“What does it take to qualify as a tenant?”
“Hey,” said Jabber. “Lots of homeless would kill for a place like this.”
“You ask for references?”
“Sure.”
“Who did Meserve give?”
“Like I said, I’m just the- ”
“Call your brother-in-law. Please.”
Three references: a previous landlord in Brooklyn, the manager of the Foot Locker where Dylan Meserve had worked before getting arrested, and Nora Dowd, Artistic Director of the PlayHouse, in West L.A., where the young man had been listed as a “creative consultant.”
Jabber examined what he’d written down before passing it along to Milo.
“Guy’s an actor?” He laughed.
“You rent to a lot of actors?”
“Actor means bum. Samir’s stupid.”
I followed Milo to the West L.A. station, where he parked his unmarked in the staff lot and got into the Seville.
“Meserve stopped his mail soon after he got busted,” he said. “Probably planning to rabbit if things didn’t work out in court.” He searched his notepad for the acting school’s address. “What do you think of that ‘creative consultant’ business?”
“Maybe he apprenticed to earn extra money. Michaela blamed Dylan for the hoax but obviously Nora Dowd didn’t.”
“How’d Michaela feel about that?”
“She didn’t talk about Nora’s reaction to Dylan. She was surprised at Nora’s angry reaction to her.”
“Dowd boots her but keeps him on as consultant?”
“If it’s true.”
“Meserve faked the reference?”
“Meserve’s been known to embellish.”
Milo phoned Brooklyn, located the landlord Dylan had cited as a reference. “Guy said he knew Dylan’s father because he’s a part-time musician himself and they used to gig. He has a vague memory of Dylan as a kid but never rented him an apartment.”
“Creative consultant,” I said.
“Let’s talk to the consultee.”
CHAPTER 8
The PlayHouse was an old one-story Craftsman house on an oversized lot, just north of Venice Boulevard, in West L.A. Plank siding painted deep green with cream trim, low-set bulk topped by sweeping eaves that created a small, dim porch. The garage to the left had old-fashioned barn doors but looked freshly painted. The landscaping was from another age: a couple of four-story cocoa palms, indifferently pruned bird of paradise grown ragged, agapanthus, and calla lilies surrounding a flat, brown lawn.
The neighborhood was working-class rental residential, mostly boxy multi-units and boxy houses awaiting demolition. Nothing denoted the acting school’s function. The windows were dark.
Milo said, “Guess she doesn’t need to advertise. Or keep daytime hours.”
I said, “If most of the aspirants have day jobs, it’s an evening business.”
“Let’s check it out, anyway.”
We walked up to the porch. Floored with green board, thickly varnished. The window in the paneled oak door was blocked with opaque lace. A hand-hammered copper mailbox perched to the right. Milo flipped the lid and peered inside. Empty.
He pushed a button and chimes sounded.
No answer.
Two doors down an old Dodge Dart backed out toward the street. Hispanic man around thirty at the wheel, leaving a pale blue bungalow. Milo walked over, rolled his arm.
No badge, but people tend to obey him. The man lowered his window.
“Morning, sir. Know anything about your neighbor?”
Big shrug. Nervous smile.
Milo pointed. “The school.
Another shrug.
Milo looked into his eyes, waved him away. As the Dart sped off, we returned to the porch, where Milo jabbed the button several more times. A chime sonata went unanswered.
“Okay, I’ll try again tonight.”
As we turned, footsteps sounded from inside the PlayHouse. Lace wiggled in the window but didn’t part.
Then nothing.
Milo swiveled and rapped the door hard. Scratches, as a bolt turned. The door swung open and a heavy man holding a broom and looking distracted said, “Yeah?” Before the word was out of his mouth, his eyes tightened and distraction gave way to calculation.
This time Milo had the badge out. The heavy man barely glanced at it. His second “Yeah?” was softer, wary.
He had a splotchy, pie-tin face, a meaty, off-kilter nose, brambles of curly graying hair that flew from his temples, muttonchops that petered to a colorless grizzle. The mustache atop parched lips was the sole bit of disciplined hair: clipped, precise, a gray-brown hyphen. Tight eyes the color of strong tea managed to be active without moving.
Wrinkled gray work shirt and matching pants, open sandals, thick white socks. Dust and sweepings flecked white cotton toes. The tattoos that embroidered his fleshy hands promised to snake up under his sleeves. Blue- black skin art, crude and square-edged. Hard to decipher, but I made out a tiny little grinning demon’s head, more impish than satanic, leering at a puckered knuckle.
Milo said, “Is Nora Dowd here?”
“Nope.”
“What about Dylan Meserve?”
“Nope.”
“You know Mr. Meserve?”
“I know who he is.” Low, slurred voice, slight delay before forming syllables. His right hand gripped the broom handle. The left had gathered shirt fabric and stretched it over his substantial belly.
“What do you know about Mr. Meserve?” said Milo.
The same hesitation. “One of the students.”
“He doesn’t work here?”
“Never saw that.”
“We were told he’s a creative consultant.”
No answer.
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
Small yellow teeth made a play at a cracked upper lip. “A while.”
“Days?”
