, she said, gesturing with one graceful hand.

Then you will help me? he asked, stepping inside.

Perhaps. We shall see what we can do, she said. The dining room is through there. Find a place to sit. Are you hungry? I will have something brought to you.

He shrank back. But no, I cannot. You have said, people come there sometimes, the wrong people. I do not wish to be seen. I do not care to be sent back to where I come from.

I see. She looked around again, as if this hallway was not as familiar to her as the back of her hand. Those stairs, she said, pointing to the steps that led upward. There are dressing rooms at the top. The one to the right is for the others. The door to the left, those rooms are mine. Wait there for me, and do not leave, for any reason. I shall be up shortly.

She waited until he had disappeared up the stairs. Then she went through to the dining room. The reservation book was kept on a pedestal by the front door. She opened it, took a pair of spectacles from the bosom of her dress, and after making sure there was no one to see them, perched them atop her nose. She ran one slender finger down the list of names written in the book.

Yes, her memory was right. She tore a sheet of paper from the notepad by the register, wrote quickly on it, and folded it over twice. One of the waiters had come into the dining room behind her. She summoned him with a crooked finger.

Juan, she said, handing him the note, Señora Corby will be with us this evening. See that she gets this, but discreetly; let no one else see.

Sí, señora, he said, bowing.

And now, she thought, I must see to Tío Jorge.

Or whoever he might be.

THIS IS Olvera Street. It’s sort of a glimpse of old Mexico. Well, old Los Angeles, at least, Stanley Korski said, waving his hand in the air to encompass the block-long street, cobblestoned and brick-lined, that they had just entered.

This was not the original plaza, he added, "though they would like us to think so. That was near here, but that is long gone by now. However, this area of town really was a part of the original settlement. El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Ángeles de Porciúncula. In English, that is The Town of Our Lady the Queen of the Angels of Porciúncula, which I always thought sounded like Our Lady of the Pork Chops. Of course, whatever they called it, it wasn’t pork that got the ball rolling, it was wine, which is to be expected, I suppose, this being Los Angeles. The first vineyard, well, the first ones were at the missions, and they did big business too, but the first commercial vineyard, Belle Vignes, it was called, that was just a few blocks from here, where Union Station stands now. And that old church—we passed it just before we entered here—that is the settlement’s original church, and it did indeed look out on the plaza. But this, Olvera Street, was just, oh, sort of an alley off of the original plaza. I believe it was called Wine Street back then. Señor Olvera was, umm, I think one of the old landholders. The Californios, as they labeled themselves. As was el Señor Dodson. That’s the Something-something-something Dodson house, there on the right. There are catacombs beneath it, or so I have heard, but they are closed to the public. As is the house, in fact."

But not the shops, Tom Danzel said drily. A woman in a gaudy skirt of red and black triangles, clearly meant to suggest the pyramids of old Mexico, was trying to show him a length of obviously machine-made lace.

Handmade lace, she insisted, waving it in front of him. From Guadalajara. Made by nuns.

Lesbian nuns. And made underwater, I have no doubt. Tom waved her away. And did that original plaza have all these touristy trinket shops? he asked Stanley, looking around with a skeptical eye. The street was indeed lined with small kiosks where vendors sold the predictable tourist souvenirs: lace, of course, though certainly not handmade, and T-shirts, silver jewelry, cheaply crafted piñatas, crudely decorated pottery, even some nice-looking leather goods. In his opinion, you could find it all, and at better prices, in the stalls in Tijuana.

And cheap drinks too, in the bars there. He had never confessed it to Stanley, but he rather enjoyed Tijuana, sordid though much of it was. He liked the continuous racket, the cheap women and cheap food, and he enjoyed the haggling over prices if you wanted to buy something. He was good at haggling too, unlike Stanley, who was more often than not prepared to pay the first price a vendor asked, just to have the transaction over with.

Stanley paused briefly next to one of the little stands. Probably not, though I suppose there were always street vendors of one sort or another here. It kind of goes with the territory, don’t you think? Oh, I like this ring, don’t you? He held up a piece of silver with a large turquoise set none too expertly in it.

It looks like junk to me, Tom said.

It is a little uneven, Stanley said, examining the circle of the ring, which even he could see was far from a perfect circle. But that just means it’s handmade, I think.

Or a clever imitation. Stanley, what are we doing here anyway? You know how I am about tourist traps, and all I am seeing at the moment is one street-long tourist trap.

I told you. You probably were not listening. We are going to have dinner with my old friend Elena, at La Comida, which is just a few more doors down. And trust me, the food there is better than you might expect. He glanced at his wristwatch. Plus, if we linger, we will time it just about right for the floor show. Everything starts late here. That part of this Mexican neighborhood is authentic, at least.

A floor show? Which is what, exactly? a skeptical Tom asked. And please don’t tell me that it is flamenco dancers.

It is flamenco, since you ask. To be honest, the dancers are probably more Mexican than Spanish, but as I recall from that long ago visit, not too bad either. And the star, La Paloma, is the best I have seen anywhere, including in Spain.

Tom grunted. He had seen more than his share of crappy flamenco shows over the years. He had even seen some of them in Spain, which in his experience was no guarantee of authenticity. Most of them featured a little overheated room, always with stairs climbing up one wall, presumably to the dressing rooms.

And there would be a mariachi band featuring an overweight tenor bulging out of a black jacket and straining to reach notes that probably had never been within his range. Plus one old woman for the dancer, heavyset, wrinkled, who was trying to compensate for her no-longer-nimble footwork by flinging the hem of her skirt dangerously high about her wattled thighs and eying the customers speculatively as she tried to decide which ones were most likely to buy her a drink afterward. Or perhaps make an even bigger investment.

If she’s so good, this dancer, what is she doing here? he asked aloud. What did you say her name is?

She calls herself La Paloma. Stanley shrugged. And as for what she is doing here, I have heard that she owns the place, which no doubt explains why she dances there.

Just out of curiosity, what does La Paloma mean? Tom asked.

The dove. Stanley hummed a snippet of the old song.

Huh. Tom grunted, fully unfamiliar with the song. None of the flamenco dancers he had seen in the past had suggested a dove. Although one or two of them had put him in mind of crows. And this Elena? The friend we are meeting? Do I know her?

No. She’s just someone I knew a long time ago, before I met you. You knew I lived in Los Angeles for a time, long, long ago. And she’s a lesbian, by the way, before you start getting any ideas. A confirmed lesbian. One who hates men, or so I am led to believe.

But not you? You’re not man enough for her to hate?

Ha-ha. Okay, she hates macho men, which I don’t pretend to be. But I told her you were not like the others. Which is certainly true enough.

Not like the others? Tom gave him a frosty glance. By which, you mean?

Which Stanley ignored. Ah, here we are, he said, a little too brightly. La Comida.

A sturdy doorman stood just outside the painted door. Korski, Stanley said to him. We are meeting Señora Corby. Elena Corby.

The doorman consulted his registration book. She is inside already, he said, and pushed the wooden door behind him open. Beyond it hung a thick beaded curtain. Stanley parted the beads with his hands and went in.

He’d had to coax Tom into coming for this visit to Olvera Street while they were in Los Angeles, mostly on vacation, but with a few old friends they meant to look up.

In Tom’s case, old friends almost certainly meant police officers, for the most part ones he had worked with in the past, when he was with the San Francisco Police Department, Homicide Bureau. With a rare few exceptions, this pretty much covered Tom’s list of friends.

Stanley, a feminine, though admittedly deep, voice called out of the semigloom as they stepped inside the restaurant, and a hand waved to him from a nearby table. Stanley, over here.

Even Stanley, who had been here before some years back, had to admit that if you were seeing it for the first time, the restaurant was none too promising. The tables were the wooden picnic sort, stained red, none too expertly, with benches instead of chairs. The tables sat end to end and marched in neat parallel rows toward a much larger table about six feet square with thick, heavy-looking legs.

That table, unstained and scarred-looking, sat pushed against a wall, with an oversized step stool providing access at one end to its top surface, thus telling everyone that this was meant to serve as a stage.

A guitarist, a slick-haired young man dressed all in black and looking no more than eighteen or nineteen, sat on a three-legged stool in one corner of the main floor, his fingers coaxing rivulets of melody out of his somewhat battered instrument, notes that floated over the heads of a large number of patrons and ascended the bougainvillea-covered brick walls.

At least, Tom thought, the restaurant inside is quiet, a welcome relief from the cacophony of the street outside. He supposed that could be credited to the brick walls. Not a lot of noise penetrated them. And probably the thick foliage helped too. That and the dim lights.

He had always thought it was funny, how people tended to get quiet in darkness. Even when they spoke—and several of them were speaking just now—they tended to whisper. People mostly did the same thing in movie theaters.

Someday he would ask Stanley why that was. In his opinion, Stanley knew everything. At least everything worth knowing. He was a goofy little guy, but there was no denying that he was smart.

And yes, he thought, suppressing an inward groan when he saw them, there were the stairs climbing that inside wall to a closed door above. He was all but overwhelmed by a disconcerting sense of déjà vu. If the woman who came down them was aged and overweight, he was leaving, period, and never mind about Stanley’s friend. There were limits to what he could be expected to tolerate.

In the meantime,