Saturday morning at seven we were eating sushi. “Arellano’s successor? Well, here’s the funny thing, we don’t even know if there is one. There haven’t been any of the usual killings you would expect during a power struggle and we haven’t found any evidence of an organizational nexus here in town. Though they are using the same money man.”
“Honeycutt.”
She paused, with what looked like raw squid halfway to her mouth. “How did you know that?”
“I hear he’s not being so smart.”
“Is that so?”
“Playing both ends against the middle. I think you can expect trouble at some point.”
She looked thoughtful. “Two years ago, maybe. Now? Whoever is in charge is very savvy. Very, very savvy. And very low profile.”
I ate some raw tuna rolled up around something cold and spicy. “You sound as though you approve.”
“Well, the stuff’s going to get in no matter what we do, and if fewer bodies pile up, the citizens don’t complain as much, which means the people in Washington don’t breathe down our necks. Though politically speaking coke is old news. Smack’s the thing now, and with its traditional tie-ins with organized crime, everyone in Washington is jumping up and down and getting very hot under the collar. Smack is only just reemerging and the lines of supply are still new and reasonably clear. The politicos see this as their big opportunity, a chance to crush the drug trade—or one of them, anyway—and bang behind bars all those crime bosses they’ve been after since Gotti went down. And the heroin trade doesn’t use street gangs.”
“Not that gangs seem to be much involved in Atlanta’s coke trade.”
“That’s another strange thing—Are you going to use that lemon?”
I passed it to her. “Another strange thing?”
“Yeah. You look at, say, San Diego, and all the enforcers there are gangbangers, little sixteen-year-olds who see hundreds of thousands in cash and coke pass through their hands every week.” She squeezed the last of the lemon over her salmon. “No, smack’s the flavour of the month, and I’m glad. A smack habit is something you have to work to acquire, and when a user goes wild on smack, they just nod out, they don’t go psychotic. Did you know that heroin is actually beneficial to the body in small amounts? Like alcohol.”
“Think how much tax money the government would make if they legalized it.”
“But they never will. Lot of campaign contributions these days—especially in California—being made by pot smugglers. They want it to stay illegal. They make a very nice living, thank you very much. It’s all—Sandy,” to a passing server, “can I get some more lemon? So, yeah, it’s all becoming more or less respectable, like bootlegging during Prohibition. Hell, it already is respectable in Mexico. The Tijuana cartel owns the federal police and everyone knows it, even the politicos, but so few people are getting killed, and those mainly gringos, that none of them care. Just like no one cares here when big American corporations ship thousands of tons of baby formula to the third world and kill all the children. Deadly white powder, but this time wrapped in pretty boxes and the official cooperation of the government. So we have the commander of the federal police openly being the liaison man for the Tijuana cartel, and people down there just shrug. Blood pressures in Washington are, if you’ll pardon the expression, shooting up.”
We both grinned. I applied myself to the ahi.
“Hey, Aud, interesting case last month.”
“Yeah?”
“We helped bust a Nigerian heroin smuggling ring run—get this—by women. Apparently it’s traditional in Nigerian culture for women to run all the business stuff, and they’ve somehow got hooked into the opium pipeline that runs from the East, through Africa, and up to Seattle. I went up to Seattle with the task force. Got them all in one swoop. God, I love my job.”
I drove through the morning traffic, trying to think. Tijuana. Low-profile successor to Arellano. Honeycutt and the torch from Boston. But where did Honeycutt get the coke, and why would he want it there in the first place?
Beatriz was wearing the new sandals and shorts and tee when I picked her up again at half past ten, and her hair was up in a loose twist. She looked young and bright and fresh. She climbed into the front passenger seat.
“It’s safer for you in the back.”
“But I have never really been in any danger, have I?”
“No.”
“And you are wearing your gun?”
I lifted my jacket to show her the Walther. She put her seat belt on and that was that.
We ate brunch on the deck. Beatriz made pencil sketches as she ate. “The front needs some colour. If you cut another trench in front of the porch, we can plant some impatiens out there. Some around the tree, too.” Then she ate a croissant with quick, precise bites and picked up her pencil again. “While you dig the new beds, I’ll start on the tubs.” She sipped at her coffee, stared out at the back. “I wonder if the bed at the end needs widening….”
It was my job to keep her safe, and I was getting free help for my garden.
Two hours later, the new bed was dug, the old one widened, and there were bright flowers dotted around the beech tree and in two three-foot troughs beneath the front windows. Beatriz had a smudge on her left cheek. Her skin was beginning to darken after hours in the sun. It made the whites of her eyes seem faintly blue. She looked healthy, energetic.
“What do you think?”
My house had looked efficient, well maintained and clean. Now it was inviting. “Lunch,” I said.
I turned on the air-conditioning and we ate at the kitchen table. Halfway through the smoked salmon, bean salad and beer, the phone rang. It was Charlie Sweeting. He was excited.
“Hope you don’t have plans for tonight. Honeycutt’s giving a party. Black tie. I can get you an invite.”
I thought fast. “Charlie, can you hold a moment?”
I pushed the SILENT button, turned to Beatriz, who was trying not to listen. “Do you want to go to a big party tonight?”
She plucked at her T-shirt. “We would have to shop again.”
“Charlie? Yes, I can make it if I can bring a guest. And Charlie, when you give our names, just say it’s the daughter of a Spanish Cabinet minister—”
“Which one?”
“Luis del Gato, Minister of Labour.”
“Pity it’s not trade.”
“Indeed. The daughter is Beatriz del Gato. I’m to be her nameless escort.”
“I’ll have to—”
“Just say ‘and bodyguard.’ And if you’re going to the party, don’t acknowledge me.” Beatriz had now given up all pretense of not listening.
“Don’t you worry about me. It’s at his house in Marietta, eight until he thinks he’s impressed everyone. Are you really a bodyguard?”
“More of an escort. Thank you for this, Charlie.”
I put the phone down and turned to Beatriz. “I want to meet a man, but I don’t want him to know I’m meeting him.”
“What kind of man?”
“That’s what I want to find out. The party will be a formal affair, and very public. There will be no danger to you, at least no more than in any other situation.”
She looked at me steadily. “You have helped me. I will do this for you.”
I picked up the phone again. “Will those flowers need watering before we transplant them tomorrow?”
She took the hint at once and went to water the flowers. I called Julia. “It’s me. Sweeting got me two invitations for a black tie party at Honeycutt’s tonight.”
“What time?”
“Eight.”
“That doesn’t give me much time to get ready.”
“It wouldn’t be prudent for you to go.”
“Don’t be silly. All our business was by phone. He’s never even seen—”
“I’ve already invited someone else.”
“I see.” Her tone was icy. “Well, I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time.” Click.
While she was having her hair washed I beckoned Douglas over. “She’ll want something…excessive. If you keep it to the merely dramatic, I’ll be appreciative.” He nodded politely. I would hate to be a hairdresser, always being told what to do by amateurs who think that just because they’re paying they should be in charge.
She changed in the bathroom then chattered at me through the bedroom door while I got ready. This would be her first big party.
“What about all the parties in Madrid?”
“I lived all my life in a small town called Cuenco, about a hundred miles from the city. It was only after Papa was offered the Cabinet post that the family moved.”
When I stepped out of the bedroom in a tiny black Vera Wang dress, she stared at me.
“It’s not polite to be too surprised.”
“What? Oh, no, it wasn’t…. It’s just…” I let her flounder. “You’ll carry the gun in your purse?”
“I never carry a purse.”
“Then…”
I walked into the living room, put my left foot up on the couch and turned towards her. My dress rode up and exposed the black stretch neoprene thigh holster attached garter fashion, with black elastic to-the-waist strap and waistband attachment. Her blink rate went up. I slid out the little Sig Sauer P230, showed it to her, then put it away. “Time to go.”
By the time we were on I-75 her excitement was back. “Who will be there?”
“Everyone who is anyone. Politicians, media moguls, bankers, that kind of thing.” Money launderers, crooked politicians, murderers.
She didn’t say anything to that but began to root around in my CDs. She stopped and swore softly in Spanish.
“What?”
“My purse. I left it at your house.”
“Do we need to go back?”
“No,” she said, and smiled. “Besides, what do I need for a party?”
A gun. Car keys. Credit card and five-dollar bill for the valet parking. Bodyguard to carry it all. She went back to sorting through the music. We listened to Skunk Anansie, very loud, all the way to Marietta.
Honeycutt lived in a neighbourhood of oversized Georgians with gravel drives and half-grown hedges that went up five or six years ago when the land out here in the middle of nowhere was cheap and you had to drive three miles to pick up a pint of milk. Now the land is expensive and stuffed with houses that all look alike and belong to neighbours you’ll never meet—and you still have to drive three miles to get a pint of milk. There were people all over the lawn: women wearing little jewel-encrusted silk slippers, men in midnight tuxes with brilliant cummerbunds. Four men in white shirts and black trousers parked cars. I noted the cut of their trousers around the ankle, pocket, and waistband. No weapons.
To the smooth-eyed man with the list at the door I announced, “Ms. del Gato and escort,” and we were in. A server glided past bearing a tray of martinis and Beatriz grabbed one, eyes sparkling. The roar of conversation and shimmer of diamonds was overwhelming.
A woman I recognised from Eddie’s pictures as Cathie Tyers, Honeycutt’s latest girlfriend, was standing before a huge wall aquarium, playing host. She greeted us with the pursed vowels of a Canadian accent, usual generic smile and Pleased-you-could-come, and unwilling handshake, then turned her attention to the sudden stir behind us. Cess Silverman had arrived, along with Georgia’s Secretary of State. They were greeted then wafted discreetly by one of the staff towards the back of the house.
I glanced about at the walls, as if admiring the moulding, following the wiring, the phone lines. No sensors on the hall windows; probably specially designed glass, fitted by the security company. I edged Beatriz towards a sideboard groaning under hors d’oeuvres. “For tonight, I’m not Aud. I’m your escort, Torvingen. Treat me like hired help.”
“I will try to remember.”
“Try hard. You’re the one with the invitation. No one here has any reason to believe I would be here except as your escort.”
“No one except Charlie.”
“Except Charlie Sweeting. Who is the white-haired gentleman heading our way.”
He was holding out his hand but remembered himself just in time and pointed it at Beatriz. “Miss del Gato. Charlie Sweeting. A pleasure indeed.” He shot a bushy-browed look at my legs. He was too well bred to lick his lips, but I could see him revising his opinion of my intelligence. Why is it that some men equate the size of a woman’s brain with that of her dress?
I gave him an up-and-down and let him see my professional dismissal of him as threat. When he recoiled with injured vanity, I dropped him a wink. He recovered with aplomb and turned to Beatriz. “Ah, Miss del Gato—may I call you Beatriz?”
“Certainly.”
“Allow me to advise you on some of this food. A sophisticated European woman like yourself might not be familiar with our plain country fare.”
She glanced at me. I nodded fractionally.
“Very well, Mr. Sweeting. It looks quite delicious. What are those green vegetables?”
“Okra, I believe. Now, I once heard a story…”
I trailed after them as he exuded courtly charm and she giggled. She was in safe hands for a while. I excused myself.
I trawled the party. Music was playing in the reception room; no one was dancing, but the conversation was loud and fast, with a high laughter quotient. I beckoned to a passing server for a glass of whiskey, and sipped. Not cheap. I passed through room after room, smiling my Goodness me, look at all these people! smile, which always gets a response. In thirty minutes I talked to an insurance broker from Los Angeles; some drunk old photographer with a very handsome face who wanted to tell me all about her work and snarled at her husband when he came to find out who she was talking to; one of the bigger building contractors in the city; and the lieutenant governor’s wife—who turned out to be a civil engineer. I asked her the usual questions about her job, and she was happy to tell me all about the design of the elevated MARTA tracks and why the support arches were the shape they were.
“Heavens!” I said, looking at my watch. “Is that the time? My poor husband will be wondering where on earth I’ve gotten to. So nice to meet you!”
I was drifting through the back parlour when I caught sight of a man and woman I recognized, sitting on a sofa, looking like successful executives in love. Lois and Mitchum Kenworthy. Or at least that’s what they had been calling themselves last time we ran into each other, three years ago, when they were up on embezzlement and fraud charges. Two old friends. Now I knew who had provided the fake Friedrich. I edged into another room, where I could watch them without being seen.
No sign of Cess Silverman, the Secretary, or Honeycutt, for that matter. No doubt they were huddled in the treehouse with the rest of the secret club.
Parties are like life—you think that what you see is all there is, until you discover the next layer, a whole other culture that’s going on all around you but you never knew existed. About three months after Helen married Mick, she called me up and we went to the Vortex. Somewhere around the fourth drink, she stopped talking and stared at her wedding ring. “It’s just a piece of metal, but it’s weird. It’s like a funny handshake. All of a sudden I find myself part of this club that I never even knew existed. With this ring on my finger, I’m visible, I’m real to other members of the club. They treat me differently. Even my mother treats me differently. She calls up and starts telling me all this stuff, about her and Pop, about their marriage. As if I’ll suddenly be able to understand. I was thinking the other day, my god, if I’d never married, I would never have learned all this about my own mother and father. Mind you, sometimes it’s not stuff I want to know. Then again, you know, it makes me fe
el good. To belong. To be one of Them. I mean, I’m thirty-eight, and for the first time in my life I’m being treated like a grown-up by the grown-ups. Even my dental hygienist treats me like a real person now. It’s frightening. I mean, what other clubs are there out there that I don’t know about?” She wasn’t looking for an answer. “My god, last time I was in the airport, some kid offered me his seat.”
“And you liked it?”
“Well…”
“Mostly?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“And that makes you feel guilty, sorry for all those people like me who’ll never belong to your marvellous club.” She stared. “Don’t worry about it. I belong to the big bad butch club, where only dykes who have broken people’s noses are welcome. Then there’s the tough cop club. And the ex-pat club. Not to mention the filthy stinking rich unemployed. You should be writhing with jealousy, not guilt.”
She burst out laughing. “You’re so refreshing. Let’s get drunk.”
And what I hadn’t told her was that you could be accepted as part of any club if you pretended you were already a member. The hard part was working out the fact of a particular club’s existence.
But I knew all about Cess Silverman’s secret club, the cronies sipping whiskey and talking about who to make or break in state politics. I’d been born into the Norwegian version, but declined to take up membership as an adult. Ten years ago, Denneny would have been at this party, fighting to gain entry to the club. He had even tried to use me. “Inside information would be very useful,” he said. “With your background and smarts you’d be a natural.” What he’d meant was, You’ll do well, and you’ll be seen as my protégé, and then I’ll do well. And I’ll be informed. He always had been ambitious. He’d been very bitter for a while when he was refused that promotion to commander, but perhaps that was partly because his wife was drinking herself to death. Now he no longer seemed to feel anything at all.
I waited until the back hallway was clear so no one would see me go upstairs. I cruised the upper floor. Sensors on the windows, no motion detectors in the corners of rooms. This time the wiring ran along the baseboard. He needed a new cleaning service.
The Blue Place Page 11
