The Gonif

PROLOGUE

I had to be what—nine years old? No taller than a pogo stick, anyway, the first time I heard the word gonif. We were sitting around our kitchen table with Uncle Al. That was when we lived in that ratty upstairs apartment on Normandie, and Al would come by to visit, angling for a free meal. To tell you the truth, he was my great uncle, my Baba’s kid brother, but we didn’t make those distinctions back then. To us, he was just Uncle Al. It was Al who taught me how to play poker. He liked kids, dogs, and pretty women—but not necessarily in that order. He liked to laugh. More than anything, he loved to gamble. It dawned on me later in life that he was addicted to gambling. He bet on basketball games, boxing matches, dog races. Whatever moved, really. He spent a week in Vegas every year. He’d go to Hollywood Park and Santa Anita, and when he won big—which he did every now and then—he’d take us all out to eat Chinese. Nothing fancy, but since my parents never had much money and never took us anywhere, well, it stood out. When the bill arrived, it was thrilling to watch my uncle pull out a thick wad of green from his pocket and peel off a couple of twenties. Made me feel, I dunno, like royalty.

Al always said he immigrated from Canada. That was a lie. He came from Russia. The whole family did. Only, for some reason I never understood, he wasn’t allowed in, so he went to Toronto instead. Then, one night, when the border guards were looking the other way, he hiked a mile through the woods and found himself in Vermont. Welcome to America, huh? When he got to LA, he started working at a hot dog stand near Union Station. A few years later, he won the hot dog stand in an all-night card game. Then he sold it and bought a pawn shop in Reseda. In the end, he was an old man who owned three pawn shops in the Valley.

We were playing poker that afternoon, the three of us: me, my dad, and Al. I’d brought my jar full of coins to the table, which was all I had in the world. It was just a nickel-and-dime affair, and if there was two dollars in the whole pot I’d be surprised. That’s when my dad grabbed Al by the wrist and yelled at him: You fucking gonif, he said. You’re dealing off the bottom of the deck! Al’s face turned red. My dad stood up and told him, Nobody cheats my little boy. Get the hell out. Go on.

That was the last time I ever saw Al. A year or so after that, he got colon cancer and died. We went to the funeral in Reseda. The rabbi talked about what a free spirit Al had been. How he thought rules were made to be broken. How he joked his way through life—what a great laugh Al had.

Afterwards in the reception hall, there was an open bar and a huge buffet with roast chicken, chop suey, hot pastrami, kreplach, and little Swedish meatballs—all the foods Al adored. My mom said that as soon as Al found out he was going to die, he’d set a chunk of money aside. That’s how he wanted to be honored, with a big party. His treat. We lined up with our plates and shuffled along. I noticed my dad was piling his high. Are you really gonna eat all that? He winked at me. Come on, boychik! He owes us.

CHAPTER 1

You live here long enough, you get to know the neighborhood. That’s just how it is. Nothing magical about it. My particular neighborhood is about ten blocks square, maybe a little more, depending on how far I end up walking every day.

The doctor tells me I have to walk if I want to stay alive. Dr. Flynn is in his early fifties, neat and trim. Loretta chose him for me because she said he was efficient. Board-certified. A serious fellow. You don’t want a comedian for a doctor, right? I’ve never seen him without a tie and a white lab coat. If I had to guess, I’d say he probably sleeps that way.

How long do you want to live, Amos? That’s what he asks. He’s holding a clipboard containing the results of the latest battery of tests he’s run on me. The look on his face suggests I’ve come up short again.

I have a choice in the matter?

You do. Pick a number.

His office looks out over Beverly Hills. Every time I come to see him, the sun is shining. It seems like a pleasant, upbeat place to work. He has charts and beautifully illustrated drawings of the human anatomy. There’s a detailed one of the lungs, and the kidneys, and, of course, the human heart. He also has plastic models lying about, exact replicas, like the plastic sushi you sometimes see in the window of Japanese restaurants.

You want to live to be a hundred? he asks, exasperated that I haven’t replied.

A hundred’s an awful long time, I say. I’m not sure I’d want to stick around that long. Could get lonely, you know.

How about another year or two?

Sure, I’d like another year.

Yeah, well, unless you start moving your tuchus every day, you can kiss that goodbye.

He scared me with that kind of tough talk; so now I’m out on the street, rain or shine. Usually I go west on Third, past Whole Foods and the Farmers Market, until I get to Fairfax. Then up Fairfax to Beverly, then right on Beverly to La Brea, then down and back. Sometimes I cheat—I take a little detour and stop at the La Brea Bakery on Sixth for a cup of coffee and a nosh. This is wrong, I know. And I don’t tell Loretta, even though she probably can guess. A week ago, she found some leftover bits of croissant on my bomber jacket and put two and two together. It’s not that big a deal, I figure, not as long as I keep the weight off.

And anyway, Loretta has her own issues, which, in my humble opinion, are much worse than what I’ve got to deal with. I’m still on the job as a gumshoe. She had to retire from the Iron Workers’ union last May when her thinking clouded over and she couldn’t remember things. You can’t run an office if you can’t recall where you put the bills. Things fall apart. I have to admit they were decent about it, the iron workers: she walked away with a pension. But now she doesn’t dare drive, so I have to schlep her back and forth to her doctors. I don’t mind. It’s what married people do for each other, right? But our life has narrowed from what it once was, let me tell you. I prowl the neighborhood; she sits in Apartment 9J at Park La Brea, gazing out the window all day or watching TV with Carmen, our housekeeper.

Doc Flynn lectures me. He wants to know just how long I want to live. And I want to say to him, You call this living?

I’m standing with a young, well-dressed Korean couple in the art deco lobby outside our elevator, waiting for it to open. It’s the beginning of May. The elevators are lovely to look at, but they’ve been running much slower than usual lately and residents have been complaining. The woman is muttering quietly to her husband, and every once in a while he says something monosyllabic or nods his head in silent agreement. I have no idea what they’re talking about, of course, but I have to think that, like everyone else, they’re bad-mouthing the elevators. Personally, I figure, it’s a minor miracle that you can step into one of these tin boxes, press a button, and within a minute or two you’re a quarter-mile up on the ninth floor. I tried climbing the interior stairs last week to get my heart going, just to see what it’s like. It took nearly twenty minutes, and I was exhausted.

These elevators, I say, they predate the dinosaurs, you know.

The man studiously ignores me. The woman regards me as if I’ve lost my mind.

That’s why they don’t work so good, I explain. They’re old. Look at me, I’m old, too.

Now both of them are ignoring me. Just then, the phone rings in my coat pocket. I walk outside the building, where the reception is clearer.

Mr. Parisman? A lilting woman’s voice. I don’t recognize the number—but I haven’t had a case in over a month, so if it rings I answer.

That’s me, all right. Hello. What can I do for you?

This is Harriet Reines. I was given your name by a man named Malloy, Lieutenant William Malloy of the LAPD. He said he’s good friends with you. He trusts you. In fact, he thought you might be just what I need.

He did, huh? Well, that was very generous. That doesn’t happen every day. You tell him the check’s in the mail.

The minute I say that, I want to take it back. I’m being too informal. There’s something stilted in her voice. She goes silent for a moment, as if reconsidering. I’m looking for help here, Mr. Parisman. I have a serious proposal, but if you’re not interested—

Whoa, whoa! Hold on. I’m interested. Just tell me what it is.

I don’t think we should discuss this on the phone. I’d like to meet with you first, if you don’t mind. Lieutenant Malloy spoke so highly of you. I want to see for myself.

That’s fine, I say. Give me a time and a place. I’ll be there.

She suggests we meet in the lobby of the Biltmore Hotel at ten o’clock the next day. Do you know where that is?

I grew up here, Mrs. Reines.

Good, she says. Then ten o’clock it is.

Wait! I say. The lobby can be a crowded place. How will I know you?

Don’t worry, I’ll wear something black and elegant, she says. You put on a hat. We’ll find each other.

That evening, I see to it that Loretta dines on a nice broiled lamb chop and some broccoli and settle her down on the couch in front of Jeopardy! These days, Loretta loves game shows. Which, trust me, wasn’t always the case. She used to love to read, but that was before she had what they believed was a stroke, and the good doctors at Cedars Sinai started monkeying with her prescriptions. Blue pills, yellow pills. Two of these, three of those. After six months of scans and blood tests, all you wanna do is watch TV, right? At the first commercial break, I go into my office and call Bill Malloy. Harriet Reines is right about one thing: we are old friends.

I haven’t spoken with him for weeks. In January, he took charge of the homicide unit in Hollywood, which is a big promotion, but keeps him busier than a barrel of monkeys. As a result, I’m trying not to bother him. Bill would be my brother, I think, if I had been raised a Jesuit instead of a Jew. At some level we’re sorta brothers anyway. He’d probably take issue with that, argue the notion until it turns into a fine dust, but that’s also what makes us alike, the arguing.

So who is this Reines woman, Lieutenant? And why did you give her my number?

Reines? He sounds momentarily perplexed. The name means nothing to him. Or maybe I interrupted his dinner. Malloy cherishes the nightly dinners with his wife.

Harriet Reines, I continue. She called me with some kind of job offer this afternoon. I don’t get many of those at my age.

Oh, right, he says. Her. She called, very insistent. The dispatcher gave it to Remo, who passed it on to me. She’s a do-gooder. Worried about this Jewish temple over on Beverly, as I recall. Said someone’s going to get hurt unless we step in.

Which temple?

Hell, I don’t know, Amos. They all sound the same.

No, they don’t.

Excuse me, I don’t speak Hebrew like you.

I don’t speak Hebrew either, Bill. I went to Hebrew school, but it didn’t take. I blame my parents. They should have been more ruthless. I coulda been a rabbi by now.

Anyway, he says, ignoring everything I just said, she’s worried. They’ve had a few minor break-ins the last month or so. Maybe it’s kids out on the street making mischief, maybe it’s more than that. But she’s willing to spend some cash to find out, and, as far as I could determine, there’s no call for the police to get involved.

Not yet.

Right. Not yet. And so I suggested you.

Huh.

That’s all you’re gonna say? ‘Huh’? Aren’t you gonna thank me, at least? When was the last time you saw a paycheck?

I don’t like taking chances, Bill. When I was a kid, I thought I was immortal. All kids do.

And now?

Now it’s different, I tell him. Now I’ve got Loretta to take care of. You could be sending me out to die.

There’s a pause on the other end. Malloy’s a thinker, but he’s more reserved, he doesn’t wear his feelings all over his sleeve like I sometimes do. I’m sure I make him nervous. Look, friend, he says as calmly as he can, I’ve had a very long day. She and I had a very short conversation. And on behalf of the LAPD, I took some initiative and bowed out. Why don’t you ask her yourself?

Carmen comes in a little after nine the next morning. She had to take two buses to get here from El Sereno because her car is in the shop again, waiting for a new transmission. I tell her I’ll give her a ride home. I’m grateful she’s on the job, because Loretta no longer does anything around the house and my skills in that department are primitive at best. I mean, we could probably get by without someone like Carmen—I have done my share of cooking and dusting and vacuuming, after all—but why? Carmen is a natural at this, she’s sweet and caring, and, best of all, she and Loretta have kinda fallen in love with each other. For the seven hours when Carmen’s here, they’re best friends, anyway. They giggle like little girls and whisper secrets I’m not allowed to hear. They play dominos and gin rummy together, though they’re both pretty vague about the rules. When her car is running, she takes Loretta out on field trips. This usually involves simple pleasures—ice cream or See’s candy. Carmen also has a thing about window-shopping, so they wander around Ross Dress for Less, or cross the street to Nordstrom, looking at overpriced shoes and lingerie. They rarely buy anything. Even though she still has a credit card, Loretta’s a pretty cheap date. She can’t get enough of the escalator at Nordstrom.

As soon as Carmen puts her sweater and purse away, I tell her I have to go out, I have a job interview.

A job? she says with alarm. "I hope it’s not like the last time, señor. When you followed that nasty man around? ¿Recuerda?"

I remember all too well. The man I was following was named Robbie Barner. He used to be a professional wrestler, then he worked as a bouncer in a high-class bar. Trouble was, he liked to drink too much. The years went by; he grew paunchy, bald, and ornery, and they let him go. I guess that’s when he figured he needed a new career. He was bringing girls in from Thailand and Vietnam, setting them up in massage parlors and gradually grooming them for a life of prostitution. I finally caught up to him in an alley off Gower one rainy night where he was teaching one of his girls a lesson, as he put it. I didn’t see him hit her, but I could tell he had. She was hunched over with her knees on the pavement, touching the side of her face. She was barefoot, wearing a thin dress, and she was soaked to the bone. If she was seventeen, I’d be surprised. I ordered him to back away.

You gonna make me? he asked casually.

That’s when I drew my gun on him and pointed it a few inches from his forehead. No, I said, but this will.

Just like that, his expression changed. He raised his hands and sheepishly backed away in the direction of Gower. Let him go, was my thought. I bent down and tried to help the girl to her feet. That’s when he opened fire. Two shots whizzed by my ear. I lifted my gun and fired into the rain. Later, the cops asked me where I’d learned to shoot like that.

Vietnam, I said. Marines.

Well, you must have been a marksman. You nailed him in the chest.

I got lucky, I said.

Now I look at Carmen. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t you worry.

To say that the Biltmore Hotel is a grand old edifice is like saying Itzhak Perlman is an okay fiddle player. It doesn’t do it justice. Built in the twenties, when Hollywood was coming into its own, there’s probably no place in town more storied, more extravagant, more over the top than the Biltmore. I can’t tell you all the things that went on there. Most of them happened before I was born; and the others, well, I never had the price of admission. Charlie Chaplin, Clark Gable, Spencer Tracy, Doug Fairbanks, Ginger Rogers—they all took a whirl on the ballroom floor back then. Among its many famous guests, the Biltmore could brag about hosting US presidents and corporate high rollers, also low-lifes like Al Capone and Bugsy Siegel. Even the Beatles stayed there briefly, though they couldn’t check in at the counter like everyone else—the crowds were too dense—so they landed on the roof in a helicopter.

The Biltmore faces Pershing Square, which used to be a favorite hangout for labor organizers and protest rallies. A lot of speechifying took place there, back in the day. It’s also right across the street from the Diamond Mart. I’ve never set foot in there, but my impression is it’s full of Orthodox Jews in black suits and hats and ties. They’re the only folks you’d ever see going in or out; they walked fast, with their heads down, and they often carried leather briefcases handcuffed to their wrists. Which of course raises eyebrows. And if jewelry didn’t interest you, there were other diversions: the Pussycat Theater was half a block away, and around the corner the Grand Central Market sold shrimp tacos and pupusas. Pershing Square was always alive, raucous, unpredictable.

Then Ronald Reagan got elected governor. In his infinite wisdom, he decided it cost too much taxpayers’ money to care for the thousands of mentally ill in California, so overnight he turned them loose. But where’s a poor lunatic supposed to hang his hat, I ask you? I’ve pondered this for years, and I still don’t have an answer. Maybe Reagan thought they’d come to their senses once they were released. Go out, get a job, become fine upstanding citizens. Maybe that was his dream. But the truth is, a lot of them settled in places like Pershing Square. They wandered around, smelly and barefoot, wrapped in plastic garbage bags, talking to themselves, peeing and brushing their teeth in public. It wasn’t pretty then, and it’s only gotten worse.

Harriet Reines isn’t hard to locate. She is sitting in a dark padded leather chair beneath an enormous skylight with gold molding around each pane of glass. Her legs are crossed and there’s a cup of tea or coffee on the end table beside her. She’s wearing black pants and some kind of silky black top, along with a double string of pearls. Her hair is short and colored, reminiscent of Liza Minnelli in Cabaret. She’s what I would call fashionable, especially for her age, which must be around eighty. She points to a chair opposite her to indicate where I am to sit.

Mr. Parisman? You’re very punctual.

I glance down at my watch, which says five minutes to ten. Actually, I say, the way I look at it, I’m late. I like to show up twenty minutes ahead of time.

Do you?

Yeah. It gives me a chance to check things out, you know, see what’s what. Just in case I’m walking into a trap.

Well, let me assure you, this is not a trap. She smiles genially. Her pale blue eyes take me in. For an older lady, she has an engaging way about her. I don’t know what she’s done in her life, but it’s clear to me that she feels she’s still got a lot of tread left on her tires before it’s over. We do have a problem, however.

I nod. Okay. So, let’s hear about it.

She swallows and leans forward. Her voice drops. First, I think you ought to know who you’re dealing with. My married name is Reines. Before he died of cancer eight years ago, that’s really all I was: Mrs. Phillip Reines. The wife of a very rich man.

How long were you married? I have no idea where she’s headed, but when someone leads off with a dead spouse in the first ten seconds, well, this seems like a fair question. She looks wistful, like she wants to talk about the relationship.

Fifty-six years, she says. A long time. We had quite an adventure, Phil and I. He made a lot of money buying up companies that were bloated and poorly run, then firing half the employees.

And just how do you make money doing that?

She looks at me like I was born yesterday. "You make money because very few investors walk around a factory floor to see what it’s really like. They trust their own instinct. They look at numbers—overhead, projections, profit-and-loss statements. They sit in their nice comfortable living rooms in Connecticut or New Jersey and they think—they imagine—you’ve turned things around. They think that because that’s what they read in the reports. They pour their money in.