The Bootleggers (2 page)

Maurice snapped his fingers. "That must be where the two hundred grand is."

"Probably not," I replied. "There's a safe up there. I assume that's where they'd—"

Stone asked, "A safe? Where?"

The anger I had been trying to restrain finally boiled over. I jerked my head toward
the stairs, where the busboy had disappeared. "That was stupid, Stone. Vintage you!"

"What was?"

"The busboy. Why didn't you let him tell you—"

"With the two of you sitting here? No way!"

"What if something happens to him before—"

He snorted derisively. "You've been reading too many detective stories, Larsen. You
want to know what's going to happen? I'll tell you what's going to happen. In about ten minutes,
I'm going to get up and head for the men's room. Then I'm going to—"

Whatever Stone intended to say after that was drowned out by the roar of the
explosion. Immediately, he jumped to his feet. "I'm a police officer!" he shouted. "Everyone stay
calm!"

During the chaos that followed, I consulted my wrist watch.

It was nine-sixteen.

* * * *

Sometime after ten-thirty, a uniformed patrolman led me up to the business office on
the second floor of The Bootleggers. Evidently, I was being summoned by Stone. The firemen
had come and gone, and the mobile crime lab technicians were hard at work downstairs,
gathering up every piece of evidence they could find.

Stone was seated behind the large oak desk. He aimed a finger at me. "What were
you doing here tonight?"

I lowered myself onto one of the cushy chairs near the desk. "I've already told you.
To collect—"

"I don't believe you, Larsen. What were you—"

I shrugged. "There's nothing new about that. You never believe anything I tell you. Is
the busboy dead?"

"Of course, he's dead. Now, what were you—"

"What triggered the bomb?"

He stirred irritably, but he answered my question. "Some sort of transmitter. We
haven't found it yet. It could have been anywhere in the building."

"I wondered why your men insisted on searching me." I glanced pointedly at my
wrist watch. "It's—"

"I know what time it is," he said. "And I know it's New Year's Eve and people want
to go home. But nobody's leaving until we find that transmitter."

"Dozens of people managed to get out of this place before—"

"Nobody leaves, Larsen. Even if we have to stay here all night."

For the first time in all the years I had known and hated him, Stone looked
worried.

"All right," I said. "Calm down. What about the three owners? Have you searched
them?"

"Of course we've searched them. The detectives have questioned all of them,
separately and together. Nothing." He fell into a sullen silence. After a while, he said, "I'll tell
you what I'll do, Larsen. In a couple of minutes, they're going to be brought up here. You stay
and listen to what they have to say. Maybe the great Adam Larsen will spot something a mere
police sergeant might miss."

I lifted my brows. "You mean you're willing to let me help you?"

"Hell, no!" He leaned forward in his chair. "I want to keep my eye on you. When
they get here, you say nothing. You do nothing. You just sit here and watch. Do you
understand?"

I glared at him. "I understand completely. You figure that if they get the idea that I'm
associated with the police, my chances of accomplishing anything here in the future will be
nonexistent."

He gave me a satisfied look. "Then I'm glad we understand each other."

"Oh, we do," I said through clenched teeth. "It means that if I intend to accomplish
anything for my client, I'll have to do it tonight."

I could tell that he didn't like that thought, and fully intended to tell me so. But before
he could speak, the door opened and a uniformed officer marched into the office. I recognized
him as Dan McKeever, a likeable cop whom I'd encountered before. I knew from our past
dealings that he couldn't stand Stone, either.

It was one of the reasons I liked McKeever.

"We've searched the last of the customers, Sergeant. No transmitter. They're
clamoring to go home."

Stone said, "Let them clamor."

I asked McKeever, "How big is this device you're looking for?"

He glanced at Stone, who nodded to indicate it was okay to answer. "The techs say it
probably looks like a garage door opener. Or a cell phone." Pointing toward the row of metal
lockers along the wall, he told Stone, "We've been through them with a fine tooth comb. I've
gone over them personally. It's not there. Neither is the money. We also tested for drug residue.
Nothing."

Stone sighed. "Bring those three up here."

McKeever left us. Soon, heavy footsteps came tramping up the stairs. The three
suspects entered first, followed by McKeever. I slipped quietly to the back of the room, trying to
look as unpoliceman-like as I could.

Christianson, the disbarred lawyer, was the first to speak. He was a thin man, who
wore his light brown hair combed back and always seemed to be smiling. He had the air of a
successful businessman, with a buoyant confidence that, I had to concede, might have attracted
the attentions of my client's daughter.

"Sergeant, let me assure you of my fullest cooperation and assistance in—"

Stone wasn't interested in anyone's assurances. "Which one of you planted that
bomb?"

The ex-lawyer bristled like an irate peacock. "I am shocked by the implications of
that question."

"Tough. What were you doing when the bomb went off?"

"I've already told the officers everything—"

Stone slapped the desk with an open palm. "You can answer my questions here or
downtown at the Justice Center."

Christianson kept his composure. "I was here, in this room, preparing some
paperwork."

"Paperwork for The Bootleggers? On New Year's Eve?"

"No. I'm a licensed bailbondsman. Tomorrow is New Year's Day." With a greedy
gleam in his eyes, he added, "One of my busiest days of the year. The people picked up for DUIs
are eager to bond out."

Stone muttered skeptically, "And you were up here when the bomb went off?"

"I was. When I heard the explosion, of course, I ran downstairs. I didn't want to get
trapped up here in case there was a fire. I can't think of a worse way to go than getting burned
alive."

Stone took time to scrutinize Second-Story Meeker, a tough-looking specimen who
vaguely resembled a young Clint Eastwood. "What about you?"

"I was playing pool in the Back Room," he said. "First thing I noticed was when I
heard the boom."

"Did you know the busboy who was killed?" I noticed that Stone wasn't mentioning
anything about narcotics. Evidently, he was harboring hopes of continuing the undercover drug
operation into the new year.

Meeker said, "Rudy? Sure. Everybody knew Rudy." Beads of sweat were
accumulating on his forehead and his hands were beginning to tremble.

Stone appeared not to notice. He asked, "What did you know about him?"

"Nothing much. Nobody had it in for him, or anything like that. At least, nobody I
know of."

"Yeah? Well, somebody obviously did." He turned to Lightning Grant, who was
sitting in the chair I had vacated. The fighter weighed around hundred and sixty pounds, and he
was obviously in good shape. He wore his hair short, and his most prominent facial feature was a
nose that bore the marks of having been broken repeatedly.

"What were you doing when the bomb went off?" Stone said.

Grant spoke in a slow and precise voice. "I was listening to my ex-wife rag me about
being behind on her alimony. Like I got nothing better to worry about!"

"What did you do when the bomb went off?"

"Are you kidding? I made for the door, like everyone else. I'm no hero, and I don't
pretend to be one. But before I could get out, I heard someone holler that the fire was out and to
stay put. So I stayed put. After a while, a couple of cops said they wanted to search me. They
didn't find anything."

"I was searched too," Christianson protested. "And I am considering instituting legal
action."

Stone shrugged, unimpressed. "You wouldn't be the first."

"Nor the last, I suppose," Christianson agreed in a moderate tone, obviously
disappointed that his threat had gone nowhere. "What were your men looking for?"

Stone gestured toward the heavily reinforced safe in the corner and answered the
question with one of his own. "What's in there?"

"Probably the family jewels," Grant wisecracked.

Stone glared at the pugilist. "If this was Chicago or Detroit, I'd—"

Grant shook his head back and forth, like an angry bull. "Yeah? Well, it isn't, and I've
taken on guys a lot bigger than you." He eyed Stone. "And I kicked their asses."

"Open the safe," Stone growled.

The disbarred lawyer spoke up. "Do you have a search warrant?"

"Do you want to wait while I get one?" Stone asked. "A man was murdered here
tonight. We have probable cause to—"

Grant turned to his partners. "Go ahead and open it. We've got nothing to hide." From
the careful, deliberate way he spoke, it was obvious he was telling them there was nothing
incriminating inside.

Meeker nodded and visibly relaxed. He stooped down, using his body to shield his
hands as he whirled the dial, although it took his trembling fingers three tries to open the
safe.

Stone kneeled in front of the safe and reached inside. All he found were half a dozen
file folders, including a fat manila file marked "IOUs."

There was obviously no transmitter.

And no drugs.

And no two hundred thousand dollars.

Meeker was reaching for the phone on the desk. At first, I thought he intended to hit
Stone with it, and I took an involuntary step forward. Instead, Meeker touch-toned a three digit
number.

"Who is this?" he asked. "Margot? Oh, good. Bring me up a scotch and water. Make
it a double."

Now I understood why Meeker looked so shaky.

He needed a drink.

"Jim Beam on the rocks for me," Christianson called out festively.

Lightning Grant added, "I'll have a beer."

Stone jumped to his feet. He grabbed for the phone, but the boxer lurched forward.
"It's not after hours and we aren't under age."

"I believe he's correct, officer," Christianson opined. He added snidely, "Would you
care for anything?"

Stone glowered at him. "No."

Meeker suddenly noticed me, leaning nondescriptly against the back wall. "How
about you? Are you a cop?"

I shook my head emphatically. "I'm a customer. Someone set off a bomb while I was
trying to score with one of the waitresses. I plan to complain to the management."

He gave me a chummy smile. "Put it in the suggestion box."

With a friendly nod, I said, "I'll do that. What kind of scotch are you drinking?"

He regarded me for a moment. "What kind are you paying for?"

I shrugged. "Whatever you serve the masses."

Lightning Grant came over and cuffed me roughly on the shoulder. "Meeker, I like
this guy. I've seen him hanging around here. He's a regular. Give him a drink. On me. Scotch,
you say?"

"And water."

Meeker spoke into the telephone. "Another scotch and water."

Stone asked no one in particular, "Who hired the busboy?"

Parker Christianson spoke up. "I did."

"When did you hire him?"

The bailbondsman scratched his ear pensively. "I can't recall."

"Give me your best guess."

"A couple of months ago, I suppose. If you'll let me get into the desk, I might be able
to find his job application."

Stone stepped aside and watched while Christianson thumbed through rows of file
folders in one of the bottom drawers. A knock sounded on the door and Margot glided into the
room, bearing a tray filled with drinks. Without needing to ask, she delivered the glasses to their
proper recipients. As she handed me mine, she wrinkled her brows quizzically, as though asking
what I was doing upstairs. I smiled disarmingly and handed her a ten dollar bill.

She said, "Thanks, Sugar."

Meeker had already gulped down his drink. "Bring me another one, honey."

She glanced a question at the two other owners, and they nodded their approval.
Evidently, Meeker wasn't the man in charge of The Bootleggers. "I'll be right back with your
drink," she told him. She turned and headed toward the door.

Something had occurred to me, and I urgently needed to get downstairs to check it
out. It was a long shot, but it just might pay off. I noted with relief that Christianson was still
searching through the desk, and Stone was standing with his back to me. Silently, I edged my
way toward the exit where Margot had just left. I was already half way out of the room when
Stone happened to glance up.

"Larsen, where the hell are you—"

I pretended not to hear him and pulled the door closed behind me.

* * * *

Half an hour later, Stone zigzagged his way through the maze of tables and chairs.
Many of them had been overturned by customers when they scurried toward the exits after the
explosion. Close behind Stone were the three owners of The Bootleggers, being shepherded by
McKeever and another uniformed officer. Everyone but Stone continued toward the Back Room.
He headed straight for Maurice and me.

We sat perched on adjoining stools at the bar, each of us nursing a mixed drink. At
the end of the bar, Margot's blond head rested sleepily on the polished wooden surface. The
bartender, a bodybuilder with black hair and a thick moustache, was entertaining himself by
stacking shot glasses into little pyramids. Across the room, the DJ was staring forlornly at the
remains of his water-soaked electronic gear. The last of the patrons had been questioned and
released, after the officers collected names, addresses and any other information they could
gather.

Stone looked haggard and weary, but there was still fire in his eyes as stormed over
to where we were sitting. "Why did you leave—"