The Man Who Risked His Partner

by Donaldson, Stephen R.

  “Wait a minute,” Haskell retorted. “Hold it right there.” Oddly enough, his protest sounded more genuine this time. “I do not have a gambling habit.”

  But if he thought he could stop Canthorpe that way, he’d misjudged his boss. “I don’t care what you call it,” Canthorpe snapped. Anger quavered in his boyish voice. “You’ve risked the bank’s money for personal gain. I’ve seen the records.

  “This Friday, when the books were closed at three thirty, you had exactly $112.82 in your account. But you have overdraft protection on your bank credit card. You stayed a little late, and you persuaded Eunice”—he stumbled over the name—“Eunice Wint to cash a check for you. For five thousand dollars.

  “You knew, of course, that your withdrawal wouldn’t go onto the books until Monday morning. And when it did, it would show up as exceeding the limit on your card instead of as passing a bad check. So you would have a few days’ grace to pay it back.

  “But this time you didn’t need grace, not the way you have in the past. This time you came in early Monday morning with twenty thousand dollars in cash and deposited it to cover your check.

  “You haven’t always been that lucky. I haven’t had time to check the whole history of your account, but I’ve been over the records for the past six months. You’ve pulled this stunt fifteen times. Nearly two weekends out of three. The average balance in your account has gone from something over $10,000 to just $112.82, and last month your credit card carried you for three weeks before you repaid the money.

  “You’ve been pouring your own money down the drain. And you’ve risked the bank’s money along with it. On top of that”—he looked like his collar was choking him—“you’ve implicated my fiancée in some kind of gambling scam.

  “What’s the matter with you, Haskell?” he demanded with more force than I thought he had in him. “How sick are you?”

  Canthorpe’s revelation came as a jolt. No wonder Ginny looked like she’d gone too far out on the wire and was losing her balance. His information punctured a lot of theories. For instance, it left us with absolutely no reason to believe that Haskell had ever had anything to do with el Senor. Not even indirectly, through loan sharks.

  At the same time, it made Canthorpe look innocent. If he’d already put Novick onto Haskell, why would he come here and act righteous over a few thousand dollars of the bank’s money? That exposed too many of his private emotions. It didn’t make sense.

  In other words, we no longer had any explanation for what we were up against. We only had two hard facts to go on. Haskell had lied to us. Steadily and repeatedly. And somebody was trying to kill him. No wonder Smithsonian had sneered at us when we took this case. We were in deep shit.

  At least now we knew why Haskell carried an empty briefcase. Friday morning he took it in to work empty. Friday evening he came home with a briefcase full of money. On Monday he reversed the process.

  I suppose I should’ve been grateful for small favors.

  But Haskell didn’t swallow Canthorpe’s accusation. Looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, he watched Canthorpe until the branch manager stopped. Then he shrugged and took a pull at his drink. His insouciance was perfect.

  “Jordan,” he said almost kindly when he lowered his glass, “you’re just upset. None of that proves I’ve been gambling.”

  I must’ve looked as blank and amazed as Canthorpe did. Haskell’s reply was like defending yourself against a murder rap by claiming you hadn’t had anything to drink. The bank didn’t care what he did with the money, it cared that he took it. He must’ve been losing what was left of his grasp on reality.

  Or this case had dimensions we didn’t know about yet.

  But Ginny didn’t seem surprised or baffled by Haskell’s attitude. One way or another, it apparently made sense to her.

  “That’s true,” she said harshly. “None of that proves you’ve been gambling. But while Mr. Canthorpe was researching your account, I did some checking of my own.”

  Slowly he turned his head to look at her like he wasn’t sure she merited his attention.

  “I spent this morning at the airport,” she informed him. “And this evening I had a talk with your wife.”

  He stiffened just enough to make a difference. “You know”—his voice was soft and dangerous—“I could have sworn I told you to leave her out of this.”

  “Just for the record,” I murmured, “no, you didn’t.” But no one took any notice of me.

  Ginny smiled like the edge of a hacksaw. “Just doing my job.” Before he could interrupt, she went on, “At first, I thought she might not be able to tell me anything. All by herself in that hotel, alone hour after hour with no idea what in hell’s going on, she’s going crazy. You’ve kept so much secret from her, and she wants to trust you so badly, she’s practically paralyzed. The only thing she can do is talk to total strangers about you, asking them for reassurance because she thinks you’re getting ready to dump her. She really doesn’t know a thing about what you do with your time when you’re not with her.”

  Canthorpe had moved back a few steps to lean against the wall beside the window, studying his fiancée’s lover while he waited for his chance to talk again.

  “But finally I asked the right question. A simple, practical question.” Ginny watched Haskell sharply. “She told me who your travel agent is.

  “After that, it was easy. I went to your travel agent. Flashed my license around, offered to get a few subpoenas. They let me look at their records. I know which flights you took to Las Vegas, on which weekends. I know the hotel you stayed in. If you push me that far, I can go there, show people your picture, and find out exactly what you did—what game you played in, how much money you lost, the whole thing.

  “I’ll do that, Haskell.” She chewed the words at him. “I’ll uncover so much dirt about you that you’ll never get another accounting job in this state.

  “Unless you start telling us the truth.”

  I couldn’t see his face anymore—I’d moved completely behind him—but he didn’t seem particularly upset. His hand was steady as he raised his glass and finished his drink.

  After a moment he said evenly, “It looks like I underestimated you.” The idea didn’t exactly fill him with chagrin. “I hadn’t realized you consider investigating your clients more important than protecting them. I wanted to avoid telling you how much trouble I’m really in. I didn’t want to take that chance. I knew I would lose my job if anybody at the bank found out what I’d been doing.”

  He shrugged. “But I’ve lost it anyway. You’ve cost me that. If you don’t do your job now, you’re going to cost me my life.

  “So I’ll tell you the truth.” He put rat poison in his voice. “That way you won’t have any more excuses.”

  Then he stopped, however. Instead of continuing, he stared out at the cold black night and thought until Ginny said in exasperation, “Get on with it, Haskell. I’ve had all I can stand.”

  “Do you people read the paper?” he asked with obvious sarcasm. “Do you know who Roscoe Chavez is?”

  That went through me like the stroke of a knife. “Front page news yesterday,” I said simply to help myself handle the shock. “Bambino Chavez was one of el Senor’s lieutenants. He turned up dead on Sunday.”

  I had to stop. If I went on babbling, I might say something about Pablo.

  “That’s right,” Haskell commented dryly. “If you check back far enough, you’ll learn that Roscoe Chavez and I went to high school together.” He snorted a laugh. “He and I were on the soccer team together. In fact, an assist from me let him score the winning goal in the conference championship. It would’ve surprised me if he ever forgot who I was.

  “I started going to Vegas a while back. I wanted some relief. Being an accountant was going to bore me into an early grave. I had to spice it up somehow. Vegas gave me a chance to feel alive for the first time in years. It practically resurrected me. And I made a lot of money.

  “About a y
ear ago, I ran into Roscoe there. We were staying at the same hotel. We had an old soccer pals reunion, commemorating his moment of glory. We took in a show, played some poker, had a lot to drink. It was fun. One thing I’ll say for him. Roscoe knew how to have a good time.

  “If you still think I’m lying”—poison again—“do the research. It can’t be hard to learn who I spent my time with. It was always the same. First Roscoe and I got together whenever we were there. Then we started planning our trips together. He had an interesting life, and he liked to talk about it, especially to his old soccer buddy. He wasn’t the brightest man I ever met, but he was exciting company.

  “Then, about six months ago, we both hit a streak of bad luck. We were playing poker with a group of regulars at the hotel, and we’d been taking them to the cleaners for months. But when our luck shifted, we started to lose a bit. I mean I lost a bit. Roscoe lost a lot. He shoveled money out of his pockets with both hands. In fact”—now his tone held a smile—“my few winnings came from him.

  “After a few months, he began to get desperate. He’d used up his reserves. He needed a stake to win his money back. But I couldn’t help him. I didn’t have anything to spare myself.

  “We spent a while commiserating. Then he suggested that maybe I could help him after all. He knew how he could get his hands on some money by ripping off his boss. El Señor.”

  Oh God. I had to brace my hands on the back of the couch to keep myself on my feet.

  “And you bought it?” Ginny snapped. “He offered you a scam to rip off el Senor, and you bought it? What do you use for brains? Oatmeal?”

  “I didn’t see anything wrong with it,” Haskell shot back angrily. “I needed money myself, you know. What better place to get it? And his scheme looked good. He ran el Senor’s numbers racket. He knew the whole operation inside out. All he needed was a secret partner, somebody that nobody in Puerta del Sol could connect to him. Then it was simple. He would give his partner the winning number a few days in advance. His partner would bet that number and collect the winnings. They would split the take. What could go wrong?”

  As he talked, he recovered his equanimity. Maybe it was the sound of his own voice that steadied him. “I assume you noticed I didn’t go to Vegas last weekend.”

  Ginny nodded stiffly. Canthorpe watched Haskell with a kind of fascinated nausea.

  “Friday evening,” Haskell explained, “I used my bank card to borrow five thousand dollars, and I placed the bet. We had to be cautious because I wasn’t one of their regulars, so we didn’t get greedy. I didn’t put all the money on the right number. I spread it around, small sums, a lot of separate bets with different runners.

  “The hundred bucks I put on the right number paid forty-to-one.”

  He spread his hands. “I picked up my winnings Saturday night. Sunday I gave Roscoe his half. I thought we were all set.” The memory seemed to sadden him. “Sunday night I got the phone call I told you about. Monday morning I read in the paper that Roscoe was dead.

  “I guess his boss must’ve found out what he was doing.”

  Must’ve found out. Christ on a crutch! For once we had a story that seemed to cover everything. It was a terrible story. I couldn’t keep my kneecaps from trembling.

  “Who did you place your bets with?” I tried to sound nonchalant, but I didn’t come close.

  “Huh?” Haskell craned his neck to look up at me behind him. “What do you mean?”

  Ginny went on staring at him. Something in her eyes looked vague and lost. Her worst fears were landing like vultures on her shoulders.

  “I’m talking English, aren’t I?” I returned. “It’s a simple question.” I may very well have been losing my mind, but I couldn’t stop. “Who did you place your bets with?”

  “I told you, I spread my money around.” He didn’t like peering up at me, so he lowered his head. “I went wherever Roscoe told me to go. I must’ve seen twenty different runners.”

  “Haskell.” I had a little trouble breathing. “I know how the numbers work in this city.” Don’t try lying to me. “I know some of the runners. Where did you go?”

  He may have been cocky, but he wasn’t stupid. He didn’t miss my point. “The old part of town,” he said warily. “Phone booths. Bars. Alleys. I can’t tell you addresses or names. But if you go with me, I can take you every place I went.”

  “The runners,” I said. “Describe some of them.”

  “Come off it, Axbrewder.” Heavy disdain. “I was down there at night. They’re all Chicano kids. They all look alike to me. I wouldn’t recognize one of them if I saw him again”

  Damn him. Damn everything. I wanted to take him by the throat and shake him until he learned a few decent lessons about fear. It was just possible that he was responsible for Pablo’s death. If Pablo had figured out or stumbled onto what the Bambino and Haskell were up to, Chavez could easily have broken his neck and dumped him out of a fast car in self-defense. And if el Señor found out, that would explain his attitude toward the Santiagos—his insistence on an honorable funeral, his promise that he would avenge Pablo’s killing.

  Pure speculation, nothing but moonshine. But it fit. It fit well enough to hurt.

  El Senor wanted Haskell dead for the same reasons that Roscoe Chavez had been killed. A ritual hit.

  We were supposed to protect him.

  Feeling desperate, I ached to ask Ginny what she was thinking. I hadn’t told her anything about Pablo. Whatever troubled her was something else entirely.

  And she didn’t know how to deal with it. Her face was pale, and her eyes had lost focus. Abruptly she announced, “I need a drink after all.” She didn’t look at me or anyone else as she left the den as if she were fleeing.

  I almost went after her. I’d never seen her like this before, and it appalled me.

  But before I could turn away, Haskell said to Canthorpe, “I hope you’re satisfied.”

  His tone held me. It was too quiet. I could hear venom.

  “You’ll be able to fire me now. You’ve endangered my marriage. Sara won’t know what to think about all this. And you may even get me killed. I hired Fistoulari and Axbrewder to protect me, but you’ve compromised them for me. You must’ve waited a long time for a chance to do something like this to me.

  “I wonder”—he looked casually at his fingernails—“what I’ll do to get even.”

  Canthorpe came off the wall like he’d been hit with a cattle prod. A couple of steps later, however, he snatched himself back under control. Framed by the blackness of the window, his boyish face looked as fierce as it could. But his eyes weren’t stupid, or weak either, and bone lay behind every line of his face. He was a better enemy than he probably realized. Maybe he was better than I’d imagined.

  Deliberately he straightened his jacket and his tie. In a cold voice, he said, “You simply don’t understand, do you? You’re in every conceivable kind of trouble, and all you can do about it is threaten me. Well, your threats don’t frighten me. They’re asinine. You may be charming and talented, but you’re an empty hull instead of a man. It shouldn’t surprise me that you don’t understand. You have a goat’s conception of love.”

  Haskell started to laugh. “Ah, the injured pride of the impotent man. You shouldn’t let yourself be vindictive, Jordan. It makes you ridiculous.”

  “Listen for a minute,” Canthorpe snapped back. “I’ll add it up for you.”

  Ginny had come back into the den. She stood beside me, a glass in her hand. Straight scotch, I knew it by smell. Her grip was white, like a mute call for help.

  “You can’t threaten me,” Canthorpe went on, “because you’ve already cost me what I care about most. There is no significant harm left that you can do to me. The best you can hope for is to minimize your own losses.

  “Keeping you alive is none of my business. I couldn’t help with that if I wanted to. But the bank is my business. You’ve made dishonest use of the bank’s money. I could have you fired in a heartbeat.r />
  “However”—some of his vehemence faded—“the bank doesn’t appear to have lost any money.” He nailed his gaze to Haskell’s face. “I could let it pass. I could keep what you’ve done to myself. On one condition.” Unexpected color came into his cheeks. The labor of his heart made his voice throb. “Leave Eunice alone. Stop seeing her. Tell her it’s finished, you don’t love her, you don’t want her anymore.” His mouth quivered involuntarily. “Give me a chance to win her back.”

  At that, Haskell began laughing.

  “A chance?” He could hardly get the words out. “To win her back?” He laughed so hard that I thought he was going to pop something. Or I was going to pop it for him. “You’re dreaming.”

  Gradually he subsided. With obvious malice, he told Canthorpe, “Some people are content to eat cardboard all their lives. But not after they’ve tasted steak. You can’t go back. Nobody can go back.”

  “You bastard,” Canthorpe panted. “You bastard.” Sudden tears covered his face. “I hope they cut your heart out.” Turning with a jerk, he walked unsteadily toward the end of the room.

  Now he no longer stood between Haskell and the picture window.

  That was all the warning we had. It wasn’t much.

  As soon as Canthorpe cleared the way, a brick came through the glass. It seemed to appear out of nowhere, a piece of night that suddenly turned hard and heavy enough to shatter panes. The window burst into splinters. A spray of glass followed the brick.

  Straight at Haskell.

  Double-glazed insulation panes absorbed most of the brick’s force. It thudded to the carpet a good ten feet from Haskell’s shoes. Chips and splinters carried farther, but they didn’t reach him either. Bits of snow swirled in out of the dark.

  Which was the whole point, of course. You couldn’t tell how thick the glass was unless you looked at it up close in good light. Some energy-conscious homes have triple- and even quadruple-glazed windows. That much glass can deflect even a high-powered rifle bullet—and you would only get one shot because it would make the entire window crazy with cracks.