Write Me a Letter (Vic Daniel Series)

by David Pierce

  "If you know the angles, like Benjy was supposed to," I said, "what you do not do is anything remotely as stupid as making a big score in Tijuana, or any other border town, for that matter. Nor do you run the border in a beat-up old wreck, it is a mite obvious. And if you are dumb enough to run the border in a beat-up wreck, don't stash your dope in anything as trite as a false gas tank, a false brassiere—pardone me, Sara—would be better even, how old hat can you get? It's like a spy using a hollow heel. But the real, fundamental stupidity lies in making a big score next to the border in the first place. All the connection has to do is tip off the fuzz and he collects a reward from them, and also gets to stay in business. This is the main problem making a large buy anywhere."

  "So. No one's that stupid anymore. If you know the angles, it's you who wants to wind up rich. What you do is find some hungry-looking federale, and I'm reliably informed that, although an endangered species these days, one or two still exist."

  "Get on with it, why can't you," the twerp muttered, noisily finishing up the last of her tea.

  "To cut a long story short, as I was about to, anyway," I continued, "Benjy has to protect his back in case one of his investors like Will, here, gets suspicious and stakes out the border and not with a snowman, either, which is what he needs the federale for, among other things. Either the federale, forewarned, or a pal of his at the border, likewise, stops Benjy on his way through."

  "Benjy was smarter than that, even," Will said. "He suggested we have someone at the border just in case, so we did."

  "Who sees Benjy get stopped, then sees the fuzz poking sticks into the gas tank, then sees Benjy taken away in handcuffs and his wheels driven off, presumably to a police garage to be taken apart in small pieces. A noche or two later when the tumult and the olés have died down, our friendly federale escorts Benjy quietly across the border and Benjy subsequently reports to you masterminds at the garage that he jumped bail or bribed a cop to get out or whatever."

  "What happened to the dope?" Sara wanted to know.

  "Never was any," I said. "Which is the real reason the cops let him go. True, he's out his wheels, five hundred bucks or so of beat-up Chevy, and whatever he donated to the federale's retirement fund, but I bet there was plenty left."

  "We kicked in twenty-two grand altogether," Will said. "Masterminds, right?"

  "So he's home free with like twenty thousand dollars," I said, "which is more than even I make for a couple of nights' work."

  "You should'a heard him when he got back," Will said, "bitching and moaning because his precious wheels were trashed and describing what Mexican jails were like, would you believe that fucker even tried to get us to kick in some more bread to help cover what he claimed it cost to buy himself out? Anyway. I'm up at Fats'. I am not a happy man. I am dumb and unhappy, I hadn't even figured out that Benjy had scammed us, for Christ sake. There's this commotion. Fats takes his fat ass out and closes the door behind him. He's forgotten to lock the drawer he took my particulars out of, so I have a quick look, don't I, and there's this bowling bali bag pushed in the back so I unzip it and what d'ya think I spy?"

  "Bet you a buck it wasn't a heavy, round, plastic ball with holes in it," I offered.

  "Diet Coke for his lunch?" Sara said.

  "Crack?" Willing Boy said.

  "Hundred-dollar bills," Will said with an evil little grin. "Before I thought about it even I zipped it up again, closed the drawer, and chucked it out the window."

  "Will," I said, "I've been underestimating you." I shook his hand warmly. "That was a brilliant idea. I presume it was caught by some passing wino who still can't believe his good luck. Pennies from heaven, OK, but century notes?"

  "You lose," Will said. "It was caught by my good buddy Paco, who works at the garage with me pumpin' gas, he ain't a mastermind like me but he ain't afraid of nothin', neither, maybe 'cause he's always stoned out of his gourd. I brought him along just in case Fats started gettin' clever, like splashing my blood all over the woodwork. Paco takes off. I close and lock the window. I sit down. Now I am dumb, unhappy, and scared. They get rid of the drunk lady finally. Fats comes back in. I beg some more. He gives me another week but then the vig will be up to two grand. I thank him with tears in my eyes. I depart rapidly, makin' sure it's obvious my hands are empty all the way up to my neck, nor am I walkin' out lookin' like the hunchback of Notre Dame, either, with something large and round tucked under my shirt in the back. Paco and me meet up later at his pad, he lives with his mother down off Alverado. Inside that bowling ball bag there is sixty-two thousand five hundred dollars in used hundreds. I give Paco a little walking around money, not too much, like two-and-a-half bucks, 'cause like I said, Mr. IQ he ain't. If he's got money, he'll spend it won't he, 'cause that's what he thinks it's for, to buy stolen ghetto blasters a block long and maybe another plastic chandelier for his mother and get some more tattoos done on his sister.

  "I make it home without once touching the ground. I pack in under a minute. I say good-bye, farewell, and adiós to the family and leave them Fran's number in case something comes up as it is bound to do sooner or later and probably sooner, and when it does, let me the fuck know so I can take off for like Nome, Alaska."

  "Phew," I said.

  "No wonder Fats is lookin' for you," the twerp said.

  "I'm surprised the entire world isn't looking for you," Marlon said. He smiled up at the pretty waitress who had stopped by our table. She smiled back, leaned down, and gave me the bill, despite the fact the whole thing had been Will's idea, you will recall. Oh well; I guess waitresses do get pretty good at picking out who the big tipper is at a table.

  I looked at the after-tax total and winced, then I remembered I did have an expense account, after all, and if a late-night snack at Ben's wasn't a legitimate business expense, what was in this troubled world. I relaxed and looked around—the place was still full; many of the patrons had obviously been at the game because they were still talking about it and about the Canadien's chances if they ever got to the Stanley Cup finals.*

  "Is Fran in on any of this?" I asked Will.

  He blushed and looked away.

  "Ah," he said, "nah, she's just an old friend."

  "Tell you what to do," I said, "so she'll go on believing in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, and Provigo. Get her a ten-pound glazed ham tomorrow and tell her you met the delivery truck up the street looking for her house and you wanted to save the kid a trip."

  "Good idea," he said. "Listen, was that you, too, the other call I got from my sister, somethin' about havin' a baby?"

  "Not me," I said. "That was the Mother of the Year Sara here."

  "That'll be the day," she muttered darkly.

  "What was all that about," Will asked.

  I tried desperately to summon up a blush but failed.

  "It seemed like a good idea at the time," I said weakly. Will looked puzzled, but let the matter drop.

  "Got any more good ideas?" he said. "Like what the fuck we do now?"

  "Why don't we send the kids home to some nice hot milk and then to bed," I said, counting out a lot of money to cover the bill, "and then perhaps you and I might retire to a friendly tavern and discuss that very subject at our leisure."

  "OK by me," Will said. "I better call Fran first so she don't worry about me, like I been mugged or somethin'." He bustled off toward the phone at the back. The waitress departed with my money.

  "I don't wanna go to bed, is there any night life in this town, George, can we go dancing maybe?"

  "Stick with me, blue eyes," Marlon said in his Humphry Bogart voice. "And I'll dance your pretty feet off. Say good-bye to Will for us, will you?"

  I said I would. They got up, collected their coats, scarves, and hat from the rack near the door, and left to dance their pretty feet off. Will returned, looking pleased about something. The waitress returned, looked around unsuccessfully for Lover Boy, probably to give my change to, then said, "Attend." I attended. She got out her order
pad, scribbled a phone number and a name on it, tore out the page, then gave it to me, then gave me a wink. I winked back.

  "Pour lui," she said.

  "His name's Marlon, actually," I said, tucking both bills away carefully in my wallet. What a forward hussy. If she thought I was about to put any obstacle in the path of my dearest friend Sara's love affair, she could just think again, and besides, I had another use for that second bill. I wonder why she thought he was poor. I left her a sizable tip—two pinkbacks and the four quarters—and we got out of there.

  Short minutes later we were comfortably installed in a first-floor boîte called the BC Lounge. At the far end of the room from us a black gentleman in a green tuxedo tinkled the ivories of a white upright, delicately improvising his way through that old Oscar Peterson favorite "Autumn Leaves." Someone once told me Mr. Peterson was a Canadian, but you can believe that if you want to. I was sipping a brandy and ginger ale, William nursing a scotch on the rocks and from time to time covertly eyeing two giggly matrons at the table next to ours who were enjoying their night out on the town.

  "Sixty-two five," I remarked after a while, "is a considerable sum."

  "Tell me about it," Will said.

  "Which brings up again the interesting point, why did Fatso rope me in on it? It couldn't have been just my good looks. I take it, Will, that we both agree the money was dirty money because if it was clean, Fats could have called in the cops. Which leaves the question, or begs it, even, why did he not enlist the services of some of his many Italian or Sicilian associates?"

  "Search me," said Will.

  "I figure it was because he didn't want them to know he'd lost the money because it was theirs," I said. "Which thought came to me a minute ago in the men's room. We know Fats operates as a middleman between fuzz and felon, and versa vice. Say the sixty-two five was just another regular monthly payoff from one to the other. To sever the connection between the two, it makes a brief pit stop up at Fats' on the way. You better believe he won't want either one to hear he's carelessly mislaid their money—at best he's out of a highly lucrative job, at worst he's chucked off the roof of an extremely tall building."

  "Without wings," said Will.

  "Probably without a parachute, either," I said. "He's got to figure you copped his dough. If not you, who else? Also you took off immediately afterward, which was a bit of a giveaway, my friend."

  "Better'n hangin' around and gettin' a few flying lessons myself," he said, "like one solo."

  "He's got a chance," I said, "if he can find out where you are quick enough. The handover is likely this weekend because that's the deadline he gave me. What if he says, someone lifted the dough despite it being locked up and guarded. I found out who it was and I found out where the little fucker is, pardon my French. I wonder why they say that—fucker's not French, is it?"

  "Probably international by now, like cornflakes," Will said.

  " 'So,' " Fats says, 'I got a man watching him right now. Before I did anything, I thought it only correct to ask you, you want in, or you want me to handle it? I thought you might want in because you got your own highly individual means of discouraging such behavior because you like word to get out about exactly what'll happen to anyone who tries to cross you.' "

  "Maybe," William said. "Maybe that's what I'd do if I couldn't come up with sixty-two five of my own in a hurry to replace what got took, if I could I'd keep my mouth shut about the whole thing."

  "Giving you more time to go looking for the dirty rotten crook," I said. "But you don't want too much time to go by, because the more time that dirty, rotten little crook is out there with the money, the more time he's got to splurge on items like red roses for Fran and small vials of expensive liquids that smell good and crystals of carboniferous matter that sparkle."

  "Aw, Jeez," Will said, looking away. The pianist began a dreamy rendition of "Satin Doll." I ordered us another round; Will insisted it was on him. I let him have his way out of politeness. The ladies next door did likewise. One of them smiled in a friendly fashion in our direction and waved a cocktail stirrer at us. I smiled back in a friendly fashion in their direction.

  "If the money you chucked out the window so carelessly belonged to an aging widow," I said, "or was destined for a home for unwanted puppy dogs or some other good cause, that'd be one thing. As it is, I figure you've got as much right to it, or most of it, ahem, as anyone else. If you can hang on to it."

  "Amen," said Will. "And lotsa luck, too."

  "Oh, I dunno," I said. "All we have to do is get you off the hook, get your mother and sister off the hook, keep Fran out of it, and get me the rest of my money from the fat one."

  "Is that all," he said, not looking any too happy.

  "Don't worry, Will," I said, patting him on the arm, "I figure I can take care of all that, but there is one little thing you have to do for me. It's just a trifle, really, it shouldn't take you long."

  "Like what?"

  "Disappear from the face of the earth," I said, raising my refill to the ladies.

  11

  Who was it who sang, cowgirls get prettier as the night gets later and the last dance nears? Well, cowboys must get better looking as well, otherwise me and Will wouldn't have had a chance with those two ladies from the adjoining table.

  Their names were Valerie and Bonnie; they hailed from Lachute, wherever that was, and their husbands were up at Ste. Adele, wherever that was, for a curling bonspeil, whatever that was. Val, the shorter, latched on to me; Bonnie, a foot taller, to Will; ain't it always the case. Not that anything remotely resembling hanky-panky developed or, indeed, was ever considered, Evonne my little cabbage. All that did develop was two tables sort of merging into one and then a few laughs and a few drinks and even a dance or two. Will was a marvelous dancer and the ladies not far behind. If I've had just enough but not too much to drink, I can managed to make it through a slow fox-trot without stumbling too often if my partner is a good leader.

  As for hanky-panky, I doubt I'd either hanky or panky with another woman even if I did have the chance. I have enough trade secrets from Evonne already without having that sort of monstrous secret between us; bad news. Bad manners, too, I've always thought. Evonne asked me once when we were not so idly badinanging back and forth what I would do if she had a fling with someone else. I'd be very civilized about it, I said. I said, you're an adult and not bound to me by law, and I accepted that there were in the world a handful of males more handsome than me and, yes, even one or two sexier. Also, a little fling, one moment of madness, it could happen to anyone. If it did, I'd have a good cry. Then, if he was smaller than me, and the odds on that were pretty good, I'd beat the living shit out of the guy. And then, I told her, I would pull up every plant in her vegetable garden in alphabetical order, from aubergine to zucchini. And after that, I'd enlist in the Foreign Legion. What I would really do, aside from bleed through every pore, I do not know. I thoroughly hope I never find out.

  It was just after two o'clock when the ladies went off in one cab, Will in another, and this dancing fool in a third. I went to sleep thinking about a line one of those long-stemmed, MGM tap-dancin' celluloid dolls once said: "I was just a pretty good hoofer who got a lucky break." My breaks should be so lucky.

  The following icy Thursday morn found us in a sort of Dunkin' Donuts place in a huge underground complex of stores, restaurants, supermarkets, and what-have-you at Berri–De Montigny. The previous noche Will had suggested we meet there as it was roughly equidistant between our hotel and Mrs. Leduc's mansion and also he was determined that we got to see some of the sights of the city while we were still around. Frankly, well-traveled gent that I am, I have seen sights more awesome than a shopping mall down a tunnel, but I held my counsel for once. I had to admit it wasn't that stupid an idea; who wants to go sneering at summer squashes in an open-air market, no matter how picturesque it might be, during a Montreal winter, i.e., when it's so cold outside even polar bears fly down to Sarasota for the season.


  Some kind soul had left behind a copy of the local English-language newspaper, the Gazette, on a nearby table. I glanced through it while fueling up for the day on blueberry muffins. By a coincidence, I'd telephoned the paper's main offices downtown earlier to pose a simply query or two and talked to a most helpful and amusing chap: I do believe Canada was starting to grow on me. Among other items of world import, the Gazette informed me that the pretender to the French throne, the would-be King Charles XII, had three children and was selling real estate in Stouffville, Ontario.

  When I put the paper away, I said to Will, "I have a present for you." I took out a scrap of paper from my wallet and read out, "Ministère des Affaires Sociales. Hotel du Government—Population Register—Québec." I handed it over.

  "Merci beaucoup," he said, taking it. "And what am I supposed to do with it now I got it?"

  "I can think of something," the twerp said.

  "Don't be vulgar, Sara," I said. "Birth certificate, Will. That's where you write to get one, the guy at the Gazette told me."

  "I already got one," Will said.

  "That's where you get your new one," I said. "Your new name, too."

  "I'm not with ya," he said.

  "Will, what did we decided last night, aside from deciding to offer the ladies one last drink?"

  "What ladies?" said the twerp immediately.

  "None of your business," I said. "I didn't pry into what you two got up to last night, did I?"

  "Me and the little lady went dancing," Marlon said. "On Crescent Street, man, has that changed, it's jumping these days."

  "Yeah, if you like shitty discos playing crappy songs that were already out of date when I was still wearing rubber underwear," Sara muttered. "And chicks with more makeup than brains, wearing plastic miniskirts and phony-looking hairpieces and phonier falsies trying to butt in all the time." She shot Marlon a hurt look. He looked innocently gorgeous.

  "Disappear, Will, remember?" I said hastily. "How do you think you do that?"