Potshot

by Robert B. Parker

  "Does he know your line of work?" I said.

  "He did not marry me," del Rio said. "You have business with me?"

  A small fountain made a soft falling-water sound in one corner.

  "I need two favors."

  "Perhaps you're confused," del Rio said. "This is not Travelers Aid."

  "One, I'm interested in a guy named Tannenbaum," I said.

  Del Rio looked up from his chessboard.

  "Really?" he said. "Why?"

  "A guy who works for him threatened to beat me up the other night on Olympic Boulevard."

  "And?"

  "And he didn't," I said. "But I'd sort of like to know why."

  "I can see why you would," del Rio said. "But why do I care what you'd like?"

  "Because I'm a fine person?"

  "Do you know the name of the man who threatened to beat you up?"

  "Jerome Jefferson," I said. "Guy with him called Tino."

  Del Rio shook his head. He looked at Chollo. Chollo shrugged.

  We don't know them," del Rio said.

  "Small-time guys," I said. "Don't waste the name players on a stiff from Boston."

  Del Rio nodded.

  "It is good that you understand your position here," he said.

  "How about Tannenbaum?" I said. "Is he a name player?"

  "Yes."

  "Tell me about him."

  "First," del Rio said, "you tell me what you might be doing that would come to Morris Tannenbaum's attention?"

  "I'm working on a murder case," I said.

  "Here?"

  "Some people involved used to live here," I said. "But the murder was out in the desert, place called Potshot."

  Del Rio moved one of the chess pieces.

  "Is there a connection?"

  "I don't know."

  "Of course you don't," del Rio said.

  Chollo moved a chess piece. Del Rio studied the move. I don't play chess. I had no idea what they were doing.

  "Morris is an important figure in this part of the country."

  "As important as you?" I said.

  Del Rio consulted the chess book and studied the board and moved another piece.

  "Not to me," he said.

  "Me either," I said. "What's Tannenbaum do for a living?"

  Del Rio smiled. "He's a venture capitalist," del Rio said. "Like me."

  "What's he invest in?"

  "Drugs, whores, numbers… usual thing."

  "Competition?" I said.

  "Not really," del Rio said. "He operates east of Chino."

  "The inland empire?"

  Del Rio nodded, studying the chessboard. "Fresno," he said. "Bakersfield, San Berdoo, Riverside."

  "Where would I find him?"

  Del Rio moved a chess piece, kept his hand on it for a moment, and moved it back. He continued to stare at the board. Chollo was motionless.

  "Palm Springs," del Rio said.

  "Maybe I should go out and talk with him."

  Del Rio smiled and moved a chess piece, sat back, and looked at the move with satisfaction.

  "It would save you the drive if you were to shoot yourself here."

  "Morris is not friendly."

  "No."

  "Is he persistent?"

  "Very."

  "So he'll admonish me again," I said.

  Del Rio looked at Chollo.

  "Admonish," he said.

  "Even for a gringo he talks funny," Chollo said.

  "Yes," del Rio said. "He will admonish you again."

  "So maybe I'll need backup," I said.

  Del Rio looked again at Chollo. Chollo was studying the board.

  Without looking away he said, "Backup."

  "That would be the second favor," del Rio said.

  "Si."

  "You wish to borrow Chollo?"

  "Like last time," I said. "And Bobby Horse, too. If you would."

  Del Rio leaned back in his chair and stared at me.

  "They are not mine to lend," he said.

  "Then, I'd like your permission to make them a proposal."

  Again the silence and the stare. Chollo looked amused. Against the wall Bobby Horse showed nothing. His strong-featured Indian face was entirely blank.

  Finally del Rio said, "That is respectful."

  "I'm a respectful guy," I said.

  "In this instance," del Rio said.

  A small bird with a black back made small syncopated noise in the olive tree.

  Del Rio looked at Chollo and then at Bobby Horse.

  "Do you wish to listen to his proposal?" he said.

  "Si," Chollo said.

  Bobby Horse shrugged and nodded.

  "I need some help with this guy Tannenbaum," I said. "And I need a few hard cases to go out to the desert with me and clean up a town."

  "Clean up the criminal element?" Chollo said.

  "Yeah."

  "We are the criminal element," Chollo said.

  "Yeah, but you're not their criminal element."

  "What do you want with Tannenbaum?" Chollo said.

  "I don't know. But it must have something to do with the thing in the desert."

  "So you clean up one, you clean up the other?"

  "Si."

  "I didn't realize you spoke our language," Chollo said.

  "Si."

  "If you were to succeed in this," del Rio said. "It might provide me an opportunity to expand eastward."

  "If Tannenbaum went down," I said.

  "Si."

  I looked at Chollo.

  "He's fluent too," I said.

  "Tannenbaum don't bother me none," Chollo said. "What about the desert business? You figure your criminal element can beat their criminal element?"

  "That's my plan," I said.

  166 sobert's. parker

  "How big is their criminal element?"

  "Thirty, forty guys:"

  "And ours?"

  "With you and Bobby Horse," I said. "There would be seven:"

  "Including you?"

  "Including me:' l said. "Which really makes it seventeen. As you know, my strength is as the strength of ten."

  "Ten what?" Chollo said.

  "You paying?" Bobby Horse said. "Big time:' I said.

  "How much?"

  I told him. He looked at Chollo.

  "I saved his ass once before," Chollo said. "He's sort of fun for an Anglo."

  Bobby Horse looked at del Rio. "Mr. del Rio?"

  "I don't have a problem with it," del Rio said. "Chollo?"

  "No problem: '

  "Okay," Bobby Horse said.

  "Can you make the phone call?" I said to del Rio. "To Tannenbaum. I want to visit him without being fired upon as I come up the driveway."

  "I'll have it made," he said.

  "Gracias.", Del Rio grinned.

  "Si," he said.

  Chapter 31

  IN A DARK brown Range Rover, laden with brush gear and sonorous with stereo, with Bobby Horse driving and Chollo beside him, and me in the back seat, we cruised down Palm Canyon Drive, through Palm Springs on Racquet Club Road and into Morris Tannenbaum's circular crushed stone driveway. Beyond the house a golf course rolled toward the mountain. The house itself was modest for Palm Springs, with the usual stuccoed walls and red-tiled roof. It looked like a dozen other homes with access to the golf course, except for the tastefully understated security cameras, and the black Lincoln Towncar that sat outside with its motor running. Chollo took a Derringer from the glove compartment and put it over the sun visor. We parked beside the Lincoln. After a moment the door opened on the passenger side and a tall leathery guy in a cowboy hat and Oakley shades got out and walked over to us. Chollo lowered his window. The cowboy looked in at me in the back. "That him?" he said.

  "Si," Chollo said.

  The cowboy looked at me some more, then straightened and jerked his head toward the house.

  "Okay," he said.

  Bobby Horse shut off the motor and we got out into the heat, walked to th
e front door, and rang the bell. A Filipino house boy answered and bowed us into the air-conditioned hallway.

  "Please to wait here," he said and went down the hall and disappeared. In a few moments a man came out of the door where the Filipino had gone and walked toward us. He was a well-built guy, like a racquetball player, or a tennis pro. He had a crew cut. He was wearing a blue seersucker suit, and a blue oxford shirt with a button-down collar, a blue-and-redstriped tie, and horn-rimmed glasses. As he came down the hallway he was looking at Chollo. I glanced over. Chollo was looking at him. When he reached us he stopped. Still looking at Chollo, he said, "You wish to see Morris?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "Five minutes," he said.

  "Plenty," I said.

  Chollo and the suit continued to look at each other.

  Then the suit said, "Follow me," and turned and went back down the hall. We followed him into a smallish room that looked out through glass doors at a modest pool, and beyond, to the green of the golf course. A big-screen television set on a high shelf was blasting out a rollicking symphony of canned laughter. The room was full of exercise equipment, Nautilus, Kaiser, Cybex; a complete set of chromeplated free weights. A flabby unshaven guy in a yellow sweatsuit was doing assisted dips on a Gravitron. There was a stair-climber and an exercycle, and a treadmill all arranged so that they faced the television. The bicycle had a reading stand attached and around it, on the floor, were scattered parts of the Los Angeles Times and the Wall Street Journal. Several half-consumed bottles of Gatorade stood around. One had tipped over and was puddling the floor. The man on the Gravitron had a thick crop of dark black hair. His unshaven stubble was gray. The contrast was a little suspicious. I noticed that the counterweight on the Gravitron was set as high as it would go, which meant that he was dipping very little weight.

  "Ronnie," the man said, still on the Gravitron, "the room's a fucking mess."

  Without a word, the suit who let us in went to a desk beside the door and pressed a button. The flabby guy climbed down off the Gravitron and wiped his face with a towel and took a big pull of Gatorade.

  "I'm Morris Tannenbaum," the flabby guy said. "Whaddya want?"

  The Filipino came silently into the room and folded up the newspapers, picked up the Gatorade bottles, cleaned up the spill and went silently out. Ronnie stayed by the door looking at Chollo, who was looking at him. Bobby Horse stood just behind me, motionless. I glanced at him. His face had no expression.

  "My name's Spenser," I said. "I wonder why you sent Jerome Jefferson and his friend Tino to scare me out of my wits."

  "Don't know Tino," Tannenbaum said. "Jerome must have recruited him. I sent Jerome because I thought he could take care of things. I was wrong."

  "What things did you want taken care of?"

  "I want you to forget about Steve Buckman. I want you to stay away from Lou Buckman, and I want you to forget about the Dell."

  "Un-huh."

  "And if you don't do what I want I'll have you killed."

  "How come?" I said.

  "Because I say so, that's how come. You think because you get del Rio to call me, and you bring a couple of his greasers to back you up, that somehow makes you different from every other two-bit cheapie I've put in the fucking ground?"

  "I'm the greaser," Chollo said, still looking at Ronslie. He tilted his head toward Bobby Horse. "He's an Indian."

  Tannenbaum made a little dismissive gesture with his hand, and kept his eyes on me.

  "You heard me," he said.

  "I did, and I'm trying to get my breath back," I said.

  "Okay," Tannenbaum said. "You been told. Straight up. From me to you. Beat it."

  "What's your interest in Lou Buckman?" I said. "Or the Dell?"

  "This is my home," Tannenbaum said. "I do not wish to kill you here. But I'll kill you somewhere, and soon."

  Tannenbaum got up and walked out. Ronnie went out after him and closed the door. In another minute the Filipino came in.

  "May I show you out?" he said.

  I said he might. We got back in the car, drove back out to Route 10, and headed for L.A., past the Indian bingo parlors and the places that sold Famous Date Shakes.

  "Ronnie looks sort of like an accountant," I said to Chollo.

  "He's not," Chollo said.

  "No," I said. "He's not. You think Tannenbaum will try to kill me?"

  "In your language," Chollo said, "you bet your ass."

  "Well it's been tried before," I said.

  "You want me to kill him?" Chollo said.

  "No. But I might take a rain check."

  "What's the Dell?" Bobby Horse said.

  "You don't know?" I said.

  "I did would I be asking?"

  "But Tannenbaum did," I said.

  "So his interest is not just what'shername," Chollo said.

  "Lou Buckman. No. It's Potshot."

  "So, what's the Dell," Bobby Horse said.

  I told him.

  "Tannenbaum connected with this Preacher hombre, maybe?" Chollo said.

  "Hombre?" I said.

  "Just like to stay authentic to my heritage," Chollo said.

  "Chollo, you grew up in East L.A.," I said.

  "And I'm true to my heritage," Chollo said. "I am a thug."

  "And a good one," I said.

  "A thing worth doing," Chollo said, "is worth doing well."

  "You got a plan?" Bobby Horse said.

  "I can't seem to connect any of the dots," I said, "so, I think I'll blunder around out here some more. Something's got to be connected to someone."

  "There's a connection," Chollo said. "You just don't know what it is."

  "Story of my sleuthing career," I said.

  Chapter 32

  ONE OF THE things I always liked, especially when I traveled with Susan, was to have breakfast with her. The only drawback was that, no matter when you woke up, you waited an hour or so to eat while she worked out, showered, did her hair, put on her face and dressed like a Parisian model. I had never actually met a Parisian model, but I was sure that if I did, she'd be dressed like Susan. The thing was that without her clothes on, with no makeup, and her hair down, she was gorgeous. Occasionally I remarked about carrying coals to Newcastle. And always, when I did, she gave me a look of such penetrating pity that I never pursued it. The way we normally worked it was that she said she'd meet me in the dining room at, say, 9 A.M. and I should go down and get a table for us. So I would and have some juice and coffee and study the menu and she would show up about 9:30 without any apparent awareness that she was a half-hour late. On the other hand she wasn't reliable. If I went down at 9:30 she would have showed up before me, and, in the future, would expect me to be a half-hour late. So next time, she'd show up at 10.

  It is one of the secrets of happiness that you know which battles you can win and which you can't. I had given up the punctuality battle years ago. And the pleasure of her company when she did show up was always worth the wait.

  I had drunk some orange juice and read USA Today, and was on my second cup of coffee at a table for two, near a window, when she came gleaming into the dining room. Several people looked at her more or less covertly. Maybe she was a movie star.

  "I'm sorry I'm late," she said.

  "Really?" I said. "I didn't notice."

  "Do you know what you're going to have?" she said.

  "Here's a how-well-do-you-know-me test," I said. "Read the menu, see if you can guess."

  Susan put on the reading glasses she had just bought on Rodeo Drive, round ones with bright green frames, and studied the menu. She smiled.

  "Ah ha!" she said.

  "And your answer is?"

  "Huevos rancheros," she said.

  "You win," I said.

  "Good. What have I won?"

  I smiled at her without speaking.

  "Oh," Susan said, "that."

  When the waiter arrived, Susan ordered decaffeinated coffee, and a fresh fruit platter with yogurt. I kept my d
ate with the huevos rancheros.

  "Other than a threat to my life the other night outside that restaurant," Susan said, "I've been having a very nice time. How about you?"

  "The time we've spent together has been nice," I said.

  "Isn't it always," Susan said.

  "But other than that I feel like the more I learn the less I know."

  "Do you know who it was that threatened us?"

  "Guy named Jerome Jefferson," I said, "sent by a man named Morris Tannenbaum."

  "How about the other man? Tino?"

  "No record. Haven't located him. The guess is he's a day player, hired by Jefferson for the occasion."

  The food arrived. Susan ate a raspberry.

  "Why would this Taimenbaum person want to threaten us?"

  "He wants me to stay away from Lou Buckman, Potshot, the Dell, and the west side of the continent."

  "He mentioned the Dell?"

  "Yep."

  "Then he's… he's involved," she said.

  "You get sick of shrinkage, you could get a license and join me. Spenser and Silverman, investigations."

  She picked up a wedge of cantaloupe with her fingers and took a small bite off the end of it. I could never figure out why I was eating with my hands when I did that. When she did it she was elegant.

  "Alphabetically it's Silverman and Spenser," she said.

  "But I'd be senior partner."

  "And I'd be main squeeze," she said.

  "Silverman and Spenser," I said. "Investigations."

  "So how is Tannenbaum involved?"

  "I don't know."

  "Have you learned anything more about Lou Buckman, the little blonde cutie?"

  "You sound jealous," I said.

  "So?"

  "You haven't even met her."

  "So?"

  "Apparently all was not as it seemed with the Buckmans. They don't seem to be too well liked by former colleagues and neighbors. It is alleged that they both slept around. One interesting factoid: Both Mark Ratliff and Dean Walker lived in the Buckmans' old neighborhood in Santa Monica. Ratliff seems to have had an affair with her. And the former Mrs. Ratliff had a get-even affair with Steve Buckman."

  "Walker is the police chief in Potshot," Susan said. "Who's Ratliff?"

  "I told you about him," I said. "The producer. Moved to Potshot to get away from the Hollywood rat race."

  Susan smiled.

  "Where, I assume, he was running a dead last."