The Man With No Time (Simeon Grist #5) (Simeon Grist Mysteries)

by Timothy Hallinan

  “I can shoot you,” Tran said mildly.

  “Whuff, whuff,” Horton Doody chortled. “You wear high heels yet?”

  Things were not going well. To my surprise, Tran smiled at Horton, looking very much like someone with a secret he intends to keep. "Funny, you" was all he said.

  “Five of us?” Horton Doody asked me. “And my five bros make ten. That it?”

  “That's it. Sixteen of them.”

  He nodded, apparently thinking about something else. He put both hands on the table, balled them into fists, and gazed at them.

  “Two,” Tran said helpfully.

  The marbles rolled around until they were looking at Tran. Then Doody lifted a fist and moved it, very slowly, until it was almost touching Tran's ear. Tran sat very still, which was more than I could have done. He didn't even flinch when Doody took his ear between two thick fingers.

  “Looky,” Horton Doody said, and pulled a silver dollar out of Tran's ear.

  Tran's eyes went to the dollar and then to Doody's face, and then he broke into a grin that looked like one the Cheshire cat had left behind. “How?” he asked delightedly.

  “Come here, honey,” Doody said. “Ears like those, you probably a rich man.”

  Tran pulled his chair over to Horton Doody's, and when Dexter and Horace returned from the powder room, Tran was well into his first lesson in the fine old art of palming.

  “Okay,” I said when they were seated. “Let's cut to the chase.”

  Florence Lam's apartment was a few blocks north of Sunset, a regal old fourplex liberally decorated with angular graffiti. At seven-thirty the next morning, Dexter, Horton, and I were in place. We'd passed a memorable night in a motel about six blocks away, two thin walls away from a Chinese family of thirty or forty, most of whom seemed to be under two years of age and suffering from colic. When I finally went to sleep, I had a second installment of the dream about babies I'd begun at Eleanor's. In this chapter, a second chute opened at the far end of the room and the fattened babies slid down it to make room for the new arrivals. It seemed to me that there was a Chinese restaurant at the end of the chute. The idea woke me up.

  I was as ready for action as anyone who's yawning can be when Florence Lam's door opened and she came out backward, fitting a key to the lock, and backed straight into Horton Doody.

  “Excuse me,” she said automatically. Then she turned around, looked up at Horton, and screamed.

  Dexter's hand cut off the scream. He'd slipped behind her and stuck his foot into the open door. Horton simply took a few steps forward, bulldozing both of them back into the apartment, and I followed, feeling like a rowboat behind an ice-breaker.

  Up close, Florence Lam was smaller than I remembered, and older. Dark smudges beneath her downturned eyes sullied her fine skin, and her hair was dirty and slightly matted. Florence Lam was neglecting herself.

  “Hush,” I said, although she'd already choked off the scream. “Nobody's going to hurt you.” I closed the door the rest of the way. The apartment was disheveled and grimy. Clothes were tossed onto the couch, and a couple of days' worth of dishes were growing crusts on the small table. She was either seriously sloppy or seriously depressed. “If he takes his hand away, are you going to be quiet?”

  She nodded. Dexter experimentally removed his hand.

  “I have no money,” she said.

  “We don't want money. We don't want to hurt you. In fact, we're here to give you a break.”

  Her eyes widened slightly; she'd recognized me. Then she glanced at Horton Doody, who was still only inches from her. “Can you ask him to move away, please?”

  “He don't have to ask me,” Doody said, stepping back. He sounded hurt.

  “Let's all sit down,” I said. “This is your lucky day.”

  Florence Lam took a chair at the table. Dexter stood with his back to the door, one foot raised and resting against it. I sat on a chair opposite Florence, and Horton occupied the couch. All of it.

  “Who are you?” She was using her index fingers to torment the cuticles on her thumbs, but she had her voice under control.

  “You don't really want to know,” I said. “I need your attention. Are you with me?”

  “What choice do I have?”

  “Right,” I said. “I'm going to operate on two assumptions for the next minute or so. The first is that you share my opinion that your boss is a pustule. The second is that you know what's really going on in that office.”

  “Like what?” Her eyes were watchful.

  “Like many, many broken federal laws. Like ties to organized crime. Like exploitation and extortion, all against Chinese. Like a little prostitution.”

  She glanced at Doody, who was staring at her like something you might bump into at forty fathoms, and then quickly looked away. “You're not Immigration.”

  “We're much worse than INS. They have to play by the rules.”

  She took it in and nodded. Then her lower lip tightened and started to quiver.

  “Lady gone to cry,” Dexter said lazily.

  Florence Lam straightened in her chair. “That's how much you know.”

  “I'm going to give you some good advice,” I said. “But I need a couple of things first. Give me your keys.”

  Whatever she'd expected, that wasn't it. “My keys?”

  “To the office. They're on that ring with the blue F on it.”

  She took that in with a blink. “Why do you need them?”

  “That's something else you don't want to know. May I?” I reached out a hand.

  “I need them to open the office.”

  “You'll have them back in ten minutes.”

  She looked around the room as though she were saying good-bye to it. “I suppose I have to.”

  “You have to.”

  She picked up the key ring, all business now, and sorted out a large brass-colored key. “Front door,” she said. “Back door is this one.”

  I crossed my fingers. “And the basement?”

  She looked surprised again. “It's not locked,” she said.

  “But it does lock, doesn't it?”

  “Sure it does. Tiffle loves locks. He's got a lock on everything.” She pursed her lips. “Except his fly.” Her fingers sorted though the keys and came up with an old-fashioned skeleton key. “This one,” she said.

  “Got it?” I asked Dexter.

  “Oh, please,” Dexter said, taking the key ring from her. “Back in a flash.” He closed the door very quietly behind him.

  “And now?” Florence Lam asked, a little steadier.

  “And now the advice. Take a big purse with you to work today. When the others are at lunch, go to the personnel and payroll files and grab everything that's got your name on it. Everything.” She hesitated and then nodded, waiting. “Clean out your desk, but don't make it obvious. Leave junk on top of it. Don't go to work tomorrow. Have you got somewhere you can go?”

  “For how long?” She was surprisingly calm. Either she'd seen something like this coming, or she intended to go straight to work and tell Tiffle everything.

  “For keeps.”

  “Oh,” she said. She swallowed. Her eyes went around the apartment again and her hands went to the purse, and Horton stirred on the couch.

  “Uh-uh,” he said.

  “A cigarette,” she said a little sharply. “Do you mind?”

  Horton shrugged, and the couch squealed. “Bad for you,” he said.

  “I'll risk it.” She pulled a package of Virginia Slims from the purse and lit up with a silver lighter. When she tilted her head back to exhale she looked younger and prettier. She took another hit and looked around the table for an ashtray, then flicked the ash into a bowl that still had a couple of corn flakes floating in it. “Okay,” she said. “I can go—”

  “Don't tell us. Don't tell anybody. Just get the hell out of here. You've got skills, you can get a job. You can do something straight, start over.”

  She passed her fingers over her
brow. “Sure,” she said. “Start over.” Then she coughed, and the cough turned into a sob. She leaned forward, the hand with the cigarette in it pressed against the back of her head, singeing her hair. I took it from between her fingers and let her cry, the sobs breaking apart like soap bubbles in the early light. There's something especially terrible about a woman weeping in the morning.

  “There, there, lady,” Horton Doody said helplessly. He shifted his weight as though he intended to get up and comfort her. “You be okay.”

  “What's he got on you?” I asked her when the sobs had slowed.

  “I've signed things,” she said, fighting for breath. “We all have. He made us. Federal forms, forged papers, I don't know what.”

  “Take them with you.”

  Her head came up, and she wiped at her cheeks with a napkin. “They're locked in his desk. He'd never let me get at them. He's got us all.”

  “All four of you.” Four was just too many.

  “Do you think we'd be there if he didn't? Do you know what he does to us?”

  “I can imagine. Listen, Florence, you can't tell the others. We'll try to get the stuff in his desk, but we can't have ail four of you acting crazy. He's stupid, but nobody's that stupid.”

  “I could call them tonight,” she said. It was a question. “That way they won't come back.”

  I looked at Horton. Horton spread his hands to reveal a soft center.

  “You can call them at six in the morning.”

  “And I can take their papers?”

  “Oh, shit,” I said. “Just don't get caught.”

  She reached across the table and took my hand in both of hers and pressed it to her wet cheek. “Thank you,” she said.

  I sat there feeling fraudulent and uncomfortable as the door opened and Dexter came in. He started to toss me the keys and saw that my hands were occupied.

  “Gettin along better, I see,” he said. He gave me a knowing smile. “Good thing I ain't Eleanor.”

  20 - Safe Houses

  Pressure points.

  There were too many of them, I thought, driving south at nine a.m. while Tran caught up on his sleep in the passenger seat. It was almost enough to make me suspicious.

  But why shouldn't there be holes in the operation? Charlie had his racket to himself, sewn up with the Snake Triad Black Hats back in Taiwan, and there wasn't much pressure from the White Hat side here in America. Who cared about a bunch of impoverished Chinese? They were an insignificant trickle in the overall illegal immigration picture, nothing like the nonstop cascade over the borders to the South. They provided cheap labor to people who probably contributed to political campaigns. They didn't vote. They may not have had much else, but at least they were safe from the promises of American politicians.

  And, as Charlie had said, kill a gwailo, and you bring the police. Keep the violence and the exploitation confined to people with yellow skin—or black, I added to myself, or brown—and they'd stay out of your way. It would take something very conspicuous to draw their attention.

  The idea I'd been forming for the last three days would provide something very conspicuous. Unless it got us all killed.

  Tran dozed most of the way to San Pedro, leaving me lots of time to move mental furniture around as we inched our way southwest on the permanently clogged Harbor Freeway. They're fixing it now, but they're always fixing it. They've been fixing it since it was built, and it still looks like a used-car lot most of the time. I let Tran snooze. I had a couple of big questions to ask him, but they would keep.

  San Pedro looks slightly better at dusk than it does in daylight, and slightly worse than it does at night. Unfortunately, I was seeing it in the morning.

  I didn't know the street names in San Pedro, and I didn't learn them on that trip. Once we were off the freeway I just prodded Tran awake and let the poured concrete and flat-roofed stucco buildings slide past in the tea-colored air, noting landmarks here and there and listening to Tran tell me where to turn. Finding my way back would be no problem. With luck I'd only have to do it once.

  There were four safe houses off the main drags, all within a square mile or two. All were equally anonymous: cheap, run-down one-story houses in what seemed like an endless farm in which cheap one-story houses were the cash crop. They were concealed by their very uniformity, which I supposed was, as Peter Lau might have said, the point, and I was looking at the third before I realized what they all had in common: a driveway that curved around the house and disappeared behind it. Ideal.

  “Which door did you go to?”

  “Front,” Tran said, still making Roy Rogers eyes against the light.

  “All four houses?”

  He was peering through the window now, remembering something. “Yes.”

  Good, better, best. “Makes sense,” I said. “They bring the pilgrims in through the back and keep them in the back. Anyone comes to the front, the CIAs are out of sight. You're not supposed to know about them, so you come to the front.”

  “Charlie Wah no dope,” Tran said grudgingly.

  “He's going to feel like one. You always hit the houses in the same order?”

  “Always. Quicker that way.”

  “Same time?”

  “Charlie Wah,” Tran said, “crazy about time. Number one, seven-oh-four, number two, seven-seventeen, like that.”

  “But the same times always?”

  Tran hesitated, reluctant to deliver bad news. “Sometimes not.”

  “How much difference?”

  “Half hour sometimes, sometimes hour. Always after dark.”

  “We'll live with it,” I said, wishing I had the confidence I was pretending.

  “Sure,” Tran said, “no big deal.”

  I looked at him and he was smiling at me.

  “Good team,” he said.

  “Dynamite,” I agreed.

  “We going to kill them?” he asked.

  “No,” I said, accelerating toward the last of the houses. Charlie Wah's voice echoed in my ear. “We're going to mess with their heads.”

  “Listen up,” I said to my mismatched gang. We were gathered in the motel room, which I'd booked for another full day. Even the desk clerk couldn't believe it; he'd called in my credit card twice.

  Horace, Dexter, and Horton had been crashed on the two narrow beds when Tran and I came in. Now they all sat, tangled in sheets, backs against the wall, waiting for their coffee to cool.

  “They're delivering the slaves tonight.”

  “What time?” It was almost below the range of human hearing, so it had to be Horton.

  “Don't know,” I said, “but we'll be there first. Let me get through this before you ask questions, or we'll still be sitting here after they've come and gone, okay?”

  Skeptical nods all around.

  “There are four safe houses, all within a couple of miles in San Pedro. They're in neighborhoods, so shooting should not be anyone's first option. Anyway, from what we've learned so far, there aren't going to be a lot of guards. These people have nowhere to go if we escape, and no one else is competing for their hands.”

  Eight eyes, different shapes but all dark brown, gazed at me.

  “They hit the houses in the same order every time, just to save time and gas. It's a big loop, and when they're finished they can hit the freeway and head back. What they do there, they pick up money. We're going to pick it up instead.”

  “Money,” Horton said, and then sang, “M is for the Many ways we spend it . . .”

  “O,” Dexter chimed in, “means Only that there's not enough.”

  Horace caught the spirit. “N,” he sang, “is for the No one who will lend it.”

  I held up a hand, and Tran, who'd been ransacking his brain to translate the next lines from Vietnamese, gave me a grateful smile. “And after we take the money, we're going to take the watchers and move on to the next house. The minute we leave, the Doody Brothers are going to pick up the slaves and take them to a church, where people will be w
aiting for them.”

  “Pick them up in what?” Horton again.

  “In the vans they got delivered in. They'll still be there, right, Tran?”

  “Always there before,” Tran said.

  “Why not do it all at once?” Dexter asked.

  “Charlie's not afraid of the cops,” I said, “because the cops aren't interested. What is Charlie afraid of, Tran?”

  “Another gang,” Tran said, on cue.

  “So we're going to give them another gang. It's going to be a black gang.”

  Horace looked at me appreciatively.

  “They have no sources of information in the black community,” I said. “No way to figure out who it might be.”

  “And this gone to leave Horace's family clear,” Dexter said. “But, still, why not do it all at once?”

  “Because of Horace. The slaves have crossed an ocean, they've paid money, to get here. Charlie's gang is all they know. They're not going to leave with the Doodys unless the Doodys have a Chinese translator who can tell them what's happening. That's Horace, and we can't let the keepers see him.”

  “I speak Chinese,” Horace volunteered. “Three dialects.” He looked positively happy.

  “So we pick up all the crooks and all the slaves, and the slaves get delivered to the church,” Dexter said. “Then what?”

  “Then we salt the mine,” I said, knowing it would tick him off. “And I'll tell you about that later.”

  By eleven-thirty, all but Horace had been assigned chores. Dexter took charge of weapons and technical paraphernalia, and Horton and Tran assumed responsibility for costumes, such as they were. Tran expressed some confusion over my request for fifty used thrift-store dresses with the labels cut out, and he went out shaking his head and muttering in Vietnamese. That left me alone in the motel room with Horace.

  My almost-brother-in-law's spurt of enthusiasm was waning, leaving him free to indulge in his penchant for lists.

  “One,” he said, nursing his Styrofoam cup of coffee, “they're going to be on guard. They know Tran's out there. You belted one of their guys and stole another one.”

  “Maybe,” I said. I didn't think they were that frightened of one little Vietnamese kid; Charlie Wah was too scornful for that. “The one guy who saw anything,” I said, “only saw Tran, and I'm sure they've assumed their missing guy is dead—a victim of a little one-on-one revenge.” I blew onto the surface of my own cup; coffee in Styrofoam cools more slowly than the Universe. “What's two?”