by Joe Gores
I begin with newspapers and periodicals, and thus learn an interesting fact: he is a big-game fisherman of some note, and indeed his photo with a dead fish is in last year’s L. A. Times sporting section. Taken in December on a plain wooden pier with a huge motor yacht in the background. Taken where? In Mexico. Where in Mexico? Where they catch big fish. That takes in much of the Mexican coastline. Small help.
Examination with a magnifying glass of an 8 by 11 glossy of the original art sent to the paper gives me, however, the name of the motor yacht: Tosca. He is sport-fishing in Mexico in December from a boat named Tosca.
December. I am beginning my workup on Prince in October.
I instinctively know that security will be more relaxed around that boat than it is in Vegas. So I can try to find where the boat is moored, and wait by it until he arrives; but even if my search is successful, my wait could be months in duration.
I do not have months. Dante Stagnaro is nipping at my heels, even if he doesn’t know it yet. I must complete my list before his synapses complete the circuits within his skull. So I must find a way to trace Prince to his boat rather quickly.
In such an endeavor, I have one hidden asset. I know that one of his personal bodyguards is a very big and very smart man called Red. I watch him casually question Stagnaro in a Death Valley date grove. If I can tag Red in Vegas, and keep him in sight, can Prince be far off? I know him; he does not know me. An auspicious beginning.
I go to Vegas, play slot machines at the Xanadu for days, pulling those bandits’ single arms with as much mindlessness as I can muster, morning, noon, and night, giving myself a zombie face, before I finally spot Red passing through the casino. Then, gradually, by judicious observation, I learn where his apartment is. I learn when he works out, and where. I learn where he parks his cream-colored Lexus. I never let him make eye contact with me; I am reserving my options.
In all this time I have not yet seen Prince himself-he leaves from and returns to the hotel garage where security is too fierce for me to venture. I occasionally see smoked windows passing by my point of observation, with Red’s Lexus behind. So choosing Red as my point of contact is sound.
Red’s parking garage has only locked-doors security, so on a day in mid-December, in midmorning, from behind a pillar I observe him getting off the elevator, suitcase in hand, and opening the trunk of his Lexus. I follow discreetly when he leaves. He drives south and west out of town on I-15 in the brilliant desert sunshine.
Decision time. He might just be going on vacation. But I know he is one of Prince’s trusted men. I know that last year Prince was on his motor cruiser Tosca in Mexico in December. I know that the I-15 freeway is the direct motor route to Los Angeles. And I know that Los Angeles is the logical place for a man who lives in Las Vegas to berth his expensive power cruiser.
So I follow Red. Freeway tailing is easy, especially when the subject has no idea he is under scrutiny, and is in no hurry. Los Angeles it is. Then Marina del Rey. And Tosca. He moves aboard the yacht; there is enough sporadic activity by the permanent crew to suggest the craft will soon be in use.
I hover. A couple of evenings later, Red and a blonde attend a postmodernist art opening at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. Being indifferent to postmodernism, I enjoy the life-size prehistoric mammals stuck in the adjacent La Brea tar pits. Red stays overnight at the blonde’s apartment in the 600 block of Grant Street in Santa Monica; I drive to San Pedro.
At dawn I buy fish heads and offal from returning fishermen. At Marina del Rey, I again gain access to the locked pier at which Tosca is moored-nautical clothes, a nautical face, call a cheery, “Hold it a second, will you, I’ve got my hands full,” at someone entering or leaving the dock.
When I see Red’s Lexus driving up, I dump my fish heads and intestines on the dock close by Tosca, am angrily hosing them off when Red arrives. How thoughtless some people are! He agrees.
The rest is child’s play. We talk art, Red lets slip that Prince will be joining Tosca in La Paz, capital of Baja del sud. I fly to Cabo, rent a battered old yellow Volkswagen Beetle at the airport, spend a couple of days familiarizing myself with Cabo and environs.
I am in La Paz with good 10X glasses to see Prince in the flesh for the first time. Learn over a waterfront beer that Tosca will be sailing for Cabo next day. I am there first, continuing my quest, eventually learning where Prince does his December fishing-at Hotel Pez Grande, forty miles north.
I see Tosca safely to its mooring on Christmas Eve and, on the assumption that she left Prince at Pez Grande, drive there. I have a beer in the upstairs bar at the hotel, courtesy of Martin Prince when he buys a Christmas round for the house. I watch him play darts with Tex, observe Tex’s handy limp.
It is as if Prince seeks my blade. He goes down to the beach in the darkness, all souls alone, then out onto the fish ing pier. I walk with Tex’s limp to get close enough for handwork.
This obscene man dies with the Virgin’s prayer on his lips.
I am in a plane to Los Angeles by the time his body is discovered, strung up on the block and tackle like one of the hapless martin he took so much delight in stringing up himself.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Kosta Gounaris was going over the preliminary operating cost estimates for the year just ended when Diana Pym called him on the intercom, not using the speaker so his words could not be heard by anyone in her office.
“Lieutenant Dante Stagnaro is waiting to see you, Mr. Gounaris. He has no appointment.”
“Let him sweat until I tell you to bring him in.”
Kosta stood, walked to the window, stood looking out and down at the human ants far below, hands thrust in his pants pockets. He felt like whistling, or doing a little zembeikiko there in the window.
What a difference three weeks made! On Christmas Eve he had tried to assassinate Stagnaro, result of another hypothetical with Miss Pym, and had missed. He’d been sure Stagnaro would uncover him as the shooter, had been even more sure Mr. Prince would find out he’d been skimming the Atlas profits.
Stagnaro didn’t come after him. And on that same Christmas Eve, Prince had been gutted and strung up like a dead fish at some little pisspot hotel on the Baja coast. Kosta’s whole life had changed. Now there was no chance of his skimming from the Atlas profits being uncovered. And he was the fair-haired boy who had gotten a toehold for the Mafia in the rich San Francisco Bay Area where they had previously been only a shadow presence.
Nothing to fear from Stagnaro, either. He probably had never had anything to fear from him. He buzzed Miss Pym.
“Send him in and leave the key open so you can listen in.”
He was immersed in paperwork when Stagnaro entered. Kosta glanced up, pointed a careless finger at a chair on the other side of the desk, went on with his study of the file. He made a couple of notations on the accounting sheets, finally put down his pen and looked up.
“Lieutenant. You caught me on a busy morning.”
“Can the crap. I had a tail on you Christmas Eve.”
For just a moment, Kosta’s blood froze; then he relaxed. If the man had anything he could make stick, he’d have had Gounaris down to the Hall of Justice long before now.
“Then you know I spent the evening with Miss Pym.”
Dante was on his feet. “I know that you tried to hit me outside my house on Christmas Eve. I’ve found the car you used, it was in storage in the same garage where you park. So-”
“You know, Lieutenant,” interrupted Kosta, standing himself and coming out from behind the desk, “I believe that cease-and-desist order forbidding the SFPD-and you specifically-from harassing me is still in effect.” He chuckled. “I’m going to break you, Lieutenant-right down to uniformed patrol.”
Stagnaro seemed unperturbed, but he had to be seething.
“We had the mistaken idea that you might be in danger, Gounaris. I thought you were probably next on the hit list.”
Kosta couldn’t help asking; he really
wanted to know. “But you were wrong?”
“I think it was your list.” He stood up, started for the door, turned back. “If you ever come near me or my wife again, Gounaris, I’ll kill you. And fix it up afterwards to look like self-defense. ’Til then, keep Raptor away from Will Dalton.”
Kosta kept his face straight. “What is a Raptor?”
Stagnaro left, Miss Pym came in with that look on her face.
“I have Charlene covering your calls,” she said. She locked the door. “Rather exciting, hearing you talk to that policeman.”
“Show me,” said Gounaris. She did. Afterwards he told her to take the rest of the day off to buy some lingerie. “With open crotches. Be wearing it when I come over tonight.”
Power. Power! Jesus, there was nothing like it. What had Henry Miller written? Living in the land of fuck. The gold ring was within his grasp. Nothing could stop him now.
Dante, feeling depressed, stopped for a cup of decaf in the lobby coffee shop. How many ways could you blow one interview? He’d planned it all out in advance, and it had been a dud. The loose tail on Gounaris had lost him that night. He’d gone into his parking garage after work, hadn’t come out. Hours later they caught up with him at Diana Pym’s apartment on Telegraph Hill. He’d been loose during the vital time.
And a man who had left his car garaged there while gone for the holidays had found a Domino Pizza sign in his trunk-the kind that clips on the top of a car. The kind that Dante had seen on the top of the shooter’s car just before the bullets had started flying.
He had thought the information about the car would shake Gounaris; the man had just laughed at him. And Diana Pym was giving him an all-evening alibi; she was completely in the thrall of the tall Greek, just like Moll Dalton before her. Even Rosa had thought Gounaris was a handsome devil.
Dante’s eyes found the lobby pay phone Gounaris had used to call Gideon Abramson in Palm Springs, back in the days when he’d had Gounaris on the run. Now Gounaris was on top of the world. He’d been involved somehow in Moll Dalton’s death. He’d been able to eliminate everyone in power between him and a position of high importance in the mob. He’d gotten the Mafia a toehold in San Francisco. And, although Dante didn’t know why, he’d tried to kill Dante and had gotten away with it.
And Dante couldn’t prove a damned word of it. Accuse him, Gounaris could sue him and the department. Tim was right. Let it go. Gounaris just wasn’t his problem any longer. Probably never had been.
His problem was that tonight Will Dalton planned to make a speech over in Berkeley at the Institute of Human Origins, detailing his fifteen months in Uganda studying chimpanzees. And hadn’t returned Dante’s calls urging him not to.
Will Dalton, whose wife had left him something, a computer disk maybe, that might shed light on the riddle of Kosta Gounaris. Dalton, who had brought himself back into the danger zone months before he was scheduled to return.
Dante wanted to stop Raptor from killing, not put the cuffs on him after Will Dalton was already dead. If Dalton spoke, Raptor would be there; Dante could feel it in his bones. So he had to be there, too. Alone. Nobody believed him that Dalton was in danger. Except for Raptor. And probably Kosta Gounaris.
Kosta was at his desk, thinking about Will Dalton. Fifteen months ago he had wanted Dalton dead. Had wanted revenge on him, in a weird way, for Moll’s death. Now Moll and her passionate lovemaking had paled to insignificance next to Miss Pym’s delicious perversions of body and mind.
The phone rang. Charlene said, “There’s an Inspector Flanagan on line two, Mr. Gounaris.”
“Tell him I’ve already left for the day.”
“Gee, I’m sorry, Mr. Gounaris, I said you were still-”
“Oh, all right, put the bastard on.”
“I’m already on.”
That fucking Charlene was out of a job, as of right now! Not closing down Flanagan’s line while she buzzed him…
“Can’t blame me for trying, Inspector,” said Gounaris. He heard Charlene hang up. At least the stupid cunt had gotten that right. “Your friend Stagnaro was sniffing around all morning, I’m sick of the stink of cops.”
“Yeah? Tough titty. Somebody whacked Diana Pym in her apartment an hour ago. I just got here, I’m waiting for the tech boys now. I want you to get your ass over here.”
A huge hand seemed to seize Kosta’s heart. “Diana? Dead? But that can’t be! She was just-”
“Dead. And she didn’t die easy. Like maybe whoever did it was trying to get some information out of her.”
“I don’t… know what to say…”
There was a heavy bray of laughter over the line. “Just say she was a great piece of ass and move on to the next one.” The voice suddenly hardened. “I want you over here right now, Gounaris. There’s papers and shit all over the floor, and she’s naked except for some Victoria’s Secret underwear without any crotch in it. Whoever did this liked his work…”
It was nearly five o’clock, dark out. The light drizzle that had fallen early in the afternoon had ended; the pavement gleamed in the streetlights but the air was clear and crisp. Gounaris was lucky enough to flag down a cab just as he emerged from the Atlas Entertainment building.
“Kearny above Broadway,” he told the driver.
Vivid sexual images shot through him. Going down on Moll Dalton, finishing off in her mouth… And an hour later… Diana Pym, going down on him so he finished off in her mouth. And now, a few hours later…
Stop it, goddam you, he thought. There wasn’t time for that. Moll was gone. Diana was gone. As the cab threaded its way through the stalled, angry, honking rush-hour traffic, he knew he had to think, think hard and quick. It wasn’t over after all! It hadn’t died with Martin Prince! Maybe that Raptor mentioned by Stagnaro… She didn’t die easy… trying to get information out of her… whoever did this liked his work…
Think, goddammit! What had she known that could be dangerous to Kosta Gounaris? He relaxed fractionally. She had known nothing about the things the mob would want to know: whatever might cost them money or endanger their operations.
He remembered Flanagan now, fat, red-faced and deliberately stupid. Even so, he could be a problem, might think this gave him a right to dig around in Atlas operations…
“Here you are, pal.”
Kosta shoved some bills at the cabby, got out, almost slipped crossing the wet-slick, steeply slanted sidewalk toward the gaping street door of Diana’s second-floor apartment. Flanagan’s unmarked sedan was parked at an angle halfway up across the sidewalk, the driver’s door hanging open.
Gounaris ran up the interior stairs, his shoes echoing on the old hardwood risers. The door to her apartment at the head of the stairs also stood open. Bright light came through from the living room beyond the hallway. He went in, faltered. He didn’t want to see Diana…
“In-Inspector? I-”
The wire garrote was looped around his neck from behind. The big predator coming out of the hall closet gave a grunt of effort as he jerked the wire tight with its two handmade wooden handles, ramming his knee into the small of Kosta’s back for leverage.
“Die… you… fucker…”
Gounaris did. Almost immediately. But not before he had been spun around to face the hallway mirror so he could see, through dimming eyes, Raptor’s ferocious and triumphant face reflected over his own shoulder.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
I want something special for this one-the savagery unleashed last time seems to be growing. Something up close and personal. The gun? I’ve used that already, more than once. The bomb? If you will allow a directed gas main explosion to count, I’ve used that too. The knife? Prince of darkness. Which leaves the club or the garrote.
The garrote it shall be. Up close and personal. Easy to fabricate out of piano wire and two pieces of dowel for handgrips. Gloves at all times, of course. And I want it to be at Miss Pym’s apartment-somehow fitting, don’t you agree?
I go in two days ago using the
old telephone repairman ruse. Cap, jacket, a phone to hang off a thick leather belt… Lovely view of the Embarcadero, the piers, the Bay Bridge from her front room window. She has a telescope-for watching the ships, she tells me. Spare bedroom fixed up as a home office; fax machine, filing cabinet, speakerphone, copy machine…
Outside, the view is equally delectable. A breathtaking panorama down Kearny and across Broadway to the financial district, dominated by the towering white golf tee of the Transamerica Tower. A similar view, in fact, to that from the late Moll Dalton’s penthouse apartment, visited, thoroughly scouted, many times by Raptor before her demise.
I have been tracking Gounaris for two weeks now, I know his patterns, his habits. I see Stagnaro visit him today, I watch Miss Pym depart, follow her shopping, home, activate my plan. When the time is right, I go up to her apartment, do what I do, call Gounaris. Impersonating fat Tim Flanagan over the phone is easy; Gounaris has not spoken to the man for fifteen months.
I leave my Hertz car-the epitome of an unmarked sedan-parked at an artistic angle across the sidewalk, door agape. I leave street and upstairs door to the apartment open, flood it with light to make it subliminally seem a crime scene.
I wait in the closet. Gounaris arrives. Sees himself die.
I arrange the scene further, drive to my Berkeley motel room; I have two hours to wait before the Will Dalton finis. Or my own. I don’t know how that will go, not with Stagnaro lurking around. I lie down for a moment, fall asleep, dream.
I have completed an assassination in a strange city, rent a cheap hotel room for the night. It is high-ceilinged and boxy, sparsely furnished with a neatly made double bed and an almost napless carpet on the floor.
In the night I come half-awake with a warm heavy weight on top of me. At first I think it is my dog, he weighs as much as a person, but when I put my hand down to pat his head, I encounter soft human flesh. I feel an arm, a female breast, I jerk my hand away. A woman is lying asleep on top of me.
