by Robert Greer
“What you think?”
Chi thought for a moment as she listened to the grunts and groans coming from upstairs. She wondered what could happen if Floyd or the woman were able to squeeze the truth out of a story that had been buried for over thirty years.
Looking at her father, she said meekly, “Let me talk to Jimmy.”
Quan shook his head. “Don’t get involved. Leave to Jimmy.”
“This time I can’t,” she said, shaking her head as she pulled back the drapes and stared out into the surrounding 2 a.m. darkness. She’d spent too much time living the American dream, and she knew it. She could never go backward.
Carmen, Flora Jean, and Mavis, who’d spent half the night up talking, were seated in the breakfast nook just off Mavis’s kitchen, enjoying the bright morning sunshine. They were sipping orange juice and finishing the last of four fresh gourmet raisin rolls that Mavis had brought home from the Left Bank Bakery and Café in LoDo the previous evening.
“CJ’s gonna have a fit,” said Mavis, puffy-eyed from lack of sleep. “Next to sweet-potato pie, raisin rolls are his favorite. He’s expecting to have them for dessert this evening.”
“Go get him a refill,” said Flora Jean, polishing off the last of her roll.
“Can’t. They only bake them on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
Pouting her lips and trying to sound as nasal as possible, Carmen said, “C’est une chose Française,” aware from their late-hour conversation that they were all fluent enough in French to translate “It’s a French thing.” She had learned the language from Ket and by way of her early-childhood schooling in Vietnam, Mavis via a college language requirement and a year abroad in Paris, and Flora Jean as the result of a marine corps directive that required all sergeant-major-level intelligence types to be fluent in a second language. They erupted in laughter as Carmen, still pouting, stood and stuck out her derriere can-can style.
Mavis was aware that in one night Flora Jean and Carmen had returned something to her that Celeste had stolen, something that regardless of the depth of his love for her, or his overprotective hour-by-hour perimeter checks of the house as she slept at night, CJ couldn’t possibly provide: a woman’s sensibility.
“You better get your man some sweet-potato pie, then,” said Flora Jean, forcing back a final giggle.
“I’ll call Thelma and ask her to drop one by on her way home from Mae’s,” said Mavis.
“Fast thinkin’, sugar. But not as fast as Carmen peeled that Indian of hers outta harm’s way last night.” Reenacting their getaway from the parking lot of the China Bay club for the fourth time, her knees bent, Flora Jean mimicked straddling the Indian, then burst from her chair and raced from the breakfast nook through the kitchen, weaving between stools, plants, and a three-foot-tall copper vase before returning to stop on a dime just short of Carmen. “For a sawbones, you’re somethin’, sugar,” she said, laughing. “Hell, I thought you was gonna kill us weaving in and outta that traffic on Federal. I’m tellin’ ya, Mavis, the girl could’ve been a marine.”
“No way,” countered Carmen. “Flora Jean’s the one. The way she drop-kicked Jimmy Moc and sent him sprawling. I thought she was a Hollywood stuntwoman.”
“Nope,” said Flora Jean. “Just your basic out-of-work East St. Louis sista who Uncle Sam plucked off the street one day and taught how to drop-kick. Ask that fiancé of yours, Rios, how long it took the staff at Quantico to teach somebody with legs as long as mine that move. Sugar, I’m a legend.”
“I’ll ask Mr. Daredevil as soon as he gets back from that whitewater shoot of his in Bolivia. Men!”
Carmen’s comment rekindled a sudden sense of vulnerability in Mavis. She eyed the floor sheepishly. Sensing the mood swing, Flora Jean said, “Told you last night, you can’t take away what makes a man tick, Mavis. CJ’s gonna cut back, let me handle the lion’s share of the business, but trust me, he ain’t the kind that can spend the rest of his life peddlin’ antiques. You’re comin’ off a bad time right now, sugar, but it won’t stay that way forever. You got me and Carmen here to ease the hurt, and you got your man. And although you may not think so right now, you gonna pretty much need him the way he’s always been.”
“I’ll work at it,” Mavis said softly. “But once he’s out of the bail-bonding business, I don’t want him ever going back again.”
“Then point the man in a new direction. But whatever you do, don’t let your experience with that Deepstream woman be the thing that breaks his will. Hear me?”
“Loud and clear.”
Eyeing an antique wall-mounted kitchen clock, Flora Jean said, “Damn! I gotta get out of here and head for work.”
“CJ’ll want to know about last night,” Mavis said, trying her best to sound vested in her man.
Flora Jean grinned. “Don’t worry—he’ll get the unedited version.” Rubbing her butt, she eyed Carmen. “Almost forgot, sugar; I don’t have a car. I’m gonna need a ride.”
As Carmen rose from her chair, Flora Jean added, “And this time, try not to make it the ride of my life.”
CJ eased the gas nozzle into the Bel Air’s gas tank, squeezed down on the handle, and set the automatic shut-off. Rosie’s Garage was flush with business. All three of the auto service bays had cars up on hydraulic lifts, and five of the six stately 1940s-style gas pumps were in use. “You’re hummin’ this morning,” said CJ, looking up at Rosie, who, shop rag in hand, was busily wiping away fingerprints from the Bel Air’s doorjamb.
“Gas prices just went down, that’s the reason. Don’t mean nothin’. They’ll go up again next week.” Eying the Bel Air’s coral-red lacquer paint job, he said, “No more prints,” slipped the shop rag into his back pocket, and took a step back to admire his handiwork. “How’s Mavis doin’?” he asked, having gotten a blow-by-blow about the kidnapping from CJ a couple of days earlier.
“Fine. Flora Jean and I have been taking turns staying with her at night. Last night was Flora Jean’s turn.” CJ thought about telling Rosie that he was planning to sell his building and business but decided to wait for a time when they both had beers in their hands.
The gas nozzle clicked off with a thump at $19.39. CJ nursed the pump to an even $20.00 as Rosie said, “You ain’t seen no more of that Deepstream woman, have you?”
“No.”
“You will. She ain’t the kind that’s gonna drop the issue.”
“So I’ve been told,” said CJ, his jaw muscles tightening as he thought about what she’d done to Mavis.
Sensing that CJ was about to continue a battle that might end up getting him killed, Rosie said, “Call the cops, CJ.”
CJ eyed his old friend quizzically. “Have you been talking to Julie?”
“No.”
CJ teased his wallet out of his back pocket, slipped out a twenty, and handed it to Rosie. “You sure?” he said, still perplexed.
Rosie shrugged. “Come on, CJ.”
CJ shook his head and housed the gas nozzle. “I’ll be talking to you,” he said, slipping into the Bel Air.
“Later.” As Rosie waved his old friend off, he realized that he was perspiring, his stomach was undulating, and he felt a sudden heavy dose of guilt. During all the years they’d known one another, he couldn’t remember ever lying to CJ before then. He had in fact talked to Julie because he was concerned about CJ and about Mavis’s safety. And, whether CJ liked it or not, if CJ didn’t follow up some more with the cops, he’d call them himself.
CJ took the long way from Rosie’s to his office, top down on the Bel Air, hoping the ride would give him time to think over the Langston Blue case. He eased down tree-lined Monaco Parkway, the Bel Air’s speedometer pegged just below 30, thinking that there were plenty of people who had reason to kill Peter Margolin. At the moment, Elliott Cole and Le Quan topped his list. He was certain that Cole, Quan, and Margolin had been involved during Vietnam in something so horrific that the long arm of international war-crimes law could probably still reach out and touch them. Wh
at he wasn’t certain of was that Cole or Quan had killed anyone. They could easily have hired Jimmy Moc to do their bidding, or Lincoln Cortez, the invisible man with the cane who’d set Langston Blue on his cross-country run in the first place. It wasn’t a stretch to make Cortez the killer. Shaking his head and thinking, Hell of a mess, CJ pulled to a stop at the corner of Monaco and 6th Avenue Parkway as a partially restored, recently primed ’65 Mustang convertible filled with teenagers cruised up alongside him. The girl riding shotgun eyed the Bel Air lovingly and called out, “Sweet!”
“That your car, mister?” said the boy behind the wheel.
“Yeah.”
“You must be rich,” giggled a pimple-faced girl in the backseat.
“Not hardly.”
“Looks like it to me.” The girl was on her knees, pointing back at the Bel Air as the light changed and the Mustang sped off.
Laughing at the thought of being rich, he continued down 6th Avenue Parkway, partially shaded from the intense morning sun by the overhang of eighty-year-old elm trees. Thinking about what Julie and now a pimple-faced teen had said, he told himself it was time to forget about war atrocities and start following the money. That was at least one place where, except for the dead man, he’d met all the players. And since Ginny Kearnes, Margolin, and Cole had been involved in a $75 million building project, it was time to start looking forward instead of backward.
Nosing the Bel Air toward the office and home, he thought about following the money, wondering as he did what it was really like to be rich.
Elliott Cole sat in his office, fuming. The Owen Brashears editorial in the Boulder Daily Camera as much as said that the Republican Party leadership, and worse, by inference, their candidate Alfred Reed, might somehow be behind Peter Margolin’s murder. There were innuendos suggesting that friction between Cole and Margolin had started thirty years earlier in Vietnam, when he’d been Margolin’s battalion commander. What irked him most about the article was that there had been nothing but bouquets, love pats, and love-ins for Peter Margolin.
There was nothing in the piece about Song Ve, Star 1 teams, or Langston Blue’s defection. Brashears had been more subtle. He understood the editorial’s purpose, the world of politics, and the mark it needed to strike. Cole was certain that Brashears was using the editorial page of his newspaper not simply to eulogize a friend but to sway the electorate. He was shaking when his secretary stuck her head in the door and said, “I have Mr. Brashears on line three.”
“Thank you.” Cole’s voice trembled as he punched up Brashears on the line. “Brashears?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll sue the fuck out of you and your paper if you drop another shit-stain on me like you did today.”
“Maybe you should read the big type at the top of the page, Elliott. I think it says, Editorial.”
“I don’t care what it says, you fucking weasel. We’re talking libel.”
Brashears laughed. “You’re my tenth call today threatening libel. Had one earlier this morning from somebody claimin’ we made him look bad because he got caught in a police prostitution sting. Comes with the territory.”
“Listen, you prick. I know you’ve got problems with never being any more than a second-rate gossip-monger, but you’re fuckin’ with something here that’s bigger than your need to be paperboy of the month. Keep pushing the envelope and you’ll lose the blood supply to your testicles.”
“My, my, my, Mr. Party Chairman. Our judicial system may have a lot of problems defining libel, but it sure as hell can recognize a threat.”
“Call it what you like, you fucking loser. You’re the same manipulative kiss-ass lying shit you were thirty years ago. I can still smell you in my nose hairs.”
“I love you, too, Elliott. Remember, the smell of shit wafts both ways.” Brashears laughed. “Looks like it’s going to be one hell of an election.”
“Have it your way, you asshole wannabe. But like they say, don’t look back. Something might be gaining on you.” Cole slammed down the phone, sat back in his chair, and briefly stared out of the window of his office before punching in Quan’s number.
Chi Quan answered, “The Shoe Tree.”
“It’s Cole. Let me talk to your father.”
Moments later Le Quan answered in a rush. “Busy. What you want?”
“We’ve got a new problem,” said Cole, his voice seething with anger.
“What that?”
“We’ve got an editor who needs to learn some respect.”
“Who that?”
“Margolin’s friend, Owen Brashears.”
“What we do?”
“I’ll come by your place,” said Cole. “I need to get off this line. How’s noon?”
“Okay, I’ll have Jimmy here.”
“Good.” Cole cradled the phone, stroked his chin, and walked to a nearby liquor cabinet. He didn’t normally drink before lunch, but Brashears had pushed a button. He poured himself a stiff drink, stared out at the Denver skyline, and thought as the gin tickled the back of his throat that sometimes in the heat of battle you had to alter your course.
Chapter 30
Ginny kearnes was surprised by CJ’s request to meet her at his favorite Mexican eatery, La Cueva, in the heart of old downtown Aurora. She had declined at first, but when CJ had intimated that he was homing in on Peter Margolin’s killer, she had reluctantly agreed.
As they sat eating just-made tortilla chips and spicy salsa, Kearnes wasn’t at all sure that she should’ve dropped what she was doing to come meet someone who, during the first few minutes of their conversation, had had nothing but disparaging things to say about the man she had planned to marry.
“You make Peter sound like a mercenary. He was fighting a war, in case you’ve forgotten,” said Kearnes, accepting a steaming plate of tacos and refritos from Lorita Prado, daughter of the restaurant’s owner.
“You’re eating light today, CJ,” Lorita said, handing CJ a small plate with a single taco.
CJ smiled. “Watching my weight.” He’d ballooned up to just over 240 pounds, as he did nearly every summer, but at forty-nine, the extra weight he’d been carrying off and on for the past ten years had started to look like what it was, fifteen pounds of excess baggage. “Besides, I’ve got raisin rolls and ice cream waiting for me this evening.”
Lorita smiled back. “Sounds like a reason.”
Turning to Kearnes as Lorita walked away, CJ said, “Right now I don’t know if Margolin was a mercenary, a fall guy, a traitor, or a hero.” He took a bite of taco. “All I know is that he came back from Vietnam a whole lot richer than when he left.”
Kearnes added a dollop of guacamole to her taco. “His family had money,” she said in protest.
“Not the kind of money it would take to finance a seventy-five-million-dollar building.” Deciding it was time to drop the bomb that he’d been saving, he added, “Maybe he only had a small interest in the project. Maybe you and Elliott Cole put up the lion’s share of that seventy-five million.”
Trying not to look surprised, Kearnes set her taco down on her plate, but her hand shook and the look on her face announced that she was. “Where did you get that information?”
“We may work different sides of the street, but I’ve got friends who occasionally stroll down yours. The real question is, why the secret?”
“It’s not a secret. Look how easily your people found out. It’s just that you don’t go around broadcasting to the world that you’re sleeping with the enemy. Politics is a messy business, Mr. Floyd. Word gets out that a high-profile Democrat like Peter, his press secretary, and the state Republican Party chairman are involved in a seventy-five-million-dollar business deal, and the public’s eyebrows shoot skyward. Especially in the middle of an election.”
“And the press starts digging?”
“That, too.”
“Then why do it?”
Kearnes laughed. “You go where the money is or find out how to get it. Peter had pa
rt of the money for the investment, and Cole knew where to get the rest.”
“And you?”
“They took me along for the ride.”
“I see.” CJ took another bite of his taco. “How much money did you put up?”
“I mortgaged my house, my car, and a small apartment building my mother left me, and I drained my retirement savings.”
“How much?”
“$750,000.”
“Out of my league,” said CJ, his eyes ballooning.
“What about Margolin and Cole?”
“Peter put up seven million. Cole’s ante was five.”
“That’s just under thirteen million,” said CJ, adding the numbers. “Guess you don’t need 20 percent down on your humble abode like us common folk when you’re dealing with numbers that big.”
“Yes, you do,” said Ginny, scooping up a dollop of guacamole. “Sometimes more.”
“If you do, my math says your cartel was still short a couple of million.”
“Unless you’ve got connections,” countered Kearnes.
“And Cole and Margolin had them?”
“They had something. Peter never told me what or who the connection was, but the construction loan papers and the promissory note I got back from the lawyer who handled the closing for us showed a down payment of fifteen million even.”
“You were two and a quarter million dollars short, and out of the blue up pops that money. It had to come from somewhere,” said CJ, rubbing his right temple.
“Well, I don’t know where it came from!”
CJ picked up the slightly tepid Coke he’d ordered when they first arrived and took a sip. Eyeing Kearnes as if he wanted to slip inside her head, he asked, “How close were you to Margolin, really?”
“Have you lost your place in this book? We were engaged to be married.”