The Vig dh-2

by John T Lescroart

  "The one thing I don't understand," Hardy said instead, "was how come you didn't just pay off. You had the money. I mean, even before Maxine came over, you had -what?-twenty-five grand? So give the five or six to Johnny LaGuardia, you're out of the hole, forget about it."

  Rusty didn't even have to ponder. "You don't forget about it, Diz. You don't ever get out. You know how much I paid fucking Angelo Tortoni over the past five, six years? How about five hundred to a thousand a week for like two hundred and fifty weeks? That's the vig alone, like a quarter million bucks. And his people seeing everything, so every case I settle, every horse I hit, Johnny's there with his hand out. You know what that's like? Three grand, four grand a month down the drain?" He shook his head. "There's no way I give him another dime. Then Maxine comes around, there's that much more. Girl always did have lousy timing."

  "So she was just an afterthought? Killing her?"

  Rusty shrugged. "Hey, no way I take her with me. Number one, she can't keep her mouth shut-she tells one of her friends, her husband, somebody, and next thing you know Johnny's down here putting me in a blender. Plus, Diz, you know."

  "I know what?"

  "Women. You know, you get to a certain point…"

  "You kill them?"

  Rusty laughed. "Hey, the thing is, we're here. I've got the money. You get maybe twenty-five-"

  "I get maybe whatever I want. I might take it all. Where is it?"

  "No, no, no. See? Then I lose my leverage."

  Hardy cocked the gun. The guy had colossal balls. "Your leverage position is weak at the moment, Russ. Where's the money?"

  He just shook his head. "Nope. You shoot me, you don't get it anyway. You take me back for trial and I'll need all of it for my defense."

  "What defense? Tortoni finds out you're alive and you're meat anyway."

  "I'm thinking the best thing to do, if it comes to it, is to turn state's evidence against Tortoni, cop a plea, turn the thing around."

  Hardy uncocked the gun. "You're an impressive piece of work, Rusty. You got a lock murder-one with Maxine. You also tried to kill me and I'm not inclined to let it go."

  "Why not, Diz? No, I mean it. It wasn't personal. I like you. So I pay for your inconvenience, I disappear someplace else and we forget the whole thing."

  "We forget you tried to kill me?"

  "Right."

  "We forget you set up Louis Baker, using me to do it, fucked up the rest of his life?"

  Rusty Ingraham rolled his eyes. "Oh, please."

  "He's just a dirtbag nigger ex-con anyway, right?"

  "At best." He sat up, leaning forward on the bed. "Come on, Diz. What'd I do to the guy he didn't deserve anyway? He should have done his thirteen for what we put him down for. They let him out after nine, that's their problem. Fuck Louis Baker. Even thirteen years wasn't enough. They should have thrown away the key."

  "I think they will with you, Rusty. How's that grab you?"

  Rusty shook his head, smiling. "I think it's unlikely. Listen, Diz. Who knows but me and you what really happened? I guarantee you Baker was there. So he shot Maxine and me. I'm hit but I get away. It still all works. I give you half the money."

  "And the white man walks?"

  Rusty raised his good hand, gesturing, still smiling, conspiratorial. "It's not black or white," he said. "It's who I am and who Baker is."

  Hardy emptied his coffee cup in a long swallow. "That's right, Russ. That's exactly what it is."

  After he'd shown up at Hardy's room at the El Sol, Abe had gone out and bought a length of rope, a pair of cheap sandals for Rusty and some over-the-counter tetracycline. Mexico was different that way.

  Hardy had said he couldn't do anything until he'd gotten a little sleep, so Abe had moved Ingraham, over his polite objections, tying him elbows and knees to a chair while Hardy took his pills and crashed on the bed. Ingraham had spoken little, pretty beat himself. He showed no inclination to deny killing Maxine Weir. And eventually dozed off.

  So Abe had spent the afternoon on the terrace, reading Loren Estleman's Bloody Season and wondering how Wyatt Earp had ever acquired such a good reputation. Every ten minutes he checked through the double doors.

  At a little after three he had finished his book and awakened Hardy. He had a fever but he was okay. He had taken some more pills. They sat across from each other on the terrace.

  "Okay," Abe said. "Now what?"

  "I was hoping you'd tell me."

  Abe sat back and sucked some air through his front teeth. "You want to drive him back, all of us?"

  "Three days, small car. I don't know how I'd be," Hardy said. "I have felt better." He thought a minute. "Isn't there any way they can hold him here?"

  Abe shook his head. "I don't know. I'm not here officially. I can't arrest him."

  "But they can arrest him down here, can't they?"

  Abe's scar tightened through his lips. "There is a rumor that anybody can be arrested here for anything. A humble and cooperative California police officer, such as myself, for example, could probably speak to the locals and arrange something." Abe stood up, yawning, and glanced back inside. "He's tied up good, Diz. Let's go down by the pool."

  The reason they had never taken him was they weren't too smart.

  Okay, they had the gun, but a weapon doesn't do you any good if you can't use it. Hardy taking that shot this morning had rattled him a little, made him forget where they were for a while. It was possible that maybe Hardy was crazy enough to shoot him and the consequences be damned.

  But now, with Glitsky here, it wasn't going to happen. Glitsky was a good cop and he was going to try to arrest him and have him held until they could get the extradition together. At least, that's what they'd said, with the door open, thinking he was still sleeping. Not too smart.

  It was surprisingly comfortable with the pillow and the blanket. Rusty reviewed his options.

  When they untied him they'd probably manhandle him away into Hardy's car and, even if it was a long trip, that would be their only choice. Well, he didn't want to spend three or four days tied up, heading back to the border.

  On the other hand, he could pretend to cooperate, be docile, let them bring him to the Mexican police, and then gently point out that Messrs Glitsky and Hardy here were the ones that had kidnapped him. And see? Look at this! They are illegally armed!

  Don't you Mexican authorities look with extreme displeasure upon civilians with guns, especially foreign civilians, most especially big-shot United States policemen coming down here doing their extralegal we-don't-need-no-stinking-badges extradition bullshit without okaying it up front? Any good macho jefe would likely be outraged at the imperialistic arrogance of it all.

  No question. They'd take it up with Hardy and Glitsky first.

  It was a far better chance than the drive.

  They wouldn't hold him on Glitsky's say-so after that. There wasn't even a warrant for him in the States. Did they forget he knew this stuff? I'm a lawyer, fellas, this is what I do.

  He smiled under the blanket.

  Hardy and Glitsky were coming back into the room, Hardy saying, "It's still risky."

  Glitsky prodded him with his shoe, pulled the blanket off him.

  Rusty moaned, stirred, made a good show of it. "That was a good rest," he said. "What time is it?"

  They sat alfresco in the late afternoon, three American tourists at a table on the Esplanade, looking out at the bay, the bodies in swimsuits, the beggars. Hardy carried his gun, loaded, tucked into his belt under his windbreaker.

  They were all eating shrimp cocktails and drinking draft Heineken. Rusty said he'd pay for it from his winnings the day before. He was well rested, in apparent high spirits.

  Hardy excused himself to go to the bathroom.

  "I appreciate the last meal," Rusty said.

  Abe nodded, noncommittal. "Your nickel."

  "I've heard stories about Mexican jails, you know. Where it's just like a hotel. I mean, you buy your food, have women
sent in, same as a hotel. Just depends on how much money you have."

  Abe sucked the meat from the tail of a shrimp. "That's nice," he said. "And you've got money, right?" He drank some beer. "Though I don't think you'll be there too long."

  "Yeah, well, you gotta make the best of the cards you're dealt."

  Glitsky didn't pay much attention. He ate as though he was hungry. Hardy came back up to the table.

  "You got him?" Abe asked.

  Hardy nodded and Abe got up. "Later," he said.

  "Personable guy," Rusty said, looking after him. "Very personable."

  Hardy picked up his fork. "I don't think he likes you."

  With two shrimp cocktails, two beers and a cup of coffee inside him, Rusty felt good, but Hardy wasn't being much company. Abe had been gone about a half hour. Rusty moved his chair back into the shade of the umbrella over their table. It was still hot, but the sun was moving lower.

  "What's taking him so long?"

  "Think about it? You in a hurry?"

  Rusty smiled. "No, I guess not. But he could've just taken me straight in."

  "Not really. He had a little explaining." He looked up the street. "Here they come."

  A couple of guardia with their green uniforms and submachine guns were following a few steps behind Glitsky. Next to him walked a very tall, skinny man in a black suit, white shirt, electric-blue tie.

  "A regular party," Rusty said.

  The guardia stood on the sidewalk. Glitsky and the tall man pulled up chairs. "This is Lieutenant Mantrillo," Abe said. He turned to Hardy. "We've been having a nice talk."

  Up close, Mantrillo's face was sallow and pocked. He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and threw them onto the table. Several other patrons looked over.

  "Do you speak English?" Rusty asked.

  Mantrillo nodded. "Pretty good."

  He smiled and pointed a finger at Hardy. "This guy's got a gun on him. Right now. Under that jacket."

  Mantrillo's black eyes flared in his sad face. Good, Rusty thought, it was the reaction he had hoped for. Mantrillo turned to Hardy, back to Glitsky, who shook his head wearily.

  "He came with us voluntarily," Abe said, "like I told you."

  Rusty was getting into the performance. He shook his head back and forth. "No! Check him! I came with them because I thought it was my only chance to get away from them. They've had a gun on me all day!" Rusty met Mantrillo's eyes. "Lieutenant, they've got the gun. They're breaking your laws, not me."

  Damn, he was thinking, I am good. Just like in court. He looked again at Hardy. "Please, check him."

  Mantrillo didn't have to move. Hardy stood up, unsnapped a few buttons, and lifted his jacket away from his body. He turned all the way around. "Lieutenant, I don't know what he's talking about," Hardy said. He looked down at Rusty. "Too many beers, buddy. Ain't no gun here."

  Mantrillo was pushing up, reaching for the handcuffs.

  "Let's go," he said. "We will get the…"

  But it was impossible! Hardy had the gun. He had been with him the whole time except…

  "The bathroom!" he cried out. "He left it in the bathroom!"

  Hardy smiled at him. Rusty whirled, or tried to whirl, to run back and check for himself-Hardy had stashed the gun to set him up for this-but Mantrillo grabbed him by his good wrist.

  He heard Glitsky say, "The poor boy's deluded."

  Mantrillo was starting to pull him around, get the other wrist. "Let's go." Roughly now.

  He pulled back, came free. "No! No, you can't do this-"

  He backed up into another table. The customer turned around. "Hey, watch it!"

  Hardy was coming around the side of him, cutting him off. He stepped forward and grabbed a knife from the table with his good hand. He tipped the table up, spilling everything, shoving it at Glitsky and Mantrillo. He swung the knife at Hardy. The guardia had come up into the eating area, behind Mantrillo. There was only one way out through the other tables, and Rusty broke for it, vaulting the low fence, sprinting up the sidewalk.

  With the confusion around the tables, Rusty got a good start. Mantrillo blew on his whistle. The two guardia were pounding down the pavement after him, blowing their own whistles, blocking the crowd aside. Several people were on the ground.

  Hardy, his foot killing him, was trying to keep up behind Mantrillo and Glitsky. More guardia had appeared from the narrow streets leading back into the city.

  It was too crowded. There was a sound like firecrackers and screaming ahead, people lying down now, getting off the sidewalk onto the sand. Far ahead of him a sea of bodies still was visible, parting to let the runners through.

  Now Hardy saw Rusty, maybe a hundred yards ahead, suddenly appear on the beach. The crowd on the sidewalk must have pushed him out into the open. Either that, or Rusty thought they were slowing him down. Breaking his stride, slogging through the sand, Rusty threw a glance over his shoulder, around the sunbathers and vendors.

  Glitsky and Mantrillo were twenty yards in front of him, now crossing the sand themselves. Hardy took the short fall off the pavement. A dozen guardia were crossing the beach.

  Rusty got to the hard sand near the water and turned, backtracking, up toward Hardy. But that area had pretty much cleared with everybody coming up to see what all the excitement was about. Rusty ran along, silhouetted against an orange evening sky on the nearly deserted stretch of beach.

  More firecrackers seemed to be going off everywhere, and Rusty cut into the water, back up, running with his legs high.

  Another burst cut a line in the sand coming up to him, and he stopped, abruptly. He started to raise his hand up, his other hand, the one in the sling. He half turned, and a string of cherry bombs went off fifty yards up the beach to Hardy's right.

  Rusty Ingraham lay in a heap. When Hardy got to him, Mantrillo and Glitsky were kneeling on the sand. The lieutenant had turned him onto his back, and the wash of a wave was retreating from him in a pink foam.

  "The dumb shit," Glitsky said.

  Hardy took the weight off his hurt foot and went down to one knee.

  Rusty opened his eyes. He stared at the sky, gradually focused on Hardy. "Hey, Diz," he said, "don't let 'em tell you gamblers always die broke." He tried his courtroom smile.

  "I'm loaded."

  "Where is it, Rusty?" Hardy asked. "The money?"

  He closed his eyes, opened them. "I tell you, I lose the leverage," he said. He started to laugh, then coughed once.

  His face froze in that rictus, and then his eyes, still open, weren't seeing anything.

  Epilogue

  " ^

  Marcel Lanier put a leg over the corner of Abe Glitsky's desk. "You'll be happy about this," he said.

  "What's that?"

  "Louis Baker."

  Abe put his pencil down. "Louis is back at Quentin."

  "Yes, he is."

  "That makes me happy?"

  "No. What'll make you happy is you know how the D.A. didn't go on the Holly Park thing-no evidence he killed Dido?"

  Abe suppressed a small smile. "Yeah, justice prevailed."

  "And you don't think he did it anyway?"

  Abe shrugged. "Evidence talks, shit walks. Not that I'm burning a candle for Louis Baker, but he looked better for Maxine Weir than he ever did for Dido."

  Lanier got a little defensive. "He looked okay for Dido."

  "Well, hey, Marcel, this is America. Let's pretend if you can't prove it, he didn't do it, huh?"

  "Well, he didn't, is the point."

  Abe leaned back in his chair. "No shit."

  "Nother guy, street name of Samson, took over Dido's cut and seems he stepped on a runner-this kid called Lace. Where these people get their names, Abe?"

  "They make 'em up, Marcel. So what happened?"

  "So Lace evidently got this guy's gun, Samson's, and being aced out of the cut, had no place to go, so he shoots Samson. No mystery, does it in front of about forty people, two of whom remember seeing something about
it. But two's okay. I can live with two."

  "And?"

  "Ballistics matches the gun with the one did Dido. So how do you like that?"

  "Lace-the kid-killed Dido?"

  "No. Samson did. It was his gun. He did it to take over the territory. Timed it slick, figured we'd lay it on Baker."

  "Which we did."

  "But didn't nail him for it, did we? Score one for the good guys."

  Abe looked out the window at the October fog. It was late in the day. He tapped his pencil on his desk. "If you say so, Marcel. If you say so."

  The trees across the street, at the border to Golden Gate Park, bent in the freshening wind. Hardy pulled a Bass Ale for a customer and limped up to the front of the bar where he'd put his stool, where Frannie sat with a club soda.

  She looked at her watch. "Ten minutes. Where's my brother?"

  Hardy reached over and took her hand. "He'll be here. He's always here."

  Hardy had been back three weeks. He had told Jane. Jane had met someone in Hong Kong and was going to tell him. They had laughed about it. They had also gone to bed, cried about it, put it to rest. Friends. No doubt forever. Maybe.

  He squeezed Frannie's hand. She was showing now. Still radiant, blooming. Sometimes, lately, Hardy hadn't known at all what to do with it. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

  "Okay. Nervous. Do you think he knows?"

  He squeezed her hand again. "I think he suspects."

  "Do you think it's too soon?"

  "Nope."

  "I'm glad you're sure. I kind of need you to be sure."

  Hardy watched the wind bend the trees some more. The fog was swirling ten feet away outside the picture window in the near dusk. The Traveling Wilburys were on the jukebox, singing 'bout last night. Hardy thought of last night at Frannie's just kind of wondering if she would like to be married to him.

  Remembering how she had answered him, he slid off the stool and stood on his good foot and leaned over the bar, kissing her. "I'm sure," he said.

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: fbd-4b1ec6-ba40-5f4f-d29b-36aa-db4c-938e8a