Winter Tides (7 page)

“I sympathize with that. That’s my attitude, too. But we’re all legislated into hard corners, Mr. Dalton. Why don’t you round up those witnesses and come back in during regular hours?” Ray stood up and held his hand out. If Dalton shook it and left, then to hell with the hundred bucks or anything else. He wouldn’t be back.

Dalton didn’t get up, though. He sat in the chair and looked Ray in the face, as if he were studying something out. “I appreciate your position,” he said finally. “And call me Edmund, for God’s sake. We’re all friends here.”

“I’m glad you understand,” Ray said. “You’re a businessman yourself. My advice is to make all this legal and aboveboard. Neither one of us needs some county official down here asking questions.” Ray had a gut feeling now: Dalton was going to make him an offer. Either Ray could act indignant or he could take it. He made up his mind then. He’d act indignant first; then he’d take the offer if it held up.

Dalton sat there silently again, studying his fingernails, which appeared to Ray to have been manicured. Last month’s deed had transferred title to a lot that must have been worth a couple hundred thousand, and this one on the desk now was something of the same kind. The guy could afford a manicure. A hundred bucks! Ray laughed out loud, cutting it off short and shaking his head.

“Something’s funny,” Dalton said.

“I just remembered something I heard on the radio once, that’s all.”

“Go ahead.” Dalton tossed his head. “Let’s hear it.”

“Well, I don’t know. It was funny as hell at the time—a few years back, when Jimmy Hoffa disappeared.”

Dalton nodded. “I hear he’s buried under the goalposts at some football stadium. What’s the joke?”

“Well, what I read was that there were all kinds of ransom notes that came in. Hundreds of them, all bogus, apparently.”

“I bet there were.”

“One of them was really rich, considering it was Hoffa.”

“What’d it say?” Dalton had a big grin now, as if he was ready for a good laugh.

“It said—this is what I heard—‘We’ve got Hoffa. Put five hundred dollars in a paper sack and …’ ” Ray waved his hand in a little whirlwind gesture and waited for Dalton’s reaction.

“And what?”

“I forget. Put it under a bush or something.”

“Five hundred?” Dalton appeared to be mystified, maybe doubtful. “That’s all they asked for?”

“That’s what’s funny. That’s it. That’s the joke. It was because it was Hoffa, see. If it was somebody else—JFK or somebody—the joke wouldn’t make any sense.” Either the man was dense, or he was playing dumb because he was catching on. “The idea was that Hoffa was only
worth
five hundred bucks….”

Dalton sat back in the chair again, all the anticipation gone out of his face. The joke had fallen flat on him. “You laugh easy. I admire that.”

“Well, in a world like this, you pretty much have to.”

“Business down a little bit? What else do you do here? You can’t make a living stamping papers.”

“Income tax. Investment counseling.”

“In
vest
ments?”

Ray nodded.

“That’s
good
. You’re a wise man, Ray. You could fool anyone with an office like this. Anyone with any sense would bet you’d never made a successful investment in your life. I guess that’s a lowball approach to the game.” He looked around, taking in the metal file cabinets, the stained carpeting, the desk against the back wall piled high with overfull file folders, the Mr. Coffee machine surrounded with plastic spoons and empty Cremora packets and used Styrofoam cups. “Now let me see if I’ve figured out what you’re driving at with this Hoffa joke, Ray. Basically, to begin with, you think that I don’t want to round up any witnesses because the signature’s a fake. Am I right so far?”

“I didn’t say it was a fake.”

“Wait, wait … No offense. I’m just organizing things
here. You figure the signature’s a fake, and so you tell me this Hoffa story, making fun of five hundred bucks in a bag. That’s the punch line, isn’t it? My hundred dollars is the same kind of thing. That’s the joke.”

Ray nodded slowly. “That’s the punch line,” he said carefully, watching Dalton’s eyes, which were still full of sincerity.

“Well, you’re right.”

“About what?”

“About the signature. It’s a complete fake. I forged it.”

“I
’D BE CAREFUL WHO
I
TOLD THAT TO,
E
D.”
R
AY TRIED
not to let his surprise show.
Forged
it. He was suddenly certain that coming in early this morning had been a good idea after all. He was going to make a profit.

“Edmund.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Edmund. I prefer my full name. And believe me, I
am
careful. I’m unbelievably careful. I’m telling you because I think you’ll see reason. Here’s my problem. My father’s got a little bit of Alzheimer’s along with the rest. You don’t know from day to day what he’s going to say or do.”

“My mother had it,” Ray said. This was true about his mother, although probably it wasn’t true about Dalton’s father.

“You know what I’m talking about then. About a year ago, before he got bad, we talked about the estate problem and figured the whole thing out—what we had to do to put things in order.”

“That’s smart,” Ray told him. “Don’t get sentimental. Get it right
before
he dies.”

“Exactly. I guess I mean to say that my father worked hard all his life, Ray. He took a sack lunch to work. Oil field work, with his hands. He had a little luck and got in on the ground floor with a few wells in Huntington Beach, back when your property deed included mineral rights. When the real estate boom started up in the late sixties, he did
real
damned well with the money he’d put away. He isn’t any kind of Howard Hughes, but he made his profit. And it’s my idea that he
earned
his money, Ray, through intelligence and hard work.”

“I won’t argue with that.”

“Well, the government will argue with it. They don’t care
who
earned it. They’ll eat a piece out of his assets that would choke men like us, and they won’t even taste it.”

Ray shrugged. “The army’ll buy another five-hundred-dollar toilet brush.”

“That’s
what disgusts my father. And even though I didn’t earn that money like he did, it disgusts me too.”

“I bet it does.”

“My father can remember a time when a man kept what he earned. That was his incentive to work harder.”

“Hell
of an incentive.”

“Well, back when we talked it out a year ago, the upshot was that he decided to quitclaim it to me, a little at a time. He had his pride, and he didn’t want to be insolvent. But he didn’t need all of it. The quitclaim was painless—simple signature. No lawyer to deal with. Minimal paperwork. Way easier than a trust or something like that.”

“That’s right. All you need’s a notary,” Ray said.

“We should have gone on and done it right away, but we didn’t, and I didn’t push it, because it was too much like pushing my father into the grave, if you know what I mean.”

“Absolutely,” Ray said. “That’s what I was talking about. We get sentimental. Nobody wants to act like a damn vulture. And now it’s too late. The Alzheimer’s screwed things up, is what you’re telling me. The cancer … You didn’t work fast enough, and now it looks like you’re stuck.”

“You’ve got it. That’s the whole truth.”

“I sympathize entirely, Edmund, but my hands are tied here. The law’s a simple thing in this case.”

“Simple is just the word, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“Five hundred dollars in a paper bag! That’s a riot. Jimmy Hoffa!” Dalton shook his head, his eyes full of amusement.

“I laughed like hell when I heard it.”

“I’ll bet you did. So tell me. What do you want?”

“For what?”

“For notarizing these deeds. I think I mentioned that this wouldn’t be the last one. My father did very well, Ray. Very well.”

“I seem to recall your having said that you were the only heir?”

“Sole heir, thank God.”

“Well, one way or another I guess I’m not interested. I’ve spent my whole life keeping out of trouble.”

“And drinking bad coffee out of dirty cups while you run up pathetic little 1040’s for Mexican aliens.
Se habla español
, eh? You can talk the talk. Very profitable talk. What do you get for that, about forty bucks a pop?”

“It’s an honest living, Mr. Dalton.”

“I’d pay five percent to a good man.”

“That’s generous.”

“It beats a hundred bucks.”

“Yes indeed it does. It’s a tempting offer.”

“Look at this deed for a moment. This piece of property is out in Fountain Valley. A good-sized vacant lot down near Brookhurst and Ellis. It was assessed last year at three hundred K. Five percent of that is fifteen thousand dollars, Ray. I’m talking cash here. Nobody on earth has to know that you took a dime. That’s a hell of a commission for inking up that little rubber pad.”

“You wouldn’t be paying for ink, Mr. Dalton. We both know that.”

“That’s very true. I’m paying for your expertise, and I’m asking you to involve yourself in fraud, legally speaking. Ethically speaking, of course, there’s no fraud involved. And where’s the risk? As long as my father’s alive, nobody
knows whether he signed the deed or not.
He’s
not going to cause us any trouble. If there’s no injured party, then there’s no real problem, is there?”

“No, I guess there’s not. Unless these deeds call attention to themselves.”

“This is the
county
, Ray. Nobody pays attention. People who pay attention work someplace else.” Dalton gestured with both hands, as if what he said stood to reason … which it did. “So, what do you think? Half the money up front? Right now? Call it seventy-five hundred? Give me six months to unload the property, and I’ll pay you the rest. If I can’t sell it, I’ll pay you anyway. If it sells for more than the assessed value, I’ll throw in a percentage. And I’ll tell you what. Here’s a fail-safe. If you want out, or if you come up short for money at any time, I’ll cash you out at half of the second payment, so that you don’t have to wait the full six months. So for early retirement you get seventy-five percent of the total cash value. How’s that sound?”

“Like three-quarters of a pie.”

“Look,” Dalton said, “all I want is a man that’s solid and committed.”

“Sounds like maybe you want a lawyer.”

“To hell with lawyers. Speaking of lawyers, did you hear that they’re using them as laboratory animals now?”

“Is that right?”

“There’s some things rats just won’t do.” Dalton winked and grinned big, and Ray laughed out loud. “I don’t trust lawyers. They cost too much, they’re slippery bastards. I just don’t need a lawyer. Do
you
think I need a lawyer?”

“I guess not. Not if you’re careful.”

“That’s
what I want. Just what you said. A
careful
man.”

Ray shrugged.

“And I’m fairly certain you’re a careful man, Ray. Do you know why I say that?”

“I guess I don’t.”

“Because a mutual friend of mine told me something about you, Ray. He told me that you’ve got a soft spot for Mexicans. He told me that back in the old days, if I wanted to bring in a truckload of illegals, I’d want to talk to Ray
Mifflin first. Ray Mifflin would know when it was safe, this guy said. Ray Mifflin had contacts in the INS. He had the inside word on the checkpoint down the Highway south of San Clemente. Kick fifty bucks a head back in Ray’s direction, and you’d bring your people through.” He sat staring at Ray, grinning faintly.

“Your friend’s full of baloney,” Ray told him.

“That’s just what I said to him. I didn’t believe a word of it. I didn’t believe what he told me about the drugs, either, about how they’d offer a discount to the
mojadas
if they’d carry a little bundle of white powder across the border.
Somebody
turned a profit on that scam, I guess. I’m relieved to find out it wasn’t you, Ray. Obviously the idea’s just too fantastic. And anyway, it’s ancient history. A couple of years ancient, anyway. You’re not a CPA, are you, Ray?”

“Nope.”

“Somehow I didn’t think so. Tell me, then; what the hell do you have to lose? Five percent is good money. No smuggling, no sweat, just a pen with ink in it. It could be your ticket out of this dump. And from my perspective, it’s a hell of a lot less than I’d pay a lawyer. No insult intended.”

Ray nodded. His head buzzed. He could guess who Dalton’s big-mouth friend was. Ray was being threatened, of course. Still, this was
way
better money than he had anticipated, which was a red flag if there ever was one. He thought about the other little pissant deals he’d cut recently—a hundred here, a fifty there. There had been a hell of a lot more money smuggling illegals, money on every conceivable end. Even the owners of garment shops in L.A. would pay you for employees. That deal had gotten too hot and complicated, though—partly because of the dope connection—and he had dropped it. He wasn’t going to do serious jail time for a few more bucks.

“This is the tip of the iceberg, Ray. My father holds the deed to acreage down on the cliffs in Dana Point that’s worth so much it’s almost criminal. As long as he stays alive, we’re both on the gravy train. If he dies …” Dalton shrugged. “Then it’s too damned late, isn’t it? For you, anyway.
I’ll
still do all right. How old are you, Ray?”

“Fifty-six,” Ray said, making up his mind.

“And you’re still living on coffee and junk food. Maybe it’s time to take a little chance.”

“Maybe it is,” Ray said.

A
NNE AWOKE IN THE SEMIDARKNESS OF A SHUTTERED
room, and for a moment she didn’t remember where she was. It was her own chenille bedspread, with its pink and blue flowers, but the room itself was disorientingly strange: it was too small, and the windows were wrong, and there were boxes stacked in the corners….

Then the sleep drained away and she remembered. She had been in the apartment for four nights now—sooner or later it should start feeling like home. On Monday she had looked at the place and impulsively signed a rental agreement, and on Tuesday she had moved in. The landlord, Mr. Hedgepeth, was incredibly fat and had wheezed going up the stairs into the apartment and then had to sit down and catch up with himself before he could show her through the other three rooms. He had carried a stick that he pointed at things with—the view of the ocean out the living room windows, the old Catalina tiles over the bathroom sink, the walk-in closet with red cedar cabinets built in and a window for ventilation.