Project Chartreuse

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, not afraid to use whateve

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dagmar Miura
• Release date: Jun 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781951130817

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.

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Project Chartreuse book cover image

Project Chartreuse

George Bixley

publisher: Dagmar Miura

One

chapter

Slater was going to have to deal with that nut job Crystal on the front desk, he knew, as he stepped off the elevator on 34. As he walked into the office, he saw that she was wearing a bright red jacket, her peroxided hair swept into an updo.

Slater paused in front of her desk. She’s expecting me.

Can I help you? Crystal said, her eyes vacant and icy, as if she didn’t remember him.

I’m here to see Della, he said, struggling to suppress his ire.

She gave him a pointed once-over. Can I ask your name?

Fuck you, you washed-out freak, Slater snapped, and walked through into the hallway.

Down the hall, Della’s office door was ajar, and he rapped on it as he stepped inside. Her window had an expansive view over the LA Basin, right now looking a little parched in the summer heat. The haze that lingered near the horizon was tinted brown. That meant it was smog, not mist like it was in the cooler months.

Pushing sixty, Della kept her hair sprayed in a tidy do, and her low-cut blouse showed some cleavage, even though it still looked like somber office drag.

You’re lucky I’m free, Della said, leaning back in her chair. You weren’t announced.

That guard dog on the front desk has the heart of a berserker. If she had her way, I wouldn’t even get into the building.

I think she pisses you off because you can’t intimidate her.

Is that why you hired her? Slater dropped into the chair in front of her desk. That quality would make for a good front woman. Although, for the record, I’ve been unfailingly polite and professional with her.

Della’s brow furrowed. You might want to check a dictionary for what some of those words actually mean.

So what have you got for me?

A life insurance claim. She sat up, and grabbed her mouse, and peered at her computer screen. It’s an old one. We can’t make a payout until we can confirm there’s only one living beneficiary.

There’s more than one named?

It’s a fifty-fifty split between the policyholder’s daughter, Raquel—we’re already in contact with her—and the policyholder’s estranged husband. The story is that the guy upped and disappeared years ago. A cursory check couldn’t determine whether he’s alive or not. Normally we just hand the funds over to the state and let them worry about it, but the way it’s written means Raquel is eligible for the whole payout.

If he wasn’t around, it doesn’t seem right that he picks up half the dough.

Those are the rules, Della said. She should have changed it, but she never did.

So you want me to find the guy.

Or at least find out whether he’s alive. It’s not a lot of money. I just want it off my desk, and you’re my due diligence. I’ll pay you for a week regardless of what you find.

Even if I can’t find anything?

Like I said, it’s not a big payout. I’ll email you the paperwork.

I’m sure I can come up with something in seven days, he said.

Five days. She met his gaze.

Seven would give me more room to be thorough.

I’ve already requested the funds.

Della, you’re breaking my heart.

She raised her eyebrows. I’d love the opportunity to do that, if you were ever inclined to put out. I can’t help but notice the way you fill out that denim.

That’s never going to happen.

There’s more to this world than dick, Slater.

He chuckled. You make it sound like I’m narrow-minded.

I guess it’s part of your special charm.

To start, I’ll want to talk to Raquel.

Della nodded. Her contact details are on the claim she filed. She owns a trendy little boutique on Cahuenga in Hollywood.

Isn’t that neighborhood all corporate retailers by now?

Not all of them. Not yet, anyway. The place is called Feel the Trend.

I can feel it already, Slater said, and rose. I’ll be in touch.

As he walked out through the front office, he eyed the receptionist.

Ciao, Crystal. Thanks so much for all your help.

Keep walking, she said flatly.

Waiting for the elevator, he had to smile. Della was right—Crystal wasn’t easily cowed.

He stepped off in the parking garage under the building and walked over to his wheels, a classic Thunderbird, black and sleek with a cherry interior. It was so old that it needed regular bespoke maintenance, and it wasn’t the best ride when he wanted to go incognito, but it was worth it—he loved driving it.

Nosing the car up out of the garage, he drove east, out of the shadows of the office towers to the Fashion District, and pulled into the surface lot across the street from his building. A century ago it had been built as offices, but now it was almost completely small clothing factories, except the office he shared with his business partner, Max.

Slater hustled across the street in a break in the traffic and stepped into the lobby. Even though it was already late morning, a few day laborers were hanging around, waiting for gigs cutting or sewing or carting garments. The elevator lumbered up to the ninth floor, and he walked around behind the shaft to the door with their names on it:

slater ibáñez

maximillian conroy

investigations

When he stepped in, Etta was sitting behind the front desk. A curvy woman with butched black hair, she’d been hanging around the office all summer. Recently she’d done some redecorating for them, hiring a crew to paint the walls and bring in some deco-era furniture.

Etta had come into their lives as a witness in a case, and since then she’d started working as an operative for him and Max, mostly because she was curious about the business. She’d proved herself to be skilled at the work—she had the right amount of sangfroid without being cocky. Nobody else used the front desk anyway, and Slater didn’t mind having her around. But he also wouldn’t mind when she went back to her day job, when school started up again in a month or so.

Etta greeted him, then leaned back in her chair, lacing her fingers behind her head. So what’s a paperhanger?

Slater paused in front of her desk. In this business it means someone who’s passing counterfeit cash.

Not printing it?

That’s the butterfly man, or the scratch man.

Does a paperhanger write bad checks?

Yeah, that too. Does Max have you working a counterfeiting job?

It came up elsewhere. This week I’ve been helping him on a window-shade job.

I freaking hate those, Slater said. But they pay the rent. I hope he’s paying you.

She frowned. I’m not a patsy. Of course he’s paying me. So what are you working on?

An insurance gig.

Somebody’s running bunco on you?

Slater had to grin. She really was learning the lingo. I’m trying to track down a beneficiary.

Do you think you might need an operative? I’ve got the time.

I’m not sure yet. I’m going to dig through the paperwork now.

His small office was positioned opposite Max’s, and he stepped behind Etta and went in to sit at his desk. He heaved his boots up onto the blotter and pulled his keyboard into his lap.

The files that Della had sent showed that the outstanding beneficiary was named Daniel Martínez. It made sense that he wasn’t easy to find—it was a common surname, so there’d be a few of them around. The only indication of his identity, apart from the original policy, was a joint bank account held by him and Carlota, the decedent.

In the notes it said that someone in Della’s office had found the bank account. It had been abandoned years ago with a balance of thirty-six bucks. The slimeball bankers had claimed the money as a penalty for ignoring the account, but the record of it remained.

Slater scanned the original policy application, scrolling through it on his computer screen. Daniel’s relationship to the policyholder was listed as husband, which meant there’d be a marriage certificate somewhere.

A while later he got up and waved good-bye to Etta on his way out. Down in the parking lot, he climbed into the Thunderbird and started the engine, then got the air going full blast. Pulling into the street, he navigated to the freeway and headed toward Hollywood.

This stretch of Cahuenga was changing, he saw, once he’d exited onto surface streets and cruised past Feel the Trend. It was on the cusp of arty and trendy, and if it followed the path of other hip neighborhoods, it would soon shift from trendy to wealthy. At that point, it was over—money sterilized these places, filling them with bland corporate chain stores. It would look like any other high-end dead zone in the country.

A block farther along, Slater nosed into an open street space and climbed out to feed the meter. There were a few people plying the sidewalk on a weekday afternoon, but not so many that he’d call it bustling.

As he walked back toward the shop, a guy on a skateboard appeared, wearing board shorts and moving fast. He wasn’t very skilled at the slalom, and careened into Slater as he tried to arc around him, knocking his shoulder and spinning him sideways. The guy hopped off his ride and trotted a few steps as the board clattered into the wall.

"You need to step out of the way, cholo," the guy said, glancing at Slater as he walked toward his board.

Rapidly striding after him, Slater grabbed his upper arm and spun him around, then slapped him hard, left and then right, a rapid kovac. He planted a hand on his chest and shoved him away.

You fucking psycho, the guy spat, red-faced now.

Slater stepped over to the wall and scooped up the skateboard. "I am not a cholo."

The guy was bigger than he’d thought, a few inches taller than him even off the board. As he took a step toward Slater, with his face contorted in fury, Slater raised the board to one side, like a baseball bat. Unsure now, the guy stopped.

Give it back.

Say it, Slater demanded.

He stood taller. Say what?

"I’m not a cholo."

"Fine. You’re not a cholo. Give me my damn board."

Slater stepped toward the curb and paused, eyeing the guy and waiting for the delivery truck that was moving toward them to get a little closer. As it rumbled by he stepped into the gutter and tossed the board toward the middle of the truck. It landed on its wheels and rolled underneath.

You fucking prick, the guy roared.

Resuming his path on the sidewalk, Slater listened for the crunch of the big tires demolishing the board, but it never came. The truck didn’t brake either. Maybe the thing had survived. He didn’t bother to look back. The skateboarder wasn’t going to come after him—he’d be more concerned about retrieving his prized toy.

When he came up to the awning marked feel the trend, Slater ducked inside. The shop looked like it was mostly women’s clothes, along with some jewelry and tchotchkes. The fabrics were in tans and browns and earthy greens and blues.

A guy with his hair in knobby twists was standing at a rack of jackets, doing something to them with a little yellow gun. Slater paused and admired the pleasing curves of his pants. Sensing his presence, the guy turned around, revealing a T-shirt that said vegan, and below that, eat the rich. The message didn’t quite make sense, but he had great pecs.

Can I help you?

You’re in good shape, Slater said. Do you work out?

Are you flirting with me right now? he demanded, and waved the yellow tool.

That depends on whether you’re into it or not.

I’m straight.

So spare me the chin music.

Dude, he said intently.

Settle down, Slater said. I’m looking for Raquel.

She’s in the back.

How difficult was that? Slater threw up his hands and walked farther into the store. Idiot, he muttered.

The place was roomy, with a section of tie-dyed shirts and dresses, and another with canvas sandals and shoes. As he got toward the back, a woman stepped out of a doorway, pushing apart a beaded curtain. Around thirty, maybe, she had her dark hair pulled back and wore a green batik-print dress like the ones he’d just walked past. Her breasts were out of proportion with her slender frame, but then being augmented was pretty standard in LA.

She smiled and greeted him in Spanish. It happened a lot in this vast Latin American city, as Slater had his father’s black hair and dark Latin coloring, but he didn’t have much of the culture.

I only speak English, he said.

Just let me know if you need a hand. She spoke with the authority of ownership. I’m Rocky.

Rocky as in Raquel?

Very good. She cocked her head. Have we met?

I’m looking into a claim you made with Cudahy Mutual Insurance.

You don’t look like an insurance adjuster.

I’m not. I’m an investigator. Slater dug in his hip pocket and handed over his business card.

Are you investigating me? she said, studying it for a moment.

Have you done something that needs investigating?

Rocky laughed. I hope not.

I’m looking for the other potential beneficiary. I wanted to interview you about that.

Her brow furrowed. Can we go up the block? There’s a coffeehouse. It’ll be easier to talk at a table. Let me get my bag.

Slater waited as Rocky stepped into the back room, emerging a moment later with a small handbag slung over her shoulder. She led him through the store, and near the entrance paused to talk to the staffer.

I’m going out for a few minutes. Keep an eye peeled for that delivery.

Once they were outside, it was just a few paces to the coffee place. It occupied a corner and had tables on the sidewalk, with the windows wide open for the warm weather. Rocky stepped through the front door, but Slater stopped to look at the planter boxes flanking it.

Is that the stuff they plant along the freeway? Rocky said, turning back. Ice plant, I think it’s called. Supposedly it doesn’t burn.

This is different. It’s called green Dudley. He pinched off a dead leaf. They’re from Catalina, but that’s close enough that it qualifies as a native here. That’s why it’s thriving.

As he followed her in, she eyed him sidelong. You’re a gardener in your spare time?

I studied horticulture, and I worked in it for a hot minute. It’s good to see natives. Usually in a spot like that they plant some invasive.

Rocky stepped up to the counter, and ordered a chamomile tea from the clerk, and waited as Slater ordered an oat-milk latte.

I’ll get it, he said, digging his wad of cash out of the pocket of his jeans.

There were a few people at the tables, some clearly here on vacation, and a few locals staring at laptops, bathed in the blue glow of their screens. Rocky sat at a table near an open window, and Slater joined her a minute later, drinks in hand. He sat opposite and slid her tea across.

Tell me about Daniel.

That’s his legal name, Rocky said. My mother called him Danilo.

Did he always use that nickname?

I guess. She wrapped her hands around her cup. I don’t remember him. Carla never bad-mouthed him, but then she didn’t talk about him much at all.

The paperwork says your mother’s name was Carlota.

Right. Shortened to Carla.

You must have been curious about Danilo, Slater said, and sipped at his coffee.

Of course. At a certain age I wanted to know who my father was. I remember Carla said he was trying to get his college degree.

Do you know where, or in what field?

I have no idea.

Did he grow up around here?

Rocky pursed her lips and gazed out the window. That seems likely, she said finally. "I remember once asking her if he might have emigrated back to the patria. She said his patria was Boyle Heights."

That might be useful too. Are there any photos of him?

I didn’t find anything like that in Carla’s stuff.

Do you think you look like him?

She smiled. Who knows? My boyfriend says I look like my mother. I know he’s my biological father, though. Once I got angry with Carla and said something like, ‘My father could have been anybody.’ It was like I was calling her a slut. She explained to me at high volume that Danilo was the man on my birth certificate, and he was the only possibility.

Does your birth certificate include his signature?

I don’t think so.

What about a middle name or an initial?

I’m not sure. Rocky lifted her bag and pulled out a cell phone. I have a scanned copy of it. She spent a moment tapping at the screen, then handed it to him.

As he swiped around the document, Slater saw that the box for parent 2 said Daniel Martínez, with no initial, and no signature. The address listed for the parents was familiar too—it was the same as on the report about the abandoned bank account.

Farther down, Daniel’s occupation was listed as student. That fit with the story Carla had told Rocky. The document didn’t list the parents’ birth dates, but the father’s age was given as twenty-seven. He scrolled back to the top to check Rocky’s date of birth.

You’re the same age now as Danilo was when you were born, Slater said.

Seriously? I wonder if that’s a meaningful coincidence. Her brow furrowed. That also means Danilo is in his mid-fifties.

If he was alive, Slater thought. Either way, knowing his age would significantly narrow the pool of potential candidates.

Can you send me a copy of that? he said, handing the phone back.

If you promise not to identity-theft me.

Insurance people take confidentiality pretty seriously.

You don’t seem like a typical insurance guy, she said, eyeing him briefly as she pulled out the business card he’d given her. Setting it on the table, she thumb-typed on her phone.

The policy was drawn up around the time you were born, Slater said. Danilo is a beneficiary, so obviously he was still in the picture. How long after that did he walk out?

My earliest memories don’t include him, so I’d say it must have been before I turned five.

Where were they living when you were born? Slater said.

South Gate. Their address is on my birth certificate too. By the time I was in school, we lived in East Hollywood.

Is there anything else you can tell me about Danilo?

She slowly shook her head and set her phone aside.

Tell me about Carla, then. What kind of person was she? What kind of work did she do?

She was in the clothing industry. When I was young she worked as a seamstress in the factories downtown. Later she worked as a floor manager, even a bookkeeper, but always in that business. Rocky tucked a wisp of stray hair behind her ear. "There weren’t a lot of guys around. Over the years she’d take an interest in a man once in