“Then what?” I said.
“He let the witnesses loose in the city for a day, where naturally they told their buds what they’d seen. Then, over the course of the next week, they disappeared, one by one.”
“Oh, my God.”
Nathan put in, “After that he owned Tucson.”
“But like I say,” George added, “the police started to get too close. Nobody knew he was in L.A. until that check bust. I don’t know why he got so dumb that one time. Just an old bad habit, maybe. The LAPD wants this guy bad, as you can imagine, as does the FBI. Things are going well for him in L.A., though. He’s building up business here; he had contacts in the city already, of course, and he’s got them in Mexico.”
“Meat and Bones,” said Nathan.
“Yes, that’s the name of the cartel, or importation gang, he deals with.”
“Guys are so witty,” I remarked.
Both men shrugged.
Nathan said, “Furthermore, he bragged to me about taking out two guys that he said tried to threaten him about Tucson—they’d seen something, or said they had, which if that’s all it was, was stupid, because it just got ’em murdered. ‘Nobody’s gonna find them,’ he said.”
“Supposedly he did that in L.A.?” asked George.
“Yeah, my impression was he got somebody do it for him, and it was in L.A. somewhere.”
George found that interesting. Then he said, “Did you talk to him about Bakersfield?”
Nathan clamped his teeth down on his lower lip.
George said, “We know it’s Bakersfield and we know how much.”
“All right, then. Yeah, I talked to him about it. But it was before I got him pegged. He got me pegged first! I sure didn’t say much, but he kept at me. Once you say something about money to the Whale, he won’t let you alone. You get so you’ll tell him anything to—see, he figured out who my mama is. Cubitt’s not an everyday name. And he got to thinking, and he thinks, oh, this lady runs the biggest business in all the hood, I got to hook up with her.
“If you go bragging to the Whale about anything, it’s gonna come back and bite you hard. You let him do you a favor, your ass is like oh no, now you owe him. All I said was, I act as a courier, I have handled large amounts of money. I say this to let him know I’m nobody’s fool. My own man, you know. That’s all I wanted to say, that’s all I intended to say, but he kept at me and at me, and at me and at me! until I told him—way more than I should have.” He bounced his heel on the floor.
“What’s the ten thousand for?”
“I don’t know, faith, I don’t know. Mama just said one day, oh, last year some time, she said, you take this envelope and you drive it away out of town. She drew me a map with the exit on it and everything. I had done it maybe five times, second Sunday of the month, then my situation happens and I come in here, and I understand Kip took over handling it. Uh…” He paused.
George made an encouraging palm-up gesture.
Nathan said, “She did say one thing about it. She called it her reverse welfare payment.”
George and I looked at each other. Nathan shrugged.
I asked, “If Vargas knew about this ten grand going out every month, why didn’t he just take it? Follow Kip when he left the mission and rob him?”
“Now you sound like me.” Nathan looked at me sympathetically, as if recognizing another feeble-minded individual. “Einstein I ain’t, you know? But I have learned this, and I learned it from the Whale: The first principle of success is, when you see golden eggs, you don’t go after the eggs. You go after the goose.”
Chapter 19 – The Strügen Cycle Beagle
George Rowe had never been to Canada; his impressions of it were: maple syrup, the Edmonton Oilers, curling, voyageurs, Indians pushed around, and French priests. A few Eskimos up top. These days, Canada was a nation of friendly underachievers. As a boy, Rowe had read a book about the fur-trading voyageurs and had briefly planned to become one. Then he had read a book about a falconer, then one about a race car driver, and the voyageur thing had receded, except he still thought about how tough those bastards had been.
As the bilingual airliner banked over the forests of Quebec there was the broad St. Lawrence winding its silver way to the sea, and Rowe considered the white men who’d first seen these things. Misfits, criminals, fucked-up guys looking for a new start, men who wanted to test themselves, men who found farming or running a grog shop just not enough. Men who found a wife and kids too much.
And he wondered the thing every postmodern man wonders: Would I have measured up? Tramping in wooden snowshoes through dick-deep snow checking traplines, shooting a cougar coming at you mad because you disturbed its fresh kill, knocking your own tooth out with a rock if the pain got bad enough because you were three hundred miles by water from the nearest trading post, where they’d only lend you pliers anyway. If you shot the cougar, you’d have to kill it instantly, since otherwise the time it’d take you to reload your musket would be your last half minute on earth.
Rowe valued decency. As soon as he stepped off the plane, he sensed decency coursing through all of Canadian culture. No one thing, simply a general feeling. The way people talked and looked: calm, reasonable. Little arrogance in Canada, little reason for it.
When he hit the air outside the terminal, the air smelled north. It smelled like it smelled when you got off the plane in Seattle—you can inhale the miles-away forests, even though the shuttle-buses and cop cars are slithering everywhere. He could smell the coolness of the river. It was August here too, and quite warm, but the river smell made it OK.
He rented a little white car of some kind and, following a map, drove to Nicholas Polen’s address in Baie-d’Urfé, in the part of the city called West Island.
This was Wednesday, not quite noon, not quite a day since he had sat talking with Nathan Cubitt. Compared with the pictures he’d seen of the city center, which looked quite European, here it looked American; all the outlying neighborhoods seemed to. In well-heeled Baie-d’Urfé, the houses ran the gamut from glass cube to faux-chateau.
Rowe stood on the doorstep noting how similar Polen’s house was to Markovich’s. Baie-d’Urfé was the Hancock Park of Montreal, and like Markovich, Polen lived in a mansion with lots of stonework, a walled lot, and a heavy oak front door with a fist-sized knocker. Markovich’s knocker was a wolf’s head, while Polen’s was a massive bronze fleur-de-lis. Rowe lifted the old heraldic symbol and let it go.
Kunnk!
“I’m Simon Westfield,” he told the man who answered the door. He flexed his knees very slightly, as he did when talking to a man shorter than himself.
“Yes, come in,” said Nicholas Polen, who had fought a duel with a knife.
The men shook hands. Polen seemed to have to remember to shake firmly.
“Let’s talk in the kitchen, my favorite room,” he said. “Would you like a glass of wine? I’m going to have one.”
What is it with these dog people and their midday alcohol?
The house was in flux. Furniture was draped or absent—bright, nonfaded areas of the carpets told that a shutting-down was going on. Rowe saw empty display cases, empty shelves with odd patterns of dust on them. Yes, he thought. I was right about one thing, anyway.
In the kitchen Polen took down two plain glasses, then opened another cupboard. In a furtive move, he filled the glasses from a large jug of Gallo red, trying to shield the cheapness with his body.
This house probably had a wine cellar in the basement, Rowe thought, which must be stone-floor empty. The kitchen featured expensive built-ins and finishes, but the table was a wobbly thing that looked fresh from a junk shop. Rowe noticed two marred places on the maple floor where the former table, a heavy trestle one, perhaps stone-topped, had sat for a long time.
Before it was sold.
No sign of a wife.
All right, then.
Polen settled them down to business right away. “I understand you’re only in town fo
r the day,” he said in a somewhat pint-sized voice, which matched his small stature. “You say you’re interested in purchasing Rondo?”
“Yes. Interested.” Rowe took a swallow of the slimy, warm wine. At least it wasn’t Richards Wild Irish Rose. He set his glass down respectfully.
“Anyone who acquires Rondo would acquire a dynasty.”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Westfield, I don’t know your name. Have you been in the business long?”
“I’m a spaniel man.”
“Oh! Fine dogs.” Polen spoke with a bare trace of a European accent.
“Cocker,” added Rowe. “All varieties.”
“Ah! Ambitious. You have had some success, or…?”
“Moderate. I don’t like to boast about it.”
“You’re then different from most dog people!”
Rowe smiled. “My mother is crazy about beagles, she’s owned one or two as pets, but now she’s retiring, and my dad’s dead, and she wants to go into beagles seriously. I’m lucky enough to have the means to help her.”
“She’d be starting at the top with Rondo.”
“That’s what I’m here to determine. I told my mother she ought to start small, just acquire one or two fine pups, get some show experience under her belt, then build a kennel from there.”
“Good advice. But she’s impatient.”
“She is,” agreed Rowe.
“Women!” said Polen, with the air of a lifelong loser.
Rowe studied him. Polen wore khakis and a blue shirt with a fanciful bow tie. He ought to be a suspenders man, with that tie. He wore a belt, though, with a too-shiny gold buckle.
Markovich had said Polen had fallen on hard times. Rowe had expected to meet a confident man, a man of substance. Even bad financial trouble shouldn’t diminish a truly confident man. But Polen struck him as uncertain.
Rowe saw the furrow on the man’s jaw he’d noticed in the picture online, and wondered.
But for that, Polen looked like a professor of English—Canadian English.
“Been in this country long?” asked Rowe.
“Twenty-two years. I came over to work with some North American trainers and fell in love with the New World.” Along with that trace of European, Polen’s vowels were Canadian—those unbent vowels. I keem over.
Rowe suddenly grasped the man’s essence. He was someone who, his whole life long, had been worried about what other men thought of him, like a perpetual adolescent. And he’d acted accordingly. If Markovich’s tale of the duel was true, Polen had made his challenge not out of pride but fear.
Rowe had known other men of Polish blood, and they’d all been blacksmith-bellows-tough. Women too, for that matter. A timid Pole. This was a new species as far as Rowe was concerned.
He said, “Rumor has it Rondo is sick.”
Polen’s smile was too quick. “Where did you hear that?”
“The beagle world is a small one.”
“Have you been talking to Markovich?”
Rowe was ready. “What do you mean?”
Polen stood up quickly, not like a man but like a teenage girl about to flounce out. “I’m not sure I want to do business with you after all.”
If Rowe had been a dog, he’d have bitten him. He rose to go. “Too bad.” His feeling had been right: Polen was an overgrown child, not even a terribly bright one.
Then Rowe paused, took something from his pocket, and placed it on the table.
Polen stared at it as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.
He burst into excited laughter. “It’s—it’s a Strügen Cycle Beagle!”
Rowe picked up the friction-powered toy. He revved it on the tabletop and the little tin dog, perched on a tin penny-farthing bicycle with a tiny outrigger, whirled its bitty legs madly and shot across the wood, straight for the edge. Polen cried out in alarm, but Rowe darted to the other side and caught it just in time.
It was an absurd little thing, but sublimely made, as all the best toys are. Rowe had paid a cantankerous woman in New Jersey almost three thousand dollars for it. When he spoke to her on the telephone, she hadn’t wanted to sell it at any price. The Strügen company of Bonn had only made a few hundred of these, before World War II, and they had delighted little Nazi children all through that horrible time. This was the only perfect specimen known in the world, presumably having been originally owned by an anal-retentive child now collecting Krugerrands, perhaps.
But Rowe had reluctantly let slip that he worked for the IRS, and that got the New Jersey toy maven to dealing. Unfortunate but convenient that so many private dealers try to fly under the tax collector’s radar.
Polen, his mood now joyful, said, “How did you know I collect—collected”—rueful change of tense—“beagle-themed toys?”
“Your Web site.”
“But I don’t say anything about—”
“The picture of Rondo with the pull toy.”
“Oh!”
“I made an assumption.”
“Ha! How did you find this?”
Rowe saw that Polen had broken into a full-body sweat at the sight of this toy. “Did some research online. Found this woman in New Jersey, and—”
“I know her! I know her! The witch! This is the one thing I could never get!” Polen took out a folded tissue and blotted his upper lip, then his forehead, then he blew his nose. Rowe did not particularly respect men who used facial tissues, although it was better than fingers and the ground. Polen said, ogling the toy, “Everybody wants the Strügen Cycle Beagle. This truly is the Holy Grail. This is the Holy Grail.”
Rowe was pleased with himself. Everybody has his sacred object of desire.
Rowe was lucky that his was Rita.
Polen’s was this stamped-metal trinket.
Polen said, “I guess you noticed all the empty shelving? I had to sell my whole collection. It’ll keep me going for a while, until I sell this place. Too big for me anyway.”
“What’s the matter financially?”
“I’ve had some debts. You don’t really want to buy Rondo, do you?”
“No.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to meet Rondo and see the rest of your dogs.”
“Why?”
“Ernest is missing.”
“You’re working for him!” Polen slapped the table. “You’re working for Markovich, aren’t you! He wants Rondo! He’s wanted Rondo for years! That’s because Ernest isn’t worth a damn. That dog couldn’t carry a show—couldn’t carry a breed!—if you—if you—I don’t know what! Shot him full of moon juice!”
“What’s moon juice?”
“I don’t know, I’m just saying.”
“Right. Well, Ernest was a champion in his day.”
“Tuh!” Spitless exclamation. “Ernest is not missing, I tell you. Oh, I’ve seen the notices on the club sites. But you’ve got to be an idiot to think somebody deliberately took that dog. Let alone me!”
“Why so?”
“Ernest is past his prime, he’s finished. Nobody cares about that dog!” Polen’s face was fiercely red. “They’d want my dog! They’d want Rondo! He’s not for sale to the likes of Markovich, however.”
“I haven’t said I’m working for him.”
“Well, you can meet Rondo and a few other dogs, but my current show team is en route to California.”
“What!”
“Yes, for the Pan Pacific Canine Exposition.” Polen said this with a note of smugness.
“In Los Angeles?”
“Yes.”
Rowe chuffed with exasperation. “I thought you’d agreed not to show in America.”
“I had. I had. But Markovich is out of the business, he’s retired. End of agreement, as I see it. Neither Markovich nor I are young fellows. Once you pass seventy, all bets ought to be off.”
“Shit,” said Rowe. “Well, if Rondo’s so great, why isn’t he going to L.A.?”
Defensively, Polen said, “He’s got nothing left
to prove. And OK, he’s a little slower than he used to be. You would be too, if you’d accomplished what he’s done.”
Rowe hooked his thumbs into his belt.
Polen said, “Well, you might as well come along.”
Rowe followed Polen outside, where four beagles were sleeping in the deep shade of an oak tree. Polen whistled and the dogs roused. Without barking, they ran across the grass to him, who mumbled endearments.
“This is Rondo.”
Rowe squatted to meet the dog. He’d studied his picture and was gratified to actually recognize him.
Rondo moved a bit slower than the other dogs, but even Rowe could tell the dog had been a champion: he carried himself like a retired head of state. Rowe offered his hands and the dog sniffed them calmly. He looked closely at the dog’s coat.
Polen was assertive enough with the dogs, guiding one firmly aside with a slight movement of his leg. Polen was their leader. They could never snicker at his bow ties.
When Rowe felt Rondo was comfortable with him, he rubbed his muzzle vigorously, then his back. Nothing came off on his hands, no dye, nothing. Markovich had thought Polen would try to pass Ernest off as Rondo. This was just not the case. The other dogs, Rowe saw, were females.
“I’ve heard he’s sick,” Rowe said again.
“Well, you see him. I wouldn’t entertain offers for a sick animal. It’d be unethical.”
This pathetic guy would tell any lie to get an edge, Rowe thought. But his gut didn’t feel he’d taken Ernest.
Rowe asked again, “What’s your financial trouble about?”
Polen considered for a moment, then went ahead. “You must know, Mr. Westfield, that nobody makes serious money in the dog business. If you don’t treat it as a passion, you’ll be sorry.”
Rowe listened.
“Some of us,” continued Polen, “have contrived other ways to get ahead. Unfortunately, it doesn’t always work out.”
“What are you talking about? Gambling?”
Polen smiled in shame.
“For God’s sake,” said Rowe, “you’re losing your house because of gambling debts? Betting on your own dogs to win shows?”
The Rita Farmer Mystery series Box Set Page 47