I wedged the left side of my body against the bar, shoved him off with my right shoulder, trying to steady him-but that was a mistake too. He took it as an aggression and leaned back toward me and swung wildly at my head.
And just like that, I was into it.
His fist missed me by a foot, but I could feel the wind of it: he was bull-strong. My groin knotted up and I twisted sideways and came off the stool onto my feet while he was trying to set himself for another swing. Somebody shouted. Knox swayed, made rumbling sounds in his throat, and put his head down and charged me. I side-stepped him easily enough—the liquor had made him reckless but turned his reflexes sluggish—and hit him over the collarbone with the flat of my left hand. He lost his balance, skidded into the bar, caromed off with his head jerking up to look for me, and he was wide open. I did not want to do it, but he had left me no choice; if I let this go on he would tear up the place, and maybe me along with it.
I clipped him on the point of the jaw.
I felt the shock clear into my armpit; the hand went numb for an instant. Knox's knees buckled and his eyes rolled up and he fell in a loose sprawl with his chest heaving like a bellows. But he was out. When you lay in a Sunday punch like that, you almost always put them out.
There was a dull ringing in my ears and I could hear myself breathing in a thick wheezing rhythm. The pit of my stomach felt hollow. The two guys in the booth were on their feet, and the bartender had come around from behind the plank, and the desk clerk was standing aghast in the lobby doorway; all of them were staring at Knox lying there on the pegged floor.
I said to nobody in particular, “I'm sorry it happened. He was just too drunk to know what he was doing.”
“Wasn't your fault,” the bartender said. “Hell, I should have stopped serving him an hour ago.”
The desk clerk said, “Maybe I'd better call the law.”
I shook my head and looked toward the rear of the room, where there was a closed door with lettering on it that said Restrooms. “No, I'll handle it. Have you got a rear entrance through that door?”
The bartender nodded. “Into an alley that cuts through the block.”
“Maybe you could help me carry him out there.”
“You can't just leave him in the alley.”
“I won't.”
He shrugged and came over to where I was. I flexed my right arm to get the last of the tingling numbness out of it; my knuckles had begun to throb, and I saw that two of them were scraped and bloody. I bent down and took Knox by the shoulders, and the bartender got his legs, and one of the guys from the booth went over and opened the rear door for us. We carried Knox down a short corridor and out through another door, into daylight that was blinding after the semidarkness of the bar.
The alley was narrow and unpaved and there was not much in it except weeds and a stack of crates and boxes and half a dozen garbage cans. A lizard sat sunning itself on one of the posts in the fence opposite the door; beyond the fence was a pasture with two horses and a mule grazing in it. We laid Knox down in the dust next to the hotel wall.
I said, “There'll be a man named Kayabalian in asking for me pretty soon—one of your guests. Will you tell him I'll be back as soon as I can?”
“No more trouble?”
“No more trouble.”
“Okay, then.” He went back inside and closed the door.
I knelt beside Knox, fished through his pockets until I came up with a leather key case. When I straightened again, there was a sudden fiery pain in my chest and then an attack of coughing so intense for a few seconds, tears squeezed past the corners of my eyes. I leaned against the wall until it quit.
I'm fifty years old, I thought, I've got a lesion on one lung, what the hell am I doing mixing it up in bars?
I scrubbed my face dry with my handkerchief, went slowly down the alley to one side street and looked around and did not find the Rambler wagon. But when I came back to the other side street, I saw it parked under a locust tree thirty yards down. So I got it and drove it into the alley and managed to drag Knox through one of the rear doors—it was like dragging a side of beef—and lay him across the seat. Then I backed the Rambler out of the alley, parked it where I'd found it under the locust tree. He could sleep it off here as well as anywhere else. But I kept the keys; I did not want him driving when he finally did come around.
For a moment I stood looking in at him. I had not had much time to consider what he'd imparted to me in the bar, but the implications were pretty obvious. It looked as though I had at last gotten my handle on Angela Jerrold, and that made it all the more imperative to get her and Jerrold the hell away from Eden Lake. I had suspected all along it would turn out this way; not many women with that kind of appeal to men are strong enough to resist using their power. The only thing I wondered about now was whether Talesco and Knox were the only ones. For all I knew, she had been playing the siren's song for everybody at the camp and half of The Pines.
Only it was Jerrold, poor bastard, who had listened to it once too often.
Ten
Charles Kayabalian turned out to be a tall thin relaxed-looking guy somewhere in his early forties. He had pronounced Semitic features, jet-black hair worn in a modern shag cut, a small neat mustache, and smooth skin the color of an aged walnut. Round expressive eyes gave him an ingenuous look that was probably an asset when he went up in front of a jury. You got the impression that he wore any kind of clothes as if they had been tailored for him, but that he preferred casual outfits to the more conventional suit and tie; he was dressed now in a patterned silk shirt, beige flare slacks, and suede loafers.
I found him sitting at the bar when I came back into the Gold Rush Room, and after I had introduced myself and we had shaken hands and sized each other up the way you do, he suggested that we take one of the booths; the two guys who had witnessed my brief skirmish with Knox were gone.
When we were settled in the booth he said, “The bartender told me about the fight you had. I trust everything's all right?”
“More or less. It was just one of those things.”
“People should learn to control liquor.” He got a package of Marlboros out of his shirt pocket. “Cigarette?”
Christ yes, I thought. But I said, “No thanks. I gave them up a while ago.”
“I wish I could. You don't mind?”
Politeness made me say, “No, go ahead.”
He lit one with, a gold lighter and blew smoke at the ceiling, and I began to breathe through my mouth so I wouldn't be able to smell it.
“Well,” he said, “you're wondering, of course, about my connection with Vahram Terzian, if perhaps I might have been his attorney—”
I said, “I saw Sheriff Cloudman earlier this afternoon. He told me about you and the people you represent, why you're here.”
“Oh, I see. Then he also explained about the stolen Daghestan carpet.”
“He mentioned it, yes.”
“I'll get right to the point, then. You have a certain involvement in this matter already, by virtue of having discovered Terzian's body, and you also have a rather good reputation as an investigator; I've seen your name in the San Francisco papers on occasion. I'd like to retain you in a professional capacity.”
“Retain me to do what?”
“Help recover the Daghestan.”
I had thought that might be why he'd wanted to see me. I said, “I don't think I can do it, Mr. Kayabalian.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing, the Sheriff's Department has a lot of manpower, and a lot better methods at their disposal than I have; if this missing carpet is connected with Terzian's murder they'll likely turn it up. For another, the police don't much like the idea of private cops poking their noses in a homicide investigation, and the last thing I can afford to do is antagonize public officials.”
“There are parallel lines of inquiry,” Kayabalian said, “which a civilian investigator can pursue without overstepping the boundaries of h
is license. The county sheriff, after all, is only concerned with the murder itself, with what happened here in Tuolumne County. They can't be expected to follow potential leads to the Daghestan in places like San Jose and San Francisco.”
“I understood you already had people investigating Terzian's operation in San Jose.”
“I do, but I'm not particularly satisfied with their efforts. Look, I'm also a servant of the law; I certainly wouldn't expect you to do anything that isn't legal and ethical. Now that Terzian has been dealt a certain grim justice, my primary interest—and my client's primary interest—is the safe recovery of the Daghestan.”
“Who is this client of yours, Mr. Kayabalian?”
“I'm not at liberty to give you his name. But I can tell you he's an influential citizen of Hillsborough, with an unimpeachable reputation. You have my word on that.”
I nodded, brooding a little.
Kayabalian said, “There's something else you ought to know about him. He has authorized me to offer a reward of twenty-five hundred dollars to the person who recovers or provides direct information leading to the recovery of the Daghestan.”
“That's a pretty substantial reward.”
“It is, indeed.”
“Just how valuable is this carpet?”
“To a collector such as my client, depending on how wealthy he is and how much he might want this particular piece, it could bring anywhere from fifty to seventy-five thousand dollars.”
“That much?”
“Yes. I take it you know relatively little about Orientals.”
“Almost nothing, I'm afraid.”
“Suppose I give you a little background. I'm something of a collector myself, in a minor way, and I've studied Orientals as a hobby for several years.”
“All right.”
He paused to light another cigarette. He smoked them in short, quick drags, so that his face seemed continually wreathed in curls and wisps of smoke. It was difficult for me to keep my eyes fixed on him; the cigarette and the smoke had a kind of hypnotic effect on me. Like a reforming heroin addict looking at somebody with a nickel bag, I thought. You don't want the damned thing, only you want it so bad you can taste it.
Kayabalian said, “Several hundred years ago Daghestan was a province, under both Armenian and Persian rule, in the area sandwiched between the Black Sea and the Caspian Sea—what we refer to today as the Caucasus, currently a part of Russia. Daghestan's Armenian weavers, like those in such provinces as Shirvan in the Caucasus and Isfahan in Persia, were consummate craftsmen; their work is historically among the very finest. But not many Daghestan carpets and Namazlyks—prayer rugs—dating from earlier than 1750 have survived in the Western world, for two reasons: production was small and purely functional and carpets were not made specifically for court use, as they were in Persia. They were instead handed down from generation to generation and treasured as family heirlooms; consequently most have remained in the Caucasus. The Russians, of course, guard them jealously.
“The Daghestan in question here is a beautifully preserved specimen, finished in 1709. We know the exact date because it is woven into the carpet in Arabic numerals from the Mohammedan calendar, which begins with Mohammed's journey from Mecca to Medina on the sixteenth of July, 622 A.D.—I'm not giving you too much academic history, am I? I tend to get carried away on the subject.”
“No, I'm with you,” I said.
“Well, my client obtained it in the late fifties through a dealer in Europe, who had gotten it from the family of an eighteenth-century British colonialist; until it was stolen, it was one of the few of its kind owned by a private individual in the Western Hemisphere. It measures eight feet three inches by ten feet seven inches and is dark red in color, with fringed edges. The center field is decorated by three beige rectilinear medallions; around the borders are mihrābs—niches of the type built into mosques to indicate the direction of Mecca—and agrabs, or scorpions, done in beige and dark blue. Can you visualize it from that description?”
“Yes.”
“As I said, it is in remarkably fine condition. Quality Orientals become more beautiful with age and gentle wear; they acquire an almost silken sheen. This one has the most brilliant sheen I've ever seen on a carpet or rug outside a museum. It must be treated with the utmost care. Exposure to direct sunlight or rain or fog, even careless folding or storage, would damage it irreparably. This is just another cause for concern by my client, as you can imagine.”
I said I could.
Kayabalian built a pyramid with his fingers and laid his chin on it. He had the look of an art connoisseur outraged by injustices which he took personally, rather than of an attorney expressing impersonal anger on behalf of a client. He said, “I think that's all I can tell you about the Daghestan. Unless you have questions?”
“Just a few related questions.”
“Yes?”
“How sure are you that Terzian actually had possession of it?”
“Reasonably sure. The modus operandi of the thieves who robbed my client is the same as that of the gang who have robbed other dealers and collectors in the Bay Area over the past three years; carpets and prayer rugs from those previous thefts have turned up more than once in the hands of individuals suspected of dealing with Terzian.”
“So you think Terzian was the regular fence for this gang?”
“I do, yes.”
“These individuals he dealt with—where are they located?”
“There are half a dozen we're fairly certain about in New York, Houston, Milwaukee, Atlanta and Los Angeles. And two probables in Fresno and San Diego.”
“Sounds like a pretty large-scale operation.”
“It was, on a one-man basis.”
“Weren't the police able to get anything on him?”
“Nothing concrete. He was arrested twice as a receiver of stolen goods, once in 1970 and once in 1972, but the charges were dropped in both instances for lack of evidence.”
“Do you have any idea at all who he might have been dealing with here in Tuolumne?”
“None at all. I was amazed, in fact, when I learned this was where he had gone from San Jose on Saturday. This hardly seems like the place where someone wealthy enough to afford the Daghestan would be located.”
“Is there any chance he kept records of these transactions of his? That would be the easiest way to get a line on his contact in this area.”
“I doubt it,” Kayabalian said. “Terzian was not the type of man to put anything incriminating on paper. It would be my assumption that he kept it all inside his head, including telephone numbers.”
“Did he have any employees—anybody he might have confided in or let something slip to?”
“He had two people working for him, a clerk and a boy who cleaned rugs, but as far as we've been able to learn, neither of them was involved in his illegal activities. He wasn't married and he had no immediate family.”
“Those employees might still be a place to start.”
“Perhaps. Does that mean you're reconsidering my offer?”
I did not answer immediately, but I was working it around in my head again. He seemed honest and forthright enough, and I had already decided that I liked his manner. And what he had said about observing legal and ethical restrictions made sense. And I damned well could use the job, even if I doubted a realistic shot at the reward he had dangled in front of me. There was still my commitment to Harry to consider, but then, that would end with the leaving—tonight or tomorrow, if everything went all right—of Ray and Angela Jerrold.
What about Dr. White, I thought, and the goddamn lesion on my lung? Suppose I have to have additional tests? Suppose I have to go into the bloody hospital? Suppose—
The hell with that, you can't start turning down jobs on the basis of intangibles. For Christ's sake, man, your work is the one thing keeping your head together.
I said finally, “I'd have to clear it with Cloudman first.”
“Of course.”
/>
“There's another thing too. I probably wouldn't be able to get on it until Wednesday. There are a couple of things that have to be attended to first.”
He worried his lower lip. “You couldn't possibly begin sooner than that?”
“Late tomorrow, maybe, but I can't make any promises right now. I won't know for sure until tomorrow morning.”
“That's acceptable, I think. Do you want to call Cloudman now?”
“Okay.”
Kayabalian nodded and lit another cigarette for himself. So I left him and went out to the lobby and found a pay telephone booth against one of the walls. Cloudman was still in; he came on ten seconds after I told the desk officer who was calling.
I said, “I've just been having a talk with Charles Kayabalian.”
“Have you?” He sounded pleased to hear from me. “What about?”
I told him, skipping some of the details but none of the meat.
“Uh-huh,” he said. “Well, I sort of had the idea he was going to ask you to do some work for him. Like I told you before, he was pretty interested.”
“How do you feel about my taking the job?”
“Oh, I don't have any objections, long as everybody understands his position. The more good men you have working on something, the better your chances of finding what you're looking for.”
“I won't step on your toes,” I said.
“I didn't think you would,” he said mildly. “I guess I'll be the first to hear if you find out anything interesting.”
I said he would be. Then I passed along, for what it was worth, the guesswork I had done about the old woman's peacocks, and we rang off, and I went back into the Gold Rush Room and slid in opposite Kayabalian again.
“Okay,” I said.
“No problems or reservations?”
“None.”
He gave me a wan smile. “Welcome to the hunt.”
Blowback (The Nameless Detective) Page 8
