Pigs Get Fat (Trace 4)

by Warren Murphy

  Anyway, Mandy didn’t think any more of Collins than Tammy did, and she got paid for her enthusiasm.

  Mandy’s the one who told me about Collins’ run-in with the stepdaughter. Mandy keeps notes. God help us. The next thing you know the hookers of the world will invest in Apple Computers and each and every one of us will be catalogued in a whore’s memory disc somewhere. Please, whoever is listening to this, no jokes about hard and floppy. This has not been the kind of day for levity.

  Anyway, from what Mandy says, Collins was a big mouth who flashed cash and waved a black book around with all his women’s names in it. What a crock, though. As the saying goes, ‘If you’re smart, why aren’t you rich?’ Okay, Collins. If you’re irresistible, why are you paying for it?

  So a couple of months ago, Collins invited Mandy to go to Vegas. We’ll see if he spent much time there. I’m sure the guy was making a buck in real estate, and since he spent all of about two cents on the dollar on his wife and home, he dropped a bundle someplace. If you go to Vegas often enough, you’re going to come up empty, so maybe Mabley was right. Maybe there was a little fast-and-loose going on with real-estate-agency money.

  And Mandy nixed the cuff link. So who prints a note, signs it Mandy, and sends Collins’ cuff link back to his post-office box? That means something, but I’ll be damned if I know what.

  There’s no shortage of mysteries here, that’s for sure. The butterfly necklace. Chico’s probably right: that wasn’t in Collins’ hand when we saw him the first time. So how’d it get there now? I mean, somebody finds a body, sticks a piece of jewelry in the hand as a farewell gift, and then beats it without calling the cops? That really doesn’t scan.

  I have to figure something out here pretty soon. Mrs. Collins called the cops and somebody’s probably going to find him pretty soon. Certainly before he turns to farina. Thank God for Chico. If there’s an answer in here, she’ll come up with it. If you’re listening to this, Chico, I want you to know I mean it. I may razz you a lot because you’re little and yellow, and eat much too much. But you are also the smartest woman I’ve ever met in my life. Except for Mrs. Grunewald, who ran the grocery store when I was growing up.

  Trace signing off for now. Today’s expenses, travel, hookers, much food for Chico, telephone calls, many things, call it an even thousand. The Collins story may not be adding up but the charges are.

  21

  As Trace put the tape recorder away into the top dresser drawer, Chico popped back into the room.

  “Finished recording your memoirs, Casanova? My Day with Mandy, the Hooker?”

  “If I could handle Mandy and you in one day, I’d send my parts off to be bronzed.”

  Chico tossed the necklace onto the bed. “The diamonds are real. The jeweler downstairs verified it. He said they’re not high quality, but they’re real.”

  “Good work,” Trace said.

  “We’re having dinner with my mother in twenty minutes,” Chico said as she sat down and crisply opened a small notebook.

  “You need a notebook now to keep track of our dinner dates?” he asked.

  “The notebook’s for detective work, stupid. Doesn’t it look official? Just be quiet and listen. Collins used to go to the Fontana ten or twelve times a year.”

  “By himself?”

  “Usually. Or with a boom-boom girl. Never his wife.”

  “High-roller?” Trace asked.

  “A lowlife. Credit line for two or three thousand. He’d try to nickel and dime the casino with small bets, then he’d complain because everything wasn’t complimentary. He busted Anselmo’s chops once because the casino wouldn’t pick up his airfare.”

  “Then he sounds like a lot of other people,” Trace said. “Spending a little and getting the most they can for it.”

  “Except for the last time he was there. That was…” She consulted her notebook.

  “Oh, will you stop it with that notebook?” Trace said. “The next thing I know you’ll buy a freaking magnifying glass.”

  “It’s on the way up. I charged it to your room. He was there about two weeks ago, let’s see, September twenty-first weekend. Anselmo says Collins dropped twenty-five thousand at the blackjack tables in three days. The hotel comped him and it was a good thing they did because he blew his last nickel at the tables. Wipeout City. He even asked the girl he was with to hand over her necklace so he could hock it.”

  Trace turned around from the dresser where he had been stacking his tapes. “What did the necklace look like?”

  “Guess.”

  “Then…”

  “I’m way ahead of you. See, aren’t you glad I got this notebook to write everything down? Collins bought the necklace at the jewelry store in the Fontana on the first night he was there. At that point, he was small winner. Anselmo couldn’t give me a description of the woman Collins was with, but he said she was sitting alongside him, playing, so he’s got videotape with them on it from the eye-in-the-sky cameras. He’s going to get us a print.”

  Trace raised his eyebrows and sat alongside Chico on the bed.

  “You’re tough. I’ve got to hand it to you.”

  “Don’t thank me. My work carries a price.”

  Trace sighed. “My body again, I suppose,” he said. “Well, go ahead. I’ll make the sacrifice.”

  “I’ll give you my bill later,” she said. “I don’t think you’ll get off that easily.”

  She opened the door between the two rooms and said, “Get dressed for dinner.”

  Trace had a drink, got dressed, then belted down another one.

  He was drinking too much again. As much as he bitched at Chico for making him stick to wine, she was his only hope: Trace was no longer able to control his vodka intake. Not that he had ever done much controlling in the past, but his younger body was better able to withstand the assaults of the booze.

  He had always bragged of never having had a hangover but now, every morning after, his head felt stuffed with cotton balls and his mouth was an excrescence. He wasn’t as sharp as he used to be on the job. He missed things. And his temper, always short to begin with, now hovered on the edge of start-swinging fury.

  “Time to get your crap together, Trace,” he mumbled to himself in the growing darkness of the hotel room. Then he thought of having dinner again with Mr. Nishimoto, and he poured the last of the vodka into his glass. He’d get himself together tomorrow.

  He called Walter Marks at home.

  “It’s Trace.”

  “So soon? I left an urgent message only two days ago that you should call me.”

  “I’ve been busy. What did you want?”

  “I talked to Mike Mabley. He told me that you’re working on the Collins matter,” Marks said.

  “That’s right,” Trace said.

  “Why did you tell him my name was Groucho?” Marks demanded.

  “Did I do that?”

  “You did.”

  “Well, I was joking. Your friends don’t have much in the way of a sense of humor. Which is strange, considering that they’re your friends.”

  “Have you found out anything?” Marks asked.

  “Just that this is a rotten way to waste a vacation and that you’re going to pay for it,” Trace said.

  “Well, Mabley told me that you were being helpful and I wanted to thank you.”

  Trace sipped his drink before answering. “Well, Groucho, he’s been helpful too,” he said earnestly.

  “Oh? How’s that?”

  Trace tried to think of some way Mabley had been helpful. Finally, he said, “He gave me a lift in his car when it was raining.”

  “He probably just wanted you to see it,” Marks said. “It’s his pride and joy—his first Lincoln.”

  “I’m thrilled for him,” Trace said.

  “It’s useless to try to be friendly with you,” Marks said.

  “Go sit on a pickle,” Trace said.

  “You ought to say a prayer every night to Bob Swenson. If he wasn’t the pre
sident of this company, you’d be down the toilet in a minute.”

  “That’s not nice. Especially after telling Mabley that I was the best man in the business,” Trace said.

  “I never said any such thing. You must have been drinking too much as usual.”

  “You didn’t tell him that?”

  “No. I told him that you were a worthless degenerate, a drunk who spends all his time in gambling dens. That Garrison Fidelity means as much to you as the man in the moon. That you have no respect for money, especially other people’s. That Bob Swenson keeps you on the job as a personal favor. That you are usually so booze-soggled that you don’t know what case you’re working on.”

  “That all?”

  “No. I also told him that you could take every bit of dedication and loyalty in your being and stuff it into a caraway seed.”

  “Sounds about right to me,” Trace said blandly.

  “Personally, I wouldn’t hire you if you were the last insurance investigator on earth.”

  “Personally, I’m glad,” Trace said.

  Marks beat him to hanging up, so Trace was left there with the telephone in his hand. Was he really that bad a person? Was he mean, rotten, and reprehensible, the way Marks said?

  Oh, that demon rum. It was responsible for everything.

  He dialed a New York number. His father answered.

  “Sarge,” Trace said. “Am I an alcoholic?”

  “Of course you are,” Sarge said.

  “Wait, wait a minute. Don’t be so cavalier. This is a big question. Take some time before answering.”

  “Okay, son,” Sarge said cheerfully. “You tell me when time’s up and we’ll talk about something else in the meantime.”

  “All right,” Trace said. “How’s the private detecting business?” Sarge was a retired New York City policeman who, largely to get out of the house and away from Trace’s mother, had just opened a private-detective agency above Bogie’s Restaurant on West Twenty-sixth Street in Manhattan.

  “Scratching away, making a few nickels. I may have to move my office, though.”

  “Don’t do anything rash,” Trace said. “You could try sweeping it first.”

  “It’s not that. It’s the people I have to deal with.”

  “What do you mean?” Trace asked.

  “Downstairs in the restaurant. It’s turning into a zoo for whacko private eyes. They got one ex-pug tending bar and he’s supposed to be a detective. Christ, I don’t know how he got a license, but he makes Jake LaMotta look like Leonardo daVinci.”

  “So. That’s not so bad,” Trace said.

  “That’s not all of it. They got this other p.i. who comes in, and Mary, Mother of God, he sounds like Pravda. He sits at the end of the bar, waving his drink in his one good hand and spouting stuff from Karl Marx. The other night, I was listening to him and I said, ‘Workers of the World Unite, You Have Nothing to Lose but Your Chains,’ and he said, ‘Right on, Brother.’ I tell you, Trace, the neighborhood’s going down the pipes.”

  “Yeah, but the owner lets you borrow her plants to decorate that mouse nest you call an office, and the rent is right, and you’re right up above the best scungille salad in New York, so don’t be hasty.”

  “One more communist private detective and I go,” Sarge said.

  “Where’s Mother?”

  “She’s out harassing the neighbors,” Sarge said.

  “How would I find out if a privately owned company was in financial trouble?” Trace asked suddenly.

  “Talk to one of their competitors,” Sarge answered immediately.

  “Thank you. I always know where to come for advice,” Trace said. “Now, am I an alcoholic?”

  “Son, if you aren’t, you’re the only male born in our family in six generations who isn’t. Is that answer enough?”

  “I guess so. I’m thinking about quitting.”

  “Don’t do anything rash,” Sarge said.

  “It’s not rash. I’m going to quit. Thanks for talking to me.”

  “Anytime,” Sarge said.

  “Oh. And don’t tell Mother I called.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’ll expect me to do it again,” Trace said.

  22

  When Trace finally rolled into the hotel’s main dining room, Chico and her mother were already in their seats. Mr. Nishimoto’s seat, however, was empty.

  “I happy to see you, You,” Chico’s mother said. “This is very important dinner.”

  “I’m glad I came, Emmie,” Trace said. He whispered to Chico, “Where’s our friend the masher?”

  “Mr. Nishimoto’s been on his good behavior since the orange-juice thing,” Chico said. “He’ll probably be along.”

  “Good. Listen,” Trace said. “I’ve come to a decision.”

  “What’s that?” Chico asked.

  “I…” He stopped as someone stepped up to their table. It was Mr. Nishimoto, carrying a dinner napkin in both hands as if it were a king’s crown.

  Trace saw Emmie eye him cautiously, but Mr. Nishimoto bowed politely to all three of them, then carefully placed the napkin in front of Chico’s mother.

  “What’s he doing?” Trace whispered to Chico. “Why’s he giving her a napkin? Is her face dirty?”

  “It’s a present,” Chico said.

  “A used restaurant napkin? What a sport.”

  “He’s folded it into the shape of a swan. The ephemeralness of it adds to its beauty.”

  “The last of the big spenders, obviously,” Trace said.

  Meanwhile, Emmie Mangini sat stony-faced, not even looking at the napkin.

  “I don’t think your mother likes this guy,” Trace said. “Maybe I ought to show him the door.”

  “My Japanese is better than yours,” Chico said. “I’ll do it.” She cornered Mr. Nishimoto, like a ferret, Trace thought, and began talking to him in Japanese. Chico had only spoken a few words when Mr. Nishimoto blanched and Emmie crashed her open palm on the tabletop, silencing her daughter as if she had pulled the electric cord on a kitchen utensil.

  “That enough, Michiko. I speak English for not to shame Mr. Nishimoto more than you do already. Even so, I have to kill self tomorrow morning for your behavior.”

  Chico looked stunned. Trace said to her mother, “You told us this guy was a masher, remember?”

  “Other day, mash. Today, make swan. Very improvement,” Emmie said.

  Trace sighed. “You can’t argue with logic, I guess.”

  “Who Rogic?” Mrs. Mangini said. “Is Mr. Nishimoto, remember?”

  Trace smiled wanly.

  “Mr. Nishimoto is politeness, not fight with womans. Japanese way. My daughter, excuse me, she talk to him like barbarian.”

  “Must be the company she keeps,” Trace said.

  “I invite him to be at table again,” Emmie said.

  Chico said, “Please give him my apologies. Tell him I am heartbroken over my own rudeness.”

  Mrs. Mangini spoke Japanese to Mr. Nishimoto, who smiled broadly, then took his place at the table. A waiter appeared with a tray of drinks with umbrellas in them.

  Each took one and Mr. Nishimoto hoisted his glass toward Trace in salute. “To Bataan,” he said.

  “Bataan,” Trace repeated.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Chico said.

  “God breast us every one,” Mrs. Mangini said.

  Later, Chico said to Trace, “What were you going to tell me before? Something important.”

  Trace sipped his drink and said, “Forget it. Some other time.”

  Dinner passed pleasantly. Trace even enjoyed tasting some of the vaguely plasticene foods he was offered. Several umbrella drinks later, he had forgiven everybody and promised to buy cameras for all Emmie’s friends at the convention.

  He spoke continuously with Mr. Nishimoto. Since “Bataan” was the only word they had in common, it comprised their entire conversation, but it called up a wide range of emotions, from laughing to cheering and final
ly to open weeping on Mr. Nishimoto’s part. In the end, the Japanese man took out a pen and made some marks on his cocktail napkin.

  “If he’s drawing me a swan, I’m going to hit him,” Trace whispered to Chico.

  “He writing poem,” Emmie said.

  “Why? Is he going to kill himself too?”

  “Shhhh,” Chico cut in. “They’re announcing the guest speaker.”

  Two small men were sharing the microphone at the front of the room, speaking, sometimes separately, sometimes in unison. According to Chico, they were extolling the virtues of a man whose heroism was an inspiration to his country.

  “What’d he do?” Trace asked Chico.

  “He’s a businessman.”

  “I mean what made him a hero?”

  “He got rich,” Chico said. “He’s the wealthiest Japanese-American in the United States.”

  “That makes him a hero? Philistines,” Trace grumbled.

  The two men chattered on for a while longer, then bowed as the audience burst into applause.

  “I don’t believe it. All this just because some guy got rich?” Trace said to Chico.

  “Quiet,” Chico said.

  Mr. Nishimoto stood up at the table.

  “What’s with him?” Trace said.

  “Mr. Nishimoto is guest of honor,” Emmie said delightedly.

  “Him? He’s the richest Nip in the country?” Trace said.

  Chico kicked him under the table.

  Mr. Nishimoto walked to the front of the room, slowly, accepting applause. At the podium, he bowed again and then took something out of his pocket. It was the cocktail napkin he had been writing on.

  “Hey, that’s his poem,” Trace said to Chico. Mr. Nishimoto was reading. “What’s it about?”

  “Bataan,” Chico said.

  “Pffff,” Trace mumbled. “I’d rather watch a samurai movie.”

  “The poem is about his friend, a great warrior who crushed the enemy under his feet, like beetles, during that great battle.”

  There was rousing applause. Mr. Nishimoto bowed politely, then continued speaking.