Compulsion

“You mean was he crippled or something like that? No, he looked normal. But that doesn’t mean anything. A few years ago I had a ruptured disk. It was painful but I kept it to myself.”

“Tony suffered in silence.”

“You don’t suspect him, do you?” said Park. “He was never violent.”

Uncomfortable with the notion that he might’ve rented to a killer.

Milo said, “These are just basic questions, sir.”

“I hope so. He was really no trouble at all.”

The mail drop was in a litter-strewn strip mall on Vermont just above Sunset, one of those metallic-smelling mini-vaults lined with brass boxes, where the renters get keys and twenty-four-hour access.

A sign in the window said, In case of problems check with Avakian Dry Cleaners next door.

At the cleaners, a man unraveled a pile of crumpled shirts and said, “Yes,” without looking up. William Saroyan mustache, quick hands.

“Police. We’re looking for one of your box holders. Anthony Mancusi.”

Time to look up. “Tony? He brings his bulk laundry here. With the price of water and soap, we can do it just as cheap and you don’t need your own machine. What’s up with Tony?”

“His mother died, Mr…”

“Bedros Avakian.” Tongue click. “Died, huh? Too bad. So how come the police are here?”

“It wasn’t a natural death.”

“Oh… that’s real bad.”

“Could we have that address, please?”

“Yah, yeah, hold on, I get it for you.”

Avakian walked to a small desk and clicked a laptop. “Got a pen? Give Tony my condolences.”

Anthony Mancusi Jr.’s new digs were in a grubby three-story box on Rodney Drive, not far from the strip mall. No landscaping, no charm, inquiries to be directed to a real estate firm in Downey.

The front door was key-locked. The directory listed eighteen tenants, each with a mail slot. No one answered at A. Mancusi’s unit.

I said “Bit of a step-down from his last place. That and his mother taking on more of his rent says money issues.”

Milo tried the button again, pulled out a business card, and dropped it into Mancusi’s mail slot. “Let’s get over to the rental lot.”

As we headed for the car, movement up the block caught my eye. A man in a short-sleeved white shirt and brown pants shambled toward us.

Less hair than two years ago, the blond tint was peroxide, and he’d put on weight in all the predictable places. But this was the man not thrilled to pose with his mother.

Milo told me to wait there and went up to greet him. The glint of the gold shield caused Tony Mancusi’s head to retract, as if he’d been slapped.

Milo said something.

Mancusi clapped both sides of his own head.

His mouth opened and the mewling that emerged filled my head with an image: animals shackled in the slaughterhouse.

The end of hope.

CHAPTER 6

Tony Mancusi’s hands shook as he fought to get his key into the lock. When he dropped it the second time, I took over. Once we were inside the grimy little room he called home, he braced himself against a wall and wailed.

Milo watched him, impassive as a garden gnome.

Some detectives put a lot of stock in people’s initial reactions to bad news, suspecting the too-stoic loved one, as well as the scenery-chewing hysteric.

I reserve judgment because I’ve seen rape victims blase to the point of flippancy, innocent bystanders twitching with what had to be guilt, psychopaths offering renditions of shock and grief so convincing you wanted to cuddle them and feed them soup.

But it was hard not to be impressed with the heaving of Mancusi’s rounded shoulders and the racking squalls that nearly lifted him off a threadbare ottoman. Behind him was a wall fitted with a Murphy bed.

Ella Mancusi had baked her own birthday cake. Maybe her son was remembering.

When he stopped for breath, Milo said, “We’re sorry for your loss, sir.”

Mancusi worked himself to his feet. The change in his complexion was sudden and convincing.

From indoor pallor to green around the edges.

He hurtled six feet to a shabby kitchenette and vomited into the sink.

When the heaves stopped, he splashed water onto his face, returned to the ottoman with raw eyes and strands of pale hair plastered to a greasy forehead. A fleck of vomit had landed on his shirt, just beneath a wrinkled collar.

Milo said, “I know this is a hard time to talk, but if there’s anything you can tell us-”

“What could I tell you!”

“Is there anyone – anyone at all – who’d want to hurt your mother?”

“Who?”

“That’s what we’re-”

“She was a teacher!” said Mancusi.

“She retired-”

“They gave her an award! She was tough, but fair, everyone loved her.” He wagged a finger. “Want the grade? Do your work! That was her motto.”

I wondered how that had meshed with a son who lived on disability and borrowed rent money.

C student, if he applied himself.

Milo said, “So there’s no one you can think of.”

“No. This is… this is insane.”

The vomit fleck fell to the carpet, inches from Milo’s desert boot.

“Insane nightmare.” Mancusi lowered his head. Gasped.

“You okay, sir?”

“Little short of breath.” He sat up, breathed slowly. “I get that way when I’m stressed.”

Milo said, “If you don’t mind, we’ve got a few more questions.”

Mancusi said, “What?”

“After your father passed, did your mother have any romantic relationships?”

“Romantic? She liked books. Watched a few soap operas. That was her romantic.” He flipped his hair, cocked his head, smoothed a peroxide strand from a sweat-soaked brow.

Effete symphony of movements that recalled the posturing Ed Moskow had observed.

“Any close friends, male or female?”

Mancusi shook his head, noticed the vomit fleck on the floor, and raised his eyebrows. The carpet was grease- stained, fuzzed by crumbs and dust bunnies. Some sort of beige, darkened to the hue of a smoker’s teeth.

“No social life at all?” said Milo.

“Nothing. After she retired, Mom liked to be by herself. All the L.A. Unified bullshit. She put up with it for thirty years.”

“So she became a private person.”