Body Slam (The Touchstone Agency Mysteries)

by Rex Burns

  “No …”

  “He says you called him recently.”

  “Well, perhaps at some time. But I don’t remember his name.”

  “Caitlin, he says you advised him against renting space to Rocky Ringside Wrestling. That you told him their insurance was bad.”

  A long silence. “Is this an interrogation?”

  “I’m only trying to find out what happened.”

  “If I have spoken with that man, it was very brief and unimportant. I have never advised him or anyone else about renting or not renting to anyone.”

  “He insists it was Chertok’s secretary who called.”

  “I can’t help what that man insists. I know what I did and did not do.” She paused, then, “Thank you for your help and concern, Miss Campbell. But I don’t think I wish to hear from you anymore.”

  It wasn’t Caitlin Morgan. Julie could swear that the woman’s voice held the injury of insult. Her conviction was sealed when she called Hernandez back to ask if he’d ever talked to Chertok’s secretary at any other time.

  “No. Why?”

  “Could it have been some other woman?”

  “She said she was Chertok’s secretary. I didn’t ask for her goddamn ID card.”

  “Did she leave you a number to call back?”

  “ … No. Not that I remember.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hernandez.” And Julie meant it.

  Her next call was to Chertok’s office. Caitlin answered the telephone, her tone cooling rapidly when she heard Julie’s voice. “I want to apologize, Ms. Morgan. I spoke with Mr. Hernandez, and he said only that it was a woman who claimed she was Chertok’s secretary. He’s never spoken with you at any other time and did not recognize the caller’s voice.”

  “I’m relieved that you believe me. Good day.” The line clicked.

  OK—everybody makes mistakes. And this line of business required duplicity, suspicion, distrust, a cynical probing for secret motives, and the disbelief of innocence. It was a great life if you didn’t weaken. But at least Julie had tried to correct this mistake, and she felt a little better for that effort. Still, she had more than a little suspicion that in the future Ms. Morgan would be much less the cooperative operative.

  Her next call was to Detective Wager.

  “Hi, Julie. And before you ask, no, I haven’t had time to investigate Chertok’s friends, relatives, or business associates.”

  “That’s not why I’m calling, Gabe. I just wondered if you’ve run a ballistics comparison on Palombino and Huggins.”

  “What?”

  “To see if they were killed by the same weapon.”

  His reply gave Julie the answer. “Huggins is not my case. What do you know that you’re not telling me, Julie?”

  “It’s not what I know; it’s what I’m guessing.”

  “That the same weapon killed them both—I got that. But what makes you suspect the cases are linked?”

  “I’m a detective, Gabe. I’m paid to suspect things.”

  “Don’t play games, Julie. If you or your old man withhold evidence, you will have problems. Real problems. I will bring charges.” The Spanish lilt came into his voice, betraying his frustration. “Now tell me what the hell is going on—everything.”

  “From my angle, the two killings seem connected, that’s all. It’s an idea based on a guess based on a feeling. You know how that is: it’s a thought that might lead somewhere, but it’s not strong enough for probable cause and it certainly won’t hold up in court.” She added, “But maybe you got the tip from a confidential informant.”

  After a brief pause, the detective said, “Yeah. I’ll call you back.”

  The maître d’ led Raiford to a corner table in the smoking section where George and the Cuban sat. Salazar, the level of his head somewhere below George’s shoulder, looked up as they approached.

  “Goddamn glad you could finally make it, Raiford!” His voice cut through the quiet conversations of neighboring tables. “It’s not like I got all goddamn day to schmooze, you know what I mean?”

  “Hey, be happy I’m here.”

  The smaller man’s mouth sagged open. Raiford settled onto a chair and nodded pleasantly to George.

  “Be happy! By the placenta of sweet baby Jesus! I get you one demo match and now you start telling me what to do? You are the one listens to me, Raiford! This is business—your future—the future of the Death Command, and more important, my future! By God if you—”

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Would you care for something else to drink before ordering?” The waiter’s smooth voice rode over Salazar’s outburst. A startled face at the next table turned away quickly as Raiford winked at it.

  “Another orange juice,” said George.

  “Draw me a beer,” said Raiford and leaned over the shorter man. “See, Sal? I’m listening.”

  “By the Virgin’s holy nipples …” He sucked a deep breath and glanced at the waiter. “Cuba libre. Double this time.”

  The waiter thanked them and took a long time to write the orders.

  “OK.” When the waiter finally left, Salazar’s voice was calm. “We start all over. Forget being late, Raiford. Forget wasting my valuable time. And above all forget the wise-mouth crap. But remember this: I am the manager and if I think you’re not serious about this project, you’re through. Understand? Finished—finito—done for. You can be replaced tomorrow because there are a lot of people eager to be where you are!”

  “Sal, believe me, I’m serious. Nobody’s more serious than I am. Ask my friends—ask my mother! I gave her gray hairs because I never laughed. Raiford the Reticent, that’s me. What project?”

  George spoke before Salazar could explode again. “He wants to get us on this new local circuit with the American West people. That’s the new outfit used to be … ?” He looked to Salazar for help.

  “What used to be Rocky Ringside Wrestling. That is, if it’s not too much bother for you, Raiford. If it doesn’t interfere with your career as a comedian!”

  “Tag-team matches, Jim. Pueblo, Colorado Springs, Fort Collins, Cheyenne, Casper, Rock Springs. It’s a tank circuit, but it’s with the FWO and it’s a good start.”

  “Goddamn right it’s a good start!”

  George sipped at his orange juice, his tongue playing with a bit of pulp hanging on his lip. “We can get a lot of ring time in front of different audiences. Open up new venues in the region and develop our product at the same time. It could be a good deal.”

  “Goddamn right it’s a good deal! I set it up. The FWO brings in national names to headline the main event, and American West provides local talent—that’s you people—to fill out the cards.”

  “Who’d you talk with at American West?”

  “What the hell difference does that make?”

  “I read in the paper where their lawyer was killed. Maybe they’re not in business anymore.”

  Salazar’s dark eyes blinked once. “I got a contract. A signed contract with American West. That’s what contracts are for, in case one of the parties drops dead or changes his mind or something.”

  Raiford shrugged. “That’s good. But who signed it? The dead lawyer?”

  “Goddamn it, you think I don’t know my business?” The cigar jabbed across the table. “Vic Schmanski and me, we put the deal through. We been working on it for months, wiseass. We drew up the contract and Schmanski got the signatures three weeks ago. It’s signed by the principals of FWO and American West, and the American West Corporation’s still alive regardless whether that lawyer’s dead. You think I waste my time on spec?” Salazar leaned back in his chair. “I don’t think you know what the hell I do, Raiford. And tell you the truth, I don’t think you could find your own ass with both hands, either.”

  “The contract between American West and the FWO was drawn up three we
eks ago?”

  “The ink was dry three weeks ago. Now if you are totally and completely satisfied that I, Raoul Salazar, know my own goddamn business, and that this is serious enough for your consideration, I’d like to start discussing the future of the Death Command. Is that all right with you, Raiford? You know, just a few little things like your routines, product packaging, slot on the card, public relations gigs, story development. And tonight’s practice with the new wrestlers so they don’t break your fucking neck when you get in the ring. Nothing important, you understand, just your whole, entire, complete goddamn future!”

  “Sal, my life is in your hands.”

  “You better goddamn believe it!”

  22

  Julie’s father came into the office around three. She told him about Caitlin Morgan.

  He considered that. “And you believe her?”

  “It was the way she reacted, Dad. I really think she’s telling the truth.”

  “It would be nice if you were right… . OK—let’s consider that assumption. If she wasn’t the one who called Hernandez, who else could it have been?”

  “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” Then, “Here’s a quid pro quo: Salazar says that American West and the FWO signed a contract for local promotions three weeks ago. Which, of course, is before American West bought out Lidke.”

  “And before Palombino was killed!”

  “Yep. If the deal was already made, why should anybody worry about Rocky Ringside? And why would anybody kill Palombino unless it really was a botched robbery?”

  Julie thought about that. Her father was right: Where was the money in an outfit that was already squeezed out of the picture? No matter how much Lidke might squeal, FWO and American West could simply roll over him and Rocky Ringside. Which gave credence to Chertok’s denials. But even if Chertok had been telling the truth about not viewing Lidke as viable competition, why had the promoter been so defensive? Who called the arenas to shut Lidke out? And who torched Lidke’s car? “I’ve been looking at it from another angle, Dad.” Julie told him her idea about the two murders.

  “The same weapon? That’s what you think?”

  “Just a guess. Gabe’s supposed to call when he gets the ballistics comparison back.” She added, “I think some pieces are finally starting to fit together.”

  Raiford planted a large shoe on the window rail to gaze at the distant mountains. He whistled a faint tune through his teeth. “Yeah … yeah, they are. But why would he do it?”

  “He wanted it all.”

  He whistled again. “It could mean a lot of money, all right. But with American West signed to FWO, there was nothing to get.”

  “Did he know that?”

  “Maybe not. But there has to be a tie-in somewhere.”

  “It’s us. For his cover.”

  Whistle. “But even if the bullets match, Julie, it’s only circumstantial. Without a clear motive, without the weapon and a chain of possession, it’s still circumstantial.”

  The telephone rang before Julie could address that complication. A woman responded, “This is the secretary for Edwin M. Welch, regional representative of the Wampler Agency. May I have Mr. Raiford, please?”

  She could, and Julie turned on the speakerphone so the secretary could have her, too.

  The line was silent for a few seconds, and then Edward M. Welch himself said how delighted he was to find Mr. Raiford in. “I know you have a busy schedule, Mr. Raiford, so I’ll be brief. The Wampler Agency have been awarded the Technitron bid, and Mr. Stephens has asked me to—um—notify you. Apparently, Technitron elected experience and resources rather than mere price.”

  “That’s their choice.”

  “Yes. Of course. And we believe it was a wise choice.”

  “We differ on that. What can I do for you, Mr. Welch?”

  “Yes,” the man said again. “I called to say how impressed we at Wampler have been with the thoroughness of your security survey—the discovery of the—um—minor security issue.”

  “It wasn’t minor. Whoever set up the initial program—your agency, I believe?—made a royal screwup.”

  “Yes, well, that’s of course your opinion. Be that as it may, I have been asked by Mr. Stephens to ascertain that the information concerning that particular issue will remain—um—proprietary. I assured him that, as a professional with primary loyalty to a client, your discretion in the matter would be a given. However, he wishes to be reassured that such is in fact the case.”

  “You’re asking if we intend to alert the FBI to the unsecured ducts?”

  “In a word, yes. I’m authorized to assure you that any future project that may be—suitable—to your agency will, in due course, be forwarded to you from Technitron.” He paused. “Conversely, should you see fit not to honor your—um—professional ethic of confidentiality, Technitron—and Wampler Agency, of course—would be forced to take such action as we deem necessary to protect our good names.”

  “Does that mean you people with good names found bugs in the ducts?”

  “It does not.”

  “Right. Well, we made our report, Mr. Welch. We made it to the person who paid for it and it’s his to do with what he wants. As far as we know, no laws were broken, so we have no obligation to inform the authorities.”

  “I’m pleased we can do business in such a professional manner, Mr. Raiford.”

  “We’re not doing business, Mr. Welch. Our business was with Technitron, and we prefer not to do business with them any time in the future.”

  “Then I’m relieved we could arrive at this—um—understanding.”

  “I don’t think you understand a damn—” But the connection was broken. Raiford dropped the receiver on its cradle and glared at Julie. “You’re going to tell me I should have taken the bone Technitron tossed us?”

  “Not at all.”

  What really grated on Raiford was the smugness in Welch’s voice. In his mind’s eye, he saw Stephens and Welch agreeing solemnly that, thanks to their skill and diplomacy, a potential brush fire had been averted. “You think we should make a report to the Feds?”

  Julie wagged her head. “They won’t find any bugs.”

  “You’ll take Welch’s word for that?”

  “Any bugs Wampler might have found are gone by now. That’s why they left us hanging for so long—to have time to sanitize the ducts.”

  His daughter was right. Welch’s call had been to tie up a loose end: if Touchstone agreed to the dangled carrot, fine; if not, Technitron might lose some time hosting government inspectors and filling out papers, but there would be no evidence to support a charge of breached security. Raiford drew a long breath. “Well, we wouldn’t want dirty money anyway, would we? How could I tell your grandmother I was associated with an outfit that put profit above principle? And I know my daughter wouldn’t do that unless she really had to. So I’m happy with how things worked out.”

  “Of course you are—that’s why your blood pressure’s so low. Don’t you have a wrestling match to go to?” Julie smiled. “You can exercise your happiness there.”

  Raiford explained to Julie that it was not a mere practice but also a very important meeting between Salazar’s wrestlers and the American West stable. “Salazar wants us to start working with one another. All one big happy family.”

  “Lidke will be there?”

  “I don’t know. I heard he came in as one of American West’s new trainers.” In the doorway, he added, “But it was pretty dark when we met in the gym’s parking lot—I don’t think he’ll recognize me. And besides, Salazar wants to introduce a new tag team called the Death Command.” Closing door behind him, he said, “People who know say they’re pretty good.”

  Julie, in her own way, wrestled with an idea; and if Lidke was away from home, she could pursue it.

 
In the glow of the porch light, Mrs. Lidke stared up at her in surprised silence. Her arm held the door half open, but her thick body hid behind it. “Otto’s not here.”

  “It’s you I wish to speak with.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. About the burning of your car and a few other things.”

  “I … Well, Otto’s not here… .”

  “I’m sure he won’t mind. He hired us, remember? May I come in?”

  “I …”

  Julie slid past the shorter woman’s arm. “Thank you. Are your children home?” She smiled. “That’s Patty and John, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” She wore a polyester pants suit that bulged at the waist and emphasized her curved shoulders. Julie wondered if it was the onset of osteoporosis. Her legs carried her only as far as the first chair, a wingback placed at a precise angle to a coffee table that, in turn, was centered across from a love seat. Both chairs were covered with bright flower patterns that tried to make a cheery statement against the rigid silence of a blank television set and the rest of the house. Julie glimpsed the collection of her husband’s photographs and trophies in the family room. But even this smaller room, which seemed to be Mrs. Lidke’s space, held a few framed photographs. One featured a football player, number 51, making a jarring tackle. Among the other photographs were framed school pictures of Patty and John. Mrs. Lidke’s photograph was not on display.

  “I can’t tell you anything. I think you should talk to Otto. I don’t know why you want to talk to me.”

  “I tried to call him,” Julie lied. “I couldn’t reach him.”

  “Oh.” Then, “Well, he’s at a gym. A new one over on Colorado Boulevard.” She added, “He’s a trainer now—he has a new job.”

  “But I came to talk with you, Mrs. Lidke.” Julie sat on the well-used couch and smiled at the woman. She did not smile back. Her eyes were wide with tension, and she kept rolling her lips between her teeth as if she wanted to bite them shut.

  “How are Patty and John? Are they settled back in school now?”

  She nodded. “They’re not here. Patty’s doing her homework over at a friend’s house. John’s at a movie.”