Silent Joe

by T. Jefferson Parker

  "You're a cold hard man, Joe Trona."

  "Yeah-meah."

  "Can't say yes ma'am, no ma'am, pleased to meet you, how do you do, my pleasure now, can you?"

  "Ah caw saw maw pwashure."

  "You can say my pleasure? Mean this?"

  The water felt like ice down there. She reached down with both and I felt a tug. Then I could feel her hand directly on me through all that ice and it was a sensation I'd never imagined.

  "Wow," she whispered.

  I pulled the box from my mouth and kept treading water with clenched in my hand.

  She let go and locked both her hands on my cheeks and kissed me hard. I tried to get things back where they belonged, but the zipper stuck and I started sinking. Then she spun off with a splash of silver water and to a ladder built into the bottom of her patio deck.

  She climbed up ahead of me with her silk dress stuck to her body and her legs straightening up the rungs and the patio lights catching the water streaming off her.

  She helped me climb onto the deck, took the box from my mouth and set it on the patio table. I turned away, still trying to get myself presentable, but she put a hand on my shoulder and turned me to her and locked mouth on mine again. She aimed me through the French doors and guided me inside. I backpedaled. I bumped into some things but nothing crashed. Through the living room with the lavender roses on the mantle. Past the kitchen, past the dining room with the chocolates and the gourmet coffee basket, down the hallway with the framed pictures receding along both sides of my vision, but really all I could see was her forehead angled below mine and one cheek and the glimmering blur of one as she pushed me into the bedroom, marched me through a ninety-degree turn and into a bathroom. Her mouth never left mine. I felt her reach for something and heard the hiss of the shower. She reached for something else and I heard a hum overhead and felt the warm exhale of a heat lamp on the back of my neck. The door shut and it went dark. Almost dark. Looking past June's tilted-up cheek I saw the top half of us in a mirror over the sinks.

  It took a while to get off our clothes. We held each other and kissed deeply and shivered while we waited for the warmth from the heat lamp to melt down over us and the steam from the shower to build up. It didn't take long. Or maybe it did. That kiss could have altered my perception of time and I couldn't get a look at my watch.

  Then the click of the shower door and the step up and in, and hot water streaming down. Soap suds and shampoo lather and this smooth, supple, strong rubbery body against mine, hands spreading and exploring and stroking and exploring again. Unbearable pleasure. She got down on her knees and washed me. I told her to take it easy on the personal area but it seemed to me she deliberately didn't. I stood there, hard as a statue, arms braced against the tiles, shaking as she stroked me into the dark. When she was done I got down and washed her the same way. She was wetter than water. Then she cried out quietly and dug her fingernails into the back of my scalp and pulled my face into her. Another small cry. A growl, actually. Then amperage. Fingers strong on my skull. While her shudders got faster the hot water finally got through my skin and into my muscles and bones. And I felt so light again, like in the restaurant. I thought I could float to the shower ceiling and grab the nozzle like a balloon caught in a tree and watch June from above.

  Not that I wanted to. We got out and tried to dry off in the steam. Damp with sweat, she led me to her bed. When my skin hit the cool night air the bumps came up under the sweat and it felt like invisible flowers blooming. She threw back the blanket and pulled the sheet over us. We began making love at 10:13. I know because June had a digital clock on the bedstand with big green numbers on it. We began again at 12:25, 3:19, 5:58 and 8:44. At 11:40, 2:05 and 8:20 we were eating in bed—ice cream with chocolate syrup; leftovers from the restaurant; microwave sausage and pancake breakfasts served in small partitioned plates with the syrup bubbling hot from a divot in the plastic. We made love again later that morning, then I left. Walking down the stairs from her apartment my legs were sore and my personal area was sore and so were my jaws.

  And I was happier than I'd been in my life, with the possible exception the first time I stepped into Will and Mary Ann's home in the Tustin hills. The two experiences were very much alike. My heart pounded and my ears rang. And I greedily saw and smelled and felt everything I could see a smell and feel, because I was pretty sure that my new home—and June Dauer—would be taken away very soon.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Bamboo 33 nightclub was on Bolsa, in the heart of Little Saigon. I parked far back in the lot, shut off the engine of Will's car. It was eleven o'clock the next night and the lot was half full. The night was clear: no fog, no clouds. Just a warm breeze from the desert to the east, and a sky of scattered stars.

  Birch and Ouderkirk arrived a few minutes later and I signaled them with a flash of the headlights.

  We leaned against Birch's Crown Victoria. I could smell the food from the noodle shops mixed with the faint scent of the desert on the breeze. The lights of Little Saigon were bright along Bolsa and the traffic was light but fast.

  "I don't think you'll get a welcome mat," said Rick. "If you find Bernadette, show her the picture of her and Gaylen. Tell her it's pretty easy to drop that picture into Sammy's cell. See if she'll come outside where we can all have a little talk."

  I'd wondered about getting her outside. "That might look bad—her leaving with me. Sammy's going to hear about it."

  Birch handed me a copy of the photo, which I folded and slid into my coat pocket. "If she'll give you what we need, take it and leave. If you're not back here in one hour, we're coming in for a look around.

  "I stood in a short line at the entrance, showed my badge. Twenty doll admission. The woman in the ticket booth didn't look me in the face, she waved away the money and pointed to the door.

  The security man was huge and looked Hawaiian. His uniform was pressed and his baton had dents in it. He looked at the badge and frowned at me. "No trouble. We don't have trouble here."

  "That's an excellent record," I said.

  "Who you looking for?"

  "Bernadette."

  "Upstairs table."

  "I appreciate it."

  He eyed me again and swung the door. The room was large and open. The dance floor was a crowded swirl of bodies and light. A glitter ball hung over the dancers and strobes chopped them into herky-jerky motion. There were cafe tables around the floor. Lots of people at the tables. All Vietnamese that I could see—some young, some old. Mostly suits and dresses, cigarette smoke heavy in the air.

  The band was on the stage, playing the Stones' "Beast of Burden.’’ The singer was a woman, slender and very pretty, dressed in black pants and vest that were either leather or vinyl. The bar was to my right. It were stairs on either side of the room, leading to tables that had a view of the dance floor.

  A lot of eyes on me. I moved to the stairway and climbed up. Eyes still on me. A waiter in a black suit clattered down and past me, balancing drink tray and watching his feet.

  At the landing I stopped and looked down the row of tables along balcony. Bernadette Lee sat alone where the balcony made its turn. She looked at me, then back down to the dance floor.

  When the song ended I walked over.

  "I'm Joe Trona."

  "I know. Sammy's friend."

  "I just guard him. Can I sit down?"

  She nodded and I sat. Bernadette Lee was tremendously beautiful. Her eyes were dark and they sparkled. High, arched brows. Strong cheekbones, small nose, graceful lines tapering to full, red lips. Her skin was very pale and she was dressed in a black dress with lace across the top of her chest and down her arms. Her hair was black and cut at her shoulders, with long bangs. Slender white fingers, long red nails. She tapped one of them on a cell phone on the table in front of her.

  "Did Sammy send you?" Her voice was soft and a little hoarse.

  "He's worried about you."

  "Why?"

  "Because this
new guy next to him keeps telling him you're lonely."

  "Giant Mike?"

  "Giant Mike. Look, Miss Lee, I want to talk to you about somebody. It isn't Sammy."

  "Then who?"

  I leaned toward her, but not real close. Her perfume was soft, with the smell of cinnamon in it.

  "John Gaylen."

  She looked at me and all the beauty seemed to drain from her face. "I've never heard of him."

  "Miss Lee, I have a picture in my pocket of you getting into his car."

  She looked away, down at the dancers, dialing her cell phone without looking at it. I couldn't hear what she said. She punched off, stood and took a purse off the chair beside her.

  "Come with me."

  Two young Vietnamese men appeared at the table. Slender, dark suits. One led and one followed as we walked single file down the stairs. We snaked behind the dance floor to the other side of the room. Another young man waited by a door and let us in. The door closed behind us. The hallway was dimly lit and I could hear the band through the walls. Bernadette's shoes clicked on the old linoleum floor as she led us down the hall and through another door, into a small room. There was a conference table in the middle, six chairs, and a refrigerator. Overhead fluorescent lighting that flickered and hummed. Posters of Vietnamese singers on the walls. A small window, blinds closed.

  Bernadette slung her purse onto the beat-up conference table. "Let me see it," she said. She lit a cigarette and sat. I unfolded the photocopy and set it in front of her. She barely glanced at it, then looked up at me.

  "So Giant Mike was right. I was lonely."

  "What about Wednesday night, June the thirteenth? Were you with him?"

  She tapped her fingernails on the table, quick and light. She sighed, into her purse and came out with a small date book. A metal fastener: separated the past from the present. She undid it and flipped back a few pages. Then she locked the fastener back on and dropped the book back into her purse.

  "No."

  "Where was he, Miss Lee?"

  "I have no idea. I only saw him a few times."

  "Enough times to check your date book, though."

  Her beautiful eyes looked cold and a very small sneer came to her lips. "Enough for that. What could you possibly care?"

  "He killed my father."

  She shrugged, eyes wandering the room. "I think people get what they deserve."

  "Did Dennis Franklin?"

  "Sammy didn't kill him. The cops manufactured evidence and the DA is happy to use it."

  "There were two eyewitnesses, Miss Lee. And a bullet in Franklin’s head that came from Sammy's gun."

  "Evidence can be planted. You know that." She took a dainty puff the cigarette then broke the ash off in an ashtray and rolled the edges out. The smoke rose toward the buzzing lights. "So, are you going to rat me Sammy?"

  "I don't know. Would you deserve that, Miss Lee?"

  She looked at me again. "You're one of the ugliest men I've ever seen in my life. You think your manners are good but they're false."

  "I've worked hard on them," I said.

  "Go ahead and show Sammy the picture. And live with your conscience after that. But I wasn't with John Gaylen that night. I was here at the club, alone. The usual."

  "Where was Gaylen?"

  She glared at me.

  "If you knew where Gaylen was, it could help, Miss Lee."

  "Fuck!" She swept the ashtray and her purse to the floor, standing up so quick her chair flipped over. "Fuck you. You know what Sammy calls you in his letters? He calls you Godzilla!"

  I actually did know that, from reading his mail, and from eavesdropping on his friends in the plumbing tunnel of Mod F.

  "It's really just scar tissue," I said. "Where was John Gaylen that night, Miss Lee?"

  "Fuck you."

  "That has happened."

  "What, is that a come-on? You offering me a deal now?"

  "No, not at all."

  "Then I'll offer you one. First you promise that picture doesn't get to Sammy. Then I tell what Gaylen said about that night."

  "I promise the picture doesn't get to Sammy."

  "Give it to me."

  "It's just a copy. It wouldn't do you any good at all."

  She flipped the chair upright with her foot and caught the back with one hand, then collected her purse off the floor.

  I set the picture on the table.

  "John said he had a job to do that night. Probably wouldn't be around for a few days after that. The night before, he was in here, drinking hard. Not saying much. The three guys who got killed and the one still in the hospital—they were with him."

  "When did you see him next?"

  "A few days later. In here. He tried to get me to go out with him but I said no. I shouldn't have gone out with him in the first place. The Cobra Kings don't play by the rules."

  "Sammy's rules?"

  "Any rules I've ever known."

  "What did Gaylen say about how the job went?"

  "He said it went fine. He was ready to party, have some fun."

  I heard the band start into another song. The fluorescent lights flickered and trembled.

  "Miss Lee, Gaylen wasted two of his own men to keep them quiet, that what you mean about the rules?"

  She looked at me, then up at the lights. "Maybe."

  "Miss Lee, was John Gaylen in contact with Alex Blazak?"

  Another casual glare. "Not that I know. I don't know anyone who likes to be in contact with that boy. Crazy and dangerous. Not businesslike."

  I said nothing for a long moment.

  "I've got something for you," she said. "I can give it to you. But you've got to get a rat trap for Sammy. He hates rats. They're the only thing in the world that he's scared of."

  "They won't let him have a spring trap. Custodial is going to put some bait in the heater vents. I told him that."

  "Then how about more phone time?"

  "I just got him more phone time."

  "It isn't enough."

  I thought about it for a moment. Getting more phone time wasn't a problem. "I can get him another five minutes a day."

  She huffed quietly, blew some more smoke. "Five minutes? I thought you were an important man."

  I waited.

  "The night before the murders I saw John meet some people in the parking lot here. Two people. One driving, one in the other seat. The passenger rolled the window down and they talked. Five minutes, maybe more. He told me later it was about the job."

  "Can you ID them?"

  "No."

  "Describe the car."

  "A red-and-white Corvette. Old. Good paint, very shiny."

  BoWar. Bernadette watched me like a poker player. "Then the Corvette laid down some rubber and smoked out of here."

  Warren, I thought, but who was with him?

  "I'm going to educate you, Mr. Trona," said Bernadette Lee. "You don't even have to give Sammy anything for this. You listen to me and you'll learn something. It's just like in ancient Rome, or China or anywhere. If a man like your father gets killed, his friends do it."

  "His friends didn't kill him, Miss Lee. His enemies did."

  "Friends? Enemies? Call them what you want. They're the same. People who knew him. People who worked with him. That's who did it. Not John Gaylen. You Americans are naive. You always look at everything but the obvious."

  I thought about that for a moment. "Here's another obvious thing I should probably be thinking about. My father disrespected you and Sammy one night, at the grand opening of this nightclub. He mad-dogged Sammy and Sammy lost face. That's a license to kill, if you're a gangster."

  She shook her head. "Sammy outgrew that kind of thinking years ago."

  "Did you?"

  "The disrespect wasn't worth our energy. Our code applies to the people we take seriously. Your father wasn't that. He was only a politician."

  What I said next surprised me. It came out faster than I could analyze it. It just seemed like the righ
t thing to do.

  "Cao woke up this afternoon," I said. "Only for a few minutes, but the doctor told me that usually means they're going to make it."

  Bernadette Lee studied me. Her eyes were placid and unblinking.

  "What did he say?"

  "I haven't been told. But two homicide investigators will be there the next time he comes to. They'll have their tape recorders on and their pencils ready."

  She lit another cigarette. "Liar."

  I smiled. I never smile because it's an ugly thing, but I thought it would communicate all the satisfaction I would feel if Ike Cao really had come out of his coma. She pouted at the ceiling; out came the smoke. Her eyes never left my face. I saw mostly the whites, like a shark's.

  Back out in the parking lot I told Birch and Ouderkirk what she'd said.

  "Gaylen had something going on Wednesday, the thirteenth," I said "And he wasn't with Bernadette Lee."

  Birch scribbled something into his notepad, then looked at me over the tops of his glasses. "All four of those men were with him the night before?"

  "That's what she said."

  I told them about Gaylen's furtive meeting with two men in an old shiny red-and-white Corvette. I even told them who it probably belong to.

  Birch looked at me. His expression reminded me of Bernadette's controlled but hungry. "Blazak asked Reverend Daniel to help find daughter, right?"

  I nodded. "And Reverend Daniel used his security man, Warren, handle the ransom money and the exchange. Until Will came on stage.''

  Birch said nothing for a moment. He scribbled something else into his notepad. "Then was Gaylen passing information to Warren, or the other way around?"