The law office was in a fairly new professional building on Fred Waring Drive in Palm Desert.
After they’d gotten the Wrangler parked and were walking toward the flat-roofed, brick-and-glass building, Nelson said nervously, “Guy’s gonna be a mob lawyer, ain’t he?”
“Oh, sure,” Lynn said. “When we come outta here you’ll have to start your Jeep with a long stick or suddenly we’ll be residing in three states.”
“Know what I was thinkin? If the Palm Springs cops got the guy’s hat after he mashed it in your moosh they could get his genetic fingerprint from the sweat on the hatband. I was readin where the technology’s gettin that refined!”
“I just know you were the roomie of Doctor John Watson in another life,” Lynn said.
When they were ascending the stairs to the second floor, three workmen carrying a huge roll of carpet were staggering down the staircase.
“Comin through!” the guy in front said.
“Leo Grishman law offices up there?” Lynn asked.
“I’ll say it is,” the guy in back said, panting. “And I wish it was on the first floor, I can tell ya.”
The double doors of the law firm were wide open, and a huge carpet pad was being trimmed and stapled to the floor.
A little man about Wilfred Plimsoll’s age, wearing shapeless ancient tweed, was yelling at a natty young guy in a butterscotch three-piece Italian suit. The young guy had his hands full of carpet and fabric samples.
“Do I complain, Roger?” the old guy complained to the young one.
“No, Mister Grishman,” Roger replied.
“Then why can’t you give me texture? You give a woman color, you give a man texture, that’s how it should be. That’s all a man needs, along with an easy chair and a used-brick fireplace. Is that asking too much?”
“No, Mister Grishman,” Roger said, looking down at the old lawyer. “Except for the used brick. You don’t have a fireplace here.”
“Do my clients want to be walking around for two weeks on carpet pad because you couldn’t bring me the carpet I ordered? I’ll tell you the answer. The answer is no. Is that too difficult to understand, Roger?”
“No, Mister Grishman,” Roger said.
“Go find me some texture, Roger, please. They have to sell it somewhere. You people must learn where to buy it in your interior decorator school. It’s got to be for sale! Texture!”
“I’ll get right on it, Mister Grishman,” the interior designer said. “I think I know what you want.”
Roger’s butterscotch coattails were flying past Lynn and Nelson before the little attorney even noticed the visitors. Then he saw them and said, “He thinks he knows what I want. I’ve only been working with him for six months and he thinks he knows what I want. I asked for subtlety. Graceland is more understated. Come in, gentlemen. Whom did you wish to see?”
Lynn displayed his badge and said, “It’s about the matter at the funeral home last night, Mister Grishman. I suppose Mister Lugo’s man has contacted you?”
“Matter of fact I just hung up from talking to Bino Sierra, and to Bob Lieberman at the mortuary. Bino said you’d be dropping by. Come on in. It’s all unbelievable.”
Lynn and Nelson stepped over the carpet layer and around the secretary, who was trying to work at a desk that had been pushed into the closet. Her lanky body warranted a second glance from Nelson before they entered Leo Grishman’s office and closed the door.
Roger had doubtless done this interior under the strict supervision of Leo Grishman. It said Old Lawyer all the way. The walls of law books were interrupted only by an occasional display of awards that the attorney had been given over a career spanning fifty years. Most were from service work he’d done in Los Angeles and Beverly Hills.
His writing table was traditional walnut with brass drawer pulls. His executive chair was a leather wingback with mahogany legs. There was a regency japaned chair next to the bookshelf, and plenty of texture everywhere.
“Only been in these offices nine months,” Leo Grishman said, “ever since I moved my practice out here to the desert. My wife has a touch of emphysema, feels better in desert air. What can I say about that incident last night, except that I’m mystified.”
“So are we,” Lynn said. “I’d like to speak to you in complete confidence, Mister Grishman.”
“That’s what lawyers’re for,” the old man said. “Want a coffee or something?”
“None for me,” Lynn said.
“I’ll have a cup,” Nelson said, thinking that Slim with the long legs would be bringing it in.
Leo Grishman pushed a button on his phone and said, “Sally, one coffee, and a tea for me, please.”
Lynn said, “The thing I’d like you to keep confidential is that we’re working on this matter sub rosa, for a private investigator named Breda Burrows.”
“But the badge? You are a Palm Springs policeman, right?”
“Soon to be retired,” Lynn said. “I was doing a job that happened to bring me in contact with the dark bald man who started the brawl at the mortuary.”
Leo Grishman peeked over his glasses at Lynn’s still slightly swollen eye, and said, “You were the brawlee, I take it.”
Lynn nodded and said, “The bald guy got the name of the mortuary from the tombstone makers who …”
“I know, I know,” Leo Grishman said. “Bob Lieberman at the mortuary backtracked it that far and filled me in. Have you talked to your detective colleagues?”
Lynn shook his head and said, “They know far less than we do and I’d rather not involve them for a while, unless it’s really necessary. Can I rely on you to keep mum?”
“Son, I got no reason to call the cops,” Leo Grishman said. “Besides, I got a soft spot for P.I.’s. I musta paid out half a million bucks in fees to P.I.’s over the past fifty years. Mostly back in the days when domestic cases were our bread and butter. But you understand, I have to protect my client, John Lugo.”
“Sure,” Lynn said.
“Has he been your client long?” Nelson asked.
“I didn’t catch your name, son,” Leo Grishman said.
“Nelson Hareem. I’m a policeman, but not with Palm Springs P.D. Not yet.”
“Both of you’re doing a little moonlighting for a P.I., eh?” the lawyer said, with a knowing grin. “That’s admirable, boys. I know it’s tough to make it on a cop’s salary. To answer your question, I was John Lugo’s lawyer for twenty-five years in L.A., ever since he started making serious money in the development business.”
“What’s he develop?” Lynn asked.
“What’s he develop?”
“Yeah.”
“Anything that needs developing,” Leo Grishman said.
“I see,” Lynn said.
“Now don’t get the wrong idea, son. As far as I know, he’s a legit businessman, and all I do is advise him on contracts and liability problems.”
“Such as?” Lynn asked.
“I don’t talk about ‘such as,’” Leo Grishman said, just as the door was opened.
Nelson was disappointed to see that it wasn’t the long lanky one. The young woman who brought the hot beverages and cookies was so big he’d have to adjust his headlights if she got in the back of his Jeep.
After she’d gone, Lynn said, “When’s your client coming back from Hawaii?”
The old lawyer laughed and said, “He’s not in Hawaii. He’s playing in the Bob Hope Classic.”
“But Bino Sierra said …”
“Bino automatically says that to everybody. Then he sends any unusual inquiries to me. That’s Bino’s way, I don’t argue with it. And to save you the trouble, Bino has a minor rap sheet, but from what I hear it was stuff from his youth in East L.A. A little bit of gang stuff. He’s been straight since he went to work for John Lugo five or six years ago.”
“What’s he do?”
“He’s a driver and looks after the home. Kind of a personal assistant.”
“Uh huh,” Lynn
said.
Nelson sipped his coffee and was pleased to see that Leo Grishman dunked his cookie in the tea before taking a bite. And him a lawyer.
“I suppose you and Bino and Mister Lugo tried hard to figure out the mortuary connection?”
“Bino swore he hasn’t a clue, and neither does John. Bino called John this morning over at Bermuda Dunes soon as he heard about it, that’s the course John’s playing today. John was all excited about getting to meet Arnold Palmer. Said he didn’t know diddly about any dark bald guy trying to find him. Only bald guy he cared about was Gerald Ford. Might get to meet him tomorrow when he plays at Indian Wells.”
“Has he ever had a guy of that description in his past?” Lynn asked. “Maybe one he owes, or who owes him?”
Leo Grishman sighed and said, “Look, son, a guy like John Lugo probably has a thousand dark guys in his past, with and without hair, who feel that somebody owes somebody. John’s sixty-seven years old now and he’s living in retirement. He plays golf five times a week. He doesn’t cross the wrong people anymore. Besides, anyone could find John Lugo without asking questions about his mother’s funeral, for God’s sake! Everyone knows he’s got a big house up there in Bob Hope’s neighborhood.”
Lynn studied the lawyer, and said, “The real brain buster is, the guy didn’t even know John Lugo’s name. All he knew about was a tombstone, a tombstone with orchids on it. A tombstone that John Lugo ordered for his mother’s funeral last September. That’s how he arrived at the mortuary. Can you explain it?”
“Son, you got me. I couldn’t explain that one with a Ouija board. I can tell you that I’m the guy who handled some of the arrangements for his mother’s funeral. The stone with orchids on it was her last request. Believe me, I’m way too old to be lying to a cop. If I had something I didn’t want you to know I’d just refuse to talk to you.”
Nelson put down his half-drunk cup of coffee and said, “Mister Grishman, is there any connection between your client and somebody from Spain?”
The old lawyer thought it over and said, “Spain? No, I don’t think so. Puerto Rico maybe. He was involved with a group that did a resort near San Juan some years back. Spain? No.”
“How about the Middle East?” Nelson asked.
“I don’t know anybody from the Middle East, believe me,” Leo Grishman said. “John’s done some vending machine business with a local guy that’s Syrian, if that helps.”
“Might,” Nelson said. “What’s his name?”
“Look, not everybody appreciates getting visits from the cops,” the lawyer said.
“I took a bad thumping last night,” Lynn Cutter said. “I feel like I got spit on and run over by a herd a camels, but I’m willing to stay on this if I get cooperation. Your client might be in danger, and I can promise you this bald guy ain’t the kind that’s gonna swoon over Bino’s campy version of Sicilian opera.”
“Bino’s not Sicilian, of course. He’s a chicano from L.A.,” the lawyer said. “And so is John. They both came up the hard way in Boyle Heights. And so did I, I might add, back when Boyle Heights was still a Jewish neighborhood with only a few Mexicans.”
“The point is, we’re trying to catch a guy who’s risking his life to reach John Lugo. Why shouldn’t you do everything you can to help us?”
The lawyer thought it over and said, “There’s a new belly-dancing restaurant in Cat City called The Fez. The Syrian’s name is George Tibbash. He’s a good friend of John’s. I’ll call him and tell him you’re on the way, and I’ll explain what’s going on and recommend that he talk to you. Maybe he can think of a Middle East connection, or even a Spanish one. I can’t.” Then the lawyer wrote a phone number on a business card and said, “This is my home number. Keep me posted if you learn anything we should know. I don’t want anything happening to John Lugo.”
“How about the name Francisco V. Ibañez,” Nelson said. “What’s it mean to you?”
“Diddly,” said the lawyer. “That name doesn’t mean diddly.”
“We’ll let you know what we come up with, if it concerns your client,” Lynn said.
“Glad to help,” the old lawyer said as they were leaving his office. “If we don’t meet again, I hope you have good luck in retirement, and may all your polyps be benign.”
When they were back in the Jeep, Lynn said, “I thought you’d given up on your terrorist obsession.”
“We’re going to visit a Syrian in a couple minutes!”
“That doesn’t make this a CIA case. I’m now inclined to think that our bald guy was coming to Palm Springs in a private plane from … I don’t know from where. To play catch-up with John Lugo for some deal they did together in …”
“Puerto Rico.”
“Yeah, Puerto Rico.”
“They don’t use Spanish pesetas in Puerto Rico.”
“I thought I explained that. You can get any foreign coins handed to you at any airport in Mexico, or even in any border town. Christ, the border’s only a few hours from here, Nelson!”
“You’re saying the guy came from Puerto Rico to Mexico where he picked up the coins somehow, then he hired a plane to fly to Palm Springs, got engine trouble, and landed before they got to the right airport? Right?”
“Yeah,” Lynn said, “something like that.”
“There’s no desert in Puerto Rico,” Nelson said.
“Why oh why do I keep forgetting about the man of the desert?” Lynn said, eyes rolling up at cloudless blue. “You keep saying it but I don’t hear you. Both my wives always told me I had a great ear for anything except their voices. Must be the same with you, huh?”
“About your theory, explain one thing.”
“Okay.”
“If one a John Lugo’s old business associates was tryin to plant a bomb in his golf cart or somethin, why would they have to go to a mortician that buried his mother even to find out his name? Explain that.”
Lynn Cutter stared through the windshield for a moment and said, “It’s amazing how confused I’ve allowed myself to get since I met you. You’re right. My theory’s about as accurate as a Scud missile.”
“I ain’t doin no better. My imagination’s taxed to the max. The only thing we know is, if Francisco V. Ibañez gets within a hundred yards a John Lugo, Lugo’s life ain’t gonna be worth ten pesetas.”
“If that bald-headed sonofabitch hadn’t shoved me in the box last night, I wouldn’t much care,” Lynn said, “especially after meeting Lugo’s man, Bino. I’d say let the bald guy do the world a favor.”
“So maybe we’ll bring the guy down after he dusts off Lugo. Long as we get him, I don’t care if it’s before or after.”
Nelson showed Lynn his bunny grin. If he had a carrot he’d look just like the Warner Brothers rabbit.
The Fez was one of those ersatz-Moroccan restaurants with Moorish arches and blue tiles and huge coffee tables where everyone sits on enormous floor pillows and eats without utensils unless they demand some, in which case they’re begrudgingly given a tablespoon so they can look like infants while they dribble their couscous. A huge banner announcing its grand opening hung across the facade of what had been a Mexican restaurant that had folded. A posted menu offered a half-price luncheon as a promotional gimmick.
The place was so dark it took a moment for their pupils to dilate as they went from harsh desert sunlight to Moroccan gloom. There were about twenty other customers, and a belly dancer was shaking it all around for some Japanese tourists who were only too happy to shove dollar bills inside her costume. Nelson counted seven ones and three fives folded and protruding from her sequined bra.
Each of the waiters wore a hooded djellaba and most looked Arab, though there probably wasn’t a genuine Moroccan in the place. The busboys were Mexicans and obviously uncomfortable in the strange getups. The bartender wore a tarboosh and the tassel kept falling in his face.
The only guy in the place in a business suit approached them and said, “A table, gentlemen?”
He
was tall and erect, with a curved nose as thin as a blade. He had large penetrating eyes, doeskin complexion, and his silver hair was combed straight back from a widow’s peak.
“Mister Tibbash?” Lynn asked.
“Ah, you must be the two policemen,” George Tibbash said. “Of course I’m happy to cooperate. Mister Grishman told me all about it.” His accent was so slight that for a moment Lynn thought he was American-born.
“Where can we talk?” Lynn asked.
“Because I’ve just opened I’m needed every moment for emergencies,” George Tibbash said. “Would you mind if I left you for now? I’ll return promptly.”
“Okay with us,” Lynn said.
“Of course, you are my guests for luncheon,” he said, leading them to a low table near the dance floor where the belly dancer was scooping up all the dollar bills that had dropped out of her costume during her last shimmy.
She dashed offstage as the taped music dropped a few decibels and several degrees in heat. A baritone started wailing something that sounded like an Arabic version of “I Love Paris.”
After Lynn and Nelson sat down on the floor pillows, George Tibbash said, “If you’ll permit me, I’ll order for you. Unless you’re familiar with the cuisine?”
“Not me,” Lynn said. “I survive on Dunkin’ Donuts and Fritos. You know, all that nighttime crime-fighting fuel.”
“Me too,” said Nelson. “I can’t jist say no to McDonald’s. A major grease abuser is what I am.”
“We’ll start you with harira, a Moroccan soup, and a bastella appetizer,” George Tibbash said, “That’s a pie of minced chicken, almonds and eggs. Then I think chicken tagine. It’s flavored with saffron, pickled lemons and ginger. And couscous, naturally. That’s steamed semolina topped with a lamb stew. How about drinks?”
“Scotch rocks, tall,” Lynn said.
“Bottle a beer,” Nelson said. “Any kind.”
“Coming up, gentlemen,” George Tibbash said. “And I’ll be joining you as soon as I can. Our purveyor hasn’t shown up with tonight’s order, so it’s crisis time. Meanwhile, enjoy yourselves.”
Fugitive Nights Page 22
