He was hurting, but not quite as much as Breda Burrows. In the first place he hadn't drunk as much in relation to his capacity and tolerance. In the second place, every time a wave of agony would sweep over him he'd think of how she'd looked lying naked under the sheet, with her eyes narrowed to slits of cornflower blue, and that freckle quivering!
He showered, shaved and even trimmed his mustache, no mean feat when he was that shaky. He forced himself to eat a scrambled egg, and drank a glass of orange juice to replenish vitamins. He had coffee, the last of it. There wasn't another goddamn thing to eat or drink in the house.
Lynn had exactly ten more days of existing there before the owner took over, and he didn't hold out much hope for the house-sitting gig at Tamarisk Country Club. He figured he was about to join the ranks of the homeless.
The only chance he had was if the pension came through. It should've been granted a month ago. Every time he called about it he'd get some spineless double-talking bureaucrat too incompetent to flip burgers at Jack in the Box.
He was standing out on the street reading his press notices when Nelson roared up the street at 8:55 a. M. grinning like he'd learned how to make shade.
"You're up and ready!" Nelson said, as he slid the Wrangler to a risky stop three inches from Lynn's body.
"The game's afoot," Lynn said. "I couldn't wait. Like I can't wait to wear support hose and live for fiber. You see this?"
He handed Nelson the third page of the local paper. A small headline, brawl at funeral home, was followed by: Police are baffled by a violent fight between two men that took place in the early evening hours during a rosary service at Lieberman Brothers Mortuary. Both men were seeking information on an undisclosed client of Lieberman Brothers. One man claimed to be a police officer, but police spokesmen believe that his badge was bogus. The case is being investigated.
Nelson said, "Yeah, I'm gonna get a scrapbook." Then, "Did you and Breda go out for supper last night?" And he winked!
"What makes you ask that?"
"The way you were lookin at her, all googly-eyed."
"Yeah, well you won't be seeing no more googles. That babe's a nut case."
"Somethin happen?"
"Nothin a person your age'd understand."
"Wanna hear my new country tape?"
"Not if it's about a guy whose girlfriend beats the living shit outta him and threatens to call a lawyer. Is that what it's about?"
"No."
"Okay, play it. Maybe they don't know every freaking move I make, after all." "Who?"
"Nashville or wherever it is they spy into people's heads and turn out those goddamn songs."
Nelson said, "I don't think I wanna know what happened to you last night."
He punched in a Garth Brooks song, "If Tomorrow Never Comes."
"JESUS CHRIST!" Lynn yelled, and his voice exploded in his ears like a magnum round.
"What's wrong?"
"Whaddaya think you're doing, playing that song? Do you realize we're going after a guy that tried to stick me in a brass-handled sedan before my time? And might try it again with more success?"
If tomorrow never comes, Garth Brooks sang. The song was an omen.
Nelson didn't say a word. He ejected that mother, pronto.
When they knocked on the door of the pink Mediterranean house up on Southridge, they were met by a handsome guy in his mid-thirties. He wore matching flowered shirt and shorts, and leather sandals. He was dark and had a streak of white running through his black power ponytail. He stood blocking the entry, but smiling.
Lynn showed his badge, but this guy was different. This guy said, "Got an I. D. card to go with that?" Lynn reluctantly showed his police I. D. and the guy read it and said, "Yes, Mister Cutter, what can I do for you?"
"Are you John Lugo?" Lynn asked.
"No, this is his home, but he's not here. Can I help you, sir?"
"Is he at his L. A. home?"
"No, he's in Hawaii for a few days playing golf. Why don't you tell me what it's about, sir."
It was going to be like that, Lynn thought. This guy wasn't going to let anybody get close.
"Can I have your name?" Lynn asked.
"Sure, Mister Cutter. Bino Sierra."
"Bino."
He touched the snowy streak in his hair and said, "Short for Albino. I was born with this."
The guy hadn't stopped smiling since he'd opened the door. He had brilliantly white teeth and you could see all thirty-two of them. It was that kind of smile. He wore rings on both hands, and a gold chain with a cross on it hung from his neck, all but vanishing in a thatch of chest hair. Bino Sierra wasn't a typical butler, and he didn't cut the grass, that was certain.
"When will he be back from Hawaii?"
Shrugging, Bino Sierra said, "Mister Lugo comes and goes in his own good time. But you can talk to his lawyer."
The smile got even wider when Lynn said, "Does his lawyer sleep here or does he have an office?"
"An office in Palm Desert. Name's Leo Grishman."
"Where's the office?"
"The new building across from the college," Bino Sierra said, again touching the white streak. Then he said, "Funny, a detective from Palm Springs P. D. phoned this morning to see if Mister Lugo could shed any light on a brawl that happened in a funeral home last night. Involved a couple a guys looking for Mister Lugo. He didn't say he was sending detectives to the house. But it's okay, we're anxious to help."
Bino Sierra was still smiling as he closed the door.
When they were back in the Wrangler, Nelson Hareem said, "This ain't gonna be so easy."
"That smile was about as genuine as an agent's kiss," Lynn said. "That's what the old actors at The Furnace Room would say."
Chapter 17
The law office was in a fairly new professional building on Fred Waring Drive in Palm Desert.
After they'd gotten the Wrangler parked and were walking toward the flat-roofed, brick-and-glass building, Nelson said nervously, "Guy's gonna be a mob lawyer, ain't he?"
"Oh, sure" Lynn said. "When we come outta here you'll have to start your Jeep with a long stick or suddenly we'll be residing in three states."
"Know what I was thinkin? If the Palm Springs cops got the guy's hat after he mashed it in your moosh they could get his genetic fingerprint from the sweat on the hatband. I was readin where the technology's gettin that refined!"
"I just know you were the roomie of Doctor John Watson in another life," Lynn said.
When they were ascending the stairs to the second floor, three workmen carrying a huge roll of carpet were staggering down the staircase.
"Comin through!" the guy in front said.
"Leo Grishman law offices up there?" Lynn asked.
"I'll say it is," the guy in back said, panting. "And I wish it was on the first floor, I can tell ya."
The double doors of the law firm were wide open, and a huge carpet pad was being trimmed and stapled to the floor.
A little man about Wilfred Plimsoll's age, wearing shapeless ancient tweed, was yelling at a natty young guy in a butterscotch three-piece Italian suit. The young guy had his hands full of carpet and fabric samples.
"Do I complain, Roger?" the old guy complained to the young one.
"No, Mister Grishman," Roger replied.
"Then why can't you give me texture? You give a woman color, you give a man texture, that's how it should be. That's all a man needs, along with an easy chair and a used-brick fireplace. Is that asking too much?"
"No, Mister Grishman," Roger said, looking down at the old lawyer. "Except for the used brick. You don't have a fireplace here."
"Do my clients want to be walking around for two weeks on carpet pad because you couldn't bring me the carpet I ordered? I'll tell you the answer. The answer is no. Is that too difficult to understand, Roger?"
"No, Mister Grishman," Roger said.
"Go find me some texture, Roger, please. They have to sell it somewhere. You people must learn
where to buy it in your interior decorator school. It's got to be for sale! Texture!"
"I'll get right on it, Mister Grishman," the interior designer said. "I think I know what you want."
Roger's butterscotch coattails were flying past Lynn and Nelson before the little attorney even noticed the visitors. Then he saw them and said, "He thinks he knows what I want. I've only been working with him for six months and he thinks he knows what I want. I asked for subtlety. Graceland is more understated. Come in, gentlemen. Whom did you wish to see?"
Lynn displayed his badge and said, "It's about the matter at the funeral home last night, Mister Grishman. I suppose Mister Lugo's man has contacted you?"
"Matter of fact I just hung up from talking to Bino Sierra, and to Bob Lieberman at the mortuary. Bino said you'd be dropping by. Come on in. It's all unbelievable."
Lynn and Nelson stepped over the carpet layer and around the secretary, who was trying to work at a desk that had been pushed into the closet. Her lanky body warranted a second glance from Nelson before they entered Leo Grishman's office and closed the door.
Roger had doubtless done this interior under the strict supervision of Leo Grishman. It said Old Lawyer all the way. The walls of law books were interrupted only by an occasional display of awards that the attorney had been given over a career spanning fifty years. Most were from service work he'd done in Los Angeles and Beverly Hills.
His writing table was traditional walnut with brass drawer pulls. His executive chair was a leather wingback with mahogany legs. There was a regency japaned chair next to the bookshelf, and plenty of texture everywhere.
"Only been in these offices nine months," Leo Grishman said, "ever since I moved my practice out here to the desert. My wife has a touch of emphysema, feels better in desert air. What can I say about that incident last night, except that I'm mystified."
"So are we," Lynn said. "I'd like to speak to you in complete confidence, Mister Grishman."
"That's what lawyers're for," the old man said. "Want a coffee or something?"
"None for me," Lynn said.
"I'll have a cup," Nelson said, thinking that Slim with the long legs would be bringing it in.
Leo Grishman pushed a button on his phone and said, "Sally, one coffee, and a tea for me, please."
Lynn said, "The thing I'd like you to keep confidential is that we're working on this matter sub rosa, for a private investigator named Breda Burrows."
"But the badge? You are a Palm Springs policeman, right?"
"Soon to be retired," Lynn said. "I was doing a job that happened to bring me in contact with the dark bald man who started the brawl at the mortuary."
Leo Grishman peeked over his glasses at Lynn's still slightly swollen eye, and said, "You were the brawlee, I take it."
Lynn nodded and said, "The bald guy got the name of the mortuary from the tombstone makers who ..."
"I know, I know," Leo Grishman said. "Bob Lieberman at the mortuary backtracked it that far and filled me in. Have you talked to your detective colleagues?"
Lynn shook his head and said, "They know far less than we do and I'd rather not involve them for a while, unless it's really necessary. Can I rely on you to keep mum?"
"Son, I got no reason to call the cops," Leo Grishman said. "Besides, I got a soft spot for P. I.'s I musta paid out half a million bucks in fees to P. I.'s over the past fifty years. Mostly back in the days when domestic cases were our bread and butter. But you understand, I have to protect my client, John Lugo."
"Sure," Lynn said.
"Has he been your client long?" Nelson asked.
"I didn't catch your name, son," Leo Grishman said.
"Nelson Hareem. I'm a policeman, but not with Palm Springs P. D. Not yet."
"Both of you're doing a little moonlighting for a P. I., eh?" the lawyer said, with a knowing grin. "That's admirable, boys. I know it's tough to make it on a cop's salary. To answer your question, I was John Lugo's lawyer for twenty-five years in L. A., ever since he started making serious money in the development business."
"What's he develop?" Lynn asked.
"What's he develop?"
"Yeah."
"Anything that needs developing," Leo Grishman said.
"I see," Lynn said.
"Now don't get the wrong idea, son. As far as I know, he's a legit businessman, and all I do is advise him on contracts and liability problems."
"Such as?" Lynn asked.
"I don't talk about 'such as,' " Leo Grishman said, just as the door was opened.
Nelson was disappointed to see that it wasn't the long lanky one. The young woman who brought the hot beverages and cookies was so big he'd have to adjust his headlights if she got in the back of his Jeep.
After she'd gone, Lynn said, "When's your client coming back from Hawaii?"
The old lawyer laughed and said, "He's not in Hawaii. He's playing in the Bob Hope Classic."
"But Bino Sierra said . . ."
"Bino automatically says that to everybody. Then he sends any unusual inquiries to me. That's Bino's way, I don't argue with it. And to save you the trouble, Bino has a minor rap sheet, but from what I hear it was stuff from his youth in East L. A. A little bit of gang stuff. He's been straight since he went to work for John Lugo five or six years ago."
"What's he do?"
"He's a driver and looks after the home. Kind of a personal assistant."
"Uh huh," Lynn said.
Nelson sipped his coffee and was pleased to see that Leo Grishman dunked his cookie in the tea before taking a bite. And him a lawyer.
"I suppose you and Bino and Mister Lugo tried hard to figure out the mortuary connection?"
"Bino swore he hasn't a clue, and neither does John. Bino called John this morning over at Bermuda Dunes soon as he heard about it, that's the course John's playing today. John was all excited about getting to meet Arnold Palmer. Said he didn't know diddly about any dark bald guy trying to find him. Only bald guy he cared about was Gerald Ford. Might get to meet him tomorrow when he plays at Indian Wells."
"Has he ever had a guy of that description in his past?" Lynn asked. "Maybe one he owes, or who owes him?"
Leo Grishman sighed and said, "Look, son, a guy like John Lugo probably has a thousand dark guys in his past, with and without hair, who feel that somebody owes somebody. John's sixty-seven years old now and he's living in retirement. He plays golf five times a week. He doesn't cross the wrong people anymore. Besides, anyone could find John Lugo without asking questions about his mother's funeral, for God's sake! Everyone knows he's got a big house up there in Bob Hope's neighborhood."
Lynn studied the lawyer, and said, "The real brain buster is, the guy didn't even know John Lugo's name. All he knew about was a tombstone, a tombstone with orchids on it. A tombstone that John Lugo ordered for his mother's funeral last September. That's how he arrived at the mortuary. Can you explain it?"
"Son, you got me. I couldn't explain that one with a Ouija board. I can tell you that I'm the guy who handled some of the arrangements for his mother's funeral. The stone with orchids on it was her last request. Believe me, I'm way too old to be lying to a cop. If I had something I didn't want you to know I'd just refuse to talk to you."
Nelson put down his half-drunk cup of coffee and said, "Mister Grishman, is there any connection between your client and somebody from Spain?"
The old lawyer thought it over and said, "Spain? No, I don't think so. Puerto Rico maybe. He was involved with a group that did a resort near San Juan some years back. Spain? No."
"How about the Middle East?" Nelson asked.
"I don't know anybody from the Middle East, believe me," Leo Grishman said. "John's done some vending machine business with a local guy that's Syrian, if that helps."
"Might," Nelson said. "What's his name?"
"Look, not everybody appreciates getting visits from the cops," the lawyer said.
"I took a bad thumping last night," Lynn Cutter said. "I feel like I got
spit on and run over by a herd a camels, but I'm willing to stay on this if I get cooperation. Your client might be in danger, and I can promise you this bald guy ain't the kind that's gonna swoon over Bino's campy version of Sicilian opera."
"Bino's not Sicilian, of course. He's a chicano from L. A.," the lawyer said. "And so is John. They both came up the hard way in Boyle Heights. And so did I, I might add, back when Boyle Heights was still a Jewish neighborhood with only a few Mexicans."
"The point is, we're trying to catch a guy who's risking his life to reach John Lugo. Why shouldn't you do everything you can to help us?"
The lawyer thought it over and said, "There's a new belly-dancing restaurant in Cat City called The Fez. The Syrian's name is George Tibbash. He's a good friend of John's. I'll call him and tell him you're on the way, and I'll explain what's going on and recommend that he talk to you. Maybe he can think of a Middle East connection, or even a Spanish one. I can't." Then the lawyer wrote a phone number on a business card and said, "This is my home number. Keep me posted if you learn anything we should know. I don't want anything happening to John Lugo."
"How about the name Francisco V. Ibanez," Nelson said. "What's it mean to you?"
"Diddly," said the lawyer. "That name doesn't mean diddly."
"We'll let you know what we come up with, if it concerns your client," Lynn said.
"Glad to help," the old lawyer said as they were leaving his office. "If we don't meet again, I hope you have good luck in retirement, and may all your polyps be benign."
When they were back in the Jeep, Lynn said, "I thought you'd given up on your terrorist obsession."
"We're going to visit a Syrian in a couple minutes!"
"That doesn't make this a CIA case. I'm now inclined to think that our bald guy was coming to Palm Springs in a private plane from ... I don't know from where. To play catch-up with John Lugo for some deal they did together in . . ."
"Puerto Rico."
"Yeah, Puerto Rico."
"They don't use Spanish pesetas in Puerto Rico."
"I thought I explained that. You can get any foreign coins handed to you at any airport in Mexico, or even in any border town. Christ, the border's only a few hours from here, Nelson!"
Fugitive Nights (1992) Page 21