The Big Enchilada (A Sam Hunter Mystery Book 1) Read online

  The surprising thing was that I quite liked Clarissa Acker. This was a little unusual, as my clients are generally not very likeable; if they were, they probably wouldn’t hire me. But she had a kind of rough honesty that I didn’t see very often and that I found attractive. Her attitude to her situation didn’t bother me; if anything, her openness about her motives made her more attractive. Most people who wanted me to do something dirty tried to hide behind some self-serving bullshit that maybe fooled them but didn’t fool me. Not Clarissa Acker: “Let’s bury the bastard,” she had said. Nice clear instructions.

  She was a good-looking woman, and was also pretty intelligent, but she had a volatile personality. She liked her pleasure and was open about it, and she was equally open about her displeasure and anger. It was not in her nature to hide her feelings—whatever they were—beneath the surface. I thought she probably would be a good friend, a better lover, and an enemy to reckon with. I don’t have to like my clients to do my job—and I usually don’t—but I liked her, and I wanted to do what I could for her.

  I didn’t know if it was what she wanted, but so far my investigation had turned up only one interesting thing. However, it was very interesting. Up front, Simon Acker appeared to be a dry, reserved, priggish sort of man. Very cool, very efficient, very meticulous—the exact opposite of his wife. A couple of years back he had taken over Medco Pharmaceutical Supplies, a small company that manufactured and processed chemicals to be used in products put out by the big drug companies. I didn’t know much about it, but Medco probably wasn’t a very big operation, even though it was big enough to give Acker a giant-sized salary that he spent pretty freely.

  All that was on the surface, and on the surface Simon Acker was a dull man. However, after I had been following him around for a while, I discovered that he kept a little apartment in West L.A. that no one knew about. One day when he was at Medco, I used a skeleton key to get in, and another side of dull Mr. Acker was revealed. The apartment was your typical furnished place, if you happened to rent in a Gothic castle. The walls and ceiling were painted black. Heavy velvet drapes covered the windows. Decoration was provided by a collection of whips and copies of medieval weapons that were mounted on the walls. The closets contained several robes and cloaks that were also in keeping with the medieval motif. Acker was quite a history buff.

  Under surveillance, I saw several tall blondes go into the apartment at various times of the day and night. They were obviously prostitutes, and they always came out looking somewhat the worse for wear. Fifty dollars to one of them bought me the info that Simon Acker was a peculiar man. He would dress up in one of his robes, continually mutter and rave something about “The Power,” and beat the girls until he climaxed. Even though he paid high for their services, very few girls returned for a second engagement.

  I hadn’t told my client about this yet. It was good stuff, but I’d thought I would stay with it a little longer to see what else developed. Nothing developed. Acker stopped going to his apartment, and his life again became exactly what it appeared to be on the surface. He had gotten so careful, in fact, that I suspected he knew he was being watched.

  I was pretty sure I hadn’t tipped him, but I thought his wife might have. Clarissa Acker was by no means a stupid woman—except maybe where her husband was concerned—but she did have a temper, and her husband, after fifteen years of practice, would know just the way to make her explode. I figured that during an explosion she told Acker about me. That would account for his recent caution; if I was right, it meant I wouldn’t get anything more on him, and that was why I had decided to let it go for a while, to see if his confidence would return and he’d get careless again. But if I was right, it also meant that he knew about me and could have sent the warning. I decided I’d have to look into it.

  I had another domestic case that was even more charming than the Acker one—a case of suspected patricide-to-be George Lansing owned record stores, a chain of fast-service restaurants, and bits of a dozen small companies in the entertainment field. He was loaded, and his only son, George II, had been heavily indulged. Not surprisingly, like most spoiled brats of Hollywood families, he was a disaster. Not content with an Alfa Romeo, unlimited credit at the best stores, and an allowance that was larger than what I earn in a good month, two years ago he decided he wanted it all and made plans to kill his father. The attempt was pure fantasy, involving a phony kidnapping and hired gunmen, and it might have worked if the kid had not read too many comic books. As it was, it failed completely, and the father ended up paying off the hit men. If Lansing had any sense, he would have broken the kid’s neck or thrown him in the slammer. But he wouldn’t press charges and all was forgiven. Shit, he didn’t even reduce the punk’s allowance.

  Everything was fine for a while, and then, surprising only his father, the kid got heavily into dope and started hanging around with other rich kids who were involved in some kind of black magic thing. A couple of months ago Lansing started to receive vaguely threatening letters and packages containing gutted cats, goats’ heads, and things like that. He was worried that maybe all of this was leading up to another assassination attempt, and he wanted me to head it off. I told him the best way to do that was to take the kid out into the ocean and drown him, but he wouldn’t hear of it and still thought he could win Junior over. I was just supposed to find out what was going on.

  I started to make some inquiries among George II’s friends, but they closed up pretty quick and got hostile. They all seemed to be like the kid—too much money, with brains rotted from dope—and I would have enjoyed smashing them around a bit, but a good opportunity had never presented itself.

  I had even spent about five days staking out the Lansings’ Beverly Hills house, to see if I could get a line on what was going on, but nothing seemed to be working, and I had to think of something else. There didn’t seem to be much urgency since the father was leaving the country for a few weeks and I doubted anything more would happen until he came back.

  Still, George II’s friends knew who I was, and that strange warning about Domingo could fit in with the comic book black magic that they practiced. But why bother? I wasn’t any threat to them. It didn’t make any sense, but nothing those degenerate brats did made any sense, so I’d probably have to check it out. Maybe this time I could give them a bit of my magic, two hands-foil.

  My last case wasn’t even a case, I ordinarily wouldn’t have bothered about it, but it was a favor for a friend of mine, Mel Perdue, who lived up in Oregon. About two and a half years ago his daughter, Linda, who was not quite fourteen at the time, had run away from home and come to L. A. This is so common as to be a cliché, but it’s never common for the families involved, and it shattered the Perdues. At first they occasionally heard from her, but then nothing. They became more and more worried, and they tried everything—police, social agencies, advertising—but there was no trace of her. Mel made several trips down here to look for her, and on the last one we happened to run into each other. He told me the story and asked me to help. I didn’t see what I could do, and told him so, but he kept begging me. He even wanted to hire me, and I finally agreed to look into it, even though I thought there was no chance that I’d come up with anything. Two years is a long time in a town that can gobble people up and never spit them out. Perdue wanted to pay me, but I told him there’d be no charge unless I found something that would take a lot of time to follow up.

  I usually don’t give freebies, but it seemed to be such a lost cause, and I wasn’t very busy anyway—and, hell, he was kind of a friend—that there I was going around with a snapshot of a pretty, blond, innocent-looking thirteen-year-old girl, who, if she was still around, probably looked like some sci-fi mutant.

  Surprisingly enough, I managed to get a line on her. It seemed to lead to a porno filmmaker named Starr Monroe. I had a couple of sessions with him, but he didn’t seem to know anything. As far as I could tell, he had no reason to lie to me since I only wanted information
and I didn’t care how he made his living, and I let it drop. Only recently did I meet a girl who had known Linda and who thought that she had been in some movies for Monroe, but I hadn’t followed it up. There seemed to be no point. The girl also thought that Linda had gone to work at a place called the Black Knight—some kind of club. Linda had said she was onto a good thing there, and seemed happy about the chance. Her friend had left town soon after that, and they had lost touch.

  I had never heard of the Black Knight and started asking around. Most people didn’t know anything about it, but the few that did got very evasive and nervous, and looked at me in a funny way. I gathered that it was a private club that maybe dealt in kinky sex, but I couldn’t get much beyond that, no matter where I asked, and I had pretty well decided to forget about it.

  So, even though there seemed to be nothing to connect Linda Perdue with the warning I received, people knew I was asking about her and Monroe and that club, and it didn’t seem like 1 could write off that angle either. Shit.

  My review had gotten me nowhere. It didn’t look very likely, but Domingo could be tied in with any of my cases—Acker, Lansing, or Perdue. Or it could have nothing to do with any of them. It was time to find out. Anything was better than going around in circles. If you want answers, you have to ask questions. You have to push if you want to find out if there’s any substance there.

  I was ready to start pushing.

  I paid Luis and bought a pack of Gitanes, which he carried especially for me.

  I put one of the fat cigarettes in my mouth and inhaled deeply, the smoke of the black tobacco filling my lungs.

  I stepped out into the shimmering afternoon heat. The pavement felt soft as I went to my car.

  I felt pretty good.

  I was moving again.

  THREE

  I had decided I would pay a visit to Clarissa Acker to make sure that my suspicions about her letting her husband know about my investigation were correct. I didn’t call before I left. I usually don’t, having found that it’s often better to arrive unannounced.

  Driving through the winding, tree-lined streets up into the hills of Bel Air, the temperature seemed to get a little cooler. The suffocating heat that sat on the rest of Los Angeles was not as severe here, seemingly fanned down by the flap of hundred dollar bills. But the sky-was the same dirty yellow, and the air smelled just as foul. Even in L.A. money could buy only so much.

  My old heap was really out of place among the seven- and eight-hundred-thousand-dollar mansions with their Continentals and Rolls-Royces and thirty-thousand-dollar sports cars. Even the servants drove better cars than mine. But I wasn’t going to play the Detroit sucker game of a new car every two years—each new car more expensive and of poorer quality than the old one. I’d drive my car as long as it ran. When it stopped, I’d buy something that did run. Nothing more.

  The Acker house was located on one of the dead-end streets near the top of the hill. From the street the house didn’t look very large or very impressive. I had an idea about what it must have cost, though, and I’d have trouble making even the tax payments on the place.

  I parked on the street in front of the house and walked up the long circular driveway. The house looked quiet, and I didn’t hear any response inside when I rang the bell. I tried a couple of more times, but nothing happened. This was looking like one time I should have called first.

  I was just turning to leave when I heard footsteps through the thick door. It was opened by Clarissa Acker herself. It took her a few seconds to recognize me.

  “Mr. Hunter, I didn’t expect you. You should have called first. Come in. All the help is gone. My husband thinks we should have lots of servants, but I can’t get used to the idea, and I always let them go early, before they can get any work done. Isn’t that something? So I was lying by the pool, wondering what the fuck I was doing lying by the pool just like every other Bel Air rich bitch. Am I a Bel Air rich bitch? God, I hope not.” She smiled.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Bel Air rich bitches usually hump their gardeners while they’re lying by the pool. Is that what you were doing?”

  “Oh, shit! I was thinking about it. We’ve got this beautiful little Mexican—just a kid—and I’ve been wondering if I could seduce him. Hunter, I’m doomed!”

  I smiled and followed her inside. As I said, I found her a very likeable woman, likeable and a little surprising. She was good-looking, in her late thirties, and well-taken-care-of in the way that a lot of money can do, but I didn’t think she cared anything at all about the money. She was small, but her body was nicely fleshed and rounded. She was wearing a kaftan that was cut very low in front, and she didn’t seem to have anything on under it. Her hair was a soft brown, and it set off a smooth dark tan that betrayed a lot of hours by the pool. Her features were a little too strong for her to be considered pretty, but her eyes displayed a humor and self-honesty that gave her an odd kind of beauty. As far as I could tell, the only thing wrong with Clarissa Acker was her self-destructive relationship with her husband, and maybe I could help her there.

  Following her down the two steps that led from the foyer to the living room, any idea of the house being small vanished. The living room was large enough for a tennis court with probably a putting green on the side. One whole wall was glass and looked out on a swimming pool that was nearly large enough for Olympic trials. Beyond that was the edge of the hill, and spread out below was a large piece of Los Angeles.

  The furnishings were mostly leather, fur, and stainless steel. They revealed nothing except a lot of money and the taste of some faggotty decorator. The room was not intended to be comfortable, only impressive.

  She caught my expression and laughed. “Yeah. It’s really a dump, isn’t it? My husband’s idea.”

  She motioned me to sit down on the couch. She sat two cushions away and faced me, curling one leg beneath the other. I thought there was a shadow of uneasiness behind her eyes.

  “Well, Mr. Hunter, did you find something? Did you find out what my husband is doing?”

  “Yes and no, Mrs. Acker. I’ve been having some trouble lately.”

  “Trouble? I thought you were supposed to be such a hot-shit detective.” She seemed to be unusually uncomfortable.

  “I’m pretty good. Except sometimes I need some cooperation from my client. At a minimum, a little secrecy is required. If a client wants me to catch someone red-handed, it generally helps if the target doesn’t know I’m watching him.”

  “What do you mean?” There was a small frown.

  “My investigation started off pretty well. I found that your husband keeps an apartment in West L.A.”

  “He what?”

  “It’s decorated in a most unusual way—all black satin and whips and chains. He uses it to entertain highly specialized professional ladies. I imagine this is just the kind of thing you wanted me to find out. I was just waiting to see if there was anything else, but then all of a sudden, he gets very cautious. No more visits to the apartment. It was as though he knew he was being watched.”

  She kept looking at me very steadily, trying to keep her face blank. I used my punch line.

  “I think he did know he was being watched. You told him.”

  Her face turned red momentarily under her dark tan, but she kept her voice level. “Why would I do that? You must think I’m awfully stupid.”

  “I don’t think you’re at all stupid. I don’t think you intended to tell him. I think that it probably just came out—maybe during an argument. You don’t hide things very well, and whether you admit it or not, your reactions now have told me that I’m right.”

  She looked at me for a long minute. “Shit!” she said, shaking her head, disgusted with herself. She smiled sadly. “You are a hot-shit detective, and I apologize for playing games with you. You’re right, of course. Everything you said was right. I made a mistake, and then I made it worse by not telling you, because I was embarrassed. I’m usually not so dumb. But I was afraid
you’d stop working for me. It happened just the way you said. Another argument. Or rather I was arguing, and he was just sitting there, not saying anything as usual, just being his cold, courteous self. Shit, that man really knows how to drive me up the wall. I had to get some reaction out of him, so I told him I was having him investigated. At first he didn’t believe me. I hadn’t told him your name, but I finally had to, to prove I was telling the truth. Dumb, huh? I know. I knew it as soon as I said it, but it just came out, and I did manage to get him to react. It didn’t last long, but that dead fish of a son of a bitch of a husband of mine actually looked scared. Real bright, right? I get the satisfaction of scaring him for thirty seconds, and I tell him everything I’m doing. Jesus! How can I let him get to me like that? But I do, and he does. All the time. I’m sorry I gave you problems.” She stood up. “I’m going to have a drink. What would you like?”

  “Gin and a couple of ice cubes.”

  “No mixer?”

  I shook my head.

  “Macho, macho,” she said, and went to fix the drinks.

  I lit up a cigarette, drawing the strong smoke deep into my lungs. So I was right that Simon Acker knew about me, so what? If anything, I was further away from finding out what was going on because one more possibility was now confirmed. I should have been pissed off at Clarissa Acker, but somehow I couldn’t manage it. The reason she screwed things up was the same reason she hired me.

  She came back with the drinks and bent over as she handed mine to me. The front of her kaftan ballooned out, giving me a good view of her small, well-shaped breasts and a lot of her belly. She stayed bent over a good while, making sure I got a long look. I obliged, and then moved my eyes up to her face. Her expression was absolutely blank, and then one eyelid dropped in a tremendous wink. I laughed, and she sat down, this time closer to me, with both her legs under her and the kaftan pulled up over her knees.