At 11:00 he broke into a sweat. He knew once she was in the car it would be easy to talk her into joining him for a drink, and with good ol' Mona, liquor was always quicker. At 11: 15 he wondered if his watch was slow.
He walked back inside the coffee shop and spoke with a young waitress. "Mona? She just got off a few minutes ago. Went home." She pointed. "Left out the back door. She always goes out that way."
Red barely made it to the men's room.
It was after 9:00 P.m. when Carr arrived at his apartment. The one-bedroom place was generally in order. It contained a sofa, TV, kitchen table and chairs, and not much else. Affordable apartments near the beach were small.
In the bedroom, he took the gun and handcuffs off his belt and laid them in a dresser drawer. The framed picture on the dresser was of his mother and father in front of the old frame house in Boyle Heights where he had grown up. The picture was the only one he had framed. The others, of him and his army buddies, police buddies, agent buddies, mugging around beer-bottled tables, were stuffed away somewhere along with the yearly pistol-marksmanship plaques.
The furniture and carpet had the musty smell that things near the beach get; and the brick-and-planks bookcase in the living room (James Jones, a few spy novels and law-of-evidence books) was visibly dusty. As Sally said, "The whole place could use a thorough and complete cleaning."
The phone rang. It was Sally.
"How about dinner along the strand somewhere?" she said. He could tell she had been drinking.
"Sure."
"Let's ride," she said.
They leaned their bikes against a front window of the restaurant. The foot-high Cyrillic-style letters on the window read PRINCE NIKOLA OF SERBIA-YUGOSIAV FOOD.
Attached to the front door was an almost life-size photo of a tall muscular man wearing wrestler's trunks and a metal-studded championship belt. He was flexing his arms and, with the exception of heavy Slavic eyebrows, was completely bald.
They went in. The tables were filled with tanned beach types. Blonde, stringy-haired young women and frizzy-haired men, all wearing garish T-shirts and sports pants.
From behind a small wine bar in the corner, Prince Nikola of Serbia, wearing a form-fitting T-shirt and white trousers, waved them to a table. He rushed over with menus and a bottle of wine. His accent was heavy. "Sarma-stuffed cabbage-is only thing left that's any good. I tell you truth, Charlie." He poured wine into two glasses.
"Sounds okay to me, Nick," Carr said.
Sally nodded agreement. She picked up the wineglass and drank fully half of its contents.
"Did you read in the newspaper about the man on trial for raping his wife? The judge was talking about it. A landmark prosecution." She swished her wine and sipped.
Carr nodded.
"I hope he gets convicted," she said.
"Uh-huh."
"What do you think about it?" She looked at the ceiling.
"About what?"
"About whether a man can be charged with raping his wife."
Carr looked out the window. "I guess maybe he could be charged with stealing his own car, too. Or with indecent exposure when he gets out of the shower."
Sally shook her head and pursed her lips. She filled her wineglass.
"I want to talk about us," she said.
"Go ahead." Carr hoped Nick would hurry with the food.
Sally's mouth was set straight. It was the "let off steam" look. "It just seems that things have changed between us. We don't talk any more." She sipped her wine. "Not that you ever were the most open person in the world. I'm not trying to start an argument." More wine. "I've talked to a lot of other women in my Wednesday-night sensitivity class who have the same problem. There's this hostility now between men and women. Both are afraid to be taken advantage of. It's not that I want to be married; I was married once. It was too restrictive for me. I just think that our relationship could become closer." Her voice cracked. She took another gulp of wine. "We've known each other for years. We just seem to be drifting. We go to restaurants, you just sort of drop in to my apartment now and then… You're too self-contained. It's almost as if you don't need other people…and you don't relate well to new people."
"That's just the way I am," Carr said.
"I know how you are. It took me years to understand you. It's because of your background. The army, the police department, then one field office after another as a Treasury agent. All the crap. Your life experiences have made you unable to show emotion."
Prince Nikola of Serbia brought another bottle of wine, winked at Carr, and poured.
"Maybe I should join your sensitivity class. I'm interested in the part where you stand around in a circle and goose the person next to you, or whatever it is they do."
"You haven't understood a word I have said," Sally said. "We are not relating to one another right this very minute."
It was more of the same during the meal, Sally picking at her food and drinking wine until her lips had a purplish tinge. By coffee time, she was in the "rut" phase.
"An absolute rut," she said. "You go to the same Thursday-night fights with the same friends. You even go to the same restaurants. The same bars in Chinatown. I mean, do you know how many times we've been to this very restaurant?" She was beginning to slur.
"Nick is a friend of mine," he said.
"That's not the damn point!" She slapped an open palm on the table.
Riding back along the dark Santa Monica strand, Sally weaved slightly from side to side and continued to speak. She used the words need, relate, affection, and dialogue over and over again.
By the time they got to her apartment, she had begun to cry. No sobs, just the usual controlled-anger tears.
Inside, she took a bottle out of the refrigerator and poured wine. Then she sat in the middle of the living-room floor holding her wineglass with both hands.
Carr sat down next to her. He stared at the floor. "There is something serious I've been wanting to say to you for a long time. I just haven't been able to get up enough guts to say it."
Her look was incredulous. She set her wineglass down and put her hand on his shoulder. "What is it?" she said softly.
Carr leaned close to her face, his lips next to her ear. "I'm a sex fiend," he whispered. He stuck his tongue in her ear and wrapped his arms around her.
Sally tried not to giggle as she made a halfhearted attempt to struggle.
"Charlie, stop! You're making fun of me!"
He kissed her lips and reached to unzip her pants.
They made wine-prolonged love on the living-room floor. Afterward, Carr carried the nude and sleepy Sally to her bed. He pulled a cover over her, and she said "I love you" without meeting his eyes.
"I love you, too," Carr mumbled.
He dressed and bicycled back to his apartment.
After showering, he wrote a note and dropped it in the drawer next to his holster and badge. It read:
1. Check mug books.
2. Ballistics report.
3. Autopsy report.
He went to bed.
TWELVE
The secretary ushered Red Diamond into a paneled office. The little lawyer sat at a big elevated desk with nothing on it but polish. He stuck out a two-ringed hand and forced a smile.
"Glad to see you out," he said.
"Hi, Max."
Max Waxman's bald head was fish skin stretched tightly over skull, with ear-level black hair falling limply over his collar. He wore thick glasses and a sparse mustache. His tie was white silk. "What can I do for you?"
"Now that I'm out, just thought I'd stop by to say hello."
"Hello." Max looked at his watch. He folded his hands.
Red sat down lightly in the leather chair. He nervously curled his toes inside his shoes. His stomach was sour.
"I might as well get right to the point. I'm getting ready for a big score-an oil-lease project-and I'm looking for backing. I thought I'd give you first shot at it since you and me go way back.
I got the project figured for two or three hundred grand in twenty days. I'm planning to bring the suckers in through real-estate people. The pitch is a grand apiece. I got a guy who can make the phony oil-lease charts…"
"Red, Please." The lawyer held up his hand. "I know you just got out, how tough it is and all, but these things involve too many people. The cops are on to you. You've been down too many times."
"So you won't even let me finish telling you…"
"I'll finish it for you. You need a front. An office, a secretary, a car, juice money for the real-estate people, the boiler room, bleepety bleepety bleep. And you want money from me. I'm sorry, Red. The answer is no. I'm sorry." He adjusted his tie.
Red sat for a moment without speaking. "Okay, then," he said, "will you loan me twenty-five grand? You know I'm good for it."
"The people that put up front money for you five years ago wouldn't think you're good for it. They went to the cleaners. They ended up sucking wind."
Red's face flushed. "And I went to the stinking, fucking joint."
"I'm sorry." Max pressed the intercom buzzer and told the secretary to make golf reservations for four, including Judge Brooks.
"If you need bucks, bring something to me, but please, nothing less than a pound. Coke should be legalized anyway. Or paper, bonds, stocks-something that's tangible. My investigator handles the arrangements. Same as before. I like to stick with the basics. Nice talking with you, Red. I'm really kind of busy today." He leaned forward and handed Red his engraved business card.
Red put it in his shirt pocket. He grasped the arms of the chair tightly. "I wouldn't ask you if I didn't need the money. I've sent you a lot of business through the years. I never handed you up to the Feds in the last project. I could of handed you up to the Feds but I didn't. They asked about you but I kept my mouth shut and walked the yard. You could have been there with me. You know that."
"I also know that the statute has run. I'm a lawyer, Red. I'm home free. They can't arrest me, because the offense happened over five years ago. That's the law. Please don't try to muscle me. Nobody muscles me. Let's remain friends." Max turned his palms up and gave a weak smile.
Red stood up and put his hands in his pockets. He thought it odd that his stomach had suddenly stopped churning.
"Tony the juice man has a long memory, doesn't he?" the lawyer asked. Red felt his head bob up and down. "I told you years ago that it was a mistake to go to him for front money. I'm sorry you didn't take my advice. I'm really very sorry."
Red walked toward the door.
"Bring something to me! Anything except grass. I have a truckload man who keeps me busy with grass. Anything else! With luck you'll be out of the bind in no time at all. I am sorry, Red." Max looked at his watch.
The door closed.
A jukebox played soul music.
Red Diamond and Ronnie Boyce sat in a corner booth with drinks, served by a floppy-breasted waitress who wore nothing but a G-string.
The only light in the bar was a semicircle of pink, which illuminated a small, round stage. On the stage, a naked blonde woman with stretch marks on her stomach arched backward clumsily to give some men at a nearby table a good look at her crotch. The men made drunken remarks of appreciation.
No one else in the place seemed to be watching her. The tables and booths buzzed with whispered negotiations of all kinds. In the next booth an older man with a ponytail and a fat Mexican woman snorted cocaine from a tiny spoon.
Red handed Ronnie the ten-dollar Sahara Casino chip. "Take a look at it, lil' brother. I just got it today. You can't tell the difference between it and a real one. It's a sample counterfeit from the guy who makes 'em. He's an inventor, a genius really."
Ronnie rubbed the chip, tried to bend it. "Can we get some more?"
"That's the problem. The inventor made up this sample for me, but we need cash before he'll go into full production. We're back in a negative-cash-flow situation at this point."
Ronnie looked puzzled.
Red wrote on the paper place mat. "Cash flow…equipment trip to Las Vegas…$100,000." He turned the place mat around to Ronnie. "This is the way I have it mapped out. We need another score to make this thing move. The dude will make the phony chips for a flat fee and we lay 'em down in Vegas. I figure we can do four or five grand at a time. We'll take our time so the pit bosses don't catch on, then we drive back to good ol' L.A. with a hundred big ones. Fifty for you, fifty for me…And by the way-" Red smiled and took the chip out of Ronnie's hand-"passing phony gambling chips is only a state crime. No Feds to worry about. Once we come back across the California border we're fucking-ass home free. You like?"
Ronnie gave a noncommittal nod. "Yeah, I guess. But how about the money on the last score? Couldn't we…"
Red snapped his fingers. "Damn! Let me apologize…I thought I had told you what we have working on that end. I've been so busy… Briefly, things are great on setting up the front. I have things worked out for you and me to have offices in Century City. It looks like the best thing to go for at this point is limited partnerships for food franchises or maybe gold futures. This is what the suckers will probably go for. But I need more marketing research. We can't just jump in without knowing we can get the suckers. Too much risk for too little profit. You know what I mean…"
Ronnie looked uncomprehending. "Yeah, sure," he said.
The near-naked waitress set fresh drinks down on the table and walked away.
"Then we're together, lil' brother?" Red said.
Ronnie, with a mouth full of ice cubes, grunted.
"That's good, that's fine," said Red. "We've got a lot of irons in the fire right now, and I want to be sure we are thinking along the same lines, you know, to avoid any fuck-ups. We have to think in terms of a long-range program. To get off the ground it's a simple matter of getting that positive cash flow…That gives us a backup. There's always extras. You remember the story I told you about how I got caught short? The manager of the office building walks in and asks for the rent right when I had a sucker sitting there. I mean like the dumb fuck had his wife sitting out in the car holding his life savings. I was supposed to be selling him half ownership in a gold mine and suddenly he sees I'm behind on my rent! No way. It was a good lesson. The farmer and his old lady drove off with their fifteen grand, but I learned a good lesson: don't get caught short. Simple." Red gave Ronnie a pet-shop-window smile.
"Remember me telling you about the lawyer? Here's his card."
Boyce accepted the business card and looked at it curiously.
MAX WAXMAN
ATTORNEY AT LAW
SUITE 4101
SUNSET CONTINENTAL BLDG.
PHONE 721-0196
"Max Waxman is strictly a money man. You talk price with him, but the hand-to-hand will be between you and his private investigator. Max never touches anything himself; finances a couple of dope deals a week the same way. He drives a Rolls Royce."
"What size deal should I talk about?" Ronnie put the card in his pocket.
"Tell him you have a hundred and twenty-five thousand that you're willing to sell for twelve points. Make him come up with twenty-five thousand for the buy. Don't go over that or he'll smell a rip-off. He's shrewd, real shrewd." Red took out an envelope, opened it, and showed Ronnie the two counterfeit twenties. He handed the envelope to the younger man. "Take good care of these. They're the last samples we have. The dude that gave them to me got busted last night and they got his stash."
"Two phony twenties for twenty-five grand. Sounds like a fair profit." Ronnie smiled.
"And I know you've got the balls to bring it off just like the one at the motel." Red gave his best flattery look. "Oh, that reminds me. Max will never permit a deal in a motel room. He'll push for a public place, probably a parking lot or something."
Ronnie nodded, took a bite of toast, and swallowed. "Who do I say referred me?"
"Drop Stymie's name. Stymie's been a front man for Max for years. He used to impersonate a co
p, take care of the heavy stuff when Max was shaking down fag movie stars back in the old clays."
"You mean Stymie the old trusty from E wing?"
"That's the one." Red finished his soda water.
"What if Waxman checks me out with him?"
"No problem. Stymie got piped last week-some Mexicans.
He's in the prison infirmary with his head bashed in. He can't talk."
"So there's no way Waxman can check me out?"
"No friggin' way, baby. Old Max is shrewd, but he'll bite once he sees those samples." Red felt a slight churning in his bowels.
"With this score we should have enough, right?" Ronnie asked.
"Wha…Oh, yeah. One hundred percent for sure! This will give us enough to set up the counterfeit-chips caper. When that's done, we'll get our phony office, bank account, everything. I've got a guy who can draw up phony oil-field charts, whatever we need for the operation. It will be big. We'll have the suckers ringing our phone off the hook to put in their grand." Red took out a ball-point pen and scratched figures on the place mat. "Everything depends on cash flow. We've got to start out big to make it big. We can't get in the middle and have a cash-flow problem. That's a problem area."
Red underlined some of the figures and pointed with his pen. "See? It works out to one hundred and fifty grand for each of us, after both capers. Twenty days after we start the project. And that's minimum. Complete minimum." As Red spoke the words seemed familiar. He could switch off his mind and the words would continue. Prison chatter.
The woman on the stage bent over and grabbed her ankles. She wiggled.
"This private-eye fucker-is he gonna be heeled?" Ronnie broke a swizzle stick in half.
"Always. Waxman buys him a gun permit from a judge every year. The Red guy is telling you to be careful, very careful."
Ronnie lit a cigarette and put the match in the ashtray. "I got my permit right here." He stuck out his middle finger.
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