Rubbed Out (13 page)

I
watched Paul's shoulders rise and fall as he took a deep breath and let it out.

“Bad enough,” he admitted. He still wasn't looking at me. “And there's something else you need to know.”

I remembered the call I'd gotten at the store. The one I'd thought had been from George and wasn't.

“I'm involved too, aren't I?”

“In a peripheral way.”

“How peripheral?”

Paul swiveled his chair around, reached out, and took my hands in his. “I really didn't mean for this to happen. You have to believe that.”

It occurred to me that he sounded like George. One excuse after another.

Manuel's comment about not wanting to be in the line of sight of certain people floated through my head. Well, it looked as if that was exactly where I was.

“I think you'd better tell me what's going on.”

“That's what I've been trying to do.”

He let go of my hands, filled my glass again, screwed the top of the bottle back on, and put it back in the drawer.

“You know the expression, there's no fool like an old fool? Well, it's true.”

I waited.

“Wilcox was a fool.”

“Alima,” I guessed.

Paul nodded.

“And his wife found out.”

Paul nodded again.

“And that other story, the one Wilcox told about his wife being suicidal? That wasn't true?”

“Not to my knowledge.” Paul cracked a knuckle. “Janet was just very, very pissed.”

“That doesn't seem unreasonable given the circumstances. Most women would be.”

I know I had been. I'd tried to brain Murphy with a heavy pot when I found out he'd been sleeping with one of my friends. Unfortunately, my aim had been bad.

“Actually,” Paul continued, “I don't think she really gave a shit about Walter. I think she didn't like the fact that he was spending money on his girlfriend. Plus it was a pride thing. Her husband taking up with a lap dancer.”

“Would she have felt better if he had taken up with a Supreme Court judge?”

“Maybe. With Janet, status always counts.” Paul fiddled with his sleeve. “The problem is that when she took off, she took some of Walter's property with her.”

“Okay.”

“But this property really wasn't Walter's.”

“Whose is it?”

“That's not important.”

“I think it is.”

Paul ran his finger over the edge of the desk and brushed a speck of dust away.

“These are not nice people, I take it?” I said.

“Well, they're not winning the citizenship award of the year.”

“And now they want their property back.”

Paul nodded.

I always stun myself with my brilliance.

“Which is why Wilcox was so anxious for me to find his wife.”

Paul nodded again.

“Were they the ones that did Wilcox?”

Paul slumped down in his chair and swiveled from side to side. He looked profoundly tired.

“I doubt if they did it. But I'm sure they hired the people who did.”

“So why aren't you telling this to the police?”

“I don't have any proof.” He sat up and spread his hands out in front of him. “Just lots of suppositions.”

“Oh, I think you have a little bit more than that.”

Paul went back to studying the window. The view looked bleak. Mostly gray skies, gray sidewalk, empty streets. Everyone was staying in. They'd probably caught a case of the winter blahs. There was a lot of that going around Syracuse these days.

He kept his eyes glued to the outside. “They think I helped Wilcox steal the money.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Then why do they think that?”

“They said that Wilcox told them.”

Paul and I were both silent for a moment. I knew we were both thinking the same thing. In Wilcox's circumstances, we both would have rolled in our mothers to make the pain stop. Contrary to what some people say, pain does not ennoble, pain degrades.

“I got a call,” Paul said. “They told me I'd better get their stuff back. Or else.”

“Why don't you go to the police?”

Paul gave me a contemptuous look. “Get real. People like that want you, they get you.”

“You could leave town for a while.”

“And do what?”

“Sit on the beach. Sightsee. Climb Mount Everest. Learn the accordion. Take swing dancing. Whatever.”

“With what money? I have five dollars in my checking account.”

“I thought you were doing well. What about the big security contract you've been working on?”

Paul got the bottle back out and poured himself another drink. He didn't pour one for me and I didn't ask. He was busy wiping a drop off the rim of his glass—Mr. Neat—when he spoke.

“I made some bad investments.”

“What kind?”

“The double-down kind.”

“Jeez.” Paul was one of those guys with a system. “I thought you always told me you don't gamble when you can't afford to lose.”

“Everything was going well. I was raking it in . . .”

“And then you weren't.”

“Exactly.” Paul gulped his Scotch down. At this rate, he'd be through the bottle before dinner. “I should have left the table.”

“And the guys you owe want you to recover the money for them.”

“We'd be even.”

“And if you don't?”

“Let's just say, you and I wouldn't be having any more fun.”

I rested my hands on my knees and watched a seagull land on the roof of the building across the way. They seemed to be everywhere these days. Them and the crows and the pigeons. They were taking over the friggin' city.

“Maybe you'd better start at the beginning.”

Paul put his glass down. “It's simple. Walter Wilcox was the lawyer for two numbnuts Russian mobsters.”

“We have Russians in Syracuse?”

“Direct from Moscow via Brighton Beach.”

“I thought we had the Mafia.”

“No, dear. They were in Utica and Buffalo, maybe thirty years ago. Now we have the Russians and the gang-bangers.” Paul took a paper clip off his desk and absentmindedly began straightening the bends out. “I think they came up here because they couldn't make it in the City. Anyway, Walter had a small lapse in judgment and decided to skim about two hundred fifty thousand dollars in cash from them.”

I wondered what a large lapse in judgment would be.

“Because of the girl.”

“Because of the girl. He wanted to go away with her.”

“So what did Walter do with the money?”

“Ah.” Paul rubbed his finger around the rim of his glass. “Here we come to the crux of the problem. He had it down in his basement. Hidden among his tools.”

“Get out of town!”

“It's true.”

I rolled my eyes. “Why not a mattress? Don't tell me. He had a phobia against safety deposit boxes?”

“He thought this would be a better option.”

“You'd think a lawyer would be a little smarter.”

Then I thought about the ones I knew. Most of them were so arrogant that they believed they could get away with anything. Which ended up making them stupid.

“I take it you didn't advise him otherwise?”

Paul got huffy. “I wasn't involved at that point.”

I finished the story for him. “Let me guess. When his wife left, she took the cash along.”

“Yes.”

“I can see that. Saves on court costs. No messy adjudication.”

“No. Just a lesson for Walter.”

“Quite a lesson.”

Paul brushed his hair back with the flat of his hand. “It certainly was.”

“So now they want their money back.”

“Yup.”

“And you want me to get it.”

“No. I want you to find Janet Wilcox. That's a different thing altogether.”

“Why can't you?”

“Because Janet Wilcox knows me. We've met a couple of times. The moment she sees me, she'll take off.”

“It seems to me as if she already has.”

“True,” Paul conceded, “but you have a better chance of getting close to her than I do.”

“Why?”

“Because you're a woman. She'll see you as less threatening.”

“That's probably true.”

Paul cracked his knuckles again.

“And if I find her, then what?”

“Call me. I'll fly down and get her to give up the money.”

“The inimitable Santini touch?”

Like George, he was more than capable of violence. Unlike George, he didn't mind exercising that capacity.

Paul shrugged and ran his thumb along his lower lip. “In this case, I'm prepared to do whatever works.”

I thought of Janet Wilcox. She seemed like someone who would fold at the first sign of pressure.

“I have a feeling it won't be a problem.”

“I hope so.” And Paul threw the paper clip down on his desk. “I sure as hell hope so.”

“Me too,” I said, thinking of Wilcox.

P
aul reached in his desk, took the bottle out again, and poured himself another shot. Maybe opening and closing the drawer was his exercise for the day.

“Want one?” he asked me.

I shook my head. I was pleased to note I hadn't gotten that bad yet. “You should slow down.”

“Look who's talking.”

“At least I don't get drunk in the middle of the day.”

“Don't quibble.”

“Quibble? You doing ‘Improving Your Vocabulary in 100 Days' again?”

“I keep seeing Walter.” Paul downed another shot and wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand.

“I get it. You're playing on my need to rescue things and put them right.”

“It's nice to know that you got something out of that therapist you were seeing.”

“Not enough to stop me from getting involved with you.”

Paul saluted me with the empty glass. “Think of me as the next step in your spiritual growth.”

“How much time do we have?”

“Three days,” Paul said.

“Piece of cake.”

“That's what I've been thinking.”

“So then there's no problem.”

“Exactly. And just to make sure.” Paul opened his middle desk drawer, reached in, and came out with a Glock. “Here,” he said, putting it in my hand. “Take this.”

“Why am I going to need it?”

“Just in case. I was a Boy Scout, remember?”

“They must have been hard up for members.”

Paul tried for a smile and failed.

I slipped the gun into my backpack. Never mind that I wasn't licensed to carry a handgun. The truth is, I don't like guns. I think they make you overconfident and get you into situations you shouldn't be in in the first place. Plus it's too easy to have an accident with them.

On the other hand, given what had happened to Wilcox, I was prepared to make an exception. Flexibility, I read somewhere, is the hallmark of the high-functioning professional.

“And Robin,” Paul said. “Remember. Aim for the chest. At twenty feet you can't miss.”

“Don't worry. I'm not planning to.”

And I wasn't. I was prepared to shoot first and worry about the explanations later. I got up to leave.

“I'm sorry,” Paul repeated as I reached the door. “I really am. I thought this would be simple. If I had known, I never would have . . .”

I cut him off with a gesture. Everyone was apologizing. Maybe that was better than not. I don't know. But it didn't help remedy the situation.

“Fine,” he said. “I understand.”

While I was waiting for the elevator, one of my grandmother's phrases flitted through my mind. She'd always said, “Lie down with dogs, get up with fleas.” Once again she'd been right, I reflected as the elevator doors slid open.

I nodded to the three people inside and got on.

“Cold enough for you?” a woman said to me.

“Not really.”

Syracuse humor.

We rode down the rest of the way without saying another word to each other.

 

 

Manuel was not happy when I told him I had to leave again.

“When is Tim coming back?”

“In another two weeks.”

Tim was my other employee. He'd been out of town for a while taking care of personal problems. I hadn't asked what they were, and he hadn't volunteered. I finally squared it with Manuel by promising to get some extra help in for the next couple of days.

“Are you taking Zsa Zsa?”

“I can't.”

He yanked up his pants. Why he insisted on wearing them with the crotch down to his knees is something he has yet to explain to me.

“Boy, she's going to be pissed at you.”

“I know.”

Nothing like throwing a little guilt into the equation, I always say. I wondered if Manuel had been a Jewish mother in his last life.

“She likes me but . . .”

I thought of the weapon in my backpack. “Listen, Manuel, if anything happens . . .”

“Yes?”

I stopped. “Forget it.”

But it was too late. Manuel was on full alert. “Hey, what's going on?” he demanded.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I'm just having a bad day.”

I didn't want to tell Manuel what Paul had told me because I knew if I did he'd want to come down with me, and I didn't want him to get caught up in this. Things were bad enough as they were. Anyway, if something happened to him, who would take care of Zsa Zsa?

“You havin' a lot of those recently”

“No kidding.”

He looked me in the eyes. “You in trouble?”

I looked back at him and lied. Like Calli. But there are lies and then there are lies.

“No,” I said.

“Because me and my homies . . .”

“I'm fine. Honest.”

“All you got to do is say the word.”

“I know.”

Finally I managed to convince him I was okay, and he moved off to take care of the shipment of iguanas that we'd just gotten in. I went into the back, wrote out some checks for orders that were coming in over the next two days, and arranged for someone I knew to work at the store. Then I went home, made a reservation at the Gramercy Park Hotel down in the City, and forced myself to take a nap.

Even though I wanted to get going right away, I was afraid that if I did, I'd go off the road because I'd fallen asleep at the wheel. I woke up two hours later, took a quick shower, changed into my good black pants and my oatmeal-colored cashmere sweater, and put on the two hundred fifty dollar boots that Calli had forced me to buy, which I'd heretofore worn exactly once.

God. Calli. I missed her. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was a self-righteous bitch.

I dialed her number. No one answered. I left a message on her machine saying, “Let's talk.”

Somehow that made me feel better. Then I called Manhattan information and asked if there was a new listing for Janet Wilcox. Not that I expected there to be. But sometimes people do strange things, especially when they're nervous. There wasn't. I did the same for the rest of the boroughs and got the same result. Nothing. Oh, well. Worth a try. I lit a cigarette, packed my suitcase—I seemed to be doing a lot of that all of a sudden—slipped on my black leather jacket, and wound the red mohair scarf that George had given me as a birthday present around my neck. But I couldn't keep that on. It was too painful. I put it back in my drawer and picked out an old knit wool scarf that I'd bought at Marshall's, my favorite discount store.

It was a little after seven o‘clock at night when I pulled out of my driveway. Before I got on the Thruway, I stopped at Dunkin' Donuts and got two large coffees with cream and sugar and four chocolate-peanut doughnuts to go. Dinner. I asked for a glass of water and swallowed a couple of vitamins that I'd taken to carrying with me and, confident that I'd taken care of my nutritional needs, continued on my way.

Unlike the last time I drove down, I made good time. The roads were clear, the weather was fine, and the traffic was minimal. It was a little after eleven by the time I pulled into the City. I'd spent most of the drive trying to figure out how I was going to locate Janet Wilcox.

According to the information Paul had acquired, she hadn't been using her credit card, so if she'd bought an airline or bus or train ticket, or rented a car, she'd done it with cash, meaning there was no record of her transaction—or at least none that he could access. Ditto with hotels. Which was too bad.

For all I knew, she could be on the Costa del Sol by now, although I didn't think she was. She didn't impress me as a woman who'd go someplace new. I saw her as staying with the familiar. Of course, she hadn't impressed me as the kind of woman who'd take off with her husband's money either.

I had two leads. Quintillo and her daughter, Stephanie. Which was better than nothing. Hopefully, one or the other would know where she'd gone. I was pretty sure that was the case, because most people have a need to keep in touch with their nearest and dearest, even when it isn't in their best interests to do so. I also wasn't too worried about persuading Quintillo and/or the daughter to speak to me. I'm fairly good at convincing people to tell me what I need to know.

My question was: What had made Janet Wilcox leave Quintillo's apartment in the first place? Had something spooked her, or was leaving part of her master plan? If she had been spooked, I hoped the thing that had done the spooking wasn't me.

As I ate the second half of my third doughnut, it occurred to me that Janet Wilcox had to have known where the money came from. Or at least she had to have known that her husband was involved in something illegal. After all, no one leaves that kind of change lying around if they're legitimate.

I could see her going down one day to clean the basement and discovering the money sitting there. A late Christmas present. She probably hadn't said anything to Walter about her find. She'd retired upstairs to think. Because she probably already knew about Alima.

So she'd come up with her plan, her “fuck-you-Walter” plan. I could see the vindictive smile playing on her lips. I wondered if she knew, or cared, that something bad might happen to her husband and the father of her child.

Paul was right. Janet Wilcox was one very pissed-off lady.