Silent Joe

by T. Jefferson Parker

  The head of security at the Grove Club is Bob Spahn, a retired sheriff department lieutenant. Tall, slender, pale gray eyes and short black hair. He was still the Department martial arts instructor, in spite of giving up his job. Rumor had it that he had tripled his salary going private for the Grub.

  Spahn had agreed to talk "a quick five minutes" before he left work at six. His office was on the second floor, down the hallway from the bar kitchen. An off-duty Santa Ana PD patrolman walked me through the dining room, up the stairs, past the private booths and the pool tables.

  Spahn rose from his desk and shook my hand. His hand felt thick and padded, something I recognized from my own competition days in the martial arts. We used to spend hours a week stabbing our fingers and fists into buckets of bird seed. Later, we graduated to beach sand. It strengthens the joints and builds calluses on the fingertips and knuckles.

  "Still training, I guess," he said.

  "Just twice a week now, sir."

  "Miss the competition?"

  "Yes. The sparring isn't fast enough."

  "Yeah. What can I do for you, Joe?"

  "I want to know who brought Luria Bias into the Grove. It was a fundraiser for Millbrae, April of this year."

  "I remember it. You think the businessmen know how to party, you see the politicians. Get them together and watch out."

  "I've seen that too, sir."

  "Bias . . . killed by the Suburban, right?"

  I nodded.

  "She an outcall girl?"

  "I think it's possible she was prostituting herself."

  "You sure she was here?"

  "Yes."

  "Grove policy is no prostitutes of any kind, any time. Strictly enforced."

  "Of course. But sometimes it's hard to make the call, isn't it?"

  He looked at me. "Well, yeah—a billionaire with a well-dressed woman—you can't do much with that. No singles, though, unless we know them. They've got to have class and manners. You need those women around just for atmosphere. Like good furnishings."

  "Yes, sir, furnishings."

  "Anything else, Joe?"

  "So there's no real policy on who the members bring in, so far as female company goes?"

  He studied me again, then shook his head. "Not really. I'm not paid for that. The Grove is for the members. They rule. I'm a glorified babysitter. My main job? Make sure the staff leaves the silverware here. Make sure the bartenders don't raid the till. Really, it's pretty sandbox."

  "Can you help with Luria Bias, that night?"

  "Why should I?"

  "She was poor. She was pregnant when she died. She was beaten before she died. Her brother got killed, looking into who did it."

  He shrugged. I waited.

  "You sound like your father," he said. "But I liked that about him---always a friend of the underdog."

  "I like underdogs, too, sir."

  "But Will, you know, always careful to look out for himself, too. No martyr in that man. What's in this for you?"

  "Just this. I met Luria's other brother. He struck me as a nice boy."

  He was nodding again. "I'll see what I can find out. Give me your number and the date again, would you?"

  I thought of something. "Sir, if a party is held here at the Grove, does the host need to reserve a suite, or the restaurant, or whatever he needs?"

  "Yeah, sure. Chaos, otherwise."

  "Who signed for the Millbrae hospitality suite that night?"

  "That's confidential, Joe. We're a club."

  "I understand that."

  "Then understand why I can't tell you. I'll look into the Bias thing. But I won't lose my job over it."

  "No, sir. And thanks again."

  Once I got off the 241 Toll Road and back into cell phone territory I called the general manager of the Grove. His name was Rex Sauers and he was an old friend of Will's. He ran some places on the Lower East Side for twenty years, then a resort in Palm Springs, then a five-star restaurant in Newport Beach until the Grove hired him away. His secretary put me through when I told her I was Will's son.

  "Joe, how are you?"

  "Things are okay, Mr. Sauers. I miss him."

  "We all do. What do you need?"

  "I'm going through my father's bills. He's got a payable here for his part of the Millbrae fundraiser back in April. It says three thousand plus change, but there's nothing on the note about who to pay."

  "Lemme check."

  I waited a moment, listened to the static.

  "Jack Blazak."

  "Thank you, sir. Most of the creditors have called me. But Mr. Blazak probably just felt uncomfortable, trying to collect from a dead man's family."

  "Jack's a good guy. Hey, come by sometime and let my buy you dinner. I'd like to keep in touch."

  "I'd be honored, sir."

  "You guys close to an arrest?"

  "We've got a suspect. We're building a case. It's been hard because I heard the shooter talk to Will that night, but I couldn't see him. What I think is, my father got in the middle of something he didn't understand

  "I think it stinks—Will trying to help out with Jack's daughter, and this happens. My opinion of Will Trona went way up when I heard what he was doing. He and Blazak didn't get along. They were opposites everything. But Will put that aside to help Jack. That says a lot to me about what kind of man he was."

  "He was a great man."

  "Amen. Keep in touch, Joe. Lemme know if I can help again. Youwant a table for you and a lady friend, you're my guest. If Will's got my more payables here at the Grove, forget them. They're covered."

  The idea struck me that I was inheriting my father's friends, as well his enemies. I just wasn't positive which was which. I wondered if Will was. You only had to be wrong once.

  Love a lot. Trust a few.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Icooked three expensive TV dinners and waited for the phone to ring. Maybe Alex hadn't liked what he'd seen. Maybe he'd changed his mind. Maybe he'd just take his sweet time, like he'd done all along. Eighteen days he'd had her. I thought about how much can happen so quickly, and of the lifetimes you can live in eighteen long summer days.

  At eight-thirty I got a call.

  "Hello, Joe, this is Thor."

  "How did you get the number?"

  "Private investigator."

  I said nothing. As quickly as I'd forgotten him—tried to forget him—he was back. I felt my scar grow hot and my fingers grow cold and weak. I heard the hollow thunk of liquid falling back down to the bottom of a bottle.

  "Look," he said. "There's some stuff we should talk about."

  "I forgave you."

  "Not that. This is other stuff. About what happened."

  "I'll listen."

  "I . . . uh . . . well, you know how the police are. They can get you to say things that aren't true. And maybe, if the lies help you out, too, then you just tell them."

  "What's the lie, Thor? Get there fast."

  "You aren't my son, Joe. I thought you were, for almost a year. I named you and fed you the bottle and changed your diapers, spent a lot of my money on you. I treated you like you were part of me. But you weren't."

  I felt like I was in an elevator plunging—a fast, claustrophobic plummet into darkness. I heard a human voice roaring in the descent. Mine, but not mine.

  I heard him drink again, burp. When he spoke again I could barely hear the words because I was falling so fast.

  "There," he said. "I said it. I thought you should know. I'm done."

  He hung up. I pressed star 69 but his line wouldn't accept it.

  Speed. All the windows open and the Mustang's 351 revving high as I shot down the freeway into Santa Ana.

  You aren't my son, Joe.

  I got off and sanely rode Edinger into Santa Ana, heading for the Amtrak station. My heart slowed. I tried to get myself to the quiet spot. I could see the tree and the eagle and the hills beyond, but I just couldn't will myself up into the branches.

  When
I got to the station I parked and looked around for lodging. Nothing. In a five-block drive I found an Econo Lodge and a rundown place called the Paloma. Neither nervous desk clerk had seen anyone matching Thor's description. I drove an ever-widening maze outward from the station.

  Fernandez Motel, Superior Hotel, Fourth Street Apartments—weekly monthly, even the YMCA. Nothing.

  So I widened the circle: Oak Tree Motel, Saddleback Inn, La Siesta.

  The desk clerk at the Rancho Lodge was a young Indian woman who’s eyes widened when I walked in. Then she turned her gaze away from my face and looked at the chain-mounted pen on the counter. I described The Svendson. "Twelve," she said to the pen. "Perhaps you can use the phone behind you."

  I'll just knock. Thank you."

  Room twelve was the last one on the ground floor, right of the lobby. Moths buzzed the lights of the walkway. A loud TV in room nine. I stood outside the turquoise-colored door and knocked.

  Silence. No movement. No sounds. I knocked again.

  "Who's there?"

  "Joe."

  "Second."

  I heard the chain slide out, the door lock being turned. Then the door opened and Thor stood before me. His face was pale and his eyes were blue and he had the same unsmiling smile he always had. White beard, white hair. Baggy jeans, a smudged T-shirt that was taut against his belly. Bare, white feet.

  "How'd you find me?"

  "I drove. I'm coming in."

  He stepped aside and I walked into the faintly lit room. The TV was on with no sound. It smelled like cigarettes and booze and French fries. Just a room with a kitchenette in one corner. The bathroom door was closed. Thor slumped into a chair in the corner, across from the TV. There was a half-gone bottle of supermarket-brand vodka on the nightstand, and a carton of orange juice.

  "I was gonna tell you when I saw you the first time," he said. "But that forgiveness thing was important. Didn't want to overdose you."

  "How do you know I'm not yours?"

  "First I suspected. Then I checked the calendar. Then I beat her up. She admitted it."

  "Whose am I?"

  "She wasn't sure. A woman like that can't know. When I was in jail, waiting for trial, she offered me money not to say any of that. To just let everybody believe you were mine and I did it because I was crazy. I took the money. I was gonna do some time, so I figured I might as well get paid for it. I ended up not testifying at all, never took the stand. But letting people think it was my own kid I poured the acid on, it made me stand out. I noticed it real early, like as soon as they booked me. It kept me in protective block, which is a good thing. It got me some interviews. Fuck, I was famous. So I made up the angle about doing it because I heard the Lord telling me to do it. My own son. Like Abraham. He had a white beard like mine in this picture I saw."

  I looked into his merry, childlike eyes. "Why did you?"

  He looked at me. A bit of surprise on his face. "To hurt her! I drunk and high and pissed off. It wasn't anything personal against you. I want you to know that. It was just to hurt something of hers. To get back at her for what she did to me. I'm not saying it was the right thing to do and I'm not saying it wasn't. But there are some things, Joe, a man can't forgive."

  We let those words hang in the air. And hang some more. Thor look down, took another drag on the bottle, another sip of the juice.

  "And you expect me to forgive you?"

  He looked up. Blue innocence. An attempted smile. Santa Claus beard. "You already did. Remember? Now we can move on. Forget about it. Start over. Hey, have a drink. This isn't bad vodka, for Food King."

  "Where is she?"

  "Charlotte? I haven't seen her in twenty-three years. Haven't talk nothin'. Except for the money. She'd always send it on time. I bet she cleaned up, changed her name and married a banker."

  "How much? When?"

  He looked past me then, like he was remembering. If you just took a picture of him and showed it to someone, they'd think he was jolly. Except for the big dark bags under his eyes, and the pale, sweaty skin.

  "Thousand a month for twenty-three years. I've made two hundred seventy-six grand. She gave me five grand to sign on. Like a bonus. It's spent."

  "But you've never talked to her, not even on the phone?"

  "Once or twice she called, maybe. Didn't say nothin'. There wasn't ever a return address on the money, so don't bother asking."

  "How did she know where to send it?"

  "Always to my P.O. box in Seattle."

  "Where is the last place you know she lived?"

  "Where it all happened—in Lake Elsinore, out in Riverside County.

  Years ago a guy in prison told me she'd gone to L.A. Don't know how true it was."

  "What was the postmark on the envelopes?"

  "San Diego."

  "The whole time? Twenty-three years?"

  "Yeah. So?"

  "You have one of the envelopes the money came in?"

  "I just kept the bills."

  Thor picked up the bottle and took a long drink. Then one from the orange juice carton.

  "Drink, Joe?"

  "When did you get the last payment?"

  "Three weeks ago. It always comes on the first."

  "What kind of bills?"

  "Ten hundreds. Used ones. Not new ones."

  "What did you do with it?"

  "Rent. Vodka. A girlfriend or two, over the years. Gotta live, you know."

  I looked at him, at the room, at the bottle and the mute TV and the terrible look of innocence in his eyes.

  "Yes. You have to live."

  "I thought maybe you were going to say I didn't, then kill me like you said you'd do."

  "Things change."

  "How they do."

  He seemed to be considering something. He drank and set the bottle down with a clunk. "You want to see her?"

  "That's correct."

  "I guess if you were going to kill me, you'd just take that gun out from behind your coat and blast away."

  "I'd break your neck."

  He looked away, the half smile still in place, his white hair awry, his blue eyes so open and clear and empty.

  I stepped forward and took his head in both my hands. It might have

  looked like one man steadying the face of another, to look into his eyes, maybe, to tell him something heartfelt. But I was positioning my hands for a head twist, getting the balance and weight right, estimating the potential of his resistance. A head twist is deadly because the guy doesn't know which direction you're going to go, or when. Thor seemed to understand all this. I got my face up close to his. I could smell the fumes of vodka, sour tang of orange juice.

  "Has this been the truth?" I asked him.

  "Oh, everything. I got no reason to lie."

  "I'm glad I'm not yours. I'd rather be human."

  "See?" he whispered. "I'm not so bad."

  Back home I sat in the darkness and wondered. There was just enough moonlight to make pale stripes through the blinds. I'd been made fatherless twice in two weeks, and my emotions couldn't catch up with the facts. The emotions were there, all right—I could sense them just below the surface. But the surface was frozen numb and in need of a good baptism. And all I had was a bathtub.

  June called and I told her I couldn't talk because I was expecting very important call. I tried to be polite but maybe I could have said it better. She wasn't happy when she hung up and my heart felt much heavier than it should have. I wondered if love was always irrational, or only in my own retarded history.

  I felt cut loose. Adrift. I had needed Thor more than I'd known. He was my Lucifer, and always my blame for the darkness inside me. I’d needed Will, too—my light. Now, with both of them gone in his own way, I felt like the past life I'd lived had become false. It's a terrible emptiness to see your own history dissolve. To feel the foundations that you labored so hard to construct slipping, sliding, turning to liquid. With my heart thumping fast, I called June back and explained what I could explain
. Thor and Charlotte. Drunk and high. To hurt Charlotte. Nothing personal. A thousand a month for twenty-plus years to keep world thinking that I was his son. Postmark: San Diego. A lot of time passed before June spoke.

  "You're new now," she said very quietly. "You're free. And by the way, I love you. I knew it the minute our interview was over."

  "I love you, too. I knew it the minute you jumped into the bay with me.

  An hour later the phone rang. My cell, not the house line.

  "Get the money. Keep this phone ready. If one tiny thing doesn't smell right from a thousand miles out, I'll kill her. If I get a whiff of the FBI I'll kill her. If I don't like your tone of voice I'll kill her."

  "Don't kill her. Get rich instead." He hung up. I punched off, set the cell phone back on the table and called his father on the hard line.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I waited for Jack Blazak at the entrance to Diver's Cove in Laguna Beach. It was half past midnight. The sky was clear and I could stars twinkling beyond the trees. The night smelled of ocean spray and eucalyptus and jasmine.

  Blazak got there five minutes late. He showed me the suitcase trunk of his new Jaguar. The bills were bundled in stacks of what looked like a hundred each. I hefted the suitcase into the trunk of my Mustang.

  "That's a lot of money, Joe."

  "Two million dollars, I hope."

  "A man could buy himself a nice house near the beach with half of it. Live pretty well for a while on the other half."

  "Maybe that's what Alex is going to do."

  "He'll piss it away. Like everything else."

  "Why do you hate each other?"

  He looked at me and shook his head. "I don't hate him. I'm disappointed in him. Every advantage, but no performance. He's undermined everything we've ever done for him. Run off with your own sister and a ransom for her? What the hell kind of young man does that?" I didn't have an answer. All I knew was what I'd seen of Savannah---a sweet young girl in very bad trouble. That was enough. It meant more than Jack and Alex put together.

  Blazak stepped up close to me. "Don't bring Savannah to the house. Bring her here. Call Lorna, like you did before. Ask her if she's heard from Savannah. If she's heard from Savannah. Lorna will be able to get me without Marchant or anybody else knowing. I'll pick her up right here."