I'm in the Book

It was a rainy night in Los Angeles. I was working late in my office. An empty whiskey bottle sat on the desk, a pile of crumpled cigarette butts in the ashtray. I don’t smoke, or drink for that matter; they’re just there for looks. In my line of work, that look makes clients think I’m the kind of guy who can do what they need done. It so happens that clients, or the lack of them, was what I was thinking about when the door swung open.

A woman was silhouetted in the dim light from the hallway. She was tall and shapely, in a fitted black dress that looked like it would be right at home at a cocktail party, or a funeral. She looked like she could go either way.

“Hello, Sam.”

My name’s not Sam, but it was already painted on the door when I rented the office, so I answer if someone calls me that.

“Good evening, Miss. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

She disregarded that. Apparently she wasn’t there to exchange pleasantries.

“I have a job for you. Someone has something that belongs to me, and I’d like it back.”

I nodded.

“This man,” she said, sliding a slip of paper across the desk to me. I picked it up and read the name Jimmy Malone out loud.

“Don’t know him,” I lied. You’d have to lead a pretty straight-arrow life in West Hollywood not to know who Jimmy Malone was, and not too many people I knew in West Hollywood led a straight-arrow life. “What’s he got of yours?”

“A notebook. A small black notebook.”

I reached into my desk drawer and slid out my own little black notebook. “Like this?”

I thought I detected a little flicker of something in her eyes, but she regained her composure so quickly I couldn’t be sure. Maybe the light was playing tricks on me.

“Yes, that’s exactly the type. You and I must shop at the same stationer.”

I doubted she and I traveled in any of the same circles, but I kept my mouth shut.

“For a couple of bucks, you could drop back in to the stationer’s and get another one.”

She flashed me a weary smile. “I could, but that one would be blank, wouldn’t it? The one I’m after has information in it that makes it a bit more valuable.”

“How valuable?”

“Twenty thousand dollars.”

Now it was my turn to try to keep my composure. “Well, if you were trying to get my attention, you’ve succeeded. If you’re offering twenty grand, I’ll get your book back.”

“That’s kind of you, Sam. I’ll be back to pick it up tomorrow night.”

I started to protest that that wasn’t enough time, but she was already closing the door behind her.

I had no reason to believe her, even less reason to trust that she’d actually pay me twenty large for a little black book, but I did trust her. Maybe I’d end up being the sap, but if things panned out, that money would set a lot of things right in my world. All the same, I wasn’t keen on tangling with Jimmy Malone, but it looked like that was what I’d be doing. Malone has his fingers in a lot of action in West Hollywood, but he does well enough at it to live in Bel Air.

I headed that way the next morning, snaking along Mulholland Drive. It’s not the best way to get there; I just like the view. Call me sentimental.

I pulled my car to the curb on Malone’s street, a few houses down. He and I are not friends, but I’d had occasion to be there once or twice before, and I knew he had an office door on the back of his house. I slipped through the yard as discreetly as a man in a suit could at 9 o’clock in the morning.

At the door, I zipped open a small leather case that held a set of Swiss lock picks. Expensive ones, some of the best you can buy, but of course I hadn’t bought them. I’d acquired them from a client who could no longer use them, due to what one might call a sudden involuntary change of address. I prefer not to say where I acquired the skill to use them.

I chose the pick I thought most likely to work on this particular lock, then slid it into the keyhole, along with the little wrench that would turn the knob. I applied a bit of pressure to the wrench, and the knob turned. It was already unlocked. I should have tried that first. I let out a low whistle, called myself a few uncomplimentary names under my breath, and slipped into the office.

Crossing to the massive mahogany desk, I gave each drawer handle a slight pull, until I found what I was looking for, a drawer that was locked. That’s where I’d keep a valuable book, and I figured Malone would too.

The picks worked their magic on the lock, and I quietly slid the drawer open. There were papers inside, and underneath them I thought I caught a glimpse of a black book cover.

Before I could push the papers aside to get a better look, I heard a familiar metallic click. I turned. My eyes went straight to the snub-nose .38 revolver, then up to Jimmy Malone holding it.

“Looking for something, Rick?”

My name’s not Rick, but that’s what Jimmy Malone calls me, and I’m not one to argue.

“A lady friend of mine was here, thinks she might have left something. Being a gentleman, I offered to pick it up for her”

“Are you thinking of this, perhaps?”

He slid a small black notebook halfway out of his jacket pocket.

“I might be.”

“Do you have any idea what a thing like this is worth?”

“Well, I’ll take a wild guess. How about twenty grand.”

He laughed. “I like your sense of humor, Ricky. It’s not worth a nickel. Here, catch.”

He tossed it to me. “It’s yours.”

I didn’t want to seem impolite, so I mumbled, “Thanks.”

“See you around, Rick. Oh, and Rick, would you mind locking up on your way out? Not everyone is as honest as you and I.”

I waited until he was good and gone, then slipped out the way I came in. I walked back to my car, thinking that Malone was an odd duck, and that I was a very lucky one. I took a quick look through the book. It was full of names and numbers, a few I recognized, most I didn’t. I didn’t know if this book was the one she wanted or not, but she’d asked me to get a little black notebook from Jimmy Malone, and I’d gotten one. I figured I’d earned my twenty grand.

I made the drive back to town, along Mulholland again. I liked the view even better this time.

Short of paying customers though I was, I did have some other work to do that tied me up most of the day. This was fine by me, I didn’t want to just sit in the office waiting for her, so it was dark by the time I shoehorned my car into a spot in front of my building.

“Top of the evening, Frank.”

It was Tommy, the guy who runs the newsstand next door. He’s always been a good source of information for me, and I don’t mean the papers he sells. He might just be the only person who knows the underside of West Hollywood better than I do, probably from standing on the street all day. I wondered if he kept a little black book. If he did, I’d bet it’d be a doozy.

“Keep your ear to the ground, Tommy.” I tipped my hat and went into the lobby.

And in case you’re wondering, my name’s not Frank, either, but that’s a story for another time.

The elevator was on the fritz again, so I legged it up the four flights of stairs. Not that I minded, that elevator is older than I am, and I don’t always fancy trusting it with my life.

When I slid my key into my office door lock, the hair on the back of my neck stood up just a little. The door was unlocked. I’m not religious in the general sense, but one thing I’m very faithful about is locking my door, so it wasn’t me that had left it open.

Stepping to the side of the opening to avoid any lead that might come my way, I slowly twisted the knob, then flung the door wide. Cautiously, I peered around the door jamb, then jumped inside, primed for action. Nothing. The office was empty and looked to be in the same messy state I’d left it in. I locked the door behind me. Not that it probably mattered now.

Since everything seemed to be in order, or at least in the appropriate disorder, I sat down at my desk to wait for my guest of honor to arrive. I slipped the precious notebook from my pocket and pulled open my desk drawer. That’s when it hit me: I wouldn’t need to wait for my appointment at all. My appointment was already over.

My own little black notebook, which normally resides in that drawer, was gone. In its place was a neat stack of hundred-dollar bills.

If you wanted to know who was who in Hollywood, not the empresarios and the movie stars and the pin-up girls, but the real players, my little black book was about as valuable as you could get. Maybe even twenty grand valuable. I wanted to be mad. After all, she’d played me, led me on a wild goose chase to get me out of my office so she, or someone, could get in. And maybe Jimmy Malone was in on it too, who knows?

But in a way I’d been right about her. She’d kept her word.

I didn’t count the money; I knew it was all there. I slipped the stack of bills into the pocket of my jacket and walked out into the L.A. night.