Body Guard (14 page)

“Which one’s that?”

“Chaney. Kosman’s no less ambitious and equally pristine, being, as he is, eminent among the energetic and thoroughly honest young traders on the floor of the mighty New York Stock Exchange. Not a captain, perhaps, but certainly a shavetail of industry, with promise of greatness to come.”

“Neither one’s been to Denver lately?”

“As far as I could find out, neither one’s ever been west of New Jersey. Nor do they want to be. In fact, I don’t think they even know where Denver is—a fairly common affliction in the Steinberg geography of New York.”

“Thanks, Perce. Send me a bill and I’ll get a check by return mail.”

“Knowing you, I should ask for a money order. But I’ll trust you this once for old times’ sake—and may the gods grin on your every endeavor.”

Vinny Landrum did not have a report. In fact, the last Devlin heard from him was the cryptic message on the answering tape stating that he’d gotten the job. Devlin waited until an hour or so after work and then called the man’s apartment. “Vinny, I expected to hear from you yesterday.”

“If I got something to report, Kirk, I’ll report. That’s how I operate. Listen, if you don’t like it, you can always bring in somebody else, you know.”

“For what you’re being paid, that’d be easy to do. What about Martin and Atencio? What have they been doing?”

“They’ve been working. I haven’t made contact with those guys yet, Kirk, and I’m not about to push it. I fucking well told you when this caper started: it’s my ass, and I’ll go at my own speed.”

“I asked how they’re behaving. Do they seem nervous? Are they looking over their shoulders?”

“From what I seen, no. They show up for work on time, do their jobs, go home without rattling any cages. I mean for Christ’s sake, it’s only been two days—give me a chance to do my job! That all right with you?”

“They don’t act like people who’ve just killed a man?”

“No. They act like citizens with clean consciences, and I think that’s how they’re going to act until things cool down. No shipments coming in, no panic, no nothing. Just wait and see if things blow over before making any moves. That’s what they act like.”

Kirk didn’t think Martin and Atencio—or Vinny, for that matter—knew a damn thing about clean consciences. “I want you to call in, Vinny. I don’t give a fart if you’ve got nothing to report. I want to enjoy the sound of your dulcet voice every day. Hear me?”

“You can enjoy my dulcet dick is what you can enjoy, Kirk. I call in when I got something to tell you. Otherwise, leave me the hell alone—I don’t want my cover shot to hell by some tight-ass like you.”

“Vinny—”

“Yeah, ‘Vinny.’ You let me do this my way. If you knew how to do it right the first time, you wouldn’t need to bring me in. Now don’t call me—I’ll call you. Got it?”

A
WEEK LATER
, Humphries came in to pay his bill and tell Devlin there was no need for any further protection. To Kirk, the man didn’t look happy about it. And in fact, Humphries wasn’t happy about much at all, and there was no reason he should be. Mitsi had asked for the detectives in the first place, telling him that her father’s man had somehow learned where she was, and that they had to protect themselves against whoever her father might send after her. Now, for some damned reason, she was just as anxious to have the detectives gone. She wouldn’t tell him why—just the smile and the caress and the insistence that they didn’t need to spend any more money on Kirk and Associates. Which, by God, was a point he could agree with—like everyone else, once these people had their hooks into you, they took you for all they could! Still, he felt that nagging worry: even if her father hadn’t been heard from—and no one threatening had showed up in the past weeks—there was the possibility it could yet happen.

“If I—ah—need to get in touch with you in a hurry, can I do it?”

Devlin handed him a business card with a penciled telephone number on the back. “This is my beeper number. Twenty-four hours a day.”

“I mean, it may not be necessary, you understand? I just don’t know yet.”

Humphries had a fair foundation for the safety of self and home—a quick course in escape and evasion techniques, the electronic barriers and alerts installed by Bunch, his car fitted with an under-hood fire suppressant system and tailpipe protection. But he was still spooked by whatever it was he didn’t trust Kirk to know. “If we’re not on retainer, Mr. Humphries, I can’t guarantee that we won’t be tied up on a case.” Kirk shrugged. “We have to make a living, you see. But if you need help, call that number. If neither Mr. Bunchcroft nor I can come, we’ll find someone who can.”

The man nodded and stood to shake hands. “I’ll rely on that.”

“Of course,” Devlin said, smiling. But if that call did come, Humphries would have to be a hell of a lot more honest about the reason for it than he had been in the past. And there would be no more nonsense about alleged prowlers or brown cars.

After the Humphries file was closed, the Advantage case and the Truman surveillance took most of their time, which was good, because those were the only two cases they had. Vinny’s report sang the same song over and over. In fact, his reports tended toward the monosyllabic: “Nothing, Kirk. Will you quit the fuck bugging me?” There was still no word on their bids outstanding, and the periodic stakeouts at Jean Truman’s condominium were equally profitable. A disgusted Bunch tossed the keys onto the desk and blew wearily as he groped for the coffeepot. “That broad’s a hell of a lot smarter than Zell. I tried your flat tire trick. All she did was call Triple A and didn’t even come out of the house to watch.”

“Allen Schute was happy with the videotape of Zell.” Devlin waved a pink check with its New York address. “He paid us.”

“That’s good. What about Reznick? What did he tell you?”

Devlin had gone to Advantage Corporation to make what could laughingly be called a progress report. “He’s not happy. It’s been almost two weeks, he says, and Vinny’s costing him a lot of money. He thinks we’re giving him damn little back for it.”

“If he knew Vinny, he wouldn’t expect much.”

“He’s beginning to feel that way about Kirk and Associates.”

Both Bunch and Devlin had been making periodic surveys of Atencio and Martin—picking up their cars at work and following one or the other home, cruising in the dark past their driveways at odd hours to note any activity, tailing Vinny after work to ensure that no one was following Kirk and Associates’ newest agent. Vinny wouldn’t be thrilled to learn of their interest, but after what happened to Chris, neither Kirk nor Bunchcroft wanted to take chances. Not even with Vinny. Not yet anyway. But his hours of surveillance and the days of his labor brought nothing. Atencio and Martin were laying low, and as a member of the warehouse crew, Vinny could swear that no dope was being shipped through the plant.

Bunch glanced at the wall clock. “I think we ought to squeeze Vinny a little. After two weeks, even that maggot should have something besides the clap.” He drained his cup. “Let’s pick him up after work again.”

Bunch and Devlin parked down the street from the factory’s main gate and waited until they saw Vinny’s beat-up Chevy pull out of the company parking lot. Then they followed. Devlin drove the Subaru, and Bunch, his seat jammed back against the stops, sucked the last of a can of beer and surveyed the heavy traffic for anyone following the Chevy.

“Little bastard’s not going home this time,” said Bunch.

Vinny’s apartment was near downtown in the Capitol Hill area, but his car turned east from the parking lot to I-70 and the Peoria interchange. Then it headed south past Fitzsimmons Army Medical Center.

“A girlfriend?”

Bunch shorted. “Vinny? Naw, he keeps his love life in hand.”

The Chevy turned on Seventeenth Avenue and went a dozen blocks to a small, almost treeless park, where it pulled to the vacant curb and waited. Kirk drove past without changing speed, face angled from the park, and pulled over when Vinny’s car became a tiny dot in the rearview mirror. From a long block away, they watched Vinny get out and walk to a concrete bench set away from the kiddie playground that glittered hotly in the late-afternoon sun. A man was already seated there, staring across the empty slide and jungle gym.

“It’s some kind of meet,” said Bunch. He studied the distant figure through the telephoto lens of his camera. “Guy’s about thirty-five, brown hair, mustache. Glasses—the shooter’s kind. You know: wire frames and big yellow lenses. No scars or marks that I can see.” The camera started a series of clicks and whirs.

“Are they talking?”

“Yeah. Mostly Vinny. Now the other guy’s saying something and Vinny’s listening. And picking his goddamn nose with his thumb. I bet he looks at it.”

“Want me to back up?”

“No. They’d spot us sure as hell. No, the son of a bitch didn’t look at it—he’s wiping his goddamn thumb on his pants leg… . Now he’s talking. He’s picking again—he’s being couth this time, Dev. Wiping his goddamn finger inside his shirt pocket… . They’re talking some more… . That’s it; Vinny’s up and going. The other guy’s up and headed across the park the other way.”

“Can you see his car?”

“Naw. Swing around. Maybe we can spot it.”

Devlin pulled left around the block, squealing the tires in a fast turn.

“If we had one of those high-powered shotgun mikes I want, we could have picked up what they said.”

“If we bought one of those high-powered shotgun mikes, we’d be out of business.”

“Just a suggestion, Dev. Don’t get defensive about being cheap.”

The neatly spaced homes with their square patches of lawn and picture windows blurred as the Subaru swayed onto Sixteenth. Down the almost vacant avenue, a metallic-blue BMW pulled away from the curb. Devlin accelerated to move closer.

“Don’t push the yuppiemobile, Dev—I can shoot him from here.”

Kirk eased up and Bunch clicked the camera several times as the blue car picked up speed. “Okay. Now all we need’s party and plate. Let’s get back to good ol’ Vinny.”

They caught up with him on Havana, going north to turn on Colfax. The familiar rusted roof surged through the remains of rush-hour traffic in a long but straight run toward Capitol Hill. The commercial highway passed crowds of small signs for mom- and-pop businesses and low-budget chain stores. Among the assorted shops was a sprinkling of high-class restaurants and low-class motels that rented rooms by the hour. Apparently, Vinny was headed home now, but Devlin stayed with him just in case. The late-afternoon traffic clogged the lanes and shimmered with its own heat and that of the dry early-October sun. A couple blocks from his neighborhood, Vinny suddenly veered into a side street and pulled to the curb. He locked the car and stood waiting in tree shade as Kirk and Bunch nosed in behind him.

“You people couldn’t tail a blind man without him spotting you.”

“Hello, Vinny. Strange to see you moving around in daylight.”

“You’re as funny as dead babies, Homer. I been working all day at that fucking factory. I’m hot, I’m going in for a beer. You people want to talk to me, you’re buying.”

He turned on his heel and strode toward the Rocky Mountain Lounge, a small bar that had served a neighborhood when there was a neighborhood to serve. Now it was just another of the faceless pickup joints along Colfax.

They made their way through the sudden gloom to one of the high-backed booths away from the door. In the rear of the dark and smoky room, a pool table clattered as players wordlessly circled the brightly lit green to study the glinting colors.

“Bring a pitcher, Larry—this big dude’s paying.” Vinny pointed to Bunch.

Devlin waited until Vinny’s glass had been filled and emptied and filled again. “What do you have for us?”

“Same thing I told you day before yesterday—not much.”

“It’s over a week. Our client’s spending a lot of money on you. This isn’t government work, Vinny. You’re supposed to produce.”

“Hey, what is this? What the hell can I do if the fucking suspects just sit on their thumbs?”

“Have they made you?”

“Shit, no! I’m no amateur.”

“Do you have any contacts with them?”

“Eight fucking hours on the job, sure.” Vinny wagged his head once and buried his upper lip in foam. “But they’re not going to invite me to have fun and games with them, Kirk. They’re still nervous. That turkey you put in before, he really screwed things up.”

“What’d they say about him?” asked Devlin.

“Nothing. Just a few things they let drop.”

“So drop them.”

The head wagged again. “They know somebody was running an investigation.” He held up the empty pitcher and called to Larry for a refill. “You people ain’t thirsty?”

“What did they say, Vinny?” asked Bunch.

“Nothing. They were too busy laughing at you clowns. Giving them some shit about being Mafia types or whatever— they were laughing at you, Kirk. Laughing about bringing in some dude who scared the living shit out of you.” He drank. “Serves you right, pulling that kind of amateur crap.”

“Did they say anything about Chris?”

Vinny glanced at Kirk’s face and shut up. “No. I just overheard them talking, is all.”

“What about Eddie Visser?” asked Bunch. “Have they heard from him?”

“I don’t know. Nobody’s said the name around me.”

A rattle of pool balls came from the table. “Who’d you meet in the park?” asked Bunch.

“What park? Where?”

“In Aurora just now. The guy with the sunglasses. Who was it?”

“Oh, him! You people were on me from there?”

“Who was it?”

“Hey, it was business, all right? I got a private business of my own I got to look after too.”

“What kind of private business?”

“Listen, I’m not your fucking slave! I do my job for you, you don’t tell me what to do on my own time.”

“You don’t have any time of your own. We’re buying your time—all of it. What kind of private business?”

“I don’t have to tell you shit!”

Bunch put both large hands on the table in front of Vinny. “You can tell us here. Or we can go to your place and I’ll squeeze it out of you.” The hands slowly folded into fists. “Like a goddamn tube of toothpaste.”