Blues in the Night by Dick Lochte
Authors: Dick Lochte
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Suspense fiction, Crime, Man-Woman Relationships, California, Ex-convicts, Los Angeles (Calif.), organized crime, Los Angeles, Triangles (Interpersonal relations), Serial Murder Investigation
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Maceâs grip. âI just wanna give you my card. OK? Just my fucking card.â
Mace released his wrist.
Slowly, he removed a worn, overloaded wallet from his pocket. He fished a bright yellow card from it that he handed to Mace. âIâm Simon S. Symon. Like it says there. Proprietor of ShootOnSite. Thatâs me. I take candid pictures of celebrities.â
âThis is supposed to make me like you more?â Mace said. âWho told you to take my picture?â
âListen to Mister Me. Like youâre the reason Iâm here.â
âTalk straight.â
âThe night man at the Florianâs an old bud, so he phones me real late to tell me some guest just blew through the lobby with Deidre Lindstrom. Theyâre stoned. Feelinâ each other up, almosâ goinâ down on each other right there in the lobby.
âSo I grab a few hours of snooze and here I am. A shot of Deidre looking hungover will be worth maybe two grand, three. But the guest, some kinda TV exec from back East, ainât a guy. Now that hikes the price of the photo considerably. Thatâs the guestâs Audi across the aisle. They gotta show up sooner orââ
âYou took pictures of me ,â Mace said. âWhy?â
âYouâre somebody, right? Got that donât-fuck-with-me look. To me that says photo op. My guess is TV, right? I canât keep track of everybody on the box, what with cable and all. But you TV pricks are the toughest to get along with. And we make you guys.â
Mace stared at Simon S. Symon, trying to decide if it was worth knocking him around a little to make sure he wasnât bullshitting. The sound of heels clicking on concrete made the decision suddenly moot.
Mace glimpsed someone at the far end of the garage.
Simon S. Symon had already grabbed his camera.
But it wasnât Deidre Lindstrom and her lesbian exec from back East. It was Angela Lowell, dressed for summer in tight white slacks and a black silk blouse.
Mace moved between the Cherokee and the SUV. âFifty bucks for a couple of good clear prints of her,â he whispered to the paparazzi.
âNo prob,â Symon said.
âI gotta run. Pick up at the address on your card?â
âYeah,â Symon said, busy getting Angela in his frame.
Mace headed toward his leased Camry Hybrid, hopping over car bumpers to avoid Angelaâs line of sight. He was sliding under the steering wheel by the time she drove past.
Backing the Camry from its stall he saw Wylie running full out from the stairwell carrying a small laptop. âI got her,â Mace shouted to the boy.
âWhat about this?â Wylie held up the laptop.
âI donât need it.â In point of fact, he had no idea how the tracking device hidden in the Mustangâs trunk worked.
As he drove past the Cherokee, he was annoyed to see Symon aiming his camera at Wylie.
TEN
A ngela Lowell couldnâtfind a coin for the meter.
Sitting several parked cars back on Melrose Avenue, in a loading zone, Mace watched her root through her handbag, then duck back into the yellow Mustang, probably to rifle the glove compartment. Finally, she gave up the search and decided to risk the ticket.
She literally ran into a shop with the enigmatic name of Slick.
Unless she returned to feed the meter, indicating she would be spending some time there, he wouldnât bother following her inside.
From his angle he couldnât see anything on the storefront to indicate what sort of goods or service Slick provided. Its Spartan display window offered few clues. Just a white plastic tree on Astroturf. Colorful little squiggly things were hanging from the treeâs otherwise bare branches. Mace counted three customers, male, going into the store before Angela emerged with a package the size of a large book under her arm. She tossed it casually into the rear of the Mustang and slid behind the wheel.
He let her enter the
Mace released his wrist.
Slowly, he removed a worn, overloaded wallet from his pocket. He fished a bright yellow card from it that he handed to Mace. âIâm Simon S. Symon. Like it says there. Proprietor of ShootOnSite. Thatâs me. I take candid pictures of celebrities.â
âThis is supposed to make me like you more?â Mace said. âWho told you to take my picture?â
âListen to Mister Me. Like youâre the reason Iâm here.â
âTalk straight.â
âThe night man at the Florianâs an old bud, so he phones me real late to tell me some guest just blew through the lobby with Deidre Lindstrom. Theyâre stoned. Feelinâ each other up, almosâ goinâ down on each other right there in the lobby.
âSo I grab a few hours of snooze and here I am. A shot of Deidre looking hungover will be worth maybe two grand, three. But the guest, some kinda TV exec from back East, ainât a guy. Now that hikes the price of the photo considerably. Thatâs the guestâs Audi across the aisle. They gotta show up sooner orââ
âYou took pictures of me ,â Mace said. âWhy?â
âYouâre somebody, right? Got that donât-fuck-with-me look. To me that says photo op. My guess is TV, right? I canât keep track of everybody on the box, what with cable and all. But you TV pricks are the toughest to get along with. And we make you guys.â
Mace stared at Simon S. Symon, trying to decide if it was worth knocking him around a little to make sure he wasnât bullshitting. The sound of heels clicking on concrete made the decision suddenly moot.
Mace glimpsed someone at the far end of the garage.
Simon S. Symon had already grabbed his camera.
But it wasnât Deidre Lindstrom and her lesbian exec from back East. It was Angela Lowell, dressed for summer in tight white slacks and a black silk blouse.
Mace moved between the Cherokee and the SUV. âFifty bucks for a couple of good clear prints of her,â he whispered to the paparazzi.
âNo prob,â Symon said.
âI gotta run. Pick up at the address on your card?â
âYeah,â Symon said, busy getting Angela in his frame.
Mace headed toward his leased Camry Hybrid, hopping over car bumpers to avoid Angelaâs line of sight. He was sliding under the steering wheel by the time she drove past.
Backing the Camry from its stall he saw Wylie running full out from the stairwell carrying a small laptop. âI got her,â Mace shouted to the boy.
âWhat about this?â Wylie held up the laptop.
âI donât need it.â In point of fact, he had no idea how the tracking device hidden in the Mustangâs trunk worked.
As he drove past the Cherokee, he was annoyed to see Symon aiming his camera at Wylie.
TEN
A ngela Lowell couldnâtfind a coin for the meter.
Sitting several parked cars back on Melrose Avenue, in a loading zone, Mace watched her root through her handbag, then duck back into the yellow Mustang, probably to rifle the glove compartment. Finally, she gave up the search and decided to risk the ticket.
She literally ran into a shop with the enigmatic name of Slick.
Unless she returned to feed the meter, indicating she would be spending some time there, he wouldnât bother following her inside.
From his angle he couldnât see anything on the storefront to indicate what sort of goods or service Slick provided. Its Spartan display window offered few clues. Just a white plastic tree on Astroturf. Colorful little squiggly things were hanging from the treeâs otherwise bare branches. Mace counted three customers, male, going into the store before Angela emerged with a package the size of a large book under her arm. She tossed it casually into the rear of the Mustang and slid behind the wheel.
He let her enter the
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