There was a long pause as the party on the other end of the line gathered enough resolve to speak. “Who is this?” Gil Everson asked.
“You already know my name. And the rest we can get into later. But not over the phone.”
“Look. What do you want? If this is some kind of extortion attempt—”
“It’s not. But to find out what it is, you’re gonna have to see me in person. Tonight, right here, in one hour. Would you like directions?”
“You must be insane. I’m not meeting you anywhere tonight.”
“Okay. Whatever you say.”
Gunner hit the flash button on the phone to hang up on him.
Lilly came over to his table, having finally taken notice of him, and said, “What’ve I told you about tying up my phone, Gunner? Huh?”
“This is only going to take a minute, Lilly. Relax.”
“I’ll relax when I’m dead. Right now, I got a business to run, and I can’t run it without a phone.”
The phone began to ring.
“Just let me take this one call,” Gunner said. “I’ll keep it short, I promise.”
The big woman eyeballed him, pursing her crimson lips in disgust, then walked away.
“That you, Councilman?” Gunner asked, speaking into the phone again.
And this time Everson spoke right up, said, “This ‘Acey Deuce’ where you’re at. I take it it’s a public place?”
“That’s right. But nobody from the local press is likely to spot us here, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“We can’t meet someplace more private?”
“Sorry, but I’m afraid not. Not that I don’t trust you, but I’d feel safer if we met right here, in the company of a few friends. You understand.”
Everson didn’t say anything for a good length of time. Then: “How do I get to this place?”
After Gunner told him, he gave Lilly her phone back and ordered himself another drink.
The trouble with baiting the hook for sharks with one’s own flesh was, sometimes you actually got a bite.
Gunner had been waiting forty minutes in a dark, distant booth in one corner, his Ruger P-85 pinned flat between the cushion of his seat and his right thigh, when Gil Everson and his ubiquitous bodyguard entered the bar. The investigator was relieved to see the councilman here himself—his presence made it all but a certainty that no violence toward Gunner was in his immediate plans—but his sizable black friend was not so reassuring. Though Gunner had seen him many times before during his own surveillance of Everson, it was still highly unsettling to be faced with him here again, in such close quarters, and Gunner couldn’t help but wonder if Sly Cribbs hadn’t felt the same way almost twenty-four hours earlier.
He watched Lilly point him out for the big man, then fingered the Ruger nervously as the two men slowly approached him.
Everson reached him first, his companion hanging just behind so as to better watch the councilman’s back, and said, “You Aaron Gunner?”
“Yeah. Thanks for coming down, Councilman.”
Everson took the seat opposite him in the booth on his own initiative, gestured for his man to do likewise at an empty table nearby. The flat-topped bodyguard in the crisp, double-breasted green suit obeyed the command without so much as blinking. “Let’s cut the bullshit here, Mr. Gunner,” Connie Everson’s slightly graying, though still strikingly handsome, husband said. “I’m not your councilman, and you’re not one of my constituents. Our business here tonight is all about money, so why don’t you just name your price and get the fuck on with it?”
“Because I’m not a blackmailer. I told you that before.”
“I know what you told me. And I’d like to believe you. But it’s for damn sure you didn’t take those photographs of my friend and me just to try out a new camera, now, isn’t it?”
“Actually, I didn’t take the photographs. They just happen to be in my possession. The person who did take them is over at Daniel Freeman, recovering from a couple of gunshot wounds he received late last night.” He slid his eyes over to the councilman’s bodyguard, saw no discernible reaction. “Maybe you heard about it.”
“No. I’m afraid I didn’t.”
“He’s just a seventeen-year-old kid. Goes to college, lives with his mother. Wants to be a photojournalist some day.”
“That’s fascinating.”
“But somebody nailed him in his car on his way home, just around eleven o’clock. Shot him twice with a forty-five caliber automatic while he was waiting for the light to change over on Exposition and Vermont. The cops think it was a carjacker, but I have a theory of my own.”
The big man in the green suit remained as expressionless as ever.
“Get to the point, Mr. Gunner,” Everson said.
“Somebody was after the photographs you’re so interested in. They thought he had them on him, but he didn’t.”
“And you think that somebody was me, is that it?”
“You or your goon over there. He does have a handgun under all that fabric, doesn’t he?”
He’d said it just loud enough for the big man to hear him, as was his intention, but the councilman’s friend only winked at him in response, no easy man to rile, apparently.
“Rafe was with me at eleven o’clock last night,” Everson said. “He wasn’t anywhere near the intersection of Exposition and Vermont.”
Gunner smiled, nodded his head. “That’s a great alibi. He was with you, and you were with him. You two should rob banks.”
“Look. I don’t know what the hell this is all about, but if you don’t start making some sense quick, I’m going to the police. And what you do with the photographs after that is your problem.”
He seemed completely sincere. He was more frustrated than angry now, and Gunner’s little game of cat and mouse was getting on his nerves.
“All right, Councilman. Settle down,” Gunner said.
“Settle down, my ass. Are the photographs for sale or not?”
“For sale? No.” Gunner shook his head. “They’re not for sale. But I might be willing to exchange them for something.”
“Exchange them for something? Like what?”
“Like information. A few simple answers to some questions I’d like to ask you and your friend here.”
“And my questions? What about them?”
“You mean like, who am I, and who am I working for? That sort of thing?”
“Exactly.”
“The answer to the first question is, I’m a private investigator. As for the second—”
“A private investigator?” He was far more surprised than he should have been, Gunner thought. His wife had told Gunner just hours earlier that she and the councilman had discussed everything, and that all of her suspicions about a street hustler with a limp had been laid to rest. But if that were true, her husband should have figured Gunner for his wife’s private investigator from the start.
Fifteen seconds went by before the councilman shook his head, a small grin crossing his face. “That goddamn Connie …”
“Who?”
“My wife, Mr. Gunner. Your client.”
“You think your wife is my client?”
“Of course she is. I must’ve been an idiot for not seeing it sooner. Not every attack upon me is politically motivated, after all.”
“No, probably not. But you’re a black city councilman with a promising future. You think your wife’s the only person who could want photographic evidence that you’ve been having an affair with a prostitute?”
Everson bristled at this, said, “You trying to say there’s something perverse about that?”
“It doesn’t matter what I have to say about it. But if someone looking to derail your re-election wanted to put that particular spin on it …” He let a simple shrug complete the thought.
“All right. To hell with who you’re working for, for now. All I care about are the photographs. You give me those, and the rest won’t matter.”
“Fine. All I want is my friend’s shooter. You help me nail him, and the photos are yours.”
“Your friend’s shooter? I don’t know who shot that kid!”
“You didn’t know he was following you around last night?”
“No.”
“Or about the photographs he’d taken of you and the lady?”
“No! I didn’t know anything about the photographs until this afternoon, when I went down to my car and found that goddamn envelope on my windshield.”
Gunner nodded toward the silent big man seated nearby. “What about him?”
“Rafe? He’s a security man. Not my mother. His job is to protect me from physical harm, not do damage control.”
“All the same—was he really with you last night around eleven o’clock? Or was that something you said just to make conversation?”
Everson took too long to answer the question, rendering his reply all but unnecessary. “I don’t say anything just to make conversation, Mr. Gunner,” he said.
“Then he was with you when the photographs were taken.”
“You mean at the hotel? Yes, but—”
“All night.”
“Yes, goddamnit, all night! He was in the suite right next to ours, he was there the whole time we were.”
“He couldn’t have spotted the kid taking the photos and followed him afterward?”
“No. I told you—he’s a bodyguard. Not a hitman.” When Gunner failed to pursue the matter further, he said, “I’m sorry, Gunner, but it’s really very simple. I didn’t have anything to do with your friend getting shot, and neither did Rafe, or anyone else under my employ. I’m sorry it happened, of course, but it had nothing to do with me.”
“I see. You think maybe I should be talking to your girlfriend, instead?”
“No! You leave Shelby—” He stopped, instantly aware of his mistake, and started again. “You leave the lady out of this, Gunner. She couldn’t possibly help you.”
“Couldn’t she? She’s the second adulterer in the photographs, Councilman. And depending on who she is and what her circumstances are, she could have just as much to lose if they were to go public as you do.”
“She doesn’t. You can take my word for that.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you and I are going to stop talking and start swinging. Both figuratively and literally.”
“What, here? Right now?”
“You know what I mean. You go anywhere near the lady in those photographs, and I’ll nail your ass to the cross, so help me God.”
It wasn’t just an idle threat; Everson meant every word. Gunner could see that in his eyes alone.
“Now,” the councilman went on. “Do I get the photographs, or not?”
Gunner let him wait a long time for his answer, carefully thinking things through before choosing his next move. “The kid shot a full roll of twenty-four. One print is already in your possession. I’ll messenger you another twenty-two tomorrow, plus the negatives, and keep one print for myself.”
“What? Like hell you will!”
“You have my word it won’t be used against you in any way. No one will see it, or know about it, but me.”
“Fuck your word! The deal was, I answer your questions, and you give me the photographs. All the photographs!”
“I know what the deal was. But if you want me to trust you about the lady, you’re going to have to trust me about this. It’s a two-way street, Councilman.”
“Bullshit!”
“I told you: I don’t care about anything but finding the person who capped my friend last night. As long as that isn’t you or your boy Rafe, you’ve got nothing to fear from me, with or without the photographs.”
“And your client? What about her?”
“You mean what about him?”
“Him, her, whatever!”
“I guess I forgot to mention. I don’t have that client anymore. I was fired earlier today.”
“And you never—”
“Showed my client the photographs? No. I didn’t.”
Now Everson was the one thinking things through, trying to decide what to do next. He was in a tight spot, and he didn’t like it there one bit.
“I don’t know anything about you, Gunner. Why should I think I can trust you?”
“The short answer? Because you don’t have a lot of choice. The long answer’s that, plus the fact you know who I am and where you can find me. Neither of which I’d’ve allowed you to know if my intent all along was to fuck you over, right?”
Everson fell silent, discovered he had no rejoinder for this argument. “I want that last photo, Gunner. If you think I’m going to let you hold onto it forever, you’re crazy.”
“I tell you what. As soon as the cops make an arrest in my friend’s shooting that looks like it’s gonna stick, you can have the photograph. I’ll put it in a nice frame for you and everything.”
“Forget the frame. Just get me the photograph. All the photographs.”
He slipped out of the booth and stood up, gestured without turning for Rafe the bodyguard to follow suit. Naturally, the big man did.
“I’ll be watching for that messenger tomorrow, Gunner,” the councilman said, smoothing the wrinkles from the front of his coat with both hands. “Please don’t let me go home empty-handed.”
“It was a pleasure meeting you, too, Gil,” Gunner said. He got to his own feet as Everson began to storm out, hiding the Ruger he’d been sitting on behind his back, and called out to the security man rushing to fall in behind the councilman. “Yo, Rafe!”
The big man stopped, turned.
“Satisfy a little human curiosity, huh? Let me see the piece. Just a peek, black, come on.”
The bodyguard actually grinned, opened the left side of his coat to show Gunner the brown leather holster affixed to his belt. It was hard to tell for sure in the Deuce’s dim light, but Gunner thought the weapon in its embrace looked like a 9-millimeter SIGarms, either the P226 or -229. Neither of which, to his knowledge, could handle .45 caliber ammo.
“Wow. Very nice,” Gunner said, giving the big man the thumbs-up sign.
“Let’s go, Rafe,” Everson said, waiting.
Rafe closed up his coat, treated Gunner to another wink, then followed his employer out to the street.
ten
“WHAT’S THE LATEST?” GUNNER ASKED MATT POOLE THE first thing Friday morning.
“Not a hell of a lot. Your boy Cribbs is improving rapidly; he was able to give us a statement this morning. And that wraps it up for the good news. The bad news is, his statement ain’t worth a shit.”
“He couldn’t add anything to the description you already had of his assailant?”
“He told us the guy was wearing a blue sweatshirt and pants to go with his matching ski mask. And that the guy was indeed a brother. ‘His voice sounded black,’ he said.”
“The shooter talked to him?”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot to mention. Cribbs said he got shot because he put up a fight. He was told to get out of the car, and he didn’t.”
“Suggesting our man might’ve been just a carjacker after all.”
“Yeah. Though I remain unconvinced.”
“What about his camera?”
“The shooter took it, just like we figured. Either because he couldn’t take the car, and the camera was the next best thing, or because the camera was all he was really after in the first place. Take your pick.”
“And the weapon?”
“No weapon yet. If the shooter doesn’t still have it, he must’ve dumped it where we haven’t been able to find it.”
“You didn’t come up with anything in the car?”
“Like some prints other than Cribbs’s, you mean? Afraid not. Face it, partner, we’re stuck at square one. Our shooter was a big black guy with a forty-five auto.”
Gunner thought of Rafe the giant bodyguard again, said simply, “Yeah.”
“What about you? You don’t have an
ything to tell me this morning?”
“Not yet, Lieutenant. Maybe soon.”
“How soon is soon, Gunner? Your forty-eight hours is halfway up.”
“Yeah, Poole, I know. I’m working on it, man.”
“Okay. You do that. Now, if you’ve got no further questions for me, I’ve got a cup of java gettin’ cold here, so …”
“What do you know about the DOB, Poole?” Gunner asked, catching the detective completely unprepared for the question.
“The what?”
“The DOB. Defenders of the Bloodline. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of ’em.”
“Oh, yeah. That DOB. Are they mixed up in this?”
“No, no. This is something different. But … They really do exist, huh?”
“I don’t know. Do they? All we’ve ever seen of those clowns around here are those fuckin’ flyers they’re always puttin’ up somewhere.”
“You’re telling me you’ve never seen one, either?”
“A Defender? Not that I know of, I haven’t. And that’s usually the first thing I ask a guy, too. ‘Are you a Defender of the Bloodline?’”
Gunner could see the subject for Poole was nothing more than a joke, told him to go put his java in the microwave before hanging up the phone. Then he sat at his desk in his makeshift office, eyeing the little Ridgeback sleeping peacefully on his couch, and tried to decide which of two roads he should travel for the remainder of the day.
For as urgent as the need was for him to determine whether or not Gil Everson and/or his associate Rafe had been involved in the attack on Sly Cribbs, Gunner still felt compelled to search for the man or woman who had tried toburn him alive in Johnny Frerotte’s basement Wednesday night.
It should have been an easy choice to make. Matt Poole and the considerable resources of the LAPD were hard at work trying to solve the former crime, while no one at all, save for the Los Angeles Fire Department’s arson detail, was investigating the latter one. That Gunner was tempted to place his own attempted murder above that of another was nothing if not understandable.
And yet, in the end, he was unable to put Sly’s shooting aside for his own self-interests. Because Sly hadn’t driven into the path of those two .45 slugs by accident: Gunner had positioned him there: And the nagging guilt that came with this awareness could not be assuaged by letting someone else seek justice for him. Finding Sly’s assailant was Gunner’s responsibility, and no one else’s, just as he had told the kid’s mother yesterday, and he came back to this realization soon enough.
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