Payback (28 page)

“Did you kill Sergeant Burdick?”

“Who the hell's Sergeant Burdick?”

“Nam. In the can.”

“Oh.” Mack grinned at him. “That Sergeant Burdick.”

“It's important,” Mitchell said. “What happened to him?”

“Died. In action, so to speak.”

“I said it's important.”

“No,” Mack said. “I only found him, that's all. It's a very long story.—Why?”

“It's a very long story,” Mitchell said.

***

Joanna checked her watch again. Twenty after five. She could wait half an hour. She opened her suitcase and took out the fuzzy pink sweater and the skirt and started marshaling her arguments:

1.) She'd be safe.

2.) She had her wonderful pocket-size recorder, so tiny you could stick it in a pack of cigarettes and leave it open on the table. Confident crooks could say incriminating things.

3.) If nothing else, she could ask to see the villa and especially the guns.

Reconnaissance, she thought.

She pulled on her pantyhose and lit a cigarette, then sighed and started working with the nightfighter makeup: the eyeliner, shadow-concealer and the base.

***

At Diego's request, Patrolman Estanchez made the call to the Islas Baleares Garaje and spoke to the manager. Yes, he remembered the couple in the Jeep. The man, he remembered distinctly from the license, came from Beverly Hills, a location he remembered, having seen it quite often on a television show:
Las Vidas de los Ricos y las Famas
. Now wait … wait a second … where were the goddam papers … Yes, here they were. The name of the man would be Robert … Roy … he spelled the last name … and the girl's—was Estanchez concerned about the girl?

Estanchez said indifferently, “Well … if you've got it,” and wrote it in his book. He went a step further and tracked them to a two-room suite at La Punta. Then, with the station completely to himself—the telephones quiet and Diego at an afternoon session with his mistress—he started to wonder what the hell was it about. Why Diego had pounced. What had gotten him hot about a Wrangler in the woods. Diego was an asshole but then, on the other hand, Diego was a crook. If Estanchez had one ambition as a cop it was nailing Diego, catching him with something disgusting on his hands, something that would grab the authorities in Palma. Obstruction of Justice. It would have to be that. But nothing to do with a man and a woman and a Wrangler in the woods.

Alamedas came in to take the six o'clock shift and said he didn't think he'd last. He'd been having diarrhea which he graphically described. Estanchez said, “Thanks.”

Alamedas took the desk. “
Que pasa?
” Referring to the notes about the Jeep.

“Just a message for Diego if he calls,” Estanchez said. “Some banditos he wanted me to check about.” He laughed.

“Banditos?” Alamedas looked over at the notes. “
Ya veo.
” he said. “
Si, si. Los banditos de Beverly Hills.
” He laughed and said, “
Je
sus,” and hurried to the john.

The telephone rang.

***

Joanna left a note. She began it,
Darling
—
Don't be mad at me, but
…
I got an interview with Billy
.

To start with, she put it by the phone in the living room and then changed her mind. She put it on the bed. And then just to make sure, she put his pistol at the side so it pointed like an arrow.

***

Mitchell walked into the quiet living room and flicked on the lights. “Joanna?”

No answer.

Mack walked over to the couch and sat down. “Cat's away,” he said dryly. “I bet she's out smooching with a bullfighter.”

“Smooching?”

“Screwing,” Mack said. “Feel better?”

The door to the bedroom was open. The maid had been in. The bed was turned down and the lights were turned off.

“Or how about she went for a walk,” Mack said. “Or she's sitting in the bar.”

Mitchell said, “I guess,” and went over to the phone.

The guy who answered the phone in L.A. said, “McGinty, Squad Nine.” McGinty said, sorry, Ortega wasn't there. He'd been kicked up to National Coordinating Officer and shuttled to New York. Mitchell couldn't reach him but McGinty ought to hear from him in five or six hours. “If you want to leave a number …”

“No,” Mitchell said. “Forget it” Hanging up, he said, “Well … worth a try.”

Mack just shrugged at him.

“Listen,” Mitchell said, “maybe she was right. Maybe Ortega gets Interpol and a warrant. Maybe I was wrong.”

“Or none of the above.”

“There's that,” Mitchell said.

“If you want to sickly o'er with the pale cast of maybe, could we do it in the bar? I'm getting hungry,” Mack said. And Mitchell said, “Maybe Joanna's in the bar.”

32

Billy said, “So what can I get you from the bar?”

Standing there smiling, he looked, Joanna thought, like a haggard little boy. Tan cotton pants and a dead-white sweater. He'd said, “I'm Billy, you're Joanna, let's fuck.” Then laughed. “Only kidding.” Then winked at her. “So what can I get you from the bar?”

“Just a tonic would be fine.” Joanna looked around. The living room was large—white stucco walls and a wood-beamed ceiling. White shag scatter rugs and red leather wing chairs and a white linen couch. She followed him through an open doorway to a den. Like the living room, it gave on a terrace at the back; there were wide French doors.

“You a health nut?” Billy said. “You rather have a carrot juice?”

“A tonic'll be fine.”

“In America, everyone's a health nut,” Billy said. “They drink carrot juice and jog. No smoking, no drinking. Way it's going,” Billy said, “pretty soon they'll have printed-up signs in hotel rooms: ‘Thank you for not fucking.'” He laughed, looking up at her.

Nice, Billy thought. He liked the way she looked. Not too stupid but not too smart. But she
thought
she was smart. All the broads did. You had to play with them a little.

He poured her the tonic now and fixed himself another good vodka on the rocks. He was too high up; he realized it now but she was looking and he didn't want to swallow any pills. No; he didn't need any wiseass reporter saying, “Billy cooled out with a couple of Quaaludes and added …” But she wasn't even looking at him now, she was looking at the gun case, the guns behind glass.

“Gary Gilmore,” Billy said, “said ladies love outlaws. You think that's a fact?”

“I don't know,” the girl said. “I guess Bonnie loved Clyde.”

“That gun at the bottom there? With the pearl? That's an eighteen-eighty-one Remington. Supposed to've belonged to my namesake.”

“Oh?” The girl cocked her head.

“William H. Bonney, known as Billy the Kid.—You want to see it?” Billy said. “I paid a small fucking fortune. C'mere.” She obeyed and came over to the cabinet. Wide-eyed. Interested. He opened the cabinet, using the key that was dangling from the lock, and then pointed it out among the twenty-three pistols and the half a dozen rifles and the Uzi, now lying on the red velvet shelf. “She's a big mother, huh?” He pointed at a couple of black lead marbles. “That's the ammo,” Billy said. “They didn't have bullets back then, they had balls …” He looked at her. See if she had a sense of humor. Okay. A little smile.

“That's fascinating.” Big pretty eyes looking up. He handed her the glass with the tonic and the lime and then clinked it with her. “Here's to fascination,” Billy said. She smiled, met his eyes. Oh Jesus. He could play her like a player piano. Like “Chopsticks,” he thought, gesturing at the door and then heading for the living room.

The telephone rang. Billy, right next to it, hesitated, then cupped his hands around his mouth and tried hollering. “
Consuela …? Get the goddam phone …?”
The telephone stopped.

“Servants,” Billy said. “Jesus. Where were we?” He plopped on a wing chair and studied her, watching as she settled on the couch. Brown leather notebook waiting in her hand, little Tiffany pen, pack of cigarettes and a lighter on the table, good-looking legs and that Orphan Annie hair. He pulled at his drink. “So you wanted my opinion on the M-word, huh?”

She looked at him.

“I don't like to say the word ‘Mitchell.'” He grinned. “No surprise.—Have you talked to him?”

“Briefly.”

“And? What'd you think?”

“Me?”

“Why not? You're the Eyes of the Beholder. You're the camera. I want to take a look at what you see.”

“Oh. Well … not much,” the girl said. “He seemed a little …” Thinking now, groping for the word.

“Smug,” Billy said.

“Bland. Too good to be true.”

“Ah,” Billy said. “So you want to hear the bad part.”

“Maybe. I know about the lawsuit,” she said. “You were shafted by him, huh?”

“And by the press. And by the law. And by the Feds. And by the whole fucking country,” Billy said. He was silent. Awed by the breadth of his betrayal. “See it started with the Feds. Only Mitchell's the bastard that
snitched
me to the Feds. Pushed me—okay?—till my back's against the wall and I had to sell the company. Clever?” Billy said.

The girl wrote it down. “Can you prove it?”

“I know it in my heart,” Billy said. “And I tell you something else—these deaths're going down?”

“The poisonings?”

“Yeah. You want to guess who's been doing it?”

The girl just looked at him. All eyes. Head cocked. Red mouth a little open. “Mitchell?” Incredulous but … no, he could see it now … ready to believe. “Go on.” She leaned forward. Notebook in her hand again. Pen poised. Waiting.

Waiting, Joanna felt a shiver up her spine. Aware she was sitting in a room with a psycho, a man around the bend.

“One,” Billy said, and watched her write
1.)
“He controls a lot of stock but he's not allowed to sell it, he only gets the dividends. Two: If he's canned, then he loses it—everything—lock, stock and dividends. Three.” Billy watched her. “He's about to get canned. I have it on good, very solid authority, that Mitchell's gonna dive. Which gets us up to four. Here's a guy—get the picture now—his life is down the tube. No job, no bread. So I ask you.” Billy looked at her. “What's he gonna do?”

She waited. “Kill people?”

“Sure. Why not? Guys've killed guys over radios and bikes. This is four million dollars. Tax-free,” Billy said. “This is fuck-you money on a major kind of plane.”

Joanna held her breath. “How's he get the four million?”

“From the options,” Billy said. “And
then
—I want you to follow this—he sent himself a letter. A burn letter, right? I mean he blackmailed himself.”

Joanna didn't move. The story of the blackmail had never hit the news. “You know this? For a fact?”

He looked at her and laughed. “I know everything,” he said. “Or nothing. What I'm saying is …” He stopped and looked up. Joanna turned around.

A thin Tom Selleck, Hawaiian shirt and all, was standing in the open archway from the hall. He had a couple of boxes from the Calle San Diego and he dropped them on a chair. “I don't mean to interrupt you …” The voice was sarcastic, patronizing. Billy said, “But don't let it stop you,” and smiled again. “Jackie—say hello to Joanna.”

“Say good-bye,” Jackie said. “We gotta talk.”

“In a while. Joanna's a reporter.”

“That a fact.” Jackie looked at her with definite suspicion, then shifted it to Billy. “What's she doing here?”

“Reporting my opinions,” Billy said. “On death and taxes. On sealing wax and kings. Hey listen—when I was a kid—you know what I used to think sealing wax was? It's like a wax for the ceiling. Like the opposite of floor wax. Ceiling wax. I'm really not kidding,” Billy said.

Jackie looked at him. “You know what time it is in New York?”

“Offhand,” Billy said. “Because my watch—are you ready?—is off … my … hand.” Billy smiled.

Joanna looked at Jackie who looked, in context, like a Man of Reason. Jackie said patiently, “Seven minus five. Okay? You want to try for the Cadillac DeVille … you take a guess about the day.”

Billy said, “Oh. Jesus. We're supposed to call Slovo in New York.”

Jackie shot a look.

“You believe it? I forgot?”

“I believe it,” Jackie said. He looked at Joanna. “You'll excuse us?”

She nodded. “Of course.” She stood up without gathering her things. “You want me to wait on the patio or—”

“Yeah. Be a darling,” Billy said. “There's a phone on the desk. Would you bring it to me?”

“Anything to help,” Joanna said.

***

She circled around the house, a kind of casual amble. It was dark now, the crickets were chirring in the grass, but the moon was pretty bright and a couple of lanterns were pitched around the lawn.

Joanna walked softly on the manicured grass. At the front of the house, she looked over at the squared-off shape of the garage, two stories high with a stairway leading up. She wondered what was up there—the chauffeur's apartment? a workroom? storage? She looked at the Jeep, where she'd parked it on the drive. Added to it now was a red Maserati. The moon shining down. The crickets on the make. A lawn about the size of a football stadium that ended in the hedge-lined shadows of the wall. She looked at her watch. In the note, she'd told Mitchell she'd be back around eight. Plenty of time.

***

Billy hung up and said, “Jesus. No answer.”

“Well,” Jackie said, “maybe something came up. Maybe he forgot.”