by Don Winslow
“And the king answered, ‘Joey … I know your poor old mother and your poor old father and they are poor but honest. What can you do to serve me’? And Joey answered, ‘I can walk all around your kingdom, Your Majesty, and collect your taxes,’ because every shop in the city had to pay tribute to the king.”
Graham smiled at Foglio, who didn’t look so jovial now.
“Then what happened?” asked the redhead.
“So Joey went to work collecting taxes for the king,” Graham said. “He went from shop to shop collecting taxes, and everything was going just fine until …”
“Until what?” Harold asked.
“Until one day Joey went to collect taxes from an old man who owned a vegetable stand.”
Foglio’s face turned deathly white.
“This better be a funny story, Stumpy the Clown,” he said.
Graham held up his hand for silence. He had quite an audience now.
“When Joey asked the old man for money, the old man said no. Joey asked again, and again the old man said no. Joey was getting very angry, because he knew that his job with the king was on the line. So he demanded the money … and the old man said, ‘I don’t have to pay tribute to the king.’
“Joey lost his temper. He knew he had to teach this old man a lesson. So Joey, who had a strong back and broad shoulders and big muscles, tipped over the vegetable cart. Then he grabbed every crate and picked them up and threw the vegetables all over the street, called … Sullivan Street.”
“Shut up, Stumpy,” Foglio hissed.
“Hush!” the blonde said, and slapped Foglio’s arm.
“By this time,” Graham said, “a large crowd had gathered. They were shocked at what they saw, but Joey was very proud, and he shouted, ‘This is what happens to anyone who refuses to pay tribute to the king!’ And then … suddenly … standing there in Sullivan Street … was King Alberto himself, looking very angry indeed, and he asked, ‘Did you do this, Joey?’ And Joey was very proud and said, ‘Yes, Your Majesty, I did!’
“That’s the end of the story,” Foglio said through clenched jaws.
Graham shook his head.
“The king walked very slowly up to Joey and said, ‘Joey, this old man is my uncle! My uncle does not pay tribute. Now, if you want to keep your job and the head on your broad shoulders, you will pick up all these vegetables you have thrown on the street and you will pay for any you have ruined out of your salary.’ ”
“Awww,” the blonde said.
“Serves him right,” said the redhead.
“There’s more,” Graham added. “The crowd was laughing at Joey. His poor old mother and his poor old father were standing there ashamed. And then, just when Joey thought things couldn’t get any worse, King Alberto said, ‘And Joey, because it is a sin to waste food, you will eat any vegetables you destroyed in your foolishness.’ And there in the gutter, in the mud and the muck and the mire, was a pile of green beans that Joey had smashed. And the crowd watched … and laughed … and hooted as Joey knelt down on that dirty street, picked up a handful of filthy muddy beans and started to eat them.”
“Icky,” the blonde said.
“And from then on, everyone in the kingdom called him ‘Joey Beans.’ ”
The crowd burst into laughter.
“You son of a bitch!” Joey yelled as he lunged across the table.
Graham pushed his chair back and stood up. Joey’s fingers grazed the front of his shirt.
“The end,” Graham said.
Joey grabbed the bottom of the table and pushed it over. The women screamed and drinks crashed onto the floor.
“Careful, Joey,” Graham warned as he stepped back, “or Albert Annunzio will make you lap those up.”
Joey went for him, but Harold grabbed his arms and held him back.
“You bastard!” Joey screamed. “I’ll kill you, you little prick! I’ll chop your other arm off!”
“And eat it?” Graham asked.
As Joey tried to tear himself from Harold’s grasp, the young blond woman said, “Wait a second. Are you Joey Beans?”
The cruel sound of feminine laughter set Joey Beans off again. The whole bar watched as Harold had to wrestle him to the floor, where Joey kicked, roared, generally foamed at the mouth, and screamed, “I don’t know who you are, you slimy little runt, but if I catch you, I’ll take a week to kill you! I’ll find you, you bastard! I’ll bury you alive! You don’t know who you’re messing with.…”
Joe Graham smiled and backed out of the bar and onto the street. He could still hear Joey’s muffled curses as he walked past the Alamo to the cabstand. He hopped a taxi back to his hotel, went up to his room, called Levine, and said, “I’m pretty sure it’s him, Ed.”
11
Karen answered the phone. “Hawley’s Home for Wayward Women. Hawley speaking.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line.
Then Graham said, “Karen, have you been drinking?”
“Yep.”
“Can I speak to Neal?”
“You could if he was here, but he’s not here,” Karen answered. “May I take a message?”
There was another silence while Graham considered what, if anything, to tell her. Just because Joey Beans was involved with Jack Landis didn’t mean there was necessarily any danger, and he didn’t want to alarm Karen.
“Yeah, why don’t you have him call in, okay?” Graham said.
“No reason, I guess.”
“How’s everything going there?” Graham asked. “Okay?”
“Yeah …” Karen said as she debated what to tell Graham. She thought it would be better if Neal told him such little things as the fact that Candy Landis was sitting at her kitchen table eating frozen pizza with Polly Paget and discussing baby names. “Everything’s fine.”
“How’s our friend?”
“Late.”
“Huh?”
“I mean radiant,” Karen said. “Our friend is radiant.”
“Hey, Karen, take it easy on the sauce, okay?”
“You betcha.”
“Have Neal call,” Graham repeated. “Right away.”
“Right away.”
“Good night.”
“Back at ya.”
Karen hung up.
“Who was that?” Polly asked.
“Neal’s dad,” Karen answered. “And his mom, his grandfather, his best friend, teacher, and boss.”
“We have one of those speaker phones,” Candy said as she poured herself another glass of white zinfandel. This was her fifth glass, which matched her normal biannual intake of alcohol.
“You sounded a little tipsy on the phone,” she warned Karen. “I think that Polly should answer the phone from now on, seeing as how she is not drinking. She can be the designated talker.”
“Friends don’t let friends talk drunk,” Karen agreed.
Polly asked, “Is there any pizza left?”
Neal was halfway through his first beer at Brogan’s when Walter Withers staggered in. Dust covered his rumpled suit and sweat stained his white shirt. The briefcase in his hand looked as if it weighed a good eighty pounds. And he was drunk.
But his tie is still knotted, Neal noticed with a mixture of admiration and disdain.
Withers’s eyes narrowed like the gun slits on a tank as he shuffled toward Neal. When he was at least an inch from Neal’s face, he spit out, “That was a low thing you did, Neal. I must have walked six miles before I got picked up.”
Neal swiveled on his stool to face Withers.
“You walked!”
“Disappointed?”
“Didn’t your buddy Charles come looking for you?” Neal asked.
“Who’s Charles?”
“You can drop the act,” Neal said. “You got the job done. Your client is sitting with Polly as we speak.”
Withers hauled himself onto the bar stool, an action that his sore muscles might have made a lot more difficult save for a lifetime of practice.
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“I don’t think so,” he answered. He couldn’t imagine Ron Scarpelli even coming to this godforsaken wilderness, and besides, he hadn’t told the lascivious voyeur where he was. Or had he?
“I’m telling you, Walter,” Neal answered. “Candy Landis is bonding with Polly right now. Congratulations. You beat me, okay?”
As gratifying as that might be, my boy, although I do detect a trace of rancor in your inflection, Withers thought, the euphoniously named Candice Landis is not my client. However, if you do persist in believing that, there might be some small advantage to be found.…
“Experience, my boy, that’s all,” Walter said. “May I make it up to you by buying you a drink?”
“I have a drink,” Neal answered. He swallowed some beer to demonstrate.
“Then may I make it up to you by buying myself a drink?” Withers asked. “A whiskey, please.”
Brogan poured a shot, then set the glass and Withers’s car keys on the bar. Walt picked up the glass.
“You can tell me where the ‘Jehovah’s Witness’ went,” Neal said.
Have I suffered that dreaded first blackout? Withers wondered. I seemed to have missed a Candy Landis and a Jehovah’s Witness—at least.
“Perhaps into the Jehovah’s Witness Protection Program,” Withers suggested. “Does it matter?”
“I guess not,” Neal said. “So what are you going to do now?
“Well,” Withers answered, “now that Chuck has seemingly abandoned me, I suppose I will try to find a room and then return to Reno in the morning. Unless, of course, you’d like to put me up.”
I’d like to put you up on a sharp pole, Neal thought.
“Why don’t you go to Reno tonight? The hotels are much better there.”
“I’m a little tired, my boy,” Withers answered. He drained his glass and added, “From all the exercise, I suppose.”
“There’s a motel across the street,” Neal said.
“Yes, I think I’ll just have a nightcap and hit the hay.” He yawned dramatically.
Neal didn’t believe him—not the nightcap, not the yawn, not one damn word he had to say. There was no reason on earth Walter Withers would hike even one mile if he thought he’d done his job, and he’d have been cocky, not angry, when he walked in. And most of all, he wouldn’t be hanging around a bar with the opposition—he’d get his car keys and get the hell out of town.
“Open the briefcase,” Neal ordered.
“I’m sure that you meant to say, ‘Would you mind opening the briefcase, please?’ ” Withers said. “In either case, the answer is no.”
“What I meant to say was, ‘Open the briefcase,’ ” Neal repeated. “When I want a lesson in etiquette, I’ll write to Miss Manners. Now open the briefcase and show me what’s inside.”
Withers ignored Neal and turned to Brogan. “May I have another drink, please, my good man?”
“I ain’t your good man,” Brogan rumbled. His voice blended into the dog’s low growl. “And I ain’t selling you another drink. I ain’t going to get my ass sued off when you drive that car into somebody, either.”
He put his big hand over the car keys.
“I’m not accustomed to barmen getting cheeky with me,” Withers said.
“Open the briefcase, Mr. Withers,” Neal said.
Withers slid off his bar stool, picked up the briefcase, and pulled himself to his full height.
“Well, you can go to hell, my boy,” he said as he weaved in front of them. “And you can go with him, my good man. I have never been treated so shabbily in my life. You can both rest assured that you will hear from my attorney, of the law firm of … of … Howard, Fine and Shep … an experience you will not enjoy … I assure you.”
Neal got off his stool and caught him before he hit the floor.
“He’s got a load on,” Brogan said.
“I loaded him,” said Neal.
He gently laid the unconscious Withers on the floor and took the briefcase out of his hand. Setting it on the bar, he said, “If you’re squeamish about felonies, you might not want to watch this.”
The nice thing about metal, Neal thought, is that it trains itself to the touch. After the owner dials the same combination a few hundred times, the dials simply respond to the touch and go right to the required numbers. Unless, of course, the owner changes the combination every month or so, which is what Walter Withers had apparently done, because the dials refused to cooperate.
“Impressive,” Brogan muttered as he handed Neal a screwdriver.
“Thank you,” Neal answered. There was nothing like having an unconscious victim, all the time in the world, and no need for secrecy. It was also nice not to have Joe Graham there to observe and make sarcastic comments. He ripped the lock open with the surgical delicacy of a stockyard butcher.
“Shit on toast,” Brogan said.
“Yep,” Neal agreed.
The briefcase was full of real cash. No outfit in the business would use this amount of real money as a prop. Neal figured that Withers’s original story about Top Drawer magazine had been the truth, or as close to the truth as one ever came in a scam like this.
“I ain’t gonna ask,” Brogan said.
“Thanks,” Neal answered. “If you can help me get him up, I think I can carry him across the street. Leave his keys on the bar; he can get them in the morning.”
Brogan came around the bar and helped lift Withers into a fireman’s carry over Neal’s shoulder.
“What if he comes back tonight?” Brogan asked.
Neal answered, “I doubt he’s going to come to soon, but if he comes back in, shoot him.”
“Never shot a man wearing a tie before,” Brogan observed as Neal staggered out of the bar.
Neal crossed the street and walked over to the motel. He knew that the door to the office—a double-wide trailer—would be unlocked. He went in, leaned Withers against the wall, and reached into the large Maxwell House can on a wooden shelf and pulled out a key. He took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and put it in the can. Hefting Withers over his shoulder, he crossed the gravel parking lot, let himself into room number four, and flopped the old detective down on the bed. He loosened Withers’s tie and maneuvered his jacket off him.
Withers started to snore.
Neal took the opportunity to go through Withers’s jacket. There were a few loose bills in his wallet, a driver’s license, and an American Express card. Tucked under the bills were some slips of papers with names and phone numbers … Ron Scarpelli … Sammy Black … and someone named Gloria, whose phone number was the same as Neal and Karen’s.
Neal put the wallet back and hung the jacket up.
He found a pad by the telephone and wrote, “Walter, a cheery good morning. I have your briefcase for safekeeping—both ours and yours. I guess you know where to call. You make any other calls and you can kiss the money good-bye.”
He left the note on the pillow.
Overtime woke up and for a single second didn’t know where he was. Then he recalled parking the car off a dirt road on the outskirts of town to get a little sleep. He needed the sleep to achieve sufficient clarity of thought.
Point one: Nobody at the target location had actually seen him, so his person was secure.
Point two: They might have seen the car, so the car was dangerous. He would have to acquire a new vehicle.
Point three: A question, a dangerous unknown. Who were the people who had come in behind him? Were they still in the house? Was the target still in the house?
The terrain has shifted, Overtime thought. The fog of battle has descended. The tactical situation was unclear.
So what to do? The cautious option would be to withdraw, to find a new staging area and contact the client. Advantage: Safety. Disadvantage: Acknowledgment of failure. Damage to reputation. Fresh contact with client.
It was one of his prime rules: Each contact with the client represents a danger of exposure—telephones tapped, tapes rolling, voiceprints
tracking.
Reduce client contact to the minimum. Contact client only when absolutely necessary.
Question: Was it now necessary?
Analysis: You are in a small, remote town where individuals attract attention. The target may be at least aware that there is an exposure.
Question: Where is that idiotic private investigator, the oblivious screen?
Further analysis: The target may be deceived that the exposure has already occurred or been diverted. It is nighttime. The approach to the potential target area is simple and without risk. The escape from target area presents few problems—with a different vehicle.
Analysis: The situation is unclear but not without possibilities.
Decision: While disadvantages do exist, the overall gain, predicated on the acquisition of a new vehicle, suggests an attempt.
He got back in the car and headed for town.
12
To the best of his recollection, Neal Carey had never taken LSD.
But he questioned this when he stepped back into the house, because the scene in front of him resembled everything he’d ever heard about an acid flashback.
The first weird and twisted hallucination that met his eyes was a distorted version of Candy Landis sitting on a chair in his kitchen. Her formerly sculpted blond hair was … big … BIG … teased into a high, wild golden forest of sprayed and moussed branches.
Neal looked more closely to see whether he could recognize Mrs. Landis’s face beneath the mascara, rouge, pancake, and something wild and electric blue that sparkled on her eyelids.
Yeah … he thought tentatively, that was her in there. That was her mouth beneath the frosted hot-pink lipstick highlighted with brown pencil. Those were her fingers touching her mouth, her fingers with the scarlet stiletto fake nails.
Despite his best effort, Neal’s eyes wandered downward, pulled by the sheer magnetic force of the black lace undergarment that peeked above one of Polly’s red silk blouses. Gone was the prim white blouse with the bow tied at the chin. The top three buttons of the red silk were undone, showing the black bra that performed its structural function of producing—what was the term?—cleavage. Right, cleavage that revealed freckles on Mrs. Landis’s chest. The freckles gave her a sort of vulnerable sweetness.
