Flea Flicker Page 4

  Gail came over and gave me a kiss. “Did you find him?” she whispered in my ear.

  I shook my head no, and Gail frowned. She put a finger to her lips, and turned back to our guests.

  There were three couples actively engaged in stringing popcorn, removing decorations from boxes I had unearthed from our garage, and untangling cords of colored lights that would blink and flash in what was truly a random manner. We purchased some of these lights at a garage sale years ago, with various others being added as the years piled up. Gail inherited some from her parents, and some were leave-behinds from the home’s previous owner, an elderly couple without children.

  I walked over and said hello to our guests, the Parkers, Hartnetts, and Alperns, apologized for being late and noticed a few warm boxes of Julie’s pizza on a table. They were all half-eaten, and I took this as a sign to dig in. I pulled a slice of mushroom pizza off and took a large bite. Gail had set a cooler of beer and sodas nearby, and I grabbed a Coke, deciding that one beer was sufficient for the time being, especially when we had guests with young children. I also didn’t want an errant word to slip out about my current cases, or about much of anything else.

  “Working on a Saturday?” asked Ben Alpern, smiling as he arranged some silver tinsel on one of the branches of the tree.

  “Yes,” I said, washing down another bite of pizza with a large swig of Coke. “My life has never been nine-to-five.”

  “Good and bad to that,” he remarked. “Working for Boeing, my job was nine-to-five for a long while. Then smartphones got invented, and all of a sudden I’m on call all the time. This must be how doctors feel. I got a text from my boss the other night at 10:00 at night with a question. At least he didn’t ask me to come into the office.”

  “Brave new world,” I said.

  Will Hartnett came over, reached into the cooler, and came out with a bottle of Blue Moon. “Good choice of beer. Do I credit you or Gail?”

  “She bought the libations,” I grinned, “but let’s just say I had some input.”

  He popped it open and took a sip. “I got to watch it, this is my fourth one today. Lousy football game on TV this afternoon. Whenever I’m bored I have a beer or two.”

  “Who won?”

  “Colts 9-7. It was that kind of game. Two bad teams playing in five degree weather. Real boring.”

  I took a sip of Coke. Whenever I got bored I took a look at Gail. That ended my boredom. Drinking large quantities of beer was just an excuse for some guys. A replacement for something else.

  “So, where are you applying for kindergarten?” he asked.

  I said we hadn’t decided. After men dispensed with talk of work, sports, and beer, the conversation often segued to schools. Put L.A. parents together and it practically guaranteed that conversation.

  “We’re still talking about it,” I said, not bothering to add it was mostly Gail doing the deciding, especially in terms of what schools to look at, how to assess them, and ways to get a leg up on the competition. For the most part I hung back, not quite recognizing why one school might be better for Marcus, or how a certain curriculum might impact his college prospects. I mostly thought about the cost, checked out security measures, and looked to see if the current student body had any bullies. Beyond that, my contribution would mostly be writing a check if we decided to pass on public schools, an option I wasn’t giving up on just yet.

  “Applications are due next month,” Will said. “Can’t delay too much. We’re applying to Crossroads, Wildwood, and Echo Horizon. Hope we don’t end up at Wildwood. Jenny loved it, but the commute’ll be murder.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “It’s five minutes away.”

  “Have you driven down Venice Boulevard lately?” he asked, taking a pull of Blue Moon. “It’s a traffic nightmare. Carmaggedon. Ever since they removed two traffic lanes, it’s been killer trying to get through. It can take fifteen minutes to go three blocks.”

  “You complain about it?” Ben asked.

  “I tried. Called my city councilman’s office every day for two weeks. The jerk wouldn’t talk to me. But I gave the people who answered his phone a piece of my mind.”

  “Who’s the councilman?” I asked, a little embarrassed I hadn’t bothered to keep up with my own district’s rep.

  “Colin Glasscock. Some name, huh? Ever since they implemented this last month, he’s gone into hiding. No public appearances. Won’t take calls. I tried contacting the mayor, but you could imagine how successful that was.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I can imagine.”

  “Think Gail has any pull?” he asked.

  “Probably not,” I said. “The City Attorney’s office just prosecutes criminals.”

  “That should include politicians,” he said dryly. “Maybe Gail should run for office. Be nice to have someone with a brain running things.”

  I smiled and gave him a mini toast, tilting my can of Coke toward him. The last thing I would ever want was my wife entering politics. Not because of anything dangerous, but a public figure received public scrutiny. And as a private investigator, that would be an enormous issue, not just for me, but for her as well. And Marcus.

  “I remember when I coached at USC for three years. Seemed like half of L.A. knew who I was, and knew a lot about me.”

  “Ha,” said Alpern, sitting down with us. “And the other half were UCLA people.”

  “You give up a lot when you become a public figure,” I said. “People who know nothing about your job are suddenly giving you advice. Asking for favors, approaching you when you’re with your family. It’s not why I gave it up, but I don’t miss all the publicity. And running for office? A lot of getting elected is about generating publicity.”

  “Be nice to know someone at City Hall though,” Will continued. “That’s how you get things done. Who you know is critical.”

  At that point, Gail called me over to open a cardboard box that had been glued a little too tightly. As I pried open the carton, which contained a variety of ornaments including red and green balls, snowmen, and a Santa laughing on a sleigh while smoking a cigar, Gail drew close to me.

  “Are you planning out my career for me?” she asked, with the slight hint of a smile. Just a hint, mind you.

  “Not exactly,” I started. “Unless you’re planning to run for office. Are you?”

  “Well,” she said, slipping her arm around my waist. “I’m not ruling it out entirely. Working in the City Attorney’s office has allowed me to see a lot of things. How local government runs things. It’s not always pretty. And the people in charge aren’t necessarily the sharpest tools in the drawer. Know what I mean?”

  I knew precisely what she meant, and having spent 13 years with the LAPD I could attest to the way bureaucracies might wreak havoc on a community. But I also saw the ugly side of being in charge of the system, the tough decisions for which no good answer is apparent. And the public hue and cry, where innocent people are tried and convicted in the media. I knew all about that last part. I was one of its victims a decade ago.

  “This is a discussion we should probably have at another time,” I said, lowering my voice. “With more details as to what you’d be getting into. And how I can help you. Or possibly hurt you. The job I do isn’t exactly pretty, and I have an unfortunate public persona which will stay with me forever. And will undoubtedly touch you.”

  “I know.”

  “Not to mention, Marcus,” I said, and saw a spark light up in Gail’s pretty gray eyes. Bringing children into a discussion like this would be necessary, but I also saw that I would need to tread carefully.

  “I know,” she repeated, with a tinge of annoyance in her voice. “Let’s just get through tonight.”

  “Okay.”

  “On another topic, how is Hannah holding up?”

  “Could be better,” I said. “Finding Tyler may be like finding a needle in a haystack. L.A.’s a big place. I’m trying. Oh, yeah. I also ran into Cliff Roper today; he’s got an assignment
for me, too.”

  “Oh?” she said. “That’s good and bad, I suppose.”

  “Yup. He pays well, but I’ll earn every dime. I’m meeting with him tomorrow; for some reason he’s invited me to the Charger game. Sorry I won’t be around in the afternoon. But I might be able to speak with a few more people about Tyler there. We’ll see where this leads.”

  Gail took this in. “Well, it’s not all bad. We’re going to need some money if Marcus gets into private school this fall. It’s not cheap, as you know.”

  I looked around the room and didn’t respond. Arguing with an attorney is normally fruitless. And arguing with an attorney who is also your wife can be even worse. Winning such an argument is like being victorious in a war in the Middle East. Even if you win, you end up with more problems.

  *

  When I explained to Marcus that I’d be spending Sunday afternoon at the Charger game, his first response was to ask if he could go, too. The idea of exposing a 5 year-old to the uncouth mouth of Cliff Roper was a non-starter. I told Marcus I was still trying to rustle up a couple of Rose Bowl tickets, but didn’t tell him the prices I was seeing were astronomical, nor that my USC connections were not as helpful as they once were. Regardless, the possibility of going to the Rose Bowl in a few weeks did little to brighten his disappointment. I finally suggested that I could record the Charger game on our DVR and we would watch it together later that night. He agreed, albeit with some hesitation, and then asked if I’d be on TV. I smiled and said I hoped not.

  The car that Cliff Roper picked me up in was actually a stretch limo made out of a converted black Cadillac Escalade. The back seat was outfitted with leopard trim, and there was an open bottle of Crystal Champagne jammed into a silver ice bucket. In addition to Roper, there were two young men in the back seat, both in their late 20s, both looking like very fit athletes, or perhaps former athletes.

  “Fellas,” Roper crowed, as I climbed inside, “this is the guy I was telling you about. Burnside used to coach the secondary at USC. He’s going to instruct you on everything you need to be a big-time college coach. He’s going to be your consigliere.”

  I gave Roper a sharp look. This wasn’t part of any arrangement I had made, but Cliff Roper operates according to a rule book that is entirely his own, and one that changes on a dime. “Actually,” I said, “I’m a former coach. Retired.”

  “Look, he’s just weighing his options, this is the stuff you say to get teams interested. You can learn a lot from this guy. Now that Johnny Cleary moved up to coach in the NFL, Burnside’s starting to get teams interested again,” Roper said, eyeing me with the type of look that said I needed to play along in whatever rigged game in which he was engaged.

  “I’m Devon. Good to meet you,” one of the young men said, sticking out a hand. I shook it, and couldn’t help noticing he had a grip of someone who most likely worked out continuously. The other one waved at me as he took a sip of bubbly out of an elongated flute glass.

  “These guys are interviewing with UCLA tomorrow. Devon’s a secondary coach just like you, and Alshawn coaches receivers. They’re on their way. Straight out of Alabama, so they’ve got their pedigree.”

  “And you’re representing them,” I observed. One of the things that surprised fans was that coaches had agents, just like players. They managed their careers, were on the lookout for job openings, and negotiated contracts. In the case of Cliff Roper, he was an agent who sometimes provided services that straddled the boundary between lawful and dubious.

  “Of course I’m representing them. I want the best for these guys,” Roper said, offering me a glass of champagne, which I declined. “Help guide their careers. Figured you could give them some pointers. You being real smart and all.”

  I continued to glare at Roper. Nothing should have surprised me about the workings of a super-agent, but Cliff Roper always managed to exceed all expectations. I took a glance out the window. Unlike yesterday, today was sunny and warm. December in L.A. was like that. You never knew what you were in for.

  “Look,” Roper said to me, “we’ll get to our other issue later. First, give these guys a few pointers. You know the college game. Or you ought to. That Trojan team of yours went to a couple of Rose Bowls.”

  “Sure,” I said, looking at the two eager young men. “What have you been doing recently?”

  “We played together at Alabama. Came back around the same time and became graduate assistants,” Devon said. “Mostly grunt work at Bama, they were nice enough to give us a shot. But this year we moved up to position coaches. I was at Central Florida. Alshawn was at Southern Miss. We’re both looking to take another step up. UCLA has a new head coach and they want to bring in a new staff. Would be a great move for both of us. Cliff thinks so, too; he helped arrange the interviews.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Okay. UCLA’s a big-time program. Not like Alabama, but it’s high profile. And L.A. is a different world,” I told them. “Sounds like maybe you guys are used to being in smaller communities in the South?”

  “Yeah, that’s where we grew up. We played together at Tuscaloosa, we each spent a couple of years trying to make it in the league, but man, it’s tough in the NFL. Make a mistake and you’re gone. I don’t want to go work in a mill, back in the same small town I grew up in. The coach at Alabama brought us back in as GAs. Good opportunity. Trying to make the most of it.”

  “Amen to that,” Alshawn said as he drained the rest of his glass. “Looking to make it in big-time coaching. If we could get through Alabama, we can get through anything.”

  I didn’t bother to tell them that the world of a college coach was very different from that of a player, or even a graduate assistant. Coaching was a full-tilt, non-stop, work-till-you-drop job that was for Type A personalities, guys who were driven to keep moving ahead regardless of the obstacles. It was not a world for everyone. It was not a world for me.

  “I’ll assume you guys know X’s and O’s,” I said. “You’ve probably been immersed in it for most of your lives. And if you’ve been around college coaching at all, you’ve gotten a taste of that particular world. It’s uber-competitive, and it gets more so the higher up you go. Pays well, but you’ll earn it, trust me.”

  “The big bucks,” chimed in Roper. “That’s what these guys are after.”

  I knew that was what Roper was after, his fifteen percent commission would come no matter how hard his clients worked. I turned back to them.

  “We know L.A. is a different kind of place,” Devon said. “But it’s still football, right? Blocking and tackling, figuring out schemes, doing your job. That stuff never changes.”

  “Yes and no. Football is football, but L.A. is just different; the kids you’re recruiting will be different. In small town America, especially in the South, football is everything. In some cases, football is the only thing. People build their lives around it. In L.A., it’s just one other option. Lots of choices, lots of things to do here. For football players, even the ones coming out of high school, they know they have lots of opportunities. In smaller communities, not so much. The attitudes are different here.”

  “Players are players,” said Alshawn, pouring himself another glass. “If they want to make it to the big time, they got to put in the work. That’s what we drill into them.”

  I groaned silently to myself. The level of talent in a place like L.A. was as good as anywhere. But when a kid knows he has other options, he doesn’t always buy in to a program. In L.A., there are just too many choices. And that was what made coaching here more of a challenge. The world in Southern California was multidimensional, and you needed to communicate with players on multiple levels. Not everyone understood L.A. It helped if you grew up here and were already immersed in the culture. L.A. looked simple to an outsider, but it’s just not an easy place to figure out.

  “All right,” I said. “Best thing I can tell you about coaching in general is to prepare to move around a lot. Make lots of contacts, stay on good terms with every
one, especially your peers. Work hard, but keep a sense of humor and a sense of proportion. Make sure your head coach knows how hard you’re working. It matters. You’ll be dealing with lots of different personalities on the team -- and lots of different parents in L.A. Some have power beyond anything you’ve ever come up against. I kid you not. If your goal is to be a head coach, you’ll probably have to change jobs every few years. It just comes with the territory. Not a bad thing, just keep learning from each job you get. Keep growing, understand you’ll have setbacks, but stay positive. Motivate, inspire, be a role model for your kids. Keep the lines of communication open. Sounds easy, but you’d be surprised how quickly kids can shut down. Be honest with them. They’ll know it right away if you’re not.”

  The two of them nodded, taking this in. “This is great,” Devon said. “Real helpful.”

  I’m not entirely sure how helpful my advice was, but when someone asks for my opinion, I normally give it to them. We chatted a little more. I told them why I left coaching, it’s not a career for everyone, but it has a lot of good things, too. We arrived at the StubHub Center in Carson about ten minutes after the kickoff, but remarkably, we were whisked right into the stadium. There was no moving through a metal detector, which was the main reason I left my .357 at home. Cliff Roper high-fived one of the security guards who welcomed him, and I wondered if the high-five contained some paper currency.

  The StubHub Center was a makeshift football stadium, a bizarre attempt to transform what originated as a 25,000-seat soccer arena into a place that could house an NFL game every other Sunday. It was cozy to some extent, but the type of cozy you might expect from a small college that didn’t see a need to install a grandstand atop a single level of bleachers. The plan was for the Chargers to play here for a few years until their sparkling new palace was finished, and they could again play in an NFL-caliber home, replete with luxury suites and comfy chairs. For now though, they would be playing in a converted arena that reminded me of where a second rate college team would play its home games.