by Roy Chaney
The black Chrysler pulled away from the curb, sped off down the street.
Hagen glanced to his left as he slid his pistol back into the shoulder holster. One of the young black men had indeed disappeared, but the other three were still there, staring at him in silence. One of them was leaning against the front window of the store coolly, arms folded, ankles crossed. The other two lay flat on their stomachs on the sidewalk, just in case bullets began to fly.
9.
DARKNESS . . .
The pistol felt cold in his hands. Warm blood ran down his arm.
He heard a voice. From somewhere in the trees.
“Bodo . . .”
It was Vogel’s voice.
Vogel was hurt. Vogel was in pain.
“Bodo . . .”
The voice seemed to come from every direction at once.
Hagen knew that Vogel was dying. But Hagen couldn’t move. He was frozen in place, no different than the trees that surrounded him in the darkness. Hagen knew he’d never get to Vogel in time.
“Bodo . . .”
The voice again, but weaker now. And different. It wasn’t Vogel’s voice, was it? Hagen listened for the voice again. All he could hear was the susurrus of the wind in the tree branches above him. All he could hear was the sound of his own heart pumping the blood that was running down his arm.
When the voice did come again it was only a whisper.
“Bodo . . .”
Ronnie? It was Ronnie’s voice. How could that be?
Hagen tried to call to his brother but the words died in his throat. Where was Ronnie? Somehow Hagen moved his foot, took a step forward. It seemed to take all his strength. But he was moving. He was coming. If Ronnie could only hang on for a short while Hagen would find him.
Hagen took another step. The ground was wet and his foot sunk into the dirt. Blood dripped from his fingers. The earth was moist with his own blood. Was he moving in the right direction? He didn’t know. He waited to hear Ronnie’s voice again.
Suddenly a great screaming tore through the silence. Bullets kicked up the dirt at Hagen’s feet. Hagen dived behind the nearest tree and lay on the ground. The bullets kept coming, ripping and tearing and clawing at the ground only inches from Hagen’s head.
The gunfire ceased.
The voice returned. Ronnie’s voice.
“Bodo . . .”
Somewhere in the darkness, Ronnie was dying . . .
Hagen woke up.
He wasn’t sure where he was. He sat up quickly, looked around the room. He saw the room and the things in it through a haze. Then the haze cleared and he remembered.
The dream lingered in his mind.
He’d had it before. Many times. In it he always heard Vogel’s voice, calling to him, plaintive and pleading, crying out for Hagen to come help him. But this time it was different. It wasn’t Vogel’s voice. It was Ronnie’s voice he heard in his dream.
His brother’s voice, calling to him for help in the darkness.
It was half past nine in the morning. Hagen got up, pulled the curtains open, turned up the air-conditioning. He shaved and showered. Put on a pair of gray slacks and a black polo shirt. He called room service for a pot of coffee. Asked if they could deliver it hot this time.
Hagen sat down on the couch and studied Ronnie’s two closed suitcases. He wondered now if it had been the Englishman and the German who had tossed his room the night before last. His watchers. Two Europeans—did they work for Suzanne Cosette? On the drive back to the Venetian last night—this morning—Hagen had stopped at a drugstore and purchased a flashlight and batteries. When he returned to the hotel garage he searched the engine compartment of the Buick, felt around inside the wheel wells and behind the bumpers, got down on the ground in a push-up position and looked under the front, rear and both sides of the car. Then he checked the interior—the underside of the dashboard, the glove compartment, the floor of the car under the front seats, the trunk. He was looking for some indication that a homing beacon or a global positioning unit had been attached to the car. Hagen knew it was probably wasted effort—GPS units were so small these days they could be hidden just about anywhere. But he gave it a shot. And found nothing.
An absurd thought crossed Hagen’s mind. Perhaps the two watchers had other reasons for following Hagen, reasons that were entirely removed from what happened to Ronnie. Might the Englishman and the German be working for someone in Germany? Hagen had made a few enemies there, and elsewhere in Europe. Probably more than he knew. Were his watchers here to settle an old score? Indeed, an absurd thought—but Hagen wasn’t prepared to rule it out entirely. At this point he couldn’t afford to rule anything out.
A soft knock at the door. The coffee had arrived.
But when Hagen answered the door it wasn’t room service.
A tall young man wearing a black suit, a white shirt and a black bow tie stood in the corridor. A wisp of curly blond hair fell out from under the billed black chauffeur’s cap he wore at a jaunty angle. His hands were covered with black leather driving gloves. His muscular physique showed clearly through his well-tailored suit.
He smiled at Hagen.
“Good morning, Mister Hagen,” he said as he handed Hagen a business card.
It was a white business card with a name on it—winston w. wilson. Underneath the name, in small serif script was an address. While Hagen examined the card he noticed the strong, heady smell of flowers. It seemed to fill the hallway. A scent of lilacs? Hagen looked at the chauffeur. The chauffeur smiled his bright white smile.
“Mister Wilson wonders if you are available to speak with him this morning,” the chauffeur said. His voice was soft and pleasant. “If so, I’m prepared to take you to him.”
“How about if I drive there myself?”
“If you prefer. Can you make it in an hour?”
“I think so.”
The chauffeur gave Hagen directions to the Wilson residence, then wished him a good morning and departed. The cloud of flowery perfume departed with him. Hagen saw that Gubbs had been right. Winnie the Poof was interested in talking to Hagen. So interested that he’d contacted Hagen before Hagen had a chance to contact him. Well, that was all right. Hagen held the business card to his nose. Yes, definitely lilacs.
As Hagen drove along the Summerlin Parkway he watched a late-model sport utility vehicle—dark blue, possibly a Ford—in his rearview mirror. He wasn’t sure how long it had been behind him. Might’ve been there since he left the hotel.
He slowed down, waited to see whether the SUV followed suit.
Suddenly a yellow taxi cut in front of Hagen, missing his front bumper by inches. Hagen hit the brakes. The taxi slowed down. Hagen honked his horn. The taxi driver gave his machine a burst of gas and the taxi lurched forward and slid into the far right lane, exhaust pipe trailing thick black smoke. Hagen sped up to get past him. When Hagen searched his rearview mirror again the SUV was nowhere to be seen.
The address on Winnie the Poof’s calling card belonged to a residence hidden away behind a high stone wall on the west side of Las Vegas. Hagen pulled up to the wrought-iron front gates and pressed the button on the intercom. A voice buzzed over the small speaker. Hagen gave his name and a moment later the gates swung open, then closed behind him as he drove up the circular driveway.
The house was a low ranch-style structure with two large picture windows that looked out on the driveway and a circular flower garden in the center of the wide green lawn. Tall green and yellow cacti growing up out of a bed of jagged red rocks lined the walkway leading up to the double front doors. The chauffeur stepped out of the house and met Hagen at the car. Only he wasn’t a chauffeur now. He’d replaced the black coat and chauffeur’s cap with a white sport coat. He looked like an oversized house boy.
“I’ll have to frisk you,” the chauffeur said. “Mister Wilson would prefer that his guests not arrive with weapons.”
“Sounds like a good policy.”
“It’s the
prudent view.”
The chauffeur patted him down thoroughly and professionally. The heavy scent of lilacs once again wafted up to Hagen’s nose.
“Perhaps you can leave the firearm in your car,” the chauffeur said, giving him a benign smile.
“Perhaps I can.”
Hagen removed the Heckler & Koch from under his sport coat and tucked it into the glove compartment.
He followed the chauffeur into the house.
The sunken living room was decorated with wood paneling and wood-finished furniture. Where a fireplace might have been in most homes was a water fountain made of flat white stones. Water streamed across the rocks above, fell from the edges, landed on the rocks below, filling the entire room with the soft contemplative sounds of a trickling mountain stream. Very relaxing, Hagen thought. And very extravagant for Las Vegas, where water was at a premium. Between the large green lawn and the flower garden and this indoor waterfall, Winnie the Poof was operating some kind of oasis out here on the edge of the desert.
Hagen followed the chauffeur through a pair of sliding-glass doors and out onto a patio. Behind the house there was more water, in the form of a long kidney-shaped swimming pool. In the distance the brown peaks of the Spring Mountains looked parched and forbidding.
Winnie the Poof lay on a chaise longue beside the pool.
He was a small thin man, possibly sixty years old, short gray hair receding well back onto his narrow head. He wore nothing but a pair of thin baby blue swimming trunks and a pair of sunglasses with dark green lenses. His chest and legs were shaved hairless and his rough, well-tanned skin was covered with a lotion that made it glisten in the sunlight like patent leather. The frames of his sunglasses were made of pink plastic, the two eyepieces shaped like valentine hearts.
“Good morning, Mister Hagen. I’m so glad you could drop by. I’m sure you’re a busy man. But who isn’t these days?” Winnie the Poof pulled the sunglasses down on his nose, studied Hagen. His eyes were bloodshot, with deep lines at the corners and dark patches underneath. He pushed the sunglasses back up on his nose, picked up a tall Bloody Mary in a fluted glass from the low table next to him, took a sip. A buff-colored file folder lay on the table.
“You’ll have to excuse me if I say that you don’t look too busy right at the moment,” Hagen said, taking a seat on the other side of the table. The chauffeur stood a few steps behind Winnie, waiting for instructions.
“The life of the mind, Mister Hagen. The life of the mind.” Winnie the Poof’s voice was deep and melodious. The voice seemed too big for the small wrinkled body. “I find that I do my best thinking lying beside this swimming pool covered from head to toe in this stinking lotion. My dermatologist tells me that it will bring back the soft smooth skin of my youth but so far it hasn’t done a thing except give me a rash on my backside.”
“Maybe you should stay out of the sun.”
“In Las Vegas? Not very workable. Would you like a cocktail, Mister Hagen?”
“Just coffee, thanks. I don’t drink much before noon.”
“Merely a question of practice.”
Winnie the Poof snapped his fingers and the chauffeur disappeared back into the house. A white Chihuahua dog appeared from under the chaise longue and began sniffing around Hagen’s legs. A second Chihuahua, identical to the first, appeared from somewhere behind Hagen and jockeyed for position with the other dog at Hagen’s feet. “Troy, come away from Mister Hagen’s leg.” Both dogs retreated, skittering back under the table to hide under the chaise longue. When the chauffeur returned with a cup of coffee on a silver tray a third Chihuahua dog trotted along with him and also gave Hagen’s leg a cursory inspection. “Troy, that’s enough,” Winnie the Poof said to the new dog. “Come here.” The new dog joined the other two on the other side of the table.
“I thought the other one was called Troy,” Hagen said as the chauffeur set the coffee and a small container of cream down on the table. A spoon and two cubes of sugar rested on the lip of the saucer, the cubes wrapped together in bright green and gold paper.
“They’re all named Troy, Mister Hagen.”
Hagen nodded toward the chauffeur, who had moved off to set his tray down on a table near the patio doors. “Is his name Troy too?”
“His name is Dagmar.”
“I knew a woman in Heidelberg once named Dagmar.”
“I don’t think it was my Dagmar. Although you never know. He does like to dress up. Actually his real name is Henry, but I much prefer Dagmar. Henry is such a lunch-bucket sort of name, don’t you agree?”
“Haven’t given it much thought.”
Winnie the Poof took another sip of his drink. “But don’t get the wrong idea about Dagmar, Mister Hagen. He may have a fetching name but he’s no nancy. He speaks four languages and he can tear you limb from limb in every one of them.”
“I’m glad to hear he’s so articulate. What about the other two boys?”
“Which two might those be?”
“The Englishman and the German you’ve had following me.”
Hagen watched the man’s reaction. Winnie the Poof merely shrugged off the remark. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mister Hagen. I know a lot of boys, but I’ve told none of them to follow you. An Englishman and a German, you say. How international.”
The chauffeur returned and resumed his position standing a few paces behind his boss. While Hagen stirred cream into his coffee, Winnie the Poof set his Bloody Mary down and picked up the file folder. Inside was a photograph and a single sheet of yellow paper covered with handwritten notes. Winnie the Poof tossed the photograph across the table with a flick of his wrist.
The photograph came to rest against Hagen’s saucer.
It was a color photograph—and one that Hagen had seen before. The dark wooden hand shining under a coat of polish, the curled fingers, the brown shipping paper underneath, the patch of flashbulb glare up in the corner of the photo. Dead man’s hand—the thought hit Hagen with force. The photograph was a copy of the photo that Suzanne Cosette had shown him in the atrium of the Mirage Hotel. And no doubt the same photograph that Ronnie had given the Sniff to pass on. How many copies of this picture were floating around Las Vegas?
“What is it?” Hagen said, poker-faced, setting the photograph down. He’d let Winnie the Poof tell him. Might be interesting to find out what the Poof’s take on this was.
“Some kind of a relic,” Winnie the Poof said. “An early prosthetic device. Slightly more than a hundred years old, or so I’m told. Whoever used that particular device had his work cut out for him. The joints of the fingers do in fact move but I doubt they were of much use to the owner, whoever that might have been. No, mostly a cosmetic appliance, I should think. Have you seen it before?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m looking for it. I was hoping that perhaps you knew where I could find it.” Winnie straightened up in the chaise longue, leaned forward, both hands flat on the table. His fingernails were filed and covered in clear polish. “Your brother came to me last week, Mister Hagen. He gave me that photograph and told me that he had this item in his possession. He wondered if perhaps I knew someone who might be interested in buying it. I told him I’d see what I could do. Your brother was going to bring the article here last Saturday so that I could inspect it firsthand, but—” Winnie the Poof frowned.
Hagen finished the thought. “But he was murdered.”
“Yes.”
“Now you think I have it.”
“Or you know where it is.”
“Where was it stolen from?”
“If it’s stolen, I’m not aware of it.”
“If it’s not stolen, why did Ronnie need a fence to sell it?”
“You’re laboring under a misconception, Mister Hagen. A fence is a dirty little man who sells cheap jewelry rifled from grandmother’s jewelry box. I’m not a fence. I simply
know a lot of people. Some of them want to sell things. Some of them want to buy things. I bring them together.”
Hagen almost laughed. Winnie the Poof—another prickly fence with too much pride. Like Dallas Martinez.
“This hand—what’s it worth?” Hagen said.
“I don’t think it has a lot of intrinsic value. But I do happen to know a collector who has expressed a minor interest in the piece.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s as much of an answer as I’m going to give you.” Winnie the Poof sat back in the chaise longue with his drink in his hand. “If you have this appliance or if you know where it is, Mister Hagen, I’m prepared to pay you a reasonable sum if you’ll make it available to me.”
“How much?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
“That’s not so much.”
There was a pause. The thin hairless man shrugged his shoulders again. “I might be able to go as high as ten thousand, under the right circumstances. I don’t know if it’s worth that kind of expense but I’m willing to be accommodating if I can afford to be.”
Hagen said, “How much were you going to pay Gubbs?”
“Jack Gubbs?”
“He put my brother in touch with you. There must’ve been something in it for him.”
“A gratuity.”
“Five thousand?”
“I shouldn’t think that much.”
“Who else knew my brother was selling this artifact?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“But Gubbs knew.”
“That would all depend on what your brother told him. I haven’t told him anything. Jack Gubbs is not a person I confide in.”
“What about Suzanne Cosette? Or Georges Amarantos? Do you confide in them?”
“Should I know them?”
“You tell me.”
“I believe I just did. I’ve never heard of either of them.”
