The Vig dh-2

by John T Lescroart

  "I heard you," Abe said. He hit another light. "Here's the thing, Diz. I'm following the thread of who was there. Baker, okay. But he's on the shelf, for the time being, anyway. For a while there we thought it might have been Ray, but I believe Ray. Rusty was schtupping Maxine. You believe that?"

  Hardy nodded.

  "Okay. So now we've got Hector Medina and Johnny LaGuardia."

  "Hector was on the barge?"

  "He's says not. He worked a double. But hey, since it seems to be our day to be thorough, and we're going right by there anyway…"

  The Sir Francis Drake hadn't changed much in the week since Hardy had last been there. A plaque read 'Security' on a door on the third floor at the end of a long hall of doors.

  Hector was sitting at his desk, reading a newspaper.

  He didn't have any outer office, much less a secretary. Glitsky and Hardy pulled up a couple of wooden chairs.

  "I don't know if you'd heard," Abe said. "Treadwell's in the can, or was as of this morning."

  Hector's hands were crossed over the newspaper. "Yeah, Clarence called with the good news." He looked at Hardy. "I thought you weren't on the force."

  "Just spending the day with my buddy Abe."

  "The funny thing is," Abe said, ignoring the exchange, "in the course of clearing Clarence and Mario you'll never guess what came up."

  Hector looked at his hands.

  "He's not guessing," Hardy said.

  "You're not here for that? The dog thing." He turned his hands up. "C'mon, you guys. I put a little fear of God in him. And it worked, right? What's the deal?"

  "I guess the deal," Abe said, "is that my friend Hardy here and I were talking about Rusty Ingraham and it came up how you treat people you don't like. You didn't like Rusty much, am I right?"

  "What are you saying?"

  "I'm saying it doesn't seem to go with your personality, with how you do things, that you would call up Rusty and just get cold feet and hang up. It seems more like, if you had a message for him, you'd go see him."

  Medina pushed back a ways from his desk. "I never really had a message for him. Not like I did with Treadwell. I realized that when I called him."

  "You still say you never saw him?"

  "Not in a lot of years. Not to say if I would've I wouldn't have kicked his ass." He got further out from his desk and put his feet up, crossed. It was a good casual posture, maybe even rehearsed. His hands were crossed on his stomach. "If this is about Rusty getting it, I told you I worked a double that night. You can look at the log."

  "No, thanks. I'm sure it says that in the log."

  "So give me a break. What do you want?"

  "You know Johnny LaGuardia, Hector?"

  "Sure. Everybody knows Johnny. What's he got to do with this?"

  Hardy leaned forward. Abe stood up, cracked his back and asked Hector if he could have a cup of coffee from the pot going by the window. Pouring, he turned to Hardy. "How's this sound, Diz? Hector calls Rusty to set up some meeting so he can kick his ass. Rusty's on a roll, having just collected some big money on insurance. He rubs that in Hector's face."

  "What are you talking about? What big money?" Hector's feet were on the floor now.

  Abe kept it up. "So Hector calls his good friend Johnny LaGuardia-"

  "I didn't say he was my good friend, I just know the guy-"

  "-and tells him there's a wad of cash in it for him if he goes over and does Rusty. How's that sound?"

  "I like it," Hardy said. "My girlfriend can dance to it. I give it a nine."

  Glitsky turned to Medina. "How 'bout you, Hector? That about how it went down?"

  Medina had pulled back up to his desk, his hands again crossed over the newspaper. "You got a warrant, sergeant?"

  Abe looked at Hardy. "You got a warrant? I don't have a warrant."

  "Tell you what," Medina said. "You come back when you got a warrant. I'll show you the log that says I worked here the whole night. I haven't seen or talked to Johnny LaGuardia in like six months and I didn't send him nowhere." He nodded. "Go find yourselves another patsy. Nice talking to you both."

  "I don't think he was sincere," Hardy said.

  "About what?"

  "About how it was nice talking to us."

  Glitsky slammed his car door and put the key in the ignition. "Some guys don't have a sense of humor."

  "So where to?"

  The late-afternoon traffic was not moving well. They waited, windows rolled down, for a break when the light changed up at the corner behind them.

  "You know Johnny LaGuardia?" Abe asked.

  "Nope."

  "Well, he works for Angelo Tortoni…"

  "I don't know Angelo either."

  Abe pulled out, tires squealing. "LaGuardia might be the man, even if he wouldn't have shot anybody with a twenty-two under normal conditions. Could be Ray Weir's gun was there, he figured what the hell, it would throw somebody like me off the track."

  "Somebody like you?"

  "You know, a trained investigator with years of experience."

  "Oh, that you."

  Glitsky drove.

  "So where are we going? LaGuardia have an office he works out of?"

  "No, but Tortoni does. Though he's probably gone home by now. I think I'll see him tomorrow. No point in going by his home, not without a warrant."

  "Everybody wants a warrant."

  "We live in a picky world."

  They were crossing Market now, going south. Hardy caught a whiff of Chinese food, a glimpse of some rappers putting it out to passers-by. The sun was low but still hot, casting long shadows.

  "You realize," Abe said, "we're back to the vig."

  Hardy squinted at the sun, came back to Glitsky. "Seems like. You think Rusty got caught in the squeeze?"

  A nod. "How's this? Rusty had been light on his vig for a while, and maybe Johnny covered for him a few weeks, floated him on his own, knowing this big insurance payment was coming, maybe setting up his own client base. But Johnny gets there and something goes wrong-Maxine doesn't go along, Rusty's already blown it at the track, whatever."

  "Or," Hardy said, "Johnny sees the money and an easy way to walk with all of it."

  Abe's scar tightened across his mouth. "Okay, and this is better. Johnny goes, collects his regular vig, and Rusty's bragging about how he's able to pay, he's fat city now. From what you heard about him, that's the way he was, right?"

  "Yeah. When he was flying he flaunted it."

  "And he was flying. So he tells Johnny all about it. Pays him with cash, of course, and maybe Johnny sees the roll, or figures there's more on board. He goes outside, waits around, figuring he'll toss the place next time Rusty goes out. But instead, Maxine shows up. He gives them a half hour, sees the bedroom lights go on and off and on, maybe looks in and sees them counting money, breaks in the door, blam, blam, grabs the stash, adios."

  "And the brace?" Hardy hadn't bought the explanation from the night at Weir's.

  "Maybe they were celebrating. Maybe she puts it on one last time while they count the money it brought them." He looked at Hardy. "I said maybe."

  "Lots of times," Hardy said.

  "Granted."

  "And Hector?"

  Glitsky shook his head. "That was fishing. Hector's right. Johnny gets around. Everybody does know him."

  "And Louis?"

  They were pulling into the parking lot at County General. "Louis probably doesn't know what he knows, but another big maybe seems to be he did it." Abe pulled the parking brake, turned toward Hardy. "He was there, he had a motive, and there was a weapon. The trained detective tries to remember these things. Motive, means, opportunity. Detecting One-A."

  In the parking lot there was a strong smell of hot tar.

  "So what's all this other bullshit we've been doing all day?"

  Abe stopped. "This isn't bullshit. This is covering the bases, which is what we do. We nail it down. We find out where everybody was and what they were doing. We eliminate
reasonable doubt-"

  "So you think Baker did it?"

  "I think he's a real suspect. Would you let him go right now?"

  "No."

  "Well, there you go."

  "But that's because he was coming after me. It doesn't mean he killed Rusty."

  "Guess what?"

  "What?"

  "You want to get technical, Rusty being dead is still an open question."

  Louis Baker wondered for a minute if he were dead. If he was, then this certainly be Hell.

  Half-open eyes seeing the Man and Hardy standing by the end of the bed, arms crossed, studying. A phlegmy cough rumbled up from somewhere inside him, half smothered, and seemed like to rip his lung-the one already got a bullet through it-seem to rip that lung further apart. His throat burned inside, and the slight movement of the cough made him feel the abrasion on his neck. He went to reach his hand up and found this time that he was strapped to the bed, hands to his sides.

  The Man say, "Louis, you hear me?"

  He tried to open his eyes further. There was a crust over them that made it seem too much effort.

  "I think he's out."

  "Louis," the Man repeat. Same quiet voice. What they gonna do to him now ain't been done? He tried his eyes again.

  They seemed to have moved closer, Hardy hanging back maybe a step, the Man-mean scar through his mean lips top to bottom, hovering over, the devil himself.

  "You want some water?"

  The Man held a glass to his lips and tipped it up. "Slow now."

  Shit burned. Everything burned down there. Then, another hit, getting a little better. He held the water in his mouth, letting it drip back down his throat. Swallowing was where the pain came in.

  "Can you talk?"

  Some kind of laugh started but it hurt before it got too far. He tried to shake his head.

  "But you hear me?"

  He opened and closed his eyes. Man want to talk all the time, and Louis don't got nothin' to say. Just want to get out, get back to home turf.

  Another sound, he look out again. Woman in white saying he's under heavy sedation now, perhaps they'd like to come back tomorrow.

  Maybe she been here all along, other side the bed. He felt something cold on his forehead, good. White woman in white. She got good hands, some kind of towel.

  The Man stepping back. "What are his chances?"

  "Barring complications, he ought to be okay in a few weeks. Able to talk-much better than now-in a couple of days."

  "I guess it'll keep."

  Another voice, then, Hardy. "Can he talk at all?" Seeing him over the woman's shoulder, hovering. "I just need a word or two."

  Now close up, like before. "Louis," he saying, "you don't like me and I don't much like you either, but I don't think you killed Rusty Ingraham, you hear me?"

  Yeah, he hear that. Where that shit come from now? Why he in here they think that? How long they been thinking it?

  He opened his eyes as far as he could and looked at the man. Least he don't look like the devil, like the other one do.

  "Wha…" he started to say. Croaking.

  "He wants water." The nurse, watching out for him.

  But no, man, what he saying is asking "what?" But he takes the water.

  Hardy back at him. "You told me about Rusty driving you to his place, you remember that?"

  The eyes half close, call it a nod.

  "The car you guys drove in-you remember what color it was?"

  It come down to this shit? What kind of games these honkies playing?

  He opened his eyes again. Everything foggy. His lung hurting, his throat sore. Hardy, though, focused, right in his face.

  Louis took in a labored breath. What the hell? Nothing to lose. "Blue," he said.

  And it brought on a cough again.

  The Man saying, "Come on, let's go."

  Then they gone.

  It might have been a lucky guess…

  You could throw darts and reach this Zenlike stage of pure contemplation, or you could sit with a bunch of regulars at the bar of the Shamrock and drink four Irish whiskeys. Poured by Lynne and then Moses, call it the equivalent of six.

  When Hardy had come in at six-thirty things hadn't yet picked up. Lynne Leish was still tending, working overtime because of Hardy's vacation, and he'd taken what he hoped was some good-natured abuse about his lifestyle, time off, pursuit of his other interests.

  Then Moses McGuire coming on seven to two, taking ten with Hardy in a different vein.

  The two guys, best friends, co-owners of the bar, shared a postage-stamp table back over by the dart boards. Hardy was working on his first Irish, Moses as always went with his single malt, The Macallan.

  "So do I have to ask?"

  Hardy again remembered pulling Moses, his legs shot up, out from enemy fire, picking up some lead in his own shoulder in the process. Moses hiring him when he'd changed careers after the death of his son.

  "I'm not playing any games with her, if that's what you mean."

  "If I thought that, your face would already be broken."

  Moses had no fear of a fist in the face. You run an Irish bar, even if you're a Ph.D. in Philosophy, as Moses was, it comes with the territory. His own nose, he said, liked to get rearranged once a year whether it needed it or not.

  "I don't know. Something's happening. I don't think she knows exactly either. She call you?"

  "No. I called her. Goes four or five days I don't hear from her and I start to worry."

  The Mose had raised his sister from the time she was ten.

  Hardy knew Moses only cared deeply about ten things in the universe, and eight of them were Frannie.

  "So what'd she say?"

  "That you were hiding out there a while." Moses leaned forward, elbows on the tiny table. "But I don't know, something about the tone."

  Hardy finished his drink, deciding the night wouldn't be one of pure reason, and signaled Lynne to bring over another round. He put his index finger in the new drink, stirring.

  "Anyway," Moses said, "it came out."

  "What do you want me to say?"

  "I don't know, Diz. She's my baby. I still have a hard time thinking of her as all grown up, which I also know she is." The lines deepened around his already sunken eyes. With his black beard shot now with gray, Moses was Hardy's vision of God before he got real old. He shrugged. "It just worries me. I don't want to see her hurt anymore."

  "I'm not gonna hurt her, Mose. Whatever comes down, that's not happening."

  "I mean, I think she probably wants what she had with Eddie-plans and family stuff. A man comes home every night."

  "Maybe she wants that. I don't think she's very sure what she wants."

  "She wants the baby. I think she wants a father for the baby."

  "Eddie was the father, Mose. Nothing is changing that."

  "You know what I mean."

  Hardy knew. He sipped some whiskey. "She'll likely let me know when she figures it out."

  "And then what?"

  "Then I figure it out. And then it moves ahead, or it doesn't, right? Nothing got planned here, Mose. It just happened. It's real good, but Frannie doesn't know where she wants to take it, and I'm not sure either. I don't know where Jane fits in. I'm a mess. What can I tell you?"

  Moses tipped his glass up. It was getting on to seven and he knew Lynne wanted to go home. "You can tell me when you're coming back to work," he said. Then, standing, starting for the bar, "I liked you better when you weren't dating…"

  Now, three hours later, well into a pretty serious right-brain workout, Hardy tapped the bar gently with another empty glass. He sat at the front now, near the window, and Moses would come down and sit on his stool behind the bar whenever there was a lull.

  "It probably was just a lucky guess."

  "Yeah, I guess there aren't that many colors to choose from."

  Moses hit him again, lots of ice, half a shot. Nurse 'em.

  "Hardy," he said, leaning over, ta
lking quietly, "you and I know for a fact that there's only three colors anybody ever mentions. Watch this."

  Moses walked the length of the bar, maybe a dozen customers on stools, drinking, talking, making the moves. He put a fresh napkin and a pencil in front of each one. "Kind patrons," he said, loud, the gregarious bartender, "listen up a second. Free-drink contest." As always, it got their attention. "Quick, don't think, write down the first color comes to your mind. Quick!" He was already picking up the first napkins.

  "Who wins the drink?"

  "Hold on, hold on."

  He was back down by Hardy. "Okay, you be the impartial judge."

  "McGuire, what's the contest? Who gets the drink? Anything we want?"

  "Seven blues, four greens, two reds," Hardy said.

  Moses held his hands up. "Sorry," he announced, "nobody wins, but thanks for playing."

  "That's not a fair contest," one of the women complained. "What were we going for?"

  "Anything but blue, red, or green would have gotten the drink," Moses said.

  As the mumbling died down, a couple of people saying they were going to pick yellow, Moses told Hardy you occasionally did get a yellow.

  "Well, that was sure a good time," Hardy said, "but the point?"

  "The point is your man Baker had a good chance of saying blue even if he'd never seen your friend's car."

  "But it was blue."

  "And if it was…?"

  "Then Rusty was lying to me about it being stolen."

  Someone called for a drink and Moses went down to pour.

  Why would someone you hadn't seen in years appear out of the-pardon the word-blue and tell you a lie? Hardy was getting muscle fatigue of the right brain. He pushed his glass to the back edge of the bar.

  Wait a minute, he told himself. What if he somehow got his car that afternoon? He got on the bus across the street from here, then went downtown, stopping to order a handgun he'd have to wait three days for.

  The computer said the car was still missing. But then the computer lagged several days behind. If it still had Louis Baker in San Quentin, it wouldn't have the car returned either. Maybe he'd check again tomorrow.

  Moses was on the stool in front of him again. Hardy raised his eyes. "I've got an idea," he said.

  "Treat it carefully. It's in a strange place."

  Hardy pulled his glass up, cradling it between his hands. "Rusty's got a monster vig payment, right?"