by G. M. Ford
I could read the gleam in her eye. If I said no, I was going straight to jail, without passing GO or collecting two hundred dollars.
So I said, “Yes.”
Her disappointment was palpable. “You did?”
“Maybe you ought to write this stuff down so we don’t have to keep repeating ourselves.”
“Whom did you have followed?”
“‘Whom’ is a terrible word, you know.”
“What?”
“‘Whom’—it’s one of those snob words people use to tell other people that they’re educated. It gives language mavens something to feel snooty about. I think maybe only creden-tialed folks use the word. It doesn’t work any better than ‘who,’ and it sounds funny.”
“Are you refusing to answer my questions, Mr. Waterman?”
“Certainly not. I was merely making an observation, an aside, a minor digression, as it were.”
“Well?”
“Mason Reese, the Del Fuego group, and the Meyerson group.”
“Were they followed singularly or in groups?”
“Except for Reese, they left in groups.”
“Do you have a record of when the various parties left the hotel yesterday morning?”
“Some of them left in the afternoon.”
She stayed calm. “Do you have a record?”
She picked up a stenographer’s pad and a pencil.
“Yes,” I said. “Dixie Dormer and her traveling companion, whose name is Bart something-or-other, left on foot at nine forty-nine. Mason Reese left on foot at ten-twenty.” She scribbled away. “At eleven-twenty the Meyerson crowd left by limousine, and the Del Fuegos came down at twelve-twenty. They also left by limo.”
When she finished writing, she leafed backward in the notebook until she found what she was looking for. She marked the spot with her middle finger as she looked back and forth between the pages.
“All right, then. Let’s start with Mr. Reese. Where did Mr. Reese go?”
“I have no idea.”
The gleam returned to her green eyes. “You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”
“I don’t have any control over what you do or don’t believe, Lawrence. All I can do is tell you the truth. I don’t know where anybody went because I haven’t had a chance to run down the operatives and find out. Every time I set foot outdoors, you guys arrest me.”
“You’re very close to having that honor again, Mr. Waterman.”
“Besides, if I were to go out and find all those people, I’d be operating as a private investigator, wouldn’t I? And we couldn’t have that, now, could we? Not with me without a license and all.”
“Very cute,” she said, without meaning it.
She readied her pencil. “I want the names and addresses of these operatives of yours.”
“I don’t know that either.”
“You hired these people, and you don’t know their names?”
“I didn’t hire them.”
“Who did?”
“George.”
“Then give me his address and phone number.”
“He doesn’t have either. You know that. You were in court this morning. It’s a matter of public record. That’s why his bail was so high.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you? You’re actually trying to tell me that…that gentleman was—is—homeless?”
“Yeah, I am. It’s like I told you before—George was a friend of my father’s. What can I say? He drinks. He’s fallen on hard times. He flops wherever he can. Once in a while, I have a need for day labor. When that happens, I try to use George and his associates if I can.”
“Because you’re such a charitable sort.”
“Because they work cheap and they make great surveillance operatives. Think about it, Lawrence; who better to have hang around outside a building all day long than a bum? They’re perfect for it.”
She considered her options. “When you want to contact Mr. Paris, how do you do so?”
“I leave him a message at this bar he hangs out in.”
“What bar is that?”
“The Zoo, on Eastlake.”
Scribble, scribble. She kept at me for the better part of an hour, worrying the issue like a terrier with a rat. Writing down everything I said. Finally, she dropped the notebook on the table and looked at me. She wasn’t mad anymore. Beulah the Bureaucrat was back.
“Mr. Waterman, despite your protestations of harassment, we’re going to do this by the numbers. We are going to follow up on every lead you’ve given us. If at any point it appears that you have been untruthful, if it appears that you have been withholding information pertinent to this investigation, I am going to charge you with obstruction of justice, and I am going to permanently pull your judicial variance. I hope I’m making myself clear.”
When I failed to respond, she shifted her gaze to the cops.
“Take Mr. Waterman over with the others.”
“Come on, Lawrence,” I whined. “I’m tired. I want to go to my room. What over? What others?”
All the others, it turned out. Across the hall, they’d opened the doors between the individual rooms, creating a single large meeting space. Tension hung in the air like fog.
Directly in front of me, a serious clutch of suits leaned toward one another. Lieutenant Driscoll was on Marty Conlan’s right. On Marty’s left was Detective Lobdell.
Lawrence’s voice came from behind me. “Excuse me, please, Mr. Waterman.”
I moved out into the middle of the room so that she could enter. She walked by me and stepped up onto the dais. The conversation stopped. When she began to speak, she had the suits’ undivided attention. I headed for my client.
In the right rear corner, Sir Geoffrey Miles, Rowcliffe, and Señor Alomar huddled together in a tight knot. Rowcliffe stood one pace to the rear, offering no expression whatsoever, while Miles sat with his hands clasped across his midriff, his chin high and gaze haughty. Alomar surveyed the room with the bemused ease of a man on vacation.
To my immediate right, the Meyerson contingent had redeployed the furniture, turning two tables sideways, circling the wagons, cutting that corner off from the rest of the room. Abigail Meyerson sat placidly between Hill and Francona, her back to the front wall and her hands in her lap. Behind them, Brie skittered back and forth along the west wall of the room, rubbing her shoulder against the surface as she paced like a shooting-gallery duck. Spaulding was clear over in the opposite corner, grab-assing with Rickey Ray.
The Del Fuego mob was situated directly across from Sir Geoffrey. Dixie sat front and center with her hand resting on Bart’s right leg, way too high for polite company. Bart appeared not to notice. Jack Del Fuego and Candace sat behind a long pink-covered table. Jack wore an abstract-patterned sport coat that looked like the international symbol for bad taste. Candace gave the impression of being slightly amused.
I grabbed a loose chair from the corner and sat down next to Sir Geoffrey. “What’s going on? Things seem a mite tense.”
“Sir Geoffrey has fomented insurrection,” said Rowcliffe.
“He has rallied the masses,” added Alomar.
I didn’t have to ask. “These fools have been niggling at us all day,” Sir Geoffrey spat. “They had the gall to offer us prepared sandwiches. Tuna on wheat. Ha! I have sworn to remain mute until properly fed. The remainder of the rabble followed my lead and are, for once, holding their tongues.”
“Dinner, sir,” Rowcliffe said.
He was right. A liveried waiter stepped into the room, shot the bolts, top and bottom, and opened both doors wide. When he stepped aside, an armada of carts rattled forward. I counted them. Twelve carts full of food and drink. The door opener directed traffic.
“Meyerson order.” He pointed. Four carts broke off the train and headed that way. “Miles.” He nodded in our direction. My old friend Rodrigo pushed the lead cart free of the melee and headed toward us. He seemed surprised to see me in such esteemed company.
I moved back out of the way, allowing the crew to hover and dart around, delivering two bottles of wine, a basket of assorted breads, rolls, and muffins, another basket of gleaming fruit, plates, glasses, silverware. As if by magic, the trappings of a banquet appeared around the two men. These were guys who knew how to order from room service.
Rodrigo removed the silver cover from one of the dishes on his cart. “The shad roe with Creole sauce,” he announced.
Alomar waggled a doubtful finger. As Rodrigo set the plate before him, Alomar dropped a hand on the waiter’s shoulder.
“You spoke to the chef, as I instructed?”
“Yes, sir,” Rodrigo replied.
“About the pimiento?”
“Yes, sir. I told him what you said. A mere rumor of pimiento.”
“Good fellow.”
Rodrigo turned back and produced lamb kidneys bourguignon, which Rowcliffe took from his hand and set before Sir Geoffrey. Sir Geoffrey bent and sniffed the air above the plate.
“This time the shallots are fresh?” he asked.
Rodrigo held up a hand. “The chef, he swears.”
Miles made a resigned face and pointed at the wine bucket.
“Rowcliffe, let’s begin with the merlot.”
At the front of the room, the city contingent was drinking coffee and tea from a collection of silver urns, still deep in discussion, only now Lobdell was doing most of the talking.
A water glass of scotch had loosened Jack’s tongue. I could hear him from where I was sitting. As he held his plate aloft, a huge gob of mashed potatoes and gravy began to slide down his face.
“Will ya take a look at this dry little piece of shit for twenty-nine dollars?” he bellowed. “Hey, Abby. This must be one of your sawdust specials.”
Dixie waved her fork in the air. “I told you we’re not charging enough, Jack. Haven’t I told him that?” she asked nobody in particular. “We’re givin’ them too damn much for too damn little.”
The Meyerson group pretended not to hear. Sir Geoffrey and Senor Alomar were in rapt concentration. Only Rickey Ray wasn’t eating. He still stood near the center of the room, taking it all in.
I walked over to his side. “What, no pressed duck for you?”
He chuckled, allowing a broken grin to nearly pull his face back into order. “No way, Leo. You eat that shit, you look like old Jack.” He looked me over. “You don’ look like you eat too mucha that crap neither.”
“More than I should.”
He dug a finger into my rib cage. “You’re holding it pretty good.”
“Holding too much of it, is what I am.”
He nudged me with an elbow, “Well, you know, you get older…”
“Oh, it’s like that, is it?”
Amid the quiet clatter of silverware and working jaws, we shared a laugh. “That’s a wild flock you got over there,” I said.
“You ain’t just kiddin’.”
“How long you been babysitting Jack Del Fuego?”
“Couple of years or so.”
“How’d you come to know Jack?”
“I went right after him, podna. That’s how it is with me. I always gotta go for it. Got limited career choices, ya know. That’s what the army guy tol’ me when they turned me down. Said he figured I’d got limited career choices.”
“You were still fighting when you met Jack?”
“Yeah, and gettin’ damn sick of it too.”
“Tough way to make a living.”
“Aw, hell,” he said. “You got you a good look at my face. I been fightin’ my whole life. Never seemed like I had any choice. I used to be real sensitive about it. All you had to do was look at me a little bit too long, and I was all over you like a cheap suit. By the time I started to fight for money, I figured, you know, what did I have to lose, anyway. Wasn’t like I was gonna get uglier as I went along.”
“Jack see you fight?”
He nodded. “I had a month off till I had to defend my title back in Dallas. I heard they was having toughguy matches down Oklahoma City way. Givin’ away five grand every Friday night. I figured, you know, what the hell, might as well make some cash. I seen him around the fights with the other high rollers, you know. Didn’t take much imagination to see he was one of those guys who was always gonna have to own the biggest dog. That’s how come he had the meatball brothers. All the other wads just had one gofer chauffeur, but the Jackeroo just had to have two. Anyway, fella I knew tol’ me how much Jack was paying the Galante brothers to watch his big ass, and I figured, shit, I might as well be the one takin’ his money as that pair of mud pies. So, you know, one Friday right after the fights, I walked up to him at this big barbecue he was throwin’ for his golf buddies and tol’ him, right in front of God and everybody, how I was fixin’ to become his bodyguard and companion.”
“What did he have to say about that?”
“He had him a good laugh and then told the Galante brothers to take me on t’other side of the park and teach me some manners.”
“Didn’t work out that way, did it?”
“Not hardly, Leo.” He grinned. “After a while, he come lookin’ for the suet brigade, and, you know…” He showed me a palm.
“The rest is history,” I finished for him.
“Yeah. I piled ’em up, belly to belly, and was sittin’ on ’em like a bench when he got there. The Jackster, he liked that. Said it showed imagination. Been with him ever since.”
Spaulding Meyerson was heading our way.
“Can’t get rid of that Meyerson kid,” Rickey Ray said.
Spaulding stopped in the middle of the room, pulled his feet underneath him, and leaned into the burger he was holding before him.
“You’re his hero for whatever it was you did to his mom’s bodyguards.”
A font of refuse erupted from the bottom of the bun, plopping down onto the rich brown carpet. Spaulding wasn’t quick enough to react and ended up with half a lettuce leaf and a glob of mayonnaise resting atop his right shoe.
“That was back in Cleveland. Right after she hired ’em. Took all Jack’s stuff off the luggage dolly and left it in the garage. Bunch of it got stole. The old Jackster was right put out about it. I just cuffed ’em around a little, is all.”
“Don’t they ever speak?”
“I heard Francona talk.”
“What did he say?”
His lip curled. “He say, ‘Please, no more.’ ”
Spaulding shook his foot like a dog walking in snow for the first time, sending a hail of condiments flying out in all directions. From the far corner, I heard Abby Meyerson tell her son that she wished to speak with him. He ignored her and headed our way, the dripping burger now held out to the side. “Hey, big guy,” he said to Rickey Ray.
He had a piece of pickle on his front tooth.
“I think yo’ mama wants you, buddy,” Rickey replied.
Spaulding leaned in and gave Rickey a leer.
“You get lucky yet, big guy?”
Rickey Ray pinned him with a glare.
Spaulding winked. “Rickey’s sweet on the Jackster’s girl toy.”
“I tol’ you before, kid,” Rickey growled.
“He’s got big wood for her,” Spaulding assured me.
As they bantered back and forth, I could tell that they’d run this scene before, and I finally understood what it was Spaulding Meyerson did well. He got under people’s skin. He had an uncanny instinct for intuitively knowing just how to be optimally obnoxious. He probably had a future in law.
He kept at Rickey Ray, but now talked to me. “All Natural for Men,” he said, pointing at Rickey’s head. Then he cupped the same hand to his mouth in mock discretion.
“Dyed his ha
ir so they’d match.” He put a finger to his mouth. “Shhhhh.”
I hoped to God the kid wasn’t counting on me to save his ass if Rickey Ray started on him, because the best he was going to get out of me was shrieking for the police. Rickey Ray was a couple of counties past anything I was looking for. To quote Dirty Harry Callahan, “A man needs to know his limitations.”
Spaulding kept nodding and grinning his pickletoothed grin.
I could feel Rickey Ray’s blood pressure rising.
Abby’s low voice rolled our way. “Spaulding!”
“She looks pretty pissed off,” Rickey chided through clenched teeth. “Don’ wanna make yo’ mama mad there, Spauldo.”
Spaulding didn’t bother looking. “Walter—he was one of Dixie’s dicks before Bart—Walter used to say Momma always looked like she had a Dove Bar up her ass.”
A resonant voice came from behind me.
“If she does, it’s the only thing that’s ever been up there.”
Brie Meyerson took a wide arc over to my side, maintaining her distance from the seeping burger.
“Mother wants you back, Spaulding,” she said, taking a sip from a plastic pop bottle and then screwing the top back on.
Her brother chomped down on the second third of his burger and began to chew with his mouth open. I glanced away and resorted to idle chatter. “How are you, Miss Meyerson?” I asked.
“Bored,” she said.
Not for long. Having expertly removed the meat, Jack now held the steaming T-bone aloft. “Abby, darlin’,” he bellowed. “Here, take this thing. Use it on that boy of yours. Time to face it, honey. You’ve done the best you could with him, but that one just ain’t a keeper.”
Abigail Meyerson answered without looking up. “At least my children are still with me, Mr. Del Fuego. At least I didn’t force them upon strangers.”
Jack answered through a mouthful of steak. “Other than that one you drove off.” He swallowed. “Ya didn’t forget about that one, now, did ya? I know she been gone a long time and all, but—”
“Oh, yeah,” Spaulding yelled at the top of his voice. “Old Jack don’t drive ’em off; he strings ’em up. Better check those drapes behind the old Jackster. Make sure he hasn’t got the cords in his pocket. The Jackster’s got a way with a rope.”