tomeubanks.com

　                                            CHAPTER SIX
    
                                               Under Pretext

12:15 p.m.

Joe found Ivan Sonneborn's address just far enough away from the freeway to make it quiet. Built in the mid-50s, it was a clean, renovated duplex just a twenty-foot-long brick walkway from a quadruplex assembled in the late-60s on the same lot. Between the apartments, mating them incongruously, the owner had constructed a Spanish Revival arch–clay tiles, adobe brick, the whole bit–with Lindo Haciendas in green-bottle glass letters set in the stucco facade.

At the foot of the stairs leading up to Sonneborn's apartment, the mailbox hung precariously from a bolt set in stucco. On a rain-faded piece of paper taped to the lid was the name Sonneborn. Joe opened it. Empty. Below it, a three-by-five card cut in half, still white, the ink legible, read: No Soliciting...No Charity...No Polls...No Jehovah's Witnesses...No Kidding!

Lavender flower petals, blown from a Jacaranda tree crowding the stairs, covered the steps and scattered when Joe ascended to Sonneborn's apartment. At the top, on the balcony, was a BEWARE OF OWNER sign tacked to an air conditioner that poked out like a fat boy mooning from a car window.

Joe listened. No T.V., radio, rustling, footsteps or voices. Then a distant hum. The refrigerator fan had come on. Someone lived there. He rang the doorbell, a square plastic button set in a brass-plated frame, but it only thudded. He knocked hard on the door. After a few seconds he knocked again–louder. No response. The shades in the window were drawn closed. He tried peering over the air conditioner through the other window.

A nasally voice called from below:

"What're you doing there, son?"

His heart punched him. He spun around and banged his face into a hanging Wandering Jew.

"Uh...I’m here to see Ivan."

The man stationed at the bottom of the stairs was heavily tanned, wore no shirt, was fifty-something and had the physique of an old welterweight boxer. He peeled an orange with his fingers, tossing the peel in the trash Dumpster beside the stairs.

"Who're you?" he said, sizing him down.

Joe spun the imaginary Rolodex of names in his head. "Todd. Burkett."

"What makes you think this guy lives there?"

"Address he gave me."

"When was this?"

Coming down the stairs, Joe said: "You related or something?"

"I'm the landlord. I live down here in ‘A.’ And he don't live there."

He didn't have the fingers for peeling an orange, especially a thin-skinned Valencia. "Here," Joe said and offered his pocket-knife. He took it. While he peeled, Joe said:

"When did he move?"

"Never lived here."

"Who does?"

He hesitated. "Ivan don't live here."

"Okay, look. I get it. You can't say. I get it. Okay. Can we talk?"

"Can if you want."

"Okay, look." Joe went into pretext mode, the story developing like a beautiful photograph in the dark room of his creative mind. "I was doing a film in Lancaster this summer for Paramount, and this Ivan hung out with us, said if I wanted any...well, something I wanted, you know...that I could come by here and he'd get it for me."

"Get what?"

"You know." The landlord looked back with a blank expression. Then the image of Ivan the nerd emerged with a contrasting image in Joe’s mind that might get him to talk. "You know–girls."

"Girls. No way, José. Not this guy. Dope maybe. Not girls." He amused himself with the thought and handed back the pocket-knife.

"Ivan sells dope?"

"Not Ivan. His brother, Gregory."

"That's who lives here, his brother?"

Juice dripped down the landlord's chin. "He ain't home."

"Where is he?"

"Soledad Prison."

"Drugs?"

"Yep."

"I don't get it. Why'd Ivan give me this address?"

"Comes by occasionally, stays overnight once in awhile. Takes care of the place, pays his brother's bills."

"Has he been around here lately–he made it sound like he lived here all the time."

"Matter of fact he was here yesterday. Picked up Greg's mail. I was out here waterin' when he drove up over there. Driving a motorhome. Said he was rentin' it. Goin' on vacation somewhere."

"Say where?"

The landlord stopped eating, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Who are you really? Cop?"

Joe smiled benignly while he thought. "Actor. Maybe you've seen me before?"

The landlord peered into Joe's face. "What's your name again?"

He hesitated, recalling the name. "Todd Burkett."

Nodding, the landlord saw something he recognized in Joe's face. "Didn't I see you in that T.V. movie about those queers trying to adopt a baby?"

Joe swallowed and smiled. "That's me."

The man flashed a smile littered with orange pulp between his teeth. He shook Joe's hand vigorously and said:

"I thought so! Damn!"

"Look," Joe said. "We need some girls for a party. Ivan said he could arrange it. If I knew where to find him, it sure would help."

A wink from the landlord. "Like to. But I didn't ask where he was going. None of my business."

"Oh, well. Thanks anyway. I'll try somebody else." Joe turned to leave. Then he turned back to the landlord and asked casually: "Happen to know where he rented that motorhome?"

* * *

On Hollywood Boulevard, even the McDonald's was sleazy. Runaways loitered the sidewalk; cops watched the runaways; drug dealers watched the cops; and the kids from the Valley cruised and tried to spot their favorite dealer. Fellini World, Joe thought, as he threw the BMW onto Highland and zipped by Hollywood High.

A block past DeLongpre he caught sight of a sign high above the clutter: Thompson's RV Center. He parked at the curb. The sign on the building said OFFICE. He safaried through herds of motorhomes, ascended the steps, tapped on the door and walked in. He had plenty of time on the drive from the Valley to come up with what he thought was a good pretext. Like an actor preparing for his entrance, Joe stopped just outside the office, thought about who he was, took a deep breath and walked in.

"Afternoon," the chesty lady behind the paper-strewn desk said. She fanned a mechanical smile and stood up. "Can I help you?"

"Name's Sonneborn. Here to pick up an RV."

The smile faded to confusion. "I'm sorry?"

"My brother Greg arranged for an RV. Supposed to pick it up today."

"I think you're at the wrong place, sir. This is Thompson's RV."

Joe pointed to a piece of paper in his hand. "This is your address."

"Yes, it is. What's the name again?"

"Sonneborn." He spelled it. She pulled out a file drawer, fingered through manilla folders. "You do got it, right? You ain't gonna tell me he didn't get it. We're supposed to leave for Montana tomorrow–trip's been planned for two years. I'll kill him."

"I recognize the name," she said and bent to a lower drawer. Her tight red skirt elevated and exposed a pair of thighs that gave Joe a craving for Kentucky Fried Chicken. She withdrew a crisp file and slid behind her desk. "Let's see what we have here." She opened it. Joe read the name up-side-down: IVAN QUIST SONNEBORN. It was a rental agreement signed three days ago.

She shook her head. "Mr. Sonneborn, your brother already took delivery."

"He what?"

She squirmed. "Took delivery."

"Oh, for cryin' out loud," Joe drawled. "Let me see that"–he turned the file around and began to read it. He saw the Sherman Way address, looked down the page, and–

She closed it. "That's confidential."

Joe threw up his arms. "I gave him the money. I told him to come here and order one and I'm Ivan. He's Gregory. You gave my RV to my crazy brother. You get I.D. or something, right? How could you give an RV to someone without knowing who they are?"

"Mr. Sonneborn, I assure you, we checked his credit and his identification. We had no idea."

"Did he get a Winnebago like I told him?"

Nervously she scanned the agreement in the file. "A Pace Arrow–our biggest."

"A Pace Arrow. For cryin' out loud–I'll kill him." Joe turned to the window, reflected and said, "How did my little brother manage to use my name and my I.D. to rent my RV? You'd think that'd be pretty damn hard to do...unless there was something more to it." He turned and faced her. "You know?"

"Mr. Sonneborn." She caught her breath, put her thoughts on pause. "Are you accusing me of participation in a...scam?"

Joe raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

She managed to say: "How do I know you're the real Ivan Sonneborn?"

"Why would I lie about who I am?"

"Do you have some I.D.?" she asked.

"If he showed you I.D. with my name on it, that means he took my I.D."

But she thought of something else. "You must have something with you–a library card, Triple-A card, something–with your name on it."

Joe hesitated. What now?

The door burst open, making both her and Joe jump.

"Uncle Ivan," the boy said, "what's taking so long?" Robby Catlin grinned at the pretty lady. "Hi, I'm Robby. We're going fishing in Montana!"

Joe placed an arm around Robby's shoulders and led him to a chair.

"Sit down," he said, hiding his glare at Robby with his back. "Your Uncle Greg already got it."

"Not again!"

Why'd he say, Not again? Where was Robby going with this? Joe turned to the sales manager. Her name plate said her name was Dolores Carson. "Dolores, it's not like Greg to do something like this."

"Anymore," Robby finished. "Uncle Greg hasn't done anything weird like this in a long time," Robby said to Joe. "Why'd he split on us? He knew we wanted to go to Montana."

"I don't know."

Dolores licked her lips and thought a moment. "I think he's being influenced by his friend."

"What friend?"

"The hunky guy with him. Yelled at your brother about something in the parking lot. Your brother called him...what was it?...Red–no, Reg. Reg, that was it. And there was a girl waiting in the VW they had. She stayed in the car, so I didn't see her very well."

Robby asked her, "Did he say where they were going?"

Her eyes darted around her desk and then around the room, as if trying to force her memory to surface. Nothing came and she shook her head. "Sorry. All I know is they have to have it back in two weeks."

Joe had taken out his wallet. He looked through it.

"My damn driver's license is gone. So's my VISA, my MasterCard and my check guarantee card."

"You and your brother don't look anything alike," she said.

"Uncle Greg was adopted," Robby said without a beat.

Dolores reached for the phone. "I should call the police about this."

"First let me see if he used my I.D. to rent the RV," Joe said, putting a finger on the file. She hesitated, cradled the telephone, then opened the file for him.

Quickly, Joe read the agreement, memorizing Ivan's driver's license number, the Social Security number–and then his brain stopped. Under references was a name. It leapt from the page and burrowed through his eyeballs: OTTO STEIGER. When he was done, he nodded. "I'll kill him. Brother or not, I'll kill him."

"He'll bring it back," Robby assured everyone. "Uncle Ivan, I know he will. He did the last time."

Joe forced back a grin.

"Why does he do this?" Dolores asked.

"Did you see One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest?" Robby replied.

She thought about the question. Then inspiration came to her face. She understood Robby perfectly. Robby came around the side of her desk. "He's a little goofy, but he's honest."

"What about the blank credit card slip we're holding?" she asked Joe. "That's our only real protection, you know."

"Let me see it. We'll make it all tight and legal."

Dolores didn't look happy, but what else could she do? The wrong man took the RV and the responsible party was giving the okay. "Just initial it where he already signed your name," she said.

Joe initialed it–IQS–and returned it. "Could I have a copy?"

"Of course," she answered.

"If there's a problem, you know, you're responsible for the RV."

"I'll find him, don't worry."

"Would you call me when you do?"

Robby said, "We're still going to Montana, right?"

Joe poked a thumb in Robby's direction and said to Dolores:

"Kids. So optimistic."

* * *

Joe and Robby rolled up Highland, approaching the Hollywood Bowl, and Joe finally spoke.

"You come to my office. You're direct enough to tell me you'd make a good investigator. You demonstrate confidence. You sound like a quick learner. You tell me you're honest and punctual. You assure me you want to work hard. You're only fifteen with a work permit, but I gave you a break. And what did you do?"

Robby answered: "Saved your butt."

Joe felt the pain. He was right. The pretext had floundered under her unexpected request to see some I.D. Then Robby showed up. Did what Joe had failed to do: gain her unshakable confidence.

"Not the point," Joe said, shooting up the northbound on-ramp of the Hollywood Freeway. "I said stay in the car. You disobeyed me."

"I stayed in the car at the apartment."

"What? You think there's a statute of limitations on a rule?"

"No, but I wanted to hear what you were doing."

"I explained on the way over exactly what I was going to do."

"Good thing you did, too. Besides, what good is it to ride along if I can't hear what you're doing?"

He had a point. "Next time, follow my instructions–to the letter–or you're gone. You'll be flipping Big Macs at Mickey-D's, got it?"

Robby cocked his head and one side of his mouth crimped. He put up a thumb and said: "Gotcha, boss."

Joe waited a few moments. He had to tell him.

"But you were...you were pretty good in there."

Robby sat with his arms folded across his chest. "Danger is my business."

Joe swung into the lane to the right, took the transition ramp to the westbound Ventura Freeway and glanced over at the boy's profile, his face up-turned to see over the dashboard, looking three years younger than his age.

"Where's your dad?"

"Died when I was five. Rock Concert. Trampled to death. Rolling Stones were playing."

"Sorry."

"Yeah," he said. "The Rolling Stones are awesome."

Joe snapped his eyes at him. Robby grinned.

"You're lying to me."

"Just practicing."

"Not on me you don't."

"Gotcha, boss."

"Don’t ever lie to me. And don't call me boss."

"Sure. So what do I call you?"

"Sir." If he was going to follow-through on this crazy idea of having a 15-year-old boy working for him, he wanted to know more about him. "So where is he? Your father."

"Remarried. Lives somewhere in northern California."

A few minutes later, coming off the Balboa exit from the freeway, Joe said, "If you're going to work for me, I want to meet your mother."

"Sure."

"What happens when school starts?"

"I'll work after school–and weekends."

"What about homework?"

"I'll do it in study hall if I have to, but I'll get it done."

"What about sports? And girls?"

"I hate baseball. I'm too small for football, too short for basketball–and too smart for hockey. And my sex life is none of your business...sir."

"What sex life?" Joe drawled.

Robby grinned. "That's what I mean."

Joe laughed all the way to Ventura Boulevard. He liked this kid. Too much.