The Man Who Risked His Partner

by Donaldson, Stephen R.

  That made me turn around. “The problem,” I hissed so that I wouldn’t shout at her, “is that this time they might try something fancier. They know we’ve been warned. This time they might booby-trap it. All they have to do is hot-wire the cars and make a contact at the hood latch. Or set up any kind of trembler switch.”

  I didn’t actually know much about bombs. Just enough to be scared spitless.

  “I can’t risk lifting the hood. And I’m too big to fit under cars. Using a jack might be as bad as trying the hood. I’ll kill myself before I even find out I’m in trouble.”

  For a minute her eyes drifted out of focus. Automatically—she probably wasn’t aware she was doing it—she hugged her left stump protectively under her right arm.

  How do we get out of this one? Let me count the ways.

  Call the cops? That would be the moral equivalent of turning Haskell in—something we’d apparently agreed we wouldn’t do. And in terms of professional ethics, we were required to tell him what we had in mind first. And then quit working for him if he ordered us not to tell the cops.

  Use cabs? That would leave trails that anyone with the right kind of clout could follow.

  Rent more cars? Ginny’s insurance company was going to be mad enough about the Buick. The kind of insurance you buy when you rent a car doesn’t cover things like having the car blown up by thugs. Any more property damage, and her policy might be canceled. The rates would sure as hell go through the roof.

  I watched her think it through. By degrees, the look in her eyes grew sharper, and the end of her nose went white with anger. But she came to the same conclusion I did.

  “You want me to crawl under those cars.”

  I nodded dumbly.

  “I already know what it’s like to get blown apart. By now I ought to be used to it.”

  I had reason to be in a great mood this morning. Yessir. “If you have a better idea,” I said, trying to keep my own anger down, “spit it out. I don’t like this much myself.”

  She gave me a murderous glare. “The hell you don’t.” Fiercely she snatched up her purse. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.”

  Private investigators sometimes do stupid things because they don’t have any choice.

  She retrieved her coat, put it on. I didn’t have anything except a jacket over my stale shirt and the dead weight of the .45. Following her up the stairs, light-headed with fear and lack of sleep, I could hear the sound of fire again. But now it was the Olds burning, and Ginny was stuck under it.

  At the top of the stairs, I stopped to sweat for a minute. “Sometime today,” I murmured wanly, “one of us has got to go back to the apartment for some clean clothes. I’m starting to stink.”

  She didn’t look at me. Her attention was aimed out toward the cars.

  We made sure we had all the keys we needed. We weren’t particularly cautious about the way we left the house, but that didn’t bother me. At the moment we weren’t in any danger of being shot.

  Outside, the weather felt like snow. The cold had lost its edge, and the air carried a wet smell that’s rare in Puerta del Sol. Clouds the color of lead piled over the mountains, making the morning look dull and hopeless. A perfect day for a firebomb. Dust and paper scraps blew like they were falling down Cactus Blossom into the cul-de-sac.

  Ginny handed me her purse. Bleak as the weather, she asked, “What do I do?”

  “All right.” With my free hand, I gripped my jacket closed over my chest. “What you’re looking for is a pair of wires.” Suddenly I wasn’t sure that I knew how the Buick was blown. “They’ll run from the engine somewhere back to the gas tank. They should go into the tank right at the top. Look for the breather vent or a new hole. They’ll be taped close together, so that juice from the engine will make a spark in the tank.

  “The safest thing to do is pull the wires out of the tank.”

  She didn’t move. With her head, she indicated the Olds. “There’s a flashlight in the glove compartment.”

  Oh, terrific, I thought. What if the doors have been wired?

  But that was one too many things to worry about. Grimly I unlocked the passenger side of the Olds. Holding my breath, I opened the door.

  Nothing happened. I got out the flashlight and gave it to Ginny. The sweat felt like ice under my arms.

  “Maybe you ought to stand back,” she said tightly.

  Pale and cold, she hefted the flashlight as if she wanted a weapon. At the rear of the Olds, she stretched out on her back on the cement. Using her arms for leverage, she wedged herself under the car.

  I couldn’t watch. Lifting my face to the mountains, I stared into the wind until my eyes ran. She muttered curses while she searched. With any luck at all, I wouldn’t feel the blast when it hit me.

  Maybe if I died I’d go to heaven. That would be nice. In heaven, they drink good scotch. Right then, I could have used some.

  Then I heard a scuffling sound as Ginny pried herself out from under the Olds. I turned around quickly and squatted to look.

  She’d left a pair of wires lying on the cement behind her. They had bared ends, and they were taped close together, and they ran up toward the engine.

  Breathing hard, she climbed to her feet. For a minute she leaned against me while I put my arms around her.

  I wanted to stand there and hold her for a long time. But she pulled away—too angry to stand still. Panting fury, she knelt to the wires and pulled them out where we could see them. Then I unlatched the hood.

  The starter made a grinding noise, and a spark snapped at the ends of the wires. The ignition had been jumped.

  To be honest, I could have used a lot of scotch.

  Trembling quietly to myself, I disconnected the extra wires under the hood of the Olds while Ginny got down on her back again and squirmed under Haskell’s Continental.

  This time she knew what she was looking for. She found it more quickly—another set of wires feeding into the gas tank. Another jumped ignition, another contact at the hood latch. Maybe it was the cold. I couldn’t say anything. If I did, my teeth might chatter.

  She rested her weight against the car, her expression half rage, half nausea. She looked tight and flushed, like a woman with a high fever. She held her left forearm clamped under her right elbow as if it hurt her.

  Trying to recover a little calm, I asked, “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some breakfast now?”

  Abruptly she pushed herself straight and looked at me. Her voice shook. “I don’t believe el Senor has anything to do with this. Do you hear me? I don’t care what Haskell says. I don’t care what evidence you think you’ve come up with. You can play this case any way you want, and I’ll go along. But I don’t believe it!” Her sudden shout practically rocked me back on my heels. She was right on the edge. “It’s too messy and stupid! It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Ginny—” I didn’t have anything to say. I just wanted to reach out to her somehow.

  “Don’t talk to me,” she snapped. “Next time it’s your turn to get under the fucking car.”

  For a second she raised her hand to her face while her expression knotted. Then she forced herself to let out a long slow breath. When she dropped her hand, she didn’t look at me.

  “Let’s go get Haskell,” she muttered softly. “I want to ask him some questions.”

  It’s just reaction, I said to myself. That’s all. She’ll be fine in a few minutes. But I didn’t believe it.

  I believed she was falling apart. Losing whatever it was that had made her tough, clearheaded, capable. She couldn’t bear the idea of el Senor. Fear and her stump eroded the conviction or self-esteem that held her together. Right in front of me, she was coming apart at the seams.

  Under the circumstances, I was in no mood to go get Haskell. I had my own kind of reaction to deal with. But she was right. Even I could think of a few questions to ask him. So I made an effort to pull myself together.

  We took the Continental. Let his insurance c
ompany worry about it if anything happened.

  I drove. At least it’s usually called driving. In spite of the crushed velour seats and the leather dashboard, the climate control and the digital clock, I felt more like I was holding a rudder while galley slaves rowed for their lives. Up Cactus Blossom to Foothill, south to the nearest useful cross street, then west toward the neighborhood of the Territorial Apartments.

  We weren’t more than three minutes early when I pulled up in front of the fake chalet building. Ginny got out, opened the rear door, and climbed into the back seat. I slumped behind the wheel, feeling like a sack of dirty laundry. Since I didn’t have anything bright or cheerful to say, I didn’t say it.

  Right on cue, Haskell emerged from the Apartments. He looked scrubbed and fresh, ready to take on the world. Even though there wasn’t any sunlight, and the clouds piling overhead were about as friendly as steel wool, his camel’s hair coat seemed to glow with enthusiasm. He could’ve been a headline—

  BANK EXECUTIVE CONQUERS CITY VIRGINS SACRIFICED IN HONOR

  Before he reached the car, Ginny leaned forward abruptly and said, “He’s wearing a clean suit.”

  Just for a second, I wondered how she knew that. Then I noticed his dark brown pants. The suit he’d had on last night was light blue.

  He came to my side of the car. When I rolled down the window, he said, “As long as you’re using my car, I’ll drive.”

  My smile felt about as charming as I did. “As long as you’re paying us to protect you,” I said, “I’ll drive.” I pointed at the passenger seat. “Sit over there.”

  I thought he was going to argue, but he didn’t. With a shrug, he ambled around the Continental and let himself in.

  When he’d closed the door, he turned to look at Ginny, then glanced toward me. The gleam in his eyes reminded me that I hadn’t shaved. “You two are in a good mood this morning,” he commented. “What’s the matter?”

  I started the engine, pulled away from the curb. “Whoever blew up the Buick tried the same thing with your car.” Heading the wrong way to get to the bank. “That always cheers us up.”

  He watched me for a minute. Then he said, “The bank is back that way.”

  “Well, hush my mouth,” I said. “So it is.”

  After five blocks, I made a U-turn and drove toward the Territorial Apartments. A block before we reached them, I pulled to the curb again and parked.

  I could almost feel him trying to figure out what was going on. Finally he said, “All right, I give up. What’re you doing?”

  “Waiting,” Ginny told him. “We want to see who else comes out.”

  Haskell’s tan turned darker. “Don’t,” he snapped. “This is none of your business. I’m not paying you to pry into my private life.”

  “That’s funny,” she murmured in a distant voice, not really paying attention to him. “I thought it was your private life that got you into this mess.”

  He gave her a look that would have split a pine board. “You’re wrong. Don’t do this. Take me to work. I’ll fire you.”

  I smiled again. “Fire away.” I was getting good at it. I still couldn’t claim that we had him flustered, but this was as close as we’d come so far.

  I didn’t want him to call my bluff. Playing people was his game, not mine. He could probably get around me. But he made the mistake of looking at Ginny again.

  Her eyes were hard and gray as lead shot.

  He didn’t fire us.

  We went on waiting.

  It didn’t take long. After a few more minutes, a woman came out of the Apartments and hurried toward her car. In spite of the weather, she was dressed like a daisy. The glow of having Reg Haskell to herself all night left her too happy for dull colors.

  Eunice Wint.

  11

  More for Haskell’s benefit than anything else, I said to Ginny, “I told you so.”

  “I believed you.” Already her mind was somewhere else—probably trying to figure out how this case didn’t have anything to do with el Senor. “I always believe you when you tell me things like that.”

  Haskell stopped acting angry. His skin retained its flush under his tan, but his manner changed. “Was that Eunice? I didn’t know she lives here.”

  “Nice try,” I muttered as I put the Continental in gear. Smoothly the galley slaves rowed us away from the curb. We headed in the direction of the bank.

  Ginny went on thinking for a minute. Then she said, “Mr. Haskell, Brew told me what happened last night. It was a gas fire. Somebody hot-wired the ignition to make a spark in the gas tank. To be honest, that doesn’t sound like el Senor’s style.”

  She wasn’t being honest at all. El Senor hired all kinds of muscle, and they all had their own styles. But that didn’t matter now. She was simply trying to soothe and unsettle him at the same time.

  “It was something anybody could have done,” she continued. “All he needed was some wire and maybe a metal punch. That’s why we’re prying into your private life. We have to consider the possibility that this case doesn’t have anything to do with el Senor. Maybe you have a personal enemy who wants you dead.”

  He turned in his seat to look at both of us. Taking us seriously again. Or acting like it, anyway. “Why would anybody I know want to kill me?”

  “We don’t know that. But look at it from our point of view. Last night, you told Brew you’ve been trying to blackmail el Senor. He’d certainly want to kill you for that. But how does he know it’s you?

  “I’m sure you’ve done some stupid things in your life.” A touch of acid under the sweet reason. “But I can’t believe you’re stupid enough to attempt this kind of scam without taking precautions. You certainly didn’t walk into El Machismo and announce that you wanted to blackmail the boss. And I assume you didn’t give him your name and address when you contacted him.

  “Maybe,” she said, “you’d better tell us what you did do.”

  I approved. Despite her distress and denial, she played Haskell’s own game back at him—and she did it pretty well. Now he had to give us some straight answers. Unless he wanted us to go on prying into his private life.

  His eyes shifted back and forth between us. His expression was faintly speculative—measuring us again. For some reason, I remembered the way he sabotaged our opponents at the bridge club.

  After a moment he let out a short laugh. “Well, I thought I took precautions. By the time I finished tracing his money laundry, I knew he wasn’t kidding around. A man who went that far to protect his income wouldn’t stop there.

  “The file on his account gave me his address. I wrote him a letter. But first I went to the downtown post office and rented a box under an assumed name. That was my return address. Then I told the post office I would be out of town for a while. I asked them to forward my mail to my brother-in-law.” His own cleverness tickled him no end. “As it happened, my brother-in-law’s name was Reg Haskell. He had a box at the Heights branch post office.

  “When I wrote to el Senor, I told him to reply to the downtown box. I thought he might be able to have that box watched, but since the mail would be forwarded to the Heights, I’d be safe.”

  Then he frowned. Or at least the lower half of his face frowned. I wasn’t sure about his eyes. “Apparently I underestimated him.”

  Well, I suppose if I’d been that clever I would’ve been tickled, too. It could’ve worked.

  But Ginny didn’t waste her time on Haskell’s precautions. For a minute or two she scowled out the window. Then she looked him in the face again.

  “How long ago was this?”

  He turned on a wry smile. “Actually, I just started. My first letter went out last Wednesday. I planned to give him a week. If he didn’t answer, I’d sent him a few photocopies to show him I meant business. I never expected him to track me down. I certainly never expected him to do it so quickly.”

  Last Wednesday? I thought. That wasn’t quick, it was almost instantaneous. In Puerta del Sol, a letter
mailed on Wednesday never arrives before Friday. And Saturday none of the post offices have counter service, just delivery. And yet by Sunday night Haskell was getting phone threats. If el Senor had his very own postal inspector, he still might not have been able to trace Haskell’s mail that fast.

  But Ginny didn’t show any disbelief. She was thinking something else.

  “Mr. Haskell,” she said slowly, looking right at him, “how much did you want him to pay you to keep your mouth shut?”

  At that he laughed out loud. Apparently he couldn’t help himself.

  “I knew how much El Machismo took in every week. I thought he could spare five percent of that. Ten thousand dollars—give or take for seasonal variations.”

  No wonder my stomach hurt. For a minute there, I had trouble making the Continental behave normally. “How in hell,” I demanded, “can you possibly need that much money?”

  The humor disappeared from his face like I’d wiped it away with a sponge. The muscles at the corners of his eyes knotted. In a tone like an iron bar, he said, “You know I can’t afford that house and this car on what I earn as an accountant. I’ve been lucky with some investments. But recently I took some risks that turned sour on me. I have a lot to lose. Including my job. The bank doesn’t smile on accountants who get in trouble with their investments. Why shouldn’t el Senor solve my problems for me?”

  I’d hit a nerve. I wanted to hit it again by asking him about those investments. But right then the Continental glided into the parking lot of the ice cream parlor, and Ginny had something to say to him.

  I eased the car into a landing slip. Then I sat and watched the people arriving for work while she talked.

  “Mr. Haskell,” she said in a detached voice, sounding slightly bored, “it’s not my job to tell you just how stupid you’ve been. Anybody in el Senor’s position would try to have you killed. And he doesn’t fail. That’s how he gets away with it. It’s self-perpetuating. In essence, he got his power by killing people. And his power makes it possible for him to go on killing people. Keeping you alive is going to be about as easy as changing the laws of nature.