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“Yeah, you’re right, the old guy’s been right on, so far. Speaking of old, when he turned ninety? Wonder how far past that he is. I was figuring eighties.”
“Me, too.”
He logged on. “Nonpareil Elite Jewelers—okay, here he is with a bunch of Hollywood types…looks like that’s all he posts, kissy-face selfies, no actual jewelry.”
We studied a dozen shots of a grinning improbably blond man in his forties with matching stubble and a pair of small gold hoops glinting from his left ear. Broadly smiling, setting off competing glimmer from his teeth.
Bobby Kilic, always in a slim-cut black suit and white T-shirt, looked chummy with a host of familiar faces. Maybe the celebs figured they’d gotten deep discounts. Or their business managers got billed and they could pretend they’d scored free bling.
Milo said, “Let’s try to surprise this entrepreneur.”
CHAPTER
27
Burton Way, named for Burton Green, the developer largely responsible for creating Beverly Hills, had become South Santa Monica Boulevard decades ago. Now referred to as Little Santa Monica by the locals, it’s a commercial street barely wide enough for the four lanes allocated by the city, paralleling its larger northern sibling and confusing tourists.
Bistros, cafés, indie boutiques, and a few mono-brands predominate, visits to the latter requiring net worth well short of that required for the Rodeo Drive excursions Meagin March had enjoyed. The street throbs with all-day bustle despite the low probability of finding a parking space.
At the western end of Little Santa Monica, once you get past the Peninsula hotel, the action slows, vacant storefronts begin popping up, and the B.H.–L.A. border is heralded by the black-glass towers of Century City looming with unmistakable malice.
Watch out or we’ll eat you then spit out the bones.
Nonpareil Elite Jewelers sat at the end of the block, bordered by a service alley in need of paving.
No self-promotion, just a narrow, iron-grated window in an olderbrick building devoid of architectural intent. Small-letter signage in gilt near the top of the window. Illegible from the street.
I said, “Maybe one of those if-you-have-to-ask deals.”
Milo said, “With Bobby’s hoohah connections, maybe it doesn’t matter.” He pulled into a loading zone half a dozen slots west, put his LAPD placard on the dash, and got out.
Up close, the window gilt was chipped and the grates implied not open for business. So did the locked front door and the lack of response to Milo’s bell-push.
“Okay, I’ll have to call him.”
I said, “Tell him you’re on the Oscars fashion committee and need adornment.”
He laughed. “Yeah, that’s me, fashion.”
We headed back to the car. Instead of continuing, I stopped and pointed to the alley.
He said, “Why not.”
—
Grubby asphalt, weeds poking from fissures. No windows on the west side of the building. Not a bad idea for a place selling big-ticket gems.
Behind the building, a three-slot parking area backed by a dumpster was one-third occupied.
Black Mercedes S coupe, wheels the same color, interior blood red. A man leaned against the car, facing away from us, smoking a joint, oblivious to our approach.
A level of awareness not recommended for a guy selling big-ticket gems.
Bobby Kilic had dispensed with his black suit jacket, wore a white V-necked tee over black jeans. His torso was narrow and soft-looking. Older-looking than his photos had suggested, with a Mediterranean complexion further browned by the sun, looseness under sagging eyes, and relenting jowls.
He took a deep drag of cannabis, held the smoke in for a long time, looked up at the sky and exhaled. Nothing emerged. As he raised the cigarette to his lips, Milo said, “Good afternoon.”
Kilic startled, dropped the joint, turned sharply and put his hand in his pocket.
