Murder by Candlelight (26 page)

"So, I don't get the dignity of having my
guts splashed around the room. Instead, I'm to have a quiet heart
attack from drinking too much of the celebratory wine. My wife
don't drink, so the bastard figures he gets just me, and then
Angelica falls into his lap in the bargain.

"So, soon as I find out
about the doctored wine, I go turtle. Pull into my shell, so to
speak. But the fuck has got somebody on my tail. A tracker. Young
tough on the rise himself, I hear. Minghetti had better watch his
back, hiring
that
kind of bopper. So, I'm here. One jump ahead. I been taking
cabs. But have got reason to believe there's a dispatcher who's on
Minghetti's payroll. The same with rentals. Been so long since I
hot-wired a car -- they changed them so much -- I don't know how to
do it any more."

"You want to borrow my car?"

"Hell no, Z. What
would
you
drive
if I did that? Anyway, I'd give you odds that Minghetti knows about
you and me.
You
start taking cabs, and they'll be looking for
your
car. Trace me that
way."

"You need a lift, then?"

"Right."

"You being followed?"

"Don't think so. But wouldn't want to be
here for long."

"Right."

"I don't think you're in any danger, Z. I
wouldn't do that to you. I took the cab to another block, a couple
of streets down, so they don't trace it to you."

"Should do it." Should, but maybe not.

"If you take me some place where I could
hole up, this whole thing will blow over. If for no other reason,
than when the bastard puts the make on my wife, she'll give him
what for. That's his real reason for wanting to snuff me.
Angelica."

"Yeah." Z hoped John was right.

"You do that for me?"

"Sure."

"Got a place in mind?"

"Not luxurious."

"Hell, that makes no never mind."

"Maybe, more like a rat hole."

"Don't figure to be
staying there for long. I got
me
some friends, too. See how Minghetti likes
somebody putting the heat on
him
!"

"Got money?"

"Sure."

"Then let's get, before the marines come
busting in."

* * * * *

Chapter 15

It was near noon of the next day when Z
spotted the car as he was leaving his office.

Earlier, Z had spent most of that Saturday
morning trying to get in touch with Harry Grimes. First, he'd
called Deerstalker Detectives and been told that Harry was retired.
Z knew that. Also knew it wasn't entirely true. Although Z had
tried to explain to the thoroughly stupid receptionist that Z was
supposed to do a job for Harry and needed to be told what to do,
she wouldn't give Z any information about Harry's whereabouts, to
say nothing of Harry's home number.

After cooling down, Z had to admit that the
girl couldn't have helped him, at least with Harry's home phone. No
employee -- no matter how dumb -- gave out unlisted numbers. As for
Harry, man about town, Z had as good an idea of where to look as
the girl.

After that, Z had called
one ritzy golf club after the other, cheerfully subjecting himself
to world-class snubs, and
still
hadn't been able to locate Mr. Grimes. He'd even
called back as a "family" member, desperate to talk to
Father-Uncle-Brother Harry. Emergency. Death in the family. Stock
market crash. Twinkie shortage at the A and P.

That hadn't worked either.

Maybe Harry was out of town; if not, he
might as well be.

In between calls, Z thought about last
night's encounter with Johnny Dosso. After John had revived enough
to travel, they'd agreed on a strategy, the first part, doing a
little cosmetic change on John. Borrowing some of Z's clothes --
even a pair of Z's shoes, the shoes fitting better than the shirt
and pants -- John "dressed down" to the type of person apt to flop
at the flea bag where Z was going to take him.

Leaving John in the
bedroom to admire his new "raiment," turning off all the living
room lights, Z left the apartment to scout the neighborhood, Z
wanting to make
certain
no one was shadowing John.

At last convinced the two
of them were the only ones awake in the entire block, Z drove John
to the Happy Hollow Inn -- off 3rd and Indiana -- Happy Hollow a
low-rent dive; a "Happy-Whore Hunting Ground" where Z had once
hidden Susan; an "establishment" whose "survival" hinged on
having
no
knowledge about any of its "guests."

Though John wasn't pleased by the look of
the Happy Hollow, John agreed with the strategy -- even to Z's
suggestion that Z burn John's clothes -- Z returning to his
apartment about four in the morning to build a fire for John's
fancy duds, John's light summer wool suit making quite a stink. Z
even tossed Johnny's beautiful shoes into the firebox. (Smelled
about as bad.) He'd done this just in case Johnny's "tail" took it
into his head to break in to search Z's apartment. Going all out, Z
had even sifted the ashes for coat buttons, pants zipper and metal
belt hook, going out back to toss these unburnables in the backyard
where they'd disappear amongst the rotted paper plates, tin cans,
paper bags, bent-up pans, plastic scraps, twisted coat hangers,
bicycle parts, jars, hunks of concrete, smashed milk cartons, Z's
stack of firewood, rusty lids, gravel, and a few scraggly blades of
unmowed grass.

When Z
lost
something, he wanted it
to
stay
lost.

That was last night. This
morning, exhausted from the night's nearly fatal combination
of
bad
sleep
and
no
sleep, Z
ended the morning by pointing the Cavalier at the Pizza Hut on Oak,
intent on better fare for lunch than peanut butter. (Food sometimes
substituting for lost sleep, this was not the first time Z had used
pizza as a pick-me-up.)

As usual, he took Chouteau to Vivion, had
just made the turn on North Oak when, checking his rear view
mirror, he saw "the car" -- one time too many.

Blue.

Small.

Foreign.

Expensive.

Not the sort of
automobile
Z
would have chosen for surveillance.

Too rich.

Too rare.

Now tipped to the fact that he'd picked up a
"tail," coming up on a signal change, timing it perfectly, Z slid
to a stop on a yellow light any normal person would have run;
caught the trailing car speeding up to make the light, the car
having to slam on its brakes to keep from running up Z's tailpipe,
the "tail" coming to a stop a lot closer to Z than the driver
wanted to get.

Sports Jag.

Called a 2+2, meaning, room in front for two
regular-sized people, "plus two" quadruple amputees in back.

Twelve cylinders.

Guy driving. Big reflective sunglasses.

On the next green, the Jaguar lagging back
again in hopes Z hadn't "made it," Z was wishing he'd had a chat
with John about what the younger mafioso drove these days. Decided
he'd just found out.

Z had no difficulty understanding how the
punk had picked up Z's trail, of course; advertising in the Yellow
Pages allowed anyone to "let his fingers do the walking" directly
to your office. (In that respect, Z envied the "retired" Harry
Grimes. With no specific place to be at any given time, Harry was
difficult to locate, even for a pro like Z.)

At last turning in at
Pizza Hut, slanting to a stop in a parking space beside the
building, Z entered the crowded, red and white eatery, Z needing
time to
think
more than he did to
eat
.

A pleasantly plump young waitress taking Z
to the only unoccupied red, plastic-padded booth, he ordered a
Personal Pan pizza -- sausage, Canadian bacon. and double pepperoni
-- and a Diet Coke; passed the waiting time watching fat people
load up at the pizza buffet/salad bar. When watching people paled,
amused himself by smiling at suddenly terrified children. All the
while endeavoring to ignore the over-loud music from the
jukebox.

Only to find he didn't enjoy the pizza when
it came. Not that the hand-tossed crust wasn't crunchy. The cheese
gooey. The round, thin pepperoni slices glisteny with tasty grease.
It was just that, being the center of hostile attention had cost Z
his appetite.

Or maybe it was that he was too tired to
either eat or concentrate. In any case, the only conclusion Z
reached (as he nibbled off the pepperoni and sausage, leaving the
rest) was that he, personally, was not in danger. No way the "Jag"
could know Z was the key to Johnny Dosso. Somehow finding out that
Z was John's friend, the thug was trailing Z in hopes of locating
John; more an act of desperation than conviction.

Back on Oak, Z found the Jag still there,
this time tucked behind larger vehicles.

Giving Z a choice. The reason -- and Z had a
pretty good idea who -- had latched on to Z at the office was that
the stalker didn't know where Z lived. Z's alternatives? To lose
the Jag, keeping the location of his apartment a secret; or to lead
the expensive sports car home, thereby giving the impression Z
didn't know he was being followed.

Debating those options until his turn at
72nd, Z decided that playing dumb was best. Even if he managed to
lose his shadow today, Z would have to ditch the Jag every time he
left his office in order to keep his residence a secret.

So Z went home, turning up the alley to park
the Cavalier in the open-backed garage.

Again, predictably, as Z came up the back
walk, he saw the Jaguar flash past the front of the house, the
driver racing around the block to make certain Z hadn't given him
the slip.

Letting the pursuer know where Z lived was a
calculated risk, done in the hope that the tail would think Z had
nothing to hide -- in particular, the whereabouts of Johnny
Dosso.

That was that day.

And restless night.

The following morning, Z decided there was
something else he could do (something he did from then on.) Rig his
front door.

While there were a number
of ways to get the same result, Z's favorite was to catch a hair in
the edge of the door jam, the "invisible" hair staying put until
either
Z
opened
the door or, more to the point, someone made a forced entry in Z's
absence.

Sunday.

Followed by another routine Monday, Z trying
-- and again failing -- to locate Harry Grimes.

That, plus another bit of business: getting
a call from Glenda Cunningham at Old New England Life.

While Z didn't like insurance companies, he
did like Glenda; had been aware of her since high school, Glenda a
sophomore when he was a senior.

From a fifteen-year-old football "groupie,"
green-eyed Glenda had matured into a trim, medium-sized blond with
decent legs. After his divorce, finding Glenda also to be
separated, Z had thought about asking her out. (This was before
he'd met Susan.) But had finally decided Glenda was too old for
him.

Because he was in no
mental shape to take on
any
new business, he'd called Glenda back to turn her
down. Z didn't like doing surveillance work for insurance
companies, anyway.

Four more dragging days -- the Jag still
back there when Z cared to look -- and it was the weekend, a time
reserved for Z and Susan to patch up their somewhat shaky
relationship.

Since Susan had to work overtime all day
Saturday, Z had gone to get her at the Bircane that evening, taking
her to dinner at a little place where they'd eaten once before: a
Mediterranean restaurant down Chouteau. An intimate bistro with
miniature tables as part of a decor that included shelves of
slender-spouted brass teapots and Aladdin lamps. The walls were
hung with pictures of Beirut and Petra and with a primitive-looking
flying carpet.

What really counted, though, was that the
cafe had the real thing in eastern Mediterranean cooks and
waiters.

Good, friendly food at a
reasonable price. But expensive
enough
. There was no cheap way of
playing up to women.

As for patching up his relationship with
Susan, the conversation over dinner went like this:

"Nothing's been the same
since universal health care came into the picture." Susan. Worrying
about what might happen to the damn insurance company. "I mean,
it's all very well and good to talk of cutting costs. But then I
get to thinking that
I'm
one of the costs the government would like to cut
out. About half the employees at American are actually just record
keepers. Simplify the claims process, and they lose their
jobs."

"Too bad," Z said, thinking there was
nothing wrong with getting rid of dead wood.

"A lot of the actuaries
spend their time calculating income against outgo, in order to
determine -- I know this sounds terrible -- who
not
to insure. They also calculate
when we should refuse to renew a policy, because we might be losing
money if we did. If the government says you can't deny coverage to
anyone, a lot of actuaries are out of work, too.

Z was careful not to say
what he thought of
that
"disaster."

"You have a job with a company long enough,
you get to ... love the firm. I know I'm just a little cog in the
machine, but I'd hate to see American go down the drain."