by Rex Burns
It was close to four in the morning when Devlin coasted the Subaru to a halt near Zell’s house and sat listening to the night sounds of the quiet housing development. Beyond the high wooden fence of a neighbor, a dog barked persistently, an unending and dull-minded yap that rapped like a small hammer into the darkness. Past the ridge of lightless houses, the thin traffic on a freeway rushed with a hiss of running water, and, floating on the cold night air, came a thread of sound—fragmented, pointless—the grunt of a chugging engine somewhere distant.
Bunch had spent the rest of the evening placing a network of sensors, trying—as he explained in detail to Devlin later— to set the beams just high enough to miss animals such as raccoons and skunks which came out to prowl at night. “I couldn’t do a thing about the deer, though. I warned Humphries that he’s going to be up half the night if the deer start setting off alarms.”
“He was still acting worried?”
“Yeah. Eyes look like two piss holes in the snow. He’s not getting much sleep.”
Whatever it was that worried the man was still worth the salary he was paying Kirk and Associates for protection. And as long as his checks didn’t bounce, Devlin and Bunch stood guard. But professional curiosity made Kirk itch to know the truth of what the man was protecting himself from. That, and the knowledge that he and Bunch could do a better job if Humphries was willing to be honest with them.
Easing the car door open, Kirk slid out into the cold and across the lawns toward Zell’s home. The shadow of the eaves darkened the driveway close to the garage door and he crouched, testing the locked handle and poised for any sound from inside the house. Silence. Devlin slipped the blade of his lock pick into the keyhole and a few minutes later turned the handle open. The twanging groan of heavy springs sounded loud in the night and he hesitated, listening again. Warm, oily-smelling air pushed into the cold. He ducked under the partially lifted door and stood in the dark. No creak of cautious footsteps from the room beyond the far door; no skitter of animal paws—dog or cat—alarming the sleepers. Quickly, Devlin gouged at the tread of the car’s tire with an ice pick. A moment later, a loud spurt of hissing air jetted across his knuckles. He eased the garage door shut and walked quickly back to the Subaru. Engine off and coasting in neutral, his car glided back down the curving lane to a halt and Kirk settled to catch a short nap before dawn.
The tiny chime of his watch alarm woke him at five-thirty. He rubbed grainy eyes to see the faint red of sunrise streak low along the eastern sky. The coffee in the thermos was still warm and served as breakfast, and he tried not to think of the pressure that had begun to push on his bladder. Lengthy stakeouts called for the long-necked portable urinal with its tight lid. But Kirk didn’t plan to be stuck in the car for that amount of time.
At seven-fifteen, as Kirk expected, Zell’s garage door lifted and a wisp of exhaust laid a pale haze over the driveway. Then the car started backing out. It paused and backed again, easing toward the street. Zell’s wife was off to her job as a bookkeeper and secretary in a wholesale plumbing supply house over on South Broadway. The car swung into the street heading away from Devlin, and as it started forward the brake lights flashed and it stopped. The woman opened her door and leaned out to look down at the rear tire. Then she turned off the engine and got out of the car and walked back to stare at the flat. Kirk saw her shoulders rise and fall, and she glanced at her wrist and walked quickly into the house. A few minutes later, Zell, tucking a shirt into his pants and stepping gingerly in bare feet, came out to stare at the tire too.
Devlin balanced his video camera on the dash and waited, watching the man’s face through the circle of magnified light.
The wife said something and Zell’s mouth moved in answer. She held up her forearm and pointed to her watch; his lips said a single word— “Shit”—and he grabbed the keys from the steering column. Opening the trunk, he started lifting out the spare tire and tools as Devlin’s camera whirred. When the car settled back on its spare, Zell folded up the jack and slammed the trunk shut. The woman gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and he picked his way barefooted across the dewy lawn, wiping his hands on a grimy rag. Devlin started his own car and swung around, headed for downtown and the photo lab.
Percy Ahern had a report for Devlin late that afternoon. The flat, nasal voice bounced with the energy and rush that typified everything the man did. “Devlin, lad, you’ve brought to my attention two angels—two saints on earth—two citizens who stand pillar-like in upholding the virtues of hard work, patriotism, and love of one’s gray-haired mother. These lads, Devlin, have caused not the slightest harm to the smallest fly in Christendom, and I hope it’s not in your heart to bring unto them woe and misery.”
“You’re telling me they’re clean.”
“As the newly driven snow. As a babe’s sweet breath. As a virgin’s thoughts of love. Speaking of which, one is shacked up with the daughter of a state representative of the borough of Queens, and has been for the last six months. What higher recommendation could there be? The lad is finishing his law studies at Columbia and apparently has a brilliant career in politics ahead of him. At least one might say he’s laying the foundation for it. Vice- presidential material, certainly.”
“Which one’s that?”
“Chaney. Kosman’s no less ambitious and equally pristine, being, as he is, eminent among the energetic and thoroughly honest young traders on the floor of the mighty New York Stock Exchange. Not a captain, perhaps, but certainly a shavetail of industry, with promise of greatness to come.”
“Neither one’s been to Denver lately?”
“As far as I could find out, neither one’s ever been west of New Jersey. Nor do they want to be. In fact, I don’t think they even know where Denver is—a fairly common affliction in the Steinberg geography of New York.”
“Thanks, Perce. Send me a bill and I’ll get a check by return mail.”
“Knowing you, I should ask for a money order. But I’ll trust you this once for old times’ sake—and may the gods grin on your every endeavor.”
Vinny Landrum did not have a report. In fact, the last Devlin heard from him was the cryptic message on the answering tape stating that he’d gotten the job. Devlin waited until an hour or so after work and then called the man’s apartment. “Vinny, I expected to hear from you yesterday.”
“If I got something to report, Kirk, I’ll report. That’s how I operate. Listen, if you don’t like it, you can always bring in somebody else, you know.”
“For what you’re being paid, that’d be easy to do. What about Martin and Atencio? What have they been doing?”
“They’ve been working. I haven’t made contact with those guys yet, Kirk, and I’m not about to push it. I fucking well told you when this caper started: it’s my ass, and I’ll go at my own speed.”
“I asked how they’re behaving. Do they seem nervous? Are they looking over their shoulders?”
“From what I seen, no. They show up for work on time, do their jobs, go home without rattling any cages. I mean for Christ’s sake, it’s only been two days—give me a chance to do my job! That all right with you?”
“They don’t act like people who’ve just killed a man?”
“No. They act like citizens with clean consciences, and I think that’s how they’re going to act until things cool down. No shipments coming in, no panic, no nothing. Just wait and see if things blow over before making any moves. That’s what they act like.”
Kirk didn’t think Martin and Atencio—or Vinny, for that matter—knew a damn thing about clean consciences. “I want you to call in, Vinny. I don’t give a fart if you’ve got nothing to report. I want to enjoy the sound of your dulcet voice every day. Hear me?”
“You can enjoy my dulcet dick is what you can enjoy, Kirk. I call in when I got something to tell you. Otherwise, leave me the hell alone—I don’t want my cover shot to hell by some tight-ass like you.”
“Vinny—”
“Yeah, ‘Vinny.
’ You let me do this my way. If you knew how to do it right the first time, you wouldn’t need to bring me in. Now don’t call me—I’ll call you. Got it?”
CHAPTER 13
A WEEK LATER, Humphries came in to pay his bill and tell Devlin there was no need for any further protection. To Kirk, the man didn’t look happy about it. And in fact, Humphries wasn’t happy about much at all, and there was no reason he should be. Mitsi had asked for the detectives in the first place, telling him that her father’s man had somehow learned where she was, and that they had to protect themselves against whoever her father might send after her. Now, for some damned reason, she was just as anxious to have the detectives gone. She wouldn’t tell him why—just the smile and the caress and the insistence that they didn’t need to spend any more money on Kirk and Associates. Which, by God, was a point he could agree with—like everyone else, once these people had their hooks into you, they took you for all they could! Still, he felt that nagging worry: even if her father hadn’t been heard from—and no one threatening had showed up in the past weeks—there was the possibility it could yet happen.
“If I—ah—need to get in touch with you in a hurry, can I do it?”
Devlin handed him a business card with a penciled telephone number on the back. “This is my beeper number. Twenty-four hours a day.”
“I mean, it may not be necessary, you understand? I just don’t know yet.”
Humphries had a fair foundation for the safety of self and home—a quick course in escape and evasion techniques, the electronic barriers and alerts installed by Bunch, his car fitted with an under-hood fire suppressant system and tailpipe protection. But he was still spooked by whatever it was he didn’t trust Kirk to know. “If we’re not on retainer, Mr. Humphries, I can’t guarantee that we won’t be tied up on a case.” Kirk shrugged. “We have to make a living, you see. But if you need help, call that number. If neither Mr. Bunchcroft nor I can come, we’ll find someone who can.”
The man nodded and stood to shake hands. “I’ll rely on that.”
“Of course,” Devlin said, smiling. But if that call did come, Humphries would have to be a hell of a lot more honest about the reason for it than he had been in the past. And there would be no more nonsense about alleged prowlers or brown cars.
After the Humphries file was closed, the Advantage case and the Truman surveillance took most of their time, which was good, because those were the only two cases they had. Vinny’s report sang the same song over and over. In fact, his reports tended toward the monosyllabic: “Nothing, Kirk. Will you quit the fuck bugging me?” There was still no word on their bids outstanding, and the periodic stakeouts at Jean Truman’s condominium were equally profitable. A disgusted Bunch tossed the keys onto the desk and blew wearily as he groped for the coffeepot. “That broad’s a hell of a lot smarter than Zell. I tried your flat tire trick. All she did was call Triple A and didn’t even come out of the house to watch.”
“Allen Schute was happy with the videotape of Zell.” Devlin waved a pink check with its New York address. “He paid us.”
“That’s good. What about Reznick? What did he tell you?”
Devlin had gone to Advantage Corporation to make what could laughingly be called a progress report. “He’s not happy. It’s been almost two weeks, he says, and Vinny’s costing him a lot of money. He thinks we’re giving him damn little back for it.”
“If he knew Vinny, he wouldn’t expect much.”
“He’s beginning to feel that way about Kirk and Associates.”
Both Bunch and Devlin had been making periodic surveys of Atencio and Martin—picking up their cars at work and following one or the other home, cruising in the dark past their driveways at odd hours to note any activity, tailing Vinny after work to ensure that no one was following Kirk and Associates’ newest agent. Vinny wouldn’t be thrilled to learn of their interest, but after what happened to Chris, neither Kirk nor Bunchcroft wanted to take chances. Not even with Vinny. Not yet anyway. But his hours of surveillance and the days of his labor brought nothing. Atencio and Martin were laying low, and as a member of the warehouse crew, Vinny could swear that no dope was being shipped through the plant.
Bunch glanced at the wall clock. “I think we ought to squeeze Vinny a little. After two weeks, even that maggot should have something besides the clap.” He drained his cup. “Let’s pick him up after work again.”
Bunch and Devlin parked down the street from the factory’s main gate and waited until they saw Vinny’s beat-up Chevy pull out of the company parking lot. Then they followed. Devlin drove the Subaru, and Bunch, his seat jammed back against the stops, sucked the last of a can of beer and surveyed the heavy traffic for anyone following the Chevy.
“Little bastard’s not going home this time,” said Bunch.
Vinny’s apartment was near downtown in the Capitol Hill area, but his car turned east from the parking lot to I-70 and the Peoria interchange. Then it headed south past Fitzsimmons Army Medical Center.
“A girlfriend?”
Bunch shorted. “Vinny? Naw, he keeps his love life in hand.”
The Chevy turned on Seventeenth Avenue and went a dozen blocks to a small, almost treeless park, where it pulled to the vacant curb and waited. Kirk drove past without changing speed, face angled from the park, and pulled over when Vinny’s car became a tiny dot in the rearview mirror. From a long block away, they watched Vinny get out and walk to a concrete bench set away from the kiddie playground that glittered hotly in the late-afternoon sun. A man was already seated there, staring across the empty slide and jungle gym.
“It’s some kind of meet,” said Bunch. He studied the distant figure through the telephoto lens of his camera. “Guy’s about thirty-five, brown hair, mustache. Glasses—the shooter’s kind. You know: wire frames and big yellow lenses. No scars or marks that I can see.” The camera started a series of clicks and whirs.
“Are they talking?”
“Yeah. Mostly Vinny. Now the other guy’s saying something and Vinny’s listening. And picking his goddamn nose with his thumb. I bet he looks at it.”
“Want me to back up?”
“No. They’d spot us sure as hell. No, the son of a bitch didn’t look at it—he’s wiping his goddamn thumb on his pants leg… . Now he’s talking. He’s picking again—he’s being couth this time, Dev. Wiping his goddamn finger inside his shirt pocket… . They’re talking some more… . That’s it; Vinny’s up and going. The other guy’s up and headed across the park the other way.”
“Can you see his car?”
“Naw. Swing around. Maybe we can spot it.”
Devlin pulled left around the block, squealing the tires in a fast turn.
“If we had one of those high-powered shotgun mikes I want, we could have picked up what they said.”
“If we bought one of those high-powered shotgun mikes, we’d be out of business.”
“Just a suggestion, Dev. Don’t get defensive about being cheap.”
The neatly spaced homes with their square patches of lawn and picture windows blurred as the Subaru swayed onto Sixteenth. Down the almost vacant avenue, a metallic-blue BMW pulled away from the curb. Devlin accelerated to move closer.
“Don’t push the yuppiemobile, Dev—I can shoot him from here.”
Kirk eased up and Bunch clicked the camera several times as the blue car picked up speed. “Okay. Now all we need’s party and plate. Let’s get back to good ol’ Vinny.”
They caught up with him on Havana, going north to turn on Colfax. The familiar rusted roof surged through the remains of rush-hour traffic in a long but straight run toward Capitol Hill. The commercial highway passed crowds of small signs for mom- and-pop businesses and low-budget chain stores. Among the assorted shops was a sprinkling of high-class restaurants and low-class motels that rented rooms by the hour. Apparently, Vinny was headed home now, but Devlin stayed with him just in case. The late-afternoon traffic clogged the lanes and shimmered with its own heat a
nd that of the dry early-October sun. A couple blocks from his neighborhood, Vinny suddenly veered into a side street and pulled to the curb. He locked the car and stood waiting in tree shade as Kirk and Bunch nosed in behind him.
“You people couldn’t tail a blind man without him spotting you.”
“Hello, Vinny. Strange to see you moving around in daylight.”
“You’re as funny as dead babies, Homer. I been working all day at that fucking factory. I’m hot, I’m going in for a beer. You people want to talk to me, you’re buying.”
He turned on his heel and strode toward the Rocky Mountain Lounge, a small bar that had served a neighborhood when there was a neighborhood to serve. Now it was just another of the faceless pickup joints along Colfax.
They made their way through the sudden gloom to one of the high-backed booths away from the door. In the rear of the dark and smoky room, a pool table clattered as players wordlessly circled the brightly lit green to study the glinting colors.
“Bring a pitcher, Larry—this big dude’s paying.” Vinny pointed to Bunch.
Devlin waited until Vinny’s glass had been filled and emptied and filled again. “What do you have for us?”
“Same thing I told you day before yesterday—not much.”
“It’s over a week. Our client’s spending a lot of money on you. This isn’t government work, Vinny. You’re supposed to produce.”
“Hey, what is this? What the hell can I do if the fucking suspects just sit on their thumbs?”
“Have they made you?”
“Shit, no! I’m no amateur.”
“Do you have any contacts with them?”
“Eight fucking hours on the job, sure.” Vinny wagged his head once and buried his upper lip in foam. “But they’re not going to invite me to have fun and games with them, Kirk. They’re still nervous. That turkey you put in before, he really screwed things up.”
