Flea Flicker Page 3

  Chapter 2

  My first stop after leaving the Chargers’ practice field was a dive bar at Sepulveda and National called Babe’s. Years ago, this was called The Date Room, and I’m sure it was called something else before that. It was not a place many people would take their dates to. It was dark and dingy in the middle of the afternoon, the type of hole-in-the-wall a drinker was left with if nicer taverns suggested the person take their business elsewhere.

  I was familiar with Babe’s only because of a few stakeout assignments near the end of my tenure with the LAPD. If the brass wanted to crack down on drunk drivers, we would be situated outside bars like Babe’s after midnight. Invariably, some poor soul would stumble outside, fumble with their keys, fall into their car and attempt to navigate home.

  It rarely took more than a few blocks to confirm the weaving across traffic and slow reaction times that were indications of an inebriated driver. Pulling them over with the flashing lights was easy. Getting them to hand me the keys and climb out of their vehicle was another matter entirely. A few would turn belligerent, but most would just have that crestfallen look on their faces, knowing what was in front of them: a night in the drunk tank, a litany of court appearances, attorney fees, and in some cases, suspended drivers licenses. That’s when the shameless begging and pleading began. Getting pulled over for driving under the influence was a major hassle, which made it surprising that I encountered more repeat offenders than one might imagine.

  I entered Babe’s and noticed it hadn’t changed much in 20 years. There were some uneven tables with a few people already going through pitchers of Budweiser, even though it was the middle of the afternoon. The bar itself was unremarkable, a long slab of wood with a few cheap stools, most of which were unoccupied. A number of flat-screen TVs were mounted on the walls, and all were tuned to a pro football game. Even though this was Saturday, we were in that narrow period where the college football regular season had ended but bowl games had not yet begun, and the NFL was able to schedule a couple of their games today. The Colts were playing the Browns, but the few patrons in the bar did not seem to being paying any attention.

  The bartender was a solidly built middle-aged man with a crew cut, and a three-day stubble on his face. He wore a black apron across the top of his jeans, and a dirty white t-shirt that said “Black and Gold Brigade.” There was a Pittsburgh Steelers helmet on the sleeve. He was busy washing glasses, or what passed for washing them, dunking a pair in soapy water and then dunking them again in what might once have been clean water. He shook them a few times as he pulled them out, errant drops of water spilling on the floor. I waited a minute before he looked up at me.

  “Get you a beer?” he asked.

  I looked down at the wet glasses lining the bar. “No thanks,” I said and reached into my pocket. I pulled out a photo that Hannah had given me and placed it on the bar. “Ever seen this guy before?”

  He took a long look and shook his head. “Can’t recall. Any reason I would?”

  “I’m a private investigator. He’s gone missing. Trying to find him.”

  “Maybe he don’t want to be found,” the man said with a laugh.

  I sighed and reached into my wallet and pulled out a twenty. When you drag a $20 bill through a trailer park, you never know what type of gems you can unearth. “Maybe this can help.”

  He looked up at me curiously. “Look, I was just joking. I’m not trying to hustle you,” he said, wiping his hands on the apron. “I don’t recall the guy is all. But I only work weekends.”

  “Anyone around here who might know?” I asked, scooping up the bill, and shoving it in my pocket.

  “You a cop?” he asked.

  “Private investigator.”

  He drew a breath and yelled across the room. “Hey, Darlene!”

  A slender, curly haired waitress in her mid 40s looked up from wiping down a table. “Whaddya want?”

  “Come here. This detective guy wants to talk to you,” he said, motioning to me. “There might be something in it for you.”

  “Like what?” she asked, walking over to the bar and giving me the once over.

  I ignored her question, picked up the photo of Tyler and handed it to her. “Look familiar?”

  She gave it a good five-second review, including moving it back and forth a few inches. “Yeah. I know him. He was in here a few weeks ago. You’re a detective?”

  “Yeah, something like that. Has he been in here since?” I asked.

  “No, and I doubt he’ll be back. Said he was some kind of football coach. Got into it with one of the regulars. Tomas. The fellas had to separate them.”

  I frowned. “What happened?”

  “Ah, nothing out of the ordinary. You can talk to Tomas. Maybe even arrest him, I’m sure he’s done something wrong.”

  “Haven’t we all.”

  She looked down the bar. “Hey, Tomas! What’d you say to that Charger coach a few weeks ago? The thing that got him all ticked off. I mean, besides telling him his team stunk.”

  A short, squat young man with a wispy beard looked up unevenly. The bar area immediately in front of him was littered with empty shot glasses. A half-full schooner of beer sat nearby.

  “You mean that Briggs jerk?” he asked, in a voice that was just a little too loud.

  “Yeah.”

  Tomas shook his head and didn’t bother to get up, which was reasonable, seeing as he probably would not have made it more than three feet. But as he began to speak, he managed to become a good bit more coherent, as if the memory of a bad incident was tattooed on the front part of his brain. It’s interesting the things that drunks quickly recall, because I got the distinct feeling it might take Tomas a couple of tries to pronounce his own name correctly.

  “Stupid bastard. He coached the Chargers last year. Eh, I wasn’t sure it was him at first, he was wearing this green Miami Hurricanes cap. What a dork. Yeah, I told him the Chargers sucked – which they did – I ended up losing a bundle betting big on them against the Broncos last year. I got 7 points and the Chargers were down by only 3 at the end of the game. It all looked good. Then Briggs calls a trick play at the end of regulation. Some kind of flea flicker play, or something. Anyway, the Chargers fumbled, and the other team picked it up and scored on the last play. Broncos won by 10, and I lost my wager. What a dope.”

  I took this in. Of all the opportunities to lose money in the world, betting on sports was probably the surest and most complete way. A dropped pass, an ill-timed fumble, a missed field goal, all could easily determine who won and who lost a wager. My friend Captain Juan Saavedra from the LAPD once told me of a bookmaker he had arrested, and in the course of their discussion, Juan happened to ask how many clients came out ahead at the end of a season. The answer surprised him. Zero. Gamblers might win some games, get on a hot streak, but over the course of a season, they all ended up in the red. The bookie himself made the comment he would never bet on anything that could talk.

  “So, what happened, Tomas?” I asked. “You let Briggs know what you thought of him?”

  “Sure I did. I got my rights. I told him the Chargers should have stayed in San Diego and he should have stayed wherever the hell he came from.”

  “Uh-huh. Sounds like he didn’t appreciate it.”

  “Nope. And the dirty little prick told me where to go. After a little back-and-forth, I says, let’s you and me walk into the parking lot out back and settle it. You know, man-to-man and all.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I asked, eyebrows raised. “Who won?”

  “We never made it that far. He sucker-punched me,” Tomas hissed. “Like a little girl.”

  “What happened next?” I asked, not bothering to point out that little girls rarely sucker-punch anyone.

  Tomas threw his arms forward as if he were a fighter loosening up. “I was about to clean his clock. But Craig, he’s the regular bartender, he jumped in and broke it up. Grabbed me so I couldn’t bash his teeth out.”

  “Craig su
ggest you take the fight outside?” I asked.

  “Yeah. But then Briggs disappeared. Ran right out the door, jumped into his Mercedes, and took off. I still got a bump over my eye from that night,” he said, rubbing the left side of his temple.

  “He ever come back?”

  “Nope.”

  “You go looking for him?”

  Tomas drew his head back, ostentatiously accenting being offended. “Hey, I’m not that kind of guy. I’ve taken a few punches before. Didn’t kill me.”

  I thought about this for a moment and decided to try another tack. “Ever wonder why a guy like that would come in here?” I asked. “Nothing personal. But this is just a neighborhood bar.”

  He thought for a moment, and the haze of alcohol seemed to return. “Nope, never thought about that,” he muttered.

  I turned to Darlene. “He mention anything to you about why he was here?”

  She shook her head. “He said something weird about trying to find a donut shop nearby. He probably meant Primo’s on Sawtelle, but he was already three sheets to the wind. Besides, they close early. He came in drunk, left drunker. He was putting it away pretty good. Must have had three beers in 10 minutes. Looked like he was trying to drink a problem away.”

  “That always works,” I said dryly, taking out a couple of business cards. I laid them down on the bar. “If you think of anything else, let me know, would you?”

  “What’s the interest?” she asked.

  “He’s gone missing. I’m trying to find him.”

  “People like that,” she said absently, “they may not be worth finding. You could be wasting your time.”

  “I’m getting paid for it.”

  Darlene’s eyes opened a little wider. “Oh, I get it. Hey, I heard there was something in it for me.”

  I gave a little laugh and reached into my pocket. Out came the $20 and I slapped it on the bar. “Maybe you and Tomas can split it. Hey, it’s almost Christmas. Consider it a bonus.”

  Both of them smiled. Burnside, the local Santa Claus. As I walked outside, the cool, damp air softly brushed my face. It felt good. It felt better to be out of that bar.

  *

  It was a twenty-minute drive to the Alibi Room, a straight shot that normally took one-half the time. I made the mistake of going onto Venice Boulevard, an artery that used to be clear sailing, but now was a hurdle due to what locals sneeringly referred to as the “road diet.” Venice was cut from three lanes to two for drivers on both sides of the street, so that curbside bike lanes could be added. This was intended to encourage motorists to shed their cars and begin pedaling. From what I could tell however, few people changed their habits. But it did cause traffic to slow dramatically, and red-faced motorists would curse at the inconvenience, sometimes silently, sometimes not-so-silently.

  The Alibi Room was a bar that was in stark contrast to Babe’s. It had polished oak paneling, indirect lighting, and a hundred different bottles of beer on a shelf near the ceiling. The clientele was more upscale, there were a few couples sitting and talking quietly, and a nicely dressed bartender with a trimmed beard walked over. He smiled at me as I sat down. He wore a dark blue shirt with the name Gene sewed above the breast pocket.

  “Afternoon,” he said pleasantly. “What can I get you?”

  “Nothing just yet,” I said, looking around admiringly at the collection of beer bottles. “You carry all of those?”

  “Most,” he laughed. “We specialize in craft beer. Among other things. You have a favorite?”

  “I have a preference for amber beer, I guess. Sierra Nevada, Blue Moon, that kind of thing. Feels a bit early to start.”

  “It’s always five o’clock somewhere,” said a rotund guy sitting two barstools away. “At least that’s my philosophy.”

  I smiled and turned back to Gene, the bartender. “Okay. What do you recommend?”

  “We have something called Beach House. Medium body, clean, earthy taste, some citrus notes. It’s a good ale.”

  “I’ll give it a try,” I said. The days of going into a bar and simply ordering a draft were fading, although the crowd at Babe’s would probably demur.

  Gene returned with a pint of ruddy-colored liquid with a small, creamy head. I took a sip and then another. “Good recommendation,” I said. “Say, you mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”

  “What’s that?” he asked, taking a glance down the bar to make sure no customers were going untended. All were either deep in conversation, deep in thought, or deep in craft beer. He turned back to me. I laid the photo on the bar.

  “This guy look familiar?” I asked.

  Gene took a glance down and immediately recognized him. “Sure. Tyler Briggs. Used to coach the Chargers. Comes in here quite a bit. Almost a regular.”

  “You see him recently?”

  “Last night. He didn’t stay long, though. Had a drink, met someone and left.”

  “Who was the someone?” I asked, watching him closely.

  Like all good bartenders, Gene hesitated. I didn’t think this was the kind of place where a discreetly placed twenty-dollar bill would loosen lips. Instead, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my fake badge and flashed it quickly.

  “I’m doing an investigation.” I said, not exactly lying. “It’s important.”

  Gene pondered this for a moment. “It was a woman. Can’t say as I know who, but she’s been in here a few times. Well-dressed, short, blonde, nice figure.”

  “Does she typically come here alone?” I asked.

  “Arrives alone, leaves with someone,” he shrugged. “I try not to judge. That’s why a lot of people go to bars. That’s what keeps us in business.”

  “I’ve seen her around,” piped up the rotund guy. “I think she probably works in the area.”

  “What makes you say that?” I asked.

  “Seen her at a few community events. Meetings and such.”

  “When was the last time you saw her at one of those?” I asked.

  “A few weeks ago, maybe. About that nonsense on Venice Boulevard. Traffic easing, I think they call it. Whole neighborhood’s ticked. The mayor even came by and made a speech about how it decreased traffic deaths and only added one minute to the commute. What a bunch of bull. They averaged traffic for 24 hours, that way the numbers are low. Liars and their statistics.”

  “Uh-huh. You by chance know the woman’s name?”

  “Nope. Never even talked to her.”

  “Maybe seen what kind of car she drives?”

  “Sorry,” he said with a shrug. “Didn’t spend much time focusing on her. Good-looking lady, but you know. This is L.A. and all. Nothing special.”

  I turned back to Gene the Bartender. “It would really help if you could tell me anything more. Tyler Briggs never made it home last night,” I said. “May simply be sleeping it off someplace. But he’s never done that before.”

  Gene shook his head. “Sorry. Like to help, but you know … ”

  “Any other places Tyler mention that he liked to go to? Other bars maybe? Restaurants?”

  “He’d sometimes laugh and say he’d be going to Tito’s Tacos afterward.”

  “Why’s that funny?”

  “We’re known for tacos here. Pretty good. Short rib, tofu, kimchi. That’s our specialty.”

  “Don’t see that everywhere,” I mused. “In fact I don’t think I’ve seen that anywhere.”

  “That’s how the owner of this place started out. Ran a taco truck, started experimenting with new fillings, it caught on. Made enough money on it so he could open his own place here.”

  “Only in L.A.” I smiled. “The great experiment.”

  “Yup. Gotta be open to the new and different. Sometimes it works.”

  I took a long sip of Beach House and tossed a twenty on the bar to pay for it. Tyler Briggs had been here last night, picked up a woman and never came home. But without anything else to go on, I was at a dead end. I handed both of the men my business card and asked the
m to call me if they thought of anything else. Or if the blonde woman stopped by again. Or if they came up with a new type of taco. They laughed the laugh of men who would probably never bother to call.

  Chapter 3

  I walked around the neighborhood near the Alibi Room and asked the few random people I met on the street if they recognized the photo of Tyler Briggs. Only one did, a Charger fan who suggested if Briggs were indeed missing to let him stay missing. I drove slowly around the area but saw nothing unusual. I also stopped at a small homeless encampment under the 405 Freeway. No one recognized Briggs, but I did get one offer to buy some heroin from a disheveled young man, and another offer for sexual favors at a discounted price. I declined both, and neither solicitation received a polite response.

  It was well after 4:00 pm, and with the winter solstice just days away, it was already starting to get dark. After leaving a message for Anthony Riddleman, I decided to call it a day. I knew I wouldn’t have much luck finding the mysterious blonde. In L.A. they’re a dime a dozen, and frankly I didn’t even know what she looked like. In a sprawling city like Los Angeles, if a person went underground, they could be inordinately difficult to find. The police could at least check hotels and airports, but not having that luxury, I concluded that my investigation would have to pick up tomorrow. I called Hannah Briggs, gave her an update, and told her I’d keep looking.

  Our house was a few blocks off of Venice Boulevard., and the string of lights I had put up this week were already glowing along the exterior. I could see our Christmas tree in the window, and there was bustling activity as I walked in the door. Gail and Marcus each had red and white Santa hats on, and they were laying out boxes of decorations. A few couples were chatting in the living room, and a couple of five-year-olds were playing with some ornaments on the floor. I had forgotten we had a tree trimming party scheduled for today.

  “Daddy!” yelled Marcus. “You’re late!”

  “I know,” I said, picking him up and giving him a hug. “Had some work that ran over.”