Reason To Kill. Andy Weinberger

and to my happy surprise, there’s not a single homeless body lying on the sidewalk. Things are looking up, Parisman.

      I make a right at Crescent Heights which turns into Laurel Canyon at Sunset. Soon I’m climbing a long, winding hillside framed in shadows. Scrub oak and eucalyptus on either side. Famous people used to live in the remote corners of this place, and maybe some still do. Just not the famous people I know anymore. That’s the problem. You get older. Certain celebrities you resonated with—we called them stars back then—certain comedians make you laugh when you’re a kid, certain actors you always go to see. They’re your family, your tribe. You collect them, one by one. Then, after a while, you stop. You say that’s it, what’s the point? But other people—younger people—they’re coming along, too, and they don’t know your kin. They have their own favorites. Singers and comics and stars you never heard of. And pretty soon there’s this great chasm between the generations. Nothing you can do. If I say Milton Berle or Jackie Gleason to Omar, for instance, he’ll just look at me.

      At the top of Laurel Canyon is Mulholland Drive, a spectacular road with views of Hollywood and beyond. Weekend nights, we’d come up here as teenagers in our parents’ Plymouths and Oldsmobiles. It seemed remote from the city back then, and more to the point, it was a great place to fool around in the back seat with girls. None of us knew exactly what we were doing. We wanted: That was obvious. We wanted so much, it hurt. But I can’t say how much we really achieved on those dates. Of course, you could always brag. You could walk into chemistry class Monday morning and say anything you liked—no one would know. No one would ever call you a liar. I took a bunch of charming ladies up there. I always had high hopes, and what I recall now is that, though I tried my best, I rarely hit the ball out of the park. It was a different time, maybe. Toni Funicello told me once—after I had worked my way painstakingly through two layers of her clothing, plus a girdle—that she wanted to, she really did, but she just couldn’t. She was a good Catholic girl, she said; she was saving herself for her wedding night. Anyway.

      Pincus Bleistiff’s home is not too hard to find. Like most places around here, it’s a mini fortress. I have to halt at the wrought-iron gate. I lean out of my car window and press a red call button that activates a plastic box fitted onto a post by the driver’s side. I don’t recognize the voice that answers, but it doesn’t matter because the gate slowly swings open and I proceed down a one-lane cobblestone path, past a cluster of wild oaks toward the main house. It’s a two-story affair with reinforced stone set back behind a well-trimmed, very green lawn. Kind of like a castle, but minus the moat and the turrets and those tiny cutout places where archers used to crouch. That’s my first impression, anyway. The slate roof is pea green and way steeper than it needs to be for Southern California. A good roof for Norway, I think. That’s one explanation. Or maybe the architect thought we were due for another Ice Age, I dunno. The front door is made of solid oak. It’s painted dark blue and has a big black metal knob in the shape of a bear claw. Which adds still another layer of unease. That’s my second impression. It’s like I’m caught in the middle of Hansel and Gretel and Little Red Riding Hood—all those dark Teutonic fairy tales that used to keep me up at night.

      Bleistiff swings open the door, sees who it is, smiles. “Parisman!” he says. He grabs my hand, pumps it. He’s wearing gray jeans and a lavender T-shirt that’s one size too big for him. Across the chest, in gold block letters, it reads Hydrogen is in the air.

      I look at it. “What are you trying to say, Pinky?”

      “It’s a joke,” he says. “Hydrogen is in the air.”

      “Right.”

      “But the minute you point that out,” he says, “some people—people who don’t read, don’t think, don’t know anything—they get nervous. Trust me. I’ve seen it happen a thousand times in my life. You want to mess with someone’s mind, you know what you do? Just tell the truth.”

      “You pack a lot into one line,” I say. “But yeah, okay, I get it.”

      “I thought you would.”

      He puts his arm around me and we go inside. He’s got a large cushy living room with a bay window that looks out over Hollywood. Two plum-colored couches on opposite sides with spotlights streaming down from the ceiling. Lots of fluffy throw pillows and other chairs and small tables scattered around. It could hold two dozen people, easy. There’s a white baby grand piano facing the windows and a young woman working it over diligently with a dust cloth. I spot another one who looks just like her, maybe it’s her mother, stouter, shorter, in sweatpants and sneakers, standing in the kitchen looking on. She’s holding a plastic bucket and a mop.

      I point to the piano. “I thought you don’t play any instruments.”

      “Oh that? No, I don’t. I bought that at an estate sale years ago. Someone said it belonged to Liberace. That he practiced on it. No proof, of course. What I was told.”

      He points out some of the other rooms, including the practice room downstairs. There’s a full drum kit and music stands, another piano, anything a musician could want. Then we go back up to the living room. He offers me coffee and I shake my head. “I just came by to chat about the case,” I say.

      “Hey, that’s great,” he says. “Because I have some news, too. Last night Dark Dreidel had a practice and guess who showed up? Markowitz, the drummer, and Art Kaplan, my lead fiddle.”

      “So they’re not missing after all,” I say. “That mean you’re reducing my fee?”

      “No,” he says. “Of course not.”

      “So where’d they disappear to?”

      “The drummer said he was stuck in jail in San Diego. Held incommunicado. Between you and me, I don’t believe him. I bet it was Tijuana. He could have called from San Diego, wouldn’t you say? Even from jail. In America, you always get a call, right? Don’t they let you call?”

      “Maybe, yeah. In America. But maybe he just didn’t call you.”

      “Yeah, well, he should have. He has a little drinking problem. I guess it got away from him. I’m thinking about finding a replacement. We can’t have a shicker like that in the band. That won’t work.”

      “And Kaplan?”

      “Kaplan? Kaplan was just a mix-up. His mother had a stroke and died in Brooklyn. Nobody expected it. He rushed back home to be with her, which I understand. But then there was the funeral. That took some time. He told his roommate to let us know.”

      “And?”

      “And that guy’s a flake. The roommate. He dropped the ball.”

      “So that leaves Risa Barsky,” I say. “Which is what I came here to talk to you about.”

      “You found her?” He leans forward. His eyes are fixed on mine. “Is she okay?”

      “Haven’t found her yet, but as of last night, she was alive and well.” Then I tell him a little bit about my encounter with Lola Emery, how she let me walk through Risa’s battered apartment. “Clearly,” I say, “somebody’s out there who doesn’t like her.”

      Pinky shakes his head. “I don’t get it,” he says. “Everyone loves Risa. Everyone. She walks in, the whole room lights up. You know what I’m saying?”

      “Maybe an old boyfriend didn’t have the same opinion,” I offer. “You know anyone she dated?”

      He shakes his head again. “She hasn’t been in California very long. A year or so. And we never talk about that stuff. Just, you know, music gigs. Like I say, everybody liked her.”

      He rises slowly from the couch, goes to a nearby desk, and returns with some small glossy black-and-white headshots of Risa. “I forgot to give you these,” he says. “They’re from a few years back. From when she was working the clubs in New York. She’s put on a little weight since then. We were going to make a record and—”

      “Thanks.”