Silent Joe

by T. Jefferson Parker

  I handed her a monogrammed handkerchief. She dabbed and smiled

  "God, I love a man with decent manners. Handkerchiefs are so excellently cool. I really ought to do something with them. I'll clean this and return it to you."

  "That's not necessary."

  She smiled, waved the kerchief at me, then set it on the plastic tab top by my hand.

  "Joe, you're such a complete square. But I like that. That's okay. Now watch you say thank you."

  I didn't and smiled, because I was about to.

  "When was the last time you saw Alex?"

  "I want to get it right." Chrissa pulled over her purse and rummaged through it. A charge slip and a packet of tissues fell out. She chased around the bottom, elbow-deep in the bag, and came up with a small book from the bottom. The cover had van Gogh's sunflowers on it. She opened it and looked through.

  "Sunday, June tenth."

  "Where?"

  "We met there, at the hotel lounge."

  She nodded toward the darkened windows of the Laguna Hotel, just north of us. She stared at it for a while. I followed her line of sight to the boardwalk and the two guys she'd waved at when we left her store. One was watching the beach. The other was watching us.

  Chrissa tilted back the rust red fedora, pulled off her sunglasses and used my hankie to dab her eyes again.

  "Something's . . . really wrong."

  "Start at the beginning and tell me."

  "Can we walk? I can't talk about this while I eat."

  I paid for the drinks and we walked down to the beach. When we got to the boardwalk we went north, but Chrissa's unfriendly friends were gone.

  "This is better," she said. "Okay, Alex stayed at my place Sunday, our usual thing. He went home late, like usual. Monday I didn't see him, even though Mondays are one of our usual lunch days. Alex comes to the shop, we go eat, have some drinks, and he brings me back to the studio. Well, that Monday he called, said he had some things to do, no time for lunch. He was vague but real excited, feeling good, I think. That night he called, really geared up, really high. Said he was working a deal, no details, but we'd be a half a million dollars richer. He likes saying he's going to score big, but he never has. I mean, he's said that before. He also likes being secretive. It makes him feel like he's in control. Anyway, Savannah was visiting him, so he put her on the phone and we talked a minute. She always wanted to know what I was working on—what kind of dresses and blouses and all. I told her about this sundress with gold lame sand dollars on it. Then Alex told me he'd be real busy the next couple of days, not to worry. I didn't, until this guy showed up the next day at my studio. That would have been Tuesday morning."

  "Bo Warren."

  "Yes. He said he'd been sent by the Reverend Daniel Alter because Reverend wanted to talk to my boyfriend. Mr. Warren seemed concerned about Alex. It's more than extremely important that his boss talks to boyfriend. 'More than extremely important' were his exact words. He says they've been looking for him, can't find him anywhere. Can I help them?”

  We walked along for a minute, Chrissa Sands watching the basketball games at Main Beach. She looked behind us, then back to me.

  "Did you?"

  "I called Reverend Alter's office on my cell phone and finally got through. I'd seen him on TV but never talked to him before. He was very calm and nice. He told me that Bo Warren was his head of security, and would appreciate it if I cooperated. He said they were trying to help Alex. That got me worried."

  "So you talked to Warren?"

  "Yes. I told him where Alex liked to hang out, what his haunts were. He asked me if I'd talked to him, and I told him what I told you about phone call. He asked about Savannah. I told him I'd talked to her, too. And I kept asking what's wrong, what's happened, but he wouldn't tell anything. Just that Alex might be in some trouble, and the Reverend Daniel Alter was trying to help him out of it. He wanted to look around my salon, like I was hiding something. I let him. I found out later that he'd gone my house in town. At least a red-and-white Corvette was parked on the street for an hour, and that's the kind of car he was driving. We had some breakins a few months ago, so the neighbors all look out for each other. He left me his card, with two more phone numbers written on the back, asked me to call immediately if I knew where they could find Alex. 'Faster than immediately' is what he said. I was completely worried by the time he left. He's very intense, in a negative way."

  "Do you have the card?"

  She dug into her purse again and came up with it. The front had the Chapel of Light logo on it and Warren's information. On the back he'd handwritten two more numbers. I copied them into my notebook.

  "Alex called that night, this would be Tuesday. He told me to meet him down at the beach in front of the Hotel Laguna. This was late, about midnight. Savannah was with him. And a new friend of Alex's, named Tony. Older guy. Anyway, Alex was very . . . well, jumpy. He's overly cautious sometimes, thinks people are out to get him, but that night he was almost paranoid. I tried to tell him about this Warren character, but he seemed to know all about him already. We took a short walk down by the water. Savannah and Tony walked along behind us. We stopped by that beach wall with the painting on it and Alex hugged and kissed me. I could feel the worry coming off him. He told me he might be gone for a few days, maybe even a few weeks. But when it was over, we'd be in the money. Those were his words, 'in the money.' He was . . . saying goodbye. He told me that if people were asking questions about him, don't tell them anything true. Of course it was too late by then, because I'd talked to this Warren guy."

  We came to the steps and climbed them up to Heisler Park. Some of the roses were in bloom and they made sharp dabs of color against the blue Pacific. We walked past a restaurant and a gazebo perched on the cliff. She looked behind us, sighed. The friends were back, pretending to appreciate the roses.

  She shook her head. "The next morning, Wednesday, a car followed me to work. That afternoon, when I drove up to Santa Ana to look at some fabrics, the same car was there in the mirror. After that, when I came home then walked downtown to get some dinner, I saw it again, parked down my street. Two guys followed me into Laguna, sat at the bar while I ate, trailed me home."

  "Describe the car."

  "White, new and a Chevrolet. Had a logo on the trunk, like a jumping deer. I walked right by it when I went home from dinner. It had lights on top, but no emblems or anything. Like a cop car without the information."

  "The deer is an impala."

  "Big ugly thing, either way. The car, I mean."

  "And the men?"

  "See for yourself. They're right back there, acting like rosarians."

  They ignored us as soon as I looked over. One of the guys was older maybe fifty. The other was half of that—twenties. The young guy was big, wore a suit and tie. The older one was bigger, with a gut under a white short-sleeved shirt, a wide tie and trousers that shone funny in the sun.

  My first thought was Steve Marchant's buds at the FBI. But these guy’s were onto Chrissa by Tuesday, the twelfth, two days before anybody told the Bureau about Savannah's disappearance from the Blazak home.

  My second thought was because of their cars: Transportation Authority Enforcement. Carl Rupaski's men? That made no sense at all to me.

  "Needless to say, Joe, by the time those creeps started following me around, I knew something bad was happening. Alex told me not to worry, but it isn't easy."

  She said that Alex hadn't called Wednesday, didn't call Thursday.

  "And then," she said. "I watched the news Thursday night and realized: that Alex's friend Tony was Will Trona. I recognized him."

  I hadn't seen that one coming. But I did remember that Tuesday night; Will hadn't needed me, because he wanted to stay home with Mary Ann. But he'd met with Savannah and Alex at the beach at midnight.

  "And, of course, the other big TV news that night was Jack and Lorna, and I found out Savannah had been kidnapped on Monday morning. I was completely lost. She was fine when
she talked to me on the phone. She was fine on Tuesday night at the beach with Alex and your father. So I call Jack and Lorna. I explained who I was. And I told them Savannah was fine as of Tuesday night—she was with their son. I thought that would be good news to them. Great news. But Jack didn't seem particularly interested, was suspicious of me, like I was responsible somehow. He said he'd have the FBI call me in the morning. It was very strange. I knew Jack hated son—and by extension he might hate me—but I was talking about daughter. His allegedly kidnapped daughter. I couldn't figure it out. I still can't."

  "I can help. The Blazaks' private story is that Alex kidnapped his sister and demanded a million dollars for her."

  She stopped, looked at me, shook her head. "Bullshit."

  "That's why Bo Warren showed up at your shop that morning, instead of the FBI. Because the Blazaks decided to pay the ransom quietly, without the cops, get Savannah back, get some help for Alex."

  "Jack Blazak get help for Alex? Never. Keep his reputation buffed out, maybe. I told Jack that Savannah was fine. She sure didn't look kidnapped, walking along the beach with her brother and me and your father."

  I thought about this and drew blanks. Why would Jack insist that his son had kidnapped his daughter, when he had evidence that she was all right? Why so eager to part with a million hard-earned dollars?

  "Joe, it's impossible that Alex kidnapped his sister. He did not."

  She brought a thumbnail to her teeth and turned toward the ocean. The sunlight made her hair bright but her face was still in the shadow of her hat brim. I saw the tight lines around her mouth as she worked on that nail.

  "Don't chew it off, Chrissa. It won't change anything except your thumb."

  She stopped. "Material people. Gross people. Greedy people. They make me sick. And angry. Then to blame Alex for it. Look, Alex is my boyfriend. Boyfriends are flakes, by definition. He didn't tell me much about his business, but he sure didn't kidnap his sister. They're tight, Alex and Savannah."

  "Then what was he doing?"

  Chrissa sighed and squinted at me. "Something for money. Something to hurt his dad. Other than that I have no idea at all."

  I glanced back at Chrissa's guys, who stopped quickly and looked away.

  "You told Bo Warren where Alex's hangouts are?"

  Her eyes twinkled when she looked at me. "I didn't tell him where all of Alex's hangouts are. This Bo Warren, he really gives off bad energy—I don't care who he works for. His cheek muscles quiver when he inhales. He's kind of off-putting, so I. . . didn't really lie to him, I just forgot a few things."

  "Can you unforget them for me?"

  "There's the Rex in Newport, but I've been all over that place for a week and I haven't seen him. And the Surf and Sand lounge, but I know the piano player there and told him to call me if he saw Alex, and he hasn’t. Alex also digs the Four Seasons. But he hasn't been there, either, because I know some of the waiters. He likes the Ritz-Carlton. He goes to those places a lot. He knows the people. They're his . . . hideouts. He'll go one of them, do some kind of business, hang around."

  She gave me a hard look then, and sighed. "He's also got a warehouse that hardly anybody knows about. Full of weird stuff."

  "They were there. Lorna gave me the address."

  She shook her head and looked away.

  I asked her about the three places that Alex and Savannah had been spotted in the last four days—Rancho Santa Fe, Big Bear, Hollywood.

  "No," she said.

  New territory, I thought. "He's not trusting the old places."

  She shook her head. "He's got an instinct for things. Sometimes paranoia, but he turns out to be right a lot. I've been to the old spots, asking about him. Nothing. I think he's got the brains to find somewhere new

  "What does he drive?"

  "Black Porsche Carrera. Which he loves almost as much as me."

  "I doubt it."

  "See, you can be playful if you want to."

  "No, I—"

  "I know, you really meant it."

  "I really did."

  "You're hopeless."

  I didn't understand that, but it seemed beside the point.

  "What have you told the FBI?"

  "What I told Warren. I knew from the start he didn't kidnap her. But as long as they think he did, I'm not helping them any more than I have to. But man, when they question, they question. I sat in some office up in Santa Ana for four hours that day with a guy named Steve. Then another hour the next day. Then, last Thursday, another hour. I had to let them these big tape recorders next to my phones—both of them—home work. Either that or I was obstructing justice. The second one of them rings, they start recording, and they got this thing that tells them the calling number. Then, those damned white cars are still following me every damned place I go. Those jerks. I've named them Suit and Gut. They won't even wave back. I told the Feebies about them, but there they are, hovering like flies. I'm about ready to close up shop and head for Fiji for a month. I can't sleep, I can't eat, all I can do is work and drink. I miss my guy. I miss my life. Man, it gets tiring."

  "I think you should go to Fiji."

  "I'm not ditching Alex. He's kind of weird, but he might need me. But I'll tell you something. Another few weeks of this and I'm going to start getting pissed off at somebody."

  "Does Alex know a man named John Gaylen?"

  She thought, then shook her head. "Not that I ever heard. But Alex knows a lot of people."

  I looked over at the men again. "I'll do what I can with these guys. If they're law enforcement, it won't be much."

  "They're not exactly small."

  "That doesn't matter."

  I drove her back to her shop, waited while she collected a pile of mail from the box on Laguna Canyon Road, then walked her in. She pushed the play button on her answering machine.

  "Chrissa, it's Heidi. How about a drink or four tonight after work? Call soon, let me know. "

  She shrugged. "My life now. Suit, Gut, girlfriends and drinks."

  "It will get better."

  "I've got no reason to complain. My father wasn't murdered."

  "No."

  "You holding up okay?"

  "Fine."

  "Tough guy, huh? Just like Alex, that way. Nothing hurts."

  I didn't say anything to that.

  "Know something, Joe? You're cute. If I didn't have a guy, I'd make you take me out again."

  "That's very flattering. But I'm dating, now. I mean, a couple hours from now I'll be dating."

  She smiled and sighed. "Good for you. You're what my dad would call a real boy scout. You're in the wrong century, or at least decade. I like that."

  "Thank you for your help. Here."

  I gave her my card, with my home and cell phone numbers on it.

  "You can put it with Bo Warren's," I said. "But I hope you call first."

  "Don't worry about that, Joe. Here, wear this sometime."

  She took off the rustred fedora and handed it to me.

  "Thank you."

  "I'm just going to tell you this once: that thing on your face isn't bad as you think it is. And the other half is perfect. You got nice thick blond hair and nice brown eyes and a really good jaw line. Try smiling someday—I'll bet you have a killer smile. And tall guys are sexy, period.’’

  I could feel the wave of red breaking over my skin, feel the tingle the scar and this funny flutter in my chest.

  "I don't know what to say."

  "Nothing would be just fine."

  I walked across the parking lot to the bus stop. Suit and Gut exchanged words and smiles. Suit had a lot of muscles under that fabric and Gut had forearms like a blacksmith.

  I badged them. They badged me.

  "We know who you are, Trona," said Gut. "I'm Hodge. He's Chapman. TA Enforcement, at your service."

  "Why are you following her?"

  "It's our job."

  "Rupaski's idea?"

  "Somebody's above us would be the answer
to that."

  "What for?"

  "That's more of none of your business. But I can tell you it's boring. The gash is nice to look at, but I don't think she likes us too much. Chapman here, he's got a hard-on half the time."

  Chapman smiled as if this revealed something good about himself.

  "Keep it in your pants," I said to him. "And Mr. Hodge, don't call her a gash again. I hate that word to describe a woman."

  "Those hats of yours should be white, not pink."

  "It's rust red. And display only good manners toward her, Miss Sands, at all times."

  They both laughed at that.

  "Okay, Trona, sure. Is it good manners if I smile while I wag it at her?"

  "No. And she'll tell me if you do."

  "Then what?"

  "You'll get extremely hurt."

  Suit was big and young and full of himself, but I could tell he knew a little about me. He smiled, looked at his partner, then back at me.

  "I'll be good. I promise."

  "He'll be good," said Hodge. "I'll make sure he behaves, Trona. Don't you worry about a thing."

  "Joe's got enough to worry about," said Chapman.

  Hodge laughed. Chapman laughed.

  "Have a nice afternoon."

  I went back into Chrissa's fashion shop, found her sitting at her table with tears in her eyes.

  The stack of mail was on the table in front of her. She held out a postcard. It was mailed from Mexico City six days earlier. The picture showed an Olmec head from the Anthropological Museum. The handwriting was sloppy but legible:

  Baby—

  I'm fine don't worry. Miss you. Saw this picture, reminded

  me of Rosarito. I did the deal, gotta stay low. No matter what

  you hear, S. is fine.

  Cuddles, A.

  Chrissa shook her head and inhaled. "Goddamned guy's in Mexico and I'm sitting here worrying like a widow. But at least I know he's okay. That Olmec head, it's like one we bought in a curio in Rosarito a few months ago. I mean the one in the picture is a real one. The one we bought cost about eighty cents, but it's made out of this beautiful light-green glass, like a Coke bottle."