Finnegan's Week (29 page)

Bobbie showed Nell a big smile and shook hands vigorously. Nell gave her a half-smile and shook hands with less enthusiasm, especially when Bobbie looked so approvingly at Fin, who wore a blue cotton turtleneck, Dockers, and a white windbreaker.

Bobbie said, “You look
cool
in a turtleneck, Fin!”

“Hides a sagging neck,” Nell said, dryly.

Bobbie thought that Nell was very attractive, but not in the usual way, not with that bent nose. Yet she was a mature woman who looked in charge of her life, and that was intimidating to a woman Bobbie's age.

Nell studied Bobbie and thought she needed to lose ten pounds. And Nell couldn't fail to notice how she fawned over Fin. He returned her fawning with a badly concealed “aw shucks” kind of foot shuffling. Nell half expected him to tug at his forelock. It was
pathetic
.

Before the conversation went very far, Fin said, “My Vette can't carry three.”

Bobbie said, “My Hyundai isn't very comfortable.”

Nell said, “We'll take my Audi.”

“We need to go someplace and talk,” Fin said.

“Not someplace where they serve alcohol,” Nell said, looking purposefully at Bobbie. “Have you noticed that he
drinks?
”

Bobbie grinned at Fin and said, “No worse than a sailor.”

Had to stay home and cook pasta? Nell thought. Yeah. She thought she might faint if it got any more revolting. He'd actually
blushed
when Bobbie giggled!

“I know what,” Fin said. “There's a nineteen-fifties lunch counter on Orange Avenue. Let's go there for a burger and a coke.”

“Out-standing!” Bobbie said.

“In-tense!” Nell said.

“What?” Fin said.

“In-credible!” Nell said. “Let's go hang
out
!”

“Is there something wrong?” Fin asked quietly.

“Of course not,” Nell said, with the first of an afternoon full of smirks. “This is all so predictable.”

*   *   *

The diner was a
real
fifties-style lunch counter, not one of the ersatz diners that've become popular in recent years. This one hadn't changed since We-liked-Ike, except for an occasional paint job, or a new sheet of Formica on the counter, or some new plastic on the revolving stools.

Fin sat between the two women and ordered a Coke. Nell ordered coffee and Bobbie ordered a large orange juice, and a burger with everything.

“Gotta replenish the vitamin C,” she said, beaming at Fin and adding, “after last night.”

Nell noticed that Bobbie usually placed her hand on his forearm when she spoke to him.

“This is
so
touching, I don't need sugar in my coffee,” Nell said to the waitress in a stage whisper.

In that she was getting on in years, the waitress turned her good ear toward Nell and said, “Excuse me?”

“Nothing,” Nell said. “Everything's
swell
”

Nell also noticed that Fin deferred to Bobbie each time there was something to be explained to Nell during the fifteen-minute conversation. Nell learned about the theft from North Island, and that Bobbie felt it was very suspicious that Jules Temple hadn't informed them that there was a navy investigator interested in the case.

When Bobbie and Fin were all through telling the story, Nell stared into the bottom of her coffee cup and said, “This is a squirrely case and getting more so.”

“I think it's clearing up,” Bobbie said.

Nell said, “So Abel Durazo, Shelby Pate, and a deceased Mexican national named Pepe Palmera were in cahoots to steal the navy shoes, sell them in T.J. and …”

“
Along
with the truck,” Fin added.

“Okay, so they
probably
sold the truck, or at least planned to use it to haul the pottery … Wait a minute. The pottery shop in Old Town? Do you think …”

“It's complicated enough,” Fin said. “Let's not include him in this conspiracy.”

“Okay, for now it's just those three.”

“Why didn't Jules Temple tell you about me?” Bobbie wanted to know.

Nell smiled sweetly and said, “Maybe he didn't think you were that important, honey.”

Fin shot Nell a dirty look and she returned it with a smirk, but Bobbie wasn't fazed.

“I can't believe he'd just think it was too trivial to mention,” Bobbie said. “Do you, Fin?”

“I tend to agree with Bobbie,” he said.

“Of course you do,” Nell muttered.

Then Fin turned to Bobbie and said, “But still, I can't understand why Jules Temple would involve himself with the theft of two thousand pairs of shoes, not to mention going along with the loss of his truck.”

“Maybe the truck's heavily insured,” Bobbie said.

This time Nell leaned forward on her stool, looked around Fin, and said, “There's always a deductible on a policy, my dear, that
he
would have to pay.”

Bobbie leaned over, looked at Nell, and said, “Of course! Since I don't have your many
many
years of investigation, I didn't think a that.”

Fin interrupted quickly. “I think the faking of the truck theft lets Jules Temple off the hook as far as being part of any grand-theft conspiracy. Even if it's just one of
many
thefts involving these guys.”

“Are those navy warehouses secure?” Nell asked.

“About as secure as Woody Allen,” said Fin.

“True,” Bobbie said. “They coulda pulled a lotta stuff outta our warehouses over a period of months.”

“Jules Temple can't be part of
that
, Bobbie,” Fin said. “It doesn't check out.”

Nell looked into her cup again and said, “Yet …”

“Yet what?” Fin asked.

“What if his truckers're independent contractors as far as stealing is concerned, but in cahoots with their boss on something
else?
”

“Such as?”

“Such as dumping hazardous waste in Mexico, instead of Jules Temple having to spend the money to properly dispose of it.”

“Yeah!” Bobbie said. “I
know
he's involved somehow. The guy's oilier than Kuwait.”

“Could
that
be why he's less than forthcoming?” Fin asked. “He's a waste dumper?”

“Wait a minute,” Nell said. “No, it doesn't wash. There were only a few drums involved here, and there're manifests to deal with, waste belonging to different customers on two different manifests. How would he explain to the EPA that manifested waste never got to its destination?”

“By claiming the truck was stolen?” Bobbie suggested.

“To save hauling costs on a few drums of waste, he's going to give up a truck? No,” Nell said. “No.”

“Okay, I give up,” Fin said. “Jules Temple has nothing to do with anything. Durazo, Pate and the dead man were partners in a conspiracy to steal from the warehouse
and
to steal the truck. Period.”

“Sounds right,” Nell said.

Bobbie said nothing. She clearly didn't like anything about Jules Temple, including his goddamn haircut. All she'd say was “So let's go hook up the two truckers. The shoe on the dead guy ties them in good enough for an arrest, at least.”

Nell nodded at Fin and said, “The porky dude'll rat off the little Mexican, I bet.”

“Wait a minute!” Fin said. “Just when I got it sorted out another possibility jumped up.”

“Go ahead,” Nell said with a sigh.

“What if Pate and Durazo stole the shoes, but Pepe Palmera, a total stranger, stole their truck while they were having lunch at Angel's. Isn't that possible? Pepe Palmera got himself a cargo of waste and shoes, and he drove them straight to T.J.”

“Then Pate and Durazo're telling the truth about everything except stealing the shoes from the navy?” Nell asked.

“Exactly,” Fin said.

“But if they had nothing to
do
with Pepe Palmera, then how easy is it gonna be to connect them up with the shoe that was on his foot?” Bobbie asked.

“Not easy at all,” Fin said, “unless they can be persuaded to drop a dime on each other.”

“Shit!” Bobbie said. “They just gotta be involved in a conspiracy with the dead guy.
They
drove that truck to T.J. The two thousand pairs a shoes're in Tijuana and
they
know where at.
They
dumped the waste that killed that little kid.”

“I'm getting tired of this,” Nell said. “Let's go find those two guys and sweat them. First the big fat one, then the skinny Mexican.”

Bobbie looked at Fin with anticipation. He looked back into her blue eyes for a few seconds and said, “Okay, sailor, but stay close to me. Hear?”

Bobbie beamed at him, and put her hand on his forearm.

Nell shook her head slowly, turned her face away, and said: “Dis-
gust
-ing.”

The old waitress shuffled over and said, “It ain't
that
bad is it, love? I can make a fresh pot.”

C
HAPTER
22

A
bel Durazo didn't see the ox's pickup truck in the parking lot at Angel's Café so he thought Shelby wasn't there. But then he spotted Shelby's hog parked directly in front with four other Harleys, and on each bike was a hated helmet, now required by law.

When Abel entered he found the ox watching two truckers playing Pac-Man. Shelby's costume was designed to give off outlaw-biker death rays: black leather jacket, black jeans, studded boots, and a dirty gray tee with
GRATEFUL DEAD
in black across the chest. Instead of his usual loose and scraggly style, the ox had his dirty-blond hair tied back in a severe ponytail.

The ox showed his gap-tooth grin to Abel, threw a heavy arm around his partner's shoulder, and led him to a quiet booth where they ordered burritos and beer.

“Why we meet so early, Buey?” Abel asked, after the waitress was gone.

“I got some un-real
news
!” Shelby said. “We're gonna go into partnership with Mister Jules Temple!”

Abel Durazo had often thought that the ox might someday just blow out all the wires in that massive skull, and now he feared it had happened. The Mexican looked around at all the various truckers, bikers, rednecks, and other lowlifes who used Angel's for various purposes. Several of them looked much more demented than the ox.

“Tell me one more time,” Abel said carefully. “We going to be …
partner
weeth Meester Temple?”

“
Senior
partners,” Shelby said, cackling. “Man, my life's become totally fucking
amazing
! I am in titty city, dude! I am gonna live in a meadow of meth! I am gonna reside in Harley heaven! 'Cept I ain't buyin no more Harleys. You ever seen that Honda Shadow eleven hunnerd? It ain't a fag bike like most a them. I'm thinkin about buyin me one. I'll buy you one too.”

“Buey, you go crazy!” Abel said, with a sincerely worried look.

“If it wasn't fer you makin me steal them fuckin shoes, none a this ever woulda happened,” Shelby said. “I am mega-fuckin stoked!
Totally
!”

“Okay, Buey, okay,” Abel said soothingly, the way you'd talk to someone straddling the railing on the Coronado Bridge.

“Know that manifest? The one from Southbay? We was haulin
bad
shit, baby! And Jules Temple manifested it as not-so-bad shit, okay to take to L.A. fer ordinary disposal! Kin you see where I'm comin from, dude?”

“No, Buey,” the Mexican said. “No.”

“I didn't throw it away like you wanted me to. That manifest says we was haulin ordinary waste back to our yard for disposal at the L.A. refinery. But we was haulin
big-time
poison! And it killed the guy that stole our truck.” Then the ox paused and the gap-tooth smile vanished. “And … and it killed that
kid
, that kid with the ringworm.”

“We don' know eef eet was the one weeth the reeng-worms!” Abel said.

“Okay, but it killed a
kid
. On'y it wasn't our fault, was it, man?”

“No,” Abel said.

“Anyways, that shit was illegally manifested by that cheesy faggot, Jules Temple. We never woulda let it outta our sight if we knew we had
real
bad poison, would we?”

“But Buey, we never look at manifest!”

“I know, goddamnit, but that's what we
say
to Temple. We say, we only did our thing in Mexico 'cause we thought we had ordinary waste!”

“He going to know we steal from navy.”

“So what? Stealin shoes for guys like us is no biggie. Illegally manifested waste that
kills
somebody is the end a the fuckin world fer
him
!”

It was the first time that Shelby had ever seen Abel look scared. Flaco was a ballsy little dude, but for once he looked
scared
.

“I don' know, Buey.”

“You don't know what?”

“Steal shoes, okay. Make report of stolen truck, okay. Tell Meester Temple we
partner?
I don' know.”

“You jist lemme handle it, okay? You 'n me, we're fifty-fifty. I'll deal with Temple.”

“He ain't like us, '
mano
,” Abel said. “He deeferent people.”

“No, he ain't like us. That bogus asshole don't know dick about the real world.”

“Okay,” Abel said, “but I scared.”

“Don't be scared. Jist concentrate on the cool time we're gonna have tonight with six very
very
big ones that we're gonna collect from Soltero.”

Then Abel broke into a grin. “Tonight, we have berry good time.”

“There you go, Flaco!” said the ox. “Party
on
!”

“We go to T.J. now?”

“Pretty soon,” Shelby said. “First we gotta stop by Green Earth before the overtime crew locks the fuckin place up.”

“Why we go there?”