Rand wailed, uttering an animal sound I’d have thought that soft man incapable of, fearful and lonely and hurt. “You just said you were glad she was dead.”
“That was just macho bullshit,” Farber said. Back to me. “Tell him, Portugal. Tell him it was macho bullshit.”
“You’re all macho bullshit, Henry” To Rand: “Put the plant away.”
“I will not.”
“You will.”
“Not.” He waved it at Farber again. “I’m going to kill you.”
“Eugene, I’m going to tell you one more time: Put the euphorbia away.”
He waved his club in my direction. “Don’t try to stop me, or I’ll have to use it on you.”
I took a step toward him. “Eugene, Eugene. Who bathed your eyes when you euphorbiated yourself?” Another half step. “Who listened while you poured out your heart?” A baby step. “She was my friend too, Eugene, and—”
I leapt. He dodged, found the range on Farber, and hurled the euphorbia at him. He threw like a girl, but the Dodgers could have used a girl with control like he had. The branch end-over-ended across the room and clobbered Henry Farber directly in the left temple, breaking in half and splattering sap all over the place. Farber collapsed like a burst balloon.
“Oh,” said Rand, all meek all of a sudden. “Oh. I think I’ve hurt him.”
“And I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more.” I went around the desk and found Farber sprawled on his back, with his hand clapped to his forehead and little streams of blood dribbling out between his fingers. He moaned, tried to get up, and failed. He groaned and tried again, and I took pity and helped him to a sitting position. “I’m ruined,” he said.
“Hardly,” I said. “Move your hand.”
He didn’t want to, but I finally got him to display his wound, a nice cut about an inch long surrounded by globules of latex. “Doesn’t look that serious, Henry,” I said. “But we don’t want to get that sap in it. Here, use this.” I pulled his ghastly tie up to the damaged area, pressed it down, laid his hand over it. “There. Now you’ll be fine.” I picked up the halves of Rand’s weapon.
“What are you doing?” Farber asked. “That’s evidence.”
“Evidence of what?”
“That he assaulted me. And he probably killed Brenda too.”
I shook my head. “No assault took place here today. Did it, Eugene?” The little guy shook his head too. “You see?”
“What do you mean?” Farber whined. “He threatened me with a spiny club. Then he threw the damned thing at me. If that’s not an assault I don’t know—”
“Shut up, Henry,” I said.
“Huh?”
“I said keep your big yap shut. Nobody was in any danger here today. A little bump on the head? You could do worse getting on your boat. Now, if I hear about anybody filing any assault charges as a result of our little encounter here, I swear to God I will track down every last one of your girlfriends and tell them about the others. Maria. Annabella.”
“Even Phoebe?”
“Even Phoebe. I mean it, Hank. So just keep your cool, such as it is.”
“But he probably killed Brenda.”
“I doubt it. And you probably didn’t either, because you’re all bluster, Hank, and if you tried to hurt Brenda, she would have made mincemeat out of you.”
I left Farber on the floor, led Rand out of the office, and closed the door behind us. I threw the euphorbia pieces in a trash can and escorted Rand back to the conservatory. I made him promise to behave himself What else could I do? Bind and gag him?
I went over to the Loews to try to track down Schoeppe. But he wasn’t in his room, nor in the lobby or any of the eateries. I considered leaving him a message but thought that might put him on his guard, if he had anything to be on his guard about.
Another look at the sheet of paper Gina had given me told me nothing. It still could have been him and could have been not him. And even if she were right, what could I do about it if I couldn’t find him?
I went back out and stood at the curb like a fool, not knowing what to do next, feeling sad and realizing it was a delayed reaction to my argument with Gina. A red Chevy Malibu drove by. It passed right in front of me, heading south on Ocean. I could see the driver’s face clearly. When he realized I’d spotted him, he got a weird expression I couldn’t quite place, and he stomped on the gas and zoomed away. Something nibbled at my mind. I was supposed to do something.
Right. The license plate. I squinted and I had it. It was an old blue one with orange letters. 555XYY. Did that mean anything, or was it just a random assignment from the Department of Motor Vehicles? XYY. Wasn’t that the weird combination of chromosomes sex offenders had?
Okay. I had a license number. Now all I had to do was call the DMV to find out if it was registered to the LAPD or not. I grabbed a phone inside and waited on hold for fifteen minutes before getting through to a supercilious young man who informed me that such information was confidential and that no one but the forces of law were entitled to obtain it. They did not want stalkers or other undesirables to use the data for their depraved purposes. His tone clearly said he thought I was one of those very undesirables.
Forces of law, huh? I pried Burns’s card from my wallet and dialed. “Can you run a plate for me?”
“‘Run a plate’? You been watching NYPD Blue?”
“Can you?”
“This is not standard procedure.”
“I know its not standard procedure, damn it. But the number goes with the guy who’s been following me. If, as you say, he’s not one of you guys, then the number should tell you who it is. Why would you not want to find that out, unless you’re lying to me and he really is a cop?”
“Makes sense. But I still can’t give out information about plate numbers to any Tom, Dick, or Harry who calls up and asks me to. Besides, the computer’s down.”
“How convenient. Tell you what. I’ll give you the number. You do what you want with it. If I don’t hear anything back, I’ll assume you and Casillas were lying. That work for you?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” I recited the number.
“Where will you be?” she asked. “Just in case?”
“Try me at home first, but my machine’s broken, so try these next.” I gave her Gina’s cell phone, home, and business numbers.
As I walked out of the hotel, I placed the expression the guy in the Malibu had been wearing. It was embarrassment. Like I’d caught him with his hand in the cookie jar.
It was past four, and I hadn’t had anything to eat since morning. My stomach had gnawed me into irritability. My brain needed sustenance. I drove west on Pico to a frankfurter-and-bun-shape hut called the Puppy Tale, a near-clone of a landmark called Tail o’ the Pup near Beverly Center. Ripping off the name and ambience of well-known establishments is a long and honorable Los Angeles tradition.
I ordered a hot dog with mustard and sauerkraut, some fries, and an orange soda. I took them to the truck and threw Jefferson Airplane’s Crown of Creation into the player.
I downed my dog, savoring the sourness of the kraut, barely tasting the meat, which was probably a good thing. When I was done eating I didn’t go anywhere, because I had no idea where to go. I noticed the pile of Euphorbia Journals on the floor. Maybe I’d see something significant in one of them. I grabbed the top one, Volume Five. I leafed through half a dozen articles on euphorbia habitats, euphorbia culture, euphorbia lore. I stopped briefly to read a one-pager illustrated with a photo of two laughing African despots. They were equal-opportunity despots, one black, one white.
I turned the page and ran across an article by Sam, complete with a photograph of the author. He was holding up some euphorbia or other with a fierce botanical gleam in his eye.
“I am such a moron,” I said.
The book had a cumulative index to the first eight volumes. I scanned it and found the entry I needed. I shuffled through the books until I found the one I
sought. A frenzy of page-turning brought me to an article entitled “Euphorbias of the Madagascar Thorn Forest.” It was rife with photos of its author, a German fellow by the name of Willy Schoeppe. One showed him standing in front of a Mahafaly tomb, I realized what had been bothering me when I looked at the Rauh books at Austin and Vicki’s. On Saturday evening Schoeppe, supposedly an expert on such things, had called Brenda’s tomb “a fine example of the Merina tradition.” Not Mahafaly. Right island, wrong people.
But that hardly mattered in light of what else the photo, and the others, revealed. The gentleman in the article looked like he’d never smiled in his life. Gina had been right. He was not the man who’d shown up on my doorstep the previous Thursday night calling himself Willy Schoeppe.
23
HE’D ALREADY CHECKED OUT. JUST FIFTEEN MINUTES before, according to the chipper young man behind the desk, who believed Mr. Schoeppe had taken a shuttle to the airport but wasn’t sure.
I ran back out. A flock of parking attendants surrounded my truck where I’d left it in the circular drive. I asked when the shuttle left, and one of them said five minutes or so ago.
How would they have gone? You could take the freeway,. but that meant picking up the 405, and at that time of day that was chancy at best. I took Ocean south to Abbot Kinney to Washington, cut through a car wash, and hit Lincoln running. A couple of minutes later I was chugging up the hill into Westchester.
A little past the Furama Hotel and its KARAOKE EVERY NITE, Lincoln swells into a six-lane divided highway and remains one until it spills into Sepulveda right before the airport. As I pulled onto that stretch, I spotted something blue up ahead that looked like it might be a shuttle. I floored the accelerator. The truck backfired nastily before responding to my call. Sixty. Seventy. Eighty, ninety, and there I was on the shuttle’s tail. I drew even and waved frantically to get the drivers attention. He was Indian or Pakistani, and his eyes bulged. When I got him to notice me, I pointed at his left front tire. “Flat,” I hollered. “Danger. Better stop.”
His mouth opened wide. He nodded quickly and guided the shuttle to the shoulder. I pulled over in front of him.
The driver hopped out and inspected the tire. As I reached him he said, “There is no problem with this tire.” His nameplate identified him as A. Telang.
“It’s the other one,” I said. “The right front. Go look at it; it’s flat, I promise.”
A. Telang went off to check, and I hauled open the sliding passenger door. “All right, folks, just stay calm,” I said. “Immigration and Naturalization Service. Border check.” A couple of businessmen acted miffed at this delay to their very important business flights. A Hispanic woman crossed herself and tried to blend into the upholstery. “Willy Schoeppe” simply nodded and said, “Well done, Mr. Portugal.”
“You’ll have to get off, sir,” I said.
“And if I choose not to?”
“I’d hate to create an incident, sir.”
A. Telang returned to the scene. “I have thoroughly checked the tire you have mentioned, and it does not seem to have any injury.”
“It doesn’t? My mistake.” To “Schoeppe”: “Please, sir.”
He sighed dramatically and said, “Very well, then. I suppose I owe you an explanation.” He hopped out of the shuttle.
“I have a very important flight to Cincinnati,” said one of the businessmen, a florid fellow threatening to burst his pukey-green suit.
“Yes,” said the other, equally overweight but slightly better dressed. “And I have to be in Minneapolis to close a very important deal.”
I fixed him with a steely glare. “Is any mere business dealing more important than protecting our country’s borders from the assault of the unworthy?” The Hispanic lady melted further. Poor woman. I said to A. Telang, “Would you please pass his baggage out as well, sir? You may then proceed to your destination.”
It’s amazing what the mere hint of authority will do to some people. In seconds a familiar suitcase clomped to the pavement. In a few more the shuttle peeled away. Overhead, a 747 marked JAL CARGO screamed in for a landing.
“Get in the truck,” I told my Teutonic friend.
He shrugged. “Certainly.” He climbed in.
I went around to my side and did the same. “Okay, Mr. Schoeppe,” I said. “You mind telling me what this is all about? But that’s not your name, is it?”
“It certainly is, Mr. Portugal.”
I grabbed the incriminating book, opened it to where I’d slid the dust jacket in to mark the place. “This isn’t you.”
He shook his head. “It is not. But my name is indeed Schoeppe.”
“Meaning?”
“The man in the photo is my brother, Willy. I am Hermann Schoeppe.”
He let me digest that for a second or three, then put his habitual smile back in place. “Poor Mr. Portugal. I feel sad to have misled you. But only about my identity, I assure you. No one in our organization would ever think about murdering anyone.”
“What about that ranger in Madagascar?”
“The incident never happened. It is a story advanced by those who would have us end our business. I suspect your friend Sam Oliver invented it.” Another giant airplane swooshed above our heads. Schoeppe consulted his watch.
“Don’t worry about your flight,” I said. “You have bigger problems right now.”
“Oh?” He reached in his pocket, took out a tube of lip balm, touched himself up. “It is so dry here in Los Angeles. I will be glad to leave.”
“You’re not leaving anywhere.”
“I believe I am.”
“You’ve been impersonating your brother. The police would be very interested in that.”
“Would they? I am not certain they would care. Although they might be curious about your ever-so-clever impersonation of an officer of the Immigration Service.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Ah, but I might. So. Allow me to finish my explanation. You will then please drive me to the airport.”
“We’ll see,” I said.
He cleared his throat. “It was natural for you and all your friends here to assume those in my trade had something to do with Miss Belinski’s death. After all, we have been painted as despoilers of nature, as a bête noire for you all to fear and rail against. But we are honorable businessmen. We exist to provide a product to those who want it.”
“You rip up habitats and kill off species,” I said, a bit sanctimoniously.
A small shrug. “Yes, in some instances. It cannot be helped. But we bring tremendous joy to those who desire our product.” He waved a hand dismissively “But enough of this philosophical argument. The simple fact of the matter is, I chose to come here after Miss Belinski’s murder to make certain no residue of suspicion hung over my associates and myself. But now a new species of Pseudolithos in Namibia requires my attention.” You’re scum.
“Please, must we engage in pejoratives? We were getting along so well.”
“Pseudolithos or no, you and your ‘associates’ are still under suspicion.”
“Perhaps, but not for long. I have great faith in you.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I have studied you. I have no doubt you, in cooperation with the authorities, will track down the actual murderer.”
“Studied me? You didn’t hire a big Italian guy to follow me around, did you?”
“No. I am here alone.”
I watched his face. He still wore that ever-present smile, but now it seemed a bit deeper, as if he were pleased with me. The awful thing was, no matter what kind of creepy business he was engaged in, no matter that half a minute ago I’d called him scum, I liked the guy.
He gestured at his watch. “I am afraid I do not have the time to discuss this further.”
What could I do? He had me over a barrel with my “ever-so-clever impersonation,” and what was the point in keeping him there? I hopped out and threw his bag in the truck bed, and we got going. �
�But why impersonate your brother?” I asked.
“Would you have been as cooperative had you known my true identity?”
“Of course not.”
“There is your answer. There were only two possible difficulties with this tactic. One is that your friend Sam Oliver knows my brother well. It is fortunate that he is away from Los Angeles.”
“How did you know that?”
“At the risk of seeming clichéd, we have ways. The other possible problem is a gentleman named Lyle Tillis, whom I met in South Africa. Were I to run into him, I would have been unmasked. Fortunately, I have managed to steer clear of his path. Ah, the international terminal approaches. You will please drop me off there.”
Which I did. I helped the plant smuggler with his bags, and I shook his hand, and I watched him walk off into the terminal.
At seven-ten I stood outside Gina’s condo carrying a peace offering in a Baskin-Robbins bag. I hesitated before ringing, said the hell with it, and pressed her button. Our relationship had weathered bigger storms than an argument over a web page.
The speaker squawked. “Yes, Mr. Portugal?”
“How’d you know it was me?”
“I saw you out the window. Your truck needs a bath.”
“You want to let me in?”
“Why should I?”
“Because I have many exciting adventures to recount.”
“That all?”
“Because I’ve got a hot fudge—”
The buzzer buzzed and I went up. She was waiting with the door open, holding a big paperback entitled Fix Your Files! She snatched the bag and looked inside. “What kind of ice creams under all this sauce?”
“Mint chocolate chip and jamoca almond fudge.”
“You know me so well. Come on in.”
Two steps inside the door I casually said, “You were right, you know.”
The Cactus Club Killings (Joe Portugal) Page 19
