Casa de Muerte

April's sequel, finally!

This is a sequel to April’s previous story, A Snowy Night In Beverly Hills. She finished it months ago, but I’ve been lamentably lazy about bringing it to you. Please forgive me — jb

Bill pulled up a chair and gratefully lowered himself into the well-worn vinyl, careful not to spill any coffee from the Pyrex mug emblazoned with ugly orange flowers. The last of a set; he hadn’t the heart to throw it out, as it reminded him too much of Helen.  

Despite the ongoing lockdown, he had risen at his usual 5:55 am, greeted by a quiet neighborhood and, once again, no morning paper. It had stopped coming sometime last month, but he stupidly kept expecting it to be there. Thirty years of habit is hard to break, thought Bill.    

He flipped open the laptop and checked his AOL messages for any inquiries from his single-page web site. The kid next door had helped him set up an online presence for his services years ago. He didn’t see the neighbors much anymore; he heard the kid had graduated university and was working for Apple or Google or some tech firm. Likely has teenagers of his own by now.

His footprint on the internet was a paragon of brevity. Alliance Investigations Partners. “We specialize in personal and industry cases where professionalism and confidentiality are assured.” 

It showed a younger version of himself, featured with the title of lead investigator and founder.  

“Let the Alliance team put your mind at ease.”   

“Ask about our VIP package discount” was written inside the lens of a Sherlock Holmes style magnifying glass. 

There was an e-mail address and phone number that went straight to the answering machine across the room.  Bill stared at the screen and wondered if the next call, if it ever came, would be his last case. He’d already put a ninetieth birthday in the rearview mirror. Any day could be his last day, with or without a pandemic.  

He hadn’t had a job since July of the previous year. A referral from the old days. Client wanted to locate his adult grandson. He found him — but a little too late. Fentanyl overdose, died a miserable death in a burned out illegally street parked RV. No one’s mind was put at ease, yet still he cashed the cheque.  

He’d started to watch the news online but most of it made no sense. A ticker chyron recording deaths in the millions, each grim statistic announced with barely concealed glee by the hideously attractive meat puppets. A purposely unflattering term, picked up from an old sound guy, to refer to everyone in front of the camera, from the biggest stars to local newsreaders.   

He logged off in the middle of an op-ed about how great working from home was, given the Netflix binge evenings and Uber Eats smorgasbord.  

So much extra time to spend with the wife or husband! He could look forward to a spike in divorce jobs, if he lived long enough.   

He slammed the laptop closed, adding more fine cracks to the aging Apple’s white plastic outer shell. One day it’s going to completely fall apart. But I won’t be there to see it.  

Having transitioned from octo- to nonagenarian he had joined the illustrious group of assholes who refused to retire, like Clint Eastwood, Tony Bennett, and most of the Senate. 

He looked at himself in disgust in the mirror, still in his dressing gown and two days’ worth of stubble. 

After a cold shower, he donned a fresh shirt, sport coat and some well-worn but serviceable Tom McCanns. Looking good, he winked to the mirror, thinking I could pass for a decade younger. Watch out ladies, Errol Flynn rides again.   

Grabbing the Pop-Tart from the toaster, he had forgotten about when making the coffee, he opened the front door to his little Hollywood Hills bungalow, purchased when Truman was still on the job. Bill swallowed a few bites before discarding the rest behind the rose bushes as he headed for the garage.  

The stable style doors opened on well-oiled hinges, in the hot interior of the garage, the black Cadillac seemed to recoil from the dusty light. He squeezed between the car and the wooden wall, careful to avoid rough wood or protruding nails catching on his jacket.   

It had been a few weeks since he started the Eldorado, the first crank sounded weak to him, but she caught on the second and the 368 came to life. Pulling into the still early morning sunshine, the Cadillac’s paint showed a galaxy of swirls and chips, a patina befitting a well-used but well-loved automobile.  

Bill had bought her new off the showroom floor, a heroic purchase for a working PI, even one like him who often took cases on behalf of the studios. Penske RS, it meant a no nonsense black on black Eldo with no vinyl roof and a few handling mods. “She still looks like a million bucks,” said Bill to the empty street.  

And as he had no particular place to go, he let the merlettes on the stand-up hood ornament guide him into the sparse pandemic traffic. It was warming up, so he turned on the AC and pushed the half-ejected cassette into the stereo. “Mais Oui” by The King Brothers flowed through the interior, such a happy song, it never failed to lift his spirits. He sang along,  

“Mais oui, mais oi, oh yes cheri, 

You smile at me, and all Paris seems to light up.” 

Before long he found himself headed to where the freeways meet in Downey, when suddenly he was gripped by a thought: he should drop in to see Myra. She was the saleswoman who had talked him in the Eldorado. Later they had dated for a bit, but they were never going to be an item.  

They kept in touch even after he married Helen, phone calls and later e-mails, some harmless flirting. He had even helped her out of a jam once. Last he heard, she had a marina front condo down in Malibu and was doing some consulting work for a dealership sales organization.  

Helen had come into his life late, but they’d had twenty good years, even a honeymoon trip to France; he had no desire to visit Austria again though. Helen had loved Paris, they had been planning a return visit when she received the cancer diagnosis. It had been quick, but not quick enough; he had scattered her ashes in the Pacific.    

At the intersection of East Florence and Studebaker, a sight jolted him out of mental autopilot. The former temple to the Standard of the World was abandoned, ringed by a chain link fence and slated for demolition. The proud canopy under which his own car had once been displayed looked sad and cheap, a discarded Hollywood prop.  A shrine abandoned by its devotees who had lost their faith.    

How long since he had gone into the dealership? Sometime in the nineties?  

At Myra’s instance, he had test driven a new wedge-shaped Eldorado in 93. Red with white leather, a bit too flashy for him but they had taken it for a spirited drive along the PCH like they had done when they had first met. Lunch at the Balboa Bay Club; she’d gotten the membership in the divorce.  

That can’t be the last time they saw each other… perhaps it was?       

It all seemed impossible, he could see it all new and beautiful in his mind. All he had to do was get out of the car and walk through the double doors into the cool interior where a feast of chrome and Firemist colors would await his inspection. And in one of the wood and glass offices Myra would look up and smile.

La vieillesse est un naufrage, whispered Bill to himself, when had they last talked? Was she OK?  

Now with resolve and a mission in mind, he took conscious control of the Eldorado from the hood-ornament ducks and headed for Malibu.  

He pulled into the gated community at the palisades. There was no one manning the booth and the security barrier was permanently in the erect position. After two laps through the meandering rows of town homes, he realized he couldn’t remember exactly where Myra lived. 

He looked for her champagne Series III Jaguar XJ6; an unfortunate habit of his was identifying landmarks by what cars were on the property.  

God, she had spent a fortune on keeping that limey crate on the road, remembered Bill; but as she often told him, “It was a thing of beauty, and a thing of beauty is a joy forever”.  He was sure Keats would identify with the Jaguar’s fragile nature and short life span.   

Parking the Eldorado in the empty visitor lot he decided to take a closer look on foot. Bill was sweating through to his sports coat when he found her place. The asphalt driveway had the tell-tale ruts of four tires that had not moved in some time. The large oil stain that the sun had failed to erase clinched it.  

With renewed vigor and a little hope in his heart, he climbed the front steps and rang the doorbell. It took a few rings and some authoritative knocks before the door cracked open a few inches and young East Asian woman poked her head out. Her red manicured nails forcibly gripped the edge of the door.

“You’re not the Amazon guy!” Her voice held a touch of sing song Indian lilt, but the rest was pure California vocal fry.  

“Sorry to disturb you ma’am, my name is Bill, I am looking for a Miss Myra Hillcrest, I think she lived here or used to live here recently?”  

“This is our house, why are you harassing us? Francis, get the fuck over here and make the kids shut up.”  

At that moment the husband appeared, stepping in front of his wife or maybe girlfriend. Bill wasn't sure as neither seemed to wear a ring. The man blocking the door and any view of the inside was dressed in a short brown robe that, to Bill’s eyes, looked like it was made from the same material as the bathmat in a Motel 6. 

“You’re not the DoorDash guy!” 

Bill took a deep breath and repeated his inquiry. Once he got a look at the guy’s eyes, he realized the futility of his interrogation; they looked like two black suns. He had known enough hop heads and junkies to realize that Francis and his woman, were stoned.  “I pay the mortgage. This is our place, so you better leave before I call the cops.” 

Enough bushwa, thought Bill, “Tell what you Francis, that is a great idea. You might not realize it to look at me, but I used to be a cop. In fact, I still have a few contacts down at 100 West. How about I give you five minutes to find Miss Hillcrest’s forwarding address before I call them myself.  Do you think that when they show up, that pot will be all they find inside?” 

Bill doubted that cops would even bother responding to the call, but he could see Francis and the girl were paranoid enough and didn’t want to risk it. 

“Meet me down by the garage,” said Francis. 

The automatic door creaked up on its hinges, revealing a pearl white Range Rover Autobiography sporting a Carvana license plate frame. A little kid’s bike and a stroller were crammed up against the wall. 

Francis shoved a card into his hand. On the front in large letters, it said Casa Avalon and in smaller font below, a subsidiary of SAXUM Industries. Myra’s name and phone number were written on the back in her neat script.  “The old lady we bought the property from last year had a stroke, went into a home. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a Zoom.” Francis stalked off, closing the garage door with a thump in Bill’s face.  

As he pulled away in the Caddy, Bill was still debating on who to call on the old Motorola car phone: the cops, or child services. 

Exiting the Eldorado on stiff knees he walked across the nursing home’s sparsely populated parking lot. The front door seemed to get further away with each step. The sun was high in the sky now and the arthritis in his knees felt like two broken coke bottles grinding together.  

The automatic doors plastered with warning notices parted; there was no disguising the institutional smell, with notes of more unpleasant odors lurking below the surface. The front desk appeared deserted; a lite Muzak version of some sixties pop hit, annoyingly unidentifiable but familiar played through multiple ceiling speakers.   

He barked out an unanswered hello to the stifling lobby, looking in vain for a bell to announce his presence. 

A parchment thin hand, with surprising strength grabbed his pant leg. “Casa de Muerte,” explained the Vietnamese looking lady in the wheelchair. “They are all dead, well not all but most of my friends and everyone on the third floor; fuckers ran off when it all started.”  

It took Bill a couple of beats before what she was telling him started to sink in. “Don’t look so shocked”, she continued, “fear is a powerful thing. Some came crawling back, but most had enough shame not to return. The corporation sent in fresh hires, though the place is still hopelessly understaffed.”  

“I’m looking for a Myra Hillcrest, I was told she became a resident after a stroke in 2019.”  

“Yes, I know the name but first I need all your change.” There was a moment of awkward silence. “There you go looking all confused again. It’s for the vending machines. Staff don’t let me have junk food, says it’s not good for me.”   

Bill dutifully emptied his wallet of quarters, dimes, and nickels. With alacrity she wheeled across the lobby and started feeding change to the machines. Beaming with triumph she returned with two bags of Fritos and a diet Dr. Pepper.  

“Follow me,” she commanded and headed to what Bill guessed was her room.  

It was neat if a little dusty, dominated by a huge 35” Toshiba cathode ray tube TV, topped with a digital converter. Damn thing looked like it weighed a ton. He hoped she wouldn’t ask him to move it. An early 80s movie played silently, despite the low-resolution picture, the handsome lead actor was instantly recognizable. He should be, Bill mused; I shot him.  Some plastic plants and a framed official looking photo of a well-dressed man in a dark suit were the only other decoration. 

It was almost forty years ago. Bill shot him through the window of a bright red Lamborghini on a quiet morning on an empty street in Beverly Hills. And he had gotten away with it.   

As a mental footnote he added, did I mention that the star had left his pregnant 16-year-old girlfriend to drown after crashing his car into a fuckin’ swimming pool.   

His new friend had already gotten the first bag open and was savoring the little rectangular corn chips. “Husband?” he asked, nodding towards the picture on the wall, to get her back on track. 

“Ha,” she laughed, “that’s not my late husband, that is President Nguyen of South Vietnam, but we did have an affair long ago. This is my husband,” she plucked a smaller silver frame off the bedside table, a faded photo showed a smiling middle-aged couple posing proudly with a giant cream-colored seventies Lincoln that barely fit within the edges of the frame.  

“You know McNamara only gave him a Falcon; cheap bastard, he could have at least gotten him a Thunderbird. Shit, Nixon gave Brezhnev a Continental and a Cadillac.   

Why are you asking about Myra? You a relative, older brother perhaps?” she teased. “You look like you might want to take up residence here, you could be my neighbor or maybe husband number three, ah… but I wouldn’t recommend it.”   

Displaying a lack of tact so common of those of advanced years she continued, “I’m sorry but Myra is dead, it was in the chaos of those first few weeks. She and I were wheelchair buddies, but a second stroke sent her to third floor; she was bed ridden most of the time. Bad timing. When Covid hit, it took the weakest of us, but she held on. 

I took her food from the kitchen and water, talked to her, watched TV with her for two weeks. I did what I could, but I couldn’t move her. Then the elevators stopped working. I called everyone from the phone at the reception desk; emergency services, cops, city hall even some of my husband’s old business associates. Nothing but recorded messages. They left us to die because they were scared of catching the flu.  

When they finally came, five days later, it took them all day, a parade of ambulances and funeral service cars, to dispose of their sins.  I’m sorry, were you close?”   

The words were long in finding his lips. “We were old friends.” Then, adding “We hadn’t seen each other in a few years,” he trailed off and was silent.

On his way out, a young woman in a China blue blazer with a SAXUM lapel pin stopped him and asked why he wasn’t masked. Next, she produced a proof of vaccination form to fill out. He ignored it and walked out to the Eldorado, where he emptied the ash tray and area under the seat cushions of change. Stepping around the officious employee with a wave of his hand, he brought his bounty back to President Nguyen’s girlfriend.   

The drive back home was painful. It was hot, traffic had increased. He was tired. The morning’s burst of energy had gone. As a younger man he would have cursed and pounded his fists on the dash in anger. As an old man all he felt was guilt. Why didn’t I seek her out sooner? I could have helped, or found someone to help.     

All he wanted now was to open the bottle he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk.Wash the taste of the nursing home out of his mouth and dim the memory.  

The phone rang as he swallowed the last drop of shot number three.          

“Good afternoon, is this Alliance Partners, I would like to speak with Mr. Bill..” 

“You got him,” interrupted Bill, the booze was working, he was already starting to feel a little lightheaded. Normally he would have answered “Alliance Partners, how can I put you mind at ease?” 

“Seriously, that’s great man, I was worried you might be dead.”  

Before Bill could assure him that the rabbit had yet to kick the bucket, the caller identified himself as Danny Goode, a showrunner making a series about the murder of a certain movie star.  

He was experiencing a renaissance, explained the eager young producer. The star’s handful of feature films had moved beyond the relics of that strange time between the late seventies and early eighties. Not cult movies, revered by intellectuals, but real mainstream popularity aided by easy access on streaming services around the globe. 

The mystery of his murder only added to the allure. Theories abounded, a drug deal gone wrong, a jealous lover, studio intrigue, or maybe the mob. The best one was that he was a spy and that he had been assassinated by a Cuban hit squad on the orders of the KGB.      

“Anyway, we are making the definitive multi episode bio pic for Netflix; green lit and fully funded. His story will be streaming gold, we are gonna’ be bigger than fucking Tiger King.  And you know why? Because we are going to solve the case!” 

Bill felt himself sobering up quickly; ignoring the shock, he kept his voice as calm as possible asking, “I don’t understand Mr. Goode, why are you calling me?” 

“You discovered the body, right?”  

“I’m sorry Mr. Goode, uh Danny, I think you are mistaken.” 

“No not his body, the girl in his Porsche, in the pool, the pregnant girl who drowned. Yeah, I know it’s not in the police report — but our subject matter expert on the case, remembers you from that night; she says you were first on the scene, good Samaritan, you called it in.” 

His old pal Gail, the studio fixer, had landed him in it again, Bill thought; no good deed goes unpunished.  

“We would love to interview you for the series, of course there will be an appropriate appearance fee. Would five hundred bucks cover it?” 

“Sorry Danny, no sale.” He gently replaced the receiver back into its black plastic cradle. 

The next day, Bill headed out to pay Gail a visit; it wouldn’t be a social call. He needed to know what she knew. And was she planning to sell him out for ratings? Gail wasn’t hard to find; she was in the book.  

During this “extraordinary time”, essential traffic was light and everyone was moving at least twenty over the limit. In Bill’s experience, at this hour of the day it would normally be a monotonous bumper-to-bumper Bataan Death March to his destination.

On the drive he tried to tamp down his anger at being dragged into this exercise in unwanted nostalgia. He wasn’t proud of what he had done, but he would do it again given the opportunity. As his old commanding officer used to say, quoting some Spaniard, "The sword of justice has no scabbard." 

In the slow lane while the freeway hummed beneath his feet, his mind went back to an alpine field in Austria, watching while his former OSS bosses, now CIG, executed a half dozen SS diehards. He was just the private assigned to drive them around in a Jeep but the German, learned at his grandfather`s knee, made him useful.  

The Colonel had already dispatched their leader, a Feldwebel, plus four of the combat veterans when he thrust the Colt M1911 into his hands and told him to take care of the last one. The kid, Hilterjugend or just unlucky enough to be caught playing soldier, had looked up at him with tears and snot and prayers flowing freely. Bill didn’t hesitate long before pulling the trigger.        

Over the last few weeks of spring 1946, there had been werewolf attacks throughout their zone, booby traps, wires across the road and reprisal killings against local authorities who were getting too chummy with the American authorities. Finally, a bomb in a local beer hall that killed half a dozen GIs and more than a few locals. Of course, it could have simply been unexploded ordnance.  

Lost in his reverie, Bill didn’t hear or see the Hellcat; more like sensed its looming presence as it emerged from the on ramp like it was on a trophy run at Pomona. The pitch-black Dodge blew by the Eldorado, making it rock on its springs in the wake. Realizing almost too late that he was about to run out of lane, the driver cut in front of the Caddy with would looked like an inch to spare before they would have both been debris all over the highway. Then the Hellcat was gone. New world. New rules.

By the time he made it to Gail’s neighborhood, Bill’s heart had returned to its normal rhythm. He parked a few car lengths down the street, the wreath and crest shimmering. He popped the hood on the Eldorado to let out some of the highway heat.  

The automatic gates to the property were open and it looked like the intercom had clearly stopped working a decade ago. A peeling dyno tape on the intercom said PRIVATE PROPERTY — NO JUNK MAIL.    

The circular driveway held a forlorn Lexus SC 430, sitting on four nearly flat tires and covered with a thick layer of desert dust. He pushed open the unlocked and ornately carved front doors to a typical B-list Hollywood-style ranch.    

The house hadn’t been decorated since the eighties craze for southwest themes and pastels; it was all too much Miss-Haversham-meets-Palm-Springs, making his skin crawl.   

“Come on in,” the voice floated past him, “I’m by the pool.”  

Which looked as neglected as the rest of the property, with dried out leaves floating listlessly on the filter’s currents. Gail didn’t look bad from across the deck, but she was fighting a rear-guard action against age. The one-piece black suit was flattering but her golden mane’s artificial hue and deep lines around her eyes told another story.  

She was stretched out on a vintage woven nylon recliner with an empty tumbler in her left hand. Her phone, Gucci bag and a copy of Variety were scattered around her, completing the Hollywood player tableau.  

Peering over her sunglasses: “I wondered when you would show up. If you’ve come to negotiate a higher rate for your interview, forget it.”  

“Sorry Gail, I’m not playing along. I will deny that I was ever there. Your word against mine.”  

“Bill, you were always a piece of shit. You know I could have ridden that up-and-comer to being a studio head. But never mind. This miniseries will put me back on top, I’m getting a co-producer credit and a percentage of the foreign sales.    

Tell the truth, Bill. You did it. I knew all along but couldn’t prove it. You ruined my career. Who else kills the golden goose? Your misplaced loyalty to a girl, some whore, some groupie. You never met her until you spied her at the bottom of a pool.”  

Bill took two steps forward. “Gail you are fooling yourself; this business doesn’t need people our age, let it go. Isn’t it time to retire gracefully, while you still have some good years left? Sell this mausoleum and travel. You know, ‘See the USA in your Chevrolet’. Heck, you must be pushing seventy…” As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he had pushed her too hard.  

A Ruger Security 9mm appeared from her designer bag. A split second later, the frosted glass of the patio sunroom exploded, showering him with fragments. It was time to go.  

“Fuck you, Bill!” he heard as he closed the front door behind him. 

He had his answer. Once he was home, he picked up the phone.  

“Danny I’ve changed my mind, I want to do the interview, but you are going to have to do a lot better than five hundred bucks. You see, I can help you solve the case and thereby guarantee a hit show. Imagine the final episode…”  

Bill drove the Eldorado to the studio complex on North Cahuenga Blvd. No one took his temperature or asked him to mask up as he drove through the gates.  

The place was surprisingly busy, for a deadly global pandemic. As they walked past a series of packed craft tent, Bill heard the last guy in line for chow yell out “last man”. Danny started to explain that it meant the clock was now started on break, so everyone got a full hour.  Bill raised a hand.

“This ain’t my first rodeo, I have been working for the studios since before ‘Hogan’s Heroes’ went into syndication.”    

“Okay Bill… let’s get you into makeup and mic you up. Do you want a water, cappuccino?”   

---

He watched the final episode on TV along with a good part of the rest of the world. Bill looked at himself on the screen, seated slightly off center. In the shadows he didn’t look quite as old as his years, thanks to the makeup lady, but it gave him a sinister air he didn’t think he really possessed. 

On screen he recited the details of his involvement in the shooting, the chance encounter on a quiet Beverly Hills street, explaining that his act wasn’t premeditated and that he wasn’t looking for excuses or absolution. He was calm and utterly believable. There was no relief, because he had never felt any guilt. 

He talked about Gail’s excellent work on behalf of the studio to help cover up the crime; her residuals, he imagined, would all be going to her lawyers. 

In the week between speaking with Danny and doing the interview, he sold his house to a realtor for cash, at substantial discount. Still, he had enough between his consulting fee and the sale to keep him comfortable for the foreseeable future Maybe donate a new wing to a certain nursing home. A better vending machine, for sure.    

A little research had told him France had a very liberal no extradition policy that he planned on enjoying. Just like his fellow expatriate Hollywood citizen, Roman Polanski. And if that didn’t hold up? There was no evidence apart from his admission. He had ditched the .38 off the Santa Monica pier years ago. There were no witnesses who could identify his car. A half decent lawyer would get him off if he gave them the chance.  

He could imagine the patrol cars racing up the canyons, only slightly behind the news vans. In his imagination they were always square body Caprices. Soon the red and blue strobe lights would be illuminating his dusty living room. He could picture the detectives, weapons drawn, pounding at the front door.  

Bill got up, turned off the TV and slowly walked down the hallway to the door. Pushing it open he was greeted by blindingly beautiful spring sunshine. Blinking a few times in the light, he stepped out into a busy Paris street.