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  WHITE HEAT

  A Duke Rogers PI Thriller

  Paul D. Marks

  PRAISE FOR WHITE HEAT

  “...taut crime yarn set in 1992 against the turmoil of the Los Angeles riots that followed the acquittal of the police officers charged with assaulting motorist Rodney King…the author ably evokes the chaos that erupted after the Rodney King verdict.” —Publishers Weekly

  “White Heat is a riveting read of mystery, much recommended.” —Midwest Book Review

  “[White Heat] really caught early 90s’ LA, in all its sordid glory. And had me turning pages late into the night. I think WH is up there with the best of the LA novels, but has an air of authenticity that many lack.” —Woody Haut, journalist, author of Neon Noir: Contemporary American Crime Fiction; Pulp Culture: Hardboiled Fiction & the Cold War; and Heartbreak and Vine: The Fate of Hardboiled Writers in Hollywood

  “Expect the unexpected...in an action-walloping award-winner of harrowing twists and turns...” —Gordon Hauptfleisch, Seattle Post Intelligencer and BlogCritics.org

  “A gripping tale of prejudice and deceit, set against the tumultuous backdrop of the 1992 L.A. riots. White Heat is all the title promises it to be.” —Darrell James, award-winning author of Nazareth Child and Sonora Crossing

  “Written in a staccato, noir style as intense as the 1992 LA riots, White Heat is a stunning debut novel. It grabs you with the intensity of the riots and keeps the anxiety and tension pushing full-throttle right up to the bittersweet ending. Heat is a hard-hitting, noir detective thriller that also deals with tough issues like racism, the ‘diversity’ of racism, and the human condition.” —Andrew McAleer, bestselling author of 101 Habits of Highly Successful Novelists and Fatal Deeds

  Copyright © 2012 by Paul D. Marks

  Down & Out Books Edition May 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by Zach McCain

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  White Heat

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  The Down & Out Books Publishing Family Library of Titles

  Preview from Second Story Man by Charles Salzberg

  Preview from Exacting Justice by TG Wolff

  Preview from Suburban Dick by CS DeWildt

  For Amy

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Some of the language and attitudes in the novel may be offensive. But please consider them in the context of the time, place and characters.

  This place [Los Angeles] was a lot friendlier and a lot nicer when I came here twenty-six years ago. There are still pockets of civility here, but they are rapidly disappearing as neighborhoods and ethnic groups get more and more polarized, and as the city gets more and more crowded. I think the violence and the ruthlessness is going to increase...

  —Don Henley, musician and a founding member of the Eagles

  APRIL 1992

  April is the cruelest month.

  The Waste Land

  —T.S. Eliot

  CHAPTER 1

  My father always said I was a fuckup, that the only reason we get along is ’cause he keeps his mouth shut. Maybe he’s right:

  I fucked up high school.

  Fucked up college.

  Fucked up my marriage.

  Fucked up my life by leaving the service.

  And now I’ve fucked up a case.

  Fucked it up real bad.

  Teddie Matson was different. She had a golden life, until her path had the misfortune of crossing mine. I sat staring out the window of my office, k.d. lang playing in the background. It was a while till the sun would set, that golden hour when everything takes on a gilded glow.

  Golden hour is the time when the light hits just right in the early morning or late afternoon. The time when movie cinematographers most like to shoot. The light is tawny and warm. Gentle. It makes the stars shine brighter.

  Golden hour is the time when Teddie Matson was killed.

  “Duke Rogers?”

  “What can I do for you?”

  The Weasel shifted back and forth. Left foot to right. Right to left. Nervous. Fidgety. Blue eyes so pale they almost lacked color darted back and forth across the room.

  “I, I want you to find a friend of mine,” he said, voice cracking. He slapped a snapshot on the desk, a sleek chrome and smoked-glass job that I’d picked up at auction. A greasy lock of hair dropped over his eye. He shooed it away.

  She was a beautiful girl. Woman? No. Hardly more than a girl. Smile was warm and inviting. Dark almond-shaped eyes. Long dark tresses curling around her neck. They looked like they were ready to strangle her.

  “Who is she?”

  “W’we went to school together. I heard she was in town and I—” He sucked in his already-sunken cheeks.

  Who was I to argue with him? Just because he looked ten years older than her. Maybe he’d had a rough life. Just because she was black and he was white? That didn’t mean they couldn’t have gone to school together.

  “How much is your fee?” he said. Lit a cigarette. I pointed to the universal “No Smoking” sign over my desk. I needed the gig, but I didn’t need it that bad. He grunted. Stubbed it out on the linoleum floor.

  “Two-fifty. Sounds simple enough.” The words came out by rote. My mind was somewhere else. At the moment, thinking about redecorating the office. Getting rid of the orange crate art, replacing it with Hopper prints, Rooms by the Sea and Chop Suey. They seemed to go with the building. A little more classic. But I knew I could use the cash for an overdue plumbing bill. Redecorating would have to wait.

  The Weasel pulled out a wad of sweaty bills, peeled off a handful. Sucker. The job would take me all of an hour, if that. He was also a dweeb. He deserved to be fleeced.

  “Here, write down her name, any other information you might have on her, age, height, scars, that kind of thing. Where she was born.” I handed him a piece of paper and watched him scribble in an unsteady hand. He shoved the paper back at me. He had scrawled her name: “Teddie/Theodora Matson”.

  “How long will it take?”

  “Couple-a days. What’s your phone number?”

  “I’ll come by on Thursday.”

  “Around ten.”

  He headed for the door.

  “Hey, what’s your name?”

  “Jim, Jim Talbot.”

  “See ya Thursday, Jim.”

  He left. I opened the window wider to let in some fresh air. I inhaled deeply, taking in the whiff of orange and lemon blossoms outside the window.

  I wondered how the dweeb w
ould spend the time between Monday and Thursday at 10 a.m. Didn’t look like he had many friends. Maybe not any. If he was from out of town he might go to Disneyland. Nah. Not a place you go to by yourself. He might go down to the Santa Monica pier and throw a line off. Sure, the beach. That’s where they all go. Isn’t that why people come to Southern California anyway? So the beach would be one place for sure. He might take in a museum, but dweeby as he was, he didn’t look the museum type. Might go on the Universal Studio Tour. Sure. He could see all the papier-mâché and phony fronts that make Hollywood what it is. Yeah, that was his kind of place all right. Maybe he’d check out Griffith Park or the Observatory or Farmers’ Market. He had to eat. Well, what did I care how he spent those days in between?

  I called Lou Waters at the DMV. We’d been friends since we went to Fairfax High together a decade or two ago. Seemed more like a century. I’d aged. She hadn’t. She was one of those people who actually looked better the older she got—aging like a fine wine, she’d say.

  “What’s on today, Duke?” she asked.

  “Can you run a name for me?”

  “You know I’m not supposed to.”

  “Never stopped you before.”

  “And it won’t stop me this time.”

  “Why do we always have to play this game, Lou?”

  “It brightens my day.”

  “I thought the sound of my voice alone did that.”

  “You’re not the fair-haired boy anymore.”

  I never was. But if being a second rate P.I. is success, I guess I’ve succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. In the land of Beamers and Benzes, I’m just a Camry.

  I gave Lou the info the dweeb had given me. I could hear the clicking of her computer keys over the phone. She had an address for me in a few seconds.

  “Thanks, Lou. I owe you one.”

  “You owe me a ton.”

  “I’m good for it.”

  “Yeah, sure.” She hung up. I knew she was smiling. We’d dated briefly in our sophomore year of high school. She’d left me for an older, more sophisticated guy—a junior, with a car.

  I had to figure out what I’d do between now and the time the dweeb came back. I had a couple other scut cases I was working. Might as well check out some leads on them.

  Later that day, while I was trying to decipher a new software program for billing my clients, new business walked in the door.

  “Marion Rogers?”

  “Yes.” She was attractive in a plain sort of way. An all-American way. Open face, cute smile. Natural blond hair. She didn’t have the sultry appeal of Teddie Matson, that’s for sure.

  “You don’t look like a Marion.”

  “Maybe that’s why my friends call me Duke.”

  She introduced herself as Laurie Hoffman, sat down and crossed her legs. I could tell she wanted to get to the point. And she did.

  “Someone’s following me. I went out with him once and now he won’t leave me alone.”

  “Get a restraining order.”

  “I have. It doesn’t do any good. And by the time the police arrive he’s gone.”

  “Has he threatened you?”

  “Not in so many words. He just tells me how much he wants me, things like that.”

  “I’m not really sure what I could do for you. Surveil him maybe, but—”

  “I think he’s dangerous.”

  “He hasn’t done anything.”

  “Yet.”

  “Problem is I don’t really have the time right now. I’m a one-man office and I’ve got more than I can handle already.”

  “You don’t need the money?”

  “It’s not that. But I honestly don’t think I’d be able to devote the necessary time and that wouldn’t be good for either of us.” I wrote Harvey Zenobia’s name and number on a piece of paper. Handed it to her. “This is a colleague of mine. Give him a call. Maybe he can help.”

  Truth is, I did need the money. I had a second mortgage on the house my dad left me and I could barely make the payments. What I didn’t need was another short term shit job that was more trouble than it was worth. Domestic cases, stalking cases are hell. I landed in jail on one once when I tried to intervene between a husband and wife. I got between them when he was coming after her, slugged him, hard. He filed assault charges and I got three days in jail. The fact that he had a knife in his hand didn’t seem to matter to the judge.

  She stood to leave, looking defiant. Angry. But too proud to say anything.

  “I’m sorry,” I said as she disappeared through the door.

  The dweeb showed up at ten on the nose. I knew he would. You can tell these things about a person.

  “Didja get it?” He was almost breathless. A bubble formed at his lips when he talked.

  I handed him a slip of paper. He looked down at it. His mouth didn’t move. But his eyes smiled. He stared at the paper an awfully long time. He was wearing a good suit. English cut. Expensive. Then I noticed his shoes: old. Scuffy. Didn’t quite fit.

  He turned and left. Didn’t say a word. He had paid so I didn’t care. He was a happy man. And I was happy to have him out of my life. I’d wish later that I’d never met the lousy dweeb.

  CHAPTER 2

  I’d gone out of town for about a week on a case. My buddy Jack had collected the mail and taken care of my dog, Baron. I came home, greeted by Baron in his usual overzealous manner. There was a message from Lou on the answering machine. She didn’t say what she wanted and I couldn’t reach her. Everything else was in order. I went to the office, was sitting in my chair, listening to k.d. lang, catching up on a week’s worth of newspapers and taking my lunch break of gin-laced lemonade. I’d cut down on the alcohol. Cut down, not out. I could handle it in small doses. The article I was reading said that a verdict in the Rodney King beating case was expected any day now. But it was another headline that slammed me in the gut.

  Another photo.

  Made me want to vomit.

  Through force of will, I was able to control it.

  I crumpled the paper.

  Tossed it in the can.

  Kicked the can with such force that the metal sides caved in.

  Fucked up a case.

  Fucked it up real bad.

  “Promising Actress Shot by Rabid Fan” the headline read. “Teddie Matson, the twenty-six-year-old second lead of such Hollywood sitcom hits as Day Timers and Holier Than Thou was on her way to becoming one of Hollywood’s lights. The, some say naive, young actress answered the door to her apartment building yesterday afternoon expecting a script delivery from the studio. Instead an unknown assailant delivered a .32 slug to her abdomen. Police surmise that it was a berserk fan who fired the gun, but don’t have a clue as to who he is.”

  I knew it was my client. It was a weasel named Jim Talbot, if that was really his name. But it was how I knew that made me want to split a gut. And it had taken only a few minutes’ work, still I had charged Talbot a full day’s fee. Talbot didn’t mind. He was happy to pay. He had walked out of my office with the biggest shit-eating grin on his face that I’d seen since I left the service.

  I didn’t know what to do, if there was anything I could do. Should do. I bottomed another glass of the saucy lemonade. Before I could get toasted the phone rang.

  “Hello, Duke. Lou.”

  “Hey, Lou. Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. I was out of town for a few days.” Did she know? We talked a couple times a month, so maybe this was just a friendly call. At any rate, neither one of us brought up Teddie right now.

  “Listen,” she said, “how ’bout we have dinner tonight?”

  “Okay. Usual place.” The roar of a Harley chewed up the street below as she affirmed the usual place at seven. She must have known because we normally had dinner about once a year and we’d already met our quota this year. I was about to dive back into the lemonade, when the door opened and Jack Riggs walked in, looking like a Hell’s Angel in heat. Tossed his kit bag on my desk and sat down like he owned
the place.

  I’d known Jack since we went through boot camp together. We’d split up or been split up after that, but we both ended up in the Teams. There was definitely a bond there—after he got over the fact that my name was Marion—though I couldn’t say what it was exactly. I had to join the Teams to counter a name like Marion. That’s where I got the nickname Duke. Who would name a boy Marion, especially in this day and age? My parents, that’s who. They both loved John Wayne and his real name was Marion Michael Morrison. And his nickname was Duke. If it was good enough for him it was good enough for me, on both counts. Only right now I felt more like a knave than a duke.

  The first words out of his mouth were, “What’s that shit you’re playing?”

  “k.d. lang. I like it.”

  “Hell, man, don’t’cha know she’s lez?”

  “I’d heard something about it,” I said, “but I don’t see how it matters.”

  Jack poured himself a lacy lemonade. He knew what was in it. “When you listen to a song, a love song, don’t you sit there an’ think they’re singin’ t’ you? Or if it’s a man, that it’s you singin’ to a girl? But how can you get into that fantasy when you know she’s AC-DC, so t’ speak?”

  I didn’t know what to say. I never knew what to say to Jack when he came on like this. How could I argue with that logic? Besides, no matter what I said, he wouldn’t buy it. So I said, “I don’t know, Jack. It’s just a song.”

  “Man, it’s no song. It’s a political statement. It’s—”

  I wanted to shut him up, or off, or something, so I flipped the switch from CD to radio. Eric Clapton was on singing the MTV Unplugged version of Layla. Tell you the truth, I liked it better than the harder, faster version. But I didn’t say that to Jack. It would have brought another lecture in pretzelogic.