Tightrope

by Teri White

  “What?” he said dumbly.

  Lars gave his shoulder a painful squeeze. “No matter what happens, you never say one word about who did it. Never. They can’t touch you. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Toby knew what was going to happen when Lars took out his own gun and pressed it to the back of the man’s head. The crack of the shot barely even made him jump. It was scary to realize how familiar this was all becoming. Very scary, and by the time they were back to the car, Toby was shivering uncontrollably.

  Lars got behind the wheel.

  Toby felt like an ass, but he couldn’t stop shaking. “Damn,” he said through chattering teeth. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

  Lars didn’t start the car. Instead, he turned and looked at Toby. “Take a couple deep breaths,” he said. “Slow, careful, steady.” His voice was quiet and kind, an absurdity coming from a man who seconds before had committed still another cold-blooded murder.

  Toby tried to take the advice. The first few breaths he took were raspy and shaky, but then he seemed to get control again. The air came more easily.

  “Better?” Lars said.

  “Yeah, I think.”

  “Okay. It’s been a long time for you, I know.” He turned the key in the ignition. “By the way, thanks.”

  Toby just looked at him.

  “For saving my ass.”

  He leaned against the car door and closed his eyes. “Just repaying an old debt,” he said. “From that day in DaNang.”

  42

  Blue received the information back from Social Security in record time, with no explanation for the unprecedented promptness. Maybe it was because he hadn’t gone through the regular channels; he’d just gotten in touch with a guy who used to work for the old man and who was now a government appointee. Sometimes it paid to be somebody.

  On his way back to the squad room, where he was definitely not somebody, Blue checked over the list of four names. He zeroed in on one immediately: Danny Morell, of Detroit. Motor City, had to be it. He tried to remember Morell and finally managed the vague image of a stocky, dark man with a ready grin.

  He reached the desk.

  Much as he wanted to pursue this, it was time to work now. It was more important to find Wolf and his friends than to track down an old war buddy. Blue folded the paper and put it into his shirt pocket. He held up the new teletype sheets. “Some more dope from our friends in the Pentagon,” he said.

  Spaceman grunted, busy removing the cellophane from a sticky jelly doughnut.

  Blue sat, looking at him. “Thought you were going to lose fifteen pounds.”

  “Ten. Ten pounds. Besides, it’s not New Year’s until tomorrow at midnight.”

  “Hmmph.” Blue was reading the memo from Washington. “Lars Morgan was kicked out of the Special Forces for ‘exceeding standard operating procedures.’ I guess that means he was too violent even for them. Can you imagine?”

  Spaceman licked a finger thoughtfully. “All it really means is that he was too good at his job. He did what they wanted done, what the motherfuckers taught him to do, and when things got messy, they bailed out on him.”

  Blue frowned. “For some reason, you keep sounding sympathetic to this bastard.”

  “No, not sympathetic. Just honest. Can you deny the truth of what I’m saying?”

  “I guess not.” He looked at the paper again. “Sergeant Tobias Reardon testified for Morgan at the hearing, but it didn’t help. Since then, Morgan’s been reported to be working as a mercenary in various trouble spots around the world.”

  Spaceman finished the doughnut. He snickered. “So he took the recruiting ads seriously. He joined the service and learned a skill.”

  “Seems like.”

  “No wonder the bastard is running circles around a couple of dumb cops like us.” The phone rang. Spaceman grinned. “Right on time.”

  “You’re a son of a bitch, Kowalski.”

  “Yeah.” He picked up the receiver. “Kowalski. What?” He listened for a moment, then grunted in response, and hung up. “Guess what?”

  Blue threw the teletype down wearily. “Don’t tell me.”

  “Okay,” Spaceman said agreeably. “I’ll let you see for yourself.”

  He didn’t like what he saw at the abandoned fish market. This guy Morgan or Wolf, whoever the hell, was playing havoc with the damned crime statistics for the year. It was possible he had killed just one of the two dead men, but Blue wasn’t ready to believe that.

  They didn’t stay around the murder scene very long. The next stop was even less pleasant: They had to go across town to the Viet refugee center to tell Angel Tran that her brother Phillipe was dead. Maybe this time she would show a little more interest in the case, Blue thought bitterly.

  Then he felt bad about the thought.

  But still.…

  Miss Tran was obviously annoyed when she looked up from the typewriter and saw the same two cops standing in front of her desk. “What is it this time?” she said with forced politeness.

  Blue told her, bluntly.

  Her beautiful and closed face just closed a little more. She didn’t say anything.

  Spaceman leaned one hip on the edge of the desk. “Do you have any idea what your brother was into, Miss Tran, that might have led to this?”

  She shrugged. “Phillipe sold vegetables.”

  “Nobody put a bullet in your brother because the eggplant wasn’t fresh,” Spaceman said sharply. “There must be something else.”

  Miss Tran was playing with a bottle of White-Out correction fluid. “Phillipe was into the California version of the American dream, Detective Kowalski. He wanted to get into the fast lane and make it big.”

  “How was he planning to do that?” Spaceman asked.

  “I do not know.” Her voice was flat.

  He glanced at Blue, who shrugged, and said, “We’ll probably be in touch. You’ll have to go down and identify the body.”

  “I can do that.”

  They started for the door.

  “I’m the last one left,” she said suddenly.

  Blue stopped. “I’m sorry?”

  “My father died in Saigon and my mother on the boat coming over. Now that Phillipe is gone, I’m the last one left of my family.”

  “That’s too bad,” he said. “You ought to think about helping us find whoever killed your brother, maybe.”

  She only looked at him.

  Spaceman was waiting on the porch. “Nobody will tell us anything,” he said. “Have you noticed that?”

  “I’ve noticed. It’s as if there’s a big secret that everybody knows but you and me.”

  Spaceman seemed to resist visibly the urge to kick the step as they headed toward the car.

  43

  Lars had been chewing on the pencil for almost an hour. There were little flecks of yellow paint around his mouth. So far, he hadn’t written a word on the motel stationery on the desk in front of him.

  No one had said anything in all that time. Toby was stretched out on one of the beds, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Devlin was in a chair, feet propped on the desk, watching Lars destroy the Ticonderoga number two.

  “Tran and his bunch tried to screw us,” Lars finally said around the pencil. He made it sound like a big announcement.

  “Agreed,” Toby said to the ceiling. “Actually, though, Lars, I could have told you that a long time ago.”

  Devlin didn’t say anything.

  “I don’t want us to have anything else to do with those Saigon scumbags.”

  “Smart decision,” Toby said dryly. He seemed perversely determined to aggravate Lars. An old game with him.

  Lars took the battered pencil out of his mouth and pointed it at him. “Are you interested in taking charge, sweetheart?” he said.

  Toby raised a hand in mock surrender.

  “I think,” Lars continued after a moment, “that we’ll try the other side of the street. Before we start trying to fence
the damned things ourselves.”

  Devlin cleared his throat. “When you say the other side of the street, what you mean is Delvecchio, right? You’re going to try and sell the diamonds directly to him.”

  Lars smiled, a teacher proud of a bright student, and tossed the pencil into the air, catching it again. “Bingo.”

  Toby sat up, pulling both knees to his chest and resting his chin on them. “Are you under the impression that Delvecchio is a fan of yours? Or that you can trust him any more than you could Tran’s group?”

  “No, Tobias, I’m not that fucking naive. But there is one crucial difference.”

  “Which you will now tell us.”

  “Tran and his friends were amateurs. Lousy amateurs. They didn’t know shit about the real world. Tran never understood the subtleties of a deal like this.”

  Toby snickered. “And you think that Delvecchio, the fucking godfather for Chrissake, is a subtle man?”

  “I think that he understands a business deal.”

  Unexpectedly, Toby shrugged his agreement. “Okay. We don’t have anything to lose. It can hardly get worse.”

  Lars didn’t comment on that. He just looked at Devlin; apparently this was a democracy where everybody got an equal vote.

  “Whatever,” Devlin said. He shook his head, smiling faintly. “I’m way out of my depth here. You two are the soldiers. I just take pictures, remember?”

  “How do we reach Delvecchio?” Toby said.

  “We don’t,” Lars replied. “Nobody reaches Papa D. What we do is put ourselves in a position to be reached by him. I have a feeling it won’t be hard to do.”

  “Sort of like pretending to be a duck in a shooting gallery, right?”

  Lars only smiled. “Time to draw straws again, lads. Somebody has to stay here with the goodies and the other lucky bastard gets to come play duckie with me.”

  Devlin brought his feet to the floor. “I’ll go this time. Toby can babysit the glass.”

  Lars nodded, showing neither pleasure nor otherwise with the choice, then he picked up the Styrofoam bucket and headed for the ice machine.

  Toby uncurled from his place on the bed. “You get off on providing target practice for the dagos, buddy?”

  Devlin shrugged. “Things are crazy, Toby.”

  “True.”

  “I think we’re either going to get very rich here or else the whole thing is going to fall apart in a big hurry. If that happens, I think I’d much rather be right in the front line.”

  Toby nodded, understanding.

  “You’re telling me that the Mafia really comes here?” Devlin said. “I mean, it looks like something out of a gangster movie.”

  Lars was eating a plate of ravioli. “Bad movies are sometimes more like real life than good ones.” he said.

  The restaurant had a lot of brass and wood and private booths. Most of the customers were men in dark suits. Devlin, who couldn’t seem to find an appetite, was drinking a glass of the house red.

  Lars put down the fork and took a sip of beer. “You scared?” he asked suddenly.

  Devlin looked up, startled. “No. Yes.” He shrugged. “I guess so.”

  “Good. Only an idiot wouldn’t be scared, and I never thought you were stupid.”

  “You seem cool enough.”

  “Ha, don’t let this Mike Hammer exterior fool you. I’m not all that brave, either.”

  Before Devlin could say anymore, they were joined by another man, a skinny, ferretlike individual in khaki pants and a Hawaiian shirt. “We got some special offerings in the private dining room, if you gentlemen would come with me.”

  They looked at one another, then stood simultaneously. The ferret took them through the hot and noisy kitchen, into a much smaller room. This one was empty, except for a single wooden table and two chairs. One of the chairs was occupied by Delvecchio. On either side of him were two of the Cro-Magnon types who had come to Toby’s boat on Christmas.

  Lars sat in the empty chair without waiting for an invitation to do so. He relaxed, legs crossed, and lit a cigarette. Devlin stood next to him. As always, when he didn’t have a camera to hold, his arms seemed to be useless, awkward appendages.

  Delvecchio was eating a bowl of oatmeal. “My gut,” he said in apparent explanation. “Shot to hell.”

  “Too bad,” Lars said indifferently.

  The old man took another bite of the cereal and very carefully licked the spoon clean. Then he set it down. “I am tired of having to deal with you, Wolf. There will be no dialogue. You have certain items that rightfully belong to me. I want them back.”

  Lars smiled brightly. “Terrific. All you need to do is pay me four million dollars and we never have to see each other again. Believe me, I’m just as tired of you as you are of me.”

  Devlin watched, as always, in a sort of awe at the way Lars handled himself. The bastard was one hell of a performer.

  Delvecchio, however, didn’t seem much impressed. “I seen a lot of tough guys like you over the years,” he said, folding the linen napkin. “All chutzpah and no smarts.”

  “Takes no brains to have balls,” Lars said. “Balls is gentile talk for chutzpah. I may have no smarts, Papa, but I have got your fucking diamonds, right?”

  “You really expect me to pay you for something that is already mine by rights?”

  “I could always put them on the open market.”

  “You could do that,” Delvecchio agreed. “Of course doing it might get you killed.”

  Lars smiled. “Walking across Sunset could get me killed.”

  Delvecchio was quiet for a moment. “We both seem to be in a touchy situation,” he said finally.

  Lars nodded. “Look,” he said, “I don’t want to be an ass about this. Why don’t I give you a break? Three million and the stones are yours. Is that a bargain or what?”

  The old man thought about it. “I’ll be in touch,” he said.

  “Soon,” Lars said. “How about within twenty-four hours? You meet my price by then or the diamonds will go to the highest bidder.”

  Delvecchio almost smiled. “You’re one for the books, Wolf. I begin to think that maybe you’re working for somebody else. If I knew for sure, and who that somebody might be, perhaps you might be dead already.” He waved a hand impatiently.

  That seemed to end the meeting and the geek in the Magnum PI shirt showed them out.

  Devlin parked directly in front of their room, sliding in next to Toby’s VW. He didn’t say anything and neither did Lars, who knocked on the door so that Toby could take the chain off.

  A sound came from inside the room, not the chain sliding from the door, not anything that they could identify. But it was not a good sound. “Oh, shit,” Lars said quietly. When he tried the knob and it turned easily, he said it again, more softly, more savagely.

  Devlin wanted to stop him. He didn’t want to see what was on the other side of the door, but Lars gave a push and they stepped in.

  The room was a shambles, torn up, every damned thing seemingly destroyed. Lars expelled his breath in a loud sigh. They picked their way through the rubble carefully, moving toward the bathroom.

  Toby was in there.

  Devlin thought at first that he was dead, like all the others, and he was only surprised at how unsurprised he was. Sudden and violent death seemed to be the natural order of things now.

  But finally the bloody form moved a little, groaning, the same sound they had heard from outside the room. Lars moved quickly to the toilet tank, the top of which was in pieces on the floor, and peered in hopelessly. The diamonds were gone, of course. Then he came to help Devlin lift Toby and carry him back into the bedroom, where they lowered him carefully onto one of the ravaged mattresses.

  Toby seemed more alert by this time. His head tossed restlessly from side to side. “Fuckers,” he said in a thick voice. A thin trail of spittle and blood ran out of his mouth when he talked. “… fuckers messed up my face … can’t make money without my face … goddamn
them …”

  Devlin went back into the bathroom, pulled a towel from underneath a pile of stuff, and wet it in the bathtub. He returned to kneel on the mattress and began to wipe Toby’s face. “I don’t think anything’s broken, Toby,” he said reassuringly. “You’ll be okay.”

  “My face?”

  “It’s okay, really. That perfect profile is still there.” He ran both hands over Toby’s body, noticing when the other man flinched. “You might have a cracked rib, though.” He lifted his head and looked at Lars.

  He was standing in the middle of the room, staring around as if the destruction of the motel room also meant the end of much more. Then he shrugged and straightened his shoulders. “Clean the bastard up,” he said wearily. “I’ll go across the street to the drugstore and get what you need.”

  “He probably needs a doctor.”

  “Huh-uh. Unless he wants us to just drop him at the emergency room and take off.” It was a question directed at Toby himself.

  The bloodied form raised itself a little from the mattress. “Hell, no,” he said. He spit blood. “I want those fuckers. They took our diamonds and they did this to me. I want them, damnit.”

  “Who?” Lars said softly.

  Toby wiped at the mucus dripping from his nose. “It was the goddamned Viet mafia.”

  “Who else?” Devlin said. “You know what we are, Lars? Just a goddamned Ping-Pong ball for Delvecchio and Tran’s people to hit back and forth. And in case you don’t know it, the bloody ball never wins the game, mate.”

  Lars just shrugged and started for the door.

  “Lars?” Toby said.

  He paused. “What?”

  “I’m sorry about the stones.”

  Lars kicked a shattered chair leg out of his path. “Don’t you worry, Tobias,” he said in an icy voice. “We’ll get the diamonds back. And we’ll put their frigging balls in the wringer for what they did to you.” He looked at Devlin. “Get ready to split. Soon as we have him patched up, we better look for a safe place to stay.”

  “Is there one?”

  Lars smiled, although his eyes were empty of expression. “Sure, lover. You’re safe with me.”