by Teri White
They stood there until the soap opera broke for a commercial. Delvecchio touched a button and the sound vanished. “You haven’t been coming to the meetings lately,” he said. The voice was surprisingly strong, sounding as if it should have belonged to a younger, bigger man.
“I beg your pardon?” Blue said.
“You’re Maguire, right? Hank Maguire’s boy? I haven’t seen you at the Rotary meetings lately.”
“You remember me?”
The old man snorted. “Hell, you won’t get far in life if you don’t make a point of remembering names and faces.”
“Yes, sir. Well, I don’t go to those meetings anymore, because they shifted me from public relations to homicide.”
“I see. What brings you here then?”
Spaceman, purely for show, yanked out his notebook and flipped it open. “We’re here to talk about one of your employees. A Mr. Theodore Vacarro. Known to his friends, if any, as Teddy the Toad.”
Delvecchio said nothing. In fact, he gave no indication of even having heard Spaceman’s words.
“The Toad is dead, Papa, and we think maybe his death has something to do with a big drug deal about to happen.”
“I’m an old man. The world behaves very strangely these days.”
“Bullshit,” Spaceman said.
Blue shook his head, smiling. “Excuse my partner,” he said. “Diplomacy has never been his strong suit.” The words themselves were polite enough, but everyone could hear the steel beneath them. Even Delvecchio had to realize that the apology was absolutely insincere.
Delvecchio lifted a hand. “The police and I go back a very long way. Before either one of you was even born. I understand them.”
“And we understand you,” Spaceman said.
“About Vacarro,” Blue put in mildly.
“Yes, I heard he was dead. A street killing or some such thing, correct?”
“He was killed,” Spaceman said savagely, “by the same person who’s killed twice already this week.”
Delvecchio smiled. “Crime in this city. Makes one think that the police should be out tracking down all these killers, instead of bothering old men.”
Blue looked at Spaceman.
Spaceman looked at him, then at Delvecchio. “The name Hua mean anything to you?”
“Not a thing.”
“Marybeth Wexler?”
“No.”
“Wolf?”
“Three strikes, Detective Kowalski. And you are out.”
Spaceman looked for someplace to extinguish his cigarette, finally crushing it out on the bottom of his shoe, and tucking the butt into the watch pocket on his jeans. “Although I admire you for trying, Papa, you really can’t pull this off.”
“What?”
“This act. The poor, helpless old man who doesn’t know shit about drugs or murder or anything else. It just won’t wash.”
Delvecchio just smiled.
As if by magic, the maid reappeared. “This way out,” she said.
Spaceman nodded. “Have a merry Christmas, Papa. We’ll be in touch.”
The only response was the return of the soap opera.
26
Lars searched for a match, finally found a battered book in his back pocket, lit one, and then struggled to keep the weak flame going against the brisk wind racing in off the Pacific. At this time of the night, in December, the beach could be a chilly, damp place to stand.
It certainly hadn’t been his choice of a meeting place, especially at this hour, but then no one had asked his opinion of the arrangements; they just told him where and when. So here he was.
Not for the first time during the evening, he wished that either Dev or Toby had answered his repeated phone calls. It pissed him off a little that both of the creeps were out doing something else just when he needed them. Toby never even answered the messages left on his fucking machine. The two of them would have to be made aware that it was their duty to be available whenever necessary. Being AWOL was a capital offense, in case those two idiots had forgotten. Dealing with civilians was a pain.
And frankly, it made Lars nervous to be standing out here all alone. Somebody should be covering him. But nobody was. He sucked smoke into his lungs almost desperately.
“You Wolf?” The voice came from behind him suddenly.
Lars swore to himself. That was twice somebody had managed to get so close without his knowing. I must be slipping, he thought. “Yeah, I’m Wolf,” he said tentatively. He figured it would be a wise move not to turn around.
“We understand that you are claiming an interest in certain items of value.”
“Yeah,” he said again. He dropped the cigarette and very carefully crushed it out in the damp sand. As he was doing that, his mind was quickly trying to hear something familiar in the voice. The man spoke with the careful precision of someone for whom English was not the first language, but beyond that Lars could tell nothing.
“The people I represent also have an interest in these items,” the voice said.
“Is that so? Good for you.”
A soft chuckle. “Our claim is better than yours, however. How do you Americans say it? Possession is ninety percent of the law?”
“Nine tenths. Possession is nine tenths of the law.” Fucking foreigners, Lars thought. He turned his collar up against the wind. “So are you saying that the people you represent already have the stones?” God, they couldn’t, not yet.
“In a manner of speaking.”
Which meant, he decided, that they did not. A little of the tension left his body. “So what do you want with me then?”
There was a pause which went on so long that he thought the owner of the soft, sneaky voice had gone. But finally he spoke again. “That is the point, in fact.”
“What is the point?”
“We want nothing at all to do with you. We want this annoying little insect who calls himself Wolf to stop bothering us. Otherwise, we might have to swat him.”
“People keep telling me that,” Lars said. “First the dagos and now you.”
“Perhaps a wise man would begin to heed so much advice.”
“Not possible,” Lars said flatly.
Before there was any response, the silence of the beach was broken abruptly by the roar of a noisy old car somewhere very nearby. The area was swept by the glare of headlights that vanished as suddenly as they had appeared.
Lars waited, but nobody said anything, and finally he realized that this time the man was really gone. He turned. There was nobody on the long stretch of beach except for him and the dark shape of a car that probably held a couple of turned-on kids looking for a place to screw. “Shit,” he said into the wind. Another waste of time. He was getting tired of fucking around with these people.
He trudged back to the road where his car was parked. What he needed was a better night’s sleep than he would get in the backseat of this thing. Maybe a motel, although he was running a little short of ready cash. He kept meaning to make a run past the safety deposit box and get some.
Maybe he was too busy thinking about the logistics of it all, or maybe he was just too cold and tired and disgusted with life in general, but he never heard or suspected a thing until it was too late. For the third time lately.
The first blow came from nowhere, crashing across his back and knocking him to the ground. It was followed up by at least two sets of fists and booted feet working their way over his body.
Pretending not to struggle against what was happening, Lars curled as tightly as he could into a ball, trying to protect his head. At the same time, he reached inside the jacket and slid the gun out. He shoved the barrel into some flesh and fired.
Someone screamed, swore in Vietnamese, and rolled away from him. The creep wasn’t dead, but he was hurting. Lars raised the gun again, but the two figures were already heading toward a van parked down the road. He fired once anyway, just to make sure they kept moving.
Then he passed out.
He had no
idea how much later it was when he finally made his way back to the world of the living. At first, it seemed like the wrong thing to do. But staying where he was didn’t seem like such a good idea either.
Lars had been through this kind of thing before, more often than he liked to remember, and the routine was automatic by now. He mentally checked over each part of his battered body, relaxing a little as he realized that nothing seemed to be broken.
The time he’d spent lying on the cold damp ground caught up with him, however, and he sneezed. The impact of that minor explosion nearly finished him off. Done in by a fucking sneeze, he thought wearily. Christ. He groaned into the chilly air and sat up. Each movement caused pain in some different place on his body. He rattled off profanities in several languages, including two obscure African dialects. That made him feel a little better.
He reached for the door handle and pulled himself up and then into the car. Once there and once his head had stopped pounding quite so hard, he checked his pockets, only mildly surprised to find that his wallet and gun were still in place. Which just proved what he already knew—that what had happened was no ordinary mugging and that the people behind it didn’t want it mistaken as such. The beating was just supposed to strengthen the warning given by the soft-voiced stranger.
Fuck ’em.
He realized belatedly that blood was streaming from his nose. He tried rather uselessly to stanch the flow with his sleeve. “Shit,” he said in a muffled voice. If ever, since the age of six or so, he’d felt the urge to cry, it would have been now. Not so much because he ached all over; he did, but he’d been hurt worse. It was just all so damned aggravating. And it was late and he was tired.
He started the car.
The pool and patio area of the Wilshire apartment complex were deserted, of course, as Lars made his way past them, trying to find apartment 12. He could only hope to hell that Dev was home; but then where else would he be at this hour?
He found 12, tucked away in the far corner of the apartment complex, and knocked, gently at first, then more firmly. It seemed to take a very long time before the door opened.
Devlin just stared.
Lars propped himself up against the door frame, trying to smile through swollen, bleeding lips. “Got a drink? I could sure as hell use a drink, mate.”
“You could use a bloody doctor, you ass.”
But Lars shook his head. Then he sneezed again, grabbing at his sore ribs. “Damn,” he gasped. “That smarts, you know?” Then he looked at Devlin. “You gonna let me in or shall I just die right here on your doorstep?”
“Hell.” Devlin helped him across the threshold and over to the couch, carefully lowering him onto the cushions, ignoring the mess of sand and blood. “What the devil happened?”
“Nothing I shouldn’t have expected. Somebody doesn’t want us to have our diamonds, lover, that’s all. They think something like this will scare us off.”
Devlin frowned. “Not a bad guess on their part. I’m beginning to wonder if this is such a good idea.”
Lars just shrugged. “Get a towel or something, willya? Before I bleed all over the fucking place. And that drink?”
Devlin went into the other room and in a moment, Lars could hear water running. He leaned back gingerly and relaxed. This was a safe place, a place where he could ease up a little and let somebody else worry.
He closed his eyes.
27
The newsstand was on Third Street. Evening rush hour was just ending as Blue pulled the Porsche next to the curb and Spaceman signaled out the window with one hand.
The middle-aged proprietor brought a copy of the Times over to him. “You don’t come around in a long time, Detective,” he said.
“Been busy, Quoc.” Spaceman took the paper and without looking tossed it toward Blue, who caught it just before it hit him in the nose. “What’s going on these days?”
The moon-face creased in a bland smile. “What could I know?”
“Come off it, Quoc. Once a cop always a cop.” He glanced at Blue. “My old friend here was a very big deal in the Saigon police department.”
“A long time ago,” Quoc demurred. But he straightened a little and smoothed the front of his gaudy cotton shirt.
“We’re interested in who’s doing what to who in your little corner of the world. And don’t try to play dumb with me.”
“Would I do that to a colleague?”
Spaceman just smiled noncommittally.
Quoc leaned against the car confidentially. “If I was in the market for information about current events, I would talk to Lin Pak.”
“Pak? Who is that?”
“A greedy little man who likes to know where all the corpses are buried. He deals in data. Facts for sale to the highest bidder. Pak and I are long-time acquaintances. Sometimes I used his talents in the old days. Sometimes I arrested him.”
“Where can we find him?”
Quoc shook his head. “Men like Pak don’t stay in one place very long. They cannot afford to. Ask around, is all I can say.”
Spaceman realized that they wouldn’t get anything more out of Quoc. He handed him a five to pay for the newspaper and signaled Blue to drive on.
They took the news vendor’s advice and asked around a little, but there was no sign of Pak. It was time to call this day done.
On his way home, Blue stopped by Saks to pick up a new suit that had been altered to fit. While in the store, he bought a shirt and tie to go with the suit. Christmas presents for himself, he decided. After leaving Saks, he wandered into Van Cleef and Arpels and ended up with a gold and black sapphire ring as well. Why not? It was the only Christmas shopping he’d done, except for a bracelet he’d already given to Sharon and a bottle of ten-year-old Laphroaig whiskey for Spaceman.
Blue told himself, as the salesman wrote up the charge on the ring, that he wasn’t buying it just because Sharon and the damned bracelet were already across the country. What the hell; he could afford the fucking ring and whatever else he wanted, so why shouldn’t he have the things that made him happy?
What wouldn’t make him happy, he decided, was going home and fixing dinner. Alone. So, instead, he stopped at La Scala Boutique for shrimp marinara and a pitcher of the house wine.
Conscientiously, he drank several cups of strong black coffee before leaving the restaurant.
It was after eleven by the time he finally pulled into the driveway and parked. The telephone was ringing as he unlocked the front door and he ran into the living room to answer it, almost tripping over the damned cat on the way.
“Where the hell have you been?”
The owner of the voice was drunker than he had been during any of the other calls.
Blue dropped the boxes and sat on the floor. “Who is this?” he asked, abruptly irritated by these continuing, mysterious intrusions into his life. Enough was fucking enough.
There was a long silence on the line.
“You mad, Loot? Hey, Maguire, you pissed at me?”
There was something so pathetic in the words that Blue was angry at himself for reacting the way he had. “No, I’m not mad.” He leaned against the sofa, stretching his legs across the floor. “I’d just like to know who it is I’m talking to.”
“I sorta thought you’d have it figured out by this time. You’re supposed to be a cop, right?”
“I’m supposed to be. But maybe I’m just not very good at my job.”
“No?”
“Maybe.” He thought about the damned case. This should be his big chance; after all, he was the one who’d talked to Wexler. But what was he doing besides spinning his wheels?
The voice laughed. “Shit. Have you really been trying to find out who I am?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“No reason, really,”
“Didn’t think it mattered much, right?”
“Maybe I just thought that you’d tell me, sooner or later.” Blue pulled the boxes closer.
; “No ideas at all?”
“Yes. I know that we spent time in the Hanoi Hilton together.”
“Very good. See, you ain’t such a bad cop.”
“Tell me your name, please.”
“It don’t matter.” There was no hint of either anger or hostility in the words, just a sort of weary emptiness that bothered Blue more than either of those emotions would have.
“It matters to me.” He opened the smallest box and took out the ring.
“Why should it?”
“Maybe it shouldn’t, but it does.” He slipped the ring on, admiring the way it caught the light.
“Loot, it’s time you faced the truth. I don’t matter. You don’t matter. None of it matters.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Hey, buddy, if I can’t tell you what I think, who can I tell? I can’t afford no fucking shrink.”
Blue shook his head.
“I’m scared, Maguire. More scared than I ever was back then. They’re gonna get me one of these nights.”
“Who?”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t. Tell me what’s wrong and maybe I can help.”
He laughed. “Oh, you stupid shit. How can you help me, Loot, when you can’t even help yourself?”
For the first time, the caller hung up first.
Blue sat where he was, staring out over the city and occasionally reaching down to polish the new ring on the edge of his tie.
28
Toby turned off the tap, just as the hot, scented water reached the ultimate point, the level that would allow him to slip into the tub without flooding the floor of the hotel bathroom.
The woman stood in the doorway watching.
This was the way she liked to play the game. When he was in the tub, she would come into the room, kneel, and very carefully wash him. When the languid bath was over, he would get out of the tub and screw her right there on the carpeted floor of the steamy room. Frankly, he thought it was a little kinky, but she was paying and so she could do whatever turned her on.
Once he had finished with her, he was supposed to go back into the bedroom, take the money from the top of the dresser, get into his clothes quickly, and leave. When she wasn’t horny anymore, she didn’t want to see Toby Reardon.
