by Mike Resnick
11.
Sorrentino had been waiting for me at the station, as we’d arranged, and Simmons told us both to go home and that he’d call me in the morning after the cops had learned what they could. Since it was a choice between that and sitting in the station’s lobby all night, I took his advice and headed back to my car.
“Cops make me nervous,” complained Sorrentino, who was walking alongside me. “I take my hat off to you, Eli. You said they’d pull him in, and sonuvabitch, they did.”
I smiled. “They don’t play football in Bolivia.”
“They play soccer, but they call it football,” he sort-of agreed.
“They don’t have rallies that turn out half the city before they play the Steelers or the Ravens,” I said. “I knew if he followed me we’d be in a stop-and-go jam—well, a stop-and-almost-stop—and then, since Simmons knew I was on my way and the Bolivian was following me, it was nothing to call a couple of cops while we were all standing still.”
“Damn!” he exclaimed, and then grinned. “Maybe there’s something to not shooting first.”
“If you’re as bad a shot as I am, there’s a lot to recommend it,” I answered.
He laughed at that. “You got a point.”
We reached my car. “Can I drop you somewhere?” I asked him.
“No,” he replied. “I’m parked about half a block up ahead.” He looked in a window and frowned. “You got something in the backseat?”
I knocked on the window, and Marlowe was up and barking furiously half a second later.
“Yeah, that’ll make any car thief think twice.”
“Unless they growl back at him,” I said. “Then he’ll hide under the mat.”
He looked at Marlowe and made a face. Marlowe looked right back at him and made a face; Marlowe’s had more teeth in it.
“Okay,” he said. “We might as well be going. You’ll contact me after you hear from your friend?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll go home, walk the dog once more, and go to bed so I won’t sleep through Simmons’s call in the morning.”
“I’ll stop by a bar for a drink or two and think about you freezing your ass off walking Mike Hammer.”
“Marlowe,” I corrected him.
He shrugged. “Whatever.”
Then he was heading toward his car. I walked around to the driver’s door, unlocked it, told Marlowe to get his front feet off the window, stop growling, and lie down, and began driving home.
I half-expected to find that one of the other Bolivians was tailing me, but there was no one within a block of me all the way home. Someone had taken my parking place, and I had to park almost a block from my front door, but it just meant that Marlowe got a little longer walk than usual.
When we got to the apartment I took his leash off, he raced to the couch, leaped on it, and dared me to move him. I went to the kitchen to see what I had in the fridge for a little snack before I went to bed. There was a half-gallon of three-week-old milk, half a pizza that had been sitting there for a week, and a couple of other things.
I didn’t see anything that appealed to me—par for the course in my refrigerator—when I became aware of the fact that I was not alone.
Cold pizza? said Marlowe. What a good idea!
“Okay,” I said. “But if I share the pizza with you, you got to share the couch with me.”
He wasn’t thrilled with the arrangement, but finally he agreed and we sat down together with the pizza between us. I picked up the remote to see what was on TCM. It was The Mask of Dimitrios with Peter Lorre and Sydney Greenstreet, just the kind of charming and unarmed criminals I never seemed to run into in the real world. We finished the pizza just about the time Sydney shot Zachary Scott, and a couple of minutes later the end credits rolled, and shortly after that it was Robert Mitchum and Jane Greer in The Big Steal. I think I figured out the plot about ten minutes into it, but I fell asleep before I could be sure, and I slept through the next few movies until the phone woke me up.
I got to my feet, which really pissed Marlowe off since he’d been snoring on my lap, turned off the TV, and walked to the phone.
“Yeah?” I croaked.
“Eli? It’s Jim.”
“What did you learn?” I asked.
“You’re not gonna believe this, but he was traveling on a passport that says his name is Sam Smith. The other two are Joe Smith and Jim Smith, and they’re college professors.” He laughed. “What do you think of that?”
“I think they’re killers,” I replied. “Just incredibly stupid ones, or at least uncreative ones. What did you find out about them?”
“Not much. They’re staying at a Motel 6 out in the suburbs, but when he didn’t show up last night I’m sure they figured out we had him and moved to a new place.”
“Can you hold him for a while?”
“Not a problem,” he said. “Our friend Señor Smith was carrying not one, not two, but three guns, plus what we used to call a switchblade. There’s no Bolivian consulate here, so I asked if he wanted us to inform the one in Chicago.” He laughed. “He shook his head so hard I thought his mustache might fly off. But the interesting thing is he didn’t correct me.”
I frowned. “Correct you?”
“Eli, he’s traveling on a Paraguayan passport. I’ll lay plenty of five-to-one that he’s never set foot in Paraguay in his life.”
“I wouldn’t bet the farm on that, Jim,” I said. “He and his almost-brothers are probably sent all over South America to kill anyone their family’s not happy with.”
“You’re right, of course,” said Simmons. “I’ll wire his prints to Bolivia and Paraguay and see who’s got anything on him. I’m getting a little long in the tooth. I was going to say that you shoot the wrong guy in Uruguay or Paraguay and you find yourself in a war with a couple of hundred former Nazis . . . but I guess they’re all dead of old age by now, aren’t they?”
“Let’s hope so,” I said. “Anything else about Mr. Smith?”
“Nope.”
“May I make a suggestion?”
“Sure,” said Simmons.
“Mention Big Jim Palanto to him and see what he does.”
“You got it,” he said. “I’ve been up all night. As soon as I get some sleep, I’ll go back and try it out.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be in touch.”
I sat back down on the couch. The TV was showing The Three Stooges, who never appealed to me, so I left the sound off and thought I’d grab another couple hours of sleep, when Marlowe decided to strengthen his teeth by chewing on my shoe, which happened to be on my foot, so after a couple of minutes I growled back at him, put on my coat, attached his leash to his collar, and took him out for a walk.
I wasn’t fifty feet from the front door when I realized I was being watched by another Bolivian Smith. He was sitting in a tan Audi, pretending to read a newspaper, but I could see him peeking at me over the top of it.
“Okay,” I muttered. “Let’s see how serious you are.”
I walked to the corner, turned right, walked another two blocks, then entered an old apartment building, and sat on the floor by the mailbox. Marlowe was sure I was inventing a new game, but after failing to get me to show him the rules he finally sighed and laid down. I sat there for an hour, then got up and walked back to my apartment—and sure enough he was gone. Probably driving all the hell over the neighborhood looking for me.
It meant two things. One, they wanted to know who I was seeing. And two, they may have been good at killing, but thinking wasn’t their long and strong suit.
Since I was up and awake, I figured I might as well check in with Sorrentino, so I phoned him and made arrangements to meet for lunch at a different Bob Evans since I couldn’t be sure “Toots” wouldn’t dump a bowl of soup on his head if he called her that again.
“Joe Smith, Jim Smith, and Sam Smith,” he repeated in wonderment, shaking his head. “We ain’t playing with any mental giants here. Did your pal Simmons get an
ything else out of whichever the hell Smith he’s got locked up?”
“Not as of eight-thirty this morning,” I said.
“That was three hours ago,” he said pulling his cell phone out and handing it to me. “Try him again.”
“He was up all night,” I replied. “He’s home sleeping.”
“You’ve been working in this town for half a dozen years,” he said. “Surely you got more than one friend on the force.”
“True,” I responded. “But I only have one who was questioning our Bolivian friend.”
“Well, at least find out how the hell long they can keep him,” he urged.
“Okay,” I said, staring at the phone. “I’ll call the department. Show me how the damned thing works.”
“Just give me a number,” he said. “I’ll call it and hand it over to you when it starts ringing.”
I gave him the number of Jim’s department, and a few seconds later he nodded and gave me the phone.
“Hello,” I said. “This is Eli Paxton.”
“Hi, Eli,” said the voice at the other end. “This is Bill Calhoun.”
“Hi, Bill,” I said. “You still got our Bolivian visitor?”
“Mr. Smith?” he said with a chuckle. “Yeah, he’s still here. I think we’re waiting for orders to deport him, though of course we’ll keep all his artillery.”
“He’s got two companions who are just as dangerous and are still on the loose. Can you hold him another day or two?”
He sighed audibly. “Jim said the same thing. What the hell, he’s not lawyered up and he’s probably here illegally. We can probably hold him another week if we have to.”
“I really appreciate it.”
“Happy to,” he replied. “But that’s the limit until we can file a charge. We’ve sent off a message to the Bolivian authorities to see if the guns are registered there. Now, and since they were concealed in his closed car and he never pulled them on the guys who arrested him, he’ll probably walk on a conceal-carry charge. But I’m sure we can hold him on using a phony passport, plus whatever he’s wanted for in South America. I gather we’re returning him as soon as we find out what he’s got to do with the local Mexican drug gangs.”
“Not a damned thing in this instance,” I said. “Anyway, I just need a little more time to hunt down his friends.”
“We’re working on that too,” said Calhoun. “But we’re being, I dunno, subtle about it, since they also haven’t broken any laws.”
Except maybe murder, I wanted to say, but stopped myself in time. I appear like a fool to enough people without going out of my way to add more.
I thanked him again, gave the phone back to Sorrentino since I didn’t know how to hang it up, and answered his questions, which concerned the half of the conversation he hadn’t heard.
“So,” I concluded, “we’ve got twenty-four hours to find them before the one in jail is turned loose and they probably all change names and passports.”
“I don’t know . . .” he began.
“Okay,” I said, “I give up. What don’t you know?”
“I don’t know if I want to find them.”
“Oh?”
“We know they don’t have the money, or they’d be gone. So we’re looking for it, and they’re looking for it, and our interests are the same. Now, I have no personal reason not to kill them if push comes to shove, but I don’t want to start a war between Chicago and Sucre.”
“Sucre?” I repeated.
“The capitol of Bolivia.” He finished his coffee. “I think I’m going to leave it to you to track them down, if you can. If I’m with you and things start getting hairy, I just don’t want to be responsible.”
“But it’s okay if they shoot me?” I said.
“So don’t go looking for them,” said Sorrentino. “We know they don’t have the money. Hell, the way they’re following you, they either think you have it or that you’ll lead them to it.”
“Do you think they killed Palanto?” I asked him.
He shrugged. “Who cares? The money is the important thing.”
I could see his point of view, but I had different priorities. I figured the important thing was to make sure they weren’t going to shoot me if they thought I was getting close to the money, because if I was out of the way they could just follow whatever trail I was on, and it would lead them to the pot of gold (well, of diamonds).
He paid for lunch, and I agreed to meet him for dinner at a new Greek place on the northeast side. Then he went to his car, I went to mine, and I tried to justify in my mind that the main reason I wanted to find the two remaining Bolivians before their companion was released from jail and maybe carrying a serious grudge against me, wasn’t to solve a murder but to arrange a truce so I could hunt for the diamonds without looking over my shoulder every two steps.
12.
I checked in with my fences and my snitch, added three more snitches to the list, and finally couldn’t think of another thing to do before dinner, so I went home to take a nap. Marlowe quickly explained to me that napping was his job and feeding the dog was mine. I opened a can of SpaghettiOs for him, decided to sprawl out on the couch while he was eating, and fell asleep to the dulcet tones of Chris Berman’s maniacal screaming as he dramatized every play, especially the dull ones, from last weekend’s football games on ESPN. I’d just dozed off when Marlowe finished the SpaghettiOs, wandered into the living room, hopped up onto the couch (which meant onto my stomach), decided it wasn’t comfortable enough, and began trying to dig out a little hole to lie down in. I waved a groggy hand in his direction, hoping I could knock him off me without waking up any further, and all I got for my trouble was a dog clinging to my shirtsleeve as it hung above the floor.
“All right, goddammit!” I muttered, sitting up and making room for him. He decided he wanted the side I was sitting on, and we changed places. He was probably snoring thirty seconds before I was.
I woke up an hour and a half later, checked my watch, and decided that it was just about time to drive up to the Greek joint. I considered walking Marlowe first, but as I approached him I elicited a growl that said I am sound asleep and woe betide the fool who wakes me, so I hung the leash on a doorknob, put on my coat, and walked out to the car.
There wasn’t much traffic, and I got there about twenty minutes early. I’d just finished a beer and was starting on a Greek coffee, which tasted exactly like American coffee only, well, Greek, when Sorrentino showed up.
“Any news?” he asked.
I shook my head. “How about you?”
“Not a thing.”
“How long is your family going to let you stay here?” I asked. “After all, Palanto can’t testify against them.”
“Another few days,” he said. Suddenly he grinned. “I told them I was recruiting you.”
“That’ll be great for business when it gets out,” I said.
“You haven’t got all that much business that I can see,” he replied. “I guess it’s feast or famine when you’re private heat.”
“Not always,” I replied. “There’s a guy in town named Bill Striker. Got the biggest detective agency in the city, maybe in the state. For some it’s feast and more feast.”
“Maybe we should let him in on this deal,” suggested Sorrentino.
“Val, we don’t have a deal,” I said. “And you don’t want to invite a millionaire detective who protects rock stars and athletes and other expensive things to help us find some diamonds that aren’t ours.”
“You see?” he said with a smile. “I keep saying you’re the bright one.”
We really didn’t have any other information to exchange, so we spent the rest of the meal talking about the Bears and the Bengals—I suppose if it had been summer it would have been the Cubs and the Reds—and finally we pigged out on baklava and made arrangements to meet for lunch at a Texas Roadhouse, just to be different.
I drove back to the apartment, forcibly woke Marlowe, and even more forcibly t
ook him for a walk, couldn’t spot either of the remaining Bolivians, and got back inside just before it started snowing.
“Snow, rain, snow,” I muttered to the god of weather. “I wish to hell you’d make up your mind.”
I raced Marlowe for the couch, lost, went into the kitchen to make some coffee, realized I hadn’t shaved in three days, and stopped by the bathroom to apply some shaving cream. I tried not to cut myself too many times and finally sat down on the portion of the couch he’d left for me.
I was never a Barbara Stanwyck fan, but TCM was running The G-String Murders, in which Barbara, as Gypsy Rose Lee, shows how even a stripper can solve a murder that baffles the cops and the private eyes. When Pinky Lee came on doing some burlesque clown routine, I gave in to an irresistible urge to watch a documentary on gecko lizards, which were better-looking and seemed somewhat brighter than the average baggy-pants comic.
I was just about to doze off again when the phone rang.
“Yeah?” I said.
“This is Ruby,” said the familiar voice of my head snitch.
“You got something for me?”
“Maybe so, maybe not.”
“Give me the maybe so first,” I said.
“Two guys named Smith checked into the Cincinnatian this afternoon.”
“Joe and Jim?”
“I’m working on that.”
“OK, what’s the maybe not part?”
I could almost see him shrug. “Maybe they’re two gay guys out to have a good anonymous time.”
“In Cincinnati’s answer to the Waldorf or the Palmer House?” I said.
“Maybe they’re paying for discretion.”
“I don’t suppose you got a room number?”
“There’s just so much you can get out of a place like that.”
“Okay,” I said. “And thanks.”
“If it’s them, I did this for more than verbal thanks.”
“If it’s them, I’ll find a proper way to thank you, Reuben,” I said.
“It’s Ruby, goddamn it!” he bellowed and slammed down the phone.
Well, it was a lead. Not iron-clad, but it was the first one to show up in three days, if you didn’t count being followed by a Bolivian killer the night before.