Try Fear - By James Scott Bell Page 0,40

of City Councilmember Jamie MacArthur, the up-and-coming L.A. politico with the square chin of George Clooney and a showstopping wife. This project, everyone in L.A. knew, was MacArthur’s baby, because he made sure everyone knew.

I found a place on the street and walked over to the site. It looked like they’d leveled a whole city block for this. A line of concrete trucks was snaking along the street. They were taking turns feeding the beast—the giant snout of the snorkel boom that spat wet concrete for the pad.

A team of rubber-booted workers guided the pour, one with the snout in hand, five others rodding it out with a two-by-four. Another guy was tamping with a handheld, and there were even a couple of workers with trowels. Some things you still had to do with basic tools and muscle. I like that. There’s too much comfort in technology these days. A kid can thumb an iPhone, but can he change a tire?

I stood at the entrance of the temporary fence and waited around. Finally, a couple of Hispanic workers, with heavy-duty knee pads and yellow hard hats, came out together, chatting. The larger of the two had a black mustache.

I said, “Hi.”

They stopped for a second.

“You guys know Carl Richess?” I said.

They looked at each other, then back at me. The one with the mustache said, “Don’t think.”

“Big guy.” I indicated mountain size with my arms.

The shorter one thought about it, then nodded. “Sí, con Ezzo.”

Mustache shrugged. “Maybe with Ezzo.”

“Who’s Ezzo?”

He turned and pointed down at the pad. I saw a couple of trucks with Ezzo Cement on the side.

“Thanks,” I said.

They nodded and walked by me. I let myself in through the gate and walked down a dirt path to the large trailer with the sign that said Dragoni Associates, Inc. I didn’t bother knocking. I went right in and saw a couple of men standing behind a desk, looking down at some papers. One was middle aged and bullish, dressed in a polo shirt and slacks. The other was younger, leaner, and wore a denim shirt over Levi’s.

They looked up at the same time.

“Help you?” Polo Shirt said, in that I-don’t-really-want-to-help-youbut-I-have-to-say-it tone.

“Are you Mr. Dragoni?” I said.

“I’m Dragoni,” he said. “You are?”

“I’m here on behalf of the Richess family,” I said. “Carl Richess was part of the cement work, or was supposed to be.”

“Oh,” Dragoni said. He had prominent teeth in a round head with wispy brown hair on top. The taller one had more hair but smaller teeth. “Yes, we heard about what happened. And they arrested his brother, one of our subcontractors.”

“That’s right. And I’m representing him.”

“I hope he turns out to be innocent.”

“He is,” I said. “At least that is the presumption under the law.”

The Levi’s-clad guy grunted. “Lawyer talk,” he said.

Dragoni said. “What is it exactly you want?”

“I want to find out as much about Eric and Carl as I can. Since both of them are connected to this project, I thought you might be able to help me out.”

“I don’t see how. What’s done is done.”

I said, “Sometimes you don’t see it at first, then something comes up that helps you figure out what might have happened.”

“They had a connection with our project, sure,” Dragoni said. “But from what I understand, they didn’t get along with each other.”

“Was there anybody else around here who didn’t get along with Carl?”

Levi’s said, “We build buildings. We don’t get involved with personal lives.”

“I’m just asking if you may have seen anything, that’s all.”

“The answer is no,” Dragoni said. “Anything else?”

I handed Dragoni one of my cards. “I would appreciate it if you would call me if anything comes to mind.”

“Nothing will.”

I paused, turned to go. Then I turned back and said, “You are contracted with the city of Los Angeles, is that correct?”

“That’s no secret,” Levi’s said.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.” I put out my hand.

Levi’s just looked at my hand and said nothing.

I dropped my hand. “And who is your liaison with Councilman MacArthur?”

“That’s really all we have to say,” Dragoni said. “Thanks for coming by.”

“Who’s your contact person in the councilman’s office?” I said.

Levi’s stepped from behind the desk and approached me. “Good-bye.”

59

NO MORE PLEASANTRIES exchanged.

I walked out the same way I came in, but headed toward the corner where the cement trucks were coming in and out. I spotted one of the Ezzo trucks as third in line for the boom snout, and walked down the truck ramp. I put myself on