hidden
under the brush, I don't think whoever did it banked on his being
found for a while. Who could've known some jerkoff William Morris
agents get their rocks off up there three mornings a week playing war
games with blank guns'?"
"You still think it's drug-related?"
"Think? We know. You won't find this in the
papers tomorrow, but we found an entire laboratory in the basement of
Nastase's house this afternoon."
"Oh, yeah? Where's that?"
"LeMoyne Street in Echo Park."
"Thanks. You're a sweetheart."
"Put it down to sympathy for the victims of
international terrorism. But remember, it'll only happen once. And
you owe me."
"Absolutely."
He turned away and pushed through a group of comics
into the hotel.
" How many Romanians does it take to change a
light bulb?" one of them asked me.
"Not funny," I said and got into my car. I
was already late for my private detective class at the Learning
League. School was held on the second-floor office level of a rundown
stucco mini-mall in East Hollywood. The first floor was occupied by a
Laundromat, a real estate office, and a liquor store. I resisted
stopping at the liquor store for another lottery ticket and climbed
the stairs to the second floor. The room was mostly filled when I
entered and the class was already in progress. I shuffled around to
the back and took a seat as if I belonged there. Chantal Barrault
gave me a curious look from across the room and I smiled back at her,
then directed my attention to the teacher. He was a short dark guy in
his thirties with a mustache, wearing baggy pants and an olive
warm-up jacket with epaulets and sleeves that zipped off. More
trendiness. He had written his name, Peter Roman, on the blackboard
with the number of his investigator's license. At the moment, since
this was a California adult education class, he was going around the
room asking the students what they did and why they wanted to take
the class. The first three guys were television writers for Simon &
Simon and were interested in background for their series.
The next woman was a widow who liked to take courses.
Then the next four-two guys and two women-were also television
writers, this time for Remington Steele. They were looking for a
story. The man next to them was a mystery writer. He was looking for
authenticity for his books. There was no question: we were definitely
in Los Angeles.
"I guess this is one of those times no one
really wants to be a detective," Roman joked nervously.
Everybody looked relieved when they got around to
Chantal and she said she was a stand-up comic who was "actually
interested for real" in a career as a private investigator.
When they came around to me, I gave a fictitious name
and said I was a process server who wanted to move up. Roman smiled
in commiseration—someone was lower than he was—and began the
class. I immediately did what I usually did in school—go to sleep.
I remember vaguely hearing something about methods of obtaining
information (public records, surveillance, pretext) and something
about thinking like an investigator, whatever that was, and then it
was break time. Roman had given the class an assignment—to locate
the best vantage point for an auto surveillance of the mini-mall
cleaners—and they were all running around the second-floor balcony
with pencils and Xeroxed maps of the neighborhood. I thought it was
all a load of nonsense. In reality, there were so many variables in a
situation like that, there never could be one right answer. But
Chantal was taking it very seriously. She was standing by the balcony
rail, clutching her pencil and staring intently at the traffic
patterns on Sunset Boulevard.
"Interested in some practical experience?"
I said, walking up to her.
She didn't appear to hear me.
"The best car for surveillance is a van with a
lot of windows. That way you can get up and walk around. Also, carry
a goody bag with a cheap camera you're not afraid to toss over your
shoulder, a pair of binoculars,
under the brush, I don't think whoever did it banked on his being
found for a while. Who could've known some jerkoff William Morris
agents get their rocks off up there three mornings a week playing war
games with blank guns'?"
"You still think it's drug-related?"
"Think? We know. You won't find this in the
papers tomorrow, but we found an entire laboratory in the basement of
Nastase's house this afternoon."
"Oh, yeah? Where's that?"
"LeMoyne Street in Echo Park."
"Thanks. You're a sweetheart."
"Put it down to sympathy for the victims of
international terrorism. But remember, it'll only happen once. And
you owe me."
"Absolutely."
He turned away and pushed through a group of comics
into the hotel.
" How many Romanians does it take to change a
light bulb?" one of them asked me.
"Not funny," I said and got into my car. I
was already late for my private detective class at the Learning
League. School was held on the second-floor office level of a rundown
stucco mini-mall in East Hollywood. The first floor was occupied by a
Laundromat, a real estate office, and a liquor store. I resisted
stopping at the liquor store for another lottery ticket and climbed
the stairs to the second floor. The room was mostly filled when I
entered and the class was already in progress. I shuffled around to
the back and took a seat as if I belonged there. Chantal Barrault
gave me a curious look from across the room and I smiled back at her,
then directed my attention to the teacher. He was a short dark guy in
his thirties with a mustache, wearing baggy pants and an olive
warm-up jacket with epaulets and sleeves that zipped off. More
trendiness. He had written his name, Peter Roman, on the blackboard
with the number of his investigator's license. At the moment, since
this was a California adult education class, he was going around the
room asking the students what they did and why they wanted to take
the class. The first three guys were television writers for Simon &
Simon and were interested in background for their series.
The next woman was a widow who liked to take courses.
Then the next four-two guys and two women-were also television
writers, this time for Remington Steele. They were looking for a
story. The man next to them was a mystery writer. He was looking for
authenticity for his books. There was no question: we were definitely
in Los Angeles.
"I guess this is one of those times no one
really wants to be a detective," Roman joked nervously.
Everybody looked relieved when they got around to
Chantal and she said she was a stand-up comic who was "actually
interested for real" in a career as a private investigator.
When they came around to me, I gave a fictitious name
and said I was a process server who wanted to move up. Roman smiled
in commiseration—someone was lower than he was—and began the
class. I immediately did what I usually did in school—go to sleep.
I remember vaguely hearing something about methods of obtaining
information (public records, surveillance, pretext) and something
about thinking like an investigator, whatever that was, and then it
was break time. Roman had given the class an assignment—to locate
the best vantage point for an auto surveillance of the mini-mall
cleaners—and they were all running around the second-floor balcony
with pencils and Xeroxed maps of the neighborhood. I thought it was
all a load of nonsense. In reality, there were so many variables in a
situation like that, there never could be one right answer. But
Chantal was taking it very seriously. She was standing by the balcony
rail, clutching her pencil and staring intently at the traffic
patterns on Sunset Boulevard.
"Interested in some practical experience?"
I said, walking up to her.
She didn't appear to hear me.
"The best car for surveillance is a van with a
lot of windows. That way you can get up and walk around. Also, carry
a goody bag with a cheap camera you're not afraid to toss over your
shoulder, a pair of binoculars,
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