Tan wheeled across the floor to the cabinet and opened one of the lower drawers. He took out a bottle and a couple of glasses, and then rolled over to the table.
"Come on, boy," he called to me, "get it while it's still room temperature."
I crossed the room, pulled out a chair, and sat down opposite him. Tan spun the top off the bottle and filled the glasses. He slammed the bottle down on the table top, and then took up his glass.
"To the one that got away," he said, raising the glass to the ceiling. He'd always made the same toast, as long as I known him, but he never answered when I'd asked what it meant. After long enough I stopped asking. It made as good a toast as any.
"And to the one who never even came close," I added, like I always did. Tan didn't know what that one meant either, and I figured that was fair.
I took a drink. I got about a mouthful of the stuff down before I started coughing. Irish whiskey. It meant bad memories.
"You never could hold your liquor, could you boy?" Tan scolded. "Always had a beer in your hand, like a little kid." He poured himself another shot and killed it in one go. "You gotta learn to drink like a man."
"Listen, old man," I answered, still grimacing at the taste. "I gave up trying to keep up with you a long time ago. You drink your way, I'll drink mine."
"Alright, then," he said, "what's this all about? I know you didn't drive all the way out here just to look at my pretty face."
"Tan, I need your help."
Tan had told me once that a cat burglar's style, the technique they use, is as individual as a fingerprint, and that someone with a trained eye could look at a job and, just as if it had been signed, tell you who did it. Add to that the fact that, while there were four or five hundred cat burglars worth their salt worldwide by the old man's estimation, only a third of those were living in the United States. And only a lesser number were currently not incarcerated. Therefore the candidates for the Pierce job numbered only in the order of one hundred to one hundred fifty, and if Tan could pick out enough of the "tells" left by the thief, I would have a good idea who'd pulled it off.
I brought up the box of photos and notes from the car, and only after opening it realized I had the wrong box.
"What's with all these magazines?" the old man asked, rifling through the contents.
"Shit, that's my grandfather's stuff," I answered.
"Your grandfather?" Tan said, surprised. "You been to see him?"
"Just missed him. He's dead."
The old man's smile faded, and he shook his head solemnly.
"That's too bad," he said quietly.
"Why? The old guy was a fucker."
Tan whipped his cane around faster than I could follow and clocked me in the shins.
"You watch your mouth, boy. Don't speak ill of the dead, unless you want them tasking you after they've gone."
"Yeah, yeah."
"And you're way too old for all this bitterness. It's just juvenile. You're not a kid anymore, you know. That old man did right by you and your brother, whatever you think."
I just shook my head. It was like all old white guys were in a club and had to watch each other's backs. First O'Connor, now Tan. I'd had enough of it. I went back downstairs to the car and brought back up the right box.
The photos and hand-written pages spread out before him on the table, Tan seemed to forget all together that I was there. He was at work, immersed in the craft he loved, and I was just a distraction.
"Alright," I announced, not expecting an answer. "I'm going to go out for a while, and you can tell me what you got when I get back."
To my surprise, Tan lifted his hand in an almostwave. I figured that was as good as I was going to get, and went back downstairs.
I decided I would ramble around the old neighborhood for a while, it being an off season and the tourist traffic fairly low. I headed down St. Peter towards Jackson Square, considering stopping in at a Voodoo museum run by a friend of mine. But when I cut across to that street I saw it closed down. I wasn't surprised. A lot of the New Orleans I remembered was gone, washed away by Katrina.
It was late afternoon, and there were only a few herds of tourists moving around the French Quarter, so my best bet would be to get somewhere quiet and cool. I started over to an old haunt of mine, and along the way passed a little used book store I used to steal magazines from. Realizing I had nothing better to do, I ducked in and browsed.
On a little table near the register was a book called The Great Pulp Heroes, by Don Hutchison. I picked it up, and glanced through it. Walter Reece's name jumped out at me from one of the pages, so I dropped a few bills on the counter, smiled at the pretty young clerk, and went back outside.
A short while later I was at the bar, a dive down on Chartres Street, becoming acquainted with my first beer of the day. There was no one in the place I knew, which was fine with me. I didn't feel up to any reunions. The bar was small, dimly lit, little more than a wooden door and a hand-painted sign from the outside, which meant that most tourists passed right on by on their way to the flashier spots. Again, that was just fine with me. I had no interest in contributing to the local color for a pair of young newlyweds from Des Moines.
I focused my attention on the book I'd bought, and with little trouble found the section on Reece.
"Les Maxwell, one of the most unlucky figures in the history of the pulps, first made his mark with tales for Top Notch and Popular for Street & Smith. Maxwell was prolific, writing in a solid if perhaps florid style, and from his years as a reporter in San Francisco for the local Hearst organ knew the importance of a deadline. On the strength of this and his past work, he was asked to produce a new series for the house. The writer went home, and came back the next day with the first installment of what he expected to be a long and profitable series. The series was to feature a dark avenger of the night, who would characteristically emerge from the mists to right wrongs and squelch evil, only to vanish again. The character's name and basic motif were cribbed from a western series which first debuted over twenty years before, La Mano Negra. Appearing in Athena Press' True Western Tales, the adventures of La Mano Negra, or "The Black Hand", were written by J. C. Reece, and ran intermittently for some three years from 1918 to 1921, at which point the magazine ceased publication. Maxwell simply updated the character for a modern setting, gave him twin automatics in the place of Colt Peacemakers, and generated a slightly aboveaverage potboiler. The house name used for the series, Walter Reece, can charitably be seen as a nod to the true originator, and uncharitably as a sneer. Sales for the first issue of The Black Hand Mysteries were healthy, and Maxwell was ordered to begin work on the follow up.
However, before the second issue went to press, S&S was presented a cease and desist order. It appeared that the fictional guise Maxwell had devised for the Black Hand's true identity, Richmond Taylor, was the name of a real life business man in San Francisco who was well connected enough to put the fear of God into the house. Whether Maxwell had known of Taylor and used his name intentionally, or whether it was simply an unlikely coincidence is unclear. In any event, Maxwell was sent back to work to revise his second installment to remove any reference to Taylor or his likeness. Then the other shoe fell. An unnamed firm had purchased the publishing rights for all of Athena Press' characters, including La Mano Negra. Street & Smith were threatened with a copyright infringement suit for the resemblance of the Black Hand to the earlier character, and quickly decided the series just wasn't a good bet. Maxwell was put to work on the aviation pulps, and The Black Hand was canceled, before the second issue had even reached the stands."
I skimmed through the rest of the book, but didn't find anything else of interest. I closed the book on the page I'd been reading, marking the place with a coaster, and ordered another round, half disappointed my grandfather hadn't been Zorro after all.
It was early evening when I made it back to Tan's place. He was leaning back in his wheelchair, smoking one of those rancid Mexican ci
garettes of his and smiling like he'd just won the lottery.
"Well, old man," I asked, dropping in the chair across the table from him, "what'd you find?"
"Oh, I found your boy, alright," he gloated. "I had him before you even left. I just wanted to be able to study his moves without you here hovering over me."
"Alright, then." I paused, looking at him smile. "A name?"
"I've got his name, alright. He's a fair thief, but a miserable human being. Bad teeth, stringy hair, horrible table manners. This guy's an ape in a people suit, son. Gambling problem, too, as I understand."
"His name?" I repeated.
"The problem with guys like him is that you never know which way they're gonna jump. They've got the skills, but they've got no moral center. You know how I've always told you, if you're going to live outside the law you have just got to be honest. Otherwise you're just an animal."
"It was Dylan, old man. Bob Dylan said that."
"He did? He must have heard it from me. I broke into his hotel room once after I heard 'Subterranean Homesick Blues'. Nice guy. That kid was Woody Guthrie all over again. Knew how to treat a guest."
"Focus," I scolded. "The thief?"
"Calm down. It's Marconi; that's the bird you're looking for. Gian Marconi."
I sighed, and made note of the name.
"Anything else you can tell me?" I asked.
"I'm not sure I like your tone, boy."
"Alright, alright. 'Thank you, Tan.' Now, can you tell me anything else?"
The old man straightened up in his chair, smug, and smiled slightly.
"Sure can. First off, this job cost money. Real money. The gizmos and doodads Marconi used to knock out all them motion detectors and whatnot cost a pretty penny, and he was never the kind to have that kind of scratch laying around."
"So somebody put him up to it?"
"Yep, that's what I figure. And but for one thing, it would have been pretty slick job."
"One thing? What?"
"Well, your detective here mentions broken glass on the floor, and something about some torn paper…" Tan gestured meaningfully to the plastic bag containing the ancient paper, lying half hidden by a stack of photos.
"Go on," I prompted.
"Well, for all his finesse gettin' into the joint, it looks like Marconi wasn't real sure what to do once he got there. Near as I can tell, whatever he wanted was in a glass case in the library, and instead of cutting his way in it appears like he just busted it."
"So maybe he didn't know just what he was after?"
"I didn't say that," the old man corrected. "Maybe he knew, and just got all rushed right there at the end. Somebody coming, or one of his gizmos was on the blink or something. Either way, breaking the glass like that seems to have messed up whatever was inside, and that's where the paper on the floor come from. It had a few slivers of glass embedded in the edge of it."
Something struck me.
"So it was definitely a book, then," I said.
"That's what it looks like." He paused, then pulled the plastic bag out from under the photos. "Not that I can tell you what the book is though." He turned the bag over in his hands, inspecting the paper within. "Looks to be handwriting, but I couldn't tell you what language. Indian, maybe?"
"Feather or dot?"
"Hell, either one for all I know," he answered.
I climbed out of my chair and started towards the phone.
"Who you calling?" the old man asked.
"Amador. He's stationed in Houston these days."
"That scab? Shit," he spat. "Take a kid into your home, try to teach him what you know, and he ends up a fuckin' fed." Tan shook his head, and I could tell he was wondering where he'd gone wrong with that one. Where he'd gone wrong with all of us. He'd seen himself as a Cajun Fagin in those days, training a bunch of thieves and then sitting back while we brought him the goods. Instead, he ended up with a reporter, a computer geek, a special effects engineer, and various and sundry other young go-getters. We didn't always stay on the sunny side of the law, to be sure, but I knew that the old man was a bit disappointed.
I shrugged, gave him a "what-can-you-do" look, and then started dialing. I called collect. I figured someone on a government salary could afford it.
"Collect call from your mother," I heard the operator say. "Do you accept the charges?"
"I guess," I heard my friend answer, and then the operator clicked off the line.
"What's up, Lover?" I yelled into the receiver.
"Finch? I should have known. How the hell are you?"
"Not too bad, not too bad. I'm in Louisiana, visiting the old man."
"Tan! No way! How is the old fucker?"
"Same as always," I answered. "Only meaner."
"He's still pissed at me, isn't he?"
"Nah, nah," I lied, glancing over to see Tan giving him the bird in absentia. "He's over all that shit."
"Sure he is," Amador said. "So, what's up?"
"I need to you to track somebody down for me, find out what he's been up to."
"Sure," he sighed. "Not a single Christmas card in years, and you call when you need help. What's the story?"
Amador Ysquierdo, the Crooked Lover. My pal. We'd met years ago, in Louisiana, both runaways. We'd got into some rough spots together and managed to muddle through alright. A couple of kids out looking for trouble; it was amazing what we had found. Still, time has a way of cooling those angry fires, if they don't burn you up first. Even as close to the edge as we'd gotten, it was still possible to come back. Amador was a case in point.
After a childhood spent monkeying around with computers and phones, causing several business and more than one government agency their fair share of grief, Amador had decided to use his powers for good. Or for his own good, at least. Had himself legally emancipated from his family back in the Rio Grande Valley, finished up school out in Louisiana, and then had gone on to get a degree in computer engineering. Now, years and miles later, he was working for the FBI doing data retrieval. I doubted his employer knew that, under his old alias, Amador was still on the active warrant lists of the Bureau, the Treasury Department, and several more clandestine national security agencies.
I gave him Marconi's name and asked if he could hunt down his last known whereabouts, possible charges, last address, things like that. Amador said he'd find out what he could, which knowing him meant everything.
"One other thing," I added. "What can you tell me about an outfit called Lucetech?"
"Are you kidding me?" he asked. "Have you even seen a computer before?"
"Humor me."
"Well, outside of Microsoft, Adobe and Apple they're only one of the biggest software companies on the market. They handle mostly telecommunications, network architecture for large corporations, banks and such like… lately they've been making the move into consumer apps." He paused, then added, "Why do you ask?"
"You hear of them getting involved in any kind of real estate or manufacturing gigs?"
"Huh?" Amador breathed. "Not unless you count all the tech support and R&D facilities that're opening up all over the damned place. Nah, nothing I've heard of. Why?"
"Just curious."
"Well, where can I reach you?" he asked. "You gonna be sticking around with grumpy for a while?"
"Not this trip. I've got some more digging to do back in Texas, a couple of social calls to make, so I guess I'll just have to get in touch with you."
"Solid," Amador said. "Give me a day or two, and I'll see what I can do."
"Thanks, brother. I owe you."
"Shit, yeah, you do. Don't worry, I'm keeping score."
I heard the line go dead, and then dropped the phone back on its cradle. I turned to see Tan still at the table, shaking his head sadly.
"A fucking fed."
Tan agreed to let me stay at his place for the night, so I dragged some bedding out of the closet and dropped it down onto the floor. The box of my grandfather's things was still sitting near th
e table, so I picked up the book I'd bought and walked over to add it to the pile. When I opened the box, something caught my eye. I pulled out one of the magazines and examined the cover. The title, emblazoned on the cover in inch-high letters, was True Western Tales, the same I'd seen mentioned in connection with the other magazine. I flipped the front cover open and saw a listing for a La Mano Negra adventure there in the index. Curious, I tossed it over onto the bedding, and then closed up the box.
Book of Secrets Page 6
