Reason To Kill. Andy Weinberger

       Chapter 1

      MY PHONE JINGLES just as I push the down button inside the elevator. I fumble around and reach into my pocket. Too late. Whomever it was hung up. Just as well, I think. Par for the course, really. I’ve been meaning to move out of Park La Brea for a long time now, probably as long as we’ve lived here. Funny how some things just never happen. I’m not complaining, it’s too late for that, but the truth is you fall into a situation. You sign a lease. You know damn well it’s not what you want, but it’s comfortable enough, or at least bearable. You tell yourself over and over again you hate it—and you do—still, it’s familiar. You don’t have to think about it. That counts for more than you’ll ever know. You give an automatic wave to the guards at the front gate. You’ve made peace with the sour smell in the elevator. You have stopped noticing the gray walls and dingy light fixtures. Every week you see the same sullen janitor, Guillermo, standing there hunched over his bucket, mopping up near the metal mailboxes. And okay, he’s never said one goddamn word to you all these years. Still, you think you share a bond. Fellow inmates, that’s who we are. Right, amigo? Prisoners in the same twelve-story art deco sanitarium.

      The elevator halts at the fourth floor. A short white-haired lady hobbles on. She smooths down her skirt. She reaches over to tap the button for the mezzanine, and as she does my phone rings again. Before I can get it out of my pocket, it dies a second time. “Fuck!” I say under my breath. The old woman glares at me. “I didn’t mean it,” I tell her.

      “Why’d you say it, then?”

      “Look,” I say, “leave me alone. I’ve had a hard day.”

      “It’s only 11 a.m., young man.”

      “I’ve been up all night,” I lie.

      “Is that my problem?” she says. She points her gnarly finger in my face. “Don’t say ‘fuck’ anymore, okay? It’s rude.”

      I shrug. I don’t like her, but she’s entitled to her narrow-minded opinion, I figure. Only, everyone in this place has an opinion, that’s the trouble.

      Loretta and I settled here because it was cheap, but not so cheap as to be dangerous. Not like South Central or Boyle Heights. And because it was close to our jobs. And maybe as an afterthought, because it had Jews in the neighborhood. Neither one of us gives a fig about religion, you understand. My wife and I have always accepted all sorts, but being around people like yourself, landsmen, people who secretly enjoy eating chozzerai and can tell a decent joke, well, it was inviting, I guess.

      Back then there was no fancy Grove shopping center. No Whole Foods. No Trader Joe’s. There was the CBS lot and Canter’s Delicatessen and an actual farmers’ market where they sold broccoli and chicken and heirloom tomatoes. Real food straight off the truck. That was before the days of packaged candy and personalized license plates for kids. And people came from all over to be on television quiz shows and to eat. Loretta grew up in Northern California; at first this was strange to her. But I knew it because I graduated from Hollywood High, which isn’t that far away, and because my cousin Shelly had an apartment just off Fairfax. This was our turf, or his turf, anyway.

      Now I’m on the mezzanine. It’s a bright, sunny September day. There’s a breeze blowing in from the Pacific and they say it might rain later on, but I still have time to take my walk. This is what I do these days—walk. Loretta and I used to do it together before she got sick. Now it’s just me. Me and twenty million other people. They all walk faster than I do, and lots of them run. They’ve got their fancy Italian track shoes on and their headbands, and have that determined look in their eyes that says they’ve only got another two miles to go and by God they’re going to get there. I wish them luck. Sometimes when they sprint by me, I think I must be the oldest person in LA. Oh well, Parisman. The race isn’t always to the swift, is it?

      I head east on Third and turn onto Detroit, which is mostly large two-story Spanish houses that have been cut up into studio apartments. The crisp wind makes my cheeks turn red, and I have to be careful and keep my eyes on the ground because the pavement can suddenly crack or jut up, especially when it’s too close to tree roots. I’ve stumbled a few times.

      When I get to the corner of Sixth, my cell phone starts jingling in my pocket. I don’t recognize the number, but so few people call me these days, I’d be a damn fool to ignore it.

      “Parisman here.”

      “Mr. Parisman,” a gravelly voice says, “you don’t know me, but—”

      “No,” I say, “you’re right. Who are you? Did you call before?”

      “I tried.”

      “Well, next time try harder, okay?”

      “I’ll do that,” says the voice. “Anyway, the reason I called. Your name was given to me by a Detective Marlborough. He’s retired now. I believe he worked in Culver City.”

      “Marlborough, yeah. I knew him. Sweet kid. We haven’t talked in a couple years, though.”

      “Yes, well,” the voice continues, “Detective Marlborough thought you’d be the perfect man for the job I have in mind.”

      I stop and adjust the collar of my leather jacket. If I stand still much longer I’m going to come home with a cold. Loretta won’t like that. “Okay. So who are you again? You never said.”

      “The name is Bleistiff,” he says. “Pincus Bleistiff. Most people call me Pinky. It’s easier to remember. Detective Marlborough said an awful lot of good things about you.”

      “That’s terrific. You tell him the check’s in the mail, okay? Meanwhile, what can I do for you?”

      There’s a pause. “I don’t think I should discuss it over the phone. It’s a little bit sensitive. But I’ll make it worth your while, I promise. Maybe we could meet somewhere. Is that possible?”

      “We could do that.”

      “Because it’d be much better, I mean, I’d feel more comfortable if we sat down face-to-face, got to know one another. Maybe have a cup of coffee somewhere. That’d be my preference. Are you free right now?”

      Am I free? Hell, I’ve been free for months. Ever since I worked that Diamant case. The one where the shul on La Brea hired me to double-check what really happened when their famous rabbi dropped dead eating soup at Canter’s. Free is a euphemism in my book. Free is what you are when you don’t want to retire yet but nobody’s beating a path to your doorbell. It’s a terrible thing to be free like that; it’s like you already have one foot in the grave, and if you’re not careful, well. “Free? Sure, I’m free. You want to have coffee? I’m out walking right now, but I could meet you. I’m about a