The Emerald Cat Killer (8 page)

“I don't do banks, you know? I don't have no bank accounts. They keep too many records. I don't like 'em. How about you just hand me cash?”

“I'll … I'll try to work that out.”

“Not good enough.”

Their waitress was back with two platters of steaming food. She placed one in front of Lindsey, one in front of Chocron. Lindsey recognized the rice and beans on his platter but not the light brown object the size of a bedroom slipper. The food was accompanied by icy glasses and bottles of Negra Modelo.

It was obvious that Chocron was waiting for Lindsey to make the next move. Lindsey bought time by pouring the dark Mexican beer for himself, sipping it appreciatively, watching the slim waitress weave her way gracefully between tables.

Chocron said, “Taste your food. I guarantee you'll like it.”

That much was true.

“
Pezcado empanada con cebollas.
Fresh breaded fish with onions. This joint has the best fish in the world. You like it?”

Lindsey conceded that the
pezcado
was delicious. After stalling as long as he could, he finally yielded on the money issue. He could use an International Surety credit card at a local ATM and take Chocron's payment out in cash. If Ducky Richelieu or any of the bean counters in Denver had a gripe with that, they could take him off active duty and put him back on the retired list. He hadn't asked for this job.

“But I'll need the information first,” he insisted.

Chocron gave Lindsey a look that would have frozen a bowl of hot lava. He opened an object that looked like a miniature flying saucer, pulled out a tortilla, and filled it with rice and beans and Tabasco sauce. He bit off a generous portion and chewed with obvious pleasure.

He washed it down with dark beer.

He said, “All right, Mr. Lindsey. I just hope you know who you are dealing with. If I give you what you want and you try to burn me, I can promise you that you will be very sorry.”

That was a pretty good line,
Lindsey thought. The kind of threat that Frank Farrar, the murder suspect of
The Emerald Cat,
might have leveled at Troy Percheron just before donning a set of brass knuckles and whaling into the dick.

Chocron said, “Enjoy your meal and we'll take a little walk.”

At least Chocron was as good as his word when it came to paying for Lindsey's meal.

They headed down a shaded residential avenue toward Calle Catorce, the street that Oakland's city fathers had renamed International Boulevard and that everyone in the neighborhood blithely continued to call Fourteenth Street.

As they walked, Lindsey said, “I need information, Mr. Chocron. I need to know about
The Emerald Cat.
There is a serious question as to the actual authorship of the book.”

The younger man smiled. They were near a church. A couple of dozen kids in short pants and sneakers were playing soccer in a playground next to the building. A priest came out of the front door as they passed the church and Chocron exchanged greetings with him.

“Padre.”

“Rigo.”

“I wrote that book,” Chocron told Lindsey.

“Surely you are aware of the similarities between Troy Percheron and your other characters, and Tony Clydesdale and the other figures in Wallace Thompson's detective novels. Not to mention the similarity of the titles themselves.”

“You can't copyright a title. I checked on that. And besides, nobody ever wrote a book called
The Emerald Cat
before I did it.”

“Of course. I hope you're not going to say that Clydesdale and Percheron, Thebes and Cairo, are just coincidences. Please, Mr. Chocron, we both know better than that.”

“Why doesn't Thompson complain, then?”

“I'm sorry. I thought you knew he was dead.”

Chocron shook his head. “Sorry to hear that.” He didn't sound sorry.

“Thompson was a pseudonym. The obituary referred to him by his real name.” There had been a copy of the obit in the case file Lindsey received. “It didn't mention that he was a mystery writer.”

“What's this to me?” Chocron said.

“Mr. Chocron—”

“Call me Rigo.”

“Yes. Yes. We have reason to believe—”

“I'll ask you again, are you a cop? If you are, good-bye and I hope the fish makes you puke.”

“I'm not a cop, Rigo. I'm an insurance man, that's all. Here.” He gave Chocron his business card and a promotional ballpoint pen with the SPUDS logo and International Surety laser-engraved on the barrel.

Chocron studied the card and the pen, and slipped them into his jeans pocket.

Lindsey tried again. “We have reason to believe that the man who used the name Wallace Thompson wrote
The Emerald Cat.
Either that, or essentially that book. When he died”—no need to go into the details of Gordon Simmons's death—“when he died, his computer disappeared. A laptop. His wife says that her husband had been working at the library, he had his computer with him and was using it there, and after his death it was never recovered.”

Chocron laughed. “That thing wasn't worth five hundred dollars. Old and worn out and—”

“You know that?”

Chocron's face fell. “Son of a gun. Got me, didn't you. All right. What do you really want? You gonna try and get my advance back for Gordian?”

Lindsey shook his head. “Nothing like that. But if I could get my hands on that computer, I might be able to solve this case.”

They turned a corner onto Calle Catorce. More color, more bustle, more sidewalk vendors, more Spanish in the air.

Chocron frowned, suddenly nervous. “You wearin' a wire?”

Lindsey said, “No, no. Look.” He peeled back his jacket. “Nothing. I told you, Rigo, I'm not a police officer, and as far as I know you're not in any trouble. Gordian might try to get their advance back from you, but I don't think they'd have much of a chance. Once a publisher pays an author, they pretty much write off the money.”

“Yeah. And I was so dumb and didn't even get a royalty deal. There wasn't no advance. Just one check and adios, amigo! I guess that was my agent's fault, really, but she's such an innocent spirit I guess she didn't know no better, neither.”

They passed a Mexican restaurant.
Cocina Sinaloense.
Lindsey's appetite was sated from the meal he'd eaten at Los Arcos, but the aroma of
Cocina Sinaloense
made him wish he was still hungry.

“There's a lawsuit brewing between Gordian House and Thompson's publisher, Marston and Morse. If I can get hold of Thompson's computer I might be able to settle the dispute once and for all. That's all I want from you. The computer itself if you still have it, or a reliable lead to it.”

“I don't have it.”

“Who does?”

“Nobody. I threw it away.”

“I don't believe you.”

“I threw it away.” Angrily.

“Come on, Rigo. You stand to make some nice money. I think you could use it. I need the truth.”

“Five hundred. Cash. Today. You see that bank across Calle Catorce, they got an ATM. I give you what you need, we walk over there and you pull out the money and lay it on me and we never see each other again.”

Lindsey shook his head. “Not good enough. I told you, Rigo, all right, a hundred guaranteed. The rest depending on what you give me and how good it is.”

“Three hundred guaranteed. What happened to your memory?”

“Okay. Sorry. Three.”

“Stop right here.”

They halted in front of a plate-glass window filled with a variety of guitars, mandolins, trumpets, amplifiers, TV sets, clothing, tools, a couple of desktop computers—
and a laptop
. Even a bicycle. Gold lettering on the glass read
CASA DE EMPEÑOS.

Chocron said, “You know what this place is?”

It couldn't be anything but a pawnshop. Lindsey admitted as much.

“All right. I sold the computer here. Pawned it. I don't know if they still got it. I don't see it in the window.”

Lindsey pointed. “Isn't that it?”

Chocron shook his head. “Nope. Look at the logo. Wrong brand. Not mine.” He studied the contents of the window, then said, “Come on in. I know the
prestamisto.
The pawnbroker.”

SIX

The
prestamisto
should have been Rod Steiger with a fake mustache and sleeve garters and a green eye-shade, standing behind a barred window and smoking cigarettes furiously. Or maybe Ed Brophy in his trademark derby, or Jesse White with a cigar in the corner of his mouth.

No such luck.

Lindsey found himself wishing he could plan his strategy with Marvia Plum before talking with the
prestamisto
. Work out a plan with Marvia or with Captain Yamura or Sergeant Strombeck or even, heaven help him, with Ducky Richelieu in Denver. But he couldn't interrupt the proceedings to place a phone call. Rigoberto Chocron was too dicey a character for Lindsey to risk spooking him. Lindsey was relieved that he had turned off his own cell phone. Much as he would have welcomed a chance to talk over the situation with Marvia or one of her colleagues, a ringing cell phone might have wrecked his fragile rapport with Chocron.

The
prestamisto—
Lindsey could almost hear Señora McWilkins at Las Lomas High in Walnut Creek lecturing about genders of Spanish nouns while fifteen-year-old sophomores giggled uncontrollably—all right,
prestamista
was young and eye-catching in a scoop-necked blouse and Mexican skirt.

“Rigo.”

“Crista.”

“What can I do for you today?” She must have pegged Lindsey for a non-Spanish speaker and used English as a courtesy.

Chocron said, “You remember that laptop I pawned here?”

“I do. You have the ticket with you?”

Chocron dug a battered wallet from his jeans. He fished a printed slip from it and laid it on the counter—a plain, glass-topped counter—in front of the
prestamista.

Crista picked it up and smiled sadly. “You know better than this, Rigo. Look at the date.”

She laid the slip back on the counter. Peering over Chocron's shoulder Lindsey could see the date on the slip.

“You see,” Crista said, “it's expired. We don't have it anymore. We sold it. But I have some good news for you. We got more than the redemption value. You have some money coming to you. Wait, I'll write you a check.”

Chocron said, “You know I don't do checks.”

“Oh, that's right.” Apparently the two were not exactly close, then. “All right. I can give you cash but you'll have to sign for it.”

When the transaction was completed, Lindsey asked the
prestamista
if she had a record of the buyer.

Crista smiled. “I'm sorry, Señor, that's against policy. I cannot tell you that.”

Lindsey felt Rigoberto Chocron's strong fingers on his elbow. “Just cool it, my friend,” Chocron half whispered to Lindsey. He moved him bodily away from the counter. Lindsey took the hint, decided to study a fascinating twenty-year-old, bright red clock-radio with a major crack running the length of its plastic exterior. There were people who collected such things. If the radio had been intact it might have been worth a couple of hundred dollars to the right buyer. In its present condition, it would probably be salvaged for parts.

Rigoberto Chocron and the
prestamista
Crista had their heads close together. Chocron was using all his charm on her, stroking her upper arms, whispering in her ear, nodding and gesturing. Cesar Romero, definitely Cesar Romero. All he needed was a
sombrero de diez galónes
with silver trim all over its brim.

Lindsey couldn't hear much of their conversation, and it wouldn't have mattered if he had been able, for the few words that he caught were in Spanish and he knew that he couldn't have followed the dialogue.

Of the few words that Lindsey did catch, one that was repeated was
motocicleta.
That wasn't too hard to translate.

After a while Crista turned away from the counter. She opened a drawer, removed an old-fashioned accounts book and laid it on the glass counter. She switched back to English to announce that she heard the telephone ringing in the back room and would return in a few minutes.

She disappeared.

Chocron opened the accounts book and flipped pages. He stopped, fumbled in his jeans for the International Surety pen that Lindsey had given him, and for Lindsey's business card. He scribbled on the card and closed the accounts book.

Crista must have been watching, Lindsey decided, for as soon as Chocron closed the book she reappeared. Still using her excellent English, “I'm sorry, Señores, that I could not be of more help. Please feel free to return to the shop any time we can be of service.”

Chocron resumed his grip on Lindsey's elbow and steered him back into the late afternoon sunlight of Calle Catorce. “I think we need to talk.”

Lindsey waited.

“First, though, how about that five hundred dollars you owe me?”

Lindsey assented. They walked a block to a bank branch. Lindsey used an International Surety card to draw three hundred dollars from an outdoor ATM. A uniformed guard eyed them. When the transaction was completed he strode over and nodded to Lindsey. “Everything all right, sir?” The guard looked like a Mexican to Lindsey and his accent sounded the same. Lindsey assured him that everything was all right. The guard shot a suspicious look at Chocron but didn't say anything more.

As they walked away from the bank, Chocron turned to Lindsey. He said, “You see that? His own kind, eh? His own kind! But he assumed you were okay. I was the gangster, just because I'm Mexican.”

“Is that why you used the name Steve Damon?”

“Of course. Who wants to read a hard-boiled murder book by some Mexican, probably an illegal? I tried Irish names, Italian names, I finally decided I'd be a pure Yankee WASP. And it worked, didn't it? So I guess it's a good name. Steve Damon, that's me.”