The Cactus Club Killings (Joe Portugal) Read online

  I called Gina on her cell phone. This masterpiece of modern technology is one of our few bones of contention. Well be riding in her Volvo and she’ll whip it out to call some client or manufacturer’s rep, coming a whisker from losing control of the car, and I’ll yell and she’ll yell at me for yelling at her. I’ll threaten to throw the phone out the window. She’ll threaten to throw me out the window. Rituals such as this form the foundation of our friendship.

  I found her locked in traffic on the Hollywood Freeway. “How are you holding up?” she asked.

  “I had a visit from Casillas this morning.”

  “Are you a suspect?”

  “Evidently. He took me down to the station.”

  “No way.”

  “He thought it an appropriate course of action.” I filled her in on my visit to Pacific Division.

  “Sounds like someone’s trying to frame you,” she said when I finished.

  “Or just throw the scent off themselves.”

  “We might want to poke into things a little.”

  “Could be an idea. I don’t feel like just sitting around waiting for Casillas to come up with something else he thinks incriminates me. Or finding out about Dad.”

  “There is the Dad thing.” She was quiet for a moment. “I better get off.”

  A couple of minutes later Frank Baiter, Brenda’s lawyer, called. I’d met him a few months before when he gave CCCC’s officers some advice on nonprofit status. He told me Brenda had left an envelope to be opened in the event of her death. Just like in the movies, I thought. She’d known someone was after her and identified the killer.

  No such luck. The envelope gave instructions for her burial. She had a plot picked out at Final Haven up in Pacific Palisades, L.A.’s premier multicultural burial ground. A friend of hers was to handle the details. “This friend has quite an unusual last name,” Baiter said.

  “Razafindratsira?”

  “Yes. Do you know him?”

  “I met him at a party at Brenda’s.”

  Baiter had already spoken with him and told me the funeral was going to be at three o’clock Thursday. Brenda’s instructions asked for me to be in charge of calling the succulent crowd. The family, what there was of it, had been informed, and her sister, Amanda, was flying in from Wisconsin that evening.

  I almost asked Baiter to recommend a good criminal lawyer, just in case, but I didn’t. I was innocent, damn it, and I wasn’t going to give the cops the pleasure of making me spend money on an attorney.

  After we hung up I slouched on the couch, trying to identify what I was feeling. Presently I identified it as anger. I’d basically had two friends, and now someone had taken one of them away. I still had all the cactus people, but I wasn’t really close to any except Brenda. And I’d long since lost touch with all my acting cronies. So it had been Gina and Brenda, and now it was just Gina. A good thing no one had offed her; she was more than a friend. She was my alter ego. If anyone had hurt her I would have done anything to bring them to justice.

  But I cared about Brenda too. Sure, she could be strident and pushy. But after our romance ended and our friendship began, she’d learned how much bullshit I would put up with and acted accordingly. I was getting pissed off that someone had had the nerve to kill her and cut my stack of friends in half. I needed to do something about it. For her. And, since people were starting to think I did it, for me too.

  Around one I went out to my pickup. It’s a 72 Datsun that I bought back in 79, when I began managing the Altair Theater. It’s been faithful to me ever since, and I to it. I stuck Blind Faith in the eight-track. Stevie Winwood complained that he couldn’t find his way home. I pushed the button to switch tracks. Squeaks, then silence. I popped the cartridge. Out it came, except for the long strand of tape that was jumbled in the works. Perhaps it was time for one of those newfangled cassette players.

  I backed out of the driveway, went up to the corner, and followed Braddock Drive through the amoeba-shape enclave called Culver City Braddock runs east and west a couple of blocks south of the studio, which used to be MGM and now belongs to the Japanese. I followed the tree-lined streets until I came out on the stretch of Jefferson Boulevard where there’s a tire store on every block. I passed Sorrento Italian deli, where a million kinds of olives occupy the claustrophobic aisles. Then on past the Western-wear shop with the huge cactus out front. They used the place in a movie called Eight Million Ways to Die. Everywhere in L.A. you saw stuff from TV or the movies. Sometimes it was fun. This afternoon it was old.

  I took the San Diego Freeway north to Sunset and headed west. Soon I was winding uphill along a narrow Pacific Palisades road. I turned right onto a long snaky driveway. Halfway up it the native plants gave way to exotic ones. Tree aloes on the left; giant Bosch-esque philodendrons to the right. The puyas, huge terrestrial bromeliads, were all in bloom; turquoise and violet-blue flowers reflected the broken light with the sheen of carved wax. Under a huge buttress-rooted ficus, dozens of epiphyllum hybrids dangled, bearing a multicolored profusion of flowers, some as big as dinner plates.

  The jungle parted and I reached the clearing at the top of the hill. A log cabin and a greenhouse, larger than the cabin, occupied it. Sam Oliver knelt out front, tending to a bed of pale green thick-leafed rosettes. Dudley a, his favorite genus. He wore dark green shorts and a T-shirt commemorating the Intercity cactus and succulent show from a few years back, the rare variation with “eighth” misspelled as “eigth.” A pair of glasses dangled from his neck on a red and green cord.

  Sam had been an active member of succulentdom for well over a generation. He’d been president of the Cactus and Succulent Society of America and was a life member of every local cactus club. He spent at least two months a year overseas, in Botswana or the upper Amazon or some godforsaken corner of Borneo, seeking out new plants. Succulents, bromeliads, orchids, aroids—anything rare or weird.

  He was about eighty, but you would have thought he was twenty years younger. He had pale blue eyes in a thin face. He hadn’t lost a lick of his brown hair, and neither it nor his goatee carried more than a trace of gray. He’d had a couple of minor skin cancers removed but was otherwise healthy as the proverbial horse.

  The air was cooler than at my place, and as I exited the truck a bit of breeze tickled my skin. The ground was moist but not mushy; it looked like they’d gotten less rain up there.

  “Hey, Joe,” Sam said. “Want an omelet? I’ve got some eggs to use up before I leave.”

  The fact that he was leaving explained what I was doing there. He was headed for Tucson that night to spearhead one of his succulent symposiums. This would be followed by a week of botanizing in Baja. I’d agreed to come up and check on things a few times while he was away and to do a watering or two. Today he was going to show me what needed special attention. I hoped to have better luck sitting his babies than I’d had with Brenda’s.

  I said yes to his omelet offer, and we went into the cabin’s one big room. “You heard, I suppose?” I asked.

  “Yes, yes, terrible thing. Gives euphorbias a bad name. You want mushrooms?”

  “Mushrooms would be good. I’m just trying to get my mind around this whole thing. I knew her pretty well.”

  “As did I, my boy. Cheese?”

  “No. Yes. Forgive me for saying this, but you don’t seem very upset.”

  He pointed the skillet at me. “I’ve seen a lot of people die lately. They’re dropping like flies. When you get to be my age—shit, Joe, you don’t need to hear this. I spent the morning feeling bad. When you’re as old as I am, that’s all you can afford.” He shook the pan. “Hard or runny?”

  “Hard, please. Want to hear something funny? The police suspect me.”

  “Did you do it?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Didn’t think so, though my first thought was one of her boyfriends. Crime of passion sort of thing. Then I thought, no, it’s the damned smugglers. I’m probably next.”

  �
�You think so? I mean about the smugglers? I keep hearing about them, but I don’t really have a grip on how nasty they are.”

  My omelet was ready. He handed me the plate, told me to grab a drink from the fridge, snatched an apple for himself “Let’s talk outside.”

  A redwood table and chairs were set out under a giant Dracaena draco. A dragon tree, with clouds of dagger-shape leaves. We sat. He crunched his apple, chewed, swallowed. “About those smugglers. I wouldn’t underestimate them. Anything you’ve heard is true, in spades. They’re nasty, all right. It’s not enough the natives have burned down most of the island for charcoal. No, these people have to come in and take the rest. They’ll wipe a new species from the habitat in a day or so and then sell it to the Europeans. The Europeans’ll buy anything that’s new and different and won’t care where it came from. Won’t wait until we can get a decent stock from seed. Two times ago when I was in Madagascar, we—Doug Hammer and I, you know who he is?”

  “That British guy. The one who writes all the books.” He nodded. “Doug and I found an undescribed species of euphorbia. It grew like milii but had leaves like francoisii. It was the most amazing damned thing I ever saw.”

  Euphorbia milii is the spiny, leafy plant known as crown of thorns because it resembles what Christ supposedly wore on his head when he was crucified. E. francoisit’s a popular dwarf with a fat stem and multicolored leaves. Collectors would eat up a combination like that.

  “Next time I went back,” Sam said, “—and mind you, this was just a year later—almost all of them were gone. Some had been ripped from the ground and just left to die. We saved a few, maybe enough to perpetuate the species. I have one. You want a cutting?”

  “Maybe some other time, Sam. About the smugglers …” “Right, the smugglers. Evidently, a ranger down there came across them while they were doing their dirty work, and they macheted him right across the throat. Then they left him there.”

  “Do we know who any of these people are?”

  “I have some names, not the actual smugglers but the people in Germany who are receiving the plants.”

  A yellow jacket circled in and alit on my omelet. I watched, unable to move, as it carved out a tiny piece of ham.

  Sam saw my reaction and casually brushed the wasp away. “Nothing to worry about, my boy. It’s just a yellow jacket.”

  Embarrassed, I said the first thing that came into my mind. “Did you know I was taking care of Brenda’s canaries?”

  “A fine thing, young man, a fine thing.”

  “But all she gave me was her departure and return dates and her bird vet’s phone number.”

  “I have the whole itinerary, and I’ve already cabled Doug Hammer to tell him what happened.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Sorry. Doug was one of the people she was meeting down there. Him and Willy Schoeppe.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “A German?”

  “Yes, but a good German.”

  “Could I have a copy of the itinerary?”

  “Might I ask why?”

  Good question. What was I going to do, press it up against my head like Carnac the Magnificent and divine who had killed Brenda?

  I told Sam the truth. “I don’t really know I just have this vague urge to do something about Brenda’s death, and this would be something tangible to … to …”

  Sam laughed. “If you want it, young man, you shall have it. Come inside, I’ll make you a copy. Another omelet?”

  I looked down at my plate. Someone had cleaned it. Chances are it was me, but I hadn’t been aware of doing so. “No thanks. I’m watching my cholesterol.”

  “I’m paying someone to watch mine. I’m glad you want the itinerary; it’ll give me a chance to show off my new toy.”

  He led me inside to a cluttered corner where a plastic contraption the size of a small TV sat on a desk next to a computer. “Its a combination fax-printer-copier-scanner,” Sam said. “Watch.”

  He pulled open a drawer, riffled through some papers, withdrew one, fed it into the machine. A few seconds later I had a copy of Brenda’s itinerary in my hot little hands. I edged toward the door, but he stopped me. “Great things, these computers,” he said, “I can do things I wouldn’t have dreamed of ten years ago. And, of course, there’s the Internet.”

  Ah, yes. The mighty Internet. I’d managed to ignore it up till then, and I didn’t see any reason to stop doing so. “I’m afraid I’m not very computer literate.”

  “You don’t have to be. Let me show you.”

  He got his computer going. A lot of gobbledygook flashed across the screen. I called upon my acting skills and displayed mild curiosity.

  “And of course there’s cacti et cetera,” Sam said. “It’s what they call a mailing list. You can post questions, and well over a thousand members see them and can give you an answer.”

  “Fascinating.”

  He studied my face. “You really don’t care about this stuff, do you?”

  “I’m sorry, Sam, it’s just not for me. Maybe some other time.”

  “No, no, don’t worry about it. Here, come outside and I’ll show you what needs tending.”

  Three quarters of an hour later I exited the greenhouse, carrying a list of plants that needed special attention. I also had five new plant fragments to shepherd but managed to turn down the wacky euphorbia on the grounds that I wasn’t worthy.

  WHATEVER GOD DECIDED THE CULVER CITY CACTUS CLUB should hold its monthly meetings at the Odd Fellows Hall had a marvelous sense of humor. The building was on an especially dull stretch of Sepulveda Boulevard, flanked by a Fosters Freeze and a taco stand whose name changed every three months. It was a relic of the fifties, with a fading-wood-and-chipped-stone exterior overlooking a cracked parking lot. Inside, the dominant theme was paneling. The walls were paneled. The ceilings were paneled. The linoleum of the floor was patterned to look like paneling. Even the bathrooms were paneled, in an especially awful faux mahogany.

  The walls were lined with plaques, proclamations, and photos documenting the history and good works of the Odd Fellows and their ladies’ auxiliary, the Rebekahs. After four years of going to meetings there, I had yet to determine what the purpose of the group was. All I knew was you had to be at least seventy and have no fashion sense to join.

  I got there at seven, half an hour before the meeting was scheduled to begin and, most likely, forty-five minutes before it would. I’d brought a flat of cuttings and plants I’d grown tired of to give away, with a book I was returning to the club library tucked in among them. I was about to lift it all out of the truck bed when a familiar Volvo zipped into the next spot.

  “I’ve got a sandwich for you,” Gina said out the window. “Turkey breast, from Wild Oats.”

  “How did you know I would need a sandwich?” “Because you never take time to eat a proper dinner.” She exited the car and beeped the alarm. She was wearing one of those flowery sundresses she looks so good in and some colorful dangly earrings. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She had the brown-paper-wrapped sandwich in one hand and her portable computer in the other. “What would happen to you if you didn’t have me to look after you?”

  “I’d probably end up in a police interrogation room or something. What are you doing here? You still suspect one of the cactus people did Brenda in?”

  “Could be. Also to give you moral support.” “What makes you think I need moral support?” “Joe.” She dumped the sandwich on top of the plants and put her hand on my shoulder. “You were nearly arrested today. You need moral support. Do you need a hug too?” I considered it. “Not now. Maybe later.” “Okay, just let me know. Anything to report?” I briefed her on my trip to Sams, then told her, “Let’s get inside before the teeming millions catch me and besiege me with questions.”

  We found our veep Dick McAfee and his wife, Hope, inside, shoving tables around. They had my vote for couple of the year, that year and every year. They’d been married just short of four dec
ades and were still as affectionate as the day they wed. Always holding hands, exchanging tender little words and gestures.

  They saw us and came over. As we said our helios, some errant breeze blew Dicks hair awry. It was the finest I’d ever seen, like a baby’s, and pale blond. You could barely tell where it ended and his scalp began. Blond hairs grew from his ears as well, but these were coarse and wiry. Dick was tall and angular and reminded me of Ichabod Crane. He had on an ugly shirt he often wore to meetings—a drab green and beige stripe—and some stretchy brown slacks.

  I began to introduce them to Gina, but Dick remembered her. “Yes,” he said. “I met you the time we had the speaker on the succulents of Saudi Arabia. That was the night the cooks nose fell in the tourniquet.” Evidently Dick’s mumbling quotient was at its highest that evening. It was odd: When he put stuff down on paper, he communicated better than almost anyone I knew. He’d recently had a letter published in the national journal, taking to task those who illegally took plants out of habitat, and it was a model of clarity and brevity.

  He kept rambling, and somewhere in there he switched the conversation over to Brenda. “Zubba-zubba-zubba, and with such a rare plant.”

  “Apparently,” I said.

  “And she seemed so young,” Hope added, brushing an invisible piece of lint from Dicks sleeve.

  I smiled at her. “She was older than me.”

  “As I said, so young.” She smiled back, a charming smile in a charming face. Hope was aging beautifully, and at sixty or so looked ten years younger. I knew she went to the gym regularly, but that didn’t explain how she’d avoided wrinkles as well as she had. Her blond hair came from a bottle, but it was the right kind of bottle. Maybe the way she dressed helped with the illusion of youth; this evening she wore jeans and a T-shirt featuring Pongo and Perdita from 101 Dalmatians. Or maybe never having kids had kept her youthful.