Flame fc-4

by John Lutz

  “He’s got him some smart mouth,” the Latino said.

  The man behind Carver said, “Probably his smarts don’t go any higher’n that, though. Dumb from the nose up.”

  “Gotta be,” said the voice from the sofa. “Otherwise he wouldn’t be here.”

  “Why don’t I straighten up and turn around?” Carver asked. “You know I’m not carrying.” He rapped with the cane on the wall. “Bad leg’s starting to get sore.”

  “Sympathy ain’t in our line,” the black guy said.

  “Aw, let him turn around,” sofa chimed in. “He don’t figure to rabbit on us. What he’d do, he’d fall and bust his ass.”

  “I wouldn’t mind,” the black one said. “In fact, that’s something I’d like to see. So you go ahead, stand up and turn around, Carver.”

  Carver pushed away from the wall, caught his balance with the cane, and turned to face the two men. He didn’t like this. He was scared, but he had control of himself. Thinking objectively. He said, “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

  “Not necessary,” said the black one. “This ain’t a tea social.”

  “Business, then,” Carver said. He wondered if he could whack the gun out of the Hispanic’s hand with his cane, snatch it up before the black guy could drag his gun out of the shoulder holster bulging beneath his tailored blue suitcoat. Doubted it, but things might come down to having to try.

  “That’s right, business.”

  “What are you doing here?” the one on the sofa asked. “And please spare us any bullshit.”

  “I told you, I came to see Frank Wesley.”

  “You and him friends?”

  “More or less.”

  “It’s less now,” the man said. “Wesley’s dead. Went boom in his car, right near your office in Del Moray.”

  “A shock to hear that,” Carver said.

  The black one scowled; he was meaner-looking than Jesse Jackson ever thought of being. “Remember what I said about trying to jive us, Carver. We know Wesley drove to your office yesterday, talked to you for about half an hour, then came out and did his bang-and-burn act.”

  “Convincing act,” Carver said. Thinking, if these two knew that much, they might have been the ones who planted the bomb in the Cadillac. Almost had to be them. Not a reassuring thought.

  The black one smiled, knowing what was running through Carver’s mind. He said, “The bomb was set off by electronic signal, most likely from a garage-door opener. The explosives mighta been on board the car for a month.”

  “You sound sure of that.”

  “I am. We knew about Wesley. Knew about his car.”

  “Except for the bomb.”

  “You’re right, that was a surprise. More of a surprise to Wesley, though.”

  “So you didn’t plant the bomb?”

  “Something for you to wonder about, Carver. Maybe we got somebody rigging plastic explosives right now in that pile of shit you got parked down off Ocean Boulevard.”

  “Why would you be so mean?”

  “Because we don’t know what Wesley told you.”

  “Ah!”

  “But we want to know. And it’s time for you to tell us.”

  The Latino said, “Soon it’ll be past time. You don’t want that. Really.” He was laconic but sounded concerned for Carver’s safety. Carver doubted his sincerity. Who were these two? What did they know? One thing they didn’t seem to know was that Bert Renway, and not Wesley, had been killed in the explosion. Whatever story he told them, he thought it should ring true when the police lab established the identity of the real victim.

  “We’re busy men,” the black one said. He made a show of rotating his wrist in a neat, quick movement so his white cuff rode up and he could glance at his watch. “We’re late for night surfing right now. Best you commence to chat.”

  “Wesley came to my office to hire me,” Carver said. “He was uneasy. He thought somebody might be driving around impersonating him.”

  The black one grinned wide and white. “You sure fulla shit, my man.” A parody of ghetto slang. Letting Carver know that while he’d become sophisticated beyond street smarts, still he was unpredictable and dangerous. Not to be messed with unless you were prepared to pay the price.

  The Latino muttered something in Spanish, then stood up from the sofa. He was tall and slim. Stood calmly with his arms loose, his left hand resting atop his right one at his crotch, the right holding the blue-steel revolver pointed at the floor. In a gentle and reasonable voice he said, “If Frank Wesley was your client, he’s dead and you’re unemployed. So how come you’re down here instead of minding your business in Del Moray?”

  “Curiosity, I guess.”

  “You and the cat,” the black guy said, no longer grinning.

  Carver thought a little offense might be in order. He tried to put some indignation into his voice. “Are you guys friends of Wesley?”

  “Get this,” the black one said, grinning again. “He’s asking us questions.”

  “Don’t know protocol,” the Latino said softly, not moving. “Got himself all tangled up.”

  The black one glared at Carver. “This ain’t fuckin’ ‘Love Connection,’ Carver. We ask, you answer. Know why?”

  “Something to do with guns?”

  “That’s it, all right. Now, here’s a question. What address did Wesley give you?”

  “This one. His condo.”

  “He tell you why anyone might be going around pretending to be him?”

  “He had no idea. That’s why he hired me.”

  Now the black one drew a gun from his shoulder holster, a .38 revolver. He assumed a shooting stance, feet spread wide, aiming the gun with both hands at Carver’s forehead. He said, “So you been hired. Now, you gonna be fired, or is it gonna be Smith and Wesson here?”

  Carver swallowed loud enough for everyone to hear. “I suppose you’re right, I’m no longer working for Mr. Wesley.”

  “That’s how it is. ’Cause there is no more Mr. Wesley. As of this moment, consider yourself unemployed as regards Frank Wesley or anything having to do with Frank Wesley.”

  Carver stared into the steady dark tunnel of the gun’s bore and felt fear grow in his bowels like a cold thing with claws. “I’ll consider your little speech my pink slip.” His voice was higher than he’d intended; irritation that he’d revealed his vulnerability wormed through his fear.

  The Latino was studying him with calm, somber dark eyes. With a faintly sad expression, he raised his revolver and poked it into a belt holster on his right hip. A Spanish Wyatt Earp.

  “You got no business here,” the black one said to Carver. He didn’t holster his gun, held it as if it were locked onto Carver with radar.

  “Then I suppose I better leave,” Carver said tentatively. Damned if he’d say please.

  Somehow without moving the gun, the black man shrugged. How’d he do that? “Ain’t nothing to keep you here, Carver. Nothing to make you come back. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’d say.”

  “We got us an understanding?”

  “I’d say that, too.”

  “Go back to following wayward spouses, that kinda thing,” the Latino said. “Live longer, man. Maybe even get prosperous, you peek through the right keyhole.”

  “Don’t trip and fall on your way out,” the black one said. Carver turned, limped to the door, and opened it. Trying not to hurry. Salvage a shred of dignity.

  The tenseness left his back muscles only after he was in the hall and had closed the door behind him. Out on the sidewalk, he found himself hurrying to where the Olds was parked. Worked up a sweat.

  He drove back to the Carib Terrace and locked his door. Wedged a chair under the knob. Made sure the sliding glass door to the patio and beach was locked.

  Then he got undressed and went to bed, and was vaguely surprised to feel himself relax.

  He knew if the two men in Wesley’s condo had wanted him dead, he’d already be dead. Th
ey gave the impression they were experienced. Experts at their work. The fact that he was still alive meant they wouldn’t come around to see him again unless they thought he hadn’t been scared off the case.

  Repeating that comforting thought like a mantra, he fell asleep.

  In the morning he showered and dressed, then checked out of the motel.

  He had a breakfast of waffles, bacon, and freshly squeezed orange juice at a coffee shop on Ocean Boulevard.

  It was quiet in the coffee shop, and narrow-slatted blinds were angled to deflect the brilliant morning sun. Carver took his time eating. The food tasted terrific, maybe because he was so glad he was still alive to enjoy it.

  When he was finished, he ordered a second cup of coffee and unfolded the Fort Lauderdale newspaper he’d bought at the vending machine outside. Accidentally laid it in some spilled syrup and moved it aside.

  A follow-up story on the Del Moray car bombing was at the bottom of page three. That was because there wasn’t much in the way of new information.

  Only that the victim had been positively identified from dental records as Frank Wesley.

  Chapter 9

  Though it was only one in the afternoon, it seemed like dusk in Carver’s office. The broken window had been boarded up and would be replaced tomorrow. Apparently there was a rash of broken windows in Del Moray, according to the management company that leased Carver’s office. So for the time being he had to make do with a sheet of rough plywood lettered BILL’S BOARD-UP instead of glass. It made the office gloomy and claustrophobic.

  Even more claustrophobic when the towering, lanky form of McGregor strolled in. The glow of the desk lamp was projected at an upward angle on his long face and made him look even more grotesque than in natural light. A sort of stretched-out Lon Chaney in Phantom of the Opera. His cheap brown suitcoat was flapping open, his red tie was loosely knotted, and there were dark perspiration stains around his unbuttoned collar. He didn’t look happy.

  He said, “Jesus H. Christ, it’s hot in here.”

  “Just seems that way,” Carver said. “Because of the window being boarded up.”

  “The way your landlord jumped to fix the place, you must really have some clout.”

  “I paid the rent,” Carver said. “That oughta be clout enough to have a window.”

  “That’s just how jerk-offs like you think.” McGregor puckered his lips as if he might spit. But he didn’t. Surprising. “Ninety-fuckin’-five degrees outside and I figured if I had to talk to an asshole like you it’d at least be cool in your office; instead you give me this.” He waved a long, encompassing arm; looked as if he might touch the opposite wall. “Damned wreck of a sweatbox.”

  “Humble but home,” Carver said, kind of enjoying McGregor’s discomfort.

  “Would be home to a shrimp-brain like you.” McGregor stood with his fists on his hips in front of Carver’s desk. Glanced left and right and said, “Least you picked up around the place. Or do you have maid service?”

  “Janitor service,” Carver said, “but I did my own neatening up this time.”

  “Ain’t you exactly the type?” McGregor peeled off his suitcoat, revealing his shoulder-holstered Police Special, and dark crescents of perspiration on his shirt below his armpits. No deodorant was a match for him. The movement of air he stirred up brought the unwashed scent of him to Carver. Carver’s stomach lurched and the faint ringing in his ears began again. “Let’s get to why I came here,” McGregor hissed through the space between his front teeth. “You said on the phone you had something to tell me. So get fuckin’ talking. And you better explain to me how it is the autopsy report says the guy got blown up in the Caddie actually was Frank Wesley and not Bert Renway, like you said. Play goddamn games with me, shithead, you’re gonna lose hard.”

  Carver felt a rush of disgust, not just directed at McGregor, but also at himself for being involved with the unethical police lieutenant. Carver had taken police work seriously, and, maybe naively, had seen it as a service to a beleaguered society. McGregor took only McGregor seriously and saw his job as a service only to himself, at any cost to anyone else. Justice was something to be avoided; she was blindfolded and might trample anyone.

  Swiveling in his desk chair, Carver switched on the plastic electric fan on the nearby file cabinet. It gave a low hum and rattle and began to oscillate. The fan was a cheap one without a place to oil the motor. He wondered how long it would last.

  McGregor flashed his gap-toothed smile. “Whazza matter, fuckface? I thought you said it was cool enough in this shoebox you call an office.”

  Carver said, “It is. But this puts me upwind of you.”

  Not at all insulted, McGregor widened his smile. Got his tongue into the act by thrusting it to peek between his front teeth like a curious pink viper. “You saying I forgot my Right Guard?”

  “You smell as corrupt as you are,” Carver told him.

  Unfazed, McGregor said, “Corrupt, huh? Maybe your price ain’t been offered yet. So what? Everybody’s corrupt, dumbshit. Even preachers’ll tell you that. How they make their living. Original fuckin’ sin and all.” He crossed his long arms. “You and me are part of the same ooze, Carver. Difference is, you pretend otherwise. If you want your delusions, okay. Just don’t bore me with ’em. Hypocritical fuckers like you make me wanna puke all over myself.”

  “Who’d notice?”

  McGregor loomed closer and sat on the edge of the desk, still with his arms crossed. Something about his posture reminded Carver of a perched and waiting vulture. The rancid stench of the man was almost overwhelming. He said, “Sooner we get to the point, sooner I’ll be outa your office. Unless you’d rather keep trying to convince yourself you’re somehow better’n me.”

  McGregor was right about getting the conversation over as quickly as possible, Carver thought. He tried not to think about what else McGregor had said, afraid he might be right about that, too.

  Carver told him what had happened in Fort Lauderdale at Frank Wesley’s condo. Gave him a description of the two men with guns who’d been waiting in the dark when the door opened.

  When he was finished, McGregor bowed his head. Rubbed his long chin with his thumb and said, “You mean you got no idea who those two guys were?”

  “The Latin one might be Ralph Palmer, the man who hired Bert Renway. Why don’t you check out the name, see if there’s a sheet on him?”

  “Don’t tell me how to do my job, Carver. But do tell me why you said the body in the Caddie was Renway’s. Way it looks here, everything you said the day of the bombing was bullshit. It was Frank Wesley came to hire you and then got himself killed in his car despite his seat belt being buckled.”

  “I thought you could tell me something about that,” Carver said. “What happened in here just before the bombing went exactly the way I said. The man who hired me told me his name was Bert Renway.”

  “And gave you cash, but you weren’t suspicious.”

  “You get cash often in this business,” Carver said.

  “I just bet.”

  “And I went by Renway’s mobile home out west of town. Place called Beach Cove Court. Nobody was home. The grass needed cutting. His neighbor hasn’t seen him in weeks and says his car hasn’t moved.”

  “I went by there, too,” McGregor said. “You see a beach or a cove out there?”

  Carver said he hadn’t.

  The tall man thoughtfully picked at his nose for a moment. Examined his fingernail and decided there was nothing stuck under it. “Renway ain’t been around, like you say. But then, apparently neither has Wesley.”

  “You see the autopsy report on Wesley?”

  “No,” McGregor said. “They carted what was left of the corpse down to Miami, where they got the lab facilities to make sense outa that kinda mess. But it was dental records proved the body was Wesley. Dental records don’t lie. So Wesley must have lied to you.”

  “It looks that way,” Carver admitted. “He came here and gave me a st
ory about Renway impersonating him. But why? And where’s Renway?”

  “Maybe you forgot, those are the kinda things you’re supposed to find out. You was even paid to find out. It’d look sorta funny if I went pokin’ around in it, at least in areas where you can snoop. You and me are the only ones that know about the Renway story. That’s not the kinda thing I’m expected to keep to myself. On the other hand, you got the permission of the law to investigate.”

  “Want to put that permission in writing?” Carver asked.

  “No need,” McGregor said, waving a long-fingered hand in a languid gesture of dismissal. “Old buddies like us, we trust each other, hey?”

  “I don’t have to trust you,” Carver said. He absently laid a hand on his recently repaired answering machine-tape recorder. Patted cool plastic.

  McGregor looked at the hand. Said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Carver didn’t answer. Let the bastard think about it. Let him wonder if Carver had recorded their initial conversation about the car bombing.

  “Both our asses will be in a sling if you got anything on tape,” McGregor said. “If I threatened you and tried to influence you, you shoulda reported it, not cooperated. Just remember that.”

  “And you remember cooperation works both ways. Get with Records and see what you can find out about Ralph Palmer, then pass it on to me.”

  McGregor stood up straight. Stretched his arms so his fingertips almost touched the ceiling. Then he exhaled loudly, hitched up his pants, and tucked in his shirt. Said, “Why is it I gotta get mixed up with shitbums like you?”

  “What do you expect? You got no friends.”

  “You don’t either, Carver, you only think so. If they see they can use you, comes time to shit or get off the pot, they’ll shit-and all over you.”

  “You the exception?” Carver asked.

  “There are no exceptions.” McGregor smiled lewdly and sort of swung his weight across the small office to the door. Long legs covering the distance in two steps. Maybe flaunting his mobility in front of Carver. “Could be I’ll get back to you, Carver.”

  He went out, still smiling, leaving a wake of cheap perfumy cologne polluting the thick air.