Sixkill (14 page)

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Authors: Robert B Parker

BOOK: Sixkill
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"Guy named Elliot Silver, runs a security service out there."
"Si."
"Guy named Carson Ratoff, who's a lawyer."
"I know them," Chollo said.
"I'm working on the Jumbo Nelson case; you know about that?"
"Si."
"You ever hear the old Jack Benny routine?"
"About
si
?" Chollo said, pronouncing it to rhyme with
high.
"Si,"
I said, pronouncing it to rhyme with
tree.
"I'm told there's important money behind Jumbo, and if I discover that he's guilty, and say so, bad things will happen."
"For sure, to Jumbo," Chollo said.
"Know anything about important money invested in Jumbo?" I said.
"I'm a simple Mexican shooter," Chollo said. "High finance, you'll need to talk with Mr. del Rio."
"That's where I started," I said.
"Mr. del Rio likes me and Bobby to screen his calls," Chollo said.
"And I'm going to make it through?" I said.
"Si,"
Chollo said, and the line went silent.
I waited. It was probably two minutes before a new voice came on. It's a long time when you're on hold, but I had called before, and I knew the drill.
"Spenser? This is Victor del Rio," the voice said.
"Thanks for taking my call," I said.
"I don't forget things," del Rio said.
"Chollo tell you what I'm looking for?" I said.
"Of course."
"What can you tell me," I said.
"A great deal," del Rio said. "I am just ruminating on how much I will tell you."
"These people colleagues?" I said.
"Competitors, more precisely," del Rio said. "Not enemies, but they could become such."
"And you'd prefer they didn't."
"It will do me no economic good to make them such," del Rio said.
"For what it's worth, no one will know where I got my information," I said.
"Your word on that?"
"My word."
"Your word is good," del Rio said. "Allow me to think another moment, is there anything I could tell you that only I would know."
I waited.
Finally del Rio said, "There's two brothers, Alexander and Augustine Beauregard. They run a company called AABeau Film Partners, in Burbank. The company funds movies. Most people refer to them simply as Alex and Augie, and what they really do is they launder money."
"Mob money," I said.
"Yes. They are connected to many criminal enterprises here in the Southland."
"Mob wants to wash some ill-gotten gain," I said. "So they invest in AABeau Films. AABeau invests in movie production. When the film is made, take their cut, return the money to the Mob as profit from a legitimate enterprise."
"Loosely defined," del Rio said.
"Okay, you're not a film fan," I said. "But that's probably pretty much how it works, isn't it?"
"It is," del Rio said.
"And you know this because . . . ?"
"Despite my distaste, I have occasionally invested."
"Ill-gotten gain?" I said.
"No gain is ill gotten," del Rio said.
"I like a man who is clear on what he believes," I said.
"We both know what we believe," del Rio said. "The fact that we do not believe the same does not prevent mutual respect."
"No," I said. "It doesn't. Where do Silver and Ratoff come in?"
"Silver is AABeau's security consultant. Ratoff is AABeau's lawyer."
"They in-house?" I said. "Or do they have other clients."
"They have other clients, but it's probably camouflage."
"Same clients?" I said.
"As each other?"
"Yes."
"They seem always to work in tandem," del Rio said.
"Silver do detective work, or strictly security."
"He does some investigating, if needed. But mainly he supervises, ah, compliance, for AABeau."
"Strong arm?" I said.
"As required," del Rio said.
"And Ratoff?"
"Was a criminal lawyer," del Rio said. "Now he is a corporate counsel."
"Good lawyer?"
"Said to be very clever," del Rio said.
"Silver dangerous?" I said.
"They are all dangerous," del Rio said.
"Me too," I said.
"I know," del Rio said. "Chollo tells me you are as dangerous as anyone he knows."
"As dangerous as himself?"
Del Rio chuckled.
"Chollo cannot entertain the possibility that anyone is as dangerous as himself," del Rio said.
"I have that conceit, too," I said.
"I know," del Rio said.
"So if Jumbo gets busted for a crime like the one he's suspected of, a lot of people lose a lot of money."
"Jumbo is as bulletproof a cash cow as there is in the movie business," del Rio said.
"Despite being a world-class dildo," I said.
"Irrelevant," del Rio said. "Maybe even an asset to the adolescents who comprise most movie audiences."
"Ever see one of his movies?" I said.
"No," del Rio said.
"Me either," I said.
"There is a great deal of profitable business being done," del Rio said, "based on Jumbo Nelson. It is business done by a large number of people who have little regard for the well-being of anyone but themselves."
"Either he did it or he didn't," I said. "I'm going to find out which."
"If you live," del Rio said.
"That's always a consideration," I said.
"Chollo holds you in high regard," del Rio said. "If you don't live, he may choose to avenge you."
"Would that be good business?" I said.
"No."
"But you wouldn't prevent him?" I said.
"I do not believe I could," del Rio said. "And sometimes we do other things but business."
"So," I said. "Does this mean you, too, value me highly?"
"No," del Rio said. "It means I value Chollo."
29
HENRY CIMOLI WAS LEANING
against the wall in the boxing room at Harbor Health Club, with his muscular little arms folded across his muscular little chest. I was beside him in my sweats. Z was doing intervals on the heavy bag. Hit it for twenty seconds. Rest for forty seconds. Do it again.
"How many of those you suppose he's going to do?" I said to Henry.
"I dunno," Henry said. "You know he's in here like four, five hours every day."
"What's he do?" I said.
"Combination on the heavy bag, practices the check-block move Harriet showed him, hits the speed bag."
"Harriet the martial-arts instructor?" I said.
Henry nodded.
"He jumps rope," he said. "Does his intervals, like now, on the body bag. Different interval times."
"Dedicated," I said.
"Well," Henry said. "He's living right here, got no money, nothing else to do."
"What a motivator," I said.
Henry shrugged.
"Business is tough, you gotta be able to motivate yourself."
Z stopped and walked over to us, breathing very hard.
"Can you talk?" I said.
"I . . . talk," Z answered. "Got . . . nothing . . . to say."
"When you are breathing again," I said. "I'll show you a new move."
"Any . . . time," Z said. "I . . . ready now."
I grinned.
"Sure you are," I said. "Just let me rest up a little."
"You . . . think you . . . need it," Z said.
"I do," I said. "While you're waiting for me to stabilize, why don't you sit on that stool."
Z sat.
I took my gun off my hip, opened the cylinder, and took out the bullets. I put the bullets in my pocket.
"Okay," I said. "It's unloaded. We'll play with it on this mat, so if it gets knocked loose and hits the floor, it won't get too banged up."
We waited. Z's breathing became calm. I glanced at the clock. Pretty quick recovery time. He had gotten himself in shape.
He stood.
"Okay," he said.
"Sometimes a guy has a gun," I said. "If he's smart, he stays out of reach with it. Stand five or six feet away and point a gun at me, and there's not much I can do, but come in close . . ."
I stepped close to Z and handed him the gun.
"Put it against my forehead," I said.
Z did as I said.
"Now," I said. "The minute I move, pull the trigger."
'Like I'm trying to kill you," Z said.
"Just like that."
"Okay," Z said.
I waited a moment, then suddenly thrust my left hand up under his gun arm, grabbing the wrist, and fully extended my arm.
Click!
"Where was the gun pointing," I said to Henry, "when it clicked."
"Straight at the ceiling," Henry said.
"Try again," Z said.
We did, and two more times.
Each time, Henry called "ceiling."
"What happened next?"
"Probably try to pull your windpipe out of your neck," I said. "We'll go through it slow. . . . See where my hand is on your wrist?"
We stopped and looked at it. Z nodded.
"Here's another reason not to get too close. Point the thing at me from a foot or two away, say chest level. Pull the trigger first move I make."
Z pointed the gun.
I made a crisscross motion with both hands, and the gun fell to the mat unclicked.
"Jesus Christ," Z said.
I picked up the gun and handed it to him.
"We'll go through it slow," I said. "Right hand comes in against the inside of the gun-hand wrist. Left hand comes from the other side and hits the back of the gun hand. It scissors the gun out, even if you know it's coming. Ready."
"Go," Z said.
I made my crisscross, and the gun hit the mat again.
"You need to assume you got nothing to lose," I said. "Before you use either maneuver."
"Nothing to lose all my life," Z said.
Zebulon Sixkill VIII
Z's time with Jumbo was a swamp of disjointed images.
Besides his movies, Jumbo had a weekly one-hour variety show that retroed to the fifties. The show went on air at eight p. m. Eastern time, out of Burbank, taped at four in the afternoon, Pacific time, in front of a live audience. Z would sit with Jumbo in the dressing room while Jumbo drank vodka on the rocks and studied for his opening stand-up. Then the orchestra intro started, and he 'd open the door for Jumbo, and Jumbo, in one of the six custom-made tuxedos he owned, would go to the wings and wait for the announcer, Art Maynard, to say, "And now . . . Heeeeeeere comes Jumbo."
Jumbo did a stand-up routine. There were some sketches, some guest stars, a band, some dancers. While all this went on, Z used to watch from the wings. Late in the show, he'd wander out into the audience and marvel at the number of people who thought Jumbo was swell. He also marveled at how nice Jumbo seemed onstage. It was as if the official Jumbo took over during the taping. Rollicking, good-natured, self-deprecating, quick, witty, knowing, and grateful for their attention.
At the end of each performance, Jumbo walked to the very front of the stage, bow tie loosened, and gazed down at the audience. With the camera zoomed in for a close-up, he would say, " I love you all . . . each . . . and every . . . one of you." And he would hold the stance as the shot pulled back and widened. They'd freeze the shot. The credits would roll, and it was over for that week. Usually Jumbo would have picked out a woman in the audience, and as Z started down the center aisle toward the stage, Jumbo would point her out to him. As the audience began to leave, Z would give her Jumbo's card and tell her that Jumbo was dying to meet her. If she was dying to meet Jumbo, Z would take her backstage. Sometimes they'd consummate their relationship in the dressing room, while Z leaned on the wall outside to make sure no one entered. Sometimes the woman would require more dignified circumstances and Z would drive them to Jumbo's house, and sometimes late at night, sometimes early in the morning, drive the woman home.
"I ain't spending the night with her," Jumbo said. "I'll fuck anything. But I sleep alone."
Jumbo never solicited young men in public. But now and then Z would have to get up in the night and drive one somewhere, usually West Hollywood, or Silver Lake.
In the morning, before Jumbo got out of bed, the houseboy would bring him a lowball glass of sherry on the rocks. At breakfast he would have Irish coffee. Usually before he went to the set, Jumbo would have a couple of purple-colored pills. He called them Violets.
"Sets you up good," he said to Z. "Try a couple."
So Z did. And it did set him up good. At lunch they'd have martinis first and wine with, and in mid-afternoon a couple more Violets. Evenings were martinis and champagne and more Violets and whatever young people Z had been able to collect for Jumbo during the day. Sometimes there were too many, and Jumbo shared some girls with Z. Z had no interest in boys.
"Stupid," Jumbo told him. "Go both ways, doubles your chances to score."
One night they were so overbooked that Z spent half the night with three teenage girls.
Better get them first,
he thought.
'Fore Jumbo's been there.
He didn't have much to do to protect Jumbo. Push away an occasional autograph hound. Block the shot of some paparazzi. Mostly he was Jumbo's driver, booze buddy, and pimp.

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