“I’d have to check my records.”
“Would you do that?”
He grinned at me. There was a computer on his desk: Nick Kinsella, the ultra-modern bloodsucker. He fired it up, looked over at me—I turned my head the other way—and then did some tapping on the keyboard. Pretty soon he said, “Five figures, right. Ten K.”
“That’s a big nut. What’d he use for collateral?”
“Personal property and income records. I had one of my people take a look, I was satisfied.”
“What does he owe you now, with the vig and the missed payments? Thirteen, fourteen K?”
“Five.”
“… Wait a minute—five thousand? How’d he get it down that far?”
Kinsella’s smug grin flashed again. “Your boy walked in here couple of days ago, laid eighty-five hundred on me. Cash. He’s a good boy, your boy. Teach him a lesson, he learns real quick. He don’t need any accident insurance, not for a while anyhow.”
“Where’d he get the eighty-five hundred?”
“Who knows? He don’t say, I don’t ask.”
Not from another shark, I thought, not given the size of the original nut from Nick and the fact that Kinsella had had to send out an enforcer to collect overdue payments. Loan sharks are like their saltwater relatives: when one spills some bad blood, the rest smell it and keep their distance.
“What about the five-thousand balance?” I asked.
“What about it?”
“If his source is dry, he’ll start missing payments again. Then he will need that insurance.”
“Not if he shows up next week with the full five K plus the week’s interest.”
“He told you he was going to do that?”
“Guaranteed it.” Kinsella laughed. “Swore it, in fact. You want to know what he swore it on?”
“No.”
He told me anyway. “His mother. Your boy swore it on his love for his sweet old mama.”
18
The Rickrack Lounge was on the corner of Columbus and Vallejo, only a few blocks from Benjy’s Seven, but that was about all they had in common. Neighborhood watering hole, the Rickrack, reminiscent in its old-fashioned ambiance, if not in its clientele, of the Washington Square Bar and Grill a couple blocks in the other direction. No loud music, no topless dancers, no sad-eyed voyeurs, no shill or bouncer. No local celebrities like Washington Square attracted, just a few quiet afternoon drinkers, two of whom were playing chess on a small magnetic board. The place had once been an Italian tavern, probably owned and frequented by the ever-diminishing Italian population of North Beach; one of the walls still sported a faded Venice mural and the handful of booths had upswept gondola-style backs.
Carol Brixon was on duty, working the plank alone—a heavyset redhead with a pleasantly homely face and a no-nonsense manner. She didn’t have much to say to me, fending off my questions about Ginger Benn and QCL and Carl Lassiter, until I told her Jason Benn was worried that his wife had started hooking again. That made her angry and she opened up a little.
“That bastard,” she said. “If it wasn’t for him and his gambling, she wouldn’t’ve been screwing for money in the first place.”
“To pay off his debts to QCL.”
“Fucking bloodsuckers. They forced her into it. Jason was in so deep he’d never’ve got out otherwise.”
“She could have just walked away from him.”
“You think I didn’t tell her that? Hell, I begged her. But she’s loyal and she loves him. She’d rather sleep with strangers than divorce a prick.”
“He seems to’ve gotten his act together. Working steady now, not betting anymore.”
“Yeah, maybe. For Ginger’s sake, I hope so. We been friends a long time, her and me. I couldn’t stand to see her go back to peddling her ass.”
“So she’s not hooking again.”
“Not that I know about.”
“Do you know if she’s seen Lassiter recently?”
“Better not have. Slick as a snake, that one, and just as cold.”
“Sounds like you know him.”
“No, and I don’t want to. Only met him once, at Benjy’s. I went there to meet Ginger and he was slithering around. Once was enough.”
“Violent, would you say?”
“If you backed him into a corner.”
“But not otherwise? No physical stuff to keep women like Ginger in line?”
“Not him. Just his mouth, that’s all he uses—all he needs.”
“And it’s just him running the show here, no people working for him?”
“Just him.”
“Any violent types among the customers?”
She gave me one of those looks old-time San Franciscans reserve for visitors from red-state backwaters. “We work in the bar trade, mister. There’s always some macho asshole around flexing his muscles.”
“I meant among the johns Lassiter pimps for. Any of them ever get rough with Ginger?”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“She won’t talk to me about QCL or Lassiter.”
“Yeah, well, I shouldn’t be talking to you, either. You show me a license, you act like one of the good guys, but how do I know?”
“You don’t. Look at this face, take it on faith.”
A smile tickled one corner of her mouth. She leaned over, gave the bartop in front of me a fast polish.
“Did Ginger have trouble with any of her johns?”
“What kind of trouble? Smack her around, you mean?”
“Anything that involves violence.”
“No. I don’t think so. She wouldn’t stand for crap like that.”
“She’d have told you if she had?”
“She’d’ve told me. Yeah. No secrets between us.”
“One more question. The woman I’m looking for, Janice Stanley. Are you sure you’ve never met her?”
“Positive,” Carol Brixon said. “Ginger didn’t tell me she had a roommate. Subject never came up.”
Another dead end. I seemed to be learning plenty about how QCL worked its scams, but not getting any closer to finding out who beat up Janice Stanley Krochek or what had happened to her.
Carl Lassiter was already there when I walked into the agency at twenty till five. Sitting on the anteroom couch, one leg crossed, fingers interlaced on his knee—picture of a man at ease. When he saw me he unfolded, slowly, to his feet. There was a lot of him to unfold. About six-two and a solid two hundred and ten pounds, most of it encased in a silky brown suit that must have cost a couple of grand. Thick gold ring with a diamond setting on one hand, a gold stickpin in his Sulka tie. Freshly barbered look, wavy sand-colored hair styled to a fault. Suave little smile on a thinnish mouth. But none of that disguised what he was underneath. Carol Brixon had described him perfectly: slick as a snake and just as cold.
Tamara’s office door was open; she came out to stand framed in it. The set of her jaw and the downturn of her mouth told me what she thought of him.
He said my name in the form of a question. I admitted it. He said, “Carl Lassiter,” and put out his hand. I ignored it, watching his eyes. Chips of blue ice. But the suave little smile stayed put.
“Nice offices you have here,” he said.
Tamara said, “They were until about ten minutes ago.”
Lassiter ignored her as pointedly as I’d ignored his hand. “Is there somewhere we can talk privately?” he said to me.
“My office.”
I took him in there. The connecting door was shut; Tamara’s outer door slammed as I closed mine.
“Feisty little gal you’ve got there,” Lassiter said. “You should teach her to be more polite.”
“She’s polite enough when the situation warrants it,” I said. “And she happens to be my partner. You saw the names on the door.”
“Pretty young for your kind of work, isn’t she?”
“Old enough.”
“So are you,” Lassiter said. “Is it all right if I sit down?”
“Help yourself.”
Both of us sat. When he saw that I wasn’t going to bite on the “So are you” line, he followed it up himself. “Old enough to know better than to ask questions about things that don’t concern you.”
“Anything that concerns a case I’m working on concerns me.”
“Just what case are you working on?”
“As Ms. Corbin told you, that’s confidential information.”
He said, parroting me, “Anything that concerns my company concerns me.”
“This particular investigation doesn’t concern you or your company. At least not directly, so far as I can tell right now.”
“So you’re not investigating me?”
“Not you, and not QCL, Incorporated.”
“Then why the heat?”
“What heat?”
“Asking questions about us, bothering people associated with us.”
“That’s not heat. Stepping on your toes a little, maybe.”
“Whatever you want to call it. Why?”
“We’re an investigative agency, Mr. Lassiter. We ask a lot of questions of a lot of people. We step on a lot of toes, too, unintentionally most of the time.”
“But not all the time.”
“No. Not all the time.”
He studied his fingernails, polished one set on the leg of his slacks, studied them again. Very nonchalant, very much in control. But he was steaming underneath. In this business you learn to read people’s body language and emotional barometer, some more easily than others. He was one of the easy ones.
“What’s your interest in Jorge Quilmes?” Casual, off-hand, as if he were asking about the weather.
“No interest, specifically.”
“Ginger Benn.”
“Same answer.”
“Janice Stanley.”
Now we were getting down to it. I said, “She was Ginger Benn’s roommate this past month. At your request, I understand.”
“Who told you that? Ginger?”
“No.”
“Who, then?”
“Was it supposed to be a secret?”
“Of course not. I’m curious, that’s all.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Confidential.”
“All right.” He bit that off a little short. But he was still smiling when he said, “Suppose we dispense with the bullshit.”
“I’m always in favor of that.”
“Janice Stanley turned up missing and you’re looking for her. You think I had something to do with her disappearance?”
“Did you?”
“Of course not.”
“But she was working for you at the time.”
“Working for me?”
“For QCL then. Hooking for QCL.”
“That’s a ridiculous statement,” Lassiter said. “We’re in the business of lending money, nothing more.”
“That’s not the way I heard it.”
“You think we’re pimps, is that it?”
“For a highly specialized clientele.”
“Even if it were true, you couldn’t prove it.”
“I’m not interested in proving it.”
“No? What are you interested in?”
“Doing the job I was hired to do.”
“Finding Janice Stanley.”
“You wouldn’t have any idea of where she is, would you?”
“No. I’d tell you if I did.”
“Sure you would. When did you see her last?”
He thought the question over before he answered it. “Last week sometime. I don’t remember the exact day.”
“Friday, Saturday?”
“Before that. Early part of the week.”
“Talk to her after that?”
“No.”
“She have any dates scheduled after the one with Jorge Quilmes?”
“Now how would I know that?” he said through his cocky little smile.
“Somebody used her for a punching bag on the weekend.”
“Is that right? Sorry to hear it.”
“Could’ve been one of her johns.”
“Johns? She’s a prostitute, is she?”
“Call girl. I understand there’s a lot of money in that kind of work.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Could also have been someone she knows, someone who set up her dates for her.”
“We’re back to that again. Back to me.”
“I’m just tossing out possibilities.”
“Prostitutes get beat up all the time,” Lassiter said. “Sometimes by their husbands, if they have husbands.”
“Doesn’t apply in this case.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Pretty sure,” I said.
“Then there’re the creeps,” he said. “Could be one of them.”
“Creeps?”
“You know, the ones who think any hooker is fair game—hassle them looking to get laid. Have you considered that possibility?”
I said, “Maybe I should.”
He said, “There’s one like that in the place she was staying.”
“… The Hillman? Who?”
“Desk clerk. Redhaired little punk named Phil.”
“He hassled Janice Stanley?”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
“Ginger Benn, then. That you do know about.”
He shrugged.
“She give in to him? No, she wouldn’t. Not her.”
“I wouldn’t bother her about it,” Lassiter said. “If I were you, I wouldn’t bother Mr. Quilmes or any of his friends anymore, either.”
“Or you or QCL.”
“That’s right. Keep off toes that might just get sore enough to start kicking back.”
“Is that a threat, Mr. Lassiter?”
“I don’t make threats. Merely offering some friendly advice.”
Enough. I didn’t want to play with him anymore. I said, “I’ll keep it under advisement,” and got to my feet.
“You do that. Don’t forget.”
“I won’t. I won’t forget you, either.”
“Same here.”
Lassiter stood up slowly, the way he had in the anteroom. The smile was still in place, but a little less suave, a little less cocky. He gave me a mock salute and went out, leaving the door open, in a kind of lazy saunter like a man without a care in the world. But it was pose and pretense now. He was still steaming, still worried underneath.
I sat down again. The tight little confrontation had accomplished something positive, by God. You spend a couple of days running around, talking to a variety of people, and not getting anywhere on the Krochek disappearance, and the one man you least expect to be of help drops the best lead yet right into your lap. And as a throwaway, no less. Lassiter hadn’t been trying to give me anything when he brought up the Hillman desk clerk; on the contrary, he’d intended it as a red herring to focus my attention somewhere other than on him and QCL, Inc.
The connecting door opened. Tamara said, “I was listening.”
“I figured you would be.”
“That’s one sleazy dude under all that cool. You think he’s dangerous?”
“Probably. But not to us.”
“So what’re you going to do?”
“About Lassiter?”
“Him and QCL.”
“Turn over what we’ve got on them, and anything else Kinsella can dig up, to Jake Logan at SFPD. He can pass it on down to Vice. Not much they can do unless Lassiter steps out of line somehow or one of the victims turns on him, but at least they’ll have the information on file.”
“Ginger Benn, you think?”
“Doubtful. Too afraid of what might happen to her husband. I don’t see Janice Krochek doing it, either—if she’s still alive.”
“She’d’ve turned up by now if she was.”
“You’d think so. What worries me is that she might never turn up again at all, alive or dead.”
Jake Runyon showed up just then and pok
ed his head through the door of my office. “Just the man I wanted to see,” I said. “I was about to give you a call.”
“What’s up?”
“Couple of things. Your pro bono case, for one—I had a talk with Nick Kinsella. The Krochek disappearance, for another. How’d you like to take a ride, put in some overtime?”
“Okay with me. Where’re we going?”
“The Hillman. I’ll fill you in on the way.”
19
There was a different clerk behind the desk when Runyon and I walked into the lobby. Thin, middle-aged, dour. “Phil Partain?” he said. “His shift ends at five. You friends of his?”
“Personal business,” I said.
“Uh-huh. He don’t have many friends.”
“Where can we find him?”
“I think he went out to eat… No, he didn’t. Pretty sure I saw him get into the elevator and he hasn’t come down yet.”
“Where’d he go?”
“His room.”
“He lives here, does he? How about that.”
“Yeah. You want me to call up, make sure he’s in?”
“No,” I said, “we’ll just go on up and see. What’s the room number?”
“Four-twelve. Top floor, rear.”
A bulb was out in the section of the fourth floor hallway where 412 was situated. It was the last room at the end of a short ell that reeked of disinfectant. There was no peephole in the panel, just the numerals. I ran my knuckles against the door in a steady tattoo until Partain’s voice said irritably, “All right, all right. Who is it?”
Neither Runyon nor I answered. I kept knocking until the lock clicked and the door swung inward and Partain appeared, saying, “For Chrissake, what’s the idea—” The rest of it died in his throat when he saw us standing there.
“Let’s have a little talk, Phil.”
“Why? What do you want?”
“Inside, where it’s private.”
“No. You can’t come busting in—”
We could and we did, crowding him backward. Runyon shut the door and stood with his back against it. My show; Jake was there to make it a power play, two against one.
The apartment was small, two rooms and bath, and a sour-smelling mess of strewn clothing, dirty dishes, empty takeout food containers. A flickery TV set tuned to a sports show yammered in one corner. The hot plate on a table by one wall had caused a fire at some point; the section of wall behind and above it was scorched. Partain was in his underwear, T-shirt and shorts both yellowed and baggy. He backed off from us, stopped in the middle of the room, and stood with his skinny, hairless legs spread and his hands on his hips and his jaw outthrust—the picture of belligerent indignation.
Fever: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels) Page 14
