"Pretty good." She was giving me a sharp look.
I gave her a piece of a nod. "Something else that jumps out at me. I'm looking around and the only people I see with problems are right here." I waved the list of names. "I can't see you all that committed to any of these guys, and why you wouldn't simply cut bait and run bothers hell out of me. I'm sure you've got your reasons, they just don't seem real logical. But we'll let that go for now.
"All that considered, I think you came to the right place, but I need to hear all of it, particularly the part that makes me feel good about turning this guy out for you. That's what I need. So if you won't, or can't, get off the rest of it, I'm not interested." I let that float around out there, added: "That's how people get hurt. In my business, it can even get you dead without ever seeing it coming." I stood on it for another beat, said, "So either give it up, and I mean all of it, or sit on the rest. I don't wanna hear it." I gave her a nice smile. "You decide." I'd said plenty, now we'd see if she could talk me into it.
The eyes were nailing me, looking down in there, rummaging around. Maybe she found what she was looking for. She said, "I would be putting a lot of trust in someone I hardly know."
I didn't know how I was supposed to field that. I could have pointed out how she came to my door. Unsolicited. I said, "Sorry. I don't have what you might call references. Most everyone I service also requires discretion." I threw out a pair of innocent hands. "Lookit where I live. Do I look like I'm real successful at getting money outta people?"
She did the Mona Lisa for me. "No. And the references from Freddie and Chick are sufficient. They said you were good. I know them well enough to know that's a high compliment. Chick said you even did time protecting a client once."
"That's bullshit. I did time for not ratting out two guys from Jersey with loud suits and cheap loafers. That's an altogether different situation. But your average day? No, I can't start crying every time the cops go for short and curly. I did, I couldn't go on hanging shingle in this burg for long. Like I say, most of my trade is of the discreet variety. But if it gets hot enough, bet your ass I'll give it up. I don't mind sitting in Orange County's facility on Thirty-Third Street for a night or two first, see how sincere they are."
Terry was laughing at me. "You're serious, aren't you?"
"Sure. For a night or two. After that?" I was shrugging. "Keep in mind, I gotta live with the cops too. So if this thing goes to shit, we'll have no privileged confidentiality. Unless you've got a lawyer and I'm working for him. It comes to it, I can arrange that. Even retroactive, should the need arise."
She wasn't listening. The details weren't where she was finding the devil. She was back inside me, looking around again. Back out, a little Zen breath to relax, throw an excellent leg on an excellent knee, look at the finger with the slab of emerald balanced on it. "You know, you don't look that dependable."
"Yeah, I know. I don't look so smart either."
"But you are."
It should have been a question, but it wasn't, and I didn't really get it. I shrugged out a sure.
The eyes were back to the color of the emerald and she laughed at me with them some. "I think I heard something about a beer?"
I got up and knocked the caps off a couple of Newcastles, got her a CD cover for a coaster, and tried another chair. I really needed to invest a couple of dollars in some decent furniture.
Terry did the Zen breath thing again, preluding the final act, I hoped. "Okay, Sloan, and this is just guessing. I don't know any of this for certain."
I could have given her a little bump with something clever, like: Can anyone ever really know anything? But shit that heavy makes my brain hemorrhage. I opted for: "That's all I'm looking for, Red."
"I think someone on the list is involved. I don't see how that could be possible, but nothing else explains this." Another purse search, another envelope, another face read. She pushed it at me.
The secret Samadhi was half a dozen photographs of Terry in work clothes at different cocktail lounges, smiling for dollars with guys who looked like they wouldn't mind spending a few bucks on a nice piece like Terry Sebring. I flipped through them while I asked what made her think one of her boys had turned cannibalistic, started eating the others.
"Sloan, I'm harder to find than you are. I don't just pick up clients in bars at random."
My arched eyebrows and my cynical mouth begged to differ. They were thinking about the show at the Hilton she'd done for me a couple of years back. "You know, I could mount a decent argument against that statement." That time, Terry had dropped a move on me I'm sure is as old as boys and girls hanging around the watering hole. I got to see what happens when someone with no panties and a short skirt doesn't mind her manners, forgets to watch her knees. Like I say, I'd thought it was advertising. I got straightened out.
Terry wagged her head back and forth over a nice smile. "Do you really think you look like a guy who could afford five hundred an hour? And don't you think the bishop ever says a prayer when he's not doing mass?"
Hmm. We might have to get back to that some other time. "You feel like the snaps were taken by someone who knew where to find you?"
"Absolutely. But how? No way my name or address were in or on that PalmPilot. Unless you came in on a referral, no way could you find me."
"How did you come by these?"
"They were in my mailbox yesterday."
"No note?"
"No."
I looked through them again. "And what else don't you know for certain?"
Terry found a dose and a half of air while my eyes watched what it did to her chest, watched it raise her breasts and tighten the sweater. I might've sat there all day and watched but she said, "And I think someone else on the list is having big problems with being outted. To the point I'm a little scared. No. That's not right. I'm a lot scared."
The eyes testified in favor of her fear. "My apartment in Buena Vista's been burgled twice, and someone is following me. I think."
I was pretty sure the last was attached to the being-followed part. "Could it be the boys who took the Jag?" We should be so lucky.
Her head dipped and went left to right a couple of times. "No. These people are more serious. Dark suits and cowboy hats. I've seen them twice, and they sit and stare like--I don't know, Sloan, like I could already be dead. It makes me think they're just waiting for the right moment. Creepy guys."
I allowed that to bounce around inside my skull a little. "You think they followed you here?"
I could tell she hadn't even thought about it. Now that she did, it bothered her. "I guess they could have."
"Chick and Freddie couldn't talk to them?"
She was smiling at my smarts. "No. You're right; I asked them to. When they were watching, the guys would vanish. Like they knew or something."
That bothered me much. About the only vermin with that kind of savvy and instinct were clippers. Professional clippers. "What did Chick and Freddie say?"
"They said I needed to find some . . . I think they called it private talent."
"That's when my name came up?"
"Yes."
"They say anything else? About your fan club?"
"No. Only you should know how to deal with it."
"You own a handgun?"
"No. Should I get one?"
I shook my head. "Nah. Semi-law-abiding citizens like you and me, it takes three days to do the do. By that time this thing may be over. I'll loan you something. Can you shoot?" The better question was: Would you shoot? But nobody can answer that one until it comes to scratch.
"Well enough. I grew up on a farm outside Winter Haven." The eyes watched me, seeing how smart I really was.
"You're one of those Sebrings?"
"Yes, Sloan, one of those Sebrings. Nobody's happy about it, but we're all stuck with it. Don't hold it against me, all right?"
The Sebrings I had overlooked had been growing oranges in Florida about a hundred years, buying land the whole
time. A few years back, they owned about half of the sandy nothingness between Orlando and Cypress Gardens. When someone from California imagined up a theme park out there, the Sebrings were accelerated from solid land-rich, money-poor fruit farmers to instant meganaires. You could still smell the ink on the money. It ruined them to the extent that the name had become synonymous with family infighting, treachery, greed, and bumpkins-with-new-money in general. Seems like there was more, like a murder or an attempt or two. I couldn't call it up right now.
"Should I let it go?"
Terry shrugged. "It doesn't matter. Not anymore. I haven't seen any of them in years." She took a sip of beer and touched her lips with the crook of a finger.
"There's no way this is connected to them, is there?"
"I don't see how." She was lying. We both could see how.
All of a sudden this thing had more fuzzy characters than a first novel. Must have sounded like my kind of fun. I excused myself and went out to my car.
In my old 'Vette, stuffed in a ripped-out seam of the carpet, there's a little .32-cal Berretta in a zip-lock baggy. If you asked me anything about it, I wouldn't know shit. It's not registered to me and I have no idea how it got there. I brought it in, racked one under the pin, and sat it on the table. "There's a thumb-latch safety below the slide, seven pills ready to party. You need to use it, drop all seven. You got somewhere to lay dogo for a couple of days?"
Terry didn't even have to think about it. "Yes. Does this mean you're going to help me?"
"Maybe. Back to question one. What do you expect me to do when I find the greedy party?" I didn't want to think too much about what it was going to take to deal with the other team, the guys in hats.
No forethought needed again. "I want you to pay him."
I could feel my eyes rolling and my lips pursed against a noisy exhale. "You know better than that, Terry. You'd just be paying rent. Six months, the guy's back."
I got a face without any come-and-get-it involved. The business face, I guess.
"Then I'll pay him again. Look, Sloan, I run a quiet shop. High-end, repeat business. I do very well and have access to incredible insider tidbits that allow me to do much better than the average trader. Trust me, that alone almost makes it worth it."
We traded looks over that. I had to say it. "Almost?"
We held the stare; she said, "Sloan, let's don't get over there, how about it?"
I gave her a smile and a head shake I'm sure she'd seen before. A hundred times.
"When I find the guy and you pay him, I'll toss Booker or Chick and Freddie on him. If he's smart he'll take his pork and roll on up the street."
"And if he's not?"
"Then I guess I'll have to go see him. Break his legs."
The eyes had gone back to emerald and they flared in amusement. "You think you can find him?"
I shrugged for her. "Sure. I'll find the guys who took the car, ask them nice to tell me who they sold your book to."
"The police couldn't find them."
I shook my head. "The cops weren't looking for them. They were looking for the car."
"And you can find them?"
"Or the car. Same thing. I'll find them, unless they're island boys. That's a very private club. The hairdos, they don't sound Jamaican or Hispanic."
"No. They appeared to be fairly indigenous."
"Not a problem, then. Where did this go down? The car thing?"
"A strip mall in Winter Park."
"Easier still." My end of town. "Okay, listen. When you leave, go north on the Trail. Cross the southbound and pull in at the naughty-movie joint on the left. Pretend your lipstick needs adjusting or something. Give it a minute and a half, then haul your ass to wherever it is you can hide out. And stay there."
"Do you think you can make this go away?"
I thought about it a second, couldn't see the answer, so I answered another question that hadn't really been asked. "Yeah. I'll find your guy."
"You'll need money." A quick statement preceding a now-familiar search in the purse. "What am I looking at, rate-wise?"
"High."
She came out with a nice manila envelope this time. "I heard."
"Channing?"
"Everybody."
I thought about that. "Good. Five grand up front. Win, loose, draw, you're out the five. And that could just be starters. I'll let you know when it's gone. And I don't do accounting work. You need a tax deduction, find a charity. What else?"
Terry was doing a virtual laugh. No sound, but plenty of amusement. "That's probably the sorriest sales pitch I've ever heard. Here, I'll take a double." A couple of bundles of dough hit the table.
"Deal?"
"Deal."
"Aren't you going to count it?"
"I did when it hit the table, sweetheart."
Back to TOC
The following is a preview of Wiley's Shuffle by Lono Waiwaiole.
PROLOGUE
"Hey," Miriam said quietly, stretching it out a little. She slid the word into a short lull in the thick, throbbing noise of the club, and I tried to push my reply into the same space.
"Hey," I said.
"It's been a while, hasn't it?"
"Yes," I said, although I had no idea how long a while was at the time. I did know I hadn't seen her for more than a year, and that the bullet wounds she had helped me overcome back then no longer drained blood out of my body.
"How are you?" she asked.
"I'm fine," I lied. "You?"
"The same," she said, and then the lull in the noise evaporated, and I was left to wonder whether she was lying as much as I was. Miriam had a face that seemed to have been around longer than the rest of her, so it was usually made up more heavily than I liked. That night was no exception, but her dark dress was simple and brought out the cream in her coffee-colored complexion. And if there was anything under the dress besides her well-turned body, I could see no evidence of it.
My inventory was interrupted when a white hippo standing next to Miriam turned with a drink in each hand and pointed away from the bar with his head. He looked past me like my stool was empty, but she gave me a discreet little wave before she followed him to a table. I watched her go while I thought some more about her answer to my question, even though I knew it made no difference what she meant as soon as I saw the hippo.
The last time I had seen Fat George, I kicked the shit out of him on the front porch of his sister's house in West Seattle. He had put Miriam in the hospital here in Portland, and I was the long arm of retribution. I still believed in the efficacy of retribution in those days, but my effort to achieve it on that occasion had apparently fallen short.
I still don't really comprehend the connection that often binds a whore to her pimp, but I do know that it runs deeper than all of the logic in the world. Deeper, definitely, than blood, and sometimes even deeper than life itself.
I turned and caught Jerry the bartender watching me. I raised my eyebrows and shook my head, and he shrugged his shoulders in response.
"Don't ask me," he mouthed into the din. "Hoes don't never make no sense."
I raised no objection to Jerry's comment, even though I knew he was wrong. Whores are just like the rest of us--sometimes they make sense, sometimes they don't, and just like the rest of us they get no gold stars pasted on their lives either way.
But I had to admit as I shared a look with Jerry and drained my Diet Pepsi that seeing Miriam with Fat George again made no fucking sense at all.
ONE
THURSDAY NIGHT
I had been independently wealthy for a week or two the previous year, but it turned out I was intolerant of the money in the same way some people can't tolerate milk--I liked the stuff, but it tied my stomach into knots.
That particular money had grown out of the murder of my daughter like mushrooms rooted in manure. By the time Leon and I caught up with the man responsible for her death, he had half a million bucks in the trunk of his car. We canceled his license t
o drive and kept the cash, but it wasn't long before I discovered I couldn't have anything to do with my share.
And getting rid of the stuff was another sharp pain in the side. You'd rather give it to someone you care about than someone you don't, but $250,000 seemed likely to bend beyond recognition any relationships I had at the time.
Actually, that sounds better than it was. My only relationship was with a hooker, but it already had a financial aspect to it and I did care about her. Ultimately, she seemed like the logical solution to my problem.
Of course, the solution created a problem of its own--our "relationship" disappeared as soon as she used the money to change her profession. And a year later, we were still laboring under the cloud of that transaction. After all, what exactly does it mean when a guy gives his whore a quarter of a million dollars?
Fortunately for me--and I think for Mix, as well--the money had no impact on my relationship with her six-year old son, which was why Quincy and I were sprawled across Alix's living room floor that night. He was watching The Lion King on an oversize set, and I was trying to look like I was watching it with him.
"This is my favorite part," he said quietly. Quincy said most everything quietly.
"I know," I said.
We were near the end of the film, after the bad guys have all been expelled and life is right in the world again.
"How many times have you seen this film?" I asked.
"I don't know," he said, quietly.
"More than a hundred?"
"I think so."
The Brooklyn Rules Page 7
