The Window-Shade Job

By George Bixley

Don’t mess with the hothead—or he might just mess with you. Slater Ibáñez is only interested in two kinds of guys: the ones he wants to punch, and the ones he sleeps with. Things get interesting when they start to overlap. A freelance investigator, Slater trolls the dark side of Los Angeles, rooting out insurance fraud,

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dagmar Miura
• Release date: Jan 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781951130183

George Bixley

George Bixley held a string of jobs, from parking attendant to night desk clerk, before finding his groove in Los Angeles, settling into the seedy underbelly of the metropolis and trying to keep ahead of the wave of gentrification. Bixley sells his soul by day and dredges the bottom by night.

Book preview

The Window-Shade Job

The Window-Shade Job

George Bixley

publisher: Dagmar Miura

One

chapter

I punched the wrong guy, Slater said, and flashed his palms at his sides. He was sitting in a circle of folding chairs with a dozen other men who also had no choice about being here. The coordinator, Miguel, a nebbishy guy with a thin mustache, had just addressed him directly: What about you, Slater—why are you here?

The group was called Men Keeping It Cool, but that was just a euphemism for what it really was, a court-ordered anger-management class. Slater had picked this one because it was close to his office, but it was also right on Skid Row, and from the looks of them, some of these losers could be homeless.

You mean that it’s wrong to assault people, the coordinator said. Despite his Hispanic name, Miguel looked pretty Anglo. Slater was the opposite—he had his father’s dark Latin coloring and black hair, but he didn’t speak any Spanish beyond ordering tacos.

That’s not true. Slater held his gaze. I usually only rough up people who can’t call the cops because they’re lowlifes and running a scam. But I miscalculated.

Miguel stifled a sigh. Let’s call that a starting point. Later on, we’re going to explore how we feel when we’re being violent.

Watching him, Slater recognized that glassy look, the evasive language. Miguel sounded like the parade of shrinks Doris had sent him to in his youth. This was a similar waste of time. But he had no choice.

Ivan, Miguel said, checking the notes in his lap and then eyeing a guy across the circle. Why are you here?

Ivan had his head shaved, and sat with his arms folded, wearing a tank top that exposed the intricate tattoos around his biceps.

I shouted at my boss, he said, and sat up. I was really upset. He didn’t deserve that—he’s actually a decent guy. After I calmed down, I just had this crushing, crippling feeling of guilt.

You’re here voluntarily? Slater demanded.

There’s no cross-talk here, Miguel said.

I’m not cross. But that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.

‘No cross-talk’ means we don’t comment on other people’s shares, Miguel said.

Slater waved his arm. So you just let other people continue to be stupid.

We all know that you know what cross-talk means, Ivan said.

Meeting his gaze, Slater jutted his chin. Let’s you and I have a talk after.

Ivan’s brow furrowed, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

Miguel raised his voice. Slater—stop talking.

Avoiding his gaze, Slater folded his arms and clenched his teeth. He was just going to have to put up with this.

An hour later, when the session ended, the participants waited for Miguel to sign their attendance slips, one by one, except Ivan, who didn’t even need it. He hustled out ahead of the others.

As Miguel signed Slater’s sheet, he asked, Did you ever do any twelve-step?

I don’t need that stuff. I don’t really need this either.

Right. He handed him the paper and met his eye. See you next week.

Stepping out onto Los Angeles Street, superfluously named after the city, and the county, and the region, Slater felt a blast of hot air and squinted in the bright midday sun. He’d already paid for the afternoon at the little surface parking lot up the street, and Andy’s place was only a couple of blocks. He’d walk.

The heat of the day felt good as he strode through the bustling neighborhood, and he didn’t bother to cross to the shaded side. Andy lived in an old warehouse building that had been converted to lofts, and Slater strode into the lobby and up to his floor to rap on his door. Sometimes it took a while for him to get there. When Andy eventually pulled it open, he was clad in boxers and a tank top, revealing his sinewy musculature. His mousy brown hair was a perfectly tousled mess.

Slater followed him inside, pushing the door closed. Apart from the bathroom, the loft had no interior walls, so his bed and desk and everything else were in the same room. Big industrial windows at the back of the space looked out on Pershing Square.

Andy dropped into his computer chair and swiveled toward him. How was it?

A bunch of men with emotional problems. It felt like group therapy.

That sounds like a … good thing. With the momentum, maybe we could … go to an AA meeting.

I’ve got that under control.

Andy raised his eyebrows, his head gently undulating with his random muscle twitches. So no blackouts or … hangovers in the last month or so?

You want me to fill my downtime with meetings. I’m not going to do it.

Right now your downtime is boozing and mindless sex. Meetings might be … an improvement.

Slater put his hands on his hips. You’re kind of being a hard-ass.

And you love it. Andy gestured vaguely. I should tell you that Doris asked me what I knew about it.

Why are you talking to her? Slater demanded, raising his voice.

I can talk to whoever I want. Don’t get … pissed at me.

It’s none of her business.

I’m just giving you a head’s up. She asked me what I knew because you … didn’t call her back.

She’s acting like you’re my boyfriend, Slater said, eyeing him. You’re not my boyfriend.

I’ve heard that tune in every key.

What does that mean?

You’ve made that abundantly clear. Andy frowned. Talk to her and she won’t have to … go through me.

How did she even know about my legal troubles?

Ask her yourself. His rhythmic random muscle movements intensified.

Now I’ve got you all steamed, Slater said, his tone softening.

I think you … enjoy that too. Andy rose and gestured toward his bed. You want to help me de-stress?

Slater went over and stretched out beside him, and pushed his fingers into the tangle of Andy’s hair, and met his eager mouth. As he explored the warm intensity, he felt his dick swelling in his jeans, and ran a hand under Andy’s shirt. Slater helped him pull it off, then slid his boxers down and grabbed his rock-hard cock.

Sitting up, Slater pulled off his own shirt and untied his boots, then pushed off his jeans. When he turned back to Andy, he swung his knee over his legs and pressed his cock into his belly. Andy reached for his neck and pulled him closer, locking their mouths together.

Slater shifted onto his side, then rolled onto his back and lifted Andy until he was straddling him, running his hands over his thighs and his torso. Andy’s CP made his metabolism run hot, and right now the heat felt great. He’d learned how to work with the random twitching, how to lean into it, when to resist it, when to move with it.

Reaching for the bedside drawer, Slater grabbed the lube and filled his hand, then took hold of Andy. Their mouths together, Andy squirmed and thrust against him, and soon came, then pulled away, his whole body spasming. Sliding onto his side, he shifted position and grabbed Slater’s cock. Slater buried his nose in Andy’s hair, a hand firmly on his butt, and thrust until he came too.

As he caught his breath, he wrapped an arm around Andy’s chest, and they lay together for a while, warm and sweaty and content. Eventually Slater got up and grabbed a hand towel from the bathroom. Once they’d cleaned up, he started to get dressed.

Are you working today? Andy said.

I’m supposed to help Max on a job. He leaned over to tie his boots, then turned back to Andy, who was lying there with his head propped on his arm, watching him. Bye, beautiful.

Andy kept his place cold because his body ran hot, but once Slater was outside on the street, the sweaty summer heat enveloped him again as he walked toward the lot where he’d left his car.

Seeing Andy always put him in a good mood. It wasn’t very often that Slater wanted to sleep with anyone more than once, but Andy was a twelve-stepper, and part of working the steps was learning not to put demands on people, and that made him easy to be around.

The lot was configured for stack parking, but Slater’s classic black Thunderbird was at the front of the line, so the attendant hadn’t taken his keys. Climbing in behind the wheel, he started the engine and pulled into the traffic, driving the few blocks to the surface lot across the street from the building where he and his business partner had an office.

It was a century-old high-rise in the Fashion District, originally built as office space but today filled with clothing factories. The location amid the blue-collar industry made their little suite feel inconspicuous, and the rent was a lot cheaper than in the newer part of Downtown LA, where the financiers and the law firms and the accountants worked.

The day laborers who hung around the lobby early in the day, waiting for gigs sewing or cutting or transporting garments, were gone by the time Slater walked in. He rode up to the ninth floor and went around behind the elevator shaft, admiring the sign on the office door as he paused to twist his key in the lock:

slater ibáñez

maximillian conroy

investigations

Inside was a small room with a receptionist’s desk, and at either side, an office for each of them. No one used the front desk, and the only thing in the outer office besides it and the coatrack was a small statue on the desktop, a plaster skeleton wearing a crown and holding a scythe. It was an image of Rey Pascual, a gift from the woman Slater sometimes bought pupusas from. His business partner, Max, obviously wasn’t sick of looking at it yet because it was still sitting here.

The woman who’d rented them the furniture when they moved in said that the front office would look weird without a desk, so they’d let her bring one, along with the coatrack. It still looked empty—they’d tried a potted plant, but without consistent light it had withered. Rey Pascual fulfilled the same purpose, drawing attention from a space that looked stark and uninhabited. There was no risk of him shriveling up like the pothos had—he was already dead.

Slater stepped in the doorway to Max’s office. Sitting behind his desk, Max was dressed for a meeting, in a charcoal suit with a red necktie. These days he wore his drab brown hair in a trendy cut, and with the suit the overall look was sharp, but it didn’t disguise who he was—with his thick neck, his gut spilling over his belt, and the sidearm bulging in the holster under his jacket, Max was clearly the heavy. They had a good rapport, him and Max, and Slater didn’t want to punch him in the face very often. More important was that Max had a PI license, which meant he had access to resources that Slater didn’t.

How was anger management? Max said, looking up from his computer screen and sitting back.

Slater dropped into one of the chairs facing his desk. Infuriating.

He chuckled. So—thanks for taking on this gig.

I don’t mind doing some legwork. He knew Max was double-booked, and even though Slater hated window-shade jobs, he couldn’t say no to the work—things had been slow. What have we got?

The pigeon is a man named Hayk.

Like ‘take a hike’?

It sounds like that, Max said, and spelled it. He thinks his wife is cheating on him.

They usually are, if they decide to come to us.

This guy likes structure, so I’m going to introduce you as an operative under my direction. Don’t take it the wrong way, like I’m pulling rank, or trying to be the boss.

Slater threw up his hands. You can introduce me as your personal seamstress if it helps get the gig.

I’m pretty sure we’ve already got it. He’s coming here to iron out the details.

It’s fine with me if I don’t have to handle the guy. You’re better with people. What’s his story?

Max sat forward, arms on his desk. When he called, Hayk said some lawyer recommended me.

Have you had a face-to-face?

Once—I went to meet him at a driving range in Glendale.

You play golf? Slater said, and frowned.

Some of my clients do, so I do. A driving range isn’t really golf. You just stand around and hit balls. Anyway, Hayk feels shady to me. He’s in the construction business, but I don’t get the sense that he’s a gangster.

If he were, he wouldn’t need us to do his dirty work.

Probably not. So while we’re there, swinging golf clubs, he takes a phone call. I’m assuming it was from an employee. I could only hear his side of the conversation. He said, ‘Tell her it was neighborhood kids with firecrackers, or a car backfiring.’

He was trying to explain away gunshots, Slater said.

That’s what I thought too.

An engine backfiring is a bit of a stretch. Cars haven’t done that in fifty years.

Max raised an eyebrow. Yours might.

Before Slater could retort, there was a sharp knock at the door.

That’ll be Hayk, Max said, and got up, stepping out to the front office. Slater followed, hanging back as Max opened the door.

Hayk greeted him and stepped inside. Built burly like Max, he had hooded eyes, thick lips, and dark hair that was thinning on top. Why did no one ever tell straight guys that they had to wear their hair shorter once they started losing it? There was confidence in the way he carried himself, Slater saw—not swagger, just the bearing of someone who was usually in charge.

Once he’d introduced them, Max stepped into his office and waved Hayk to one of the chairs in front of his desk. Slater followed, taking the one closest to the door. As he sat down, Hayk sighed, and rubbed his eyes. Slater eyed him sidelong. The guy looked weary.

Slater is going to do some of the work on the ground, Max said, as he pulled a yellow legal pad from his desk drawer.

I just want to know the truth, Hayk said, eyeing them in turn. It’s a simple yes or no. Is my wife sleeping with somebody else?

We’ll get to the bottom of it, Max said.

Maybe you can also find out who’s the guy, Hayk said. A name and address. So I can take care of him.

Max nodded thoughtfully, his brow furrowing in concern. What is it specifically that makes you think your wife is up to something?

I told you that last night, he said, and frowned.

I want my operative to hear it firsthand.

Hayk eyed Slater. She disappears in the evening when I’m out working. The security cameras at the house show that she leaves ten minutes after I do.

What’s her name? Slater said.

Bella, Hayk said flatly.

Max scribbled on the notepad. What does she drive?

Usually the Bentley. It’s blue.

Glancing up, Max said, I think the way to start is that I’ll get Slater to tail her to see where she goes.

Do you have a photo of her? Slater said.

Hayk turned to meet his gaze. Probably. But why don’t you come over and meet her? I told her I was going out tonight, so I know she made plans too. When she leaves, you can follow her.

It’s not optimal to have an operative meet the target, Max said, absently waggling his pen between his thick fingers. She might recognize him later.

You don’t have other operatives? Hayk demanded, raising his voice. You should see how this woman treats me.

I can come to your place, Slater said. It’ll make it easier to run the tail. Where do you live?

Hayk recited his address, and Slater pulled out his phone to thumb-type it.

Come over after dinner, Hayk said, and then turned to Max. Do you need some money now?

Just a deposit, Max said.

Slater rose and went into his own office. He left the door open so he could listen to the transaction, then leaned back in his chair and lifted his feet onto the desk. He heard the chair scrape on the concrete as Hayk rose to leave, and once he was gone, Slater got up and went out to the front.

Have you started your other job yet?

I’m doing a stakeout on the Westside tonight, Max said, and flipped the bolt on the door. It’s another window-shade job. I’m envious of yours—you get to see where Hayk lives.

You think he has money?

I know he does. He just paid me in cash, and he peeled a bunch of C-notes off a bankroll that thick. He held his finger and thumb wide apart.

That’s old-school, Slater said. Like a riverboat gambler.

Or a gangster.

Is it weird that he wants me to meet the wife?

Max pursed his lips for a moment. He wants an ally, right—someone to see what he sees, to validate his experience with her. He needs someone to tell him he’s not crazy. That he’s not imagining things.

That sounds like emotional support. Maybe he needs to go to the pound and adopt a dog.

Just listening to these people helps them, Max said. It makes us a full-service agency. He stepped into his office. You’ll need a camera.

From his bottom desk drawer he lifted out a chunky SLR with a heavy long lens.

Please tell me I’m not shooting film, Slater said, eyeing it from the doorway.

It’s digital. You can take out the memory card. He flipped the camera over and pointed out the slot. Otherwise just focus and shoot. The exposure and everything else is automatic.

Slater took hold of it and looked through the eyepiece, aiming the lens out the little window behind Max’s desk at the wall of the building next door. He twisted the focusing ring and snapped a couple of test shots. It wasn’t totally digital, as it had a mechanical shutter that clicked softly with each press of the button.

I think I can handle it, he said finally, and slung the strap over his shoulder, the lens hanging down his back. Good luck at the window shades tonight.

Back at you, buddy.

Locking the door as he left, Slater went down to the street and trotted across in a break in the traffic, the heavy lens slapping the small of his back. His apartment was just west of Downtown in gritty Westlake, and a few minutes later he nosed the Thunderbird into the alley behind his building, waiting for the heavy steel door to roll up. This private garage was the main reason he lived here—it was an extremely rare find in a crowded central neighborhood.

He killed the engine and waited for the door to roll down, then went out the back door, into the hall, and trotted up two flights to his grungy apartment. It should have been renovated decades ago, with the kitchen sink and ancient appliances at one end of the main room, and the bedroom and bathroom off to one side. It didn’t feel cramped because he didn’t have much furniture—a basic thrift-store sofa and a recliner that fit in with the timeworn stained carpet.

He eyed the half-full fifth of bourbon on the kitchen counter, its amber glow warm and enticing in the low light, waiting patiently for him. Not yet, he reminded himself. Pulling off his boots, he dropped onto the sofa and set an alarm for later—he knew he’d fall asleep as soon as he stretched out.

Two

chapter

When the alarm sounded, Slater scrabbled for his phone on the carpet beside him and slapped it off, then sat up and rubbed his eyes. He found the note with Hayk’s address and put it into the navigation app. Even in the