Angels in Heaven

I said. “He’d think he was just being clever, having a little insurance.
Hell, he could even have movies. But like you say, even if he doesn’t, he’s a
threat as long as he’s running around loose.”
    “Do you think you can do something to
get him off my ass?”
    “Yes, I do think so,” I said.
    “Like what?”
    “Like I don’t know yet,” I said,
“because I don’t know enough about the Goose. If he’s a nickel-and-dimer, I’d
approach him one way. If he’s AI Capone, I’d approach him another way, like
with extreme caution.”
    J. J. smiled, revealing a lot of
expensive enamel. “I hear ya talkin’,” he said. “So how do you find out which
he is?”
    “Oh, I have a connection or two,” I
said. “I’ll probably start by getting someone downtown to pull his sheet and
see what that tells us.”
    “Talkin’ of bread,” he said. “What’s
all this gonna set me back?”
    I thought for a moment, came up with
a figure, then thought for another minute of the difference in salaries between
a power forward for the Milwaukee Bucks and a power private investigator in
Studio City who was late again with the rent, and then doubled my original
figure.
    “Whatever,” J. J. said expansively,
making me wish I’d tripled it.
    “How do I get in touch with you, J.
J.?”
    He gave me the name of his hotel and
said I could also drop him a note anytime the next few weeks, care of the
Lakers. And if it all went well and he caught on and stayed in town, front row
tickets at the Fabulous Forum anytime, man.
    “Thank you, J. J.” I said. “I’ll be
in touch.” We stood up, shook on it, and I ushered him out. His car, which
looked like a rental, was parked down the line in front of Mr. Amoyan’s shoe
repair establishment. I watched him take off and merge into the traffic on the
main road.
    All right, I thought. I like it. I’ll
get to drop in at afternoon practices and watch Magic and Kareem playing Horse,
pass the time of day with Byron and Coop, and sit right behind the bench with
Evonne at home games, and maybe go out for a beer and some barbecue with the
boys afterward and have long talks with Kareem late into the noche about
the problems of being giants in a world of Pygmies....
    Yes, for once the future looked rosy.
It still looked rosy after I’d partaken of lunch at Mrs. Morales’ Taco-Burger
stand three doors along from me. As per usual, her combination plate lacked a
certain everything, but it did have an abundance of lettuce, which was Chinese
cabbage.
    Back at the office, I phoned my
brother Tony, who had the rank of lieutenant in the Los Angeles Police
Department and who toiled downtown one desk over from a testy little shaver
known to one and all as Sneezy. The cop on the switchboard told me that Tony
had stepped out of the building for a moment, which was probably just as well,
since Tony and I didn’t see eye to eye on a great many things, including—if not
heading the list—outsiders using police facilities.
    “Sneezy!” I said when the switchboard
had passed me on to him. “Just the bloke I wanted a word with. It’s your old
pal Vic.”
    “I have no old pals,” Sneezy said. “I
had one once. His name was Curly. He was a cocker spaniel and he was run over
by a Wonder Bread truck when I was six.”
    “Now I know what to get you for
Christmas,” I said. “A little puppy dog with a kink in its tail.”
    “Well, if that’s all you called to
tell me,” he said, “con- sider it told.”
    “There was one other trifle,” I said.
“Punch up the sheet on a local called Peter Berry, aka Goose, for me, will you?
It won’t take but a jiffy with that electronic marvel you operate so
brilliantly.”
    “Anything to get rid of you, Daniel,”
he said. “Hang on.”
    I hung on. Thirty seconds later he
said, “How much do you want?”
    “How much is there?”
    “Not a lot,” he said.
    “All I really want to know, is he
small-time or big-time, ' his last known, and maybe the name and station
of the ar-I resting officer the last time he got done.”
    “Is that all?” Sneezy said
sarcastically. “Sure you don’t want to know his jockstrap size too? Peter
Melvin Berry, aka Goose, Goosie. Looks small-time to me. Some racetrack con. ;
Destruction of property. Illegal book. Last known address, 224 East Street,
that’s the one in Anaheim. Arresting officer—Lt. L. Carstairs ... hang on ...
South Station. Goodbye.” He hung up.
    “Good-bye and thank you ever so,” I
said