"Good news," I said, more like a question.
"Not exactly. I remained very interested in identifying the second man. All I could discover was that it could possibly have been someone known as Joe Clams, out of San Francisco, who ran around with Chandler. I've been trying to locate such a person since the day my brother died, with no success. And I went through a lot of men and women in your business to get nowhere."
The reference to San Francisco helped me to relate, but not enough to understand even vaguely what the hell I was doing in Chicago.
I chose not to mention it.
"No other names came up for the second man?" I asked. "None. Clams was it," he answered.
Joe Clams. I could see where the phone book I'd offered to bring along might not have done Lansdale much good.
"Okay," I said, "I'm with you."
"Two days ago I heard from one of the many investigators I've dealt with during the past eight years, Stan Riddle—perhaps you know him?"
I knew Riddle all right, from back in the days working with Jimmy Pigeon in Santa Monica. The guy played at being a private investigator as if it were a movie role with a script written by Nora Ephron.
"And Riddle recommended you call on me?"
"No," Lansdale said. "May I continue?"
"Please do," I said.
"Riddle told me that he had spotted Harrison Chandler at Venice Beach, very much alive. So I'm hoping that you can help me locate Chandler, and with him this Joe Clams character," said Lansdale. "And that, Mr. Diamond, is the reason I have invited you here."
Voila.
Nearly six hours since Ralph Battle had stormed into my office and I finally discovered what Jonathan Maximilian Lansdale was after.
The problem was that I still had no idea why me.
And the big problem was that I had no idea how to ask.
"Now, you are probably wondering why I chose you, Jake," Lansdale said.
"I'm curious, yes," I said.
I waited for his response, knowing it might solve one little uncertainty and absolutely positive it would fall far short of getting me off the hook.
"If you recall," said Lansdale, "I mentioned that an investigator whom I hired out of Los Angeles reported to me that Harrison Chandler was deceased."
I wasn't sure if it was a question, so I kept waiting.
"The man was apparently mistaken or he purposely lied to me. Since that man himself has since passed away, and since it is my understanding that you were a close associate and confidant, I feel that you deserve to inherit the responsibility that he failed so terribly to honor."
I really didn't have to ask, but sometimes when you wish hard enough the thing that you know is true might simply be a bad dream.
"It was Jimmy Pigeon," I said.
"Yes, it was," said Lansdale.
I placed my drinking glass on the table.
I slowly rose from my chair.
"I can't help you, Mr. Lansdale," I said, "and I really do need to be getting back to San Francisco."
"Sit down, Mr. Diamond," he said calmly. "You're not going anywhere quite yet, and you will help me."
"I can't help you," I repeated.
I began to turn toward the door when a cannonball, which had to be Ralph Battle's fist, struck me in the back between the shoulder blades and knocked me straight down to the floor. My right elbow hit the edge of the food tray, flipping it end over end into the air.
The pâté did a fine job of turning a Norman Rockwell on the wall behind Lansdale into a Jackson Pollock.
I tried to rise, but my neck was wedged between the Persian rug and Ralph Battle's shoe.
"Sorry about that, Mr. Diamond," Lansdale said from some-where above me. "I believe that Ralph is still upset about what happened back at your office."
I guess Battle kept no secrets from the Boss after all.
"If you'll promise to listen politely for a short while longer, I'll explain why I'm so convinced that you will feel compelled to work with me on this. I can ask Ralph to allow you to resume your seat, I can freshen up your drink, and we can have you out of here and back to San Francisco in no time."
I was forced to speak out of the corner of my mouth. A piece of horsehide that tried to pass as a food snack was poking me in the eye. I wanted to tell Lansdale to drop dead. I wanted to tell Battle that if he didn't get his Florsheim wingtip oxford off me I would bludgeon him to death with a wheat cracker. I wanted to ask them what the fuck they thought they were going to do if I said no. I realized that that was exactly what Lansdale was itching to tell me.
"I'll listen," I managed to squeak out.
"Now, isn't this a lot better?" Lansdale said when I was once again seated across from him with a fresh bourbon in my hand.
"Let's get on with it, Mr. Lansdale, sir," I said in my most polite voice.
I took a long drink. It was a tremendous challenge due to a severe limitation of neck motor ability.
"If you agree to assist me, and do a conscientious job, I will reward you handsomely. If you decline my offer, or approach the assignment with less than due diligence, I will make your life a living hell."
Lansdale didn't mince words. He was a man with a mission. I was waiting for the part about how the tape would self-destruct in thirty seconds.
I tried to guess what Lansdale felt it would take to turn my life upside down. "What exactly are you threatening, Mr. Lansdale?" I asked, as much as I didn't want to hear it.
"I am threatening the well-being of Darlene Roman and Sally French," he answered.
My well-loved associate.
And my ex-wife, current steady date.
Lansdale had it pretty effectively covered.
All I could think about was how much I wished he would die, instantly.
"Can you tell me something about the purpose of your brother's visit to Los Angeles just before he died?" I asked, fighting to keep the tremble in my chest out of my voice. "The business end of the trip. I believe that I can guess about the sightseeing part."
I was trying to avoid any talk of Disneyland.
"You ask good questions, Mr. Diamond."
"It's my forte. If you want someone who can't ask a good question, get Larry King."
"I really can't say much concerning the nature of Randolph's business," Lansdale said. "And Jake, I really wouldn't bother about it if I were you."
I was being shoved hard against a locked door and being warned not to look for the key. I guess it just wasn't my day.
My next two good questions would have been:
Why do you think your brother had a photo of his assassin in the camera?
Do you still have the photograph?
Intuition told me that I already knew how Lansdale would answer.
"I'll do my best to locate Harrison Chandler, Mr. Lansdale," I said.
"And Joe Clams."
"Yes. May I go now?"
"Certainly, Jake. Here is a little something to get you started," Lansdale said, pulling out a wad of cash from his pocket and peeling off ten C-notes.
As much as I could use the cash, Lansdale was the last person in the world I wanted to be retained by.
"I would prefer billing you, Mr. Lansdale, if that's okay."
"Whatever," he said. "Can I have Ralph escort you to your plane?"
"No, thank you, I'll manage. No offense to Mr. Battle."
"Fine, then. I look forward to hearing from you, Jake. Have a good evening."
"You do the same," I said, taking the long way around Ralph Battle and heading for the exit.
"And, Jake."
"Yes, Mr. Lansdale?" I said, without turning or slowing my pace.
"Thank you so much for dropping by."
"Don't mention it," I said.
And then I was in the corridor and rushing to the concourse and then racing to the gate.
Twenty minutes later I was in my seat on the jet, rolling down the runway for takeoff.
When the flight attendant kindly asked if I was
okay, I realized that my hands were shaking.
I was back in my apartment on Fillmore Street just before midnight and gave Darlene a ring, telling her to call off the National Guard and insisting that she would have to wait until morning for details.
"Don't you want to hear what I learned about Max Lansdale?" Darlene asked.
"In the morning," I answered.
As tired as I was, I was afraid to go to bed.
I realized that the stabbing pain I felt in my entire upper body was nothing compared to how it was going to feel after sleeping on it.
So I did what I usually did when I was too tired, too wired, or too scared to go to sleep.
I took my cigarettes, the ashtray, the bottle of bourbon, and the paperback novel I was currently reading into the bedroom.
I thought about calling my mother, calling Sally, calling Joey Russo, calling Lieutenant Lopez of the SFPD. But I knew after calling Darlene that I wasn't prepared to talk to anyone about the mountain of trouble I was in.
I might have been able to talk it out with my dear friend, former employer, and mentor.
But Jimmy Pigeon was not available.
Back to TOC
The following is a preview of Saw Red, the second book in the Duncan Sloan series, by Bob Truluck.
1
The first time I laid eyes on Terry Sebring she was showing me the pussy in a hotel bar. I didn't take it personally or any other way really. I just saw it as some damned good advertising about the same old thing. I guess that's how I took it. Our paths crossed again the next morning. Briefly. The elevator, same joint. That time I was noticing she had a decent sense of humor and spoke casual French. I had already noticed she was a knockout redhead.
I thought about her, our small encounter, a couple of times, then put it where stuff like that goes. I didn't think any more about her until a year or two later when she knocked on my front door to remind me. And I knew she had trouble. Seems nobody knocks on my door unless they've got trouble. It's that kind of door.
***
I was looking at working-girl, day-off. Fine-gauge sweater thing the nancy-name people might call wheat or something like that. Tan worked. Almost-white linen skirt tickling the bottoms of her kneecaps. Some classy gold stuff at her neck, an emerald not much bigger than a thumbnail on one hand. Plain brown Mary Janes, strap and all, that would have set you back a bill and a half, easy. A soft leather bag, brown to match the shoes, slung across a shoulder. Curb appeal for days.
Passing her on the street, not knowing any better, not knowing she was a high-dollar whore, you'd think money. Not pretend money like the assholes up in Winter Park or the phony fucks out in the burbs; the McCoy. The kind that actually comes with some class attached.
Odd how class is almost never encountered where you'd expect it, but, like game or something, it pops up in the most unusual places. Terry Sebring had plenty of both. The class was out there, obvious. The game I would have bet on.
It took me a moment to place her and my mouth was in forward motion but didn't have a name for her. I rolled with it. "'Sup, Red? You lost?"
"Not anymore, private dick Sloan. How have you been?" I'd forgotten the voice, how it roused something down low. Something about 20 million years old. Something that would have made Odysseus gnaw both arms off.
I threw out a shrug, turned it into a mi-casa-su-casa gesture with a free hand. We left the sunshine outside for the tourists and she glanced around my short digs while I shut the door. She didn't look impressed.
"Cute."
Too bad that wasn't what I was going for. "Thanks. Pull up a chair." She did, and I offered her something to drink if she wasn't looking for much more than beer or iced tap water. She said no and I plopped in an old chair I never sit in. I remembered why.
The Terry Sebring who knocked on my door had been putting out the smile, the come-on number, an indispensable accessory in her racket, I'm sure. I had been getting the smile but not much else. Now, sitting here, re-cataloguing each other, her eyes, the ones so green you wanted to ask her if they were contacts, were glittering like the first time we met. She'd been laughing at me then, and I was betting she was laughing at me now. I sat tight, waiting to get to the small talk.
Short wait. "Are you staying busy?"
I shrugged. "At times." I was busy like a pickpocket at a nudist joint. "How about you? You keeping the old dance card filled?" It wasn't that funny.
She smiled anyway. "Actually, no. I've been working the market more than the four-stars lately. The way things are jumping around on Wall Street right now, I can really manage some nice surprises if I stay on top of it. Play the short side occasionally." I got the eyes and a shrug. "I always seem to do my best work on the supply side."
That meant about zip to me. I keep most of my portfolio in my sock drawer. "I don't even know your name. Do I need to?"
"Terry Sebring. Are you curious how I ended up at your front door?"
"Yeah, I'm curious."
"I asked a couple of vice cops I know. They knew you."
"I know some vice cops?"
"Chick Rappaport?"
"Yeah. I know Chick."
"Freddie Paulk?"
"Yeah. I know Freddie too." I guess I did know some vice cops. "They know where I live?"
"No. And your phone is unlisted. You could be in the witness relocation program."
No I couldn't.
"They put me in touch with a Lieutenant Detective Booker."
"Good old Booker." Mose Booker was the nearest thing to a friend I had over at the sheriff's department. Still, a tenuous relationship on a good day.
"The lieutenant's partner, a Detective Channing, called back instead. He didn't have your number but he gave me directions."
"Good old Channing." I got a free smile with that one.
"I take it you and Channing aren't friends."
"We share a mutual disrespect." I was being a nice boy. I hated his fucking guts and he mine. "He give me a glowing recommendation?"
Her funny eyebrows said it. "No." Pause. "Are you gay?"
"No." The harmonics I was putting on it were right out of junior high. What I recovered with wasn't that far from school-yard shit anyway. "I wouldn't put much stock in what Channing says. Nobody else does. If that's where this is coming from."
Terry shrugged some nice shoulders. "That and the first night we met? The offer you refused?"
I was grinning at the memory. "Yeah. I recall. Like I said then, sweetheart, there's no such thing as a freebie. I still believe it."
"I think there's a little more to it than that." She was laughing at me with her eyes again.
My head went sideways, cousin to a nod, cousin to a shrug thing. "Could be."
"You know, to be putting out such a hip image, you tend to be a little old-fashioned."
I didn't really think I was putting out a hip image. I don't always tuck my shirttail in. Maybe that was what she was talking about. "Probably more than I'd like to admit. You come over here to ask me why I didn't take the freebie?"
2
The smile went away and I watched the so green eyes go aquamarine on me. "No."
Terry brought out the purse and fussed around in it until she found an envelope. The purse went away and her hands floated to her knees with the envelope.
"People call you Duncan?"
I smiled like Mona Lisa was my mother. "People call me all sorts of things. How 'bout you?"
Terry picked up the smile, did a better job with it, said, "You look more like a Sloan."
"Then make it Sloan."
She nodded, falling back into herself a bit. "Someone's trashing my business, Sloan."
I hashed that around for a beat or two. First thought: Would I need a red crushed-velvet suit? A hat with a medium-sized feather? A Caddy with a metal flake paint job?
"By 'someone' you mean you don't know who?"
"Yes. I assume it's connected to the guys who stole my car."
One back loop was e
nough. "Maybe you should start from the beginning."
"I think so." The envelope came in my direction. "You may need this."
I opened the envelope and retrieved a couple of triple-folded sheets. Up first, a copy of a title: new Jaguar. Next was a list, eighteen names with phone numbers. I didn't need Nostradamus to figure that one.
"You drive a Jag?" It wasn't important; I was just amusing myself.
"Yes--I did, until about three weeks ago. I ran inside a store to return something, came out and two guys were getting in my car. I got to watch them drive out of the parking lot."
"You get a good look at them?" It really didn't matter.
A shrug and a flick of the eyebrows. "I saw mostly hair." She made motions beside her head with her hands. "A mullet-cut? And a blond spike thing."
"You report this?"
"Yes. I went back in the shop and called the police."
"The cops had no luck?" I knew the answer.
"No."
"Your dance card in the car?"
"Yes. My PalmPilot."
"And now someone's squeezing your customers?"
"Exactly. I've had several of them call." The face she had to go with it said the conversations weren't pretty.
"Has he got around to squeezing you yet?"
"No. And I hear what you're saying. I've been expecting it too. Can you find him first?"
I knew where I was going next, but I sat on it, make it look like I was thinking about it. Before I started looking dull, I said, "Couple of things. A car title and a list of names aren't much of a start. Say I'm lucky enough to find out who's on first. I do what? Go see the guy? Straighten him out? Beat him up? Break his legs? What? None of that sounds like something a guy without a good health plan would touch. And I hardly ever shoot anybody weekdays anymore."
Terry started to speak and I raised an interrupting finger. "And second, I'm having a little trouble with a jackboy coming up with the gray matter to even see a trick in there, much less get on with it. So there's a wild card in the game somewhere and wild cards make me nervous.
"Here's what I think: there's more to this story than I'm hearing. Maybe you know that part, maybe you don't. Maybe it's my suspicious nature, but I think it has more to do with you coming here on a referral from Chick Rap and Freddie Paulk. These guys aren't Starsky and Hutch. They're in a rough trade and they play for keeps. So they tell you I play hardball, and you don't know what you need, but you figure somebody like me might come closer to doing whatever it takes than the guys with some carpeted square footage and a few file cabinets. It's pretty duh simple. You've got big troubles, sister. I'm thinking if this somebody didn't have the potential to get your arm up behind your back, you wouldn't be sitting here. How am I doing so far?"
The Brooklyn Rules Page 6
