Tightrope

by Teri White

  Toby went through the motions perfectly, but more and more he found himself thinking about the day very soon when he wouldn’t have to do this anymore. When he could fuck just for the fun of it.

  Which was another thing. Toby was, honestly, getting tired of sex and he wasn’t altogether sure that he would want to screw if it weren’t strictly necessary. It was like a kid being paid to eat chocolate bars and, after so long a time, if somebody wasn’t holding out the cash, he couldn’t stand the taste.

  What the hell. It didn’t really matter. Toby thought that maybe he’d just take his million bucks and his boat and go off someplace all by himself. Except maybe he’d buy a dog. Something ugly and lovable.

  He realized that time was moving and the broad in the can was starting to make getting up noises. Since he wasn’t any more eager to see her than she was to encounter him, he quickly zipped the blue wool slacks, pulled the V-neck sweater on, and slipped into the loafers. Without even taking the time to comb his hair, he grabbed the money and ran.

  Toby saw Lars before the other man spotted him. He was sitting in the hotel lobby bar, drinking a beer and eating pretzels from a wicker basket on the table.

  Wistfully, Toby thought about slipping out the side door before Lars could see him. But that would only delay the inevitable.

  So he walked over to the bar and dropped into the chair opposite Lars. It was only then that he noticed what a wreck Morgan was. Black eye, swollen lip, red nose. “Question number one,” Toby said, “is how the hell do you keep finding me?”

  Lars gave him a crooked, pained smile. “Secret of the trade, Tobias.”

  “Question number two: What the devil happened to you?”

  Lars sneezed and used a paper napkin to wipe his nose. “I have a cold.”

  “Well, that explains it. Colds always give you a black eye, do they?”

  He shrugged. “A slight altercation. Nothing to worry about.”

  “I stopped worrying about you years ago.”

  Lars gave him a dirty look, then said, “What you drinking?”

  Thinking about all the cold germs floating around the table, Toby ordered a screwdriver, hoping that the oj would protect him. He picked up a pretzel and nibbled at the salt. The pretzel itself was stale. “I assume there was a reason for this meeting?”

  “Yeah, I have an errand for you to run.”

  “What kind of an errand?” Toby asked suspiciously; he knew from long practice never to take anything Lars said completely at face value. Errand was a simple enough word, but there could be implications. With Lars, in fact, there usually were.

  “A simple little errand is all.”

  The screwdriver arrived, along with another beer for Lars.

  Toby played absently with another pretzel. “Okay. Simple. What exactly?”

  “I need you should go out to Pasadena and meet with a guy. He’s supposed to have an envelope for me.”

  “What’s in the envelope, Lars?” Toby asked gently.

  “Christ, I’m a sick man and you want all the fucking details,” Lars complained.

  Toby smiled. “Hey, man, you’d lose all respect for me if I jumped into a hole without knowing what shit I’d find.”

  Lars sipped the beer, seeming to slosh the cool liquid around his sore mouth a little before swallowing. “I don’t know exactly what will be in the damned envelope,” he admitted reluctantly. “Hopefully, though, it will be the dope we need on when and where the diamonds are getting here.”

  “Okay. So why don’t you go?”

  He touched his face. “I’m a little too well-known lately. What’s needed here is an unknown quantity.”

  After thinking about it for a moment, Toby nodded. “You know, though,” he said, “this will fuck up my perfect record.”

  “What perfect record?”

  “I’ve lived in Los Angeles for almost ten years and I’ve never been to Pasadena.”

  He pulled the modified VW, with its Rolls-Royce front end, to the curb and stared at the house. There was a for sale sign in the nearly grassless front yard and the windows were shuttered. Toby checked the address he’d scribbled on the matchbook cover. This was the place, all right. Before getting out of the car, he took one match and lit it, then ignited the rest of the book and dropped it into the ashtray, as Lars had ordered him to do.

  The action amused him and he was still smiling as he approached the front door. Fun and games.

  The whole block seemed deserted. Eerie kind of neighborhood. He knocked at the door, but no one opened it or even yelled for him to come on in. He took a chance and turned the knob. Unfortunately, the door opened. He’d been hoping to hell that it wouldn’t, so he could go back to Lars and say he’d tried, but no luck.

  He stepped inside. “Hello?” His voice echoed hollowly in the empty room. Against his better judgment, he walked through the living room, thinking that in a television cop show there would be body sprawled in the middle of the room.

  He walked into the kitchen and the body was there.

  There was a lot of blood puddled on the linoleum floor. Toby walked closer until he was staring directly down at the dead man. He looked with strange detachment at the ornate carved handle of the dagger piercing the corpse’s chest.

  A thought came that amused him again: At least Lars didn’t shoot this one.

  The amusement didn’t last long. A faint sound that had been buzzing inside his head for several seconds finally became clear. It was a siren. A goddamned siren and it was coming closer. Cops. Cops, and here he was standing over the body of a murdered man.

  Shit.

  Toby turned on his heels and ran out of the house. He headed across the yard, reaching his car at the same moment that a squad car jackknifed to a stop. Two cops jumped out and they were both pointing guns at him.

  “Freeze!” one cop yelled in his best Kojak manner.

  Toby stopped so quickly that he slipped on the damp ground and fell forward, landing in the mud.

  Damn Lars Morgan, he thought furiously, damn that bastard.

  Then he put that aside, because there was no sense belaboring the obvious. He also didn’t bother regretting the fact that he’d broken his record and come to Pasadena after all these years, just in time to be busted.

  Instead, with his face pressed into the frigging mud, he tried to figure out how the hell he was going to save his ass.

  29

  His mood was improving. At first, when they’d hit Pasadena only to find the man they were looking for dead, Spaceman got pretty grouchy. But when he found out the local cops had a suspect, although not one they were too sure of, and that they would be more than happy to have Kowalski rake him over the coals a little, he cheered up some. Now he leaned way back in the chair and stared across the table. He’d never admit it, but this was kind of fun. The chance to play hardassed cop didn’t come along so often these days. A small smile touched the corners of his mouth.

  He was playing the game not only for the obvious audience, the suspect, but also for the Pasadena dick and Maguire, who were watching through the trick mirror and listening on the box.

  Spaceman decided that the alleged perp was a pretty icy customer. He lounged in the straight-back chair easily, tanned and dressed in clothes that looked good even muddy. Not off the rack in Sears, for sure. He didn’t even seem unduly fazed by being hauled in for questioning on a homicide.

  Spaceman smiled more broadly. It was an expression peculiarly devoid of either humor or friendliness. “You wanna lose the shades, Reardon?” he said.

  Reardon took off the mirrored glasses. “’I trow that countenance cannot lie, whose thoughts are legible in the eye,’” he said softly.

  “What?”

  “Matthew Roydon, 1593.”

  “Big deal.” Spaceman glanced down at the paper in front of him. “Reardon, Tobias James,” he read aloud. “Age thirty-six. Occupation.… occupation?” He looked up. “No visible means of support?”

  “I support mysel
f. Very nicely in fact.” He smiled brightly.

  Spaceman was starting to get surly; smart asses like this guy rubbed him the wrong way. “So how do you earn all that money?”

  Reardon pretended to think about it, shifting in the chair and taking a moment to flash the grin into the mirror. He apparently didn’t want anybody thinking that they had him fooled. Or maybe he just like looking at himself. Then his attention returned to Spaceman. “I’m an escort,” he said. “A companion for the lonely. A professional gentleman.”

  Spaceman nodded. He took out his Bic and carefully printed in the word hustler in large black letters on the line provided. “I just like to have a complete picture of all my suspects,” he explained genially.

  Reardon didn’t say anything.

  “Unless you object to that word?”

  Reardon smiled again and shook his head.

  “So. To business. You want to talk to me about Pak?”

  “Who?”

  “Pak. The deceased. The dead man you were running away from when they nabbed you.”

  “Excuse me, Detective Kowalski, but did you ever stop to think that maybe I was running to try and get some help for the poor bastard?”

  “Were you?”

  “No.” The single word was said with sudden and naked honesty. “I was running away.”

  “Well, then?”

  Reardon leaned forward a little. “Well, then nothing. I mean, what would most people do if they walked in someplace and saw a body like that? I bet most others would run away, too.”

  “Maybe. But all those other folks weren’t there. You were.”

  “I can explain that.”

  The smooth bastard could probably explain away everything from the Chicago fire to Richard Nixon, Spaceman thought sourly. “I’m listening.”

  Before Reardon could begin, the door opened and Blue came in. He sat in a chair by the door, not saying anything. Reardon just glanced at him. “Okay, I was driving by and I saw the for sale sign in the yard. It looked like a pretty nice place, so I stopped for a better look.”

  Spaceman sneered. “You thinking of setting up housekeeping, are you?”

  “Why not? Everybody needs a home. I’m entitled, no matter what you might think of how I make my money.”

  Blue stirred. “So you stopped to look at the house. What happened then?”

  “I knocked. But nobody answered, which didn’t surprise me, because the place looked empty.” He paused, brushing at some of the dried mud on his pants. “So I turned the knob. What the hell, right? And when the door opened, I went in. Just to get a good look, you know? But I sure wasn’t expecting to see anything like that. Christ, I nearly puked. I mean, that guy was skewered.”

  Spaceman didn’t much like this story; he also didn’t like somebody wasting a man he was on his way to see. “You’re telling us that you didn’t know Pak at all?”

  “I did not.”

  Spaceman tapped his fingers against the top of the table impatiently. “You know a man named Hua?”

  “Hua?” After a pause, Reardon shook his head.

  “You hesitated.”

  “Hell, man, I’ve met a lot of people. I had to think.”

  “How about Marybeth Wexler?” Blue asked.

  “Huh-uh.”

  “Teddy Vacarro?” Spaceman said.

  Reardon look annoyed. “Are you planning on working your way through the whole fucking telephone directory? Sooner or later you’re bound to hit on somebody I know.”

  Blue scooted his chair a little closer. “Take it easy, Toby. One more name. Wolf. You know anybody who calls himself Wolf?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t stop to think about it that time. Why?”

  Reardon only shrugged.

  The three of them sat looking at each other for a full two minutes. Then Spaceman hit the table with his hand. “To hell with it. The Pasadena dicks don’t want you. And you’re sure as hell not doing us any good. The prints on the knife weren’t yours. Get the hell out of here.”

  Reardon unhurriedly got to his feet.

  Blue grinned up at him. “You’ll be around town, I expect, Mr. Reardon?”

  “Where would I go? My business is here.” He nodded pleasantly and left them alone in the interrogation room.

  Spaceman said a dirty word.

  30

  Lars stared at his battered face in the mirror. Real terrific. He poked three more cold capsules out of the damned plastic wrapping and swallowed them all at once, not even bothering to wash them down with water.

  He sneezed.

  There was a loud knock on the motel room door and after one more grimace at his reflection, Lars hurried to answer it. “Where the hell have you been?” he said grouchily. “I expected you back hours ago.”

  Toby didn’t answer. Instead, he pushed by Lars and stalked across the room to the bureau, which had been turned into a makeshift bar. He poured a healthy slug of vodka into a plastic cup, then downed it in one gulp. His stony gaze focused on Lars. “You bastard.”

  Lars was startled by the cold hatred in the other man’s voice. “What?”

  “Did you set me up?”

  He was genuinely bewildered, both by the question and by the terrible ferocity of the man asking it. He took a good look at Toby, the muddy clothes and five o’clock shadow. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “That guy was dead when I got there.”

  “Pak?”

  “Yes, Pak, yes. And right on cue, the pigs show up to find—surprise—Toby Reardon splitting the scene. I just love it.” He poured more vodka, but sipped it this time, still staring at him.

  “You think it was a setup? That I set you up?”

  “The thought had crossed my mind.”

  Lars shook his head. “Shit. I mean, shit, Tobias. I thought we were friends, for Chrissake. What kind of two-faced bastard do you think I am?”

  “Maybe I don’t know that as well as I thought I did. What kind of bastard are you, anyway?”

  Lars didn’t allow himself to get mad. “Okay, Tobias. Listen, just for the record, I did not set you up. Why the hell would I do something like that? We needed what Pak had. I need you.” He sneezed three times in rapid succession, then wiped his nose on a Kleenex. “We’re friends, damnit.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay? That’s all?”

  Toby shrugged.

  Lars shook his head. “I don’t suppose Pak still had anything by the time you got there?”

  “All I saw was the very long knife he had sticking in his chest.” Toby drank again.

  “That fucks us pretty good.”

  “Well, it almost got me permanently fucked.”

  “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

  Toby sat on the bed suddenly, as if very tired. “Prison life wouldn’t suit me,” he said in a slightly shaky voice.

  “Don’t worry about it. I take care of my men, right?”

  “Right, yeah.”

  “You didn’t tell the cops anything, did you?”

  “Of course not. I made out like an innocent passerby. But I’m not sure they bought it.” He sipped vodka. “They threw some names at me.”

  “Names?”

  “Hua. Some broad. That dago you blew away. What’s that all about?”

  “Nothing important.” Lars paced the room.

  “They also asked me if I knew anybody named Wolf.”

  He stopped. “They did? Damn the bitch.” His head was beginning to pound again. “Tobias, never trust a woman.”

  “I never would. So what happens next?”

  “More work. I have to track down an alternate connection. Don’t worry about it; I’m covered. We’re covered. It’s just that time is running out so damned fast.” He walked over to the bar and poured himself a drink. “To success,” he toasted.

  Toby nodded. “And by the way,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “Thinking that you set me up.”

 
; “I don’t treat my friends that way.”

  “Okay, okay. I was just ticked off.” He smiled. “You have a lot of friends, do you, Wolf?”

  Lars sat on the other end of the bed and swallowed whiskey. “Well, counting you, which I’m not so sure is a good idea, and counting Dev, the final number comes to about two.”

  Toby snickered.

  Lars stared at him. “And what about you, Tobias?”

  After a moment, he shrugged and changed the subject.

  31

  “It’s Christinas Eve, you know. Some of us have things to do.” Spaceman had been bitching for an hour, ready to leave the office.

  Blue didn’t even bother to look up from the report he was reading. “So go,” he said. “Nobody has you cuffed to the damned chair.”

  But Spaceman didn’t get up. He had one foot propped against the desk and he used it to swivel his chair back and forth slowly. “What about you?”

  “I’m waiting for a call.”

  Spaceman didn’t say anything.

  Finally Blue closed the file. “I asked Randolph to do some more checking on that guy Reardon. Maybe he’ll get back to me with something.”

  “Tonight? I doubt it. And whatever he might get will still be here after Christmas.”

  “Look, Lainie is waiting for you. Go.”

  Instead, Spaceman lit a cigarette. “You still getting those phone calls?”

  Blue shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  “Any idea yet who it is?”

  “I’m working on it.” The tone was dismissive.

  “Be careful,” Spaceman said flatly.

  After a moment, Blue nodded.

  The phone rang shrilly and he grabbed it. “Maguire here. Yeah, Randolph, what’d you get?” He listened for a moment, frowning. “Okay, you’ll keep on it? Thanks. Yeah, same to you.” He hung up.

  “Well?”

  “He couldn’t get any details, because of the damned holiday, but he did find out one interesting fact.”

  “Which is?”

  “That Reardon was in Nam. In the Special Forces.”

  Spaceman lowered his foot to the floor. “Just like Wolf in the picture, right?”