“How about a man named Quilmes, Jorge Quilmes?”
“Who?” The puzzlement sounded genuine. “Never heard of him.”
“Like you never heard of Carl Lassiter.”
“That’s right.”
“How about QCL, Inc.?”
She couldn’t quite stop herself from flinching. QCL, Inc. was something else she was afraid of. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do,” I said. “Lassiter, Janice, you-all connected to QCL.”
“No. You’re wrong.” Her voice had risen. “Look, why don’t you just leave me alone?”
“Let’s talk about QCL. I’ve got another twenty in my wallet-”
“I don’t want any more of your money. I don’t want any more of you!”
Half shriek, that last sentence. As loud as the music was in there, the bartender heard her and hand-signaled the bald-headed guy. The bouncer came our way, not too fast, in a kind of hard glide. At the same time Ginger backed off from me. I took a step toward her, saying, “Wait,” but she turned and hurried away into the section where the Asian dancer was simulating sex with the brass pole on her platform. In the next second the bouncer was between us and not quite in my face, like a wall.
“You don’t want to bother the girls,” he said, low-key.
“I wasn’t bothering her. Just a friendly conversation.”
“Didn’t look so friendly to me. Suppose you have a seat, buy yourself another beer, enjoy the show.”
“I’ve had enough warm beer.”
He said, with iron in his voice this time, “Then why don’t you go someplace else, pops.”
“Yeah, sonny, why don’t I.” I stayed put, locking gazes with him, just long enough to let him know he wasn’t intimidating me, and then took my time walking out of there.
11
The Hotel La Farge, just off Union Square, was one of the city’s more venerable hostelries, built in the twenties and renovated at least twice since. Sedate, expensive, respectable. That last, respectable, had a somewhat different meaning these days. Hotels no longer police the morals of their guests, unless something happens that forces the issue. If a guest wants to entertain a member of the opposite sex in his room at any hour, day or night, and the visitor is reasonably presentable, hotel staffs are trained to look the other way. None of their business, and that’s as it should be. The worst thing any institution, public or private, can do is to try to dictate morality on any level.
La Farge had an underground garage, valet parking only at a confiscatory fee; I turned my car over to the attendant-another item for the Krochek expense account-and went into the ornate, wood-and-marble lobby. I used one of the lobby phones to call Suite 1408. No answer. At the desk, I asked one of a brace of well-dressed clerks if he knew when Mr. Jorge Quilmes in Suite 1408 would return.
He said, correcting me without making an issue of it, “I believe Senor Quilmes and his party are still in the Blue Room Lounge.”
“His party?”
“Two other gentlemen who came to see him a short time ago.”
The Blue Room Lounge was a fancy name for a small, not too dark lobby bar. Two couples sat apart from each other at the bar, and three men in business suits were grouped in leather chairs around one of the tables near a gas-log fireplace. It wasn’t yet four o’clock, but cocktail hour starts early in the city. I didn’t much care for the idea of bracing Jorge Quilmes in company; it looked liked a conference rather than a social situation and people don’t take kindly to being interrupted when financial matters are under discussion. But I had a business to run, too, and you do what you need to do when the opportunity presents itself.
The three of them were speaking a mixture of Spanish and English in low tones when I came up. I took the eldest to be Quilmes: mid-fifties, olive-skinned, black hair frosted with gray, mustache and Vandyke beard likewise frosted, dressed expensively and meticulously. The other two were younger, deferential, one of Latino ancestry, the other a blond American with a desultory command of Spanish.
“Excuse me for intruding,” I said, “but it’s important that I have a few words with Senor Quilmes.”
The distinguished type said, “Yes? I am Senor Quilmes,” in English with only a trace of accent.
The blond American said, “We’re having a business meeting here.”
The other Latino said, “Who are you? What is it you want?”
“It’s a private matter.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Such an impolite country, America,” Quilmes said, but without rancor; almost affectionately, in fact. He even smiled a little, in a tolerant way. “Everything is important, everything must be attended to immediately. What is it you wish to see me about?”
“An appointment you had last Saturday night.”
“Appointment?”
“Here at your hotel. At nine o’clock.”
Nothing changed in his expression. The other two men looked at him, looked at me, looked at him again. Quilmes and I locked gazes. At least fifteen seconds passed, none of us moving, before Quilmes stirred slightly and said to his companions, “If you will excuse me for a short time. Fresh drinks at the bar, perhaps?”
They didn’t argue or waste any time. Both of them got up, the blond brushing past me with a narrow-eyed look, and headed straight across to the bar.
Quilmes said coldly, “You may sit down.”
I sat and we looked at each other some more. I put an end to that by producing the photostat of my license and laying the case open flat on the table between us. He leaned forward to study it, leaned back again, and picked up his drink. Still no expression on his aristocratic face.
“Yes?” he said.
“Janice. The woman you had the appointment with Saturday night.”
“How do you know I had such an appointment?”
“How I know isn’t important. Are you going to deny it?”
Silence. He sipped his drink, set the glass down again, carefully. “In my country,” he said at length, “we have laws that carry severe penalities for attempted extortion. You have the same laws, do you not?”
“We do,” I said. “And I support them, just as I support ethics in my profession. I’m not here for financial gain or to cause you any undue embarrassment.” “Then why are you here?” “For the answers to a few questions.” “And if I choose not to answer your questions?” “That’s your prerogative. But it would be in your best interest if you’re candid with me. The woman, Janice, has disappeared under… let’s say unusual circumstances that may involve foul play. If you refuse to talk to me, and her disappearance becomes a police matter, I’d have to tell them about your Saturday-night appointment. And that you were uncooperative when I asked you about it.”
He said nothing for maybe thirty seconds. His pupils, in the dim light, were as black as obsidian. Then, “I have a wife and two children in Buenos Aires. I love my family very much. I also have a successful business and many associates, some of whom are quite religious. Do you understand?”
“I understand. If you have nothing to hide and you don’t try to stonewall me, there’s no reason your name has to be mentioned to anyone. Stonewall means-”
“I know what it means,” he said. “Do you think I had something to do with this woman’s disappearance?”
“I have no reason to. Information is all I’m after. Provide it, and we’ll consider this conversation a private business meeting strictly between the two of us.”
I had him and he knew it. “Very well,” he said stiffly. “I will answer your questions.”
“Good. You did have a date with Janice Saturday night?”
“Yes.”
“Here in your suite.”
“Yes.”
“Had you ever seen her before that night?”
“No.”
“How was the date arranged?”
“Through a personal acquaintance.”
“His name?”
/> “I cannot tell you that.”
“It wouldn’t be Carl Lassiter, would it?”
The slightest hesitation before he said, “I know no one by that name.”
“Someone else connected to QCL, Incorporated?”
“Nor any such business.”
“How long did Janice stay with you?”
“Not long. One hour, perhaps.”
“For which you paid her how much?”
“No money changed hands,” Quilmes said.
“No? Who did you pay? The acquaintance who made the arrangement?”
“If you must know, yes.”
“Is that always the way it’s done?”
“You may think I make a habit of this sort of thing, but I do not. Only once in a great while. A man has needs, and when they become too great to ignore… well, we are only human. Surely you understand.”
I understood that he was another one like Mitchell Krochek-a self-justifer who relied on the old “a man has needs” wink-wink line when he got caught philandering. Krochek, at least, had some foundation for his affair with Deanne Goldman; Quilmes had none other than pure lust.
I said, “I’m sorry to have to ask this, but it’s necessary. What sort of sexual activity was involved?”
Brittle silence. The black pupils had sparklights in them now, like fire opals. He said finally, “I am a man of simple and conventional tastes.”
“No sadomasochistic games, then.”
“Of course not. I find that sort of thing repugnant.”
“Rough sex?”
“That, too.”
“So Janice was perfectly healthy when she left you.”
“Perfectly. Why do you ask these questions?”
“She was beaten up sometime late Saturday or Sunday. I’m trying to find out who did it and why.”
“I see,” Quilmes said. He didn’t sound sympathetic. “A dangerous profession, prostitution.”
“Yes, it is. But Janice isn’t strictly a prostitute.”
“No?”
“No. Are you a gambling man, Senor Quilmes?”
The question caught him off-stride. He frowned slightly, the first break in his stoic demeanor, before he said, “I do not understand.”
“It’s a simple question. Do you gamble? Poker, roulette, other games of chance?”
“I fail to see the relevance.”
“Please answer the question.”
Pretty soon he said, “I fly to San Francisco once a year for business purposes, but not always directly from Buenos Aires. I often spend a few days in Las Vegas.”
“The acquaintance who arranged your date with Janice wouldn’t happen to be headquartered there, would he?”
“That is of no consequence. I still fail to see how my recreational activities are connected to the disappearance of this young woman.”
“Janice is a gambler. A compulsive gambler. That’s why she sells her body-to pay for her habit and her debts.”
“A pity. But what connection does this have to me?”
“Do you gamble while you’re in San Francisco?”
“Seldom,” Quilmes said. “Not at all on this visit.”
“Do you know any gamblers here?”
Another slight hesitation before he said, “I do not.” Territory he didn’t want to be breached. He finished his drink, placed his hands flat on the table. The planes of his face had a solidified look, like skin molded too tight over bone. “I did not meet Janice at a gambling establishment. I had never seen her before Saturday night, as I told you. I know nothing of her life or her disappearance. Are you satisfied now?”
“Unless you have anything more to tell me.”
He said with a kind of harsh dignity, “I have allowed myself to be stripped naked in front of a stranger. There is nothing more for you to see or know.”
“I hope not, Senor Quilmes. Thanks for your time.” The black eyes followed me as I got to my feet, moved away. I could feel them on my back, the cold hate in them, all the way out of the lounge.
I t was nearly five by the time I got back to the agency. Tamara was alone in her office, involved with somebody on the phone. I closed the connecting door between our offices, sat down at my desk. Time to check in with Mitchell Krochek.
He must have been draped over his phone; he answered in the middle of the first ring. He sounded less frantic than he had when I’d left him earlier. Booze was the calming influence; he didn’t exactly slur his words, but they had a kind of liquidy glide. Yes, he’d followed my instructions, stayed home all day. For nothing. He hadn’t heard from Janice or anybody else; no calls, no visitors.
“I talked to some of the neighbors,” he said. “Made up a story to explain why I was asking. None of them saw Janice or anybody else around here on Tuesday. I even called her sister in Bakersfield. They’re not close, but I thought maybe… you know. Ellen hasn’t heard from her in months.”
“Did your wife ever mention a company called QCL, Incorporated?”
He repeated the name. “I don’t think so. No, never heard of it. What kind of company is it?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Then why’re you asking me about it?”
“Carl Lassiter either works for QCL or owns it.” That was as much as I was going to tell him at this juncture. If he needed to know about his wife’s prostitution, I’d give him the information when the time came.
“You talk to this man Lassiter?” Krochek asked.
“Not yet.”
“Crissake, why not? He must be the one who beat her up-”
“Not necessarily. And he doesn’t necessarily have to have anything to do with what happened in your kitchen.”
“Who the hell else then?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to find out,” I said. “I’ve asked you this before, but are you sure you don’t know any of her gambling associates? Any local poker club or casino where she was a regular?”
“Positive,” Krochek said. “She never talked about it. Hell, I didn’t want to know any of those people or places. Why should I? I couldn’t make them stop her from throwing my money away.”
“Would any of her friends know? The nongambling variety, I mean.”
“I doubt it. She cut them off, what few she had, when she caught that goddamn fever of hers.”
“Call them, see if they can tell you anything. Anything at all that might help.”
“All right.”
“One more question. You and your wife made trips to Las Vegas together. Do you know if she went there alone after she got hooked?”
“Yeah. Once, at least, a couple of years ago. Supposed to be visiting an aunt in Seattle for a few days, but she went to Vegas instead. I found the used airline ticket in the trash.”
After we rang off, I opened the connecting door and poked my head into Tamara’s office. She was off the phone and she had a few things to tell me.
“No QCL, Inc. registered in California,” she said. “No address, either, except for Carl Lassiter’s on the Cadillac registration. Could be just a dummy name he uses. Or else he’s a local rep for an out-of-state company.”
“Try Nevada. Las Vegas, specifically.”
“Why Las Vegas?”
I told her about my conversation with Quilmes. “He goes to Vegas regularly and I got the impression he knows Lassiter and QCL, Inc. And Janice Krochek spent some time in Vegas.”
“Some sort of gambling outfit?”
“Connected to gambling in some way. I’d bet on it.”
She laughed. “Dangerously close to a pun there,” she said.
“What is? Oh.”
“There’s another gambling connection, too. Ginger Benn’s husband, Jason Benn. Compulsive gambler for years. Owned a big auto body shop, got in so deep he lost it and went bankrupt in ninety-nine.”
That explained her bitter hatred of gambling. “You didn’t say ex-husband. Still married?”
“Separated.”
“How long?”
> “Two years. Man ran up a new bunch of debts and she walked.”
“Where’d he get the money to keep betting? From Ginger?”
“Could be.”
“If she has been supporting his habit, or helping him pay off his debts, or both, it has to be from hooking. She can’t make much at that waitressing job of hers.”
“Another reason they’re separated, maybe.”
“Where’s he living, did you find out?”
“Daly City,” Tamara said. “Works for an auto body shop on San Jose Avenue in the Outer Mission.”
I took down both addresses. Could be he knew something about QCL, Inc. that I’d be able to pry out of him. The outfit, whatever it was and whoever was behind it, not only had a gambling connection but judging from what I’d learned from Quilmes, one to prostitution as well. No surprise if it was Vegas-based; the two vices go hand in hand down there. And yet, there was so much of both running wide open in the Nevada desert, there didn’t seem to be much need for a shadowy operation like this one seemed to be. More to it than gambling and prostitution, possibly. Drugs, smuggling of goods or humans-all sorts of possibilities.
But the one thing I couldn’t figure was how and why this QCL was operating in San Francisco, and apparently in the person of just one man. Carl Lassiter had the answers, but I didn’t have enough information or enough leverage to try bracing him. Or, for that matter, enough probable cause that he was responsible for those kitchen blood smears and Janice Krochek’s latest disappearance.
12
JAKE RUNYON
The scarf woman’s name was Bryn Darby.
He found that out Tuesday night, on his second canvass of the Taraval neighborhood, from a garrulous woman who ran an arts and crafts store near the Parkside branch library. “Oh, yes,” she said, “Mrs. Darby. Her first name is Bryn, B-r-y-n, isn’t that an odd name? Poor woman. So much tragedy in her life.”
“What sort of tragedy?”
“Well, her deformity. And her husband leaving her. She didn’t tell me that, but it’s what I heard.”
“What sort of deformity?”
“Well, I don’t know. Something to do with the right side of her face. I’ve never seen it and she won’t talk about it, not that I blame her a bit even if she has become a bit standoffish since it happened.”
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