The Downtown Deal

by Mike Dennis

  To Sandra — Ours is not the only great struggle for your wine. One day soon we will share a bottle.

  All my love,

  Hector.

  Funny, but my first thought was that Olivera was actually going to open and drink one of those six bottles, which, if he could pry them away from Blake, would cost him over a hundred and fifty grand apiece. That better be some fucking killer wine.

  I took the book with me, leaving the house as I found it. I got in the car, and left Beachview. On the drive back toward the city, I called Frank Madden. Fortunately, he picked up.

  "Frank, it's Jack. I just left Sandra Blake's house again. It's been completely trashed. Someone's looking for something, and they've just about destroyed her house trying to find it."

  "Oh, shit. What were they looking for, the wine?"

  Traffic on Sahara was way too thick, so I pulled off onto a cross street, swinging over toward Desert Inn Road, hoping for less start-and-stop. "You know about the wine?" I asked.

  "Colby Farrow told us about it while we were questioning him in his brother's killing. Said it's some kind of ultra-expensive stuff that Hector Olivera wants. Said he thinks Blake took it and is keeping it hidden away somewhere."

  "And why shouldn't he hide it away? It's his wine."

  "It's not the wine. It's the fact that the wine ties Olivera into this whole mess, and gives him a motive for killing both of our victims."

  I was pleased that Frank had come back to the one-killer theory. "Not only that," I said, "but they hit John Brendan Blake's house over the weekend. Same MO, same destruction, same result: no wine."

  "Jesus!"

  I turned onto Desert Inn, where things were much smoother. It relaxed me considerably. "Here's one more thing you may like. Olivera was having an affair with Sandra Blake."

  "Hot-damn! I knew it! How'd you find out? Did he tell you?"

  "Not directly. I found a book among the stuff in Sandra's house just now. It's inscribed to her from Olivera. He signed it, 'All my love'."

  "We're taking a much closer look at Olivera right now, anyway. Thanks for this info, Jack."

  "Don't mention it. Hey, have you been back to Binion's since we played together last week?"

  His voice lightened up considerably. "Yeah, I was there Saturday night. It was a pretty good game. I made about five hundred."

  "You do any good against Manny the Mexican?"

  I could hear him smile. "What do you think?"

  ≈≈≈

  As I arrived home, my cell phone rang. My caller ID revealed the Miami number which Sandra Blake had called several times from her home phone in the nights leading up to her murder.

  "Jack, this is Hector Olivera."

  "Hello, Mr Olivera. Are you still in New York?" I threw my keys on the table and went straight for the Dalmore bottle in my kitchen.

  "No. We flew to Miami this morning. We are ready for the Marlins to win the World Series in five games. Six at the most."

  I had to laugh. This guy was nothing if not optimistic. I wanted to remind him they weren't facing Cleveland this time around, but thought better of it.

  I asked him, "What's on your mind today?"

  "Jack, I must ask you … where is the wine?"

  "You mean, you must ask me after you turned two houses upside down and didn't find it?"

  "Where is it, Jack?"

  I poured a healthy shot of the Scotch. "I don't have it, if that's what you're driving at. Send a couple of your boys over to my apartment. I'm probably next up on your list, anyway. I'll be happy to show them around. Only they won't have to destroy the place. There's not much here to begin with." I headed for the living room and my welcoming couch.

  "You say you don't have it. But you do know where it is, right?"

  "Why do you think I know where it is? All I want is to find out who murdered Sandra Blake. I don't give a shit about the wine or your land or your stadium or anything else. What is it about that that you don't get?"

  "You must understand, I cannot let you stand in the way of this very complicated deal with Blake. This is progress. It will represent a very big … shot in the arm, as you say, for the city of Las Vegas. All roadblocks to that progress must be removed for the good of everyone involved."

  I paused for a moment. "You know, it was just a couple of nights ago when I was beaten up pretty badly by some guys who warned me not to help you or anyone else build a stadium here. You should meet these guys. They kind of like the idea of roadblocks."

  "You were beaten up?"

  "Two very rough guys. They cut my head open and loosened a couple of teeth. They were quite insistent."

  "Who were they?"

  "Casino thugs, I think. They don't want the Marlins here."

  "Casinos!" He spit the word out. "They can't see beyond their own slot machines. They think progress means building a bigger swimming pool behind their hotel. They have no idea what is good for this city. Don't pay any attention to them."

  I said, "That's easy for you to say. It wasn't your face that was battered."

  "This is also easy for me to say. I want that wine, and I think you know where it is."

  "What if I don't know?"

  "Then," he said, "you know where to get it."

  "What makes you say that? It's Blake's wine."

  "Yes, I know. And perhaps he has hidden it somewhere. But I am certain you know where."

  Time to shove this right back at him. "Mr Olivera, did you have Sandra Blake killed because she wouldn't give you the wine?"

  "Wha —? These wild accusations do not change the fact that I want that wine, and you can get it for me."

  I took a long, slow drink of the Dalmore. "I know you were having an affair with her. Without Ryan Farrow knowing about it. And I can prove it."

  Now it was his turn to pause. "If that is true, if we were having an affair, and I only say if, then why would I want to kill her? She was the most beautiful, most wonderful woman who —"

  "She was one of your 'roadblocks', as you put it. She was working with you to try to make a deal with Blake for his land and the wine. You probably thought about stealing it right out of her house when you found out she had it. But then you realized Blake would never sell you his land if he knew you did that, especially since you didn't have all your ducks in a row yet. So when she couldn't deliver the deal with Blake, maybe you became angry with her, or who knows? But she turned up with a bullet in her head just the same."

  "I will not sit here while you make these … these wild guesses."

  "While we're guessing, I would also guess that you got your land financing in order on Friday, and then the mayor probably assured you that the city would happily pony up its share of the money for the stadium. Now you finally had the package together, along with the blessing of the Marlins ownership. You thought that would give you the upper hand in your negotiations with Blake, so why not just grab the wine now and use the power of the city to force Blake into a deal. How's that for a guess?"

  "I don't do business that way."

  I laughed, a sardonic, one-note laugh.

  Then he said, "You think this is funny? Do you?"

  "I think you'll do whatever it takes to get your hands on that wine. That's what I think."

  "This is not even worth discussing, it is so stupid. If you think I would kill that beautiful woman — I will not discuss this any further. Just understand, Jack, that I know you can get your hands on that wine. If you get it for me, there will be a very nice bonus in it for you. If not, well …"

  "The wine belongs to Blake. You'll have to deal with him for it. I can't get it for you."

  He hung up. Fuck him.

  I emptied my glass of Scotch.

  25

  I picked up Martine at her place early the next morning, about nine-thirty. We were going to go out to Hoover Dam. Neither one of us had ever seen it. It was supposed to be a mind-blowing visual, and I heard the story behind it was powerful.

  We couldn't've pick
ed a better day for it. The sun was bright, the temperature was in the sixties, and best of all, no wind. Martine brought along a few sandwiches, as well as a bottle of her favorite wine, although we weren't sure if we could do a picnic-kind of thing around the dam. I'm not really a wine type of guy, but for an occasion like this one, I was ready to make an exception.

  I truly wanted to enjoy the day with her, so I decided not to tell her about the ransacking of Sandra Blake's house, so as not to form any clouds over our little outing. As we drove over to US 95, the freeway to Boulder City and eventually to the dam, we were in high spirits, laughing and joking the whole way.

  Once we got past Henderson, US 95 petered out into a regular thoroughfare for the final leg into Boulder City, which itself was no great shakes. Martine told me the town was thrown up fast to house the workers who built the dam back in the thirties.

  On the other side of Boulder City, with Lake Mead visible in the distance, the road narrowed to two lanes, winding downward as we approached the dam. Speed limit signs got lower and lower until they reached five miles per hour just before the checkpoint. I was told by poker players at Binion's to be ready for a long wait, because ever since September 11, the dam authorities were plenty jittery, and thorough checks of vehicles, as well as body searches, were not unusual.

  The line for the checkpoint was sort of long, but we were lucky that day. It moved pretty quickly ahead of us. When we got to the front of the line, two large uniformed guys looked at us, peered into the back seat, then stuck some kind of rod with a mirror on it under the car, looking for, I don't know, explosives, I guess. Satisfied, they waved us through.

  As soon as we got to the dam area itself, we found a parking spot, then got out to see the whole thing on foot in a leisurely manner. And it was something to see.

  One of the most overpowering structures I ever hoped to see, it boggled my imagination. How could it have been built? Who conceived it? Seven hundred feet high, the equivalent of sixty stories, and two football fields wide, with the raging Colorado River constantly pressuring it from behind, it was supposedly built to last forever. From where I stood, it certainly lived up to its billing as one of the greatest engineering accompllishments in history.

  Martine snapped lots of photos with her camera, then we just gazed at it for awhile.

  We leaned on the observation railing overlooking the whole thing, like a prime front-row balcony seat for a concert. She murmured, "I'm really glad we came here, you know?"

  I looked at her, giving her a soft kiss on the lips. Suddenly, I couldn't tear my eyes away from her, despite the gargantuan dam in the background that was urging me to do exactly that. "How is it you've never been here before? You've been in Las Vegas a lot longer than I have."

  "I don't know, I just never gave it any thought. My last … my last boyfriend wanted to take me out here, but I was, like, you know, a dam. Who cares?"

  "How about now?"

  "Oh, now, I think it's great. I can tell it's not just a dam. It makes you think. Think about the people who designed it and built it and the relentless river. It's awesome. Thank you for this."

  I took a quick look around. Lots of people with cameras and open mouths, just like us, were walking around, as well as passing cars filled with gawking passengers, slowly making their way across. It was pretty obvious, though, that there would be no place around here for us to break out the food and wine.

  My arm pulled her next to me. Her head tilted upward to catch my eyes, and she said, "Jack, tell me something."

  "Sure," I replied. "Anything." I meant it, too.

  "You told me once you didn't really have a private investigator's license. What happened?"

  This was not what I wanted to talk about. Not exactly my favorite topic. It was a jam of my own making, one I could've easily avoided. Talking about it only reminded me of my shortcomings. I took a deep breath.

  "I used to have one," I told her in a soft voice. "Then a couple of years ago, I was collecting a debt for a client out in LA. The guy who owed the money didn't think he should have to pay. My client didn't see it that way. And frankly, neither did I." I paused for another breath. "I got a little rough with him."

  "You mean, you beat him up?" I thought I caught a twinge of excitement in her voice.

  "You could say that. But you've got to understand, when you've got a situation like that, the longer he owes you money, the less he feels like he actually owes it to you. It just becomes a distant memory for him, one which, in his own mind, gradually releases him from his obligation. That's really how it works in those cases, you know? And when the guy gets to that point, the only thing that usually brings him back to reality is … well … blunt force trauma."

  "You mean, you …"

  My voice lowered to minimalize the impact of these facts. "Like I said, I roughed him up a little." Then I added, "Anyway, the guy was well-connected in LA, unbeknownst to me. Next thing I knew, the state revoked my license and the Los Angeles County DA was threatening criminal action against me. So I packed up and left town one middle of the night, and came here."

  "Aren't you afraid they'll find you here?"

  "Not really. Here, anyone can become anonymous, if you know what I mean. And they've got much bigger fish to fry back in LA."

  She snuggled a little closer. "Well, it sounds terrible. But it ended up in our getting together. So I'm glad."

  Right then and there, I was, too.

  We stayed a little while longer, then got back in the car for the forty-minute drive back to Martine's apartment. There, we polished off the sandwiches, along with the entire bottle of wine, and then she made me forget all that talk about debt collection and California lawmen.

  26

  The third game of the World Series took place in Miami, where the Yankees triumphed by another 6-1 score for a two-games-to-one lead. They had taken it to the Marlins on their home turf, dominating them the entire game. No question, the Marlins' luck was about to run out.

  About an hour after the game was over, while Martine and I were cozy on her couch, my phone rang. The caller ID pinned it on Colby Farrow.

  "What is it, Colby?"

  I could hear the anxiety in his voice. "Barnett, I was at a charity fundraiser tonight and I just got home. My condo has been ransacked!"

  "Did you call the cops?"

  "Of course! They're on their way over."

  "What do you want from me?"

  "I want to know what you know about this."

  I felt Martine's arms tighten around me before I reluctantly said, "I'll be right over. We need to have a little talk. Make sure you call down to the gate and tell them to let me in."

  "All right."

  "I'll be there in a half an hour." I glanced at Martine with an apology in my eyes.

  ≈≈≈

  The gate guard at Turnberry eyed me with great suspicion as I told him Colby Farrow was expecting me. He checked his list no fewer than three times, then asked me to spell my last name. Finally, he demanded to see my driver's license.

  At places like this, they don't take to cars like mine infecting their unspoiled surroundings. He reluctantly waved me through, telling me twice not to park in reserved spots. I selected a reserved one right next to a snazzy Ferrari. As I got out and started walking toward the building, I couldn't help but chuckle at what the Ferrari driver would think if he ever came down and saw my car next to his. It would probably mean a quick trip to an all-night car wash.

  Colby's apartment was on the fourteenth floor, high enough to be above the riffraff, but not high enough to afford the really sensational views that these condos-in-the-sky are supposed to be all about. Just knowing there are another twenty or thirty floors above you must really be aggravating to a guy like Colby. But he had just lost his brother, so I decided against making any wisecracks to him about his poor-folks location in the building.

  In the lobby, the front desk clerk insisted on knowing my intentions, so I had to go through it all over agai
n with him to clear that final hurdle. Finally, he warily granted me permission to go to the elevators. I felt like I had just passed through customs in North Korea.

  Fourteen floors later, I stepped off the elevator and found Colby's condo just two doors down. Very undesirable. Living practically right next to an elevator? People coming and going at all hours right past your front door? My goodness! I could feel my opinion of Colby revising itself, sliding downward.

  I knocked, but nobody had to answer. The door pushed open all by itself. The jamb was separating from the lock receptacle where the intruder had pried his way in. As I stepped into the luxury pad, I saw Colby in the living room with Frank Madden standing behind him, only this time Frank wasn't alone. I didn't know if the guy with him was his partner or not, but he was certainly a cop. Off-the-rack suit, cheap white shirt, skinny black tie. His average build told me nothing. Same with his dark hair and olive complexion. But his mean, dark eyes, which were too close together, tied in closely with his thin, slanted lips, which were cut across his face to give him the look of a permanent sneer.

  "Frank," I said, "what are you doing here? Isn't this something for burglary?"

  "Mr Farrow called us, Jack. He believes it's related to the murder of his brother. So we took it."

  "It's definitely related," Colby said. "They were looking for the wine!"

  "How do you know that, Colby?" I asked.

  The guy with Madden spoke up. "We'll handle this, pal."

  I checked him out. I'd never seen him before, since all my contact with Frank was either at Binion's or our private little talks like we'd been having since the beginning of this case.