Milo and I arrived at ten twenty, found a bench on the north side of the parkway with a clear view of the Beverly Hills government complex. The original city hall is a thirties Spanish Renaissance masterpiece. The civic center complex built fifty years later tried to work deco and contemporary into the mix and ended up looking tacked on. A degraded granite path, Chinese elms, and lawn separated us from Santa Monica Boulevard. Traffic howled in both directions. An ancient man accompanied by a husky attendant inched a walker past us. A trio of Persian women in Fila tracksuits bounced by chatting in Farsi. A young woman who could have been a Victoria’s Secret model if the company raised its standards raced past all of them looking miserable.
Directly in front of us was a six-foot-by-ten-foot mound of lumpy chrome-plate.
Milo said, “What the hell is that?”
“Public art.”
“Looks like a jumbo jet had digestive problems.”
At ten twenty-six Floyd Banfer exited the police station, crossed the street, and headed toward us. When he arrived, he was flushed and smiling, a compact man with a peanut-shaped head, bright blue eyes, and the kind of white stubble that Milo calls a “terrorist beard.”
“Punctual,” he boomed. “Nice to be dealing with professionals.” Compact man with an expansive bass voice.
A hand shot out. “Floyd Banfer.”
“Milo Sturgis, this is Alex Delaware.”
Shakes all around. Banfer’s grip was a mite too firm, his arm remained stiff, his eyes wary. The smile he’d arrived with seemed glued to his face. “Pretty morning, eh?”
“Don’t imagine Beverly Hills would allow anything less, Counselor.”
Banfer chuckled. “You’d be surprised.” His suit was the same dark gray we’d seen yesterday, a slightly shiny silk-and-wool. His shirt was a TV blue spread-collar, his tie a pink Hermes patterned with bugles. Fifty to fifty-five, with thin, wavy hair tinted brown and throwing off red highlights the way men’s dyed hair often does, he radiated an odd mix of good cheer and anxiety. As if he enjoyed being on edge.
Milo motioned to the space we’d created between us on the bench.
Banfer said, “Mind if we walk? That piece of shit they call art makes me queasy and any chance to exercise is welcome.”
“Sure.”
The three of us headed west. The granite pathways are supposed to resist dust but Banfer’s black wingtips turned gray within seconds. Every few yards, he managed to wipe the shoes on the back of his trousers without breaking step. At Crescent Drive we paused until cross-traffic cleared. A helmeted bicyclist rounded the corner and sped toward us and Banfer had to step to the right to avoid collision.
“Totally illegal,” he said, still smiling. “No bikes allowed. Want to chase him down and give him a ticket, Lieutenant?”
Milo hadn’t told Banfer his rank. Banfer did his homework.
“Above my pay grade, Counselor.”
Banfer chuckled again. “So why did I ask for this meeting?”
He paused, as if really expecting an answer.
Milo and I kept walking.
Banfer said, “First off, thanks for being accommodating, got a tough week, if not now, it would have to wait.”
“Happy to oblige, Mr. Banfer. What’s on your mind?”
“Floyd’s fine. Okay, let me start with a given: Jack Weathers is a good man.”
Milo didn’t answer.
Banfer said, “You kind of scared him, popping in like that.”
“Not my intention.”
Banfer picked up his pace. “Be that as it may, Lieutenant, here’s the thing: Jack and Daisy are good people, run a good business, perform a good service-did you know they used to be in the Industry? Small screen mostly, Jack played music and acted, did a whole bunch of
“Impressive,” said Milo.
“I’d say.”
Several more steps. A group of younger Persian women glided past, trim in black velour, wearing pearls and diamonds, listening to iPods.
Banfer said, “What I’m trying to get across is these are decent, honest people, been working all their lives, neither of them came from money, they found a niche, developed it, thank God they’ve been doing well, can even possibly think about retiring. At some point. Though I don’t know if they will, that’s up to them.”
“Makes sense.”
“What does?” said Banfer.
“Making their own decision about retirement.”
“Yes. Of course. My point here is that we’re talking good people.”
“I’ll take your word for it, Floyd.”
“Good. Anyway, in case you don’t know how the Industry works, let me cue you in, it’s all hierarchy. Bottom of the pyramid up to the top, we’re talking highly structured, who you know determines how you do, things can change in a snap.” He paused to breathe. “Who’m I preaching to, this is L.A., you’re pros.”
We reached Canon Drive. A homeless man shuffled toward us, leaving a wake of stench.
Banfer wrinkled his nose. “No more vagrancy laws. I’m ambivalent about that, would like to see them taken care of properly but you can’t just go scoop them up out of the park the way I saw in Europe when I was a student backpacking in the eighties. Made me think of storm troopers.”
Milo made no effort hiding the glance at his Timex.
Banfer said, “Time to cut to the chase? Sure, makes sense.”
But he offered no additional wisdom as we continued walking.
Halfway to Beverly Drive, Milo said, “Floyd, what exactly can I do for you?”
“Accept the data I’m going to proffer in the spirit with which it’s offered.”
“Meaning?”
“Jack and Daisy need to be kept out of any homicide investigation, nor will their contract client-the client in question-be notified of their input to the police.”
“CAPD,” said Milo. “Creative Aura of Prema and Donny.”
Banfer’s chin vibrated. “So you know. Okay, now you see what I mean.”
“You go to court much, Floyd?”
The question threw Banfer off-balance and he stiffened his arms. “When it’s necessary. Why?”
“Just curious.”
“You’re saying I’m long-winded? Would bore a jury? Don’t worry, I do just fine. Am I being a bit … detailed? Maybe I am, yes, I am. Because I told Jack and Daisy I’d take care of it and darned if I’m going to go back to them and tell them I didn’t. They’re good folk.”
“Which one are you related to?”
Banfer turned scarlet. “Why would you assume that?”
“You seem unusually dedicated but sorry if I presumed.”
“Let me assure you, I’d do the same for any client, Lieutenant.” A beat. “But if you must know, Jack was married to my mother’s sister and then she died and he married Daisy. So technically, Daisy’s my step-aunt but I think of her as my full aunt, she’s dear to me, she’s a dear woman.”
“She seemed very nice.”
“Jack’s nice, too.”
