"R" is for Ricochet (18 page)

“Sure he was. She was supposed to be spending time with him.”

“Why didn't he speak up?”

“How could he? You called him a little old lady, in front of Mattie, no less. He was mortified. He couldn't speak up without looking even more foolish than he already felt.”

“But that was just good-natured jostling. It was a joke.”

“It's not a joke when you hustle in and try to beat him to the punch. Life's complicated enough.”

“But we've always competed for the ladies. It's all in good fun. Neither of us takes it seriously. For heaven's sake, ask William if you doubt my word.”

“He's never going to cop to it. He set the whole thing up. He had no business meddling, but what you did was worse. You knew Henry was interested in her.”

“Of course he is and I am, too. That was obvious on the cruise. I made my pitch and he made his. If he can't handle the challenge, why complain to me?”

“Mattie broke it off. She said she didn't want to see him again.”

Disconcerted, Lewis said, “Oh. Well, I'm sorry to hear that, but it's got nothing to do with me.”

“Yes, it does. You flew out to California and got right in the middle of something that was none of your concern. There's nothing ‘good-natured' about that. You were being hostile.”

“No, no. Not a bit of it. I can't believe you're saying this. I'd cut off my right arm before I'd do such a thing.”

“But you did do it, Lewis.”

“You're completely wrong. That wasn't my intention. Henry's always been my favorite. He knows I'm crazy about him.”

“Then you better find a way to make amends,” I said.

 

It was close to 8:00 when Reba emerged from her AA meeting and headed toward my car. It was still light out. A massive fog bank hovered on the horizon and the breezes coming off the ocean laid a chill in the air. “Feel better?”

“Not especially, but I'm glad I went.”

“You still want to have dinner?”

“Shit, we have to go back to the house. I forgot the photographs.”

“Why do you need those?”

“Visual aids,” she said. “There's a guy I want you to meet. He has dinner the same place every Friday night at nine. I did some reconnoitering this morning just to satisfy a hunch. We'll make a run up to Pop's for the pix, have a heart-to-heart with my pal, and then take some time to explore.”

“Isn't a nine o'clock dinner kind of late?”

“I hope so. Prison, you eat at five in the afternoon. Talk about depressing. Makes you feel like a kid.” She turned in her seat. “Why're you going this way? You should have taken a right back there.”

“Actually, we don't need to go to your house. I have a set of pictures at my office. Cheney gave 'em to me.” I wondered if she'd question my having copies of the photos, but she was sidetracked by something else and gave me a speculative look.

I said, “What.”

“I notice you're dropping Cheney's name every chance you get. Is that where you got that?” She pointed.

“Got what?”

“That hickey on your neck.”

I put a hand against my neck self-consciously and she laughed. “Just teasing,” she said.

“Very funny.”

“Well, I'd like to think you have a sex life.”

“I'd like to think my sex life is private,” I said. “So who's this guy you're so hot for me to meet?”

“Marty Blumberg. Beck's company comptroller.”

I drove over to my office. I left Reba in the car, the VW idling, while I ran in and grabbed the manila envelope from my desk drawer. In the car again, I passed her the envelope and watched her out of the corner of my eye as I circled the block and headed for Passages. She removed the photographs and studied them as though viewing vermin through a microscope. She put them back in the envelope without a word, her expression impossible to read.

I found what was possibly the last space in the underground parking garage, which stretched like a lowceilinged gray cavern that ran the length of the mall. We hiked to the escalator and went up to level one, where all the shops were located. Manila envelope in hand, Reba walked two paces ahead of me, forcing me to trot to keep up with her. She didn't seem as hyper as she had been, and for that I was glad. “Where are we going?”

“Dale's.”

“Why Dale's? That's a dive.”

“Not true. It's a Santa Teresa landmark.”

“So's the dump,” I said.

Dale's was strictly a no-frills bar. People went there to drink, pure and simple. I could feel the now familiar conflict arise: should I be protective and suggest we go somewhere else, or keep my mouth shut and let her take responsibility for the choices she made? In this instance, self-interest prevailed. I wanted to meet Marty Blumberg.

We entered the place, pausing in the open doorway to get our bearings. I hadn't been in Dale's for years, but it looked much the same—narrow room with a bar running along the left and a jukebox in back. There were six or eight small tables jammed up against the wall on the right. The lighting was primarily of the neon beer-sign variety, blue and red. There were numerous patrons on hand, occupying half of the bar stools and most of the tables. Eighty-seven percent of those present were smoking, the air as gray as morning fog. The overhead fixture made the light seem flat, very close to the quality of waning daylight outside. The jukebox, I remembered, was stocked with old 45-rpm records. At that very moment, the Hilltoppers were crooning “P.S. I Love You” while a couple danced on a narrow expanse of floor by the unisex bathroom. The sawdust underfoot and the acoustical ceiling tiles muffled the noise level so that both music and conversation seemed to be taking place in another room.

The walls were lined with black-and-white photographs, taken in the forties, to judge by the ladies' hairstyles and clothing. Each photo featured the same balding middle-aged man, perhaps the eponymous Dale. He had his arm slung around various minor sports figures—baseball players, professional wrestlers, and Roller Derby queens—their signatures scrawled across the bottom of the pictures.

At the far end of the room, a concession-sized machine produced a steady spill of popcorn that the bartender scooped into paper cups and set out for general consumption. At intervals along the bar, there were collections of assorted popcorn seasonings: garlic salt, lemon pepper, Cajun spices, curry powder, and Parmesan cheese in a green cardboard container. The popcorn wasn't sufficient to keep patrons sober, but it gave them something to fiddle with between the downing of drinks. As we were taking our seats, a peevish argument flared up, the topic being politics, about which no one present seemed to have the faintest clue.

“So where is he?” I said, looking around the room.

“What's your hurry? He'll be here in a bit.”

“I thought we were having dinner. I didn't know they served food in here.”

“Well, they do. Seven-way chili.” She started ticking off the choices on her fingers. “Macaroni, chopped onions, cheese, oyster crackers, sour cream, or cilantro in any combination.”

“That's only six.”

“You can have it
plain
.”

“Oh.”

The next 45 selection came into play and Jerry Vale launched into his version of “It's All in the Game”:
“Many a tear has to fall…”
I refused to think about Cheney lest I jinx the relationship.

A waitress appeared. Reba asked for iced tea and I ordered a beer. I'd have ordered iced tea myself, but only to demonstrate a virtue I didn't actually possess. In the face of her sobriety, I was acutely conscious of every sip I took. I was also worried the minute I turned my head, she'd snatch up my beer and suck half of it down.

As there was nothing else on the menu, we ordered seven-way chili, electing all six options. The chili arrived hot, spicy, and rich. The recipe, I noticed, was printed on our paper place mats. I was tempted to snitch mine, but the note at the bottom said “Serves 40,” which seemed excessive for someone who usually eats alone standing over the sink. “You never finished telling me about Passages and Beck's participation,” I said.

“Glad you asked. I didn't think you'd pursue the subject.”

“Here I am,” I said. “Care to fill me in?”

She paused to light a cigarette. “It's simple enough. A developer in Dallas bought the land in 1969 and submitted all the plans. He thought it'd be a cakewalk. The guy was so optimistic, he was already putting up signs: ‘Passages Shopping Plaza. Coming in the fall of 1973.' The city planners had a ball, running him ragged with all the codes and requirements. He revised the plans sixteen times, but nothing ever seemed to suit. Twelve years later, when the developer still hadn't managed to get approval, he put the word out on the street and someone introduced him to Beck. That was 1981. The project was finished in '85, a speedy three years after construction began.”

I waited for the rest.

“I can tell by the look on your face you're not getting it,” she said.

“Just tell me, okay? Guessing slows us down and makes me cranky.”

“Well, think about it. How do you think Beck got all those approvals and permits? Because he's nice?”

I stared, feeling dense.

Reba rubbed her thumb against her fingers in the universal gesture denoting money changing hands.

“Payoffs?”

“Exactly. That's where the money went—the three hundred and fifty thou I was accused of snitching. I delivered most of it myself, though I didn't realize what it was until later. All I knew was he had me driving to hell and gone with these bulky manila envelopes. Granted, some of it was earmarked for the boys in Sacramento—Beck is forever greasing palms on behalf of pending legislation—but most was for local guys who had the power to say no. Once they pocketed the dough, they were more than happy to be of help.”

“But that's political money laundering.”

“Wow, you are
quick
,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Isn't that why you're setting up this meeting with the feds, to get the goods on him?”

“I wasn't sure how far you meant to go.”

“Right to the bitter end.”

“But when we first talked, didn't you say he was depositing the money offshore so he could hide it from his wife?”

“That's the story he gave me. I didn't figure out what he was really doing until the audit came up. I'm sure he's still funneling cash out of the country as fast as he can, but at least I get it now; his efforts were never meant to benefit me.”

“I'm sorry. I know that's tough on you.”

“Tough, but true,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact.

At 9:00, just about on the dot, Marty Blumberg appeared. Reba had been watching for him, and she gave him a big wave and motioned him over the minute he walked in. He paused at the bar to light a cigarette. The bartender was already setting up his usual drink, whiskey so dark it looked like Coke. Glass in hand, he ambled over to our table. He was probably in his fifties, a good-looking guy once upon a time. Now he was overweight by a good hundred pounds, his wardrobe lagging one size behind. His trouser pockets bulged open like a set of ears and the buttons on his shirt were straining against his bulk. He was baby-faced and florid, with sorrowful-looking blue eyes, a pug nose, and a full head of dark frizzy hair. He seemed genuinely glad to see her. Reba invited him to join us, hooking a thumb in my direction by way of introduction.

“This is Kinsey Millhone. Marty Blumberg,” she said.

I said, “Hi, Marty. Nice to meet you,” and the two of us shook hands.

Marty gave Reba a quick visual appraisal. “You're none the worse for wear. When'd you get back?”

“Monday. Kinsey drove down and brought me back. The whole experience was an education…in what, I don't know.”

“I'll bet.”

“I hear you're in the new offices. Nice to be so close. Dale's was always your favorite.”

Marty smiled. “I've only been coming in the past fourteen years. I could be part owner with all the money I've spent.”

Reba took out a cigarette and Marty picked up her Dunhill and extended a light. Reba tucked a strand of hair behind one ear as she bent to the flame, her hand resting casually on his. She inhaled, her eyes closing briefly. Smoking was like prayer, something you approached with reverence. “Beck says the offices are awesome.”

“Pretty slick,” he said.

“Coming from you, that's high praise. How about a tour? Beck said he'd show me around, but he's in Panama.”

“A tour? Sure, why not? Give me a call and we'll set it up.”

“How about tonight? As long as we're down here, it would be a hoot.”

He hesitated. “I could do that, I guess. I need to pick up my briefcase anyway and clean off my desk.”

“You're cleaning your desk on a Friday night? That's devotion.”

“Beck's new dictum—no files or papers on any of the surfaces overnight. Place looks like a showroom. I'm mostly playing catch-up, taking care of stuff I've let slide. I'll probably work tomorrow, too.”

“The guy's a workaholic,” she said to me as an aside and then turned back to him. “Kinsey's a PI…a private detective,” she said, separating each syllable for emphasis. She turned to me. “You have a business card on you?”

“Let me look,” I said. I fumbled in my shoulder bag until I found my wallet, where I kept a stash of cards. Reba had her hand out so I passed one to her and she handed it on to Marty, who studied it, pretending it mattered when he couldn't have cared less.

He tucked it in his shirt pocket. “Guess I better watch my backside.”

Reba smiled. “That is so so true. You have no idea.”

He shook a cigarette from the pack, placing it directly between his lips. Smoking didn't seem like a good idea as he was already wheezing.

Reba said, “Allow me,” as she picked up her Dunhill, flicked it, and offered him a light.

“Such service.”

“You bet. Tit for tat,” she said. She propped her chin on one hand. “Aren't you curious what she's doing here?”

Marty looked from Reba to me. “A drug bust?”

“Don't be dumb,” she said, giving him a smack on the arm. She leaned forward flirtatiously and murmured,

“She's part of a task force—federal and local dicks—looking into Beck's finances. All very hush-hush. Promise you won't tell.” She put a finger to her lips and I could feel myself blanch. I couldn't believe she'd laid it out like that, without a word to me. Not that I'd have agreed. I checked his reaction.

His smile was tentative as he waited for the punch line. “No, seriously.”

“Seriously,” she said. I could see she enjoyed doling it out to him bit by bit.

“I don't get it.”

“What's to get? I'm telling you the truth.”

“Why tell me?”

“Fair warning. I like you. You're right in the line of fire.”

He must have been one of those men who operated with his body thermostat cranked up into the red zone because his face now bore a sheen of perspiration. Without seeming to be aware of it, he took the flap of his tie and blotted the beads of sweat from his cheek. “What do you mean, I'm right in the line of fire? How do you figure that?”

“Well, A: You know what he's been up to, and B: Beck won't go down for this any more than he'd accept blame for the missing three hundred and fifty thou.”

“I thought you volunteered.”

“Stupnagel that I am, I made it easy for him. I'd like to think you're smarter than me, but maybe not.”

“He can't do anything to me. I'm covered.”

“You really think so? All he has to do is point. You've got your fingerprints on everything. You're the one who set up the accounts. Same with the offshore banks and the IBC.”

“Exactly. I've got leverage on him. I'm the last guy on earth he ought to fuck with.”

“I don't know,” she said, with skepticism. “You've been with him a long time…”

“Ten years.”

“Right. Which means you know a lot more than I do.”

“So?”

“So if he stuck it to me, he can stick it to you as well. Believe me, the trap's there. You just can't see it at this point any more than I saw what he was doing to me until it was too late.”

“I got no beef with Beck. The guy takes good care of me. Ten years, you know how much money I've managed to sock away? I could retire anytime I want, walk out tomorrow and still be living like a king.”

“It may feel cushy, but it's a trap all the same.”

Marty was shaking his head. “No. Uhn-uhn. I'm not buying it.”

“What if they lean on you?”

“They, who?”

“The feds. What do you think I just got done telling you. The FBI, IRS, what's the other one?” she asked me, snapping her fingers impatiently.

“Department of Justice,” I said.

She turned to me and frowned. “I thought you mentioned a couple more.”

I cleared my throat. “Customs and Treasury. And the DEA.”

“See?” she said to him as though that explained that.

“Why lean on me? Based on what?”

“Based on all the shit they've picked up so far.”

“From who?”

“You think they don't have agents in place?”