Incriminating Evidence (24 page)

“We understand,” Rosie says. “What did you find out?”

“Remember Hector Ramirez, the guy you met in the projects who lived at Johnny Garcia’s address? He was in today. He’s a delivery guy for my main wholesaler. He’s been working in the neighborhood for a long time. He knows everybody. He’s tuned in and, for lack of a better term, he’s a bit of a gossip. I figured it was worth asking him about Andy Holton.”

Rosie asks, “Did Ramirez know him?”

“Yes, but not well.”

I ask where he met Holton.

“Hector met him when Holton was working at the Pancho Villa. Hector makes deliveries to the restaurant.”

As far as I can tell, the fact that Ramirez knew Holton has nothing to do with Skipper’s case. I ask Tony whether there is any possible connection.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m just telling you what he said. Holton was an operator. He was looking for money to fund a new business. He asked Hector about it.”

That’s odd. “Tony,” I say, “I know you and Hector are friends, but he’s a driver for a produce business. He lives in the projects. Why would Holton think Hector might be a funding source?”

“Because his boss is Donald Martinez. He has a lot of money.”

I’ll say. Everybody knows about Donald Martinez. On a given day, you’ll find his name in the paper for any number of reasons. He runs one of the biggest produce wholesalers in the city and owns a majority interest in a large construction contracting firm. He has a lot of pull downtown. He’s in tight with the mayor. He is also the head of the Mission Redevelopment Fund, a local nonprofit that provides start-up capital to neighborhood businesses. Still, it seems unlikely to me. “I don’t get it,” I say. “Why would a player like Martinez invest in a business run by a pimp like Andy Holton? And why would Holton think Hector could help him? He’s just a low-level guy.”

“The way he figured, Holton was looking for an introduction to Martinez—any introduction. Hector knew it was a long shot, but he’s been working for Martinez for a long time and he’s smart—he knows a lot about his operation. I guess Holton picked up on that. Martinez likes to pretend he’s still one of the guys from the neighborhood. He lets it be known that he spends some time every week down at the loading dock with the drivers—he takes great pride in it. It’s all for show, but he does know most of his employees by name, including Hector. It’s damn near impossible to get a small-business loan from a bank in this part of town, and Martinez has provided the community with an alternate source of funds. For a guy like Holton, it must have seemed worth a try.”

I’m still not buying this. It’s too much of a stretch. “What kind of business was Holton starting?” I ask. “A restaurant? A fruit and vegetable business?”

“No,” Tony says. “An Internet business.”

Right. A guy who worked at the Pancho Villa who is also a pimp is now a high-tech entrepreneur. I ask what kind of Internet business.

“Cyberporn.”

I suppose this shouldn’t surprise me. “And where did Hector get this information? I presume he didn’t wander up to Martinez’s office and ask him about it.”

Tony frowns. “Of course not. He wouldn’t tell me his source, but I’d bet somebody at the Pancho Villa told him about it. Apparently, Holton was looking for funding and showed some of his stuff to a couple of people at the restaurant. When the manager got wind of it, he fired Holton.”

This is a plausible explanation for Holton’s rather sudden departure from the Pancho Villa a few weeks ago. Nevertheless, if Martinez is legit, there isn’t a chance he would have funded anything like that. “Did Holton actually approach Martinez?” I ask.

“Hector didn’t know. And he has no idea whether Martinez provided any funding to him.”

It seems unlikely. “And Hector shared this with you out of the goodness of his heart?”

“Hector’s a good guy, Mike. And he’s a talker.” He smiles and adds, “And I’m a good listener.” This is true. Rosie says that Tony has a sympathetic face. Complete strangers tell him their deepest and darkest secrets when they come to the market. Tony’s expression changes to one of concern. “Mike?” he says.

“Yes?”

“Martinez is my main supplier. If he gets pissed off at me, I’m out of business.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I doubt this ever happened—and if we do decide to talk to him, we’ll tell you first and we’ll keep you out of it.”

—————

Rosie and I are sitting on the sofa in her living room. A candle flickers on the mantel. We’re hugging. “Your brother is a good guy,” I whisper to her.

Her hands gravitate to the middle of my back. Rosie knows how to push all the right buttons. She kisses me and says, “The people who work in the produce business can be very nasty. Donald Martinez didn’t become a player by being a nice guy. I don’t want Tony to get in the middle of this case.”

“I know. I promise we’ll be careful.”

She gets a faraway look in her eyes. “I wish Tony would find somebody,” she says. “Of all of us, he had the only successful marriage.”

“My dad used to say that the toughest things to deal with in life are those that you can’t control.”

“He was a wise man.”

“Yes, he was.” Although we weren’t always close, I still miss him.

She smiles and pulls me to her. She cups my cheek in her hand. “Why don’t we take a couple of minutes and try to deal with something we
can
control?”

I’m asleep in my apartment when the ringing phone jolts me awake. It’s still dark. I stab for the phone. The digital clock next to my bed says it’s four forty-five.

“Hello?” I say.

“It’s Andy Holton.”

I’m completely awake in an instant. I flip on the light and grab a pencil. “Where are you, Andy?”

“Nearby.”

“How can I help you?”

“I think I need to talk to a lawyer.”

“I think you’re right,” I say.

“I’d like to meet with you.”

“When?”

“Eleven o’clock tonight. The Jerry Hotel. Room Four.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Mr. Daley?”

“Yes?”

“Come by yourself. I’ll have some people watching you.”

22
THE JERRY HOTEL

“Please flush toilets after each use.”

—S
IGN INSIDE THE DOORWAY TO THE
J
ERRY
H
OTEL
.

“I don’t like it,” Tony says. A single light is on in the back of his produce market at ten o’clock the next night. He’s talking. “It’s a bad idea. You should let the cops handle this.”

In an hour I’m going to be a mile up Mission Street at the Jerry Hotel. Rosie is quiet, but Pete agrees with Tony.

“I’ve got to talk to him first,” I insist.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Pete says.

“We’re supposed to talk to our clients before we call the cops to arrest them.”

“He isn’t your client,” Tony points out.

True, nor will he be. “I’m not crazy about the idea, either,” I acknowledge. “On the other hand, he called me for advice. I agreed to listen to him. I can’t just call the cops and have him picked up.”

Tony asks, “Why do you have to meet him at a seedy hotel?”

Rosie answers for me. “We’re criminal defense attorneys. Sometimes we have no choice. We can’t always meet clients and witnesses at Starbucks.”

Tony says, “You’re bringing reinforcements, right?”

“I’m going with him,” Pete says.

“Pete will cover the entrance when I’ve gone in,” I say. “I’ll meet with Holton. If I don’t return in five minutes, Pete will call the cops.”

Tony glances at Rosie and says, “I’m coming, too.”

“This isn’t your fight, Tony,” I say.

“It is now. You’re still family, even when you act like an idiot.” He puts his broom down and picks up his cell phone. He walks to the front of the market and returns wearing a beat-up denim jacket. I’d bet almost anything he’s carrying the gun that he keeps behind the counter. “I’m coming with you,” he says again. “If you geniuses get delusions of grandeur, I’m going to call the cops myself.”

Rosie puts on her own jacket and folds her arms. “I’m coming, too,” she says.

I argue with her for a few minutes. Inevitably, I lose. “All right,” I say. “You’re in. You can watch the back of the hotel. But you and Tony stay together. And you’ve got to stay out of sight—Holton said I’d be watched.”

Rosie exhales. “If you go and get yourself killed, I’m going to be really pissed off at you,” she says to me. And then, a little tremulously, “Be careful, Mike.”

At ten-forty, I’m standing in the BART plaza across Sixteenth from the Jerry Hotel. Pete is somewhere in the immediate vicinity where he can’t be seen. We arrived separately. Rosie and Tony are supposed to be in the alley in the back of the building. It’s a warm evening. The smell of burritos fills the plaza. A young entrepreneur is transacting pharmaceutical business next to the Green Monster. This is a cash-only enterprise. In the five minutes I’ve been standing here, he’s made about two thousand dollars. A police car drives up Mission but doesn’t stop.

I’m watching the entrance to the Jerry. It’s about as far as you can get from the Ritz. A female prostitute has opened the heavy steel door and gone upstairs. A young Hispanic man comes and goes in short order, presumably to deliver drugs. He darts up Sixteenth after making the drop. My eyes are working at a hundred miles per hour.

The drug dealer walks up to me and asks, “Can I interest you in some high-quality products?”

“What do you have?” I ask.

“Anything you want.”

“Not interested tonight,” I say. “Maybe another time.”

“Suit yourself,” he replies, and heads back toward the Green Monster. A group of people are coming up the escalator from the BART station. A train must have just arrived. New customers are on their way.

The door of the Jerry is covered with graffiti. The restaurant on the ground floor is dark. Some of the windows on the second and third floors are boarded up. I repeat the plan to myself once more. If I’m not back within five minutes, Pete will call the cops and come upstairs with the cavalry. At least I hope so.

The door to the Jerry is ajar when I push on it at eleven o’clock. It opens grudgingly and I head in. In front of me is a dimly lit stairway. The banister has been ripped from the wall. It’s stuffy. A single lightbulb halfway up the stairs provides the only illumination. It’s dark at the top. A man with a long beard is sitting just under the lightbulb, drinking malt liquor from a tall can. In the murky light his olive-colored skin has a pasty pall. His clothes are tattered and filthy. I smell him as I climb past him. He ignores me.

It’s grimmer at the top of the stairs. There’s a strung-out prostitute sitting on the linoleum floor as I turn the corner. Her halter top is wrapped around her neck and her bare
breasts hang lifelessly. She moans as I walk past her. My heart is pounding. I’m sweating. There’s another bare light-bulb halfway down the short corridor. I see four rooms on each side. There’s a number on each, and I hear groaning from behind the closed door to Room One. The door to Room Two is open. Two men are shooting up just inside. They slam the door when I walk by.

A well-dressed man hurries out of Room Three and walks past me. “What the fuck do you want?” he mutters as he goes by. He jams his nightly fix under his coat.

Room Four is at the end of the hallway, so it must face the back of the building. I can hear myself breathing. I derive little comfort knowing that my guys are outside waiting for me. I put my ear up to the door and listen. Not a sound. I make a fist and knock twice. No answer. I try the handle. The door isn’t locked. I push it open. The room is dark except for the light coming through the window from the alley. It opens onto a fire escape. I can make out a mattress on the floor and a wooden chair. There is a dark spot in the corner that may have held a sink. Now it’s just a hole in the floor. The smell of urine permeates the room.

I step inside and my eyes begin to adjust. “Andy? Andy Holton?” I ask.

There’s a clicking sound to my left, and I feel cold metal against my left ear. “Don’t move,” a male voice whispers. It sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.

Panic
. My stomach churns. I feel the sweat in my armpits. I think of Grace. I think of Rosie. I think I’m going to die tonight in the Jerry Hotel.

The voice asks, “Are you by yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Put your hands on top of your head.”

I do as I’m told. Hands frisk me. My heart pounds. I don’t respond well to terror.

“Are you Daley?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

He asks for my wallet. I pass it back to him. He looks at it and hands it back.

“Are you Holton?” I ask.

“No. He sent me to get you.”

“Is he here?”

“No.”

Shit.

He’s still standing behind me. The barrel of the pistol moves to my back. “We’re going for a walk,” he says. “If you turn around and try to look at me, I’ll kill you.”

I believe him. “Where are we going?”

“Not far.”

I begin to turn toward the door, and he pokes me in the kidney. “No,” he says. “We’re not using the front door. We’re taking the fire escape.”

Christ. We’re going out the back of the building. Pete won’t see me, but maybe Rosie and Tony will. He pushes me toward the window. I climb out onto the fire escape and start making my way down the iron stairs. I’m afraid of heights. He warns me again not to look at him. He jostles me in the back with his pistol. I question my sanity.

We reach the ground and begin walking up the alley toward Valencia. I try not to move my head as I dart helpless glances for Rosie and Tony. I come to the hard realization that I may be flying solo. When we reach Valencia, I don’t feel the gun anymore. I presume this means he’s hidden it under his jacket. He tells me to turn right. I’m tempted to try to make a break for it or to stop one of the cars on Valencia, but I don’t have the guts. We walk about fifty paces north. The looming presence of the Hotel Royan casts a shadow on the street. I recall my visit with the man in the old cheese steak shop. I’m sweating right through my clothes.