by Neil Russell
He didn’t answer, but I didn’t need him to. It was obvious the detective and Glenda had been more than friends, and he wasn’t over it. “So what about Sam?”
“He went after them. Wouldn’t tell me who it was. Just that he was the only one who could get close. Coroner said he fell under a cable car on its way back to the yard. No witnesses. That his hands and eyes were missin’ didn’t seem to bother anybody.”
I shook my head. “So people get buried, loved ones mourn, and everybody goes back to work.”
“More importantly, meetin’ halls go empty. They still are.”
Except for a big church in the desert, I thought.
“Word in Chinatown was Tiananmen was a D.C. operation, but that sounds like smoke to me. The only people who know for sure don’t talk to each other, so what are the odds of the rest of us findin’ out? Also, right after, you couldn’t order an egg roll around here without gettin’ your picture taken and your balls busted. I think they were trying to figure it out too.”
“CIA?”
“Every letter in the alphabet. I wouldn’t have said anything to them, but it wasn’t because they didn’t try. Sat outside my apartment for almost a month. Fucked with my neighbors—and my bosses.”
“That’s why you left the Chang case open. That and Sam. Maybe there’d come a day.”
“Hero shit. I blame Woodward and Bernstein. Think I can sue? Lotta fuckin’ good it did. Twenty years, and I’m about to join them.”
“If it matters, there’s something in the works. Besides Major.”
That seemed to brighten him a little. “Put me down for a pound.”
“One more question. Were the Changs the only children among the sixteen?”
He nodded. “Only family. Others were one at a time. All leaders, no soldiers.”
“Then how do you know they fit? That they weren’t involved in some other beef, and the real Defiance count was twelve.”
Kujovic looked at Fat Cat as if to say, where did you get this clown? It was the same look Wes Crowe had given Del Brockman. I thought he wasn’t going to answer, but he finally did. “First, twelve ain’t a multiple of eight. But I don’t know. Maybe it was because somebody burned out their offices the same night.”
“What kind of business?”
“Happy Asia Tours. In that part of the world, the biggest then, the biggest now. You want to take a few hundred of your closest friends to Disney World or grab a week of Broadway and booze, you’re with Happy Asia. Sister took over. Suzanne. Wouldn’t spit in our direction. What do you think?”
I was still thinking about Wes Crowe. We all know Asians do Vegas like it’s around the corner. Charter 747s. Bring the whole village.
“She still around?”
“Channel 5 did a special on San Francisco’s Most Eligible. She was Number Two, right after some guy who had his hair dry cleaned. Said she was worth half a billion. Who the fuck has that kind of money? Looks pretty good too for a broad in her forties. Probably iffy on fat Serbs, though.”
“I should say thanks, but it doesn’t seem like enough.”
“Don’t bother. My ears stopped listenin’ for that word years ago.”
I shook his hand, and it was like shaking a wet loaf of bread. He was a tough guy, but he wasn’t going to get to that monastery. I think he knew it too, but trying was better than sitting around in paper slippers.
As we turned to leave, I noticed the kid in the other bed was still asleep. I stopped and put my hand on his wrist. He opened his eyes, and I patted him. He tried to smile but couldn’t quite get there. “Safe journey,” I whispered, and he nodded.
Fat Cat was waiting on the landing, “Where I grew up, it was better to kill a man’s brother than humiliate the man. Death is an eye for an eye. Humiliation buys you a thousand-year vendetta.”
I thought about that. Big Jim Rackmann started humiliating in 1967. On Fat Cat’s clock, that time line wasn’t even out of diapers. Now people were dying again. Was it a new kill-off or a continuation of the old? Or was it something coming the other direction? But most of all, where did Chuck and Lucille fit?
In Fat Cat’s rental car, I dialed Yale Maywood. He sounded groggy. “Rub the sleep out of your eyes. I’ve got two words for you. Fabian Cañada.”
“You didn’t hear that from me.”
“No, why would you help?”
“You sound a little out of sorts.”
“That would be one way of putting it. You and I will handle this face-to-face someday, you pompous fuck.”
I hung up. As soon as I did, the message light came on. I called my voice mail. Jake’s voice stopped, then started a couple of times. It sounded like he was in a wind tunnel. Finally, he got it out. “Sorry, got the top down. On my way to San Diego for a depo. About that Tongan thing. What’d you call it? Protected Person. Only one of them took out papers. The wife. Did it just before they closed the program. Probably had a plan she wasn’t ready to implement and wanted to preserve her options. My guess is the husband didn’t know shit because her application said ‘Single.’
“Something else. Same week she leased the ship, she applied for and received Tongan import-export status. She was acting as an agent for some Aussie outfit called Parkinson-Lowe. Seemed odd, so I checked the laws. If you’re a citizen and licensed like she was, as long as you don’t off-load anything, your ships aren’t subject to a customs search. Any kind of search. You could sit there for years with a hold full of Peruvian Flake or hot Corvettes, and nobody’s even going to ask. How about that?”
Yes, how about that. Board anywhere in the world with Bahamian paperwork, then sail into Tonga under a law that forbade a search. And I’d be willing to bet that if you sat there long enough, the attention paid to you dropped to zero, and you could just walk off. Or on.
* * * *
26
Lofty Hotels and Air France
No one in San Francisco thinks Los Angeles is worth a pitcher of warm piss. On the LA side, no one thinks much about San Francisco at all—except to occasionally twist some NorCal tit by calling it Frisco ... or NorCal. A century ago, California was so sparsely populated that the state ran ads to lure the adventurous to cheap land, unlimited opportunity and no more winters. Many of us would like to have a chat with the guy who came up with that idea.
Today, our ever-expanding economic sunrise has been exchanged for an empty promise attached to a mountain of debt. On the plus side, we can take our driver’s license exam in thirty-two languages, which, since the courts haven’t yet mandated the same for highway signs, provides entertainment for the commuters who are not busy exchanging insurance information. Then there is the added bonus of additional cars on our leisurely roads.
San Francisco, like its two larger sisters down the coast, survives in spite of its leadership. It has been whipsawed by elected morons for so long that, other than breadlines and thumbscrews, most Soviet Russians would feel right at home. Spit-flying speeches, political purges and rampant corruption, followed by retirement to lush dachas somehow purchased on public service pay.
That said, this ever-increasingly generic world contains just five cities of such breathtaking beauty that even the heavens smile. And San Francisco is one of them. I rank it first. In hotels, it’s 1-A with London. And for quiet, personal service, the Huntington is second to none. It’s also on the highest ground in the city, so you can sip champagne in a lofty suite and commune with a view unmatched anywhere. Unless you happen to be traveling with me, who never seems to miss an earthquake. Then, the Golden Gate keeps changing windows.
Eddie, Fat Cat and I sat at my regular table in the far left corner of the Big Four dining room. We’d spent the first half hour after checking in at the bar, listening to tales of local scandals told by a most engaging white-aproned bartender named Wylie. In between, I’d given Eddie my standard lecture about not flying the BBJ alone. He’d then bullshitted me for a while about how contrite he was, then added that since the FAA hadn’t caught him,
it was almost like it hadn’t happened. You can’t argue with that kind of logic.
Now we were well into dinner and a bottle of very good Barolo, while another breathed nearby. Eddie had ignored his fish but polished off a plate of fries smothered in Heinz, then taken his wine and headed outside for a smoke. Meanwhile, Fat Cat had downed three appetizers and was tearing into a double order of truffle/lobster mac and cheese—a new one on me. I doubted Fat Cat had seen it before either, but from the sounds he was making, it was agreeing with him.
“You know an ex-lieutenant who does security for Kingdom Starr?”
“The freight outfit?”
I nodded. “Probably LAPD. Walt Disney moustache and keeps himself in pretty good shape. Doesn’t have a very high opinion of you.”
“That would take you into triple digits, but the guy you’re talking about is probably Perry Duke. Killed his partner. She somehow got between him and a carjack suspect... about a week after she told him she was pregnant with his kid.”
“A tragic accident, of course.”
“Not the term Mrs. Duke used. IA either, but the carjacker got Perry’s second round between the eyes, so the witness list was a little thin. Sorry to hear he landed on his feet.”
“He was there the night Dion got sliced. Probably set it up.”
Fat Cat was silent for a moment. “I knew my boy was holding something back. Now I know why.”
“I don’t think what happened to Dion was connected to what I’m looking into, but he should probably get a new phone. If that means you want to take a hike too, no problem.”
“And maybe miss spending some quality time with Perry? Not a chance.”
“I can’t have anything personal crop up at the wrong time.”
“Never happen. But I can’t speak for him.”
“Fair enough.”
“Dion said you weren’t much of a partner last time.”
“It was a shotgun marriage. Wouldn’t happen now. You’ll know what I know.”
“Doesn’t mean shit unless I know when you know.”
I put out my hand, and he shook it.
A few minutes later, Eddie was back. He topped off his wine, then wordlessly took an empty glass off the next table, filled it and left with both. I wasn’t particularly hungry, so I picked at a salad and ran though the Kujovic conversation again with Fat Cat. After Eddie’s second trip for two more wines, I indicated he should stay put.
“Fuckin’ doorman’s gonna wonder what happened.”
“He’s not supposed to be drinking on the job.”
“You know how miserable it is out there? Guy doesn’t even have a heater.”
“Please remind me of the last time you were concerned about somebody else’s comfort.”
Eddie leaned close. “His name’s Harvey, and he’s been here twelve years. All that time, he’s been hitting up rich guests for stock tips.”
“Did you notice he’s still a doorman?”
“That’s what I said too, then I got to thinking about how many times you hear about some working stiff leaving a wad to his fuckin’ Chihuahua. Listen to this. There’s a company right here in San Fran sucking gold out of seawater.”
“The operative word being sucking. You got extra dough, give it to your wife.”
He shook his head. “No upside. Ten bucks or ten grand, I still only get laid twice a week.”
They’d just met, but Fat Cat thought everything Eddie said was hilarious, even while he was shoveling food in his mouth. “Dion ever meet this fuckin’ guy?”
Eddie looked at me. “Jesus, boss, you know DiMooch? I’m fuckin’ nuts about doo-wop.”
Fat Cat had no idea what Eddie was talking about, but he laughed anyway. I shook my head. “Different Dion, Eddie.” To Fat Cat, I said, “Manarca’d get about halfway into his Balboa spiel, and Eddie’d ask about Stallone.”
“You’re gonna make fun, I’m gonna hang with Harvey.”
For Eddie’s benefit, I went over the events since Yale Maywood had shown up at the Sanrevelle. Some of it was a repeat for Fat Cat, but like a good cop, he listened as if he were hearing it for the first time.
When I finished, Eddie said, “Jesus Christ, boss, what the fuck’s going on?”
I didn’t have an answer.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Eddie asked.
I nodded. “We need to talk to Coggan.”
Eddie was born Edward Lafayette Bufreaux. One of the original Cajun clans from the Acadiana swamps, the Bufreauxs migrated to the Big Easy in the twenties and through hard work and harder fists, rose from fishermen to power brokers on the docks. Now, very little moved through the New Orleans waterfront that didn’t pick up several sets of the family’s fingerprints.
Like many of their relatives, as soon as they were old enough, Eddie and his two younger brothers, Jimmy and Coggan, changed their last name to Buffalo. It was easier to spell, and nobody forgot it. After a couple of lackluster years in junior college, Eddie left home to pursue flying. Few tears were shed. He’d been a difficult kid, and he was a more difficult adult. Jimmy, the middle brother, spent much of his life in one jam after another before getting things turned around. He’d died tragically the previous year on my boat. I miss him.
Coggan, the youngest Buffalo, was the biggest and most academically gifted. Powerfully built and with no concept of pain, he was a four-year defensive end at Ole Miss and an Academic All-American. But despite being on the Cowboys’ draft chart, he passed on the NFL and headed to graduate school, emerging with two doctorates: one in Asian studies, the second in space sciences.
An hour after graduation, Air Force Intelligence offered him an undercover job that sent him to the Far East for three years. He spent two more running around the U.S. fine-tuning surveillance satellites aimed at the world’s newest superpower, until returning to Mississippi as chairman of a think tank that dreams up new ways to conduct espionage.
When Coggan’s not devising electronic leashes for our future enemies, he moonlights as a bar owner. His place on the Oxford square is called Nasty’s, and I once spent an evening with him, having my eardrums numbed by Afroman, while a mountainous bouncer named Wal-Mart conducted a headlock clinic on drunk football players, Ultimate Fighter wannabes, and Sigma Chi bad boys.
Coggan had no use for Eddie, and even brief encounters often ended in violence. While he was alive, Jimmy refereed, but with him gone, Mama Bufreaux had to put Eddie and Coggan on home visit rotation! Eddie never said what the underlying problem is, just that it’s Coggan’s fault. I know them both, and I’m betting the other way. As my father used to say: Why hate strangers when you don’t have to leave the house.
“You know, you’re gonna have to be the one to call him,” Eddie said.
“First, you’re going to promise to put a screw through that tongue of yours. There are lives at stake here.”
“I’ll give it a shot, boss, but that motherfucker starts in on me, and...”
Fat Cat was tearing into something chocolate, runny and large. Without looking up, he jammed three fingers of his free hand into Eddie’s armpit and twisted. Eddie jolted upright and went white with pain. Fat Cat pulled his hand back then shot it upward again. I thought Eddie was going to pass out.
“There’ll be no trouble,” he managed to croak out.
Fat Cat withdrew his hand and continued eating with pure exhilaration. “As soon as I order another one of these fuckers, I’ll get on the horn and check out this Fabian Cañada.”
Looking at the now very docile Eddie, I made a mental note to revisit my book on nerve bundles.
* * * *
I hadn’t pulled the drapes and was awakened by a blast of San Francisco’s famous white dawn. After the previous night’s rain, the city glistened like a jewel. I had a pounding headache, and since I’d cut myself off the wine early, I diagnosed it as not having eaten enough. Fat Cat was staying with his cousin and would meet us at Happy Asia at ten. I had time for a workout.
I d
ressed in jogging clothes and walked seven blocks down Taylor, turned and ran back—hard. Running’s not my forte—I’m a swimmer—but I wanted to get the blood flowing, and Taylor is one of those streets where you expect to have to jump out of the way of a green Shelby. Straight up and straight down. When I hit California Street on the return, I resisted the urge to call for a paramedic and hung a right to the Mark Hopkins, lapped Huntington Park twice, and arrived back at the hotel with my tongue hanging out.
I could tell from the doorman’s avoidance of eye contact that he thought I was nuts. He was probably right. I showered and called Eddie. While he was getting ready, I rang Birdy. Bronis put her on the phone, and I was surprised to hear how peppy she sounded. “I figured you’d still be asleep.”