by Roy Chaney
“Sure, McGrath.”
McGrath riffled the pages of the typed report. “Is there anything you want to add to this? Is this a true and full account of what you’ve been up to for the last forty-eight hours?”
“To the best of my recollection.”
“I gave you my card the other day, didn’t I? Wrote my home number on it?”
“Yes.”
“Bodo, if it turns out that maybe your memory has played tricks on you regarding your whereabouts since Wednesday”—McGrath held the report up—“I want you to give me a call so we can set the record straight. Or if you come across some information that I’d be interested in—call me. If you’re poking around somewhere you shouldn’t be, I want to hear it from you first. If I hear it elsewhere, it’s not going to increase my good opinion of you.”
“Fair enough, McGrath. Are we finished here?”
McGrath glanced ceilingward as he rolled the report into a tight cylinder. “I suspect so,” he said, distracted. “But stay in town, Bodo. I’ll tell you when you can leave. I’ve got a little work to do”—McGrath paused, slammed the rolled-up report down on the table, then swept a dead fly off the edge and onto the floor—“before I’m done with you. And if you decide to change your address, let me know first thing.”
Hagen walked out of the police station. At a coffee shop down the street he used a pay phone to call a cab. While he waited outside he noticed red drops of blood on the sidewalk near where he was standing. The drops of blood traveled across the concrete in a crazy swaying pattern, then clustered again at a trash can beside the curb.
Then nothing—the trail of blood ended there. Either the bleeder climbed into a car or he disappeared into the trash can. Hagen studied the progress of the dripping blood, saw in those wild patterns on the concrete the trajectory of his own efforts to find Ronnie’s murderer. Hagen had been careening through Las Vegas for two days on a crazy, bloody path. Hagen knew he was taking a chance by not telling McGrath the whole truth about his activities, but he’d take that chance. He’d give McGrath the whole story when the time came, when he knew who killed Ronnie. Hand it to McGrath on a platter. A done deal. Right now there were too many loose ends to tell McGrath everything. McGrath or some other cop might use those loose ends to hang him.
The cab arrived. The driver was a black man with a Caribbean accent, his head covered with cornrows of hair.
“The Venetian.”
On the ride back to the hotel Hagen wondered why McGrath had said nothing about Gubbs sending Ronnie to see Winnie the Poof. Was that a piece of information McGrath was keeping to himself? Or was it that he didn’t know about Ronnie’s visit? Winnie the Poof had planned to throw some money Gubbs’s way as a finder’s fee—that might have been reason enough for Gubbs to keep it from McGrath. But maybe Gubbs expected more. Maybe Gubbs thought he’d get all the money. Because he’d planned to take possession of the hand himself. Last night at the Venus Lounge Gubbs had suggested that he didn’t know about the hand when he sent Ronnie to the Poof, but that didn’t mean anything.
Hagen kept running the same names over and over in his mind, the flesh-and-blood names. Trying to put them together in new combinations, trying to make them add up to something. There was still a big hole somewhere. But when Hagen thought again of who Ronnie might have trusted—not just who knew him but who he might have confided in—the hole became smaller. There was only one man—Harry Needles. Ronnie trusted Harry Needles in a way that he would never have trusted the Sniff or Marty Ray or Gubbs. Even McGrath knew that. He knew that Harry Needles and Ronnie were close.
Harry Needles—he’d always needed money, was always looking for a new angle to get his hands on some. He liked to go for broke and broke was what he usually ended up with, at least in the past. But Harry Needles didn’t seem like a likely candidate for killing Jimmy Ray. Harry Needles killed Jimmy Ray or had him killed, then continued doing business with Marty Ray for five years while Marty was busy looking under every rock in town for Jimmy Ray’s murderer? No, it didn’t wash. McGrath said that Harry was there in the office the night Jimmy Ray took the skim money home with him. Which made Harry an obvious suspect—a little too obvious. Harry Needles wasn’t always smart but he was smart enough not to shit in his own backyard.
But Hagen would ask Harry Needles about it, all the same.
When Hagen next saw him. Which would be soon.
Hagen half expected to find his hotel room tossed by McGrath’s detectives but he found everything as he had left it. His coat still draped over the chair. His pistol in its shoulder holster still hanging from the hook on the bathroom door.
The only change was that the message light on his telephone was blinking again.
Hagen picked up the phone and played the message back. It was from the Sniff.
Hagen dialed the Sniff’s phone number.
“Bodo, I’ve got news.”
“What’ve you got, Sniff?”
“Dallas Martinez called me about an hour ago. He slid me a little information and told me to pass it on. He thought you might be interested. I think so too.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Martinez’s got friends in all kinds of places. One of them just told him that Sidney Trunk put out some feelers a few days ago with a couple of big-time fences in Los Angeles. Trunk was trying to sell some kind of historical artifact that he called the Hand of Danjou—I guess you know what that is. Martinez doesn’t know if Trunk found a buyer or not, but he heard the asking price was high.”
“How high?”
“Thirteen million, Bodo.”
“Thirteen million?”
“That’s what the man said.”
“What does Martinez make of it?”
“He says the hand is a fake. He thinks Trunk was planning on putting over a world-class con job and then disappearing with the big money. That’s the only way Martinez could slice it. There’s quite a buzz going in L.A. Apparently this little item is a hot ticket, even at that price. No one is sure whether Trunk actually had the thing or whether he was just taking the idea out for a walk. But Martinez said you’d want to know that there’s a fellow named Amarantos who has a couple of people in L.A. who are jumping through their own assholes trying to get a line on the dingus. That’s what Martinez heard. He says you don’t owe him anything for the information—he just wants you to stay the hell away from him for the rest of your natural-born days. At the rate you’re going, I’m not so sure that’s going to be a long time. A wooden hand that’s going for thirteen million clams, that’s high-profile product. People disappear for that kind of money. People wind up taking a dirt nap out in the desert for thirteen million.”
“Like Ronnie.”
“Like you too, if you don’t watch yourself.”
Hagen told the Sniff about Gubbs’s murder. He didn’t go into details, just that Gubbs was dead and McGrath had questioned Hagen about it. And that Gubbs had been a snitch for McGrath for years. That piece of news didn’t make the Sniff feel any better about Hagen’s future prospects. “Bodo, listen to me. I put together Ronnie’s funeral. I don’t want to put together yours.”
Dusk was approaching when Hagen stepped out of the front doors of the hotel and handed his claim ticket to the uniformed valet. His sport coat felt heavy in the heat but he needed it to hide the shoulder holster. While Hagen waited for his car to be brought around a man in a white dinner jacket and a woman in a black evening gown appeared beside him in the valet queue. The man had just won a few dollars at roulette and he was explaining his winning strategy with great bluster. But the woman had other ideas. The woman noticed Hagen listening to their conversation and she asked him, “Do you know anything about roulette?”
“A bit.”
“Which do you think is better, always playing the same numbers over and over or playing numbers that haven’t come up in a while?”
“It doesn’t matter. The roulette wheel doesn’t have a memory. You can play the same numbers or you
can play different numbers—it doesn’t make any difference. That’s why they call it a game of chance.”
The couple didn’t appreciate Hagen’s take on roulette and turned away. They both wanted to believe that their personal touch with the numbers on the roulette wheel could somehow influence their winnings for the better, but what they saw as a strategy was only superstition. It was a common mistake, and one that kept the casinos in the black and the players in the red.
Roulette was strictly chump action.
But a wooden hand worth thirteen million dollars—that was action that required skill and cunning. That was action that required a strategy. People died for that kind of action, like the Sniff said.
Three men already had.
But Harry Needles wasn’t dead—yet. Maybe it was time to remind Harry Needles of his mortality too. Hagen was going to walk into Harry Needles’s place, pin him up against the wall, and tell him that he just might be the next dead man if he didn’t tell Hagen everything he knew about Ronnie and this dead man’s hand.
“Hello, Bodo.”
Hagen turned.
Maxine Peach stood there on the sidewalk. Her hands clasped in front of her. Looking up at him, a little hesitant, like she wasn’t sure what to expect. Pink capri pants, leather sandals, a small white purse on a long strap hanging from the shoulder of her loose white blouse. She looked like a schoolgirl on a summer outing. A well-developed schoolgirl, with mischief on her mind.
“Peach, what are you doing here?”
“Well, since you’re so obviously not interested in lunch, I thought I’d drop by and see if dinner was more your speed. What do you say? Let me settle my debt, Bodo.” Peach stepped forward and kissed him. A quick, friendly kiss. A kiss with no baggage behind it.
Peach turning up—right here, right now. Hagen wasn’t happy about this. This was no time for mooning and soft chatter with Peach. There were things he needed to get done. Things that shouldn’t wait. But he also realized that he hadn’t eaten all day. And he couldn’t just leave Peach standing on the sidewalk. “I’m sorry, Peach. I’ve got some things I have to do tonight. How about a quick sandwich somewhere?”
“I hope my debt is worth more than a sandwich.”
“All right. A sandwich and coffee.”
Peach made a comical face. “I’ll take what I can get, but I’m not usually this easy.”
“I’ll buy. We’ll save your debt for a night when I can savor it fully.”
“My debt deserves nothing less.” Peach reached up, lightly touched the side of his face. “You’ve got a bad bruise there.”
“I walked square into the bathroom door this morning. Must’ve been half asleep.”
“You shouldn’t do that.”
“I’m full of bad habits.”
A quick sandwich then, it wouldn’t take long. Then he’d make some excuses and stuff her into a cab or drop her at her car. And get back to business. The valet drove up with Hagen’s car and jumped out, ran around to the other side and held the door open for Peach while she got in. Hagen climbed in behind the wheel. He was fastening his seat belt and asking Peach where a good place was for a sandwich when a short man in a glen plaid double-breasted suit emerged from the valet parking queue and climbed into the backseat, behind Hagen. For half a second Hagen thought he was a hotel guest who was climbing into the wrong car. The short man leaned forward, put one hand on Hagen’s shoulder, like he was giving Hagen directions. With his other hand he reached through the console space between the two front seats, pressed the barrel of a revolver into Hagen’s side.
A second man climbed into the backseat, behind Peach.
“Drive out of here,” the short man said. “Slowly.”
“Bodo?” Peach said, wide-eyed. Turning in her seat to look at the short man.
“Turn around,” the short man said to Peach.
At the first stoplight on Las Vegas Boulevard the short man relieved Hagen of his pistol and handed it to the second man, who took it without a word.
12.
HAGEN DID AS HE WAS TOLD. He drove along Las Vegas Boulevard, then got onto Interstate 15 heading south. Peach sat in silence, her arms folded tight, as if she were suddenly very cold. Her eyes moved nervously from Hagen to the road ahead and back. Not daring to say a word. Not daring to turn her head enough to look over her shoulder.
The short man was slumped down in the backseat, his left shoulder resting against the car door. Hagen couldn’t see his hands in the rearview mirror but he didn’t need to see them to know that the revolver was either pointed at the back of Hagen’s seat or the back of his head.
Hagen knew one thing—these two goons weren’t detectives.
The short man was middle-aged, with dark brown hair that lay flat on his head. His ears stood out from the side of his head like the handles of a soup tureen. Small face, sharp nose, eyes that were dark and blank. A rat’s face. The man sitting behind Peach was younger than the short man. Round face, round jawline. A pair of sunglasses with rectangular green lenses hiding his eyes. He wore a black suit with a green shirt and no tie. Hagen watched him in the rearview mirror. The young man’s mouth was thin and bloodless.
“You look pretty stupid in those sunglasses,” Hagen said in German. He wondered if the young man or Rat Face would respond in the same language. They didn’t. The young man’s forehead wrinkled into a frown but that was all.
“Take this exit,” Rat Face said when they reached a turn off near McCarran Airport.
“Where are we going?” Hagen said.
“Shut up,” Rat Face said. He raised the revolver and pressed the tip of the barrel against the back of Hagen’s neck. Just long enough for Hagen to get the message.
They were on Highway 215 now. Heading southeast toward Henderson. A band of orange was just now appearing on the horizon as the sun began to set over the desert. When they reached Henderson Rat Face told Hagen to exit the highway. They drove along surface streets until they reached the south side of town. In the rearview mirror Hagen saw Rat Face looking around, unsure where exactly they were at. Then Rat Face spotted something that he recognized and soon they were pulling into a deserted parking lot in front of a long white warehouse. At the front of the building was a narrow window, a small access door, and a large sliding garage door for vehicles.
“Pull up to the door and honk the horn.”
When Hagen applied the horn a face appeared in the narrow window, then disappeared again quickly, an indistinct blur from inside a dark room. A moment later the garage door rose. Hagen drove forward into the warehouse. The garage door descended behind them, shutting out the sunlight.
“Get out of the car.”
Hagen turned the engine off. Rat Face asked for the car keys and Hagen handed them back. Then Hagen and the two men climbed out. Rat Face told Peach to stay seated in the car. The look in Peach’s eyes seemed to plead with Hagen to do something. But there was nothing Hagen could do. Not right then.
“Don’t worry, Peach,” Hagen said. Trying to sound calm. “I’ll get this straightened out and then we’ll be on our way.”
“You must be an optimist,” Rat Face said.
The interior of the warehouse was cool and dimly lit. Large wooden shipping crates stacked in rows ten and fifteen feet high stretched back into the long building. A smell of wood and engine oil filled the air. Rat Face kept his revolver pointed at Hagen. The young man in the black suit had stepped back and was leaning against the wall, keeping an eye on Peach in the car, a large automatic pistol in his hand and the butt end of Hagen’s Heckler & Koch hanging out of the waistband of his pants. He’d taken his sunglasses off and now he looked even younger than before. A kid with a menacing stare and a big gun.
After a moment an office door opened off to Hagen’s right and a third man stepped out. He was tall and bald-headed and wore a blue suit. He was the man named Cleveland that Hagen had encountered the day before at Marty Ray’s office.
So it was Marty Ray who wanted to ta
lk to him. Did Marty Ray think Hagen had whacked Jack Gubbs too?
Or was this about something else?
Cleveland motioned to Hagen and Hagen followed him down an aisle between stacks of shipping crates, Rat Face staying a few steps behind Hagen. Somewhere near the center of the building they reached a solid wall of shipping crates and turned to the left, down a narrower aisle lined with metal shelves. Fifty or so feet farther on they came out in a wide clear area lined on three sides by still more metal shelves full of white boxes of various sizes. To the left, behind three file cabinets and two metal storage lockers, the aisle connected to another walkway that ran along one wall of the building.
In the middle of the clearing sat a wooden desk. A shipping clerk probably sat there during the day but this evening it was Marty Ray who sat behind the desk. A newspaper laid out in front of him. A half full highball glass in his hand.
“Hello, Sauerkraut. About time you got here.”
“If you wanted to talk to me, Marty, you could’ve called me and asked me to stop by. Most people would’ve done it that way. It usually works.” Hagen nodded in the direction of Rat Face. “Saves money on the hired help too. Not that you spent much money on that one.”
“Maybe I don’t want people to know I associate with you.”
“You’ve never complained about my company before.”
“Maybe I never will. Because you won’t be around.”
“That’s tough talk.”
“These are tough times.”
“Let Peach go home, Marty.”
“Peach?” Marty Ray’s eyebrows crept up a fraction of an inch. Cleveland leaned down and spoke quietly to his boss. Then Marty Ray said to Hagen, “Peach—she used to work for me, right? That girl you used to see, back when? You don’t waste any time picking up where you left off, do you, Sauerkraut.”
“Let her go, Marty. She’s not involved in this.”