The Butcher's Granddaughter (22 page)

I stood up and scoped the room. None of the tall, tinted windows opened more than a few inches, satisfying insurance policies and building codes. The suite faced the alley behind the building, affording an opulent view of the bank buildings a block away and nothing else, so I went across the hall and broke into an opposite office and peered down onto Beverly Boulevard.

The beachball and a crony were getting into a generic silver Buick Regal. The crony was a white guy and vaguely reminded me of someone. He turned toward the building before sliding into the driver’s seat. Huge, expensive sunglasses hid his face. Then he slipped from sight.

Tanya was nowhere. And she had my bike.

I stuffed the piece under my jacket and watched the Buick pull away from the curb and make a left on Wilshire. They didn’t look like they were in a big hurry to tell anybody they had lost me again.

I waited until they were good and gone, then left the suite and shuffled carefully down the fire stairs, skipping the lobby and dropping down into the parking garage. The only cars there were a ’74 Vega, a sexy little Mazda Miyata, and a large 800 Series BMW. That would be the janitor, Miss Vaccotti, and Big Ben Parenti. I was worried about Tanya, but before I could wonder where she might wind up, Parenti busted out of the stairwell into the garage. I stumbled out of sight behind a concrete pylon in the corner and watched him fumble through his pockets. He got his keys out but in the process dropped his wallet, then dropped his keys trying to pick up the wallet. He was breathing heavily, and his head was a red blister sticking out of his collar. He managed to open the door without stepping on the two-thousand-dollar raincoat he had draped over one arm. He popped the rear locks and was tossing the raincoat into the back seat when a plane ticket fell out of it and slid under the car. Parenti swore like he’d dropped a brick on his foot, and dirtied up his suit fishing it out from beneath the trunk. As he struggled back to his feet and heaved his bulk into the driver’s seat, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I realized I was looking at man in fear for his life. And something I had said put that fear into him.

The creepy feeling that I was watching a dead man kept me from running up and shoving the gun through the window and demanding crazy things. Images drenched in confusion flashed through my head as I followed the BMW’s brake lights up the ramp and out of the garage. I took a deep breath and recalled Song’s death-mask face: the splinter shoved into her brain, the destroyed beauty. It cleared my head and I stepped out from behind the pylon. Tires squealed around some distant corner.

For the first time in my life I was completely lost. But I knew I had just found the caboose on a very big train.

“United Airlines Reservations, thank you for waiting. This is Ginger. How may I help you?”

Ginger waited a second while I fished a business card from my pocket that I’d kyped from Parenti’s reception desk. “Um, yes, I’m sorry. My name is Parenti, Ben Parenti. My secretary made some reservations for me and I’m afraid I’ve lost the tickets. Could you help me?”

The sound of fingers punching keyboards floated across the line and created an appropriate backdrop for Ginger’s masculine and unattractive voice. “Certainly, Mr. Parenti. How do you spell your last name?”

I spelled. Keys ticked.

“And what was your destination, sir?”

She had me there. I stabbed. “Well, it was supposed to be...to New York, but like I said, my secretary—”

“One moment, Mr. Parenti.” More typing. “I’m sorry, sir, but I show nothing under that name. Are you sure you gave me the correct spel—”

I hung up, already flipping through the Yellow Pages for another major flyer. I dialed.

“American Airlines Reservations, thank you for holding. This is Brenda. May I help you?” This voice was metallic and efficient, but feminine in a Space Odyssey sort of way.

“Ben Parenti here,” I started, and gave her the spiel. She didn’t ask me my destination.

A couple of seconds’ silence, except for the ubiquitous key chattering, and she was back. “Yes sir, Mr. Parenti. Flying into Honolulu International at—”

Hung up. I was curled around the phone in the corner of a bar just off Wilshire, about ten blocks west of the Sterling Plaza. The bar itself was long and mahogany and built to stand at and drink, not sit around and talk. Everything else was dark wood and tarnished brass, and the phone booth had about four generations of graffiti carved into it. I ordered a beer and some chili fries and called back United Airlines. I made reservations and gave the reservationist a fake address and phone number.

I started in on the fries and beer and tried to think of reasons why wily old Benjamin would be flitting off on unplanned vacations with a look on his face like he was passing a spiny animal. While I was thinking about that, my mind started to wander and I pulled out the other photo that Noddy had blown up from the locket. I laid it on the counter and stared at it, stuffing fries into my mouth more and more slowly. The grease finally reminded me of Caz and I decided to use the phone, since it was handy.

The Los Angeles Police Department is home to the busiest telephone switchboard in the country, handling an average of one call every four seconds, twenty-four hours a day. The 911 Emergency line has been known to put rape victims on hold while the crime is in progress. I had been on hold for about twenty-five minutes when a deep, impatient voice came on and said, “Department?”

“Homicide.”

Hold for another ten minutes, constantly being reminded by a recorded voice that my call would be handled in the order it was received. I watched traffic outside the bar’s huge front window, half-expecting Tanya to come cruising by like a Barbie doll lost at a biker convention.

Click. “Homicide.”

“Detective Sergeant Luzana Cazares.”

“Who’s this?”

“You wouldn’t be interested,” I said. “But she would, trust me.”

A palm went over the receiver, followed by some mumbling. I glanced at the clock over the bar and started counting off two minutes. The bartender, a guy on the bad side of fifty with a flour-sack gut and no tan, wandered by and motioned at the empty beer bottle. I nodded and heard the click of another transfer that probably went to a phone less than twelve feet away.

“Cazares.”

“Hello, beautiful.”

I heard what had to be coffee being spilled and then a chair scraped along the floor and hit something hollow and metal, a desk or a trash can. Caz swore in general and then swore at me.

“Goddamnit, Bird! Where the fuck are you?” Her breathing was labored. I could picture her face, an exquisite red, a mouth spraying little flecks of spit all over the receiver.

“Why? You been lookin’ for me? Don’t worry Sarge, I’m safe for the moment.”

“A lot you know! Look, asshole, you’re in a pile a shit up to your face, and if you don’t come in and I mean
right fucking now
, you’re gonna
drown
in it! Get me?!”

“Yeah,” I said casually, glancing at the second-hand sweeping around the bar clock. “Some funny stuff’s been happening to me lately, Caz. Know anything about it?”

“Yeah. I know you been hidin’ dead Chinks under your bed.”

Stinging images washed over me in a wave. We had been talking for almost a minute. I would give her thirty more seconds. I said very evenly, “Caz, you know I didn’t do Li. And if you ever call her a Chink again, you’ll have so much trouble making your next car payment you’ll wish I’d just cut your fingers off instead.”

She cooled a little. “We gotta talk.”

Minute-and-a-half. “No time. Why don’t you give me your direct office line, say, right now?”

“Why?”

“I’m hanging up.”

“No! Just a second!”

“Goodbye.”

“Five-five-five-six-seven-five-four! Christ!”

I sent the receiver into its cradle at a little under two minutes. Then I dialed back direct.

“Call off the dogs,” I said.

“What?”

“The tap. Call it off, or I disappear again.”

Her meaty hand wrapped around the receiver, followed by some mumbling. I heard a faint click echo along the line. “You got my word, Bird. No trace.”

“Good.”

“But you’re still in some shit, smart guy. You know what I got sitting in the tank?”

I lit a smoke as the bartender drifted by with a fresh beer. “Yeah, an Asian with green eyes looks like he could play ball with Magic. He was one of my problems. He’s not anymore.”

“I know. We got him locked up nice and tight. So why don’t you come on down and visit for a while.”

“I’m not coming in, Caz. I’m fucking scared to death and so far that’s the good news. So just accept it.”

“Why not?” I heard her ease her bulk into a chair that squeaked for mercy.

“Jesus Christ, Caz, are you blind? You see the tatts on that guy?”

She was quiet.

“That’s what I thought. The fucking—”

“Guy is Triad, I know, I know.”

“So you can understand why I’m a little jittery. I got something that everybody seems to want, and the deal is that I don’t know exactly what it is. So I think maybe I’m going to find out, see if I’m holding as big a hand as everybody seems to think. And until that time, you won’t hear from me unless I want to be heard from.”

She gave it one last try. “Ahh, just come in, Bird. I know you’re scared, but this is me. I can protect you here. Jesus Christ, we’ll put you in jail if you want. It’s the safest place in the world.”

“Dream on. The safest place in the world for me right now is exactly where I’m sitting. I’m pissed and I’m tired and I’m scared, and I’m not coming out for anybody until I think it’s safe, I don’t care if the fucking Pope wants me, OK? So the answer to your eventual question is yes, I know who waxed that guy in the alley. And no, I’m not going to tell you who. If you want me, find me. Other than that, I think I’ve stepped beyond your ability to help me.”

“I thought you’d trust me.”

I crushed out the smoke and went, “I don’t trust anybody. C’mon, Caz. You know as well as I do what these people are about. A police station is as public a place as any, and if I surface now, I’ve got a real big hunch I’m six kinds of dead man. So no thanks. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stay in the part of the game where I understand the rules. I appreciate the effort, honey, but I’ll check in after this all blows away. Bye.”

I hung up on her silence at the other end. I finished the beer, lit another cigarette, paid the tab, and called a taxi. Maybe Tanya just went back to ground zero.

I waited for the cab in the corner. When it pulled up outside I gave the bartender a fin and told him to go outside shaking his head like the fare had taken off, but tell the guy to pull around back. He looked at me sideways, pocketed the bill and walked outside. I slid out through the kitchen.

The car pulled around into the alley and I got in. The cabbie was a little tiny guy with hair in his ears who looked about as weak as a rolled steel bar. He pushed a porkpie hat back on his head and said, “What’s the deal, bud? Girl trouble?”

I wadded up a twenty and threw it over the front seat. “Hyatt Regency,” I said flatly. “Do you drive or talk?”

“Drive,” he said, and did.

It had started to mist slightly, not really raining, but there was a chill in the early evening air. I cracked a window to let the cigarette smoke drift out and nestled as far into the back seat as you can nestle in a cab. I cocked my head back and let the mild bouncing of the chassis work on my stiff neck. I tried to catch a little nap and had almost succeeded when we pulled into the Hyatt’s turnaround.

The lobby was clear but I rode up to the twenty-second floor and then walked down five flights to our room on the seventeenth. I went in slowly, for no reason. Tanya wasn’t there and hadn’t been. I dropped all my clothes in a pile outside the bathroom door, cracked the hot water knob and filled the tub, got in and closed my eyes. The steam cleared my sinuses and the water finished the job on my neck that the cab seat had started. I just let the water run and drain through the safety hole beneath the plug toggle.

I had achieved fully relaxed and was working on unconscious when I heard the key scratch in the lock. Tanya’s voice said tentatively, “Bird?” There was a mild lilt to it, like she was giving sweetness a trial go.

I didn’t say anything. I heard the door to the bathroom open and then she was over the tub with her arm around my head.

“Hey, Jesus,” I sputtered, “I’m naked here!”

She let go and said, “Relax. There’s nothing on you I haven’t seen somewhere else. A lot.” Then she glanced away long enough to say, “I’m glad you’re OK.” It looked like it took a lot out of her to say it.

I said, “Thanks. I’m glad you’re OK, too.”

She stood up slowly and cocked an eyebrow at me. I said, “Well, as long as we’ve been formally introduced, pull up a chair.” I motioned to the toilet. She propped herself there and pulled her knees up next to her chin, pulling the sundress over her them so that she looked like a little flowered bell. “What happened?”

“I should be asking you the same thing. What the fuck is Jay doing with these guys? They show up and look around like they’re going to kill somebody, so I did what you said.” She reached into a pocket and pulled out some smokes. Her hands were shaking.

“Fuck,” I said quietly, “that’s who it was. Ballesteros.”

“You saw him?”

“Yeah. Getting into a car outside. I was too far away to tell who it was.”

“Well, it was him. What’s he doing here?”

I thought about it for a long, silent minute, and then said, “He must be working for Cynthia. He must be a recruiter.” I started coughing. “Anybody follow you?” I asked after I’d recovered.

She had finally managed to get out two cigarettes and light them. She stretched across and handed me one, and said, “I don’t think so. I just split and rode around for a while, drove around some pretty lonely roads up in the hills. No one could’ve trailed me around up there. Did you find out anything?”

“Yeah. A lot of stuff, actually, but I’m not done figuring out what it means. Let me simmer awhile.” I noticed that her gaze was fixated on a spot in the tile about four inches over my head. “You’ve been thinking about her, too, huh?”