A Spike Mencer tale
Few things bring joy to private dick’s loins like a good bust in a domestic or family
law matter. Such was the case circa 1995 as I broke into the sleuth field working
under the license of one John James Nazarian, who now inherits the “LA PI to the
stars” moniker after Anthony Pellicano got pinched for wiring celeb fuck-pads.
John was the only one of about 25 private eyes who even responded to my call
when I was looking for some work. He is a bald badass of a man with that harsh
Boston accent that gets your attention. He told me that he was a sheriff’s deputy
once in the Central Valley and had earned the respect of thugs by competing with
another deputy to see who could toss a perp the furthest over a patrol car hood.
On a slow day as a cop, he might just saunter into a men’s room at a bar and kick
open the stall door just as some stooge was about to snort a line of toot longer
than Yao Ming.
John had Yellow Page ads out the wazoo in San Francisco and I was his bagman.
He gave me the client’s address and how much he wanted for the retainer. He
taught me to take a check directly to a client’s bank and cash it on the spot before
risking a canceled check. In those days, John had pet rats that he named after his
enemies and lived in a garment factory near what is now Pac-Bell/ATT/Enormo-
Telcom baseball park. Once, after I had broken a collarbone in rugby, John gave
me a ride in his Jeep and seemed to delight in hitting every pothole that he could
as we rode on a case looking for witnesses. I am still friends with John to this day
and consider it an honor because he has had some seismic fall-outs with people
over the years. He taught me the ropes good, but he still gives me grief for the one
lousy time I ate a deli sandwich at his desk, didn’t finish it and stank up the office
when I stuffed it in the trash.
One weekend, John gave me a domestic. A woman hired us because she
suspected her brother-in-law was humping everything in sight when her sister and
their kids were out of town. The guy was an immigration lawyer. Keep in mind, this
was 1995 and I was driving a $500 Dodge Dart and using a film still camera. It
goes without saying the car was a big brown turd of an auto, yet not a working
piece of shit either. I had to start it by taking a screw driver and connecting the
points on the battery; if I took a turn too sharp the engine stalled. The lining was
falling from the ceiling almost over my eyes.
Okay, so the client told me that the lawyer brother-in-law was going to take his wife,
aka her sister, and their kids to the airport on a Satuday morning. She surmised
he would be hooking up with some little tart later in the day. In a time of simpler
national security, I actually followed them to SFO and probably sat curb side for 30
minutes before Romeo emerged. I followed him back home as he drove his black
Bronco, an SUV prototype, car wash, dry cleaner, grocery, hmmmmmmmm, fuck
buddy! Yep, he was not even an hour from dropping off his family when he picked
up the short-haired vixen near California street.
Here’s something most PI’s don’t admit. I lost them. It happens to all of us. The
only way not to lose someone is to stay right on their ass and risk losing them in
traffic. Of course, the more persistent you are the more you risk detection. But
any good surveillance results from beating into your own head, “Will not lose them.
I am the king. No one beats me. I will run red lights and cleave pedestrians in two
but I will not let them out of my sight.” You have to be somewhat psycho and
determined to get results. All in or all out. Somewhere in the travels I saw the
mistress’s black Mustang convertible and where she had parked near
Embarcadero Center. I thought if I just wait near her car I will see them swap spit
when he drops her off.
I found a pedestrian overpass above her car and waited on a brilliant fall
afternoon. Oh, there was the Bronco. There they were. Grab the manual focus
camera and get ready. Yes, a manual focus so you have to curb your beating
heart to set the camera. She hopped out in her tight little jeans and I shot about six
pics as they lip-locked goodbye.
But my job wasn’t over. I had to figure out who she was. She had a 30 second
head start as she drove away and I ran down the stairs to the Dart, grabbed the
long-handled screwdriver and fired up my ride. I somehow found her on the middle
of the Bay Bridge thanks to driving the Dart at 95 mph. It was a lucky day because
I managed to tail her to Pinole, get her address and learn that she was registered
nurse.
I got the photos to the client, who coughed up another grand. I probably made
about 300 for a days work and John likely got 1700 but he was the one funding the
ad. Apparently, she confronted lawyer dude with the evidence but I never know
exactly how these things turn out. Did I mention how lucky I got?
