by Teri White
Lars looked up with a sudden smile. “That night in San Diego. Christ, was I drunk.”
“Me, too. And by the time I sobered up, you were gone. Off to Zambia or some place, according to the note.”
“Some place.”
“You don’t happen to remember the name of the broad we took to the hotel with us, do you?”
Lars shook his head. “You must be kidding. Did she even have a name? All I remember is that she cost us three hundred bucks.”
“And worth every penny. Best fuck we ever had.”
“If you say so. I don’t remember that either.” He shrugged and got back to the original question. “I’ve been bouncing around. Africa. Central America. Here and there.”
“Looking for more stinking little wars.”
“It’s a living.” His hand, which had still been flipping through the photographs, stopped suddenly. “Shit, that’s me.”
“Sure. You were there, remember?”
His own image, years younger in actual age and eons younger in experience, started up at him from the stark photo. The soldier was crouched in a watery ditch somewhere north of Saigon, his camouflage fatigues sopping with sweat and stained with blood. His hands were caressing the M-16 like it was a three-hundred dollar whore. A twisted bandana kept the hair out of eyes that gazed directly into the camera. “First picture you took of me.”
“Right.”
“Remember I couldn’t frigging believe it. Look up and see some asshole, clean, with a goddamn crease in his pants, standing there.”
Devlin smiled faintly. “The crease didn’t last long.”
“Nobody told you to jump into the damned ditch with me.”
“True.”
He was still looking at the face in the picture, as if trying to place it in his memory. “God, I was such a frigging virgin then.”
“Oh, I don’t know. You seemed pretty tough to me.”
“Yeah, well, I thought so, too. Then.”
“But you’re no innocent anymore, right? Now you’re all grown up.”
Lars only shrugged. But all of a sudden, he didn’t want to look at any more pictures. He shoved them away and settled back in the chair. With deliberation, he withdrew a cigarette and lighted it. He exhaled deeply and gazed at Devlin through the cloud of smoke. “The stones are about to surface.”
“The stones?”
“The goddamned diamonds. Our stones, lover boy.”
Devlin Conway sat back slowly. “You’re joking.”
“I never joke about four million dollars.”
“How do you know?”
Lars took another drag on the cigarette. “I know.” His tone left no doubt about it.
Devlin studied him more closely. “You really are a bastard. You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you? Ever since the night Tran got wasted and the rocks vanished.”
“Of course I’ve been waiting. I’m just surprised that you haven’t been. I mean, four fucking million dollars, Dev.” Lars leaned forward eagerly. “You want in?”
“Me?”
“Sure. We were partners back then. Still are, as far as I’m concerned. Besides, this is big. Too damned big for one man to cover.”
“Even if that one man is the great Lars Morgan?”
“Even then.”
There was a long silence in the room.
Devlin began to swivel back and forth slowly in the chair. It squeaked. “You know, mate, I’m about to take off with this photography thing. Critics, newspapers, the whole damned ballgame. I don’t want to fuck up now.”
“How can this fuck anything up? You’ll be rich enough to buy your own damned gallery. This has nothing to do with your picture taking.”
“With what, then?”
Lars crushed out the cigarette. “With our war, maybe.”
But Devlin shook his head. “Not my war. All I ever want to know about war anymore is in those photographs. I don’t even take pictures of war. Not ever again.” His voice grated with a kind of harsh sincerity.
“Call it friendship, then.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Fair?” Lars moved the word around in his mind thoughtfully. “Sorry, but that notion doesn’t apply. I want this too much to worry about being sporting or honorable, damnit. Dev, this is my last chance. How much longer can I keep fighting my ass off in every shit-hole of this world? You have this”—he gestured at the room, the pictures—“but I’ve got nothing, man. Nothing but this one last chance.”
Devlin didn’t say anything.
Lars sighed. “It’s simple: I need you.”
He frowned. “What exactly are we up against here?”
“The bad guys,” Lars said honestly. “Lots of bad guys.”
“That’s reassuring.”
Lars just looked at him.
Finally Devlin shrugged. “All right. I’m a bloody ass, but all right.”
Lars could feel the muscles in his stomach untighten for the first time in days. “Thanks, Dev. I knew you wouldn’t let me down. Not you. This is great.” He stood. “I’ll be in touch.”
Devlin looked startled. “That’s it? You’ll be in touch?”
“Don’t sweat it, babe. I’ve got some arrangements to make.” He walked to the door, then stopped. “By the way, do you have any idea where Tobias Reardon is these days? I know he’s still in the city, but …”
“Toby? Last I heard, he was still spending a lot of time around the Beverly Wilshire Hotel.”
“Oh?”
Devlin smiled. “Toby is the only bastard I ever knew who could make the bitches pay for it and keep coming back for more.”
Lars shook his head in silent admiration and left.
Devlin Conway sat where he was, staring at the closed door. He didn’t know whether to be scared shitless or excited. This confusion of feelings wasn’t new to him; he’d had it before around Lars Morgan. Ever since that first day, in fact, when something he couldn’t explain then or now drove him to jump into that damned muddy hole to talk to the grey-eyed young soldier.
Even now, all these years later, he still didn’t feel as if he knew the whole truth of Lars Morgan. And this scheme was crazy. Did Lars expect them to just stroll in, take control of all those diamonds, and stroll out again? In Devlin’s experience, life was never that simple.
The door opened and Addison came in.
Devlin shoved all thought of Lars and his insane ideas aside for the moment. Hell, for all he knew, Lars might just disappear for three years again. He was one crazy bastard.
8
Spaceman rolled out of bed and padded naked into the bathroom. While he peed and scratched an armpit, he used the time to think about nothing more consequential than how good it felt to scratch and pee. It was a pleasant way to start the day.
Well, he amended, not exactly start. The day had really begun thirty or so minutes before.
When he got back to the bedroom, Lainie was sitting up, wrapped in the sheet. “You’re running very late,” she said in a slightly hoarse morning voice.
“I worked very late,” he said with a shrug. After coughing a couple of times to clear his lungs, he lit a cigarette, then opened a drawer to search for clean shorts and socks. Only his hands searched; his eyes were still on Lainie. Even just awake, with no makeup and her auburn hair a tangled mess, she was still beautiful. Spaceman was mildly surprised every time he woke up and found her in his bed. It didn’t happen often enough for his taste.
She was a terrific woman, and most important, a grown woman, not like some of the teenyboppers he’d been with since the divorce. Lainie was smart and funny and sexy.
And she didn’t even blame him for getting her brother killed.
Spaceman dismissed that thought immediately.
He finally found some undershorts and began to dress. “Coming back tonight?”
“Can’t. This is the Christmas season, in case you forgot. Do you know how much of a bookseller’s annual profit comes in December?” Although she had only take
n over the bookstore less than six months ago, after Jerry’s death, Lainie already sounded like an expert.
“No. How much?”
“A whole lot.”
“So when will I see you again?”
“I’ll call.”
Spaceman tried not to sulk. “Maybe I’ll come out to Azusa.”
“Fine.”
She sounded pleased, but practical. That was good. Who needed a broad swooning and clinging? Still, she might pretend to be a little bit helpless. It occurred to Spaceman that he didn’t know what the hell he wanted in a woman.
He finished dressing quickly, kissed her, skipped breakfast, and was waiting, just barely, on the sidewalk—next to his own yet-again disabled car—when the flashy Porsche pulled up.
Blue looked bleary-eyed and uncharacteristically frazzled. Spaceman was startled to notice that his partner hadn’t even done a very good job shaving himself. Christ, was the whole world going to hell?
Spaceman lit a cigarette, his third of the morning, and accommodatingly cracked the window open. Nobody would ever be able to say that he didn’t go at least halfway in a relationship. “So,” he said cheerfully. “How should we go about earning our salaries today?”
Blue shrugged.
“You might show a little more enthusiasm. After all, this job is my life.”
“Sorry. I didn’t sleep very well.”
“Problem?”
“No.” The blond hesitated, then shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
Before Spaceman could decide whether to probe a little deeper into whatever was bugging his partner, the radio crackled and he heard their code number. “Shit, they could at least let us get to the office first,” he bitched.
An almost sexless metallic voice gave them an address, along with the cheery news that a dead body awaited their arrival. Spaceman was rapidly losing any inclination to break into Christmas carols.
The address turned out to belong to a long-abandoned gasoline station near Broadway. A squad car was parked rather haphazardly in front, and a small collection of the curious stood on the sidewalk. One of the onlookers was Santa Claus. Things must have been rough up at the old Pole, because Mr. Claus, instead of being jolly and plump, had a distinctly lean and hungry look.
“Ho, ho, ho,” Santa said as they walked past. The words floated through the air on a cloud of whiskey fumes.
A uniformed and very fat cop greeted them, just inside the door. He looked worried and Spaceman figured it wasn’t the case; he was probably trying to figure out how the hell to lose fifty pounds before his next departmental physical. “Couple junkies found the stiff,” he said, sounding bored as he indicated two spaced-out Hispanics huddled in the corner.
“And they called it in?” Spaceman asked skeptically, trying to suck his gut in.
“Not exactly. One of them was outside puking in the gutter when we drove by and spotted him.”
“Where’s the body?”
“Through there.”
They followed his pointing finger into the back room, where another cop waited.
Spaceman stepped by him. It wasn’t as bad as he’d feared it would be. Apparently the junkie who’d tossed his cookies had a very weak stomach. This particular body was almost tidy.
She was fully dressed, in jeans and teeshirt, lying face down, with a halo of hair spread out on the filthy floor. Her hands were bound in the back, and she had been shot once in the head.
Spaceman just studied the scene for a moment, not saying anything.
Blue moved up next to him. “Oh, damn,” he said suddenly, his voice sounding funny. “Damnit anyway.”
Spaceman looked at him. “What?”
“I know her.”
Now that was funny. The broad on the floor sure didn’t look like the kind of woman Maguire would number among his acquaintances. She certainly wouldn’t fit in at Trader Vic’s or any of those fancy places Blue probably went whenever he could. Spaceman waited for an explanation.
Blue took a breath. “She came into the office the other day. When you were off. Said she was scared of the guy she was shacking up with. She was afraid he was going to kill her.”
“How shrewd of her. And what did you do?”
He looked sick. “What could I do? Nothing had happened. She didn’t even have a name on the guy. Just … Wolf or some damned thing. What could I do?” This time it was a real question.
“Not a thing, partner. Not a damned thing.”
“Hell, I didn’t even get an address.” Blue knelt next to the body and stared at it. “I told her to move out. But she decided to wait until after the holidays. So Merry Christmas, Miss Wexler.”
Spaceman knew from painful experience that there was nothing he could say that would make Blue feel one damned bit better, so he just kept quiet.
Later, when the body had been tagged, bagged, and finally removed, they went back to the car. The sightseers were all gone. Blue sat behind the wheel silently.
Spaceman lit a cigarette and, after a moment, held it out toward the other man. Blue took it and sucked in smoke almost desperately. He handed it back immediately.
After a few seconds, Blue snorted. “Everyone is so damned corruptible,” he said. “That ten seconds of nicotine will cost me at the gym.”
“My partner the saint.”
“Oh, sure,” Blue said, starting the car. “I’m just fucking wonderful.”
9
She was a screamer.
He could never tell ahead of time which ones would do a lot of screaming in bed and which ones would go about the whole thing with such silent, sometimes even grim, determination that he wondered why they bothered.
Hannah, no doubt about it, was an exceedingly vocal broad. She didn’t look the part. With her wardrobe of expensive but conservative suits, sensible pumps, and perfectly styled hair—not to mention the ever-present string of dully lustrous pearls—Hannah looked like the perfect wife for a Republican state senator.
Which is exactly what she happened to be. And very good at it she was, too. Perfect. Except, of course, for the one afternoon every two weeks when she broke all the rules.
Toby poured himself another glass of the Roederer Cristal, then put the bottle back into the ice bucket. Nothing but the best for Mrs. Senator’s afternoons of sin and sex. He wondered if anyone at all out in Orange County knew about Hannah and her paid lover.
He glanced impatiently at the closed bathroom door. How the hell long was she going to stay in there this week?
Then, irritated at himself, he gave a small shrug. What difference did it make? She was paying a flat rate for his time, and if it was her choice to spend a good part of that time in the can, so be it. Actually, he should be glad; every minute she was in there meant less time he’d have to spend in the sack.
He sat down in the deep-cushioned chair and wriggled his bare toes in the carpet. The hotel sure knew how to take care of its guests. He sometimes wondered if the so-polite staff ever got curious about Hannah’s visits. Probably not. Discretion was undoubtedly part of their job training.
Toby sipped his drink carefully, savoring the luxurious quiet of the moment. He had a taste for and appreciation of the good things in life. The best things, in fact. Booze, clothes, surroundings. Unfortunately, it was not so easy anymore to keep his lifestyle up to the level he enjoyed. Toby blamed his current financial difficulties on the government. Frigging Reaganomics. Tight money made it harder for the broads to account for what they spent. Harder to explain to an irate husband that occasional two or three hundred dollars.
Blaming the national economy was easier and less troubling than blaming any decline in business on his age. Thirty-six now. Not young anymore, by most standards, and in Los Angeles not being young was considered almost a capital offense.
The next sip he took of the champagne was a little larger.
But hell, even in this city that so idolized youth, age wasn’t the only thing that mattered. Toby Reardon had class and the kind of
broad he attracted wanted that. A woman like Hannah, for example, wasn’t just interested in buying some bedroom athlete who could come ten times an hour. She wanted a lover who knew the perfect wine to order from room service and who could make bed talk in at least passable French.
What it came right down to was that Toby Reardon offered more to his clients than just a well-practiced cock. He sold a sense of style, damnit, and that was something not many eighteen-year-old studs had.
Still, he was smart enough to realize that sooner or later time was going to catch up with him. At this point, probably sooner. He sighed.
Luckily, before he could get any more deeply mired in gloom, the bathroom door opened and Hannah came out. She was still wearing her lacy slip, but the suit and flowered blouse were gone, along with the practical pumps and panty hose. “Sorry to be so long, Toby,” she said, just like she said every time.
“Always worth waiting for,” he said easily. Gazing up at her, he trailed the base of the crystal glass slowly back and forth across his bare chest, nipple to nipple. She watched as a believer might have watched the snake being charmed in India. Then he held the glass, lightly balanced, on his denim-clad crotch. The damned jeans were two sizes too small, but the suffering paid off. “Want some?” he offered.
Hannah caught her breath. She was in her early fifties. Not in bad shape for a woman her age, though. Which proved that a little surgical tuck here and there could work wonders. Toby sometimes actually found himself considering something along those lines.
But he always dismissed the idea quickly. Hell, he didn’t look a day over twenty-five.
Hannah was now sitting on the edge of the vast bed. Waiting. Although she was the paying customer, she never made the first move. It was as if she needed to be seduced, taken.
Well, it was his job to oblige.
Toby drained the last of the cool champagne, licking the stray drops from his upper lip, then stood. He unsnapped and unzipped the expensive, uncomfortable French jeans and pushed them slowly down his legs. Under the jeans, he was naked.
Hannah watched his approach warily.
“Take the slip off, Hannah,” he ordered in a low voice.
