Nelson looked around with a big grin and said, “See? See why I wanna work Palm Springs P.D.?”
“This ain’t Palm Springs, it’s Cathedral City,” Lynn reminded him.
“I know, but it ain’t the back a the bus with all the diesel fumes neither.”
A black man wearing a djellaba brought the drinks on a copper tray. Nelson figured he was probably just some local guy from north Palm Springs until he said with a Middle East accent, “Who gets the Scotch, please?”
After he was gone, Lynn took a gulp of the Scotch and said, “I can’t see how I let that guy get away last night. I mean, I had him backed up like bad plumbing, and all of a sudden I was bunking with Denny O’Doul.”
“You’re not that young anymore.”
“How charming of you to remind me.”
“Maybe you lost a step or two since you were a young guy patrolin a beat. It happens.”
“The guy knows what he’s doing, that’s all I’m thinking.”
“Then why didn’t he jist blow you away? That’s what a self-respectin terrorist shoulda done in that situation.”
Lynn said, “He’s been up against two cops already, and he only did as much as he had to do.”
“You tryin to say he’s not a killer? What’s he gonna do to John Lugo, cure his duck hook?”
“Permanently,” Lynn said, “but maybe he’s not anxious to do fatal damage to anybody else.”
“Unless he has to.”
“Unless he has to.”
“You’ll recognize him if you see him again, won’t ya?”
“If he was in a scuba suit and snorkel I’d know him,” Lynn said. “How bout you?”
“I didn’t really look at his face when we walked past him at the mortuary,” Nelson said.
A different waiter brought mint tea along with a brass basin and ewer for hand washing, as well as another round of drinks.
When the food arrived the waiter said, “The harissa is for the couscous. It is sauce of red chili.”
Nelson looked around for utensils and said, “Don’t we get chopsticks or something?”
When they were in the middle of lunch, and their hands were gooey with cinnamon and powdered sugar, the belly dancer returned. In age, she was somewhere between Nelson and Lynn, that is to say, experienced but not over the hill, with the kind of belly muscles that could roll a quarter from below her navel to her breasts, a trick she saved for the Japanese.
She did a bit of bumping and grinding and swaying in front of Nelson, who grinned and blushed. The delighted Japanese kept shoving currency inside her costume, while the zils, tied to her writhing fingers, rang like chimes in their overheated ears.
George Tibbash did not return until Lynn and Nelson had dipped their fingers in bowls of lemon water and dried them on towels supplied by the waiter. When he did return, he was carrying a demitasse cup of tea. Nelson admired the way he held the cup when he sat down. His little finger was curled slightly and he kept his elbow down. Nelson never trusted guys who drank with their elbows up. The little cop wondered if George Tibbash was a dunker.
Lynn squirmed into a more comfortable position with his legs straight out. His knees were aching from having sat cross-legged.
“You get used to it,” George Tibbash said, indicating the floor pillow. “Tourists love it.”
“I guess Leo Grishman explained the whole deal?”
“That’s one of the reasons I’ve left you alone,” George Tibbash said, his eyebrows peaking. “I’ve been searching my memory for something, anything. Leo said you suspect some sort of connection between John Lugo and a man from either Spain or the Middle East?”
“Maybe,” Lynn said, with a glance at Nelson.
“I really can’t think of anyone who’d want to hunt down John Lugo. In the first place—”
“Everybody in town knows who he is and how to find him,” Lynn said.
“That’s right. And not just this town. He’s done business in Los Angeles and many other places. I was only involved in the Puerto Rican resort project, and for a time I was a limited partner in the vending machine business. As far as I know, I’m the only person from the Middle East that was ever associated with those projects.”
“How bout the Canary Islands?” Nelson asked.
George Tibbash paused and said, “Now that you mention the Canary Islands, I think there was a man who headed up a rival consortium on the Puerto Rican project.… Yes, I’m sure of it. We outbid them and got it. Yes, the Canary Islands.”
“Was his name Francisco V. Ibañez?” Nelson asked quickly.
“Ibañez,” George Tibbash said. “Perhaps. Of course, he had a Spanish name, but I don’t speak the language. John Lugo did all of the Spanish-speaking when we were down in San Juan. He might remember the man’s name. It could have been Ibañez.”
“Did you have any more dealings with the man?” Lynn asked.
“No, John may have, but I did not. I returned to L.A. and John stayed for about a month, as I recall.”
“I think we’ll have to talk to John Lugo right away,” Lynn said to Nelson.
“You’ll have trouble this week,” George Tibbash said. “John’s a fanatical golfer and he’s playing in the Bob Hope Classic.”
“He’s gotta stop after eighteen holes,” Lynn said.
“But he doesn’t,” George Tibbash said, finishing his tea. “John will be with the golfing crowd from the moment he arises until he goes to bed at night, and he may even have a famous golf professional staying at his house. If you want to see him you’ll have to go to whichever golf course he happens to be playing. On Saturday, the last day for amateurs, he’ll be at Indian Wells, I believe. Then on Saturday evening he’ll have a huge party in his home on Southridge for all the professionals that care to come, along with hundreds of friends from his country club, as well as some of the amateur players from the tournament. He does the same thing every year without fail.”
“Can you think of anybody from your past association with John Lugo, anyone from any foreign country, who’d want to hunt him down? Does he have enemies?”
George Tibbash smiled and said, “A man like John Lugo would have to have enemies. He rose from the barrios of Los Angeles to Southridge, to the top of the mountain overlooking all of Palm Springs. But I would think he’s outlived most of his enemies. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to my kitchen. And I do hope you’ve enjoyed our food and that you’ll tell your friends about us and come again.”
After they’d thanked George Tibbash and were walking toward the door, Nelson said to Lynn, “Wait a minute. Got a couple bucks I can stick inside that dancer’s bra?”
Lynn reached in his pocket reflexively, but then shook his head, saying, “I got a roll a dimes, but they’re at the house. I got a credit card, but it’s more overextended than Poland.”
The dancer’s entire body glistened with an oily sheen when she did a sweaty, groin-throbbing shimmy right in the face of the oldest Japanese.
Nelson stopped to gawk, but Lynn grabbed his sleeve, saying, “C’mon, kid. They’re all alike. They make you beg for admission to that thing, but the truth is, Jacques Cousteau could use it for a shark cage.”
“What’s our next move?” Nelson wanted to know, during the drive back to Palm Springs.
“I’d say we phone car rentals and hotels for Francisco V. Ibañez,” Lynn said. “There’s nothing else to do till we get a chance to connect up with John Lugo.”
“Wish we had an office,” Nelson said.
“We do,” Lynn said with some hesitation. “Breda’s.”
“Let’s get started on those calls.”
“On second thought, it might not be a good idea to bother Breda.”
“She’s a nice lady,” Nelson said. “She wouldn’t even mind long distance calls.”
“I gotta admit, she’s worth a couple grand over blue book in a tight market,” Lynn said. “Okay, I’ll risk it.”
Nelson said, “Ain’t police work f
unny? We got the power to deprive people of their freedom. We got the power to take a human life. But we gotta get permission from our sergeant to make a long distance phone call!”
Breda was wearing a blazer the color of a smoke tree, a blouse just a shade more smokey, and cuffed rayon and linen trousers with a check pattern. It was the kind of thing she could mix and match, and had bought after laborious searching at department store sales. The entire outfit had cost $115, but looked plenty expensive.
She was also wearing her strawberry eyeglasses, and was busy at the computer when Lynn sheepishly followed Nelson into her office.
Before Lynn could say anything to her she said, “I’ve been trying to reach you at your house. Jack Graves wants us to interview Clive Devon at six o’clock tonight.”
Lynn was delighted that she was behaving in a seminormal fashion toward him. He gave her the happiest smile he had with him that day, and asked, “What’s it about?”
“Jack says he might be able to clear the case. He wants us to question Clive Devon about the guy from Painted Canyon. I’ll pick you up at your house at quarter to six. Any problem with that?”
“No problem,” Lynn said, still beaming. “I’m glad to be of help.”
“It’s because you’re gonna have to flash a badge. Otherwise I’d be doing it myself,” she said with a look that could deflect .38 hollow-points.
Flashing the badge again! When he’d started this job, she’d promised that he’d never have to use his official position in any way. Yet in the last forty-eight hours he’d shown his badge to half the registered voters in Riverside County. That pension had better come fast.
After Nelson told Breda about their interviews with Bino Sierra, Leo Grishman and George Tibbash, he said, “We’re down to calling car rentals and hotels for our guy from the Canary Islands. So can we use your phones?”
“Help yourself,” she said, and went back to the computer, without so much as another glance at Lynn.
“I’ll take the car rentals,” Nelson said, handing Lynn a phone book.
“How come I always get screwed like a June bride,” Lynn grumbled. “There’s probably a couple hundred hotel listings.”
“I’ll help you if I don’t make a score with the car rentals,” Nelson said.
It was going to be a very long afternoon but Nelson never lost enthusiasm for a moment. He’d pick up the phone and say, “Hello, this is Officer Pacino from the police department calling. We think we might have a car a yours that was impounded. The tow driver failed to give us the license number and make, but it was rented to Francisco V. Ibañez. Is he a recent customer? No Francisco V. Ibañez? Must be some mistake. Thanks anyway.”
Lynn’s calls were delivered with far less vivacity: “Hello, this is Sergeant DeNiro from the police department. We’ve found a wallet belonging to a tourist we think is staying at your hotel. Francisco V. Ibañez from the Canary Islands? No? Wrong hotel. Thanks.”
And so it went for an hour.
Lynn made a try at conversation once. He said to Breda, “In a state with a hundred and forty thousand lawyers, a state that leads the universe in bodily injury claims, in the insurance-fraud capital of the galaxy, I’d think you’d be able to get more insurance company clients. I’m gonna talk up your name to every lawyer I know.”
Breda didn’t even look up.
Then, while Lynn tried to get up the guts to ask her if she’d like a diet Coke, Nelson leaped from his chair and snapped his fingers to get Lynn’s attention while he talked into the phone and wrote down a hotel’s name: “Yes! Yes! No, there’s no real problem with the car! We just have to talk to him about a found wallet in the car! Yes! Thanks!”
That got Breda out of the computer. She said, “A score?”
“We got him!” Nelson cried, hanging up and showing Lynn the name of the resort hotel.
“We got him, maybe,” Lynn said. “If he gave the correct local address when he rented the car. That’s a huge hotel. I wouldn’t’ve expected him to stay at a place like that.”
“Has the guy did anything you’d expect so far?” Nelson wanted to know.
“You wanna call first or just go?”
“Let’s go. This is about our last shot till we see Lugo.”
“Okay,” Lynn said, standing up and massaging his right knee.
Breda surprised him by taking off her yuppie glasses and looking directly at him. “Do you have a gun with you?”
“No,” he said, “but Nelson carries more firepower than Israel.”
“I’ll watch over him, don’t worry,” Nelson said to Breda.
Encouraged by her concern, Lynn said to her, “I know I pleaded poverty but I been holding out. If anything happens to me I want you to take my bank card to the beg-a-buck machine and take it all: thirty-three bucks. You can even have the coupons I been saving for a carpet-cleaning discount. Nelson, he gets my steering wheel cover and my bowling ball. If he survives.”
Breda didn’t answer. She put her strawberry glasses on and went back to the computer, not even bothering with a mean little grin.
There was a one-hundred-foot drop from ceiling to lobby floor. And the lobby, the size of a small town, looked like it had been designed by a mathematician. Geometry dominated. There were tiers of half-hexagon stone planters overflowing with flowers, ferns and exotic plants, as well as octagon reflecting pools.
Above the ground were half a dozen floors offering rooms whose doors opened out onto a view of the colossal lobby on one side and the desert panorama on the other. More descending tiers, these full of water, spilled down into a canal upon which guests could ride to their rooms in an electric boat with a surrey top, captained by a girl in sailor whites. The only real drawback to the concept was that all of the indoor water emitted a dank odor.
Lynn had only been inside the resort hotel twice, but Nelson never had. They moseyed around before Nelson spoke to a young woman at the reception area. “I’d like to leave a message for Mister Ibañez. Francisco V. Ibañez. Unless he’s already checked out?”
She went to a computer, punched a few keys, and said, “No, we have him until Monday. You might try the house phone around the corridor to your right.”
When they got to the phone, Lynn said, “If he’s in, you’ll be somebody from the car rental. He’s gotta bring the car back because there’s been a mistake. It was promised to somebody else.”
“Yeah, I’ll tell him we’ll give him three days for free because a the mixup.”
“Don’t overplay your role,” Lynn said. “One free day’s enough.”
Nelson picked up the house phone and said, “Mister Ibañez, please.”
He let it ring ten times, but shook his head at Lynn and hung up.
“Okay, let’s cruise,” Lynn suggested. “If I spot him, I’ll give you a signal and turn my back so he doesn’t recognize me.”
“Then what?” Nelson wanted to know.
“Then while you keep an eye on him I’ll go straight to the phone, call the sheriffs and tell them to come pick up their smuggler.”
Lynn had expected anything but reason and common sense from Nelson Hareem at this point, yet Nelson said, “I agree.”
“I could kiss you, kid,” Lynn said.
“You already warned me against that,” Nelson reminded him.
With the thirty-second annual Bob Hope Chrysler Classic going on, the hotel was like just about every other hotel in the desert: fully booked. Lynn and Nelson went out to the pool area and studied all dark bald men, as well as all dark men wearing hats. There were a lot of both, what with so many tans.
Their progress was temporarily halted by a champagne blonde at poolside modeling a passion-pink floral bikini, and a golden cotton-weave sun hat. First she’d pose with, then without a matching cover-up, while a fashion photographer clicked away.
Nelson ogled, then resumed his stroll, splitting off from Lynn, looking for “possibles” worth a second look. He saw a lot of young women his age with old men Lynn’s age.
There was a breeze blowing, but the pool decking trapped and intensified the heat and the water reflected a blistering glare. Lynn was hot, but resisted the temptation of buying a drink from one of the strolling cocktail waitresses in sarongs. The smell of coconut oil reminded him of many failed poolside romances during the years in Palm Springs when he’d still believed a deep tan would bring him love, not just skin cancer.
Now, resigning himself to lonely middle age, he just stayed out of the scalding sunlight as much as possible. Wilfred Plimsoll said that his saloon was the safest place in town. Not a single case of basal cell carcinoma had been triggered by the gloom in The Furnace Room.
There were several dark husky men wearing hats who made Lynn’s heart pump for a few seconds, but when he’d get close to them it was always a no-go. His guy had small, very dark eyes and slightly flared nostrils, at least they’d been flaring when he’d waited, hands held low, for the charge of Lynn Cutter.
“Whaddaya think, Lynn?” Nelson asked, after they’d lingered for nearly thirty minutes.
“Another phone call?”
They went back to the house phones and tried again. Nelson let it ring even longer before shaking his head and hanging up.
“Lemme try something,” Lynn said, and Nelson followed him back to reception.
This time there was a young man behind the reception desk. Lynn said to him, “I’ve been trying to reach Mister Francisco Ibañez all day. Did he leave a message in his box for me? My name’s Costner, from Desert Car Rentals.”
The young guy disappeared for a moment, then returned and said, “Mister Ibañez has gone to L.A. till tomorrow, but there’s a note from the concierge that a clubhouse badge will be delivered for Mister Ibañez this afternoon. Are you delivering it?”
“Do you mean for the Bob Hope tournament?”
“Yes,” the young man said. “Are you the person with the badge?”
“No,” Lynn said. “Not that badge. Thanks anyway.”
When he and Nelson were leaving the monster lobby, Lynn said, “Guess you and me’re going to a golf tournament tomorrow. Wear your plus fours.”
Fugitive Nights Page 23