The Old Dick
Page 15
“Actually,” I said, “I could use some help.”
“Good. That’s what I’m here for. I have a Master’s degree in social work, you know.”
“That’s really encouraging.”
“Now, what can I do for you?”
“You could let me have three-quarters of a million dollars.”
“What?”
“Just temporarily. So I can get the mob off my back.”
“What?”
“No? Then how about an armed bodyguard, maybe two?”
“What?” Her perky little smile was beginning to waver.
“I could use a really top-notch criminal lawyer.”
“What?”
“And if you can’t do that, how about putting me in touch with a cryogenics clinic? I might have to do ten to twenty in the slammer, and I figure I might as well be frozen. Right?”
“What?”
“You’re repeating yourself.”
“What? I mean, are you feeling all right?” Her expression said she was trying to figure out if my derangement was benign or if I were likely to turn violent.
“I’m fine. You look like you could use a pick-me-up, though.”
“No. I mean, have you been ill? You know, Mr. Spanner, in elderly people, certain illnesses—even mild infections—often can manifest themselves as disorientation, incoherency, confusion, even hallucinations.”
Of course! What a relief! This was all due to a virus.
“If diagnosed and treated promptly,” she went on, “the condition can be completely cured.”
Great. A shot of penicillin and all this would go away.
“But if untreated”—she held up a warning finger— “the condition becomes chronic and irreversible.”
She was starting to sound like Nicholson and Tony New, both of whom were also promising me chronic and irreversible futures.
“Go away .”
“Aggressiveness is another sign of this syndrome, you know.” She sounded like she was reciting from a textbook. “This condition can also be caused by anemia and/or malnutrition. Have you been eating properly, Mr. Spanner?”
Christ! I was beginning to look back fondly on the morning’s first two visitors. No doubt she meant well. That was the problem.
“Go away. Please,” I added, not wanting to seem aggressive.
“And just look at you! It’s after eleven o’clock and you’re still sitting around in your pajamas. That will never do, Mr. Spanner. Don’t you know it’s important for elderly people to stay active? You can’t sit around feeling sorry for yourself. Whether you feel like it or not, you have to make yourself get out and do things. Use it or lose it, Mr. Spanner!”
That was the second time in twelve hours that I’d heard that. All things considered, I preferred it coming from Miranda.
I jumped to my feet, clapping my hands. The girl cringed.
“You’re absolutely right, honey. I’ve got to get out and start doing things. That’s the ticket.”
I took a step toward her and she backed up, uncertainty showing in her eyes.
“Mr. Spanner, I don’t think—”
“You’ve been a big help, toots,” I said, still advancing.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Now, if you’ll just get out, I can get going.”
“Mr. Spanner—”
She was partly facing the door and halfway toward it.
“I really appreciate what you’ve done. You’ve got me on the right track again.”
I reached out and swatted her plaid-clad behind, winking monstrously.
She hurried to the doorway.
“Mr. Spanner, you don’t realize it, but you’re not well.”
I pulled off my bathrobe and took a step forward. The girl gasped and nearly fell through the screen door. I hurried over and slammed the front door.
“I’m going to have to report this to Mr. Bemelman,” I heard through the door. “You need help whether you want it or not, and I’m going to see that you get it. Don’t worry, someone’ll be back here.”
“They’ll just have to wait their turn,” I called back.
Through the window I watched her bustle out to her car. It looked like my record for the morning was still intact: I’d made another enemy. It never paid to thwart people who were determined to do things for your own good.
The funny thing was, she had been just what I needed.
She was right, Spanner: use it or lose it.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I knew Nicholson was not nearly as dumb as he looked. Had he been, I would’ve been down at the station instead of getting dressed. But I also knew his threats were completely serious, and I did have to agree with him that I needed some answers.
I called Sal’s service to leave an urgent message.
“I’m sorry,” a woman’s voice said. “We do not have a Mr. Piccolo listed among our clients.”
What? I gave my head a good hard shake. Nothing rattled or ran out of my ears.
“There must be some mistake. I’ve been leaving messages for him for a week.”
I heard an annoyed “Tch” in my ear. “Just a moment.”
I was put on hold, where I was treated to a lively mariachi tune until the woman came back.
“Our records show that Mr. Piccolo has canceled our service.”
“Since when?”
Another “Tch”; then, grudgingly, “If you must know, it was yesterday afternoon.”
“Where can I get in touch with him? It’s extremely important.”
“I’m sorry, I cannot give you that information. It’s confidential.”
We hopped around with that one for a while. After trying courtesy, common sense, and sincerity, to no avail, I took a page out of O’Brien’s book and made myself abusive, threatening, and objectionable. That worked.
Another minute on hold, this time to the whining of a hundred violins; then the woman said, “There doesn’t seem to be any information.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have no address or phone number for Mr. Piccolo.”
“Then how’d you get in touch with him?”
“Tch. Apparently Mr. Piccolo contacted us. We did not contact him.”
“What about billing him?”
“Tch... The account was paid by cash. In advance. Now, if there’s nothing more—”
“Just one thing. If there was nothing to tell me, why’d you make such a big production out of it?”
“The fact that there is no information is as confidential as any information there might be. Tch. Tch.”
“Of course. How silly of me. Have you ever worked for the government?” I said, but the line was dead.
* * *
Driving over Coldwater Canyon to Beverly Hills, I was pretty sure what I would find, but I tried not to think about it. No need to panic beforehand, I thought. Of course not. There’d be plenty of opportunity later. Shit.
The streets there all looked pretty much alike—rich, quiet, twisting confusingly around and back on themselves—and it took me three tries to find the one where Sal lived. I parked and looked at the white Spanish house. No, there could be no mistake.
I walked up the long drive. I hesitated, took a deep breath, mentally made an offering to whoever it was who looked after old fools, and rang the doorbell.
Feet. The sound of the spy hole in the door opening and closing. Then the door opened and the space was filled with a handsome Mexican woman wearing a hair net and a white uniform.
“Is Mr. Piccolo here?”
Her eyebrows contracted. “Who?”
Okay, Spanner. Now you can panic.
I repeated the name, and the maid said that no one named Piccolo lived there. I asked if I could see her employer. She hesitated a second, then opened the door further so I could step into the entry hall. It was covered in quarry tile. The maid went off to the rear of the house and I looked into the living room. Not much consolation, but at least I’d been right about that. Dark wo
od floors and fine old leather furniture. A couple of good modern paintings on the wall, and a couple of even better antique carpets on the floor. No question, I thought grimly, Sal had good taste. Yeah.
The owner of the house, a classy lady named Esterly, appeared. We introduced ourselves and I asked about Sal. The name meant nothing to her.
“Tall guy, in his seventies. Thin. Looks like Death on a bad day.”
She smiled but shook her head.
“What about last Monday night? Were you here?”
She thought for a minute. “Yes. My husband and I were here all evening.”
Well, I’d thought, Sal had looked reluctant to go into the house after I dropped him off. Now I knew why. He didn’t want to be nailed for trespassing. Wonderful, Spanner. Your perception was truly remarkable.
There didn’t seem to be anything more for me to determine, so I thanked Mrs. Esterly and left. If she’d been puzzled by my visit, she was far too polite to display it.
I, on the other hand, lacked her upbringing. I kicked the door of the Chevy and let out a string of curses that could have lowered property values.
Talk about being bitched, buggered, and bewildered.
Christ.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I’d never thought that people really pinched themselves to see if they were awake, but that’s what I did, driving back to the valley. I pinched the shit out of myself. I was awake.
Had there not been some evidence to the contrary, I would’ve seriously entertained that little social worker’s idea that this whole thing was a delusion brought on by a vitamin deficiency. As it was, that made more sense than what I was looking at. Like most people my age, I’d worried a little about becoming ga-ga. Now, senile dementia was rapidly becoming an attractive alternative.
I looked at my watch. It wasn’t even twenty-four hours since I’d been on top of the world. Today it felt like it was on top of me. “J. Spanner: Run over by the wheel of fortune.”
I parked in the visitor’s area at Sunset Grove and spotted O’Brien sitting in his usual place, apart from the others. In the shade of the umbrella his skin looked gray, washed out. His green eyes seemed paler than usual, focused someplace far away, and he didn’t notice me until I was right next to him.
“Ah, the hero of the hour,” he said, motioning me to sit down.
“More like the chump of the century.”
“Huh?”
“You’re not going to believe what’s been happening.”
“Isn’t that what you said a week ago?”
“Probably. But this time even I don’t believe it.”
He raised an eyebrow. “So go ahead.”
I took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “I never said who we were running that search for.”
“No, and I didn’t ask.”
“I know. Well, it was Sal Piccolo. You remember him?”
“Piccolo? You mean the Salami?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure I remember him. But—”
O’Bee screwed up his face, thinking. I tried to will him not to say what he was going to say.
“But he’s dead.” He said it. Dandy.
“So I understand.”
O’Bee looked question marks at me.
“What makes you think so?” I said.
“Hell, I don’t know. I must’ve heard it or read it someplace. You know, you think ‘I knew him,’ and then you forget about it. Not like it was a friend or something, just one less person around who you were once acquainted with. Must’ve been a couple of years ago, I think. A fire, maybe.”
“I had the same idea at first—that he was dead. Then, obviously, I thought I was mistaken. Now I’m not so sure.”
“Huh? You’re confusing me.”
“You want confusion? Get a load of this.”
I filled him in about Sal—or about what Sal had told me. Then in detail about taking down Tony New the day before and returning the dough. Then this morning’s visitors, the answering service, and the trip to Beverly Hills.
“My, my, Jake Spanner.” O’Bee chuckled thickly when I finished. “You certainly lead a full and exciting life, for an old fella. Just one damn thing after another.”
“A few damn things too many, thanks. And stop laughing. This is not so fucking funny.”
O’Bee stopped laughing when he started to cough, that harsh deep kind that shook his body. When he recovered, he was even paler, and a film of sweat covered his forehead.
“You okay? You want me to get you something?”
He waved it off. “You always were a shit disturber, Jake Spanner, but this...”
“Yeah, I know. I’ve outdone myself. Wonderful, isn’t it? You got any thoughts on the matter?”
O’Bee rested his chin on his hand and stared at the brownish grass for a couple of minutes, then looked up. “Well, assuming you’re not crazy—”
“An assumption I wouldn’t make too hastily.”
“Oh, you’re crazy, all right, just not in that way.”
“You’re most encouraging.”
O’Brien grinned. “And assuming that you haven’t been haunted—”
“Yeah, I’ll accept that.”
“—then I’d say either you made a mistake and knocked over the wrong crook—”
“Or?”
“Or you’ve been set up, you dumb son of a bitch.”
I nodded. “That does seem to be the choice. Shit.”
We talked about it for a while. A mistake was possible. Stranger things happened all the time. You started looking for one thing and you turned up something else. Thought you located the right guy, only it wasn’t. I’d done it before, more than once.
But not this time. There were too many things against it. The real kicker, though, was the attaché case. No way that Sal and the kid could both have had the same kind of case. Coincidence could go only so far.
And it was just possible, I supposed, that it had been the kid who had knocked us over and grabbed the ransom. But if so, then nothing that happened afterwards made any sense.
Unless it was all some kind of setup. I didn’t have it all worked out, but it did seem to answer a lot of stuff, starting with the fact that the late Sal Piccolo was very much alive. As far as O’Brien was concerned, that explained just about everything.
Forty years ago, Sal had been known as one of the slickest, most devious, most Machiavellian characters around. He’d risen to his position of supremacy in this town, partly because he was tough, but mostly because he could out-think, out-hustle the opposition, stayed three steps ahead of them, got them so wrapped up in his convoluted schemes that they went around in circles until they ran up their own assholes and disappeared. He was that most dangerous of creatures—an unscrupulous, power-mad bastard who also happened to be smart, a ruthless villain with the talent and instincts of a con man. He would’ve made a fine politician.
And this was the guy who asked me so sincerely if I didn’t think a man could change, and even though I doubted it, got me to give him the benefit of the doubt. Christ, Spanner: you may be old, but you sure are slow.
The more I thought about it, the clearer things got. How he got me hooked, and then just reeled me in. Got me started, the sob story about the grandson, could only trust good old Spanner, solidarity among old enemies. A taste of long-past action, excitement, adventure. Pay me something, hire me, make me feel an obligation, just like when I’d been in business. Make me take my gun, just so it’s more like the old days, reinforce the idea that I was working, reestablish old patterns. Then the setup, the disaster, the failure. He figured that I still had my sense of responsibility, that I’d try to put things right. And I did. I didn’t know what got to me more: that he’d screwed around with me, or that I was so goddamn predictable that he’d been able to do it. They say that a good con man doesn’t do anything except let the mark act naturally. That damn Piccolo didn’t con me with greed, but with pride. Shit. Played me like a fucking fiddle.
 
; Made me part of the situation, made me feel his problem was my problem as well. Then gave me just enough of a lead so that I could see the way to resolve it. Nothing too much, just enough to get me started, make it a challenge. Got me going so that old habits could take over, so that I could show that I could still do it. Pride again!
Seen in retrospect, all kinds of things made sense. I’d been pissed off at myself for not spotting the ambush, but there’d been nothing there to spot. No car, no Tony New, nothing. Just some goon that Sal had hired for a bill or two, waiting in the bushes to sap me. Not too hard, because the old dick had to recover so he could redeem himself. Just hard enough so he wouldn’t know what had or hadn’t happened, hard enough to give him a very real lump so he’d assume everything else was real as well.
And there were those little things Sal had said or done that I couldn’t figure, that had struck me as being odd, somehow out of tune. Even the best artists occasionally slip, forget a line, play the wrong note. It’s hard to sustain a performance—especially when improvising—without making mistakes. Sal had made some, but either he’d covered them or—better—he’d had me so well set up that I provided the explanations. Well, I’d told myself, he was upset, or understandably nervous, or—Jesus! Had I been his shill, I couldn’t’ve done a better job of explaining things away for him.
I saw how I’d been maneuvered, but there was a lot I didn’t understand. The connection with Tony New. How Sal had gotten onto him. The attaché case. And the whole jig the puppetmaster had made me dance. It looked like Sal had really had a lot of confidence in me after all. I supposed I should’ve been flattered in a way.
“Well,” O’Brien said after we talked all this out, “you know the proverbial shit creek?”
“You think I could use a paddle, huh?”
“Paddle, hell! You need a life preserver. I think you’ve gone under for the second time.”
“That cop, Nicholson, said about the same thing... What do you think I should do?”
“I think you should run like hell, Jake Spanner.”
I looked at him, then shook my head.