by Neil Russell
But why sit off center from your victim and not make straight-ahead eye contact? I cast my gaze to the carpet on my right. It ran the length of the car and was the same shade of dark green as the leather booths. But only the four-inch borders were solid. The wide center was in a tiny, green and gold checkerboard pattern.
And then I saw it. In the far border was an almost invisible, pointed dent. I got up and knelt next to it. Sure enough, lost in the checkerboard design were two more. I recognized them immediately. Tripod points. The nail-like protrusions that dial down from a camera stand’s rubber-tipped feet to anchor it.
I thought back to the crime scene. The floor had been covered with plastic, and because of people moving up and down the aisle, the work lights had been rigged on the dining tables. There had been no tripods. That explained why the questioner had positioned herself to the side. She wanted the camera to have a clear shot.
I stood and redialed Gianatta.
“I must be irresistible,” she said.
“You are, but that’s not why I’m calling. Might the ladies—or demented fucks—you described earlier want to record the session?”
She didn’t answer right away. Then, “I should have thought of that, but yes.”
“Why?”
“Probably to get somebody else’s attention.” She hesitated. “And then for the same reason everybody else does. To enjoy later and maybe sell.”
“Sell?”
“The rarer it is, the more your affinity group will pay. Jesus, Rail, I thought you ran a business.”
“Sorry, Adam Smith didn’t cover snuff films.”
“Bullshit, he covered everything. By the way, you’ve probably already figured it out, but that elevates the tiger’s head from simply a message to a piece of theatre.”
A light came on. “And if they set it to music, that would probably mean it wasn’t their first time.”
“A sound track? How very sick . . . and slick. Something appropriate, I trust?”
“Nick Cave. ‘Red Right Hand.’”
“Literate too. Inspired by Paradise Lost. The vengeful hand of God. How deliciously decadent. Gotta love those gals.”
I hung up before I said something that cost me a friend. I looked at my watch. People would just be going to work in Western Australia. I dialed 411 and asked the operator to get me Parkinson-Lowe Imports in Perth. The male Aussie voice that answered was polite and businesslike.
“May I speak with either Mr. Parkinson or Mr. Lowe.”
“I’m sorry, sir, this is a virtual office. We only answer telephones and receive mail.”
“I see. How do your clients collect their things?”
“Some come in, but mostly we communicate by e-mail. Letters and packages are delivered by our messenger service to whatever address is on file. I’ve been here four years, and I’ve never met anyone from Parkinson-Lowe.”
“Would you be able to give me their address?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but no. That’s one of the reasons people use us.”
“Of course it is.”
“I can pass along a message, if you like.”
I gave him my number and decided to give Parkinson or Lowe or whoever something to think about, “Tell them Lucille Brando called.”
“I’m sorry, sir, it sounded like you said Lucille.”
“Your ears are fine. And my middle name is ‘Just Breathe.’”
* * * *
15
Sequoias and Sears
I needed time to think, and the ranch was as good a place as any. I asked Birdy if she wanted me to run her into a hotel in Victorville. I didn’t catch her answer, but a few hours later, we were showering again.
“I’m not much of a cook,” she said while we were toweling each other, “but if I can locate some Ragu, I can get rid of this hole in my stomach.” She was right. It had been a long time since the subs and Doritos.
“I’ve got a couple of calls to make. Think you can handle the shopping and find your way back?”
“Only if you spot me a few bucks. I don’t carry cards when I hit the bars. Some crumb grabs my purse, he’s welcome to the lint.”
I handed her five twenties and the keys to the Ram. “I’ve got a soft spot for Italian sausage,” I said. “Hot or sweet, just lots of it.”
“How about the pasta?”
“Anything thicker than vermicelli, I’ll send you back.”
“Gotta love this man,” she said.
* * * *
Even when it’s necessary, I don’t like conning innocent people. I felt especially bad about Roxy Luchinski, a girl in a job she hated who’d ended up with me on the phone. I made a mental note to send her something nice. Maybe a couple of cruise tickets.
The night operator at FBI Headquarters answered with the same clipped efficiency as before. When I asked for Ext. 664, she waited for me to give her the Hot Code. The one I had was now a day old, but if I didn’t say anything, I was definitely going nowhere. Maybe they had a grace period for the ADD crowd.
“Gemstone,” I said.
There might have been a split second’s hesitation, but it could just as easily have been my imagination. Then the phone was ringing.
“Department 11. Ms. Luchinski.”
“Hi, Roxy, still raining in our nation’s capital?”
“Hank, is that you?”
“Sorry about last night. Had to do some couples counseling, then I got busy with a Coast Guard inspection.”
I should have expected what came next. “Maybe when we see each other at the reunion, you can show me your seaworthiness certificate. Where was that again? Juneau?” Francesca Huston’s voice hadn’t lost any of its charm.
“Hank, why did you lie to me? You seemed so nice.” Roxy sounded like she was about to burst into tears.
“Want to tell her your real name, or shall I?” Huston asked. “Refresh my memory. Black or Bonks?”
“I’m sorry, Roxy,” I said. “I’m genuinely ashamed.” And I meant it. What I wasn’t ashamed of was learning that Department 11 had the budget and the personnel to review every incoming call. In penny-pinching times, that put Huston in rarefied air. It also made her vulnerable. The enemy’s not always the bad guys, sometimes it’s the spotlight.
“You may hang up now, Ms. Luchinski,” Huston said. “Security is waiting for you in Conference Room B.”
I heard a muffled sob, then a click as Roxy left the call. Unfortunately, she hadn’t taken Vampira with her. “I may cut our dumb broad some slack, but you’re on your way to prison, Mr. Black.”
These people never stop. No wonder the courts are clogged. “Lighten up, Frank, the only thing I’ve done is hurt a naive girl.”
“Fuck you with the Frank bullshit, and I can count at least a dozen felonies. In twenty years, you might be working a real crab boat.”
“You have Jake Praxis’s card. But if I were you, I’d wait till morning. He’s a combat-qualified prick after a few bourbons. In the meantime, before you start scaring that poor girl half to death, tell your boss that the first thing we’re all going to do tomorrow morning is get on the phone to the California Attorney General—no friend to anybody in your fair city—and explain why he wasn’t consulted before you removed evidence from a local crime scene.” I was guessing, but her silence told me I’d hit the fat part of the elephant. However, with jerks like Huston, you have to pile on.
“I also found Donnie Two Knives. How you doing in that department?”
The powder keg blew. “Where the fuck are you, Black? I want your ass in front of me NOW!”
“When you get a grip on your manners, we’ll talk. Until then, don’t call me, I’ll be busy dictating my memoirs.” I hung up while she was teaching me some new words. Damn, I really did feel bad about Roxy.
I spun through the channels and came up empty on a McQueen picture, but Harvey Keitel was dragging himself around the City of Industry with a couple of bullets in him, so I settled in until it was over. Then I called Hust
on back.
“Goddamn you, Black, you hang up on me again, and ...”
I hit the end button, counted to a hundred and redialed. She wasn’t any less angry, but she was at least trying “Okay, Special Agent in Charge Huston, here’s what you’re going to do.” She got out half a threat before I clicked off again.
This time I gave her two hours. Funny how not talking to someone shifts the advantage. My father taught me that, and it’s far more effective than winning debating points with someone who isn’t listening anyway. This time there was nothing but angry breathing.
“You know Sharpley Hartland?”
“The blowhard congressman? Who doesn’t?”
All congressmen think they should be senators, and all senators think they should be president. Problem is most couldn’t hold a job busing tables at Applebee’s. Sharpley Hartland thinks he should be a senator too, but he occupies a seat that’s so safe he can skip campaigning altogether and focus on piling up seniority and wreaking vengeance on those who cross him. He’s not averse to lining his pockets either. A soothing consolation to not being in the club across the rotunda.
“That would be him,” I said. “He’s got a daughter, Amanda. Nice girl. Real commitment to redwoods. Started an organization called Love a Sequoia. I’m in favor of sequoias, how about you?”
“Where are you going with this?”
“Last year, I had a group of friends over to meet Amanda. Liked her so much, we shelled out a couple of million to make the down payment on some acreage she was anxious to save. My trust kicked in the balance.” I let that sit for a moment. I knew she got it, but I wanted the analyst working that slick FBI recording system to get it too, and you can never tell about analysts. Some of them went to Harvard.
“I was thinking about sending Roxy on a cruise, but after what you’ve put her through, I think she deserves more than a tan and a week of karaoke. So here’s where you come in. As soon as the switchboard opens at the Pentagon, you’re going to get on the horn and find Ms. Luchinski a job. Preferably in naval aviation. And I don’t want her reporting to anybody below a vice admiral.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Then you’re going to give her the kind of send-off from your place you’d want everyone at the reunion to hear about. You know, show her your real, gracious self.”
“And if I tell you to pound it up your ass?”
“Then Congressman Hartland is going to get some serious face time with me at his next committee hearing. Subject: you, Mr. Curtis, my sore kidney and whatever else happens to come up. Maybe even Department 11, which I’ll bet he’s never heard of. And if you doubt my ability to draw a crowd, SAC Huston, call around.”
Her bite was gone, but she couldn’t help herself. “Hartland’s committee deals with agriculture.”
“We’ll open with Mexican ham, then see where things go.” When I didn’t hear anything, I knew she’d met Luis and his truck full of porkers. That must have been a fun flight. “And don’t jerk me around, Francesca. I’ve got my own way of checking that Roxy’s settled in. And that she’s permanent. When I’m satisfied, I’ll call back.” I paused. “Gemstone,” I said. Click.
My next call was to Freddie Rochelle in D.C. He’s not a friend; he’s not even an acquaintance, both of which imply some kind of human emotion. I don’t like Freddie, and he’s incapable of liking anyone. I use him only when I absolutely need to, and he bills me with the restraint of Clinton auctioning a pardon.
By business card, he’s a lobbyist, but Washington has a class of people that can only exist in a city where they don’t manufacture anything but trouble. Freddie’s real job is putting people who control vast amounts of wealth together with people who control vast amounts of power and making sure that some of each sticks to him.
The phone in Georgetown rang only twice. “I hope I woke you,” I said.
“Oh, my dahhling, dahhling, Rail,” Freddie cooed into the phone. “Is that really you? Please tell me you’re just around the corner and can dash over for drinks tomorrow. You should see who’s coming. Leon, get me the list.”
During business hours, Freddie’s voice is radio announcer baritone with the inflection of a politician caressing somebody else’s wallet. At the office, he dresses like the Duke of Marlborough meets Ricky Riccardo and chain-smokes Sobranie Black Russians. But it was late, so my guess was a pastel caftan and Virginia Slims.
Leon is Freddie’s other half—better half, actually—and they’ve been together as long as I’ve known him. I could hear their two ill-behaved dachshunds, AK and 47, yapping and probably tearing hell out of something expensive.
“Tell Leon hello and to stand down. I’m not in town.”
“Damn it anyway, I’d love to see you. Are you still with Archer?”
“She’s back in Europe. Modeling.”
“What a goddamn shame. She was perfect for you and all your macho, gun-toting bullshit.”
“Put a sock in it, Freddie, and get out your calculator. This is a business call.”
“Is there any other kind?”
The Pentagon part was easy. Freddie knew an adjutant to the CNO, and he’d follow up on Roxy. “She doesn’t happen to be into pain, does she?”
“I doubt it.”
“Too bad, there’re some chicks in the Marine commandant’s office who like to . . .” He started to detail their proclivities, knowing I’d cut him off, and I did. Two minutes in, and I needed another shower.
When I got to the FBI and Department 11, it was a different matter.
“Christ, I stay as far from that place as possible. Not only don’t they have any money, famines are less depressing. And the wardrobes. My God, if you tried to make a Bulgarian street sweeper wear suits that drab, he’d break your neck. I even hate the fucking building.”
“So far I haven’t heard a no.”
“Look, Rail, most secret police slap you in a dungeon, bring in some guy with a toolbox in one hand and his dick in the other. It’s unpleasant, but it usually doesn’t last more than a week before they put a bullet in your head. The Feds break you financially, then ruin the rest of your life with innuendo. Ever hear of an FBI apology? Fuck no. You think that’s because they always get it right or just don’t give a shit?”
“Sounds like you had a run-in.”
“Two hundred grand in legal for the pleasure of being a good citizen. I got the ‘Mr. Rochelle is not a target,’ then as soon as I talked, here came ‘We’re not sure Mr. Rochelle was truthful in his answers, so let’s go downstairs and visit the grand jury.’ That’s the game. ‘Come on over for coffee, then bend over while we shove the urn up your ass.’”
“The question on the table is how much?”
“The two hundred they cost me, plus another fifty for having to say FBI again.”
“For a couple of sentences of information?”
“If I knew where bin Laden was, I could get 25 mil for a word.”
“Okay, but you throw in the Pentagon.”
“Not a chance. That’s another fifteen. Remember when I loaned you my Bentley, and you promised to park it inside? Well, it had to be repainted.”
As usual, Freddie had worn me out. “Send the bill to Jake.”
“No. To Mallory. He nags.”
“I’d also prefer not to break any laws.”
“That’s the great thing about D.C. Nobody with a security clearance has pot to piss in, so when they feel their star dimming, they validate their importance by dropping a top secret bomb between jumbo shrimp. You’d be surprised at the things I hear without even asking.”
Unfortunately, he was right. Over at Langley, they’ve figured that out and try to give operatives a lot of support, but the rest of the town is just one cocktail party away from publishing a newsletter. “Tomorrow,” I said.
“Then get off my phone. Leon, where’s my directory? The zebra one.”
* * * *
After a soul-satisfying breakfast of warmed-up sausage and angel hair, I drov
e through the gates of the ranch and turned right, away from the highway. Birdy sat beside me, quietly looking out at the desert. I mentally tipped my hat. People who can occupy a silence go to the top of my list. I enjoy a good story as much as anyone, but I detest the stream of consciousness ramblings many otherwise intelligent people visit on any beating pulse trapped near them. Some of the best times I’ve had were driving or walking or just sitting with a person I like. It’s not wholly a gender issue, but it’s disproportionate. In most things, I don’t want my women to be men, but on this, I fist-bump Henry Higgins.